Heritage

A few weeks ago a friend told me there would be a big dance down at the Stillwell Ranch.  On a Monday night.  Almost an hour and a half from our home in Alpine.

I immediately jumped at the idea! N. and her girls, and I and Rose and Nora rounded up picnic supplies, put on our jeans and boots and hopped in our vehicles after school.  The drive in itself was spectacular as we headed east, flanked on the north by the Glass Mountains, shining in the late afternoon sun.  Nora was a bit bored on our drive and decided to see how many creatures she could find in the huge banks of clouds.

We made it to the Stillwell Ranch before sunset.  Had a fabulous picnic supper, then we were drawn to the dance area by sound of music, guitars, classic country music, performed by a local guy, Craig Carter and the Spur of the Moment Band, a fellow whose music drew us out to the dance floor back twenty five years ago, when we were all young, carefree, and full of energy!

Christmas lights were strung on old adobe building and agave.  The Hallie Stillwell Museum wall was one border of the dance floor.  A big pile of boulders was another.  The starry, moonlit sky was most adequate for the ceiling.  Slightly cool temperature was welcome and we jumped out there to swing, polka, two-step and schottische.  I danced with Raymond and Mark and mostly Nora and Rose.  Which felt like the best gift I had received in a very long time.

I started this post a couple of weeks ago, and wanted to write to you all about Hallie Stillwell, an amazing pioneer woman, a strong woman, who came out to this remote land and survived and thrived, and has been written about in the NY Times, and many other publications.

But I got distracted.

So I suppose what I really want to write about is the gift of the dance.  Live music.  Fresh air.  Cowboy hats (not on any of us, but on many of the other dancers!), smiles, laughter as we would occasionally swing the wrong way and once I accidently bumped Rose on the face with my elbow and thank goodness didn't leave a black eye!

As many of you long-time blog friends know, this is not my favorite time of year.  Well, actually, a better thing to say is that this time of year is very painful for me.  Sometimes it feels so painful I think I can't go on, it hurts so badly.  Everything is a reminder to me of our deep loss, on Feb. 25th, three years ago, when Philip died.  It makes my body hurt, my heart hurt, and what I would prefer to do is go hide under my pillow for a few weeks.

But thankfully, the children and the bills and the mortgage all give me more than adequate reason to keep getting up, milling the grains, baking the breads.  Don't get me wrong.  I love my job.  I give thanks to God daily for my customers, for the mill, for the livelihood I make via the bakery.

But there are times when it is done by rote instead of happy, creative energy.  Done because I have to, not because I want to.  Which is okay, because that's life, right?

But when the opportunity came up awhile back, to go down to Stillwell for that dance, I jumped on it.  Not because I felt a light happy spirit, but because I was desperately hungry for good medicine.

You know what?

It was very good medicine.  The drive down, the big sky, the mountains that border the Rio Grande and Mexico all filled me up as with an elixir.  And dancing around the moonlit dancefloor with my dear man, and my dear children was about the best thing ever.  To familiar music that swung us around over twenty years ago.  I felt a lovely sense of full circle.  Of completeness.

On the drive, Nora mentioned Philip, and wondered what he would think of our life now.  I told her that I know in my heart that he would be so very proud of us, and glad for us, and thankful for R, who is so good to us.  Who brings delight and joy into our life.  When we met, Philip tried to learn the two-step, and did pretty well for a Jersey boy, but most of our dancing over the years took place in the dining room, after dinner, with lots of laughs and not so much at a real dance floor.

I still feel pretty sad, deep down inside.  Grief hurts more than you can imagine.  But the sun shines, we get up and bit by bit, we continue to live.  This weekend we have a dear dear friend visiting us from Virginia, and   several of us are hoping to take him to a southwest Texas dance tonight.  Same group, Craig Carter and the Spur of the Moment Band, this time here in Alpine, playing at the Civic Center.  For a good cause.  All the proceeds go to the Family Crisis Center.  This time I think I will try to get Maggie and Patrick to go with us. They need a safe place to be silly and learn and to see how important it is to learn how to dance.  Its a part of their heritage!  

