tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87276862623498004352024-03-05T18:22:28.251-05:00Farmwife at Midlife -Fodder, mayhem and musings from our Kentucky ridge farm.Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-89119108777554666862017-05-01T11:34:00.001-04:002017-05-01T11:34:50.690-04:00May Day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVCJt6-TNJupc09qKnB35mD9jEYxPbm2hsK2gM09cYLVDIdPmiTlFiNHj9Suih67OhHht6CspO8u96BInz8tfsTk0oJZKiHwoKQnOCStKkheX3zb4Yf4EIm6yR9bVCdLoaE42x-zV-HY/s1600/IMG_0204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVCJt6-TNJupc09qKnB35mD9jEYxPbm2hsK2gM09cYLVDIdPmiTlFiNHj9Suih67OhHht6CspO8u96BInz8tfsTk0oJZKiHwoKQnOCStKkheX3zb4Yf4EIm6yR9bVCdLoaE42x-zV-HY/s640/IMG_0204.JPG" width="568" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo taken in April 2008, our first spring on the farm here in Kentucky–nine years ago now!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>May Day</i> by Sara Teasdale</span></span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">A delicate fabric of bird song </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Floats in the air, </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">The smell of wet wild earth </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Is everywhere. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Red small leaves of the maple </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Are clenched like a hand, </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Like girls at their first communion </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">The pear trees stand. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Oh I must pass nothing by </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">Without loving it much, </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">The raindrop try with my lips, </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">The grass with my touch; </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">For how can I be sure </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">I shall see again </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;">The world on the first of May </span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Shining after the rain?</span></span><br />
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Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-44492319576506847582017-04-16T15:09:00.002-04:002017-04-16T15:09:38.391-04:00Welcome Easter Tide<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQ2dW5XN7GHb4peiGMS-Y3_iVDNcqwKmYJH8khcfp0MkQM_4bZ6RpK74G84jug8hAcvkpod93ZQ8w3E72HKyJGdEvYO_LPpClfa6o3EuoepxBJij9X3odBeLVJqIAiJgw4u5VqLQFQ6Y/s1600/Easter+Cow+Landscape+Postcard.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQ2dW5XN7GHb4peiGMS-Y3_iVDNcqwKmYJH8khcfp0MkQM_4bZ6RpK74G84jug8hAcvkpod93ZQ8w3E72HKyJGdEvYO_LPpClfa6o3EuoepxBJij9X3odBeLVJqIAiJgw4u5VqLQFQ6Y/s640/Easter+Cow+Landscape+Postcard.tiff" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Happy Easter from Valley View Farm!</span></i></div>
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<br />Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-38725209111357554232017-04-14T19:24:00.004-04:002017-04-14T19:32:10.897-04:00Under the Lilacs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oeLY4ckYvQ_zYQyU9iB_iDlYTGzdGuoyf6rFq5bRqleiBkJucy6Av33_L_B-yaDg_gKMyv_cxaaK_0UyY18vZBU9zO-m0awMruT_ExjdMCf-v7_qrQ0Bp9sqYZA9i9_TvQx6CAibzJ0/s1600/IMG_2146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oeLY4ckYvQ_zYQyU9iB_iDlYTGzdGuoyf6rFq5bRqleiBkJucy6Av33_L_B-yaDg_gKMyv_cxaaK_0UyY18vZBU9zO-m0awMruT_ExjdMCf-v7_qrQ0Bp9sqYZA9i9_TvQx6CAibzJ0/s400/IMG_2146.JPG" width="267" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-size: large;">oday I was a wee bit wistful because already the lilacs are fading, </span>having bloomed early this year after a very warm winter, and a very warm spring.<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>We brought some inside and I made certain to admire and sniff them whenever possible outdoors, too.<br />
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Later in the afternoon when the sun has gone behind the shed, some of the cats have been lying like lions in the part of the yard where we planted several lilacs about eight years ago. Slow growers, you know you have a prized specimen when it is large and full and high–likely even 100 years old or more. Our newer bushes have the fullest blooms they've had yet and are now almost as tall as I am (which isn't a huge stretch!). Sadly, an older lilac in front of the house on the bank that goes down to the road has died out completely. Not sure why as you don't really have to do much with lilacs to keep them happy. But I hate to see an old plant fade.<br />
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One nostalgic reminder of old cellar holes in New England is that you often come upon vast, towering lilac bushes in the woods near the edge of a field or by an old roadside. We had one such place near our New Hampshire farm. Sherwin Hill had been an old hill farm settlement about a half mile from our farm with several farmsteads that were abandoned at some point in the nineteenth century. The land is protected, the fields are still mowed, and the old road passes by the cellar holes belied by ancient lilacs and patches of day lilies. Behind our nineteenth-century barn at the farm there was a magnificent, huge white lilac (I haven't seen one since) which had been planted there easily a century or more ago (and it's one of those things I wish I had a photograph of–but that was well before digital when I didn't shoot everything I saw!). Here in Kentucky an old house site is often found by the amount of daffodils nearby. [Seems I've waxed on about <a href="http://inthepantry.blogspot.com/2008/04/lilacs-in-me-because-i-am-new-england.html">lilacs</a> before over at my old blog at <a href="http://inthepantry.blogspot.com/">InthePantry.blogspot.com</a>.]<br />
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At the doublewide, which we're selling soon (we have an offer), there is an older bush that was probably put there by the Dicks. They had a dog-trot house on the same site as where the doublewide was placed. I picked some from there, which are more lush, for the last time. There are some peony clumps that I will leave but I do want to dig up some of the applemint around the birdhouse that I brought down from New Hampshire. It is the grandchild of my grandparents' mint patch at Gray Goose Farm–which must have been dug out at some point as I don't remember it. Ann Sawyer, a neighboring farm wife and a great friend of my family, along with her husband Peter, gave me a clump from which my grandfather had originally given to her. Another friend has some Gray Goose Farm rhubarb, which doesn't do so well here, but I think I've found the right spot for it so I may beg for a clump next time I'm back in New England.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3r3XSsFn7h55_eeaqjDtDxXIn69VUPj9CA1rP-ROgyJCtfRjFJlUOJrGYKjcr_B2OWWDLdeY-qZlB-8BxKh3_9K4ZKuivA9gvGPwAtOXhpOJXivhHFbAk90OA6HLjBVhAKtM4DDyWyc/s1600/IMG_1840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3r3XSsFn7h55_eeaqjDtDxXIn69VUPj9CA1rP-ROgyJCtfRjFJlUOJrGYKjcr_B2OWWDLdeY-qZlB-8BxKh3_9K4ZKuivA9gvGPwAtOXhpOJXivhHFbAk90OA6HLjBVhAKtM4DDyWyc/s400/IMG_1840.JPG" width="266" /></a>Spring has become one of my favorite times of year here–not only with its length (an actual three months) but with all of the wild flowers that emerge in stages. Blood root comes first (around the time that the morel mushrooms poke through the forest floor), then violets by the road side where the grass is shorter, then miniature iris on rocky and sandy banks, and trillium and Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and so many others. By the end of April the pageant of spring wildflowers is fairly much through.<br />
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It is Good Friday today. Have a blessed Easter or Passover–or just enjoy your weekend–everyone!<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-20954031376731840482017-04-11T11:56:00.003-04:002017-04-11T15:23:17.747-04:00"This is going to be some day..."<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bWjEcDHSPonUJxg5PY6SO7YO67b4QAZSIOOuRWU4MQcD2vNGIJZ4ngdM7J9zuhaqmoD1s-pUMM8Qmixj5u-76HlV-MdI-LR8x6KZC8lzhagqdlBlZk-O-H6wlcJSUE0yM1P9-z6dOFw/s1600/10033148076_816d80a32b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bWjEcDHSPonUJxg5PY6SO7YO67b4QAZSIOOuRWU4MQcD2vNGIJZ4ngdM7J9zuhaqmoD1s-pUMM8Qmixj5u-76HlV-MdI-LR8x6KZC8lzhagqdlBlZk-O-H6wlcJSUE0yM1P9-z6dOFw/s640/10033148076_816d80a32b.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBShuulnqx-dHnCAZp83vwd2pr3HsR0MrIqr04MB21mvFzdHuDmFKnYlwNGUN_Cs7id1AXKClLnzFRCdO7ZsjGMSRa0HvGyS4EeLMYxoh2f9jBnWsUkrEPbadAZsZ-l71wFL7gTDYLqKo/s1600/WETcoverweb1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBShuulnqx-dHnCAZp83vwd2pr3HsR0MrIqr04MB21mvFzdHuDmFKnYlwNGUN_Cs7id1AXKClLnzFRCdO7ZsjGMSRa0HvGyS4EeLMYxoh2f9jBnWsUkrEPbadAZsZ-l71wFL7gTDYLqKo/s320/WETcoverweb1.jpeg" width="209" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">M</span><span style="font-size: large;">uch has been written about mindfulness and there are various books, blogs, and classes out there in the ether, and in reality. </span>For some it is a daily practice and complete lifestyle. One of my favorite books is <a href="http://www.bauhanpublishing.com/shop/world-enough-time/"><i>World Enough & Time</i> by Christian McEwen </a>(Bauhan Publishing) and certainly worth another read–I can't recommend it enough. A favorite blog is called "<a href="http://www.zenhabits.net/">Zen Habits</a>" published by <a href="https://wavelength.asana.com/workstyle-zenhabits/">Leo Babauta</a> and I had to laugh when I read his recent entry, "<a href="https://zenhabits.net/whelmed/">Three Habits for the Overwhelmed, Stressed, Anxious</a>" because that fairly well pegs it right now. Then there is anything written, or said, by <a href="https://www.mindfulnesscds.com/">Jon Kabat-Zinn</a> (who happened to be the colleague of a family friend, who was also doula for my first child back in 1988, **Ferris Urbanowski. But that is another story...), and certainly <a href="http://www.thichnhathanhcalligraphy.org/newyork/">Thich Nhat Hanh</a> who composed the lovely Zen calligraphy that I've shared here (a small representation of his work).</div>
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Lately I've been struggling with accomplishing basic every day tasks and larger ones related to my writing and potential writing projects. Putting my health first is also a challenge and I've never been very good at "giving myself oxygen first." As I answer to no one, except myself or the flow of the day, this is harder than it might seem. While my time is generally my own––if not involved with making a meal, overseeing a medical issue for a family member that can be all encompassing (like right now), or taking kids to school and back––it would seem that I should have no excuse. I really don't because I can be my own worst enemy when it comes to time management. Even the 2-4 round trips to our boys' school (18 miles each way), which used to translate into 2-4 hours a day sometimes, have been removed because one of our boys is now driving his own car and his brother, too. You'd think with all of that extra time I've have MORE time but it just seems like it's falling through a sieve. [Bouts of depression do not help, either, but fortunately there are pills for that.]</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxaprxea8D1mZDfbtVMlWRfKer6ngajUA1nWaMTG5y99QoIIKARLwIpIh9t5ta-rYubrLDveFjne11zyR27aa3TYt7VK5wuhizr-RWcZB6B4QFjeDqIKWmPsU9hAiVMG1xeKg11Hs1MY/s1600/0f2aace78353f643249c79dc71cb8895.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxaprxea8D1mZDfbtVMlWRfKer6ngajUA1nWaMTG5y99QoIIKARLwIpIh9t5ta-rYubrLDveFjne11zyR27aa3TYt7VK5wuhizr-RWcZB6B4QFjeDqIKWmPsU9hAiVMG1xeKg11Hs1MY/s320/0f2aace78353f643249c79dc71cb8895.jpeg" width="208" /></a>I blame this fleeting time/time wasted phenomenon that I am now experiencing partly on my age and circumstances. A person in their mid-50s has easily lived more than half of their lives and there is no guarantee on the rest. The old adage about "it's all down hill from here," after one turns 50 is apt: after all, one accelerates as they go down hill, while trying not to trip or crash, and time certainly seems to be doing that, too.<br />
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I also have two very independent young men in the home–one of whom will be off to college in August and the other with two years still in high school. Yet I hardly see either one of them! Between school, and activities, and driving themselves now, and their after school jobs, it can be a revolving door and they don't need me so much. I'm on the edge of empty nest all over again having gone through it once before when my daughter stayed back in New England, at 20, when we moved here. Then another mini-bout of it in 2012 right before I turned 50 and when she lived here with us for about six months and then headed out west for a new job and new life.<br />
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It was Ferris, actually, who said to me something I have never forgotten. When my daughter was born, Ferris said, "She is no longer yours and the rest of your life will be a continued journey of 'letting go'..." That resonated then and even more so now. Empty nest is a real thing but so is each milestone of a child's life: eventually we let them go into the world, but every day when they leave the house we are letting go, too, and hoping that they will be alright. Then one day you wake up and realize they are almost grown, and gone.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Persistence of Memory</i> by Salvador Dali, 1931, <a href="https://www.moma.org/collection/works/79018">MOMA</a></td></tr>
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So there's that. Meanwhile, in my 20s, life seemed limitless and boundless and that I could do anything with it. At some point the reality creeps in that maybe you can't do everything you want, or wanted, to do. As someone with so many different interests, and an innate attention deficit issue, this can be cold comfort.<br />
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I have often written about my Old-Order Mennonite friend Anna who has been my primary glimpse into the world of a certain kind of mindfulness. She lives very much in the task–whether it be laundry (no electricity), baking, quilting, or gardening. Yes, she ponders but she primarily lives in her hands and is rarely idle–much like the Shaker saying of "Hands to work and Hearts to God." I get that but like so many things that I fully understand it is often the practical application that is the hardest. My mother is another person who always likes to be doing something–like gardening–and I have few memories of her actually sitting down except at the end of a long day. Both women are productive "do-ers" and it never ceases to amaze me that my mother worked on her feet five days a week as a nurse and then came home to care for three teenagers and her mother. And here I am, with no full-time job, fewer mothering tasks, and nothing but time all around me.<br />
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Well, that's enough pondering and "living in my head" for one day. Only so much we can do in the world (and what a world it is becoming) so it's always best to focus on the home front and what's right in front of me. Life is good and I am very blessed, despite the occasional glitch or hurdle (like getting in my own way).<br />
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Back to the spring cleaning! And it helps me to listen to a favorite album like "Big Science" (1982) by <a href="http://www.laurieanderson.com/">Laurie Anderson</a> while doing so. One thing at a time, one moment at a time. It is all that we have.<br />
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<i>"This is going to be some day...this is the time and this is the record of the time."</i></div>
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i><br />
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PS I have often thought about **Ferris through the years and have not seen her for almost two decades. She was a big part of the lives of my family for many years as she worked with my mother, a former nurse, at Whole Health Center in Peterborough, NH where Ferris was a counselor. In the 1970s, not far from our family farm, Ferris built a small off-grid cabin in the woods along with a like-minded community of other cabin builders well before it was the trend. She drove a school bus while putting herself through graduate school and raising two daughters, one of whom went to school with one of my brothers. She even put in a good word for a great job in public relations at Antioch New England back in the day, where she had studied (yes, it is about talent but I've also discovered it can be about connections–which is probably one reason it has been so difficult for me to get non-writing jobs in Kentucky).<br />
