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Arlington

     The following is an excerpt from the book I am currently finishing entitled “Walking My Father’s Fields”.  It will be completed and available in the Autumn of 2010.  As my family has been preparing for Memorial Day I thought it appropriate to share this story with you.  

      ”I was 10 when we visited Arlington National Cemetery.  Of course I’d been to a cemetery before, there was Oak Hill in San Jose, California where Grandpa Johnson was buried, which true to it’s name was covered in beautiful spreading oak trees; and there was the old Indian Burial Grounds behind our house in Northern California where the headstone of a Native American soldier killed in World War I stood alongside small metal markers engraved with names and nothing else.  I walked to that cemetery often to run my fingers over the stone, the carved cross on the front, the aged granite and the old bullet holes left by restless teenagers from years past.  The burial ground never spooked me, though the kids at the school would tell stories of wailing Indian ghosts and restless spirits.  To me it was hallowed ground, a peaceful spot where I would sit in the warm summer sunshine of the Southern Cascades.  It wasn’t a well kept place by modern standards.  The graves had collapsed into themselves, leaving indentations in the earth where the grass was flattened by sleeping deer.  The wildflowers grew whichever way they wanted and the manzanita crept closer every year creating a bower beneath which the dead could sleep.  It never bothered me, the wild, natural demeanor of the burial grounds, it actually seemed fitting somehow. 

I don’t know that I thought great thoughts while sitting there on that rocky red soil; it was just a pleasant place to sit after climbing the hill behind Kabyai Court.  As my brothers can attest, my thoughts didn’t range much beyond playing with my friend J.J. or which book I’d read last, or what picture I was drawing.  I had a happy little world, I was secure in my home, had plenty to eat, and my parents loved each other and me.  They had instilled in me a love for the world around me and for the soil beneath my feet.  I remembered working in the garden with them back on the “Apple Ranch”, picking apples from beneath the trees for the cider press, watching Mom bake bread or make cheese in the crock pot.  A hundred different memories made up my love for the land at that time in my life, and all of them were pleasant.

Arlington changed that for me.

We had just come from visiting my brother Kris at Fort Jackson in South Carolina where he was stationed for basic training, Fort Polk in Louisiana to see my brother Kirk and had spent a day at Gettysburg as well.  The thoughts of the war between brothers and my own brothers in the Army were fresh in my mind as we drove through those gates and saw Arlington for the first time.

It was such a marked difference from the little burial ground in Lakehead, with its perfectly straight rows and well groomed grass.  It was a crisp autumn day, not hot, not cold, just cool and perfect.  I watched from the window as we passed the white headstones, row upon row like a perfectly planted field of corn or a well tended orchard.  Straight lines and diagonals crossing over themselves again and again.  The number of headstones astounded me.  Like the wheat fields of Kansas and the corn fields of Iowa, I was amazed by the sheer size and perfection of the placement.

We had come for no other reason than just to see it.  We didn’t bring a wreath for anyone.  We didn’t look for any one person or weep over a solitary grave.  We had come to see the place where our American dead had been given a place of honor.    

“Our dead”; that is how I thought of them.  In all my memories of Arlington that is probably what stands out the most; the sense of common ownership.  These fallen heroes, from the unknown soldiers to John F. Kennedy, were mine.   This was the American hallowed ground, no bower of manzanita or wildflowers growing at will just rigid formality and an ideal perfection.  We had no family that I knew of buried in that ground, but I felt the kinship nonetheless.

I stood beside my mother as she watched, tears running down her face, as the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier took place.  It was beautiful, the solemnity with which the guards took their place beside fallen comrades, the absolute firmness with which they stood at their post.  It was seeing that young man stand there so straight and strong that changed something within me, my perception of the land began to shift and memories of my time on the Ranch began to rearrange within my heart.

Here stood a young man, handsome and true in his dress uniform, next to the grave of another young man who had once stood straight and true as well.  I had a very good imagination as a child and I could easily see that soldier who as the tomb says was “known only to God” lying lifeless on a jungle floor, or on a lonely beach, or in a ravaged forest.  I imagined another child like me waiting for a father or a brother who would never come home.  What would it be like to never know?  How would it change your life?

I stood there and remembered the love in my Grandfather’s voice when he spoke of my brothers who were serving, or who had served in the military.  He was such a patriotic person, a man who saw his citizenship as a responsibility rather than a right, a sacred obligation.  Something was working in me as I stood there, something profound and deep that I didn’t have words to express.

We left the cemetery and traveled to the Mall in Washington D.C.  We went to the top of the Washington monument, we saw the Smithsonian museums, and we went to the Wall.

