The Woodpile

Woodpile

We don’t have a furnace, but we do have an amish-made wood cookstove that burns about five cords of wood every winter.  Over the last few years, thirteen-year-old Jack has increasingly enjoyed the triple-warming feature of our chosen heat source.  

As Jack’s body has grown, so has his part in the stacking, hauling, and burning.  Some years he even takes on the lion’s share of the stacking in hopes of earning some cash.  Even the small income, however, has not taught him to appreciate the woodpile.

Monday we each had a day off.  I decided to lend him a hand.  After lunch, we each donned work gloves and earbud and started ferrying logs to the woodshed.  

It was quiet work.  Each of us was listening to music, but, as Jack has grown taller, he has also become more introspective. Spontaneous utterances are rare.   He meets most of my queries these days with monosyllabic answers.

As the first cord formed in the shed, however, Jack volunteered the remark on the increase in speed when there were two stacking.  I concurred, adding that it was almost pleasant when you got moving.  Jack retreated to silence again.  I asked what music he was listening to, extracting an answer after repeating the questions several ways.

I entertain no illusions about my hipness as a mother (only my fitness as one), and I was glad just to know a little about Jack’s evolving music tastes.  In the next hour we would chat about his English grade, the computer he’s been working toward over the last year, and his favorite video game.  In the end, the wood stacking warmed each of us, but in completely different ways.  For Jack, it was still just a chore.  For me, it was one more thing in my life that reminding me to feel thankful.

Cursed

Cursed

   Seven-year-old Thing2 and his thirteen-year-old brother Jack take turns sitting next to me when we go to Sunday breakfast at Bob’s Diner in Manchester, VT.  Thing2 is still at the age where he’s easily entertained by shiny objects and it was my wedding ring caught that his attention the other morning.

Waiting for our drinks to arrive, Thing2 grabbed my hand from the table and began inspecting the rings, twist and turning my finger.  The Big Guy told him the story of the stone (they came from his grandfather’s ring) and then of his own gold band (also owned by his grandfather).  

Thing2 tried to pull off my ring for close inspection, but I stiffened my finger and the ring would not come off.  It would twist, but it would not move up my finger.

“It won’t come off,” exclaimed Thing2.   The server had now brought our drinks.

“It’s not supposed to come off,” I said.

“What is it.. cursed?” he asked turning to ancient pop culture and Ringo Star’s ruby ring in the move Help to explain the phenomenon on my finger.  Even Jack had to laugh at the question. Our server took our order and walked away giggling.  

Thing2 was now wedged between my arm and body.  Sun flooding through the plate glass window bathed Jack and the Big Guy on the opposite side of the table.  It was just an ordinary Sunday with nothing planned except wood stacking and hanging out around the homestead.  I had his answer.

“It’s not cursed,” I said.  It’s blessed.

 

A Sharp Dressed Man

Brothers in arms

Seven-year-old Thing2 was invited to a movie with a friend on Sunday.  An hour before it was time to go, he doffed his t-shirt and, wearing only his camo pants began rummaging through the closet looking for his only button-down shirt and tie.

The Big Guy and I long ago adopted the Vermont uniform of good jeans for going out and regular jeans for everything else.  Thirteen-year-old Thing1’s fashion priorities are comfort and cleanliness – in that order.  I don’t know where he got his sense of style and panache. It’s always been clear, however, that Thing2 didn’t just fall very far from our family tree, and he’s not content to put down roots for his own tree.  He’s starting his own orchard.  

The funny thing is, I know we’ve done somethings differently as we’ve guided Thing2 through infancy and the toddler years, but for the most part, the Big Guy and I like to think we’re pretty even-steven with our two boys. Despite sharing genes and parents, however, the two of them are completely different personalities, and we’re often left wondering where nurture ends and nature picks up.

The real puzzle for me, the one I am happy to consider indefinitely, is how the Big Guy and I can have two such completely different little boys in our life and still experience the same powerful love for each of them.  It’s a puzzle, but it’s also a bit of a miracle.