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She was also right beside me, and my mother and former stepfather, when I had my daughter, all naturally, on a hot June day in 1988. Long before her work in counseling and mindfulness, <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1595065/">Ferris was featured in the natural childbirth Lamaze work of Elizabeth Bing</a> when she lived in New York in the 1960s. I knew she had struggled with a brain tumor in recent years and could no longer find her website when I looked last year. I just Googled and found this video that she posted last fall. I can't tell you how it means to hear her voice across the miles, to hear about her struggles and continued triumphs despite obstacles, and to realize how her words mean the world <b><i>right now</i></b>. I encourage you to listen, also, to the video below and you, too might find magic–and more mindfulness-in your life.<br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">"<i>May we come home to our hearts.</i>"</span></div>
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<br />Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-35981464107991998862017-04-09T21:45:00.003-04:002017-04-09T21:45:56.993-04:00Palm Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">L</span><span style="font-size: large;">ast night, in the wee hours, I got up as I often do when the air changes or the moon is full.</span> I had not realized it was waxing until I saw it setting in the west around 6 am, in the same exact place over the cattle sorting building, where the sun now sets more than 12 hours later at this time of year. Realizing it was Sunday morning, I went back to sleep for a blissful lie-in. I've had off and on vertigo this past month and find that sleep helps.</div>
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As it happens, the moon will be full in two more days on April 11th, Tuesday--so it is now a waxing gibbous moon and hard to detect by the eye. If you <a href="http://www.gardeningbythemoon.com/phases.html">garden by the moon phases</a>, this is the perfect time to plant above ground crops and I hope to get my broccoli plants and peas in tomorrow or Tuesday. The week ahead looks lovely and in the 70s with cool nights, but no frost–maybe one day of rain on Wednesday. Great time for catching up on garden stuff that I failed to do last fall!</div>
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Tonight Temple and I went out to the pasture behind the cattle sorting building to call the cows in for a bit of grain and mineral supplement. The cows are mostly pastured but we give them a bit of supplemental feed–more like a snack–every few days.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDBUJ8LbGbwYlvxnjnjMiSuqZcTJ0c11f9zX1UD57tMPEZxN037zCRC6OmdyO-z-_XgbObiJRx3pLxkbykaTDKVt9_LOBi33uujMpnLg6jzB4PPneJwqGjJ_KCdFiY_ZT8f3L7-XePxY/s1600/IMG_2124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDBUJ8LbGbwYlvxnjnjMiSuqZcTJ0c11f9zX1UD57tMPEZxN037zCRC6OmdyO-z-_XgbObiJRx3pLxkbykaTDKVt9_LOBi33uujMpnLg6jzB4PPneJwqGjJ_KCdFiY_ZT8f3L7-XePxY/s640/IMG_2124.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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He hadn't called the cows in for a long time and when the cows are used to it, they come charging down to the grain trough. When you call a cow you say, "Come Boss!" and they generally come running. Today it took them a while and by the time I was back at the house they had arrived and it was too dark to photograph them. We have a much smaller herd right now that we are rebuilding in the next few years.<br />
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The sunsets have been beautiful lately, a bit past 7:30pm. By June the sun will set right over the small winding road that passes our farm (more of a lane, really), but right now it sets over the sorting building.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Catherine</i></span>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-53722021378841409532017-03-31T18:46:00.005-04:002017-03-31T19:07:02.006-04:00Spring Planting<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUah95Ebza_ztepuhR7Bugu8hLdcELv57NlzHs5-rN4cyPYUGqP4p9xHG32vUX1II9B7Kd-QFVMy6-in_dZ5DMa-inqiZVnub5yTLVyl2sIsRdxr4w5t4RrKU-A88HJ7mtplj_Zs-TWok/s640/IMG_0205.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">A photograph from my latest article at </span><a href="http://www.rethinkrural.com/" style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">RethinkRural</a><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"><br />on "</span><a href="http://rethinkrural.raydientplaces.com/blog/how-to-plan-and-plant-a-southern-spring-garden" style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">How to Plan and Plant the Southern Spring Garden</a><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span><span style="font-size: large;">can't wait to get out in the garden this year. </span>The boys have spring break during the first week of April and, in between rain drops, I plan to get the broccoli starts in, peas planted, some radishes and beets, and maybe some other "cole crops" if there is room in my four galvanized steel garden beds (which are repurposed water tanks for cattle).<br />
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I also need to start some annuals that you can't easily get around here: some heirloom tomatoes (mostly those can be found in nurseries here in Kentucky but not my favorite, "San Marzano"); lots of unusual zinnias; and a few other unusual heirlooms.<br />
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There is also an adjacent garden shed nearby which needs a massive clean out and complete reorganization. I'm hoping to corral at least one of the boys to help, even if I have to bribe or pay them–they are so busy these days with school and after school jobs at a nearby farm that we've hardly seen them! Every time we do, they seem to have grown another inch.<br />
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Despite our warm winter and early spring–which has faltered a few times with numerous short cold spells–the garden still waits for me. This is our tenth spring in Kentucky and I look forward to it every year: it is prolonged, often warm but not too hot, a time when we can open windows and turn off the HVAC altogether until the real heat comes in mid-late May.<br />
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There is a succession of emergent wildflowers along the roadsides and fields. There are wild storms which bring literal excitement to the air (and I have had a lifelong storm obsession). In May we are rewarded with several weeks of local strawberries and my rhubarb is in full-on pie mode (the old timers didn't call it "pie plant" for nothing). Mid-May is also the end of the boys' school year here (which starts again in mid-August) so then it really starts to feel like summer.<br />
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[And there is always spring cleaning... It was supposed to take place in March, but as our oldest son is graduating from high school in mid-May and plans to have all of his friends here afterwards, and other family, it's time to get serious, folks!]<br />
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How will your garden grow?<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-81702959043142377922017-03-20T13:06:00.002-04:002017-03-20T13:40:43.471-04:00First Day of Spring!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-size: large;">t occurred to me recently, as the sun filtered into our living room about a half hour after rising and where it lingers for a while at window level, that the light here is the same in late March as it is in late September.</span> Only it is a much warmer, more promising light. In the first weeks of fall the sun will also stretch its fingers across the living room and, about twelve hours later, it blinds us in our sitting room on the west side of our small cottage.<br />
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My amateur astronomer father would have been slightly distressed to know that it took me 54 years to understand that "Equinox" means "equal night" in Latin. [I even took one year of Latin in college...]. So of course it is!<br />
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While the daylight, and night time, is not exactly equal at this time of year (for some reason I can't explain here but it's something like 12 minutes off) it is, for all intents and purposes, the same 12 hour stretch for darkness and light–even with Daylight Savings starting in early March. Of course, the Solstices are the opposite: the greatest stretch of light on June 21st and the longest stretch of night on December 21st. These are symbolically special times in our astronomical calendar. A scattering of rock circles throughout Britain, such as Stonehenge and Avebury, were believed to have been constructed around them. [For a beautiful account of Stonehenge and its pagan and mystical associations, read Chapter 28 of Thomas Hardy's 1892 novel, <i>Tess of the d'Urbervilles</i>, <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/hardy/tess_urbervilles/58/">here</a>.]<br />
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On our farm in Kentucky where spring is truly spring (and not covered by a blanket of snow), the Spring Equinox awakens so much: there are new animals, red buds bursting, bulbs emerging, grass greening, wild flowers starting, and rhubarb and strawberries in May! The fields are usually dry enough to walk around without worrying about tamping down the hay (or ticks and chiggers to bite us).<br />
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Our Kentucky spring spans from March-May, for the most part and by Memorial Day, it starts to get hot and humid. It is a wonderful, hopeful time in our year. There are gardens to dream about and to start planting and a few months where we can actually have the heat and the air-conditioning off for much of the time. I wash all of our quilts, and small area rugs, and hang them on the line. Ideally I spring clean in March and early April, generally leading up to Easter, so I'd best hold true to that conviction.<br />
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I was so excited about gardening that the other day I stopped at a few trusted garden centers to see if they had any pansies in–the ones I visited were closed or only had flats of annuals starting. In another month, or less, there will be an abundant selection of plants through Mother's Day–and regular produce and flower auctions at <a href="http://growcaseycounty.blogspot.com/p/casey-co-produce-auction-schedule.html">Casey County Produce Auction</a>!<br />
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What are your favorite spring rituals or things you look forward to?<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-38424943454407482522017-03-19T19:40:00.002-04:002017-03-19T21:48:09.911-04:00Two Women Sitting Around Talking (...and Listening)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-size: large;">he main</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">reason I left Facebook recently</span> <span style="font-size: large;">is because so many people I have known (in person or as a "Friend") were at each other's throats, no matter their politics or persuasions. </span>[As soon as Lent is over I will be back, but not much more than a few minutes a day and only for a quick check or a garden, farm, book, article, food-related post–and a vow never to post anything political there for the rest of my days!] Several acquaintances as far back from high school–and even a few here locally in the past few years–had also unfriended me because of our differences of opinion. That, as well as the negativity and constant political sharing, was my tipping point. I've always prided myself on having a wide swath of friends–on Facebook and in real life–who have different backgrounds, perspectives, religious views, and politics.<br />
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I am objective enough to see that there are impermeable bubbles on all sides and that so many of us have the need to be right, including myself. But perhaps what we really want is just to be heard? And that requires real time conversation, validation, or at least the lost art of <i>listening</i>.<br />
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Everyone has their thoughts on something and everyone has a right to them but then there is the whole fact vs. fiction thing and that, to me, is even more disturbing than disparate views on issues that affect us all. I don't want to make things political on my blog, either, but I will say this: we need to do more listening and less talking. And to do so with empathy and understanding and an objective mind. It starts within each of us. That is how I was raised: to enjoy a lively debate in the right forum or with others who are willing, but to not shove my beliefs on everyone else. But if you ask for my opinion or thoughts on anything, I am delighted to tell you.<br />
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This quiet, warm Sunday afternoon a strange man stopped at our door. I said "come on in!" because one of our boys said, "Oh Dad, that's the man you met at work." As soon as the man walked in and started speaking, I thought I was back in New Hampshire. His accent was spot on old-school Yankee: broad "ar"s as in "BAHN" (just the way my husband says it) and the kind of speech and cadence you don't hear much any more in New England unless you are on a back road or with an old farm family (both also increasingly rare).<br />
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Turns out he and his wife moved here last year for many of the same reasons we did: shorter/warmer winters, better cost of living, a different way of life, and a rural experience that is increasingly (and less affordably) difficult to find back in New Hampshire, or in much of New England for that matter.<br />
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So my husband and his friend went off to the shop and his wife and I spent time talking in the house over a cup of coffee. She was as politically interested and aware as I have been, and as engaged as I was on TV and other media until about a month or so ago. To be honest, I've enjoyed a welcome break from it all.<br />
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I was prepared to make small talk about New England and various places we'd lived or things we'd done or animals that we love (she trains horses). But she brought it all up first and, as she was a guest in our home, I was determined to be polite. Rather than spewing my own thoughts I listened to hers and only pushed back sometimes, and respectfully, just to make sure she knew I didn't agree with everything being said. Initially she seemed surprised but then she said, "You know, the only way to learn is from each other and the only way to do that is by listening." No truer words.</div>
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We had a real conversation without huffing or shaming or getting upset. Since living in Kentucky I have seen and heard other viewpoints and approaches to a wide variety of things. Because of that I knew the drums were beating loudly and consistently in the direction that they went in November 2016–at least from much of rural America. [But the pundits and pollsters were not interested in this reality, and neither were some of the politicians.]<br />
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All I will say now, before forever holding my peace on the subject, is that the conversation was very enlightening in both directions. She even said so. We are very different women from very different upbringings and perspectives and, like many people I've met or heard about, she voted for the first time in her life because she felt inspired to do so. Like others, she's been holding out for a hero.<br />
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We talked but we also listened to each other. We spoke of the great divide in the country right now but recognized that there was also some common ground between us–that we all as humans basically want the same things: a roof over our heads, the ability to work and earn a living, affordable healthcare, a safe(r) world.<br />
