The Art of Hospitality July 10, 2009

Over at the Girl Talk blog by the Mahaney ladies, there is a new series running on hospitality.

As many times as I’ve read the book of 1 Peter (and I’ve read it a LOT because I got assigned to read it every day for a month because I needed to understand what was in there a LOT but that’s a whole other post that my ego will have to retreat a bit more for me to write!) I never really stopped to consider that very clear little directive in 4:9, “show hospitality to one another.”  In other words, not “if your house happens to be clean and you don’t need a nap…” or, “if you feel called in this way,” or “if you’re particularly gifted in this way…”  Nope.  You need to do it.

The list of women and families who have shown me hospitality and blessed me through it is endless.  I honestly don’t think I could go back through and write out a list of all the people who have reached out to me over the years and shown me love not just in though but in deed, out of their resources and time.  The list, on the other hand, of people to whom I’ve reached out in the same manner is sadly short.  I want to change this!

So, when I read the first post in the series on hospitality, I was delighted.  I mean, how could a girl like me NOT love an opening like this:

“I used to think that hospitality was for certain, uniquely gifted women who “got into that sort of thing.” You know the type: she has three lasagnas in the freezer, a roast and potatoes in the crockpot, cookies in the oven and coffee just brewed. Her table is always graced with fresh-cut hydrangeas from her garden—even in the dead of winter (or so it seems). She’s never happier than when a few strays show up unannounced for dinner, except of course, when a family of seven comes to stay for the week.

Me, well I panic when an extra guest shows up for dinner. My hydrangeas barely bloom in spring, and I think the chicken in my freezer has a frosty coat. Oh, and the coffee? I drank that already.”

Ahem.

I think this is going to be an infinitely helpful and inspiring series and I’m really looking forward to the rest of it.  If you’ve never come across this blog before, check them out.  They are constantly practical, insightful, godly and inspiringly feminine.

Uncle Richard August 14, 2008

When I came to Ivey Ranch, heart held in front of me raw and scared, I didn’t have any idea what I was doing there. I only just knew I needed a garden, they had one for me, and by Jove, I was going to grow things.

Richard is one of the first people I met once I got there. He is the reason I made it. Without being asked, he offered to till my soil, wet my weeds for pulling, wire my gates against renegade bunnies, holler if my son wandered too near the road by his plot. Without his help I would have ended up worn out, burnt out, and ready to quit within weeks of my plot lease. But Dick was there every warm morning with a smile and a joke and, if I asked, humble but accurate advice on just about every thing from weeds, to corn worms, to kids.

“Hiya, trouble!” I’d call when I got to the plots and saw him with his knee pads on, working away on his own plot or some newcomer’s who he thought needed encouragement. “How’re you?”

“Fat, sassy and happy!” he’d tell me every time. I knew the answer. That’s why I always asked. I tried not to worry when he’d have a coughing fit while I admonished Eamonn not to pick the green tomatoes, worried over my watermelons, and bemoaned my plethora of squash. I’d listen to him joke and laugh with every single gardener there. He’d ask after kids, grandkids, plants, and pets. He’d give a hug and tell a joke any time you’d need it. I had to fight with him to get him to take some of my organic plant food when he demanded to know how I’d gotten my corn so tall.

“Over my dead body will you pay me for that food, Mister! It’s time for a little payback!” I’d holler at him with a foot stamp.

“Do you see??” he’d ask anyone listening, “Do you see what I put up with?”

I really, really love Richard.

Rumor has it, it’s lung cancer.

We all try to water when we can, pull his weeds when there’s time, pile up his harvest for his neighbor to deliver when there are things to pick. Everyone’s worried and no one’s quite sure what to do. But the feel of the whole place has changed. It’s pensive, and it’s quiet, and we all throw glances at that empty plot where no one is hollering out sass and encouragement like he’s supposed to be.

It is amazing how one man can shape the face of a place and how his lack can make it so empty. When I consider it, I ache.

The Tree-Climbing, Thorn-Poking Baby Bird Caper July 2, 2008

This morning, in a desperate attempt to get the kids outside and some wiggles run off, I scooped up the baby, shoed up the kids and out the door we went for a run/scramble/crawl/walk around the condo complex. This is how it usually goes:

The kids run.
I scramble to keep up with them yelling “WALK SLOWLY”.
Eamonn sees a kitty and starts to crawl while alternating between “MEEEOOOWWW…HI KITTY!”
Ella, the good listener, walks slowly.