 

Tales from the Scale

Scale

Forgive me scale for I have really sinned.  It’s been at least a week since my last confession.

Before I step on, however, I just want to say that even though my sins are too numerous to list within the next hour – the last week has been a nutritional blur – I have stuck to my fitness plan like a champion (the running part that is).  With that in mind, I hope you’ll agree with me that you shouldn’t raise the numbers too high and that maybe you can give me a pass for listing maple syrup as a serving of vegetables (it comes from a plant, after all).

I’m ready to do some penance, and I really appreciate you keeping the pounds even.  I promise I’ll lay off the crisps and pies for the next few weeks, but I just have to say that while the running rules, dieting sucks.

The Bookmaker

BookMaker copy

Last Saturday, to much fanfare from my family, I clicked an upload button and published my first short story.  Fifteen minutes later, I had my first sale and, somewhat hesitantly, added the moniker of ‘author’ to my Facebook profile.

Hesitation has been the hallmark and stumbling block of my short writing career.  

I’ve wanted to write most of my life.  Only in the last year and a half – on joining the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project – did a professional writing career seem like a realistic goal.  

Over the year as I’ve sketched and posted, seven-year-old Thing2 has written and sketched with me.  He’s filled 5×8 notebooks with trees and robots and star systems.  He’s pilfered printer paper to produce his illustrated, staple-bound paperback stories.  

The weekend before I published my story, I mentioned his endeavors as I was standing in the living room of a friend and writing mentor and his wife.  I had been working on their computers, and my friend was taking the opportunity to harangue me for my hesitation, even enlisting thirteen-year-old Jack to keep me on the hot seat until I hit ‘Publish’.  

“I think you’re scared,” said my friend’s wife.

 “You’re right,” I said and pointed to Thing2 who was hanging on my friend. “You should see the books he makes,” I said.  Thing2 smiled shyly.  I thought I was off the hook, but my friend’s wife smiled, apparently knowing her husband would not be so easily distracted.  “He’s really talented,” I said.

 “And I bet he doesn’t doubt himself,” said my friend.

 “No he doesn’t, I admitted.  

A week later, we were at Bob’s diner.  I was enjoying the glow of seeing my first royalties.  

Jack and Thing2 quickly put my accomplishment in perspective as they setup a game of table hockey, complete with salt-and-pepper shaker goal posts  and a straw wrapper puck. Fulfilling the requirements of my primary job title, I did the mom thing and barked a reprimand.   

Thing2 asked for my notebook, and I gave it to him. 

“Are you starting a new story?” I asked.  He grinned and nodded, staking out the back 10 pages for illustrations.

“Mommy,” he announced, “I want to write a book just like you when I grow up.”

“You’ll be a great writer,” I said.  There wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind or voice.  The Big Guy concurred with the same confidence he expresses when he’s encouraging me.

That’s when it hit me.  Thing2 and I have the same dream.  I see his innate talent, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have his hills to climb.  Each of us will only succeed, however, if we don’t start (or in my case stop) worrying if we have the right stuff and just climb. 

The Given Trees

Apple tree

I had the dubious honor of having Margaret* on my list for the evening after only two weeks working at the nursing home. When I think back to my trepidation that night, I’m ashamed.  Margaret would give me several gifts, one of which I think each year as we put up the last apples of the season.

 

Completely bed ridden and saddled with a strict diet, Margaret had little control over her life outside of her morning and bedtime routines.  She was notorious for yelling at anyone who failed to deliver her care to her very detailed specifications.  I hadn’t met her, but I was terrified of her.  

 

“What are you doing?” she demanded as I first entered her room that night.  

 

“I have your dinner, Mrs. Williams,” I said, determined to be polite, even if she yelled at me.

 

“I don’t want any,” she said. I didn’t argue and took the tray out of the room.  The institution’s policy was not to force people to eat if they didn’t want to.  What Margaret could not refuse was minimum basic care that prevented bedsores.

 

 Hoping to avoid conflict, I eschewed suggestions from the nurse manager and asked Margaret how she wanted me to proceed.  Apparently unused to being asked what she wanted, her demeanor softened. The snapping ceased, and she quietly explained which gown she wanted and how she wanted her pillows arranged.  Before I knew it, we were done.  

I continued with my list and was nearly finished when the call-light outside Margaret’s room went on. Another nursing assistant rolled her eyes at me when she saw it.

 

“Now you’ve done it,” she said.  “She’s going to bug you all night.”  

 

When I went to see what she needed, Margaret asked if I was done with my list.  I answered not yet. She asked for fresh water which I got before returning to my list.

 

Second shift at the nursing home was quiet. We did rounds before the graveyard shift started.  Most nights between rounds we finished our charts at the nursing station or studied. But this was not most nights.

I had just started my charting when Margaret’s call-light went on again. Again, I went to see what she needed. She requested more water. Then she asked my name. She asked how long I’d been working and where I was from, telling me about herself as we talked.  I soon learned she had not only grown-up in our newly-adopted Vermont town but in the red farmhouse that we had just bought. Our property had belonged to her family since the colonial period.

We talked about people we both knew.  She told me about our house. She corrected me on a few points of history, mentioning that it had been built in 1761 and not 1790 as we had thought. She told me of an attic beam with the build date carved into it. Suddenly, it was 10:30 PM and time to begin last rounds.  

 

I got home late that night.  

 

Before I went to bed, however, I opened the door to the attic at the back of the bathroom and, armed with a flashlight, found Margaret’s beam.  I went to the east end of the attic and, just as she’d promised, found ‘1761’ carved into a rough-hewn beam. Margaret was not as senile or cantankerous and I had been led and only too willing to believe.  She was a living connection to the history of our town, our house, and to another way of doing things – a way that we very much trying to emulate.

 

The next night and the rest of the week Margaret asked to be on my list, and  I began looking forward to my shift. 

 

I learned she had moved to another town when she married, losing contact with old friends. I knew one of those friends and asked her if I could let him know that she was here. She said yes and we arranged a meeting.  The two octogenarians had attended the town’s remaining one-room schoolhouse together, and had much to share.  The meeting didn’t prompt a miracle turnaround of her physical health (I didn’t expect it to) but, following that visit she seemed a little happier.

 

Her health soon began failing rapidly and her memory with it.  Some nights she barely recognized me at all.  Even when she didn’t remember my name, though, we enjoyed lively conversations, mostly about her family’s farm.  

 

One night I said mentioned how much I loved the trees on the property.  For the first time since I’d been taking care of her she’s snapped at me.

 

“Those damn hippies let my father’s fields grow over,” she growled.  She told me of how hard her grandfather had worked to keep them clear for their livestock. She told me how father had changed the very shape of our road by planting grapevines  as roadblocks.  Then she told me of an apple orchard her grandfather started nearly 70 years ago. The wooded hills were hiding dozens of apple trees.

 

Margaret died a few weeks later. I didn’t know or care if it was professional to do so, but I cried.

 

About that time, the Big Guy and I decided to build a new house on our property, dividing and selling part of the land to help pay for the construction of the new house.  The land near the old house wouldn’t perk for a conventional septic, so we began hiking through our forest, looking for a better build site.

Cluttered with Rosie Bush, it was easy to get lost even on 10 acres.  We did notice that some of the craggy plants looked like trees. When April dotted the trees with apple-scented blossoms, I realized Margaret had been entirely lucid that night.

Apple hands copy

 

We had no intention of trying to restore a neglected 70-year-old orchard, but we did need a building site.  I asked our excavator guy if he could keep an eye out for the apple trees while clearing.  He doubted there would be any and warned me that any he found would not be productive given their age.  I’m not superstitious, but I was sure our discovery was a gift from Margaret, and I asked him to humor me.

 

When the clearing was done there were three apple trees in our yard.  And the excavator guy was right.  For the first year or two none of them produced anything bigger than a walnut.

