MamaStories

We closed yesterday. It was pouring outside. The lawyers and the agents sat with us at that big “conference table”: witnessing. At the end we made out a check to the seller for the leftover oil in the tank: $1600! How ironic. We are planing all kinds of alternative energy sources to avoid oil consumption, but apparently it comes with the house! Let’s just say that, once we’re done with our work, that amount of oil will have to last us two if not three years.

Then we drove to our house, opened our door with our key, and turned on the water. Played with the taps - it was a way of appropriating it, of making it “appropriate”: our own. We walked through, chatting, noticing new things, planning. We kept an eye on the time, the $15/hour for the babysitter time…

We finally felt how exhausted we were, from the stress of this whirlwind, needlessly complicated buying process, as well as from the bug that Amie brought home several weeks ago. She’s still fighting it, but is frustrated by the cough that wrecks her sleep. I “adopted” it a week ago, and DH was coming down with right at that moment.

It was strange, finally leaving the house, knowing that it will be two weeks before we return. This week is crazy busy at DH’s job and next week we’re off to Toronto for nine days. Then we’ll begin. Then… Seems like we’ve been waiting (postponing?) for decades.

The novel is on hold while I recover and while Amie is home from daycare for the second week in a row. I am so close. I almost finished chapter 13, after which I was going to send it out to my trial readers. That’ll have to wait as well.

But we’re not waiting, really, are we. We’re planning, dreaming, knowing, now, that it won’t be long.

We’re closing on Monday. We’re going to do this! And even before it begins, I feel the urgent need to document it all. Hopefully I’ll have the time to write here more often again.

Last week a new septic system was put in, which tore up the entire front and back yard. We knew about this of course, and welcomed it - it allows for the 2 bedroom to become a 3 bedroom if we wish. The result saved us some work: it made the sloping front yard a little more gradual, got rid of lots of scrawny trees (we requested the wood was left), so cleared space (and light) for the garden. Psychologically, with “the woods” removed, it is now easier for me to see the garden.

But the place looks so violated: all that bare earth! It’s not my own yet and I feel for it already. Also, the leach field we now realize is humongous (looks it, in any case), and as I balk from growing veggies on it, my first reaction was to lament the loss of space. I know it’s only a small loss, really, only a small area in the grand scheme of our almost-an-acre. I know my perplexity has more to do with my reaction to all that space and the question: what to do with it. Or rather, where to do it all?

The space as it exists now overwhelms any kind of vision for the future.

As for the space that exists… With all that emptiness after the construction of the septic system, the garden in front is one, large, amorphous space, with a dense cluster of trees (some mature, some not) to the left and a path of destruction all the way up to the house.

In the back and to the sides, there are unrelated pockets of space, segmented by little stone walls and trees and most obviously by ugly, metal fences. They cut the space apart and even exclude land that turns out to belongs to the property too.

Add to that the contents: so many trees we’d like to keep, so many types of soil and microclimates, most of which are unknowns as yet.

I approach this torn-up, fragmented, schizophrenic space with my equally fragmented vision.

There are so many functions that we want our garden to fulfill: vegetable garden, herb garden, bird garden, insect garden, orchard, hedges and paths, play space, discovery space, wild space, calm space…

And so many elements to incorporate. Things that are already there: the huge masonry BBQ (make it into an oven?), the old stone ring, which we’d like to keep. Structures to be built: a root cellar, Amie’s play structures (swing, seesaw, jungle gym), a little house for her (cob?), fences, and walls to train fruit trees on, a green house, a composting place, a woodcutting and curing area, maybe a tiny pond…

But standing there today, among the budding trees and the birdsong and the rustling of all those fall leaves that were left there (leaf mould!), and surveying the front from the house on the hill, I had a vision that clicked into place! And that’s exactly what we need: to make space into place, then to make that place into home.

It began with a path, a wall and a gate. Exactly the three main spatial elements that aren’t spatial themselves at all, but that divide and integrate and open space.

It’s a single meandering path that runs down the slope. It meets a small wooden gate in a thick and a low, curving wall.

The path is terraced by wooden dividers and covered with stones, all found on the property (oh many stones!). Over it at intervals are trellises and arbors, and along it (invading the garden space), benches, a birdbath. The wall is made of cob and the larger stones, painted a deep, warm brown. Along it on the inside grow the fruit trees. On the other side is the street. It is not meant for privacy: any person of average height can look over it. It is meant as an invitation.

The gate does the inviting. It sits in a higher, thicker part of the wall, with space above it for a cob sculpture, and generous chinks for preliminary glimpses of what lies behind it. It is a wooden, painted gate, rounded on top. There is perhaps a bell - with a clapper, maybe a chain (and a notice to the effect of “bell is optional”). There’s a niche for the mailbox next to it, and some flowers or a little object. Maybe a bench, on the outside, for weary passers-by.