So that’s how this walk was going with the added benefit of Josiah in my arms for company. When we got to the waterfall I notice that a branch was broken on one of the trees and then on further inspection I found that there was a nest in the end of the part hanging down and that there were baby birds in the nest. Right about the time I took this all in and called the kids over to take a peek I heard lawn mowers start up. “Oh, Lord,” I thought in a slight baby-bird-related panic, “Today’s the day the landscapers are here. Please don’t let them cut the branch yet. Please!” And, sorting through frantic baby-bird-saving ideas in my mind, I hustled the kids back to the condo so I could figure out what to do.

I called the bird lady in Fallbrook and got a message. I looked online and just got a bunch of anonymous chastising from bird-folk who were more interested in assuming anyone trying to help baby birds were morons and that really the birds were FINE and who did I think I was and call the professionals and again WHO did I THINK I WAS? Really, honestly, never ask for bird advice online.

With all that helpful information I looked up to see all the landscapers working outside the patio doors and I went running out to find that their English was just as limited as my Spanish. Our conversation when something like this.

“Pardon, Senors! The tree? That tree? Es…uh…broken. El arbol? Er…no no lo ciento…um…BIRDS! Bebes? Los bebes?” I then flapped my arms to clarify. They all gazed at me, hedge trimmers, hedge clippers, and mowers frozen in their hands. “Um…El arbol as malo, y,…um….los bebes (flap flap) son en arbol!”

Please don’t be too impressed at my amazing Spanish. It just comes to me naturally as you can see.

“OOOOH! The…tree?” said one of the gardeners helpfully.

“SI!” I cried, delighted. “Si!”

“Ohhh…you no worry. We cut it already. Es…CUT” He did a ‘snip snip’ sign.

“Nooooo!” I cried.

This caused much Spanish discussion, gesticulation, pointing at me and concerned glances the direction of Ella who was now saying, “Aunt Mary…aren’t we going to SAVE the BABIES??”

“No…is okay!” The gardener attempted to explain again. “Is broken already. We just cut it trim nice!”

“No…oh…but THE BIRDS!” I flapped some more.

They all looked at each other, concerned (possibly about my sanity). “Lady…” began the gardener again, “the birds? They flying. They fly away. We just cut it. This all, we cut. Birds fly.”

“The flew away?” I asked, hopeful they meant the little furry babies I’d seen in the nest with barely any feathers. “All of them?”

“Yes.” He told me, looking at me with that kind of uncomfortable smile people get when they’re thinking, you might be super simple and they just now are realizing it. “Birds fly.”

“Ooooh! Good! I was so worried. Oh never mind I just…they…pequito! Los pequitos bebes!” I did a little flap and cheeped and then clutched my chest and wiped my hand across my forehead in the internationally acknowledged symbol for “Phew!” But now they looked worried again and much Spanish discussion happened again and there were lots of men and both kids saying “cheep cheep” a lot and one of the men made a nest with his hands and then they all gesticulated a lot and I helped out by pointing at the nest-hand man and shouting “SI! SI!”

The English-speaking gardener said, “I be RIGHT back!” and they all darted off around the corner.

I looked at Ella and Eamonn who looked back at me expectantly. “Well! Well then! The men said the birds flew away. So!” I tried to be relieved and convinced. The doorbell rang and I opened it and there stood the gardener. “You go around there. Okay?” He pointed back to the patio where another gardener was standing with a nest in his hands. They had, indeed, cut down the branch and were about to dispose of it but somehow, miraculously, the baby birds were in the nest still, unharmed. He handed them to me. “You take them. Okay? The mom, the dad, they fly. The babies okay, okay?” I nodded with an expression of what I can only think must have engendered no hope at all. “Now you put them…(he waved his hand in a general way indicating I put them SOMEwhere) and you come. You see the mom, the dad. Okay?”

We put the birds in a basket and the kids and I all trooped over to where the gardeners had last seen what they thought were the parent birds, they all patted me on the back and kept saying, “Is okay. Okay? Is okay.” And then they all trooped away to pack up their equipment and head to another part of the complex.

