Embracing a Season

Last Tuesday I was going about my own business prepping for the previously mentioned camping trip when my ears perked to the sound of cicadas. My husband and I had just questioned when they might be announcing their arrival a few days earlier. If you’re a believer in the old Farmers Almanac you may look at your calendar and wait for a frost around the end of August….because that’ll mark a six week span of time from cicadas to fall; which I’ve heard for years is a clear prognostication.

Maybe the frost will come around August 29th, or maybe it wont, but one thing is for certain- summer is flying by way too quickly. I feel an urgency when there’s far more left to do than I have time for. It happens every year. The black-eyed Susan’s bloom and then my Japanese anemones; crickets and grasshoppers return; the cicadas sing as I harvest one garden crop after another. Second cutting hay is waiting as well as a whole woods full of winter timber to heat our home. Next blink pumpkin spice everything will dominate the shelves as we dig in to another school year. WHAT!  I guess I’d better get that curriculum ordered.

Last night I sat at grandma’s table having a much needed visit. My dad’s hay was ready to go into the barn so as my crew worked I talked. I felt guilty about not helping at first but thinking about the passing season I pushed it aside. Some things are too precious to let go another day. Sometimes I feel that same urgency about a visit with grandma as I do trying to accomplish much before a winter chill sets in. How many stories can she tell me that I haven’t heard yet? How much more knowledge can I glean?

When my sweaty eight year old poked through her screen door he was smiling from ear to ear so happy he was big enough to help. Like a graduation this year he stepped from being “too little” to being able to push bales down from the wagon and also take them off the elevator in the loft. My mother’s mind tosses around fears of the worst. Farming accidents happen all the time. I remind myself that a couple generations ago my dad was younger than that driving a tractor. So I asked how she did it. How did she watch her little boys do grown up jobs without being terrified something would happen? She was scared. She was scared to watch them drive over the railroad tracks, pausing to look for a train, which would at times stall the tractor. Theyd be left trying to restart before an engine barreled down the tracks. She was terrified and would turn away from the window. 

A new story: on one occasion, when the boys were small, grandpa had gotten stuck out in the field. The recent rain had left a muddy area to swallow the tractors tires. He walked up to the house for help. With children in tow, grandma drove another tractor to pull him out. The safest place for two little boys was in the wagon with the corn. This was before combines with giant corn heads. She was successful in pulling grandpa through that hole, but they had to continue on hooked together for a bit. Envision two John Deere tractors clanking along pulling a picker and a wagon full of corn…and two boys as ears we’re tossed in at their heads. She was a nervous wreck while her boys were in the midst of a grand adventure. They did what they had to do and no doubt her twisted insides are partly to thank for boys who grew up to be men able to tackle a problem.

Now this isn’t a photo of my grandpa..but an image to portray the idea of what went on that day.

While the world has changed in drastic ways the seasons remain the same. Round and round we go doing what needs done- Sometimes turning our heads away from the fears of what could be and instead embracing the growth of little adults.

Another lesson learned in the waning light of a summer evening at a 150 year old kitchen table.

A Necessary Adventure

Today dawned early with the rustling of chipmunks outside of our two man tent. I could hear them scurry through last falls leaves, over the cooler, and up the neighboring tree. Not long after a ‘good morning’ text chimed from my North Carolina son (oops, I forgot to silence my phone.) Next thing I know foggy brown eyes are looking at me from across the tent. “Mom, let’s make breakfast so we can go fishing!” ….he is always on the go.

A little furry friend

Bringing a touch of wonder into our “Groundhog Day” summer, (1993 Bill Murray movie where he relives the same day over and over again), has become a must. Yesterday afternoon my daughter, youngest son, and I departed to a nearby state park to add a smidge. I haven’t tent camped in years; unless you count last summer’s overnight tree house adventure in the back yard. I’ve certainly not “roughed it” without a guy to split wood, start a fire, haul water, etc. I think I liked the idea of the challenge. Okay-so we’re not exactly back woods roughing it. There is a paved spot to park, a nice even place for the tent, electricity, and water across the drive….but I’m used to a trailer with running hot water, a shower, stove top, and a pillowtop mattress. 

Cooking over the fire in my cast iron pans has been a good challenge but I did precook our breakfast sausage at home, just in case. We wouldn’t starve if I couldn’t pull it off. So far we’ve achieved Mac-n-cheese in a Dutch oven to compliment last night’s brats, and eggs in a skillet to go with our warmed precooked sausage. Mission accomplished.

After a brief breakfast cleanup we were off to the fishing pier where I promptly lost a bobber and hook to a field of lily pads. Last night’s sleep had been interrupted by strange noises, which became quickly apparent as someone’s little temper reared its ugly head. My sarcasm returned with “like I did that on purpose”..and “As if you bought them in the first place. I’ll buy you another.” Oh I had to shut it down fast before the ‘wonder’ of camping became nothing but a bad memory. Four little fish were caught before we decided to head to the trails. A mile hike was rewarded with a close encounter with a deer and a new, better, view of the lake. Maybe we will try that lily pad free spot tomorrow morning.

Next we’ll head to the beach front where many heat tortured locals find solace. I’m currently avoiding that by sitting here writing in the shade of towering oaks. I’ve sent my tired dirty boy to the tent to read a book in front of a fan. 

Sure, we could’ve done this at home. We could’ve popped the tent in the yard, cooked from our fire pit, drove to a lake (swim and fished), and we see deer everyday from a distance. But it’s just not the same. Our swimsuits are haphazardly strung across a makeshift line. A calm lazy feeling hangs in the air. Food out of a cooler is just different; besides just tasting waterlogged and questionable.

