sputtering away

Apple butter is sputtering away on the stove, canner at the ready to take it all in and preserve it through a boiling water bath.  The weather here in deep east Maine has been so beautiful, the roadsides washed in blazing colors- the likes I've never seen before.  Wherever I go, in my lap rests my old rickety camera- as some misguided soul stole my new one on my last trip to Illinois.  My zoom now is more like a sputter, my wide angle seems more like a key hole and there is no eye piece, which I really don't like.  I have my heart set on a new Canon but am waiting for some matching funds to come through.  I still take pictures and  have even been trying my hand at videos.  Luckily, the Big Fish and I have encountered three moose in the last week and have video taped with hilarious results.  He grunts like a moose and I laugh...all caught on audio.  I have shared one film with my friends and family, the others are damning...though when friends and family visit, maybe the shameful flicks will be just the ice breaker most needed to loosen things up a bit...hopefully, their curiosity getting them in gear to explore.

"See how foolish we are?  And you can be too...C'mon, let's go for a drive!"

 When my kids come to visit, even though what is going on outside is far more interesting than what's being played on the mind numb-er, they still spend too much time in front of the set and have made all the necessary adjustments to bring about the best programming and picture.  I always have work for them to do on our communication devices- so, I can't complain too much.

"Can you change the ink in the printer?"  "How do I upload this?" "Burn this CD for me...please?!"

We are nontechnical savvy folks...we can't for the life of us figure out our Wii, and how we might stream movies right to our television set.  I truly don't like TV and mainly watch PBS and documentaries.  Netflix has proven to be a great source of entertainment though the man and I do not see eye to eye on which films are best, so out of two choices- we have agreed to sit through each other's movies, out of love and respect I tell myself.  (Though I usually read a book while he watches his History and SyFy stuff.)  Is it just me or have times really gotten rotten when the life of a hokey haired exterminator is entertaining?  OK, it's just me...and reason enough not to watch what passes as entertainment these days.  Thank goodness for the library!

Times up...the canner calls.  Have a great weekend, may these pictures of "the season of fullness" inspire you to get out and wander.
Take care-

Fall keeps within us

Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge

How lovely is this Autumn!  I hope I don't ever take for granted these colors...never have I seen such enormity of  beauty in the change of a season.  At first I found myself a bit melancholy, I recall the Big Fish wondering what the heck was up with me-

"I don't know...maybe it's the change of seasons.  I get like this...."

Good enough explanation for the man, although he avoided me in wide-walking-around circles for the rest of that day.  Smart man.

My fella works in the local paper mill, an economic anchor here in this area.  He's been employed by the mill for over thirty years.  He just got through and over a two week 12 hour day, no time off run...I missed him a bit.  This past week and still counting today- he has been on vacation.  Wood splitting, stacking, yard clean up, installing a new wench so we don't wrench our backs so much, and he's suggesting I clear out the gardens for fall tilling...

"What?!  It hasn't even frosted yet, I like to keep the sunflower stands for winter feeds for the birds and the marigolds and cosmos are still beautifully vibrant and ever blooming...."


"Yes deah, I understand that (his stock reply to my long winded explanations for why I do the things I do...), but we've got to clear the ground and get ready..."


"AAARRRGGHHH!!! Don't say it, please- I know what's coming, I do!  But, but, but..."

So into the hoophouse upon a drying table the sunflower heads went, and all along the chicken wire walls the hydrangeas did go, drying perfectly mounded and the herbs are hanging here and there and all across the garage.  Apples are piled high in a work area, I've only attended half of them, putting away enough apple sauce to feed a small army, still have the apple butter to work out.  Pears have been pickled in a crock and fruit flies are gathering like a buzzing congregation around the blueberry liqueur vessel.  This preservation time is a time of experimenting with new recipes, improving old modes of storing and restoring old ways I loved doing but over the last several years, had no time for.  I am as busy as the bees I see still gathering pollen, I am as happy as the fat blue jays stealing and storing all the sunflower seeds that they can jam into their cheeks, I am as silent at times, in the splendid solitude I find out by the old camp- as the yellow gilled mushrooms appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

I marvel at the once shy trees along the roadways, never before have they had their say as they do now- standing as if in a cotillion, all decked out in their finest finery- keeping time just as well as their seasoned evergreen boastful neighbors.