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In the old days people used to go around "visiting" on a Sunday afternoon. It was generally an open door "we're at home" policy. We have found that tradition exists here, too, especially among our Old Order Mennonite friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYN407022gJEu8RULgXN7yV7zGwn6iRizNOIwJOKUziTmd82OOyskhgDsHBnxHauog2DQHJnkr17Hd0cEUtM8OtxoB9LuxapLMvNiJu8szRaiCv3wiWMy2D3lcSbhXpuNTuMkF6X6U_s/s1600/Lyle-two-women.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYN407022gJEu8RULgXN7yV7zGwn6iRizNOIwJOKUziTmd82OOyskhgDsHBnxHauog2DQHJnkr17Hd0cEUtM8OtxoB9LuxapLMvNiJu8szRaiCv3wiWMy2D3lcSbhXpuNTuMkF6X6U_s/s320/Lyle-two-women.jpeg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYN407022gJEu8RULgXN7yV7zGwn6iRizNOIwJOKUziTmd82OOyskhgDsHBnxHauog2DQHJnkr17Hd0cEUtM8OtxoB9LuxapLMvNiJu8szRaiCv3wiWMy2D3lcSbhXpuNTuMkF6X6U_s/s1600/Lyle-two-women.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>Real Time vs. Facebook Time is so much better, even if you don't agree or know each other well. Do we like having our opinions and ideas shared by people and friends who agree with us? Of course. But as long as we can talk with each other civilly about our differences, while also saying when something is wrong, I think we'll be alright. The rest is just noise, distraction, and diversion–even in much of <span style="text-align: center;">the media. We just need to occasionally look up from our Smartphones and our computers, and our televisions, and have a real conversation.</span><br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Catherine</i></span>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-75169347004644301942017-03-09T21:06:00.002-05:002017-03-09T22:10:15.851-05:00Oscar Hamilton and the Really Old Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">F</span><span style="font-size: large;">or two years (another reason I didn't blog at all!) I was a freelance contributor to our local newspaper, <i><a href="http://somerset-kentucky.com/">Commonwealth Journal</a></i>. </span>I wrote feature articles, mainly for their insert magazines, and also contributed my photography.<br />
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One of my favorite subjects, and articles, was a man who lived in Sawyer, Kentucky, in a very rural part of McCreary County not far from Cumberland Falls (and near the delightful hamlet of Honey Bee!). Oscar Hamilton was 92 when I interviewed him in January 2015 and spryer than either myself or my husband. He showed us around his farm, and brought us to the largest white pine tree in Kentucky. We visited for a while and before we left he gave us a quart of some lovely, dark unpasteurized wild honey that he put up. We promised to come back and visit in the spring when he wanted to give us some of his blackberry starts. We never did.<br />
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The other day I thought I'd look up Oscar again and make plans to go see him. Almost immediately I found his <a href="http://www.mccrearyfh.com/notices/OSCAR-HAMILTON">obituary</a>. He died last October 10th at the age of "94 years, 10 months, and 24 days." It saddened me to learn this, not that he didn't have a good, long life, but for selfish reasons: we never got to see him again.<br />
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I know his life was full and he spent all of it on his farm in Sawyer, at the edge of the Cumberland River (made into Lake Cumberland when he was a younger man). But to think of the world without Oscar in it–well, it just makes me sad. We both knew many "old timers" like him back in New Hampshire–old bachelor farmers, or widowers, who were self-reliant and survived many of life's tribulations and passages, but always on their own steam and with their own resources. They are, indeed, a dying breed of men.<br />
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One of the first things Oscar shared with me (I didn't ask) was that he was a life-long registered Democrat. It used to be that most people in rural Appalachia were Democrats, before the Reagan era, in particular, and before other issues hijacked the Republican party (I'm not getting political here, I promise: one reason I'm on a social media diet right now). So I would have liked to have asked Oscar what his thoughts were on the very contentious 2016 presidential year.<br />
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We were glad to at least have met Oscar on that cold January day. And at 54 I'm realizing that there might not always be a "next time."<br />
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I also got to thinking about Oscar today as this would have been my father-in-law Tom Pond's 90th birthday: **March 9, 2017. Another great man but from a very different world as Oscar. A person is alive only as long as they live in people's memories: two of my children remember their grandfather and our youngest was only a year when "Badda" died in June 2011. Too soon–but there is never a right time to lose someone you love.<br />
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I'm going to try and upload the pages of the article here in this post: just click on the images, below, to enlarge and read.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Catherine</i></span><br />
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**March 9 is also our Old Order Mennonite friend Melvin Hurst's birthday (he is 66 today-another self-reliant soul-and his wife, Anna, is my best friend here). It is also Elisha Wilson's birthday. Another Kentucky native, Elisha is very much like Oscar but only a few decades younger–he installed the miles of fencing here on the farm and is true blue. We couldn't be here without any of them.</div>
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<br />Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-54458382802009265712017-03-09T20:11:00.000-05:002017-03-09T20:24:31.127-05:00Rethink:Rural<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-size: large;">n the years since I stopped blogging––has it been 2 now?––I have been a freelance contributor to a great website called <a href="http://rethinkrural.raydientplaces.com/">Rethink:Rural</a>.</span> Recently I was also featured in their "<a href="http://rethinkrural.raydientplaces.com/blog/farming-women-and-women-homesteaders-a-series">Farming Women and Women Homesteaders</a>" series as part of Women's History Month this March. The opening article, written by my editor Tiffany Wilson, provides some interesting background information. You can also link on my <a href="http://rethinkrural.raydientplaces.com/blog/topic/Catherine-Pond">article index here</a>, which is updated whenever I have a new article published on the site.<br />
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<a href="http://www.rethinkrural.com/">Rethink:Rural</a> is a website dedicated to the country life and for those seeking to have it! Here's more from their site:<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #405765; font-family: "open sans" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px; text-transform: uppercase;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #405765; font-family: "open sans" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px; text-transform: uppercase;">OUR PURPOSE & </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #405765; font-family: "open sans" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px; text-transform: uppercase;">WHO WE ARE:</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #777777; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 20px;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">When people live in the country, you can’t drive down their long, private driveways to peek into their windows and see what their lives are like. But at Rethink:Rural, you can.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">We’re here to help those who are searching for a simpler, rural lifestyle to get a firsthand view of what that life could be like. We tell the stories of rural people and share how they found their paradise, what they wish someone had told them before they started, and how they made their land fit their dreams.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">We also talk to experts about how you can attain the country life, featuring advice for every step of the land-buying and land ownership process. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">In an age where 80% of the population of the United States resides in an area defined as urban, we challenge you to “rethink rural.” </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">Rethink:Rural is operated by </span><a href="http://raydientplaces.com/" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #006669; font-size: small; text-decoration: none;">Raydient Inc. (d/b/a Raydient Places + Properties</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">). Its purpose is to educate future landbuyers about the land-buying and land ownership process and to lead them to the right property to fit their dreams on </span><a href="http://raydientplaces.com/" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">RaydientPlaces.com</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">. Raydient is the professional real estate services and development subsidiary of Rayonier, showcasing land for sale throughout the greater Southern United States to people that want their own unique property for outdoor recreation, rural living and/or investment. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">Rayonier has owned and cared for thousands of acres of forestlands across the United States for 90 years. A recognized land, ecological and conservation manager, Rayonier is a leading timber REIT with assets located in some of the most productive softwood timber growing regions in the United States and New Zealand. Rayonier owns, leases or manages approximately 2.7 million acres of timberlands located in the U.S. South, U.S. Pacific Northwest and New Zealand.</span></blockquote>
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I know my editor would be grateful if you checked it out and visited often. Also, if you have any story ideas, don't hesitate to shoot me a line or two about a person, place, rural-related book to review, or interesting topic–even your own farm or country pursuit.<br />
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You can always email me at <a href="mailto:info@catherinepond.com">info@catherinepond.com</a> or post below.<br />
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My thanks and gratitude for your readership here–it's nice to be back.<br />
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And you come back when you're ready!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Catherine</i></span>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-16877395577118648442017-03-06T17:17:00.001-05:002017-03-09T20:26:15.446-05:00Unsocial Media<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-size: large;">he title of this post is rather an oxymoron, I realize. But how "social" is media, really? </span>Since I read it (and clipped it, and fortunately it's on line, too–so then why did I clip it, you ask? You'll have to talk to my inner hoarder...), this article by Andrew Sullivan has haunted me. "<a href="http://nymag.com/selectall/2016/09/andrew-sullivan-technology-almost-killed-me.html">I Used to Be a Human Being</a>," appeared as the cover story of September 16, 2016's <i>New York</i> Magazine. It is about what Sullivan calls "distraction sickness" and being bombarded by a constant stream of media, requests, emails, posts and commentary about every subject, as well as useless information. [Do I really need to know that Beyonce is having twins?]<br />
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Sullivan has a Smart Phone like most of the rest of the world. I do not. I have a cheap TracPhone that I load with more minutes every six months or so and I use it when on the road or in emergencies, or to text my kids when they're not here. I enjoy that part of it. I can't imagine having a more advanced phone near me 24/7 or the constant temptation to tune out–I was doing enough of that on my home computer, on Facebook, for the past eight years (since August 2008, in fact).<br />
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As you know we live on a farm. Stuff happens and phones are necessary. But I've never been able to justify a fancier phone and neither do I want one. If I had a job off-farm or traveled more than I do, perhaps I could justify having one (and yes, Instagram would be a blast but as it is I'm hardly on Pinterest–I enjoy it but it's not tactile enough for me: again, it's the recipe/article clipper hoarder in me). We got our oldest son, nineteen, an iPhone for Christmas on a basic plan. Three years ago my boys and husband each got an iPad (and my husband and other son, almost 17, each have a TracPhone, also). Since that time, with the iPads and the iPhone, everyone is in their devices on much of their down time. There is no letting the genie back into that bottle! So I am glad that we waited so long to computer-ize them (it was also my husband's first computer experience).<br />
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It's not that we're luddites (although you could argue that), it's that we're cautious. For a while I've seen how individually isolating this kind of thing is-even the home computer can be a kind of incubus for me. It is seductive, alluring, there all the time and where I can Google virtually anything in an instant and get way too many answers. I can send something to an editor in an instant, I can find many recipes for the same thing, I can spend hours just looking at different websites or searching and collecting things on eBay (that's another thing altogether). For someone with ADD, it is ironic that a computer can provide focus in its hypnotic capabilities. Sometimes I will be on the computer, whether writing, emailing, tweaking and organizing photographs, or, on Facebook, and I'm not even aware how much time has passed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsyEUKb-P97pxCkDeHfJpVEe6N4aKdR7JfOCLa6w5AoonHl5yy7-_mPf03u9gkCUvqPwFEDe7cnROabMtoq7xjMsPRZWsYVOQimIfGkopWxIr2Y79jul1RVbGquH7fWtbonzN6UuWStM/s1600/imgres.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsyEUKb-P97pxCkDeHfJpVEe6N4aKdR7JfOCLa6w5AoonHl5yy7-_mPf03u9gkCUvqPwFEDe7cnROabMtoq7xjMsPRZWsYVOQimIfGkopWxIr2Y79jul1RVbGquH7fWtbonzN6UuWStM/s1600/imgres.png" /></a>If I spent the same amount of time doing something productive (well, writing for pleasure, or money, is a form of production) that I spent on Facebook in a given day–without checking the time–I could probably move mountains (or at least laundry piles).<br />
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So for me, a Smart Phone has never been an option–not only am I "all thumbs," but I am used to keyboarding the old fashioned-way as I learned on a typewriter after twelve weeks of night classes that I took in high school (because I couldn't fit it in during the day). This summer, before he goes off to college, I will make my son do an on-line typing course, too. Invaluable. I type as fast as I think and, well, that can be a dangerous thing–especially on social media.<br />
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I'd reached the same saturation point that Sullivan spoke about, about two weeks ago. In the post-election and inauguration I was saturated by negativity and opinions from all sides and still continuing to give my own. It was a no-win and it was draining. I realize that some people need to vent and need to organize or whatever else they need to do. But for me it was keeping me away from more important things-like my own work, or ideas, or just doing different things with my day.<br />
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Obama was our first social media president in that most people over 40 joined Facebook during his presidency (he, too, used social media effectively and positively to help win his elections). During this time, the kids moved on to other social outlets and Facebook became hijacked by adults. For the first time in our lives everyone had a public voice, a forum, and a place to vent and share information about their opinions in an immediate way. I believe this also gave strength to false or alternative facts. We stopped fact-checking or thinking for ourselves and everyone, no matter what their political inclinations, seems locked in their own impermeable bubbles. And it can be exhausting if you let yourself go beyond family photos and sharing recipes or silly Youtube videos.<br />
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I've been off of Facebook for almost a week. I honestly don't miss it. I do miss some of my Friends there but they know where to find me (and I do enjoy keeping in touch with old friends who wouldn't otherwise write or even be in touch). I have to say that Facebook is an invaluable resource and I will likely return again, but more sporadically and then for just a quick check-in or post about something on the farm or when I've had an article out.<br />
