Half Pint

“I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.”
-Laura Ingalls Wilder

When we moved from the Phoenix Metro area to northeastern Arizona seven years ago, I didn't realize I would transform from City Girl back to my country roots. In fact, I didn't even realize I had country roots. Frankly, I had never thought to try to characterize the life I lived with Grandma and Grandpa Potts, up in Pottsville, all those years ago.  I didn't think it was country life; I thought it was just life with some hard work mixed in.

I didn't even particularly like the hard work -- we did it because Mom told us to help Grandma. By and large, we were pretty obedient kids and we certainly did what Mom told us to. That's just how it worked. So, we gardened, and fed the cow, and strained the milk, and stirred the cottage cheese, and dumped eggshells in compost, and weeded, and put clothes through the wringer, and picked green beans, and canned, and washed dishes. And canned. And washed dishes. And canned. And canned.

I didn't know that one day, when I was fumbling through learning to can by myself --and feeding chickens, and scattering straw, and trying my hand at gardening -- that I would feel connected to my girlhood. That I would pause and stand as still as possible in my garden on summer mornings, because it was as if Grandma was right there with me, and I didn't want to even whisper and lose the feeling.

I had no idea I was so connected to that part of my past. I didn't know how I had loved those years with Grandma and Grandpa. I just happily experienced them at the time, as kids do, and grumbled with my sister Lynda and my cousins when I felt we had just too much to do.

As a grown up now, though, I know there is something about these "close to the earth" ways that make my spirit sing. When I started gardening and canning and keeping chickens and making homemade bread after grinding the wheat fresh, my Aunt Carol told me that my Uncle Rich said something about my practicing "the old ways." I was touched by that statement more than I can ever express. I felt something deep in me stir, and I felt...honored. Like somehow, I was part of some wonderful, respected old tradition of hard working people who knew and passed down "the old ways."  I think I responded that way because I felt that Uncle Rich had meant it as a deep compliment (I don't know that for sure, and I don't think I'll ask, just in case he didn't mean much by it, in which case I'd feel foolish for tearing up every time I think of it, which would just rob the whole sentiment entirely, for heaven's sake.)  The reason I suspect it was a compliment, though, is because it wasn't long after Aunt Carol told me that until Uncle Rich dropped by one day with a quart jar of multi-colored dry beans. My heart actually caught for a moment; I knew immediately what those beans were, and tears sprang to my eyes. These were heirloom beans ... beans Uncle Rich cared for and nurtured each year in his tiny garden, carefully collecting and storing them because they came from our family farm in Kentucky and had been passed down by generations of Fraleys. How many generations, we don't know. When I asked him how long they'd been passed down, he only shrugged and said, "I don't know. I know Daddy said they'd been gathered and saved for years and years, but I don't know how long."

It didn't matter.

What mattered was knowing Grandpa Fraley had collected, and stored, and reseeded the forebears of the beans in Kentucky for decades that were now right there in a quart jar in my front yard, decades later, in northern Arizona.

Uncle Rich and I sat right down on the ground in front of my house as he began sorting through the beans. He pushed them to and fro, nudging them into separate piles that made no sense to me, but I know made perfect sense to him. I kept mostly quiet, letting him decide which ones he'd pass on to me and which ones he'd keep. I knew this hadn't been an easy decision, to let any of these treasured living things go. I know because I'd asked about the beans a time or two over the past few years and he'd looked decidedly reluctant to share, so I didn't push. To have him there, then, willing to part with them...willing to entrust me with our family heirlooms...was a surprisingly sacred moment for me. I don't know if he has any idea how much that little bit of time we spent visiting and sorting beans that day meant to me.

But, what it affirmed to me, was that his assessment of my taking part in "the old ways" had merit in his eyes.

