Provider

Strawberries, warm from the sun, out-of-this-world flavor.
A bouquet of lettuces.
Kale, and collards, and an appetite to eat them.

The world's best cucumbers, thin-skinned and luscious.
Blueberries, picked after a long day's work!  (the big ones really do taste better.)
Fragrant ripe blackberries like only a connoisseur can pick.
Raspberries hastily snatched in the rain.
Ear after ear of corn on the cob.
Tomatoes in small round globes and large-lobed wonders.
Sweet slicing onions.
Knobby, crisp little bulbs of garlic.
Watermelons - golden, red, orange.
Potatoes, with the dirt still on them.
Golden peaches and sturdy little pears.
Grapes, fruiting after all these years.
A giant pumpkin, just because.
Carrots - who knew? - in purple, ivory, and magenta.
Asian cabbages for an evening of kimchi-making.
Red cabbages and green cabbages for our family's supper.
Silky white turnips so good we christen them "dessert turnips."

Hours on the tractor, burnt by sun and wind.
Sweat from fighting mechanical beasts.
Muscles sore from digging.
Grimy knees and shorts, kneeling by a stubborn rototiller.
Chunks of dirt fallen from his shoes.
Thinking, and thinking, and thinking some more, to solve the problem in front of him.
Weed-flecked socks in a heap, memorial to weeds tamed, again and again.
Furrows in his brow from frustrations sculpted into solutions.

A smile for me, home weary from shopping, when I left in a snit.
Hugs when I am stiff with resentment.
"Thank you for breakfast," every morning.
Unspoken forgiveness, over and over and over.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some men bring home flowers.


Mine brings me sacrifices.

a miracle

Today, 

an undisclosed

(but very distinguished)

number of years ago,

a tiny boy was born 

2 months prematurely.

He developed

a serious case

of hydrocephalus

and the doctors weren't at all sure

he would survive

to be normal. 

Happily,

they were right,

but not in a way they expected:

my Farmer

is anything

but normal,

and I am so pleased

to be his wife

and the mother of his children

into whom 

he so tenderly

pours himself.

Happy Birthday, my beloved!

my Farmer at his farm, with his banjo & the produce he so capably grows

how to make tomato sauce (the easy way)

1) respond with an unequivocal "maybe" when your husband asks if he should bring home extra tomatoes from work to make into sauce.  add that he is welcome to make the sauce, should inspiration strike, but that your own personal interest in the project is extremely limited.

2) watch your husband carry in a large plastic tub of organic tomatoes from work that would otherwise have "gone to waste".

3) watch afore-mentioned husband wash and quarter tomatoes; offer tips as necessary.

4) prepare supper while tomatoes cook in large stockpot on the stove.  mention to husband the possibility of tomatoes scorching.

5) when supper is over and husband starts to look for the strainer gizmo, point him in the right direction, then go out to the hammock to read while he assembles it.

6) come back inside in time to watch Spice ladle the last of the cooked tomatoes into the strainer's hopper as husband tilts the strainer so that it doesn't spill onto the floor, Everything Nice pokes at the garbage end helpfully with the masher thing, and Sugar entertains Lil' Snip in the livingroom by crashing him onto the sofa with her.

7) wow the family by pouring the resulting tomato juice into two dutch ovens without spilling any of it.

8) volunteer to (wo-)man the sauce as it cooks down so that husband is free to clean up the strainer gizmo.

9) stir the sauce while reading personality books and watching husband in peripheral vision.

10) agree with husband that making sauce is a lot more involved than it appears.

11) get husband to take over stirring before your arm falls off and you expire from boredom on the pretext of making room in the refrigerator for the (hopefully single, eventually) pan of sauce.

12) thank husband for stirring, acknowledge his astute comment about the dullness inherent in the task of stirring, and set dutch ovens of sauce on trivets to cool on the table.

13) read more personality books.

14) announce that you're going to bed, then discover the two dutch ovens of sauce still cooling on the table.

15) pour sauce into a single dutch oven and place on trivet in the refrigerator.

16) wash out the other dutch oven before the ring of tomato "paste" hardens into tomato candy.

17) get ready for bed.

18) just before you get into bed, get the brilliant idea to write the whole sauce-making process down for the benefit of (wo-)mankind everywhere.

19) go to bed, windows open to admit cool post-hurricane autumnal breezes & the songs of crickets . . . .

20) make the mistake of sharing your brilliant post with husband, thereby giving him the opportunity (which he cannot pass up, due to his phlegmatic personality) to remark, "yeah, you weren't much help."

