Considering a Toddler’s Trust

The toddler nestled into my lap on the 1940s, green artificial leather chair with brass nail head trim. Her head rested in the crook of my left arm. Across my lap, her legs dangled past the right chair arm as I cradled her. Her deep brown eyes, so dark the pupil is nearly indistinguishable from the iris, look up at me unblinking. Sometimes she moves her lips a little as I move mine, with mirror neurons firing in her brain at my speech patterns. At times, her brow scrunches a little as if her heart is taking in what I am telling her.

“Because I’m leavin’ on a jet plane/On Friday, I’ll be back again/Oh baby, I hate to go.”

view from an airplane

Now I board a plane without them, a distance that is not easily overcome should an emergency arise. I trust my spouse to carry on, the meals, the chores, the school lessons, the love. When they snuggle me and say out of nowhere, “I love you, mommy,” I sometimes wonder, why? Why do children give their love so easily? Why do they love so recklessly? They are the ones willing to jump off a dresser because you stand there, knowing you will catch them because you will.

My daughter feels utterly safe with me.

How strange.

Life tells us, eventually, that human beings are imperfect beings, and that we make mistakes. We learn eventually that forgiveness is not as simple as mumbling out some words to your siblings even as you are still mad because your mother asks you to do so.

Hopefully, eventually, we even learn that forgiveness and reconciliation can make a relationship grow. It somehow cements the bond into something altogether stronger. You wounded that person or he wounded you and when the circumstances were right when both parties were ready to grow and heal, someone apologized and someone shared what it did to them and then forgave.

Forgiveness is something unearned.

The one who did the wounding does not deserve it. It is a gift offered on the part of the wounded one in which the one wounded says she will no longer hold onto this hurt. It is not forgetting, it is letting go. It gives the one who is wounded freedom, whether or not the other receives the gift.

Reconciliation is the thing that can mend the relationship.

Reconciliation is mutual. It is a desire to learn from what has happened, and receive each other again.

Repeat apologies, forgiveness, and reconciliations move a relationship forward. It comes naturally enough in the course of a marriage, or, at least, there will be opportunities for it, I should say.

mended bowl

Friendship is trickier.

I find the older I get the more it helps to follow the gesture of my young friend ten years ago and declare my desire to be friends with a person. The older I get, the more it helps me to stop guessing and realize, okay, I can try to trust this person. I open up about how hard it is to trust, and how hard it is to jump, and she listens.

As we age, there is less advice given, less insight is given, because life on the one hand seems so settled and on the other hand, those differences that were but hints in the newlywed stage now make ruts in the road. There aren’t many who tread the same path.

We become more of who we are as we age, and the field narrows on whose company we’ll enjoy, or who will enjoy our company. We find we need someone to fit a little better into those grooves. Someone who can anticipate when we plan to jump.

Maybe, in a way, as we age we begin to understand better what matters and what we need.

It doesn’t help much if someone offers advice unless there is a helping hand behind it unless they are willing to catch us just a little bit, at least as much as they can. Maybe that is why it grows harder to trust, words are cheap, and by now we need more behind them, the need is greater. The need is physical, intellectual, and emotional, and as we dig deeper into the path we’re on, it is harder to fill it.

But when we do, when we hear the friend anticipate exactly what we would enjoy, it feels all the more sweeter, because you knew how hard it was to get there.

The Wonder of Homeschooling and Books

Hello Autumn Books

September ushers in autumn and apple season for many parts of the United States. Therefore, the Read-Aloud-Revival book list for September includes a full lineup of apple related books. For those of us raised in the cultural element of commercialism, September lacks form and beauty. Read-Aloud-Revival filled that sentimental gap. 

Among my favorites, Goodbye Summer, Hello Autumn by Kenard Pak, Flora’s Very Windy Day by Jeanne Birdsall, Autumn Story by Jill Barklem, and One Green Apple by Eve Bunting, on this list of 22 books, a very simple, rather silly book stands out called Orange Pear Apple Bear by Lucie Félix.

The book plays with arrangements of the four words of the title. The watercolor illustrations are soft, sweet and playful as the concepts change with the word order. I would not be drawn to it one bit, except for this fact, it was the first book three of my three readers ever read independently.

