Derivative of Witty

Full Circle into 2009 - the year in review.

So, 2008 really, really kicked my ass.  This was the most difficult year that I believe I've ever had, and I believe I've had some biggies.  Many are happy to see 2008 go, but from what I've seen and heard, most of that sentiment came from the events that have unfolded in the economy in the last 5 months or so.

Oddly, the last 5 months have been the best part of 2008 for me, which tells you just how shitty the first 7 were.

The end of December 2007 brought miscarriage #3.  My body revolted, and refused first to let go of the dead baby and then to stop bleeding.  From that physical multi-car pileup I drifted straight into a spiral of severe depression.  Getting fired for not getting well quickly enough.  Public humiliation of getting sacked.  Inability to interact with other humans without Xanax.  Moments looking down at my assortment of bottles and really understanding why someone would swallow all of them.  Staying in pajamas for days at a time. No sleep, no food, no bath, no future. Husband making quiet phone calls to hospitals and crying for his loss of not only a baby but his wife.

Just typing those incomplete sentences has made my chest tight, my eyes fill with tears and my teeth clench together.  Reading posts I made back in December, January, February, etc., I see just how bad my game face was.  I was a complete wreck, but thought I was holding myself together nicely.

Reflecting on those months, I feel sorry for that woman.  She was broken and bruised and needed so very very much.  She needed her family, husband, friends to wrap her up in a blanket and rock her, and they tried and sometimes succeeded.  I wish I could go back and brush her hair and let her know that it's not all bullshit, that time really does heal all wounds and she would be able to smile without the artifice of social obligation once again.

Months in the mountains on the river, with physical, rather than mental, work allowed me to heal.  I itched mosquito bites and got sunburns and started running again. I washed dishes and made cookies and drove trucks with trailers miles and miles.  I did laundry, pulled weeds, and waded in the river.  I took afternoon naps.  I read books.  I started to think I was attractive again.  I stayed up late with friends around a fire and told silly stories and drank wine and smoked cigarettes and looked at the stars.  I loved my husband.  I loved myself.

In September, the people I thought had abandoned me would not leave me alone.  They called, they e-mailed, they told me that they needed me to do this job, that I was the one they wanted out of all of Montana, and could I please start straight away with this fantastic salary and health benefits and a car allowance and cell phone and my own hours?  I didn't want to go, but I knew that as the leaves were turning on the river, the summer was over, and I was strong again.  Not as strong as I would be in a few months, but stronger than I had been, and strong enough.

I just returned from a trip to Costa Rica.  When we began planning that trip over a year ago, I expected it to be the trip that would dominate the year - the big story.  It was not, but it was just what it needed to be.  I needed that trip, and while I will show you photos of the dolphins, mountains, people, beaches, sunsets, and all the things that made me smile, I do not consider the trip to be the story of 2008.

The story of 2008 is me, and all the people who love me and hold me dear enough to them to keep calling me even when I don't call them back, don't e-mail them back, and don't answer the door when they knock.  Without those people I would be dust right now, and I'm so very happy I'm not.

I have held my tongue when others chat or blog about what a PAIN the holidays are and how HAPPY they are that they're almost over and how TIRED they are, and it frustrates me. 

I didn't decorate one stitch, didn't host one party, didn't attend one function thrown by aquaintences or friends who I don't have on speed-dial.  I didn't wrap presents, didn't bake cookies, didn't drink too much or eat too much.  Christmas happened anyway, and it was just lovely.  I held babies, ate nice dinners, taught a niece to knit, laughed with my siblings, sang my with my family to a silly musical, slept with my husband, slept in, smiled at store clerks, shoveled my neighbor's walk, and said no many, many times.  No to invites, no to functions, no to after-whatever-sales, no to another sweet, no to another glass of wine, no to a sleeping pill. 

I think this has been the best Christmas yet.  Others had more gifts and more visiting and more dresses, but others didn't have the utter inky black hole behind them. 

I don't know what 2009 will bring, but my list of wants has changed significantly since I was making this list of wants in 2007.  I want my family to stay healthy.  I want my marriage to flourish.  I want to take more steps toward expanding our family, whether that be adoption or fertility treatments.  I want to have enough money to pay my bills and keep my house warm and buy the occassional treat for one of my many friends.  I want to meet interesting people and talk about interesting things.  I want to pick myself up when I stumble, and to help someone else up when they stumble.  I want to be a friend.