It’s an amazing monument really, similar to Arlington in its aesthetic principles. Its sheer size, its clean lines, the black granite rather than the white, and the names.  So many names.  It is a symbol of the impact that the Vietnam War had on the whole country.  I grew up in Northern California where the necessity of the war was still hotly debated nearly a decade after it ended on street corners, in the post office lobby or in grocery store aisles.  The Wall represented it all, the volume of names told of how many American families were touched by the war, the black granite seemed to hold a wealth of grief for those who fought because their country said they needed to, for those who fought because they felt it was the right thing to do, for those who didn’t want to fight at all but had the courage to try and make the best of a bad situation.

I watched my mother weep again as she placed her hand against the cold granite and read names out loud.  They weren’t names she knew, she wasn’t looking for a specific person.  Once again the names were “our dead”.  These names were the common property of all Americans, the grief in the cold stone a common grief. 

As I stood there, surrounded by the memory of life and death the feelings that had begun to shift inside me at Arlington settled into a new shape, a new understanding and nothing was common anymore.  I recalled a conversation I had overheard between two men back home, their anger at the waste of life in the war, the pointless deaths of so many soldiers.  I remembered their words and it made me angry. 

Like my mother I placed my hand against the granite, cold and dark and I felt in my heart the truth that came out of my mouth that day “Your life was not a waste, your death was not pointless.  I’m here, I’m free, and I remember.”

For the first time in my life I understood why my parents loved the land so much, why they prayed over crops and wept over lost farm animals.  I had never fully understood before that day that the peace we enjoyed on our farm, the pleasant memories of warm hay in the summer and spicy apples in the fall had a price, and that these young men were among the numbers who had paid it.  The men and women that slept beneath the green fields at Arlington had paid it; the youths whose blood had reddened the meadow at Gettysburg had paid it, my own brothers were enlisted and would pay for our peace with their time and lives if necessary.

Every name on that wall mattered; every name on those white stones at Arlington mattered.  Not one sacrifice was a waste, not one life lost was unappreciated.  I stood there in the cool autumn sunshine and my love for the land deepened.  My appreciation for the ability to watch the seasons, the sowing and reaping, increased.  I have never forgotten it. 

This book is in part my letter of thanks, my witness to the families of our dead, that they are remembered, loved and appreciated, that their sacrifice has not gone unknown.  That even the soldiers whose names are known only to God have a place in my heart. 

.It is because of them that I am free to walk my Father’s fields.”

The Sound of Hope

There is a piano in my living room. I realize this is not earth-shattering information to most, after all there are  a lot of piano’s in a lot of living rooms around the world; but after living sans piano for the past 2 1/2 years it is very exciting for me. I grew up with a piano in the house. My mother started taking lessons when she was 8 from a neighbor’s newly married son. At first she practiced her notes and scales on a little paper keyboard that she would lay out on the dining room table. I can just see her; brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between her teeth, and her tiny fingers pressing steadfastly onto keys that would never emit any sound. I know her well enough to know that the lack of sound would not have deterred her from the goal of good musicianship. My grandparents saw her dedication to her goal and bought her a used piano from Mrs. Gates, a neighbor down the street. It was a lovely old upright piano built in 1920 in the art deco style. My mother played everyday on it and learned to play well. I remember being awed as a child when she would sit down at the piano and play, every note perfect, a song that she had memorized as a child. I can remember her, dressed in her work clothes and apron (my mom is NEVER without her apron) a dusting rag and can of Pledge in her hand, trailing her fingers along the notes as she dusted. Then she would set her dust cloth aside, pull out the piano bench, sit down and play a piece of music that would brush aside any hint of drudgery or discouragement. In those moments with her music there was simply the joy of beautiful sound. Her piano lived at my house until we left “The Perfect Farm” and moved to Utah and then Colorado. Now it is back at her house, being cared for and played by all those who come to visit. My mom never discourages anyone from playing the piano. I never heard “leave that piano alone!” cross her lips, even when speaking to the youngsters who didn’t know how to play. She encourages everyone to try their hand at making beautiful music.

I have not been entirely without music for the last few years of course. I have a beautiful antique pump organ that has filled our home with lovely sounds from time to time. Bit I find that I don’t sit down to the pump organ the way I used to sit down to the piano. I have been learning to play the harp and have found great joy in that, but it’s difficult to carve out time to learn something new at this stage in my life. There have been many days in the past couple of years when I have longed for the sweet, simple feeling of my fingers placed on the ivory keys, creating something of beauty.

I started looking for a piano as soon as we knew we were moving to Oregon City. I searched craigslist, I searched online, I checked any second-hand shop that had an online option. We packed, we moved, I started painting our new place and making it “mine” with decorations, and I had a wall already picked out for where a piano would go. I kept searching for a piano that would fit in my budget and finally I found one. In fact, the price came in considerably under my budget. A woman had it listed for $50 so I called her and set up an appointment to take a look at it.