Books at School

Today, my 1st grader completed lesson 73 of “Teach Your Child To Read In 100 Easy Lessons”. The title is a misnomer as far as the easy part goes and the book does not work for every student, but it has worked for mine and today’s lesson marks the change from their strange way of indicating sounds to the “new way” that is, the Helvetica way of reading words. 

This milestone corresponded with September when Orange Pear Apple Bear finds its way into my hold list, then my library bag, and into my home to the hands of my little and mid-size readers on our living room couch. The questions come to mind.

Will this be it?

Will he read this book?

Will the world of books open up before him like my eight-year-old who lowers The Ghost in the Third Row by Bruce Coville from her face to tell me with her amazed voice about how she is reading books more and more and seeing more and more how she likes them? My nine-year-old says his brain gets a little fuzzy when he reads for a long time. He looks at me between math problems with that far-a-way look behind his eyes, telling me his brain is anywhere but on the math page. It may be in George Washington’s World, in Ancient Greece, on Leif the Lucky’s Viking ship or solving mysteries with The Hardy Boys. My nearly 12-year-old is long gone, lost to the love of horses in The Saddle Club and the world of George MacDonald’s The Princess and the Goblins.

How remarkable that world is!

I find myself at sea with John Henry Newman memorizing “The Pillar of the Cloud” and at Barnard, eavesdropping on Zora Neal Hurston’s letters.

In Miracle on 34th Street written by Valentine Davies, Kris invites Susan to consider a world beyond her own.

“Do you know what the imagination is, Susan?”

The child nodded sagely. “That’s when you see things that aren’t really there.”

“Well, not exactly,” said Kris with a smile. “No — to me the imagination is a place all by itself. A very wonderful country. You’ve heard of the British Nation and the French Nation?”

Susan nodded again.

“Well, this is the Imagination. And once you get there you can do almost anything you want.” 

My son is our fourth born, and as such, he has grown up in a world surrounded by children. He does not often play alone. When the older kids are occupied with school, he wanders around uncertain of what to do with his boredom. 

“Books are our friends,” I tell my children, having heard it somewhere else before. 

Is my son on the threshold of this world, of these friendships?

As a homeschooling mother, this happens right before me. I know it will happen, though I know not when. Having not intentionally chosen teaching as a profession, the excitement, the anticipation, and the joy of education is something I still have to learn myself.

So I guess we’re both on the threshold of something incredible, student and teacher together.

Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.

Our One Room Schoolhouse

Homeschool supplies

And just like that, life changes. We move back to our schoolhouse.

“I’m strangely happy today,” my husband said just before he realized the source of this joy came from shorter days, cooler mornings and the sweet relief and hope that comes with the closing of summer and the beginning of fall.

I have many books on hold at the Hughson branch of the Stanislaus County library, picture books telling stories that sneak math into the lives of unsuspecting children, and books about apples and harvest and fall festivals. 

There are pencils everywhere, in every corner of every room. On every surface, stacks of books form a chaotic organizational system of a new school year. 

Kendra Tierney, author of the “Catholic All-Year Compendium” reposted an early post on homeschool choices that lightly characterized the types of people who choose these various homeschool paths. After a handful, she wrote, “And then there was Mother of Divine Grace which seemed like it was made for someone who would prefer a one-room schoolhouse at the turn of the last century.”

That is our curriculum.

That is my world. I even have the turn-of-the-century desks to prove it. My husband points out our schooling happens in one room, in a house, a perfect school house.

The method these past two weeks are to ring the bell, invite the children into the school area (a row of desks along one side of our living room) and say, “Good morning, children.”

desks in the living room

It tickles them to respond, “Good morning, Mrs. Casey.” We begin with a prayer, the pledge of allegiance and start our day. 

We have our plans and work through our day, sending the kids outside for freedom and recess or freedom and lunch. We ring the bell again.

It was not until adulthood that I read “The Little House” series with its images of a remote claim shanty, a country walk to school, games of tag or catch outside a school house, adapted education for the daughter who can no longer see, a husband at home on the farm coming in for meals, a wife whose work is tied to those around her. Laura Ingalls Wilder recounts this fictionalized version of life as a pioneer and early settler from the eyes of a children, when parents could do no wrong and as long as Pa and their dog was there, they were safe.

It is not that I think we should turn back the clock.

