Reflections and Memoir Archives

April 4, 2023April 4, 2023

Circle of Time

By Kathy Oswalt-Forsythe

Until recently, the wagon wheel leaned in the hay loft of the old cattle barn, where for the last forty years it had been collecting dust and cobwebs, nearly forgotten. Its spokes were intact, the outer hoop, nicked and scarred but still holding strong, a testimony to the history of our family’s centennial farm operation in Southwest Michigan’s Kalamazoo County.

Here it is nearly 10 years ago. Photo: Leeanne Seaver

Our great-grandparents purchased the original ground in the late 1800s; they built the house, barns, and outbuildings soon after. They began clearing and tiling the rich loamy soil of the low ground, eventually used to grow mint and grains, and created pastures and fields in the higher ground.

Lots of family on the front porch of the farmhouse. Our Great-Grandma Nell, front center holding the baby and Great-Grandpa Lewis in the white shirt and tie, back center.

Our great-grandparents fed a variety of animals, including sheep, hogs, and cattle, and they had a small dairy, as did many farms in our area. They gradually added to the operation and acquired more ground to produce more feed for the animals, as well as grain to market.

Our grandparents eventually took over this farm, where growing grains and purchasing and feeding calves became its focus, and Dad and Uncle John naturally continued the business.

My four brothers, our cousins, and I, the 4th generation, grew up on the farm. My brothers and I lived in the farmhouse. All of us also learned to work hard and to care for and love the farm.

A shot of the farmhouse through “Grandpa’s Garden.” Photo: Leeanne Seaver

Several of my earliest memories are with my dad as he worked–sitting on his lap, his chin resting on my tiny head, as he cultivated corn. I was content, mesmerized by Dad’s humming and the green lines of the young corn plants as we traveled back and forth through the field. I’m sure my brothers have the same memory.

Our daughter Amanda riding the tractor with Dad in 1988.

Or Mom packing up our lunch or supper, taking us to whatever field Dad was working. We sat in the shade along a fencerow, hearing about Dad’s day and sharing events from ours.

Or helping Dad with chores, feeding calves in the barn in the evening, directly across the street from our home, using a cart which at that time was supported by the long-abandoned wheel.

The feed cart fit perfectly in the aisle that led between two concrete feed bunks that spanned the length of the barn. When I was little, Dad fed cattle the same way his father and grandfather had fed them. He loaded sileage from the silo, frequently by hand as our silo-unloading-machine was often broken. He climbed that eighty-foot concrete-block silo rung by rung, carrying an aluminum shovel. He eventually stepped from the ladder to the sileage, then shoveled the feed down the shoot, into the cart, waiting below.

The barn and silo before the renovations.

I stood in the alleyway, listening to the feed hit the cart, shovelful after shovelful.

Then he climbed backdown the shoot and pulled the cart to the far end of the feed alley.

With the strength of Dad’s shoveling, the cart was pushed farther and farther down the alley. When the cart was empty, Dad would start the loading process again. It took probably two or three climbs of the silo for those evening feeds.

Eventually, the operation changed, and the silo stood empty. Dad stacked the sileage outside in a huge open-air concrete bunker, and he loaded chuck wagons using a tractor or front loader. Some animals were fed in an outside feed bunk, and some animals were fed on pasture.

Many of the animals are now fed on the pasture.

The old wooden feed cart was rolled to the corner of the hay loft where it slept silently, like Rip Vanwinkle, for 40 years.

Two of my four brothers eventually joined the farm operation full-time, which enabled the business to expand the existing angus cow calf herd and commercial sheep flock.

In 2014, our parents restored the old cattle barn—a point of pride for Mom and Dad–and about that time, the old wheel was moved to the front of the farm office where it sat until a year ago.

The silo was removed and the barn restored .

Two of my nieces now work part-time on the farm where they encouraged my brothers to open a farm retail store within the existing farm office, and during the last year that space was created.

The wheel now has a new life—providing the structure for a light that shines brightly in the retail store.

It is a symbol of the circle of time, of generations past and their hard work.

It represents the life of a family and its farm ground and animals, carefully tended throughout five generations. And, as in the past, now the sixth generation is learning to love and care for the land and the animals.

My brother Steve and his granddaughter Riley, part of the sixth generation on the farm.

