Writing For My Life

 Sometime this spring, maybe last year, I reread Anna Quindlen’s book Write For Your Life. 

For some reason her book finds its way to me every couple of years. Each time I am inspired. 

As I read about her lament of the loss of letters it created an ache in my chest. I remembered hours spent with Philip in his dad’s attic, digging through chests, going through old packets of letters. Some from Victor’s mom, writing from Boonton, New Jersey, to who knows where WWII. She would write about the goings on in town. Who died. Who had to go to the hospital. New babies. What flowers happened to be blooming. Sometimes she would ask him to pray for her because she was feeling poorly.

We were especially intrigued by letters to his dad from George Lincoln Rockwell. Link. A pal and co contributor to Sir Brown at Brown University. Some complaining about the incredibly dull summer in his parents’ home. And please come so I have something to do! Row, picnic, have drinks and dinner. Later the letters complained about the horrible conditions in boot camp. How he longed for a conversation with someone from school because he felt rather intellectually superior to his mates. At some point the letters stopped. Victor went from Brown to Fifth Armored Division and liberating Luxembourg to a long career in journalism with the wall st journal. His friend, who was no longer his friend, founded the American Nazi Party. 

Whoa…

When clearing out Mom’s house to sell, I came across so many letters. One broken box had letters from my paternal grandmother, Pearl, to Harwood, my grandpa. Over a few evenings this spring, I read letters. What a trove! A little crush turned into a friendship. A courtship to engagement. Elk City, Oklahoma. Her little anecdotes of the day. Saying “I’m sorry my handwriting is such a mess but I have my baby sister in my lap!” Or, “I sure did love it when you took me to your favorite grove on your farm. It was so pretty.” And scattered throughout “haha!” Instead of lol. 

I got to experience my grandma as a teenager becoming woman, learning about her time working for her dad doing accounting and answering the phone in his feed store and mill. Which is how they met, that handsome farmer coming in to get some feed. 

I thought about my kids. We text all the time. The pictures, jokes. Interesting news tidbits. Instant and easy. Most of them are many miles away but we stay fairly connected through the phone.

As I read Quindlen’s book, then my grandma’s love letters, I grieved the loss of the handwritten word. I wanted more than anything for my children to have letters to hold onto someday. To chuckle over the trivial. To have some kind of historical record.

A few months ago I decided I would begin to write the kids. Send them a family recipe . Nothing deep or consequential. 

At first it felt odd. My handwriting is messy. Some blend of cursive and print and shorthand and gosh my wrist started to go numb writing on my lap in the chair in the corner. Found stamps. Had to dig for mailing addresses.

The other day I got a letter back from Madi in Boise. Today I got a postcard from Nils in Arizona. I cried both times.

Isn’t that silly? I felt privileged and loved. Pieces of paper with a stamp and a date and their handwriting. Bits and pieces of what they are thinking. 

Once a week or so I sit down with paper. I dive in and see where the letter takes me. What’s growing in the garden. What I’m cooking for supper. Any juicy tidbits, like the feral kitties let me pet them. Or it rained the other day and I happened to see so and so in the store. 

It all seemed very inconsequential. 

Until I found real letters waiting for me in my post office box. Wow…

Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

 I’ve just come in from an afternoon in the garden. Yanking the rest of the cucumbers. The remaining yellow squash and not all but most of the zucchini. The peas I planted the other day are now three to five inches tall! Lettuce and cilantro popping up everywhere. 

I find it rather funny how my wild, half assed chaos garden has produced so much bounty and half of it planted itself. Well, not really half but a bigger percentage than you might believe. 

Have you ever grown sweet peas? They vine like a regular pea, and produce flowers but not pods one eats. Old fashioned and so fragrant you can smell them from quite far. I want to say you can smell them from miles away but I guess that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But doesn’t good storytelling usually involve some exaggeration?? For years I have planted sweet peas. The flowers have adorned cakes and made sweet little posies for petit bijou tables, my window sill. But seems like in years past they would bloom for a couple weeks or so then die. They like cool weather. Delicate little things. I guess not a West Texas kind of thing.

Last fall was a very hard time of transition for me. Closed my business, had a wedding, mom broke her hip, we sold her home, and I started a new career. There was zero opportunity to clean up the garden at end of season.

