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.
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