One day I heard an acquaintance say, “If one more person talks to me about ‘seasons of life’, I am going to…(insert desperate reaction here).” Well, this is me, talking about it, but I thought I might give it a slightly different angle. I took her point to be the way I used to feel when I was up to my eyeballs in charming, sticky, little needy children and someone would chirp helpfully, “Enjoy every minute! They grow up so fast.” At that point it might have felt more validating to hear, “Yup, this is intense, but you’ll make it. Let me hold the baby while you (insert desperate action to keep up with toddler here).”
I am looking at rhythms these days. We used to start every school day with read-aloud time. It was the way we did it. That has changed, and I don’t love it, but life is very different now. In this era, one girl gets up early to study, then dashes off to her part time job two mornings a week. The students are mostly self-motivated, and my main responsibility is to make assignments and ensure that they get done. I check work, keep records, and only occasionally read aloud. This morning I read a chapter to Addy to convince her that she really does want to do a book report on this book, and I was reminded that this is a timeless activity. When winter comes, I hope to pick it back up, even if it is just the two of us.
I am typing this while I babysit the pressure canner. Our Giant Eagle had a meat sale, and I decided to can a bunch instead of putting it in the freezer. The recent power outages that our siblings experienced in NC has me thinking it might be prudent to be a bit more prepared. I look at our shaky economy and our divided country, and I wonder how long it will be until it all falls apart. We are here for such a time as this, obviously, because here we are. I’ll make large pots of soup to share when that happens. Actually, I’ll make large pots of soup anyway. I love making soup, simmering the broth, chopping the vegetables, frying the meat, sprinkling the seasonings and tasting, adding more salt until it’s just right. It’s such a wonderfully satisfying way to make a meal.
Speaking of soup, I have a hankering for a large tureen that holds about a gallon. When I looked them up on Amazon, I found the perfect ones, but the price made me step away quietly. Unless I find one at a thrift store, I do not want to have a tureen that cannot be used because it might get broken. Meanwhile I am attempting to make one. The struggle bus is being ridden on a bumpy dirt road, let me tell you. I am not skilled enough to throw large amounts of clay so I threw two sections and connected them in the middle. It developed a bit of a wobble, but I trimmed it into a respectable semblance of a tureen. Then I made two lids to see which style I like best. The one fit perfectly. I know because I set it onto the tureen to check, and then it stuck as if I had glued it there. I called Rita to help me separate the two, an operation that ruined the lid and warped the rim of the bowl. I went ahead and attached handles, just in case it comes out semi-OK. It will likely be a flower pot. Oh well, shake it off and try another day.
Today started out chilly. I wore a bulky chenille sweater for a few hours, but it got too hot so I switched it for a yellow-green one I bought 13 years ago for our family photo. I still feel affection for this sweater and periodically shave off its pills so that I can keep wearing it. I can’t locate the photo with the whole family, but below is our couple’s photo. Not only did we have five babies, we were babies ourselves, even though we were in our thirties. Someday we will look back at this very time in our lives and talk about how young we look. This idea always fills me with cheer.
Recently I switched out the linens and lightweight cottons in my closet for the heavier knits and sweaters. I have a number of short-sleeved sweaters, which are the smartest thing ever, likely the design of a desperate peri-menopausal woman. (It’s tricky, at my age, to know how to dress, because I am sometimes plenty warm. Clears throat meaningfully.)
I planted my garlic last week, at least a hundred bulbs. I want a bigger harvest next year than I had this year. We have been having lingering coughs, and I have been advised repeatedly by people who know that I should ingest garlic fermented in honey. This is not my favorite thing, but I have become desperate enough to try it. The first time I tried to swallow a clove, I thoughtlessly chewed it and nearly choked. Today’s clove got cut into pieces the size of largish pills, and swallowed, which worked much better. I have also made a garlic salve with coconut oil which I slather on at night because that’s when the cough is worse. Have you noticed that when you’re sleep-deprived, it’s hard to deal heal? I have had over three weeks to try different remedies. From this vast platform of experience, I am here to say that the garlic has been more successful for this particular attack of bronchitis than Vicks or cough drops or Mucinex or prescription cough meds from the doc. At this point you might as well stick me in a baking dish and call me Lasagna.
The last fall ritual that marks the end of the garden work for me is digging up the dahlias, hosing them off, dividing the tubers, and storing them for winter. That is not my favorite chore, but I waited for an unseasonably warm day, which made it feel more like a privilege. All that is left to do is mulching the beds for winter. We have been carrying the leaves from our neighbor’s maple tree over to our garden. Bill does not like mess of any kind, so he diligently mows in circles and blows his leaves into piles every day. If we don’t get them picked up that day, he tarps the pile so they don’t blow around. The girls haul them in an old sheet and dump them on the garden. Everybody wins. Well, the girls feel like they get the short end of the stick, but I remind them that for ten minutes of minimal effort, they can bless the socks off an elderly neighbor, and that matters.
We still have hickory and oak leaves sifting down. I don’t like these tough ones for mulch because they don’t break down much over winter. We resort to blowing them to the edge of the woods. There is a long caterpillar of leaves all along the periphery of the lawn.
Recently the rugosa rose has put out a final push of fresh pink blooms amongst the fat orange hips that have already ripened all over the bush. A few honeybees hadn’t gotten the memo that the nectar season is over and were rolling around in the blooms. There is a humongous kale plant in the garden, and I will be able to harvest from that until Christmas. This is the third year for this particular kale. It was only a little stump this spring, but I didn’t pull it out, and sure enough, it revived and thrived. I also have a lovely row of parsley and beside it are carrots in the ground, where they continue to get sweeter and bigger. We like to walk out there and just casually pull a few carrots when we need them. It’s a lot easier than trying to store them, and with the mulch on the garden, they don’t freeze unless it gets super cold.
Gardening is a rhythm that hums in my blood. Right now it is at a minimum, but it is always there, my therapy. All the houseplants are inside, their summer green still glad and strong. I’m happy, and it’s fall, and that is a small miracle.
Last year I asked the Lord to do a work in my heart because I have a history of collapsing a bit when my flowers die and the long dark sets in. This was an exceptionally gorgeous, breathtakingly amazing fall, and I was here for it. This surprised me as much as anyone. All I can say is that God is kind, opened my eyes to the beauty that is this season.
I suppose it’s never too late to develop healthier rhythms. (I just had to tie that little moralizing bow at the end. Bless.)
wocket in my pocket 