At 21 years of age, I was dealt a medical blow. “You will never have children,” the surgeon said, “but you will at least have estrogen.”
The following June I married a dairy farmer.
Nine months later, on April Fool’s Day, the first of our 4 sons was born. This was the first inkling that my life was fixing to run amuck. In other words, I was going to need a heap of estrogen if I was going to cope with my life.
Indeed, the miracle of our firstborn speaks well of estrogen, though the farmer claims the doctor who said I couldn’t have children just didn’t take him into account.
Fifteen years later, the high cholesterol inherited from my father soared to over 500. Estrogen was prescribed to protect my heart from its ravages. Which means I’ve been on estrogen close to 18 years.
Over the years, there were a few times when I got behind on refilling the prescription. The further behind I got, the more I cried. And, for crying out loud, there was no reason for tears. Though hating to admit that hormones could have this much influence, I finally threw in the crying towel and took my estrogen. Religiously.
Now the federal government has issued a landmark study concerning women’s health and the use of estrogen. Like many other women, I’ve actually gone to the website (Journal of the American Medical Association) and waded through the study.
For me, there’s good news: the type I’ve been taking is not the type discontinued by the study because of the small but measurable increase in risks.
But, like millions of other women you know, I am caught between a rock and a hard place. Take estrogen and gamble. Stop estrogen and crumble.
Even the best of doctors can’t tell us what to do. I did ask the farmer for advice. He didn’t even know I was taking estrogen. When he heard that equine estrogen was the problem, he turned defensive and said nothing was more natural than a horse.
With no one chomping at the bit to tell women our age what to do, we are discussing the matter among ourselves and relying on our collective wisdom.
Some women are swearing off the stuff and are stopping cold turkey. By now they are getting feisty. Some may be fixing to blow. Some of them might be your wives, mothers, mothers-in law. Ask.
Others are stopping prescriptions cold turkey but are substituting herbal remedies and soy products. Now I’m as country as the rest of you, but I just don’t want to eat Red Clover, squawvine, or wild yam root. Nor do I wish to drink tincture of Black Cohosh.
Where is Martha Stewart when we really need her? Surely she could tell us how to grow just the right herb, in an aesthetically pleasing container that would fit into the most eclectic decorating style.
Finally, I’ve had to come to my own conclusion: with Christmas just 4 months away, this is no time to change horses in the middle of the stream.
But what a wonderful New Year’s Resolution! I won’t have to give up chocolate, just estrogen.
This will give the family time to get ready.
Click here to view Shelby's water source since 1923, the First Broad River, totally dried up.
The miraculous happened: it rained this week. Even in Boiling Springs.
When the first drops began falling, a friend said, “Wait here. I’m going to get the children. I’ve seen rain before, but they haven’t.”
It occurred to me to do the same for our grandchildren, but I figured the rain would stop before I could get to their house.
Unfortunately, with the drought has come cynicism. Most of us who had been praying for rain were still caught without umbrellas. When the first drops fell, I was thankful, but muttering…. I reckoned we’d get enough moisture to save a marigold or two, but not a county. But the rain kept falling.
The farmer, who has been nearing mental exhaustion due to drought, came in Thursday from scouting the rain. He was a drenched Doubting Thomas. When I asked for a rain gauge reading, he said he didn’t bother to look! Was it time to call in the white coats, I worried, or at least his brother?
I watched him closely as he settled in his recliner, turned the radio on, and began wailing: “They’ve cancelled the American Legion baseball game due to rain! Cancelled the game -- and I was looking forward to listening to it on the radio.”
If he could be this fickle about rain, did I stand a chance?
I had to remind the farmer of the flip side – that rain was what we had been waiting for, praying for, and agonizing over for 182 days.
Then it was his turn to needle me. “What about you? You swore you were going to sit in the first rain and let it soak you good. You said you would be jumping in the mud puddles. You said you weren’t going to worry what the neighbors or the dog might think.”
This is the problem with foolish oaths. Who could foresee that the rain would come on Day 6 of my new permanent and Day 2 of my new color? If the neighbors needed a dose of reality, they could watch reality TV.
In the end I celebrated by raising a toast of boiled and filtered spring water -- and opening the windows to take in the forgotten sounds and smells of rain.
The rain made the farmer more communicative. He grabbed the phone.
“The reason I’m calling,” he began, “is to tell you it’s raining at our house.” How preposterous it would have seemed to make such long distance calls 6 months ago.
Most likely among the lessons relearned from this drought is a greater appreciation of our true needs. We’ve had gadgets, widgets, and gizmos galore, but hardly a drop of water to drink. We’ve chased after computer chips, candle parties, and Clint Eastwood movies, but hardly a drop of water to drink.
Maybe we’ve learned that H2O is just as important an element of life as our HBO or HMO.
Of course we’re still not out of the woods yet. Until we get one or two hurricanes under our belt, the Water Patrol will be out 24/7.