Uncle Rich called it "the old ways"; my sister took an entirely different tack. When I'd tell her of some new venture I was up to...making homemade laundry soap, sitting on a stump watching my chickens for hours, taking in a stubborn goat...she'd roll her eyes and say, "OK, Half Pint."  Yep, she and my Mom had no desire to take part in any of my endeavors, with our industrious -- often messy -- country life having no appeal to them. And that's been just fine...I laugh at their disdain, and they laugh at me for my farminess and we all find each other ridiculous in our positions, which works well for us. There's not a lick of mean spiritedness about any of it.

Plus, for me, Half Pint isn't such a bad thing to be called. After all, it's what Pa called Laura Ingalls in her books, and I LOVED her books. When I read them as a little girl, I remember my tummy getting so excited reading about the bins of flours and dried goods in their pantry; hearing Laura detail all of the preparations they made for the winter -- the foods they would bottle, the meat they would hang to cure, the wood they would stack, their trips for salt and sugar...all of it enthralled me. It should have come as no surprise to me then, as an adult, that my happiest moments would be watching our pantry shelves fill up with the beautiful jars of tomatoes and apples and peaches we'd canned ourselves. Or seeing the rows of cans filled with wheat and flour and sugar and beans that provide security in our shed next to the house. Or knowing our eggs come from happy hens who are allowed to peck around our few acres; and that last year we got to the grapes for the first time, before the birds did. My delight at finding a tiny patch of asparagus left over from the old couple that had lived here, that I continue to nurture every year, should be no surprise at all; or my concern for keeping alive the lilac tree and honeysuckle bush that I believe must have brought Buelah, the old lady who lived here for decades, such joy.

I love that something of my past -- both of childhood and deep ancestry -- is stirred every time I take part in one of "the old ways" or share young Laura Ingalls' excitement at a well- stocked pantry. I'm grateful to be connected to the old traditions and practices and to remember my Grandma Potts here in Arizona, and Grandpa Fraley in Kentucky when I choose to walk in the old ways.

These "sweet, simple things of life" really are the real ones, after all.

Well said, Half Pint.

Love from the farm,
Teri

What time is it?! It's CARPET TIME!!!

So, one time, when I was a teenager, Mom took us on one of our epic shopping adventures in the Valley. (That's Valley of the Sun, Phoenix Metropolitan Area for those of you not up on the Arizona lingo.) I didn't know it then, but I learned as an adult that those week-long shopping trips where we'd throw down bags in a hotel, then shop, eat and watch movies all through the Valley were actually Mom's lifeline while we were living our rustic little life in Pottsville.

You know, the one where we listened to a battery-operated radio, by the light of the Coleman lantern, while reading books or playing Backgammon, gathered around our dining room table, with the rest of the house in darkness, out in the desert, miles from a town, with only two other homes nearby? Belonging to Grandma & Grandpa Potts, and my Aunt Barbara?

Yes, well, apparently the shopping trips offset the hard work of cutting wood, building fires, hauling water from Grandma's occasionally, leaving a warm bed to run outside and start the generator in the morning.... In short, those trips are probably the reason Mom is still with us today.

For us girls, those trips meant shopping, dining out, swimming pools and movies...yes. But, they also meant TV, which we didn't get much of in Pottsville. We'd watch one hour a week of TV while Mom had the generator on to iron Dad's work shirts. And his jeans. Yes, he was THAT guy...the one with pressed jeans. We got exactly one channel on our TV in the boonies, and usually when Mom was ironing our program choice was Little House on the Prairie or Little House on the Prairie.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post.

On one of our shopping trips, I couldn't sleep. No matter what I did one night, I could not sleep. So, I settled in for a night of watching TV. It seemed a wonderful idea except for the fact that in this motel we were picking up very few channels for some reason, and one of them I flipped to had some stuff going on that I couldn't make heads or tails of, all I know is it made my stomach feel funny and I was glimpsing body parts I'd never seen before ...and the noises...Wow. I flipped away from the channel fast and didn't deviate from the remaining channel that was safe and not confusing and weird.

