It has been a while since I wrote and my mind is filled with its many little commentaries on my little country life.
Better than all of my tidy idioms created in the crazy talk-to-myself mode I adopt for housecleaning purposes, is the tableau presented in our yard during the past weekend. I had nothing to do with it, honest.
Well,
I did say, "Go play outside, or you're going to help me clean house."
I wasn't just making a threat, I really meant it. During a month of harvesting and preserving the yield of Corey's garden, general homemaking procedures hit an all-time low. Then we had a birthday party for a 5 year old and her grandmother. Then we spent 4 days away for our anniversary. Then we came home... to sticky floors, crusty stove top, laundry mountains and cobwebs worthy of the spookiest Halloween display. The choice was obvious: either open up a roadside attraction (Come see the Filthiest House in Fulton County! Living conditions worthy of an asylum! Shock your system! Only a nickel gets you in the door! If we can open the door!) or clean before a concerned neighbor called social services.
My children are smart, and Friday afternoon was beautiful. They went outside without a backward glance. I cleaned to the themes of All Things Considered, stopping briefly to peek out at the offspring (Hey! Are you still watching your baby sister?) when I witnessed what could have been a rerun episode from my own childhood, without the sibling squabbles and an older sister who was too grown up to play.
Collectively, the Four Ruffer Children had dragged a wooden wagon, intended to be pulled behind the riding lawn mower, out of the barn and parked it in a sunny patch of grass. Draped around and over, no doubt also piled within, were various blankets and towels cleverly scavenged from the house while my back was turned. An expanding baby gate, never good at containing any of my babies, fenced in a semi-circle on one broad side of the tilted down and towel-festooned wagon. Within this partial enclosure sat four camping chairs, situated around a Coleman lantern which was blazing its battery-powered brightness in the full-light of 4:30 in the afternoon. Scattered around the encampment was a miscellany of books, water bottles, baskets and garden produce. (What?)
I thought this cluttered mess looked like a Gypsy camp, as politically un-correct as that is to say. But my beloved four (yes, even the baby sister) were so enthralled with their adventure they don't even notice me tromping past, hauling trash to the barrel in the barn. They even had the dog involved in their play.
Later I learned that they were playing "The Boxcar Children," (this makes sense since I don't think they've ever heard of Gypsies, or the more acceptable term, Romas. Is that where we get Roma Tomatoes?) They continued to play this particular storyline until supper time and throughout an overcast Saturday. By the time that rain broke up their harmonious little enclave, they had packed up the wagon and moved it to 4 locations around the yard. Even the rain didn't really end the game; I still have a trashy little camp on my porch, minus the wagon of course.
Most of the interior of our house has been pulled back from the brink of sideshow disaster, and I should move on to strightening up the outside too. But I am loathe to tamper with the evidence of happy children.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Discarded Along the Way
During this evening's constitutional, I noticed that Someone, or more likely, several Someones have mowed the fencerows. There are no fences between the fields of corn, soy beans, shorn wheat and the county roads, but this space where fences should be (or perhaps where at one time?) is yet called a fencerow. No fences, but a plenitude of long grasses and wildly growing flowers have reign until the Cultivators of said fields can stand the shame of unkempt edges no longer. Tractors make quick work of cutting down the pretties, leaving swathes of dead weeds to grow brown and yucky in the summer sun.
And then I come puffing along. Without the cover of Queen Anne's Lace and Cornflowers, I notice far more beer cans and plastic beverage containers. I also notice some things I think someone is missing:
And then I come puffing along. Without the cover of Queen Anne's Lace and Cornflowers, I notice far more beer cans and plastic beverage containers. I also notice some things I think someone is missing:
- An operating manual for an outboard motor
- A blue baby's pacifier
- A card-style hotel key (Best Western)
- A green latex glove
- Half a roll of paper towels
- An inhaler (like the type for asthma sufferers)
- One leather work glove
- A length of skinny rope
These items, found within a one-mile stretch of road (do not judge me by the length of my jog!) obviously point to a certain conclusion: After the fencerows were cut, Someone (or still the various Someones) was holding a boat wash for families from out of town. Working in the humid air was difficult for this person, but as they stopped for a few huffs on their inhaler, their dog snapped the skinny rope attached to its collar. A runaway dog necessitated a quick closure of the boat wash service, and this is why I never noticed these goings-on from my close-at-hand abode.
Of course, I do not have a boat.
And I spent so much time looking in the weed clippings that I missed the setting sun.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I'm Not Going to Tell You That It Is Hot
Because you already know that. I will say I have a renewed appreciation for our pond, despite the mud and floating algae. And now I know what running in a thick cloud of humidity feel like; who can breathe heated cotton balls without vomiting? Regardless of this "relentless" heat wave, I still love summertime.
