How We Got Our Cement Pond

Shortly after my husband, Eddie Albert, and I procured our farm, we were coming back from a hot hike around the property and I said, “Wow, wouldn’t a pool be great out here?” Eddie chuckled and dismissed me out of hand. It was just a thought. My mother, Marge, and I had a dream of getting a pool when I was little, but my dad was not having it. I rinsed my face in cold water at the kitchen sink, trying to get my apple cheeks to cool down.

A little while later Eddie and his buddy, who had a gorgeous garden of his own, took a weekend to plan and plant our first garden. It was a sight to behold: organized rows labeled with “lettuce,” “eggplant,” “beans,” etc. But, as I’ve written before, untended gardens are prone to weeds and while we were away from the farm for a couple of weeks, our beautifully planted garden became overrun with weeds and was barely recognizable.

“We’re going to have to get up early to weed that garden tomorrow,” I warned. “Before the heat of the day.” “Yeah, sure,” Eddie Albert replied. Morning came and again I declared, “We’d better get going out there while the ground is still soft and get those weeds out.” “Ok,” he replied, turning a page of the Wall Street Journal.

“I know your game, Tom Sawyer,” I thought. “You’re waiting for me to do it myself and then you will waltz in at the end and tell me what a good job I’ve done. Not this time, pal. I am not weeding that whole garden alone.” And so, I waited. And waited.

Finally, he stirred and sure enough, there we were in the heat of the midday sun, bent over picking weeks. And, just as I had warned, they weren’t coming out. The tops of the weeds would pop off, leaving the roots in place: plink, plink, plink. Under the blazing sun, one by one, the blasted weeds held fast to the earth. Plink, plink … Eddie became more and more frustrated.

Finally, he stood up, arms akimbo looking like an irritated Jolly Green Giant. As the heat seared us both, he wiped his brow and surveyed the situation. “Screw this,” he declared. “Let’s put a pool here.” He threw down his garden gloves and walked away.

And that’s how we came to have a pool at our farm.

It took a few years, but this past summer it finally happened. We have a pool and it is awesome, I must say. I can feel my mother’s approval. She loved the water, even though she didn’t learn to swim until she was in her 50s. She and I would go to my cousin’s above ground pool in the summer where she and her sister, donning those goofy floral bathing caps, would stand in the middle of the pool, just smoothing the water with their fingertips in a circle around them. They chatted about their respective families, their brood of children, and who knows what else. I was busy bobbing up and down nearby, like a seal pup near its mother.

When Marge finally did learn to swim, she had a classic swimming move: the sidestroke. I’ve never seen anyone else do it, but it was the perfect way for a gal to get from one end of the pool to the other without getting her face wet or ruining her coiffed hair. It looked like a move of Esther Williams, the swimming movie star of the 40s whom my mother was said to resemble in her youth. Marge would keep her head above water the whole time and reach one arm forward, then the other, but never turn her body. All she needed was musical accompaniment and maybe some legs kicks it would have been water ballet.

Marge would love this farm pool because she also loved horses. In this pool, she would be able sidestroke over to the edge and watch as mares and foals graze and stroll in the grassy fields below. I can just hear her saying in awe, “Aren’t they beautiful animals?”

One of the last minute additions to the pool project was an outdoor shower. I floated that idea early on and got it shot down … but guess who is wild about the outdoor shower now? Eddie will tell anyone who will listen about how he loves that shower. Can't blame him. There’s something about showering in the out of doors. It’s so refreshing and liberating. And it feels slightly naughty (“I’m naked. Outside!”). Between the pool and the shower, it’s a freaking farm fantasy.

Eddie Albert’s high noon decision a few years back to get a pool at the farm was a good one (as well as the audible call on the shower). And we still do have that garden as well. After working in the garden or going on a hot walk, there’s nothing better than taking a Nestea plunge in that cement pond. But I know that deep down, Eddie’s decision on the pool was all about making this place a gathering spot for family and friends as well as sweetening the pie for The Princesses: Flora, Fauna and Meriwether. It’s all about making this farm more desirable for them as they travel far and wide in their respective lives. Something to keep them coming home, maybe someday with families of their own. I’m not in a hurry for that stage in life, but when it comes, I look forward to teaching the next generation “the smooth,” and the sidestroke, courtesy of Marge/Esther Williams. 

Slacking Sluggers

I recently had a long weekend away with my college friends. For the past thirty-one years since we graduated college, we have gotten together once a year in a cabin on a quiet lake in northern Minnesota. When we were new college graduates, the weekends up there were brief, beer soaked and silly, full of music and dancing …  just another excuse for a party. A few men made those weekends early on, but soon they drifted off and it slowly became a Girls Weekend. We dubbed our weekends together “Slugfest,” as in lying around like slugs. As life got busier and more complicated, these weekends away with each other became a beacon, a goal. “Just hang on until Slugfest.”

Over the years our gatherings have turned into veritable therapy sessions with us lying around and talking about jobs, husbands, partners, kids, dogs, heartbreak, aging parents, parents gone, dreams deferred, worry, regret … life. These weekends always include laughter and tears, crossword puzzles done together (the only way I have been able to complete one), and Chinese checkers. Our beverages have gone from cheap beer to gourmet coffee and good wine. And our menus have progressed from potato chips and pizza to downright fine dining. One year, early on, our conversation at dinner drifted to talking about appliances and I remember saying, “Wow, we must really be adults, now. This is so boring.” We all laughed and got stupid again.

When my husband and I had the good fortune to become farm owners, I immediately thought, “this would be a great clubhouse for the Sluggers!” By then, we Sluggers were all turning 50 and decided that life is too short for just one Slugfest a year. We deserved two: a Lake Slug and a Farm Slug. And so, the Sluggers migrated south from Minnesota to Ohio and I was thrilled.

As the Sluggers arrived at the farm and unpacked their bags, I made a fire in the fireplace, eager to get down to slugging. Then, my friend, I’ll call her “Lucy,” unpacked a special gift for me: a slack line. “What the?” I thought. “That’s awfully ambitious. Does this mean we have to get off the couch?” For those who are older than thirty, a slack line is a hipster device that is essentially a wide tight rope that one installs between two trees and then, if one is an agile young twenty something, tiptoes across with ease and grace. It’s the perfect complement to a hacky sack. Lucy decided that, while she valued our penchant for lying around, she thought we all needed a challenge. She has triplets who are currently teenagers, so she was clearly sleep deprived and not thinking straight. I, being a good hostess, begrudgingly agreed to help get it set up later, hoping she would forget about it.

Well, unfortunately she remembered the slack line the day after a particularly festive evening of dancing and revelry. And, ok, a lot of wine. Let’s just say, I was a bit in the weeds. But Lucy was insistent on getting that slack line up. Eager to shake the cobwebs off my brain, I jumped in … or rather shuffled. The ensuing scene was one for the ages. The others, I’ll call them “The Glue” (she’s the perennial organizer) and “Moojer” (a butchered “mujer,” or “woman” in Spanish) looked on and sipped coffee as Lucy and I wrestled, grunted, groaned and were generally stymied by the slack line. We were down on all fours for hours, twisting the line, turning it this way and that, swearing like sailors. The instructions were incomprehensible, so we Googled for better directions and found videos of a hilariously douchey dudes assuring viewers that this slack line was an amazing way to “amp up your workout” and “really challenge your abs.” I particularly enjoyed the videos with stoner music. “Oh for chrissake,” I thought. “Can’t we just get a Bloody Mary and call it a day?”

We persevered, albeit clumsily with more swearing and grunting. When we finally, miraculously had the blasted thing up, we both let out ecstatic, almost obscene sounds like that famous scene from When Harry Met Sally – “Yes! Yes! Yes!” – collapsing on the ground in delirious laughter. Talk about a workout. My back hurts just writing about it. The horses nearby rolled their eyes, swinging their tails at flies as the four of us immediately went inside for a nap.

The slack line remained between two trees outside our farmhouse for a few weeks and my daughters and I gave it a few runs. My husband, The Land Baron kept threatening to try it, but never got around to it. It now sits under the deck, waiting for the Sluggers’ return visit, hopefully next spring. Every time I see it, I smile and laugh to myself with memories of that ridiculous day of setting it up, but also with genuine gratitude for the amazing good fortune I possess to have had these friends for so long.

