I've enjoyed walking around the house lately, watching some of our plants slowly wake themselves from their winter nap. Over the weekend, I coaxed a ladybug onto my fingertip and wondered how it managed to find enough to eat this early.
We harvested some more rocks from the vegetable garden - we're very good at growing the head-sized variety of limestone. In doing so, I encountered some of our resident earthworms.
It's always a good sign to find big, fat earthworms in the veggie plot. If they are thriving, we must be feeding the dirt well - we're trying to limit chemical use and work compost and straw into the lovely Cole County clay to make it easier for the plants to root in and feed.
So when I walked out this rainy morning and found dozens of worms on the driveway, lying stick-straight, it bummed me out. Little dudes had mere minutes before the early bird stopped by for breakfast and his work would be easy.
Save a few, you say? Pick them up and throw them in the grass.
Uh, no.
I love worms. I love what they do to enrich the soil. Finding them when I dig is like finding an Easter egg underground. But there is no way I will pick them up unless I'm wearing gloves. Cannot stand to hold them.
The first worm that tried to burrow through my hand to escape totally freaked out little-girl me. Hand me a garter snake - we're good. Toss a daddy longlegs my way and I'll study him a while. Attempt to hand me a worm and you are on. your. own.
I admire them...but never barehanded.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Gramma's Question
Written in response to a question - When did you first understand love?
I never had to wonder if – only when she would ask the question.
From the time I was old enough to notice that boys existed, my gramma asked me the same question every time we were together, “When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
It was silly when I was little. It was embarrassing as a pre-teen. It hurt when I was a high-school wallflower, sitting at home, uninvited to the big dances.
“When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
It was the only thing about Gramma that annoyed me. She, who bustled through the house, making sure everyone was hugged, fed and comfortable. She, who never missed a chance to let me know how deeply she loved me, never seemed to notice the hurt in my eyes as I grew older and could only mumble a feeble, “I dunno” in reply.
Every once in a while, Grampa would spare me, saying, “Leave her alone, Annie.” And his smile would set things right.
As my sisters and cousins dated, married and brought their children, my grandparent’s tiny house seemed to grow and envelop us all. Yet even when more than one hundred souls gathered, Gramma would find a time to ask, “When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
Until the family gathering when she didn’t.
Grampa was 90 when he lay in the hospital bed set up in their living room. A cousin had sent Gramma to bed and sat with him, holding his hand and praying. Some time later, she looked up and saw Gramma enter the room.
“Something told me to get up. I need to be here.” Gramma said, taking Grampa’s free hand.
A moment later, Grampa shook himself free from my cousin’s grasp. He reached for both of Gramma’s hands, opened his eyes and looking deeply into hers, he sighed and passed away.
At the wake, clusters of family and friends chatted, exclaimed and remembered. Gramma had never seemed quite so small, sitting in the first of many rows of folding chairs, looking at no one and nothing in particular.
My sister, Joan, always so good at reading people’s hearts, signaled to me. Together we walked up to Gramma.
“Would you like to walk up with us and look at him some more?”
“I believe I would,” Gramma replied.
As we gazed at the body that had held so loving a spirit, it was Gramma’s turn to sigh.
“Oh, girls,” she breathed. “Sixty-five years wasn’t nearly long enough.”
At that moment, it was obvious. From the day I was born, all she wanted for me – for all of her family – was what she had from the time she was a teenaged bride –a deep, true, abiding love. A love like theirs that overcame poverty, mourned an infant, built a huge five-generation family and struggled to stay afloat amid the tumult of the twentieth century.
Theirs was pure trust. Pure faith. Pure strength. Pure love.
I was ready the next time she asked.
“When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
“Oh, Gramma, they just don’t seem to make ‘em like Grampa anymore. I’m holding out until I find one just like him.” I declared.
“I suppose so,” she said. “You do that.”
Thanks be to God, I did.
I never had to wonder if – only when she would ask the question.
From the time I was old enough to notice that boys existed, my gramma asked me the same question every time we were together, “When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
It was silly when I was little. It was embarrassing as a pre-teen. It hurt when I was a high-school wallflower, sitting at home, uninvited to the big dances.