And folks will still turn in their mothers for not washing full loads.
Click here to view Hamrick Rock Creek Sparkling Spring (Pictured are Cline, Aaron, Jason & Morgan at the spring at dusk.)
The size of the headlines in the Shelby Star has made it clear that our water shortage is critical. Then our city joined Statesville in large headlines in newspapers across the state. Then my sister called from the backside of Tennessee to check on us, saying she’d heard that Shelby NC was drying up.
Although these highly respected sources of information are important, I filter the news through the farmer in order to get a proper perspective. He is not wired for overreacting.
It takes a heap of trouble to upset a farmer. One of the reasons we call them the “salt of the earth” is that farmers can weather crisis after crisis, sleep soundly night after night, and wake up day after day brimming with optimism.
It was unsettling, therefore, when my husband’s behavior revealed anxiety this week over Shelby’s drought.
He’s calling other menfolk on the phone to discuss the weather. He’s talking of a satellite dish to pick up more weather channels. And he’s telling the children this is the biggest drought he’s ever experienced in his 61 years. Furthermore, as he reflects on all the drought stories told by his father, grandfathers and great grandfathers, there has never been a drought to top this one.
As long as there are men who tell weather stories, the Drought of 2002 will live on, like the “Big Flood” of 1916 of the Broad River.
Finally, last Sunday afternoon, the farmer rose from his recliner, set his coffee cup down, and announced that he was going to have to do something about the drought. He announced: “We are fixing to run slam out of water."
The wheels started turning: no water, no coffee. If farmers have an Achilles heel, it probably is a fear of running out of coffee. Of course I didn’t mention this.
Instead, I panicked in silence. What was he going to do now – perform a rain dance, put on a tent revival, or hoard bottled water?
Here’s what the farmer said: “I’ll be back by dark. At the back of the pasture, there’s an old spring that Granny used. If I clean it out, we’ll be ready.”
So Cline and our sons have spent most of this week cleaning out the spring. They’re even buying gravel to line it. “Just think of the gallons of drinking water we’re going to have,” they say, reporting on each day’s progress.
Son Miles, a budding entrepreneur, called the office to ask me whether plastic jugs or glass jars would be better for distributing Sparkling Dairy Farm Water.
When I asked to inspect the spring before drinking the water, the farmer said it was probably too far for me to walk, though Granny had walked there every day in the good ole days to fetch water.
The farmer pampered me, driving me to the spring in a Gator. Sure enough, there was a wonderful spring, banked high with rocks laid by our grandpappies.
Lest this sound too idyllic, let me bring you back down to earth – to the sound of buzzing mosquitoes, also driven to extremes by the drought.
Just my luck.
I could see myself in the headlines: “Farmer’s Wife Survives Drought; Succumbs to West Nile Virus.”
When I asked the farmer what he wanted for his August 3 birthday, he replied, “A hurricane.” From what I’ve been hearing, he’s not the only one going berserk over the drought.
He has most likely been marked by earlier droughts, droughts when the corn and cotton didn’t grow and the pastures dried up and the loan interest kept mounting anyway.
I particularly remember the Summer of 1983, sitting on the porch stoop, praying for clouds that had potential – and then weeping when the empty clouds evaporated. For those whose livelihoods are affected by the drought, these are indeed heartbreaking days.
Back in June, the farmer said this year’s drought was working on his nerves. He didn’t see how things could get much worse. It has.
And in vain he has been watching the Weather Channel, looking for patches of green on the radar. In vain, he’s been setting rain gauges out in the yard, “just in case.”
We are aware that there have been scattered storms around the county. We have missed all but one of them. Our yard and pasture look like the Mojave Desert. With high hopes and a bad case of spring fever, we landscaped our yard in early April. In addition to shrubbery, we planted crepe myrtles, birch trees, and Japanese maples. Even though we watered them regularly, prior to the water restrictions, our fledgling trees and shrubs are cooked. The ground has turned into a clay oven.
At least we have a few spots of green around the house: the pokeberry bushes. Oh for landscaping shrubs with the hardiness of unwanted weeds!
In addition to the yard, our garden is now endangered. Take the okra, for example. Okra, which loves sun, is our sole survivor. However, without moisture, the pods are dry. For those who are turned off by boiled okra, your time has come: there is no “slime” to speak of. You know it’s a bad drought when boiled okra chokes you.
Thank goodness for watermelon to slake the thirst and to remind us of the good ole days, the good ole days when summers were mostly green. I never thought I would miss the soothing sound of lawnmowers waking you up early on a summery Saturday morning.
Last week, the Shelby Star reported that a church was planning a special prayer service for rain. Before reading the article, I said, “Only a Baptist church would have nerve enough to rattle heaven.” But it was not just any Baptist church; it was my home church, Oakdale Baptist in Spencer.