We don’t talk much between our gatherings, preferring to save it all up for those magical weekends where time stands still and we are almost back in college, only now with wrinkles and sensible shoes. As we move forward, I know that life will keep coming, with all its unplanned twists, turns and surprises (like slack lines). But I also know in my fiber that these women will remain. Slug on, Slugging Sluggers!

Prairie Peddler

“This is my favorite part,” they cooed as they cuddled the Styrofoam bowl, blowing on its hot contents. “It’s so delicious …”

My lovely nieces dragged – no, invited me to accompany them to their favorite festival of the year, The Prairie Peddler Festival. In that it is conveniently located not far from our farm, I decided to go. I needed an antidote to the last festival I went to in the area, Ink in the Clink, which left me, shall I say, uncomfortable. It was a gorgeous fall day, and I would get to hang out with two of my nieces and their brother. In a sprawling, large Irish Catholic family of 30 grandchildren and 20+ great grandchildren (honestly, I’m losing count), I really enjoy having some one on one time with my peeps.  My husband even came, along with our daughter, Flora.

After a winding drive over and through hills of cornfields, we arrived.  It turns out that Prairie Peddler is not located on the prairie at all, but in the woods, for some reason. Why is it in the woods? Are these people on the lamb or something? It is a maze of over 200 permanent structures that stay in the woods year round. Two weekends a year, the “peddlers,” sell handmade this or that: lots of lovely pottery, leather goods, candles and such. I joined the throng of shuffling festivalgoers and, per usual, immediately lost my husband.

My husband has a reputation for going rogue in these settings. He’s like an ADD hound dog. If he catches a scent of something that interests him, off he goes. I often refer to him as “Moonbeam,” as in “How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?” I was impressed that he came at all because he's not into "themed" events. He rolled his eyes when we confronted a scarecrow that would occasionally come to life and freak out small children and old people. When we passed a couple holding hands and wearing matching red T-shirts, one reading O-H, the other reading I-O, I warily glanced over at Moonbeam. “You ok?”

Moonbeam lasted an hour, escaping to go back to the farm and do Important Things like sitting on his rocking chair and surveying his view. The rest of us pushed on, in search of what was being promised to me as “the best thing you’ll ever taste” by my nieces. Our group kept losing each other in the sea of flannel and blue jeans, constantly calling each other’s cell phones for directions on how to find one another. It was like a party game.

“I’m at the booth with the yellow mums in front of it.”

Nope, you’ve got to give me more than that. This place is littered with mums.

“We’re right next to the booth with the witches and pumpkins.”

Still no good. Those are everywhere too.

“OK, look for the American flag and a man dressed like Ye Olde Prairie Guy.”

You’re killing me.

We miraculously all reunited and dawdled through more booths of furniture, and accessories like lamps made of coconut shells and a whole genre of stuff called "primitives," whatever that is.  I watched my daughter, nieces and nephew perusing items for their respective homes and it hit me … When did they all grow out of dressing up in my mother’s scarves to be these funny, smart, interesting humans with jobs and houses of their own? And how is it my nieces now have children? Are they still children? Aren't I still a child?

As I pondered that (and whether or not I needed a coconut shell lamp), we came upon the food we were seeking. The line was long in front of the booth, everyone shuffling impatiently, looking with anticipation at the coveted steaming bowls ahead. Finally, there it was: a Styrofoam cup of piping hot chicken noodle soup on top of mashed potatoes with – wait for it – biscuits on the side. That’s carbs on top of carbs with carbs on the side. It made my pants hurt just looking at it. “Are we running a marathon or something?” I thought. I took a bite of my niece’s serving. “Hmm.  It’s ok,” I thought. “But a little heavy, don’t you think?” Then, a bite of my other niece’s serving. “Ok, it’s nice and warm, I’ll give you that.” Then a bite of my nephew’s serving. Then, I just let it happen: I snarfed down a couple rounds of samples from each of them, because calories don’t count when you a). eat standing up; b). eat from someone else’s bowl; c). are shivering at an outdoor festival and what you’re eating is warm.

Sure, that carb on carb on carb bowl was tasty. Not “the most delicious thing ever,” but I choked it back. I did feel the need for a big nap about a half hour later. What was better, though, was spending time with these cool young adults on a gorgeous Ohio fall day. For all the confusion and high carb food, this Prairie Peddler thing may need to be a new tradition. Next time though, I’ll have to wear my stretchy pants.

Ye Olde Carbs on Carbs on Carbs

On Walking

I’ve always been a walker. I guess I got it from my dad. He loved to go for a walk after dinner and I would often accompany him when I was little, my shorter legs taking four steps for every one of his long, six-foot-four inch tall strides. I often say I would sooner walk from here to the moon than run from here to the corner. My body just doesn’t like running. For me, walking is exercise, meditation, prayer and therapy all rolled into one.

Part of our routine on the farm is to take long walks there, through the woods, up one hill, down another, passing cornfields, yearling horses, mooing cows, babbling creeks. Winter, spring, summer, fall … it’s a gorgeous gift to be able to take in the air, walk, think, pray. The wife of The Mayor, former owner of the property, was an avid walker like me. I’d see her making her daily seven-mile loop as I would drive in. I could tell she found the same therapy in it that I do. She left us too soon, a little over a year ago. I guess God wanted to show her even better trails, but I think of her every time I walk the property with her sunny smile and friendly wave.

Just after we acquired the farm property I had a chance to take an epic walk of a lifetime: El Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I had heard of this centuries old pilgrimage – The Way of St. James – years ago from my college roommate. The entire Camino is some 400 miles and stretches from the southern border of France, over the Pyrenees Mountains and across the top of Spain to Santiago, the supposed burial site of St. James. I love a long walk, so I was intrigued.

Then came a little movie called The Way about The Camino, starring Martin Sheen. The day after I saw the movie, I was in the parking lot of my local grocery store, looking up details on The Camino: Where is it? How long does it take? How can I do this? But I was in a hurry, so I put my phone away and ran into the store, right into my friend, Gidget. “Hey, long time no see! Listen,” she said to me over the cantaloupes. “Do you know what the Camino is?” Me: “Um, yeah, I literally was just in my car…” Her: “Do you want to go on it with me? I’m putting together a group.” Me: “Um, yeah. I’m in.”

Fast-forward four years. I have now been on three different versions of the Camino with a group of women who also love to walk … and drink wine, eat cheese, and most importantly, laugh, laugh, laugh. I could literally write pages on each journey. Suffice it to say that real pilgrims carry all that they need for the month-long journey on their back and sleep in humble alburges or roadside hostels with dozens of other pilgrims along the way. Well, our Camino is a bit more Camino Light and we are The Housewives of the Camino. The first Camino was four years ago and was a journey of the last 100 miles of the Camino. It was amazing beyond belief. I found myself smiling all day every day, in spite of aching feet and tired legs each night. Some of my favorite times were when I was walking alone across the countryside, my Camino sisters either ahead or behind me, and just listening to the breeze through the trees and the sound of a lonesome cowbell. I even had a little miracle when, after a day of silently praying and chatting with my deceased mother and asking her for a sign that all is well, I came across her name, MARGE, scrawled across a bridge I was walking under. It took my breath away, making me laugh and cry at the same time because it was so my mom: not subtle at all. It was awesome.

Camino II was Camino del Norte, a 90 mile walk through Basque Country in northern Spain, ending in the tony village of San Sebastian, home of the most Michelin rated restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the world. You’re damned straight we visited one of those restaurants (feeling very, very underdressed in our Eddie Bauer travel dresses).  I have a fistful of toothbrushes from the fancy bathroom there to prove we were there (Stay classy, me.) That trip included an impromptu private mass in the home of St. Ignatius of Loyola, just outside of San Sebastian. A couple of Camino Sisters and I went rogue one day and did a side trip to Loyola, arriving at Ignatius’ home about a half hour before closing. We did a quick trip up one, two, three flights and stumbled upon a chapel on the third floor, just as the priest, Gaston, was setting up mass. After we finished singing “No one prays like Gaston, no one stays like Gaston, my what a guy … Gaston!” we settled in for mass, ended up being moved to tears at how lovely, holy and special the occasion was …  and then, at his suggestion, taking selfies in the chapel with Gaston and almost getting locked into the basilica in Loyola.