21) remind husband of step 1), add his compliments to your post and go back to bed.

[22) let husband read post to check for any inadvertent husband-bashing.  be pleased when he laughs.]

ironing and ego

I ironed my Farmer's shirt tonight.  I'm not what you'd call an ironing expert.  I buy knits, mostly, and his other button-downs are "easy-care" and prints that don't need ironing, really.  So it's been awhile since I've even needed to iron a shirt.  We still use the fold-down travel iron he bought for college.

But tonight I was ironing a new white shirt for Tomorrow.  Remember?  The Sermon (about grace).

Grace was not on my mind as I ironed, though.  I wondered if it was okay to use a hotter setting than the wimpy "blends" that was not, in my opinion, getting the shirt flat enough.  I ironed a wrinkle in (and got it out again).  Memories of learning to iron my Dad's shirts took me back to adolescence.  I wondered how often he'd gone to work with creases off-center in the sleeves.

I finished and hung it beside the shirt he'd borrowed from his Dad (freshly laundered and perfectly ironed by his Mom), which didn't fit as well as he'd hoped.  Hmm.  My shirt didn't seem to flow from the hanger the way the other did.....

When my Farmer preaches tomorrow, I hope they'll see his Father's heart, and not his shirt.

(I hope I will, too).

porchlight preacher

My husband preached to me last night.

I sat amongst the fireflies, on grass, to hear him talk. I watched his silhouette against the porch light where he stood to see his notes. A storm blew up to tickle his pages, but passed by west of us to rain on someone else.

This man of mine stood tall. No nervous pacing to and fro on concrete stage, though nervous he professed to be, and nervous was. His courage braced his knees. He would obey.

I loved him then. I smiled so he'd think to look at me and not his pages. Forgot I was to criticize and look for faults, and only listened. The truth he told, so old it's new, so good it's scarce believed on, is grace alone. To give up thinking we can earn our way to God, and only thank Him for the ticket.

It's hard to take a gift so big. We're “upside-down”, forever. The knowing makes us babes again, dependent. We always have been, anywayl – who makes this air we breathe? and freely grants us life? Not our own hands, for sure, but God above, whose love for us, unfathomably deep, draws us to Him, and Him to us through Christ.

He finishes, my husband. He asks me how he did. I tell him he'll be fine, to just forget himself and think the words he has to say.

God gives more grace.

my guys

There go my guys, mowing the grass.....

My Farmer, dark from his hours in the fields, one muscled forearm wrapped securely around his boy, the other steering one-handed around flowerbeds and fruit trees, campfire and clothesline and picnic table. He finishes one day of work and comes home to another - children and homecare.  When he heard, this afternoon, that our son was more intractable than usual, he told me "I'll fix him."  Needless to say, he is my hero, again, always.

Lil' Snip (who's got his finger in his mouth and his shirt pulled up to expose his tummy to the air) wiggles his toes and stretches out one arm, feeling the breeze, maybe, or maybe trying to anticipate the direction of the mower.  He is on the cusp of toddlerhood, leaving behind the days of innocent impetuous babyhood, and embarking full-throttle into all the glories of conscious (and thwarted) desires.  I love him; I pity him.

There go my guys, mowing the grass......

[.....thud....thud.....thud.....  There goes my heart, watching them out the window.....]

rewrite

What are little girls made of, made of?

What are little girls made of?

Sugar, and Spice, and Everything Nice,

That's what little girls are made of!

What are little boys made of, made of?

What are little boys made of?

Snips, and snails, and puppy dog tails,

That's what little boys are made of?

Well, if you read little house on the farm, then you know that this poem inspired the blognames for my children.  It was so tidy with the girls, and lining up both with their birth order and their personalities, so it seemed a natural to dub our first son "Lil' Snip", in case we have two more and need "Snails" and "Puppy Dog Tails", you know.

But .... my Farmer has mentioned to me, as an aside, that while "Lil' Snip" may seem cute to the female readers (i.e. "a little snip of a thing", i.e. "small") ..... it may have different associations for male readers. He recommends a change.

So, anyone who knows the small boy in question, what think you?  Shall it be "Snails" for the little gentleman, or "Puppy"?  Or perhaps "Tails"?  ..... or maybe I need a different poem altogether for boys....

Help me out, gentle-readers, with a suggestion or two, if you would be so kind.  

for your inspiration!  :o)

little house on the farm

Well, I think it's time you met my people.

