Grace

My dad was a tree guy.

He planted them, admired them, and appreciated them for the firewood he cut to heat our farmhouse. In our yard, we always had shady trees, planted by my great-grandparents in the early 1900’s. To the west of the house stood old, knobby pear trees—overgrown and shaggy—whose fruit bounced to the ground with the late summer winds, attracting all kinds of stinging insects. In the front and back yards, we had big maples which we climbed like monkeys, fearlessly scaling the highest branches. We read books in the branches, pretended to take naps, and gave my mother fits when she emerged from the house, realizing how high we had climbed.

Two old trees stand vigil along the road. When I was a child, there were three, and my brothers and I played and built forts beneath them. (all photos courtesy of Oswalt Family Farms)

“Expand! Expand! Expand!” was the farm lending mantra during the late sixties and early seventies, giving confidence to my parents who purchased an adjoining eighty-acre parcel just to the west of our home place. This acreage was divided neatly by fence-rows into four twenty-acre fields. My dad planned to remove the fence-rows, full of sumac and various determined seedlings, to accommodate the farm implements which were growing vigorously larger and larger with the ag-industry’s push for more production.

Dad bought a small used bulldozer and began his demolition work with enthusiasm. We could hear the bulldozer’s engine and the cracking of the fence-rows’ brush as we rode our bikes back and forth, monitoring his progress. Dreaming of running his corn planter smoothly down long rows the following spring, he uprooted trees, burned huge brush piles, and worked steadily to create a large field.

The Angus are pastured on part of the field my dad cleared. While you see many cottonwood trees here, the year before my dad died, he was working daily to clear the dead and damaged trees from this area.

Once the dust settled, the smoke cleared, and the roaring bulldozer’s engine quieted, one tree stood alone in the middle of the huge, cleared field. I imagine it grew firmly in a fence row when my father and Uncle John were boys. It may have been an anchor for fencing, possibly a mark for a previous neighbor’s gate, or even a visual aid to help set a pattern for corn planting. It most certainly sheltered birds, housed squirrels, and supported the buzzards.

Somehow my dad’s grace allowed this old fellow to co-exist in our farm operation. It stood solidly in the middle of whatever my dad planted: corn, wheat, soybeans, even hay. Why did this one tree survive the bulldozer and chainsaw? I’m guessing my dad just couldn’t bring himself to cut that old gentleman down.

Here is the old tree, still surviving and enduring the winter, as the Angus move around him.

When I was a child, the tree was regal and handsome—his trunk thick and healthy, branches strong and many, and leaves lush and green. He became our favorite “secret spot.” Some breezy summer days, my mom would give us permission to pack our lunch and eat wherever we wanted. The tree wasn’t far—probably a quarter mile up the road on our bikes, then a quick hike through the field to picnic beneath his branches. It was cool in his shade, and around his base my dad had piled many loads of stones we gradually picked from the surrounding field.

I’m now a tree gal—influenced, I’m sure, by my dad’s passion for them: I admire the lone Gingko tree on the empty lot north of the bank, whose history is now forgotten; I am amazed by the massive beech tree on the east side of the Sunset Lake, whose totem pole trunk is carved with bark faces; and I notice the local tulip tree population, whose teacup blossoms grace their cool springtime arms.

And every time I visit my mother, I salute the tree, that tough old veteran, a reminder of my past and my dad’s impractical, sentimental side.

It’s a Fine Life.

Coming Home

photo by Seaver Creative

We no longer go to the old farmhouse for holidays—it is too much for my mother and has been for several years. I hosted our immediate family again for Thanksgiving this year, our first major holiday since my dad’s death, and my tears brined our turkey.

I was doing well: setting the tables, preparing the meal, enjoying our home filled with our children and grandchildren, but then I stepped on the cat’s tail, she howled, and I cried.

This grief jumps from around corners and invades the quiet moments of my life. It startles me, catching me without my security system set securely around my heart. Like today—the first delicious snow day of the school year. This gift of eight hours of unscheduled time smiles at me.

The house is mine.

The day is mine.

I sit with my coffee, admiring the beautiful, wet snow smothering the bird feeders, flocking the pines, blanketing the lawn, and I miss my dad.

Continue reading “Coming Home”

Rooster Conditioning

“Our rooster is havin’ a really great year,” my seven-year-old granddaughter shares late last summer as we weed her herb garden. Her twin brother Caleb is having a playdate with a friend, so we are enjoying some rare one-on-one time together. She converses with me in that delightful way young children do with people they know and trust—completely, openly, sincerely—and she clearly has opinions about their current rooster and his quality of life.

Hmmm.

