My son and my daughter are having a summer growth spurt, and sporting their sun-blonde locks and lanky tan legs. They have recently begun sleeping late for the first time in their desperate parents’ memory, and when I wander in to wake them, I pause for a glorious moment to memorize them anew. When the boy sleeps curled up in fetal position I can see the day he was born, the moment we first locked eyes. His head was strong, and he held my gaze in his first minute of life. He stretches in his sleep and a transformation occurs: his legs are hanging over the end of the bed, for heaven’s sake! In our neighbor boy’s hand-me-down boxer shorts, he suddenly flops at a considerable length and I see him as a teenager, struggling to consciousness, fighting for another hour of sleep.
The girl, too, so long and brown, her sleeping face a definition of serenity, shape-shifting from the baby in the crook of my neck to the girl who refuses a teddy bear, who trots along in Birkenstocks. Her favorite stripy two-piece bathing suit is by no means skimpy, but it foreshadows some time long from now when she will be off to the beach with friends, and without me. Her confidence and social life are practically that big, already.
Summer is a part of the long season called The Season after Pentecost, in both Jewish and Christian traditions. In the Christian church, we dress the sanctuary in green for the long growing season. My favorite parable is practically a one-liner, “The kingdom of God is like seed thrown on a field by a farmer who then goes to bed and forgets about it. The seed sprouts and grows—the farmer doesn’t know how it happens. The earth does it all without his help: first a green stem of grass, then a bud, then the ripened grain. One day he wakes and the fields are ready, and he reaps the harvest!” Mark 4:26-29. There is no mistake to be made in this parable about the quality of the farmer’s actions or motivations forcing the result. It’s more like, that’s just the way the kingdom of God is, or that’s just the way the universe works from the beginning of time. Throw some hope in, and see what happens.
Not every day feels so blessed and lucky as a summer day with two lovely children sleeping in. But today feels that way. From seeds to sprouts and beyond, they grow like stalks in the sun. Throw some hope in—such good results.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Saturday, July 09, 2005
modern farmland
“If you’re traveling Interstate 70, drive north a ways and stop by Farmland, Indiana.”
“Well, what’s there to see?” asked Blair, a retiree who spent her summer vacations meandering by car.
“Nothing much. It’s a one-horse, no stoplight town. Grocery store has a great ham salad, fresh on Thursdays and made personally by Bob the Butcher, who guards the secret recipe.” Blair made a note: Thursdays, grocery, Farmland, Indiana.
Weeks passed and she returned. “Bob the Butcher says hi!” she laughed. “He introduced me to everyone in the store, AND he called your mother.”
“I know! If she had been home to answer the phone, she would have dropped everything to come meet you. She called me as soon as she got the message.”
“I couldn’t remember your maiden name, but that didn’t seem to matter. Only one Denise in Farmland, Indiana?”
“Two, but the other one moved to Farmland when I was in high school, so she would be noted as ‘the other Denise.’”
When I consider my small town heritage with any depth, I am still startled by my view of the world as a child. The first day of school each fall, my brothers and I would report if there was a new person in our grade level. The assumption was that a “new” classmate happened rarely and was a special event. The assumption was that we all knew who the rest of us were, and this new person would be exotic, rare, unlike anyone we had ever known. Small towns offer no anonymity, and the scrutiny must have been painful to newcomers. It was such an adventure to think of someone having a fresh start, of people forgetting mistakes of your kindergarten experience, that I was often jealous of new students. How nice it must be to be new!
Luckily for me, “uptown” Farmland now has a booming business district, right in the middle of what has been designated Historic Farmland, where new cobblestone walks and old-fashioned looking streetlamps have replaced the bland and broken fixtures of the 1960’s. The four blocks of three-story brick Victorian buildings have never looked better, and due to the upsurge of tourist traffic to this rural icon, the town still functions as a town. Shopkeepers chant the motto, “It’s the only Farmland in America,” as some clever marketer indeed discovered that there is only one incorporated town in the United States named Farmland. Farmland USA—buy the merchandise. Many similar towns in rural Indiana have barely held on.
My town has a boutique gift-shop with hand-dipped chocolates like my grandmother used to make for Christmas, but you can buy one any day of the year. A stained-glass window craftman moved onto Main Street while I was still in school, and we all shook our heads, “He’ll never make it. Where does he think he is?” At the time that store opened, the “Five and Dime” had just boarded up, and Bailey’s Corner Drug Store cut back its menu and serving hours. But the store displays gorgeous work, just as it has for twenty years, right on Main Street in a store full of sunny windows. Across the street is a florist. A florist, in Farmland! A “country store” filled with country-ish things a little cornier than the former “Five and Dime” would stock. It’s a little insincere, but I will cut them some slack. Bailey’s has been transformed into The Chocolate Moose, a full-scale ice cream and soda shop, which added even more twisty-barstools and removed the pharmacy and magazine rack, and all pretense of being practical for anything.
