Rain Fall
“Three to six inches has fallen, another one to three expected…”
There is a comfort in the rain
The rain that breaks the two month drought
That gently soaks the broken soil
And bathes the plants in gentle showers
There is a worry in the rain–
Rain that fills the gutters, floods the cellars
And swells the country creeks
The rain that falls in relentless hours
And haunts our sleep.
Asking for Help
I pride myself on being independent and self-reliant. When I was about two or three, I told my mother, “Don’t help me, I do it myself.” Little Miss Independent. But during the last part of Bill’s illness, I did ask for help. I asked friends to mow the grass and clean the pool and sweep the patios. They filled the bird feeders and repotted plants. The gardens were so filled with weeds that in desperation I sent an e-mail pleading for help, and eleven friends showed up to weed. Bill was very impressed, I think by my chutzpah.
But in the three years since Bill’s death, I have been reluctant to ask for help. I suppose partly I don’t want to impose on people’s good will. I don’t want to be needy or a burden, the widow who constantly sends out pleas. But sometimes I have to ask for help. I struggled for hours trying to replace a light switch, and finally called a friend. He did the job in less than ten minutes. I tried to jump start the pick-up truck with no success, and called my neighbor for help. In trying to fix a clogged sink drain, I was stymied by a pipe that I couldn’t loosen. My friend Joe had no problem—but I was the one who cleaned out the line, so there.
I think it is easier for me to ask for help from my women friends. Why is that? I asked one artistic friend for help in re-hanging pictures in my newly painted bedroom. Another friend drove me to the hospital, waited for my tests to be done, and then drove me home again. If I need a ride to pick up my car at the service station, I call the woman next door or my women friends who live nearby.
Yesterday I asked a friend from church to trim some low-hanging branches on my maple tree, to prevent the squirrels from dropping onto the bird feeder. It took him fifteen minutes. “Happy to help,” he said, when I thanked him. Maybe that is what I need to remember when I ask for help: my friends are happy to help. And I am lucky to have so many friends.
Note to self: It is not wimpy to ask for help when I need it.
Angel Messenger
My friend who died of cancer in January
Believed in angels
And said her angels sent her messengers,
That the goldfinch tapping on the window glass
Brought word from her mother.
I am not sure about angels
But perhaps the red-tailed hawk
Who sits on the garden fence post
Carries a message from you
(You were so sure that the hawk knew you)
And when the hawk soars in circles in the sky
Perhaps he is surveying the house and the gardens and me
To take back a report to you
That I am here
and that all is well.
This afternoon I was busy weeding the wildlife habitat bed that I had planted in Bill’s memory the fall after he died. It is a bed along the driveway, an extensive area formerly filled with invasive honeysuckle shrubs and prickly natives, now planted with perennials and shrubs that provide food and shelter for birds, bees, and butterflies. There are shrubs of bottlebrush buckeye, viburnum, Carolina all spice, red bud trees, ferns, hyssop, goldenrod, muly grasses, and many more. This extensive bed has been overgrown with thick grasses and weeds this summer, and I made the mistake in the spring of broadcasting a meadow mixture of seeds into the center of the bed–a mistake because it is almost impossible to separate the grasses and weeds from the wildflowers. I am leaving that central part of the bed un-weeded and focusing on the lower end. I had cleared a large patch of ground when I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Then I saw the sleek gray bird, about the size of a small robin, hopping over the ground that I had cleared. It was digging in the fresh dirt with its beak, looking for insects, I think, and seemed to have no fear of me, though it must have noticed my presence. I slowly moved to my weeding stool and sat down. I sat as still as a statue, as still as a stone. The gnats swirled around my straw hat. I held my breath as the gray bird hopped closer and closer. It came as close as two feet from the spot where I was sitting. I could see its bright black eye, and the subtle markings of its gray feathers, slightly darker on its head. I later identified it as a cat bird. When it moved off, I quietly moved my stool.
