The Visiting Fiddler

Our New Hampshire homestead experience was rich with the everyday happenings that never happen anymore. This was the last time I experienced a true country lifestyle. 

We always entered the house at the side, through the kitchen door. I didn't know there was a front door, or even a front porch for a while, because it was never used.  The kitchen was small and had a big white sink next to a  hand pump to bring up the well water. This is not as easy as having modern indoor plumbing, but was much easier than having to lug buckets of water from an outside well.

 In the dining room, large windows with many panes stretched along one side of the house. The glass was old and appeared to have melted to the point where it was twice as thick at the bottom as the top. All the floors in the house were wooden, but I only distinctly remember the dining room floor. I spent a lot of time under the table in there, taking every advantage of being small and flexible. The old wooden floors were painted grey, and walking across them made the most satisfying clomping and creaking sounds. 

At night, for a brief time between sundown and bed time, our old farmhouse was lit with hurricane lamps placed here and there. We had no television or radio, or even electricity. We entertained ourselves and each other. This was the same for most people around those parts, so it was quite common for people to stop by unannounced. It was the country way.

One cold evening, before the snow, a man with a fiddle came to visit.

No one can tell me who the man was. This was the only visit I remember from him. He could have been a complete stranger who was passing through and saw our lights. Who would turn down the company of a man with a fiddle?

He was a nice man.  ( I say this because I believe I was a good judge of character at age four. With all the people coming and going from my life by then, I had more than the good and evil detector of youth, I also had a little experience.) 

The fiddler was a nice man. I watched with great anticipation as he took his fiddle from the case. He showed me the instrument and allowed me to pluck the strings as he tightened the hair of his bow. Somebody said something about cat guts that I didn't understand.  I was warned to be very careful! but I didn't need to be told this. This instrument came out of a velvet lined box, so of course I knew to be careful. 

I took my favorite spot under the table. I didn't want to push my luck and get sent to bed early because I was in the way. Through the legs of those standing around the room I saw the fiddler raise his bow.

Immediately my hands shot up to cover my ears when he started to play. It was pure reflex to the intensity of the sound that burst forth from the instrument. The sound filled the room. It bounced off the wooden floors and sagging glass windows and found me in my hiding spot.

After the initial shock was over, my ears adjusted, and I began to hear that the sound was actually the most delightful music. It must have been a jig. Jigs have a driving, irresistible beat that even the shyest people find they must force themselves to NOT clap.

 I watched in amazement as the adults who always seemed so stern, began to clap and tap their feet. After a "whoop" or two was let loose, I knew it was safe to come out from under the table. 

 

Quickly, the music took over and I began to DANCE! I didn't know how to dance, but the music taught me, right then, right there. I remember my shear delight looking down at my legs as I hopped rhythmically back and forth. The brown corduroy pants I wore swished and swiped while my hard shoes kept beat with the music  The adults clapped to the beat with smiling faces, making it all too irresistible. 

The visiting fiddler left sometime after I had gone to bed. Naturally, he hadn't come to see me, but I was forever changed by his jig.

Desert Highway

     We often travel to Phoenix "the back way."  We love this less-used highway because the desert scenery never disappoints. In the spring there is a profusion of wildflowers along with the many textures of cacti and desert trees. Here we stopped to give the boys a break from the three hour drive home from Grandma & Grandpa's house. 

Kurt holds a freshly diapered Jess.

Marshall tries not to look like coyote bait... 

and I enjoy another beautiful drink of the high desert. 

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

On our way to Jane's, we passed Barkley coming toward us. Barkley was the funniest animal I had ever seen. He was the neighbor's friendly Basset Hound. I could not suppress my giggles at his droopy eyes and drunken walk. He sat on the side of the road, clearly torn between following us and continuing his original direction. Once decided, he left us with the wag of his tail and a "Bar-Rooh!"

 

Outside of Jane's place was a fenced area containing animals. I watched with bossy disapproval as Walter teased a ram. Walter is my older brother and I usually disapproved of everything he did. The ram did what rams do and rammed the wire fence to try to get to Walter. This was terrifying to me. The fence kept stretching with each attack, but fortunately, it held. 

Jane was a friend of mom's. Her picture in my memory is a pleasant one. She wears a long heavy dark skirt and long brown hair passed her full hips. She is smiling, her chocolate colored eyes twinkle with warmth and kindness. She laughs easily. 

How old was the one room cabin that Jane lived in? It must have been one of the first homes in the quiet area of Warner, New Hampshire.  Herbs were hanging from the ceiling to dry and there was a cast iron wood stove where she did her cooking.  I can vaguely see a patchwork quilt on her rumply (probably feather) bed. It was quite dark, lit with only kerosene lamps, and had a dirt floor. Jane would sweep the floor. This took some explaining for my four-year-old self to understand. Apparently, the dirt compacts into an almost cement like surface, and it can be swept clean.