Happy New Year, Indeed.

Wax On...Wax Off...Wax My Car

All summer, in the field next to the lodge, a pair of sandhill cranes have nested. They picked the spot for its proximity to the river and shelter, and for the tall grass that surrounds their nest. I watched them in April fluffing their feathers and bouncing through their mating dance. I have listened to them every morning and evening as they call to the sun rising and setting, daring to match the splendor and steal a bit of glory with their gray and red plumage.

Sometimes after my morning run I'll grab a cup of coffee and walk across the lawn to the fence. They'll stand up straight and look at me, but they've become accustomed to my stares, and don't fly away. One will always keep an eye on me, but the other will feed or poke or groom freely. I consider them mine, and point out their existence to any guest staying at the lodge, puffing up slightly myself when they admire the birds in a manner I feel befits their majesty.

This weekend S. and I drove around Montana a bit and visited my family, first in my hometown where one sister and my brother were visiting my folks - spouses and babies all gathered around sipping Pepsi, snacking on Sour Cream & Onion Lays, and talking about how hot it was. I took a nap with one of my nephews, all 10 weeks of him, and sweated. After a flurry of kisses and hugs and promises to try to come back for the evening's rodeo festivities, we took off down the highway upon which I learned to drive to see my little sister and two more nieces.

The weekend was relaxing and fun, alternately inspirational and drunken and lazy. We stayed in a little hotel that had a little refrigerator and a little air conditioner and a little television. The bed was short and the ceilings were short and the shower nozzle was built for a five foot two inch person. It was all sorts of awesome.

We rose early on Monday, and took the scenic route home, which to us means about 45 miles of high dirt roads through the mountains looking at the winding river. About a half an hour into the drive, we'd (I'd) sucked down enough over-priced espresso to create a reasonable conversation, and we started talking about our little tiny room.

S:    But how did you sleep?
Me: OK - my back sort of hurts, but nothing crazy. How about you?
S:    Really well - like a log. Didn't even dream.
Me: Oh! I did! Really weird....

And then it happened. I remembered my dreams from the night before.

Dreams are intensely personal experiences, for the images don't properly translate to the written or spoken word with the clarity of knowledge that I have while sleeping.  I am equipped with a full set of facts without having experienced or been told any of it, and my emotions are deep and true and lasting.  I've been known to be angry with S. for days over some asshole thing he did in one of my dreams.  I can't help it - my heart and my gut are clenched as a result of my psyche's nighttime romps.

That night, I'd had another miscarriage. This is where the knowledge present in the dream comes into play. I'd been four months pregnant, supposedly in the 'safe zone', and all was crazy good. The horrific curse had been lifted and our little family was on the move.  But in the dream sequence, my doc broke the news to me, I looked down, my baby disappeared, and there was nothing I could do to save him.

I was forced to tell everyone in the office, staff and patients, what had just happened.  I know that the reason for my forced communication was to prevent me from pretending that all was OK - to put myself out there and face reality the hard way.

So when I was asked about my dreams, and then remembered them, the emotion came with them as well.  I was in the office, experiencing the news and breaking it in turn.  I had a panic attack.

I could not breathe.  I could barely see.  I was dizzy, and kept opening the window, and gulping huge sobs back in a vain attempt at normalcy.  S. recognized what was happening, but had no idea why.  It took me about 20 minutes to restore my breathing, and another 30 to take oxygen into my lungs without conscious thought.  I could not verbalize the dream without the panic taking hold again.  I could think it, but I couldn't say it out loud.

We made it back to the lodge, and S. put me to bed.  I slept for four hours.  I woke up groggy, took a shower, and went to find a mind-candy book to read (finally, Scarlett, I can see Girl With A Pearl Earring!).  I grabbed a Diet Pepsi and a big cup of ice, and settled into an Adirondack chair on the deck, facing my birds. That's when I noticed the swather. 

It's haying time, of course, and every summer and fall for the last 34 years I've watched this chore with uninterested detachment. Even as a child, watching the Secret of NIMH, I couldn't get all worked up when Farmer Fitzgibbons took to the field in his swather.  What did the mice expect? To stay all safe and sound in a field? Come on! How is Mrs. Fitzgibbons supposed to buy groceries?