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What have I done to fill that void? Well, I've started blogging again, and walking again. I have a better flow of thoughts and ideas–it's like a valve has been turned back on. There is less "mind clutter" bombarding me throughout the day and it's already cluttered enough.<br />
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I've also been writing with a new kind of energy because I'm not putting that same energy into trying to be right on Facebook or to prove a point. The fact is, no one is listening. No one cares. In person, they might but not when you are pontificating or ranting. People shut down, sometimes even if they agree with you. And if you are singing <i>to</i> the choir, wouldn't you rather save that energy for singing <i>with</i> them?<br />
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I have many bad habits but this one required my immediate attention. So far, it's working.<br />
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Now, about those "Real Housewives"...<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You come back when you're ready! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Catherine</i></span>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-65028198307677698262017-03-05T12:54:00.000-05:002017-03-09T20:27:18.386-05:00Watching Caesar Go<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-size: large;">he sun was out after some late winter severe weather in the past few days. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;">I caught a glimmer of movement in the window that always occurs when a vehicle passes through the farmyard and is refracted by the shining light. Thinking that either my husband or boys were home early, I got up to look out. Nothing. Then I heard a low rumble on the other side of our small farm home and saw a truck pulling a cattle trailer. Inside of it, all alone, was Caesar with his big, black, Angus presence. Of all of the other bulls besides Edgar, who is our only bull for now, he would allow us to pat him on the head through the fence.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"I wish I hadn’t seen that,” I said aloud to the
empty house (I am alone now here for long stretches—from 7:30am until 3:30 or
5:30pm—as my sons now drive themselves together to school). So I talk to myself
a lot—or to two of our six cats who are allowed in the house.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I knew that Caesar would be picked up today and
taken to auction but as I hadn’t seen him one more time since a few days ago I
had already separated from the idea of him leaving. Every time an animal leaves
the farm a part of us, and a part of our farm, goes with them. Their fate is
undetermined as they go to auction—they could either live on another farm or go
to the slaughterhouse. As a meat eater one has to accept that reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">But to see that same magnificent animal, behind
the relative prison bars of a cattle trailer, riding behind the truck up the
hill away from our farm to an unknown future or demise—well, it was devastating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was reminded of another goodbye–of when my husband and daughter drove up the hill, pulling a small trailer, on their way out to Colorado where she would live. It was just after my 50th birthday and she had been living with us here in Kentucky for much of that year, in between two stages of her life. For the first time in five years I had everyone under one roof again. For a mother there is no greater comfort than that.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #7f6000; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"What people don't tell you is that you lose your children. As beautiful and wonderful as you are now, the little girl whose hair I used to detangle and had bad dreams and used to crawl into my bed? She's gone."</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="color: #7f6000; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">–Madeline, "Big Little Lies" (HBO)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">All was quiet in the darkness of that early November morning-there were not even any birds. So it was fitting that it was like empty nest all over again watching my daughter drive off, at 5am, to an uncertain future where there are no guarantees, only possibilities. I watched until I could no longer see the small, piercing eyes of red tail lights on the back of the trailer–where my daughter's life was placed for safe transit. I listened until I could no longer hear the sound of the car engine on the ridge. I prayed for a safe journey for both of them–round trip for my husband and one-way for my daughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And then I went back into the house, and I cried.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">You come back when you're ready!</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i></div>
Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-51438894714660672992017-03-04T13:02:00.000-05:002017-03-09T20:28:15.212-05:00Rebooting My Blog–& Middleaged Booty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-size: x-large;">I </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">used to enjoy blogging, sometimes several times a week.</span> </span>Then, in 2012, we lost our satellite Internet from a lightning strike on our farm and the only time I could blog was on my (very slow-eg. ancient) laptop about once a week or so at our wonderful local city library in Somerset, Kentucky (both of my Mac computers are from 2004 with only one upgrade!). It took two full years for our local phone carrier to install our rural Wifi capabilities and I'd just let our satellite account go because when they came to repair it they said the equipment was outdated and I said, "Well, why didn't someone tell me that years ago?" I'm not a luddite on principal, and not as bad as my husband is, but upgrades are not something I am good at. Or reboots for that matter.<br />
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So, that, in short is how I got out of the habit of blogging.<br />
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I had also been working on another book, on the 1950s American kitchen, commissioned by a British publisher who decided to not proceed with their American list after I'd finished it in April 2014. [I am happy to say that the manuscript has now been shopped to another publisher, after languishing in a desk drawer for over two years. My bad.]<br />
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I was also preoccupied by too much social media (eg. Facebook, especially) which I've recently given up for Lent. I not only had extreme political fatigue from the past two years but I find social media can all too easily become a black hole of time-killing. When I wasn't blogging while we didn't have Internet for a few years, I also became more of a Facebook grazer. At the library, or wherever I could find free Wifi in someone's parking lot (eg. Lowe's or McDonald's), or even our local coffee house, I would check my wall for about ten minutes, maybe post, visit a few other walls and be done with it. Now I am on a complete FAST except for if I want to promote anything in my writing world (which I did yesterday).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDcK9od1ZFuV8MbOZBmfW-0BTSYBm_2AEAtvaGJuRRWbkVcTDlRnEtRr-AeAi7ImJKRNtaEBnsJRO3_dD6m_4eHozkAkMPBPsklGdnhaC42pQrY5Akhsr5ETOCjh7ZTWwnPsirKHf_-XQ/s1600/1950s-tired-exhausted-woman-housewife-sink-full-of-dirty-dishes-h2867.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDcK9od1ZFuV8MbOZBmfW-0BTSYBm_2AEAtvaGJuRRWbkVcTDlRnEtRr-AeAi7ImJKRNtaEBnsJRO3_dD6m_4eHozkAkMPBPsklGdnhaC42pQrY5Akhsr5ETOCjh7ZTWwnPsirKHf_-XQ/s320/1950s-tired-exhausted-woman-housewife-sink-full-of-dirty-dishes-h2867.jpeg" width="253" /></a>A dear friend reminded me that I needed to blog again––and more often. I find this a wonderful way to connect and less psychologically immersive than on Facebook (as I don't have a SmartPhone I'm not on Instagram, as much as I might enjoy that with my interests in photography). Already, in writing this, do I remember how much I did enjoy blogging and the relative ease of writing here. It's often a warm-up to my other writing, too.<br />
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And finally, not only have I been busy with my two boys, and the farm world that I live in (more on the domestic end of things), but I was seized with an unprecedented depression. Part peri-menopausal, part situational, part locational (farms can be isolating), part biological––for whatever reason, there it was. Chasing me for many years and then backing me into a corner that I could not effectively get out of. Not without help, at least. This is something I am open about and want to write more about.<br />
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Depression in women and menopause have always been somewhat taboo in our mother's generation and even in our own. There are many things other women won't tell you about midlife and this is one of them: sometimes your mood swings and reactions are worse than when you were a teenager. I found out through experience. Then there is the other side of it all, the side that several writers have said that is like "getting your true self back again," after the hormonal broth of the past several decades of a woman's fertile years.<br />
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My friends, I'm here to tell you that I'm back. I'm writing more (for publication and for blogs--including <a href="http://rethinkrural.raydientplaces.com/blog/topic/Catherine-Pond">Rethink:Rural</a>), I've got a few book proposals in development, and I feel like my 25-year old self again in terms of attitude, outlook, and personality. Everything seems possible again, even if I am 54 and my mirror might say otherwise.<br />
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It's been almost a decade since <i><a href="http://inthepantry.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-pantry-in-wall-street-journal.html">The Pantry-Its History and Modern Uses</a></i> was published. It's more than time to pick up the pen and start again. [You can browse and read some of my previous published articles <a href="http://www.catherinepond.com/p/some-published-writing.html">here</a>.] After all, I'm about to become an empty-nester for the second time with our oldest son who is graduating from high school, and his brother half out the door himself with his many activities, driver's license, and plans for the future. Both of them want to farm in some capacity––maybe here, maybe near here––and I doubt they'll ever be too far from our orbit. But either way, Mama has her own groove back and needs something to do in the years ahead.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
CatherineCatherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-14949208339365296072015-08-25T20:26:00.001-04:002017-03-05T13:13:47.640-05:00Keeping a Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-size: large;">he other day I bought a crisp new notebook.</span> </span>It looks like a basic composition notebook with the cardboard covers but it is new and thick and full of lined white spaces. Its pattern is decidedly herringbone.<br />
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I used to write in a journal almost daily from when I moved to Boston, thirty years ago this month, in fact, and through the first few years of my daughter's life––a period of five years. There were some years in high school where I made an effort and I was also dutiful on an exchange program to England when I was 16, and again on my junior year abroad (back to England). I also kept a haphazard journal during the first year of each of my boy's lives, too. And then email came along, and blogging soon after. So journaling seemed to dissolve away (plus, I type much faster than I write).<br />
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I have kept each of these journals and intend to revisit them this winter. It occurs to me, like the script writing of my great-grandmother in her turn-of-the-twentieth century journals (which I am (slowly) transcribing), that my children will have difficulty translating them one day. So I intend to transcribe my own one day––perhaps with a bit of editorial license, perhaps not.<br />
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My first official journal exercise was when, after camp for two weeks in 1973, my grandmother said that if I wrote up an essay about my experiences, she would buy me a flower-power notebook set. It was from Mead and I very much coveted it at the local five-and-dime. Perhaps it was that exercise that helped set my experiences there into the concrete of memory. It was a pivotal summer in my life and I had not wanted to go to camp or stay: I got very homesick. My parents had separated only a month before and my paternal grandmother died during my second week. So I actually left for a day for her memorial service and burial, and came back to finish my last few days at camp. It was that summer on our annual August visit to New Hampshire, where we would move with my mother the following year, that my grandmother encouraged my journaling. Just as she had encouraged my letter writing since the second grade.<br />
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A few years later, my writer friend Elizabeth Yates McGreal gave me a beautiful red desk diary for 1976 with a page a day. I wrote in it almost daily and often enclosed snippets and longer lists of things I wanted to include that were happening at the time. We read together every Tuesday afternoon, with tea in the comfortable parlor of her old New England Cape Cod house, and she encouraged my emergent love of all things English. This beautiful diary was from Smythson on Bond Street in London. It had been given to her but she passed it along to me with the proviso that I write in it. And so I did.<br />
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Some of my favorite writings to read have been journals (and letters, too): Sylvia Plath's (although heavily edited) and Virginia Woolf's come to mind. Willa Cather's letters, which she never did want published (she had requested of her friends that they burn her correspondence to them upon her death––most complied).<br />
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I've been blogging for 10 years, its own kind of public combo of journaling and scrap-booking. I did try journaling in a Word document but it's just not the same thing: I want to edit it, as I have reedited this blog post already several times now! But I have missed that pen-to-paper feeling of recording thoughts onto something that can be read without turning on a screen, not editing for an audience, and just getting it all out, whatever "it" is.<br />
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I've always found that when I journal, or even when I record a few lines in the 10+ year journal that I got a few years back (and with which I have not been faithful, either), that life seems to go a bit more smoothly. Perhaps because when you journal you are folding and creasing the various bits of your life into something cleaner in the expression––maybe even something that needed washing out with a good starching and ironing. I find that I can remember time and events a bit more clearly, too, when I write about them in some kind of progressive order. "Ah, that happened." In perusing my own journals I can be transported back to that very day in my life.<br />
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Written words in a journal take on their own unedited crispness if you allow them to––it takes practice but write what you need and the rest will follow. Write the sacred and profane, write the everyday or the philosophical. Stop or start as necessary. Don't worry about proper form (but paragraphs are good). Just make it your own refuge and a place to harbor "the bits and threads of your very life," to paraphrase Katherine Mansfield.<br />
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We'll see what these new pages bring.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-88690624107591395782015-08-22T11:17:00.003-04:002015-08-22T11:28:09.007-04:00Feeling Fall-ish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-size: large;">t</span>'s been so long since I've blogged</span> that I honestly forgot my access password (good thing for "Stickies" as I'd recorded it there).<br />
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This past year has been a flurry and now that fall is approaching––my favorite time in Kentucky––and the schedule is more organized, the weather is cooling, and I'm in the midst of fall cleaning, well, I just feel like blogging again a bit more often.<br />
