Saturday, April 14, 2012
In a Day
Grading essays. Stocking tornado shelter in basement. Hooking up black and white TV in the basement and realizing I can't see any of the red "danger" zones. Washing Nora's hair. Eating salad with hard boiled eggs from Easter, some avocado, ranch. Playing "Farm Cat Farm" with Nora and setting up the Littlest Pet shop toys in a "homestead" format complete with vegetable stand and juice press. Watching the rain fall inside the house as it pushes through one of the living room window frames. Tucking Apple in next to the tractor and sprayer. Watering plants. Pinching mealy worms between my fingers. Folding laundry. Moving pansies under a protective roof. Praying for those in line of storm. Wondering why my weather radio hasn't been going off. Too tired to think of much else. Remembering I was going to clean the fridge today. Letting it slide.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Liberty Lady
Not always. Not every time, rarely. Sometimes I can put it into words. Sometimes the new. Sometimes fragment and unsure. When awkward. When almost vowing not to.
Then silent spoken fingers green trembled in the breeze I see pass through the light green leaves of a tree being born again and the caress, cooler than water, speaks to the ten year old girl in my heart, the one the 38 year old woman has been suppressing, the one who dances as if her blood were made of wine or the one who remembers the flat rock where she could sit on the mesa looking down into the valley, the grass the horses hadn't found yet an ocean, and she watched the hawks for hours drinking wind and lifting bones above their weight and age.
If there hadn't been a dirt road, twin scarred, by which she could lower herself into the valley, then she would have found a way despite it into that green sweeping world all full of popping grasshoppers and the thin emerald whisper, regenerate and swaying, of the native Colorado grasses that would feed the horses below, some we owned and some we never would. Some that would dive chest first into the sharp-tongued barbed wire, chased by the white reins of lightening. By the time she healed, the yellow puss and bandages mixed in the fine silt under hooves that needed trimming, by then she would be too old to break and too scarred to trust us completely, we, the barbed-wire ghosts that haunted and crushed, full-bodied and brash, the velvet purple world of the alfalfa that grew moonward.
That apple tree is bone white bone now. Those starved horses gnawed away the vein and skin, the last wet thing left there on the dry mesa that suffered after the man who remembered to irrigate had died. I miss him and I miss that mesa and I miss that girl who was still so smart and weird and brave and quiet.
Her name was Liberty Lady, an appaloosa, the daughter of Liberty Bell, her prize-winning mother. My thinking of them tonight: this is the act that lifts them almost free again, running ringing, white-eyed scared and free again into a memory as threatening, as liberating as a storm you'd see spilling its gray curtain in the distance and you knew you still had 20, 30 minutes until you'd have to go in again, before the thought of it met the real thing and chased us all dark and inexperienced into the cutting fences we'd built to keep us away from ourselves.
Then silent spoken fingers green trembled in the breeze I see pass through the light green leaves of a tree being born again and the caress, cooler than water, speaks to the ten year old girl in my heart, the one the 38 year old woman has been suppressing, the one who dances as if her blood were made of wine or the one who remembers the flat rock where she could sit on the mesa looking down into the valley, the grass the horses hadn't found yet an ocean, and she watched the hawks for hours drinking wind and lifting bones above their weight and age.
If there hadn't been a dirt road, twin scarred, by which she could lower herself into the valley, then she would have found a way despite it into that green sweeping world all full of popping grasshoppers and the thin emerald whisper, regenerate and swaying, of the native Colorado grasses that would feed the horses below, some we owned and some we never would. Some that would dive chest first into the sharp-tongued barbed wire, chased by the white reins of lightening. By the time she healed, the yellow puss and bandages mixed in the fine silt under hooves that needed trimming, by then she would be too old to break and too scarred to trust us completely, we, the barbed-wire ghosts that haunted and crushed, full-bodied and brash, the velvet purple world of the alfalfa that grew moonward.
That apple tree is bone white bone now. Those starved horses gnawed away the vein and skin, the last wet thing left there on the dry mesa that suffered after the man who remembered to irrigate had died. I miss him and I miss that mesa and I miss that girl who was still so smart and weird and brave and quiet.
Her name was Liberty Lady, an appaloosa, the daughter of Liberty Bell, her prize-winning mother. My thinking of them tonight: this is the act that lifts them almost free again, running ringing, white-eyed scared and free again into a memory as threatening, as liberating as a storm you'd see spilling its gray curtain in the distance and you knew you still had 20, 30 minutes until you'd have to go in again, before the thought of it met the real thing and chased us all dark and inexperienced into the cutting fences we'd built to keep us away from ourselves.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Littles
1. Nora sneaking a bite of guacamole before saying grace, then asking if she could say it: "Thank you for this food, especially good food like what we're having tonight. And please take care of my mom and guide her in the right way. Amen." (I always ask to be guided in the right way when it's my turn to pray, so she must have wanted to be sure that one got covered.)
2. Getting cut working in the garden and Nora washing and bandaging it after being sure to wash her hands "so all those germs don't get in there."
3. Nora and I pounding tacks every foot then throwing an orange ball of yarn back and forth across the row as we wove the grid for the first section that now holds the potatoes and onions we planted.