“When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
It was the only thing about Gramma that annoyed me. She, who bustled through the house, making sure everyone was hugged, fed and comfortable. She, who never missed a chance to let me know how deeply she loved me, never seemed to notice the hurt in my eyes as I grew older and could only mumble a feeble, “I dunno” in reply.
Every once in a while, Grampa would spare me, saying, “Leave her alone, Annie.” And his smile would set things right.
As my sisters and cousins dated, married and brought their children, my grandparent’s tiny house seemed to grow and envelop us all. Yet even when more than one hundred souls gathered, Gramma would find a time to ask, “When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
Until the family gathering when she didn’t.
Grampa was 90 when he lay in the hospital bed set up in their living room. A cousin had sent Gramma to bed and sat with him, holding his hand and praying. Some time later, she looked up and saw Gramma enter the room.
“Something told me to get up. I need to be here.” Gramma said, taking Grampa’s free hand.
A moment later, Grampa shook himself free from my cousin’s grasp. He reached for both of Gramma’s hands, opened his eyes and looking deeply into hers, he sighed and passed away.
At the wake, clusters of family and friends chatted, exclaimed and remembered. Gramma had never seemed quite so small, sitting in the first of many rows of folding chairs, looking at no one and nothing in particular.
My sister, Joan, always so good at reading people’s hearts, signaled to me. Together we walked up to Gramma.
“Would you like to walk up with us and look at him some more?”
“I believe I would,” Gramma replied.
As we gazed at the body that had held so loving a spirit, it was Gramma’s turn to sigh.
“Oh, girls,” she breathed. “Sixty-five years wasn’t nearly long enough.”
At that moment, it was obvious. From the day I was born, all she wanted for me – for all of her family – was what she had from the time she was a teenaged bride –a deep, true, abiding love. A love like theirs that overcame poverty, mourned an infant, built a huge five-generation family and struggled to stay afloat amid the tumult of the twentieth century.
Theirs was pure trust. Pure faith. Pure strength. Pure love.
I was ready the next time she asked.
“When are you going to get a boyfriend?”
“Oh, Gramma, they just don’t seem to make ‘em like Grampa anymore. I’m holding out until I find one just like him.” I declared.
“I suppose so,” she said. “You do that.”
Thanks be to God, I did.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
And With Your Spirit
I went 4/5 at Mass today.
Got all the way through the hour and the last one got me. When Father Reid said the final, "The Lord be with you." I responded, "And also with yooooour spirit." Eh, close. No need to be perfect. What's the challenge in getting it right the first time?
My Episcopalian friends are probably giggling at all the discussion, angst and drama as Roman Catholics take a more literal run at the English translation of the Mass. Take a look at their Book of Common Prayer and you'll find a lot of the very words that sounded so odd to our ears this first morning of Advent.
There's a lot of griping among my fellow musicians at our bishop's decision to use only a chant setting for the sung Mass parts - the Gloria, Sanctus, Lamb of God, etc. It seems like the next year will be monotonous. I get his point though. We need to get the words down before we add the flourishes.
Oh, we love our flourishes! We like to show God just how we've developed these talents He gave us. We like to make a polyphonic noise unto the Lord!
But there's another reason everyone in our diocese is learning the same stuff. When we get together as the central Missouri community of faith to celebrate the Mass, we'll all, literally, be singing from the same hymnbook. One community sharing in one song. A spirit of unity.
I like the sound of that. Almost, I'd bet, as I'd love the sound of the first graders practicing the word "consubstantial"!
Got all the way through the hour and the last one got me. When Father Reid said the final, "The Lord be with you." I responded, "And also with yooooour spirit." Eh, close. No need to be perfect. What's the challenge in getting it right the first time?
My Episcopalian friends are probably giggling at all the discussion, angst and drama as Roman Catholics take a more literal run at the English translation of the Mass. Take a look at their Book of Common Prayer and you'll find a lot of the very words that sounded so odd to our ears this first morning of Advent.
There's a lot of griping among my fellow musicians at our bishop's decision to use only a chant setting for the sung Mass parts - the Gloria, Sanctus, Lamb of God, etc. It seems like the next year will be monotonous. I get his point though. We need to get the words down before we add the flourishes.