What would life be like for us if we could spend some time–each day or each week– as still as stones, as calm as trees, observing the world around us and drinking in its beauty?
The Peace of Wild Things…
At the worship service last Saturday afternoon, my minister spoke about peace and read the poem “The Peace of Wild Things,” by Wendell Berry. It is one of my favorite poems. Some years ago I copied it out by hand onto a small card, and thumb tacked it to the wall of the cabin at Birch Hill. I sat in the darkening church, and thought about the peace of wild things, and how they bring comfort to my spirit. I thought about the cabin and summers at the lake in northern Minnesota.
At Birch Hill I awaken in the early morning and listen to the loons calling to each other across the lake. I prod myself to get out of bed, dress, and go down the hill to the lake. Most mornings I am too lazy for pre-dawn expeditions, but I am leaving the next day; this is my last chance this summer.
There are mists on the lake, and no one else is stirring. Where are the motorboats and the fishermen? I am thankful that the only sound I hear is the call of loons, not motors. I grab a life jacket and a paddle for the canoe. I push the red canoe partly off the shore and then step into the warm water before swinging my legs over the side. It is easier when I am alone to paddle from the bow, especially if there is wind, but this morning the lake is flat calm. I paddle, turning the canoe toward the center of the lake. Two loons are there, doing their own fishing. They turn their sleek black heads toward me, unafraid, then dive. They swim a long distance under water and come up closer to the canoe. I sit quietly, paddle across my legs, watching them. They are such elegant birds, with their black spotted plumage and their black-streaked white breasts.
Slowly I begin to paddle away from the loons, moving closer to the shore, toward the west. Behind me the eastern sky is turning red. Too late I realize I am very close to another fisherman: the great blue heron standing in the shallows. He is standing so still in the morning mists– gray against gray– that I did not see him until this moment. He unfolds his wings and rises, like a dignified diplomat taking his exit. As he passes over the canoe, I hear his great wings beating. He passes overhead, his great neck curled, long legs straight behind him, moving to another fishing spot.
I paddle the canoe along the rocky shore, past two cabins that were not here when I was a little girl, and past the pink cottage, where smoke is coming from the chimney. Someone is up. My friends live here, but I slip quietly past, wanting only the quiet of the early morning, not a cup of coffee.
The shore is low and marshy now, and reeds line the shore. The canoe glides through the outermost reeds, the stems whispering as they slide past the red hull. Just ahead of me I see movement in the water, and three dark heads. They are not loons, perhaps muskrat? I back paddle gently, lay the paddle across my knees again, and raise the binoculars to my eyes.
Three sleek brown heads are jutting out of the water, eyes staring at me, seemingly curious about me. They are river otter, and I have seen them only twice before over the years. I hear them squeaking but they do not sound alarmed. I remain perfectly still, filled with wonder. They swim closer to the canoe, then dive, reappearing in the area where I first spotted them, then swim further away. I do not follow, I do not wish to disturb them.
From the branch of a dead tree I hear the ca-rack call of the belted kingfisher. Across the lake, a motor boat’s engine starts up. The sun has risen and the mists have gone. I turn the canoe toward the cabin. I have been blessed once more.
Here is Wendell Berry’s poem:
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound,
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water,
and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
“You are amazing,” I said to myself out loud last night, after a very busy day.
And then I remembered: that was what Bill used to say to me. “You are amazing.”
Usually it was after I had decorated the living room for Christmas or created a flower arrangement for church or showed him one of my poems.
I started thinking about Bill’s affirmation of me, his appreciation of my talents and skills. What if he had told me I was ugly or stupid or worthless? I know some husbands dish out verbal abuse like that. After awhile, would I have come to believe those things? But Bill thought I was amazing and wonderful and brave and strong, so I came to believe his words.
My mother used to berate and belittle herself now and then, and that bothered me. Sometimes I do something stupid, and I tell myself, “Well, that was stupid, Kristin.” But it was the action that was stupid, not me.
Bill is no longer here to be my cheering squad, but I can cheer for myself so I will say it again.