Lil' Snip chewing on his lion toy

 Let's do Lil' Snip first, since he's the cutest and if we save him for last, everyone else will fade in your memory. Lil' Snip is so full of life that if he's not trotting around, he often has to wiggle to let out extra joy. His toy of the minute is a dolly stroller that he can push and - far more importantly - shake! He also likes to "play" piano and put his head into a box (any box will do, as long as it's big enough) and take toys out of whatever container they're in. (No, I haven't taught him to put them back in yet. Feel free to offer lessons.) He loves trucks and tractors and loud noises and all music (but especially Daddy's piano and banjo music). He laughs at funny faces and rough-housing and tickles.  I am having fun wowing him with my lightswitch magic - on!  off!  on!  off!  Mommy is so amazing!!

Everything Nice, posing with her snowman

Next up, age-wise, is Everything Nice. You've heard the expression "still waters run deep"? That's Nice. She keeps mum about a lot of things (the first one we've had to encourage to "use your words.") but comes up with some doozies sometimes that let you know she's got a lot going on in that pretty little head. When she's not "still", she has an intuitive flair for drama.  Her favorite things are cutting with scissors, writing, and playing with kitties, water and Lil' Snip. She hops, sings, hums, and otherwise be-bops to her own internal, never-stopping rhythm. Food passions include popcorn, pasta, and lentil sprouts. We credit Nice with getting us Lil' Snip – she used to pray at night, “Jesus, you give me a baby boy?”, pause, then tell us, “He says not yet.” A little over a year later God sent us Lil' Snip! Nice has always been a baby-lover, and at last she has one of her own to dote upon (although that “baby” is picking up speed daily....!).

Spice, tickled with an oyster mushroom find

And then there's Spice. Spice is nothing if not spicy. Taking after one of her parents (you may guess which one), Spice doesn't feel things by halves.

“There once was a girl,

who had a little curl

right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

she was very, very good,

and when she was bad, she was horrid!”

Except for the curl, that's Spice – saucy, sweet, tender, terrible, bright, furious and full of potential! Spice loves her cats and understands them like no one else. Ever since she succumbed to reading, she has made many friends in books. Spice is a natural teacher, and Nice has benefited many a time from her patient tutelage. When I give Spice a job to do, I can be sure that she will do it with excellence. Her standards are high, and she is not often satisfied with her efforts to meet them. Spice, Spice, life is never dull when you're around! We're glad you're ours!

Sugar, with a bear she made for an orphan

Ah, Sugar. Sugar, our first-born, is an eldest's eldest. She is organized, mature, capable, and neat.  She is also beginning to develop some inherited tendencies towards practical joking.  I believe April Fool's Day ranks right up there with Christmas and her birthday with Sugar!  Her memory puts mine to shame (and I put hers to use remembering things for me!) and she likes to know what is coming. While her siblings do not always appreciate her “leadership abilities”, we see her tempering them more and more often with kindness and humility. When Sugar puts her mind to a task, she does it briskly and efficiently. Sugar is an excellent helper around the house and with her adored Lil' Snip. She is a sponge for learning and her mind seems to be particularly tuned to the natural sciences and the Bible. A wonderful mix!  

my Farmer, playing piano with Lil' Snip

And what can I say about my Farmer? He is constant, he is funny, he is wise. He works hard, laughs easily, forgives quickly, advises gently, accepts always. He is my friend, my companion, my encourager. He amazes me with his memory for obscure facts, his courage for risk, his capacity for vision and hope, and his ability to learn, and learn, and learn some more. I think I know him, his limits, and he re-invents himself again. I could live with him a hundred years and he would never grow old to me. 

 He is or has been: a history buff, a sharpshooter, a jazz trombonist, an English teacher to foreigners, a bow-fisherman, a car salesman, a gourmet home-chef, a landscaper, a loving but authoritative father, a gardener, a manager of mentally and physically challenged workers, a Sunday School teacher, an expert on grafting and a grower of tropical fruit, an improv pianist, a manager of an organic community vegetable farm, a butcher, a capable amateur plumber / electrician / carpenter, a banjo plucker, a greenhouse nurseryman, a hobby mycologist. How can I help loving this remarkable man who inexplicably chooses me?

My family:  I am so glad God put us together!!

me & my Farmer at Chincoteague a few years ago

Spice and Nice stirring the granola

my Farmer, doing what needs to be done

my happy Lil' Snip!

my Farmer teaching Lil' Snip to identify mushrooms

Lil' Snip discovering clover

Sugar with her favorite baby boy

(back to front) Sugar, Spice, & Everything Nice