The crowning additions as of my last visit to Farmland are the Farmland Cultural Center, a gallery of antique photos of famous houses and people in Farmland, AND the freshest oil paintings of town landscapes by a Mexican-American artist named Angel Mercado. And Main Street Coffee, which roasts its own blends of coffee in the windowed showroom by the coffee bar. The store sports the original pressed tin ceiling and polished wood floors—a Bostonian coffee shop would be jealous of the space and light, the gallery displaying paintings in the adjoining room. And the coffee is amazing.
What all of this means to me is that people no longer must leave Farmland to make an income, are no longer consigned to bag groceries if they wish to stay in town. It also means that factory jobs twenty minutes away are not the only employment. Bob the Butcher is long retired, and he did not share the recipe for his ham salad, though the grocery store still operates, with its Red Gold Tomatoes mural adorning the outside wall.
I am not sure how I feel about all of this movement to “upscale,” to luxury treats and luxury experiences of small town life, versus the hardware store and dusty feed mill so necessary in the past. I am not sure how I feel that my dad had never been inside the coffee shop, though it had been bustling for a year and he does like coffee. He does not feel it is “for him,” but for some unseen wealthier class who must be visiting from somewhere. The gift shop with the hand-dipped chocolates—has he been there? I am glad there is a hip little group of adults there, my age and successful enough. I saw a DVD for sale called Fright in Farmland, a pulp horror flick playing on small town themes and inside jokes. It starred some men who had been popular in my high school years. Like my father, I didn’t buy it, though it intrigues me. It seemed like it wasn’t for me. But the coffee, now that’s for me, and the chocolate shop offers flavored iced tea samples that make me want to shop all day. For postcards of Farmland, at $1.50 per card.
“Well, what’s there to see?” asked Blair, a retiree who spent her summer vacations meandering by car.
“Nothing much. It’s a one-horse, no stoplight town. Grocery store has a great ham salad, fresh on Thursdays and made personally by Bob the Butcher, who guards the secret recipe.” Blair made a note: Thursdays, grocery, Farmland, Indiana.
Weeks passed and she returned. “Bob the Butcher says hi!” she laughed. “He introduced me to everyone in the store, AND he called your mother.”
“I know! If she had been home to answer the phone, she would have dropped everything to come meet you. She called me as soon as she got the message.”
“I couldn’t remember your maiden name, but that didn’t seem to matter. Only one Denise in Farmland, Indiana?”
“Two, but the other one moved to Farmland when I was in high school, so she would be noted as ‘the other Denise.’”
When I consider my small town heritage with any depth, I am still startled by my view of the world as a child. The first day of school each fall, my brothers and I would report if there was a new person in our grade level. The assumption was that a “new” classmate happened rarely and was a special event. The assumption was that we all knew who the rest of us were, and this new person would be exotic, rare, unlike anyone we had ever known. Small towns offer no anonymity, and the scrutiny must have been painful to newcomers. It was such an adventure to think of someone having a fresh start, of people forgetting mistakes of your kindergarten experience, that I was often jealous of new students. How nice it must be to be new!
Luckily for me, “uptown” Farmland now has a booming business district, right in the middle of what has been designated Historic Farmland, where new cobblestone walks and old-fashioned looking streetlamps have replaced the bland and broken fixtures of the 1960’s. The four blocks of three-story brick Victorian buildings have never looked better, and due to the upsurge of tourist traffic to this rural icon, the town still functions as a town. Shopkeepers chant the motto, “It’s the only Farmland in America,” as some clever marketer indeed discovered that there is only one incorporated town in the United States named Farmland. Farmland USA—buy the merchandise. Many similar towns in rural Indiana have barely held on.
My town has a boutique gift-shop with hand-dipped chocolates like my grandmother used to make for Christmas, but you can buy one any day of the year. A stained-glass window craftman moved onto Main Street while I was still in school, and we all shook our heads, “He’ll never make it. Where does he think he is?” At the time that store opened, the “Five and Dime” had just boarded up, and Bailey’s Corner Drug Store cut back its menu and serving hours. But the store displays gorgeous work, just as it has for twenty years, right on Main Street in a store full of sunny windows. Across the street is a florist. A florist, in Farmland! A “country store” filled with country-ish things a little cornier than the former “Five and Dime” would stock. It’s a little insincere, but I will cut them some slack. Bailey’s has been transformed into The Chocolate Moose, a full-scale ice cream and soda shop, which added even more twisty-barstools and removed the pharmacy and magazine rack, and all pretense of being practical for anything.