I do not glory nostalgically in all that was before antibiotics or good dental care. The evils of that age are not hidden from me. 

And yet there is good that I take from it, that appeals to me, that I incorporate into our modern lives whether aesthetically through wooden desks and a primitive Hoosier cupboard or educationally through memorizing poetry and Shakespeare, playing piano, singing folk songs, and reading classics. 

They say the division of the man’s work outside the home and the women’s work inside the home made more sense when the man worked outside the home nearby, still connected to the world he supports through his work. The two worked as partners in complementary spheres. The situations around COVID-19 moved our lives more and more home-based as work from home became the norm, and our lives have been better for it.

My husband works in his music studio teaching then rehearsing. I work in my office and drive away from our homestead to the world to report on events important to the community. We all travel to the next town over to attend church on Sundays.

It’s the life we live right now.

Never do I feel its strange, other-worldly, old-timey-ness more than at the beginning of the school year. At Michaelmas, we host friends and family for an outdoor dinner celebrating the bounty of fall. We haven’t quite raised a barn yet but if invited, we’d be more than willing. That’s what neighbors are for, after all.

I know what goes on in the world outside this little slip of land. Yet I’m so grateful for events that have fallen such as they are to lead us to this point. We tone our muscles and learn what our bodies can do through labor on the land. We learn something similar about relationships and love when children can run next door to a neighbor’s house and when fruit and vegetables are shared. 

It is not for everyone, indeed. There’s a privilege even in the difficulty of what brought us to this point. 

I take the gift of it now, treasure it, appreciate it, and stand amazed that the architecture of life that strikes me as particularly beautiful is within our grasp, even if it isn’t perfect. It’s the lack of perfection that makes it real.

Our one room schoolhouse

The End of Summer Has Come

The summer days peaked and climbed to their highest degrees yet.

With my right hand, I pull the curtain across the cheap metal rod and turn a hand-tied macrame loop around it to fix it in place. My eyes travel across the story of my garden stopping first at the pitiful Café Au Lait dahlia I did not cut back, weeping, drying, no longer moving from bud to bloom. Is its tuber rotting away under the too frequent watering the zinnias love so much? Has a gopher eaten its way across the tubal base, destroying its source of life? Its bright emerald green takes on a dullish hue. Moving to the left, I survey the healthy growth on the dahlias I cut back. These are still alive. These have not been eaten. The new leaves betray a deep pine vibrancy so surprising in these August days. As I look closer, the plants still stretching upward carry the same contrast, new growth reaching out and up amongst the old.

The Mulberry tree leaves are dry and dusty, but not so much as our van is now or will be after a few more days of harvest. The air itself is a little cloudy today, the sunset is a little more radiant.

As the activities wind down, the most passionate of my children shudder at the thought of missing the last practice, the last class, the last opportunity for summer fun. Even a canceled cabin trip fails to elicit disappointment in them to match my own because this means they can see friends one more time at the folklore practice at the church leading up to the festa days.

We attend a Portuguese parish.

We are not Portuguese by birth or family or heritage, yet by finding a home here we are somewhat, adopted Portuguese. Without awkwardness, my children join in the folklore. They sign up to lead games. I will be a chauffeur and experience the festa through my camera lens for the newspaper, which although technically a form of work, helps me to see and experience the event in a deeper way than I might otherwise do. It offers a place for me to set all my reflections.

Last year I began to learn about these traditions. This year I commit them to print. I have these hopes but time will tell.

Whatever the festa will mean culturally or spiritually, for us it marks the end of summer as Labor Day marks the end of summer for fashion and home decor magazines. The almonds will be harvested, the gardens change their tune. What began in abundance will wear out from tiredness. It dries out. It dies. And with some sweet relief, one day in autumn, the cool days return, only long after we gave up on summer and began to pretend we have more distinct seasons here in Central California.

This is a unique place and a beautiful place.

I pick up an old novel by John Steinbeck, the same edition I sold long ago, and poke through its pages, hating and loving it at the same time. The best of the moments is the understanding of the soil in California. There is life here, although quite different than anything else in the world. It is a unique place and a strange place.

