RIP, John

We've been fans of John Prine for a long, long time and were saddened to learn that he died last night from complications of the coronavirus. In his memory, I'm republishing a blog that I wrote 10 years ago when we were just dreaming of moving to the country. RIP, John. 

Eat a Lot of Peaches

At the Palace Theatre on Friday night folk singer/songwriter John Prine put into song a description of what I hope our life on the farm will be like. In his Spanish Pipedream, he sang:

Blow up your TV,
Throw away your paper,
Go to the country,
Build you a home,
Plant a little garden,
Eat a lot of peaches,
Try an find Jesus on your own

The song goes on to talk about a topless dancer doing the hoochy-coo, which sounds kinda kinky.  And I'm also not sure Ed would be willing to blow up our TV as he is quite fond of Jeopardy, college football, golf and Modern Family. But I really like the part about planting a little garden and eating a lot of peaches.

John Prine in concert on Friday night

John Prine also sang about the glory of true love, which seemed especially poignant to me as Ed and I celebrated our 25th anniversary earlier in the week.

Oh the glory of true love
Is a wild and precious thing
It don’t grow on old magnolias
Or only blossom in the spring
No the glory of true love
Is it will last your whole life through
Never will go out of fashion
Always will look good on you

You can climb the highest mountain
Touch the moon and stars above
But Old Faithful’s just a fountain
Compared to the glory of true love

So here's to my true love. May we move to the country. Plant a little garden and eat a lot of peaches. Check out that hoochy-coo thing. And, who knows, maybe even find Jesus on our own...

Every happiness

Last weekend Ed and I attended a celebration of marriage at Crescent Hill Baptist Church. I tend to get teary-eyed at weddings and this one was no exception. 

The couple has been together for seven years, mostly via a transatlantic relationship. Finally, they were able to officially make declarations of their love, exchange vows and rings and be pronounced husband and husband. I cried.

Ed and I were honored to attend this service and to watch them joyfully recess to My Old Kentucky Home, with trumpet and organ fanfare. Afterward we celebrated with supper and a cabaret at the Pendennis Club in downtown Louisville.

Often I am embarrassed by my state for its conservative attitudes on a number of political or moral issues. But last Saturday, I witnessed progress. 

Paraphrasing the officiant:
We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of a gay Christian man to his long-time Muslim partner at a Baptist Church in Kentucky. 

Progress indeed!

Wishing Steve and Sam every happiness as they begin their married life together.

Put a Poem in Your Pocket

Did you know that April is National Poetry Month? I'm not sure I would have known if I hadn't been trying to add more poetry into my life.

My favorite part of the month-long celebration is the Poem in Your Pocket Day, celebrated on Thursday, April 26. On this day you are encouraged to select a poem and carry it with you, sharing it with others that you meet. (hashtag #pocketpoem). There is just something I love about handwriting out a poem, tucking it into my pocket and then sharing it with others. It requires some thoughtfulness to select the perfect poem and then some courage to pull it out and share it.

Poem in Your Pocket Day was first celebrated in April 2002 in New York City. In 2008, the Academy of American Poets spread the celebration to all fifty states and in 2016, the League of Canadian Poets joined in.

I've been thinking of what poem I want to tuck in my pocket on Thursday. At first, I was sure I'd pick one from my three favorite living poets: Mary Oliver, Billy Collins or Wendell Berry. I was leaning toward one that I've shared with you before: perhaps Mary Oliver's Green, Green is my Sister's House or maybe Billy Collins' The Lanyard, or maybe Wendell Berry's To Know the Dark.

But instead, I think I'll share one from a poet that I recently discovered: Jeanne Lohmann.

Questions Before Dark

Day ends, and before sleep

when the sky dies down, consider

your altered state: has this day

changed you? Are the corners

sharper or rounded off? Did you

live with death? Make decisions

that quieted? Find one clear word

that fit? At the sun’s midpoint

did you notice a pitch of absence,

bewilderment that invites

the possible? What did you learn

from things you dropped and picked up

and dropped again? Did you set a straw

parallel to the river, let the flow

carry you downstream?