Although a member of another church, Mama attended the service. She said she just didn’t feel right about praying for rain when there are other people around the world suffering from drought. I reckon it didn’t occur to her to pray for all who need rain and other gifts of nature.
What we may need is for a few more folks to join in. My hunch is, were the Episcopalians and Presbyterians to have a prayer meeting for rain, that would get the Good Lord’s attention!
In the meantime, we are under water rationing – a wise restriction. Not washing the car on a 100-degree Saturday is the least I can do for my country and our county.
During my first fifty years, I never believed I’d ever see myself in glasses. You can call it the folly of youth or a bad case of false pride, but as I checked myself out in the mirror and wondered where it was all headed, glasses never fit in the equation.
No sooner, however, did the “Nifty Fifty” black balloons arrive than I reached for the latest gray hair and could not get a-holt of it! What was a girl to do? Even using the magnification side of the mirror, the gray hairs were taking over -- and I couldn’t see well enough to yank them.
Thank goodness for gainful employment, meaning I could hopefully afford BOTH an ophthalmologist and a hairdresser.
As usual, the farmer rose to the occasion, offering encouragement. “Grandmas are supposed to have gray hair and wear glasses,” he stated.
Never had I looked in the mirror and envisioned “Grandma.” So I dug in and resisted glasses until I could no longer fake reading.
Pride coupled with desperation led me to experiment with contacts. Contacts worked well for a year. However, getting out of bed to remove the contacts and hunting them down on the bathroom floor worked on my nerves. The last straw was the day I mistook the toenail fungus drops for eye drops and nearly lost both my sight and my big toenail.
So, at 52, I swallowed what was left of my pride and switched to glasses – with purple tints.
Unfortunately, my lifestyle is about as hazardous to glasses as it is to contacts. There’s no space in my small purse for an eyeglass case. Eyeglass chains haven’t worked out either, since they get hung up on my dangling earrings. I am an optometrist’s dream come true and a vision plan’s nightmare.
Several birthdays later, there is now an even greater risk: my sleepiness. When I nod off, the eyeglasses are totally on their own.
The other night, after a long day at work followed by a tomato sandwich, I sat down on the couch to shell butterbeans. Two quarts later, I fell asleep. I reckon there were lots of bad dreams because the eyeglasses did not survive the night.
When I found them the next morning, under a couch cushion, they were missing a screw.
“No problem,” I said to myself. “I’ll fix them! We have a small eyeglass screwdriver. And I’ll wear the farmer’s safety glasses to see.”
Finding your lost screw is not what it is cracked up to be, especially when your sense of touch is also fading.
Thirty minutes later, how I rejoiced to find the microscopic screw! I was not home free, however, for it took 20 more minutes to pick the screw up, thanks to another vanity, red fingernails. This is ridiculous, ludicrous, and incredulous, I kept thinking.
Just when I thought I’d have to call 911 or the preacher, the solution occurred to me: Scotch Tape.
First I taped the glasses together, then picked the screw up with tape, and tapped in the taped screw. The process had taken an hour and 45 minutes out of my life.
The farmer shakes his head, wondering why I didn’t just swallow my pride and wear his safety glasses to work.
“Swallowing my pride is not on my diet,” I thought….But maybe it ought to be.
Our vacation started as a silent auction at my sister’s church in Raleigh. To raise money for the youth, a generous soul had donated a week at her Emerald Isle beach house. And thanks to cell phones, mine was the last minute winning bid.
It was a large beach house. Mama, her offspring, and my offspring jumped at the chance to get together for a multi-generational beach vacation.
Last week at Emerald Isle went amazingly well for the 14 of us. I’d like to think that was because of the home cooking.
Before we left, the farmer picked the garden clean, which meant we hauled to the beach beans to break, squash to casserole, and okra to fry. As I was leaving the house, the farmer hollered, as if I didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain: “I’ll bet you didn’t pack your rolling pin!”
This is why Men are from Mars, and Women are from Venus. The rolling pin was right there in the suitcase, along with its mates, the pastry blender and biscuit cutter. The beach house belonged to city folk; I wasn’t taking any chances.
Naturally, the first thing we did on our beach vacation was stock the kitchen and stuff the refrigerator. But my vacation began in earnest the next morning with the farmer, who was already at work frying breakfast, waking me up to make biscuits. Mama wondered why all the fuss. After all, she had brought no-name cereal and powdered milk to the beach. It would have been sassy to mention this, but she ate more biscuits than anyone else.
Ditto for the homemade ice cream. Although Mama was a little concerned about the extravagance and my “heavy hand” with the sugar, she ate 4 bowls of peach and 4 of banana.
For the record, during “Our Family Vacation,” we quickly consumed 2 6-gallon runs of ice cream and a watermelon.