This spring sweet peas popped up on their own accord. So did dill. And arugula. Zinnias and don’t get me started on the tomatoes. The tomatoes merit their own post. And everywhere the sweet peas planted themselves they thrived. I just picked a giant bouquet this afternoon. They are still blooming in September! Ever so fragrant. I gathered a good deal of seeds which I will store for next year. But if this year is any indication, I can share those seeds with others because the beauties have already started planting themselves.

I was listening to Nanci Griffith while sticking the wild bouquet into a giant coffee cup turned vase. “If These Old Walls Could Speak.” 

All of a sudden I felt a pain in my heart. It felt a lot like grief. Then as tears rose I realized it was because I deactivated my Facebook account. Yeah, bear with me. I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous. I wanted to make fun of myself. But I am trying this ridiculous habit of paying attention to feelings before letting them explode or take up residence in my neck and shoulders. 

Back in Virginia, I remember the day I spoke to our priest about how disconcerting it was to see republican voters guides sitting on every pew. I told him I was planning to vote for Obama, and wondered if any other churchgoers, members or visitors, might also feel uncomfortable finding those there. Perhaps believing if they didn’t share the prescribed political beliefs there would not be a place for them. 

I was grateful he listened, the pamphlets disappeared. 

I haven’t been in that church or any other for years. But there was a day, actually one of the last times I ever went to church, the circuit priest in the very progressive Episcopal church I attended (and served in),gave a very politically charged sermon. I agreed with every point. It sickened me. I wondered how someone might feel if they happened to be in church that day, oh, someone like my parents for example. How they might feel quite ostracized, put into the position of the “other.”

Over the past ten or fifteen years, my Facebook world has grown significantly. Family. College friends, High school friends. Neighbors. Customers. I loved checking in for five to fifteen minutes in the morning and the evening. See what restaurants were open, were there traffic jams. Did someone else see a bear? 

Or how about being witness to kids growing up, getting married, grand babies. 

My friend group has always been quite diverse and that’s just the way I like it. One of the many reasons I moved to Alpine was because I found a “purple” town felt good and safe. A good blend of red and blue and lists of shades in between. I wanted my kids to grow up in a world that didn’t look exactly like our family. It felt good when folks would come into my home bakery, later Taste and See, and then Petit Bijou, and feel comfortable, even if we were worlds apart in politics and ideology. Yes, it got a bit rough sometimes when folks were cruel to my daughters because we gave a percentage of bakery proceeds to incarcerated black mommas. Or when we asked folks to wear masks back in covid days to respect the local mandates, and a handful of people got mad and ugly. But we didn’t turn them away. Or ask them to ditch their beliefs in order to be our customers and neighbors. We knew it was a rare thing and didn’t reflect the majority. 

For years there have been uncomfortable moments on FB. Old friends would write about how all democrats were this, or all liberals were that. Occasionally I would jump in and say, hey y’all! I’m one of those snowflake libtards over here! To which the response would be, well, but you aren’t like all them. To which I would respond, well actually, how do you know? Do you know exactly everything all them are thinking? Do you even know what I’m thinking? Then we would laugh and get back to garden secrets and the kids. 

The other day some fb acquaintances were expressing their anger that all democrats were joyful over the death of Charlie Kirk. There were some pretty big brushstroke accusations. 

I see these accusations across the political spectrum. I see folks who share my beliefs make broad over generalized accusations as well. Hell, I certainly get frustrated and mad and confused about so many things, like folks being dragged out of jobs like wild animals. Like people in Gaza, muslim and Christian, starving to death because of a bunch of rich people who have power to make choices…like some convicted felons felons getting more rights because they are rich and white. But I digress. Sorry. (Did I give a trigger warning that I am a bleeding heart liberal snowflake who actually knows how privileged she is to even be able to have the luxury of growing her own garden and the freedom to put a bouquet of homegrown flowers in her windowsill?)

To protect myself, my peace and well being, I deactivated my Facebook account. I considered pausing it, but couldn’t see how it could ever get better so I hit the delete button. 

I choose a life with real face interactions. And keep the instagram because how else will I see my kids photos? And get tips for curing my neck problems. And learn garden hacks and radish butter terrines. And don’t even get me started on the hula hoop guy in tutu and high heels…gonna keep the instagram. 

For the past few days I haven’t felt a twinge of regret or grief. 