I love the part about finding one clear word that fits and the one about whether my corners are sharper or rounded off. And of course, the last line reminds my of playing Poohsticks.

So, my question for you is what poem will you pick to put in your pocket?

Why collect?

I'm a collector. There, I've said it. None of my collections are valuable; but all are priceless.

I do understand that there is a fine line between collecting and hoarding. If I start to waver on that point, Maggie stands ready to remind me – and her dad – in no uncertain terms that she does not want to be the one to someday have to deal with all our stuff. We hear you, Maggie, but sometimes it is hard to resist a new treasure.

I started thinking about this concept of collecting last month as I was setting our table for my bookclub luncheon. I started wondering why I collect what I do, and what will happen to my collections down the road. Will they end up with a child or grandchild? In a quirky museum? In a yard sale? Or scattered to the four winds?

I digress. Back to my table setting...to the trio of glass vases filled with branches and bulbs, I added a large glass paperweight that had belonged to my grandmother. Then I searched in various cabinets for two oval paperweights that I inherited from my great aunt Melta, the small Venetian glass one that Ira Lee, Ed's dad, carried back from WWII as a gift to his bride, and the one that Ed bought me years ago. All of a sudden, I had amassed a collection. And now that they are gathered together, I can't seem to tuck them back into their cabinets or give them away. I'll catalog this collection as 1) collecting with memory by association. 

Then there's my Natural History collection that resides on our back porch. It is a mishmash of odd items that we have picked up on our wanderings around the farm: a bleached turtle shell, deer skull, fossils, a horseshoe, glass medicine bottle, fungus conks, a snake skin... I don't need to keep any of these items, but they seem to capture the attention of young visitors and squeamish older ones. This collection I claim as 2) farm history. 

Let's move on to my collection of pottery – which I do love, but which may be getting out of control. I recently gathered many of the pieces and arranged them on our mantle. They are too many. I mean, really, how many bowls, pitchers and vases does one need? (They did, however, come in handy for Maggie and Nate's wedding.) Let's put them in the category: 3) practical.

In that same category, I could put my wooden spoon collection. I use one or more of them everyday. Most of these spoons come from our travels; they make great souvenirs and are easy to pack. I think they deserve their own category: 4) souvenirs.

Let's move on to our collection of wooden horses. It started with one that we found 30 years ago in an antique/junk shop in Windermere, Canada. Once we had one, the others just seemed to follow and now we have nearly a dozen. I'm not sure why we collect them: perhaps because we live in horse country; perhaps because I was a horse maniac as a 10-year-old; perhaps I just like how they look, individually and collectively. Let's call this collection 5) just because.

And finally, our art collection, especially the paintings that hang high above our bookshelves. All of these are by self-taught artists, many are family portraits, and most feature red-heads. It's a weird collection, but one that sets the tone for the quirkiness of our home. 6) Home-making.

That's enough about my collections for one day. Even though Ed keeps asking about the whereabouts of his antique shaving mugs, I'm not ready to start digging through the boxes that are still unpacked in the basement. 

But I'm curious, what do you collect? And why? What do you think will become of your collections once you are no longer able to tend to them? Will they end up in a museum or a yard sale? Do tell.

Beware of the Honey Imposters!

This year was not a good honey year here at Farm Dover. We harvested a few bottles, but left the rest in the hives for the bees to consume this winter.  They will need more than 100 pounds of it to survive the cold months.

I noticed that the two remaining bottles from this summer's harvest had crystallized a bit, which is perfectly natural. To return them to their clear state, I simply placed them in a pan of hot water and left them there until the water cooled.

I'm not sure what we will do once we go through these two bottles. Buying honey at a supermarket is just not an option for us. Food Safety News reports that more than three-fourths of the honey sold in U.S. grocery stores isn't exactly what the bees produce. It's fake, impure or adulterated. It has added glucose, dextrose, molasses, sugar syrup, flour, corn syrup or other similar products. It may also be tainted with illegal antibiotics and heavy metals. Yuck!