In my newspaper writing, I celebrate the community and church activities as efforts that work to continue traditions and connect people. Tonight I met a man who knew me, from high school or church, he could not place me either. Slowly a picture of a young, scrawny high schooler with curly black hair sitting at a drum set came to mind, but only slowly. He moved here after leaving 14 years ago. I expressed my wonder as most people seem to be saying goodbye to this state. “Moving here from Orange County,” he said, “is kind of like moving out of California.”

How very true.

I lived in Minnesota for a time and I lived in Virginia for a time. There, summer gives way to a burst of firelight in the trees before dropping to the ground in the sleep of winter snow. Here we have late summer, that stretched into most of those months we call fall. Here, some of us long for winter and cold and sweaters, but we wait.

It’s the world where birds fly to in the winter. It’s the bread basket.

It’s home.

painting of our home in summer
Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.

Make Children Essential

The biggest thing to happen around here this week to my children is wood chips. 

This is the time of year when my garden begins to look sad, tired, and dried out. Last year I learned that when this happens, this is the time to cut back. Literally, cut the plants back, keep on watering, don’t give up and, here in California, we will be rewarded with another flush of growth when the temperatures cool ever so slightly in the fall.

California perennial garden in summer

The past two years were focused on the growth of a cut flower garden, flower stand building and bouquet arranging for roadside sales. This year, writing took precedence and the focus of the flowers transitioned to cultivating the landscape and the pleasure of the place in which we live. 

Monty Don and his book, “The Complete Gardener” are my inspiration. As is @blossomandbranchfarm on Instagram and her regenerative growing practices. 

As I pull an endless series of wild grasses from my garden beds, I think of the lessons I’ve learned. The soil is poor. The wind blows away the topsoil. I rant at the land left fallow because of water restrictions and erosion it causes. The soil must be improved around my home. 

I posted the question on a local moms’ group requesting recommendations on how to get wood chips., one mother responded. I went online and filled out the form. The next day I had a truckload of wood chips. 

“Let it sit a couple of days,” Andrew from The Tree Guys, Inc., explained, “to kill the bugs or any seeds that might be in there.” That was Friday. 

On Tuesday it was time.

I prepped my husband and my children. Wear your farm clothes, all shirts should already be stained, gather your work gloves, and get some buckets. This is a family project.

Therein lies the focus. A family project means it is for the whole family, it will be taxing, and focused, and there will be treats after. 

The plan must accommodate different age levels. Some parties will push wheelbarrows, some will fill buckets, and others will empty buckets in garden spots where wheelbarrows cannot go. One child will make a special request to our neighbor to borrow his wheelbarrow so we can maximize the time of the man shoveling woodchips. 

My husband said, “I feel like the sugar bowl in ‘The Sword and the Stone’” as he tossed shovelful after shovelful in a rotating series of wheelbarrows.

Energy waned.

We took water breaks. Slowly but surely we finished off the third garden bed. Time to stop for the day.

The kids were sent inside to shower, eat snacks and then finish a movie they asked after each day. It is hard, especially in a world where it’s easy not to ask too much of children. How far away the days of “Little House on the Prairie” seem when, as the family or farm grew larger, children were essential to running a household and farm. It builds muscle, character and a strong work ethic. For our home, the most important part is to tell our children, “we need you.”

Flower Girl Zinnias in a cut flower garden. The children dumped buckets of woodchips around the base of the plants.

And so they learn to step up.

When we finished the last wheelbarrow load, we chatted with the UPS driver, whose delivery drop-spot is conveniently located near the wood chip pile. He asked the kids questions about the garden and as he climbed back into his truck said, “listen to your parents, kids, they know what’s up.”

Cafe au Lait dahlias in a cut flower garden with wood chips set out by my children

It was a little moment of affirmation that I needed to hear. Not every adult supports the idea of children working hard. As a child, I most definitely did not work hard, as my parents will attest. 

I want our children to know the value of it all. I hope that they grow up being able to look back and say, “Things weren’t always easy. It was hard, but they needed us.”

I hope they grow up and understand that we are a family. We are here for each other. We need each other. We cannot do it without them.

They are irreplaceable.