This evening I realized I probably should have given a farewell. And then that song came on. And grief welled and tears rose as I thought of all the beautiful moments I have enjoyed thanks to the old FB.

So many friends supported us during the tragic time of my husband’s death. And all the love and hugs and prayers and good wishes and energetic love sent when I got cancer. Or Daddy died. Or Mom got sick. Omg, I was able to have a business because of free advertising on FB! And beautiful loving interaction with all the glorious spectrum of people who have come in and out of my life. 

I don’t regret shutting down my Facebook account. But I do regret not saying goodbye. I really love a lot of those folks out there, former neighbors, old classmates, parents of friends, and while I don’t understand their political choices, I do love the wholehearted humans they are. 

I am sad we live in a world filled with such tribalistic hatred. It has been my mission for decades to find a way to build bridges. Perhaps walking away from Facebook will make it easier to do just that. 

But it surprises me how sad I feel to have lost that connection. Ugh. Feeling feelings is embarrassing. 

Okay. It is so weird to be vulnerable and share my thought in a public format. lol hopefully I have been off the blog long enough nobody is reading it anymore and I am just speaking into the ether.

Next post I’ll keep it to tomatoes. The feral tomatoes that I swear are on a mission to take over the universe. 

Poorwhill. Poorwhill. Poorwhill.

 We don’t have loons out here. But I spent some time in the Adirondacks and even took the kids on a wild Canada camping trip once, which is another story all together, but that was my introduction to the loon. And after those trips my heart longed to hear them again. That lonesome cry on the lake.

Not a lot of lakes out here. This gal fell in love with the whippoorwill back in the hill country, sleeping on the front porch. No phone to scroll. No book to read cause: dark.

I remember camping out somewhere in Fort Davis, back in the 80s. Late summer and hot. Until the sun went down. And the tall grasses waved in a moist breezy evening. All things dark and still. And then.

“Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill.”

That song made me feel connected to something bigger than me. Magic. God. I would hold my breath waiting. And then smile.

I remember a time I heard that lonesome cry on the Virginia farm. It was a hard time. A scary time. A time I honestly didn’t know how I was gonna survive time.

Windows open, night time in summer and all that Virginia green. 

“Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill.”

A moment I knew we would be okay. Eventually.

Out here in the high Chihuahuan desert, I rarely hear a whippoorwill. What I hear, in mid spring and late summer, is the poorwhill.

Yes, they are related. And yes, you rarely see them. I guess it is way too dry in the desert for a full blown three syllable cry and they have to make do with two.

Last night I went on a cellphone google deep dive. The poorwhills and whippoorwills typically sound off, especially as the moon waxes, letting potential partners know they have what it takes…. Y’all get the drift? The males prove their potential by out singing their competition. I read the whippoorwill territory is around twenty acres or so. The reason they sound off so much around a waxing moon is because the extra light allows for better bug hunting, aka survival of the fittest and let’s make sure the future kids have enough to eat.

Moon is growing bright but tonight shrouded by a thin veil.

Some fella is doing his darnedest to let his gal know he can outlast the other losers out there.

Okay. Sexist. Stuck in the olden days. Oh, yeah. And I’m stretched out, typing on my iPhone, anthropomorphizing (is that actually a word?) crafting a romantic narrative for the little feathered creatures hanging out down the hill.

Loud guy has calmed down a bit. The whir of bugs and frogs and a very gentle breeze through the pinyon are the background music to my quiet Thursday evening.

Not so much magic or omens but actual real biological science happening. But wait. That’s pretty magical, right?

Reclaiming Space

As a kid I would take my pillow and blankets to the front porch to sleep.  Something in me needed to be surrounded by air and trees, nighttime noises and a breeze.

For years we would go down to Big Bend National Park and camp in the wild, sleeping pads on the ground, the Milky Way our ceiling. I haven’t been camping in ages. Maybe because now I live out in the country, over a mile high elevation, and don’t have the need to escape town. My home is my refuge.

Nora came home for a two week vacation after a summer internship in Manhattan. Two days in she came down with a horrible flu. Fever for days, miserable. I surrendered my bedroom, with ac and tv, and cleared out the piles of junk that had accumulated in my outdoor “bedroom.” Broken chairs, wind shredded outdoor rug, ugly pillows. IKEA daybed shoved to the side.

Made up the bed and moved my evenings to my favorite place: the outdoors!