It’s a Fine Life

April 16, 2022April 16, 2022

April Showers

It is true that “April showers bring May flowers.” How we all look forward to those early daffodils, crocuses, and tulips. Their hopeful, fragile tips are stretching and surfacing in our gardens.

And our moods are lifted by the eventual sight of flowering shrubs and trees decorating yards, wildflowers adorning area roads, and dogwoods brightening edges of Michigan woods.

But when you live on a farm, April showers bring mud.

Mud on boots. Mud tracked into the house. Mud up the back steps. Mud clinging to clothes. Mud in the barnyards.

Everywhere mud, mud, mud!

Our dad was never afraid of mud. Both of our parents encouraged outdoor play and we never feared getting dirty. Here, Dad is about three years old.

In the early 1970s, our 4^th grade class took a field trip to the “Conserv-A-Rama,” a program for elementary-aged kids where we learned about the water cycle and soil erosion. Mr. Dick Bailey offered hands on activities, demonstrating these interesting ideas at the Kellogg Biological Station.

When we returned home, my brothers and I applied these concepts as we played in the mud around the barns, digging tiny trenches to connect the various puddles, watching water run from one miniature pond to another, imaging the eventual emptying into the sea.

We relished mud: the slurping of our boots as we trudged and explored; our boot prints filling with water behind us; our experimental handprints; the mud pies and cakes slapped and shaped in whatever container we could find; and our happy presentation of the sloppy creations to one another.

“Here you go! It’s delicious!” or “Happy birthday, brother! I baked this for you!”

At the end of the day, we were incredibly dirty and satisfied with our unsupervised adventures. After those April showers and our uninterrupted play, our mother met as at the back door, firmly directing us to remove our boots and outer layers.

Eventually, our parents included a “mudroom” when they renovated our farmhouse. After we children had been outside, or our dad came in from his farm work and chores, we each had spots to hang our coats and place our boots. This sure was a wise and practical addition.

After raising three children—and operating a daycare when our children were young—a mudroom would have been wonderful. Like most tri-levels built in the 1960s, after outside play, our children stepped into our kitchen, where I was usually busy with meal preparation. Our little ones kicked off their boots, their little faces grimy and full of joy.

Mudrooms are still popular today. These spaces are showcased in design magazines, and you can find pictures of them on home renovation websites.

I hope children who live in these featured homes in the glossy magazines get good and muddy.

Our great niece carrying on the mud play.

I hope they need and use a mudroom!

There are things I miss about living on the farm: the quietness of the evenings and the sunrise over the fields. I miss the planting and harvesting traditions and living so close to the land.

And sometimes, yes, I even miss the mud.

It’s a Fine Life.

June 30, 2021June 30, 2021

Language Lessons

I am a lover of language. Read continually. Write often. Throughout my life, I’ve had many excellent teachers – formal and informal – who have helped improve my skills.

I learned to love books at Fulton Elementary. Mrs. Bragg sweetly greeted us when we entered the tiny library, about the size of a modern walk-in closet. We started with those high-interest biographies: presidents, explorers, Native American leaders and famous cowboys. My grandmother, our 4^th grade teacher, read aloud “The Little House on the Prairie” after recess. We listened quietly at our desks, resting our heads on our sweaty arms, and imagined being Laura’s schoolmates. We were all “country kids,” familiar with the damp of the woodlands, the sway of tall grasses, and the sounds of the different animals and insects at night Laura so richly described.

In middle school, real academics began. We studied grammar and learned to dissect sentences. I loved sharpening my pencil and diagramming sentence after sentence in Mrs. LaFrance’s classroom. We read stories and discussed them as a class, further cementing my fondness for literature.

Informal language instruction also happened during this time.

My initiation into unsavory language started in second grade, after Mrs. Harmon sharply commanded, “Jimmy! You come up here! I’m going to paddle you!”

Our teacher’s at Fulton Elementary School in the early 1970s. They were strict and firm in their discipline. Mrs. Harmon, 3rd from left, made this very clear in our 2nd grade classroom.

Horrified by Jimmy’s situation, I looked up at Mrs. Harmon, looked back at Jimmy who was slowly getting up from his desk, and looked over to my friend Donna. I whispered, “What did he do?”

Donna shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh, he swore.”

“What’s swearing?” I asked, completed stumped. Donna shook her head and went back to solving her math problems.