Friday, July 2, 2010
And the Livin' is Easy...
Gone is the day, but the night is a ways off yet. It is that magic moment of ever-decreasing golden light that calls me to play a round of hide-and-seek.
Dusk.
One of my favorite words; I just like the sound. Stop and say it out loud. Slowly.
OK. So the sound of the word is no more special than it is written out. But imagine the smells of a summer dusk: growing corn, freshly threshed wheat, grass crushed by your bare feet. Close your eyes and hear the chirps, croaks and buzz of a summer evening. Feel the coolness of approaching night slowly climbing up from the ground dampened by the falling dew.
These make summer dusk euphoric for me.
These, and the memory that I excelled in hide-and-seek, if not in any other childhood game.
Where does dew fall from anyway? I never see it descend, but my mother sang about the dew of heaven falling on her.
Dusk.
One of my favorite words; I just like the sound. Stop and say it out loud. Slowly.
OK. So the sound of the word is no more special than it is written out. But imagine the smells of a summer dusk: growing corn, freshly threshed wheat, grass crushed by your bare feet. Close your eyes and hear the chirps, croaks and buzz of a summer evening. Feel the coolness of approaching night slowly climbing up from the ground dampened by the falling dew.
These make summer dusk euphoric for me.
These, and the memory that I excelled in hide-and-seek, if not in any other childhood game.
Where does dew fall from anyway? I never see it descend, but my mother sang about the dew of heaven falling on her.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Peas in a Pod
I would like to share a picture with you. Unfortunately for you, the picture has not yet been captured by a camera. I will give my best description, but it will probably not suffice:
Along the northern edge of the yard, directly across from the house, our vegetable garden is planted. In lovely north to south orderliness, the rows of edibles spring out of the earth. The love of my life is an amazing and ambitious gardener. He makes it seem so effortless, this growing of food stuffs. And indeed, without much encouragement, we have an abundance of lettuce and peas thus far. I cannot give away the lettuce; apparently, fresh greens are not a rare commodity in these parts. If the lettuce is underappreciated, the peas are fantastic. Verdant, lively, and spilling over the rows with wild little tendrils* of vine, they are beautiful and prolific. Amidst these peas I will set our snapshot.
The vines are not tied up, as may be tradition. He’s an amazing gardener, but he’s not into extra work for appearance sake, I guess. So, as I said, they spill. Actually, with nothing to vine around, these plants twirl around themselves and each other. Like an overly-affectionate couple, they can be a bit difficult to work around. They collapse toward the east of their roots, completely unharmed and undeterred in their productivity. There are a lot of pea pods under all that twisting mass of green ardor! To pick the swelling pods, one must lift up the plants and flip them over westward, then strip the little vegetables from the mother vine. It doesn’t seem to hurt them; they will make more peas tomorrow.
In the middle of two rows I sit on an over-turned milk crate,** picking first from one side, then the other. I toss the plump green pods into an empty and washed out ice-cream bucket. Sitting in the aisle, a chubby arm’s length away from the bucket is a toddler.
She is grimy, with garden dirt in the sweaty creases of her hands and feet. Her pretty hair clip has long since been pulled out, examined and discarded; now blond strands of baby hair are stuck to her face. Her shorts have been missing for hours and her juice-stickied shirt was removed with good intention. Of course she escaped before the replacement could be tugged over her head and belly, but who needs a shirt anyway? She has very colorful skin, a happy result of an unattended box of markers. Her eyes are pure blue twinkle. With precision she picks a peapod out of the bucket, pries it open, and hastily devours the tiny spheres within. Happily, she repeats the process.
She has eaten a lot of raw peas lately.
She wears cloth diapers.
I deal with the cloth diapers and their contents.
I don’t know what too many raw peas will do to a young digestive track.
I don’t want her to over consume, so I move the bucket to my lap.
Indignant that I have disrupted her contented munching, she rises and pilfers more pods while I bend another mother vine over and add still more to the bucket.
I place the bucket on the ground behind me, and spread my feet so that my knees meet the plants on either side, blocking the aisle.
She likes peas.
She does not regard the health and well-being of the mother vines.
She waddles past my feet and knees, stomping atop the fruitful vegetation and retrieves more snack.
I am the grownup here.
I am in charge of this eighteen-month-old.
I call for reinforcements. “Will you please take your sister out of the garden and go push her in her swing?”
The older, obedient brother grasps her squirming body to him and lugs her away a short distance to the swings. Despite her protestations and cries, I continue pea- picking. Even if neither of us is happy, at least one of us is still getting her way. Half a row of mindless plant-stripping later, the cries of objection stop. I guess she finally figured out who is the boss, right?
No. (Of course.)
