Tag Archives: adoption
I have been fighting the demons for a long time…and I’m not speaking of my children. Deep inside of me I know, even when no one else does. They are all the things that I am afraid of; they are what I might have been; and they are the things I mustn’t ever tell.
On one of the early days in July, just as a lot of hard things began to happen, one of the boys fell down the basement stairs. I can still hear the sounds: crashing, calling out…and I can still feel the anguish of trying to decipher what needed to happen. It’s hard sometimes, because you really can never know what another person feels, physically or otherwise. Ever.
This time, it wasn’t mental illness that landed us in the emergency room. It was an injured knee.
You can’t see me in the darkness, where I am bright.
My beloved friend took me to a theater show on a weekday afternoon. The sun shone high in the opal sky, and the expanse of highway was insignificant as I rode alongside someone who didn’t seem to mind taking in a year-and-a-half’s worth of my voiced stream of consciousness.
We had lunch at an eclectic cafe. I ate my last sweet potato fry just in time for a brisk walk to the venue. The day was a welcome break from the sameness of overturned chairs, bad words, and tensive attitudes.
I followed my friend up the fancy staircase into the even fancier auditorium. To my great delight (and great relief, really), she did not stop until she reached the first row of seats at the edge of the balcony, all the way in a far corner of the theater. Nobody was near to us. Ours were the best seats in the house. My friend thought so, too. She knew I would want to go, mostly for the show, but also for the seats.
“Do we have a room for the knee?” Our nurse’s unsettling voice bellowed down the crowded hospital corridor, interrupting my thoughts about why the man who sat crumpled on the chair beside me might have an ice pack over his ear. She attempted to navigate the borrowed wheelchair through this much-too-brightly lit space, appearing to be only somewhat cautious to avoid collisions between IV poles, my son’s outstretched leg, and fellow emergency room inhabitants in need of some sort of stitching or another.
The knee? There was so much more to this boy. His deep brown eyes carry a burden that nobody could ever understand. He loves basketball; Golden State, specifically. He probably feels left out and lonely though he says he would rather stay home. He would eat cheeseburgers three times a day if he was allowed. His intricate landscape drawings and train layouts offer just a glimmer of the complexity of his thought processes. There would have to be room for more than just his knee.
I don’t want them to turn on the light.
Can we ever really understand people? I don’t think so; not completely. If we understand just a little bit of someone, though, like when even a small crowd will be overwhelming or that it might not be that fun to pick something new from the restaurant menu or to jump rope with the other fourth-graders, that might be enough. It might be enough to quiet the demons if we could just sit in the very corner of the auditorium for the afternoon matinee. It might be enough to remind ourselves that we are much more than just “a knee” even in a stifling hospital hallway. It might be enough for a boy to know that we would be going to a restaurant that served cheeseburgers.
I don’t think the cafe that I visited on that sunny day with my friend even had cheeseburgers on the menu, which was just fine with me. And my demons and I really did enjoy the theater show, especially for the company.
“Oh, the demons come, they can subside.” —Bon Iver, Calgary
He had spun me from what was left of my childhood, turning me toward the rich path of motherhood by his very existence. I made acquaintance with his wise, deep eyes and soft, wild hair. Together, we tried to figure out what to do.
It’s hard to make sense of things, to make them all fit together. I sometimes will the thoughts out of my head, yet they stay,…like souls of those who had come for a time and served a purpose before carrying on with their journeys. The beautiful girlfriend who sat with me to drink dandelion tea, a soulful college student who had come to work with my son, the once lost and found friend who faded again to memory…all have gone. I wonder if they ever turned to look back as they forged ahead.
The morning’s captive emotions burst from my youngest son’s six-year-old being.
“I got frustrated!” His voice broke and escalated as the car door closed. He lamented having had to write k’s and trace lined shapes for his kindergarten work.
I understand. K’s are hard.
By the time we pulled up to the farm, he was incensed. The unsuspecting baseball cleat in his path was kicked skyward as he entered the mud room. He dumped his backpack and headed to the couch, detouring long enough to turn over the kitchen stools to the familiar narrative:
“I hate you. You’re a piece of crap. You hate me.”
The dizzying harshness of his ever-changing moods has taken its toll, rippling forcefully through those that love him the hardest.