“You are amazing.”
And I am.
Never think aloud. I made that mistake when I reflected to my granddaughter Emma that I might get backyard hens. Now she keeps asking me if I will get chickens. I like the peaceful clucking of hens and I like eggs. Of course the only experience I have had with chickens was in my childhood, when I had to slide my hand under the hens in my aunt’s coop and steal their eggs without getting my hand pecked. I have plenty of room here for a coop and a run. There are two problems. The first are the predators on my property: the foxes, the hawks, and the black snakes. I would have to purchase a very secure coop and run. The second is my energy level. I have read that a few backyard hens take no more time than a couple of cats and that you can set a timer to open the coop door in the morning and shut it at night. But I don’t know that I want to add another living creature to my life. Right now I have a sweet old dog, two old cats, a fish tank whose inhabitants regularly die, the houseplants, and the wild birds that I feed. Bill used to take care of feeding the wild birds, but now that is my job. Every day there is something to feed or water or clean up after. So when Emma asks me, “Have you decided about chickens?” I answer, “Probably not…but I don’t know.”
And this week I have two visiting mares grazing in my pastures and they are wanting their grain for dinner so I must go feed them. Having had horses here for about eight years when my daughter was young, I do know that these beautiful creatures are a lot more work than chickens!
Seven for Dinner
This past Sunday I invited three couples here for dinner. They are long-time friends of Bill and mine who helped during Bill’s illness and who have been kind and thoughtful to me since Bill’s death. For example, one of the couples hosted a birthday dinner for me this year. The wives are good friends, and I see them frequently for lunches. But the men are my friends, too.
It was a lovely evening filled with lively conversation and laughter. I enjoyed the time with my friends, but I felt sad. I missed Bill acutely. Perhaps they did, too. Bill and I had shared so many good times with these friends, over many years. I think that was what made it so hard for me.
I realized the next day that since Bill’s death, I have hosted breakfasts, lunches, and potluck dinners for women friends, a holiday open house, and church events…but only one other dinner party for couples. That was the birthday dinner party I threw for myself after Bill’s death, for these same friends.
Will I do it again? Probably, and the next time perhaps it will be easier. I hope so.
Three Years Later
So what kind of a dog are you going to get
You asked
A week before your death
I don’t want to talk about it
I answered
And for months later I researched dog breeds
And debated puppies and older dogs
And getting a dog at all
Tonight your ghost sat down on the couch next to me
Your ghost fingers reached down
They petted the old dog asleep on the floor
Your brown eyes met mine
She’s a good dog
You said
A good old dog
You told me before you died that I was strong
Say it again
Say it again
Say it again
“Nothing is ever easy” my mother used to say. Not true for everything, but I was muttering those words yesterday morning, when I tried to power wash the aggregate concrete patios by my pool. Two months ago I decided to purchase an electric power washer, instead of hiring a company to power wash all my patios. It is slow and messy work, but a job I can do myself. I knew I didn’t want to cope with a gasoline-powered power washer, but thought I could safely use an electric one. A month ago I used the power washer on my kitchen patio and the stone patio by the pool. Not perfect, but they looked much cleaner when I was done. However, the very dirty patios at the deep end of the pool were a logistical challenge; the plug on the cleaner would not fit the recessed electrical outlet at that end of the pool, and the garden hose was too short. I had to find another electrical connection (extension cords don’t work, a safety measure) and a second hose, and I put it off for more pressing jobs. Yesterday I was determined to clean those patios. It took lots of steps to string the electric line and the hose. Those two problems solved, I set out to clean the patios—and promptly snapped off an integral part of the handle, a lever that kept the power hose in place. I hiked back to the yard hydrant, turned off the water, and sat down to ponder the broken piece. See that little blue rectangle next to the black hose? It took me about thirty minutes of studying the manual and trying various ways to snap the lever into place. I am very stubborn–my mother used to call me mule-headed–and at last I succeeded. After that, the actual cleaning was…hmm, well, a snap!