They arrived late, nearly nine o’clock at night, two strangers who were spending the night with us. They were participants in Dianne’s soul collage card workshop who needed a place to stay since the farmhouse was not available. I teased them as they came in and took their shoes off at the door... “You must have grown up on a farm and been raised right,” I said. Jay smiled as she handed me two bottles of wine as a hostess present. “I was raised on a farm in Vermont and loved it.”
The next morning we ate fresh eggs and sausage for breakfast before the farm tour. Michael tucked them in the Kubota and drove to the Sound of Music Hill to feed the cows. The girls got “slobbered” as they fed the cows bread and a good time was had by all. Feeding the horses, donkeys and chickens was the icing on the cake for them. They came in giggling and happy, ready for the day.
After the workshop, they came back up the hill to gather their things together to leave. As she hugged me, I saw a flash of sadness cross Jay’s face and I wondered... Michael and I stood and waved good by to them, telling them to be careful, come back, we loved having you visit. They drove off on their way back to their lives in another city.
Later I asked Dianne about Jay and the sadness I saw in her face. She is a successful business woman who owns several businesses with her husband. When you first meet her, her bubbly laugh is the first thing you notice about her and yet... Dianne told me she is struggling with caring for her parents, one of them an addict. This farm has become a place of solace for her, a shelter in a time of storm. She will be back for another workshop and a time of healing, no longer a stranger but one who belongs to us.
One of my friends asked if it was scary having complete strangers in our house. I hadn’t even thought of it that way. They had a need I could meet, it was helpful for my friend Dianne with her workshop, and I enjoy having our house full of people. Michael’s dad loved to recite a poem about a man readying his house for a visit from the Master, Jesus. In the busyness of getting ready, he turned away people who came to his door with needs. At the end of the day when the Master had not come, he was confronted with the reality of having turned Jesus away in the form of every person who had come to his door that day.
My house wasn’t spotless but they did have clean sheets and towels. The food was plain, not fancy. The fire was warm, our welcome was genuine and the words by our front door spoke for us. “Let the guest sojourning here know that in this home our life is simple. What we cannot afford, we do not offer, but what good cheer we can give, we give gladly...So while you tarry here with us we would have thee enjoy the blessings of a home, health, love and freedom, and we pray that thou mayst find the final blessing of life... peace.”
I was a stranger and you took me in...
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Ferdinand...the Gentle Giant
I had long been dreading this day...
In the morning as I stood at the sink, I would look down at the stable and see Ferdinand stretched out in the sawdust under the run in, his massive head resting on the ground. I would stand and watch him thinking, “This is what he will look like when he is dead. Is he dead?” Then he would stir, lifting his head up, and I could breathe again.
When I went down to do my morning routine at the stable, Ferdie would wait while I fed Bud the Barn Cat first. If I took too long, he would go into his stall and wait for his breakfast. The problem was he was too big for me to get in the stall to feed him. His rump filled the door. So we would do a little dance. I’d rattle the feed bucket, he would ponderously turn and come outside to me, I would slip into the stall and pour out his feed in the corner, wait for him to come in, scratch his ears, pat his back and slip out. I loved that old curly haired red bull.
Twenty one years ago, mama and daddy drove down to Mr. Ragan’s farm in North Florida to buy a bull. Mr. Ragan specialized in English Shorthorns, a multi-purpose breed, that daddy liked. They chose a solid red boy with a long straight back and a curly mophead. For fifty dollars, Mr. Regan and his son Ben delivered him, and Ferdinand the Gentle Bull became a part of our family. Daddy hand fed and petted Ferdinand until he became a gentle giant. Our family picture book has pictures of children sitting on Ferd’s broad back, legs sticking straight out to the side, grinning in nervous disbelief. One of my favorite pictures of daddy has him sitting on his heels, squatting down in front of Ferd, holding the feed bucket while Ferdie eats his fill.
We had moved to Sabbath Rest Farm when daddy found out he had myelofibrosis. It would eventually kill him so he began to make preparations. He sent Ferd and a small band of cows to us as our starter herd. For eight years, Ferdie worked hard and we had a regular crop of calves every year. When he ran out of steam, we brought him up to the horse pasture for retirement. I fed him sweet feed twice a day and he had all the hay he could eat. He was my 2000 pound dog. Tim and Jeannie could see him from their home resting in the pasture nestled up next to the fence under the pine trees. When the weather was bad, he had a stall in the horse barn for shelter.