Marionberry milkshake dahlia

Choosing to Trust

Learning to trust at Kennedy Meadows

After asking for directions twice, we found the pack station where horses were lined up, saddled and ready. Beyond it in the corral were many more horses, altogether 200, we learned, lived at Kennedy Meadows during the open season. After the guides paired riders with their horses, beginning with the littlest rider and the biggest horse, we started our walk. At the sign “Emigrant Wilderness” the guide, Sarah from Louisiana, greeted the group and gave minimal instruction. “Y’all, if we stay in a single file line, we’re gonna have a great time today!”

The road at first was dusty. We walked beside a pond and a meadow of all different greens and the wildflowers that have since died out at lower altitudes. The ground before us grew rockier and rockier until we began to ascend stone steps. From trees and meadows, the surroundings changed to granite builders. We neared the river rushing with snow melt rapids.

Across the bridge, we walked our horses, or rather our horses walked us, across as we gazed in amazement at the waterfall, the blue sky, the pine trees and bright pink flowers along the mountain. I gasped at the sight of it.

We continued on, marching up stone steps, with the granite face to our right and a steep drop into the river to our life.

Trust your horse

“Trust your horse,” was the message shared from rider to rider at this time. “Lean forward when your horse goes uphill, lean back when he goes downhill.” The other adult and I knew what goes up must come down and we anticipated the difficulty.

At the top, we stopped at a clearing, in sight of the lake, the dam, where Sarah took us on food after lunch to “see a real pretty sight,” of a little creek running across colorful stones. The children explored farther and found its only minimal, magical waterfall. The sort of place wood fairies are so found of.

Lake at Kennedy Meadows Resort and Pack Station

After the hour break of eating and geological musings, it was time to make our descent. The trail guides checked saddles, cinches, and such. We mounted and after some confusion over our line order, we began. The horses knew the way. They were ready to get back to their paddocks and picked up their pace.

“Trust your horse,” we said to ourselves. As we neared the stone steps, the guides reminded everyone, “loosen your rains, lean back, and let your horse decide where to step.”

I told myself, “the horse doesn’t want to die either,” and tried to trust but I wavered more than once. My left hand gripped the pommel of the saddle like a greenhorn, trying to take in the beauty around me rather than focus on the fear inside me as the other adult chatted away.

When we landed back in the dust, with the meadow stretching out to our left and fishermen casting out across the pond, and again at the depot where we hobbled away from the horses who worked so hard to go up and down the mountain, we asked the children, “did you feel scared at all?”

Eight out of the ten said, “no,” an emphatic, definite “no.”

How can this be?

Trust your horse. Trust.

Some of us fixate on the potential outcomes and forget to try to reassure ourselves. We tell ourselves, intellectually, why the potential outcomes are unlikely. But still, we are afraid.

But not the children. They were told to trust the horse and so they trusted the horse, open-heartedly. With loose reins and loose feet, they journeyed down the mountain.

And off the trail

Back at home, on flat land and in the wide valley of Central California, a friend told me of her attempt to reconcile with an old friend. She said the thing that had been bothering her, how the thing came across and asked if the friend could explain. “Instead of trusting me,” my friend said, the other reacted, “how can you think I’d think that?” Instead of trusting—past experiences colored the perspective, the filter through which words were interpreted.

Instead of trusting that she wanted to know the truth, that she believed in the friend enough to not simply interpret words the way they seemed, but to be open to an explanation. Because of her background, my friend said, her friend could not do it.

For adults who have fallen or been hurt by others, perhaps misshapen at an early age, the step to trust is complicated and sometimes painful.

We have to allow ourselves to quiet the assessment of potential outcomes inside us, and open our hearts and trust. Experiences tell us we should not, but if we never choose to trust, we will miss out on the lifelong friendships, the mountains, the trees and the woodland fairy waterfalls waiting for us when we do.

Horse being led by trail guide during trail ride at Kennedy Meadows
Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.

Spring Fever

It turns out that Spring Fever is real. 

Centuries ago, it was the name for land scurvy and cured by consuming lemons, limes or oranges, Dr. Greg Swabe wrote for Knox Pediatrics in 2018. The disease “involved fatigue, malaise, easy bruising, bone pain, hemorrhaging of the scalp and gums, and poor wound healing….their vitamin C levels became depleted during the winter months with no available fruits and vegetables for consumption.”

As a Californian, I realize how I take things our short winter and access to fruit for granted. “It’s like you live in another country,” my Minnesotan friend told me after we discussed the 30-degree weather on her side of the world after I showed her photos of my garden.