And I am thankful once again, for the preservation of this time.  Fall keeps within us- a chain of memories.  We add to it, link by link- a charm from each successive year and the one at hand.  Winter puts to sleep all growth, Spring is fine for newness, Summer keeps us on our toes, but it is Autumn truly, that reflects every deed done by the sun and rain, storm and ice- manifesting brilliance!

Yes- I know what is to come.  But for now, the gathering continues, the momentum- almost at it's peak- slows like tires on a gravel road and I...well- I make haste in viewing the thickness of a time that soon will thin into the bare branched limbs of winter.  My memory made rosary of Fall bears witness to yet another sustainable harvest.


Take care-

In our most vulnerable hours

Taps

I read the paper yesterday, something I often do on Sundays while drinking tea, sitting in a big comfy recliner catching up on current events.  There was an article on page 8 that upset me tremendously.  The Washington Post's Robert Barnes reported on funeral picketers testing the limits of free speech.  What caught my eye, as I preferred not to read the article yet, I just knew how I would react to it- was the photo that accompanied the report.
A solemn soldier, Retired Army Maj. Gen. Bill Branson standing at salute in front of a group of hate-filled-in-God's-name picketers.  His steadfast stance in the face of adversity was very reassuring and encouraged me to digest the article as best I could.  It was very difficult to read and still this morning, I am affected.   How can it be, I am left to wonder- that in our most vulnerable hours, we can no longer expect peace at a funeral?
 
   Mourning, grieving becomes as the experts say "complicated" when a life ends suddenly, when a young person dies before their time, their natural end.  The ceremony then becomes more than just a rite of passage, it is a life line of support.  The burden of learning that your child will never walk through your door again, will never sit at your table, will never come home from war, will never have children, will never...is too much to bear alone.  It is then when you realize you need your community, your friends and family to help bear the weight of the burden for you, until one day- on borrowed strength, you can stand again on your own and go on with life.

I cannot imagine what the hundreds of families who have lost their soldier sons and daughters must have felt, when on top of all their grief and unbearable pain- they had to bear as well, cruelty from a group who are motivated by fear and hate, who felt safe and well within the law and their rights to freedom of speech to desecrate a soldier's ceremony of honor.

Freedom of speech goes too far when it is allowed to dishonor another's right to bury with honor- their dead.
  When freedom of speech inflicts physical, mental, emotional and spiritual pain on the overtly vulnerable grievers- it is no longer a freedom; it is a weapon that should be lawfully taken away from the assailants.

.  In peace, in war time, all throughout history- we honor our dead by our ceremonies, it is a human right that should be upheld by the highest court.

(I realize I probably made the same point over and over- I tried to write this just like I would say it, but...I couldn't. I wrote and re-wrote too many times... In my time of great need, when Taps was played and made me know there was a sanctity all among us and echoing from the past, at the very least I was allowed that somber solitude, the stillness of every tongue in the moment of silence before the guns went off and even after- I was allowed a ceremony to bury someone that wore a uniform for you, but was a son to me.  It was a deeply respectful and moving honor to his service and his life.  That article made me realize what a blessing the funeral was, I never thought I'd be thankful for it, but it does and did somewhat , give me and mine- peace, I pray we all speak up.  I had to say something, it is simply not right to deny a family peace at the time of it's last ceremony with their loved one.  )







 

renewed as the dew

"I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter...."

Do you remember the night, a few days back- when you walked through the gardens and the sunflowers cast moon shadows behind them?  Remember how it gave you pause, as if their down turned faces were shyly smiling still- through their yellow petaled bangs?  And do you recall how it made you stop, steadfast and look back at your own shadow?  And in that moment, did not all the world seem aglow with moonlight, which is more tender and forgiving...perhaps making all walking the street, lost out in the great world- feel a bit as though we are all so much alike in our shadows?  The same color, softened edges- the moon light ardently shining on our heads, faces- forgiving us our days missteps?  Is it not a blessing to be cast in that gentle light, as all and everything is, in September?

 How you wondered out loud- where the summer went too?  Autumn coming  on the heels of a very dry spell, watering was worrisome as the well might be made to run dry, so the tomatoes in the hoop house had to learn to survive without constant watering and monitoring and still, they grew red and lovely, the recollection now saw concern back then when there was no real cause to worry.  Things grow as they are apt to do.  With or without intervention from a concerned gardener...you mustn't worry so.  Every year, about this time- September, it is as though your perception becomes keener, you are more willing to let things be as they are.

