The Year Of No Parade

Seven years ago, my newly-wed husband and I spent our first night in our brand-new home.  It was the day before Memorial Day.  We were still painting and had not properly "moved in," but I wanted to stay because we had heard the Richmond Memorial Day Parade went right by our house. 

I will never forget my excitement waking up that morning.  The parade didn't start until 9am, but I didn't know that.  From 6 o'clock on, I kept running to the front door, watching the neighbors setting out coffee for their son's karate school, jumping up each time an unusual vehicle went down the road . . . I was terrified of missing the parade!  My husband seemed simultaneously amused and annoyed. 

Finally he agreed it was time to go out, and we sat on the steps of our vacant rental, cups of coffee in hand, and watched the parade.  All 20 minutes of it.  The middle and high school band, the fire trucks from a three-town area, the Boy and Girl Scouts, a team of draft horses.  I was like a kid in a candy store.

That parade has somehow become a mark of our life together.  The next year we sat on the steps with our blind/deaf Australian Shepherd, Nyssa.  The year after that we added our Newfoundland cross, Jynx.  Then it was Ranita.  The next year, Chinchita.  We haven't missed a year.  I refuse to miss "my parade"!

Last year, both kids were aware of everything, eager to pick up the bubble gum thrown in our yard, despite the fact that Mommy was absolutely NOT letting them chew it yet!  Their excitement reflected mine.  We were so happy.

It felt significant, then, when this Memorial Day dawned and the sun refused to shine.  Rain did not fall upon the ground, it pelted it, viciously at times.  I was disappointed.  No parade.  No floats.  No horses.  No music.  No treats. 

Strangely enough, I also felt vindicated.  I felt as if God himself were sharing in my broken home, my broken family, my broken heart.  It was as if he was meeting my need to have the world realize this year was different . . . and to have them join in my suffering.  How could we have our cheerful, happy, delightful little parade when my perfect little family of four was now a shattered family of three?

It's melodramatic to write these things, I know, but those of you who have been through something similar will be able to relate, I think.  Sometimes the sorrow is so deep you really do want the world to sorrow with you.  

So in my line of Memorial Day Memories, this one will stand out in stark relief as the year my husband left me.  The year without music.  The year without sunshine.  The year without a parade. 

Even as I grieve, I believe that this moment belongs to this year alone.  I believe next year will be different.  I believe the sun will shine again.  I believe the music will play again.  I believe the parade will go on again.  And we will be happy. 

Spring Cleaning in the Driveway

I am not a car person.  I drive a car.  I name my car.  I get the oil changed more or less on schedule.  I take it in when those crazy lights suddenly go off on the dash.

I do not, however, pamper my car.  I don't wipe down the upholstery.  I don't vacuum the interior.  I rarely even use the squeegy things at the gas pumps.  I have never taken my car . . . any of my cars . . . through a car wash.  

Today I turned over a new leaf.  My car was full of all the stuff moms drag around in the winter in case you are suddenly caught in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere and have to keep your children alive for a week without assistance.  Warm blankets, extra pull-ups, a first-aid kit, a pile of toys the kids had to take with them to the store but didn't care enough about to bring them back into the house.

It was time for drastic measures.

So today I lugged my trusty Dyson, a can of Pledge, a bottle of Carbona 2-in-1, a roll of paper towels, and a laundry basket--not to mention my kids--out to the driveway for an unprecedented venture into cleanliness.  We discovered all kinds of things in that car. 

Happy Meal toys from McDonald's.  Four water bottles, all of which had been opened already.  (I suppose I'd have let the kids drink them on Day 3 of the aforementioned snowstorm, but certainly not before then!)  Receipts.  My atlas. 

(Yes, I still use an atlas.  I know my phone has GoogleMaps.  I don't like to use it.  I don't like allowing my phone to know where I am.  I know NCIS could hack into my phone in 20 seconds flat, turn on the GPS, and determine my location anyway, but there's a part of me that wants them to have to work at it a little.) 

Back to the task at hand.  I sorted everything into recycle (which got dumped into the bin), garbage (which went into the Stop & Shop bags I keep in my glove compartment for just such an occasion, keep in the car (piled in the driveway), and take into the house to disinfect (in the laundry basket). 