Yesterday morning, I went out to feed and muck. Ferd had not eaten his supper so I went looking for him. The pasture was empty and a section of the fence was flat on the ground, posts broken. I called Michael to alert him and we began walking the woods looking for Ferd. After an hour or so of searching, we found him stuck in a narrow ravine, unable to move and near death. Sometimes animals sense the approach of death and go off to die alone. Ferdie had never tried to go through the fence before so I am choosing to believe he was answering an invisible call, a signal that his end was near.
As I sat watching old Ferd, tears streaming down my face, I knew he needed help. Our rifle is a twenty two and I feared it would not do the job so a neighbor came bringing a larger caliber gun. I couldn’t bear to be there so Michael and Kenny did what needed to be done. I went to mama’s house, sat with her and told stories about daddy and Ferd. Leisa and Julie came to keep us company in our grief and as women have done for centuries, wept with us.
We will bury our old bull near the leaning barn, in the midst of the comings and goings of cows and humans. His gentle spirit will live on in our hearts. We returned to Mr. Ragan’s farm last November to pick up our next shorthorn bull, Little Ferdinand. I am working with him, gentling and preparing him to live up to his namesake. The evening after Ferd’s death, Fanny went into labor. To everything, there is a season...a time to die and a time to be born. Always, always there is new life, resurrection in the midst of death. Thanks be to God.
In the morning as I stood at the sink, I would look down at the stable and see Ferdinand stretched out in the sawdust under the run in, his massive head resting on the ground. I would stand and watch him thinking, “This is what he will look like when he is dead. Is he dead?” Then he would stir, lifting his head up, and I could breathe again.
When I went down to do my morning routine at the stable, Ferdie would wait while I fed Bud the Barn Cat first. If I took too long, he would go into his stall and wait for his breakfast. The problem was he was too big for me to get in the stall to feed him. His rump filled the door. So we would do a little dance. I’d rattle the feed bucket, he would ponderously turn and come outside to me, I would slip into the stall and pour out his feed in the corner, wait for him to come in, scratch his ears, pat his back and slip out. I loved that old curly haired red bull.
Twenty one years ago, mama and daddy drove down to Mr. Ragan’s farm in North Florida to buy a bull. Mr. Ragan specialized in English Shorthorns, a multi-purpose breed, that daddy liked. They chose a solid red boy with a long straight back and a curly mophead. For fifty dollars, Mr. Regan and his son Ben delivered him, and Ferdinand the Gentle Bull became a part of our family. Daddy hand fed and petted Ferdinand until he became a gentle giant. Our family picture book has pictures of children sitting on Ferd’s broad back, legs sticking straight out to the side, grinning in nervous disbelief. One of my favorite pictures of daddy has him sitting on his heels, squatting down in front of Ferd, holding the feed bucket while Ferdie eats his fill.
We had moved to Sabbath Rest Farm when daddy found out he had myelofibrosis. It would eventually kill him so he began to make preparations. He sent Ferd and a small band of cows to us as our starter herd. For eight years, Ferdie worked hard and we had a regular crop of calves every year. When he ran out of steam, we brought him up to the horse pasture for retirement. I fed him sweet feed twice a day and he had all the hay he could eat. He was my 2000 pound dog. Tim and Jeannie could see him from their home resting in the pasture nestled up next to the fence under the pine trees. When the weather was bad, he had a stall in the horse barn for shelter.
Yesterday morning, I went out to feed and muck. Ferd had not eaten his supper so I went looking for him. The pasture was empty and a section of the fence was flat on the ground, posts broken. I called Michael to alert him and we began walking the woods looking for Ferd. After an hour or so of searching, we found him stuck in a narrow ravine, unable to move and near death. Sometimes animals sense the approach of death and go off to die alone. Ferdie had never tried to go through the fence before so I am choosing to believe he was answering an invisible call, a signal that his end was near.
As I sat watching old Ferd, tears streaming down my face, I knew he needed help. Our rifle is a twenty two and I feared it would not do the job so a neighbor came bringing a larger caliber gun. I couldn’t bear to be there so Michael and Kenny did what needed to be done. I went to mama’s house, sat with her and told stories about daddy and Ferd. Leisa and Julie came to keep us company in our grief and as women have done for centuries, wept with us.
