Southern Voice

I awoke at 5 a.m. the other day for no good reason, being winter and all and no garden yet to get out to early. I plopped down on the computer for a bit, read a little bit, wrote a little bit, then decided I couldn't stand it anymore and got moving.

I decided to make breakfast for the family before we headed to the White Mountains for a day of errands, hoping full tummies upon leaving would stave off the inevitable requests for drive-thru "dining," if you can call it that.

Upon entering the kitchen, it became fast apparent that breakfast would be a challenge - we were out of milk and eggs. And bread. And bacon. I was at a loss. Then I figured, "Well, what the heck? Who says breakfast has to be breakfast food?"

So, I set about making herb fried chicken and fried potatoes and onions. (In case you didn't know, if the chicken is fried but not breaded, it's not actually worthy of the label "fried chicken." Especially if it's "fried" in olive oil. How about we just think of this as "breakfast chicken," and go on, so as not to offend my Southern readers. Or family.) I resisted the urge to make spinach, too, because as much as I wanted to redeem my good mother badge by rounding out that greasy meal with something green, I didn't know if anyone would be up for morning spinach that wasn't baked in a quiche or folded in an omelet.

Anyway.

While the chicken was frying, at circa 7 a.m., my Dad gave me a call. I don't get many calls from Dad because he lives in town and I see him pretty often and Mom is usually the communications manager for that duo. So, I was treated to a rare call from Dad. He asked, so I told him what I was doing, and he immediately was smitten with the idea of morning fried chicken. He started talking about fried chicken and potatoes and pan gravy (which I did not attempt) and somehow that led to a story about his childhood in Kentucky with his 11 brothers and sisters. When I walked into the kitchen with the phone to my ear to turn the chicken in the pan, he stopped his story and said, "Ahh, I can hear it. Man, that sounds good," then picked right back up on his thread, and went on to talk with me about the book he's been wanting to put together for Mom for years, full of his songs and snapshots from their 44+ years together.

I tried to talk as little as possible during our call because this was one of those rare occasions when I could hear Dad's heritage in his voice. I don't always pick up his soft, Southern drawl because, well, he's my Dad and I don't think we often notice our parents' accents. Sometimes, though, especially when I'm hearing his disembodied voice through a phone line, I hear it. He doesn't have a heavy accent - we're not talking West Virginia or Georgia here (which are some great accents, I'll tell you what.) No, his roots are in the gentle wooded hills of Kentucky, and his voice is low and gentle, too.

I love when I can hear the echoes of his childhood in his voice. At these moments, I'm reminded that he's part of this big, good family full of men and women who speak with the same gentle accent. Who treat each other kindly, but still rib each other and grin in triumph when they bring up some long ago moment that the other person would gladly forget. His Southern voice reminds me of my Aunt Doris and Uncle Hay, who still live down on Grandpa's farm in Kentucky, where the creek runs through the front yard and the expanse of natural lawn (you don't water grass in this part of Kentucky) runs right up to the wooded hills that we know will mean a "check for ticks" if we venture into them.

It was down in Kentucky where I sat on the porch with Grandpa as a little girl and swatted flies; where the attic has that dusty old smell; where Lynda and I would move the crawfish upstream when we feared the creek was too low to keep them alive; where Aunt Doris would serve "dinner" in the middle of the day, complete with real fried chicken, corn on the cob, fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy and blackberry pie. Where the floors creaked and Aunt Doris, with her never-cut, salt & pepper hair piled high on her head, would tell stories of "Mommy," my Grandma who died while Dad was still a teenager; where I'd see my Dad play basketball for the first time with his brothers, using the old hoop nailed to the side of the barn; and where, in the evenings, Mom and Uncle Hay would challenge each other to some serious crossword puzzle competitions.

All this I hear in those moments when something as simple as frying breakfast chicken gets Dad to remembering that even out here in the high desert of Arizona, he is a Kentucky boy, through and through. These rare occasions are precious to me.

Dad's that guy who commands more attention the quieter he speaks. He's the one who let's you know he's worried about you by calling up, talking first about general, safe subjects, then finding just the right pause in conversation to give you that one, succinct piece of advice that you realize was the whole purpose of his phone call.

