Three Sisters

Order 8 x 10 Print[nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Three Sisters 8 x10 Print” amount=”20.00″]
Order 4 x 5 Card [nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Three Sisters 4 x 5 Cards” amount=”3.00″]

I love the light at this time of year.  Throughout the day, the acute angle of the sun bathes the trees and garden in a pinky-gold, giving even our contemporary cave an antique atmosphere.  I think it’s that sepia glow that always gets me wondering about the property’s previous caretakers.

Thing 1’s history project a couple of years ago put a new perspective on my wonderings by sparking an interest in genealogy.  We were looking for Revolutionary war figures to report on  and shaking the family tree a little helped a few ideas fall out.  I began tracing the rest of the family tree and soon found that the Big Guy’s – and our kids’ –  connection to Vermont went farther back with even more branches than we had anticipated.

The most intriguing and mysterious inquiry has been the search for a Native American great-grandmother’s (Alice Fox) roots.  We had pictures and family memorabilia to track some of her history.  Unfortunately, history and history of record-keeping make tracing Native American ancestors a unique challenge.  Even when we lose her trail, however, our collective curiosity about the area’s first people spur us to follow in her – or their – footsteps when and where we can.

Most of my garden is an evolving science project, often mimicking different early New England layout we’ve seen on one of our Saturday drives.   But even before I went looking for Alice, one of our trips introduced me to the Three Sister’s Gardens popular among the Iroquois and other tribes in this area.  Consisting of squash, beans, and corn, they provide a perfect balance for the soil and the humans it feeds, and it has been in use in this area since people first appeared here.

My Three Sisters gardens are practical – with few exceptions they are incredibly productive.  But they are also my way of being mindful of the people who were here and of the gifts they left us.  Now, as the pumpkins gleam in the golden light and the bean pods and corn stalks dry, I think about Alice’s trail yet again.  I don’t know how much of her history I can give my kids, but in honoring the memory and contributions of her branch of the tree, I hope I’m giving my kids a special connection to the land we will pass on to them one day.

Order 8 x 10 Print[nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Baby at Bath 8 x10 Print” amount=”20.00″]
Order 4 x 5 Card [nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Baby at Bath 4 x 5 Cards” amount=”3.00″]

My mom came to visit us in Germany when Thing1 was born.  Like most newly re-minted grandparents, she and my Dad were there to pitch in and weigh in with their years of experience, but the real reason for their visit became clear about 20 minutes after we go back from the hospital.

I had not willingly put the baby down for six days.  It had been anything but sweetness and light – we had a heck of a time getting started with nursing – but I simply could not bring myself to put him down.  I think I was secretly afraid he might disappear if I did, and the Big Guy practically had to fight me for a turn.

I could cuddle overtime in the hospital when there were nurses managing the logistics of life, but when we got home, responsibility greeted us at the door.  Fortunately, Grandma and Grandpa were only too happy to help with the slack – especially with the holding of the baby.  We all picked up, cooked, diapered, and competed for baby holding time, and that first week home, Thing 1 rarely saw the inside of his crib.  More than once my mom quipped, “You can waste a lot of time staring at a baby.”

That phrase has followed me for years – whether I was cuddling my own two little imps or wistfully staring at someone else’s newborn.  It still echoes in my head, and it always spurs the obvious question of why babies are so intriguing.  Love was the easy, automatic answer in the beginning.  But my babies are boys now, and, while I still marvel that they’re mine, Mom’s musing had been silent in my head for a while – until last night.

I was poring through my book of drawings in search of an image of a seated woman when I stumbled on a drawing done by a French artist, Timoleon Lobrichon, in the 1850s.  The image of a perfect, plump baby enjoying bath time caught my eye and my imagination, and I knew I had to copy it.  I put my search on hold and opened my pad.

I blocked the big shapes in and then started zoning in on the details.  As I stared at this curve or that shadow, I was struck by the immediacy of the original drawing.  Created at a time when home life was very private and most art still focused on battle scenes or exalted figures and subjects, this drawing was the work of a man who had spent hours staring at a baby.