What constitutes a good year for a rooster?

All his ladies at his disposal?

goat, goat girl, walking with a goat
I love this picture: Chloe, our little goat girl.

A crowd to admire his strut and swag?

We had several chickens who wandered the farm of my childhood. When I was seven, we had a rooster with these feathery bangs we named “Ringo.” The Beatles had just begun their U.S. tour, and my brother and I found the Fab Four’s hairdos both hilarious and amazing. When Ed Sullivan featured the Beatles in 1964, I watched, laughed and danced, shaking my head and playing an air guitar before there was a name for such things.  Our rooster Ringo was king of the barn and certainly wouldn’t have eaten from my hand no matter how patiently and persistently I would have tried. A “great year” for Ringo would have included lots of bugs and corn to eat, as he led the simple life of an under-appreciated bachelor.

Chloe’s rooster doesn’t really have a name. Just “Rooster.” He has free range of everything on their little ten-acre homestead: the woods, the yard, the driveway, even the garage. He has a selection of twelve fine-looking hens—well muscled and productive—and he is ever-vigilant, crowing if concerned by a sudden change or separation of his brood.

So what makes “Rooster” and his year so good?

“Well, Nana, he just knows that brother and I are gentle and kind. Our other rooster didn’t know that. But this rooster doesn’t chase us, so we reward him.”

Hmmm.

How do you reward a rooster?

 A trip to the neighbor’s coop for a little tryst?

 A new perch from which to announce the sunrise?

“So Nana, sometimes when I’m pickin’ berries, I save some an’ he comes to me and eats outta my hand,” she continues.

Wow. Really?

“I’ll show you.” She confidently marches to the nearby blueberry bushes, picks a tiny handful, and crouches low to the ground. She quietly calls to Rooster.

“It’s okay. You’re a good boy. Come here…I have blueberries for you.” She holds her little cupped hands still and continues to talk softly… gently… and sure enough, Rooster slowly approaches her and picks the berries carefully from her hand. He doesn’t hurt her or peck at her when the berries are gone. He simply cocks his head one when and then the other, then scoots off to scratch for bugs near the raspberry canes. Chloe brushes off her hands, stands, and turns to me, proud and satisfied.

Chloe rewarding Rooster.

Here’s what I know: our amazing world will be at this child’s command.

My seven-year-old granddaughter has learned the benefits of giving positive rewards at an early age. Although she doesn’t fully understand the psychology, Chloe is discovering how certain actions can maintain or change a behavior. What power she will have.

My daughter and son-in-law are very involved and committed to their family, but as all parents, they are blissfully oblivious to the tests awaiting them and the quickly developing sophistication of this tiny, expressive redhead.

While Rooster’s time on this earth has come to an end, our dear Chloe’s journey has just begun.

I’m so glad I’m along for the ride.

An Unexpected Gift

The silo was filled, the combine greased and stored for another year, and frost covered the fields around our farmhouse when my Dad left for deer hunting. He would be gone a week, and he assured us he would return “before we knew it.” And he was right, of course, as soon our unshaven father was back, unloading his suitcase and telling us stories about the northern Michigan woods he walked, the animals he saw, and the people he met.

Listening and laughing, we excitedly watched Dad unpack, my youngest brother clinging to Dad’s legs.

“Oh kids, I brought you something,” Dad announced.
Continue reading “An Unexpected Gift”

The Winter of Redford

December through February in Michigan we experience something described by local meteorologists as the perma-cloud. As far as I can tell, this simply means days–sometimes weeks–with no sunshine. Period. It’s hard to imagine if you reside in Arizona, or California, or even New Jersey. Here in the mitten we have become so accustomed to the grayness of these months, that when the clouds do occasionally part, it is like hearing the voices of an angels’ chorus. We stop what we are doing, we pause mid-sentence, we look up from our books or smile from our all-wheel-drive cars and trucks.

Robert Redford, winter story, winter survival,

We Michiganders learn to make our own light during our winters–always seeking a new pastime, a recommended Netflix series, even a new flavor of potato chips.

Continue reading “The Winter of Redford”

Changes

How seasons so swiftly pass.
The cooling nights.
The gathering calls.
The hummingbird’s final flight.

Fall once brimmed with beginnings, with hope.
I donned a starchy, new blouse and wool jumper.
The milk-weed pods launched their fluffy parachutists.
The woolly caterpillars awaited our probing fingers.

Now I grieve the changes.
The children’s empty beds, made up tight.
A knee’s aching stubbornness.
The stillness of the house.

There is comfort in the familiar, a slowing of the routine.
The dog and I watch the stars fade in the morning sky
As my neighbor’s kitchen light warms the yard.
And from the frosted lawn, I heard the timbre of his familiar voice.

