Pretending that Nothing has Changed

I married a beautiful woman and we moved away, across state lines and  dark oceans and into new skin. Ten years passed—ten years of having children and getting lost and finding ourselves over and over again. After those ten years passed, we moved back. We moved home.

I was introduced to home when I was six years old and my family moved from the scorching, dusty heat of Laredo, Texas, back to the cold, wintry farmland of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where my ancestors had farmed and lived for hundreds of years before me. It was December, and the sky was low. The slate grayness of it scraped the tops of the rounded silos and tugged on the rooster weather vane standing watch at the peak of the tallest barn.

That was the year I learned what a cousin was, and how to tie my skates together so that I could hike through deep snow all the way to the frozen pond. That was the year my father taught me how to ride a bike by letting me drift over the steep bank in the front yard, where two tall oak trees watched over my shoulder. That was the year I learned how to put a wriggling worm on a small hook and cast it into the creek without snagging the low branches.

That was where I learned a place can feel as familiar as the wrinkled hand of your first child the moment they’re born. You can know a place before you even live there.IMG_1034

I’ve wondered for years now how that can happen.

* * * * *

Not long after returning to these familiar back roads and broken road signs, still not fixed or set straight, I decided I wanted to take my children to the creek that runs behind the old church, the one across the street from the farm where I grew up. It was a small, brick, steepled church with a parking lot full of fool’s gold that I had, once upon a time, pried from the macadam with an old dime.

So we drove there, and as we drove, I told them all the old stories about what made the loud breathing sounds in the deep shadows of the barns, and what flashed just out of sight in the empty other half of the farmhouse, and how the cemetery beside the church where we played hide-and-seek shifted and sighed, and how we always ran home scared of ourselves.

Some things had changed. The two old oak trees were gone. The church parking lot was newly paved and painted with fresh white lines, and other trees had been taken away. We slid down the steep bank behind the church and I realized the field along the creek, the one that used to be full of grazing cattle, now stood tall with late-summer corn, seven feet high and staring at us. The creek moved slower, as if old age had mellowed it.

But other things were there waiting to be reclaimed. The old tree, for one—the same one that used to steal our fish hooks—stood with its hands outstretched. The smell of the mud. The snagging tug of a small fish on the line, and the way it gasped for breath while we carefully removed the hook, the way it paused in the shallows, elated at this chance at new life. The way the time passed, slow and heavy in the heat.

It is a relief to me, and it is a sorrow, the way these places wait for us to come back, the way they welcome us as if nothing important has been lost. And we go about our business, trying not to look directly at the empty space that once held a crucial thing: an old oak tree, or a fishing buddy.

I tell my children to cast in the line one last time. I fix my stare on the small plastic bobber, and I pretend that nothing has changed.

shawn bio YAH

Bridges and Steel

I couldn’t believe I was crying. “Stop it,” I chided myself internally,     trying to stem the flow, “it’s just a song for kids. You’re being ridiculous.” I shifted in my folding chair, brought my sleeve up to my cheek, and hoped that no one was looking. “C’mon. Hold it together.”

I knew the song well; they were coming up on the last refrain. Soon it would be over. Soon the first-graders would file off the stage and sit with their teacher.

If I could just get through the last refrain, I would be okay.

* * * * *

It didn’t begin this way. That day, the crying day, was a Thursday afternoon in mid-March, and I was attending the dress rehearsal for my daughter’s annual spring musical. She goes to the Pittsburgh Urban Christian School, or PUCS, where each year students, staff, and volunteers create and perform an impressive all-school musical production. Its theme coincides with that year’s all-school unit, which have been, in our K-2 tenure; ‘Superheros’, ‘Farms’, and now, ‘Bridges and Steel.’

IMG_0047This year’s theme is particularly appropriate for Pittsburgh–a city that has almost as many bridges as Venice, a city that once ran on the steel mills, and a city where many key institutions (Carnegie museums and libraries, Frick and Mellon parks) pay homage to industrial barons of the last century. In Pittsburgh, bridges and steel are everywhere, connecting everything.

However, when it came to the musical, the theme didn’t seem so promising. Last year, during ‘Farms’, our daughter got to be a singing chicken–a hard act to follow. “This year is going to be so booore-ing,” she pronounced, sometime in grey January. “How can you even write a musical about bridges and steel?” To add insult to injury, her class was assigned a song about the physics of bridge-building, which, she reminded us often, was not her favorite.

