Still a Farm

When we pulled into town Friday night and saw the lights of the Navajo County Fair, I was so excited, and I immediately was thinking of the photos I'd take so I could share all about how we'd come up to the farm for our county fair/ birthday week tradition, complete with kids getting ride wristbands from Grandma and Grandpa, the legendary Jose's Green Chile fries, Open Class Exhibits (more on that soon) and lots of run ins with friends and family.

Only, when I thought about saying we were up at the farm, all the excitement deflated in a whoosh when I had the stray, unwelcome thought, "Should I really call it a farm anymore when there is no life left there?"  No chickens. No ducks. No farm dogs or barn kittens. No turkeys. No pigs. No Gertie the Goat banging on the door or munching fall leaves.

The thought made me a little forlorn and brought a mix of emotions I decided not to try to sort through right then and there. I pushed this sad little question aside and determined to reclaim my joy for being at our other home, and quickly regained my excitement about the fair, where I knew in just minutes I'd see my sister and my Sweet Ell.

The fair delivered, as it always, always does, and after a late night of canasta with Mom, Dad and Mike (during which Mom and I WIPED THE FLOOR with Dad and Mike...), Mike and I came out to our place and stayed the night in his Mom's camper behind our house. (Have I told you we're pre-remodel in the house itself, so it's full of redwood planks, piles of stone tile, and new windows stacked everywhere? Not a bed in sight.)

Anyway.

I woke up early this morning and while Mike slumbered, Sadie and I went outside to start watering the trees and rose bushes that we're trying to keep growing by watering every couple weeks when we come to the property. (Low-tech auto watering systems are high on the project list, but not yet conquered.) Thank heavens it was a particularly rainy summer up here, which helped keep things alive when our absences stretched weeks apart.

As I looked at our weed covered property while I was moving the water, I thought again about that mood dampening thought I'd had about whether this is really a farm anymore. By my production farmer and rancher friends' measures, no way. Adam's dad, John, is now married to a wonderful girl who is the daughter of a true-blue Minnesota farmer with many, many acres of verdant farms. John enjoys my writing about our farm antics, but one day laughed as he told me, "What you call farming, we call gardening."  And he said that when we still lived here and we still had chickens! AND ducks!!

I laughed along, though, because I knew he was right. By many standards, this isn't a true blue farm. Still, this is our tiny farm, and I've been happy to call it that all these years. The thing is, though, if there aren't any critters or gardens growing here right now, what about it? Is it a farm or not?

As I continued to think about it, I moved the water from the globe willows to the apple tree, then Sadie and I strolled down the lane to the chicken coop so I could check whether we had plenty of straw and old poo to throw on the garden bed since it's preparing to slumber for the fall and winter.

And I looked down to watch my step and saw this.

Look closely.

Do you see them?  Those are somebody's prints in our lane.

A sure sign that something living has been wandering the place since the last rain.

Then I looked closer, and saw these. A smaller critter than the first -- a racoon? a porcupine?

Then there are these.

These tire tracks are from the farmers who drive back and forth on our lane to their well, which is right behind our property. They park behind our barn to tend the alfalfa fields off the back and side of our land, too. We bought this little 3-acre slice of their land, which they hay around us. (Around here, "hay" is a verb as well as a noun.)   Those farmers moving on and around are property -- they are life.

Next to the tire tracks are Sadie prints.

Hey there, Sadie.

A few seconds before she sat for me, I saw her over at the corner of the summer kitchen, alertly investigating the spot where once there was a monster bee hive, dripping with honey, and where occasionally, traveling bees pop in to hang out for awhile.

Bees qualify as life. Heck, bees ARE life, in so many ways -- their value to our living systems can't begin to be overstated.

I stopped in my tracks about this time; just pulled up still, held my breath, and listened.

I heard the grasshoppers rustling the grasses and chirping; the birds perched on the power lines and outbuildings singing my favorite morning songs; the lizard scampering across the tin panel by the shed, and the pigeons cooing atop the weathered grey barn.

I thought about the very act I was engaged in -- I was pulling water from our deep, cold well to water peach trees, almond trees, an apple tree, globe willows and mulberries. The towering poplars are drinking from the puddles surrounding the rose bushes.  And that well? When Mike went down the stairs into the well house, which doubles as a cool, damp cellar, he encountered a very startled tan and white rat. The fat fella had brought in fresh alfalfa from the field and made a nest on one of the shelves that used to be heavy with canned goods preserved, no doubt, by the woman whose husband farmed this land long before we bought this place.