I just got back from Camino III, El Camino Portugués, a 90-mile seaside hike up the west coast of Portugal and Galicia, Spain. Once again, it was perfection. Miles and miles of breathtaking scenery were enjoyed on roads, walking paths and from my perch in the front of our little bus alongside an equally nauseous Camino Sister (we cannot handle the motion in the back of the bus). The eleven us definitely boosted the wine, cheese and tile economy while there (You’re welcome, Portugal and Spain.)  This walk included walking between, into and through many, many wineries. Our favorite had to be the one in Argo, Spain, where we met The Most Interesting Man in Spain. This guy loves his job, his country, his wine … and definitely loves the ladies. So, he was thrilled to have eleven middle-aged American women for wine Show and Tell. He poured his wine liberally, told us obscenity-laced stories of his father, the founder and gave us plenty of cheese, ham, olives and bread. As we left, we each got a big hug and a kiss from The Most Interesting Man in Spain. I'm pretty sure he slipped some of us his tongue and grabbed some ass. That night was marked by a much-anticipated (and feared) dinner of local eel back at our 17th Century manor. Not enough wine was consumed all day or at dinner to make that eel palatable, but I could see that the cook was offended by our pinched faces, so I choked that sucker back as best I could. I swear, I’m still burping up eel today, two weeks later. Not the souvenir I had planned to bring back with me.

And so, I’m back in my Real Life now. It’s good to go away. It’s good to come home, visions of long walks, tapas and wine dancing in my head. While I was gone, two cousins and a good friend passed away, and there was a cousin wedding and a nephew wedding. Life and Death keep coming. Joys and sorrows continue. All of it only reinforces in me the importance of cherishing my walks, be they around the neighborhood, at the farm, or on far-flung paths. When I’m faced with the inevitable obstacles to happiness, fulfillment and peace, I keep visualizing those walks in my mind and I walk on, searching for my own faith, meaning, inspiration, hope, sanity. All will be well. One step at a time. As they say on the pilgrimage, ¡Buen Camino! Enjoy the journey. 

A message from my mom on Camino I, September 2013.

Walk on ...

Howdy, Neighbor!

When we first acquired our farm, my husband, Mufasa, whispered into my ear, “Everything the light touches is ours,” as he put his arm around my shoulder and we took in our new view.  While that’s a bit of an exaggeration, I’ve grown accustomed to that view, spoiled by it, actually. Our closest neighbor is a half mile down the road, waayyy over there. I enjoy watching his cattle make their way from one end of his property to the other, lazily grazing and mooing.

All of the sudden, however, a new neighbor has appeared. I rolled up to our farmhouse several weeks ago to discover – horrors! – surveyors’ sticks. And then came an outline of a house.  Then, I’ll be damned if that darn house didn’t go up quicker than a horse fart.

So, there you have it. We have neighbors. And they are a cozy quarter mile away. Shocking! It seems that the elderly woman who lives on the spread of land next to us has bequeathed a parcel of land to her son and he has decided to build a nice house on it. How dare he! So what if that land has been in their family for three generations. We’re talking about my view here!

I feel claustrophobic. I feel greedy and unsettled. What is the matter with me? The view has changed to include a lovely home. So what? Why is this rattling my cage? I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to the freedom of not having neighbors in close proximity. It’s given me the freedom of not giving a what. Dog wants to go for an unrestricted walkabout? Off he goes! Like that song? Crank up the volume and open the windows! Just took a shower and can’t find your clothes? Walk around naked. Commando living at its finest. Don’t worry ... only when we don’t have guests or our daughters with us. When your closest neighbor is a half-mile away, it doesn’t matter.

At our real home, our neighbors are literally steps away. I can hear them chatting on their patios at night or on the phone outside in the morning. They are close enough that my when my youngest was a toddler, she would surprise and delight them by occasionally barging into their living rooms uninvited to play with their toys. I am glad they are that close. My one neighbor and I let ourselves in to each other’s houses to borrow things: bikes, eggs, children.

I have a high bar for neighbors. In my home neighborhood, we raised each other’s kids, a tribe of young people roaming in and out of each other’s homes, eating, playing games, watching movies, laughing. We wiped sticky faces, bandaged knees, and lathered sunscreen on chubby legs as we put out the sprinkler in the summer. We still have an annual Fourth of July breakfast picnic every year where we watch local runners go by in a 5K Race while we stuff donuts and coffee in our faces. We have block parties and progressive dinner Christmas parties. We are close in proximity and emotionally. We’ve cocktailed together on front porches on warm summer nights, conferred with each other at the bus stop about child rearing, supported each other through illness and funerals. And now, we are going to all of our children’s weddings. I love my home neighbors.

Out in the country, I didn’t expect to have neighbors. We’ve become friends with our neighbors on the other side of the property, Johnny Cash and June Carter, who are a short four-wheeler ride through the woods. They enthusiastically welcomed us to the country and have been a godsend for learning about the area, about guns and hunting, deer, farming and even music (Johnny is a musician/businessman/farmer). We’ve laughed together and shared good times. But Johnny and June are not within eyesight. These new neighbors are sitting. Right. There.

And so, what to do? Continue glaring at their lovely new home? Pine for the days of unsullied bucolic views? See if we can smoke them out with loud music (I could always host my favorite Ink in the Clink band, Saliva, for a concert). Or maybe be a grown up and bring a plate of cookies over and introduce ourselves? I’ll make sure to put a bra on. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be borrowing ketchup from each other one day.

Joan Crawford, Dennis and Mr. Wilson

One of my favorite past times on our farm is observing the animals there. In so doing, I have learned that, while we humans can idealize animals as being kinder and more decent than the human race, that is not always the case. Sometimes animals can be just as loathsome as we humans.

Our farm is actually a racehorse breeding business where owners bring their female horses to our farm to be inseminated, gestate and give birth under the knowing hand of The Sheriff, his father The Mayor and their right hand gal, Wonder Woman. About a year into our farm adventure, a mare came onto the property already pregnant. She gave birth according to plan and her little colt began nursing and thriving. Then the horseshit hit the fan. Mrs. Horse was clearly not right. Out of nowhere one day, she began beating up on her little colt. The foal, a colt they named Dennis, had scrapes and cuts inflicted by his nutty mom. It was emotional for the whole staff of the farm to witness. But the Sheriff and his team knew that colt needed mother’s milk as long as possible in order to thrive, so they hesitantly left him with her a few more days … until it became obvious that the mare, we’ll call her Joan Crawford, was a Mommy Dearest nightmare and had taken to trying to rip the hide off her colt. They finally separated them, sending Dennis to the animal hospital at The Ohio State University to recover from his wounds before he returned to the farm.

Enter The Companion Goat. I’ve learned that occasionally this kind of thing can happen in horses, that the mother is just a bad seed and needs to be separated from her foal. While the foal can be supplemented with formula or granular milk, he still needs companionship to thrive, so horse farms will routinely bring in a “companion goat.” They will also do this if a mother horse dies in childbirth. The little goat’s job is just to be a buddy, a wingman, a roommate. So, walking through the barns one would pass the stalls and see mama horse and filly, a mama horse and colt, a baby horse and … goat. It’s an unusual sight.

Dennis and the goat got along famously. They would nuzzle each other, run together out in the paddock or, like old friends in a coffee shop, just munch their food silently next to one another. It was really sweet.

The staff grew to love that silly goat and named him Mr. Wilson as a nod to the character in the “Dennis the Menace” comic strip. Mr. Wilson acted like a playful dog, scampering around the barn, chasing the cats, peaking around the corners. He even figured out how to open his and Dennis’ stall door, the little scamp.

But eventually, things took a dark turn. One misty morning, the Sherriff entered the barn to start the day’s chores and witnessed a disturbing thing. Dennis was abusing Mr. Wilson, just as his own mother had abused him. Again, it was shocking, and heartbreaking. The Sherriff and his staff had worked so hard to nurse that colt back to health and make him feel loved and nurtured. And poor Mr. Wilson. He must have been equally disillusioned. “Dude, I’m on your side,” he must have thought. “What the farm?”

And so, to the sadness of all, Mr. Wilson went back to his original owner and Dennis lived alone in his stall, growing bigger and more combative every day. When all the other foals were eventually weaned from their own mothers, all the colts were put in the same paddock. Dennis was by far the biggest and meanest of them all. The other colts instinctively knew something was off with Dennis and took turns going at him, kicking him, and generally bullying him. It was like a very rough schoolyard scene and it helped make Dennis a badass, a thug. It was sad really. Dennis didn’t have a chance.