We will bury our old bull near the leaning barn, in the midst of the comings and goings of cows and humans. His gentle spirit will live on in our hearts. We returned to Mr. Ragan’s farm last November to pick up our next shorthorn bull, Little Ferdinand. I am working with him, gentling and preparing him to live up to his namesake. The evening after Ferd’s death, Fanny went into labor. To everything, there is a season...a time to die and a time to be born. Always, always there is new life, resurrection in the midst of death. Thanks be to God.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Simple gifts...dirt
My sister and I had some grand and glorious tea parties in the front yard of the old farmhouse in Clyattville. Mama would give us a pan and off we’d go. We carried out our tea set, an old tablespoon for mixing and a vase. Carefully mixing South Georgia sand and water, we would get our mud just right for shaping tea cakes. Laying them out in the sun to bake, decorated with poke berries, we then gathered flowers for our centerpiece. Every tea party is a special occasion and special occasions demand a floral centerpiece. We sat with our pinky fingers extended just so and pretended to be ladies of high fashion as we conversed elegantly with dirt under our fingernails.
Now my hands get dirty, really dirty, everyday. Hay is dirty. Cows and horses are covered in muck and mud. At night I scrub my hands and nails with a small brush to remove the accumulated dirt. I have found myself looking at other people’s hands for evidence of dirt. Not many folks seem to get their hands dirty anymore. Most of us no longer have jobs that dirty our hands daily. We live in a world that is cleaner, more sterile, than it has ever been before. And I find myself wondering what we have lost in our clean hands society.
Dirt reminds me I am of and from the earth. No amount of scrubbing with hand sanitizer can remove me from the essential ground of my being. Ashes to ashes…dust to dust… Adam brought into being from the fertile ground returns to the ground when he dies as do we all. While we live on and in the earth, we gather dirt under our soul’s fingernails. Life is not neat and tidy for most of us. There are unforeseen mud wallows that bog us down, keep us mired in the clay. The dirt that bogs us down also grows poke berries and turnip greens, altheas and roses, tomatoes and trillium. If we can see and listen, there are gifts in those muddy days, Gifts of the Spirit.
Our family is wading through a mud wallow right now and I am looking for those gifts. Yesterday I found one in the sermon, words that caught my ear, words that I wrote down and brought home. The preacher was reading the story of Moses and the Children of Israel in the wilderness. The Egyptians were hot on their heels and the people were complaining to Moses bitterly about the dangers of freedom. Moses’ response was, “Do not be afraid. The Lord will fight for you. You have only to wait and be still.” So today I am being still and waiting in the mud wallow, waiting for the Lord to fight for us, waiting for the presence of the Holy One to come for me and my children. And as I wait, I pray. What else is there to do, after all?
Now my hands get dirty, really dirty, everyday. Hay is dirty. Cows and horses are covered in muck and mud. At night I scrub my hands and nails with a small brush to remove the accumulated dirt. I have found myself looking at other people’s hands for evidence of dirt. Not many folks seem to get their hands dirty anymore. Most of us no longer have jobs that dirty our hands daily. We live in a world that is cleaner, more sterile, than it has ever been before. And I find myself wondering what we have lost in our clean hands society.
Dirt reminds me I am of and from the earth. No amount of scrubbing with hand sanitizer can remove me from the essential ground of my being. Ashes to ashes…dust to dust… Adam brought into being from the fertile ground returns to the ground when he dies as do we all. While we live on and in the earth, we gather dirt under our soul’s fingernails. Life is not neat and tidy for most of us. There are unforeseen mud wallows that bog us down, keep us mired in the clay. The dirt that bogs us down also grows poke berries and turnip greens, altheas and roses, tomatoes and trillium. If we can see and listen, there are gifts in those muddy days, Gifts of the Spirit.
Our family is wading through a mud wallow right now and I am looking for those gifts. Yesterday I found one in the sermon, words that caught my ear, words that I wrote down and brought home. The preacher was reading the story of Moses and the Children of Israel in the wilderness. The Egyptians were hot on their heels and the people were complaining to Moses bitterly about the dangers of freedom. Moses’ response was, “Do not be afraid. The Lord will fight for you. You have only to wait and be still.” So today I am being still and waiting in the mud wallow, waiting for the Lord to fight for us, waiting for the presence of the Holy One to come for me and my children. And as I wait, I pray. What else is there to do, after all?