On September 11, after I had phoned my Mom a few times, frantic with the news of the towers, and the Pentagon and the still unaccounted for plane that eventually crashed in Pennsylvania, I got a call from Dad. We spoke about things for a few minutes, then he said, "Honey, you need to turn off the TV for awhile and just go take care of those kids." I replied, "Daddy, I'm scared." And he simply said, real low, "I know." And with those two words I knew he really did know how frightened I was, how I hated that Adam was a whole mile away from me at his elementary school and that Mike was across the Valley working, and that I have always been afraid of war, and that I felt helpless and vulnerable. He really knew.

When we'd had a particularly uncertain patch with Tanner and tensions had been high and I'd been talking to Mom a lot, and could tell she was worried about whether I was as OK as I tried to pretend to be, I got that phone call from Dad. We talked about nonsense stuff for a few minutes, then he gracefully segued into a place in the conversation where he said, "Now, you know you've got to take care of you, too." He didn't say it, but I knew this was short for, "Your Mom's told me all the things you're contending with Tanner, the uncertainty and fear, the garden, the dang animals, the other 3 kids, financial concerns, Mike working so hard, and the fact that you're not feeling good either, but you aren't saying so to anyone. I know you have a lot on your plate and we're worried about you, and we don't want you to get lost in all this. You need to take care of you and pay attention to your health because there are a lot of people depending on you, but also because we think you're pretty important." I knew that all of that was woven into his 11 words.

These brief little one line directives are always followed by another unrelated comment or anecdote that inevitably elicits a chuckle, then he reaffirms his advice with a simple, "I mean it, now," which I know without him saying refers back to the directive or advice, to which I respond, "I will, Dad, I promise. I love you." And real low he responds, "Love you," and then we're done.

These conversations last about 5 minutes on average, and we don't do a lot of talking in between, even when we're in the same room. But, somehow, there is a whole lot left unspoken that we still hear and it's enough for us.

Dad understands me in ways we've never, ever discussed. I don't talk much about him and Mom, or my sister Lynda, because they are so much of me, and I don't know where to start or stop. But, I cherish them beyond anything I can express. I talk with Mom and Lyn all the time and derive such joy and strength and grounding from them. But it's hearing that low, slow Kentucky drawl over the phone line that will keep me going for weeks.

Dad and I talked the other morning, over chicken, about getting together and writing some silly, over-the-top skits and considering making the kids perform them, like Lyn and I did when we were girls. We promised we'd carve out some time in March, maybe go somewhere pretty to just sit and work out a plan. And get going on Mom's book. And I told him that I'd like to record some oral histories of his life growing up with his family, who are good people, every one of them. What I really want, though, is just to have recordings of that amazing voice that I can play back whenever we go too long between one of our talks.

There really is something about a Southern voice.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Real Trees Don't Haunt People, FAKE Trees Haunt People

I dreamt last week that it was May and I hadn't taken down the Christmas tree yet. But then, in the dream, I did. Flip to the next dream frame where I found myself rather plaintively, desperately assuring some person who was thoroughly disdainful about the situation that at least I had it down by May this year, rather than waiting till June as had happened the previous year.

The fuzzy, disapproving person in the indistinct dream chamber was not impressed. Then, while still dreaming, I realized how truly lame it was that I was defending a May disassembly. "Who," I wondered to myself, "DOES this? Who leaves their tree up until May or June?" I was thoroughly distressed, stomach churning.

Stomach churning.

See, I think that was the real problem. I was asleep and my stomach was churning, causing discomfort, and it triggered the fretful dream.

The stomach churning woke me up and I had that lingering distress you sometimes have upon waking from an upsetting dream, until I lay there in the dark and reassured myself that it was only February, that the tree had come down in early January, that I would not eat after 9 p.m. anymore, and that I would never use a fake tree again.

