The Quiet Business of the Countryside
May 12, 2016
“The real world, in my opinion, exists in the countryside, where Nature goes about her quiet business and brings greatest pleasure.”
— Fennel Hudson
I am drawn to the countryside. I love its “quiet business.” The pre-dawn hour is especially lovely. I enjoy pulling to the side of the road, turning off the car’s ignition, and sitting in the quiet, watching the world awaken.
Driving Nebraska
March 28, 2015
Nebraska is flat! I was struck by the wide open landscape and the dearth of trees. You could understand why early settlers resorted to building sod houses, for wood is scarce. When we saw trees, often cottonwoods, it signaled a river or natural water source.
When we left Kearney, we drove north and west through the sandhills of Nebraska. This is the mid-grass prairie, but the grass grows in clumps rather than in waving expanses, on undulating low hills. It is range country. I was surprised to see windmills dotting the range every couple of miles. I was also surprised at the hundreds of ponds and rainwater basins dotting the land, many with sapphire blue water.
A Minnesota Farm Alphabet
April 15, 2014
When we were cleaning out my parents’ farmhouse, I came across this farm alphabet book I made for them in 1994, twenty years ago. I made the illustrations from colored tissue and paper cutouts. Each page highlights fond images and memories of my 1950s and ’60s childhood on our Minnesota farm. I’ve reproduced the book for you here:
A is for angels in the snow, and
a pail full of apples to feed the pigs, and
the smell of just-cut alfalfa, and
the attic with its trunks of winter clothes, boxes of Dad’s Army things, and stacks of Easter baskets.
B is for bats that occasionally swooped down from the attic, and
the brooms John and Ken used to bring down the bats, and
jumping from the heavy beams in the hayloft into piles of scratchy hay, and
boots lined up on newspapers by the front door, and
shaking cream into butter, and
the bullheads we caught with bamboo fishing poles.
C is for chocolate-covered cherries on Father’s Day, and
playing circle tag in the snow, and
cinnamon cream pies, and
corn on the cob, and
wooden clothespins, and
barn cats.
D is for the dish towel we waved to call Dad in from the fields for supper, and
the long gravel driveway we walked to catch the school bus, and
dusting the furniture at least twice a week.
E is for the egg yolks that stood up in the frying pan, and
the jolt of the electric fence, and
playing eucher.
F is for the floods that washed out the driveway, and
dressing in front of the furnace vents on cold winter mornings, and
Mom’s rich dark fudge with nuts, and
swatting flies with pastel-colored fly swatters, and
retrieving foul balls for ten cents.
G is for the green grain box carrying oats to the grainery, and
pulling the tough, yellow skin off chicken gizzards, and
gopher traps and garter snakes.
H is for hoeing thistles and hauling hay, and
the hard-boiled eggs Dad cracked on our heads, and
doing homework around the kitchen table, and
the holy water that hung in a bottle at the bottom of the stairs, and
hanging clothes to dry on the lines outside.
I is for the ice storms that transformed our everyday farm into a winter wonderland, and
learning to iron by practicing on handkerchiefs, and
the white rocks surrounding the island, and
ice skating on the pond by the culvert.
J is for junk pile treasures, and
Jack Frost’s feathery masterpieces on our window panes, and
jeans that froze stiff on the clothesline in winter.
K is for the kitchen table, and
kneeling to say the rosary after supper, and
the knick knack shelf in the living room, and
pretending to make bread by kneading our pillows.
L is for Lava soap in the washroom, and
the smell of blooming lilacs, and
the Little Team, and
taking turns mowing the lawn, and
pink lungs floating on top of the water from cleaning the chickens.
M is for mittens drying on the furnace vents, and
picking from the Montgomery Ward catalog, and
Morrell mushrooms in scrambled eggs, and
mosquitoes.
N is for St. Nicholas Day goodies in brown paper bags, and
the Nativity set.
O is for the oilcloth covering the kitchen table, and
overshoes with lever-like buckles, and
the two-seater outhouse.
P is for dancing the polka, and
dishpans full of buttered popcorn, and
priming the pump in the washroom, and
the ants in the peonies, and
shelling peas and planting potatoes.
Q is for Dad’s collection of silver quarters, and
warm quilts on the beds.
R is for rhubarb sauce and wild raspberries, and
the roller towel in the washroom, and
red-winged blackbirds, and
raking leaves, and
root beer floats served on the island in real glass glasses.
S is for the stubble in the oat fields, and
Mom’s sauerkraut and homemade liver sausage, and
sprinkling the laundry before ironing, and
the stanchions in the barn, and
sledding on Walerius’ hill.
T is for tinsel on the Christmas tree, and
the tire swing, and
Tom Thumb donuts from the Minnesota State Fair, and
waiting out tornadoes in the basement, and
feeding the threshing crew.
U is for Union Hill, and
the unheated upstairs where we slept, and
sleeveless cotton undershirts.
V is for treating chest colds with Vicks Vapo Rub, and
the VFW picnic, and
summer vacations at Hauer’s home in the Cities and at Grandma and Grandpa Meger’s house in Montgomery.
W is for whipped cream on chocolate cake, and
roasting weiners on sticks over a bonfire, and
stacking wood, and
the wringer washing machine, and
shouting “Whoa” when it was time to drop bales of hay into the hayloft.
X is for Aunt Mary’s x-stitch embroidery, and
the axe that beheaded the chickens.
Y is for the smell of yeast from freshly baked bread, and
butter so yellow visitors would ask Mom if she put food coloring in it.
Z is for below-zero weather, and
zillions of mosquitoes.
A Spring Day So Perfect
June 11, 2013
Today
by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Labor Day Message: Manifesting Your Gratitude in Work
September 3, 2012
” . . . work is not an expression of the desire for praise or recognition, or prizes, but the deepest manifestation of your gratitude for the gift of life.”
— Stanley Kunitz, The Wild Braid: A Poet Reflects on a Century in the Garden
Today’s quote is food for thought on this Labor Day holiday — work as a manifestation of gratitude. I do believe that some of the most fortunate people are those who have found work that offers meaning and pleasure. The kind of work that you never want to retire from.
Parenting is that kind of work. As is farming and gardening, teaching and construction. Nurturing life. Creating beauty and usefulness. How lucky are those who have found work that feeds the soul.
A Visit to a Flower Farm in Winter
February 6, 2012
This weekend I returned to Jello Mold Farm in the Skagit Valley to see what a flower farm looks like in winter. It is very much the dormant season, with the fields at rest. But that doesn’t mean rest for the farmers! Dennis was out making compost, and Diane was busy with her work spreading support for sustainable flower growing practices among local and regional growers.
Diane and Jello Mold Farm were recently featured on an episode of PBS’s “Growing a Greener World.” I urge you watch the broadcast. It’s a great introduction to the practice of local, seasonal, sustainable flower growing, and you’ll “meet” Diane, whose enthusiasm and passion for her work are infectious. The episode showcases some beautiful scenes from Jello Mold Farm during the summer when the gardens are a riot of color.
Winter at Jello Mold Farm has its own kind of beauty. The palette is more subtle. I’ll be sharing more photos from my visit in the next few days. Here are a few to set the stage: