Spares

Today the lake house felt a little like Noah’s Ark as we unloaded boxes from the car and items emerged to match what was already inside, forming COUPLES.  Tonight just about everything is lined up two-by-two-by-two.

When you combine the contents of two houses into one, there are necessarily two containers of oatmeal; two bags of flour; two boxes of rice; two bottles of pancake syrup; two toasters; two coffee pots; two sets of spices, knives, dishes, pots and pans, drinking glasses, mixing bowls, etc. etc.  Also there are two boxes of band aids; two tubes of toothpaste; two bottles of shampoo; two lipsticks; two bars of hand soap; two curling irons; two bottles of toilet cleaner.

Also, in our case, there are six cutting boards, eight in-house extension cords and six outside-the-house extension cords, countless chip clips and measuring spoons, something like a million coffee mugs, too many little dental floss dispensers, way-way-too-many bottles of NyQuil and Advil (I really don’t believe in the stuff, but we sure have tons of it anyway), and an infinite number of placemats.  Well, it seems infinite.  I actually just counted, and there are sixty-four, to be exact.

You get the picture.  It’s been a crazy day here, matching up spares of everything in the tight quarters of this little house – laboring over the decisions of what to keep and what to let go.  So far I’ve kept most everything.  But the bottom drawer in the kitchen is bulging with hand towels (for example); some of them really should be gifted to GoodWill.

Hey, anybody need some Worcestershire sauce?  I actually have three bottles in my cabinet right now.  No kidding.  

Sheila

The jobs of the day have been 1.) Remediating serious sleep deprivation and 2.) Waiting and waiting for the steam press of time to iron out some creases standing in the way of closing.  After a delay, it is now scheduled for 11:00 a.m. tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m reading a book called One Child by Torey Hayden. 

It is a stunningly brutal-but-inspiring story of a brilliant 6-year-old child named Sheila.  This stinky urine-soaked mass of filth with an IQ of 182 is haunted by a lifestyle of abandonment and loneliness.  While waiting for a spot to open at a state hospital (the dead-end for incorrigibles) she is placed in a special education class in a public school.  Even though seemingly beyond hope, Sheila relearns self-worth through brazen overtures by a scandalously bold teacher named Torey who refuses to believe the worst about this raw chunk of rebellion-gone-mad.  

Over time, Torey wins the trust of Sheila, even as she continues to  thrash in a tangled web of abuse and hostility.  Little by little Torey finds inroads to diffuse the pain and deception that have defined Sheila’s life view.

The story reminds me of other stories – perhaps less dramatic ones, and yet the essential truth remains.  Human potential often lies neglected or is suppressed and thwarted until willing, sacrificial love opens the door for healing.  This kind of high standard of love is no small thing.  It happens only in the deep places of service where only a few fear to tread.

I find the book inspiring, and perhaps even more so as this current page turns in my life.  I want to be less self-absorbed and more available to impact others in ways that matter.  I was to be a Torey to the Sheilas who come across my path.

You Never Fully Leave a Place You Love

I said farewell to the house for the last time tonight.  “How do you do this – how do you say goodbye to a house where you’ve lived for 30 years?” I asked Fritz and Freddy with silent tears dripping down my chin.

“You just ride away and don’t look back,” Fritz said, quoting one of his famous Louis L’Amour westerns.  Of course.  That would work for him.  All or none.  Gallop into the sunset and all that.

I, on the other hand, hugged the big hand-hewn beam beside the steps and pressed my face into its roughness.  Then I walked out the door, carrying something of the place with me while leaving a little piece of me behind.   In my mind, you never fully leave a place you love.

Goodbye Moon (and Other Things)

Goodbye Man-in-the-Full-Moon, winking through the tree branches on my sleepless final night in Buck Creek.

Goodbye little burg: grain elevator, post office, pizza parlor…and the coolest Little Store EVER (or rather the memory of it) with its punch-key register, worn foot paths in the wooden floors, and scratched glass case full of penny candy.

Goodbye acreage.  Goodbye privacy.  Goodbye country mindset.  Goodbye days and days of living barefoot and close-to-the-earth.

Goodbye meat spiders in the basement.  I always knew you were the friendly sort.

Goodbye magenta/violet/fiery yellow sunsets bordering the 4 acres behind the barn.

Goodbye trains, with your melancholy blast of loooong, loooong, short-looooooooong.

Goodbye chicken coop foundation.  For a long time you hosted arrogant, crowing roosters, clucking, egg-laying hens, and hoards of rats that scrambled to find hiding places when the door unlatched.  Good job with that mix.

Goodbye little apple tree, the last remaining one.  You and your generous neighbor-trees bore the best apples EVER, both for crunch-eating right off the tree and for cooking into sauce and pies.

Goodbye creek…first and second hog holes…chubs and crawdads and garter snakes.  Goodbye monster snapping turtles with spiked prehistoric tails in the pond at the Old Urban.

Goodbye fireflies in the front yard, inviting eager seekers and their jars with hole-studded lids.

Goodbye milk house.  Would-be playhouse.  Storage house.  Mouse-and-bug house.