Only that channel, come about 1 a.m. played the same commercial over and over and over again. "What time is it?!?" shouts the announcer. "It's CARPET TIME!!!" shouted the happy crowd. Incessantly. Ad nauseum. Till I thought I would pull out my fingernails. Oh, how I longed for sleep. Alas, sleep did not come. Reruns of Starsky and Hutch, the Rockford Files and Barney Miller were interspersed among the stupid, happy carpet people that long, long night.

It's stayed with me lo these many years.

And do you know why I'm telling you this? Why I took ALL that time and all those words to tell you about it?

It's because around this time of year, every year I think, "What time is it? It's TIME TO PLANT THE GARLIC!!"

And, just as those stupid commercials didn't motivate me to go out and buy carpet, neither does repeating that silly mantra ever motivate me to get out and stick some darned cloves in the ground and get me some garlic overwintering.

And, every spring, I lament that I didn't get the garlic in in the fall.

Here's hoping this year is the year.

I'd really like to have fresh garlic next year.

And that's really all I had to say.

You can thank me later for getting that dang commercial stuck in your head. If that one isn't enough, let's throw in "It's time to make the donuts...." with images of that tired, balding baker for kicks. Remember that one? Is it playing over and over in your head now? Is it all rushing back?

Good. Sleep on that.

Heheheheheheh.....

Love from the farm,
Teri

Bringing Home The Bacon...& Sausage

We ordered sausage seasonings today in anticipation of trying our hands at our own meat processing late next week. From Columbia Spice company we ordered hot sausage seasoning (for packages of sausage - think Jimmy Dean 1-lb chubs), sweet Italian and hot Italian seasonings. We used the Columbia Spice brands for the sausage last year and loved them. I wasn't a sausage person before we made our own last year and didn't expect to become one, but, oh my goodness, my friends were right when they told us there is nothing like fresh sausage. You have to try it for yourself to begin to understand it. Yum.

I'm still searching for a bacon brining solution. We weren't thrilled with the flavoring we used for the last bacon, so we'll take a stab at another variety this time. We weren't very happy with our homemade hams, either; while I'm looking forward to learning how to cure ham eventually, I'm not going to be able to tackle it this year. So, we'll use the ham pieces and a few of the roasts for canned pork, instead, which is so flavorful and convenient to have in your pantry. (If anyone knows of a good bacon seasoning product, by the way, I'd sure appreciate hearing about it.)

As I've mentioned before, we were thrilled with the quality and flavor of the pork we raised last year (ham and bacon being the exception due to the flavorings we used, not the quality of the meat.) We are eager to enjoy and share the pork that will soon be coming our way, especially in light of the ever-increasing costs of store-bought pork that is shockingly low on flavor. I can't believe the way I had to doctor a flavorless pork roast lately in order to bring any savor to the pot of green chile I was making from it.

My Grandma Potts introduced me to canned pork when I was a young girl, and I haven't had it since my early teens, when I moved away from Grandma's pantry. The memory of how good that pork was has stayed with me, though, and I can't wait to try it again. We do enjoy ham around here, so I'm disappointed we won't be curing our own. Knowing prices may simply keep going up, Mom and I are going to buy some extra Easter hams while they're on sale next month, and I'll can them, using a method I just read about early this week. I like the idea of having meal-sized portions of ham, instead of having to figure out how to use up all the leftovers of a full-sized ham each time I bake one. I'll share the canning recipe and the results after Easter, for those who might be picking up a few extra hams of their own.

The man we purchased our pigs from this year offered to butcher them for us, but let us know several weeks ago that pressing responsibilities had arisen that wouldn't allow him to help, after all. We certainly understand how that goes. The last time we processed pigs, our friends who had some experience, tools and a book on butchering helped us. We're not going to ask them to guide us through the process this year, however, because one of their little guys, a 3-yr-old cutie pie named Diesel (yes, you read that right), just had brain surgery a week or so ago and I'm disinclined to ask anything of that preoccupied family at this time.