Still, by early March, our whole family was chanting lyrics about tension and compression over our daily oatmeal. This is something I love about Spring Production. Every year there are songs about scientific concepts, historical figures and events, and literary references. The kids hardly realize they’re learning, or, even better, they come to associate learning with enjoyment.

PUCS is one sneaky school.

And so, by mid-March, when we saw the entire production, I wasn’t surprised to learn–through bouncy tunes and exuberant choreography–about the composition of steel, working conditions in the mills, and the history of several local bridges. Also, because many of the steel workers came from other countries, there was this song about immigration.

Like all Spring Production songs, I first heard it over breakfast. It was the first-graders’ number, but every kid learned every song, and this one was particularly catchy. It also had a lot of big words in the verses, so it required lots of practice.

They traveled from Czech Republic, China and Japan. Others came on boats from Poland and Ireland. Scandinavians came to work with their strong hands. Hungarians worked in the mills with the Africans.

“Daddy is a Scandinavian” I told the girls, “see his strong hands?” I smiled, but the kids didn’t. “Mama, this is serious,” my eight-year-old informed me, “I have to practice.”

Eastern Europe was the home of the Slovakians. Eager workers from the mountains were the Carpathians. From down south came Cubans and Mexicans. Expecting jobs and good wages were Italians.

And every morning, the girls’ singing was mixed with news from the radio. I suspect this contrast was the seed of my tears.

* * * * *

The first-graders were, of course, adorable.

Each carried a sign representing a place. One by one, they came forward and bowed proudly to the audience. Ireland and Hungary; Slovakia and Cuba. Several kids represented the continent of Africa. The first-graders were diverse too, though not matched ethnically to their signs. A precocious girl with dark skin got a big laugh when she threw an exaggerated kiss into the air. Italy!

I laughed with the crowd, but the refrain was coming, and so I braced myself. I had to. I was already shaken.

Just twelve hours before the Spring Production dress rehearsal, there was a horrible shooting in Wilkinsburg, the neighborhood where PUCS is located. The ‘urban’ in the school’s name is no accident; the school intentionally exists in a distressed area of the city, attempting to integrate people as well as it integrates curriculum. The latter is far easier than the former. 

And this morning, the tragic Wilkinsburg news had been mixed with the national and global news, now too familiar. The rhetoric of the politicians, the fear of those who are not like ‘us’, the refugees and tragedies, the call for walls. All the actions and reactions, all mixed up, turning everything I believed into a children’s song–cute, but irrelevant.

The last refrain came.

Men and women, boys and girls. They all came for a better life. Many feared the differences in others, and that caused lots of strife. If America is a melting pot, then we are all equal. So God, please help us all build bridges between people.    

This time, it got me.  I tried to keep from embarrassing myself. “Stop it… It’s just a kid’s song… just a kid’s song.” But even as struggled for control, I prayed the last line. Or. Maybe the last line prayed me.

Even now, I can’t seem to get it out of my head.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Song lyrics by Suzie Salo; music by Rachel Matos.

Stumpy the Christmas Tree

“It’s going to be a small Christmas this year, kids.”  

My mom. Almost every year. And yet, I never remember small Christmases.

Perhaps they were small in comparison to the expensive gifts or the multi-hundreds of dollars in cash and gift cards our classmates talked about receiving each year. But even then, I just found it odd that they received so much.

Some of the early Christmas photos of my family show our tree in the background – an 18” high green ceramic tree with colored pegs that glowed from a light bulb stuck inside. We put our gifts under and around the small table it sat on. We hung garland in a scallop from the ceiling and hung our ornaments from that. I remember being particularly enthralled by the ornaments and how certain I was that no one else decorated for Christmas in quite that spectacular way.  Blame it on my steady diet of  Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons, but I was just genuinely the kid who was (mostly) thankful for what I had. I thought of Laura Ingalls treasuring her tin cup and peppermint stick for Christmas and I knew our celebration was lavish.

One year, there was a knock on the door and I answered it to see Pastor Bill standing there. He asked for my parents and then gave them an envelope. “This is for Christmas” he said. Inside – money for gifts for us and food for Christmas dinner. Mom tells me that was the difference between having those things and not that year. But most years weren’t like that, at least not that my memory recalls.

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On a summer Saturday when I was about six or seven my mom and I woke up early to track down garage sales in our town as we often did. At one we found a treasure – an artificial Christmas tree selling for cheap. The top part that makes the point of the tree was missing, but we got it anyway. That next Christmas the tree earned the affectionate nickname “Stumpy.” We bent the branches of the top layer up and into a point and stuck the red Christmas angel on top. As a child, the tree seemed massive, but it didn’t even come to the top of the window.