The crowning additions as of my last visit to Farmland are the Farmland Cultural Center, a gallery of antique photos of famous houses and people in Farmland, AND the freshest oil paintings of town landscapes by a Mexican-American artist named Angel Mercado. And Main Street Coffee, which roasts its own blends of coffee in the windowed showroom by the coffee bar. The store sports the original pressed tin ceiling and polished wood floors—a Bostonian coffee shop would be jealous of the space and light, the gallery displaying paintings in the adjoining room. And the coffee is amazing.
What all of this means to me is that people no longer must leave Farmland to make an income, are no longer consigned to bag groceries if they wish to stay in town. It also means that factory jobs twenty minutes away are not the only employment. Bob the Butcher is long retired, and he did not share the recipe for his ham salad, though the grocery store still operates, with its Red Gold Tomatoes mural adorning the outside wall.
I am not sure how I feel about all of this movement to “upscale,” to luxury treats and luxury experiences of small town life, versus the hardware store and dusty feed mill so necessary in the past. I am not sure how I feel that my dad had never been inside the coffee shop, though it had been bustling for a year and he does like coffee. He does not feel it is “for him,” but for some unseen wealthier class who must be visiting from somewhere. The gift shop with the hand-dipped chocolates—has he been there? I am glad there is a hip little group of adults there, my age and successful enough. I saw a DVD for sale called Fright in Farmland, a pulp horror flick playing on small town themes and inside jokes. It starred some men who had been popular in my high school years. Like my father, I didn’t buy it, though it intrigues me. It seemed like it wasn’t for me. But the coffee, now that’s for me, and the chocolate shop offers flavored iced tea samples that make me want to shop all day. For postcards of Farmland, at $1.50 per card.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
grilled fajitas
Only one entrée is worthy of the first night out on a camping trip, and my family has come to expect it: grilled chicken fajitas, with all the trimmings. Throw plenty of flattened boneless breasts or tenderloins, depending on thaw time, into a Ziploc bag with olive oil and lime juice, with a crushed clove of garlic, plus a pinch of sea salt and pepper and freeze the Ziploc as flat as you can. Double bag the whole shebang and pack it when you leave. As the chicken thaws in your backpack or cooler, the acid in the lime juice will partially “cook” the meat, saving you from salmonella and allowing you to transport raw poultry for a few hours. (If you die from food poisoning as a result of this recipe, please do not leave my web address lying around on your kitchen counter. I’m not sure why it works—it just does.) Grill the sliced red peppers and onions over the fire or on a griddle while the chicken cooks. Throw the tortillas on for a minute, while you slice some jack cheese. Add black beans, sour cream, your favorite salsa. Add cerveza, if you have packed it.
If you are seriously backpacking, there are ways to reduce the weight and bulk of some of the trimmings, but then, it’s your first night out—celebrate this one luxury with gladness before you begin the mixes and rations. There will be no leftovers, trust me.
Pat Coleman taught me this trick when we worked together as RDs, and I see his smiling, ornery face every time I make this meal. (While dying of food poisoning, perhaps you could invoke his name, not mine.) I would love to sample this year’s vintage of his homegrown salsa, too. Happy grilling, Pat.
If you are seriously backpacking, there are ways to reduce the weight and bulk of some of the trimmings, but then, it’s your first night out—celebrate this one luxury with gladness before you begin the mixes and rations. There will be no leftovers, trust me.
Pat Coleman taught me this trick when we worked together as RDs, and I see his smiling, ornery face every time I make this meal. (While dying of food poisoning, perhaps you could invoke his name, not mine.) I would love to sample this year’s vintage of his homegrown salsa, too. Happy grilling, Pat.
Friday, March 11, 2005
inanimate objects that inspire affection
Robert Farrar Capon describes the universe being about as necessary to God as "the orange peel in God's closet-- He keeps it because he likes it." Somehow the picture in my mind is a long twisting orange peel, all in one piece, which is, of course, the way I peel an orange when I am paying attention and the peel is just right. I imagine the nail in the closet, the peel dangling right next to an extra key for something, emitting an aroma sweet as orange but bitter to the taste. With that image in mind, God's great affection for small, dear things, I love to consider the small things so endearing in everyday life. I write this list with Cat Stevens' "Oh, Very Young" playing in my mind also, such a lovely ode to a pair of favorite jeans. And is it Zephaniah or Zechariah who says that even the cowbells and the pots and pans will be inscribed with "sacred to the Lord" in that good time when the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations?