Joan Crawford wasn’t popular in the fields after the separation. The other mama horses kept her at bay on the outskirts of their circles. They new she wasn’t right either. Eventually, Joan’s owner sold her at an auction, with the caveat that she never be bred again because clearly girlfriend couldn’t be trusted as a mom. The day she was sent to auction, her paperwork was out of order and she had to return to the farm for a few days. When she was put back into the field with the other mares, there was a tense scene. One by one, each of the five or six mares in that field charged up to Joan, kicking and braying, as if to say, “Aw, hell no, Joan Crawford! You hurt your baby and we all know it, you crazy bitch. You are not welcome here.” That display continued for a couple of days until Joan Crawford finally left the farm for good and calm returned.

I’m sure Dennis went on to be a successful racehorse, big and mean as he was. And hopefully Joan Crawford is living a peaceful existence pulling an Amish plow somewhere, thinking about the error of her ways. Was Joan abused as a foal? Did she have a genetic screw loose somewhere? Was Dennis abusing Mr. Wilson because of an equally loose genetic screw or did he learn that behavior? Perhaps some combination of both? Who knows, but the whole cycle of abuse and nature vs. nurture was as distressing as it was interesting.

Life has gone on at the farm with dozens of foals being born and raised without incident each year since Dennis and Joan Crawford left. Watching the good, normal moms devotedly tend to their young each season is a beautiful sight and often makes me think of my own mom, of being a mom myself and how blessed I have been to have an excellent mother, good role models, a safe upbringing and good genes. In life and on horse farms, that should never be taken for granted.

Mr. Wilson and Dennis, in happier days.

Oh. Deer.

I have always loved nature and animals. I spent most of the summers in my youth outdoors either weeding for my father or trying to avoid doing so by hiding from him in the woods behind our house. In all those formative years, I rarely, if ever saw a deer in our neighborhood, in the woods behind our house, in the Metroparks, which I would frequent as a teenager, or even on road trips to the West Virginia resort my family would visit every year. The closest I ever came to a deer was watching Bambi on the Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights after a bath.

Today, it is a different story. As anyone who lives in the suburbs – or even urban neighborhoods – will tell you, deer are omnipresent. They are as commonplace as squirrels and way, way more obnoxious. When I’m working in the garden in my suburban back yard, I will often scare one up, waking her from her comfortable nap in my hostas. She will slowly get up and stroll away, muttering obscenities to me under her breath. She and her deer buddies in our neighborhood are like a marauding gang, roaming around with impunity, thuggish and ballsy. They just don’t give a what. When they cross a street, they seem to purposely take their time doing so.

“Yeah, I’m strolling across this major thoroughfare, stopping traffic both ways. And you’re just going to sit there in your minivan and take it, lady.”

And they’re a randy bunch, procreating with abandon. Every time I turn around there’s another newborn fawn all curled up and cozy in someone’s front yard. Mrs. Deer, you really need to take up another hobby. Sure, those babies are precious … until they’re eating my landscaping.

When I’m cooking on the grill in my suburban back yard, a deer will stand there, chewing and staring at me blankly. “Um, Mar,” he seems to say. “Those burgers seem to be overdone. And while we’re talking about food … you really need to plant more pansies in the front yard. I started nibbling on them this morning and before I knew it, I had eaten the whole bed.  They are like potato chips … you can’t have just one. Anyway, you’re going to want to plant more pansies, Mar.”

I hate urban deer. And I hate the silly fools who feed them.

Last week on our annual family vacation in West Virginia I witnessed a flock of these fools (I am referring to people here) hand feeding a veritable herd of deer. It was like a Disney World character autograph scrum.

“Here, Bambi! Have some Cap’n Crunch.”

“Why, thank you kind, simple tourist. And for your troubles, I will in turn give you some ticks with Lyme disease.” Lyme Disease is real and not something to trifle with, people. That stuff will mess you up.

The sad truth is that these suburban deer are eating everything in their path because they’re starving. The combination of urban sprawl and deer’s propensity to reproduce faster than post war Catholics is giving us deer that are too skinny and unhealthy. Those deer on the resort hilltop were like ghostly apparitions. Honestly, there are just too damned many deer for urban environments to sustain. Or West Virginia resorts, for that matter.

Out in the country around our farm, however, deer are deer. They are muscular and majestic because they are fit and living like wild animals, not pathetic circus sideshow acts. They are beautiful, really, just like The Great Prince of the Forest, Bambi’s father.  They are appropriately skittish and mostly keep away from humans because they have gotten the message that humans out there in the country are often packing heat and they and their deer friends just might end up on someone’s wall or dinner plate. But the result is that the deer population is under control, they are not overrunning the area and there is enough vegetation for them to live healthy, happy lives. Out there, I don’t hate deer.

My husband, The Deer Hunter, loves deer. In fact, he went so far as to plant apple trees on our farm so that they could treat themselves as they pass through our property. “Oh, that’s so sweet!” I exclaimed.  “What a nice thing to do for them.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.  “It’s going to make for a great deer hunting season.”

Wait. What? He is planning on getting them fat and happy only to shoot them some time in the future? It made me sad.

But then I thought of those ghostly deer on the hilltop or the Sharks and Jets deer gangs in our neighborhood back home.  I’m no hunter, have no interest personally in killing deer and am not fond of venison. But seeing firsthand the difference between healthy deer and sickly deer, I’ve come to the realization that hunting deer is a necessary part of keeping nature natural and the deer population as a whole healthy.  I know Bambi’s mother was taken out by a deer hunter (don’t all Disney mothers find tragic, untimely ends?), and that broke my little heart. But isn’t it also heartbreaking to see a once majestic beast reduced to eating boxed cereal or anything out of a human's hand?

Please stop the madness!

Postscript: THE HOUR I posted this blog, my dog was attacked by a deer on the back steps of our suburban home. They are not cute, people! 

City Dog, Country Dog

Last Halloween, my dog and I were greeting little goblins at the door as they trick-or-treated and I got a surprising little trick. A gaggle of young girls, bedecked in wings, glitter and ghostly apparel, pushed towards the door, reaching for treats while asking me, “Can we say hi to Taj?” Taj is my 80-pound Doberman pinscher, a visually intimidating specimen, but as anyone who knows him, a complete mush of a dog. Taj Mahal loves people, especially kids. Not recognizing these little girls as being from my block, I replied, “Oh, sure! How do you know Taj?” I thought they must be new kids at my corner bus stop and visited him as they walked by. But no. They replied, giggling, rubbing the dog’s nose, “Oh, he comes over our house all the time to visit and we feed him!”

Excuse me? My 80-pound Doberman is, without my knowledge and in spite of our Invisible Fence, roaming our suburban neighborhood freely and has apparently taken up with another family? “We love Taj!” they exclaimed.

As they drifted away into the darkness, I turned to my guilt-ridden dog. “You …” I hissed at him. He skulked away silently like Scar from The Lion King, as if to say, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, Mom. I’ve never seen those bitches before in my life.”

Hmmm. It got me thinking. I’m pretty sure our bifurcated farm/suburban lifestyle is creating a schizophrenic dog.

Taj came into our lives as a precious little 8-week-old pup in the fall of 2012. Shortly thereafter, The Farm of Our Dreams came into our lives and ever since, Taj has had to continually switch on and off between the rules of Suburban Dog vs. Country Dog. In the suburbs, (when he’s not stealing away to his Other Family around the corner) Taj lives a pretty typical life; he chases invading deer out of our back yard, intimidates political canvassers (a huge plus), gets many ear rubs and generally lays around a lot. Out in the country, however, Taj lives a dog’s life to be envied. As I throw a few things into the car, about to head out to the country, he eagerly jumps into the back seat, and assumes a kind of meditative sphinx pose for the hour-and-a-half drive. It’s like he’s getting into character for his country self. As soon as we arrive on the farm, he’s out the door like a shot, peeing on everything he sees. (“That’s mine. That’s mine. All this is mine.”) Then he’s off to explore The Great Outdoors, like a kid from the 70’s. “Come back when the streetlights go on!” I yell after him. Only there are no streetlights out there. He disappears over a hill, galloping like a little rocking horse.

Eventually Taj returns, all sweaty and dirty, smiling from ear to ear and slumps into a contented heap, plum tuckered out. Who knows what he has seen, chased, peed on or, frankly, eaten? There are wild turkeys, moles, voles, snakes, toads, huge Pileated Woodpeckers, ground hogs, fox and coyote, out there, not to mention horses that board at our farm. It’s a dog’s delight. I do know that he makes daily rounds through the barns, tormenting the cats there, scarfing down their cat food like it’s manna from heaven. He used to chase the chickens we had, too, until we learned – farm lesson #149 – chicken poop is toxic to horses, so they had to go. Before they were evicted, those chickens were an endless source of amusement for Taj. They’d be out minding their own business, pecking in the grass, when along comes this exuberant dog, darting through them and sending them squawking, flying in all directions like confetti.

Taj has learned the hard way that the fences penning in the horses are electric. The poor bugger got a rude awakening as a pup when he nosed up to a colt through the fence and got zapped by enough electricity to keep a 1,000-pound animal off the fence. He took off into the woods in a confused panic for about an hour. Maybe that’s why he’s unphased by a measly Invisible Fence zap … I mean, he’s been to the zapping mountaintop. It hasn’t dampened his interest in those horses though. I think he think they’re the biggest darned dogs he’s ever seen.

Back in the suburbs, we have rules: no going into the carpeting living room; no sleeping on the couch; no digging the rugs; no wandering the neighborhood (tsk, tsk). I’m sure it feels like a gulag to poor Taj. The constant switching of rules and locations has made him a nervous wreck – he’s become afraid of some of the floorboards, the icemaker, the broom, the rugs, and his dog bowl, for chrissake. And, I think he’s a bit indignant at having to hang like any other domesticated dog, when he knows he was “born free.” Seeing neighborhood dogs with cute little jackets or kerchiefs around their necks, I can almost hear him mutter to them under his breath, “You have no idea what you’re missing out there, you silly fool.”

For all I know, Taj has a secret farm family, too, that he visits when he disappears over the hills. Are they Amish? Do they call him Yoder? Do they feed him farm fresh eggs and churned butter? There’s no way he’s doing chores. I can’t even get him to retrieve a ball. I’m certain that when they start doling out jobs, he’s off like a salty teen. “Y’all, it’s been real, but I gotta bounce and get back to the 21st century,” he would say to them, galloping away.

Either way, Taj has it pretty good, living his best life in the country or the ‘burbs. Honestly, me too. 

Taj Mahal Sullivan

Paul Bunyan and Rogue Babies

One of my husband, The Land Baron’s, favorite activities on the farm is driving a four-wheeler around the property, breathing in the country air, master of his domain. Invariably, this includes a drive along the creek that separates our farm from our neighbor’s cattle farm. We “poser farmers” enjoy watching the cows as they munch their way across the landscape, occasionally mooing their disapproval as we whisk by. Recently, on one such tour, we came across our neighbor, the owner of said cattle farm, out stomping along the creek bed. This fellow is a massive man, burly and strong with a round, kind, face. He reminds me of Paul Bunyan because he’s as big as a, well, a big blue ox. He was poking along the fence line with a long stick, seemingly searching for something.

“Howdy!” the Land Baron called out. “You lose something?”

It seems one Paul Bunyan’s newborn calves had gone missing and Paul was set on finding him. It was a scorching hot day and the calf, born just the day before, could be in real danger in the heat. The mama cow mooed her concern as she followed Paul Bunyan along the fence line and he nonchalantly chatted with us, all the while poking in the grass along the creek bed. “Yeah, they do this sometimes,” he drawled. “Just get curious about the world and wander off.”

I had learned that to be true the previous summer when I was fascinated by one such wandering calf. This rogue calf, on a daily basis, insisted on sneaking under the hot wire electric fence on Paul Bunyan’s property to wander over onto our property to graze. There she was, every day, a few times a day, putzing around on our hillside, munching and enjoying the view. It made me giggle every time I saw her: defiant, independent, her own gal. Every day, a few times a day, Paul Bunyan would have to wrangle her back to the fold. What was a pain in the rear and a lot of work for him was pure entertainment for me (which is kind of a theme for my sometime-pseudo-farm life). Our little rogue gal eventually grew too big to sneak under the fence without getting zapped and her wandering stopped.

So here was Paul Bunyan, a year later, searching for yet-another rogue calf.  The Land Baron and Paul exchanged chatter about animal breeding and horse foals vs. cow calves and such. “Is it a male or a female?” I asked, trying lamely to contribute to a conversation about which I knew very little. “Oh, it’s a male” he said. “Males can be that way. The young males can be kind of big and stupid.”

“Just like human males,” I replied. "They can be big and stupid, too.” My gaze lifted to take in Paul Bunyan’s massive form. Gulp. Our eyes met for an instant and I realized I had just stepped in it.

Paul Bunyan let out a hearty laugh. “I guess I left myself open for that one!” he chortled as he walked on through the brush.

I let out a breath and laughed too. What a moron I am.

Paul Bunyan strolled on a bit and we rode alongside until he found his rogue calf. There was Little Guy, in the heat of the day, lolling in the creek bed, cool water trickling past his little form. “Oh my!” I gasped. “Is he ok?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Paul said. “He’s just cooling off.” The water must have felt fantastic on Little Guy, because when Paul went to grab him, he didn’t even rustle. He just lay there like a nonviolent peace protestor (“Hell no, I won’t go!”). Paul scooped him up with one massive arm, like the calf was a bundle of twigs, not a one hundred pound animal, palming the calf under his soft, wet belly, and carrying him up the creek bed. When he tried to set him down, Little Guy’s legs were like puppet legs, lightly dangling on the ground under him. So, Paul tucked Little Guy gingerly under the hot wire fence and gently scooched him towards his mother. Mrs. Cow still watched the whole thing along the fence line, mooing her approval to Paul and, I would guess, chastising Little Guy for wandering so far and giving her such a fright.

Once on the other side of the fence, Little Guy, finally found his legs and scampered up the hill, Mrs. Cow nudging him from behind. We drove away, waving goodbye to Paul Bunyan as he lumbered up the hill. And there they were, Mrs. Cow and Little Guy, reunited. Little Guy was hungrily nursing. All was forgiven.

Years ago, I had a toddler that was forever going rogue, only it involved her streaking down the street naked after bath time, more times than I can count. I sympathized with that mommy cow’s exasperation, anger and then relief and comfort. Mrs. Cow and I met eyes and kind of nodded to each other. “Kids ….” I said out loud to her, shaking my head. We continued on as they nursed and nuzzled, enjoying their reunion.

Stay close, baby.

Ink in the Clink

Right about this time last summer, my husband, Captain Fun, had the idea for us to go visit a local music festival at The Ohio State Reformatory. I had just spent the weekend cooking and feeding a house full of people and was ready to be off duty. “Sure!” I thought. “I’d rather go to prison than cook or clean one more thing.” Perfect.

The Ohio State Reformatory, not too far from our farm, is where the film The Shawshank Redemption was shot some 23 years ago. I loved that movie and was interested to see the building, a gothic inspired kind of castle whose exterior beauty, I would find out, belies the sorrow within.

“A music festival out in the country …” I mused. “Hmm … what to wear?” Well, I wanted to fit in out here, so of course I donned my cowgirl hat. And it was a hot summer day, so my flouncy white skirt and a light pink shirt were just the thing. “I wonder if there will be square dancing?” 

Well, the “music festival” was titled Ink in the Clink. “Hmm … that’s funny,” I thought. “Ink? Like a writing festival?” Nope. It was a tattoo festival. “Oh, ok, cool,” I thought. Tattoos are so mainstream now. My daughter, Flora, has a darling one on her foot. My hairdresser, a beautiful young woman whom I adore, rocks them all over her body and she is precious. Tattoos are as ubiquitous as freckles these days. I’m not getting one, mind you, but I have no problem with them on others. "Let’s check it out."

At first, it felt like any other festival: corn dogs, elephant ears, fried cheese curds, freshly made lemonade … all the usual suspects. But things took a dark turn fast when I turned the corner to the vendors’ section and I knew I wasn’t in Kansas any more. First of all, I could not have felt more suburban, lily-white, middle aged, square and un-tatted. Everyone – and I mean everyone – was dressed in all black, Goth attire, most with dyed black hair and sleeveless t-shirts (why have an arm tattoo if you’re not going to show it, right?). Nary a cowboy hat in sight. My flouncy white peasant skirt was like a beacon in a sea of darkness. I felt like a prison spotlight was following me throughout the festival, screaming “Hey! I’m a big square, a poser and don’t belong here! I’m not even a real farmer!”  

I ventured in and swished over to check out the vendors. I noticed something swaying in the hot breeze ahead. “Oh, look! Is that some sort of wind chime?” Nope, that was an anatomically correct replica of an upside down human being, skinned and hanging from a pole, swaying back and forth. “Nope, I don’t need one of those, thanks.”

Onward. “Let’s check out this toy booth. Looks like they have some cute little teddy bears …. Oh no! Good God in heaven, what in the …?” There, before me, sat a disemboweled teddy bear. For sale. Apparently there is a market for devil faced teddy bears with their guts spilling out. They came in all sizes, too: large ones to put on grandma’s rocking chair, medium sized ones to give to the Munster kids, and tiny little ones to carry in one’s purse, I guess. I backed away, trying not to show my revulsion and swished over to check out the S&M whip and handcuff vendor next door.

“Babe, you want a beer?” Captain Fun asked. “Oh hell, yeah.” I’m not big on day drinking, but yes, I will have a very large can of beer, thank you. Must get the image of the tortured teddy out of my mind. “Let’s go listen to the band,” I said, guzzling my Natty Light.

Ah, music. It soothes the soul. I was expecting some good country music. Wrong again. The featured band, Saliva, was just starting. “Hmm. I’m not familiar with them,” I thought, wiping beer from my mouth. Now, I hate to sound as suburban, lily-white, middle aged, square and un-tatted as I am but, well, let’s just say that Saliva was not my cup of drool. I just don’t get screamo bands. I have no idea what the “singer” was saying, but I think he was very angry about something. Maybe he was scared of that devil teddy.

We downed the cold beers and went inside the Reformatory to check out the “ink” portion of the festival. The interior of the Ohio State Reformatory is rather interesting and historical but oppressively sad. One can just feel the misery. It permeates the walls. Oh, and it’s definitely haunted. (They have regular ghost hunting events and I am 100% sure they bump into plenty.) We perused the exhibits a bit then wandered into the old infirmary of the prison, where the inking was taking place. It was such a surreal scene: rows and rows of gurneys were lined up with customers laying down receiving their customized tattoos in the hushed, semi-light. It felt like that scene in Gone With the Wind when the camera pans out to the rows upon rows of soldiers being treated for gruesome injuries. But these people were quite cheerful, paying good money to be here and seemed completely at ease in this haunted prison. And the art being made was quite beautiful, really.

To complete the scene, for some reason there was a little display in the corner of the room with jars of potions as well as preserved newts, bats and God knows what else with a very serious sign in front of them: “No photographs please.” No photos needed, thanks. These images will haunt my dreams.

After a quick tour of the prison cells, stacked one on top of the other like sad shoeboxes, paint peeling, as if the wall themselves were weeping, it was time to go.

Ink in the Clink was definitely an experience. The visuals were something else. But the most surprising thing was that, to a person, every single individual I encountered was completely lovely, polite and welcoming. Even the tortured teddy vendor. Go figure. Maybe they just were coveting my pasty Irish flesh as a canvas for their art. Maybe they were high on eye of newt or something. Or maybe you just can’t judge a tattooed book by its cover. 

Why?

Postscript: Dear reader, you're in luck because Ink in the Clink is happening the weekend of this writing, July 14-16, 2017!

Momma's Got a Gun

I shot a gun today. I didn’t want to, but for some reason, ever since we acquired this farm, my middle daughter, we’ll call her Fauna, has been all about learning how to handle and shoot a gun. My husband, Quick Draw McGraw, the father of three girls and outnumbered by women in the house for 24 years now, wiped the stunned tears from his eyes. “Sure, princess. We’ll shoot a gun.”

So there we all were on our farm neighbor’s shooting range. I had never even touched a gun, never wanted to. So, he patiently explained the safety measures of a gun: Firstly, one’s own mind. Secondly, one’s own finger. That is precisely what scares me about guns, and me with a gun more specifically. My mind can wander to grocery lists and house projects and such at inopportune times: driving, trying to find an old email, listening to Quick Draw spout off about politics. Just the kind of stuff that could end up with me shooting my foot off.

At any rate, there I was watching my beautiful, lanky daughter don the protective eye gear and ear covers as she held a revolver in her hand. Then a pistol. Then a Glock, for the love of God. (Just the name "Glock" makes me grimace. I mean, what is that?) It was nauseating to see at first. But she did a fine job, and didn’t kill me, herself or anyone else. Then daughter number one joined the party. Flora, dressed in shorts and a yoga shirt on her petit frame, is a young, vocal liberal. Having her handle a gun was like seeing a talking dog or something. Very odd. But she took to it like a natural, though, with deadly aim, which makes me nervous for the next dinnertime political debate.

Next it was my turn and by now I was intrigued. If lanky Fauna and yoga master Flora can do it, so could I. (Meriwether was sitting this one out, watching suspiciously from afar). When I was handed the gun, it felt heavier than I thought, but also familiar.

“Oh! It feels like those water pistols at the shooting gallery at Cedar Point!” Except not.

I refused to let my mind wander and became very serious.  I looked at the target.

“Does it have to be a human form?”  I thought.

Rest the butt of the gun in the crook of your thumb and grab the handle. Use your other hand to grab the handle as well, and then point your finger along the shaft. Turn off the safety. (Wait. Argh!) That’s when it became scary. Aim down the barrel at your target and, just like it’s a water pistol, pull the trigger.

Yep. I shot a gun. Several times. Lots of times. And I am a good shot as it turns out. Go figure. Take that Annie Oakley (we're both from Ohio). When the nausea settled down, the adrenaline kicked in. I took a look at the target and found I shot that mother right down the middle.

“Yuck” … but also, “Go me!” And then, “Bring it on, mother@##*er!”  Yikes. Who am I? Scar Face in yoga pants?

I have to say, I understand why people find this … what is it? Entertaining? Exhilarating? Liberating? I mean, I found it actually okay to shoot at a piece of paper and empty beer cans. I have no desire to kill anything.

Our farm is in “gun country.” Those of us who are ignorant of guns, didn’t grow up with them or have any interest in them can make certain assumptions about folks who do. And guess what? They’re not hill jacks, simple or dangerous … or at least not any more-so than non-gun people can be. In chatting with farm neighbors, I have found that when one lives out in the country and is a half hour to 45 minutes or more away from the police, one is inclined to be prepared to take matters into one’s own hands. And many people out in the country hunt, so they practice shooting on the weekends. (Yep, hearing the pop! pop! of gunfire in the distance on a beautiful Saturday morning takes getting used to. Just ask my dog.) In fact, it seems most folks out here carry. When Quick Draw was with a group of friends from home, introducing them to some local farmers, a "city slicker" friend mentioned aloud, "I've never shot gun. Never even touched one." Immediately, without hesitation, about a dozen men put their guns on the table. "It's different out here," one declared.

Our farm manager, I call him The Sheriff, is always packing because we have lots of horses on the property and  (farm lesson #104) raccoon and skunk poop is highly toxic to horses, so those suckers are going down before they poison the horses. It took me a long time to realize that when The Sheriff said, “old Rocky Raccoon died of lead poisoning” he meant that he shot that little varmint.  Shot him dead. Don’t mess with The Sheriff. Truth be told, it is comforting to know that The Sheriff is packing. It just is.

We have a lot of guns in this country to be sure.  I wish it wasn’t so, but as long as we cannot un-ring that bell, I am glad that I now have a very, very rudimentary knowledge on how to handle a gun if, for whatever reason, I come across one.  It does make me think, though (I am not in the mood to get all political here) … Why isn’t a gun safety class mandatory for everyone before purchasing a gun?  Or maybe, because they’re so ubiquitous, why not make gun safety as regular as learning how to fill your car up with gas or operate an ATM?

As a dear friend would say, “I’m not talking … I’m just saying …”, that’s all.                                                                                     

Who is this woman and what is she doing?

Nice Tomatoes!

So, while, gardening can bring all sorts of life lessons, it also brings more practical lessons. I’ve learned cold hard truths about some vegetables that I decided to confront head on.

To start, Pumpkin, you are a pain the ass. You take up all sorts of room, going rogue all over the place. I keep having to turn whatever paltry pumpkins pop up so they don’t get that weird flat side that ends up all mealy and nasty. Furthermore, let’s face it, no one is really that interested in you beyond a few weeks in the fall, and that’s basically for decoration. Even if I do raise one of you to maturity, Pumpkin, you are way too much trouble to cook. I’m done with you. You are officially replaced by fake pumpkins for decoration.

Green Pepper, what is it with you? I planted you and your hipster sister, Purple Pepper right next to each other and you both only coughed up a few tiny peppers with oddly thick skin. Cute, but hardly worth the effort. You are done. Conversely, Banana Pepper and Hot Hungarian Wax Pepper? Slow. Down. Pump the breaks already. I’m an Irish gal; I barely know what to do with you. Stop being so pushy, flooding my kitchen with product. And, by the way, how about making it clear which one of you is which? When you get thrown into a basket together, it’s like Russian roulette; it could be an yummy hot/sweet experience, or a blow your doors off, cartoon “ah-OOO-ga” moment. I mean, Banana and Hungarian Wax ... you’re in, but only one plant each.  I can’t deal with more than that. You’re too aggressive.

Broccoli and Cauliflower, you are like the Patti Dukes of the garden. Broccoli, you are Patti, all down home and basic. And then there’s you, Cauliflower, the darling of the gluten free set, all trendy and au currant. But …. Broccoli, I’ve always been a fan because you resemble little trees, you’re versatile as a side dish and in salads (especially delicious with bacon, but what isn’t). But to grow you in a garden is a huge bummer. I take my eye off you for a couple of weeks and you get all spindly and leggy … and why so bitter? You're out. Cauliflower, I’m happy for your recent popularity, I really am. You remind me of that awkward boy in grade school that no one really noticed until after he went through puberty and turned into a popular track star hotty. I mean, go you. But again, to grow you in a garden is a study in futility. You’re passive aggressive, you won't grow and don’t seem to want to be there. I don’t have time for you, Cauliflower. I’ll buy you already riced from the grocery store and enjoy you as a gluten free crust on my pizza, but you’re evicted from my garden.

Speaking of vegetable relatives, Zucchini and your cousin Summer Squash, we need to talk. Zucchini, I like you in moderation. If I grow too much of you, which I always do, I can either give you away or make zucchini bread out of you. A vegetable bread? That’s so great! Thank you for being adaptable. You're in, but stay in the slow lane. But Summer Squash? Listen … (sigh) … nobody likes you that much. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I always grow too much of you and I literally cannot give you away. You’re kind of boring, your texture is a little weird and sometimes … sorry … you get these gross knobs all over your skin that are just unappetizing. Ugh. Ok, ok … I’ll keep one plant each of the Zucchini and Summer Squash.. But don’t go all Banana Pepper on me and take over my kitchen. I mean, I can’t make Summer Squash bread.

Now, Eggplant … you are full of surprises. I grew up in an Irish household, so I really didn’t know much about you (or any fresh vegetables, to be honest). When I first planted you, you caught my attention: so pretty, so aubergine. But your spongy texture quite frankly grossed me out … until I discovered your secret. When I salt you and let you sit for a while, all that moisture comes out and you are ready to party. I’ve found so many fun summer recipes for you! I can brush you with herbed olive oil and grill you, or pan fry you or bake you. When I stack you with fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella … OMG. You are amazing! A tastegazme. Really, I’m a fan. Eggplant, you can stay.

Ok, Kale, I planted you with trepidation. I mean, you’re so trendy and, let’s face it, a little pretentious. It is early in the season, but already I can tell … Kale, I think I like you. You are a giver. I leave you alone and cut you as needed. Next time I turn around, you’re back whole hog. I cut you again, and there you are again. You’re like the Everlasting Gobstopper of vegetables. From what I hear you keep giving into late fall, so I’m exploring recipes. If all else fails I can freeze you and use you in smoothies. Anyway, you are a happy surprise. Kale, welcome to the garden.

Speaking of surprises … Garlic, you saucy minx. You are a bulb that we eat, which is so cool. You are so unselfish and giving, you play well with others, you make others better. Truly, you are great. But who knew you had another little gift … Scapes!? After my husband, Mr. Green Jeans, first planted you, I was puttering around in the garden in late spring and noticed that you had grown green, beautiful, curly tendrils, like a little Irish toddler. I thought to myself, “surely these must be edible.” A quick Google search revealed that those shoots are called “scapes,”are only briefly available in the spring and are much coveted. So, I lopped off those scapes, cooked them up and … wow! Garlicky, oniony, grassy. Really yummy and different. Garlic, you’re in.

Which brings us to Tomato. Oh, Tomato, I remember when I didn’t like you as a child, and that’s when you actually tasted like tomatoes. My mother would eat a tomato like an apple, salting each bite as she went. I could barely look at her, it made me so queasy. Now, I’m a grown ass adult and I like you, Tomato. And that was before trying you right out of the garden. Holy cow, it has been life changing, especially when I learned how to make tomato sauce with fresh tomatoes, garlic (love you!) and fresh basil. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten anything so transformative. It’s like sunshine in your mouth. It’s like joy on a plate: so fresh and bright and healthy. This Irish gal is forever changed. Tomato, I’m all in. I’m planting you every year in many different varieties. I know that some of you will rot on the vine if I don’t get to you, but it’s ok, because you are fun to throw over the fence and I enjoy hearing you splat on the grass. In fact, I think I’ll save my rotten tomatoes to hurl at the next annoying politician.

I’m going to need more tomatoes.

My newfound friends.

Papa Was a Garden Gnome

We have a garden at our farm. Not like my suburban garden, full of hostas, spiderwort and hydrangea, but a “Garden garden.” The previous owners were real farmers and had a huge, lovely vegetable garden, overflowing with tomatoes, squash, beans, and a beautiful strawberry patch. While I’m a halfway decent suburban gardener, I’m a lousy farm gardener because – guess what? – you have to tend a farm garden. The first year we tried, we ended up with a weed garden that had a few spindly vegetables fighting for existence.

Whenever I am working in the garden, I think of my dad. A son of Irish immigrants, he had a deep love for the land: nurturing it, fiddling around with the soil and whatnot. It’s not like he was a farmer by any means. He as a lawyer, an estate planner, a numbers guy. But he loved a beautiful yard, a large expanse of freshly cut grass with beautiful flowers tucked in around it. 

When I was two years old, he moved our family of eleven into a house on an acre of land in Rocky River, which is a good-sized plot for a suburb. Our family spent the next 33 years working every square inch of that yard, weeding it, cutting it, planting it, trimming it. With 9 kids and an ever-growing army of grandchildren providing free labor, Big Jack would dream up all sorts of projects to direct us. Dad had 5 sons who were coming of age at the height of the mid-60’s. Any parent knows that a busy teen is a tired teen and a tired teen is much less likely to be a naughty teen. (My brothers proved that axiom wrong, but still it was a good thought.) So it was Jack’s mission to keep us all tired.

Every Saturday growing up, our yard was abuzz with activity. My older brothers were in charge of heavier manual labor – hauling grass clippings, cutting the grass (another never-ending chore). My job was to weed the front myrtle patch. And the grass. And the flower beds. It was a Sisyphean chore, never, ever done. I’m sure Jack sprinkled weed seeds around that garden at night, just to keep us all busy weeding the damned thing all summer long.

I was the only person I knew whose job it was to weed the “wild grass” from the front law. On scorching summer days, as friends would pedal by our house on their way to the pool or Dairy Queen, I would be bent over, like a crop worker picking cotton, a hot sunburn cooking at the base of my back where my t-shirt would ride up. Hard work for a gal who was up until 1 a.m. watching Johnny Carson with her mom (there are benefits to being the youngest of 9). Any friend who wanted to play got roped into weeding with me so as to free me from my chores sooner.  By the end of the summer, they too had the “Mark of Jack,” that same low back sunburn.

Nothing pleased Jack more than a yard full of child laborers whom he rewarded every Saturday with freshly grilled “skin on wieners.” To this day I have no idea what those are, but of course it always sounded dirty. They were delicious, but after slaving in a hot, humid yard all day, sunburnt, freckled and dehydrated, I would have eaten a boot.

One of my other jobs in the yard was planting little pockets of flower gardens around. Because I was the youngest and smallest, Jack thought it was cute that I could fit under the bushes, squeeze behind the grill, duck in just under a window. I would battle the midgies and mosquitos and then, like an urchin chimney sweep, I’d emerge all dirt covered and sweaty, but the task was done --- a lovely little pop of color just outside the dining room window. A little floral surprise just under the sweep of the pine tree limbs. A tiny begonia bonanza under the mushroom lights over on the swale. I have to admit, it did look pretty as I lay with an ice pack on my head, applying Noxzema to my sunburn in the air-conditioned living room.

