Happy Autumn!

"Lord, it is time.

The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow

on the sundials, and on the meadows

let the winds go loose.

Command the last fruits that they

shall be full; give them another

two more southerly days,

Press them on to fulfillment

and drive the last sweetness into

the heavenly wine."

-Rainer Maria Rilke

September

"The breezes taste

Of apple peel.

The air is full

Of smells to feel-

Ripe fruit, old footballs,

Burning brush,

New books, erasers,

Chalk, and such.

The bee, his hive,

Well-honeyed hum,

And Mother cuts

Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean

With suds, the days

Are polished with

A morning haze."

-John Updike, September

A friend gifted me oodles of apples from her tree. In the next couple of days we'll be canning lots of sliced apples, to be used in apple crisp, fried apples, apple pies. All the best fall treats.

I love fall. I love September. I'm grateful for this beautiful winding down season.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Spring is astonishing!

A rainy Sunday a week ago, I wrote a little something then accidentally sent it into the ether. I'm still trying to retrieve it and until I do, I'm going to leave you with this fabulous little poem that our youngest penned for her 4th grade writing assignment. I think it's lovely.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Spring

Spring is an awesome season!
By the sun fluffy clouds show expressions.
Gorgeous cherry trees are flourishing at the pond.
Sunflowers balancing near a fence are miraculous.
Above the flowers, peaceful butterflies are fluttering.
Brisk bees are zooming over my head.
Croaking on a lily pad, frogs are disguised and
in the grass wee crickets are tweeting.
Spring is astonishing!

by Karlie Walker, 9 years old, May 2010

Tell Me Why

Yesterday, the young mother who oversees my girls in "Activity Days" called to see if Karlie and Macy could go with a group of girls and women to serve dinner at the Bread of Life mission in town. Loaded up with baggies full of chopped onions and tomatoes (their contribution to the meal they would be serving), the girls hopped into their leader's car at 5 o'clock, excited to be on their way.

Activity Days is a program for girls ages 8 to 11 in our church. On any given Activity Day, they might make gingerbread houses, Father's Day gifts, memorize scriptures or learn to sew or sing harmony. Last summer, they came home with sparkly, star-spangled, ribbon-festooned flip flops they'd made themselves just in time for the 4th of July.

Upon their return last night, the girls tumbled out of their leader's car, yelled thanks and gave me a quick "hi!" as they bounced into the house. I thanked their leader for taking them and asked how it went. She said, "It was amazing. The girls were amazing. They did so good. They always do." I was surprised that she seemed really touched and quiet, rather than just upbeat and matter-of-fact.

Curious about her demeanor, I went into the house and asked if the girls had a good time. This was only the second time they'd fed the homeless in our community and I wondered if they felt that warm surge of lightness that seems to always accompany serving others. I remember - and still experience - the hesitation and nervousness I have felt when going into a situation where I'd be serving others less fortunate, ill or downtrodden; yet every time, there's that warm glow that makes me so glad I did.

I didn't want to color the girls' response to me, so I didn't say any of that. I simply asked them how it went. They said they'd had a good time, that it felt good to feed the people who were there. Then, they surprised me by saying, "We sang 'Tell Me Why'."

"Tell Me Why" is a sweet little old song that's been around forever. I taught it to the girls while we were driving around lost one night in northeastern Arizona. I wasn't worried, I knew we'd eventually find our way back onto the right route home. We just had time to kill as we drove around in the dark, so we started singing songs. I hadn't thought of the song in years until that night, but it was fun to teach them the words and try our hand at harmonizing.

I was surprised when Karlie told me they sang a duet last night, because I was forever trying to get the girls to sing to us. Sometimes they're all for it, other times they claim shyness. I understand - I do the same thing. I knew something must have moved the girls to prompt them to share the song with these struggling families and lonely individuals who take refuge at the mission. I thought how beautiful it must have been for those being served to sit at dinner, hearing these two little girls sing in their clear, sweet voices the simple words:

Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.

Because God made the stars to shine
Because God made the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that's why I love you.

I asked how the people responded. Macy said, "They really liked it." Karlie, in the nose-wrinkled, quizzical little tone she has patented replied, "Sister Stanton cried." Her tone clearly conveyed she wasn't sure why.

I knew why.

Because there's something about a child's voice lifted in song that touches the spirit, especially a lonely or aching spirit. A child's voice is a balm. There is a purity in those breathy, high, sometimes faltering notes that somehow conveys a downy softness and innocence that we don't often feel as adults. And it affects us.