The seasons have cycled nearly thirty times. Through trials I have remained on the path, but it looks different now. Though it’s harder to know if I am still going in the right direction, the terrain along the way is wondrous, magnificent, and worthy of the detours.
Before the dawn, the grumbling, tiny voice beckoned for help. He was not in danger; he was merely done sleeping and just didn’t want to be alone. Ever. So, out we went to open the chickens, to visit the bees, and to see what magic awaited us in the garden.
He snapped a sturdy green shoot from the morning earth. He then announced that the fresh stalk smelled weird and bad.
“No offense, asparagus!” He retorted, almost apologetically, as he took a tiny bite with the few front teeth that he still had left.
“Huh. Pretty good,” he declared as he reached for my hand. He offered me the rest of the asparagus which I finished before we made it back to the sleepy farmhouse.
Can asparagus even be offended?
Before long, he had perhaps dropped a spoon or colored out of the lines. The demons came back.
“I have a worse life than you. Remember when I was over by the barn and I got glass stuck in my foot? Did you help me?” His voice slapped me with accusations. The sting was as real for me as it had been for him, so many times, for so many reasons…primal and beyond understanding.
Actually, I did get the glass out. What he knows in his memory, though, is the part that hurt. He remembers what was hard. Those emotions are the ones he calls up when something goes wrong.
It’s not always going to be like this. I hope that when the day is done, he will remember some of the good. I know I’m not going to forget. Asparagus is, after all pretty tasty.
Maybe we’re all just a stop along someone’s path.
Deep eyes wiser with time and hair tamed handsomely for the occasion, my firstborn child sat before his dissertation committee where he reviewed his research over a Zoom screen. The asparagus, which rises from mystery seemingly overnight, has nothing on this boy, this man, who so clearly defines my space on this earth as he moves through his.
It always seemed like by the time I would notice that the magnolia blossoms had opened, the petals had begun to fade and fall from the tree, leaving a disappointing, slippery mass which seemed to scoff: “You’ve missed it again.” This year, though, our tree held its flowers for much longer than I had ever remembered: for nearly three weeks, which was long enough for me to feel the passage of seasons and the true intention of nature, and to appreciate the pink-and-white balletic beauty as I hadn’t before.
There’s a little girl that I notice every afternoon outside the school when I gather my little boys for the day. She looks to be about six years old, perhaps in first grade. Her hair shines as the sun, bright golden ringlets dancing onto her shoulders as she moves. She stands by herself, perched and waiting, and I do not see her face.
Each day, a woman appears from the shadows: the little girl’s caregiver, perhaps, and stands at the edge of the schoolyard, arms outstretched. The girl turns, rises to her toes, and moves to the woman as if she is running along clouds, bouncing, squealing, and emanating pure joy. She reaches the woman, bounding into her embrace as the two seem for a flash of time to become one person. They turn, hand-in-hand, and fade into the afternoon sun.
This springtime, I have officially embarked on my beekeeping adventures. My head is full of podcasts on extracting honey, images of queenless hives and American foulbrood, and the fear that I will somehow let these magical creatures down with my lack of understanding of the mystery that I have stepped into, albeit with noble intentions.
Before I knew, I didn’t know.
I sat by my hives in the morning, watching the foragers return to the hive with orange and yellow pollen stuffed into the little baskets on their minuscule legs even as their fellow worker bees head out in search of more sustenance. As the dandelions have nearly faded, I wonder what my new friends will find, what the next baskets will hold, and what nature’s bloom has in store.
I am learning that historically, some have considered bees to be souls, returning to represent those who have gone. This concept is immensely comforting to me, giving the rhythmic hum of the hives much deeper meaning than the captive beauty of the present, as though the little moments of time will circle eternally, changing form yet remaining the same.
My little son is often overwhelmed by his days. He holds himself together until he no longer can, until it has all been too much, maybe a bit like our new winged inhabitants at the farm. He got in the car the other day and told me that he wanted to get a shirt with a mad face. He wanted it to have words that said, “I hate everyone.” I told him that sometimes I thought I would like one, too. He has been drawing lots of rainbows lately, with cheerful colors on lined paper, made with markers in fine point. There seems a bit of a disconnect between the levity of the rainbows and the unpredictable storm clouds that loom close. I think he’s still figuring it out.