My mom clarified things for me when I got home. My parents were strict about how we spoke to one another. The harshest words allowed were things like “fiddlesticks!” or “shoot!”

This is the summer of the legendary farrowing-coop adventures and Dad’s uncharacteristic language lesson.

During the hot summer before fifth grade, my dad had farrowing coops – individual shelters for sows and their piglets – in a field around the house. We soon had an infestation of rats under the little houses, and we kids spent several Saturdays helping Dad move the coops and eliminate the rats. But the most memorable event of that summer involved trying to catch a sow who had escaped. My brothers and I did the best we could, trying to help Dad get her back in her pen, but each time Dad circled that old sow back around, and we tried to direct her to her waiting pen, she refused, squealed and pushed by us. Eventually, Dad lost his fatherly composure and chased that pig around and around, yelling those forbidden words – and a few I had never heard before!

But Mrs. Noble in 7^th grade PE class delivered the best language lesson of all.

We girls were in the middle of a heated dodgeball game. Balls were slamming, girls were ducking, and the worst-of-words were flying. The sound of Mrs. Noble’s whistle rose above the noise. She motioned us over, and we circled around her. She stood, statuesque and strong, and we waited, sweaty and out-of-breath, for her sentencing.

I remembered Mrs. Noble’s language lesson because it was so different from any other adult’s message during our teenage years. She taught so much more than PE.

“Girls, Girls, Girls!” she said. “You must use those words sparingly. Save them for when you REALLY need them!”

Her advice stuck and has served me well in my professional relationships, but it is in my personal life where its practice is most helpful. Like using strong spices, if I sprinkle those words only when necessary, my message is heightened, highly efficient and effective.

Thanks, Mrs. Noble.

It’s a Fine Life.

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I am working to organize family photos and am trying this system for 4 x 6 pictures.

This year, my friend Paula gave me long gardening gloves for my birthday. I don’t know how I ever gardened without them. There are many choices online.

Here is a book of my first 20 It’s a Fine Life column found in the South County News. Self-publishing was a challenge and I learned so much during this project.

April 6, 2021April 7, 2021

Going With the Flow

One of the things growing up on a farm taught me was to “go with the flow.” It was a hard thing to master as an impatient kid full of energy and dreams, but this life lesson has served me well in my adult life.

My parents’ verbal commitments to us regarding family activities were always a bit tentative: “I think that will work out” or “We’ll see what we can do.” They were careful to only make promises they could keep, so their responses to our questions were sometimes frustratingly vague.

Here’s how things could go:

Perhaps we planned to see a Saturday movie matinee. We rarely went to movies, so the event was extremely exciting to us. Very few theaters operated in the Kalamazoo area, it was a 40-minute drive, and the outing was expensive, especially when purchasing the required popcorn for five kids.

It was a huge effort for my mother to get us all cleaned up and corralled in the car to arrive in time to secure seven adjacent seats in the theatre’s light, instead of stumbling around in the dark during the previews. But the hardest person to corral was our dad.

We kids would be scrubbed, dressed, and fed, waiting and watching for Dad’s return from the fields or his chores in the barn. Sometimes Dad hustled in, showered, and met us in the car. He was good-natured and full of fun and energy, always ready for an adventure. But occasionally, Dad would step in the backdoor and yell, “Well, I’ve had a breakdown! Sorry, kids!”

The restored 1466. Despite the inevitable breakdowns, Dad spent many happy hours on this tractor. He had a radio attached to a fender and often planted corn into the evenings, listening to Tiger baseball games. Photo: Oswalt Family Farms.

Breakdowns meant everything had to stop – all plans cancelled – until the broken machinery could be repaired. If Dad and Uncle John could fix the equipment, breakdowns meant a call to the farm implement dealer for parts. But if the issue was beyond their tools and technical abilities, it meant an expensive service call.

Sometimes his shout in the backdoor was, “The tractor is stuck back on the marsh!” Sometimes it was the dreaded “The cattle are out! Get your boots on!” postponing any hope of an away-from-the-farm outing.

My brother Steve’s birthday, June 1, 1970. It is dark, but Dad made it in from planting corn to celebrate. His love of family was the only thing stronger than his love of work.

Ultimately, we learned acceptance of things beyond our control. We also learned to trust that eventually everything will work out. We did, at some point, go to the movies or visit our friends, just not on our original time frame. These periodic disappointments didn’t make me a pessimist; these small setbacks helped me learn to adjust and persevere.