But this swather was headed toward my cranes, and I could hear them calling.  I don't know if they were trying to protect their baby, or just trying to fend off the large piece of machinery, but they were calling like crazy.  The sound was different than the good morning gutteral chatter - it was faster and frightened and angry.  And there was nothing I could do to save them.

And the panic came back.

Yesterday was the due date for my baby. 

I believe in the power of our minds to help us prepare for things that we normally would not be able to handle.  I believe that our resting psyche can warn us of potential emotional bombshells, so when those bombshells explode, we are a little better equipped to handle them.  I don't know that is what happened yesterday, or the night before as I was dreaming, but I know that the dream wasn't completely about my due date or my inability to stop a death or a swather or a miscarriage. 

I've been very safe out here in the mountain valley this summer.  There has not been a lot of stress, I get to care for my body, eat properly, exercise regularly, relax in the evening with interesting, fun people.  But this is not my real life, and I need to return to that life soon.

Just as I was forced to walk around confessing my loss to strangers in my dream, admitting that everything is not OK - I need to come to grips with the fact that I'm still profoundly affected by the events of this past winter, and the crippling depression that wrapped itself around my soul.  I'm better - yes - and more equipped to handle simple encounters that would have driven me to bed just a few months ago.. But I'm not all better.

I don't know that I will ever be all better.  But I'm certain that I will be able to make it through the occasional darkness and into light again, whereas in February that was not a certainty.

Maybe that's what being better feels like. Having the confidence that you will not crumble and disappear when real life happens.

Until then, I will continue to visit my cranes, for they flew away from the swather but just a few hours later returned to their nest. And they called to me last night.  They had not disappeared either.

Oh! Hi, there!

Y'all!

I have been PLAYING!

And now I have a better response to those who ask me What I Do.

"I'm retired".

I have been in the valley, on the river, hiking, playing, drinking to excess, pounding the bongos, cooing at babies, scritching dogs behind the ears, napping, reading, knitting.

Oh yeah, and someone hired me to do some work.  FROM HOME. 

I would feel guilty about having so much fun, but dammit, I deserve it.  ::tosses hair and flutters eyelashes::

I've been taking walks here

and here

and at night I sleep here.  In a King Size Bed.  With six pillows.  And then my husband brings me hot coffee and omelettes in bed for breakfast.

Yawn.  Stretch.  Sigh.

And in the afternoon, if I'm so inclined, I may take a drive to the local hotsprings to soak.  Through this valley.

If the urge strikes, I may stop to pick some wildflowers.

There were a few birthdays of note.  First, my nephew Tyler turned 11 on July 11th.  He is a beautiful little boy, but I was a moron and didn't have my camera out for his party, which was held on the banks of Deep Creek in a log cabin around a fire.  We are country and our necks are appropriately red.  Proud of it.

Miss Madelyn made her one-year milestone, and celebrated with her very own cupcake.  She didn't quite know what to think at first, but got the hang of it.

And last, but certainly not least, Miss Ruby turned two.  The morning of her birthday (the day after her cousin Tyler's, so still in the woods), I sat with her on my lap next to the campfire to warm up for the day.  She clutched her pink/gray/stick-infested-and-mud-grubby blanket in her right hand, with her left thumb  firmly planted in her little cupie-doll mouth.

Her big sister Josey tiptoed up to her and whispered, "Ruby!  You're two!  You're a kid now!"  As opposed to a baby.

I anticipate her future birthdays will have the lines a bit more blurred on stages of growing up, but until then, we will enjoy this two-year-old, who looks remarkably like her mama did at that age.  Nutty hair and all.

Blink...blink...blink...

The local public high school is graduating their senior class today.  While we have friends with children graduating, my husband and I are, at a very minimum, about 19 years out from that particular milestone.

I do, however, get to watch from a distance as my siblings' and in-laws' children grow up.

My oldest nephew, technically, is almost 20.  (I didn't get to watch him grow for his entire life, as his mother married into the family when he was 13.  13 to 20, though - wow - those are some changin' years.)  I have nieces and nephews, then, from age 20 to one week.  For two decades, the blood in our family has been growing and growing, and though the jury will be out for a bit, I believe them all to be fine individuals.  All Eighteen of them.  Sheesh.