 

After a few paltry harvests and wanting to expand my vegetable garden, I contemplated cutting the trees down.  Sentimentality ruled.  The apple blossoms were beautiful in spring, and the shade from the trees didn’t hit the garden until very late in the afternoon, so they were spared.

 

The next year, the Big Guy asked a tree-expert friend for help.  When I asked if the trees were too old to produce, he answered honestly that he didn’t know.  The trees were so old even he couldn’t identify the variety. He charged us $20 for a pruning.  Then we waited.

 

The spring blossoms came and went as they had the first four years. Then the walnut-sized fruit began to form. This year, however, they grew almost as big as tennis balls.  We had apples.

 

Everyone on our road seems to grow red apples whose rosy color clearly indicates when they’re ready to pick.   Our trees consistently give yellow-green fruit.  We decided to rely on cues from the local farms, watching for their billboards inviting passersby to the harvest.

 

When it was time to pick, our apples weren’t pretty. We discarded any that had been attacked by worms.  However, knowing even  scarred apples could be made into pie or applesauce, we filled several 5 gallon paint buckets. We were so excited we didn’t think to taste any.  When we finally did, our harvest was very starchy and not sweet.  We assumed we had picked too early.  

 

The next year we picked later, but the harvest still failed to give us sweet apples. Another year an early frost killed the blossoms.  We began to wonder if the pruning and picking was a lost cause.  

 

Once, again, I wondered if we should cut one down. Something about chopping down a given tree, however, seemed like breaking a commandment. I decided to extend my garden another direction and Margaret’s trees remained another year.

 

Last winter we pruned again, knowing we would get one or two heavily-sugared $20 pies.

 

Before we knew it apple picking season had come and gone.   Margaret’s trees had gone untouched. The first frost hit, and still only a few apples lay on the ground. We had not picked a single one. The nights mostly stayed warm until Halloween week, and then temperatures dipped into the 20s.  The apples began to fall.

 

The Big Guy has a healthy sense of adventure and had the first bite of the year.

 

“Wow,” he exclaimed. He took another bite and handed it to me.  “That is the sweetest apple I’ve ever tasted.”

 

I tried it and agreed. We began picking and then shaking trunk of the tree to loosen riper fruit. We quickly filled our 5 gallon bucket with candy-sweet treasure. I made a pie and a crisp and another pie.  We got the kids to work shaking and picking and gathering.

 

Now as we peel and core and put up the last of the harvest, I think about Margaret’s gifts.  They’re not just in the apple trees or even the history that only she could tell us.  They’re in learning to look deeper.  

 

Her exacting standards were not just about controlling her shrinking universe – they were about forcing the people in it to see her as a whole person, regardless of her age or physical condition.  I’m ashamed to admit that I when first met her, I was thinking of her list of demands and not her need for human connection and to feel valued.   

 

This winter our tree guy will come and tend our trees, and they may or may not give a good harvest again.  But if they don’t, they will still have a place in our lives because, like Margaret, what they have to give is still valuable, even if we don’t recognize it right away.

 

*Margaret’s name has been changed.

Common Threads Give-Away

 

Bounty

I’m participating in the  Common Thread Give-Away again, and November’s featured artist is Kim Gifford.  

Whether she’s writing about her beloved pugs or her distinctive photographs, Kim’s work is humorous and heartwarming.  I got to know Kim and her work through the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project.  It, like she, is infused with an infectious joy.

This month Kim is giving away a matted  8″ x 10″ drawing entitled “Bounty,” printed on watercolor paper and matted to 11″ x 14.”

To enter the contest, visit her website atwww.PugsandPics.com and leave a comment for her anytime between Monday through Wednesday of this week.  The winner will be announced on Thursday.   Then when you’ve commented on her site, take a minute to visit the other artists in our group –   Jon Katz, Maria Wulf, and Jane McMillan!  