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And can I just say here that I've been scouring local places for pumpkins-–since early August? It's the back-to-school thing: our boys went back to school on August 6th this year and it immediately propels me into a fall-mode of thinking. Bring on the pumpkin spice!<br />
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In my five years of job-searching, 2014 was the first push towards something. I had two interviews at a place in Lexington, which turned out to be not a good fit so it was just as well I was not tapped, and another more locally, from which I withdrew (and thankfully with good instincts -- ALWAYS trust your gut!).<br />
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In January, I got a call from the local county paper where I'd also applied months before (and had forgotten all about), and they wanted me to freelance for their newspaper on occasion and for their insert magazines. It's been a fun, part-time job and in the past eight months I've gotten to know much more about the place where we live. [I wish I could link directly to some of my articles but their website does not archive them.]<br />
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In June a lovely woman emailed me from <a href="http://rethinkrural.com/">Rethink:Rural</a>, a startup blog on rural living that she is editing among other duties for a real estate corporation based in Florida. She wanted me to contribute every month or so, with my own photography, too. I am delighted with this arrangement (and yes, the income). Here are two recent posts:<br />
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• <a href="http://rethinkrural.com/Blog/PostId/74/mennonites-me">Mennonites & Me</a><br />
• <a href="http://rethinkrural.com/Blog/PostId/49">The Thousand Mile Journey to Start a Farm at Midlife</a><br />
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Last month I applied for a dream job in nonprofit world -- I pitched the idea as a telecommute with part-time on the ground. They were very interested but hired someone who could be there full time and I entirely understand. The good news is that they want to do some public relations consulting and that in 3-5 years time this could lead to something full-time. By that time our boys will both be in college. It is a job that combines all of my loves and vocational interests: writing, historic preservation, local heritage tourism, public relations, rural life, and perhaps the greatest American writer. Ever.<br />
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Life is always interesting. My advice in a nutshell is keep plugging, keep sending things out, applying, or pursuing your dreams. They will happen. Hard work + opportunity + luck all co-mingle at some point.<br />
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Or, as Thomas Jefferson said,<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"</span><i><span style="font-size: large;">I find that the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have."</span></i><br />
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In the meantime, life on the farm is always busy. I promise to blog more often.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-18861973070911366182015-04-21T21:32:00.001-04:002015-04-21T21:32:22.015-04:00Celebrating 10 Years of Blogging!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaTPydl26nv2gwsKbCW-wX_vzE_mUAO_IVGdbBxQGFrFMBX5o3BpYXMSK4oAEoLWy-qMBL69iwWzahr_rXwor5IhCTNVRc3xrLA_vgkfaJzOQLVRCylIIxFkgu-xeYpBRioJKXMmXYGg/s1600/IMG_0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaTPydl26nv2gwsKbCW-wX_vzE_mUAO_IVGdbBxQGFrFMBX5o3BpYXMSK4oAEoLWy-qMBL69iwWzahr_rXwor5IhCTNVRc3xrLA_vgkfaJzOQLVRCylIIxFkgu-xeYpBRioJKXMmXYGg/s1600/IMG_0198.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.200000762939453px; text-align: center;">Illustration © Hillary Knight<br />
<i>Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle </i>by Betty MacDonald</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Today, April 21st, 2015</span> is the 10th anniversary of my <a href="http://www.inthepantry.blogspot.com/">In the Pantry</a> blog and of my blogging anything at all, in fact. I don't post regularly there any more but there will be many changes taking place over here at "Farmwife at Midlife" regarding related writing, blogs, and other exciting things to share. I'll be detailing everything in the coming weeks.<br />
<br />
A bit of necessary "housekeeping" and tidying-up. Then I plan to write here more regularly again. It's been a busy nine months since I last posted.<br />
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<i>The Pantry-Its History and Modern Uses</i> is still available from my <a href="http://www.catherinepond.com/">website</a>. I will continue to post pantry-related updates as I can as pantries will always be in our lives.<br />
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My very best wishes and thanks for your readership over the years.<br />
<br />
<i>–You come back when you're ready! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-49974332373867882522014-07-29T14:26:00.000-04:002014-07-29T14:46:42.487-04:00Farmwifery – An Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I originally wrote this piece in <a href="http://farmwifeatmidlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/farmwifery.html">January 2011</a> when I was just starting the blog. It needed a bit of updating, so here goes: </i>[<span style="color: #cc0000;">in RED</span>] <i>My family was also recently featured in a <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/07/moving-to-a-farm_n_5537339.html">"</a></i><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/07/moving-to-a-farm_n_5537339.html">Huffington Post</a><i><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/07/moving-to-a-farm_n_5537339.html">" article</a> on our journey from New Hampshire to our Kentucky ridge farm. The piece tells a bit more about our story.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">arming is not something out of the pages of a magazine, although old stuff and a big country kitchen helps. A lot. Here are some of the things I've learned so far in the past few years on our farm:</span></div>
<ul>
<li>On a farm nothing happens overnight, except for frost (<span style="color: #cc0000;">or a newborn animal</span>).</li>
<li>When it first frosts, Johnson grass produces cyanide so you can't let your cows near it for at least 24-hours. Fortunately, a nice neighbor told us this.</li>
<li>Doublewides are <i>not</i> (technically) trailers, but they're not real houses, either. [But the local water department and everyone else calls them trailers.]</li>
<li>Young fawns are all too easily maimed or killed by haying equipment. Soft-hearted, but insane, farmers care for injured deer, much to their joy and, sometimes, sorrow.</li>
<li>Free-range chickens are adorable, until they poop all over your porch.</li>
<li>When a neighbor says 'you be careful!' as you're leaving, they're not cautioning you about a hillbilly hit. It's a nice, friendly form of 'goodbye.' [But 'you come back when you're ready' is really less obtuse.]</li>
<li>Clean cattle tanks make excellent places for a good cool bathe in a pinch. [<span style="color: #cc0000;">Click <a href="http://www.thepoke.co.uk/2014/07/15/12-luxurious-swimming-pools/">here</a>: view #11</span>]</li>
<li>Robert Frost was right: Good fences <i>do</i> make good neighbors. But he didn't say anything about when those fences are moved without permission or boundary lines are altered on maps.</li>
<li>If you throw on an apron when someone is coming to the door, it goes very far towards tidying up.</li>
<li>If you wear an apron around the farm, you don't have to wear a bra.</li>
<li>Biscuits and sausage gravy make the best breakfast––and easy to make (the biscuits and the gravy, both). I can't believe it took me 45 years to even learn of this combination!</li>
<li>Supper at 10pm is not uncommon during hay season when every ounce of daylight is utilized. [And fortunately, this is my more 'manic' time of year.]</li>
<li>Boys love tractors. So do their fathers. <span style="color: #cc0000;">[But on our farm I am only allowed to drive a riding lawnmower. There is good, but arguable, precedent for this.]</span></li>
<li>A mud room is a must-have on a farm, ideally with a shower, or at least a nearby fire hose.</li>
<li>The sound of absolute silence is absolutely lovely.</li>
<li>It's great to have neighbors, but it's even nicer when they can't see you.</li>
<li>If I didn't have satellite internet I could probably not be a farmwife. On a quiet ridge. In Kentucky<span style="color: #cc0000;">...that is, until lightning strikes and knocks it out (August 2012) and you are promised DSL "soon." [As of May 2014 we now have DSL!]</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Do not name your animals if you intend to sell them or eat them.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Learn how to put up a lot of your own food––canning or freezing––and buy a generator.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Beware the reality that you might be conflicted about raising animals, caring for them, and then selling or eating them.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Do not expect to make a regular pay check farming––or freelance writing.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Learn to roll with the punches, the losses, the sorrow, the weather, the fickle income, or you won't make it as a farmer (or for that matter, most weather aside, as a freelance writer).</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">When you see a rainbow or a newborn calf, the barn is full of hay, or cool breezes are blowing, say "AH!" and be glad: there might be a windstorm or drought another day, or a sickly cow.</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #cc0000;">Enjoy the moment, plan for the future, but do not look back...EXCEPT when a bull is in your vicinity.</span></li>
</ul>
You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-53853662081171404202014-05-27T15:05:00.001-04:002014-05-27T22:20:42.251-04:00Strawberry Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1gARkJkwIBpL8DWRD43YL7h1wq_UKhjFNr5jMxwU_PyO2mdvfs0ovKzHDxXbWan2b4dDRwNV8YaiujvJ32B2atGcPiSJlnSqcx0hSr92la0esKksmJTHkkmgp8-XenIs1cINbJBLnktk/s1600/IMG_0768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: start;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1gARkJkwIBpL8DWRD43YL7h1wq_UKhjFNr5jMxwU_PyO2mdvfs0ovKzHDxXbWan2b4dDRwNV8YaiujvJ32B2atGcPiSJlnSqcx0hSr92la0esKksmJTHkkmgp8-XenIs1cINbJBLnktk/s1600/IMG_0768.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5BfjwtyV7sHFdYb0WDCjKr84l1UwN49Pj6346ujUYKj3n3IYaDKE0Xd4yyaT2G8-R3PeA_HEzvPanZv0BS9DbkV_XeeFkRSyzNOKjKfoZ1n9rLdQy6ubIoft66_O5hw04ytfELBrIJ0/s1600/9780397301102_xlg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5BfjwtyV7sHFdYb0WDCjKr84l1UwN49Pj6346ujUYKj3n3IYaDKE0Xd4yyaT2G8-R3PeA_HEzvPanZv0BS9DbkV_XeeFkRSyzNOKjKfoZ1n9rLdQy6ubIoft66_O5hw04ytfELBrIJ0/s1600/9780397301102_xlg.jpeg" height="200" width="181" /></a><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;">D</span>id you ever read <a href="http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/book/strawberry-girl#cart/cleanup"><i>Strawberry Girl</i></a><i> </i>by Lois Lenski? She wrote and illustrated many books of middle grade historical fiction about children and their lives in various parts of the country. This book was about a girl in Florida and her family––"<a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/codeswitch/2013/07/01/197644761/word-watch-on-crackers">Crackers</a>," a term for early settlers and now more associated with a derogatory name for poor white people––who moved there to farm strawberries. The book won the Newbery Medal in 1946. I loved reading Lenski's many books, and still have them, and delighted in her unsentimental depictions of other lifestyles––her illustrations were always fine and engaging, too. Whenever I read this book, just as when I'd read Robert McCloskey's <i>Blueberries for Sal</i>, I wanted to eat those sweet berries right then. </div>
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May is strawberry season in Kentucky and this year there were some beauties. After a late spring, the first berries were huge and <a href="http://www.wilsonscedarpointfarm.com/">Wilson's Cedar Point Farm </a>on nearby Tick Ridge announced on Facebook that it only took seven minutes to pick a gallon basket full! Despite their size, they were sweet and juicy. Before the weekend we bought ten gallons and put all but one into the freezer (for enjoying fresh). I got 20 quart bags full (and about 2 gallons of hulls: I don't actually hull them, I just carefully remove the tops with my trusty serrated paring knife, as close to the leaves as I can get: usually I give them to my chickens but we are chicken-less right now). And I'd say we easily ate about half a gallon in the car on the way home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oM3a5n5JHAnEUU57Q7xWnQFiIvYqQbl1vOFS9S1rVFs9VQ5zspjcpahp0l8nE9p03eHZHLu0M7e9LFUrJP2-MZAZ5-Eq4AdJI-QW7HpLvwRntsX-IMVVppjJnTG4GTkLq9YeJf_4YQI/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oM3a5n5JHAnEUU57Q7xWnQFiIvYqQbl1vOFS9S1rVFs9VQ5zspjcpahp0l8nE9p03eHZHLu0M7e9LFUrJP2-MZAZ5-Eq4AdJI-QW7HpLvwRntsX-IMVVppjJnTG4GTkLq9YeJf_4YQI/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A huge bowl full of fresh local strawberries: note that this bowl is about three feet wide! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUmXgwFq6JuYI0MNNNSXC4rF5mD7H2bf6sb9h_M70DcJcFjyuH1k9PYsPamD3vnvdphVQ72jshAbpw-JZFQ3NmBbe5V7O95YhRxBRVHK7owHaL7Sq_El19eb1aRlHkHE7SGVqKH38fEY/s1600/IMG_0780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUmXgwFq6JuYI0MNNNSXC4rF5mD7H2bf6sb9h_M70DcJcFjyuH1k9PYsPamD3vnvdphVQ72jshAbpw-JZFQ3NmBbe5V7O95YhRxBRVHK7owHaL7Sq_El19eb1aRlHkHE7SGVqKH38fEY/s1600/IMG_0780.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready for the freezer with two quarts to slather with whipped cream and Angel food cake.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5uJZDG0xPXVi-NU7-qdTKnY6EmT-2CQpV7YAnTNe0WkiT5cCwHcE-17frUKM20vtAYkGTuqufU-q7hRY_cMFxmQdwelMiJ-qXyIagN_JJXdV2dISz6y4jX8AA2So17cSzfxRPtSEIVdw/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>I love to sit on our porch at the farm cottage and "put up" produce or prepare to can, especially in the cooler weather that we were enjoying before the weekend: just like I remember a New England summer, hot in the sun but not too humid and with a light breeze. I can work there and see what's going on, who is coming and going, and the west porch stays fairly cool until the sun comes around in the afternoon. My husband and I like to joke that in Hancock, NH we also had an east porch and a west porch but on a much grander scale.<br />
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At this point we wouldn't trade this farm, and it's more ramshackle porches, for the world. It's a centering feeling to be here and what is remarkable is how well-sited the house was when it was built over one hundred years ago. The breezes come down over the knob and wrap around it, and through the open doors and windows on all sides. It is always much cooler than the doublewide that is in a bowl where no air stirs: instead it goes right over (which is, admittedly, a good thing in tornado weather). [Sometimes we do have to air-condition during the day but usually at night I just throw the windows open and fans on in all but the most humid weather.]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3AFhI6_xjay8bEr_eAgU_YSvO_06ME1e6JcIo2KayzgJ7UGQtlrqmGuTOiwGguTNkz2ErlRCOTz2OHSviXHIkbYF1JCD9nlw6APegoVXgxPe26dqlphm4uFU0rEhqhIJ19I9XSXcMIc/s1600/IMG_0771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3AFhI6_xjay8bEr_eAgU_YSvO_06ME1e6JcIo2KayzgJ7UGQtlrqmGuTOiwGguTNkz2ErlRCOTz2OHSviXHIkbYF1JCD9nlw6APegoVXgxPe26dqlphm4uFU0rEhqhIJ19I9XSXcMIc/s1600/IMG_0771.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trusty French serrated paring knife.<br />
OK, so it's also color-coordinated!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5uJZDG0xPXVi-NU7-qdTKnY6EmT-2CQpV7YAnTNe0WkiT5cCwHcE-17frUKM20vtAYkGTuqufU-q7hRY_cMFxmQdwelMiJ-qXyIagN_JJXdV2dISz6y4jX8AA2So17cSzfxRPtSEIVdw/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5uJZDG0xPXVi-NU7-qdTKnY6EmT-2CQpV7YAnTNe0WkiT5cCwHcE-17frUKM20vtAYkGTuqufU-q7hRY_cMFxmQdwelMiJ-qXyIagN_JJXdV2dISz6y4jX8AA2So17cSzfxRPtSEIVdw/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" height="320" width="211" /></a>I'm currently macerating some berries for jam––a two-day recipe––and I will post on that in the next few days. Son Henry especially enjoys strawberry jam and I like to make enough extra to tuck away for Christmas gifts, too. It is always spring in a jar.<br />