It May be early February, but I Feel Springtime

Robin's egg blue sky,
peachy suppertime clouds turn into
pink cotton candy.

Written a couple of weeks ago, but I forgot to post!

Sure is good to feel warm sun a'shinin'.

We have daffodils blooming!  I saw one yesterday.  Spring is in the air.  Birds are singing.  Crisp morning air grows warm.  A vicious wind blew cold air and dirt through our town the other day, but now the skies are blue and calm.

Track season has begun for the big kids.  Girl scout cookie sales are in full swing.  February is drawing to a close.

I was wondering why I hadn't been blogging, but then I calculated the different things going on, and realized I have had a free time deficit.  Getting all the accounting taken care of and mailed to the accountant, bakery business, plus a nice weekend down in Big Bend National Park with R., my mom, sister and Nora filled up the days.  We hiked along Long Mountain in the late afternoon, watching the Del Carmens glow pink and fuschia and blue.  We ate yummy farmer's market food.  We hiked the Basin Loop and had a picnic.  R and I hiked from Rio Grande Village to the Hot Springs, delighting in the canyon views, the desert plants, the warm sun.  Nora, Mom and Christine drove over there and we all met and watched Nora swim in the Rio Grande.

Any trip to the Big Bend is special to me, but this one was especially special.  My mom had an ankle replacement three months ago.  She was in a terrible auto accident 15 years ago and was told she would never walk again.  I remember the trip she and I made to the Big Bend one February 13 years ago or so.  We set out on a half mile hike.  She cried in pain and determination every step of the way.  I cried too. She did manage to surprise the doctors, and worked and worked to adjust to her physical circumstances and limitations.  And doing some of the hard work in the place where we had always gone to find our healing.  For decades!  Bit by bit my mom would hike a bit farther than she really should have.  She would need to get to a spot to take a picture for a painting.  To refresh her memory of the colors.

It finally became evident that it was time for an ankle replacement and the recuperation would be hard, but imagine my joy to be able to see my mom hike an over 2 mile hike, up in the mountains, all of us delighting in the delicate seed heads of different varieties of grasses, the smell of the sun on the pines, the little patches of blooming verbena, the glowing cactus.

I am very proud of you mom.  You are an inspiration to so many of us.  A picture of determination, as you make the effort to include beauty in your life, often at great cost.  I know it hurts a lot of the time, but you have been my inspiration, as there are many different kinds of pain and loss.  You have helped me remember that physical tests, that beauty in rugged nature, those things help us to get better.  Sharing those lovely hard moments with people who love us is a real gift.

Oh, and by the way, one of my mom's paintings, one of Santa Elena Canyon, has been selected to be a part of a terrific competition this spring, the Oil Painters of America.  I don't need anyone else to tell me what a fantastic artist my mom is!  But it is pretty wonderful when important, educated people happen to agree with us on something we have known for a very long time.

So, welcome spring time.  Another season, pretty subtle here in southwest Texas in the arid Chihuahuan high desert.  But full of delightful treats, like a surprise daffodil, or tall bluebonnets on the road to our favorite park.  Swelling buds and a new angle of the sun.  

The Verdict is In-Spelt Wins, by Popular Vote, but I Think Buckwheat is More Authentic

Patrick went to the Farmer's Market for me to pick up our two gallons of raw milk and big bag of produce from Mark and Deb.

I put the milk in the fridge and sorted through the produce, giving everything a quick rinse, hungry, trying to decide what to fix for our meal.

In the bag I found some cauliflour, parsnips, a bundle of carrots, bright and orange, some ruby red beets, a giant chioggia beet, green onions, two bunches of swiss chard, with colorful stems, a bundle of deep green spinach, a lovely head of tender lettuce, a pac choi, and seems like something else I am forgetting.

The root veggies were cut up and put on a cookie sheet with a sprinkle of salt and olive oil and went into the 500 degree oven until the beets were puffed, and the carrots and parsnips caramelized.  Don't tell anyone, but I put the cauliflour in also, and ate pretty much every single bite all by myself, because it was too delicious and I couldn't wait.

I sauteed the chard and garlic and green onions, set it aside.  Sauteed some mushrooms and a couple of pieces of bacon.  Also sauteed the spinach, all by itself, well, barely wilted the dark green deliciousness.

The buckwheat milled, put into the blender with eggs, milk, water and a bit of butter, I let it rest for a couple of hours, then made a giant stack of crepes.  FYI, the buckwheat had a completely different fragrance compared to the spelt.  Earthy.  Redolent of fields and grass.  Grey in color.  More tender a batter than spelt.  Held onto the pan in a completely different way.  Very fragile.  Maggie and i thought the buckwheat was the definite crepe of choice for savory, but I think the average palate in the American household would probably prefer the spelt, or a combination.

While Patrick and I made a mornay sauce, with spelt flour, butter, milk, bit of salt, pepper, nutmeg and then grated swiss cheese, Maggie made a lemon dijon vinigarette for the salad.

We assembled stacks of crepes, one with the spinach, one with the chard, onion and mushrooms.  A bit of sauce between layers of crepes and veggies, then more sauce on top, and then we popped them into the hot oven.

Patrick sliced apples paper thin and roasted them on a pan with cinnamon and a sprinkle of sucanat.  I made a homemade caramel sauce, then we made a stack of crepes with apples, cinnamon, spelt crepes and caramel sauce.  Patrick also toasted some pecans and made a stack with nutella and pecans.  The dessert crepes heated up while Raymond and Maggie set a pretty table in the sunshine in the backyard and I chopped the roasted veggies and threw them in the salad with the dressing.

A glass of wine for the grownups, a tablecloth, and we said a prayer of thanksgiving for the many hands that were a part of our meal.

Judy popped over and ate some of the leftovers and we basked in sunshine.  Coach came over and he and Raymond helped Maggie with her bike.  J. and I tried to work out a few problems of the world as we lingered at table with little girls.

I don't think we solved any big problems, but the bike tires are now in good shape.  I completely neglected paperwork and ignored the dust and the closet that needed some organization.

It was wonderful spending time on that delicious meal, made solely to delight in the great ingredients we had on hand.

PS The spelt crepe with apple and homemade caramel was perhaps the most delicious thing I have eaten in a very long time.

Spelt Crepes

I raced to get all the bread baked by a certain time.  Cookie dough made, spelt cupcakes made.  Before hitting the midday gigantic pile of doughy giant bowls, I pulled out the Julia Child Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1, turned to the crepe recipe, grabbed the blender and the freshly milled spelt, some milk, some eggs, some melted butter and water, a pinch of salt.

I figured the batter could rest while I scrubbed pots and pans.

There wasn't time to mill buckwheat to try a side by side experiment.

After the dough bowls were washed and the many dozens of cookies baked, I pulled out the 9 inch stainless steel fry pan, turned on the pretty much defective electric stovetop, waited the several minutes for it to heat up, and then got to making crepes.

We have made crepes before, it really isn't terribly novel, but nevertheless, the kids and I were excited to see how spelt worked.

I swirled the VERY liquidy batter around in the lightly buttered skillet, watched the edges crisp, and then, trying hard to replicate Julia's two handed method, VERY gently grasped the edge of the crepe with my fingertips, flipped, and voila.  Within seconds we had a perfectly executed crepe.

I can't imagine why anyone would want a white flour crepe when the spelt one had such a rich flavor.

Maggie grabbed on, filled it with raw honey, rolled it up and pronounced it good.  The other girls had theirs with jam.  I sold a stack to a customer, and saved the rest for us, because I want to make myself a stack filled with greens I will procure from the farmer's market this morning.  Cooked in a white sauce.  Perhaps we will treat ourselves to some mushrooms.

If inclined, I will mill some buckwheat and try the same recipe with the buckwheat flour, since that is the traditional flour used in savory crepes in Brittany.  I can still remember the lunch we had twenty something years ago in Bretagne, a tiny little shop, twisty street little village, the rustic tables, cider, and hearty crepes with ham and cheese and delectable little mushrooms.

Will let you know how the buckwheat turns out.  I have a sneaking suspicion that a combination of spelt and buckwheat are going to prove my favorite.  I guess that the two flours together will make a great dual purpose crepe for this big family of mine, half of us with sweet tooth, wanting apples and nutella, the other half wanting salty, cheesy, bitter greens.

PS  I used the recipe for savory crepes.  The stainless steel pan worked perfectly.  I did not have to butter it between crepes.  I don't own a nonstick the right size for a crepe.  The omelet pan would probably have worked, but the 9 inch turned out lovely crepes that will serve well as an entree.  I placed the hot crepe on a rack for a few minutes to cool, then stacked them all up.  Swirling the batter properly wasn't as effortless as I imagined.  I did have a few weird shapes when I didn't swirl quickly as I should have.  There is a knack to the execution.  And I did pinch off the edge of the crepe occasionally, if I didn't pull the crepe over with both fingers with precision.  But as Julia suggests in her show, just flip that part onto the bottom, cover it up with something good and no one will know the difference!

I had better end this post, get to the market to procure my veggies and milk.  I am hungry.  Crepes for lunch?

Chillin' with Julia

Yesterday evening I sat down with Nora to watch a couple of episodes of Julia Child and The French Chef. The kids got me the collection of her PBS shows a couple of Christmases ago.  What a gift!

I used to rent them from Netflix and we would lie in bed, watching Julia chop and stir and we would laugh uproariously.

With all the cooking shows available now, I think we take for granted people like Julia Child who premiered the whole idea.  Can you believe they recorded her shows in one straight shot!  No pauses.  No editing. As she was showing us how to make crepes last night, a bit of the batter fell onto the electric stovetop element and I believe it caught on fire!  The steady stream of smoke grew, but Julia just kept on talking, swirling her crepe pan.  For an instant, the camera caught a glimpse of the flame, then moved upward, keeping the element out of the viewer's eye.

It was something, watching her work, making good food accessible to the average gal or guy who enjoyed tinkering in the kitchen.  As she stuck her spatula into the bowl of the moving stand mixer, and the spatula was flung across the kitchen, she chuckled, but hardly slowed down!

Watching Julia Child, black and white, in her dated kitchen, makes me feel better.  I ALWAYS learn something new.  But one thing I wonder, how did she stay so skinny?

Nora and I watched Julia make crepes, with roasted apples, with orange butter, and of course the inimitable Crepes Suzette.  She poured cognac and orange liquer with abandon, and they flamed accordingly.  I think I have to start making crepes.  Spelt crepes.  Buckwheat crepes.  Perhaps tonight Nora and I can watch Alton Brown teach us the art of crepe making.  Think any customers would be interested in Taste and See crepes?

We also watched the croissant episode.

I have wanted to make croissant in the bakery for a very long time.  I read a great article in Cook's Illustrated last year, detailing some techniques that help make the perfect croissant.  Julia seemed to make it a lot easier than CI.  Perhaps she had access to better butter.  CI suggested that it is important to use a  high fat butter, like Plugra, to get the best results.  Julia said that the key was pounding the butter, to make it malleable and to make certain there weren't lumps.  As Nora and I watched her slam the dough onto the marble slab, repeatedly slamming it down, picking it up, slamming it down, to develop the gluten strands in the dough, and as we watched her beat the frozen butter with a wooden stick, Nora suggested that someone very angry invented this dish!  If that is the case, isn't it wonderful that something so amazing can come out of a temper tantrum in the kitchen!!!

When Julia took the platter of finished croissants into her staged dining room, sat down with the newspaper and her cafe au lait, I determined to perfect the spelt croissant.