Goodbye model train in the attic - a dream come true for a young mechanic following in his Uncle Bob’s footsteps.

Goodbye robin nests tucked safe-and-sound on the top of the porch pillars under the roof overhang (smart birds).

Goodbye rumbling furnace, hand-hauled wood, hand-emptied ash pan, and hand-cleaned chimney (scrubbed with an extension brush with the longest handle I’ve ever seen).

Goodbye peachy sunrises falling across the foggy creek bed with colors that intensify until blinding light  finally breaks through the kitchen window above the sink.

Goodbye old red peg barn, standing sentinel over the property with watchful window-eyes outlined in white.  Goodbye walk-the-plank beams, forts and playhouses made of hay and straw.  Goodbye dusty corncob room.

Goodbye pets (Sally, Tyler, Max, Bunny, Peeper, Mousekin and her offspring) and all the wild critters that showed up over the years. 

Goodbye to sweet May and June breezes.  Goodbye to July tomatoes, green beans, zucchini and sunflowers.  Goodbye to August heat waves and rows and rows of corn.  Goodbye to Dick’s September hayrides, and miscellaneous tractor and hay-wagon rides.  Goodbye to November and December turkey feasts in the dining room.  Goodbye to January snowdrifts on county roads and snowmen in the yard.  Goodbye to March tree buds, swelling with promise, surrounding the house.

Goodbye front porch.  Thanks for being such a great place for summer dinners, and for providing family sleeping quarters on hot summer nights.

Goodbye corncrib with your see-through roof offering expansive views of the heavens – clouds by day, stars by night.

Goodbye cows that “ma-uh-wah, ma-ma-ma-waaaah” to their calves.  Goodbye to both squishy/odiforous/green-brown AND crusty/blackened/sun-baked cow pies, the driest of which make good campfire fuel (so I’m told).

Goodbye silo.  Tall, empty, skyscraper-of-a-landmark.

Goodbye crazy address that defies delivery trucks and everyone else, including mapquest: 7606 North Street (in Buck Creek), Lafayette.

Goodbye little white (geriatric-and-awaiting-hospice-status) shed.  You’re a great place for dumping inherited hand-me-down tools and stuff.  Mostly stuff. And the raccoons like to hang out there, too.

Goodbye fort, swings, teeter-totter, and mega-sandbox.  Goodbye ancient maple tree arching over all with its protective limbs.

Goodbye itty-bitty, naïve and clueless barn kitties with straight-up tails jiggling like palsied flags.  Goodbye Tinactin, their salvation from the perils of ringworm.

Goodbye special private spots in the pasture. Thinking spots.  Being spots.

Goodbye swarming ladybugs.  (Enough said.)

Goodbye mulberry trees full of squishy purple berries that leave a smushy purple tattoo on everything.  Goodbye berry-eating birds.

Goodbye lawn mowing, hay cutting (with Dick), cherry picking, garden tilling/planting/weeding/harvesting.  Goodbye weeds that belong, more than formal ornamental grasses, in their claimed spot along the creek’s bank in the front yard.

Goodbye rusty old pieces of junk: the most inspiring, most creative toys in the world.

Goodbye solid old house made of paving bricks, with your tall ceilings, wide trim, hand-hewn timbers, and locally-grown poplar floors.  You sure know how to leave a mark on a person’s heart; how to get under my skin.  You alone know the scope of holistic growth and change in those comprising one Muehlhausen family living within your walls for the last 30 years.

Your Rat Will Tell You

The weekly FaithWriters judging results were posted today, and my most recent entry – a risky attempt at discussing creativity, which is extremely subjective - got some attention.  The topic was “the writer’s challenge,” and I chose to address twin challenges.  Many writers by nature 1.) think too hard and 2.) edit as they go.  We’d do better to get a little fuzzy-brained and let our rat (yes, you heard me correctly) tell us the whole story, then go back and clean it up.

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The Rats

“Get it down. Then fix it up.” These bullets of advice summarized Kurt Hank’s view of creative writing success.

Kurt’s voice boomed with authority, suggesting each of his students’ initial efforts should be intentionally inadequate. “Write a really crummy first draft, start-to-finish. THEN, and only then, go back and redeem it.”

He paced the length of the college classroom for emphasis, hands behind his back, seemingly studying the worn wooden floor. “You can’t polish your writing and make it shine so it will glow in other people’s hearts until words get written down in the first place.”

His students’ faces seemed blank; silence hung over the room. Finally a slender young woman with dyed blue hair raised her hand. “You mean we’re supposed to write something horrible?”

Mr, Hanks spoke deliberately. “I mean,” he said with his head still lowered like a battering ram, “you have permission for the first draft to be horrible. It’s okay. The biggest challenge facing most of you right now is a predisposition to edit as you write; to make each paragraph stellar before composing the next and the next and the next.” He shook his head and wagged his pointer finger at the class. “When you do that you lose momentum, get knotted up in phraseology, and the creative process turns cold.” He paused and looked up, studying the rows of eyes. “Even more than that, you effectively shut off the rat in the cellar.”