Luckily I got hold of my friend Ann who has rescued quite a few baby birds thanks to her cat, and she had me go out to check to see whether the mother and father were anywhere around. (It is an old wife’s tale that birds will reject their young if touched by humans…they can’t smell well and generally will take their young back and search frantically for them in the meantime. I didn’t know that until today. My friend Aimee, who knows a lot about animals and helped me with information via IM confirmed this as well.) The parents were there again, frantically searching the tree for their babies and I was horribly aware that, if I were going to try to get those birds back up in that tree it was going to have to be with help — A ladder wasn’t going to do the trick. But Ann said she could come to help me.

So the kids stared at the four baby birds and cooed to them while we waited for her to arrive. There was much discussion about naming the birds. I said ‘no’ and Ella said, ‘But I think one of them is named Betsy!’ She was mollified by my explanation that these were wild birds and that meant God already knew their names and so we didn’t need to make up new ones for them. They were SO good about not touching them, and only speaking quietly to them, and mostly leaving them alone so “they could rest.” (Babies need lots of sleep, you see. Even bird babies.) And then Ann arrived ready for action.

If you ever wanted to know what it looks like when two adult women climb a tree with thorns all over it trying not to drop four baby birds out of a delicate nest while a two-year-old tried to go swimming in a public fountain, you could have found out today. It’s quite the caper, let me tell you. I climbed the tree and immediately got vertigo when Ann handed me the babies. So we got them into the crotch of two branches so that we could climb up further and she could hand them to me in a less precarious position, and I finally, thankfully and with much prayer wedged the nest into a high, high, high branchy outcropping and wedged sticks underneath to further steady the birds so they wouldn’t come tumbling out.

Immediately once the birds were settled they began to vocalize, peeping loudly for their parents and quickly after that we began hearing the very distinctive voices of the parents in return.

The little birds were safe, I had a few thorn pokes, and we all had a sense of extreme accomplishment and relief. Last I checked I couldn’t see any of the parents (the nest is REALLY high and hidden) but I could hear both adult and baby noises from that part of the tree. I will check on them once tomorrow, but I’m about 99% sure the parents have found them again and I’m hoping they try to attack me and chase me away as soon as I get near.

Completely Off Topic in Honor of Mars… May 25, 2008

My friend Brooke is a reporter for a news station in Los Angeles and she is covering the briefing at NASA regarding the Mars landing. I am watching it right now on NASA TV.

Because I am mature and am grasping the amazing excitement of this event to its fullest I thought to ask, “Brooke. Oh my gosh. Cough. RIGHT NOW COUGH SO I CAN HEAR IT!”

And she did.

And I did.

Reaching for the stars, people. I’m reaching for the stars.

Don’t get me wrong, she is a stellar, professional and amazing journalist. But she’s also one of my best friends and we are completely lame together.

Text messaging during NASA briefings is a great invention.

Gotta go in case I miss a sneeze…

C10’s Progression April 13, 2008

Since I’m still so tired I could weep (besides, it’s tax time — no one needs any more reason than that to weep), here is a visit-by-visit progression of C10. Joce and I spent…ohhh…about an hour and a half at blasted Lowe’s (rant to come later) waiting for wood to be cut. So we had only about another 90 minutes for actual garden work by the time we got to Ivey Ranch. The amount we got done amazes me. She’s the best.

The day I got C10:

Progress after Teri and I dug with the boys in tow:

After Joce and I worked the plot on Saturday of last week:

After I worked the plot yesterday (Dick rototilled during the week and refuses to take cookies in payment. He says he’s waiting for my vegetables…). I dug for about 3 hours, listening to Jeremy Camp, Shane & Shane, and Sons of Korah. Very therapeutic:

After Joce and I worked today:

Ow. Just all over. Ow!

We got about a solid 1/3 of the digging done. Those beds are about 4ft wide by 6.5 ft long. On the west side the beds will be about 4ft wide and 4ft 4in long, depending on what length Mr. Lowe’s decided my wood should actually be. Who knows? I shall make due. I think my pink gloves, olive green clutch, and big spiral notebook made him nervous. Poor man.

We would have left with very big heads this evening only, as we walked out of the plot and went to shut the gate, we realized we’d build the beds up so that the gate was completely blocked from shutting. Whoops! So that got a hasty fix-up and we left not QUITE so egotistical as we might have otherwise.