It is cool enough at night that bugs no longer burden you, it is only the sliver of light over head that guides you into the following days of compressed wonder.  The lighted hours shortening, the plants bursting with what energy they have left, in their final and full regard for life.  Bees weighed down gleefully with pollen so thick on their legs that it is a wonder they can still fly on to more collection sites, yet they set off again and again-seemingly unburdened.

 Ah, sweet September- the summer brought so much to handle, to work through, heating up the compost- but what has come of it?

  All that my eyes see now, are prayers answered.  I look to heaven in the web, in the golden rod and flower beds.  I see the pearly gates in the glistening of dew on the trellises, heavy with morning glories.  And there, an angel- praying before it's precise movement towards a meal of a tiny moth- unaware of the mantis warrior camouflaged as the very stem they both share.  And in the evening, the cool blue heavy evenings- comes a mist now that blankets the shadows, the sunflowers, the soul's misgivings- a sweet forgiveness shrouds all and I will sleep renewed as the dew.

Dew Notice

That Which Perpetuates Good

Sometimes I wonder why people do what they do in terms of a living.  Some I suspect just do what they have to - to get by, feed their families, make the payments.  I know this farming thing is a tough gig, but it's a workout all the same and keeps me plenty busy, meeting just about every need I have- spiritual, physical, emotional.  I have worked many jobs in my lifetime, most of those meeting the first criteria of doing what I had to do just to get by, but I always grew something.  I felt immense pride and joy in putting food on the table that I grew.  The kids would always roll their eyes after every exclamation-"Came from the garden kids!"  Or at the winter table-"These pickles were grown right here, by golly- last July, aren't they good?"  More eye rolling, more sense of embarrassment when their friend happened to be eating with us.  "Mom is such a hippy!"  (I'm too young to be a hippy....)  I think now though, the kids are happy with the jams that come their way, via the postal service these days.  I dream that they sit at their tables, buttering their bread and smiling big as they glob on big spoons of homemade goodness from Mom's garden...kids are kind of reluctant to let you know when something as soft and gooey as jelly touches their heart.  My aim is always there, past their stomach and through to their tickers.

I have always encouraged my children to vote, taking them to the booths with me, explaining the process ...it was a big deal, something when they were little they boasted about at school, displaying proudly the flag sticker that went along with vote casting.  I know Emma is a registered voter, not sure on the other two- I recall hearing of Em's first vote, the memory recalled by her with pride.  But I also hope I instilled something just as important as that vote- which, in all honesty does not carry the weight it once did.  Nowadays- I vote with my bucks.  I try to perpetuate the good being done by those who take from the land and give more back.  Those who handmake  clothing and use resources close to home which helps their local economy out.  I try to buy from the guy that makes pillowcases and donates a dollar of every sale to a program that offers shoes to children who don't have any.  I buy glasses upon glasses of lemonade from the local 4-H who are trying to get needed funds for camps and learning excursions.  Imported stuff does not get my vote.  If the catalog business imports everything, I recycle their rag and purchase nothing from them.  I shop at Goodwill- apt name.  I'm a shopaholic for good will.  Buy USA gets my vote, if only more folks would vote-perpetuate with their bucks local shops and American made- the white washed big box stores might cease to send out all our "votes" to overseas corporations where the workers are treated inhumanely, I do not wish to perpetuate that.  Now there are some who'll say-"but those workers need that job!"  That may be so, but if the workers here are barely hanging on- my "vote" may just help them to get a better hold and gain solvency which perpetuates more jobs here....and so on and so on.

Perpetuates gets a bad image these days.  It does not necessarrily mean a negative.  It has only been reported as such- when a story needs the loudest vibe,  news people abuse the term- "Hitler perpetuates...", "KKK perpetuates....",  etc.  And I can definitely see why it was used, it is a looking through a smoky, scary lens until all the awe and mayhem can come into complete cloudy focus.  But there is another view, a deeper, hopeful and clearer lens- that which perpetuates good, positive and powerful change.  Seeing like that begins with our vote, our buck, our relationship with money that might truly turn the tide, little by little.
I ask you to deeply consider your wallet, the votes in it- what does that next purchase perpetuate?

Take care-