Example:  two little girls - my little sister's progeny.

Exhibit A: Miss Ruby.
Miss Ruby is seen here with her fairy wings on.  She was eight months old in this photo, and the cheeks...can I just say?  POKE!




















Exhibit B:  Miss Ruby

This is little miss a couple of weeks before her first birthday.  Favorite past-times included smiling, giggling, crawling away, sticking tongue out, and smiling.  She is a very fun little girl to be around.

(set design by Lazy Homeowner in the Scattered Things motif - big ass rock given  by friend for wedding with quote from Song of Solomon from our invitations; wooden duck impulse buy under pressure to be 'homey'; tomato plant acquired at Farmers' Market under husband's protests that I will 'just leave it on the front porch to die'.  It died two weeks later, of thirst and loneliness, I'm told by husband. )











She really did learn to walk, eventually, though she was in no hurry.  She is what her pediatrician called a 'comfort baby', which does not mean that she's comfortable to sit on.  She was just comfortable to sit.  Anywhere she was placed.  Why the heck not? Smart kid, that one.

Today, she runs and jumps (sort of, she's getting better), and is hysterical to watch dance.  In the beginning, though, it was perseverance of the first degree.  Her days looked a lot like this, filmed during the Day of the Pie event I spoke of earlier.  You'll hear us chatting to hear ourselves chat in the background, and see that despite the many capable and watchful eyes around these girls, they are mere minutes away from eating and drinking out of the dog dish.  Again.  *sigh*



Ruby keeping up. from MontanaJen on Vimeo.


Exhibit C:  Miss Josey

This picture was taken the same day as her sister's fairy wing picture above.  That would make Miss Josey almost two in this shot.



















We had fun that day - picked dandelions and sat in places people don't normally sit.  It was quite silly for Miss Josey.
 

Which do you prefer?

It was a very busy day, all in all.















Exhibit...what letter are we on again?




Josey a year later.  Curls are longer, chubby is gone and replaced with....hey!  are those tattoos on my precious girls' hands? 

Sheesh...some people.















And of course sister must help.  While sitting on top of the table. 


Really - what irresponsible person is supposed to be watching these girls, anywa....oh.  Never mind.  I think it was me.

Carry on.










Tomorrow - how my dogs disprove the adage "Working like a dog", or, if said adage is indeed true, then working in the manner of my dogs would involve a lot of sleeping, napping, and peeking at me from under one sagging eyelid.

Junk Drawer of Posts

Hoo boy, there's a ton of stuff rattling around in side of my brain and in order that I may sleep tonight, I've got to put some of it down...

You'll notcie throughout this post a few spelling and rgrammatical errors.  The reason for this will become apparent later on in the post.  If I were to pu continue the title metaphor, I would say right around the fourth dead battery.

List additions

• Visit New York and:

• Stroll through Central Park in the spring
• See an opera at the Met
• See a Broadway musical
• Ride the subway, wearing black, reading the Times
• buy a handbag on the street
• kiss my husband at the top of the Empire State Building

• take a float trip in the Grand Canyon

• No electronic devices for two months straight

• Take ballroom dancing lessons

• Taste wine at a vineyard in the Napa ValleyTequila in an alley in Tijuana, Scotch on a golf course in Scotland, Guinness in a pub in Ireland, Champagne in France

• Teach a child to fish

Marketing tactics with which I disagree strongly

• Intentional misspellings, especially with alliteration  (Klipp Korner, Kidz Korner, Kidz Krazy House, Kwik Kaffiene...ok so I made the last one up, but you get what I mean).  Just use the real spelling.  You don't look clever, you just look illiterate.
• Children of proprietor in radio/TV ads as talent unless said child is bona fide Talent.  I'm sure Grandma thinks it's just adorable that your four year old's voice is blasted across KTVwhatever, but trust me when I tell you that no one else does, and besides, we can't understand the script, so your ad dollars are wasted.  Unless that's what you're after, in which case, knock yourself out.
• Not allowing me to just get one item for 50% off  during a  buy-one-get-one sale.  Really, it pencils out for you, and I've limited storage space, so work with me, please?