I was reminded of the times our babysitter Oma would take my sister and me along with her church group to the "old folks' homes" in Ohio when we were little, so we could sing to the "old people." I was a little frightened of the ancient, bent over people in wheel chairs, with rheumy unseeing eyes and impossibly wrinkled skin. Though I couldn't know the words to describe it at that time, I remember their fragility and seeming vulnerability being so unsettling for me. But my fear soon gave way to that puzzled wonder that Karlie conveyed as I witnessed the smiles and pure joy those old people expressed as we sang to them. Some closed their eyes as tears streamed down their faces and they tilted their heads towards us so they could hear more clearly. Some of the white-haired old ladies would clasp our hands as we stood near them and with beaming smiles tell us how beautiful we were. I remember feeling that warmth of knowing we'd made these people happy somehow, even though I didn't understand how we'd done it.

Recalling all of this, I asked the girls if they would sing the song again for my sister and me as we sat in the living room last night. They did, and as I listened I thought how their leaders' demeanor when she dropped them off made so much sense now. Of course she was touched by hearing these sweet girls sing to people who were hungry not only for warm food, but for a warming balm that would soothe their troubled spirits, if only for an evening. Of course she was moved by the pure innocence that they exude at this tender time in their lives. Who wouldn't be?

I love the wonder of little girls who sing simple, sweet songs.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Old Timey Playing Christmastime

The kids and I spent yesterday afternoon and evening decorating the house for Christmas. Adam informed me that he wanted to go all out with decorations this year because this will be his last Christmas with us before he heads off on a mission for two years; then college after that; then inevitably that Christmas with the girlfriend's family, nervously trying to make a good impression; then married and "this year, we're having Christmas at the in-laws"....
Well, ok, he only mentioned this would be the last Christmas before his mission - it's I who went the rest of the way down that treacherous road to Christmases future.

Anyway.

His description of how over the top he expected us to go went something along the lines of, "I want it to look like someone vomited Christmas all over the house." (I wish I could remember his exact words, because that paraphrase is really gross.)

I believe we achieved his desire. We have lights strung inside the house, the entertainment center leads one to question whether we have created a shrine to television, we have an "eclectic" array of styles and colors co-mingling (clashing) in our small living spaces, and tea lights everywhere. We even have a corner still filled with pumpkins that need to be baked and pureed - but don't worry, we have lighted garland that will Christmas those gourds right up. Adam strung a couple strands of big colored lights about 8 feet up one of the 6, 30+-foot poplars in front of the house. Somehow, it works.

Mike came home from work and loved it. We saved the Christmas tree for when he arrived so he could be part of it all.

(There has only been one fire so far - it was a small one, and Macy caught it quickly. We have a few burned silk roses, but thankfully, the Christus the candle was warming did not suffer smoke damage.)

The house feels like Christmas, Adam's satisfied, and last night, we finished the Christmas story in Luke, Chapter 2, and it was good. Not sure what we'll be reading for the remaining 11 days of Christmas, but we have many scriptures from which to choose. Like the health care reform bills floating around the Hill these days, we're not lacking in pages.

All this to say, I love when it looks, feels and smells like Christmas. And, I love when it sounds like Christmas, too. Which brings me to the below link. But, first, a long-winded explanation:

I'm a sucker for radio shows and radio programs. I love listening to Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" and "What Do You Know?" when I'm in the car at the right time on the weekend. I absolutely love it when I stumble across an "old timey" radio program, which is why I was happy today when I was sent to the link below. The NPR broadcast isn't technically "old timey," but the narrator's voice sure makes it feel like it.

Here's some of the appeal for me:

• I love radio shows (noted above)
• The narrator says "us youngin's" just the way I remember my Aunt Sue saying it when she'd talk about the life she and my Dad's other 10 siblings lived on the old farm in Kentucky, with their parents
• While some people don't take to the soft, drawling nature of voices like this gentleman's, I get all warm inside because it reminds me of the voices and warm spirits of all of my Dad's brothers, sisters and cousins that I loved to listen to while I was growing up. My memories are of no one ever talking about unhappy things or speaking ill of one another. Stories and conversations were always accompanied by good-natured chuckling and a fair amount of ribbing- no one was loud or crass or cynical. I somehow knew all these people had enjoyed growing up together. Now, my memories are framed, you understand, in holiday visits or family reunions - when feelings are a little softer and reminiscing is steeped in sentiment - but even as a child I knew these were good and kind people. I could hear it in their voices.
• I love that the kids in the story play those silly, ruleless, made-up games and assign them names as if they're real games that everyone has always played, like "Christmastime," "Christmas Gift," and "Go Up to the Kitchen Door and Smell."
• That the little boy notices his parents have an unspoken communication, just like I always sensed when I'd see that certain look pass between my Mom and Dad; and that Mike and I have developed over the years. I'm grateful for that level of knowing someone - and of him knowing me, too. And, I'm so grateful that my parents have had that unspoken magic my whole life, and that they are ever more tightly bound to one another as the years continue to roll by.
• I love that for 10 minutes (it's a long one, make sure you have time to snuggle down and listen before you click the link), I just got lost in the gentle lilting and meaningful pauses as a humble and humbling story was told.