I don't have to water the grapes winding along the fence line or the overgrown asparagus patch, because the water from the hay farmers keep these remnants from the previous owners growing wild. The lilac bush is nurtured on the fence line, too, and the runoff from summer rains have kept the honeysuckle bush under Adam's window green and strong.

I turn from the honeysuckle and see this. A "mano y metate" -- ancient grinding stones, used hundreds and thousands of years ago by Native Americans to grind corn and grain to sustain life. The side of the small stone you see is smooth and flat, from the years and years it was gripped by Native women making food for their families, firmly pressing hard kernels into the flecked, hard surface of the stone basin below. These prehistoric tools were here when we bought this place -- I don't know if the previous owners found them on this land or while out herding their cattle on the surrounding high desert prairie.

As I looked around me again, I came to a realization. This place may be temporarily missing goats and chickens, turkeys and ducks, pigs and barn kittens; and we may no longer live here full time. But we return often to nurture the life that is still here, with dreams of returning for good some day, when we'll delight in our grandchildren and great grandchildren who will tumble out of the just-opened doors of their parent's SUVs, racing to find their favorite kitty, or check the chickens' nests for eggs, or grab a handful of straw to offer to nervous goat kids. They'll toss a distracted, "Hi, Grandma!" over their shoulders as they disappear around the side of the house. We'll find them later, hidden under their grape arbor forts, munching an apple they stole from the tree as they ran past, and picking up where they left off with their interior design projects of the last trip.

Their last trip to Grandma and Grandpa Walker's farm.

Because this IS still a farm.

There is still life here.

I am still here.

And forever will be.

Overflowing with 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

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

A True Christmas Tale Teaser

Merry Christmas! We are enjoying a leisurely Christmas Day at Grandma & Grandpa Fraley's house, but I wanted to let you know we have a true, blue middle-of-the-night Christmas mystery story to share.

Right now, though, we're embarking on a Christmas Coma, so I'll share the story next time we meet here. For now, I'll need to decide what to imbibe in/on? Can't think of the right word...the coma has already commenced. Below is the list of choices of food we prepared for Christmas. Mind you there are only 10 people in the house, and 4 of them are under the age of 13:

• 2 hams
• 1 turkey
• 1 pot of green chili
• Couple dozen tamales
• Sausage Queso dip
• Meat & cheese platter (with about 8 cheese varieties)
• 7-layer dip
• Dessert dip (oh, mama...)
• Li'l smokies (no, thank you)
• Chips & salsa
• Chips & dip
• Crackers, crackers, crackers, tortillas, sour cream....
• Ham roll ups
• Dr. Byrd Cake (amazing moist banana bread w/ pineapple)
• Lemon pound cake
• Fudge
• Nut balls (Mexican Wedding Cakes)
• Dipped pretzels
• Beles (Butter, sugar and raspberry preserves - 64 lbs of these 3 ingredients per cookie)
• Pecan sandie-like cookies
• Banana pudding (baked Nilla Wafer variety w/ perfect merengue)
• Peppermint divinity
• Pecan divinity
• Turtles
• Relish tray (hey, don't ever say we're not health conscious)
• Cookie Press Cookies (almond spritzers)
• Toffee
• Spinach artichoke dip
• Guacamole (when the avocados ripen later today)
• 15 cases of soda (I kid you not)

Mom was concerned last night there might not be enough food and was going to make baked beans. We injected her with a strong sedative and laid her out on the couch for a few hours. She understood.

Anyone else going on the HCG Diet at New Years?

Ok, Christmas mystery post next....after the coma.

Merry Christmas from the farm,
Teri

So Thankful

Tonight I'm thankful for...

