Home Renovation: Time Capsule

I always wanted a black front door. 
And wouldn't you know? I came home one day 
and Uncle Rex had finally made that dream come true. 

My parents did a complete remodel of the house I grew up in during the late 80s, early 90s. Some of my best childhood memories smell like saw dust and stain. Within the walls torn down, they found a lace-up buckskin child’s boot, a calendar from 1919 and a bottle of homemade wine. They still have these three artifacts today.

You can imagine my delight when our contractor began finding things in the walls during our total home renovation in 2021-2022. Weekly he’d set aside treasures that had fallen between the cracks of a floor or along walls: Ornate glass bottles, hair barrettes, playing cards, and handwritten recipes for Washington Pie and Orange Cake. 

He even found a multipage booklet from the Eighth Annual Wayne, Henry and Randolph Counties Agriculture Association event, held in Dalton Township, Wayne County, Indiana on September 6 – 9, 1887. And we were told our house was built in 1920!

I value history, stories, and junk, so naturally, when it was our turn to replace walls I was ready to create our own time capsule of sorts. The way this house was reconstructed, I expect it to stand at least another 150 years, but when someone finally decides this space isn’t suitable for their family, there are a few things we strategically placed for the next occupants to find.

When the internal walls were not yet drywalled we wrote many scriptures along the studs. Just think: if someone does tear down these walls in 150 years, the message within the scriptures we left will not have changed; they’re everlasting. In the dining room I wrote out the words to Surely Goodness And Mercy, a hymn sung before every meal when our large Bowman family gathers.

The contractor's notes at the top of this photo reveal 

where this reminder in scripture was written. 

In a small Rubbermaid tote we collected small pieces that tell the story of our family and the renovation: A current family picture where Caroline was pretty as a doll and Cyrus was scowling at the camera. A 2022 Bell Contracting wall calendar to identify our builder and the current year. I placed copies of Western Wayne News in the box, and these particular issues had my writing in them. We included a sale catalog that provided insight into the breed and type of cattle we raise. I wrote a 3-page letter describing the modifications made to the home, our family, our farm, the current state of the world and the price of gas, groceries and oddities.

I asked each child to put a tiny toy in the box and you would have thought I asked them to donate an arm. It took 6 days for each to decide on what they could part with, which is disturbing considering the number of toys they have. Cyrus committed a tiny tractor with no rear tire and Caroline gave up a tiny foal that was the victim of the lawn mower in 2021. I’m sure the kids who find such “gifts” will be startled by such generosity.

We sealed the tote and the contractor placed it under the landing of the stairway before enclosing it.

Of course, my hope is that this house never comes down and it remains well-loved forever, as it is today. I hope the walls remain strong and white (Who am I kidding? There are already handprints on the door frames as the kids use them to stabilize themselves during high-speed chases), displaying family photos and children’s artwork.

But if they do come down and another family with big dreams decides to renovate this home, at least they’ll have a broken tractor and a three-legged foal to get them through the chaos.

Irvin King

We’ve had some interesting characters show up at our doorstep over the years:

The man who showed up in the middle of the night begging for diesel for his mustang, offering me Monopoly money.

The girl, not in her right mind, who rolled her car and was more worried about the suspended license she was driving on than the baby in the back seat.

And how could we forget about Spanky, the trucker passing through from Kansas, who as fate would have it, worked on Cody’s grandparent’s ranch 30 years ago.

Most recently there was Irvin King.

It was about the best Friday night we’d had this summer. The humidity was low, the sun was setting, the weekend agenda wasn’t full. The kids and I had just gotten done choring while Cody was at a south pasture checking cattle and fences along the river.

The kids played in the backyard while I put clothes away upstairs. As I carried the laundry basket up the stairwell, I stopped at the window to enjoy the view. How long have I waited to be able to look out a window and see our kids enjoy the property?

Except, there weren’t only kids. A man had made his way up the sidewalk and was talking to the children. At first glance I thought it was my dad, in work pants and worn belt, t-shirt tucked in. But after a few seconds I realized the person visiting with the kids was a stranger. I dropped the clothes basket and raced downstairs.

Instantly, he reminded me of my grandpa Bowman, who died in 1989 when I was just 4 years old. Gentle nature and soft spoken.

The man told me his Cummins motorcoach had broken down on the side of US-35 and he asked if he could simply pull it off the highway into the access drive into our hayfield. This sounded fine, except we don’t own the land across the road. I called the neighbor to the north and he didn’t hesitate; he permitted that they park there overnight, no problem.

Of course, I couldn’t just let this stranger that had walked onto our property leave without some questions. Nothing out of ordinary Lindsay protocol: Name? Home state? Reason why you’d drive through Economy, Indiana?

The man I was visiting with was Irvin King. He is in his eighties, still farming row crops and cattle in West Virginia. He was passing through our area because of a more important detail: He used to race. In fact, Irvin is also known as the Flying Farmer.

He revealed to me that he and his wife were on their way to a race when they broke down. Irvin is a name in sprint car racing, though you wouldn’t know it by visiting with him. He was more interested in our cattle and kids than he was talking about his history. But there is nothing a little light internet stalking can’t uncover.

Irvin King is a Sprint Car legend. People today are still commenting on race websites about watching him race and dominate the sprint car world in the 1960’s and 70’s. You can buy photos of Irvin off eBay, Amazon and collector sites, all of him in the winner’s circle, standing proudly next to racing machines he built and won with.

The kids stayed close while we visited briefly. I asked if he and his wife would stay for dinner; he declined. As the sun sat, Irvin walked back down the side ditch and loaded back into his motorcoach.

I regressed 30 years and began acting like 8-year-old Lindsay. I felt as though a celebrity, maybe Reba McEntire, was camping in our yard and I just wanted her to befriend me. All evening, all night, and for the next 48 hours I looked out the window waiting for him to reappear. He never came out of the coach.

The next morning I asked Cody if we should take him coffee.

“No.”

That afternoon I asked Cody if we should take him towels.

“No.”

That evening I asked Cody if we should take him a meat and cheese tray. WHO DOESN’T LOVE A MEAT AND CHEESE TRAY? 

“No.” 

The next day I asked Cody if we should invite him to the kid’s birthday party we were hosting in 36 hours. I bet you can guess Cody’s answer.

Mr. and Mrs. King were parked across from our farm for two days. We never visited again.

But the kids sure ask about him. Because they hang on legs while adults visit, they picked up on his racing story. We’ve Googled “Irvin King race” time and time again to look at his successes and his story. Quite remarkable that such a character ended up broken down (of all things) in front of our farm.

That was July. More than a month later, I went to the mailbox to find two autographed photos of Irvin King himself. He had traveled back through the area and was kind enough to leave these keepsakes for our children. An interesting character we won’t soon forget.

I don’t love living on a highway, but I do love the opportunities if affords our family. Our puppy Sadie likely wouldn’t say the same.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Newton’s theory stating, “What goes up must come down” certainly applies to gravity, but I have my own experience with that idea. In our family, when my husband goes up (in a plane) the temperature must come down. Hard.

Inevitably, when Cody is home, it’s 40 degrees and clear. When he leaves for an extended work trip to the wild west, the temperature drops drastically, and everything freezes. His last out-of-state trip did not disprove my theory; it was 37-degrees while he packed his suitcase and a mere 3-degrees four days later.

The good news is I love cold weather; the best news is our kids are very patient. They whine very little when getting bundled up, even with sticky Vaseline on their dry cheeks and hot chocolate in their plastic cups.

We drove north to check a pasture that about 25 cows are wintering in, only to find that the automatic waterer was completely empty and frozen. Nothing was in the tank but a 3-inch layer of ice. The pump house (a cinder block hole dug into the ground) was about 100 yards away, so we walked over to investigate. The heat lamp, which should have kept everything thawed and running so water would continuing filling into the tank as cows drank it down, was burned out. Everything was frozen. Even the hydrant wouldn’t produce water.

I called Cody to explain the situation, he asked many questions to diagnose the problem and find a solution from time zones away. I told the kids it might be a long while before we got into the house that evening and that didn’t bother them a bit. Cyrus was made for mechanics and Caroline just wants to be a helper.

We drove back to the home farm and got a ladder, an extension cord, a heater out of the calf box (a wooden box we would put a newborn calf in if we were experiencing sub-zero temperatures to save it from freezing), a spotlight, a socket set (no idea why, it seemed like a good idea) and two popsicles. You must always feed the help.

“Guys. We have a big job ahead of us and I need you to be helpers,” I told them in the truck.

“What do we get to do?” Caroline asked.

“Hold the spotlight when I crawl down in this hole so I can see what I’m doing. The light burnt out and it’s dark down there.” I left out the part where I’m scared of the dark and super anxious in tight spaces.

“Can we bring popsicles?” Cyrus asked, clearly unconcerned by the situation.

“Sure, Cyrus. But if Mommy gets into trouble I need you to call Daddy.”