Fieldstones and Chipmunks

A lot of time was spent in my childhood riding in the car, looking out the window. A slight bend or dip in the road would make my stomach feel sour with nausea. I hated car rides. Mom always told me to look to the farthest green I could see to help curb the sick feeling.

The view was a green blur driving in New Hampshire. Occasionally, the leaves would part enough for a glimpse of the thick stone walls outlining most properties in our area. These were old, old walls. I don't know who built them, but I was told they were stacked with the rocks plucked from the surrounding fields. The once jagged stones had been softened by the years and years of seasonal changes. Many were green with moss or spotted with lichens. 

I could always count on the chipmunks for a race. The sound of our old car would send them scurrying along the top of the walls until one would dart out of sight and another would appear. It was a relay race. Little striped twitchy competitors bolted into action. I have no doubt their noisy chattering was filled with boasts of victory.

Gentle Jess

     I really wanted to name him Rowdy Valentine instead of Jess Valentine, but I am glad I didn't. This little guy is so mellow and gentle. His whole presence has a soothing effect on whoever is holding him. He's bright and engaging, too, but not in a rambunctious way at all. He lulls me with his peaceful power into hours of holding him as he sleeps. I don't get much done, and most times, I don't much mind.

     Since his birth, I find myself experiencing real moments of tranquility. I know it is a gift he carried into this life. 

Sweet Grass and Sick Hot Hay

A continuation of the post titled "Mercy"

  sweet grass...

    The grassy areas surrounding the farm were littered with (what I call) chamomile grass. When I walked my little bare feet in the fields, the smell of honey and apples would spring from the earth. This chamomile grass had a wonderful, soft feel, almost like a tiny, fuzzy succulent. I can't help but smile when I smell chamomile. (hey, that rhymes, if you pronounce it wrong!)

sick hot hay...

I grumpily skulked along side the wagon. All the adults were in the field with pitchforks in hand. A number of days before, the hay had been cut and left on the ground to dry. 

Today was the day it needed to be moved to the barn for storage. The sun was hot, the air was muggy, and our activity was sending the bugs flying angrily in the air and around my face. I couldn't have been more miserable!

I watched as the adults threw forkfuls of hay into the wagon, first filling the corners and then the middle. This enabled them to stack it very high before taking it back to the barn. There they would again use their forks to unload it. It was a time consuming process that was an eternity to my four year old self. 

I wondered why I was even there. It could have been because all hands were needed for the work, which left no one to look after me. It could have been to teach me my place in the world, to pluck out any seed of entitlement that might have begun to take root in my soul.

  

The smell made me feel sick. The sun baked the grass until the sweetness was overpowering. Its rays reflected off the dry grass, burning my eyes. I will never forget that day. 

For years and years, after leaving New Hampshire, I couldn't bear to look at a sunny field. It does sound silly, I know, but it is true. Riding in the car, passing a sunny field, would strike a chord of dread in me. My eyes would fervently search for the shade of a tree to counteract the effect.

 I am amazed that I live, and love living, in Arizona. The sun always shines. I think it has forgiven me for hating it all those years.

When I studied with The School of Natural Healing, working to become a Master Herbalist, I had a question answered that had been in the back of my mind since that hot hay day. We studied the chemical constituents of many herbs.

Coumarin was the answer. 

It is the constituent responsible for the sweet smell of freshly cut grasses.  

New Garden Planted

   

  We found another little space in our yard to plant a garden. 

 This is where I put the corn and pumpkins. 

I should have planted about 20 days ago, but I wasn't ready. 

We'll see how it turns out. 

I made a stone path down the center. 

This puts everything within a two foot reach.

Here is another bed against the house.

It will have more tomatoes, soon, and some peppers.

Our strawberries are very happy under the pine tree.

I am catching lots of runners to plant!

Here lies the raised bed that will grow us some green beans.

I went ahead and planted some cucumbers with them 

to see if they can get along.

The grapes like their new location.

Garden good news:

This is the biggest tomato I have ever grown in AZ!

 It is actual "tomato-sized!"

Too bad I dropped the biggest one on the floor and busted it 

before I could stow it for ripening!

ARGH!

I'm going to eat it anyway.

Mercy

Mom moved us from southern Florida to New Hampshire when I was four years old. There she embarked on a dream of living a homestead lifestyle. The farm we lived on belonged to Mrs. Cooley and had been built in colonial times. We lived there about a year, but it was a short season packed with so much newness, that I swear I can remember almost everything.