I then put myself to bed with a book, and the first thing I read was a quote from The Sword and the Stone by T.H. White:  "The best thing for disturbances of the spirit is to learn."  There is quite a bit more to the quote, but I especially loved that part, and was thankful for Julia Child and her producers and the people who believed in her mission, who made it possible for her to help me and many other people learn something in the kitchen!

I will let you know how things go.  Maybe it is time to add a thing or two to the bakery agenda.  Maybe I need to shake things up and be a bit more creative.  Good medicine?  It is either that, or I break out the credit card, ditch the kids and head to Paris for a few days.  Which is where you will find me, if I am suddenly AWOL. 

Good Grief

For those of you who like happy little blogs and by accident wandered over here, perhaps you might want to quickly excuse yourself and find the way out!

While this blog is entitled "the land of milk and honey" I s'pose I should reiterate that in my experience, the Promised Land, the good place we live in, is occasionally a trail of tears.  A good world.  A beautiful world, but touched by sorrow and loss.

These days I am thinking about death a lot.  Kind of hard not to when our community has encountered so many tragic deaths over the last few weeks.  We had a funeral mass at our little church last week for a prominent lawyer who was killed in an auto accident.  He was a friend to many in our little town.  I also found out last week that another of my customers, Bevery, died.

She was such a vibrant personality!  Petite, but fiery like a pistol!  Always wore a big ole cowboy hat, as is wise in a land of powerful sun.  Along with the hat, bold and beautiful agate jewelry.  And I always saw her with a lovely wide skirt with pretty belt.  And boots.

She gardened vigorously.  Cared for her mother.  Studied health, nutrition, was full of information.  She would come in for milk and honey bread, and bring huge bags of garden goodies for trade.  We ate many wonderful meals last year from the work of her hands.  I don't know much else about Beverly, except that everyone seemed to know her.  That she was strong.  Full of opinions and laughter.

Her departure has made many people sad.

I will miss her intermittent popping in the bakery.  Hearing her tell of her gardening journey here in Alpine and down south.

I imagine there are many people out there who are still grieving the loss of their young friends who died in different auto accidents over the winter here in our little town.

I am tempted to avoid the painful topics.  Tempted because I know how uncomfortable it makes people to hear about pain.  About loss.  I mean, how many times have you heard someone in their loss for words stumble along and try to get people to be happy and think about how much better off the dead are?  Well, no kidding.  It is the person left behind who is now left to pick up the pieces and walk forward, despite the pain

It is frightening to look at pain face to face.  Would be easier to run away and play dead, numbing oneself to emotions that are not fun.  But the other day, as I felt loaded down by more emotions than seemed possible, many of them  not terribly  nice ones, I consciously decided to give myself permission to feel.  To be whole.  Complete.  Even if it were a little rough around the edges.  Okay.  A lot rough around the edges.

Most of us have experienced deep loss at some point or another.  If you haven't yet, you will, unfortunately, that is, if you ever let yourself love.

I am finding that it is important to take a little inventory of emotions periodically.  You might find that certain seasons have a profound affect on you.  The most important losses I experienced all took place in winter.  January and February.  My father-in-law and mother-in-law, with whom I was very close, both died days apart, in my presence, last of January, first week of February.  My late husband died end of February.

What you might notice is that your body will tell you about your loss before your mind.  There is something about the cold that used to invigorate me that over the last several years makes me feel sad.  Muscle memory of those days of deep  grief.  There are times I handle the loss memory better than others.

Trying to stuff the grief, telling myself that enough time has gone on, I should really get with the program, doesn't seem to do much but compound the pain, causing it to ooze out in most uncomfortable ways.  Calling it what it is, saying out loud to a friend that I feel sad diminishes the bad feelings.  In the middle of the sad, sharing memories and stories of the deceased love one also helps me to release some of the agony.  I was going to use the word "pain" again, thinking that "agony" was too harsh a word for the context, but could we please call it what it is?  That kind of pain IS agony.  