It is almost impossible to tell if the honey you are buying is the real thing. Here's a link to a chart that shows ways you can try to distinguish real from fake honey -- but all require you to open the bottle for testing which is probably not a good idea while you are standing in the baking aisle. Your best solution is to purchase it from a trusted local beekeeper. Don't be fooled by honey imposters.

Monday Fun Day

“As you walk down the fairway of life you must smell the roses,
for you only get to play one round.” - Ben Hogan

For the past six weeks, Ed and I have played a Monday round of golf. This may not seem remarkable – especially to regular golfers – but for us, it is a bit of a big deal. You see, we haven't played golf but a handful of times since moving out to Farm Dover.

We have designated Mondays as our fun days. We either walk nine holes at Clear Creek Golf Course in Shelbyville or we ride 18-holes at Eagle Creek down the road in LaGrange.

Pine Mountain State Park

We don't take ourselves too seriously. I'm always asking for a mulligan, or pitching my ball out from under a bush, or asking for a putt give. I pretty sure I could never play in an organized event as I don't remember the official rules.

I grew up in a golfing family. My dad was a scratch golfer and sister Sherry played college golf. At age 86, Dad continues to hit golf balls most every day, and Sherry continues, seemingly without much practice, to win tournaments around town. Back in the 1970's, the three older Carpenter girls made up 3/4 of the Eastern High Girls' Golf Team. But even then, I was the weak link: I'm just not competitive.

Even on our recent outings, I spend most of my time looking at the trees, trying to identify them by their bark or by the few clinging leaves. I wear my hiking shoes instead of golf shoes. My golf bag flaunts a few holes chewed by mice. My golf balls are so old they don't seem to fly right. But none of that matters.

On a good day, we each have a few nice shots; the ones in between leave plenty of room for improvement. How well or how poorly we play isn't really important. What matters is that we are out there trying; getting a bit of exercise and fresh air; laughing as we chase a white ball around. Having a fun day.

Celebrating the Year of the Red Fire Monkey

Today marks the Chinese New Year, the year of the Red Fire Monkey. I only know this because Jack (who lives in China) let us know that he would be traveling with friends to Taiwan and then on to Myanmar for the Chinese holiday.

From two years ago, when we traveled to China to visit Jack

I also was aware that it was the Chinese New Year today because our Chinese friend Shoating (aka Ting a Lin) sent us a wechat message this morning that included a virtual red envelope with 5.20 yuan of lucky money (about $.79) that is to be deposited into our virtual wallet. Thank you Shoating. What a thoughtful gesture!

Evidently this giving of money in a red packet is the thing to do when celebrating the Chinese New Year. It is a way of sending good wishes and luck. Wrapping money in red paper is hoped to bring happiness and blessings to the receivers. Oddly, the red packet is called  yasui qian, which means "suppressing ghosts money." Those who receive a red packet are wished another year negotiated safely and peacefully.

So this afternoon, I prepared a New Year's red packet for Jack and tucked it into a red Valentine's card. I love this mixing of cultures. But both messages are meant to let Jack know that we love him and wish him great happiness and blessings in the coming year, negotiated safely and peacefully.

Happy Year of the Red Fire Monkey to all – especially to Jack and his friends in China.

Silly Old Bear

If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient.
It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.

– A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh (all quotes)

If you are lucky, and if you've had a rather charmed childhood, you may still have in your possession your favorite stuffed animal.

I've got Pooh, and he's got me. He came into my life at age two, sent as a present by an extravagant great uncle who lived in Manhattan and had taken to holiday shopping at FAO Schwarz for his young Louisville relations.

“I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.” 

Most of Pooh's friends from the Hundred-Acre Woods found their way under our Christmas tree in 1959: Piglet, Tigger, Kanga, Roo and Rabbit. There is a slight recollection of Eyore, but no lasting record of him, and Owl seems to never have been sent.

Wherever I went, Pooh went with me, as evidenced by his stained skin, his often re-attached button eyes and his need for an entirely new red t-shirt made by Grandmommy.

"It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words
but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?” 