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By chance we discovered another nursery over in western Casey County the other day: I've been scrounging around for plants since returning from Colorado. If you don't get them before Mother's Day in Kentucky, or even by late April, they can be few and far between (unless you like a lot of wave petunias and marigolds). [Next year I am determined to grow my own favorite heirloom annuals from seed!] Anyway, the Amish-Mennonite family who operate their farm-based nursery will have blueberries in a few weeks––entirely organic––and I ordered about 20 pounds of those (affordable and pre-picked by them). Fortunately, they will be easier to freeze. On the way home I will stop and see my friend Diana at her produce farm (where her specialty is heirloom tomatoes) and perhaps share a nice gin & tonic on <i>her</i> porch.<br />
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-2544002134659893172014-05-26T00:13:00.001-04:002014-07-10T13:41:48.081-04:00The Open Road and Home Again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhar8JlRR8nrFFKz8p_tHJH7wFlIbm38_rb8BTZa7EohULSIJcjKITHeXRTFUFuJbTp3VsRz8Af8ryIM62Oc2l6K8JCPSEy8dC415uQGT7okTCH2CzHLGKhsS5DV17XR4PfMf6Tjl6uSH0/s1600/IMG_0478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhar8JlRR8nrFFKz8p_tHJH7wFlIbm38_rb8BTZa7EohULSIJcjKITHeXRTFUFuJbTp3VsRz8Af8ryIM62Oc2l6K8JCPSEy8dC415uQGT7okTCH2CzHLGKhsS5DV17XR4PfMf6Tjl6uSH0/s1600/IMG_0478.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful prairie of eastern Kansas where the only vertical punctuations<br />
on the horizon of clouds and land are churches, grain silos and windmills.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span>was recently in Colorado for a few weeks to see our daughter and then we drove back across the wide prairie so she could spend some time here at the farm between ski and summer seasons (and before starting a great new job). It's been such a good stretch of time together. While Addie ended the season with her job I was productive during the day in her cozy condo: I sent a children's book to a publisher (on spec), got an article assignment for <i>Early Homes</i> (from <a href="http://www.aimmedia.com/eh.html">Active Interest Media </a>which also publishes <i>Old-House Journal </i>and other magazines) and reviewed my manuscript for <i>The 1950s American Kitchen</i> for <a href="http://www.shirebooks.co.uk/home.aspx?SetLocation=US">Shire Books</a> in England which was submitted to my editor in April. [I also have a new book-related blog, <a href="http://www.the1950skitchen.blogspot.com/">The 1950s American Kitchen</a>]<br />
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Yet despite my occasional love of the open road, there is something so comforting about being home on the farm with my husband and <i>all three</i> of our children and our many animals and pets. As a mother it is immensely reassuring to have your chicks all safely back in the nest for a bit. I feel centered and as if we are an impermeable unit tucked into the hills and haven of our farm. When the world seems like a challenging place, as it often is, the rhythms of our days here seem to be a small contribution to a larger wholeness or sanity. There are struggles, yes, but I have reached at midlife, at long last, a kind of Zen-like contentment with where we are and in what we are doing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'd never spent so much time in the high mountains before: 9,600' altitude took<br />
some adjustment but I was fine after four days. Didn't sleep much, however.<br />
This is the Continental Divide at over 13,000 feet just south of Breckenridge.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It snowed on Mother's Day: over a foot from Zephyr in the Colorado Rockies!<br />
Addie and I made carrot soup and Mexican food and caught up on Bravo television shows.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silly Mother's Day "selfies."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXok6gL-HHZBo9tV2tOPKXRE0qZqUjV3SoNm3LsSgHsj-cn0phzPtbmiaHoj2Rx7ExA8oA8DEQCQHbBEFINhEMyWsw_yOkchzfo4GknebH2R5Mk2h_pcf5e_XoI9xPJp-3tuQj05m32a8/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXok6gL-HHZBo9tV2tOPKXRE0qZqUjV3SoNm3LsSgHsj-cn0phzPtbmiaHoj2Rx7ExA8oA8DEQCQHbBEFINhEMyWsw_yOkchzfo4GknebH2R5Mk2h_pcf5e_XoI9xPJp-3tuQj05m32a8/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of our farm looking east from the top of the Pennywinkle Field <br />
(named years ago by the former owner for the snail-like shells found in the nearby creek).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5B8JHtb4auu6BiyXFS61irz9DJOC8wAX5p9GjkIY44TMVYYG9OjLKscm_l1XM2BepVzdD7VYdm8-iwpnzhj9krSe89O4Ydff2l1PbWF2sv2LNLiIbNOHAWXashkAClEvroCGO_GBP_Mc/s1600/IMG_0665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5B8JHtb4auu6BiyXFS61irz9DJOC8wAX5p9GjkIY44TMVYYG9OjLKscm_l1XM2BepVzdD7VYdm8-iwpnzhj9krSe89O4Ydff2l1PbWF2sv2LNLiIbNOHAWXashkAClEvroCGO_GBP_Mc/s1600/IMG_0665.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eli getting ready to ted the hay fields. He designed the work shirt that he is wearing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3RCjYhnJdP6LNAHwL1XV-gvpRHzZilAfpelaIi5Usfpvz2UGzoyIGxMgH3WSUMIC0hXJV3djmYxb8YEpMcrfylGzaKbKNDf5U1vFTcPtfDR_D-bTBk8_zDwOY747QVqQDfThUZENW4Q/s1600/IMG_0605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3RCjYhnJdP6LNAHwL1XV-gvpRHzZilAfpelaIi5Usfpvz2UGzoyIGxMgH3WSUMIC0hXJV3djmYxb8YEpMcrfylGzaKbKNDf5U1vFTcPtfDR_D-bTBk8_zDwOY747QVqQDfThUZENW4Q/s1600/IMG_0605.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtWrKCcciIOPYIxZsb64Ukc5QV6sG_0McYPH8sZnOeslVmNV2feWp2olym2Wxy5QSyqUJQKzNEWjsHkyecAzCpBRtWJzXZhMP_9nzgZ49WKsGLMGhgFfq_WvLjgR3JA-nxJja5XUHC04/s1600/IMG_0661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtWrKCcciIOPYIxZsb64Ukc5QV6sG_0McYPH8sZnOeslVmNV2feWp2olym2Wxy5QSyqUJQKzNEWjsHkyecAzCpBRtWJzXZhMP_9nzgZ49WKsGLMGhgFfq_WvLjgR3JA-nxJja5XUHC04/s1600/IMG_0661.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pennywinkle Field with Eli tedding.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GkkaKfuyz5-P3Cs8lse_tqd9EYyztRdNud6dmeGkis8UUDL_GQ6qEn3o-M_0vIqksiVs65Z3K2HlMSvcdDXvNQVH2r4k0ifaL4UMqVHlCyFpeDJd6paQjoUmMTkOfUjh9PiupW5_9EE/s1600/IMG_0677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GkkaKfuyz5-P3Cs8lse_tqd9EYyztRdNud6dmeGkis8UUDL_GQ6qEn3o-M_0vIqksiVs65Z3K2HlMSvcdDXvNQVH2r4k0ifaL4UMqVHlCyFpeDJd6paQjoUmMTkOfUjh9PiupW5_9EE/s1600/IMG_0677.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry finishes the mowing of the first hay on the farm (more down the road to do yet!).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYt404ZyTZ84MZMkhY3Wt6rRaiXWWN2cQU8XgJY6M8nP4CniSs5d5JY0qOk6nZ23dqcOB8bKLOS_U-WUwu1q-3Wisn-UFSwdSasfAWuTpXr8wBTzPD3KBcYy9BWhOLW_JCjqBCMNuZO8/s1600/IMG_0375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYt404ZyTZ84MZMkhY3Wt6rRaiXWWN2cQU8XgJY6M8nP4CniSs5d5JY0qOk6nZ23dqcOB8bKLOS_U-WUwu1q-3Wisn-UFSwdSasfAWuTpXr8wBTzPD3KBcYy9BWhOLW_JCjqBCMNuZO8/s1600/IMG_0375.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple with a new baby lamb and Alice, our rescue deer (she was one of triplet fauns<br />
that her mother abandoned last summer in a hay field after leaving with the other two).<br />
[NOTE: this is before Temple was shorn for the summer!]</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz7ktL96DuhTVN6L0HmCysbD1J1VqH-GPncSV90QG4ir1hqrsQnOwrvTVAVGwR4uGPXII7EEZngfriS9m2w46wkwZ3sf_WfRWrRqOPdt_xcjZxKkQR5Qn16QjtTqGoltuPPRN_YQ6zZk/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz7ktL96DuhTVN6L0HmCysbD1J1VqH-GPncSV90QG4ir1hqrsQnOwrvTVAVGwR4uGPXII7EEZngfriS9m2w46wkwZ3sf_WfRWrRqOPdt_xcjZxKkQR5Qn16QjtTqGoltuPPRN_YQ6zZk/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sheep and lambs may safely graze..." [for now]. Eli bought ten pregnant hair sheep (no wool to shear) and most have had their lambs. Trying not to get too attached as the babies will be in our freezer this winter. [We love lamb meat.]</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYmDSiVy73F_qctBHHWHUc1EAGFW1OTCQEU_jeozSvBcDIclXVlK8BglliIOaj3z-aPpf27xQpS7A_HCKnnerEVtCDGP4jpRcKos2-XQs0_FnHL4sGLow_MS6gybPQRUw44i6X21ZjZNM/s1600/IMG_0712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYmDSiVy73F_qctBHHWHUc1EAGFW1OTCQEU_jeozSvBcDIclXVlK8BglliIOaj3z-aPpf27xQpS7A_HCKnnerEVtCDGP4jpRcKos2-XQs0_FnHL4sGLow_MS6gybPQRUw44i6X21ZjZNM/s1600/IMG_0712.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry with the brand-new baler: we decided to do our own baling rather than hire it out.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARiY9ntsYiwTmPosV8X1nSep1-BUKqY6G13p6_LfJClxbIaCsE6pk1YjpHTIeUeM21jCQrgzbOKCbUkK2N3p16QtjpcRKjkNscouZ61kCOUvXEzYyPJOqqrfmXSPrRccp2zQ8txRiDGk/s1600/IMG_0704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: start;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARiY9ntsYiwTmPosV8X1nSep1-BUKqY6G13p6_LfJClxbIaCsE6pk1YjpHTIeUeM21jCQrgzbOKCbUkK2N3p16QtjpcRKjkNscouZ61kCOUvXEzYyPJOqqrfmXSPrRccp2zQ8txRiDGk/s1600/IMG_0704.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edgar surveys his domain (and his new harem of yearling heifers).</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXok6gL-HHZBo9tV2tOPKXRE0qZqUjV3SoNm3LsSgHsj-cn0phzPtbmiaHoj2Rx7ExA8oA8DEQCQHbBEFINhEMyWsw_yOkchzfo4GknebH2R5Mk2h_pcf5e_XoI9xPJp-3tuQj05m32a8/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6eQ4Rf0oUB6Rl43RSqrHKyFrEb9N3aGwzRB8fwfNjRLrN9kC7vYMwceJVFwPeVZAiEJq9KQO8C-XLRO2pJi2zBWajcaIY2TZR5AVLKVVV1twrYGW3v-XbgoTC8qA4n5h0XjKDoecs4M/s1600/IMG_0696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6eQ4Rf0oUB6Rl43RSqrHKyFrEb9N3aGwzRB8fwfNjRLrN9kC7vYMwceJVFwPeVZAiEJq9KQO8C-XLRO2pJi2zBWajcaIY2TZR5AVLKVVV1twrYGW3v-XbgoTC8qA4n5h0XjKDoecs4M/s1600/IMG_0696.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; text-align: center;">My husband Temple and Edgar, our beloved bull, who he found and rescued from the mud on their shared December birthday in 2011. The view is looking southeast towards the farm and above one of our many natural springs.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrWPLZILklbUvMCfvJugNIzmKjGZKe8P7HMAZS8FI31gTA5YiGnSPrvKDn11QjRKsk-YkQJeWDXA_UBSDlLYQrNsQbm7vL7_LZ5YBpZ2bK0sBg4rdanKzaT0zQZcA_pIofjZ9To35Efg/s1600/IMG_0725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrWPLZILklbUvMCfvJugNIzmKjGZKe8P7HMAZS8FI31gTA5YiGnSPrvKDn11QjRKsk-YkQJeWDXA_UBSDlLYQrNsQbm7vL7_LZ5YBpZ2bK0sBg4rdanKzaT0zQZcA_pIofjZ9To35Efg/s1600/IMG_0725.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loading hay to be wrapped.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSOiNoHzACyZGOWQ5kEcpoD_hgpj90NohvnSfApp1usoWDs6387bpEesnsOVFIvpy5uS59QMB97K_isX9Jk72KMQ8NrnNMYHnV-naqrpd6YNrN3Id7NuSaOQVTaVIn9ou2oIaWri8ZTQ/s1600/IMG_0757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSOiNoHzACyZGOWQ5kEcpoD_hgpj90NohvnSfApp1usoWDs6387bpEesnsOVFIvpy5uS59QMB97K_isX9Jk72KMQ8NrnNMYHnV-naqrpd6YNrN3Id7NuSaOQVTaVIn9ou2oIaWri8ZTQ/s1600/IMG_0757.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry counts bales.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH2qCGNQfgbgdXbuOYQwtoKt3ivMuJAn1dxavT8JTSHi8eYSkvBGuENI8YvE0Fw6cRoDaFRu2WOPcmBC8j0Cpb2X1SKlLQxTRJ0-btNM8BbD11VdBzgUReTPszImPzB1ZDO925PNxFUg/s1600/IMG_0758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH2qCGNQfgbgdXbuOYQwtoKt3ivMuJAn1dxavT8JTSHi8eYSkvBGuENI8YvE0Fw6cRoDaFRu2WOPcmBC8j0Cpb2X1SKlLQxTRJ0-btNM8BbD11VdBzgUReTPszImPzB1ZDO925PNxFUg/s1600/IMG_0758.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The great county wrapper guy cometh! The view of our farm is from part-way up our knob field and looking southeast.</td></tr>
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The boys and my husband are done with first haying––and before the next stretch of rain––and that's always a good feeling. I'm catching up on the gardening in this coolish May weather after being away for several weeks during prime garden time (and our very late spring pushed everything back a bit). School has been out for the summer for over a week. Sports are done.<br />
<br />
Storms can rage or equipment can break down, someone you love can be hurt or in need, you might not get a job "off farm," when needed, but always there are things for which to be so grateful. There are the green rolling hills, the proximity of good neighbors and friends (but not too close by: we can't see another house from our farm but we know there are neighbors just over the hill and down the lane), the breezes coming over the knob, the chortle of bird song all day, and the long stretch of summer ahead. It is like heaven on Earth and we are so blessed to be here. No matter what is happening in our lives, I seem to always be a "glass half full" kind of person. There is always another way to look at any circumstance or even sorrow. And while I was in Colorado when I thought of home, I thought of Kentucky. It has taken six years to say that but it is true. Now each day feels like a gift, every moment a song.<br />
<br />
We are almost all back in the cottage––with recently repaired plumbing after our January 6th pipe burst (where we fortunately had the doublewide to return for a few months)––and DSL is now fully operational! No longer do I have to trek to the nearest town to blog or email (not that I did a lot of blogging in the past eighteen months but I have missed it). I've learned how to manage without ready access to the Internet here and need to continue to pretend that it isn't here for much of the day when I really should be doing other things around the house and farm. But it is handy for being in quick touch with friends, family, and my editors.<br />
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<br />
We are home. As I wrote under my blog heading, above, Wendell Berry said it best:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>"It may be that when we no longer know which way to go that we have come to our real journey...</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye clear. What we need is here."</i></span></span></blockquote>
If you are still out there, dear reader, in blog land, you come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-63312472198397614992014-04-02T21:57:00.001-04:002014-04-04T22:02:01.060-04:00Living in the 50s<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrofdAEiMafNXHDRCdiPe8MQPB57E-Fy_BZVabe2n62gvFC5lQvgoR7Dr1ur8fVM-tCM7Xh85pS6liy8N52HVUoB9Tl4IxfXB7z2E7FZSooPWgKNwKqn0aFWvMkl6tt6kRBIoaMLItRs/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrofdAEiMafNXHDRCdiPe8MQPB57E-Fy_BZVabe2n62gvFC5lQvgoR7Dr1ur8fVM-tCM7Xh85pS6liy8N52HVUoB9Tl4IxfXB7z2E7FZSooPWgKNwKqn0aFWvMkl6tt6kRBIoaMLItRs/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" height="391" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">"Our house, in the middle of our street." 2024 Ayers Avenue, c. 2009.<br />
The house was built in the post-war housing boom of 1949 and we lived in it<br />
from 1961-1974. The Japanese maple, planted in 1961, now looms over the yard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkt6fHq8w7YrSQ01rx6a4QsSIkCRgygGb2owIZYV67qGv_zowmMGjIDsLRQ4JHC1D2lLhBCJGZNMjSmfx27CdNeHHaV-fNmXXZb_UV90XnPu30Dhz6UZnndiWR4_yD8AR3BO3hwFa3qo/s1600/Susie's+New+Stove+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkt6fHq8w7YrSQ01rx6a4QsSIkCRgygGb2owIZYV67qGv_zowmMGjIDsLRQ4JHC1D2lLhBCJGZNMjSmfx27CdNeHHaV-fNmXXZb_UV90XnPu30Dhz6UZnndiWR4_yD8AR3BO3hwFa3qo/s1600/Susie's+New+Stove+book.jpg" height="320" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; text-align: center;">A wonderful "Little Golden Book" from the 1950s.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">L</span><span style="font-size: large;">ately I've been living in the 1950s.</span> As I was born in 1962, this isn't much of a stretch: we had the 1949 post-war house that my parents purchased in Akron, Ohio in 1961, complete with pink-applianced kitchen, "atomic" flecked linoleum (black with white, pink and gray flecks––I thought it was the entire universe on our kitchen floor!), and pink-outfitted bathrooms. We had all manner of barbecue gadgets and funny aprons that my father used alongside the charcoal grill outdoors. We were your typical 1960s suburban family living beneath a post-1950s gossamer web. I spent my childhood years blissfully removed from any details of the Vietnam war, riots, protesting, the Civil Rights movement.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoWQhn0HB3nvnPDZ0PD_6uUNX_UajGGvdCynMcjepfSeAM1xdC268UsLTj5MC3Hs1_kbF2Da6z85on8-9QSsZph7-7ln2BcGXOJf5zvM2k6s3VOJ0U7Xi-69kMOxsOkF0g3n-_KlYEjI/s1600/miO-RAYQgEyldPMi1yvDszQ.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoWQhn0HB3nvnPDZ0PD_6uUNX_UajGGvdCynMcjepfSeAM1xdC268UsLTj5MC3Hs1_kbF2Da6z85on8-9QSsZph7-7ln2BcGXOJf5zvM2k6s3VOJ0U7Xi-69kMOxsOkF0g3n-_KlYEjI/s1600/miO-RAYQgEyldPMi1yvDszQ.jpeg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Marcelline Stoyke tray from the 1950s.<br />
My parents had one. They have an<br />