Her brother can’t handle her distress and he set her free from the happy little swing set. He now returns to the garden and hands me her diaper. Tottering behind him is the naked girl child, eyes triumphant and determined. She marches to the bucket and reaches in.
How much harm can a few more raw peas do?
She is so adorable, and I am nearly finished with this task. Am I really letting a naked child sit in the dirt and eat unwashed food?
Yes. (Of course.)
I rob the wildly growing vines and am robbed in turn by a wildly growing baby. Both are beautiful, but the child delights my heart.
*I love that I got to use the word “tendrils” without reference to up-swept hair! Maybe I’ve read too many trashy romance novels, but I am so tired of “stubborn tendrils escaped her tight hairpins and curled against her neck/face/ears.” It automatically signals a good girl with some sexual frustration who is going to be uncontrollably attracted to the rebel cowboy / motorcycle dude with a heart of gold. They will fight their inescapable attraction to one another, barely talk except to argue, and end up engaged after a violent storm / life-threatening moment / marriage of convenience / barn burning throws them together in an impassioned embrace. It was much better in The Man from Snowy River when I was 9 and I would like to just once read about a heroine who knows how to keep her hair in place!
** Someday, if you like, I will write about all the uses I have found for some milk crates, proving that I did not pay too much for them at that estate sale. Even if no one else bid so high.
Along the northern edge of the yard, directly across from the house, our vegetable garden is planted. In lovely north to south orderliness, the rows of edibles spring out of the earth. The love of my life is an amazing and ambitious gardener. He makes it seem so effortless, this growing of food stuffs. And indeed, without much encouragement, we have an abundance of lettuce and peas thus far. I cannot give away the lettuce; apparently, fresh greens are not a rare commodity in these parts. If the lettuce is underappreciated, the peas are fantastic. Verdant, lively, and spilling over the rows with wild little tendrils* of vine, they are beautiful and prolific. Amidst these peas I will set our snapshot.
The vines are not tied up, as may be tradition. He’s an amazing gardener, but he’s not into extra work for appearance sake, I guess. So, as I said, they spill. Actually, with nothing to vine around, these plants twirl around themselves and each other. Like an overly-affectionate couple, they can be a bit difficult to work around. They collapse toward the east of their roots, completely unharmed and undeterred in their productivity. There are a lot of pea pods under all that twisting mass of green ardor! To pick the swelling pods, one must lift up the plants and flip them over westward, then strip the little vegetables from the mother vine. It doesn’t seem to hurt them; they will make more peas tomorrow.
In the middle of two rows I sit on an over-turned milk crate,** picking first from one side, then the other. I toss the plump green pods into an empty and washed out ice-cream bucket. Sitting in the aisle, a chubby arm’s length away from the bucket is a toddler.
She is grimy, with garden dirt in the sweaty creases of her hands and feet. Her pretty hair clip has long since been pulled out, examined and discarded; now blond strands of baby hair are stuck to her face. Her shorts have been missing for hours and her juice-stickied shirt was removed with good intention. Of course she escaped before the replacement could be tugged over her head and belly, but who needs a shirt anyway? She has very colorful skin, a happy result of an unattended box of markers. Her eyes are pure blue twinkle. With precision she picks a peapod out of the bucket, pries it open, and hastily devours the tiny spheres within. Happily, she repeats the process.
She has eaten a lot of raw peas lately.
She wears cloth diapers.
I deal with the cloth diapers and their contents.
I don’t know what too many raw peas will do to a young digestive track.
I don’t want her to over consume, so I move the bucket to my lap.
Indignant that I have disrupted her contented munching, she rises and pilfers more pods while I bend another mother vine over and add still more to the bucket.
I place the bucket on the ground behind me, and spread my feet so that my knees meet the plants on either side, blocking the aisle.
She likes peas.
She does not regard the health and well-being of the mother vines.
She waddles past my feet and knees, stomping atop the fruitful vegetation and retrieves more snack.
I am the grownup here.
I am in charge of this eighteen-month-old.
I call for reinforcements. “Will you please take your sister out of the garden and go push her in her swing?”
The older, obedient brother grasps her squirming body to him and lugs her away a short distance to the swings. Despite her protestations and cries, I continue pea- picking. Even if neither of us is happy, at least one of us is still getting her way. Half a row of mindless plant-stripping later, the cries of objection stop. I guess she finally figured out who is the boss, right?
No. (Of course.)
Her brother can’t handle her distress and he set her free from the happy little swing set. He now returns to the garden and hands me her diaper. Tottering behind him is the naked girl child, eyes triumphant and determined. She marches to the bucket and reaches in.
How much harm can a few more raw peas do?
She is so adorable, and I am nearly finished with this task. Am I really letting a naked child sit in the dirt and eat unwashed food?
Yes. (Of course.)