A couple nights were so clear and bright, the stars felt like a cushion above me. Shooting stars. Milky milky Milky Way.  Several evenings so windy I had to cover my head with the blanket, a makeshift tent. The past few evenings so chilly I needed an extra blanket, and woke up in a fluffy grey cloud. 

Thankfully Nora recovered, just in time to head back to her senior year of college in upstate NY. Last night I had clean sheets and a whole bedroom all to myself. No more piles of tissues, cough meds and tea cups.

Guess where I slept last night?

PS I miss writing in the blog. I regularly journal and occasionally post on FB. Always too many words and probably not the place. A couple of you old timers have reached out to me, asking for more. 

Thank you for the encouragement. I love to write and share little snapshots of my world.

Metamorphosis

 I was delighted at work the other day.  Teeny tiny larvae on the dill grew into great big hungry caterpillars, making their way along the fronds and stems, tucked by the airstream door.  

They grew big and fat so quickly.  Instead of work, I paused.  Watched.  One of the guests made his/her way down a stem and with their little (hands? fingers? caterpillar paws?) lifted some fronds to tuck straight into their mouth.  They chomped and chomped, but so delicately.  Didn't even mind my intrusion into the dinner hour.

I wish you could have seen it.  I laughed in delight.  I guess I need to google "how long does it take to go from big fat caterpillar to swallowtail butterfly".  

Father’s Day

 I have spent the day working. Did payroll. Schedules. Which are tricky now, but that is another story. Ate. Watched an episode of The Crown. Spent time with Nora. Worked on wine dinner menus. And laundry.

And.

I chose to be grateful.

So many men who have been mentors and allies and friends and guides to my children since Philip died.

And.

My dad.

Wow. I just keep coming back to that picture of him, young, a fire fighter. All three of us girls lined up on his lap, looking at us with nothing but love and adoration.

My children knew a dad who loved them. Delighted in them.

So did I.

And wow there are so many more stories that are scribbled in the margins.

So now I sit quietly on my patio as the mountains go from navy to charcoal. The sky from salmon and apricot to peach and submarine grey and dark smoke and ink spill.

A dog barks in the distance.

The poorwhill calls. Why does his song make me feel so real and alive? Sometimes he is up close. Now he is far down. Perhaps near the draw by the willow at the bottom. Beyond my fence.

Crickets or peepers or something like are the background music.

Yesterday as I looked out my bathroom window, knowing that Nora was to return any minute from her road trip across the country, I saw something that grabbed my attention.

Startled me, actually.

An aoudad.

Actually three of them. On the ridge between my place and my BFFs yurt just beyond. I could barely see them. Just their silhouette, the horns curving. Majestic necks. Walking as if they were fauns on their way to a royal gathering. Important news to discuss.

And then they were gone.

So earlier this evening i spoke to my dad. And yes, I speak to dead people all the time.

He was complicated. He grew up on a farm in dust bowl Oklahoma, if that gives you a clue. How many siblings? Six? And a grandma. And an cousin and an aunt. And a baby sister with downs syndrome.

My daddy loved me so much. Oh, how he loved me. I have pictures of his face, adoring mine. He adored my mom.

And he beat us and hurt and was scared and had a profoundly difficult childhood, not just beaten by his dad, who, by the way, also loved and adored him too. 

Thank god for EMDR, which is another story altogether. But that said, after December 21,2003, I never had another fight with my dad or my husband.

Just ask my kids.

Anyway.

Today I chose to spent moments here and there in the middle of my day doing payroll and schedules and menus and whatnot to remember the many men who have blessed me and my children. John Arnold in Marblehead. Mike Thomas in Temple. Raymond Skiles right here in Alpine. Rick Keith. 

And more. So many more.

Which is the core of my belief system. There is so much more.

And so i sit here on my patio in the quiet. Well. Not so quiet if you count the gentle breeze and the peepers. The tumbling dryer. The dogs down in the draw. Patrick and Madi are tucked in to a romantic dinner in Boise as he returns from a firefighter assignment. Thomas has little caesars with his cat, Nelson, in town. Maggie and Nils live life largely in Austin. Rose and her beau came to pick up her kitty and head back home after epic road trip. Nora and my dog friend Xolo are in town doing kid things with Nora’s  friend and I am so glad to have her back from epic sister road trip.

