I love most times of year but right now, I'm REALLY loving this time of year because, for the first time since June 2010, I feel normal. That is to say....I feel like a divorced middle-aged girl with a family and a home and a re-blossoming social life and the burning need for....
Dirt.
Ahem. Where is your mind? I'm talking about Mother Earth.
My Dad wasn't a farmer, but he was a Farmer. If you know what I mean. He loved digging in the soil, planting vegetables, and working in the woods surrounding the house. When I was twelve or thirteen he turned a section of our acre into a vegetable garden, and introduced us to the frustration and solid satisfaction of growing and eating our own vegetables. Somewhere in an album my Mom still has pictures of us huddled over little rows of yumminess, which hid the fact that my sisters and I apparently thought that gardening while wearing patchy flooded denim overalls was incredibly hot.
My Dad's love for all things outdoors strengthened as he aged and fought an unpredictable heart. Even in the year before his death he was determined to "work his acre" as he always did, so, he and I chopped wood and cleared brush, and stabbed ourselves while bolstering his beloved roses on their trellis. These jobs were earthy and predictable, and I think it made him feel normal, and in control his soul no matter what was going on in his body.
This Mother's Day weekend we joked how much a "hick" I am, like him. On Mother's Day my Mom and I visited Dad's grave. That sounds morbid but, I'm the first born and, he was really the one who made her a Mommy so, off she and I went. Each time I'm there I think it's perfect that he's buried on an enormous, lofty, scenic rounded Pennsylvania hill, with woods just beyond the gravesites. It feels natural, like home for him, which keeps us connected. So it's natural and right that on each visit my Mom fusses over the latest heartfelt grave marker she's brought, and we stand and chat with him, and that I weed his grave (and the Rices' next door even though Mrs. Rice is still alive. but I don't think she minds). When we leave, my nails are caked in soil and greens, and bits of dandelions. And Mom is smiling.
Today, I can't wait to get home from school to put on my 'farming' gear (NO overalls), and start working. It's May 9th and I know I'm late, and I know the stink bugs will destroy my tomatoes and peppers. Weeds will win, kids will accidently stomp on plants and dogs will deliberately poo BOATloads (which I will still hit myself with). And I don't care. Everything - even the poo in doses - smells hugely, heavenly. All smells and sights....I know trees and shrubbery and wildflowers and raptors, but I don't know a damn thing about song birds despite all the field guides in the den downstairs. So today the songs I hear from them are - and I am not making this up - "screw it screw it screw it", and "Murray Murray Murray". I don't remember "screw it/Murray" song birds hanging around my parent's house but, we just go with it. You don't mess with Mother Earth.
I love that the natural world fulfills it's God-appointed role perfectly and unapologetically, and doesn't care that I maybe slightly misinterpret what it's telling me from time to time. I've heard loons and tree frogs and migrating golden eagles, and mountaintop gusts and the Milky Way (heard it, yes) and no matter what I think I hear, it's right. Eventually I - all of us - get it.
Just like my Dad. Right, Murray?
Dirt.
Ahem. Where is your mind? I'm talking about Mother Earth.
My Dad wasn't a farmer, but he was a Farmer. If you know what I mean. He loved digging in the soil, planting vegetables, and working in the woods surrounding the house. When I was twelve or thirteen he turned a section of our acre into a vegetable garden, and introduced us to the frustration and solid satisfaction of growing and eating our own vegetables. Somewhere in an album my Mom still has pictures of us huddled over little rows of yumminess, which hid the fact that my sisters and I apparently thought that gardening while wearing patchy flooded denim overalls was incredibly hot.
My Dad's love for all things outdoors strengthened as he aged and fought an unpredictable heart. Even in the year before his death he was determined to "work his acre" as he always did, so, he and I chopped wood and cleared brush, and stabbed ourselves while bolstering his beloved roses on their trellis. These jobs were earthy and predictable, and I think it made him feel normal, and in control his soul no matter what was going on in his body.
This Mother's Day weekend we joked how much a "hick" I am, like him. On Mother's Day my Mom and I visited Dad's grave. That sounds morbid but, I'm the first born and, he was really the one who made her a Mommy so, off she and I went. Each time I'm there I think it's perfect that he's buried on an enormous, lofty, scenic rounded Pennsylvania hill, with woods just beyond the gravesites. It feels natural, like home for him, which keeps us connected. So it's natural and right that on each visit my Mom fusses over the latest heartfelt grave marker she's brought, and we stand and chat with him, and that I weed his grave (and the Rices' next door even though Mrs. Rice is still alive. but I don't think she minds). When we leave, my nails are caked in soil and greens, and bits of dandelions. And Mom is smiling.
Today, I can't wait to get home from school to put on my 'farming' gear (NO overalls), and start working. It's May 9th and I know I'm late, and I know the stink bugs will destroy my tomatoes and peppers. Weeds will win, kids will accidently stomp on plants and dogs will deliberately poo BOATloads (which I will still hit myself with). And I don't care. Everything - even the poo in doses - smells hugely, heavenly. All smells and sights....I know trees and shrubbery and wildflowers and raptors, but I don't know a damn thing about song birds despite all the field guides in the den downstairs. So today the songs I hear from them are - and I am not making this up - "screw it screw it screw it", and "Murray Murray Murray". I don't remember "screw it/Murray" song birds hanging around my parent's house but, we just go with it. You don't mess with Mother Earth.
I love that the natural world fulfills it's God-appointed role perfectly and unapologetically, and doesn't care that I maybe slightly misinterpret what it's telling me from time to time. I've heard loons and tree frogs and migrating golden eagles, and mountaintop gusts and the Milky Way (heard it, yes) and no matter what I think I hear, it's right. Eventually I - all of us - get it.
Just like my Dad. Right, Murray?