4. A hot bath and a book.
5. Digging up the "black gold" from the bottom of the compost pit and mixing it in with the other dirt. Watching it turn from light brown to blackish brown.
6. Wind that puts your thoughts back in line.
7. [ ]
2. Getting cut working in the garden and Nora washing and bandaging it after being sure to wash her hands "so all those germs don't get in there."
3. Nora and I pounding tacks every foot then throwing an orange ball of yarn back and forth across the row as we wove the grid for the first section that now holds the potatoes and onions we planted.
4. A hot bath and a book.
5. Digging up the "black gold" from the bottom of the compost pit and mixing it in with the other dirt. Watching it turn from light brown to blackish brown.
6. Wind that puts your thoughts back in line.
7. [ ]
Sunday, April 8, 2012
He is Risen and a Raised Bed Garden
The day began with Nora, Grandma, and Grandpa at church. I always love what Pastor Jurchen says on Easter Sunday. "When I die, and there's a pastor standing over me and he says, 'Well, Arnie Jurchen is dead,' I want you to know I'm NOT. It only looks like I am. We are resurrection people!"
We came back from church, sliced and diced a few vegetables for a relish tray and headed over to Grandma and Grandpa B's farm down the road a mile or so. This is where Mike grew up, and where Mom met him. She lived in a farmhouse between my place and Grandma B's place. Mom remembers walking to Seward...I think to see a movie...I need to write all that down sometime. But I'll save it for another time. After we were done with ham and Easter egg hunts and tree planting, we came back to my place and Mike got back to work tilling the garden. He's done this for me every year I've lived here. I wouldn't have even begun to understand who I am and what I love if he didn't show up every year and work this dirt for me. He's got his own dirt to work out in a field near Grandma B's house, but he still finds the time. He's a really good guy, and I love him a lot.
Here's some lumber. It's like pick-up sticks. Nora arranged them in various patterns and balanced.
This is before I made Nora and Mom shovel a bunch of dirt. They look happy. And relaxed.
Mike and I consult the map. I made a few smart alec comments about where the pirates had buried the treasure. And then we got to building and digging.
Yes, I need some sawhorses.
I was just going to hold the corners in place like this, but Mike thought it would be neat to use screws instead, so we went with that.
From the looks of this picture, you might think we're arguing about where things should go. We aren't. Our backs just hurt because we're getting old.
Yo-hoe-hoe and a bottle of...
Mike has nicer power tools than I do. This is me admitting that he does. He started to talk about "torque" or "tork"--it's some man word that means "twisting power," I think. Whatever. All I know is that I'm really strong. And I like tools.
Here's Mike holding one of the corners. I reminded him about our plan to use screws.
My plan was to have Mike till up the entire space and then shovel the loose topsoil into the beds. At first we thought we'd have to haul a bunch of dirt in, but there was plenty. Flies buzzed over the top of the ground searching out all the dead stuff Mike had tilled up, and I hate to say that I found a few of those things while shoveling--toads mostly.
Nora and Grandma jumped in and shoveled a lot of ground. A few times Nora said she was tired. She'd lie down on a "dirt bed" and then jump up saying, "I'm not giving up" while she stretched her arms and got back to work with her tiny spade. I love her gumption and grit.
In fact, here is a toad she found. (Alive and kicking). I hate to admit this, but I'm a bit squeamish around frogs and snakes. Not Nora. She reached right down and picked him up.
You can't tell from the dark picture, but we finished the first part of the project just as the last light faded. We had trouble finding the tools in the grass.
These starters are ready. Now a couple more weeks for the soil temps to rise and threat of frost to skedaddle, and we're set.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
A List of Good Things on Good Friday
1. The Backyard Farmer is back! Season 60 of everything you need to know about growing stuff in Nebraska!
2. We have seven birds in the house right now: five of Mrs. B's chickens, rustling and talking quietly (most likely about how to break out of this joint) in the mud room as I type, Nacho (her pet bird), and, of course, Tweety Sweetie.
3. The house smells of violets. Nora and I cut both white and purple blooms, and when I walk into a room, I am lifted. I told Nora they smell "divine." "What does that mean?" "Like they came from heaven." "How would you know, Mom? You've never even been to heaven." "Hmmmm....maybe, but it seems really familiar to me."
4. I'm reading The Secret Life of Bees, and the words taste like honey strengthening my heart.
5. I am alone, but I'm not lonely.
6. We had lady bug pizza (Nora's recipe) tonight, read books, snuggled, talked about Jesus, hung laundry, raked the garden and Nora's flower bed, filled bird feeders and made watercolor paints out of dried up markers. We fought a little bit, and I felt put out that I had to get up five times during dinner to get Nora something she needed. Later, she stepped on something sharp in the yard while we cut violets, and I filled a pot of cold water for her to soak her feet. I grabbed a bandaid and some neosporin. And I kneeled in front of her, drying each foot off with a towel. I froze in place, the sudden realization, and I hear/feel Him reminding me: You must do this for each other. I look up, and I can't see Nora's face because the sun is setting behind her head, and she says, "Mom? Do you know what song I'm thinking about?" "What's that?" I'm still not entirely in my body, still humming from how close He feels, like a teacher standing behind me, encouraging, challenging. "That one that goes 'every little thing is going to be all right.'"