Tomorrow is a new day and the worries and realities swirl.

But tonight I remember the dads. And the not dads but holding the ropes people, and the hurts and joys and losses and griefs are kind of a lot.

And the waxing moon rises over the side of my house and instead of watching Netflix or reading a book I wrote something on my phone. 

Not Waiting for Inspiration

 I have pledged to return to writing.

Sometimes it is easy, the inspiration strikes and words flow readily.  All they require is for me to sit down quickly and start typing.

What to do on days I don't feel the juice?  I am fairly worn out.  Today is Sunday.  I have the time.  I already took care of the week's schedule and payroll.  Sketched out a calendar and some menus.  Absolutely nowhere to go except to the washer and dryer and perhaps the kitchen and bathroom for tidy up.  

I have the idea if I wait for inspiration, perhaps it won't find me.  Maybe I need to trust inspiration can strike even in the middle of a rote practice.  

For example, I sit in my beat up old hand me down chair in the corner of my room.  The window is open and a soft breeze caresses my cheek and seems to tell me secrets.  I am listening!  No other noise around but the sound of my work papers fluttering.

Or, A tiny little alcove in my bedroom holds a Book of Common Prayer and a hymnal.  Set upon the books a beautifully painted box filled with whispered prayers of panic and pleading, wishes and fears.  They are covered in dust telling the truth to anyone who cares to look.   

Hmmmm.  I have been a person of faith for my whole life.  Seeing the mystical and magical woven all around me, through the shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds, or the drops of dew glistening on the moss.  My dad led the singing at the tiny country churches we attended.  Mom played the piano.  Singing around the piano with my parents and their best friends is still one the things that delights me more than anything. 

Uh oh.  The tears started flowing and I just remembered there will be no more singing around the piano with my dad.  

I haven't been in church more than twice the past few years.  The most recent time was at my dad's funeral, and to tell you the truth I am perfectly content if I never set foot in a church again.

Whoa.  I said it.  Out loud where people might actually read this and become very concerned.  I am going to assume my kids are the only ones reading this.  Since they know me and love me I don't have to fear their judgement.  

It isn't very complicated.  I have completely lost faith in the trappings of religion.  I am not exactly certain what I believe about God and Jesus these days.  Well.  I am certain that if there is a God, he/she would certainly transcend gender, denominations, sects, religions.  Oh.  And politics.  

I might be a bit more comfortable with the concept of the Holy Spirit.  

This shedding has been going on for years and years.  No, not because my husband died and I am angry at God for taking him.  Although I have had quite a few questions about that.  For one, since Philip was the more spiritual, the more holy and committed to an evangelical belief system, wouldn't God have left him here? He would be the influence my children needed to keep them in the church?  When my children, okay, not kids anymore, have spoken to me about the loss of their faith, about their doubts, I sadly smile and agree that it is sometimes confusing to not have the certainty of our former belief system.  

Evidence overwhelms me again and again as I seem to perceive the hand of some invisible source providing, directing.  So in what exactly have I lost faith ?  I still pray, setting forth my intentions and desires.  Sometimes around the table with Mom I end my prayers "in Jesus' name" and it is comforting.  I do not mean it the way I did some years ago.  Not at all.

I believe the wind and the trees speak to me on a regular basis.  I believe when I set my heart toward gratitude, a shift occurs, bringing about change.  I speak to dead people all the time, their spirits so real I can almost, not quite touch them.  Right, Dad?  Right, Philip? And then I laugh at myself and tell myself I don't care one whit if I am merely speaking to myself and it is the computer in my brain answering back, and not the spirits of these dearly departed.  

When assailed by fear or joy or gratitude or worry, saying a prayer (to whom? I don't care!) is a connection to something bigger than me.  

This loss of my former faith makes many folks sad and confused. I certainly don't mind if they pray for me.  Truth is, I don't feel very confused at all anymore. 

I look up from my chair, laptop in lap.  About the time I think my pal, the wind, has gone on and left me behind, he? she? comes in and tenderly touches my cheek.  Such loving comfort.  It moves me deeply and I have to hold myself back from sobbing so as not to concern Nora.  I may not be confused.  But there are all flavors of grief.  It was easier, back in the day, when I was so certain.  Maybe I should pull out that sacred hand painted little box, peruse the little slips of paper.  Maybe it is time to make a little fire, present them as a burned offering.  A great big thank you to the powers that be for getting me from there to here.  Maybe it is time to start writing out my concerns and wishes on tiny slips of paper to tuck in the box. I don't have to define anything.  What if this blog is a bit of my prayer?  Sharing an authentic piece of human with the world.  Making myself vulnerable with my words.  Isn't that a prayer? 