It is the long and winding end to winter, and inspiration is low. How good to think of life's small sweetnesses, little graces that keep us going. Here is my odd and on-going list of things I like:
1. my 1996 Jetta
Imagine a ten-year-old car with working accessories and 35 miles per gallon. I haven't loved any automobile so much since my first 1986 Sentra, and this car is much peppier and more comfortable, while still being the size of tuna can. In the past two weeks, it has taken my family on a major road trip and has endured coffee and orange juice spills in areas completely impossible to clean. Still, I will try, as it's the nicest car I've ever owned.
2. my Blunnies
Blundstone Australian workboots in "stout brown," which is almost black, and round toes (neither square nor pointy), AND waterproof. Blunnies have these ribbon tab pulls to tug on and off, and they manage in snow, mud, rain, shorts. Got mine on eBay for $80, shipped from Tasmania with a toy koala...
3. hand-knitted earflap hats
"The Acorn Heads," my childrens' friends call them in winter, with their nut-brown hats dangling braids of yarn.
4. my bay window
This window turns my tiny condo into a sunny treehouse with a view of the harbor.
5. block crayons
I love crayon rubbings, and I love bright colors. I need to color more with my children, but when I do, my pictures go right onto the refrigerator, with magnets.
6. Pampered Chef garlic press
Pay the $20 for it. It's worth its weight in gold.
7. sandalwood oil
In various periodicals, I have seen sandalwood described as a) a mosquito repellant, b) an anti-depressant, and c) an aphrodisiac. What more can a gal ask for in a scent? Practical and gorgeous-- my friend Elizabeth says I smell like a hippie. "But that's good," she adds.
8. girl stuff-- a beautiful red bag, a burgundy scarf, my favorite earrings
The bright red Slovakian bag is lined with suede and trimmed with leather, a gift from my husband that I felt I did not deserve. The black and burgundy batik scarf is from my brothers, long ago, the first article of clothing anyone chose for me that I liked. Neither the bag nor the scarf match each other nor the favorite earrings, so of course I insist on wearing them together. It works.
9. microfleece long skirt
Looks like formalwear, wears like pajamas. I like that in a clothing item.
10. digital camera
When the children look lovely but the parents look exhausted, why not cut out the parents and look at the photo of the children? Scott and I should keep files of joke photos titled, "Foreheads" and "Chins," "Bad Hair" and "Bad Angle." But we don't-- we have a delete key.
Perhaps you will think of some inanimate objects you like. Let me know. And survive winter.
It is the long and winding end to winter, and inspiration is low. How good to think of life's small sweetnesses, little graces that keep us going. Here is my odd and on-going list of things I like:
1. my 1996 Jetta
Imagine a ten-year-old car with working accessories and 35 miles per gallon. I haven't loved any automobile so much since my first 1986 Sentra, and this car is much peppier and more comfortable, while still being the size of tuna can. In the past two weeks, it has taken my family on a major road trip and has endured coffee and orange juice spills in areas completely impossible to clean. Still, I will try, as it's the nicest car I've ever owned.
2. my Blunnies
Blundstone Australian workboots in "stout brown," which is almost black, and round toes (neither square nor pointy), AND waterproof. Blunnies have these ribbon tab pulls to tug on and off, and they manage in snow, mud, rain, shorts. Got mine on eBay for $80, shipped from Tasmania with a toy koala...
3. hand-knitted earflap hats
"The Acorn Heads," my childrens' friends call them in winter, with their nut-brown hats dangling braids of yarn.
4. my bay window
This window turns my tiny condo into a sunny treehouse with a view of the harbor.
5. block crayons
I love crayon rubbings, and I love bright colors. I need to color more with my children, but when I do, my pictures go right onto the refrigerator, with magnets.
6. Pampered Chef garlic press
Pay the $20 for it. It's worth its weight in gold.
7. sandalwood oil
In various periodicals, I have seen sandalwood described as a) a mosquito repellant, b) an anti-depressant, and c) an aphrodisiac. What more can a gal ask for in a scent? Practical and gorgeous-- my friend Elizabeth says I smell like a hippie. "But that's good," she adds.
8. girl stuff-- a beautiful red bag, a burgundy scarf, my favorite earrings
The bright red Slovakian bag is lined with suede and trimmed with leather, a gift from my husband that I felt I did not deserve. The black and burgundy batik scarf is from my brothers, long ago, the first article of clothing anyone chose for me that I liked. Neither the bag nor the scarf match each other nor the favorite earrings, so of course I insist on wearing them together. It works.