Several of our sons joined us mid-week. Miles apparently worried that we were not getting enough to eat. So he brought a fish cooker, several gallons of oil, bags of seafood breader, and corn meal. Mama wondered why a boy would want to throw a fish fry. I was grateful for a son whose ideas of fun at the beach revolved around a fish cooker and propane gas tank.
As the week wore on, Mama began worrying that I wasn’t getting to rest. At 79, she apparently has lost the excitement a bag of okra can generate.
Writing an essay on “My Summer Vacation” would be simple enough: I went, I saw, I cooked. But is that all?
Of course not. We flew kites, rode waves, read books, played games, worked a 1000-piece puzzle, walked on the beach and sunned. We got along.
On the way home, the farmer started in on one of his favorite topics of concern: the American work ethic. He said that the problem with folks like us was that we had just lost the work ethic our parents had.
Thank goodness Mama was asleep in the back seat. For I came within an inch of taking my rolling pin out of the beach bag and whacking him.
Waking up to a leaky dishwasher was the first inkling that Tuesday was going to be a bad hair day.
Then I marched out to the car, pressed the garage door opener – and nothing happened. How could this be since the garage, garage door, and garage door opener, like the dishwasher, are brand new?
Never mind, there was a remote control in the car. But no matter how hard I pressed that button, the garage door refused to budge.
What is a working girl to do in such a situation? If I backed the car out through the door, would homeowners pay? Even though I work for an insurance company, I wasn’t sure. And who wanted to fill out the 100-plus forms that would be needed.
That’s when I noticed the farmer’s 1993 Ford 250 in the adjoining bay. I pressed the opener for that side, and voila, the garage door on that side was working. There was nothing to do but to call Cline and ask if there were a valid reason, such as a missing transmission, I shouldn’t drive the big white diesel to work. The truck would be stuffed to the gills with tools, gas cans, and dirty coveralls, but it would be a ride.
When I called Cline’s office, he wasn’t available. So I explained my plight to a coworker who tactfully suggested there might be another way out of my dilemma. Maybe there’s a manual latch, he suggested.
“Could be,” I answered, “but I don’t know where it is or how to operate it. Tell Cline if I don’t hear from him in 15 minutes, I’ll either take the Ford or call 911.”
I’d also have to notify the office of my dilemma.
“I’m really having a bad hair day,” I began. “First the dishwasher leaked, and now the garage door won’t open. I’ve put a call in to Cline to come home and help me. The way it’s looking, I won’t make it to work till after lunch.” My coworker was not so tactful. “Are you crazy or something? If your remote doesn’t work, no big deal. Just pull the latch and raise the door.”
“What latch?” I asked.
“Every garage door has a latch,” she answered. “Find it and use it.”
That’s when I resorted to begging. “Don’t hang up. I’m going out to the garage and let you walk me through this.”
“OK,” I announced triumphantly, “I’ve felt all over the garage door and there is no latch on the door or on the side of the door.”
“You’re looking in all the wrong places. The latch will probably be hanging over your head.”
When I saw the red cord directly over my head, I turned red. And I pulled the cord, unlocked the door, and raised it with the flick of a wrist.
In the background, I heard the rising swell of laughter as the office was learning of my “predicament.”
“Well, this is the first garage and the first garage door I’ve had in 55 years. Besides, they didn’t teach this stuff at Wake Forest,” I explained.
All I could think of as I drove to work was how thankful I was not to be Japanese. How would I ever save face?
When the farmer suggested we celebrate our 32nd anniversary by going away for a weekend, I recommended “Shatley Springs.”
It all started while I was getting my nails done. Knowing of my interest in travel, Diane opened the February issue of “Our State” magazine and pointed to the article, “50 Things Every North Carolinian Should Do.”
There it was, # 8: “Feast on a family-style breakfast at Shatley Springs Inn.” The article explained that since the 1920s, hearty country breakfasts have been served up at this old camp-style inn.
The farmer asked if there wasn’t any place else mentioned in the article, and I said, “Well, since it’s our 32nd, we could go for #32 on the list: ‘Marvel at Duke University’s Chapel.’”
We went to Shatley Springs.
No sooner did we select our destination than he immediately notified the locals who have cabins in the area. “No point in celebrating alone,” the farmer said.
The breakfast last Saturday morning was all that my nail technician had thought it would be.
After breakfast, our friends suggested that we put canoes in the New River and see what happened. This was NOT on the list of 50 Things a Good North Carolinian Should Do, but it was something I’d always wanted to try. For his part, the farmer said he didn’t know any more about canoes than he did about tutus.
I attribute our survival to years of tubing down the Broad River. We took to the New River like fish out of water, but we managed to arrive at our destination dry. Thank goodness for our friends, who pulled us off rocks and away from debris.
While we were in Ash County, I mentioned the Episcopalian churches we should visit -- the churches with the frescoes. The farmer said if it was all the same to me, he’d just as soon go to church at our church. I explained that these churches were # 41 on the list of Things a Good North Carolinian Should Do. My husband hinted that going into an Episcopalian church might be on the list of 50 Things Good Baptists Wouldn’t Do.