View of the garden in spring

The modern notion of spring fever involves restlessness, an increase in energy, vitality and even appetite. This is the Spring Fever I recognize. The absolute desire to say, “The school year is over! Bring on vacation!”

Today I paused and watched a hummingbird visit the new pale pink geraniums a friend brought over when we gifted them a leg of lamb for Easter.

This morning while my son plodded through the sixth to last lesson of math for the school year, I filled my bucket with water, stuck my clippers in my holster and headed to the flower garden, ready to harvest to my heart’s content. I planned to cut just enough to arrange six jar bouquets. By the time I finished gathering from my mother’s roses bushes, all counting was off and I harvested to the full, enough for ten bouquets and then some. 

We decided to hold a yard sale, quite a last-minute decision, but why not? Air out the garage, pull out pieces that would be very good for others but have ended their season in our care. A spirit of generosity pervades my pricing rather than the urge to make a few extra bucks. “It blessed us,” I think, “let it bless someone else.”

We attended La Boheme this week for a joyful operatic experience, connecting with a community of artists and opera lovers one meets only by getting out and meeting people, becoming a regular. I admit the opera itself is quite tragic but the quality of the production makes it a pleasure to watch. To see grief on stage, so well-acted, stirred my heart. Rodolfo presented that moment of grief. “Live! Live!” he cried out in Italian. My heart moved within me. 

Today a familiar car pulled into our driveway. A friend bought her son to music lessons when ordinarily she works in the evenings. We sat in the sun, in a midcentury patio set I recently purchased from Miss Potts Attic, surrounded by roses bushes, drinking sparkling wine and talking about the deep things of life: grief, motherhood, all the painful things and all the consolations.

Spring fever? How can we focus when the flowers the blooming, the breeze is blowing, and bowls of red ripe cherries from the Monroe Family Orchards sit on the counter?

cherries ripe in spring

The pleasure of the outdoors calling us outside. This year’s Spring seems longer than last year, which seemed so brief. Is it the time together, the time spent delighting in traditions that are not only mine but yours or ours shared together? Is it the festivals, the farmer’s markets, the sheer joy that people seem to be experiencing outdoors? 

Still, I know spring has not come yet for everyone. 

For me, these are the moments to look away from the pains that haunt us, the sorrows we carry, to something so full of joy and promise, that it aches to be recognized. March was a difficult month. April was the transition, for me, into this new spring. That joy does not make the other things disappear, but it balances it out. There is a lot of darkness in our world, but now is the time for poppies. Now is the time for Spring.

Arbor Day and Earth Day

Earth Day

Space image of earth
Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Earth Day was April 22. It is an annual event, begun on April 22, 1970, to demonstrate support for environmental protection. 193 countries now celebrate it. The official theme for 2022 is “Invest in Our Planet.” 

Arbor Day

Photo by veeterzy on Unsplash

April 29 was Arbor Day, a secular day of observance which encourages individuals and groups to plant trees. It is celebrated every year on the last Friday in April. An estimated one million trees were planted on the first Arbor Day, April 10, 1872.

The Difference between the two

In the “Difference Between Earth Day & Arbor Day,” Jann Seal explains at that Arbor Day is the grandparent holiday of Earth Day. Rachel Carson’s book, “Silent Spring,” 1962, inspired the movement towards Earth Day. Seal writes, “Arbor Day’s purpose is to inspire people to plant, nurture and celebrate trees, to make the world greener and healthier. When comparing Arbor Day and Earth Day, one must take into account the fact that both have an end goal of improving conditions on our planet. Arbor Day is community-oriented, with projects focusing on making your lawn and yard more attractive to wildlife and informing large corporations of the necessity of clean air and how replanting our forests can benefit the nation. Earth Day expands on the philosophy of Arbor Day and is now a worldwide project with aims to protect the rain forests and to understand and accept climate change”.

The simplicity of Arbor Day is appealing. Plant a tree, do good. Some approaches to Earth Day that might lead one to think our very presence here on earth is a danger. The risk exists of distorting the order of understanding of what our role is here on Earth. Do we need to protect the earth from ourselves? If so, it feels like there is nothing we can do. 