So, Mike and I are going to go it alone. And, actually, we did ask to borrow our friends' butcher knives. But other than that, we're going to process these big fellas on our own, enlisting whichever kids are interested in pitching in. We'll haul the pigs over to the butcher next week, he'll slaughter them and chill their carcasses for three days, then we'll pick them up and set to work.

I'm going to ask the butcher to save the fat so we can make lard, and I'll be sure to let you know how that process goes, too. I'm a little intimidated, I have to say. I don't know why - probably just the thought of dealing with all that hot grease. Still, I'm going to forge ahead and hope I complete the process unscarred.

Now, I have to go take a pick axe to the chest freezer so we can get it cleared out to welcome all that fresh, flavorful meat soon. Then, I guess I better check the library for a picture book on butchering.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Favorite Home & Cooking Discoveries

I've always loved to cook and do things around the kitchen, but it's only been in the last few years that I've really been able to concentrate any significant amount of time on all things homey.

Here are a few of my favorite discoveries:

• Rubbing your hands with a couple teaspoons of salt then running them under cold water will get rid of painful onion and aromatic garlic oils. Many a time my children have found me, mascara streaming down my cheeks, eyes clenched tight, furiously scrubbing my hands with salt. They've quit asking me if I'm OK; they know that within moments I'll be happily cooking again.
• You shouldn't add liquids to any dry good mixture containing baking powder until the last possible moment before mixing, so whatever you're cooking will have the perfect texture and height. This goes for your pancakes, quick breads, biscuits and any other item in which you include baking powder.
• Baking cornbread in a cast iron skillet. I don't know why I love this so much, but it makes me happy each and every time.
• Canning. Magical. It's hot, long hours, and don't even think about doing the cost analysis between the amount of time it took you to plant, grow and can the food compared to what it would have cost to go to the Piggly Wiggly and pluck it off the shelf. That's not what it's all about. It's about staring at the beautiful jars on your shelf, knowing YOU did that, knowing none of the goodness was cooked out - it's all sealed right up there in the jars; knowing there's nothing artificial or mysterious in those jars. It's love and health and security all gathered under a shiny, sealed tight lid.
• Using honey in place of sugar in cornbread, pancakes and homemade buttermilk syrup means your family will be calling out to you from the table, singing your praises with their mouths full, while you're still pulling the last batch of pancakes off the griddle before sitting down with them. Usually, we wait till we're all sitting down to bless the food, but this is one meal where we bless the food before I'm done cooking, because once the syrup is done and the plate is piling high with pancakes, my crew can't stand the suspense any longer.
• Grinding popcorn for cornmeal. It's beautiful, fresh and so full of flavor. And a cost saver: I never throw away ancient, half-used boxes of expensive cornmeal anymore. I buy regular popcorn, grind a small handful at a time and throw any extra - no matter how little is left - in a baggie and into the freezer. Then, I use the remnants for tossing on a baking stone before popping rustic bread or pizza pies into the oven.
• Oatmeal pancakes. They must be served with homemade syrup, which is easy to whip up while the pancakes are cooking. Served alongside bacon and perhaps fried eggs, it's the best breakfast ever. But you better get those kids off their tushies and engaged in some strenuous project right after they eat, or everyone will be heading off for naps following this carb-packed meal.

While I'm waiting for the cornbread to be done that I'm baking to go along with Mike's beans for work tonight, I'll share our favorite oatmeal pancake recipe. I'll include a buttermilk syrup recipe, too, but I have to confess, it is good but it isn't our favorite. I believe finding our favorite syrup recipe will be a reward the housecleaning fairies will bestow upon me for cleaning off the top of the refrigerator.

But first, my final favorite discovery - not one I learned in recent years, but from my Grandma Potts, when I was a little girl: drop a slice of homemade cornbread in a bowl, cover it in fresh cream or milk, and sprinkle with sugar. It's a ridiculously rustic, country little treat and I've never eaten it without being transported back to Grandma's little single-wide trailer up on the hill in Pottsville, sitting at the rickety table looking out the kitchen window at Grandpa's beloved roses.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Oatmeal Pancakes

1 C flour (we use 1/2 C wheat, 1/2 C white)
1 C quick oats
2 T honey (or sugar if you don't have honey)
2 T baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda

1.5 C buttermilk (I always just add a teaspoon or two of vinegar to regular milk and let it sit for a few minutes to sour)
1 egg
1/4 C oil

Sour milk and set aside. Mix dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Add buttermilk (or sour milk), eggs and oil (and honey, if you have it); mix well. Cook on a hot griddle or frying pan.

It'll Do Buttermilk Syrup
(this is good, but as soon as I find our favorite syrup recipe, I'll replace this)

2 C sugar
3 T honey (or white Karo syrup)
1/2 C butter
1 tsp baking soda
1 C buttermilk or sour milk (see above for how to sour milk)
1 tsp vanilla

Mix all ingredients in a large kettle or saucepan (think deep! The syrup boils up high). Bring to a rolling boil for 3 minutes. Stir frequently. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Serve over pancakes or French toast.

I'm Thinking...

...about a few changes around here. Not only here at the little farm, but also HERE, on this little corner of the e-mosphere.

It was when I was pulling on a quilted denim jacket to take the kids to school this morning in our big red truck that I had another one of those moments when I realized how dramatically our life has changed over the past few years. And that I'm as comfortable in this new life as I am in this quilted jacket.

In our old life, I was dressed in "career clothes" most days - or I was making a mad dash to Macy's just before a meeting to buy new career clothes to frantically change into before a meeting. Because my life was so chaotic, I didn't think of these as "new" clothes so much as "clean" clothes, because I never seemed to get around to taking any of my other perfectly suitable clothes to the drycleaners. This is a very expensive form of wardrobe management that I do not recommend to others.

Most days, I was off to meetings and off-site offices, and could go days without seeing my four sweet kiddos. I'd leave before they awoke and get home long after they'd gone to bed - if I came home at all. I'm embarrassed to admit, I'd pull all-nighters sometimes because I was so unable to figure out a balance between a busy PR/marketing career and a young, growing, ever-changing family. I entrusted the care and raising of my children to my sweet husband and a fantastic nanny, and I squeezed in cherished moments where I could.

I also made myself good and sick, missed out on moments I'll never retrieve, likely left gaps in my children's experiences that only a mother could adequately fill, and was jealous of every moment I could eke out with my family. We were making a good living, but our life was out of control and we felt almost frantic to change it.

If life was a movie, then the rare moments when I was in my kitchen on a Sunday morning before church, donning my apron and pulling out the wheat grinder to make steaming loaves of homemade bread would have been a prime example of foreshadowing. You know, those little scenes in a book or movie that tip you off to a major plot line still to come?There was something magical about putting on that apron, and seeing my little ones' excitement as they'd peer into the noisy grinder, watching the wheat kernels rumble their way down the chute. I felt more like a mother at those moments than at any other. I felt grounded and like I was doing something right, though I didn't know why.

I've since discovered why.

It's because I was meant to live a simpler life. Don't get me wrong - I enjoyed the city and the good people who I dearly loved and worked with. I enjoyed my work, I was good at it. But, truth be told, I became less and less able to get it done well or dependably as the years went on. My life in the city and in a demanding but sometimes glamorous or intensely important career, slowly ground to a halt. I had known for years that I wasn't living the real life for me and my family, and eventually, I couldn't force the two opposing identites to keep going any longer.

Now, I wasn't thinking all of these things at the time - these are realizations I made as time has passed. At the time, I only knew things weren't whole or complete and that I was getting more ill, and we weren't reaping the rewards of all of our hard work. And if we didn't make a change soon, our family would suffer in sad, small, half-life ways.

So, things fell into place in odd little inspired ways and we took off to a rural setting. We live just outside the city limits on a back county road. We have nearly 3 acres of what used to be a larger homestead. We live in a hodge-podge home originally built in 1927, and it needs a LOT of work. The property has a weathered old barn that I find beautiful, beat up outbuildings and bays, and appliances dotting the landscape that span the decades that have passed since the house was built.