There was a snake that slithered across the floor of my bedroom the day I moved in. It really scared me and gave mom a little start, too. Needless to say I was reluctant to spend the night or even set foot in the room. I don't know how long it took, but mom reasoned with me and I finally showed my bravery by sitting on the floor in front of the dresser where the snake had gone. The big help was learning there are no poisonous snakes in New England. Under the big step of the barn was a nest of snakes that I ended up befriending. I have not been afraid of snakes since.

I've decided to write a few paragraphs at a time about this period in New Hampshire. Only recently have I realized how tremendously that short time has impacted my life. It was a perfect set of experiences.

Hmm. It just occurred to me that it had to be spectacular.

This was the move that separated me from dad.

Perhaps God mercifully sent me this slow-motion set of magical events to distract me from the full force of loss that would have been too much for a little girl, had she been looking straight at it.

Here is a list of a few things I want to remember to write about:

The Two-Seater

Banging Down the Bees

Sweet Grass and Sick-Hot-Hay

Tapping Maples

The Glass Eye in the Mystery Room

The Visiting Fiddler

Beenut Milk

Flying Jack O Lantern

Dump Shopping

The Silver Box

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

Fieldstones and Chipmunks

Building Blocks and Relationships

It has been a challenging few months.

Marshall is two.

When Jess was born I felt like I lost my best little friend. Marshall withdrew from me and seemed unhappy for a while. Knowing that this is normal didn't take the sting out of it. He and I had been inseparable for almost two years. I left him with other people less than a dozen times in those two years-no joke, so you can imagine our attachment.

His turning two has not been fun either. Again, knowing he is acting normal doesn't lessen the ever changing struggles and stresses of having a child this age.

Forget the "reality" shows that sensationalize hard jobs that people do! Let's see a crab fisherman keep his cool with a tired (because he refuses to nap), hungry (because he refuses to eat), screaming (because he's tired and hungry) toddler who just deliberately woke up the baby after trashing the kitchen you spent an hour cleaning and removing his diaper before releasing the trouser trout to swim on the newly shampooed carpet because company is coming.

But yesterday, I got a glimpse of something

WONDERFUL,

something MAGICAL!

I can see the day coming soon when we will play and learn and talk together. This thrills me! The magic is coming back to the mothering. It is new and different. It is easy to feel the magic with a newborn or a squishy goo-gooing baby, but to have it with a two year old takes work.

We have been playing blocks everyday for a week.

Each day he throws them less.

Each day he creates a little more.

Each day we fight a little less,

and each day a little more light shines on the future.

We are building together-ness.

Important Instructions

     I am so lucky.

I happened to be at Logan's house (brother) when a package arrived from his grandmother who lives in West Virginia. I knew what was in that package. It was unopened and Logan was still at work. Hmmm...

I asked Gabby (SIL) to call and ask if I could open it. His answer was "Yes, and you can have half." I am 10 years older than Logan. Although he is an adult, a married man, and serves in the military, I like to think he is still a little afraid of me and that is why he made this generous offer. But maybe he is just generous. Or, maybe he does not worship the red gold as I do.

Behold the Beefsteak

I do not believe this can be achieved in Arizona. I don't think they can grow like this here. I would love to be proven wrong, wrong, wrong. Until then,  I will have to rely on my luck to get my hands on beauties like these. Either that, or have Logan's mail forwarded to my home every August...

And now for the important instructions:

World's Best Tomato Sandwich

Toasted bread

Miracle Whip (one needs the "tangy zip")

Fresh Ground Sea Salt

Fresh Basil Leaves

One inch thick slice of Beefsteak Tomato

Assemble and enjoy!

Remember to Laugh

     This is what I tell myself everyday as I attempt to be a mother to MARSHALL. His name is in all caps because that best represents him these past few days.  I lamented to a friend that when a baby turns two years old, there should be a special coupon that arrives in the mail for the parents...$5.00 off "Shut Up" Spray and Buy One Get One Free "Sit Down!" and "Quit It!" homeopathic tablets.

     What works best right now is to remember to laugh. Let's see what I laughed at today...

 

    (lipstick)

     I sat on the couch, nursing Jess, thinking how nice it was to finally have Marshall occupied and quiet in another room. Then I realized that silence from a toddler only means trouble. After I saw what he accomplished in less than 10 minutes, I honestly felt it was worth the 10 minutes of peace.

Mangos and Memories

     The mangos have arrived!  A few days ago, Grandma Lovett called to ask if I wanted any mangos from her tree in southern Florida. I didn't hesitate because, well, I am not stupid.

 

     Grandma Naomi Lovett is one of my most favorite people on this planet.  She is a true southern Floridian. This is very different than being a southerner in general. The way a southern woman is typically portrayed  is sugary-sweet, exuding an aura of helplessness and insincerity. This could not be further from the truth. I wish I were talented enough to paint a word picture of her. You would love her as I do.