Some could easily argue against Arbor Day. Plant a tree? Another non-native species? Another plant to promote the 1950s value of a well-trimmed lawn and ornamental trees?

Either side of the aisle can make complaints.

Although, I venture to guess the average citizen does not spend many minutes dwelling on how they are different. But let’s consider it.

What can we do?

Marry the two. 

Plant. Plant a lot of plants. But also learn about the earth and how the blue planet has an internal organization and a blueprint indicating what works best in a given spot. Appreciate the regional differences. As you appreciate them, learn about them. There may be small changes we can make to nudge our landscapes in a direction that is not only better for the earth beneath us but requires fewer additional resources to maintain. Less cost, more time, and a unique kind of beauty.

See yourself as a steward.

You have control now, but generations will follow after you. The ground and its ecosystem is a thing that exists apart from us. Rather than master it and make our will with it, we might learn from it and see how we can engage that natural balance to create a more fruitful land. 

I began gardening just five years ago. Three years ago we moved to the wild untamed land into which, I suspect, copious amounts of chemicals were poured to limit the growth of unwanted vegetation. The soil is poor, but being California, we can work with it and make things grow. 

We added compost, which allows some cover plants to grow to minimize dust. We mowed but allowed the clippings to fall back to the ground to feed it. I grew flowers. The first year, so many were affected by powdery mildew that I armed myself with supplies approved for organic gardening the next year. 

The spring began with ladybugs. When the weather warmed, I began spraying against mildew. Gardening groups and advice websites advocated spraying every two weeks. The ladybugs disappeared.

There has to be another way than just endlessly pumping out more products, I thought. On Instagram, I learned about the project called regenerative farming, the idea that we can plug into the way the earth naturally works and end up with a healthier balance that relatively maintains itself.

I’m allowing the self-sewn sprouts of new perennials to grow. I spray aphids with water but not much else. I am letting go of my expectations around dahlias. We will see what happens. It’s a new experiment for me, but it seems to make sense. 

Arbor Day and Earth Day.

There’s always something new to learn.

Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.


I wrote about Lent as we prepared for Lent, as we were in the midst of Lent, and now, as you read this, for Christians, it is the Easter season. The liturgical season of Easter lasts longer than the liturgical season of Lent, and with good reason.

Times of fasting must give way to times of feasting, lest we lose our understanding of what life is all about.

Life is not meant to be low, sad and dreary, but it often is. Life is not meant to be full of pain, loneliness, and suffering, but it often is. Life is not meant to be hard, toilsome, and without reward, but it is often is.

That is the condition of this world. We see it over and over again as illness crosses borders and fills hospitals, as wars begin and continue, as the news continues to tell us what devastating things take place inside and outside our borders. Closer to home, we see the world in pain held within the hands of our community in the grieving families, the struggles to make ends meet, the sorrows of those who see our children suffer or ask for help because they cannot buy groceries this month.

Even as we find goodness and joy in the season, that does not mean that all those difficulties have disappeared.

They have been transformed.

They have been filled with meaning. It is a reminder that this darkness is not all there is.

I sat back on Holy Thursday, asking myself, why do I feel this heaviness in my heart? I thought of the word, “solidarity.”

Solidarity, according to Merriam-Webster means, “Unity (as of a group or class) that produces or is based on community of interests, objectives, and standards.”

Whatever your belief system, there is something to this solidarity. We can have solidarity with others incidentally through those shared experiences. HYBS families have solidarity as they take kids to practice, and haul their wagons and water bottles for a day in the sun to support and celebrate their child’s involvement in a town and family tradition.

At Passover, Jews have solidarity as they observe Passover around the world, whether with family or separated, they are united. Continuing the tradition connects them not only to each other across the world, but to past generations, to the Israelites freed from slavery in Egypt, and to future generations to come. That is the power of tradition. By religious and cultural practice, they join in something bigger than themselves.

And we can choose something similar.

By considering the mundane difficulties of our usual day, by taking the pain of crisis or sorrow of grief, and choosing to pause, holding it in our mind, and then turn out thoughts to those who suffered in the past, those who suffer now immensely, whether by war, grief or illness, we can choose to unite our suffering with theirs. It is a spiritual choice. It will not show up on paper or tax returns, but it will alter how we live our lives, either by putting our suffering in a new light or reminding us that we are not alone. We are not the first to walk this path. We will not be the last. We connect with those living now, with those who have gone before us, with those who will come after us.