Since we've been here, our fortunes have changed. Our youngest boy fell dramatically ill with a kidney disease that knocked me out of the 9-to-5 world at about the same time the U.S. economy REALLY crashed in 2008, taking most of my clients with it. My husband left a great job that made use of his incredible skills for one that would offer the substantial health benefits we'd need to cover our son's medical requirements. We had already ripped up all of the old carpet in the house and were looking forward to digging in and turning this place into a beautiful little farmstead in the country when we found ourselves suddenly trying to get by on 1/5 of our previous income.

So, two years later, we still have a concrete slab (complete with a crack) in our front room, and plywood flooring in the living room, and few noticeable improvements to the property. (Although, we have made a very handsome chicken yard, if I do say so myself.) I chuckle when I think about the budget I drew up when we first bought this place. I included a monthly home improvement line item of $3,000, which we figured we'd easily accommodate at the time. Well, that was then, and this is now.

I love now.

I love that I've learned to be thrifty and frugal in ways I never imagined I could. I love that I am drawing on the example of cheerful hard work that my Grandma Potts modeled when I was a young girl working by her side. I love that I am making a home instead of visiting one in the wee hours. I love that I'm with my kids throughout the days and running a flute to the school when it was forgotten, and smoothing a brow when it needs smoothed, rather than calling a much-loved nanny to make sure she does it for me. I love that I can't wait for school to get out for summer, so I can soak up even more time with my kids.

We didn't anticipate our stars would change so dramatically when we made this move, but we are in exactly the right place to make the best of this new alignment and I'm grateful for our new circumstances.

After more than 2 years of adjusting, learning, paring down, doing without, humbling ourselves and being humbled, I think we're ready to begin building up again. Not moving up, but enhancing this place that we love, even in all its dilapidated glory.

Here is where we'll share what we're doing and the progress we're making. We're going to be working on many fronts: becoming expert gardeners, turning this house into a home, doing what we can to improve the health of family members, getting a better handle on the animal part of farming (the local coyote population will miss their fast-food offerings from our little farm), and making our property beautiful and abundant. I'll continue this thrifty and frugal lifestyle, continue to emphasize homemade, from-scratch cooking, expand my preserving and "putting by", and do what I can to promote buying local.

I'll tell tales of Pottsville and Gertie the Goat as we go along, I'm sure, because all of those experiences color the life we have here.

All this means I'll have to get busy with the camera, so you can expect more than just reams of words (do I hear a great big hallelujah?!?).

I love our life. I love that after more than 2 years of intense learning and concern and some sorrow over the sorry lot our sweet boy has been handed, I feel a weight lifted that signals we've learned how to embrace this new dynamic in our family and find joy not only in spite of it, but also because of it - for the wisdom and blessings and increased appreciation for small moments that has been part of this unexpected and cumbersome package.

I love the promise of spring and new birth and growth that refreshes the world and our senses, if we'll let it. I'm ready to let it and I know this place, and our family, is going continue to be renewed.

Now, I'm going to go figure out how to use our camera then we'll get going.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Tales of Pottsville: Is There Life Out There?

Ever the news junkie, I spend far too much time keeping up with current events. Which is how I stumbled across this important news item this week: it was reported in the honest-to-goodness free press that the Catholic church is looking to the heavens for signs of alien life. I breezed through the article and caught references to considering whether there's life in other parts of the universe, scientific studies and the like.

Oh, if only Grandma Potts were here to join in the conversation. See, Grandma firmly believed in life on other planets. She was wide open to discussions of green aliens and space ships. The Bible references other sheep that Jesus visited after he was resurrected; she didn't particularly care what the sheep looked like or where they lived. Grandma was unfailingly accepting in that way.