Our anniversary trip was a success: we got to scratch 2 items off the To Do List for Good North Carolinians. The breakfast, the canoe ride, and the Episcopalian churches, as you can imagine, made for a very romantic getaway.
Feeling proud of myself, I was stunned therefore when several friends said, “But, you and Cline celebrated early, BEFORE your anniversary.” This must be on the List of Anniversary No Nos.
Which lead me straight to the Internet, to check out wedding anniversary etiquette. When our actual day came around, Thursday the 27th, we’d light candles in penance.
There isn’t much anniversary help on the Internet, unless you’re into cruises, flowers, candles, and/or diamonds.
Then I saw the official list: “50 Gifts For 50 Anniversaries.” What harm could it do, I reckoned, to check out this list of 50? I arrowed down to Year 32. Imagine my dismay to learn that the correct gift for your 32nd anniversary is a conveyance, e. g. automobile.
I asked for Shatley Springs. I could have had a jade Saab convertible!
Memories of our June 27, 1970 wedding are overwhelming. The farmer says it’s because we got married without benefit of air conditioning.
No wonder our marriage has stuck, he says. His theory is that the heat melted us down and forged our vows, in the same way heat causes cement to set up.
The other night he told a friend that, assuming we made it till June 27, we would celebrate our 32nd anniversary. “32 years,” he repeated. “That’s a lifetime.” The tone in his voice let me know that even he was amazed.
That night over tomato sandwiches, we spoke of our upcoming anniversary and whether we should make a big deal of it. The farmer, romantic to the core, said it would suit him just as well to celebrate in the back yard with another tomato sandwich.
I mentioned that we might retrace our honeymoon. Then I remembered they have torn down the 6-room cement block motel in Sparta.
“Sparta wouldn’t work,” the farmer added, “because all my friends up there have either died or moved away.”
Those who know the farmer will believe the story of how we ended up in Sparta, among other honeymoon stops. There was a dairyman whom the farmer hadn’t seen in several months. By spending part of our honeymoon there, we could visit him, thereby killing 2 birds with one stone….
For when I married him, Cline was a dairy tester for the NCDHIA (Dairy Herd Improvement Association.) This meant he had close ties with virtually every dairy farmer in NC and even knew most of their cows by name and number.
As a city girl and Wake Forest alumna, I did not grasp the implications of marrying into the country. Sparta was the first inkling I was going to eat those words sung by the soloist -- those infamous words from Ruth, “Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go.”
It’s been an interesting journey, making the change from a city girl to a Cleveland County backsider. Thirty-two years later, when I go back into the city they treat me like a hayseed. It’s because they can’t see the unfathomable riches of living juxtaposed between an old privvy and a turnip patch.
So, how are we going to celebrate our 32nd year of wedded adventure/bliss? I could have suggested Atlanta, or Pigeon Forge, or Jamaica. Instead, I said, “Let’s do Shatley Springs.”
“They serve the world’s best home-cooked breakfast,” I added. “And there won’t be a bagel in sight.” This got the farmer’s buy-in. All he wanted to know was how early they started serving and what the weather was calling for.
While the farmer consulted the Weather Channel, this country wife knew she’d better jump on the Internet and make a few travel arrangements.
I printed out pages on “safe back roads,” which is what we are into now. On previous mountain trips, my husband has taken us on two back roads that were highly unsafe for grayheads in passenger cars. These roads were through the Linville Gorge and across Table Rock Mountain. Looking back on it, our honeymoon in Sparta was a preview of coming attractions. Over the last 3-plus decades, we’ve gone down many an uncharted road, with detours and wildebeests galore. Literally and figuratively.
Would I do it all over again? Yes, if the church had air conditioning.
Today is the 30th Father’s Day since the death of my father. I have lived more years without a father than with one.
But in a quarter of a century, Daddy taught me enough lessons to last a lifetime. Surely I honor him in my thoughts on Father’s Day. But as Mama often points out, we honor our father more by the way we live during the rest of the year.
Lots of the clichés about fathers and daughters don’t ring true with me.
Although I was the first child, born when Daddy was 41, I didn’t have him “wrapped around my little finger.” I was never “Daddy’s little girl.” The only time he ever referred to me as a “princess” was when I reached that step in GAs. (An acronym for Girls’ Auxiliary – a Baptist missions organization.)
Looking back on it, I am indebted to a father who did not distinguish between his son and daughters in his expectations. He had 3 clearly communicated expectations for us: that we be Christian, that we be educated, and that we serve others. In our spare time, he expected us to help our mother, see the world, and pick up twigs.
Mama has told me that the happiest day of Daddy’s life, as far as I was concerned, was when I become a Christian. The second happiest was when I flew to Bogotá as an exchange student.