Later I went through the book looking for more work by this same artist, and while he had covered many other themes, this drawing exuded with intimacy – an  not just with the subject.  Through his portrayal of innocence  and exploration, simple pleasure and even hope, this artist created an unusual kind of intimacy with the viewer.

And, as I viewed this baby one hundred fifty years after the message was drawn, I began to realize the time spent watching an often wriggling, crying, utterly dependent bundle of humanity is not wasted.  It’s a reminder of the hope and curiosity – and even innocence – that, while often disregarded, still lies in each of us and waits to be nurtured.

Order 8 x 10 Print[nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Black Cat 8 x10 Print” amount=”20.00″]
Order 4 x 5 Card [nicepaypal type=”cart” name=”Black Cat 4 x 5 Cards” amount=”3.00″]

Chuck, the cagier of our two black cats, often disappears into the forest for days, hunting and collecting its secrets.  He comes home acting like a long-lost lover, the king of all he surveys.  He’s loner when he wants to be, but nothing about his demeanor suggests loneliness.  And, as much as I love the loyalty of our little dog, in my heart I am a cagy black cat.

I work alone most days. I only see a few people when I drop off my kids at school, and I like the solitude.  Once, it bothered me that most days my only human contact is with my co-workers in a online chat room or other online venues.  I worried that my eager anticipation of the hours when the only sounds are the whispering trees and the wind chimes was anti-social, or that I was making my world smaller.

For a time, I tried to stave off what I saw as loneliness by working in cafes or libraries, but when our work model changed, working from home all afternoon became imperative.  Knowing my afternoons would now be spent at our kitchen table, I began running my errand in the morning.  Then I started walking the dog after dropping off the kids.  It evolved into a routine.  Now, every morning before I log on, I find a little adventure.  Sometimes it’s about a walk in the woods or a new sketch, other days it’s about a trip to the grocery store.  But ultimately, my daily Walk About is  about taking a cue from my cagey black cat, and discovering something different.  It makes the solitude all the more delicious.

Fruitcake

I used to think I’d been really short-changed by Mother Nature.  Born into a family of smart, attractive women, I must have been day-dreaming the day she was passing out her gifts because, while she was giving my sister brains, beauty, and personality, the only gift I got seemed to be a set of smarts associated exclusively with my derriere.  My parents, however, were much more egalitarian about the gifts they gave us.  They made sure we left home equipped with at least a modest command of manners and survival skills.  And, in the fourth grade, my mom gave me the gift of writing.

Our family was living in Peru for a few months while my dad was working with a pediatric clinic there, and, contrary to what we had hoped, we were not going to spend the Peruvian summer goofing off.  A former high-school english teacher and future history professor, my mom was adamant that she would keep us caught up with our classes at home.

My sister and I knew she was getting the lesson plans and materials from our teachers before we left, but somewhere in the corner of my mind I still nurtured the idea that I would be able to weasel out of any serious studying for the next few months.  After all, my mom was – literally – (and is) the nicest person you will ever meet.  I rarely hear her raise her voice, and, even in what should be a heated confrontation, she manages to keep a civil tone in her voice.  It was not until we were going over my abysmal report card from the previous term that I realized how badly I had underestimated her resolve.

One gift I did get from Mother Nature was an olympic-calibur ability to daydream through even the most interesting class, and, at the time, I didn’t think fourth grade was too interesting to begin with.  Determined to put a stop to my academic apathy, Mom decided we would work on the research projects together.  The school had decided on the themes, but together (kind of) we settled on at least one book report, with mom promising I would learn to write at least one well.  She kept her promise.

Under her gentle but unyielding tutelage, I learned how to write outlines and how to write a draft.  I learned the word diction, and I learned how to take criticism without breaking down in tears (tried it at least once, still had to study).  Almost completely my will, she gave me her literary gifts, and, at the time, I showed as much gratitude as if I’d received a fruitcake for Christmas.

When we got back to the states, Mom’s determination had put me and my sister ahead of our classes in her two favorite subjects. The experience set the tone for the next few years, and she continued to critique our papers.  There were fewer and fewer tears, and, by the time I got to high school, I had acquired a taste for fruitcake (which, as some of my old classmates may remember was pretty evident in at least one thing I wrote for our entertainment).