interesting design history: <a href="http://jjgreeleypaperdesigns.blogspot.ca/2009/10/my-red-trays.html">read here</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The only hippies I ever saw hung around Sand Run Park in large gatherings and I only learned of anything to do with any sort of national unrest a year after the Kent State students were killed in May 1970. I was in second grade when the incident happened and read about them in <i>Reader's Digest</i> a year later. Kent State was where we would later go ice skating with my cousins. So you could say I had a rather protected post-50s childhood. When my parents abruptly separated and then divorced in 1973-74 it all rather ended as childhood is want to do at a certain point in one's life. You move on, or at least try to do so.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2oZjBR7LyrcNyTddOpaEkYZQu6IEia7ELZGN9iR0kSfFYUUTdcWfzCPvMPT602Nr6TMnZkAu_4BWLFtVzt0u1R0kWwdJLfDFjT85NvMnqKZRROND7-bGNYyrA3DE00kEsFagTYxTqB0/s1600/5625311923_88a2f37d94_b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2oZjBR7LyrcNyTddOpaEkYZQu6IEia7ELZGN9iR0kSfFYUUTdcWfzCPvMPT602Nr6TMnZkAu_4BWLFtVzt0u1R0kWwdJLfDFjT85NvMnqKZRROND7-bGNYyrA3DE00kEsFagTYxTqB0/s1600/5625311923_88a2f37d94_b.jpeg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only politics in my book will be a mention of the Nixon-Kruschev "Kitchen" debate<br />
at the <a href="http://www.rferl.org/content/Fifty_Years_Ago_American_Exhibition_Stunned_Soviets_in_Cold_War/1783913.html">American National Exposition in Moscow in 1959</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We didn't have the 24-hour news cycle that we have today on more than one television channel or the constant presence of the Internet. We didn't watch television when having dinner. We didn't have "smart" phones in our pockets or at our dinner tables, either. As children, we really didn't see or hear any news. Extended family gatherings included lively dinner table discussions of politics and humorous kidding. Politics was decidedly right leaning and I knew, even then, that the direction of my belief system would make a gentle, more moderate departure from that which I had been exposed.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8s6rsoG5qKKfZNKd_ID6j37Q-JPXqeDuyPFrdh3XiVYQhfo4bbmxWONaIKawE5je36YA5xL2WU4Q5fSTrIR0mP85b4tbUj493jsYjWfrdmG6soOyJtBk8IF893IIcemSibDO4y1-DFs/s1600/Betty+Crocker+ad+Dutch+Pantry+pie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8s6rsoG5qKKfZNKd_ID6j37Q-JPXqeDuyPFrdh3XiVYQhfo4bbmxWONaIKawE5je36YA5xL2WU4Q5fSTrIR0mP85b4tbUj493jsYjWfrdmG6soOyJtBk8IF893IIcemSibDO4y1-DFs/s1600/Betty+Crocker+ad+Dutch+Pantry+pie.jpeg" height="400" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There could be no 1950s kitchen without Betty Crocker.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was more interested in kitchens and pantries and food, paintings, old houses, music, singing and reading books. When I wasn't building townscapes out of American Bricks or Lincoln Logs, I was doodling house plans. I wanted to feel, experience and define the diverse architectural spaces and the suburban landscapes where I lived. It's still true today.<br />
<br />
I've been finishing a book for <a href="http://www.shirebooks.co.uk/home.aspx?SetLocation=US">Shire Books</a> in England on <i>The 1950s American Kitchen</i>. It will be available in Fall 2014. I'm holed up in a Hampton Inn as I write this to complete my image gathering and fact-checking. This process has been a bit daunting with still no DSL at home (although a Facebook friend said that they are getting theirs on the ridge as we speak––I remain hopeful). I even brought in my trusty, fast iMac from home (as my laptop is so slow on the Internet). Like our two cars, both were purchased almost ten years ago so trying to get as much mileage here as I can! However, technology has long ago passed me by––even Internet marketing is changing each year. Blogging is even being replaced by some with Vlogging but I'll stay with the "print media" delivery system of the Internet, just as I stay true to books and magazines and have no interest in purchasing an e-book. Call me old-fashioned.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-A4zbV10eCvaixo1-62PkBKnU2UGa8h-ILhI9jFikei8CbcrfBXIM6HyADnNI38GF7hM1CETLchApYIwozXkKXeAL_BZqOOS151fLiECqFsrArlS9_lakUrAhGCGmCIbwtxloREwzJg/s1600/e5b2_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-A4zbV10eCvaixo1-62PkBKnU2UGa8h-ILhI9jFikei8CbcrfBXIM6HyADnNI38GF7hM1CETLchApYIwozXkKXeAL_BZqOOS151fLiECqFsrArlS9_lakUrAhGCGmCIbwtxloREwzJg/s1600/e5b2_1.JPG" height="320" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pink was a prevalent color in 1950s kitchen decor.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I realize one thing about not having regular access to the Internet in the past eighteen months is that I haven't been writing as regularly on my blogs. Blogging keeps the pencil chiseled and sharp. It's like a warm-up for my other writing. I might develop another off-shoot blog for <i>The 1950s American Kitchen</i>, depending on DSL access in the near future. **Either way, I'll keep you posted.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, on the farm, we just got ten pregnant "hair sheep" (no shearing!) to raise our own lamb meat (this is our youngest son Eli's plan––he will be fourteen in a few more weeks). We eat a fair bit of lamb throughout the year but don't like to purchase it too often given how expensive it is (and I realize I haven't reconciled the cute lamb thing yet––one part of farm life is that you deal with constant loss and death and you just have to deal with it if you wish to remain a well-tempered carnivore). We have about fifty new calves and many more on the way. I'm down to one chicken (long story). And, we're finally going to break ground this spring for that once and future farmhouse we've been planning.<br />
<br />
The hay fields are greening up. The rhubarb is poking its reddish shoots through the soil. The forsythia is just about to burst after a very prolonged, cold, dreary, drizzly, and frozen Kentucky winter. Did I mention the water has been fixed at the cottage (it burst in the severe below-zero cold of Epiphany, January 6th)? We'll be moving back there (from the doublewide across the way) by Easter...once I get the book and images to my publisher on April 15th. A nice day for deadlines, don't you think?<br />
<br />
**YES! There is now a blog to coincide with <i><span style="color: #cc0000;">The 1950s American Kitchen</span></i>:<i> </i>check it out <a href="http://www.the1950skitchen.blogspot.com/">here</a>. I will continue to post on this blog, too, especially when DSL arrives on our ridge..."in the spring"...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>You come back when you're ready! </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Catherine</i></span>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-61719345795198157442013-12-27T12:06:00.000-05:002013-12-27T12:14:06.742-05:00Blog Posts and Selfies and Technology–Oh MY!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivbnq8So-onemHPK7P_E4JqqsRJKtaNFywRw54OsxuW1RpMXONsJ36p7LZ8qPIq11aeDeygAMGSUKcKX99oRG6nODzeU3SFE6dXaE3uqBQ9Yyj3KHfbOuAPkABSSVZYGrBTCcF3sN23Q/s1600/4176640360_292ba595ef_z.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivbnq8So-onemHPK7P_E4JqqsRJKtaNFywRw54OsxuW1RpMXONsJ36p7LZ8qPIq11aeDeygAMGSUKcKX99oRG6nODzeU3SFE6dXaE3uqBQ9Yyj3KHfbOuAPkABSSVZYGrBTCcF3sN23Q/s1600/4176640360_292ba595ef_z.jpeg" height="640" width="401" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is about as "selfie" as it gets around here!</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Dearest Reader (are you still out there in cyber space?),</i></span><br />
<br />
I hope you had a lovely Christmas! I got a new replacement camera lens so I can take more photos again. I also got some lovely books and smelly things. I won't inventory everything here, but rest assured that I will be well-read and smelling fine. Give me a candle, some great soap, tea and wonderful books and I'm good to go.<br />
<br />
As you may know from coming here off and on in the past eighteen months, I've not been blogging much. It is difficult to do on my ancient laptop––especially the uploading photos part––and I now find that trying to change my cover image, template colors etc. on Blogspot has been impossible. I found that this can be remedied but the instructions are so complicated that it leaves me overwhelmed and breathless. That, coupled with technical difficulties in camera world, and still no DSL on our ridge (oh my, you have no idea the pitfalls, excuses and everything that's been involved––and we even sold Windstream an easement and the boxes have been in, a mile or so down the road, for over a year now), I just haven't felt like blogging, let alone had much opportunity.<br />
<br />
But I have been writing for publication and have a new book coming out––more about that later––while working on others. Writing is not easy––and anyone who thinks you can just whip something off is, well, delusional. Finding a publisher is even more cumbersome at times––and a goal of 2014 is to find an agent, as well, so they can do all of the stuff that I'd rather not. It is possible to sell a book to a publisher without one––and I've done it twice now––but I don't recommend it.<br />
<br />
My daughter is on Instagram, which seems to be the new Facebook, and well, I've been so "off" the computer for the past eighteen months that I just can't keep up with it all. Where I used to spend, ahem, hours on the Internet a day, I now spend about four hours a week, total. And that's probably being generous. WiFi at home will change all of that but I think I've learned now that I can limit myself, and will, by just not thinking about it all the time––like any other addiction, I suppose. We don't even have television or phone at the cottage yet––and we moved there back in July! [Well, full confessions: both are still in the doublewide just down the road but even then I spend less than an hour on the phone each week and only a few hours watching television: NPR has become a constant friend. I LOVE RADIO!]<br />
<br />
What else have I been doing? Reading a lot––staying more organized, writing more letters and cards (generally trying to keep the post office open and using up many old stamps!). Ferrying our boys to basketball practices and games. Nesting into our farm and trying to put down roots (being in the cottage helps immensely––I need to live in something old, something borrowed, not new and manufactured).<br />
<br />
I've stopped trying to find a job in Kentucky in either writing or historic preservation: after over fifteen attempts and not one interview, despite one's qualifications, it gets a bit crazy-making. So this is freeing me up to focus more on my own writing––which I've been doing. It doesn't always pay the bills but it at least <i>seems</i> productive. Farm income can be just as fickle but I do my best to cut corners in the budget, grow and can our own food, shop sales when necessary. That said, I'm considering, when we get WiFi, opening up an Esty or blog shop of vintage things, and books, that I wish to share with those who might love them as much as I have [in other words: downsizing––isn't this what all baby boomers are doing once they hit 50? I won't in totality, but there are some things I might be able to part with...].<br />
<br />
I do have to laugh about the new phenomenon of the "selfie"––some blogs have seemed like that for some time but now young people and attention-seeking older people, too, are posting photos of themselves doing all sorts of things. We've gone from our food and decor to showing off our selves in all of their guises and postures. I love to take photographs but I don't want to use myself as the subject––I'd rather that my words, and the people and places and things that I love, be the subject. Here is a <a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/12/19/255294091/narcissistic-or-not-selfie-is-nunbergs-word-of-the-year">recent commentary on NPR about the phenom</a>.<br />
<br />
You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-44548994349527077872013-10-28T18:34:00.002-04:002013-10-29T16:55:07.366-04:00Ode to Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQBODv2iDO75SqkgIH1LaHlBE-iD6fpM7azeVJugIO-CV9IHhY-pKBBIeRXAN5UAEBoRv7Jx7ceaXLz8UBEZhmR1YDBL8qn4Ar7SB7_h6CO-pJRsRg5THWfF1LafRNAjpnjvh3NKia_A/s1600/IMAG0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQBODv2iDO75SqkgIH1LaHlBE-iD6fpM7azeVJugIO-CV9IHhY-pKBBIeRXAN5UAEBoRv7Jx7ceaXLz8UBEZhmR1YDBL8qn4Ar7SB7_h6CO-pJRsRg5THWfF1LafRNAjpnjvh3NKia_A/s640/IMAG0060.JPG" width="417" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dad, James H. Seiberling, and me on my <br />
Grandpa Sei's croquet court in Akron, Ohio, c. 1976-78.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">M</span></span>y father has been gone eleven years. Yesterday I was listening to some classical music on NPR that I know he would have enjoyed. For a long time I couldn't listen to any classical or nineteenth century music, or anything on the organ, without weeping. For my father, music was his lifeblood, his passion, his heartbeat. I am fortunate that he passed that along to me in a diffused but enthusiastic measure.<br />
<br />
As I was listening to some child prodigies playing Brahms and other works while at the table in our quiet kitchen on a Sunday evening I was also rummaging through some old recipe clippings. I found them in the shed in one of many unopened, and as yet unplaced, boxes that have formed the detritus––and delights––of my middle-aged life. There, from Dad's college typewriter (he never did try to use a computer), was a recipe he had brought to us in an early autumn of our marriage, on one of many visits he made to New Hampshire to see us each year. I thought of Dad, of course, while reading it, and smiled at a frugal notation he made (see below) and thought, given the season, that I should make it again. Then I realized that October 27, Sunday, was the actual anniversary (and same day of the week) of his passing eleven years ago. This is usually a date that I would have anticipated weeks ago but I suppose it is a sign that the immediacy of grief has slowly left me, replaced only by the presence of my father in my soul and memory as I navigate through the rest of my time here.<br />
<br />
Dad died just two days before my 40th birthday and at the very minute, at 2am, that the clocks turned back in the hospital for Daylight Savings time. My two brothers and I were with him for his last days which was a blessing and a comfort and we had all been in and out in the few months prior. Dad's doctor said at the time, "I called and you all came. Not everyone does that, you know." There were many profound and unexplainable things that happened during his last day, and at his memorial service a week later, and I've written about them privately. I always found the Daylight Savings timing to be a strange kismet as he welcomed the darker days of winter when he could be indoors and hibernate as he was want to do with his music and his television. It's not that he was antisocial––being out and about was just always on his terms, like so many things.<br />
<br />
As well as music and playing the organ, Dad loved all things autumnal, like I do. He liked Halloween and unpasteurized apple cider (from an old mill in Loyal Oaks near Norton), pumpkin pie and apple crisp and he especially liked homemade apple butter stirred into large-curd cottage cheese. He sometimes joined us for Thanksgiving and appreciated my stuffing (there were several dishes that he liked me to make when he visited but he always preferred his friend Alice's potato salad to mine!). He liked the cooler days and the thrill of the baseball playoffs and World Series, no matter who was playing. Of course, he was a born and bred Cleveland Indians fan and even though I could care less for the sport, I enjoyed going to home games and feeling the breeze from Lake Erie and being a part of the roar of the crowd and sharing this great American tradition with my father and brothers and cousins. [We would also meet my cousins each summer in Boston at Fenway Park––usually for an Indians-Red Sox game.]<br />
<br />
The year he brought me this recipe, for Jacobs Field Apple Crisp (once served at the home of the Cleveland Indians and now called Progressive Stadium), he also sat in our darkened kitchen and played spooky music on our daughter Addie's electric organ while trick-or-treaters came to our porch. Hancock was the perfect small village for door-to-door goblins and we must have had several hundred children each year from the village and surrounding towns. Dad delighted in seeing the costumes and our decorations and enjoyed many meals around the same table that now graces our small Kentucky kitchen. There he was comfortable telling us stories of his childhood and so many memories that he'd never shared with me before. Perhaps it is something about a kitchen table and a good meal that evokes such spirited remembrance.<br />
<br />