In some ways Daddy and I were on a collision course. He was born soon after Orville and Wilber flew off the sand dune at Kitty Hawk; I was a junior in high school when the Beatles flew across the ocean. I won a great victory when I wore Daddy down enough to get to listen to the Beatles on the family radio. However, I did NOT watch their debut on the Ed Sullivan Show: we were not allowed to watch TV on Sunday.
Daddy was strict, but how could you rebel since he was so sincere, so loving, and so well intentioned? He was doing the very best he could to raise a 60s daughter with his 1905 upbringing. To disobey him would have broken his wonderful, big heart.
I didn’t like it, however, when he marched me outside to the garbage can, telling me that this was where the playing cards I’d bought at Ridgecrest belonged. I was thrilled when he agreed I could go to the senior prom, but asked me to be a “good witness.” And I was secretly relieved when he said he’d prefer I withdraw from the “Miss Spencer” beauty pageant, saying he wasn’t against it – he just didn’t see much of value in such things.
Daddy was dead serious about our becoming the best persons we could be. What made this seriousness so bearable was that Daddy also believed in the virtue of fun. He told jokes and cut up in church skits. He valued comedy so much that he regularly watched 2 TV shows with us: Red Skelton and Hee Haw.
He took us on picnics, he took us swimming, he took us on wonderful vacations He wanted his children to know joy. I loved overhearing him say to Mama, “Marie, listen to our children. They’re laughing and having a good time.” He derived great joy from our happiness.
What a difference a good father makes…May God give us more such men.
Although it was the Rhubarb Festival hosted by the Kitchen Kettle Village that drew us to the Amish country in PA, we quickly figured out that the festival was not the main attraction.
Actually, we almost missed the Festival altogether, because the real action was taking place somewhere else -- in the fields.
We set out early, around 8:30 AM, from our hotel in Leola, PA, headed to the festival in Intercourse, some 5 miles away as the crow flies. We got to the festival by lunchtime.
We were vacationing with friends who are heavily into agribusiness; i. e., farming. No sooner did we turn down the rural road headed toward Intercourse than Max Hamrick slammed on the brakes and said, “Whoa! Would you look at that 4-horse hitch pulling a turning plow!”
Of course we pulled off the main road. We watched a spell. The men got out and felt the soil, smelled the soil, checked the moisture content of the hay, smelled the hay and spoke of their findings.
Instead of taking the main road, we pulled out the Lancaster county map and spent the rest of the morning (and most of our vacation) riding the back roads from farm to farm.
Let me say that the ideal time to visit this area is surely in the spring. So much to see! The Amish families were raking hay, turning hay, mowing hay, baling hay, planting corn, spreading manure, plowing the ground, and of course, milking cows. Thank goodness Jane and I have come through the ranks or the smells would have ruined our vacation.
The most impressive sight of our trip, according to my husband, was the young Amish wife who was standing and driving a team of 4 mules, with her children standing beside her, pulling a wagon with her husband baling hay. “You should have seen the way she turned those corners!” the farmer exclaims.
What Max and Cline could not fathom, however, was with some 20,000 tourists in the county, why were we the only folks on these back roads on such an eventful spring morning? I, as self-appointed holder of the map, knew the answer but could not bring myself to disclose the truth about the non-Amish: They were at the Tommy Hilfiger and other outlet stores at the edge of the Amish farmlands.
Apparently our trip to the Amish country was a tad unconventional. We missed the outlets, the shopping, the main roads, the musicals, and even the heavily advertised “Amish” restaurants.
One evening we caved in, deciding to join the great army of tourists at one such huge “Amish” restaurant. The hostess said that not only would we have to wait an hour, we also would have to fork out $17 per person for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, baked apples, and shoofly pie.
I did some quick calculations. We still have 18 quarts of Silver Queen in our freezer; I have Tammy Wynette’s Crisco fried chicken recipe memorized; and as for shoofly pie, it’s a kissing cousin to chess pie, which Grandma taught me how to cook when your pecan crop fails.
We ate someplace else.
And took the back road home, moved by the beauty of simplicity and the powerful witness of a way of life that values the land and treasures the family.
The farmer and I have just returned from a long weekend in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. Folks assume that this trip was a direct result of our being in the horse and buggy business ourselves.
Certainly that added spice to the trip. But that’s not how the trip came to be. This mini-vacation was what happened after I entered the word “rhubarb” into Yahoo’s search engine on the Internet.
Actually I was searching to discover a gardening site that sold mail-order rhubarb plants. Evidently, rhubarb is not hot potatoes. I only found 2 places in the Internet world that had rhubarb plants for sale.
In fact, there are more places having rhubarb festivals than there are outfits selling the plants. When I read that Intercourse, PA, hosts an annual rhubarb festival in mid-May, I hollered this information downstairs to the farmer. He was all for it.