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Simple gifts...Six dogs and seventeen people
Seventeen chairs, four different kinds squeezed side by side around the table, held our Christmas family. Grandma, eighty five years old, was the oldest and the five great-grandsons were the youngest. Friends David and Dianne were a part of the mix along with six dogs. Serving the meal is an informal affair. Food is arranged along the bar and the stove with mamas serving their children first. We sit as we fill our plates then say grace when all are seated. The “talleyban” bowl is struck, the words of gratitude are spoken and the menorah is lit. It is mayhem with meaning.
The year has been the usual mix of grief and joy, struggles and accomplishments, worry and assurance. Uncle Harold died this year, the last of the Calhoun boys, and that loss weighed heavy on mama. New baby boy Colby came into the world after nine months of pregnancy related illness for his mother Alison. Michael’s transition into partial retirement and a knee replacement surgery are doing well after rehab for body and soul. All of us have had our usual share of challenges and triumphs but here we are, once again gathered as family in all its messy glory.
Watching four generations mill around, I can see bits and pieces of those who have gone before. Megan brought two banana nut breads created from her grandmother’s recipe, Michael’s mother Ann. Mason asks Grandma about Grandaddy’s picture, my daddy, that hangs in her hall. Adam and Michelle are giving Michael’s father’s desk a new home. We set the table with silver from mothers, grandmothers and great-aunts long dead. The living are surrounded by family unknown and unseen but present nonetheless.
I sit and listen to the Tower of Babel babble grateful for the mixed bag of family. There are no guarantees, no return policies, no quality assurance control for the family. The gene pool you get is not one selected from a USDA approved line. We all get a mixture of genetically predetermined possibilities with free choice as a leavening ingredient. The combinations are endless and fascinating. A world of hurt swims side by side with the goodies in the gene pool... predispositions to addictions, depression, physical conditions and other dark possibilities. We all get a generous helping of both and then begins the creative process as we go to work shaping who we become.
I watch my family and wonder what the future holds for them. I see through a glass darkly and am unable to know what life will be like for them. One thing I do know with certainty... the God who set all Creation in motion will be present for them all their lives. The Love that will not let me go will hold my children and grandchildren close when I am no longer here. And when I am gone from this Christmas gathering on earth, I will thank God for each year I have been given, for the murky gene pool from which I came, and for the laughter of children from one generation to another.
The year has been the usual mix of grief and joy, struggles and accomplishments, worry and assurance. Uncle Harold died this year, the last of the Calhoun boys, and that loss weighed heavy on mama. New baby boy Colby came into the world after nine months of pregnancy related illness for his mother Alison. Michael’s transition into partial retirement and a knee replacement surgery are doing well after rehab for body and soul. All of us have had our usual share of challenges and triumphs but here we are, once again gathered as family in all its messy glory.
Watching four generations mill around, I can see bits and pieces of those who have gone before. Megan brought two banana nut breads created from her grandmother’s recipe, Michael’s mother Ann. Mason asks Grandma about Grandaddy’s picture, my daddy, that hangs in her hall. Adam and Michelle are giving Michael’s father’s desk a new home. We set the table with silver from mothers, grandmothers and great-aunts long dead. The living are surrounded by family unknown and unseen but present nonetheless.
I sit and listen to the Tower of Babel babble grateful for the mixed bag of family. There are no guarantees, no return policies, no quality assurance control for the family. The gene pool you get is not one selected from a USDA approved line. We all get a mixture of genetically predetermined possibilities with free choice as a leavening ingredient. The combinations are endless and fascinating. A world of hurt swims side by side with the goodies in the gene pool... predispositions to addictions, depression, physical conditions and other dark possibilities. We all get a generous helping of both and then begins the creative process as we go to work shaping who we become.
I watch my family and wonder what the future holds for them. I see through a glass darkly and am unable to know what life will be like for them. One thing I do know with certainty... the God who set all Creation in motion will be present for them all their lives. The Love that will not let me go will hold my children and grandchildren close when I am no longer here. And when I am gone from this Christmas gathering on earth, I will thank God for each year I have been given, for the murky gene pool from which I came, and for the laughter of children from one generation to another.
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