These are true stories.
2. We have seven birds in the house right now: five of Mrs. B's chickens, rustling and talking quietly (most likely about how to break out of this joint) in the mud room as I type, Nacho (her pet bird), and, of course, Tweety Sweetie.
3. The house smells of violets. Nora and I cut both white and purple blooms, and when I walk into a room, I am lifted. I told Nora they smell "divine." "What does that mean?" "Like they came from heaven." "How would you know, Mom? You've never even been to heaven." "Hmmmm....maybe, but it seems really familiar to me."
4. I'm reading The Secret Life of Bees, and the words taste like honey strengthening my heart.
5. I am alone, but I'm not lonely.
6. We had lady bug pizza (Nora's recipe) tonight, read books, snuggled, talked about Jesus, hung laundry, raked the garden and Nora's flower bed, filled bird feeders and made watercolor paints out of dried up markers. We fought a little bit, and I felt put out that I had to get up five times during dinner to get Nora something she needed. Later, she stepped on something sharp in the yard while we cut violets, and I filled a pot of cold water for her to soak her feet. I grabbed a bandaid and some neosporin. And I kneeled in front of her, drying each foot off with a towel. I froze in place, the sudden realization, and I hear/feel Him reminding me: You must do this for each other. I look up, and I can't see Nora's face because the sun is setting behind her head, and she says, "Mom? Do you know what song I'm thinking about?" "What's that?" I'm still not entirely in my body, still humming from how close He feels, like a teacher standing behind me, encouraging, challenging. "That one that goes 'every little thing is going to be all right.'"
These are true stories.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
No Small Potatoes
Good Friday has traditionally been the day to plant your potato seed and onion sets, so I stopped off at the local Pac n' Save grocery and picked through the cardboard boxes of dirt coated potatoes for this year's crop. If you have been reading for over a year now, you'll remember that I murdered my potato crop with organic aphid spray last year thinking I wouldn't have any potatoes, but I did! Anyway...
I wanted to share a few tips for those of you thinking of trying potatoes this year.
1. First of all, I love the symbolism of planting these two things on Good Friday. When it's time to harvest the crop later this year, I'll be reminded again of the reason I can feel at peace, the reason I don't have to fear death, the reason I try to do my best, the reason that testifies of the kind of love God has for us. And the blessings on our table will speak of that abundance given to us because Christ was willing to die for us. I'll be reminded that life and love win.
2. I'm not sure how to transition here, so I'll just say that potato seed doesn't look like seed. Potato seed is actually a potato with eyes growing. For those of you thinking, "Hey! I have a bag full of those growing in my kitchen right now!" I want you to back away from that thought and that bag of potatoes. You can try to plant them, and sometimes they work, but usually the potatoes you eat have been sprayed with a chemical that inhibits it from sprouting eyes. You may see some potential there but they wouldn't grow. I've tried. My mom actually had some grow once, but she's just lucky like that. Stick with actual potato seed.
3. You only need two eyes per seed, so feel free to cut your potatoes up. Leave them out in a cool, well-lit place for a week or two until they've sprouted a few places, but don't let them get over an inch or so long.
4. Plant them between 8 and 6 inches deep in holes spaced between 8 and 12 inches apart. (Remember, we're doing away with rows, so I won't be adding the 2-3 foot row between them.)
I think potato plants are really pretty. Plus, next to that chocolate cake plant I'm working on, potatoes are one of my favorite garden treats. I mean, french fries. Need I say more?
I wanted to share a few tips for those of you thinking of trying potatoes this year.
1. First of all, I love the symbolism of planting these two things on Good Friday. When it's time to harvest the crop later this year, I'll be reminded again of the reason I can feel at peace, the reason I don't have to fear death, the reason I try to do my best, the reason that testifies of the kind of love God has for us. And the blessings on our table will speak of that abundance given to us because Christ was willing to die for us. I'll be reminded that life and love win.
2. I'm not sure how to transition here, so I'll just say that potato seed doesn't look like seed. Potato seed is actually a potato with eyes growing. For those of you thinking, "Hey! I have a bag full of those growing in my kitchen right now!" I want you to back away from that thought and that bag of potatoes. You can try to plant them, and sometimes they work, but usually the potatoes you eat have been sprayed with a chemical that inhibits it from sprouting eyes. You may see some potential there but they wouldn't grow. I've tried. My mom actually had some grow once, but she's just lucky like that. Stick with actual potato seed.
3. You only need two eyes per seed, so feel free to cut your potatoes up. Leave them out in a cool, well-lit place for a week or two until they've sprouted a few places, but don't let them get over an inch or so long.
4. Plant them between 8 and 6 inches deep in holes spaced between 8 and 12 inches apart. (Remember, we're doing away with rows, so I won't be adding the 2-3 foot row between them.)
I think potato plants are really pretty. Plus, next to that chocolate cake plant I'm working on, potatoes are one of my favorite garden treats. I mean, french fries. Need I say more?
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