     I don't often get to see my family in Florida, which is very sad. Although my brother and I didn't live near them after mom and dad split when we were very young, we both have a tremendous amount of "Lovett" in us. I am not talking about looks, we don't look like them at all. Instead, somehow, in our DNA, we were slipped the same sense of humor and splash of "quirky" that you just don't get unless you've spent a lot of time marinating in the sweet, balmy humidity of Homestead, Florida. 

     "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," was a favorite thing for mom to say when I was -no doubt- whining about something as a child. But if wishes were horses, I would ride to see Grandma Lovett. We would sit on the front porch swing and talk about nothing. I would swat mosquitoes and she would probably be grinning so I couldn't see her because mosquitoes know better than to bite her. I'd walk through the house and breathe in as much as I could. There is no better smell than the smell of her house. It must be from the aroma of years of the world's best cooking seeping into the knotty pine walls and wood floors. 

     This year I will put up some of her incredible creamed corn recipe. I don't remember a meal at her house without this corn. It is a simple recipe: Fresh Corn cut off the cob, salt, pepper, butter and bacon drippings. Can't go wrong with that!

   

Connection

     My adventure today started at 10:15 pm.  I had 20 pounds of peaches to process.  This was another first for me.  I learned so much! I am sitting on the couch with my body sort of throbbing, waiting for the boiling time to be complete. It is 1:00 am. I only canned a little over half the peaches. Tomorrow, if I get out of bed, I will prepare the others to be frozen pie filling.

A few things I learned...

Canning can be done all by yourself,  but should be done in a group of people whose company you enjoy.

There are two categories of peaches. One has the type of seed that is connected to the flesh of the fruit, and the other's seed is not. It would make for prettier canned peaches if you choose the free floating seed. My peaches were not this type, so they look a little abused.

Peaches are SLICKERY once peeled.

In order to place the peaches "cut side down" as per the directions, first, pick them up out of the boiling syrup while they are facing down and then slide them easily into the jar. Don't frantically pick at them with a fork or cuss at them, that doesn't seem to work as well.

      The last thing I learned is more of a reminder. 

It is something I have felt before.

 

When I am engaged in homemaking activities, I feel connected.  

I smell the fruit or the dish soap, I see my hands cutting an onion or sewing on a button, I feel the ache in my back from mopping, or maybe throbbing feet from standing in the kitchen too long, and I feel connected. 

I only feel connected when my heart is open to enjoy the activity 

instead of grumbling about the work. 

  Brief glimpses of women,  that I don't even know, float through my mind. They have done the same thing I am doing - whatever it is  -and I feel that feeling of connection to them. 

This lets me know I am in the right place, doing the right thing at the right time. 

It is a feeling of harmony and privilege.

My Fruit Bat

I can't get my tomatoes in the house. 

 

Marshall (age 2) thinks whatever is in my harvest bowl is lunch. 

  

He ate 12 tiny cherry tomatoes and five "big" tomatoes in one sitting.

 He ate the three-inch ear of corn, too. After all that, he insisted on eating a green bean, but spit it out because it took too long to chew. A few days ago he came in the house with a mesquite pod that he was chewing on. If none of these items are around, he picks at my herbs, crushes the leaves and shoves them up his nose. I tried to teach him to smell the different herbs, but he has his own way of doing things. Little Show-Off!

Whooping Around the Fire...

     That was the expression Mom used today.  

 I did my first waterbath canning just a few hours ago. 

How do Black Forest Preserves sound?

 Yes, "Oooh!"  is right.  

It is amazing what some sugar, cocoa, and cherries can become. 

I called mom to tell her what I was doing because I was so excited about it.  I had no idea how fun and instantly rewarding doing a little home canning could be! She immediately understood.  "My Mom would always be there to whoop around the fire with me whenever I did something like this," she told me. "We would do a little canning here and there and then get so excited as we watched the pints and quarts add up to a colorful display on the shelves."

My memories of mom canning were skewed by the whininess of being a self-absorbed little girl. It would be fun to turn back the clock and savor those days of picking tomatoes as big as a softball in the hot buggy days of summer, putting them in bushel baskets and fighting with my older brother, Walt, over who has to lug them in the house.  We were both afraid of getting stuck helping if we were seen in the vicinity of work. One year, I swear, Mom canned one scrillion-bazillion quarts of tomatoes. I tried to stay far away from the kitchen while she canned. In my ignorance, I thought she must be miserable in that hot steamy kitchen, scalding the tomatoes, burning her fingers as she peeled away the skin and loaded them into jars. But now I know the truth- it was pure bliss- and I missed out on it! Fortunately, it is not too late. Today was the first day of a new tradition. It is hard to explain, but today I changed again.