It says: home. We live here, we are native here. And you are welcome.

Maybe I’ll draw it for you sometime. Maybe I’ll even get to build it!

Things have really come to a head here at MamaStories. DH and I (and occasionally Amie too) looked for a house with land in one particular community close to Boston, and after exactly a month and about 16 properties later, we found what we were looking for. We made an offer, got a counteroffer, accepted the counteroffer, and we were off!

0.7 acres is suddenly quite intimidating. I am sort of disappointed but also kind of relieved that we’re not going to do any landscaping or big-time gardening this growing season. We’re too late (we;ll move in at the end of June), and will stick to exploring the land, improving the soil, and making lots of plans. But I did download and order heaps of seed and plants catalogs. I will need the advice of many of you readers!

And we want to concentrate on the house first, which needs insulating as well as a new heating and water system. So many exciting alternatives out there! Ever heard of geothermal? Imagine my excitement when I got Lehman’s Non-Electric catalog in the mail today, with much homesteadin’ goodness.

Also, after going through all that trouble finding a preschool for Amie here in Brookline, I’m going through all that trouble again, but on a much shorter notice, in a place I don’t know much about.

Meantime I was and am working on the last couple of chapters of the novel. The prospect of shopping for an agent and sending the manuscript into the big bad world is on my mind every day now. My faith in the book oscillates across the board in fell swoops left and right, up and down.

We’re not there yet, but close, very close!

We are getting the house. It’s so exciting, I can’t blog a word. It has .7 acres! Okay, I really can’t say more. We still have the inspections to do! Gotta go.

We are looking, in earnest.

We’re looking for a house, with at least 0.5 acre, in a beautiful town near Boston that used to be out of our league but that has now become possible, what with our somewhat increased income and lower real estate prices.

I’m dreaming away, but I’m also keeping the dreams on a tight leash (is that possible?). For instance: No, honey, it’s not a log cabin in Wyoming or a strawbale cottage in the Great North Woods. There won’t be wolves and moose and snowcapped mountains. But there will be land to grow carrots and potatoes and lettuce. Perhaps you can have a chicken coop + run (check with the town). And you might still spy a fox’s tracks in the snow.

And you’ll see, at least, the sky when I look out of the kitchen window!

Ah, we’re looking!

I came home from the library’s decommissioned books sale with three books (75 c each):

I know: why should they give these away? And they are in really good shape too. In any case,

“There’s a theme here,” said DH.

Mm, maybe there is.

My favorite is Phyllis Root’s Kiss the Cow (illustrated by Will Hillenbrand). Amie loves it too: we read it at least three times a day. The cow is so lovingly drawn, in words as well as song and in paint and ink. This is, I think, the best book ever. If you’re so inclined, you know.

When we read books we make sure to explore the entire book: author and illustrator, of course, publishing house, whether it was published recently or a long time ago, and dedications and information about the creators.

In Kiss the Cow there is a dedication of Root’s to her aunt and uncle, who had thirteen children. We count all the kids on the pages - sometimes there’s thirteen, sometimes more (especially when they’re hungry and screaming)! On the back flap both author and illustrator confess to wanting to kiss a cow - for research!

Thank you Brookline Library!

I’ll let you know what I’m working on.

1. I’m researching how best to teach reading. Fascinating that whole Whole Word - Phonics war. So much of the history and psychology of writing is involved, and then throw your own toddler and her talents and interests into the mix. I love a complex challenge!
2. In advance of my making up my mind about the letter vs. sound approach, Amie and I started a consistent project with the sounds-letters she already recognizes: a, b, g, m, o, s, and t. We’re having a blast! The moment the fuller than full memory card on my camera can be emptied, I’ll take a picture of our “Corridor Project”.
3. Two weeks ago we inaugurated the cash box. At the end of the month we were always shocked to find that we had saved nothing. Where did it all go? So we are taking out $200 in cash a week and from that pay for our food, gas and small purchases (so not the fixed costs like mortgage, electricity, cable, etc.). It is so much easier to see it going-going-gone. Two weeks now we’ve made it!
4. I’m writing the final chapters of my novel, the ones where everything comes together. It’s so exciting, too exciting sometimes. But Amie has been home sick all week, so I haven’t been able to work all week. The suspense is killing me!
5. I’m dreaming again of the ole homestead… but keeping it small: a little structure to build. What will be its function (live there, guest space, study, workshop, kids’ house), structure (how big, how many floors, windows, what kind of roof and floor), materials (I’m leaning towards cob), energy source (solar, wind, composting toilet). We don’t have any land yet to build it on, but we’re looking! I got the magical Home Work Handbuilt Shelter book from the library and will accidentally leave it on the kitchen table to once more entice DH to share the dream.