Most of you have probably done this before, so this is nothing new.  It was a new experience for me, however, and I was surprised at how fulfilling it was.  I liked seeing my vinyl interior shine again.  I liked the smell of Pledge filling my car.  (Who doesn't like the smell of Pledge?!)  I liked the absence of gravel all over the floor. 

My favorite part, I think, was seeing the car seats so clean.  Carbona is my best friend for tasks like that, and it had its work cut out for it today.  I had treated the kids to their first shakes  a few days ago.  For some reason I thought straws would be neater than open-mouthed containers.  Not so.  By the time they were done, stickiness was everywhere. 

Not anymore!  Those straps and seats and buckles are spic and span!  Of course, everyone wants their kids in clean seats.  I found it particularly pleasing today because, of all types of grime, sticky is my biggest aversion.  I've handled manure and dirt and mud with barely an eyelash flicker.  But get near me with watermelon juice . . . ice cream . . . jelly . . . smashed fruit . . . yuck. 

My children have grown accustomed to the following interaction:
ME: "NO!  Don't touch me!  I haven't washed your hands yet."
THEM:  "But Mommy, I just want to give you a hug!"
ME:  "I know.  And I love your hugs.  But please let me wash your hands and face first!"
THEM (Defeating my evasive maneuvers and wrapping their tacky selves around me):  "But Mommy, I just love you so much!" 

What can you do?!

Suffice it to say, I am looking forward to going to church tomorrow in my spiffy clean Subaru.  There's only one problem.  I had every intention of washing the exterior today as well, but instead I got sidetracked into rebuilding my pasture fence for the critters I am hoping will be joining us shortly. 

(Why mow when you can do chores twice a day?  I think we can all expect some juicy blog posts out of this decision . . . !) 

I could wash it tomorrow afternoon after church, but then I wouldn't be able to mow the lawn (which is about a week overdue since I was unable to mow last Sunday!).  I might have done it anyway and let the grass grow a little while longer except for the fact that the Memorial Day parade goes right past my house. 

And after all, one must keep up appearances! 

What's in YOUR Garden?

A friend and her husband stopped by tonight to pick up some Lily Leaf Beetles and larvae (she's an entomologist) and to take a peek at my yard to see if the husband would be willing to help me with the mowing.  (My sister, sweet thing, had already offered a play-date/mowing solution, but I greatly appreciated his willingness!) 

I found myself dragging them all over my unshorn tick-haven, pointing out all the exotic plants my ex has planted in the past 7 years and talking about plans I have for this area or that.  I casually threw out tree names like Heptacodium and Acer griseum . . . and actually knew what I was talking about.  (Mind you, there were also many to which I replied, "That's some kind of vibernum; we have dozens of different kinds.") 

Suddenly I stopped short and gasped, "I think I'm assuming my ex's persona!  I don't know if this is a good thing or not!"  For this was always Nick's thing: the proud groundskeeper offering an exclusive glimpse of the "Carolina Arboretum."

So I'm looking back over the last hour and asking myself if there was some mild disfunction showing itself as I led the 2-cent tour.  Was my behavior a desperate attempt to retain whatever connection I still have with the ex?  Was it a subtle form of "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.  My yard now."  Was I turning into my ex?????

No.  No to all.  (Okay, so maybe there was a teensy weensy bit of the second, but definitely not the others!) 

What it was, I think, was an example of one of the many ways my life has been marked by my ex.  Right now I mostly feel he has bludgeoned me in many ways.  I feel scarred.  I feel violated.  I feel betrayed.  Like a character in a Jane Austen novel, I used to consider marriage the highest and best calling a woman could have.  I'm currently resonating more with the Amazon Women. 

To be just, though, I am also walking away from this relationship with some good things.  Ranita and Chinchita are the best, obviously.  They are refulgent, as I used to be, and clever and sensitive and caring.  I see in them both the potential to be and do anything God sets before them, and to bless the world by their presence. 

And tonight I realized I'm a better plant appreciator because of him.  I'm not a horticulturalist.  I'm not a "plantsman."  But I know more about woody ornamentals (that's trees and shrubs, fellow laypeople!) and moving plants than I did a decade ago. 