We drove out to her house to see it and while I was falling in love with it’s aged wood and upright build she told me the story of the piano.  I have to pause here and just say that everything should have a story, stories are what give our lives “life” and it’s my firm belief that we need to tell more of our stories.

The piano was built in 1911 by Stark in Chicago, Illinois. Now what it did and to whom it belonged for the first years of it’s existence are still a mystery, but by the mid-1960’s it had made it’s way to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the town of Philadelphia there lived a young mother who loved to play the piano and volunteered her time and talent at her local church playing for worship services, children’s meetings, and anywhere else a hymn was requested. She was well loved by her fellow parishioners and when she contracted Polio they were as heartbroken, devastated, and worried as she was. What would become of her? What of her children? Where could she go for help? She and her husband looked far and wide for a place to get help and treatments for her Polio, searching for ways to stop the progression of the disease. It was decided at long last that they would go to Ohio, where they had found help.   Her fellow churchgoers were sad to see them leave, but were hopeful that she would find the help she needed and see an improvement in her health right away.   Together they pooled their funds and purchased for her a used piano, the old 1911 upright, as a gift of hope; a symbol of all that she had shared with them and of what they hoped she would be able to share in the future. Time passed, treatments were tried, but the Polio was stronger than the medical professionals she saw and in the end this young mother, who loved music and service lost the ability to offer either of those two things. The disease ravaged her body until she was left as a quadriplegic, dependant upon everyone else around her for her every need.

She could have given up at this point. She could have thought “I’m of no use to anyone, therefore my life is useless.” But she didn’t think that, she knew in her heart that it was a lie, and so in her own quiet way she continued to serve and to love in whatever way she could, be it conversations, encouragement, and sometimes just a listening ear. With nothing left to her but the power of words, both heard and spoken, she inspired her daughter to love music just as much as she did. And so her daughter learned to play. While her mother listened and cheered her on this daughter worked her way through learning notes, then cords, then beautiful classical masterpieces. She didn’t seek to be a concert pianist, but she emulated her mother’s teachings and went on to play for her church, for her friends, and still most of all…for her mother.

Her mother passed away a decade ago, after a long life of offering love, encouragement, words of comfort, praise, and joy to all she met. I’m sorry that I didn’t have a chance to meet her myself. Her daughter went through several moves across the country and she and the piano ended up in Portland, Oregon. She finally replaced the old piano with a newer one of her own and lent the old 1911 Starck to a friend, who ended up needing to make a move herself out to North Carolina. She knew she wouldn’t have room for the piano and so she got permission to sell it, the daughter had reached a point in her own healing from her mothers death to let it go; after all she already had the most important things her mother had given her; her life, her love of music, her joy in service.

I loved the piano from the moment I saw it, when I heard that story I loved it even more. It could be said that the hope that inspired the gift of the piano was in vain. After all it didn’t work did it? All those prayers, all that hope and she still ended up crippled by Polio didn’t she?  But I’d say that’s wrong. It’s an inevitable part of living; life deals out crummy cards from time to time. It’s just a product of mortality, of being a resident of planet Earth, of simply being human. We may not be able to control all of the events that happen in our lives, but without a doubt we are in complete control of our response to them, of our own feelings and emotions. In all of her despair, discouragement, and fear this young mother never lost the love of beauty inherent in her nature. When she could no longer create it with her own hands she cultivated it in the heart of her daughter. That alone is an amazing gift. What benefit would the music be if no one but the musician appreciated the melody? What benefit would the painting or photograph be if the artist were the only one who really comprehended the beauty? To give another person the gift of appreciation of the finer things in life is priceless, and the young mother didn’t need legs, feet, arms, or hands to give it. All she needed was a generous heart and a loving spirit.

She may not have been able to play the sounds of hope, but she could still hear them.

I’ve been thinking of her today, and of my own mother, and reflecting on my own children as I prepare for Mother’s Day tomorrow. I wonder…what will my children take with them when they finally leave the nest?  Have I taught them to see the beauty that is all around them? Have I taught them well enough not only how to tend the gardens we grow, but how to bask in their beauty as well?  Have I stood in the field’s with them to just soak up the sunshine, not to pull weeds? Sometimes when our hands are still able to work, we forget to set the work aside and make time to simply enjoy the garden. I believe I’ll take that time today, maybe go to the seashore and dance in the surf, or drive to the mountains and look out over our beautiful valley, or roast marshmallows over the little fire ring my sons built.

But first…I think I’ll go play them a song and let the sound of it fill our home with hope.