We all know the joke about fruitcakes – that there’s really only one that’s been eternally re-gifted from one family to another over the years/decades.  Right now I’m wrestling with the challenge of re-gifting a love of writing to my oldest son, and he’s just as excited about it as I was when I was in his shoes.  I spend a lot of time wondering how my mom made it interesting, even when she was making it hard.  And, on those nights when I’m pushing him to rewrite and revise something, I realize there was a lot more than just a love of writing that was mixed into that fruitcake.  There was love, of course, and there was perseverance and creativity.  And from her aspirations for us, I have found inspiration.  It is a gift I hope to pass on.

From the first year we were married, living in a basement apartment in Boston whose only highlight was the extremely shady but private 12 x 12 ‘yard’, I knew I needed to garden.

Once my gardening was simply a way to be outside and be near something green – something sorely missed in the city.  Then it became a path to  greater food independence. Still later, it became my place to experiment.

Now, even living surrounded by farmer’s markets and CSA’s, I still grow at least some of my own food and flowers each year.  Sometimes I struggle to explain my addiction to others and even to myself, and, as I went out to rescue what may be the last of this year’s hot weather veggies from an impending spate of bad weather, I meditated on the question once again.

This mental meandering always takes my mind from the why’s of it all to the smell of the basil leaves in my pail and then to the the chirping of the crickets nearby.  I listen to the song of the tree frogs and then travel to thoughts our toasty kitchen with a homegrown savory stew on the wood stove.  I wonder what the people who worked this land a hundred or two hundred, or even four hundred years ago would have grown.  I wonder how they survived without a country store three miles away and if we could if we had to.

And, finally, my travels take me to a place where I want to keep these skills, even if we may never need them to the degree we have in the past.  They take me to a place where I am connected to our land and to its history, to an act of faith that something good will come from my labors each year, and to a place where I am truly mindful of my senses.  And, most of all, they take me to that place where I am determined to cultivate – for as long as my body will let me – the peace that comes with the knowledge that those places do exist.

Piazza San Mudroom

One of our first – and favorite – country life endeavors was the acquisition of a flock of chickens.  At the time, the backyard chicken movement was in its infancy, and most of the books we found were republished versions of guides from the 1980s, so most of our education came from trial and error and picking the brains of our more experienced neighbors.

Now, there are a lot of books out there that will tell you what you need if you want to keep chickens. You’ll need something to keep the varmints out. You’ll need a watering system. You’ll need housing and a place to keep their food from getting moldy. But the one thing they don’t tell you is that every backyard chicken owner needs a good mudroom and a healthy tolerance for messes.

Our chickens – my husband liked to call them ‘The Girls’ in his best South-Chicago accent – were truly free range. To be sure, we locked them up at night, but in the daytime, they had the run of our garden and yard, and our flock became very friendly with us. They followed me into the garden, scratching and digging and weeding. They’d follow the kids around the yard, risking death by flying baseball to enjoy their company. And, if we left the front door open, they’d follow us into the house.

The first time it happened, one of The Girls had followed me in when I went to get a garden tool. One of them inside momentarily was adorable. She hopped around our cluttered entry way, exploring until I decided that we were in danger of invoking Murphy’s Law and, playing it safe, tossed her out.

Little did I know that she had discovered the bin of cracked corn we had leftover from winter feeding.The next day, I had two companions close behind me as I walked to the door. This was threatening to become a trend, so I put my foot between us and warned the family that the girls were suddenly interested in the house.

This kept on for a while, and The Girls being more persistent than we were vigilant eventually began finding their way regularly into the mudroom. The only thing that kept our house from turning into a giant chicken coop was our mudroom – our Maginot line against feathers and chicken poop. It got even crazier when winter weather rolled in making them completely dependent on the corn bin (in the summer they survived on bugs for the most part).