Others searched, desperately, for hope in times of darkness. Others sought purpose when to continue felt futile. And if you are suffering now, you can too.

This may be a strange Easter message

But the reality is that times of celebration do not make the experience of suffering disappear. Those who grieve recognize the struggle to be in the moment of festivity but carry something much deeper, perhaps darker, in their hearts.

We hope that times of festivity show us, not that all is glorious, but rather a promise for the future, that one day, our suffering will be turned into joy. That those who mourn will be comforted. That those who hunger and thirst will be filled.

Solidarity. It is more than sentiment. It’s a movement towards unity, understanding and care for one another that could change the face of this land.

Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.

Dried Orange Ornaments

Eight oranges were bagged and decanted into a wire fruit basket.

Gathering my supplies, I cleared space next to the dish drainer for my husband to put the dehydrator out of the way of other kitchen activities. I set before me a chef’s knife, a cutting board and a basket of oranges. My daughter stood at the opposite side of the counter watching with eager anticipation. “Can I help you dry the oranges?” She asked.

“I’m not really sure what you can do,” I answered with a downbeat.
Slowly, I sliced the oranges an even width laying them on the plastic perforated trays of the dehydrator. I leaned across to examine the settings, turned the dial to “Fruit 135”.

Within an hour the sweet citrus smell permeated the living room and kitchen, greeting children leaving their rooms to fetch a book or newcomers to the house. We dressed in carefully chosen outfits and changed our shoes to attend the Christmas parade. I gathered my camera supplies, notebook and pens, prepared to do the work I love best outside the home.
When we returned, the flesh the orange slices felt tacky to the touch. I turned it off for the evening. “I’m sure it will be fine,” my husband reassured me, “what could happen overnight? They’ll dry out?”

The next day resumed the drying activities.

At 135, it took about seven hours

When they were done, I called the eager young lady denied her opportunity to craft the previous night. I taught her to use her forefinger to tie a knot. With antique-style shears, I cut beige upholstery thread to relatively even lengths, threaded a needle, pierced through the orange windowpane pulled the string even on each side, and set it beside me for my daughter to pick up and tie.

As she finished, I went to hang them. The ends of string above the knot were too long. I called my son to cut the ends. He delighted in the opportunity to use Mother’s sharp scissors and participate in the craft. Another daughter helped me hang the newly fashioned ornaments on a small pine tree in our room. She loaded her fingers with loops and carried them off. Her elder sister, the first crafter mentioned, redistributed them around the tree, creating visual balance across its boughs.

We finished the tree and swags of greenery hung about the dining room.
With the same spool and scissors, I measured the length for a cranberry garland. The younger daughter collected not-quite-ripe kumquats. One, two, three cranberries, then a kumquat. The elder moved the group down the thread as I impaled the next.

We were calm, joyful and eager for the festivities to come. The slow moments, the quiet collaboration, the simple skills required to bring the decor to life with natural elements transfixed us. I marveled at the beauty of the oranges, the beauty of creation.

a needle and some thread does the trick

“Will we get to eat them?” The children ask, each in their own turn.

“Sometimes after Christmas,” I answered.

We do not save them. They are passing, like time itself. The oranges represent the traditions shared with us stories like “An Orange for Frankie” by Patricia Polacco, and the inclusion of oranges or mandarins in a child’s shoes for St. Nicholas day.

“How are you preparing for Christmas?”

A preacher asked his people. “If your answer is Christmas shopping or decorating, you might be missing out on the riches of the season.”

I am not so sure. It was a slow moment that brought us all together, all at peace. I knew the task; I knew who could participate in it and they each delighted in it. The oranges represent the delayed gratification so necessary to the well-ordered life. This season of life does not allow me to throw all the decorations up the Friday after Thanksgiving. Rather, we move, weekend by weekend, candle by candle of the Advent wreath, closer and closer to Christmas.

Thus it is not the task itself of decorating, but how we go about it, and whether or not we choose to enjoy it, embracing it as a good in itself, with riches beyond what we could possibly anticipate.

Previously published in the weekly column, “Here’s to the Good Life!” in the Hughson Chronicle & Denair Dispatch.