I know there are dozens of types of Japanese maples (almost 2 dozen in my yard alone!) and even more types of vibernums (another 2 dozen in my yard!), not to mention the varieties of Rhododendrons!  (Ask me the differences between Francesca, Scintillation, and Calsap . . . I can tell you!) 

I can spot a Nootkatensis in a yard while driving 25 miles an hour.  I know that bananas can overwinter outside in Carolina, RI . . . just don't expect to ever pick fruit from them.  I also know that yuccas are incredibly beautiful in flower and virtually impossible to kill, even with help from hungry mice in a bitter winter and aggressive digging by a very determined nurseryman in the spring. 

Should my children end up showing a proclivity for all things green and growing, at least their mother won't be totally ignorant . . . there's something to be said for that. 

On the Rathskeller Porch

This evening I have a few moments while waiting for a friend to just....do nothing.  Of course, I'm not doing nothing....I'm starting this blog post.  On my phone.  In a memo.  Sitting on a bench outside a restaurant.  

The fact that I am in need of such moments and am yet unable to take advantage of them when they arrive is bothersome.  

So perhaps I will do the next best thing and live this moment while blogging about it.  The setting sun is caressing my neck.  A gentle, pleasantly cooling breeze wafts by every so often, breaking the summery heat and reminding me it is still spring after all.  

I just looked up and noticed there are ceiling fans running overhead, which is laughable considering I'm sitting on an open porch!  Whose idea was that anyway, and what could their motivation possibly have been?  Perhaps the same as a person writing a blog on her phone when she could be closing her eyes and snoozing . . . 

There is some kind of 60's soul being piped outside.  ("Cupid, draw back your bow...")  It seems a little sacrilegious somehow.  I'm a music buff, too, so I'm not sure why it's bothering me right now.  And I don't even hate the music...it's not like it's hip-hop! 

Maybe there's already so much noise in my brain that I am craving silence.  Or at least the absence of man-made noise.  

Am I allowed to use that term anymore?  Is it people-made?  Human-made?  I don't know . . . I still think in term of stewardesses and waitresses!  Ironically, Ranita does not.  He looked at me one day while I was distributing supper and said, "This is your job, Mom.  You're the server."  That is just so wrong on so many levels!  

But back to the idea of noise in the brain.  (Sounds like a disease, doesn't it?  Maybe it is!)  I think this blog is becoming my way of taking all that noise and organizing it into music (even if it is hip-hop-esque!).  

This blog allows me to briefly control the things in my life I really can't control.  I can't alter the storyline or the characters, but the process of putting them into words, of determining what to keep and what to leave out, of discovering meaning behind the mundane yet chaotic act of living is empowering and liberating.  

So, dear Reader, thank you for listening to my music.  Thank you for being a part of my song. 

Charmed, I'm Sure!

The bracelet was supposed to have been a Christmas gift from my husband this year.  He never really gave me that kind of thing, unless you count a few pairs of beautiful hand-tied earrings he made while we were dating.  (I wasn't sure what to do with those after he asked for the divorce.  I didn't want to wear them, but I didn't really want to give them back.  I compromised.  I decided to keep them for my daughter. . . they will be something special for her from him.)

This year, I had decided it was time for some jewelry, and I wanted a Persona bangle.  I pretty much demanded a Persona bangle.  It was pretty, and I could ask for charms that meant something special to me.  I was excited. 

I went through the booklets of charms and circled the "Mrs." dangle, blue mottled stones that reminded me of the ocean, charms for my kids . . . all kinds of charms. 

Then, two weeks before Christmas, I found out he wanted a divorce.  Did I still want the bracelet?  WHAT?  NO, I most certainly did NOT want the bracelet.  But that wasn't quite true.  I did want the bracelet . . . I just didn't want it from him. 

So, I tallied up money I'd been given for my birthday, and I had enough to cover a bracelet and three charms.  So what would I get? 

First, I selected a frog wearing a crown for my frog-prince, my Ranita, as I call him.  As an infant he used to curl up on my chest with his legs and arms tucked under him like a little frog, so the name stuck.  Then I picked a ladybug for my Chinchita, "my little bug," because she's, well, cute as a bug in a rug. 