Parenthood certainly demands flexibility and patience. How many times did we plan to join a holiday celebration when one of our children developed a fever or the flu? How many times did we think our savings account was growing only to need a home or car repair?

I rediscovered what I already knew: these things will pass and aren’t the end of the world.

Classroom teaching demands another layer of acceptance and patience when working with students of different backgrounds, abilities, and personalities.

And then, we’ve all been challenged by COVID-19 and the plasticity required to operate during a global pandemic.

I admit that the last year has tested my predilection for flexibility, but spring is here, some reserves remain in my tank and my resolve to persist remains.

It’s a Fine Life

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A collection of my first 20 “It’s a Fine Life” columns

February 14, 2021February 14, 2021

Valentine’s Day Treasures

Grocery shopping, I pass the display of pink, red, and white construction paper and doilies, and I am reminded of my time at Fulton Elementary School and our Valentine’s Day celebrations during my early years.

Those little plaid dresses and jumpers were nearly a little girl’s 3rd grade uniform. The little boys wore plaid button-down shirts and jeans.

In kindergarten and first grade we made these open envelopes out of big pieces of construction paper. We glued the sides with globs of Elmer’s glue, and with our little blunt-nosed scissors we learned to cut out various-shaped hearts which we used to decorate our mail slots. We wrote our names in thick letters with chunky red Crayola crayons, and taped our envelopes carefully to the sides of our desks. During the Valentine’s Day party, we played mail carrier, delivering our carefully signed cards, merrily depositing our missives in each classmate’s pouch. During second and third grades, we advanced to cheerfully decorated cereal boxes. In fourth grade, we had finally arrived: construction-paper-covered shoe boxes!

The Valentine’s Day preparations took several evenings seriously concentrating at our kitchen table, studying the mimeographed class list and my little box of cards. I made special selections for my closest friends, Donna, Darlene, and Dawn, and even more studied decisions for the boys. NOTHING could say “I Love You” or even “Would You Be My Valentine?” No way. I wanted no misunderstandings. It took intense scrutiny for Jimmy who regularly passed me the timeless “Do you love me? ____yes or ___no?” to which I always responded with my own addition: “I like you as a friend.” I examined the cards and class list again and again until I was satisfied.

The same 25 schoolmates traveled with me from kindergarten through all our primary grades. The same 25 children in little plaid dresses or little plaid shirts and jeans excitedly passed out our carefully addressed cards. Then we sat and opened the tiny envelopes, smiling at each other, occasionally blushing by something extra sweet.

We played our usual games: bingo, hangman, and seven-up. One year we even had a piñata. Usually, our teacher gave us a little box of conversation hearts, and we spent time sorting and eating those chalky treats. The ever-prepared “room mothers” supplied us with lots of sugar: chocolate cupcakes with white frosting dotted with red hots, red Kool-Aid punch, popcorn balls. I bet our poor teachers had to “put their feet up” when they got home.

I kept those sweet Valentines I had received close to me for many years. When I was sick or even cleaning my room, I often sat and looked through my little box of cards. Today, when my girlfriends and I vintage shop, I look for and often purchase a few little Valentines signed so carefully in thick pencil by a child fifty years ago; I remember and appreciate the anticipation and effort it involved.

And I wonder if there is still a faded, covered shoe box of Valentines from those dear ones of my past hidden in the closet of my childhood bedroom? When I take my mother’s Valentine to her this year, I will check. I sure hope those treasures are still there.

It’s a Fine Life.

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I enjoy reading Wendel Berry’s novels. This is a beautiful story of love and loss.

If you are looking for a book series and haven’t read Jan Karon’s Mitford series, give the first one a try. Set in a small town, the books are tender and uplifting. My mom reads the whole series over and over.

A bound collection of my first twenty columns in The South County News.

May 8, 2020May 9, 2020

Hope for the Future

Checking my Fitbit, I circle the track near our elementary school a few more times; the Little League Fields are still, the concession stand boarded, the dugouts empty. One baseball-capped woman throws a Frisbee over and over to her golden lab, who races again and again, back and forth, back and forth. The playground is childless, swing set seats hang on idle chains, the wind rippling the soccer field.

My friend Leeanne and I walk down the center of Main Street; town is eerily quiet. In the silence we notice the paint peeling around a storefront window and a squirrel’s high wire act. We hear a woodpecker, his persistence admirable, drilling high in an oak.