Leaving the Land

"The Perfect Farm"

Mid-Summer 2007 - I stepped out of my little farmhouse into the warm, balmy summer morning.  The sun was still below the horizon, but tiny fingers of golden-rose light were creeping their way across the fields, just barely gilding the edges of the Chinese Wisteria draping itself in a mass of green foliage around my porch rails.  I looked to the South and could see the early morning fog settled on the top of the pond, the hazy green hills, and the giant rounds of hay bales in the fields.  To my left, hidden from those first rays of Eastern sunlight by our little garage, my daylilies were just opening their happy orange faces.  I couldn’t look to the West yet.  I knew I would be headed in that direction for the next two days and I just couldn’t do it.  So I walked to the edge of the lawn and stood on the little dirt road that passed in front of our house and looked to the North.  There it stood, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams, wishes and wants. 

“The Perfect Farm.”  From the first time I had seen it, I had yearned for it, for a small season I had gloried in possessing it, and now in spite of all the tears, after all my pleadings and frustrations I was saying goodbye. 

The Big Red Barn stood back and to the left of the little white farmhouse.  It had housed cows, pigs, horses, mules, and chickens.  I loved that barn.  It had stood there for a century protecting animals, providing a place for children to play, and standing watch over the men and women who had come to work the soil.  The Ash tree draped its long, lush branches behind me and I just wanted to wallow in it.  I wanted to sink into the greenness of the land around me and soak it in one last time.  Finally, with a heavy heart I turned to the West.  The moving truck stood there, packed and ready.  The truck and trailer I would be driving stood parked behind it.  We would be piling our children in and leaving in just a short time; so little time it seemed.  There was no more time to climb the three story tree house my husband had built, no more time to climb to the hayloft and play, no more time to gently twist the wisteria and train it the way I wanted.  I had run out of time.  I felt like Dorothy in the Witches castle.  My sands had run out and a part of me that I loved, probably loved too much, was dying.  I didn’t cry.  There didn’t seem to be any point.  But the tears burned; all the way down in my soul they burned.

It seems I am forever leaving the farm.  No matter how hard I dig in my heels and fight and hold on by my fingernails I am still torn away from the land.  It’s a hard loss to explain to anyone who doesn’t have a deep love for the land.  They just cluck their tongue and say “oh that’s too bad” and just tell you you’ll find another piece of property.  How can you explain it?  It’s not just a piece of real estate.  It’s not just a bunch of surveyor’s marks on an abstract.  If you stand out in the field long enough, and stand quiet, you come to understand that it’s a living breathing thing.  You put your mark on the soil with your labor and the soil puts its mark in your heart.  I can’t get the soil out of my heart.  I can shake it from my shoes, I can wash it out from under my fingernails, but it is so closely entwined with my soul that I can’t get it out, I don’t want to get it out, and it’s like losing a limb every time I have to leave it. 

It was not the first time I had left a farm; I can only hope that it will be the last.

__________________________________________________________

Paradox, Colorado

        Mid-March 2010- I penned those thoughts a little over two years ago.  It’s interesting to me how our lives change and circle back around.  How sometimes the things we desire most are the things we have to let go of in order to have what we need the most.  Our journey the last year has been like a camping trip in the Henry Mountains; Rough and rocky, worn, devastated but unconquered, and unimaginably beautiful.  I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent, the friends we have made, or the lessons we’ve learned for anything.

It has now been almost 2 weeks since we drove away from Paradox on a cold but clear March morning.  Two moving trucks filled with greenhouses and everything we deemed necessary to setting up a home in the Willamette Valley were parked in the frozen red mud of the yard, a Suburban and trailer, and one small, beat-up mini-van were loaded with kids and ready to roll away.  William and I and two of our best friends in the world, Mark and Michaela Larsen, stood together and looked around to see if there was anything we had forgotten.  We prayed for a safe trip, wished each other luck, checked to make sure we all had each others phone numbers, and climbed into our respective vehicles.  I was to drive point on the trip.  So with Ephraim in the front seat beside me and Esther Marilla Joy in her car seat in the back I set out down the long, red driveway to the highway.

I thought I was ready to leave.

I thought I had the need for leaving balanced with the opportunity of going in my heart.  I thought I was prepared to say good-bye.

But somewhere along the first turn of the winding road out of Paradox I heard a small sound and turned my head enough to see my precious little Marilla looking out the window with tears streaming down her face.

“Baby girl,” I called out to her, “What’s wrong?”

Her silent tears turned into full on sobs then as she cried out with all the anguish her little 5 year old heart could muster “I miss Paradox!”