So yesterday I was able to listen to beautifully played music, all of which my father would have known by composer, title, and movement. I savored a favorite recipe in his typewritten hand and I was grateful. I know he is still with me, every day, and I know we will be together again. And I know that he is in the great celestial realm, somewhere, playing the organ and singing in a choir. When I hear music that he once shared with me, it is a kind of connection to the divine. And that is why I have always sung, too. After all, singing is like praying twice.<br />
<br />
Of course, I plan on making this recipe again very soon. Here it is written exactly as he typed it (if I had my scanner set up I would just scan it!):<br />
<br />
<b>Jacobs Field Apple Crisp</b><br />
<br />
Filling:<br />
<ul>
<li>15 apples (4.5 pounds) such as Macs or Golden Delicious</li>
<li>1 cup brown sugar packed down</li>
<li>1.5 tsps ground cinnamon</li>
<li>1/4 tsp ground nutmeg</li>
<li>1/4 tsp ground cloves</li>
<li>1/4 tsp ground allspice</li>
<li>1/2 cup cider or apple juice</li>
<li>1 Tbsp. cornstarch dissolved in 2 Tbsp. water</li>
</ul>
<div>
NOTE: Allspice and cloves may be omitted if not already in your spice rack as they are quite expensive today! [Dad was a bank branch manager and always frugal and I appreciated his concern about my spice cupboard and finances.]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Crumble Topping:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>1 cup flour</li>
<li>1 cup brown sugar packed down</li>
<li>4 cups granola cereal [CSP note: I've also used plain rolled oats.]</li>
<li>2 tsp. cinnamon</li>
<li>1/8 tsp. nutmeg</li>
<li>1/8 tsp. allspice</li>
<li>1/8 tsp. cloves</li>
<li>3 sticks butter, melted</li>
</ul>
<div>
For the filling: Peel, core and slice apples. Combine apples, sugar, spices and cider in large pan or wide kettle. Simmer uncovered over medium heat until apples are tender, about 15 to 20 minutes. Be careful not to burn. Stir in cornstarch mixture. Simmer several minutes, stirring occasionally until thickened. Remove from heat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the topping: Combine flour, sugar, granola and spices in a bowl. Add melted butter and stir until dry ingredients are thoroughly coated. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Place filling in a baking dish and heap the crumble topping over the filling. Bake at 325 degrees for 15 minutes or until golden and bubbly. [CSP note: I've not made this in a while so baking time might be longer.] Let cool and serve with ice cream or whipped cream.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Recipe can be halved for smaller amount.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He added: "This is awesomely delicious. I know you'll enjoy!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Happy Halloween to you all ~</div>
</div>
<br />
You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-56072575921093217682013-09-07T15:49:00.002-04:002013-09-07T16:02:11.434-04:00Country Auctions & Other Musings<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPjkry9p6SNeF_5reXTt2KNhpr82vmsCpoZlkh-P3rNE_2kIO0vuMmQKMCDKPVCV5f94pjs6oEugK2rnYIMstWmc7LR-Gy3MjelXKrgHI4AxhuH60ieNr42pU03eS3no4EjChLMlyfe0/s1600/IMG_0483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPjkry9p6SNeF_5reXTt2KNhpr82vmsCpoZlkh-P3rNE_2kIO0vuMmQKMCDKPVCV5f94pjs6oEugK2rnYIMstWmc7LR-Gy3MjelXKrgHI4AxhuH60ieNr42pU03eS3no4EjChLMlyfe0/s640/IMG_0483.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son Eli at the Highway 127 Yard Sale in 2009. We love to "troll" together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">T</span></span>oday I went to a country auction in King's Mountain, Kentucky and didn't spend a dime. But it was worth going just to see everything, to observe the (rather small) crowd, and to head off ridge by myself to do errands, have lunch and borrow some free WiFi. The highlight for me was hearing our Old Order Mennonite friend Paul doing the auction and holding up a pseudo-bronze wall plaque. "It's of some people having supper!" There were a few chuckles from the crowd as it was a bad copy of Leonardo DaVinci's "Last Supper"––you have to really appreciate the lack of worldliness in their culture, especially in the crazy, instant world we live in today. It made me smile.<br />
<br />
There were other things, too, but nothing I absolutely needed. One intriguing lot was a grouping of old photographs of people in the mid-late 19th century. I asked the former owner's daughter if she knew who they were. "No, they were relatives of my step-grandmother." The photos were marked with a Louisville, Kentucky studio and the groupings were typical of the period. It always makes me sad when I see old photographs of people in antique shops or at auction. They are the last vestiges of a life and when someone casts them away it usually means they are no longer remembered or known by any living person.<br />
<br />
On Labor Day we were invited to a picnic
on the ridge—a time of year that people often have family reunions down here. There is a saying in the South that I have found quite true: "God, Guns & Ground." To that I would add "Clan" as family is as important as church here and usually families stay together or at least nearby in Kentucky (and it's a given that almost everyone is related to someone in a small region or on a ridge so you always have to be mindful of that!). Two daughters and their families, and their younger brother—just married—and
his new wife, all live on adjacent parcels of the original “homeplace” where
their parents still farm. So
there they are, altogether: family and neighbors through thick and thin, and
they even garden together. It made me sad because that is what we always wanted
for our (former) family farm in New England. It was great to be included in their gathering but
there was this persistent longing for what will never be in my own family of
origin—two (nuclear) parents and their children, and spouses and grandchildren, all gathered
around. I hope, at least, to create that kind of matriarchy for my own family
while honoring my ancestors with them. It is the least I can do—but also the
most I can do—for my own clan. I never want to preside over a fractured
matriarchy and neither will I ever allow my children to be separate from each
other: I will get them home to sort things out if there is any discord between
them. Period. And if I should ever be widowed, there is no way in hell that I
will ever let another man come between me and my time with my children and
grandchildren. PERIOD!<br />
<br />
I do miss blogging but it is so difficult and slow on my ancient (c. 2004-imagine!) MacPowerBook G4. DSL still eludes us on the ridge and the boxes, installed in October 2012, are covered in weeds. I'm ready to get a "HotBox" through Verizon or some such and looking into options. I haven't had my trusty camera with me for some time as I have a bad lens that needs repair or replacement (and I've also enjoyed taking a break from taking photographs of everything of interest). In the meantime I'm hashing out a contract with a publisher for another book deal. I'll keep you posted and it relates, in some way, to pantries and kitchens and all things retro.<br />
<br />
Fall is coming. I love the change of light, the cooler nights and mornings, the beautiful pageant of yellow, purple and mauve along the roadside––and here in rural Kentucky the smell of leaves burning around the ridge! After April and May, I do believe that September and October are my favorite months on the farm. The boys and my husband are gathering in the large round bales from our third cutting of hay as I write this.<br />
<br />
I'm also canning up a storm (Stanley plums a few weeks ago, Kentucky white peaches for the freezer, and beets for the freezer are up next) and hoping to get in my fall garden––broccoli and Brussels sprout starts, and beet/lettuce seeds––over the weekend (but it's been so hot during the day that I fear bolting).<br />
<br />
I hope to be doing a bit of off-ridge traveling in the next few months before the winter ahead. The almanac is talking about a colder winter for Kentucky. I wouldn't mind: nice, cozy, good for writing and reading, and full freezers and pantries to raid.<br />
<br />
You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-66552972399840912002013-06-14T16:21:00.002-04:002013-06-14T16:31:05.797-04:00"Just Sit at Your Desk and Write"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfEwVkbN37rZVQ__IG0Ekrnc8l3TrSZOS3nejIZ0B_7V8wjf7JPcg0SwxMaxJ_Yq8EXcSRoAVZRj5nczkqMpqz9nwtXEkAvyfRqODdPAhAjfE7L-tKRGaeVQfVTZcpg1svhv-zyNtx4k/s1600/18247-a-lady-writing-a-letter-jan-vermeer-van-delft.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfEwVkbN37rZVQ__IG0Ekrnc8l3TrSZOS3nejIZ0B_7V8wjf7JPcg0SwxMaxJ_Yq8EXcSRoAVZRj5nczkqMpqz9nwtXEkAvyfRqODdPAhAjfE7L-tKRGaeVQfVTZcpg1svhv-zyNtx4k/s400/18247-a-lady-writing-a-letter-jan-vermeer-van-delft.jpeg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Lady Writing</i>, Johannes Vermeer, c. 1665<br />
National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">his is what my husband always says before––and after––I've applied for each of the thirteen jobs for which I've been well qualified––with no interview (not one).</span><br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Just sit at your desk and write." </span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Even though there is laundry. Even though there are meals to prepare. Even though there are happy boys haying and swimming and tracking in endless piles of farm dirt. Even though the house is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">always</span> generally a mess. Even though we are moving, at last, into our farm cottage in the busy middle of our farm, from a more commodious, but stifling, doublewide across the road.</span></i><br />
<br />
So yes, there is still the "stuff" and there is the refiguring of the boxes and the storage issues as we await our once and future farmhouse.<br />
<br />
There is still no DSL (which is why I do not blog as much as I would like to do).<br />
<br />
But there is a desk. There are many pens. There is much paper. There are computers. There are summer breezes sailing over the knob even on the hottest days and into our farm cottage. There are cattle lowing and birds chattering. There is bountiful broccoli and other emergent plants. There are full pantries and freezers.<br />
<br />
And there are words––always the words.<br />
<br />
"Just write," he says, partly from exasperation––perhaps because he knows me better than I do myself. Or maybe he is just weary of being a cow-man with a perimenopausal, somewhat haphazard, farmwife.<br />
<br />
"We are a team. Just write."<br />
<br />
And so I shall.<br />
<br />
<i>You come back when you're ready! </i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8727686262349800435.post-29325915046608751772013-06-06T18:34:00.000-04:002013-06-10T15:51:10.063-04:00A Hymn to Mrs. Butterworth's®<!--StartFragment-->
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDmIet7Nsb2Zbe01KAngYnDv08ThO6-ZG3FMRZSPyDyOaC0bavtePrLUuD-RZpRfBCZ5u6FD7nuTbTknzonynuavgC4vc60yLa6S0f4zyAsn8vwfgQQ71A84V-O_sPpLk5uPfj1J6JpE/s1600/IMG_0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDmIet7Nsb2Zbe01KAngYnDv08ThO6-ZG3FMRZSPyDyOaC0bavtePrLUuD-RZpRfBCZ5u6FD7nuTbTknzonynuavgC4vc60yLa6S0f4zyAsn8vwfgQQ71A84V-O_sPpLk5uPfj1J6JpE/s400/IMG_0172.JPG" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Mrs Butterworth's® Tryptych, along with a painted version, and an<br />
"Aunt Jemima Breakfast Club" button (I'm embarrassed to share the price).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Butterworth's® keeps </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">l</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span>Last week I posted about baking a cake in her name so I thought I'd elaborate a bit more about my obsession. As a child in Akron, Ohio, I was intrigued with her brown
glass, apron-clad, bun-wearing visage—and in the television ads I believe she
even spoke. We were a Log Cabin® syrup family and it wasn’t until we moved back
to New Hampshire that I truly began to appreciate the wonders of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> maple syrup. There we watched it being
boiled down each March (it takes about 40 gallons of maple sap to make a gallon
of syrup) and had it drizzled onto spring snow (most sugar houses serve this
with a popsicle stick—for twirling your maple “candy”—as well as dill pickles
and old-fashioned donuts). Any cook worth their syrup knows that most stuff
sold as “maple syrup” is actually just glorified corn syrup with caramel
coloring and artificial maple flavoring—even the Cracker Barrel® restaurant
chain has started cutting their real Vermont maple syrup with the fake stuff. [Since
moving to Kentucky we import it each year, or buy a case when we visit, from
Carol and Bill Eva at <a href="http://www.nhmapleproducers.com/weekend.html">Longview Forest Products in Hancock, New Hampshire</a>.] We certainly appreciate the locally-made
sorghum, too, boiled down at Oberholzer’s in Casey County, Kentucky each autumn, but it’s just not the
same thing on pancakes or waffles or French toast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Like the fictive Betty
Crocker®, <a href="http://www.slashfood.com/2009/10/01/mrs-butterworths-first-name-revealed/">Mrs. Butterworth's is a product</a>—an ad agency conjuring of homey
goodness. Here is the guise of a nice plump woman who is so caring and kind
that she’ll whip up a batch of pancakes or waffles in no time—perhaps the less
multi-cultural echo to Aunt Jemima® (who, I don’t believe, ever had her own
matronly-shaped syrup bottle). I assume that every kid wanted a Mrs.
Butterworth in their childhood kitchen—a beguiling presence during a time when
many of our mothers were starting to work outside of our homes. Buttery, syrupy,
sugary down-homey comfort—a nanny in a brown glass bottle. When you grow up to
learn that all artificial ingredients and refined sugars are bad, you consider,
too, that Mrs. Butterworth's® is just diabetes in a beguiling bottle. As children,
we don’t even think about these things and as adults we should know better.
Yet, as a store-aisle icon, Mrs. Butterworth's® is right up there with the best of
them. [The Jolly Green Giant® and Mr. Clean® aside, because they both scared the
hell out of me—yes, I am clearly a child of television and was highly
influenced by advertising, even if most of it was in black and white until we
got our first color television in the very late 1960s.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Our neighbor, Mrs. Emily
Wirth, in Akron days, was a great comfort cook. She liked to make fried chicken
and waffles when we were invited for dinner, served with a side of buttered
corn and delectable currant scones (I still have that recipe). For some reason,
I began to associate her with Mrs. Butterworth's®. It may have been because she
made doorstops out of the amber bottles—filled with sand and outfitted with
crocheted aprons—or that she was a kind and welcoming woman who loved to cook
and provide love to everyone around her. The wife of the assistant pastor at
our Presbyterian church, she was prayerful, genuine, and full of laughter—and
she was my mother’s best friend during some difficult times. She was my first
exposure to someone who had been “born again” and I admired her belief and her
faith especially because she lived what she believed. I know she would have
taken in total strangers or homeless people—and maybe even did—and fed them
chicken and waffles. There was always someone in her kitchen and you just
wanted to be near her. [I recall her—and her faith—with great longing because
she was never the disingenuous kind of believer that is all too common in
today’s world.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">A few years ago, at a yard
sale in Kentucky, I had to buy Mrs. Butterworth's®—three original bottles in three
sizes. [I call this my “Mrs. Butterworth's® Triptych” and she/they live in their
amber-glass idolatry on a shelf in my cottage kitchen—I don’t know about the
Renaissance artists, but Andy Warhol might have appreciated them.] I picked up
another during the same annual Highway 127 yard sale—only she has a painted red dress, a cream apron and cream-colored accents. The modern Mrs. Butterworth's® bottles are now
made of plastic and she has had some kind of makeover. I’m not impressed. [My
husband wasn’t impressed, either, that I paid $8 for three c.1970 fake syrup glass
bottles. But he knows me well enough by now to just say, “Oh, isn’t that nice,
dear,” while quietly gnashing his teeth.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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You come back when you're ready!<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Catherine</span></i>Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11361090241108323002noreply@blogger.com4