Another thing that has helped me tremendously is to share with the most safe friends some of the hardest things I have to deal with as a result of my loss.  Sometimes people want to focus only on the good stuff, which is great, but the truth is, loss hurts, on many different levels. There is a part of us that will cry out for acknowledgement, perhaps in some unhealthy ways, if we don't call it what it is.  For some reason, our culture calls this wallowing.  I have found it to be a wonderful way to acknowledge the truth.  The practice in the Bible is called lament.  After Philip's death I spent hours and hours in the Psalms.  What a relief!  Some of the best grief therapy.  I felt less alone as I read David's poetry, hearing the anguish as he cried out his heart to God.  I felt less crazy.  I didn't have to feel that my pain and anguish meant that my belief in the goodness of God was lessened.  In fact, the more I cry out to God when I hurt, the more I feel comfort and the more my beliefs are strengthened.

It makes me sad to think that some Christians are afraid of admitting how much they are hurt over a loss, because they are afraid it will indicate doubt in the goodness of God.

Just keep in mind that it is important to share your pain with a trusted friend.  One who will not try to "help" make you feel better by just thinking of the happy things.  Sometimes in the middle of a surge of grief, a listening ear is the best medicine.  It helps to be reminded that we are not crazy for feeling sad over loss.

If you like to write, writing is a terrific tool.  Some grief therapist suggest writing letters to your deceased loved one.  I haven't ever done this.  But I do have conversations with Philip sometimes.  I have also had chats with my in-laws and grandfather.  Sometimes I even give myself permission to say hard things, like how difficult it is to be a single parent, how I hate having to raise the kids without Philip, how I wish the kids had all four grandparents, how sad I am that they don't get to take drives and walks with their great grandparents. I wish they could hear stories from my paternal grandparents, see my grandpa at Thanksgiving show off his fake leg, as he kicked the football!

Experiencing deep grief makes some of us very sensitive to the loss of others.  This is not a weakness.  It is a gift to share compassion and understanding, as we grieve the loss of friends and even strangers.  The ability to sit and hear the pain of someone else, offering them acknowledgement is huge.  After Philip's death, the harsh words of reality from my young widowed friends were oddly comforting.  They told me that the pain was real.  That it lasted a long time.  That it would hurt for years, in some regards, forever, but that I would survive.  When they hugged me and told me that I would again feel joy, I believed them, because there was not one ounce of sugar-coated feel-good baloney in a single word they said.  They taught me that to say "I am sorry for your loss" is about the best thing you can say to someone when you don't know what to say.  If you have to say anything at all.

So, when the grief hits, what to do?

Call it what it is.  Admit, to yourself, and hopefully to a safe friend, that it is not crazy to hurt deeply over loss.

Remember the loved one.  Share some of their stories.  Share some sweet memories.  Maybe even share some hard memories.  It might help more than you think to share out loud the situation surrounding the death of your deceased loved one.  Were they sick for months?  Was it hard being a caretaker?  Did you have a fight with your son right before he died in a car accident?  Just remember to share these vulnerable moments with someone who is a trusted, safe friend, who will not rush in to try to fix things. We were so blessed to be in a place near a grief support group, sponsored by an area hospice group, with a licensed, professional therapist leading, offering tools and guidance.  And most of all a safe place to share stories as we all worked to find a new normal.  Check it out, if you can find a similar group.  Scary to walk through the door the first time, but oh, so healing.

Most important of all, be kind to yourself.  Exercise helps my body and mind function the way they were meant to function.  When I feel most miserable is when I drag myself to the door and go for a walk.  But there are times when it is okay to give yourself permission to take a nap.  Or sit down to read a book.  But pay attention.  If you are unable to get yourself up to go to work most of the time, and the rare nap becomes a continuous nap, it is possible that your deep loss is affecting the way your neuro-transmitters are working, and a visit to your family doctor could help give you some more effective medical tools.