I’ll report on all of these (but 4) soon!

Thanks to Moonmeadow Farm, this is Wendell Berry’s poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from his book The Country of Marriage (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973). I hope it’s ok to reproduce it here… 

Oh but be fearless!

 So:

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry (my hero)

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

                 ~

There is so much in this poem, I won’t even try to write about it, as yet. I’ve only just discovered it, let me read a couple of hundred times first, soak it up… rest my head in its lap.

I got weed juice seemingly permanently rubbed into my fingers, dirt under my fingernails, my first case of “hoe-neck,” scratches all over my arm from the squash plants, a little back ache, a mild sunburn… When I proudly mentioned this litany to my friend, she said:

- “Honey! You’re a gardener now.”

I raised my hand to stop her and said, as seriously as I’ve ever said anything in my life:

- “Correction: I’m a farmer now.”

Then we laughed, of course.

I’m not a farmer yet, by a long shot (or even a gardener), but I have made a beginning. Volunteering at a farm - offering physical labor for experience - was a longstanding plan of mine, and after some paperwork and a couple of interviews, it finally came together. I am now an agricultural volunteer at Drumlin Farm in lovely Lincoln, Massachusetts! In fact, I have been so for over a month, though I’ve only been able to spend about 15 hours.

• Nothing but hands and hard work

On the forms and during the interviews, I was repeatedly asked what I could contribute to the farm. I was always honest: nothing but the strength of my body. I made it clear that I have no special skills, no experience, no expertise, and very little book knowledge. 

But, I said, I have these great tools: my hands. And enthusiasm, curiosity and no problem with hard physical labor.

That was, apparently, sufficient. And it was great, showing up on the first day and having nothing expected of me other than hard work.

• My farming so far

I saved the cosmos (flower), from the purslane (and lamented the fate of said purslane, as it is chock-full of omega-3s and we just threw it on the compost pile) , I weeded and hoed the carrot, cauliflower, brussels sprouts, broccoli and squash fields. I also trellissed tomatoes. The work is simple, hard, hot and repetitive, and I don’t mind it at all.

• Lonely work

It’s also lonely, as I come at times when most workers have left for the farmstand at the Farmer’s Market. One of the apprentices apologized for leaving me alone in the fields, with no one to talk to, and another suggested I come on Sundays, when the members of their CSA come in and there are more people and opportunities to chat.

But I like the loneliness of it, the intense concentration on the plants, and once in a while standing up and being surprised by how suddenly the sky changed.

• Learning

To be honest I haven’t learned much by way of “farm facts”, not much of the whys and wherefors of decisions and actions. I just do what the crop’s manager asks. I should be more assertive in asking questions, which the apprentices and crop’s manager  would gladly answer. I’ll slowly start doing that, as more opportunities arise. For now, I’m just there, in the moment.

I have gained experience, most importantly of my feeling of responsibility for the crops. I get to take some at the end of the day, so the carrot I save from the weed may be mine to take home in a week or two. But I am also repsonsible in a more general way. That is what I am there to do: to relearn the skills of growing food, which I have come to think of as a responsibility we all have.

I’m taking it easy. I want to feel at home on the farm first, before I start learning for serious.

These are my dad’s parents, taken in 1999 at a typical family meal in summer. For me, the picture crystallizes “family”: the shared food, cooked by my grandmother (who was a great cook), the shared wine (note the three bottles!), selected by my grandfather, the unseen but imagined presence of many family members around the table, the slanting sun, the old cherry tree… 

I wasn’t present at that gathering, I was already living in Boston and we coulnd’t afford to fly over very often. Most of my family lives in Belgium (Ghent and Antwerp, two cities that are half an hour’s drive away from one another). Two of my uncles emigrated decades ago and live in Toronto and in Taiwan, and one of my nephews lives in Barcelona, Spain.

My grandmother passed away two weeks ago. Everyone flew in to Ghent for the funeral and to support my grandfather. It was too difficult and expensive for us. That Friday of the funeral was a very strange day for me. Knowing that everyone was gathered there, except for us, and my grandmother, gave me a bizarre feeling of solidarity with my grandmother: we were both absent in person, though, I hope, present in spirit.

I wrote a while ago about the importance of family, especially of grandparents, for raising children and ourselves, and the appeal of a family more extended than our present, very nuclear family. That week after my grandmother’s passing, that message was made crystal clear to me.

In the meantime, however, we’ve realized that we cannot afford to buy a bigger house, even one in the country. The dream of an extended family will have to be put on hold for a while longer…