“Oh baby, I know,” I told her, “But it’s going to be okay.  I miss Paradox too.  It’s okay to cry when you love something; it’s okay to be sad when you have to leave.  Just remember that we’re going to a beautiful place.  We’ll have a chance to meet new friends, see new things, and we’ll still have our Paradox friends.”

“But I miss Grandma Hayes!”  She wailed and started to cry harder.  It tore at my heart and I started to cry too, I didn’t even try to hold it in check.  I drove as slow as I could so that we could all look at the valley one more time.  “I miss Miss Rosie!”  The golden light of the sun was just creeping along the fields.  I heard another sob and looked over to see Ephraim wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  He turned to me, eyes drenched, and in all sincerity said “Now I know how those Oregon Trail pioneers felt when they had to leave their homes.”

I admit, I lost it then and there.  What a sight we must have been; all of us crying our eyes out, telling each other all the things we loved and would miss about Paradox.  “I want to tell Sister Redd she’s the best Primary president I ever had,” Ephraim sobbed.  “I want to tell Wayne thank you for the belt buckle.”  Marilla was in the back listing all of her “grandma’s” who had adopted her.  “I want Grandma Ellie, I miss Grandma Steele.  I love Grandma Redd.  I forgot to hug Sister Ayers!”

We passed Miss Rosie on the road just after we drove through the cut in the mountain and made our way around the first turn towards La Sal Creek canyon.  I tried to wave while I was wiping my eyes, I hope she saw the wave.  We waved at Mark and Amy’s house, I don’t think they were home at the time, but we thought of our friends as we drove past, and wished we would be there to help with Spring pruning on their fruit trees.

I really thought that leaving Paradox would be easier than leaving our Perfect Farm in Missouri.  After all, we didn’t own the farm or the house where we lived and labored.  That should make it easier, right?  It wasn’t any easier.  It was just as hard, just as heartbreaking, and just as necessary as the first move.  It’s just so ironic that in order to move forward to your biggest goals, your best potential, your greatest success,  you have to be willing to let go of who, where, and what you are now. 

I guess I know a little bit about how those Oregon Trail pioneers felt too.  I loved Paradox.  I was so ready to find “home” the first time I drove into that beautiful little valley, and there it was all spread out in green fields and towering red rocks.  It felt like home, even my son Enoch who had asked every week since we left Maryville, Missouri “when are we going home, Mom?” said as we drove along the grass covered roads “This place feels like home!”

It did feel like home, and we made it home for almost a year.  We were prepared to stay forever and we sunk our roots down fast and deep.  I don’t think I’ve lived anywhere else where the people understood the terms “neighbor” and “community” so well.  I’ve never been so cared for by my neighbors as I was in Paradox.  They were so full of love, generosity, and welcome it was staggering.  I’ve heard from several people that they don’t think Paradox will ever recover from the political unrest brought on by disagreements over the proposed Uranium Mill.  I disagree completely.  The people of Paradox are good neighbors because they choose to be.  They don’t let a disagreement over politics keep them from gathering together to work, worship, play, or serve.  They are a tough breed of people, dedicated to making their community thrive no matter what.  I love them and I wish we could have stayed longer.  I admire them, and I hope I can learn from their strength of will and character.  But mostly, right now in the “wee small hours of the morning” I simply miss them.  I miss their smiles, the surly way of speaking some of them had, the warm embraces of friends, and the simple joy they brought into my life.  I couldn’t stay in Paradox, but what I learned there will be in my heart forever.  I hope that I can take what I learned and be a better friend and a better neighbor where ever I may go in the future.

I’ve reached the end of my Oregon Trail, but at this point in my journey I don’t know if it’s the end of my travels or not.  But I do know this: no matter where your travels take you, plant your roots deep, hold nothing back in your relationships, BE the good neighbor, give everything you have to offer freely, serve without recompense, and love without fear.  You’ll find an abundance of friendship, support, and love in return.  This is living in Joy: to give everything you have away to receive everything you’ve ever wanted.  And isn’t that a paradox? 

 

December Sunshine

William in the winter greenhouse

The Color of Abundance

LaSal Autumn Road

I was on a field trip with my son several weeks ago, walking through the forest around Wood’s Lake in the San Juan Mountains, when it struck me suddenly what autumn smells like. 

It smells like purple. 

There are so many scents to autumn, it’s hard for most people to narrow their favorite down to just one.  Just a week ago I was picking out scented candles and the store had a few selections that were supposed to be remeniscent of the fall of the year.  They offered “mulled cider”, “pumpkin pie”, ”apple spice”, “mandarin cranberry”, “toasty fireside”, and a few others.  They all smelled wonderful, in fact I bought a jar of each because who can decide on just one?  But there wasn’t a single scent that gathered all that autumn is for me and bottled it up to be taken out and enjoyed later.