Oh, we love our flourishes! We like to show God just how we've developed these talents He gave us. We like to make a polyphonic noise unto the Lord!
But there's another reason everyone in our diocese is learning the same stuff. When we get together as the central Missouri community of faith to celebrate the Mass, we'll all, literally, be singing from the same hymnbook. One community sharing in one song. A spirit of unity.
I like the sound of that. Almost, I'd bet, as I'd love the sound of the first graders practicing the word "consubstantial"!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Eagle Eye Update
I have to revise my earlier post because I'VE SEEN A BALD EAGLE in Jefferson City! It was flying along the Moreau River. It took me a few days to verify b/c I just couldn't believe it. White head. Check. White tail. Check. Dark brown in between. Check.
How wonderful that an animal that was so endangered when I was a child has made such a strong comeback! Conservation is a wonderful thing.
How wonderful that an animal that was so endangered when I was a child has made such a strong comeback! Conservation is a wonderful thing.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
This was on my best friend's Facebook today:
MY PROMISE TO MY CHILDREN: I will stalk you, flip out on you, lecture you, drive you crazy, be your worst nightmare and hunt you down like a bloodhound...because I LOVE YOU! When you understand that, I will know you are a responsible adult. You will NEVER find anyone who loves you, prays for you, cares about you and worries about you more than I do!!! Repost if you are a parent.
It got me thinking about my role with children. Here's my take:
I am your aunt. I will indulge your imagination, be your personal jungle gym and yell the loudest from the stands (your mom is too worried she'll embarass you). I'll buy cases of Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn and more wrapping paper than I'll ever use. I love your knock-knock jokes. We'll sneak off to shop, get ice cream and sing loudly in the car. I will listen to you and answer all your questions. You can call me to pick up your sorry ass if you drink at a party or if the person you trusted to drive isn't safe. When you break up with someone, I'll tell you they don't deserve you. I adore you completely.
But hear this - I will ALWAYS back your parents. I can't imagine how it is possible, but they love you even more than I do. I expect you to be the fabulous person I KNOW you are and will call you on it when you act as though you've forgotten...no matter how old you are. I think of you and pray for your wellbeing every day. You rock my world. Rock on, baby!
MY PROMISE TO MY CHILDREN: I will stalk you, flip out on you, lecture you, drive you crazy, be your worst nightmare and hunt you down like a bloodhound...because I LOVE YOU! When you understand that, I will know you are a responsible adult. You will NEVER find anyone who loves you, prays for you, cares about you and worries about you more than I do!!! Repost if you are a parent.
It got me thinking about my role with children. Here's my take:
I am your aunt. I will indulge your imagination, be your personal jungle gym and yell the loudest from the stands (your mom is too worried she'll embarass you). I'll buy cases of Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn and more wrapping paper than I'll ever use. I love your knock-knock jokes. We'll sneak off to shop, get ice cream and sing loudly in the car. I will listen to you and answer all your questions. You can call me to pick up your sorry ass if you drink at a party or if the person you trusted to drive isn't safe. When you break up with someone, I'll tell you they don't deserve you. I adore you completely.
But hear this - I will ALWAYS back your parents. I can't imagine how it is possible, but they love you even more than I do. I expect you to be the fabulous person I KNOW you are and will call you on it when you act as though you've forgotten...no matter how old you are. I think of you and pray for your wellbeing every day. You rock my world. Rock on, baby!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Don't Call Me Eagle Eyed
I missed it.
Tim saw a bald eagle Sunday, watching the traffic from a perch above the highway. Right in the middle of town. My mom taught me from a young age that I should never reveal a bald eagle's exact location, so you'll have to find him for yourself.
She taught me that to protect the birds. She didn't want anyone to seek out a nest out of curiosity and disturb the occupants.
When I was a baby, a bald eagle was a very rare animal. The DDT used to kill insects before I was born was internalized by the critters that ate their bodies and so on and so on up the food chain until momma eagles laid thin-shelled eggs that had no chance of protecting the progeny inside. Few eggs survived to hatch.
As I've grown older, the eagles have made a comeback. Mom, my little sister and I watched some soar from a Missouri River bluff one day. Since then, they like to hide from me.