• small town celebrations that include my kiddos singing Thanksgiving and Christmas carols for the gathered crowds and handing out hot chocolate and candy canes
• running into aunts and cousins and grandmas, childhood friends and new ones
• the Capitol Christmas Tree coming from Arizona for the 1st time, and my children having the sense they took an active part in something historic as they joined in the festivities
• the all too infrequent joy of running into someone you simply didn't expect to see - in this case, an old colleague from the Forest Service traveling with the traveling tree
• the chance to rattle off the highlights of the last 11 years since we'd seen each other, and realizing anew that so many good and important things have happened in our lives
• the crisp fall air requiring us to bundle up, stand a little closer to one another for warmth, and hug each other and briskly rub each other's arms a little more often
• the cacophony of elementary school choirs, passing trains, honking motorists and chattering townsfolk, all forcing us to lean in a little closer to hear what each other is saying
• teachers who give so much of themselves, and in so doing, bring music to life in the hearts of our children
• an 11-yr-old daughter who insists on side pig tails, bopping around unselfconsciously and joyously in the top row of the choir, not caring one whit that no one around her is dancing
• a 9-yr-old daughter who braves her fears about being clumsy on her crutches, and gets up in front of the crowd anyway
• the realization that even if the 12-yr-old son hasn't been at school for two days, he still deserves to be part of this festive night, and being rewarded by seeing color in his cheeks as he finds his way to friends and falls right back in step with them
• an 18-yr-old son who commits to the commitments he makes, and enjoys responsibility and accountability in all his endeavors
• a husband who forgoes sleep and rest after long hours of work so he can be at as many kid events as possible, and who genuinely laments missing any of their activities; there's nowhere he'd rather be than with us
• a mother who delights in her grandchildren and their accomplishments, just as she did with her own children
• a dad who lights up every time his grand kids come bounding into the house
• an aunt who treats her great nephews and nieces with as much love as she would her own grandchildren - and who showers them with movie nights, handmade gifts they cherish, and love
• a sister who knows
• a drafty old house, where our little girls are bundled in the living room for warmth, until their windows can be replaced in their bedroom
• the 4 or 5 months of piano lessons when I was 10, which allows me to lull those snuggling girls off to dreamland in the dimly lit room quietly playing just the melodies of precious hymns like this and this
• feeling a calm spirit envelop the night and sensing the activities of the day draining from my daughters' little bodies as their breathing deepens and I somehow feel them sinking into sleep.

For these things, and so many more, I am thankful.

Of Pharmacies, Bum Holes and Ornery Folks

Swine flu has hit the folks, so I've spent some time checking on them throughout the week, taking a trip or two to the doctor, grabbing a few groceries, and making about 64 trips to the pharmacy. The little errands and checking in I've gladly done and I'm so grateful we're close by so I could do it. I'm glad for any chance to do something for the folks because, oh my goodness, I couldn't begin to repay them for the amazing support and help and fun they've been all my life. Stories of all they've done for me and my family are fodder for a 3-hanky post complete with theme music and sweeping vistas. But that's for another time. Suffice it to say, errands I can do. Am glad to do. With love in my heart.

The only thing I'm sick of is the pharmacy. Not because I've made a bunch of trips for Mom and Dad, but because I've filled prescriptions for 5 people this week; some have had multiple prescriptions on different days, so there was no chance for efficiency. Since Mom and Dad weren't the only ones with medical adventures this week, I've filled prescriptions for Mom, Tanner, Macy, Karlie, Macy again, Tanner again, Mom again and Dad. I'm tired of the pharmacy window, in spite of the sweet people who work at our Safeway pharmacy.

There was one bright spot in my pharmacy adventures this week, or so I thought. See, Dad's name is Willie, but he goes by Bill. I love opportunities to interact officially for him because I get to use his real name. Dad's a Kentucky boy, and it's not unusual for Kentucky boys to be named Willie. It's just not a name you hear much west of the Mississippi, and you get to say it even less. So, while I have grown weary of the pharmacy this week, it was fun to go pick up his prescription and have the chance to say, "I'm here to get Willie's prescription." But then the pharmacist helper lady says, "Do you mean Bill?" and inside I'm like, "Dang. One less chance to call him Willie. Thought for sure they'd call him Willie here."

After picking up the prescription, I stopped by the folks' home with a Diet Coke for Mom and a cup of coffee for Dad, and the prescription.

"You going anywhere else?" Dad asked.

"No. Just home," I answered, "Why? Do you need something?"

"No. It's just that you have a hole in the butt of your pants and I wasn't going to tell you about it until you got back with the coffee, but if you were going anywhere else, I figured I'd better let you know."

Yep, that's my Dad. Gotta love him. Even sick to the point of not being up for blow drying his hair, he can still get me.

"Oh, what's that, Dad? I'm sorry, was I standing on your oxygen line? Oh, am I off it now? How about now? Oh, sorry, am I on it again? Darn - is that what just yanked out of the machine over there? Oh, shucks, should I not have accidentally ground the hose into pieces with my heel? Oh, sorry."

Teach him to let me walk around with a hole in my bum.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. I suppose I should confess that I actually ended up running a few more errands in public yesterday, but at least I knew about the small hole, and somehow that made a difference. It was the ruthless letting me out among the common folk with a hole and not telling me immediately that was the issue, in case anyone's confused here.)