I Remember

My mother carries me to the cabin kitchen,

Where my grandmother waits,

Her apron cinched, her sturdy arms welcoming, her smile firm and determined.

Where I become the main event, the centerpiece of their day.

My little red bathing suit—a miniature Marilyn Monroe,

Full of sand, and grit, and a day’s worth of four-year-old play—

Is gently peeled from my exhausted body,

And shaking and shivering and whimpering

I am submerged in an old galvanized tub full of warm water.

I remember

Their calm reassurances

And the gentle hands touching me, pouring warm water over my tiny frame.

I remember

The light of those women—my women—in that tiny kitchen.

My grandmother—the jam maker, the warbly whistler, the grandchildren snuggler

My mother—the schedule arranger, the ache soother, my eternal encourager

Feeders of the world.

The wood cook stove snaps behind me

And I am lifted and wrapped in the clean towel,

Quickly cocooned in the safety and balm of my grandmother’s ample bosom.

I don’t remember

 

My mother’s youth, her beautiful smile, or how she was—briefly—mine alone

Or my grandmother’s predictably musky scent of onions and rising bread.

All gone to me.

The tub still hangs on the porch of the cabin.

The wood stove now a vintage accent in a cousin’s home.

The rest of the tiny kitchen is unchanged, a museum vignette dedicated to early cabin décor.

And above all, I remember

 

The radiance of their love,

And how at that moment, I was the cherished center of their universe.

Americana’s Naked Truth

Young, enthusiastic, and giddy with a job which offered more than minimum wage AND included benefits, I wound my way on the country roads on my way to work. The sun rose optimistic in my rear view mirror—my 72 Catalina hugged the curves, floating over the bumps and potholes, her old head lights startling the occasional skunk or rabbit. I had landed my first teaching job—unheard of in 1982. My fellow Michigan State University graduates had moved to Texas or the West Coast, and bumper stickers read “The Last One Out of Michigan, Turn Out the Lights.”  I had applied to every school district in a one hour radius of our newly established home. One principal called, I interviewed, and he offered me the job.   I taught high school English in a paint-chipped, leaky classroom in a small, southwest Michigan district. I had five different professional outfits, two pairs of sensible pumps, a faux-leather briefcase, and a twenty-two-year-old’s optimism and innocence. And I struggled, too ashamed to ask for help, willing to take on more and more as the daily assignments and themes piled higher and higher on my desk. But “what a lucky break” and “it’s a great opportunity” and “just keep trying” constantly played in my head, blocking out the threatening clouds, fatigue and despair.

So, I cherished this thirty-minute drive through southwest Michigan, and as the year progressed—and my energy level and enthusiasm sagged—I cranked the AM station higher and savored the sights on the way. The same cars met me every morning, the same deer scavenged in the winter snow, the same trees began to bud, and the same little man waved at me every morning. I think I noticed him in early March—probably after we experienced the “spring forward”– standing by his garage in his little gray work suit, holding his little gray lunchbox, sipping coffee from his little metal coffee cup, his thermos upright on the ground. He tipped his cup at me. And then he was there every morning. I waved—he tipped. I smiled—he smiled. Oh how I loved rural America! Pretty soon I began to roll my window down and extend my hand in friendship, waving wildly as I passed—you see it was too early to sound the horn. If horn sounding had been acceptable, I would have toot-toot-tooted some cheerful tune for him. The smells of early spring, the sounds of the wind passing, all buoyed me as my little, reliable friend cheered me on. I told my co-workers about this little man. I pointed out the house to my husband.  I thought about pulling into my little man’s drive, saying hello, and sharing a morning cup with him.  What a great country!  It couldn’t get any better.

But then, the lightning bolts of reality grounded me. The first day of April, I hummed along, anticipating spring break, extra sleep, and a much-needed reprieve from my teenage students. My hourly lesson plans scrolled through my head. Everything seemed in order. I followed the curve, and my little friend’s house was in sight. I extended my hand, turned to smile, and there he was—naked—just standing there, slack-bellied and expressionless against his garage. No coffee cup, no thermos, no little gray uniform.  A fuzzy, electricity slithered down my spine to my toes. I gripped the wheel. I looked straight ahead. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Not my little friend. Maybe he was wearing a nude colored jumpsuit. Did they make such things? Maybe they changed the color of his work clothes. Did they make flesh colored work clothes?