Now, I did draw the line at the living room door – the only chickens in the main house are in picture frames (along with the rest of our family), But, when there was 6-8 inches of fresh snow on the ground and another 4-6 inches on the way (cracked corn sinks), the mudroom/poutry bar was a really convenient way to feed the ladies.  And, somehow, the new mom who had been revolted by the sight of pigeons feeding from and off of tourists in the Plaza of San Marco in Venice had morphed (in a mere five years) into a chicken lady, cooing as she fed The Girls and snapping pictures when it was her husband’s turn.  No one who knows me would ever have mistaken me for a neat freak, but convenience and necessity were teaching me not to let my feathers get ruffled (sorry – I had to do it).

A couple of summers ago a fox a way into the coop and decimated our flock. Fixing the coop and restocking is fairly high up on the to-do list, but, in the interim, the mudroom has been cleared and re-cluttered several times, erasing any evidence that it was once a poultry bar.  I’m still sure that a mudroom is a must-have when you have chickens, but now, even at its most cluttered state, it feels a more than a little empty without our companions, making me wonder if the mudroom needs chickens to be complete.

A Side Order

It was just like any other Friday night.  We were planning on a dinner with the kids at our favorite diner – a babysitter wasn’t in the budget -and then a night on the couch in front of the tube.  The only thing that set this Friday apart was the fact that it was our sixteenth anniversary.

We weren’t celebrating another decade or any major milestone, but, in some ways, our run-of-the-mill family night routine made it as special as a gourmet dinner out.  It was mundane, but it was a recognition that we’ve arrived at that sweet spot where we can’t remember a life before we were together or imagine any life in the future without each other (even when we hit the inevitable rough patches).  And it was a reminder that happily ever after isn’t always about champagne and caviar – sometimes it comes with a side order of fries.

Washington County Fair, NY

I should  have been putting up the 40 pounds of tomatoes sitting on the counter or cleaning or writing or weeding or cleaning (did I mention cleaning?).  Instead, I was sitting on a courtesy cart on my way from the parking lot to the entrance of New York’s Washington County Fair.  The little imp that sits on my left shoulder is the queen of rationalization and had already come up with a couple of great excuses for the less-wayward imp that sits on my right shoulder (I don’t have any internal angels).   However, as luck would have it, our driver came up with the hum-dinger of all pretext for a day of play –  one I know I’ll use again and again.

Our main reason for going was to see the 4-H exhibits. None of us have any interest in those rides that involve leaving your stomach hovering 20 feet in the air over the rest of your body.  However, we all wanted to ride the ferris wheel – all of us, that is, except for Thing 2.  So, as we climbed onto the courtesy cart, he became the victim of an escalating ad campaign to get all of us onboard with the idea.  The lanky, slightly-older gentleman driving the cart noticed our five-year-old’s plight and took pity on him.

“Know why I don’t like ferris wheels?”  He asked.

Thing2 turned his face toward my stomach (his preferred debate technique).

The driver then told us of a draconian punishment he had endured at the age of nine and at the hands of a father he never saw again.  In somewhat vivid detail, he described how his parent pushed him from a precipice and how a hatred of heights sprang from that betrayal .  My hands moved to cover Thing2’s ears to filter out the story, but I was too slow, and I was to be happy about that by the end of the ride.

” I work with other kids like me,” he went on.  Before we had time to consider the courage it took to evolve from a cast-off to a champion of others caught in the cycle of neglect, he asked, “You know why I like working this job too?”  Thing2 was now listening intently, as were we all. “I like seeing people coming here enjoying their kids.  Not like the kids I work with.  Not like my parents.”  He pulled the cart to a stop in front of the ticket booth and smiled at Thing2 and at me and my husband.

Then, lightening the mood, he asked Thing2, “Know how cows have fun?”  Thing2 shook his head, no.  He grinned at all of us as we stepped out of the cart.  “They go to the moo-vies.”

We groaned and the kids laughed and we waved good-bye as we trotted up to the ticket booth.  Gone from my mind were the tomatoes and housework and writing and all the excuses I thought I needed to be here.  In the end, the only – the iron-clad – excuse that we needed or will ever need was that we wanted to enjoy our kids while we’re lucky enough to be able to do so.