My tomatoes are particularly beautiful as are my pepper plants. I have okra and cranberry beans sprouting and will be starting watermelon and pumpkin with Miss Ella tomorrow, barring unforeseen changes in schedule. I can’t wait.

And now, I drop. Good night.

Getting The Mail April 11, 2008

I am not kidding when I say that opening my mailbox this evening was like coming down the hall on Christmas morning. The grown up gardener’s version, anyway! Waiting for me were two packages.

The first was an envelope from one of the other members of the You Grow Girl community which, if you have not visited it, is one of the coolest groups of gardening babes to ever come together on the Internet. In the envelope were 5 hand-made seed envelopes with copious notes about each one’s contents. Included were:

• Korean Melon: “007 Honey”
• Korean Melon: “Honeymoon”
• Tomato: Jubilee
• Tomato: Brandywine
• Watermelon: Sugar Baby

Can you believe that? I was only expecting the Sugar Baby seeds, and even those I was so pleased and thankful to be getting.

Next was an anonymous package that we’re still trying to figure out which was filled with plant tags (which I needed badly) and then seeds for four different types of pumpkin, two different watermelons (not the ones I got in the other package, either — different ones!) sunflowers, herbs and peppers. I have no idea who this is from and so I have no idea who to thank.

I have to say this day started with a bit of a whine, but ended on a serious high note. And I haven’t even told about having dinner with my dad.

My face hurts from smiling.

The Beach and Tacos April 10, 2008

Today was gorgeous from the moment I opened my eyes. The sun is shining, there is a breeze, and our coastal fog and clouds have given way to the first tastes of summer. My friend and pastor’s wife, Linda, came out this morning and met Eamonn and me at the beach. It was such a privilege to spend time with her. Linda is a mixture of insight and kindness and self-effacing grace that is truly rare to find in a person. She reminds me a lot of my mom, when I think about it.

We took turns chasing Eamonn into the icy waves and grabbing him out before he got dunked entirely. At one point, though, we were so caught up in a story Linda was telling me, that Eamonn took a roll into the drink and came up soaked. I wish I’d gotten my camera because the result was a little kid in a snow hat and sweatshirt and a diaper down to his knees who was screaming with delight at points as he chased sea gulls up and down the sand at the water line.

After our walk (it was more of a “stand” really…or perhaps a “wander” so let me restart that sentence…) — After our “wander” at the beach we headed to a local establishment of mythic esteem — Cessy’s. Home of one amazing fish taco. Eamonn munched on a bean burrito while Linda and I had our tacos and more conversation. It was just so NICE. On the outside I think I managed to talk and laugh and connect but on the inside I keep having this mental image of me just holding still and basking in the moment, trying to soak it all up and I realize now in hindsight that this is something I miss so much about my mom: Just sitting and talking with her. Guy, we had some great conversations. Linda is the type of person who has conversations like I used to have with mom — we could just talk and laugh and relax and go back and forth so easily from the mundane to the beautiful, from the spiritual to the everyday. Because really, these things are so intertwined anyway.

Linda returned one of my mom’s bibles to me, which we had loaned to her husband as he prepared my mother’s memorial service. (I just discovered her service is recorded and online on our church website, if you’re interested.) My mom’s bibles were worn, and loved, and written in, and annotated and prayed in — they were the story of her life interwoven with her learning about Christ. They are beautiful and probably the most treasured thing we have left of our mom other than, obviously, the way she loved each of us. I can’t wait to get it back to my father so that he can have them under his roof again.

I am weepy today. Not for any bad reason. I feel like I’m slowly breaking the news to my heart the way I’ve had to break the news to so many other people. I don’t know why it takes so long to set in. “She’s gone. She’s really gone.” But, how lovely, I think, that it’s beautiful days and wonderful time like Eamonn and I had with Linda today that bring me to my knees like this. These are the things that remind me most of her, and that allow me to whisper to my own heart again what it’s trying to grasp. Simply put, the lack of her.

Linda gave me a poem which I read in the car and will read again probably until the page falls apart:

Holy Sonnets .X.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swellest thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne

This is a rambling post, and it’s been a bit of a rambling day. I may lie down for a while now that dinner is made.

Which reminds me: I will put up a recipe for my squash and barley soup tonight. It’s a great way for you gardeners to use up your squash without ever feeling like you’ve got too much once the harvest comes in. I really do think this soup is that good.