“What’s Daddy going to do? He’s not here,” the empathic child reasoned with me.

“You’re right. Don’t touch my phone. Unless I scream. Then call 911.” I was starting to freak myself out. It was getting dark, I was going down in a hole that housed a lot of electrical and I didn’t have much experience in any of this.

My view from the hole

For the next twenty minutes I asked (commanded) Caroline to move the spotlight to the left, Caroline complained that her hand was getting tired, and Cyrus asked repeatedly, “Now can I call 911? Mom? Can I?”

“No! Put my phone down. We’re fine. I’m fine. We don’t have an emergency!” I repeatedly shouted up from the hole.

“But the cows are thirsty,” he responded with a burning desire to get a fire truck and a lot of tax dollars on the scene.

We got the heater set up in the pump house, the burnt-out bulb removed so I could go to the hardware store and buy a replacement, the cords all re-strung so they wouldn’t melt, and I climbed out of the hole without a broken hip or torn ligament. Small victories win battles.

My view from the hole as Caroline continued to help and Cyrus had lost interest

The kids earned two more popsicles upon our return home and crunched them down quickly, despite complaining about frozen hands. The next morning, we drove up to find the heater had worked! Kind of. The hydrant was working, but the electric waterers still were not. We hauled a tank to the pasture and ran a long hose from the hydrant to the tank, so the cows had something to drink.

As I pen, this my husband is packing another suitcase and talking about the approaching temperature drop in Rapid City, South Dakota. He believes that by the time he lands there, that cold snap will arrive in beautiful Economy, Indiana.

That gravity theory just won’t leave us alone.

 

 

Winter with Kids on the Farm

“I love cold weather. I love cold weather. I love cold weather,” I repeat to myself while skating across a frozen barn lot with two buckets of feed. 

 

And I do love the cold. The way it makes apparent the simple acting of exhaling so curious that kids ask questions. Or the way we have to bed down huts in the middle of the pasture to provide some protection for new calves. Or the way it covers the land, gates, and bins with frost and makes everything glow in the moonlight. I do love cold weather.

 

But cold weather on a farm with two children may not warrant the “L” word. 

 

My husband travels often for work and January through April is his busiest time to hop on a plane and travel to North America’s ranches. We get through it with a lot of Snapchats of newborn calves “Look who arrived early!!!”, thorough feed instructions, and patient children not afraid of Vaseline.

Bedtime Skincare Routine

With temperatures in the twenties and dropping this week, bundling the kids up to go feed is a chore in itself. We start with a thick and even layer of Vaseline to the cheeks. I get down on two knees in front of them and paint their faces like we’re going into war. And in some ways, we are. 

Chore War Paint

 

“You are strong. We can do this. We’ll be back in the house in an hour,” I tell them over and over, mostly for my own motivation. 

 

Then we layer. 

 

Hooded sweatshirts for the base layer, coveralls so stiff they can barely walk in them, wild rags (silk scarves) to protect their necks and make them feel like real cowboys, Carhartt coats with pockets where they can hide snow, feathers and rocks, toboggans that fall over their eyes, and gloves that will be removed two minutes after stepping outside. By the time I get them both dressed and out the door we’re all three sweating and ready for the chill.

Because they’re 2 and 4 and in the thick of the independence stage (when does this end? And don’t tell me 18), neither allow me to help them through the snow or across the solid sheet of ice that is our barn lot. I walk to the barn and have 10 buckets of feed filled by the time they make it across the lot. 

 

We’ve been outside for seven minutes and Cyrus’ hands are already cold because he has removed his gloves to put tiny snowballs in his pockets and Caroline is licking snow and ice off the side of our farm truck. I warn about germs, but no one takes me seriously because I’m holding a pitchfork with 10 lbs. of afterbirth on it. 

 

We move on and feed the main lot of cows with new calves, then the feeder steers we feed out for freezer beef, then two separate pens of weaned heifers, then the cows who are in a lot close to the barn because I pen them up nightly so they don’t calve out in the pasture. Then we go out and check all the calf huts, counting calves and fluffing straw so the calves are more inclined to sleep there, safe and warm, rather than the middle of a dark pasture where predators and wind may get them.

 

Questions are plenty, and I answer the best I can. Right about the time I was trying to formulate an answer to, “Do you think coyotes come in the middle of the night because they want to drink the mommy cow’s milk when she’s sleeping?” Cyrus began whimpering that his hands were cold. When this banter begins, I know I have approximately four minutes until a high-speed-come-apart takes place. So, I hustle to wrap things up, bed down the barn, feed the barn cats (don’t ask), drain the hoses, throw down hay, and close all the gates for the night. 