Somewhere down the line, maybe in twenty years, my son will remember this outing while a campout at home would likely be forgotten. My daughter had to leave at dusk last night so she didn’t have our overnight experience, or today’s adventures. I think we will have plenty of stories to tell the rest of the family later.

Hard Work Pays Off

Whether we’ve had a mild start to summer, cool and rainy, or a hot blazing dry one, a certainty here in southern Michigan is that shortly after the 4th the wheat is going to be golden-ready to harvest. Simultaneously the blueberries will be turning from greenish purple to a lovely shade of dark blue.

There’s always been plenty of wheat fields around, but when I was a kid dad decided that we had too far of a drive for a good picking of blueberries. Obviously, we needed our own. As I picked, picked, and begged my husband and son to help me pick yesterday I couldn’t help but retrace the lives of those bushes.

I recall it being a chilly gray day when we went on a family outing somewhere to get 100 blueberry starts. I have no idea where it was or how long it took, but it seemed like a haul. And yes, you read that right…we got 100 of them. They looked like little more than sticks when we placed them in holes filled with peat tested for the correct soil PH. When one goes to the effort of digging a perfect patchwork of 100 holes in their front yard it’s worth the extra detail. One wheelbarrow load after another rolled out to the front as two little girls were encouraged to help…or get out of the way. I was old enough to lend a hand but young enough to be a nuisance. I remember it being fun at first. Like a grand experiment. It quickly became a tedious chore I wanted little to do with. As spring turned into that first summer they had to be watered. All of them. Individually. One at a time.     It. Took. Forever.  Guess what..those bushes are a couple hundred feet from the house so even dragging the hose that far took effort. By the end of the summer I hated them already. As it turns out snakes loved them.  The cold water filled the grass covered holes and out would slither a snake or two right at my feet. After not too many of those I received an education on how to use a garden hoe as an attack weapon. From then on I was armed when I watered the bushes.

As I got older ones of the jobs I grew into was lawn mowing. The riding lawn mower wasn’t generally hard to manuever, but weaving through the gridwork of growing bushes had its challenges. The first time I mowed one completely off I dreaded telling dad because I knew he wouldn’t be happy. Though I had been careful to take it extra slow, alas, we were down to 99. Over the course of time I had been the end of three of their lives..because of my lack of lawn mowing finesse they had been bitten by the blade. I had become the family joke. My way of ridding us of work, one bush at a time???

The bushes that remain…😉

Here we are years later. I don’t even know how many. At least thirty??? The painstaking care my dad took initially is still paying off today. Only halfway through yesterday’s picking I had over 24 cups worth of juicy deliciousness that could only come straight from the bush. No store could rival the taste of handfuls eaten on site. About 90 plants still remain, give or take. (I imagine those lived mostly because I quit mowing the lawn when I married and moved out…) They produce faithfully year after year allowing enough for fresh treats and and freezer bags to last the year.

I couldn’t resist whipping up a batch of grandma’s muffins last night. They taste so good made with fresh berries once a year. The rest of the time they’re made with the freezer stock, but these just taste better.

One of my favorite muffin recipes in grandma’s handwriting..

Hard, tedious work often pays off with big dividends to spare. That usually doesn’t come to mind when dragging a hose through the yard as sweat drips down your face. Or when snakes are chasing you down. ….but thank you dad for lessons learned that are being enjoyed today.

Independence Day

As I sit on my front porch this evening I reflect on the last few weeks. Those who’ve read my prior posts know that physically they’ve been a couple doozys. This last week though I had an enemy of another sort. While I’ve been able to accomplish more than I have in awhile, emotionally the pressure of all I’d fallen short on (and all I had yet to do with a holiday weekend looming large) was immense. I reached my breaking point leaving my family to wonder at the pieces. I won’t get into all the details but being ‘on the go’ constantly tends to bring out my worst rather than the best. If summer is supposed to be anything resembling relaxation I haven’t seen it yet.

Today has been spent prepping for our 4th of July festivities. We will be spending it at the lake with family and two of us will remain overnight. One is also leaving on a camping trip shortly thereafter. While I’m not a helicopter parent, this 16 year old will remember his clothes, but is totally cool with packing shorts that have a hole in the backside. Luckily I still keep track of what he’s bringing. Into my sewing room I went to find a make-do patch and turn on my iron. Waiting for it to heat up my eyes wandered the room landing on a sign I’d painted some time ago.  Faith makes things possible…not easy.  Well, that‘s for sure. A bit of conviction set in as I pressed the patch into place.

I felt better this week than I had in two, yet I allowed the weight of the world to press where Grace was meant to lighten the load.

All packed and ready for tomorrow’s AM commute now I watch the fireflies float through the darkening yard. Soon the pop of firecrackers will fill the air, and distant colored sparks light the sky. We discovered yet another mechanical problem with my van today. Sigh. Its not driveable until fixed. Add that to the list of things I’ve allowed to twist me out of sorts for the past few days. But the holiday I’ve prepped for, and the fireworks on the horizon, remind me there’s always been pressures-ones much larger than mine.

Over two hundred years ago were people dealing with life as we do in a different time. Daily struggles met daily prayers lifted to a God waiting to guide and help as a Revolution raged on around them. They fought a land across the sea trying to keep their own fields, farms, and freedom. Faith made it possible, but not easy.

As for me- there will always be places to go and things to do…some of them outside my realm of comfort or joy. Vans break down, appliances quit, money runs tight, kids fight. Its all small potatoes in light of the fact I’m sitting on what is now considered American soil. Its a country that’s still great no matter what some say. What I deem “a hard day” is laughable in other parts of the world. We are truly blessed. Happy Independence Day.