Phrases i've googled recently that give some insight into my weekend

• Bury a saint in your yard
• Dogs smell like boiled cabbage
• DIY drain un-clogging recipe
• beautiful flower garden with no work on my end
• spilled coffee backspace key broken help
• jeans that make you look thinner
• sneaky ways to save money while not noticing you're saving money
• cheap travel tickets
• effects of eating too many cherries

Monopoly lets us, why can't the feds?

I've got to figure out a way to counterfeit about $5,000 before October.  I just got word that a good friend is getting married in Houston in July (THAT should be comfortable), another is getting hitched in Dallas in October (never been to Texas and now twice in a few months?  Universe?  What are you telling me?).

(Do you think I could jump over and do a shot of tequila in Mexico on one of those trips?  If only life lists were tax-deductible.)

On top of that, I had planned on attending the National Convention in Denver in August, and we've already bought tickets for Costa Rica in December.  NOT the best time of my life to be making what I did in college.

And He said Go Forth and Multiply.  (But no long division?)

It's official - I have eighteen nieces and nephews.  My sister-in-law had twin boys Tuesday morning, after a mere 3.5 hours of labor.  The little ones join an older sister of a scant 11 months.  I don't care if it's not your style, you must pray for these people and the loss of any sleep for years to come.

The boys were good, pink, round, and healthy.  They nurse like champs, and love to be swaddled together as one unit.  Simon sucks Noah's fingers, and really, when I think about that and the love that is limitless to give to our ever-expanding family, my stinky-ass dogs, clogged drain, and soggy keyboard are mere background noise.

 

The road...

...I think I'm getting better.

I thought I was better, and I had a bad day.  I really bad day and an even tougher night.  I cried and waled and tore my garments*.  I felt alone.  Not lonely - alone.  Some people I really don't like all that much were vicious and mean to me, and despite my personal pledge to plaster the Game Face on in all things public, it slipped.  Oh, how it slipped.

*OK - so there was no tearing of garments, but only because I really like this Gap thermal T that I'm wearing.

But the point is that instead of taking a pill, or drinking, or sinking into the black hole that is far too comfortable in which to swim, I picked up my telephone and I called a friend who does not judge and who loves me.  And I told her I was having a bad day, and an even tougher night.

And she let me stutter through, and helped me put everything back into perspective.  And right after I hung up with her I got a call from another friend I've known for years but haven't spoken to in months, and we caught up and laughed.

And things aren't so bad right now.

I have a wonderful husband, a healthy and loving family, friends who will wrap their arms around me and make me laugh through my tears.  I am strong, and I feel my old self coming back.  At the end of the day, regardless of how bad, that really is what matters most. 

January, February, and March be damned.

...even my emotional baggage is Coach

~ Unknown

Bags, bags, bags.  I love'em.  I can browse for hours in the handbag section of a department store, and a local crafter's market carrying cute little purses will be certain to elicit cries of "Oh!  So cute!" from yours truly.

So, I bring you to the bag chapter of my knitting obsession:

I made this for mom, her birthday is a few days before Mother's Day this year.  It did not turn out as hoped.  Its....bad.  Too short, too wide for a purse.  Fine for a basket, and my dear hound just adores it.

It's destined to be a yarn toter, or a grocery toter, but not a purse toter. 

Mom gets something else.

This lovely is destined for my dear friend, Brenda.  She will love the green stripes and the silly fabric liner.   

The liner is not sewn in yet...be patient.

And now for the great part.  I created this little sweetie straight out of my brain!  No pattern!  This may be not a big deal for those who don't knit or crochet - but I'm just tickled pink with myself.  Took me about 2 hours to knit up and sew together, and another 15 minutes or so to felt.  Thoughts? 

It's for Brenda's daughter's birthday (11!) and I want to line it with a bright blue satin for her.

So there you go - a brief stroll through handbags with Jen.  Stay tuned - next installment will be baby sweaters (couldyoujustdiefromcuteness???)

Whistling Dixie

My genetic predisposition to pinching pennies comes to me via generations of farm women, cheap Lutherans, and individuals living in remote locations.  I will use something until I cannot use it any longer.  The item must break to the point of irrepair before I replace it.  Cracked coffee mug?  It's fine until it breaks, and then we'll use super glue, dissolved toxins be damned.  Electric Can Opener that Came With The House and Still Works Like A Painful Charm Reminder of Bitter Days Gone By?  Until the blades go, I'm stuck with it, and damn if I'm going to buy and hand crank one when this works perfectly well.