Aren’t we all?
My first stings have taught me that I don’t know, and that I have much to learn. The bees will tell me, as clearly they have, when I have spent too much time pushing myself into the mystery of their world, when it is time to step back, to watch, to anticipate. Sometimes, that might just be enough.
Today, the joyful little girl waits in her usual spot, but it is a different person, a man in a brown sweater, who has come to take her home from school. Still, she runs effortlessly into his arms as before.
Having bid farewell to the magnolia blossoms, the lilacs have now stepped up. Their beholden beauty will soon yield to the honeysuckle vines and rose blooms. The presentation, some years, is different, though the rhythm remains as true as the hum that I hear when I put my ear, just a bit tentatively, against the hive boxes.
Maybe I don’t really need to know. Maybe I just need to wait, to welcome the change that each moment has to offer, and to hope that I can harvest a little honey along the way.
“Mom, why are you crying?” His question came from a place of innocence that I feared was about to fade before my eyes, which could no longer contain what I knew.
“Because she loves you,” said the nurse softly, gently, poignantly.
I knew it would be different this time, for so many reasons.
So I’m gonna weep a while…
It wasn’t at all what I had thought. They were words that I had heard, words that resonated and meant something to me. They weren’t even the right words.
Shortly after moving to the farm, we were delighted to discover the elderberry bushes that we had inherited with the land. We learned to make elderberry syrup, elderberry jelly, elderberry liqueur, elderberry vinegar, and, at the urging of Uncle Bob, elderberry pancakes. Elderberries seemed almost magical, promising health and well-being to me and my family in many forms.
I often play a song over and over, for weeks or even months, if it means something to me…if the lyrics strike a chord somewhere inside of me…even if their meaning is far from the writer’s intention. Sam had shared such a song with me; with a line that I had interpreted to include “there’s no elderberry tree….” After the song had made circles through my head, I found out that I was wrong. I had misheard the lyric. I think I needed it to sound just as I had heard it, though, in that space of time. I know there’s no elderberry tree, at least not one that can fix everything. But I think I much prefer to keep believing in the magic.
Oh, the demons come. They can subside.
It was the first time since he had come to us that we had been separated. Every time we talked during those longest and shortest twelve days, he asked if one of the dogs had died yet. He wanted to know how the birds were doing and if the chickens were okay. He asked about the bearded dragon, and even about his brother’s friend’s visiting bearded dragon, whether it was still at the farm. The barn cats, I assured him, were out every night, and the stealthy raccoon had returned with the warmer weather to show up each evening precisely when I replaced the food for the cats. His voice was happy, and he always seemed eager to get back to watching movies and winning prizes alongside his hospital mates.
“I tried really hard to hold in my crying. I only couldn’t a couple times.”
How could I have known?
This time, I had to enter through a tent where a young woman with mirrored glasses and a mask which nearly engulfed her entire face motioned for me to enter the hospital. From this port of entry, nothing seemed the same. After reporting my child’s name, I was directed to sit on a nondescript, unexpectedly comfortable chair next to the elevator. Voices rose from all directions. Sharp, fast, thick, unintelligible words formed conversations from behind the doors and inside the closets. The glare from the lights bounced towards me in an attempt, I was sure, to flatten me.
These lights, they haunt me like orchids in a graveyard.
Men and women crossed lines before my eyes as they moved to wherever they were going. I wondered if they were coming for me, or if they thought they should be, or if they even noticed me. Time slowed with every breath. I wondered if I would be here again.
I was only for your very space.
I heard a person screaming. A child, not mine.
“Stop smiling at me,” bellowed the child. Then there was more screaming and this time, some very discernible bad words.
The screams turned into the rumble of the elevator. The heavy sounds filled my bones, making them hurt. The doors opened slowly as theater curtains, revealing the towering blue food cart which I had studied previously. Years before, it had been pushed by an old man who leaned heavily to one side when he walked and who always greeted me with his eyes, without smiling. As the cart emerged from the elevator, I saw the same man, leaning similarly, perhaps a bit further, to one side, pushing the cart. I knew his kind soul behind his mask. I heard his voice, though he said not a word.