Our friends, Max & Jane Hamrick, said this sounded like an adventure they wouldn’t want to miss either, so we set out last week with maps, cell phones, and visions of rhubarb pie.
It took us 2 days to get to PA. Once we turned the cell phones off, we realized it was OK to unwind, to get off the Interstate, and to go where the spirit moved us. Going where the spirit moves you, however, is a challenge when you have 4 fairly strong-willed vacationers (i.e., Hamricks) in the same Buick. We had to squeeze in horse shows, battlefields, scenic drives, rest stops, and off-the-beaten-path restaurants and ice cream shops.
By the time we arrived in the Amish country, we were stuffed to the gills and ready for more.
The Rhubarb Festival was a treat, although it was a windy 42 degrees, with some rain mixed in. There were rhubarb dishes to sample, including but not limited to Rhubarb Punch, Sautéed Rhubarb, Rhubarb Salsa, Rhubarb Pie, and the grand finale, Rhubarb Ka-Bobs.
We sampled them all and ultimately bought 5 pounds of the stalks to bring home. Thank goodness we had a refrigerator in our hotel room to hold the groceries.
The festival also featured a Rhubarb derby race. Each contestant brought his or her own stalk of rhubarb, decorated to catch the judges’ eyes. Attached to the stalk and was a set of wheels to roll the “car” down the wooden derby track. This festival was as full of the bizarre as Shelby’s Livermush Festival.
However, one has to ask: Was this event worth the 11 ½-hour drive? Would we do it again?
When it comes to rhubarb, the farmer and I are not neutral. We’re nuts about the stuff. Yahoo says there is a Rhubarb Festival in Aledo, Illinois, each June. We already have a hankering to go.
What of the Amish? What did they think of the Rhubarb Festival in their town? I can’t say that they observed this festival, but in next week’s column I’ll share some of what we observed of their way of life.
The farmer and I began our roles as grandparents clueless. When Morgan was born, you would have thought she was the first baby we had ever held. Or changed.
Thank goodness some skills are coming back to us. In short order, I remembered how to change a diaper. The farmer, not knowing that times have changed, remembered how to hand a smelly baby off to the nearest female.
“You can’t teach old dogs new tricks,” I explained to our Morgan, marveling that her dad was as apt to change her diaper as her mother.
How blessed we are that we live close enough to see and occasionally baby-sit the grandchildren. But there are striking differences between the parenting of 4 and the grand parenting of 2.
Most striking is that I cannot conceive of watching the grandchildren without the farmer present. Even when there was just Morgan, I doubted my ability take care of her by myself.
This fear is crazy! I had raised 4 sons. The years rolled by, and about the only times I called in male backup was when they had required more than 4 stitches or when they had treed a skunk. And male backup was definitely called for when our two youngest sons opened the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes and subscribed to Playboy.
As grandparents, we still hold to our values on what does and does not constitute good literature. We want our grandchildren to have quality, stimulating reading material. That’s why we bought Baby Morgan her own personal copy of “Old McDonald.” It’s a book we knew she could genetically relate to.
To be sure, I recognize that “Old McDonald” is not politically correct in the cities, since the hero is a stereotypical male who hems his animals up in pens, barns, fences, and the like. Nor does the book portray for Morgan a successful female role model. In fact, poor Mrs. Old McDonald is never mentioned, though she probably is the brains of the operation.
On the positive side, this book has taught Morgan how to bray like a donkey and cluck like a hen.
In addition to “Old McDonald,” Morgan had been given a 200-page book of beloved children’s stories and fairy tales. Several weeks ago, I got this book out in order to introduce Morgan to a suitable female role model: Goldilocks.
On her next visit, Morgan played with the assorted toys I’d bought at yard sales, but only until she spotted the new book. To this grandma’s delight, she seized the book with a passion. “Read me a story, Nana” Morgan begged. The first 4 stories were lots of fun. Less so the next 44.
Eventually, Morgan’s parents came and went, the 11:00 news signed off, and Morgan was still turning pages and wanting stories. She was so absorbed that we invited her to spend the night with us. Finally around midnight, I turned off the light, put the book under her pillow and told her that good girls who stay up late turn into pumpkins.
How soundly we slept, with visions of foxes and chickens and billy goats gruff and leprechauns dancing in our heads.
Forget the critics of the young. The young still hunger for the joy of reading and the power of good books. Thank God for grandchildren, who show us truth and give us hope.
Last year, I had the opportunity to share some ideas concerning Mother’s Day sermons with some of my favorite folk: Baptist preachers.
Although I have never attended seminary, I have absorbed 50-plus Mother’s Day sermons. Apparently, seminaries focus more on postmillennialism than they do on motherhood. Yet in my dictionary, “postmillennialism” is sandwiched between “postmenopausal” and “postnasal drip.”
How appropriate! This makes me want to holler, if not preach.