But as I walked through those woods in late September I finally got the purple fragrance of fall.  From the rich Murex snail shell stains of the Phonecians to the cloaks of kings, and from pop icons to little girls’ “princess power” playthings the color of purple has been well loved and used in human history.  It was the foundation for an entire civilization, the color of segregation in South Africa, the color of new life to the Roman empresses in the Porphyry, the color that seperated the kings from the commoners, and to me the color of abundance. 

Abundance is at the heart of autumn.  My husband, William, often comments on the wealth of late summer and autumn in the garden.  The summer fruits are still growing, the winter crops are finally maturing, the gathering in of crops begins and there is plenty and to spare on the farm table.  It is every gardeners delight. 

Is is also every gardeners sorrow.  For with the arrival of the harvest abundance comes the awareness that the winter is ahead.  The garden will become lean again,   the soil that sustains us will grow cold and still and the splendor of the leaves in their finery will give way within days to the bare beauty of limb and vine.  While we gather our crops in the warm afternoon sunshine, placing the hubbard and banana squash in the root cellar, the apples in the basement and the cabbages beside them, we are already fretting over whether we have enough wood for our winter fires, enough blankets on the beds to keep out the chill, and as parents whether or not the children will need new coats and caps this year.  Even in the midst of all the bounty, the subtle bite in the wind reminds us to prepare for what is coming in the months ahead. 

It seems to be the season of reminders.  It pushes us to remember what has been and rejoice in it; to look forward to what will be and prepare for it.  It is absolutley the season for teaching us to live in the present.  To look around at each breathtaking moment and soak it in.  The gentle stroke of the wind sent showers of aspen leaves skittering across my path as  I watched the children that day in the San Juan’s running and laughing through the forest, the leaves fluttering around their feet, twirling with the least provocation into a frenzied dance.  The youths gathered them up by the armfuls, flinging them into the air just to watch them fall again.  The death of the year was all around them and yet they rejoiced, without fear, in the beauty of the Earth; accepted, without qualification, the gift of life today.  Indeed, I have a suspicion that when the snow is falling, instead of the leaves, they will be equally filled with joy at the gift.

And so I walked through that landscape, relishing the moment, embracing life in the midst of the dying leaves and breathed deeply of all the world around me had to offer.  This is what I breathed that day:  the crisp smell of fir and spruce needles, the clean smell of a mountain lake, the pungent odor of decaying aspen and oak leaves, the dry smell of finished pumpkin vines, the sweet fragrance of apples fallen from the trees. 

This is the smell and color of Abundance, this is the smell of purple.

Comfort, Courage, and Crop Failure

William and I had been married for about two years when we put our first production size greenhouse into operation.  It wasn’t a huge frame, measuring only 22×48 feet, just over 1000 square feet of growing space.   We were renting a small one bedroom farmhouse, just up the road from William’s parents farm at the time, though they were not in residence.  My brother Roger, his wife Joy and their eight (yeah I said 8!) children were renting the house while they looked for a place of their own in Missouri.

It was a nice set-up, the greenhouse stood about 100 yards North of the DeMille farmhouse, a smaller propagation hut stood right next to it, and we had been lucky enough to come across an old long-wood furnace which produced heat on a dual fuel system and was set in a small shed directly to the West of the greenhouse.  We had a well cared for wood-lot, so heating was easy and the tomato plants that filled the propagation house were tall, lush, and almost ready to be planted into the beds prepared for them in the larger house.  Now, when I say that heating the greenhouse was easy, it should not be assumed that the wood fire took care of itself.  Cutting, chopping, and stacking firewood is by no means an easy task, nor is getting up every three hours during the night to keep the fire fed.  It was simply an easy choice because we were making do with what we had and determined to make it work no matter what.

On a regular basis we would check all of the working parts of the long-wood furnace.  We checked the body of it, we cleaned the ashes, we kept the area in front of the stove clear of debris and fire hazards.  When you heat with wood, as we always have, it becomes second nature to ensure that everything is safe around the stove. 

I don’t remember exactly what I was doing on that cool spring evening when my pleasant farm dream came to a rather harsh end, but I do recall the fear that filled me when my nephew, Ben, came running into the DeMille farmhouse yelling “Vernie!  The greenhouse is on fire!”  It didn’t register at first, it always seems that surprising events take some time to assimilate, but as soon as I understood what he was saying I raced out of the door screaming “William!”  over and over and over again.  My first thought was fear.  What if he were in the fire?  How bad was it? 

It was bad.  As I raced out of the door the flames were already completely engulfing the shed that housed the long-wood and the pile of wood beside it.  They had jumped up to the poly-vinyl greenhouse film that covered the frame of the house and thick billows of choking black smoke filled the sky.

