On reading and writing in the kitchen...

Outside the sun is pouring into this warm Monday in January as if the day itself was ice cream left out five minutes too long and perhaps it ought to be placed back into the freezer. Justin and Jake are taking their naps after a long day Sunday of running through the creek bottom at Grandma and Grandpa's farm. The hubby has left for the day to tour milking parlors in Green Bay.  He'll be back long after dark, after night chores on three farms and a four hour drive home.

For my own sanity, I have exactly forty-five minutes for piping hot green tea, in a John Deere cup no less, and reading essays about women writers.  The content of the book is not the biographical sort, no, more a cupful of thoughts from writers on writing itself and what basically amounts sharing mental dialogue in essay form.


The warmest spot in the house is on the south side in the kitchen.  I lean over the cool stove and don't even notice until a shadow begins to cast over me that  I'm standing and not lounged in the typical leather recliner whereby otherwise more inclined to fall asleep as I would. The slight yellowing of the pages, because my book sits on the shelf long enough to collect its own old age, blends right in with the bisque stove. Black words appear to feed out between burners in the absence of the book. Bizarre if you think about it. I sometimes ask myself why I never put curtains on the kitchen window and it becomes a little clearer.   That yellowing sun is my friend. You could pretty much describe me as a stay home mom who doesn't get out as much as most. Like many country folks, the sun and outdoors are two principle comforts.  I drink one or the other or both when when I can.


Whenever I read,  I'm an old airplane that doesn't have a starter much less a key. Likewise, spinning the crank to get the engine going is the only option and then I run just fine.  I begin my writing like that.  I piggy back on someone else's thoughts until suddenly my own are ignited and begin flying.  Then I drop the book and make my own black letters and find my own destination. Usually, the kids wake up and then I land my proverbial plane.  That is exactly what the essay I read was about: finding time to write in the middle of things and sometimes not at all and why that is okay too.  

Those nervous cedar trees!

On the outside, little is new with me today.  A calm breeze blows outside my office window, I see it on the cedar trees that line the driveway, the way the bottom branches bob up and down like they are fishing for something. 

On the inside though, I'm a bit more driven in ways that anger and frighten me.  Yesterday, I found out my dad had yet another stroke, this one milder than the first, thankfully.  The doctors have sent him back home where he, incidentally, will be much happier with his dog.  After all, my dad was always a farm boy and you can't take that comfort out of him. I feel like running to check on him (three hours away) though I also know that's not going to fix everything.

As I was following my morning routine of getting my daughter off to school, fixing breakfast for the boys, changing diapers and all the usual, I felt a little anger or at least frustration forcing my step which translated became an incredible urge to get outside and experiment in late winter's mild temperament.  The kids had to come too, there was no excuse not to get busy or at least get exercise. 

We developed a plan.  My boys and I dragged a huge box from the garage and set it in the kids' wagon and we rolled it over through the muddy springlike yard to the newly remodeled shop.  So glad to have that space back!  It was a dump wagon the family got for Christmas from their other grandpa and grandma and we were bound and determined to put it together.  We got close to finishing it, and I will have to admit, I had to wait for someone with a few more muscles than I to complete the project.  The kids had fun playing without a doubt.  Seems like they have much more fun when mom or dad are busy doing something than when mom or dad are busy watching them.  Carrying around wrenches, riding the tricycle, climbing the hood of tractor that had been set on the floor, and drawing with chalk kept them occupied and relatively trouble free the whole time.

Somewhere between watching the kids and perusing through toolboxes for the correct wrenches, I stepped on an unwelcome thought.  Sometimes I spend way too much time needing the right tool, or the right information, or the right person to get the job done.  Though, this is certainly a catch-22 that can be hard to circumvent.  Sometimes its hard to accomplish what I want to accomplish without needing help and sometimes I desire the satisfaction of not having to ask.  Alas, we all need to find comfort in working in tandem with others, too.

Next, we nailed together sissy's pink kitten picture which she had created a few days ago.  It was a puzzle kitty, made out of pieces of scrap wood using a marker and "pink cattle paint".  I decided to nail it together so daddy could hang it up.

I never thought the shop could be so much fun for me and the kids.  As it warms up, our world opens up.  We can play in the barns and granary and shed and most anywhere outside.  Though, I have to say we have to be careful because this farm is one busy place.  When I grew up on farm we saw one vehicle a week and it was the milk truck.  On our farm, however, people and trucks and machinery are coming and going all the time.  It's a fact of life and we have to be aware of it.

When we came in, my husband had offered to make lunch, ham with fried potatoes, and most welcome surprise! What a nice change of pace not to have to worry about what to cook next and when. 

Sometimes, I think I'm a lot like those cedars trees, bobbing up and down and fishing for something, sometimes nervous with worries, but most of the time at peace with the family on the farm, hanging out.

My little boy's inaugural walk to the barn...Part II

Feed Alley Runway

Justin showed his farm boy stuff again...in this nice warm weather. Tonight we walked through the other barn, we call it the freestall barn, where the cows eat and sleep in the winter months.  From one end to the other, determination flowed as little Justin aimed to study each cow, even as he sailed by in his stiff and "conking" size five toddler mud boots.  The last one hundred feet, he slowed to look at me.  A small but brilliant--I'm looking at you mommy-- smile took over his entire chubby-cheeked face.  Assured I captured his glance, he maneuvered  his small arms directly behind himself as far his little fingers could reach, flattening his little hands as if to adjust the rudders, and did what we call "the airplane" the last stretch of the feed alley.  Brilliant exudation of happiness.  Nothing better than watching a young child metaphorically lifting himself off the ground! Inspecting the cows, I'm pretty convinced he's a farm boy already though maybe a pilot from a former life as well.