You probably have figured out that Baptists come in basically one size but many different flavors. That means Mother’s Day is celebrated differently in our churches. The ole-timey religion churches will present an orchid to the oldest mother, ask her to tell her age, and then open the pulpit Bible to Ephesians. King James Version. Same chapter, same verse as last year.
Broadman Hymnal churches pass out carnations to the mothers with the most children; then the congregation opens their pew Bibles to Proverbs 31. Churches that have progressed to the 1991 Baptist Hymnal will stand and sing all the stanzas of “God Give Us Christian Homes.”
Baptist churches dubbed “moderate” ask all the mothers to stand, and also all the aunts, sisters, cousins and other married and unmarried persons (including males) who have ever nurtured someone. Then they read the Cotton Patch translation of the Book of Ruth.
Give us a break! The Bible has a lot more to offer women than a verse in Ephesians, a chapter in Proverbs and just one woman in the Old Testament. We would welcome a sermon on one of the hundreds of female Bible characters, especially some whose stories we rarely hear. Like Esther and Hannah, Dorcas and Priscilla.
And what about Huldah? I was well past 40 when a woman preacher at the Boiling Springs Methodist church up the street let the cat out of the bag about the Huldah. (Find her story in the Old Testament.)
If the pastor chooses the Proverbs 31 Woman as our role model, he can expect to lose 92% of us. By verse 17 “Supermom” will kick in. Behind our smiles we’re composing Monday’s “to do” list: balance the bank statement, plant petunias, volunteer at school, backup the computer, get the tires rotated, plan the family vacation.
Motherhood should lend itself to powerful preaching. We need the Preacher to lob a well-prepared three-pointer our way. Speak to us about courage, wisdom, and hope. Help us with priorities, purpose, and possibilities. Tell us of forgiveness.
Use humor, one of a mother’s chief survival tools. A sermon such as “What to Do When the Epidural Wears Off” would hit the nail on the head.
Let me confess that it’s not ladylike to pick sermons apart. It may not even be Christian. Nor is it wise to find fault with the annual, lovingly prepared sermon on motherhood. Especially since for the rest of the ecclesiastical year, motherhood seldom appears on the theological radar screen.
But in addition to casting pearls of wisdom about the traditional roles that can bring such joy, there is a nagging question that just won’t go away: “What About Huldah?”
With Mother’s Day approaching, a column praising maternal instincts would be in order. However, sometimes these instincts fail us. Sometimes mothers are guilty of adding 2 plus 2 and coming up with 343. We are good at making mountains out of molehills, jumping to the wrong conclusions, and failing to see the forest for the trees. This part of what makes motherhood so exhausting.
Which brings me to last Sunday morning. I wondered why Jason, our eldest, had came over to our house so early, around 7 AM, to talk with his dad. Outside.
Forty-five minutes passed. Something’s underfoot that they don’t want me to know about, I imagined. It had to be a serious problem. On a good day, men can solve all the world’s problems in less than 28 minutes. Even the weather can be adequately resolved in 35 minutes.
Eventually Cline slipped back into the house. Without a word, he fried up his breakfast. Breakfast: his favorite meal. As he sat down to eat, the phone rang. The farmer, who likes to talk on the phone almost as much as he likes to eat breakfast, hesitated. In the end, curiosity got the best of him, and he answered the phone.
It was Jason. Again. What happened next went right straight to this mother’s heart. THE FARMER GOT UP FROM THE TABLE, LEFT HIS COUNTRY HAM AND EGGS, took the phone, and quietly slipped out into the yard to talk to our eldest.
I watched from the kitchen window, alternating between panic and anger. What was so all-fired important that they couldn’t discuss in front of me? Was one of them in trouble with the law? Was it illness? I ran through the gamut of issues that could take the farmer away from hot coffee and fried eggs. I prayed, “Lord, let it be the truck’s transmission.”
When Cline came back in, I was ready for a woman-to-man talk. No sirree, they weren’t going to keep me out of the loop. So I squared off and let the farmer have it. Both barrels.
First I said: “I may be your wife, but I also am a human being. That means I have a right to be included in what is going on.” I allowed time for that truth to sink in before demanding to know: “What is going on around here that is so all-fired important that you and Jason can’t talk about in front of me? I am your wife and his mother.”
The farmer nearly choked on his ham. “Huh?” he simply asked. “What are you talking about? What do you think is going on besides turkey season?”
“Jason just came over early this morning to see if he could land himself a turkey down in the pasture… Of course he had his cell phone and his turkey call with him. He got so excited that he called me on the phone and insisted I step out in the yard and listen to the turkeys gobbling down in the pasture.”
“Thank goodness he isn’t fixing to get arrested,” was all I could say.
“No,” the farmer said. “He’s legal. It’s turkey season.”
The farmer, who has just regained his right to hunt in the great state of South Carolina, should know.