I never had a conscious thought of “I think I will risk my life to save my husband”, I don’t think I had time to consider all of the consequences of my actions, I simply ran right for the flames.  I called for William, I got as close as I could to the shed, but there was no sign of him.  I prayed as I ran to the other end of the greenhouse “Please! Please!  Let him be okay, let me find him!”  I ran into the house, the covering was on fire and dripping onto the ground, little firey droplets of molten plastic hitting the garden beds.  William was nowhere to be seen. 

I have experienced true terror only a few times.  That was the first.

From behind me, outside of the greenhouse I heard Ben shout again ”He’s here!  He’s here!”  I ran back out and saw William coming across the lawn toward me, safe, whole, totally unharmed.  I cannot express the relief I felt, it was all encompassing, I ran to him and held on for just a few seconds while the inferno raged and then we got to work.

William ran to a pile of straw bales that the flames were licking at and tore it down so that it wouldn’t catch.  A propane tank stood on the other side of the burning furnace shed and he raced around to try and clear any flammable materials away from it.  My brother and several of his children raced with us, trying desperately to move any fuel away from the flames, but it burned so hot and so fast that it engulfed everything around it within minutes.  I went back into the smoke and flame choked greenhouse and started pulling out anything that would burn or add to the fire.  I couldn’t get it all, the flames moved too fast.  They jumped to the small propagation hut and it burned to the ground in less than five minutes.

The greenhouse itself took longer.  We finally just stepped back and watched.  The polyvinyl burned then gutted itself out, then lit again and dripped to the ground as the fire continued to belch out the black smoke that we later learned was visible from 30 miles away.  We stood there on the green lawn, I recall it was my favorite time of day, the gloaming, when everything is green and violet and golden.  It was total devastation,  months of work destroyed, but William with his usual humor turned to my brother’s wife, Joy, and said ”Hey, do you have any hot dogs or marshmallows?  We’re got ourselves a pretty good fire here.”  We all laughed, what else can you do when your dream is raining down in plastic puddles?

The local volunteer fire department showed up and put out the last of the blaze.  Our neighbors came by to mourn, laugh, and work with us.  There wasn’t much to do, after all was said and done, just check all the smoldering piles, make sure no hot spots remained.  It was over in less than an hour.  Months of work, prayers, hopes and dreams were gone. 

I will forever admire my husband for his courage in this situation, and many others like it.  You can’t farm, or live for that matter, without tragedy and destruction striking from time to time.  He waded into a situation that was frightening, with no certain outcome, you might say a losing battle and did everything in his power to save what he could.  He knew he couldn’t save it all, he knew that any hope of an early crop that meant our success that year was already gone, but he never stopped trying.  He never once said “I don’t think my effort will make any difference.”

I lay in bed thinking of this story all morning.  I honestly haven’t thought of it in years, but it struck me in the early hours of the day, that what he showed me that day was courage.  He could have wept, he could have cursed, he could have shook his fist at God, he could have yelled “Why me?!”  But he didn’t.  He could have stayed safely on the sidelines, waiting for the local fire department to arrive and cursed them later for being too slow.  He could have assumed that it was someone elses responsibility to fight the fire he saw destroying that which he loved.  But he didn’t. 

How often do we wade into a fire to save what or whom we love?  How often do we have the courage to rush into a future we can’t see and risk getting burned because there are some things worth fighting for?  Because there are some things worth risking our own comfort for?  It’s easy to stand on the green grass and watch the world burn around us.  It’s easy to watch while others labor for our good. 

Perhaps I’m just too much of a farmer to want to choose the easy path.  Perhaps I have seen enough of what happens in our lives when we don’t fight for what means the most to us.  We have experienced many crop failures in our life together.  If we were smarter, and certainly saner, we would probably give up farming altogether, but there is something in the soil that always pulls us back.  We picked up the pieces of that burnt out greenhouse, we raked up the debris and tilled the earth again.  And when we plunged our hands back into that rich, black Midwestern soil we found something that we thought we’d lost: comfort.  Because, you see, comfort wasn’t to be found on the green grass doing nothing; comfort wasn’t to be found in standing around waiting to be saved.   Comfort was in the labor for something that will last well beyond our own lives.  Comfort was in knowing we had the courage to race into a losing battle and fight for something that was precious to us.

There is so much of fear in the world right now.  There is so much uncertainty.  We have friends and family whose lives are falling apart, who have lost jobs, homes, careers, marriages, and the list goes on and on.  How do we go on?  The answer is simple, it is profound, it is hard.  The answer is: Courage.   And how does one gain courage?  I believe that courage is a direct result of love and love is something that grows with action and use.  Love doesn’t just happen, love is cultivated just like a garden crop.  It is a result of nourishment, tending, continually weeding out of selfishness, and thought for the future good of the garden itself.  That which we love has the power to move us to action.  That which we serve builds love in our hearts. 