In the meantime, I have the still afternoon, the sound of Nora stirring around in her room.  The cool breeze says summer is over and we can welcome a dear season of harvest.  

 

Fran Rowe, Artist (i need to write a blurb about Mom for a magazine and might as well start a draft here)

Several years ago Mom and I were driving around Alpine. She and Daddy had come out for a visit. I was still baking out of our home kitchen at the time. I suggested it would be a lot of fun to have a brick and mortar gallery somewhere downtown disguised as a bakery. We laughed and laughed at the idea. I told her that all the people coming in to get their cup of coffee would see her paintings, fall in love and buy them! 

 Isn't it funny how little nuggets of inspiration appear from out of nowhere? We are entering our fourth year downtown Alpine, bakery and fine arts gallery and now we chuckle in gratitude. Sure enough, she has sold several original oils and quite a number of giclees. What is even more lovely is the fact so many people get to delight in her craft, her life's work. 

 Mom has been painting and drawing all her life. Born in 1941, Wichita Falls, Texas, daughter to a small town preacher and his wife, the church pianist and organist. Mom always loved running around outside and was way more a tomboy than her mother would have preferred. She had a way of picking up every pretty rock that caught her attention, and still does! Mom sees more deeply into nature than some, perhaps because she actually pauses to take it all in. I think seeing nature is a part of her spiritual practice, as is her continued work of playing the piano, at home and at her church. 

Mom works in oils on linen. Occasionally watercolor and pastel. She has been recognized both regionally and nationally, through Oil Panters of America, Contemporary Masters and others. She has a big pile of medals and ribbons and writeups. Which is impressive on its own. I see things through a different lens. 

Mom always had a studio, wherever we lived. Daddy would see to that. While we girls would be rustling up dinner in the kitchen, riding horses, doing homework, she would be out there painting away. Sometimes she would go down to Big Bend in an RV with her boxer and paint on location for weeks at a time. The church ladies at home were a bit perplexed, wondering if Fran and John were getting a divorce! No! Their marriage was strong and endured richly because Dad recognized how desperately Mom needed to be in nature to get paint on a canvas. 

August, 1997, my parents and sister were involved in a head on collision with a drunk driver. Mom was in the hospital for weeks. Every bone in her foot was crushed. She had breaks in her legs, a head injury, was told she would never walk again. We worked to help her adjust to wheel chair life in the hard long journey of recovery. She couldn't remember how to paint. Depression set in. 

Here is where my mom went from average amazing artist and great mom to super hero status in my book. She decided she would completely disregard the prediction of the doctors and began the even longer and harder journey to freedom from the wheelchair. 

Mom was able to painfully get around with a cane and on a whim I suggested she and I make a road trip down to Big Bend National Park. Her healing place. Her heart's desire. Bound and determined, grasping her cane and my arm, tears running down our faces because of the agony, she lifted one foot. And then the other. Many minutes to cover a few feet, breathing in the mountain air, with the Chisos leaning over us like a giant friend. That short walk in the spring of 2000 was perhaps the longest, most painful journey of our lives. And the most victorious, empowering moment as well. 

Twenty years later, Mom still endures chronic pain from her injuries and we have lost count of the many surgeries. But she never gives up. Bound and determined. With a fierce need to do whatever it takes to get paint on canvas. She wishes to bear witness to the natural beauty she sees in the piles of rocks, the clouds, the looming canyon walls. Many take notice of the way she captures movement and light. Mom will tell anyone she paints as an act of worship. It is a spiritual practice for her, same as playing the piano in church. All I know is her journey is inspirational to me. Her courage and resilience heroic. Being able to share her work in our bakery/fine arts gallery is a dream come true.

Love in a Coffee Can Stuck in the Closet

I have always enjoyed food. I have a recipe box, beaten up and grimy, tucked away somewhere in the garage, with recipes collected and written out in my second grade handwriting on index cards and lined school paper. My mom is a terrific cook. And perhaps one might say reluctant? No one can do angel biscuits or sopapillas like Mom. That said, Dad was the one who delighted in the kitchen.