Stumpy one year with presents piled around.

Stumpy one year with presents piled around.

On the day after Thanksgiving we’d get out our ornaments and hang them on her branches one-by-one, telling the story of each ornament. Mom bought us a new ornament each year – something that represented our year. They were our travels, our dreams, our interests, our talents. There were curled papers covered in glitter that had resembled angels at some point. Hallmark collection figure skaters. Silly snowmen. Model cars.The ornaments were the stories of our lives and Stumpy held them well. As much as I had loved the ornaments hanging from the garland on the ceiling, I thoroughly embraced and enjoyed our upgrade to Stumpy.

We eventually got rid of Stumpy when I was around 11 years old and bought a brand-new artificial tree. This tree had full, fluffy branches, a top piece that scraped the ceiling in our short-walled living room, and no name. I suppose I would have done the same thing as an adult, but as a kid I missed Stumpy. She was part of my Christmas, part of the magic and wonder that we found such a treasure. She was short enough that I could reach the tip top and stick the angel in her place.

Stumpy was enough for my child-heart. And really, Stumpy was more than enough. The scalloped garland hanging from the ceiling and the ceramic tree on the end table were enough.  

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I was better at it as a kid, but I still strive to maintain that seemingly unshakeable contentedness. I’m currently the poster child for the boomerang generation: 30-something. Grad degree. Back living with my parents. I’m working and my business is growing, but money is tight. As I’ve struggled the past 18 months with the fact that this is my reality, I’m constantly reminding myself that this is enough.I have parents gracious enough to accept my home-cooked meals and contributions towards the utilities as rent. I have a bed, a dresser filled with clothes, a car that runs, a cabinet full of food, and a computer on which to make an income.

My life is a little haphazard. If I compare my current reality to the dreams, my life seems to be missing that crowning piece that makes it look complete. But, I know, what I have is more than enough.

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Nicole bio YAH

Potty Talk

It was 2008, and I was in the bathroom stall again, my infant daughter balanced on my lap and my fully-clothed bottom perched on the edge of the toilet seat. I was not fully clothed on top–the entire point of this awkward visit. It was nursing time at the zoo.

Visiting the zoo was not a treat, but a tool of my sanity called “Get out of the house with the baby whenever possible.” At home, I was more likely to surrender; at home, I was more likely to start crying and not know how to stop. But not at the zoo. At the zoo, I held it together thanks to sunshine, distraction, and the presence of strangers.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

But also out of bounds in public–at least for self-conscious me–was wrestling with a hungry baby under a poorly-designed nursing cover. After a few close calls, my baby’s public meals took place in public bathroom stalls.

The ones at the zoo were the worst. First, they smelled like what they were–an endless parade of dirty diapers, muddy shoes, and children still learning to flush. Second, the tiny stalls were not made for multiple people. With all the balancing and odd angles, nursing was a circus feat–tightrope and clown car combined, heightened with the aroma of elephants.  

But smelly and crowded were small annoyances compared to the noise. The zoo had recently installed a super-vortex, skin-stretching hand-dryer, and every time that darn thing went off, my daughter would jerk her head toward the roar, and I would yelp in pain. (She was, after all, attached to a rather sensitive part of my body.) Scrambling to keep her head from hitting the toilet paper holder, I would nearly lose my perch.

It was all so ridiculous, it was laughable. But I didn’t laugh. I cried, and nursed, and cried some more. I cried until we were both done, and then I stared hard at the ground as we left the stall. I stared hard at the sink as I quickly dabbed my eyes with a wet paper towel. I didn’t want anyone to know.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

* * * * *

By the spring of 2010, I needed a double stroller at the zoo. A friend watched my toddler while I visited the stalls with the new baby, or I used the nursing cover. I didn’t care so much about the stares of strangers anymore–I had two kids under the age of three, darnit. Stare away. Thanks to a year of intensive counseling, a low dose of anti-depressants, and a second baby who slept much more than the first, my postpartum depression was abating.

The clouds were beginning to lift.

One day, someone asked me how I was doing, and I was surprised to hear these words come from my mouth: “Being a mother is no doubt the hardest thing that I have ever done. But I laugh, multiple times, every single day. It’s what keeps me going.”And it was true. I was laughing again. In the haze, I had barely noticed.

* * * * *

In 2013 both of my girls were weaned and potty-trained, but we were still crowding into bathroom stalls.