Comfort, courage, and crop failures.  They are inseparable.  This is the Law of the Harvest.  You reap what you sow.  If we live our lives in fear, comfort eludes us, for at the end of the day it isn’t the measure of our ease that satisfies us, but the measure of our heart and dedication.  Find your courage today and fight your battles, push back at fear and you will find that you have pushed forward towards your own goals and dreams.

The Glory of Labor by Vernie Lynn DeMille

We live in a time of confusion. It could be argued that there are many kinds of confusion and a multitude of papers could be written for them all. I will deal with only one.
Our society worships the human body. Billions of dollars are spent adorning it; concourses of people wear as little as possible with the intent of showing it off, millions are spent on implements of torture designed specifically for shaping it. And yet, for all our worship of the muscles and form of the human body, we despise the very element meant to sculpt it: we despise labor.
It is an unwritten tenet of our cultural beliefs that something is sweeter if we can get it for nothing. Work that requires physical labor is low.
I’m very much afraid that there are no John Henry’s left in America to stand up and challenge the Iron Horse. No one left to question whether faster is better. If “manpower” no longer has any meaning, what is to become of man?
The human body is a thing of beauty and it was fashioned for physical labor. Not labor just for show, after all what good is image without substance? But labor for something greater than oneself. The greatest satisfaction in life comes not from self-serving activities not from self-aggrandizing pursuits. Satisfaction comes not from “having” and “doing”, but rather from “acting” and “being”.
A man of action, who sees a need and fills it, a man of principle who is unwavering in his dedication to correctness; these are the results of labor. Those who adhere to the belief that it is glorious to get something for nothing will never “have” enough, because there is no value attached to those kinds of possessions. Value is directly related to labor. What we do not have to work for we value too cheaply, that which we labor for is too dear to be neglected. A man who believes there is “nothing to do” and demands to be entertained continually values his life, time, and talents too little.
Labor adds value to our lives; it is the glory of the human frame and mind to “act” in such a way as to “be” a man of honor, integrity, and principle.
Glory is not to be had in things. It cannot be bought with bank notes, it cannot be influenced by fame. Glory is only to be had in being who God means for you to be and acting as He would have you act.

The Blessing of Perseverance by Vernie Lynn DeMille

Have you ever really watched a flower grow? Have you seen the first leaves spring from the soil and reach up to the sun? I confess I never have. It always seems to happen when my back is turned.
While I was busy one morning, hanging laundry on the line, my lilacs were opening up to full bloom. I didn’t watch it happen but the fragrance washed over me while I was occupied with my work and in that small instance I was surprised by joy.
That is the blessing of perseverance. We do not plant our seeds, prune our roses, and weed our beds just so that we can then sit back, twiddle our thumbs and fret over when the harvest will arrive.
True perseverance is jumping up and getting to work. It is doing the hundred other things that out of necessity must fill our days. It is sowing the seed and going on with the work that must be done. It is pushing past worry with work and finding in little moments the treasure of joy.
How delightful it is to be surprised by the blossoms of a flower you have lovingly tended and left to grow as you have trained it. Perseverance is patience, not apathy; faith, not forgetfulness; work, not worry. Longfellow said it best, we must “learn to labor and to wait.”
The reward of a garden is not instant. It takes many years to sees the harvest from a peach sapling and yet we plant anyway. We prune and train the young branches of a tree from which we may never harvest any fruit. It is perseverance that drives us on; the indomitable belief that we sow not only for ourselves but for our children and for the whole Earth.

The Humility of Planting

The planting of any kind of seed requires a certain amount of faith in something beyond what we can see, hear or touch.  It is the very essence of humility.  By planting a seed we take our hopes and dreams, our fondest desires and lay them in the ground with nothing but faith that they will rise again from that clay and blossom into fruition.  We subject our will to that of providence, the elements, and the capricious whims of the earth.  There are no guarantees in gardening, there are no certainties or promises.  The soil doesn’t come to us begging to be used.  The trees and vines will not chastise us if they are not planted along our fields.  Nothing pulls us to a garden but our own humility.

            It is one of the first lessons of the Georgic tradition.  The earth could get along without us.  The fields would grow thick with grass and vegetation of many kinds.  Animals would fertilize it, worms would till it, and rain would water it.  It is we who are the beggars; we who come time and again with our meager offerings of hoe and rake and seed, and beg of the land and her creator a harvest.

            We sow our seeds in humility and with faith we wait for the true leaves to appear.