Now, click the link, turn up your volume, cross your ankles, interlace your fingers behind your head and stare off into space.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5028755

Playing Christmastime on the farm,

Teri

Is Your Light Hiding Under a Bushel?

Sitting in a room full of adults one day, I heard something like this, "How many of you in here are great artists?" Everyone looked around awkwardly. No hands were raised. "How many of you are singers?" A tentative hand or two. Again, sheepish looks.

"Look what happens to us as adults," the teacher said. "We forget our gifts; we become embarrassed."

He continued, "If I were in a class of 25 1st graders and I asked if any of them were artists, I guarantee you, most of the hands would have shot up at once; then the remaining kids would have looked around, and bolstered by their classmates' confidence, sent their hands up, as well. If I asked if they were singers, the same thing. Those 6-yr-olds would be bouncing in their seats, hands waving, starting to yell out their favorite tunes and breaking into song.

Somewhere along the line, as we get older, we become afraid and stop believing in our gifts."

I thought of that last night when I read a note from a woman fighting, and appearing to overcome, a cancer that many people don't overcome. She is feeling survivor guilt, wondering why she "deserves" to be healed when so many people "better" than her, who have lived more virtuous lives or made fewer mistakes, don't recover. When precious children afflicted with the same disease aren't making it, but somehow, she is. She said it kind of feels like we all felt after 9/11, wondering why our fellow Americans back East bore the brunt of the horrors, while we suffered and ached, but far removed from the grit and the smoke.

On a lesser scale, how many of us sometimes wonder how we can possibly deserve the blessings we've received or the gifts we've been given, when there are so many "more deserving" who seem to have so little? How many of us think we have a gift, even once used that gift with joy and confidence, but have become afraid or disbelieve we really do have a talent? And who would care anyway if we just set it aside?

This cancer survivor referenced the following quote by Robert Louis Stevenson, and I just wonder if there are a few among us who might find something in it that rings true.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Shine away, friends. You're beautiful.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Wrestling Alligators (Email Classics)

Written April 17, 2009

I think this was written for patients with critical illnesses, but it applies to their parents, too - I think I look more "mussed up physically" most the time than Tanner does. The below pretty much nails it.

Please remember Tan puts a smiling face on it, but he doesn't feel good most days. When he's doing things like getting straight A's and finishing his chores, it's easy to forget he's fighting the alligators pretty much every day. He could use the extra hugs and encouragement. 4 weeks and he gets to sleep in and stay home whenever he wants.

Love from the farm,
Teri
___________________


Life continues on pretty much the way it used to be before you got the diagnosis...
except you now excuse yourself on a regular basis to walk out of the room to wrestle alligators.

Now, you have never wrestled alligators before, and you most certainly are not in your physical best, but that is what you do. You then walk back into your life, without missing a beat, a little bruised and shaken, but try to pick back up where you left off.

You try to keep friends, family and even complete strangers updated on what it is like to have to continually wrestle alligators with no formal training. People look at you oddly, because you certainly don't APPEAR like you just came back from a death-defying match...maybe a little mussed up physically...but your smile hides what is going on outside with the alligators.

It is a scary, scary thing to keep returning to doctor appointments, IVs, and tests. It is a scary, scary thing to wake up each morning feeling like you've been run over by a truck. It is a scary, scary thing to wonder what your future holds.Still, you will continue to wrestle your alligators.

And one day I hope to be holding hands with you at a huge garage sale...a garage sale jam-packed with alligator shoes, belts and handbags.

- Author Unknown

I Believe (Email Classics)

Written April 20, 2009

"I believe in cord wood, iron stoves, and breakfast
I believe in freshly baked bread and mail order catalogues,ticking clocks, dogs and cats and corn right out of the garden.
I believe in families who laugh together and because of this
I believe in tomorrow and the day after
the goodness of man and the joy of living." ~Maxwell Mays~


Me too! I believe too!

Love from the farm,
Teri

Karlie's 8 (Email Classics)

Written April 23, 2009

If Karlie hadn't stayed home sick today, and I weren't here with her, then I wouldn't have seen her, dripping after her shower in her towel, looking for clothes, singing:

"I just had a sammich. No ordinary sammich. A sammich with jell-ee-fish jellllleeeeeeeeeeee. Doo dee doo dee dooo doo dee dooo doo.....jellyfish jelleeeee....doo dee dooo....."

I love 8 years old.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. "Jellyfish Jelly" song brought to you courtesy of Spongebob Squarepants)

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