Daddy had a rusty old coffee can full of his own scribblings. Little things picked up from ladies at the church potlucks. A faded newspaper clipping of a recipe. List of ingredients and measurements for curing corned beef or bacon. Our family favorite: slop cake! You know the one? Perhaps not? Slop a can of cherry pie filling, a can of crushed pineapple into a rectangle baking pan. Dump a box of dry cake mix on top. Pour a melted stick of butter (let's face it, you know it was margarine) on top and liberally sprinkle cracked pecans on top of everything else. Bake in a hot oven until everything is bubbly and the smell is divine. Try not to burn your mouth when you sneak a spoonful from the corner.

I don't eat sugar anymore. Hardly ever. And my baking is all whole foods, real organic cherries and never a boxed mix in sight. But I can admit that I do feel quite nostalgic when I remember the smell, the tangy sweet taste, the buttery flavored goodness. And can see his handwriting on the little slip of paper stuck in among the old school photos and business cards and what not.

We all got together a few weeks ago to remember Daddy on his birthday. Mom pulled down the coffee can and we spread the contents all over the big wooden table he made with his own hands way back when I was in elementary or early middle school. I laughed at the school pictures. Wow we had some big glasses! Thanks Mom and Dad for the braces! Awkward and painful but now look at my straight teeth!

And all those scraps of paper. Backs of receipts, butcher paper, index cards, lined school paper. All with his handwriting, probably using a pencil he had just sharpened with his pocket knife. It made me cry. Touching my dad's fingerprints all over the years of his little stash, kept up in a corner of the closet, was it to the left? The right?

Daddy was a firefighter with the Oklahoma City Fire Department. Four days on, four days off? I don't know for sure, but I do remember he would be gone for a few days a week and of course those would be the days the rabid skunk would lurk around our farmhouse and Mom would have to woman up and kill it, did she actually cut the head off to send off to be tested for rabies??? I will ask her this afternoon. Or a poisonous snake by the backdoor. I can't forget the time I cut myself rather severely, playing in a forbidden zone, barefoot of course, an old fallen down barn full of broken glass. Blood was spurting from my ankle with every pulse of my heart and she had to gather up me, the toddler and the baby, to drive into town to the ER.

But wait, this is about Daddy! All the time Mom would be milking the goats and hanging the diapers on the clothesline, Daddy would be on call, heading out to fires all over the city. Dangerous, but he loved it. And when not tackling fires, he would be taking over the kitchen, cooking for the crew. He did such a good job his crew frequently asked him to share his recipes with their wives, haha! Dad cooked by taste. And oh how he loved to make people happy by giving them delicious food!

It is a wonder how this peanut farming cotton picking kid from dustbowl Oklahoma grew to love the kitchen so much. Back in the day, early to mid eighties I guess, Mom was spending a lot of time in Lajitas and the Big Bend, out here in West Texas. She would come to paint on location, have art shows, meet fancy people who loved her art work. Most of the time Dad would be back in Central Texas managing the place and their three daughters. Occasionally they would cross the border into Ojinaga, Coahuila, Mexico and go out to eat. Dad would question the cooks in his broken Spanish, coaxing them to share their recipes. From these forays comes my favorite meal my dad would make. In fact, when we reunited after two years of my living in Japan, the very first meal I requested was his Tacos Chihuahua.

Beef, chicken, venison or shrimp, the protein doesn't matter much. Hey! I've made this with tofu, but don't tell Daddy. He would be rolling his eyes in heaven, telling me we have a freezer full of meat, go get some.

Here's how you could make this yourself, if I remember properly.

Thinly slice two or three onions on the bias. He would use yellow ones. Chop up an entire package of bacon. Yep. That was his recipe. Use your biggest cast iron skillet. Gently begin to cook those onions in the bacon. Slice a bunch of garlic cloves and toss them in the pan. When the onions begin to caramelize toss in the chunks of meat. You should have seen my dad debone a chicken. When the meat begins to brown, add several fresh tomatoes cut into pieces about the size of your thumb. And several fresh jalapenos. He would suggest that jalapenos with a pointy end would be very very hot, a blunt end more mild. He would then whisper dramatically that when the tomatoes began to break down, it was important to add a generous glug of soy sauce. How the heck did my dad know about umami??? Try to make this dish without the soy sauce and it is not even near the same, even if delicious. When things are all nice and saucy, and of course after he would taste for salt and pepper, he would finely chop a bunch of fresh cilantro and toss it all in, stems and all, and cook for just a couple minutes more.