God, I hated working in that yard. But of course now, I am thankful for it. I am thankful for the time together with my family, all of us pissing and moaning and cursing under our breath. Talk about bonding. I am thankful for the lesson of hard work, working together for a shared goal. I am thankful for the lessons of cherishing the land, walking gently upon the earth, reducing, reusing, recycling. (A man who was years ahead of his time, he had 3 large compost piles at the back of the property to recycle grass clippings, leaves and yard waste.) And above all, as my nieces so beautifully said at my dad’s funeral almost 20 years ago, I am thankful for a dad who was wise enough to know that all the manual labor wasn’t about the yard at all. It was about us. About keeping a large family busy, engaged, in touch, humble. And yes, tired.

This Father’s Day, with the help of real farmers who know what they’re doing, we’ve figured out the vegetable garden (raised beds and plastic covering!). As I plant my little pots, weed my garden and look out over the awesome beauty of the sun rising over the mist covered hills of our farm, I will think of Jack, smiling down on me, arms akimbo with that big Irish grin. He would never say, “told you so,” or anything like that, but rather an understated “God love you,” or “Keep the faith.”

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. You would so love this farm.

Amish Guys Got Swagger

I begrudgingly agreed to my husband’s farm fantasy. I don’t know how it happened, really. We stopped in to look at a farm one day, and as luck would have it, it was one of those magical autumn days in Ohio. As we drove through the gates, rather than seeing steaming piles of God-knows-what, I saw rolling, grassy, well-manicured hills, horses frolicking about. The air was crisp and cool. The sun shimmered on the yellow and orange leaves of the trees. It was breathtaking. It really was.

“Ok,” I thought. “You’ve got my attention.”

A four wheeler tour of the property, a glass wine and an al fresco lunch of locally raised pork with salad greens right from the garden … some bids, and counter bids and … boom! We were farm owners. Well, weekend farm owners, really. Because we wanted to stay married and, like I've mentioned before, I'm not Amish, we kept our suburban house. This farm fantasy would only work because we invested in a self sufficient, well run business. We would visit the property on the weekends and such. Like posers, you know.

So, just as I was entering a crossroads in my life, ready to clean out junk drawers in my kitchen and maybe find my "Calling" in there, I found myself building a farm house. My husband, Farmer Brown and I are both from very large families. This adventure would only be fun if we had playmates, so we decided to make room for them by building a house that could hold a sizable group of folks for dinner. (And, ok, a lot of beds because our friends and family like wine and it’s kind of drive to get there.) We interviewed various builders of all stripes and in the end, we chose the Amish guy. Not because he was the cheapest, but quite frankly, because the guy had swagger. He didn’t have zippers or a belt, but he had swagger.

The Amish, guy was actually one of a dynamic duo of brothers. I’ll call them Levi and Uriah because all Amish men are named either Levi or Uriah*. I didn’t know much about the ins and outs of the Amish lifestyle before this, but I was expecting much more quaint, country bumpkin fellows. Not at all the case, as it turns out. Tall, lanky and bearded, Levi was the father of 9 boys. I’m one of 9, so we had some simpatico. Uriah, (“Uri”) was the office guy, very efficient at showing samples of beautiful wood, going over blueprints and roofing materials and closing the deal. Only his bowl haircut gave a hint that he was Amish. I was kind of like, “Are you putting me on? Are you really Amish or is there a Jag out back and scotch in your bottom drawer?” He was legit, though.

Levi was the day-to-day on site guy. He had his own driver, thank you very much, a fine “English” man who drove him anywhere he needed to go because the Amish don’t drive cars. When he would arrive for our weekly meetings he’d amble out of the truck like an underdressed rock star and saunter over to me, a toothpick in his mouth. He had a glint in his eye that said, “Yeah, I’m rocking these overalls and straw hat, lady.” And he did. A handsome devil, I have to say. Not exactly Harrison Ford in “Witness,” but kind of an Amish Michael Keaton, if that makes any sense.

So Levi doesn’t drive, but he and Uri do both use email and cell phones. When I discovered this, I got excited.

"Oh," I said, "Can I share my Pinterest account with you to give you an idea of what we're thinking about?" 

Silence. Farmer Brown looked at me askance, shaking his head.

"No? … Ok, I guess I just ... never mind." 

Hard to know the rules here. In fact, later on in the project when I visited the Amish cabinetmaker they referred me to in the remote back hills of Ohio (surely a cousin, because the Amish are like the Irish that way, keeping things in the family), the office was in a barn with a gaslight hanging from the ceiling, no air conditioning in 100-degree heat … and a desktop computer. What the? 

Anyway, I got comfortable with Levi after a few weeks. When things looked like they were slowing down, I’d playfully punch him in the shoulder … “We’re going to be in by Thanksgiving, right, Levi?”  

“Oh yeah, Miss Mary, we’ll be done by then” he would cockily reply.

I liked the guy so I hoped he wasn’t lying because Farmer Brown, an entrepreneur who doesn’t take BS from anyone, not even a handsome Amish building magnate, had a stopwatch going, and had pulled Levi aside at the beginning of the project, warning him, “I know that all contractors have larceny in their hearts.” Good one, right? “I want you to assure me that this house will be finished and we will be in by Thanksgiving.”  Game on, Levi. One bearded man against another. Farmer Brown was clearly not intimidated by that straw hat.

Uri and Levi were true to their word and, with a flurry of silent, hardworking, task-driven Amish craftsmen descending on the property, they had that darned house built in 8 month’s time.  We were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, right on schedule.

It was all set to be a picture perfect holiday in our new farmhouse … until I sent my daughters on a drug run from the dinner table. But that’s another story.

* I hope I’m not offending anyone here … but my Amish friends aren’t allowed on the Facebook and blogs are they? If you’re Amish and cheating  … tsk, tsk!

Photo by Anetlanda/iStock / Getty Images

Listen ... I'm not Amish

"I just want to stop and look at this farm while we're out" he said. "Oh for chrissakes," I thought. I had been down this road before.

Five years prior, my husband, brought me and my three daughters to a godforsaken, wouldn't-hit-a-dog-in-the-ass-with-it, muddy, lumpy farm in northern/mid-Ohio. At the time, he was wild for a goat farm...

"We should get ahead of this growing market. It's the fastest growing protein in the country. We could raise goats. Get a jump on the competition, corner the market, be the goat gods."

So, there we were, trudging through this desolate property, and the girls are going wild with the prospect of owning a farm. Here's the scene...

Daughter #1: "Dad, can I get puppy on the farm?!"

Him: "Sure!"

Daughter #2: "Can I get a pig, Dad?! I looove pigs. Omg, they're so cute! Like Babe...”

Him: "Sure, why not?!"

Daughter #3: "I want ducks ... ducklings! Ooooo. Ducklings, Dad!"

Him: "Ok, ok. Yeah."

Me: "Um .... wait. We are just looking everyone. No one is getting a pig ... or a duck, or a puppy. Or a goat, for that matter. Just slow down everyone. Slow. The heck down."

A farm? Really? A farm.

Later that night, after putting exuberant, ecstatic, delusional 4, 7 and 9 year old little girls to bed, visions of farm animals dancing in their heads, I sat down next to my husband, looked him straight in the eyes and spoke my truth:

"Sweetheart, I get it. It get it that you have long had farm dreams. I get that you want a connection to the land and that you want the girls to have that too." He nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement as he picked the dirt (or was that goat shit?) off his sneakers. Then I lowered the boom ... "But, when I look at that filthy, stinky farm, all that mud, that piece of crap house that feels like an Alice in Wonderland reject house ... when I think of, God help me, owning farm animals ... Pigs for chrissakes ... all I see is work for me. Me. Not you. "

I started to gather steam. "So, what's the plan? We are going to move from our suburban home to be ... what? Farmers? I don't know anything about farms or farming.  And frankly, neither do you. Maybe we should start with you pulling a weed or two here in the ‘burbs. You don't even cut the grass, for God's sake."

You see, my husband is an entrepreneur and he's an expert at delegating. He is the original Tom Sawyer. I could just see me slaving away, mucking stalls and wiping my brow like a Dust Bowl era heroine, while he would breeze in and out of "the farm" carefree and happy. Nope. That was definitely not happening.

"I get it," I continued. "I get it for you. But me? I am not that person, dude. Not me." He nodded, silent, the glimmer going out of his eyes. "Look, I get that YOU want this. If you’re going ahead with this, you and your Amish wife will be very happy together. Knock yourself out. You God bless you. I'm out."

Sorry, Babe, it is what it is. Dodged that bullet.

Fast forward ... 10 years later. We have a farm.