I feel this emptiness, grieve the loss of the togetherness and community we have always enjoyed in my hometown. I am off-balance, out-of-sync, persistently fragile.

Then three weeks ago, my husband spotted a bald eagle soaring above the neighborhood and lake. High in the sky, the signature white head came into view each time he circled our direction.

Photo by **Frank Cone** from **Pexels**
During the 1960s and 70s, the Bald Eagle joined the endangered species list, its numbers dropping dangerously low from loss of habitat and use of DDT.

What an inspiring, powerful symbol of resilience and survival–just what I need to think about during this time of isolation and struggle.

As we sat around our dinner table sharing lunch and dinner during the summer months of our childhood, my dad reported regularly about the wildlife he saw while planting corn, cultivating the fields, raking hay, or completing one of the many jobs he and my uncle were responsible for.

Dad loved the woods, the wildlife, the fawns he would gently move to the side of the fields he was working. He respected the barn snakes, teaching us to never hurt them, that they controlled the rodents and other pests. He cherished the rare sightings of the many birds we now regularly see: Sand Hill Cranes, Blue Herons, Canadian Geese all were unusual, and he made continual note of them. But he never spotted an eagle; how pleased and encouraged he would be by the solitary figure perched in the tree across the lake.

*Photo by* **Frank Cone** *from* **Pexels**
Through careful protection and conservation, the species is again thriving.

We too will survive this time of endangerment, and someday soon we will tell of the challenges and of our recovery.

And of our continued hope for the future.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe © May 8, 2020

Some Stories of Survival and Overcoming Hardship

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The amazing story of the US Rowing Team and the 1936 Olympic Race. It is one of my son’s favorite books.

I just finished reading this fictional story of homesteading in Alaska during the 1970s. The main character’s resilience and survival of not only the wilderness but an abusive situation is inspiring.

Another amazing survival story. I respect the author’s passion for becoming educated against all kinds of odds.

April 17, 2020April 23, 2020

Now’s the Time! Boredom Busters and Mood Boosters

Yes, this new staying home and social distancing is an adjustment for all of us. Some of us life with a houseful of people; some of us live alone. Some of us live in tiny apartments; some of us live in spacious homes.

But, however, wherever, and with whomever we live, we find ourselves at times irritated, bored, and often opening the refrigerator door or reaching for the remote.

Here are a few ideas to help maintain even emotions during this difficult time.

Put on a playlist and dance. (It is so enjoyable to listen to songs of our youth, tunes we listened to over and over on the local AM stations.) There are many streaming options and it always seems to life my spirit. (plus it’s good for a cardiovascular health.)
Call a friend. (make a list of people you’ve been meaning to call, especially older relatives and friends.) When you find yourself becoming restless, work your way down the to-call-list.
Make a commitment to learn something new. Foster your curiosity. Think about something you’ve always wanted to learn and check out instructional videos on YouTube. It could be a card game or a language. Maybe a craft or computer program. (Most of us have a box of craft projects to finish stashed in the back of a closet. This is a great opportunity to complete them.)
Get moving and get outside: Walk. Social distance properly and walk with a friend. Notice the bird songs. Smell some flowers. Look up at the clouds or the night sky.
If you live with others, schedule a daily time to play games. (Many of my friends are finding this the most enjoyable part of their day.)
Read a good book. (I know our libraries are closed right now, so search your shelves for something new or re-read an old favorite.)
Plan a future event. Look ahead a begin planning something to do when we are free of these restrictions: a vacation, a weekend with the grandchildren, a dinner party or barbecue with neighbors, even visiting an older relative. Start a list. Be specific. Plan the menu, and so on. This helps us feel hopeful and optimistic.
Conduct a 15 minute decluttering or deep cleaning of an area. (maybe the junk drawer, spice shelf, under the sink, bathroom vanity) Take a trash bag, set a timer, and GO!
Set a daily schedule. (I find this especially helpful and productive.)
Practice gratitude. Find three things to be thankful for each day. The research is clear on the positive benefits of establishing this mindset.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe © April 16, 2020

A few Boredom Buster Ideas

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Some friends and I are currently reading this book. There are so many good books to choose from.

This is the current family favorite: all the kids and grandkids like playing this. (I am still in the novice stage, but I enjoy it.)