Some would call this behavior cheap, I call it frugal.  I get a weird sense of pride in using and using a possession until I just can't use it anymore.  I imagine the executives at Macy's and Wal-Mart groaning in pain when I cut up my old terry-cloth robe for dust rags, or washing empty jars for storage containers in place of GladWare Containers

My toaster is a hand me down from my mother in law, who pulled it from storage where it was placed after her mother's death.  It's vintage, but not in the good way.  The toaster before that one I received as a hand me down from my parents when I left for college, and it was about 5 years old at the time.  Last year, when it literally fell apart, I was so excited.  Finally, I could justify the purchase of a new small appliance! 

I was telling my mother in law about how excited I was to Buy! a New! Toaster! and to actually Toast! Bread! to Completion! when she pulled out the aforementioned Toastmaster Platinum ^TM .

So now my English Muffin comes to me after nestling in one of four slots not wide enough to toast a bagel, thanks to a toaster in basically mint condition, 40 years old.  It's big, it's ugly, but it was free and in fantastic working order, so who am I to complain?

Each morning I heat water on my stovetop in a tea kettle and make coffee in my gorgeous stainless steel Planetary Design insulated French Press (thank you, Truxton!), and at night I'll heat another batch of water for some nice tea.  The tea kettle was a gift from someone (Robin?  Did you give me the tea kettle?) for a housewarming gift, and if memory serves, over 10 years ago I first opened that box.

Tonight, as I filled it with water for some SleepyTime Extra, I noticed some serious rust spots inside.  For a couple of years now, I've seen the signs of wear – paint chipping off, seal on spout slipping – but this!  This would justify a new tea kettle!  Rust could be a Health Hazard!

Enter Tea Kettle Porn:

Wowza.  Well hel-lo, you handsome Brit.

 

Description:

"Handmade Whistling Tea Kettle reduces boiling time up to 25%! Savor a spot o'tea with this chrome-plated solid copper kettle handcrafted by British artisans. Sleek 2-qt. kettle with nickel-plated interior has a quick-boil coil base for use on gas stovetops only. Stay-cool beech handle. Patented whistling device."

Reduced boiling time – for when you need that coffee RIGHT DAMN NOW!  Patented whistling device – I'm certain it sounds British.  However, at $145, I must keep looking.  Wouldn't want my great grandmother rolling over in her grave every time I refilled the sacred vessel.

How about this shiny?

It's glass!  I would totally break this immediately.  And then continue to find glass shards for months…nay…years.

 

I do love the Le Crueset (is that redundant?)

And this little mister would just be lovely in my kitchen.  I like the thought of the water staying warm in case I need that second mug 'o chamomile (note to self: Mug 'O Chamomile totally should be either the name of a band or a perfume).

But perhaps in the Flame.

 

This is so very pretty:

But all of my time would be spent polishing it, and therefore less time to devote to sipping Earl Grey (note to self: Sipping Earl Grey great name for either porn movie or whodunit novel).

Traditionists?

Copper bottom…he he he….

 

Not sure what to think of this:

 

I'm not even close to hip enough to own this, much less drink fresh ground from it.

 

Oh, the possibilities! 

Now I just need to narrow them down before someone comes out of the woodwork and offers me the kettle that was destined for their garage sale.  Because I can't pass that up.

 

 

 

 

Just flour, salt, lard, water, and fruit

I remember the actual pies beginning in the fall, during harvest, although the canning and freezing took place throughout the summer, as different items ripened.  Peas, beans, carrots, and beets were parboiled and quick frozen if not canned, and because there was more room in the basement for jars than there was in the freezer (space best left open for the side of beef, pork, and elk – processed in the garage and provided by neighbors in exchange for some custom haying), canning was more often chosen.

Honey would come in August.  Enormous silver barrels lined up with a spigot at the bottom to dispense the viscous golden heaven, warm with the sun of the summer and the millions of trips through the alfalfa fields by the humming workers.  Even as an adult the constant effort on the part of the tiny insect is staggering – as a child it was magic.  I was drawn to the honey, touching the barrels when I was alone, dipping my finger through the stream as canning jars were filled, only once attempting to access the gold myself and when, unable to shut of the spigot, the honey kept flowing with no adult in sight, I ran and hid and awaited the inevitable consequence of such a waste.  I cried, not for the spanking or the cleanup, but for the loss of the honey and the wasted effort of the bees.  My heart hurt with a silent apology to them.