I cannot be trusted with a fake tree. Fake trees can stand forever; they withstand any fluctuation in temperature and humidity; they hold real still, blending into the background so you don't even see them some days. Real trees cannot physically withstand towering dry and decaying in the home for months on end. Real trees are beautiful and not easy to overlook. Real trees can be cut in a snowy forest, with the whole family in tow, bundled up, cupping steaming mugs of hot cocoa and singing carols.

Real trees don't haunt your dreams.

Next year, it will be a real tree. And no eating after 9 p.m.

Now, I'm just waiting for my tummy to settle down from our homemade pizza fest tonight, then I'll tuck myself in to bed.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. Valentine's is over, no one except school teachers and bar owners actually decorate for St. Patrick's Day, so I get to leap frog to Easter decorations. It's happening. I'm going to do it. And I will not be ashamed.)

Dating In A Small Town

Occasionally, Mike and I try to go on a date, just the two of us. There was a time when this was met with cries of protest, alligator tears and pouting. Now our 4 kiddos are plotting what gourmet creation they'll be free to come up with while we're gone. I don't understand why they don't pursue the gourmet creations while we're home, so we can enjoy them, too, but I suppose that's one of life's little quirks, isn't it?

We live outside a really small town, encircled for a 50-mile radius by other small towns, but if we extend the radius by another 25 miles or so, we hit Flagstaff, and that's a lovely little city. (I know it's technically a metropolis, but you'd never guess by visiting. Thank heavens. I love that Flagstaff doesn't feel big.) Being surrounded by smallness, which we really do love, also means having very limited date night options. Yes, we could drive across the high desert and find a dark quiet place to stare at the stars, but it's windy, it's cold and let's face it, I have trouble climbing up on a hood these days. We'll save stargazing for another warmer night, with lawn chairs; for now, warm, warmly lit interiors are better date destinations. Flagstaff is really the closest place with such places.

But here's the deal, Mike had to get up for work this morning at 4 a.m. so a trip to Flagstaff wasn't on the agenda for a date last night. Actually, a date wasn't really on the agenda. Here's one of the secrets of having several kids: you catch as catch can. Since I had to do a WalMart run, and Mike was game for going along: Presto! Date night!

So, off we went to WalMart, two towns over, where we browsed for a few hours. Yes, you read that right. And yes, I know most of us dread WalMart day and get in and out as fast as we can. But that was before we lived outside of a very small town. Now, WalMart is occasionally an adventure to be savored - we won't just beeline it to the aisles containing the items on my itemized list. No, it's date night - we'll wander the aisles a bit. Venture into places we don't normally explore together.

Only thing is, you wander out of your regular route and you sometimes come upon some unfamiliar and upsetting things. Like this for instance.

There I was perusing some girlie things, when Mike came at me with a bottle of this stuff. For those who aren't Spanish speakers, let me let you in on a little secret. "Moco" isn't a nice warm, rich beverage. No, that's "mocha." I understand your confusion. "Moco" means snot. Yep, what we have here is a bottle of Gorilla Snot, playfully called "Squizz." Don't believe me? Look at the picture.

Here's the cherry on top. This is a hair product. It is meant for people to buy on purpose and willingly put on their hair.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the proverbial straw atop the camel. No longer will I refer to time at WalMart as date time. Because I can't feel romantic feelings in a place that I know encourages people to be standing nearby with a bucket when a primate decides to hock a loogie. Or wants you to think they encourage such a practice.

So, Mike and I can go to WalMart, and we can go together, but we cannot ever, ever, ever refer to it as a date. Ever again.

Now, just one more thing, while I'm making rules.

Mike, honey, remember that bag of Dubble Bubble you let me buy? That 1 pound bag, which the label clearly states has about 72 pieces of gum in it? Please don't ever let me buy one again. Or, at least don't leave me alone with it. We got home after 10 p.m., it's about 10:30 a.m. now, and the bag is gone. It is all gone. Every last piece. In just over 12 hours, 6 of which I was sleeping through.

You know I have a bubble gum problem. You know this. Why did you leave me alone with the Dubble Bubble? Don't you know me at all? You know what this means? We need to spend more time together, continue to get to really know each other's finer details.

Maybe we should go on a date.

Love from the farm,

Teri