“I said first!” my youngest proclaimed one day, rightly,5272628825_4fee6a975f_o but her sister had already dropped her pants and planted herself on the toilet. I glared at her, “Just hurry up, okay?” My youngest recovered quickly, as she does, and crouched on the bathroom floor–she wanted to see the shoes of the person in the next stall. “Stop it!” I warned, “and don’t you dare touch that floor! I told you bathroom floors are dirty!”

My temperature was rising quickly, especially when I noticed big sister settling in with “number two,” which often took more than ten minutes. “Oh dear Lord,” I thought with some desperation, “Let the person in the next stall finish quickly.”

No such luck. The person in the next stall had also settled in, and I know this because my youngest suddenly announced “Mama! The lady next door has loud pooping! Did you hear it?”

She did not register the look of horror on my face as she looked up, waiting for my answer as if she was just making polite conversation. “Shh!!!!!!” I hissed at her, the force of my breath attempting to blow this humiliating moment away. “Shh!!!!” I wanted to run, to never leave the house again, perhaps to disappear completely.

And then I heard it. No, not the ‘loud pooping’, but giggling in the next stall. Giggling, and then laughing. And then my children were laughing, and I was laughing, and we were all laughing together in the two-stall bathroom. The ‘lady next door’ washed her hands and left, still giggling, but we stayed together, and the girls switched places. When our laughter subsided, my cheeks were damp.   

“Mama, are you crying?” I shook my head, but this wasn’t the whole truth. Sometimes, even in a bathroom stall, you laugh until you cry. And sometimes you cry until you laugh.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Potty photo by Keoni Cabral on Creative Commons

One Fine Feathered Day

In May 2012 I pulled up behind a truck, parked just two neighborhoods from my own. The seller and I had been texting to arrange the exchange: “I’ve got your pullets.” “Great. Be there in 10.” “Just look for a white truck. Remember to bring cash.”

It was all over quickly, and I was on my way, a cardboard box on the passenger seat, grinning madly at the scratching noises and small bock-caws coming from inside it. I called my husband, “I’ve got them! Tell everyone the six of us are on our way!”

It was an exclamation point kind of morning. It was the morning we brought our chickens home.

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We had been preparing for months for their arrival. We attended an information session at the library, searched the chicken internet universe for tips, and dog-eared a book called “City Chicks.”  Along the way, we built the coop.

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(Note the skylight. These are some spoiled hens.)

We researched nutrition, planned for pest control, and amused the well-worn country folk at Tractor Supply every time we went north to visit my parents. What are your organic options? Do you sell food-grade diatomaceous earth?  What about treats? Is this waterer BPA-free?

Okay, we really didn’t ask the last one. They were still recovering from our discussion of non-GMO based layer feed.

Now. Why did we do all this? Well, originally we thought that keeping hens would save us money, but this hasn’t been the case. On one hand you’ve got housing, food and chicken accessories (waterer, heat lamp, etc.). On the other, you have… not nearly as many eggs as you would expect.

Here is the deal with chickens and eggs: First, they have to be old enough to lay. Second, they can’t be broody, molting or recovering from a traumatic predator attack (a story for another post). Third, it can’t be winter. Fourth, you have to be able to find the eggs…

Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?

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 Answer: To hide her eggs in the abandoned lot on the other side.

Let’s just say that the financial incentives aren’t overwhelming, but the daily Easter Egg hunts are a lot of fun.

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So, why chickens? My answer is more of a hunch than a full-blown philosophy, but I suspect we keep chickens (and keep cleaning out their coop) because we love the sense of connection they give us.

An egg in a styrofoam carton is just an egg, but an egg that appears after “Queenie” struts out of the coop and announces her accomplishment to the neighborhood (bock, bock, bock, baCAW!) is something more. “It’s still warm, Mom,” my daughter informs me, “and guess what, it came out of the chicken’s butt!” “Eww!” the rest of the kids collapse into giggles, and then start chanting, “chickens butt, chickens butt, chickens butt!”

Maybe it’s just a bit disgusting, but I like it that my children know–and by ‘know’ I mean through immediate experience–that eggs come from chickens’ butts. Not from egg factories, not from sanitary supermarkets, but from animals that poop, crow, and cross the road. Eggs come, and thus breakfast comes, from animals who are part of our daily lives.

This is why we will keep keeping chickens–not because it is terribly practical, at least in the way we do it–but because they remind us that food exists in a web of connections beyond buying and selling. Eggs exist because chickens exist, and our particular chickens exist because we fill their feeder and lock up the coop at night.

I’m glad we do. The eggs are amazing.

egg

(photo by Emily Duff, http://family2table.blogspot.com/2013/02/chicken-or-egg.html)