Three or four Januarys ago, Tim and I headed to Lake Ozark for Eagle Days. The Conservation department should have called it Blue Heron Days because it was uncommonly warm and those were the only remotely unusual birds we saw. The eagles were probably nabbing field critters. I imagine they're an easier catch than fish. We did get to see some eagles nursed of their wounds by raptor organizations, but no free-flyers.
Tim, having been familiar with a roadside eagles nest near Truman Lake, knows what to look for. He spots them during our statewide drives. Occasionally, a bird appears to reward his efforts.
One of these days, it will be my turn to see a bald or golden eagle. I hope I'm either walking or a passenger in a car - so I don't crash while watching them.
Tim saw a bald eagle Sunday, watching the traffic from a perch above the highway. Right in the middle of town. My mom taught me from a young age that I should never reveal a bald eagle's exact location, so you'll have to find him for yourself.
She taught me that to protect the birds. She didn't want anyone to seek out a nest out of curiosity and disturb the occupants.
When I was a baby, a bald eagle was a very rare animal. The DDT used to kill insects before I was born was internalized by the critters that ate their bodies and so on and so on up the food chain until momma eagles laid thin-shelled eggs that had no chance of protecting the progeny inside. Few eggs survived to hatch.
As I've grown older, the eagles have made a comeback. Mom, my little sister and I watched some soar from a Missouri River bluff one day. Since then, they like to hide from me.
Three or four Januarys ago, Tim and I headed to Lake Ozark for Eagle Days. The Conservation department should have called it Blue Heron Days because it was uncommonly warm and those were the only remotely unusual birds we saw. The eagles were probably nabbing field critters. I imagine they're an easier catch than fish. We did get to see some eagles nursed of their wounds by raptor organizations, but no free-flyers.
Tim, having been familiar with a roadside eagles nest near Truman Lake, knows what to look for. He spots them during our statewide drives. Occasionally, a bird appears to reward his efforts.
One of these days, it will be my turn to see a bald or golden eagle. I hope I'm either walking or a passenger in a car - so I don't crash while watching them.
Monday, January 17, 2011
...as I was saying...
Okay, it's been way too long since I've posted. Just didn't have the muse, I suppose. She's been poking me in the forehead lately and tonight delivered a swift kick to the keyboard. (Thanks, Carla)
I've got spring fever.
Yeah, I'd like to see a really good, wet, packing snow or two yet this winter, but I'm already planning a new flowerbed. That really means I'm thinking of how I'm going to amend the sticky, thick clay so it can support more than a few brave weeds.
There is hope. I checked on our lavender this weekend. It's gray-green (that's the right color in winter) and there are teeny leaflets erupting from the stems near the ground. When it's time for that spring haircut, the plants should explode...and those trimmings will hang in my closet. Mmmmmmm.
The herbs Tim assured me would make it are, in fact, making it through the winter. Our less hardy rosemary and laurel (bay leaf) are wintering in the guest room. It's not a free ride for the rosemary. Sometimes she contributes to dinner. Other times, she's in charge of charging the air with a piney, spicy scent.
Lest you think I'm wishing my life away, dreaming it were two months later than it is, I enjoy snow. I can tolerate the cold. Winter weekends give me a chance to rest, research and consider what could be. I recharge. Then I'm raring to go!
Two months. Four days.
I've got spring fever.
Yeah, I'd like to see a really good, wet, packing snow or two yet this winter, but I'm already planning a new flowerbed. That really means I'm thinking of how I'm going to amend the sticky, thick clay so it can support more than a few brave weeds.
There is hope. I checked on our lavender this weekend. It's gray-green (that's the right color in winter) and there are teeny leaflets erupting from the stems near the ground. When it's time for that spring haircut, the plants should explode...and those trimmings will hang in my closet. Mmmmmmm.
The herbs Tim assured me would make it are, in fact, making it through the winter. Our less hardy rosemary and laurel (bay leaf) are wintering in the guest room. It's not a free ride for the rosemary. Sometimes she contributes to dinner. Other times, she's in charge of charging the air with a piney, spicy scent.
Lest you think I'm wishing my life away, dreaming it were two months later than it is, I enjoy snow. I can tolerate the cold. Winter weekends give me a chance to rest, research and consider what could be. I recharge. Then I'm raring to go!
Two months. Four days.
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