I think there was— probably still is—something in my face which must invite such behaviors. “You have an open face,” a friend once told me. ”People will tell you things.”  (This friend is a retired psychiatric nurse—that should have been my first clue that this face could result in such behaviors from strange men.) I had been flashed several times while a student in East Lansing. I had lived above a thirty-something flasher when I student taught in Battle Creek. And now I had been flashed by this little man, tarnishing my Mayberry countryside.

I knew that appearances aren’t always what they seem. People can surprise you. It was like the time my brothers and I were part of the Buckaroo Rodeo Show in the sixties.  Sleepy-eyed, we watched the show every Saturday morning in our pajamas. From our couch, we admired Buck’s cowboy accent, his confident smile, the way he spoke to the “Buckaroos” in his audience. One Saturday my mom and dad dropped us off at the television studio in our new cowboy boots and crisp western outfits to be a part of Buck’s young audience. We perched on small bleachers, smiling when the cue card said “SMILE,” clapping when the cue card said “CLAP.” And when the television camera was off, Buck snarled, telling his stunned Buckaroos to “Shut up!” and I heard him say to the woman applying his make-up, “God, I hate kids.” Suddenly Buck’s smile wasn’t quite so sweet—his buckskin costume not quite so genuine. I wrapped a protective arm around my youngest brother, checking to make sure my other brothers were within my reach. So you see, I should have been skeptical of my pastoral drive and the little man. I should have somehow seen the truth coming.  But I didn’t.

I survived my first teaching placement, receiving a glowing evaluation and an invitation for another year of the same. A new suit and boots made their way into my closet, and I changed my morning route. I finished my year traveling different roads, but my new path wasn’t nearly as sweet.  The red-wing blackbirds trilled along the ditch banks, as the spring uncovered the litter decorating the sumacs and cattails. The red barn sported fresh paint and a neat paddock, but behind the white picket fence, the lone farmhouse’s curtains were drawn tight.

My Life’s Anthem

Lightening laced the air–the June sky was veiled a deep purple-blue—an eerie nighttime in the late afternoon. The wind whined and whistled, the old maples swayed and curtsied, the thunder growled and menaced.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s okay,” my mother crooned.  “Let’s watch for your dad.”

My dad was working beyond the barn, cultivating the corn fields on our low ground–rich black muck stretching all the way to the far ditch banks and the distant woods. He was trying to finish before the storm. From behind the panes of the front window I could see his tractor, a small red dot inching its way down the rows, working its way towards the gravel road leading home.

Tears welled in my eyes, “Please, hurry, hurry, hurry, Daddy,” I prayed, pressing my hands to the cool glass.

This was my whole five-year-old world: the barns brimming with glossy eyed steers, the fields striped with tender seedlings, the yard shadowed with trees, and our home filled with comfort.

I pressed my nose to the window as the rain drops began, speckling the sidewalk. I heard the sputter of the tractor as my dad rumbled up the ramp and into the barn.

Then the summer storm raged, the water ran in sheets down the front window and the lightening sizzled and snapped. Shaking, I hid my face into my mother’s soft bosom, she held me tight and stroked my hair. We rocked and rocked, waiting for the storm to break , watching for my father to walk across the road from the barn.

My two little brothers played happily on the floor, oblivious to the storm, to the noises, to their frightened big sister. They built their block towers and knocked them noisily, their monuments clattering to the floor as the lightning flashed and the thunder rattled our old farm house’s bones. I wrapped my arms around the wonderful softness of my mother, and she rested her cheek on the top of my head.

“Kathy, look.” I turned to the window. My father stood in the barn doorway and waved his hat—he put it back on his head, and raced towards the house, leaping across the puddles, sprinting across the road to the shelter of the front porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

“Wow! That sure came up quick!” He stood, dripping, shaking his hat. “What are you boys building?” he asked, bending to touch my brothers’ heads as they pummeled another structure.

He turned to my mother and me. “How are my girls?” He reached down and took my trembling hand and pressed it between his.  He looked at my mother.

“She was worried about you,” my mother prodded.

My dad bent down and looked in my eyes. “Kathleen, it’s okay.”

I wasn’t convinced. I looked up at him, still dripping with rain, still holding my hand.

“Kathleen, it’s always going to be okay.”

And it was. And it is. And it will be.

My parents continued to add to our family–two more baby brothers within the next five years. And our home stretched and adjusted, welcoming the seasons and changes that life eventually brings.  Those years in our childhood home and the many lessons we learned together shaped us and allowed us to understand that this life journey has both ups and downs, joys and sorrows, but that things work out—hard times don’t last.

When we hurt each other, we learned forgiveness.

When we met challenges, we learned persistence.

And as we face the body’s mortality, we learn grace.

Sunshine always comes after the rain.

My life’s anthem.