I was fond of the other animals and played with them some, but it was Pooh that I claimed as my own, stubbornly unwilling to share with my sisters. He has followed me to every home and eventually became beloved of Maggie, Jack and Mary.

I lost track of Piglet, Tigger and the rest of the gang. That is until this past weekend when sister Kathy and husband George came to Farm Dover for a hike and an early supper. She came bearing a large box from William Sonoma, surely a coveted culinary birthday gift. Once the ribbon had been cut and the box opened, out bounced Tigger, followed by Piglet, Rabbit, and Kanga. Roo was found hiding among the tissue paper.

“Just because an animal is large, it doesn't mean he doesn't want kindness;
however big Tigger seems to be, remember that he wants as much kindness as Roo.” 

“Hello, Rabbit,' he said, 'is that you?'
'Let's pretend it isn't,' said Rabbit, 'and see what happens.” 

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart,
it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.” 

“It is hard to be brave, when you're only a Very Small Animal.” 

They have been reunited with Pooh and are all set for continued adventures in the Forty-Acre Woods of Farm Dover.

“You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you.
You have to go to them sometimes.” 

“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.
Even longer,' Pooh answered.” 

Down in the dump(s)

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been down in the dump(s). No, I've not been discouraged, depressed or even sad. Rather, I've been literally down in the dumps: the dumps of Farm Dover. And Ed's been with me.

You see, we are cleaning up an old farm dump that we've known about, but chosen to ignore – until now. Farm Dover was once part of a much larger farm that supported a number of families. And, as was custom at the time, the inhabitants hauled their trash to a remote part of the farm and dumped it. Year after year, layer after layer, they deposited their empty glass bottles and plastic jugs, their worn-out clothes, their broken implements, appliances, toys and tires. In the summer, you would have to know exactly where the dump is to find it. Vines cover the evidence. But in the winter, it lies bare, exposing the ugly reality.

Now, layer by layer, we are attempting to clean it up, hauling the remnants in our pickup truck to the Shelby County Solid Waste and Recycling Center. We are separating the glass, the plastic, the aluminum, the metal, for recycling. The rest we will heave into the large garbage disposal bins, paying $.03 per pound for the privilege, where it will make its way to yet another landfill.

We've barely made a dent. So this may take us some time. But it seems the right thing to do.

Truth be told, it does get me a bit down in the dumps just thinking about it. It takes time, lots of time, for garbage to decompose. For example:

• Glass Bottle: 1 million years
• Plastic Beverage Bottle: 450 years
• Disposable Diapers: 450 years
• Aluminum Can: 80-200 years
• Leather: 50 years
• Plastic Bag: 10-20 years
• Foamed Plastic Cup: 50 years
• Cigarette Butt: 1-5 years
• Wool Sock: 1-5 years
• Newspaper: 6 weeks
• Paper Towel: 2-4 weeks

The average American produces more than four pounds of trash and recyclables per day, about 1,500 pounds per year. The very process of cleaning up this dump has me all in a dither about the number of Tide detergent bottles our tiny household goes through, the number of plastic arugula, kale and berry boxes we purchase every time we go to Kroger, even the plastic pots that the trees we plant arrive in. Yes, we recycle all that we can, but it's got me to thinking. And to acting. More later.... 

Bringing light to Farm Dover

My sisters and cousins were coming for lunch today. But based on an alarming weather forecast, we decided to postpone it until next week. Snow was on its way.

I had the whole day stretching out in front of me. Too cold and snowy to work outside. Time for a project...

I had beeswax from Maggie's hives in my pantry. I had recently rendered lard in my freezer. And I had some left-over spice tins. So, like a pioneer of olden days, I made candles.

It was simple: I melted twice as much beeswax as lard and poured it into a tin with a wick. Let it harden for 30 minutes. Done.

I now have five clean-burning, sweet-smelling, all-natural candles that will bring light to Farm Dover on these early dark nights.

A Blueberry Picking Kind of Morning

Strawberry season is officially over. So this morning at 8:15 Ed, Dudley (our friend and houseguest), and I headed down a very foggy Dover Road to Earthwave Farm to do some blueberry picking. The U-pick farm is located on Moody Pike only about 10 miles from Farm Dover.  There were lots of big, ripe berries that were easy to pick. Working down the rows, our buckets quickly filled up.