Giving myself a chance to see a beautiful, or grandiose scene in nature helps me also. Seeing something way bigger than me or my problems helps put things into a better perspective.  If you are patient with yourself, you will probably discover things that help you feel nurtured and comforted.

I hope for us all, each of us who have moments of feeling like we should wail, feeling like we are burdened down with grief and loss, would be able to say like the poet, David,

"You have turned my wailing into dancing;
you have put off my sack-cloth and clothed me with joy.

Therefore my heart sings to you without ceasing;
O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever."  Psalm 30:12,13

Monday, trying to bring some exercise into the routine

Today I restarted my walk around the loop training regimen.  A little over two miles.  We live kitty corner to part of the golf course.  The route takes me out our carport, past the old hospital that is now a church, around the defunct nursing home, up the hill, with country club on one side and pretty homes nestled against the mountain on the other.  I had been walking and jogging most days until late fall, early winter when I got strep throat.  I thought the exercise would help me combat winter/holiday blues.  Well, let's just say we will have to try again next winter to see if it will work!

A giant buck stood in the breeze as I made my way up the hill.  His twelve points were pretty majestic.  He seemed very well fed, thanks to the green grass on the golf course.  Made me wish for a big venison steak.  Until I thought of all the toxins they probably put on that golf course!

A few minutes later I was well past the clump of deer and enjoyed the peaceful sound of wind blowing through grasses.  And then wind blowing through agave plants.

So calming.

For a second I wondered if I should be like the other walkers and joggers, tuned into their tunes, earbuds stuck in ears.

But only for a second.  That minute of hearing the brush of air through agave and grass was the best music I have heard all day.  Well, that and the sound of the crickets peeping their song in the tall grass by the bridge over the dry creek bed.

I think I will try to remember the sound of the grass and the crickets as I bake tomorrow.

Clifford Kocher-Rest in Peace

I don't remember the first time Cliff came into the bakery.  Was he on his bike?  Or with our friend Janie?

I do remember he liked the spelt milk and honey bread.  And more than that, the spelt pound cakes.  And spelt chocolate chip cookies.

As with most of my customers, we would strike up a conversation if there weren't too many other customers around keeping me busy.  I recognized his accent and discovered he was from New Jersey, like my late husband, Philip.  He spent his career working for Mars, the candy company.  We would share stories about how few people realize New Jersey is a beautiful state.  How sad it is to see it get overcrowded and too expensive for living.  How we both sure do love the big open mountains here in the Big Bend Region.

Before too long, there would be a dribble of customers coming in, letting me know that it was upon Cliff's recommendation.  He told everybody he knew to come buy my bread and cakes and cookies!  He was living a very simple life, in his early retirement.  Didn't have a car here.  Walked everywhere.  Or bicycled.  Volunteered at the food pantry in town.  Helped at the library.  Did this and that for a couple of churches.  Did landscaping for his church, all at his own expense.  And would bring his cash and buy as many cookies, pound cakes and bread as he could afford at the time.

Sometimes he would come in and tell me he was getting ready for his periodic hike around the Rio Grande, in the Big Bend Ranch State Park.  He would buy up the pound cake and chocolate chip cookies and tell me that would nourish him on his hike!

I really don't know much about Cliff.  I never saw him outside the bakery.  We never spoke for hours.  There were others in town who were his close friends.  Who shared holiday dinners and long hikes.  But when you see someone almost weekly, when you know they care deeply about the success of your business,  and ask about your children, you feel like you have a friendship.  It may seem crazy, but the sweet friendships I have with my customers is a very powerful thing, and makes it worth the effort to get up in the morning.

So when Janie came into the bakery early one Tuesday morning, when Holly was here, tears in her eyes, I knew something was wrong with Cliff.  She told me he was planning a New Year's hike, as per his usual.  He was a very experienced hiker.  Not new to the area.  He hadn't come back when he said he would.  His rental car was found abandoned.

We cried.  Knowing that a week out in the desert, especially with the cold and snow, meant that he was probably long gone from this world.  There was a search.