Grandma and Grandpa Potts (not sure he'd appreciate my bringing his name into it) diligently bought The Enquirer during the kinder, gentler days of the publication before celebrity exposes, when the magazine features were about 3-headed cows in Wisconsin, Elvis sightings, babies that could burp the alphabet at birth and, of course, alien sightings. Oh, and don't forget Nostradamus doomsday stories. Those Nostradamus predictions were pretty much weekly discussions. I could never read them - they scared the bejingles out of me.

When I say Grandma believed in aliens, I don't mean she only read about their adventures. Oh, no. She occasionally sought contact with them. And that was where the fun began.

See, Pottsville consisted of three homes: my Grandma and Grandpa Potts at the top, Aunt Barbara and the cousins in the middle, and our home at the bottom. (The landscape was actually pretty level; I'm not sure where I got the top and bottom perceptions, but kids are like that.) At the height of Grandma's alien adventures, Aunt Barbara hadn't even moved up on the hill yet, so it was just our two homes on 40 acres, surrounded by lots of high desert in all directions. We were 3 miles outside of town (town being an oversized title for a little pioneer settlement called Woodruff) and off the back road to Snowflake, which was 20+ miles to the southeast. Essentially, it was just us way out there in the desert. And, once the sun went down and we were all tucked into our homes after dark with our Coleman lanterns and battery operated radios (yeah, we'll delve into that more deeply at a later date), there wasn't all that much to do.

Which is why UFO hunting with Grandma was so stinkin' fun. See, Grandma would see something off in the distance - it could be unusual red lights on the horizon or flashing lights in the broad, black star-spangled sky - and that was all it took.

Into Grandpa's old green and white truck or the front seat of Mom and Dad's Oldsmobile we'd jump, and off we'd go, bumping across the dirt roads at night, chasing those lights. Mom wasn't entirely on board with Grandma's convictions that aliens were just a stone's throw away, but she did love to drive and the dark nights could be long, so she was game to join in. We'd drive for what seemed like hours, keyed up with anticipation, adrenaline pumping, desperately scanning the horizon to re-sight the suspicious lights if a mesa temporarily took them out of view. Mom would dodge the jackrabbits that were shocked to find us out in the wilds during their part of the night, and Grandma would keep a running commentary about just what she thought we might find at the end of our dash across the desert. See, Grandma wasn't intense and freaky about her conviction - just the opposite - she would light up and laugh heartily, eyes twinkling as she shared her wild ideas and findings. Grandma was a poet and a storyteller - she could keep the conversation moving along.

You'll be shocked to learn that we never quite caught up with the red lights or the flashes in the sky. I don't know how they evaded us, since Mom was quite the accomplished cross-country driver in her younger days. Somehow, even when we ultimately had to give up the chase and head home, the disappointment wasn't that great. Having the windows down, my sister Lynda and I would stick our faces out to feel the warm evening breezes, Grandma would point out the constellations - the Seven Sisters being my favorite to find - and there was that sense of getting away with something because everything was slightly off kilter: it was way past bedtime, glimpses of flashing eyes told us the desert night creatures were out with us, and the adults were acting so carefree.

I don't know if Grandma held her fascination with aliens right up until she left us. I can say she wasn't the only one around here who was open to the idea - it was just down the road about 30 - 40 miles or so that local Travis Walton of "Fire in the Sky" fame was said to have been abducted by aliens. Who knows. What I do know is Grandma's story weaving was captivating and the adventures were always colorful and big. Life in Pottsville was all a 9-yr-old could ever ask for. What a time we had.

Who knows what the Catholic church will find as they're looking heavenward. I can tell you, if nothing else, the quest for life out there could sure help while away a dark summer night.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Peasant Stock

My mom always told me that we come from good old "peasant stock" and I am certainly glad of it. That steady temperament, willingness to work hard and "put your shoulder to the wheel" mentality is likely borne of our pioneer heritage, and it's served me well as a wife, mother and PR professional for the past 18 years.