Once home, I rinsed and packed some of our haul into quart mason jars and froze the rest. This should get us through the week – but I'm planning to go back again soon. Picking days are Tuesdays and Saturdays. Let me know if you want to come along.... 

Like Losing an Old Friend

One of the things that Ed and I love about living out in the country is exploring the back roads of Shelby County. Often on our way to or from somewhere, we'll take a road just to see where it goes and what we might see on it. I'm always on the lookout for old barns. The timeless architecture of these often-decrepit structures never fails to catch my eye and capture my imagination. I like to think about all the history and hard labor that these barns have witnessed over the years.

My favorite old barn is one that we pass every time we head into Shelbyville. It sits at the edge of Aiken Road, just before Highway 53, across from Wild Carrot Farm. It stands empty most of the year, but is filled with golden tobacco hanging from the rafters in the fall. I've written about it before and we stopped to take some photos last September.

I should clarify and say that this barn was my favorite. Here's what we saw when we came up over the hill today: a very sad sight indeed.

The almost constant rain of the past two days and strong wind gusts were evidently just too much for it. Like a very old and tired person, it just collapsed – falling in on itself.  A mass of old posts, beams, wood siding, and tin roofing came crashing down. The only thing that appeared to be inside the barn was a large – and neatly arranged – stack of ancient tobacco sticks.

Next to the barn was a old tree, snapped in two.

My heart ached to see this old barn reduced to a pile of rubble. I feel like I've lost a friend. I'll miss it terribly.

Why I blog (500 posts and counting)

I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at,
 what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. – Joan Didion

                           

On September 21, 2010 I wrote my first blog post, and today, I’m writing my 500^th. That’s a lot of posts – and for those readers who have been with me on this four-year+ journey, that’s a lot of reading, a lot of loyalty. I thank you for it.

I began writing my blog so that our three grown, out-of-town children would feel connected to the new life that Ed and I were embarking on. After all, we were leaving the only home they remembered, downsizing our belongings, while upsizing our spirits of adventure. We were leaving behind our urban lifestyle – turning in our dress clothes for overalls, my high heels and Ed’s wingtips for muck boots, and our minivan for a pickup truck. I wanted Maggie, Jack and Mary to follow along on our adventure, embrace our new home, and feel welcomed there.

To our friends back in Louisville and around the world, I have always felt that writing my posts is a bit like writing postcards: A way to say hello and that we are alive and well.

After the first year or so I realized that writing about our new life was something I needed to do, that it helped me understand the decisions Ed and I were making, and by telling our story to someone else – to you – it helped me better understand it.

My blog is brought to you from the geeks at blogspot and occasionally I check in to see how many people are reading my site and from what country they are checking it.  Today, for example 136 people have viewed my site. Thanks to Jack, I have readers in Canada, Germany and China. Somehow, I’ve picked up readers in the United Kingdom, France, Russia and Australia. Most people find me through facebook, but some find me by search words. The most popular being mirror over the bed – which I’m pretty sure is kind of kinky.

Whether or not anyone regularly reads my blog, I will, for the time being, keep writing these posts. It has become much more for my own creative expression, my own desire, my own gift to myself – that keeps me at it. I’ve come to realize that I’m documenting a piece of my personal history – a piece that is important for me to remember. Perhaps I will suffer as my mother suffered and won’t remember how wonderful my life was in 2010 or 2014, or perhaps my lovely life will come crashing down and I’ll have a need to remind myself that my life was truly shining for far more than one brief moment.

I’m not sure how long I will continue to blog. Perhaps I’ll find some other creative outlet: I’ll take up drawing, or yoga, or making Santa Clauses from old pantyhose.  But until I do, you’ll find me here sharing a photo of a weird insect or a beautiful sunrise, recording our travels, providing a recipe to a daughter living far away, experimenting with my garden, celebrating our joys and acknowledging our sorrows, taking long walks in every season, and, in every way, enjoying our life here on Farm Dover.