We would have this served on rice. Or in hot flour tortillas. Plenty of his special pico de gallo and yes, why not top all that fat off with some sour cream?

I haven't made this dish in awhile. When I do I use a few slices of organic, pastured pork bacon for many servings! Venison is still my favorite go to. Or boneless skinless chicken thighs. I don't eat rice, very few tortillas, but I might have to whip this up this weekend. Makes me teary-eyed thinking about it.

I asked Daddy to make this meal for my fiftieth birthday, yep, several years ago. He couldn't sharpen the knives. He kept forgetting the ingredients and had to ask me over and over if I could help him remember. It was one of the harshest, saddest days ever.

A few doctors had diagnosed him with Parkinson's Disease, but we found a neurologist in Odessa who determined that Daddy had Lewy Bodies Dementia. Similar and yet oh so different.

I took over the cooking and Daddy helped stir. I felt grief spread cold through my body. Little did I know what a hard journey he would have over the next few years. And yet. And yet. We had each other! We had the memories! I had the recipes written in my heart. And on little scraps of paper in a beat up, rusty red coffee can.

Three Years Later

Here I am. Completely out of practice, I can barely remember how to type. But somehow, on this surprising Wednesday afternoon, sitting on top of my little hill outside town, surrounded by wind and mist and completey blanketed by clouds and cold, I feel a hankering to write. So. The bakery. Maybe before I get to the bakery I should tell you a bit about my little refuge. Actually, the bakery does have something to do with this precious place. You see, when I opened the doors to our tiny little shop, I loved it so much, I told it that we were true partners. I loved that place. Still do! But the running of it made me very tired. Some of you know the realities of owning your own business. Thank God the kids work with me and my folks have been such a presence. But if you want to talk about work life family balance, I would have to say it was quite hard. Okay, the truth? Impossible. Yet the bakery and I continued to give ourselves to our community out of pure love. The garden grew. The menu grew, each of us on staff grew. And it felt like I lived at the bakery. Arriving at 4 something in the dark of morning. Sometimes not getting home until nine or ten in the dark at night. My home garden died. The house was neglected. More kids graduated and flew away. My precious friends came to hang out with me at the shop as we would clean up, sharing stories and a glass of wine. Dinner parties at home were no more. A year and a half ago Nora and I began to take Sunday drives out in the country. We pondered the idea of moving a few miles out of town to the big sky, mountains, dark skies and peace. This place too far. That place too big. Yikes, they want how much for that shack? Right in the nick of time we found a tiny little house. End of the lane. View that defies description. Over a mile high in elevation and less than twenty minutes from work. An offer not accepted. Disappointment. A journey to the west coast of Ireland for my birthday. A prayer and steps around a hidden sacred well in the middle of the bog. Second offer made, what do I have to lose? Here I sit. Tiny little house at the end of the lane. Blanketed by misty clouds, wind whipping the live oak and juniper. And slowly but surely balance is returning to my life. These days I wake up to the sunrise. The drive to work is joy. I drive home in the daylight and sit on my deck, feet up on the rail. Friends come to my house and we sit on my patio, socially distanced of course! Sometimes I even cook them food at home! We watch the deer and occasional elk. Sometimes all the kids are here and we sit around our table on the patio and feast and laugh and feel the love. This place is a mercy. A gift. A place where I can heal. My dad died this year. His story is another story. Just let me say that I have some healing to do. And I miss my daddy. How happy he was to come see this place. PS the bakery is still going strong, which is in itself a miracle in times like these. More on that soon. But for now I am going to get back into the practice of writing, which means stream of consciousness, random, whatever strickes my fancy to see if I can do it anymore. PPS what does the bakery have to do with my little refuge? Had I not gotten so burned out, burned out to a faint and dying ember, I might not have taken the drastic steps to save myself. I might not have been so desperate I needed to believe in miracles and sacred wells and the concept of wishes that could come true. You enjoy our partnership. You didn't ask me to sacrifice myself upon your altar. Thanks for growing with me, dear Bakery. I still love you.