I've always kind of been a "bloom where I'm planted" kind of gal, so I enjoyed our busy life in the Valley all those years, and our time in Flagstaff before that. I never knew, tho, until I was back in this quiet corner of the world, that my spirit had been longing to return to the rather peasant-like life I lived with my grandmother as a child: we gardened, we canned, we danced an Irish jig at potato planting time, we made homemade cheese - then dressed the cheese in a hat, jewelry and flowers and built an entire skit around it when it wouldn't quit growing. I learned how to make Brigham tea from a weird plant that grew in the desert around our place, and figured out that potatoes and strawberries can be unpredictable in this climate and soil.

As I've made my own feeble attempts at gardening the past two seasons, I've had several moments where I've straightened up from a row and just stood still, because the memory of working alongside Grandma Potts is so strong, I swear it's like she's right there with me. When I made my own laundry soap this year, I flashed to the summer I was 10 and my rather horrified fascination watching Grandma make lye laundry soap using lard and wood ashes (I could never quite figure out how that could possibly get clothes clean, but somehow it did.)

I wish I'd listened a little closer to the steady stream of explanations and instructions that she shared as we worked together - I wish I'd learned more those years working in her kitchen, her 3 gardens and small orchard, rather than having just helped.

I wish she was by my side in our garden, in her floppy hat, old nursing shoes without strings and polyester pants, showing me how to properly stake a tomato plant. And, after my disastrous corn crop last year and this, I wish I'd asked what the heck that powder was in that old stocking she'd always bop the corn tassels with each year!

Love from the farm,
Teri

Laundry Confessions (Email Classics)

Written July 12, 2009

I'm a bona fide weirdo, I've decided, as I have unearthed yet another little startling revelation about myself this summer: I LOVE hanging clothes out to dry on the clothesline. Who knew?

I love any excuse to be outside, and there's just something delicious about hanging the clothes. Feeling the hot breeze instantly cooled when it hits the damp clothes and hearing the wind snap the clothes like an ornery jock popping his buddy with a towel in the locker room. It's just lovely for some reason. I can't explain it. The caveat is that I am certain I will not enjoy doing it in winter, so I will go back to using my dryer.

I suppose while I'm confessing, I should also confess that I actually made homemade laundry soap a few weeks back and I'm loving that, too. For about $7, I made enough soap for 600+ loads. And, I have enough supplies left over to make at least 2 more batches. Sure beats the 90 loads of Tide I was paying $20 for, plus this stuff is easier on our septic system. And, if my family had extremely sensitive skin, which we don't, it'd be easier on our epidermis, too. With farm laundry for 6, this is the best investment I've made yet! [laundry soap recipe to come]

Apparently, at some point in the past year, I died quietly in my sleep, and my Grandma Potts' industrious spirit decided to have a second go at life, this time in my body. If I begin telling stories of ant families and insisting my kids dance an Irish jig when we plant potatoes, call for a priest because it will be time to give Grandma the heave ho. There were times when I wanted to hide Grandma's stupid Reader's Digest "Back to the Basics" book with all its coffee-can-cheese-making, lye-soap-boiling, cottage-cheese-curdling nonsense. Now I love all that stuff. My poor kids.

Below is a little ditty about clothes lines.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. Oh, one more reason I love hanging out clothes? Because, when I bump open the screen door with my hip to carry the heavy basket of wet clothes out to the line, I get to hear the door SLAM behind me. And that, after all, is one of the things that sold me on this place. My slamming screen door. Which Mike has promised that he'll never replace as long as we both shall live. I'd like to exact the same promise from my children, for after we've passed.)

THE CLOTHES LINE POEM
Clothes line was a news forecast to dry.

It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.
For then you'd see the 'fancy sheets'
And towels upon the line;
You'd see the 'company table cloths'
With intricate design.
The line announced a baby's birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.
The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You'd know how much they'd grown.
It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.
It said, 'Gone on vacation now'
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, 'We're back!' when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.
New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy gray,
As neighbors carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way.
But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess.
I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line!

~Marilyn K. Walker