 

Small World

Kitchen table

I don’t have a career.  I have a job.  It’s not a bad job at all, but it’s not the kind of work that changes people’s lives (for good or for ill) or – like a doctor’s or lawyer’s or reporter’s – is filled with action or big issues.  It is the kind of work that lets me work from home and put food on the round pedestal table in our open-floorplan kitchen.

It’s 5:00 AM and an hour and a half from now, there will be scrambling and a mad rush out the door to meet the school bus at the end of our dirt road.  Then there will be a brief calm before the workday begins.  Except for the days I go to the country store, I won’t see another human being until the Big Guy rolls in with our two boys after the school bus brings them home.   It’s literally a very small life.

But somewhere among the eat-your-peanut-butter-sandwich and passing-the-potatoes, at some point during the how-was-your-day’s and even on nights when the Big Guy or I might be licking a wound from a careless comment or Thirteen-year-old Thing1 is barely speaking to us because of a lost privilege, we each know our small life is pretty good.  

There aren’t any late model cars in the driveway.  I can’t remember the last time we sat down to dinner with 4 matching plates.  There’s always dust spontaneously generating around furniture, and the next big bill is always just waiting around the corner.  

But there’s also always safety.  There’s always food on the table.  There’s always a fire in the wood stove warming us when we need it and when we don’t, we’re still at the kitchen table making our own magic.

So, this morning, even though it’s not cold outside and even though I have a room designated as an office down the hall,  at 5am, I’m already settled at the kitchen table near the wood stove.  It’s not just the heat that draws me here.  For me, the kitchen table is where the action – valuable and small – happens.

Blessed Burdens

Laundry peace

Living off-grid means every scrap of laundry gets hung on a line, but if you think because the clothes dry more slowly I would be able to stay ahead of the folding, you’d be wrong.  

I can wash and hang three hampers full of biohazard-quality laundry in a single day, but the to-be-folded pile only grows.  I usually tackle it before Google Earth registers it as a new land mass, and I rarely mind the activity.  The rhythm of the sorting always stimulates meditation.  

Last Saturday, it stimulated something else.

Hoping to disrupt the strange biorhythms that, only on weekends as soon as I sit down before dawn to write, rouse my children and send them searching for snuggles and cereal, I’ve fled to the nearby country store to work before heading to Hubbard Hall, to help with the tech side of a blogging class.  The class has provided plausible cover for my morning escapes, and each afternoon I’ve come home thinking I couldn’t be more thankful for anything else that day than I was for a little grown-up time.

This last Saturday I came home to a different kind of grown-up time. A neighbor phoned looking for computer help.  I glanced around our kitchen/great room and at the laundry pile and said, “Come on over!”  He would be here in a few hours.  

Folding sessions usually occur after bedtime (the biorhythms only manifest when Mom is doing something fun), but  with impending company, I made an exception and began my folding dance, aided by my iPod and earbuds.  

The couch and table were soon dotted with neat multi-colored piles.  My antics immediately drove thirteen-year-old Jack to his room to study.  Seven-year-old Thing2, however, remained, quietly dancing over from the TV area.  

I sorted and thought about writing and chores.  I didn’t really think about the folding aside from which things should go to Goodwill.  Thing2 interrupted my ruminations, wrapping his arms around my waist as I was in mid-fold.

“Mommy, can I help?”  he asked.

“You really want to fold clothes?”  I asked.  

“No,” he said.  “But I want to help.”  He released me and spun around the living room.  Then he returned for another hug.  “Maybe I can play some music for you,” he suggested.  He sat down at the nearby piano and plunked out “Do-Re-Mi”.  

I took out my earphones so I could listen.  I kept folding, but there was no rhythm now.  Thing2 sang softly with the piano.  Too small items rotated out of inventory, sometimes taking with them a last tangible souvenir of this family vacation or that event.  Jack’s old shirts went into Thing2’s piles.  The piles grew and so did the memories.  

Well before the to-fold pile was gone and the folded clothes packed into baskets, the task ceased being a burden.  It was a reminder of the things that make a life worthwhile.  And, for once, I didn’t just make the best of the laundry pile. I was thankful for it.