As I worked in the bakery, I spoke to Cliff in my head.  Told him how glad I was that he crossed my path.  Let him know how thankful I was for his dedication and support of my business, not to mention all the other little things and big things he did to serve a community that had not brought him up, or even been home to him for long.  At some point, I think I did a little stomping about, mad at God and circumstances, mad that no one knew where to search, that perhaps he was injured and in pain, suffering before his death.

A little voice, Cliff's voice, came to me, telling me that his last view was absolutely beautiful.  As most of you know, I have a pretty powerful imagination, so don't think I am losing my mind.  I don't know anything about the spirit of a human, even though I believe we each have something that makes us us.  Something that can't be seen under a microscope.  Something that goes away when we die.  I am okay with hearing someone's voice in my head and not questioning, as those voices never tell me to go jump off a bridge! or hurt anyone!

I heard his voice, could feel his smile, and my stomping mad calmed down, and peace came.  With it grief as I pondered his absence in our town.

Days later our mutual friend came and told me Cliff had been found.  Leaning back against a couple of rocks.  She said he looked as if he were alive, sitting down to enjoy the beautiful view.  He had fallen from a cliff, we had that big snow, you remember?  He had a broken leg.  I hope he did not suffer long.

There will be a memorial service for him today.  I don't think I will be able to make it.  But it was important for me to remember Cliff to you.  I am glad he came to Alpine to enjoy his retirement.  I think he made the most of his life.  He gave much to others.  He had a hearty appetite for Spelt Pound Cake and Spelt Chocolate chip cookies.  Many of his new friends here in Alpine and the area will miss him greatly.

Let There Be Light

Three days ago the days grew longer.

Yeah, yeah, you scientists out there will try to educate me, reminding me gently that the days are not growing longer, but the daylight hours are increasing, and have been since late December due to the way the earth spins around the sun on its axis.

But to that poetic part of my mind, or rather heart, the day was longer, the sun shone brighter and gave me some hope that everything just might be okay.  And it was so distinct, so different than all those other days over the past few weeks, I had to take note and write it down.

I don't get outside in the same way I used to on the farm.  There is no Coco to  milk.  No goats to check.  No ewes about to drop lambs.  No chickens asking to be let out.

However, my bakery is walled in by windows to the north, the west and the south.  I get amazing views of sunrise and sunset and the glide of the moon through the sky.

This morning the sun rose significantly later than this baker.  But when she did, she sent out banners and carpets of red and gold.  Even the far mountains to the west blushed pink and purple as they witnessed such a gaudy entrance.  The kids and I were sufficiently impressed as we left the rising dough and the paused mill to run to the school.  (Well, I hope you don't think we ran by our feet!  It was by car lest anyone get terribly impressed.)

Temperatures are causing me to dream of gardens instead of woodfires.  Not that I miss woodfires for the most part.  It is hard not to associate the woodstove with lots and lots of work.  But cold weather really does a number on me, emotionally, and as the sun comes out and the temperatures reach the seventies, I feel like raising my arms up to the sky in an act of worship.  Well, to tell you the truth, I think I did that the other day.

I have so many blog posts written in my head, about digging up buckets of rocks in my future garden plot, feeling hopeless and depressed and excited and hope-filled all at the same time.    I wish to tell you about seeing three of my kids run in the Big Bend Ultra 10k, and how great that was.  About Indian Head and petroglyphs and mortar holes and cell phones.    I wish to write about dreams and love and grief and parenting and farmer's markets and my customers. I kind of want to write about the many deaths that have come to our little community, via auto accidents, hiking accident, cancer.  Not to mention all the deaths  in our larger world community.  Each of those deaths leaving me reeling and trying to catch my breath.  But today, I must get back to the work that brings in some cash that helps to pay the bills.

And as I work, with the door open, the short sleeves on, I will be grateful for the light.  And pray that the Light will shine in all our dark places today.  Not just mine, but for those of you out there who are feeling a bit cold also, waiting on your springtime to arrive.