The blue-haired girl blurted out, “The WHAT?”

“You know, the RAT that slinks around, trying to be secretive and unavailable, even though all the while he knows he’ll connect when you eventually show up.“ He paused. “The rat’s the one who hands up the raw material for your writing through the trap door.”

A classmate with tattooed legs protruding from a dangerously tight mini-skirt raised her hand.

“Yes Charlene?”

“Mr. Hanks, most of us taking this class are English majors who want to learn how to be effective creative writers. We’re not very acquainted with rats.”

Her classmates tittered and Mr. Hanks flashed a rare but magnetic smile. “Precisely!” Then with a furtive, stay-with-me glance around the room he whispered, “But we must connect with those rats – or else all is for naught. The rats are the ones who have the STUFF for our first drafts.”

That got their attention.

“Every time you have a new assignment, quiet yourself - squint your eyes and invite your brain to get fuzzy. Then open the hatch, lay down on your stomach in the most submissive pose possible, and stick your arm down as far as you can into the cellar.”

The blue-haired girl shuddered.

“It’s damp and chilly and smells like mildew down there,” he went on. “And risky. After all, rats can bite! You may worry your asthma might flare up if the rat doesn’t hurry. But if you posture yourself humbly, blur your vision, and keep from thinking too hard, eventually he will come and place an idea in your hand.”

“Are you serious?” The girl’s frizzy blue locks shook as if to negate his comments.

“Completely serious,” Mr. Hanks answered. “The rat provides just enough for you to start writing a few sentences. Sometimes more thoughts come tromping along immediately like the seven dwarves, one right after the other. But other times you have to stick your hand back repeatedly for more hand-offs. Either way, your crummy first draft gets written BECAUSE OF THE RAT.”

In the back of the room a nervous-looking young man with a pierced eyebrow and silver-studded upper lip raised his hand. “Just who is the rat, anyway?”

“Anyone want to guess?” Kurt didn’t wait for a reply. “TEMPLETON, of course! Remember that self-absorbed glutton in Charlotte’s Web who gnaws his way through any obstacle - a creative, oh-so-smart spy who seems to intuitively KNOW things? Each of us has a Templeton hanging out in our subconscious mind. We just need to learn to receive what he has to offer.”

The student in the back nodded vigorously. “OH YEAH! I got it!”

Mr. Hanks addressed the class collectively. “Now ALL OF YOU …” his hands swept with a demonstrative gesture as if to gather them into a heap for one last bit of instruction before turning them loose. “… GO! Respectfully meet with your rats this week, and bring back a crummy first draft. The writing topic is …” He turned to scrawl a word on the blackboard. “Rodents!”

Clothespin Bag

Today I’m throwing away my torn/frayed/stained clothespin bag that looks like it has been through a war or two.  Mother made it for me in 1971, the year we were married – you know, one of those essentials no girl leaves home without.  At the time I thought it was cute, but obviously homespun.  I was used to Mother sewing things out of remnants, and my clothespin bag was another one of those transformed scraps.  I definitely didn’t appreciate the legacy of sunshine and fresh air that came with it.

I used it often, sometimes daily, for many years, tying it around my waist like an apron.  The clothespins were always within reach and easily accessible this way.  I dried all our clothes, towels, and sheets on the clothesline whenever the weather allowed.  Only below-freezing temperatures kept me away from the clothesline.  Why use the dryer? Wasn’t the responsible thing to save money on the electric bill?

The biggest memory is of conserving pins during the cloth diaper era.  I had SO MANY diapers to dry and only a fixed number of pins, which meant overlapping the corners of two diapers so they could share the same pin.  This worked fine except sometimes the multi-layered corners didn’t get dry, so the diapers were put away with little damp spots on two edges.

Time has a way of changing things.  Memories of hauling heavy baskets of wet laundry have faded.  All these years later I only remember the fresh scent of sun- struck clothes; the aromatherapy of authentic freshness from breezes touched by leaves and grasses before their sojourns through my laundry.

Bye-bye, clothespin bag.  May your memories linger sweet.

Power Up!

So I just tried to write this cutsie-poem about being in Michigan for a couple of days for medical stuff (a little stressful in and of itself) and driving in the driveway at Buck Creek tonight after a storm to be greeted by impossible-to-navigate-ruts. 

You know, like oh boy, surprise surprise, looky at this unexpected little challenge that is actually QUITE LARGE and maybe even DAUNTING.

The creek had overflowed its banks, something it does periodically.  I don’t think it does this deliberately, nice little creek that it is, but sometimes it just loses control – like the rest of us who blow out at the seams occasionally.  Still, we’d hoped to escape a flood this year, especially since we put some time/money/effort into re-doing the driveway with new gravel this past spring.

I confess that my cutsie-poem failed miserably, and I wasn’t able to make light of the situation.  The truth is, we have 6 days to rebuild the hatch door on the back porch, weather-in the east side of the foundation and put down new mulch, replace the gravel that washed out of the driveway, finish packing personal stuff and move it out, and do the final cleaning.

Power up, old aging Mulie-mama.  You can do it.