The beginning of September marked the end of the hot summer of fat and lazy days.  The graineries had to be swept of old wheat and mice, apples and chokecherries picked in competition with the thousand insects and birds who also needed their sugar, garden harvested, boiling jars to burn your fingers until you couldn't feel anything at the tips.  Men would be hired to run the constant combines, billowing clouds of dust and chaff turning everything into a yellow brown.  The bath at night would turn to a sludge immediately.  Time couldn't be taken to eat or drink – all was performed on moving vehicles.  Large milk jugs filled and placed in the freezer overnight would thaw throughout the day, and each worker would return the empty vessel at night for another gallon of cold water the next day. 

Twice daily, my mother would engineer a meal for the crew and her family.  The spread varied little, but always tasted better than much anticipated holiday meals.  I don't know if it was the warmth of the sun that I knew would leave soon for the bite of the winter, or if it was the dust blowing into the dishes, or if it was the familiar yet novel experience of eating the meals in the middle of a field half stubble half ripened wheat.  Enormous apple pies made with egg crust in commercial sized flat pans, dutch ovens filled with beef stew, fried chicken, spaghetti, potato salad, and thermoses of coffee for the evening shift.  When mom would have a baby, the metal high chair would accompany us to the field, and the fat little boy would grin and coo at the blackened men as each took turns scratching his dusty cheeks and feeding him bites off their plates.

All consumed in silence with the occasional exchange about whether the white truck was still leaking oil or if operator at the elevator was staying late tonight.  Late meant another section, another few trips to Toston 12 miles down the gravel road to sell the product so we could buy school clothes, another set of tires for the trucks and cars, seed for the spring. 

 

Each year, though the harvest is done in our individual gardens and orchards, and there is no longer the dust blowing into our food, the pies are still made.  The women gather with their aprons, crates of fruit, pie pans, and bottles of wine and for two or three days my mother's kitchen is a steady organized hum of flour, lard, and sticky peach.  Scores of pies are slipped into freezer bags, each edge pinched carefully with a small prayer and three slits cut into the crust made with our hands and by feel – two to let the steam out and three because your mother did it that way.  Each is frozen, and throughout the year a woman in a different part of the state will pull it out of her freezer for a special hostess gift, a Tuesday night dessert, or just to show off her heritage. 

The next day, she will call a sister or her mother and tell them how good it was.  And it always is.

 

 

“Sprung” is pushing it

There is an upside to having a broken furnace in Montana in April. I have a stellar excuse to wear crazy multiple layers and to walk around unbathed. It's a license to be a hobo, and all of a sudden I feel like I'm in college all over again.

Speaking of April in Montana – it's winter. I know that for most living here, that's not a secret, but truth be told that there are still some walking around, shaking their heads, surprised after 63 years upon this spinning rock that yes, it snowed last night, it will snow again tonight, and it will continue to snow until the first weekend in June.

My sister posted a memo she received from Spring yesterday, and just like Spring, it was full of wishy-washy, but you can't help but understand where Spring is coming from:

"Yeah, I know you're pretty pissed off at me and all, but Winter's been a sport, hanging in there for over six months. See? She even gave you an April 7 snowstorm, complete with overcast skies, low-lying clouds, and a healthy dose of depression. I know, I know, Winter got here before you expected her, and she's probably overstayed her welcome (but don't say anything to her - she's sensitive). But Fall needed to leave early for vacation, and his kids all were out spreading the flu, and his wife Autumn got tied up on business in New England, so he had to take care of things at home. You understand. I promise I'll stop in a couple of times this week, or maybe next. I haven't decided if it'll fit into my schedule."

The very good thing about Spring, though, warmth or not, is that my husband was born in the Spring.

Today, my darling dearest turns 36. And even if it snowed every single day of the year, I would be warm knowing that he's strolling around in it somewhere. A more generous man I've never known, and those who are fortunate enough to have him for a friend know that he is fiercely loyal, compassionate, and funny as hell.

Happy Snowy Spring Birthday, Steve.