9. microfleece long skirt
Looks like formalwear, wears like pajamas. I like that in a clothing item.
10. digital camera
When the children look lovely but the parents look exhausted, why not cut out the parents and look at the photo of the children? Scott and I should keep files of joke photos titled, "Foreheads" and "Chins," "Bad Hair" and "Bad Angle." But we don't-- we have a delete key.
Perhaps you will think of some inanimate objects you like. Let me know. And survive winter.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
beginnings
In September, my son Brendan began half-day kindergarten, and my daughter Madeleine is in first grade, affording me a dozen or so hours per week for the first time in my years as a parent. Last summer, I envisioned these school hours as a window to "weep endlessly, waste time frivolously, and write like there's no tomorrow." Excessive, yes, but I need to make a break from what was "before," to serve the ideas brewing in my head all those years when I could not find a moment of quiet and a working pen at the same time.
So this is how it goes: each morning I can, which is to say each morning without great quantities of undone chores and errands, I make myself a breakfast of over-easy eggs, sprouted raisin toast with butter, and hot coffee (which I will drink while it is hot, thank you very much), and then I sit down with my pen and journal, or move to the computer to toodle with words. Most mornings I am hard-pressed to pick up kids on time, I am so excited about what yarn I am spinning along...
I began by filling a journal per month, and by writing to a long-lost friend-- a friend who traded letters with me for nine years, but with whom I had lost touch. This friend asked me a simple, "so what do you want to write?" on a day when I needed to drive a startling number of hours, and by the end of the car rides, a plan became clear! I want, mostly, to write personal stories in a way that helps me "knit it all together," to see my life as one piece and not so many fragments. I need to start small-- I'm still adapting to this sort of self-exposure, and I will need a thick skin if I ever decide to publish anything. I began to write a few other friends, as well, and with each story comes more stories.
I have not written for an "audience" of more than one person since my high school newspaper days, but in November I submitted reminiscences of my college ministry days to my illustrious first employer, for its alumni website. Each month a new story is posted, and if you email me, I will put you on my "alert list" when a new column comes out, or send you the archive link.
Gratitude is the center point of my "campus ministry days" writing, and with the rest of my writing I am thinking of "cairns"-- cairns are small stacks of stones, serving as markers for a path, sometimes a path above treeline, where there are few landmarks for a return trip. The first cairn I laid eyes on (Colorado, 1981, hiking with my roommate Anne) also reminded me of stone altars in the wilderness-- a sign that something important happened, some event worth honoring.
So. Blogging. Seems a little crazy, like the sound of one mouth talking or better, the sound of one pen scratching. "A commitment to writing," of sorts. But now you'll know where to find my writing, if you wish. More stories will be posted shortly-- I am just getting started.
So this is how it goes: each morning I can, which is to say each morning without great quantities of undone chores and errands, I make myself a breakfast of over-easy eggs, sprouted raisin toast with butter, and hot coffee (which I will drink while it is hot, thank you very much), and then I sit down with my pen and journal, or move to the computer to toodle with words. Most mornings I am hard-pressed to pick up kids on time, I am so excited about what yarn I am spinning along...
I began by filling a journal per month, and by writing to a long-lost friend-- a friend who traded letters with me for nine years, but with whom I had lost touch. This friend asked me a simple, "so what do you want to write?" on a day when I needed to drive a startling number of hours, and by the end of the car rides, a plan became clear! I want, mostly, to write personal stories in a way that helps me "knit it all together," to see my life as one piece and not so many fragments. I need to start small-- I'm still adapting to this sort of self-exposure, and I will need a thick skin if I ever decide to publish anything. I began to write a few other friends, as well, and with each story comes more stories.
I have not written for an "audience" of more than one person since my high school newspaper days, but in November I submitted reminiscences of my college ministry days to my illustrious first employer, for its alumni website. Each month a new story is posted, and if you email me, I will put you on my "alert list" when a new column comes out, or send you the archive link.
Gratitude is the center point of my "campus ministry days" writing, and with the rest of my writing I am thinking of "cairns"-- cairns are small stacks of stones, serving as markers for a path, sometimes a path above treeline, where there are few landmarks for a return trip. The first cairn I laid eyes on (Colorado, 1981, hiking with my roommate Anne) also reminded me of stone altars in the wilderness-- a sign that something important happened, some event worth honoring.
So. Blogging. Seems a little crazy, like the sound of one mouth talking or better, the sound of one pen scratching. "A commitment to writing," of sorts. But now you'll know where to find my writing, if you wish. More stories will be posted shortly-- I am just getting started.
Monday, February 28, 2005
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