April 14, 2020April 19, 2020

Well Wishes

A few weeks ago, when the late winter temperature climbed to a breezy sixty, a post appeared on my Facebook feed. Traffic had stopped for a pair of beavers who were casually crossing a major street, heading towards the mill pond, just a block from our little downtown. This makes me smile.

A few years ago, I scoffed at a news story about a kayaker being attacked by a beaver. Seriously? Couldn’t the guy just slap his paddle on the water to frighten it? We often see them on the river up north, and their industry and hard work is evidenced by the sticks and logs felled by their gnawing. But I gained some new respect for their size last summer as we watched one swim past the pontoon, glide towards the shore, and climb from the water. It was huge—like a good-sized Labrador Retriever. It glared at us and began snacking on the reeds in the sand. Suddenly, I was glad I wasn’t in a kayak near this incredible hulk!

According to the National Geographic’s website, beaver colonies are present in nearly all areas of the country, mate for life, and can weigh sixty pounds. Beaver parents produce two to four kits annually and nurture them for two years. And my favorite fun fact: the early Native Americans described them as “playful and affable.” How lovely: good natured beavers.

The Wonderful World of Disney, appearing every Sunday night of our childhood, occasionally featured engaging documentaries of animal life: black bears, racoons, and wolves entertained and educated us. We watched a fascinating hour about beavers, complete with underwater shots of the tunnels into their lodge, the sounds of their communication, and the images of their family life within the twiggy mound

I have never seen one around the village, but perhaps I’ve never really looked. Is this current couple leaving the damp and darkness of their winter lodge to begin early construction on their summer place? More likely they are newlyweds, fresh from honeymooning in their parents’ adjoining apartment, ready to setup housekeeping. Are they eager to greet their first brood of young? Do they study chapters of their parenting books? How to sooth a fussy kit. How to encourage bark sharing. How to introduce fibrous food. And I can just imagine the young pair sending their first brood off to their neighborhood school to attend classes so important for their survival. With only two years to adulthood and independence, their coursework would be intense: alarm sounding and the proper slap of the tail; establishing life-long tooth care and sharpening; lodge and dam design and maintenance.

I’ve been watching for the duo on my many drives around the village and lake. I suspect they have settled comfortably in the wetlands near the mill project. Perhaps they are enjoying some fresh air and early spring sun as their young splash and dive around their new home place.

I wish them well.

It’s a Fine Life

by Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe ©March 20, 2020

April 5, 2020April 19, 2020

Nesting

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” possibly the most fitting first lines ever written for the situation we are currently living in. Certainly, in the 1800s, Charles Dickens and his community faced uncertainty and eventually realized how to appreciate life. But these are concepts I am still learning: to be thankful for the moment, to live each day, to intentionally love the people around me.

I love this peaceful image my friend Leeanne Seaver shared. I find the subject calming in its beautiful simplicity. (seavercreative.com)

As I gaze from our windows, the neighborhood is aflutter. The birds are noisily courting, searching frantically for the nesting locations and materials. That Mr. Cardinal is a smooth one, gently feeding his mate various nuts and fruits at our feeder. The house finches inspect the wreath near our front door, scattering whenever I leave the house. A bluebird pair scrutinizes a box atop our picket fence, but the old dwelling doesn’t quite meet muster.

Across the road, swans glide on Sunset Lake, their necks arched and regal. The sandhill cranes circle the sky in pairs, their distinctive calls ruffling the quiet of my morning. Soon, all these various couples will calm a bit and settle into their abodes and routines.

Caring for my youngest brother David in 1969. I did have daily responsibilities which often included helping with my youngest brothers. This was good for me and gave me a sense of purpose and importance.

During this time of sheltering in place, I also find myself in the process of nesting. And I’ve been practicing for this present period of intensity my whole life. I had years of warming up: taking care of my dollies as a little girl, helping Barbie select her outfit for a date with Ken, babysitting my brothers or neighborhood children.

I was stretching out for decades: establishing our home nearly forty years ago, raising our children to adulthood, planning for and attending to my high school students.

And now, here I am: it has taken me nearly three weeks to reach any sense of peace in this time of isolation. I hope I am moving from a mindset of “the worst of times” to something resembling, maybe not “the best of times,” but to recognizing this as a tender period of feathering my nest.

I hope you can do the same.