Time slowed with every breath. I wondered if this would be my last time.
No one could understand all the lyrics: not anyone, ever. How could they?
It’s hard to find it when you knew it.
A masked attendant brought my little boy to me, then, simultaneously announcing that my son’s boots were lost and thrusting paperwork toward me, one piece that she noted was attesting that he had been given back all of his belongings. I wondered about the boots, his muck boots that he wore when we foraged for elderberries in the swampy August dawn.
We stopped at the donut store, because we always do on our way home from this hospital. Maybe it’s our reward for making it out; maybe its meaning is as magical as my elderberry tree, which isn’t really an elderberry tree at all. On the way in to get our donuts, my little boy reached for my hand.
“Mom, you know all those times I said I wish I had a different mom? I kind of regret that.” His words were clear as the sky’s vibrant blue, even through his mask.
Everything that happens is from now on.
Maybe there’s no such thing as an Elderbery Tree, in a theoretical sense. I did make some elderberry jelly last week, because I had more time than usual while the boy was gone. As long as there are still some elderberries in the freezer, though, I am holding on to the hope that one day, I just might find the recipe for what we are really looking for.
*Musical inspiration from randomly heard and interpreted (or perhaps misinterpreted) lyrics mostly from Bon Iver (Salem, Towers, Re: Stacks, Calgary) but also from Ben Howard (London) and Keaton Henson (How Could I Have Known?)
The six year old practices every bad word he knows in one long stream, shot directly at my quiet request to put on fresh underwear. Three days seems a little long for the same pair of boxers…even during e-learning.
“Home is their haven.”
These were words that I shared more than once or twice over the years, words that, if nothing else, helped me to define the gray lines between home and school, between running outside in the grass without shoes (and sometimes wearing underwear alone…even three-day-old ones) until dusk or sitting frustrated alongside half-inch-thick piles of worksheets at the kitchen table as the sun draws the shades on the day; between having fourteen snacks in a six-hour span and ranging free with the chickens, and following a bell schedule when you really just need someone to say, “it’s okay.” The hard stuff that happened at school wouldn’t have to be a worry once the bus home stopped in the afternoon…until this year, when things are different.
I think my sons’ teachers (angels from heaven, every one) might say that my kids do eat fourteen snacks and run all over (albeit inside the house) during school hours. At least our cameras are on. And we are trying.
“Shit. Hell, yeah.” Sideways glance, just to make sure I am listening.
My grown sons would certainly be aghast at some of the parenting techniques (or lack thereof) in place at the farm these days. I have been studying (in my spare time…yes) about beekeeping. Worker bees produce propolis or “bee glue” to seal up the hive and for other things, too. When a mouse or another intruder makes its way into a hive, it seems the bees “propolize” this enemy, wrapping it like a mummy with their bee glue if it is too large to carry out of the hive. It might be fun to have some propolis, just to keep everyone still enough for me to be able to use the bathroom with the door closed for a change.
“Sure, you can play video games for two more hours…”
Dan and I have decided that the holes in our walls make our house look lived-in. That’s charming, right? We’re not defeated; not yet. But they might as well tie me to a tree. With propolis, even.
People are getting vaccines. A magical sunrise brings the first hint of above-freezing weather, nearly warm enough for the boys to run around the farm in their underwear. A lot has been lost, but maybe that will make what we have left stronger and brighter.
The bees number tens of thousands, living harmoniously in the hive for the benefit of the colony. Home, their hive, is clearly their haven. After a long, cold winter, a global pandemic, the hopeful end of what must be the hardest days, it’s going to feel pretty good to look back on how much we have learned, bad words and all.
Once, I cried at a baseball game. It was dark, so no one probably even knew. By some sort of twist in the interpretation of a rule…or something…the very reliable little league pitcher for Aaron’s team had to be pulled from the game. Though the details elude me, I remember that much was on the line. This could have been the last at-bat before this precious team of nine-year-old sluggers and playground base runners could be crowned league champions of their beloved summer game… Not, though, before my small backyard hero was called on to face the other team’s hope that the championship would instead be theirs.
He could throw a fierce, hard strike for his fifty-five pound frame. In step with his personality, though, he also tended toward wild unpredictability with his efforts on the mound. Amidst some groans and eye rolls from the gallery of less-than-confident little league fans, I was at once hopeful and terrified as my son kicked the dirt beneath his feet and gripped the baseball with his tiny hand.
He didn’t know. In his starry-eyed innocence, he had no idea of the magnitude of the task at hand. He struck out that batter and his team won the game, earning the title of champions. It was, in the end, just another day, the end of another chapter. But I did cry as my son’s teammates crowded the mound to join him in celebration. It was the flash of the failure-to-thrive infant whom we had propped up through so many dark nights to make sure his airway was clear; that’s what brought the tears: tears from a chapter that had closed years before but the reminders of which still bring me right back to that place of fear and uncertainty, of medical appointments and thoughts of what might have been. I cried because my eyes had been opened, and I understood that the gravity of what had just happened on the baseball field actually extended far beyond the game.
The main bathroom at the farm has a closet that was part of the original house. It extends under the stairs into a small space that was perfect for my boxes of paperwork that I had packed up years before we moved. I had nearly forgotten that they were there, tucked far beyond the toilet paper, extra toothpaste, and guest towels. I thought about this space that nobody knew of except me, considering that it might be worth cleaning out to make a “secret room,” a fresh spot for the little boys to do their schooling. Following an afternoon spent pulling the boxes from the closet, sweeping out the spider webs, and setting up a disco light and cushions to make the space enticing, the two youngest boys retreated to their new area while I set out to look inside the boxes that had spent the last five years under the stairs.
Three of the boxes were from my days working as an in-home therapist, packed with obsolete case files and assessment manuals. A slip of paper dropped from one of the folders that held my collection of resources for working with babies with visual impairments.
“Vision is the ability to gain meaning from eyesight.” These words, copied in my writing by an unknown author, resounded in my head with added interpretation.
A fourth box was full of files from our years as foster parents. Letters from caseworkers, service plans, receipts, notebooks used to communicate with parents, licensing files, a few photos, and an avalanche of emotion was unpacked on our kitchen table that afternoon. There was so much inside that box; so much that once consumed every bit of me, so much that I did not even remember, now nearly lost in the tide of today.
All of these books, these files, these papers, opened and closed. Still I am here, turning the pages of the new chapters, chapters which one day soon may themselves be taped up in boxes forgotten with the turning of the years.
These days, as many things keep us quiet and inside, I am trying to find meaning in the seemingly meaningless. In discarding the files of the last few seasons of my life, I wonder if this time of questioning where or what I am is actually a season in itself, part of a greater vision that’s much bigger than me, and bigger than anyone could see with their eyes alone.
Spring will, if I am lucky, bring another season on the baseball field…another chance for a little boy to be a hero and for his mama to remember what brought us to where we are. All of the manuals, medical appointments, emotions, disappointments, sadness, fear, twists of fate, pitches, and even magic that we have taped up and hidden away inside the boxes of our own secret rooms bring meaning to something beyond our greatest vision. When we take the chance to lift the lid just a little, to look inside, we are reminded that through those seasons we have come to be where we are, wherever that is, which is probably just another passageway to the next adventure, disco lights, cobwebs, and all.
Yesterday, I was having a good day, which really wouldn’t seem extraordinary except there just haven’t been a whole lot of them lately.
A year ago, I had just lost 22 pounds. My hip didn’t hurt anymore, and I was a little closer to keeping up with the boys. All of the big kids were coming home for Christmas, and we were looking forward to taking the little boys on a spring break trip to Florida to visit my mom and dad.
It’s different now.
When I encounter people for the first time, they see me on the screen as I carry a chrome book, doing my best not to slip on the cheese or whatever is stuck to the floor while I chase my kindergartner through one disastrous room after the next. We meet again and again in this same, awkward manner. They don’t know who I used to be, and I don’t know how to tell them because I am not sure I even remember.
Maybe it started during the first days of this forgettable year when I decided to try combing out my dreads. It took nearly a month of stolen time with my stiff hands to salvage probably four inches of hair; the razor would have been so much easier. Now, though, I want them back. It’s easy to forget about the incessantly itchy scalp, how bad they were for my already-bad posture, and the chickens getting stuck on my head. I just miss how things used to be.