I rob the wildly growing vines and am robbed in turn by a wildly growing baby. Both are beautiful, but the child delights my heart.
*I love that I got to use the word “tendrils” without reference to up-swept hair! Maybe I’ve read too many trashy romance novels, but I am so tired of “stubborn tendrils escaped her tight hairpins and curled against her neck/face/ears.” It automatically signals a good girl with some sexual frustration who is going to be uncontrollably attracted to the rebel cowboy / motorcycle dude with a heart of gold. They will fight their inescapable attraction to one another, barely talk except to argue, and end up engaged after a violent storm / life-threatening moment / marriage of convenience / barn burning throws them together in an impassioned embrace. It was much better in The Man from Snowy River when I was 9 and I would like to just once read about a heroine who knows how to keep her hair in place!
** Someday, if you like, I will write about all the uses I have found for some milk crates, proving that I did not pay too much for them at that estate sale. Even if no one else bid so high.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Make Mother Nature Do the Dishes
I'm ignoring a kitchen mess. Again. I am beginning to think I have a chronic problem with Dirty Dish Avoidance.
This morning the weather was cool, cloudy and wet, but by mid-afternoon it had turned. By post-dinner time the fading day was absolutely beautiful. So who wants to stand at a sink in artificial light? I missed the loveliest part of the sunset because I had some bedtime issues to share with our four year old. Fortunately, her bedroom has a Western facing window, and as I waited for her to fall asleep I was able to enjoy the golden light so peculiar to that time of day.
Once she was finally slumbering, it was already 9 PM and well past time to enjoy the sun's retreat from a blue sky. But still the horizon was filled with pink and purple cotton balls. Who could clean up from dinner with such a magnificent bank of puffy clouds turning colors outside?
So I went out west. Just a mile or so. Just a song or two through the buds in my ears. Just enough time to bid the nearly-clear day farewell and welcome the gentle night.
On my return, I spied my first fireflies of the season. Maybe they have been out for some time, but it was my first glimpse of them this summer. Ever since childhood, I have been entranced by their tiny dance of lights over fields of growing corn. Ever since childhood I have avoided dishes. Just ask my sisters.
P.S.
I caught our two half-grown cats mating yesterday morning. I didn't stop them because I figured they would just go off and resume their behavior in hiding. Somehow, this made me feel like a bad parent, even though they are not my offspring. But they are still adolescents, and I do not feel they are ready to make the decisions that parenthood brings. *sigh* Also, I am pretty sure that one of them left me a small dead present on the outside sill of the only window in my kitchen. Flies buzzed around it, and I wanted to gag. I cannot open the windows. How did I end up with such rebellious cats? Teen sex and gratuitous bloodshed. They are just trying to get attention by shocking me, I know their game. I will pretend not to notice.
This morning the weather was cool, cloudy and wet, but by mid-afternoon it had turned. By post-dinner time the fading day was absolutely beautiful. So who wants to stand at a sink in artificial light? I missed the loveliest part of the sunset because I had some bedtime issues to share with our four year old. Fortunately, her bedroom has a Western facing window, and as I waited for her to fall asleep I was able to enjoy the golden light so peculiar to that time of day.
Once she was finally slumbering, it was already 9 PM and well past time to enjoy the sun's retreat from a blue sky. But still the horizon was filled with pink and purple cotton balls. Who could clean up from dinner with such a magnificent bank of puffy clouds turning colors outside?
So I went out west. Just a mile or so. Just a song or two through the buds in my ears. Just enough time to bid the nearly-clear day farewell and welcome the gentle night.
On my return, I spied my first fireflies of the season. Maybe they have been out for some time, but it was my first glimpse of them this summer. Ever since childhood, I have been entranced by their tiny dance of lights over fields of growing corn. Ever since childhood I have avoided dishes. Just ask my sisters.
P.S.
I caught our two half-grown cats mating yesterday morning. I didn't stop them because I figured they would just go off and resume their behavior in hiding. Somehow, this made me feel like a bad parent, even though they are not my offspring. But they are still adolescents, and I do not feel they are ready to make the decisions that parenthood brings. *sigh* Also, I am pretty sure that one of them left me a small dead present on the outside sill of the only window in my kitchen. Flies buzzed around it, and I wanted to gag. I cannot open the windows. How did I end up with such rebellious cats? Teen sex and gratuitous bloodshed. They are just trying to get attention by shocking me, I know their game. I will pretend not to notice.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Late Spring
The garden is finally (mostly) planted. My flowers are not turning out to be everything I wanted. Bummer for me. Bummer for the rest of you too, since I was probably going to share. Oh well, never mind. I'm posting pictures of our country experience of springtime on facebook. But only for the Very Interested and the Very Nice type of people to see.
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