The final charm rests between those two. . . three footprints and an inscription that says, "When you saw one set of foot prints . . . it was then that I carried you" from the poem "Footprints."  Either of my children can tell you that one stands for God carrying us. 

That bracelet means an awful lot to me.  I tell my little ones it's because I can carry them with me wherever I go.  My kids take it to heart.  More than once I have left the house in a hurry and have forgotten to put it on.  I usually notice it in the car, backing out of the driveway.  Ranita tells me, "Don't worry, Mom.  You don't need it . . . we're here with you!" 

I always smile, proud of his innocent insight, and say, "You are absolutely right!  And you are better than any bracelet!" 

This morning, he used it in a different way.  I was struggling with the carpet cleaner my in-laws graciously gave us (one day I'll write a blog about their generosity . . . I sure can't list it all in an aside!).  For some reason I could get the attachment to work, but the foot wouldn't, no matter how many times I switched it to "Floor."  Since Chinchita had managed to get poop on the carpet this morning (don't ask me how; I still have no idea!), I really needed to clean the carpet. 

So I took apart the pieces I could, cleaned them out, and still couldn't get it to work.  Then I did the most productive thing possible: I sat on the floor and cried.  Suddenly I felt a small hand on my back.  My little Frog-Prince stood there holding my bracelet.  "Here, Mom," he said, "I wanted to give you this because I know it makes you happy." 

Sweet child! 

He got a big hug.  I dried my eyes (slowly!), and thanked him for being so thoughtful.  (I did have him put the bracelet back because I didn't think wrestling with the machine was the best thing for my treasure!) 

Somewhere along the line the carpet got washed.  I did much of it using the tool, but then somehow it seemed as if the foot started working . . . I don't know.  The carpet got wet, then it got drier, and the clean water ended up dirty.  The carpet both looks and smells clean.  Sometimes that's all I need to know! 

Well, that and the fact that God really is carrying me.  And sometimes He uses my children to do it. He's carrying them as well.  And sometimes He uses me to do that.  Today he also threw in my mom and my sister . . . and my in-laws, though they probably don't know it. 

Days can be hard.  Some days are really hard.  But it is comforting to remember we never have to navigate them alone . . . whether we're wearing a shiny silver bangle or not. 

Fun at Home

Back when I was young, single, and free, my idea of a great vacation was going somewhere.  Like a Thanksgiving road trip to Wisconsin, by way of Illinois, Iowa, Indiana . . . (at least it felt that way as we wandered around on the right road in the wrong state for many an hour . . . but at least we wandered into an OLD A&W!) 

Or Spring Break Choir Tours to California, Florida, New England (where we didn't get to see my family due to getting snowbound in NYC . . . but I got to see Cats!). 

Or a week-long missions trip to Mexico where we discovered that our "translator's" English was not quite as good as my Spanish, so I ended up getting very familiar with my Spanish-English dictionary and somehow even got invited to move down there permanently.  (At least, I think that's what the pastor was saying . . .!) 

Vacation has a different meaning now.  I have come to relish the notion of "stay-cation."  There's something warm and cozy about your home . . . especially if you haven't been in it much!

Today my kids and I enjoyed just such a respite.  The past week was busy--farm visits for Mom, a birthday party for one cousin, a 60th birthday party for my aunt . . . lots of motion!  So today we hung out.

And I do mean "hung out."  My son, for some reason, decided it was a day for running around in his underwear.  I can't say much, really.  I was in my pj's until noontime when my pastor called offering to bring over some goat's milk (which tasted really good tonight, by the way!).  I dashed into clothes to look put-together . . . an illusion I just shattered by confessing it online!

Do not let the attire fool you, though.  We were productive today.   The kids wanted to do "schoolwork," so I pulled out the "Teach My Preschooler" box.  My daughter practiced writing circles (using a perfect "OK" hand grip) while my son built number trains. 

The kids watched Milo and Otis, a movie that I disliked the first time and grow to love more and more with each consecutive viewing.  I washed and folded laundry. 

(Let me just say that my form of purgatory would not be perpetually rolling rocks up hills or bending down for an elusive drink of water . . . mine is emptying a laundry basket into the washer, doing something else for half an hour, and then finding a rogue sock that could have gone in that load and is now sitting by itself in a not-quite-empty hamper!) 