My half-full glass sometimes seems to be evaporating. I think I’m sinking. As the walls cave in around me, I might soon be swallowed by this very earth that I love so desperately, that I dream of feeling in my hands, that I did not get enough of, as with so many other things in this sorry season.
Yesterday, my son brought in the mail, including a little paper package tied up with a string. My friend had left for me the sweetest pair of fingerless gloves, knitted with flowers in colors of red, purple, gold, and robin’s egg blue, vibrant as a street fair or holiday market, neither of which I could attend this year. In the attached note, she said she thought of me when she saw them. I was so touched that I nearly cried for the fourth time that day. The sun was peeking out, and I had the best new pair of fingerless gloves, just perfect to temper the burn of my arthritic joints. Maybe things were finally going to turn around.
We know what we need to do. We just need to do it. At some point, defeated too often by the slamming of the chrome book and the falling of our collective spirits, I stopped doing what I knew was right. I ate sugar and bread and bakers dozens of Christmas cookies. The creak came back in my hip, accompanied by all but about five of the pounds that I had lost. It was too much to think about. I knew what I needed to do; I just didn’t do it.
When we returned from the grocery store that night, the usual frenzy of carrying bags and unloading food ensued. Some hours passed, and as night fell I thought of my precious new gloves. I went out in the darkness to look in the van where I found only one glove. It had fallen between the seat and the door. How could I have lost its match on the very day that they had been given to me? At least, I told myself, I still had one glove.
The year has taken so much from us. I wonder if we will ever get any of it back. If I don’t even remember who I was, how is anyone else to know?
I went to bed wishing for things I no longer had, forgetting that so many things still filled my glass.
I’m trying. I haven’t had sugar in three days. I have been drinking beet and kale smoothies. Maybe the shortened time in the garden this year was actually good for my achy joints. Maybe they will stop aching if I eat more beets, which I actually love, and less Oreos, which I also love. Maybe I could dye my hair pink. Chickens would probably stay away from that.
Someday, the boys will be back at school, and I will have stretches of my days before me. I know my people don’t care if I have lost or gained twenty pounds, or if my hair is pink or my scalp is itchy. We know what we have to do to get through all of this. We just have to keep doing it.
I could hear the roosters crowing on my way to open the coop early on this cold, gray morning. There was, though, a small patch of jubilant brightness on the frosty ground near where the van was parked. It was the missing glove.
After warming it up on the heat vent inside the quiet house, I slipped it on my “bad hand,” which immediately felt better. The little gift…actually a big gift…from a blessing of a friend was a bold reminder that we can find what we once had. It may, though, be extra bright and beautiful, and warm like never before, because we felt, if only for a short time, what it was to have lost so much of what we had known.
Peace, love, and hope to all! XO
“Mom, why is your garden really empty right now?”
The words of my five-year-old came from a place of curiosity. The corn stalks that had poked skyward for many months had been cut. Lemon cucumbers no longer hung along the fence posts like bright lamps strung for a party. He had noticed. He wondered: why?
Some might suggest that it would be my chickens, but it is my garden that is closest to my soul. Why, he might have asked, is your soul empty right now?
How can this be God’s work?
When the day comes at last, when I am called home, will I look back and understand the work of His hand? Will we stand together, welcomed back into the circle?
It’s so dark, and we are far away from even the light of the moon. We know, though, that the winter sleep will yield its cold blanket of snow, and the magical asparagus will once again poke through the soil. The brittle grape vines will bring renewal with fresh green shoots to remind us of the promise of late summer fruit.
One season turns to the next, and our circle opens once again. Heaven’s garden knows no dearth; bountiful harvests flow like honey.
My little son marveled at the harvest moon’s surreal presence…a perfect circle, the color of the sun. Together we stood, watching as it faded to ordinary before our eyes. We knew, though, just how magnificent it once had been.
“Everything is either a blessing or a lesson.”
Who was it that said that, anyway? Maybe, some things can be both of those at the same time.