It’s a Fine Life

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe © April 5, 2020

Below are a few product ideas that I find help during this time of separation. (If you click on the image, it will take you to the shopping information)

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Lodge Enameled Dutch Oven

I have used this Lodge Enameled Dutch Oven nearly every day since I ordered it two weeks ago. Yes, it is heavy, but I love the color, just wash it when finished, and keep it on my stove. It is oven safe to 500 degrees, and I simply don’t know how I survived without it.

Each one of her friends is represented by a different colored leaf on her gratitude tree. I love this.

Gratitude Journal

My friend Liann is utilizing this journal, and I love how intentional the activities are. I use a different gratitude journal, but have just ordered this one. When she sent our group a picture of the activity with our names listed, we all felt the power of her thoughts and prayers.

March 23, 2020April 19, 2020

Getting Away

Everyone needs some space—a reprieve from the people or routines that fill our days. I am reminded of this as all of us are spending more and more time sheltering in place.

This was one of my escape routes I took to seek some solitude.

When I was a child, I regularly sought time apart from my four little brothers. These were simple places: the coolness of the barn, the branches of the old maple, a favorite rock at the side of a field. All free and readily available to me. Once there, it didn’t take long to regain an appropriate attitude and some degree of affection for my every-present family. But I found such time necessary and still do.

My classroom of friends at Fulton Elementary School never spoke of vacations or spring break trips. Most of these children also lived on farms—or at least lived rurally with some chickens and pigs. My family’s livelihood depended on the careful monitoring, feeding, and watering of livestock and the timely preparation of the land for spring planting. Getting away was not realistic or expected.

A view of the river and bay at the cabin. I’ve had a lifetime of perfect getaways there.

But when I was in 5^th grade, my parents planned a Spring Break trip to the Smokey Mountains. It was to involve lots of riding in the station wagon AND overnight stays in motels with indoor swimming pools. We were so excited we could hardly sleep. The morning of our departure, we crawled in the old Mercury (with a rumble seat in the back), tucked our new comic books carefully beside us, and eyed my mother’s tote bag filled with snacks and other tricks to distract us.

Little Steve about the time he broke his wrist. Our dad and the stockyard representative are in the back. We always looked forward to listening in on their conversations.

My brother Steve made one last run into the house to retrieve his pillow, fell from the top bunk, and broke his wrist badly, ending our trip before it even began. (It took several months for eleven-year-me to forgive him, and even then it was grudgingly, with attitude only a big, bossy sister can bestow.)

No major setbacks (or broken bones) enabled my husband and me to take our three children to the Smokey Mountains and Mammoth Cave when our youngest was five. We visited and toured both places and enjoyed the gorgeous mountain views from a condo we had rented. This was our first official vacation besides our annual cabin trek in July. On our way home, we asked our tired travelers their favorite part of the trip. As the children were pondering the question, I recalled the beautiful wildlife in the Smokey Mountains National Park, the purple and lavender sunrises from our balcony, the stalactites and stalagmites in the depths of the cave. There were so many wonderful moments to choose from.

Our oldest daughter piped up, “The best part was riding the go-carts!” to which her two younger siblings enthusiastically and unanimously agreed, “Yeah, that was the best!”

My husband and I looked at each other in disbelief. We sure didn’t have to travel hundreds of miles to ride go-carts and play miniature golf!

*My new normal: reaching out to engage my high school students with my computer. I miss seeing them and worry about their well being.*

This spring break adventure reinforced what my husband and I already knew: it doesn’t have to be a big expenditure or extensive travel to satisfy the need for a break and some much-needed time away. It can be as simple as pitching a tent beneath the stars in our backyard for an evening around a fire; turning off our electronics and playing old-fashioned board games with our children or grandchildren; or spending the afternoon in the hammock lost in books.

I need to remember the simplicity of this during our continued confinement.

It’s a Fine Life

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe © February 20, 2020

Below are two product ideas for your time of isolation. If you click on the image, it will take you to the item on Amazon.

As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.

Suspend This is a fun game, which taps into problem solving and some engineering skills. I have played this as an ice-breaker, team-building game with my students.

Where the Crawdads Sing--if you haven’t read this book, consider it. If you lived next door to me, I would loan you my copy. It’s fiction written by a biologist: this means science and beautiful literary style. I am going to re-read it. It’s that good.