We ate pork chops for lunch, dredged in dijon mustard, honey, and panko bread crumbs.  My son swore it was inedible . . . until the first bite.  "This is really good, Mom!"  Yeah.  I know.  That's why I made it for you!

I read "Chica Chica Bum Bum" in Spanish and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" in English. 

After nap time we played outside, even though the grass was wet with earlier rain.  The kids got wet.  They were happy.  So was I. 

They went out for supper with their Daddy.  I stayed in and picked a HealthShare for when my health insurance expires next month. 

This is not a "divorce-centric" entry, so I won't go into great detail on the process, but I have to admit that choosing which Christian health-share was a remarkable experience.  Jimmy, who answered my call at Samaritan's, was SO kind and prayed so beautifully for me that I cried.  Really.  I am always amazed and humbled and blessed by our Family.  I thank God for His "hands and feet" in my life. 

My munchkins came home, flooded me with hugs and kisses, showed me their "treasures," and snuggled down for Bible time.  I can now hear them both sleeping deeply . . . hopefully dreaming happily. 

I created some ads for my VBS adventure, and wrote this blog.

And I even feel somewhat rested. 

What more can you ask from a vacation?! 

A Moment for a Memory

There are lots of things I enjoy about writing agricultural profiles: meeting new people, hearing interesting stories, learning new things about agriculture.  Today was something a little special, though. 

I visited the Molodich family in Connecticut.  The women in the family run a produce operation and sell mostly direct-to-consumer.  The men are dairy farmers.  I realized walking around the dairy operation that I hadn't really talked dairy in a long time . . . probably not since I milked my last cow before leaving for college twenty-plus years ago. 

The little black and white Holstein calves were even cuter than I remembered . . . and it was funny how quickly some random memories came.  There was one cow with a backwards 7 on her face.  From somewhere in my mind came "7-Up," a cow we had with a true "7" marking. 

The smells, which I talked about in an earlier post, were almost overwhelming, laden as they were with decades-old associations.  I can't remember another farm visit that evoked such powerful emotions--pleasure, sadness, youth, and age. 

Perhaps it was the unexpected connections, finding we knew several of the same people.  Perhaps it was the similarity in backgrounds: multi-generational farm family navigating transition plans.  Maybe it was just the surprise of finding an old, but still operating, sawmill on the farm and thinking of our little sawmill at home and the hours of use it has seen. 

Most probably, all of those things slowly wove themselves around and into my heart and mind.  All I know is that I was unprepared for what happened within me as the cows began their methodical trek into the milking parlor, unerringly finding their way to their stanchions.  I noticed how the fragrance of the barn altered as they filled the formerly-vacant space. 

There is a scent that is a dairy barn.  It is not just cow.  It is not just manure.  It is not just feed.  It is not just bedding.  It is not just milk.  It is all of them combined with an undertone of iodine dip. 

As the cows came in, letting down their milk in anticipation of the milking machines, that aroma washed over me, filling my nostrils, my clothing, my very pores. 

I was immediately transported in time.  I was no longer a responsible 40-year-old divorced mother of two.  I was 17: imaginative, living with a soul filled with music, dancing toward a future I was convinced would be brilliant . . . at least more brilliant than milking cows. 

Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep a tight grip on my notebook and camera and not slide up beside one of these stranger-bovines, clean off her udder, and pop a machine on those full teats. 

I suspect Mike noticed.  "If you're ever in need of a job . . ." he joked. 

"Be careful," I teased back. "I just might take you up on that!"  Then reality struck and I amended, "But after 20 minutes I'd probably be saying . . ."

"Your legs would be hurting some then!" he finished for me.  We both laughed. 

It was a moment of beautiful camaraderie.  And it was a moment of poignancy.  For I am no longer 17.  Age has taken things away from that bright-eyed, all-knowing, all-ignorant child. 

But age has given me things as well.  Two beautiful children.  A deeper understanding of life . . . and the realization that even now I am only scratching the surface of what there is to be understood.  Heartbreak.  Loss.  Joy.  Hope. 

And even as I longed to crouch between those cows once again, I knew that I would want a moment only, not an hour or a week or a lifetime.  For the life I have, even with its unexpectedness and its trials, is where I belong.  And it is good.