Perched on top of the hill at the edge of my grandparents’ property, my brother, my sister, and I spent strings of days looking out onto the St. Louis traffic, wondering who inhabited the curious round apartment tower building, talking about where we could hide Grandpa Gene’s cigarettes, and dreaming of getting a can of Faygo Redpop from the grocery store across the highway. I think my body still hurts from rolling down that grassy slope so often during my childhood. I wonder how many times I narrowly avoided my demise by slowing just before I rolled a little too far.
Grandpa Gene would offer me a dime to pick apples from the tree that stood perfectly in the middle of his backyard. He would sit on the glider swing, eyeing the birds splashing in their pristine concrete bath as he coached me.
“You missed one,” he would laugh, but he was not joking. The shiny-skinned, gold- green apples were plentiful, with leaves rhythmically fertilized and untainted. Grandpa would send me inside to collect my dime after his carefully-directed harvest was complete. The apples, though, didn’t taste very sweet. At least, I didn’t think so at the time.
Every so often, competing for space with the swirl of “to-do’s” and “how-can-I-possibly’s” in my brain, a thought presents itself. This time, it was “blueberry Toasties.” When we were lucky, our grandparents would take us to the Howard Johnson hotel diner. There, I would have a special breakfast of two little square corn cakes, stuffed with blueberries and slathered in butter. I would cut the bites as tiny as possible, so the Toasties, which somehow were crunchy but melted in my mouth at the same time, would last as long as possible. Toasties may have come in other flavors, but I had never wanted to even explore that possibility. At some point, Grandma Evie found blueberry Toasties in a box at the grocery store, so we didn’t even have to wait to go to the diner. Maybe that was when they stopped tasting so good. Then, I forgot about blueberry Toasties for nearly fifty years.
Our end-of-the line child, our runaway caboose, starts kindergarten this fall. Thirty years of catch-up projects and neglected home keeping chores will have to wait just a little bit longer, as this boy and his brothers will be home at the farm this fall. We never expected this. Nobody did. His voice might plead, “Let me be your lesson, Mama.”
Sometimes, I do hear voices. It is no secret that we are bound here by mental illness along with the foreboding threat of our world, but these voices come from within with an unmistakable fury. Maybe no one else hears them at first, but as with the insistent cry of a child in the dark of night, I must listen.
Some years ago, my brother and I were traveling by airplane. From somewhere in the air above the seats in the cabin, a gravelly voice simply stated, “p”. This was particularly curious, as sometimes I was called “P” by my brother or sister when they may have felt that two syllables were too much. More letters came from the elusive voice. The mystery was solved when we realized that the man in the seat ahead of us was playing “Scrabble” with his seat mate.
Through the years, voices have called us to adopt, to foster, to move to the country, to campaign to legalize medical cannabis for autism, to raise chickens, to start beehives, and, most recently, to make blueberry Toasties. The “goat” voice, I hope, will come soon. Sometimes, the message has been in the form of one of my children, a friend, a flower, a newspaper, a tree, or a bird. And sometimes, for certain, it has been that of God.
Our little orchard at the farm has grown. I believe we have seven apple trees now. Two years ago, we were delighted to spy the first apple on one of those trees, our Colonnade Flamenco. We watched it grow, all alone, and we shared its sweet goodness on harvest day. That was the one and only apple in the orchard, until this year. Dismayed by rust on the apple trees and determined to use natural methods to care for our homestead, I have not held much hope in filling my apple basket anytime soon. There are, though, three perfect baby apples growing on one of the young Golden Delicious trees now. The voice of the young apple, looking very much like those that grew on Grandpa Gene’s tree so many years ago, pleads: “Be patient. Don’t doubt yourself. Keep going. It’s going to be worth it.”
I wondered if somewhere in the world of Pinterest or Google, someone else had remembered Blueberry Toasties. Indeed, with a little pinch of this or that, the memory of my best childhood diner breakfast became a reality.
Here’s how I made them, if anyone wants to experience the nostalgia first hand:
Blueberry Toasties, adapted from “Nancy’s A Recipe A Day” blog
This time, the lesson was easy. Crisped to perfection, dripping with the combined intoxication of blueberries and butter, my breakfast advised, in a voice that was nearly audible, “Don’t forget. Don’t forget the little things that you once loved.”
Would Faygo Redpop be bad for my kids? We could always have it along with the apples once they ripen, to balance things out a bit. That would definitely be a blessing.