 

By this time there are warm tears coming from both sets of eyes, gloves are lost, hands are red, and a change of heart has taken place: both kids are now desperate to be carried to the house. I convince Caroline to walk and hold my hand while I carry Cyrus across the ice and up the hill to the house. She’s having a hard time holding my hand because she is using her wild rag as a Kleenex. Cyrus is so over the chore experience that he’s thrown himself onto the hardened snow, facedown, screaming. I swoop him up as quickly as possible so no one driving by questions my parenting, grab Caroline’s hand and we briskly walk to the house. 

 

I get everyone unbundled, hats and gloves on the register so the snow melts off, frigid hands washed in luke-warm water and tears and Vaseline wiped off cold red cheeks. It was in this moment of thinking, “We got another evening’s work done and we all survived,” that I hear from the living room:

 

“Mommy. Can we have popsicles for being so good?”

 

“Yes, Mommy!” Cyrus chimed in, hanging on my leg with thawing red hands. “I want blue.”

 

 I didn't realize one could recover from hypothermia so quickly. 

Professional Family Photos

 We had organized family photos taken twice that I can remember while growing up; once at the fire station and once through Olan Mills. My sister had strep throat in one set, and I had pick eye in the other. I think that is why my mother never found it necessary to take annual family photos; they were never worth the money. 

As a parent I’ve made the poor choice to try to get family photos taken each fall. I don’t know why I do this, as I already have 1,027 photos of my children on the iPhone in my pocket. There is just something about getting the family cleaned up, out of barn clothes, hair combed and smiling. But let me tell you: it ain’t easy. 

 

You put a camera in front of Cyrus, 2, and he has as much personality as a celery stalk. He doesn’t smile, he scowls. He doesn’t show you his beautiful blue eyes, he glares. He doesn’t even prefer to stand, he must be held. We’ve always said that Cyrus is an 80-year-old man in a tiny body: he walks like he needs a hip replacement, talks to himself, prefers to eat by himself and generally acts grumpy just so people leave him alone. Add “thinks family photos are ridiculous” to that list. 

On the other end of the spectrum, Caroline, 4, was born for family photos. She encourages props (this year it was a stick horse she insisted on including). She poses. She takes direction quite well. She asks if her hair bow is visible. She tries to act as Cyrus’ smile coach which only irritates him further. 

Cody simply rolls in from the farm two minutes before the photographer is to arrive, washes his hands, combs his hat hair, puts on the clean jeans and shirt I’ve laid out for him and asks, “Why are we doing this, again?”

 

“For Christmas cards,” I remarked, trying to get Sharpie marker off Cyrus’ chin.

 

“My mom used to just sign some and mail them. There was never a photo,” he continued, tucking in his shirt. 

 

I didn’t even acknowledge his passive protest and stories of a simpler life long ago on the Kansas plains. This was no time for happy stories…it was family picture day. I just needed everyone to smile once. Preferably at the same time.

 

My job is to ensure everyone is fully dressed, and the beads of sweat running down my face - earned from squeezing into a pair of jeans I haven’t worn since quarantine started – aren’t visible. That’s tougher than it sounds. 

 

We had our family photos taken in October and have yet to see a single result. 

“What do you think it is taking so long to get our pictures back?” my husband asked last week. "I thought you were sending Christmas cards."

 

“She’s probably Photoshopping a smile onto Cyrus,” I responded without hesitation. He seemed to agree. 

 

Don’t let the perfect photos you see on Facebook or in Christmas cards this year fool you. Just remember: Behind every great family photo you’ll see this holiday season, there was one husband who would rather be doing anything but this, 45 tears cried inside the house because someone was missing Sesame Street for all of this nonsense, 2 pieces of Halloween candy melting in pockets used as bribery and a mother growing frustrated that it is seemingly impossible for everyone in the family to appear happy on the same day. 

 

If you don’t get a Christmas card, please don’t be offended. I’m just trying to protect the family reputation. 

The Turtle Dove

We were eating lunch one day last week when I first noticed the turtle dove outside our dining room window. The bird would land, peck around our wood pile, then take flight again, finally landing in the nearby lilac bush. This sequence took place many times through the duration of our feast of leftover ribs, reheated baked beans and cold milk. 

That afternoon I sat outside on my laptop and worked in the sun while the kids napped. I am not a bird watcher by any means, but I was excited to recognize the turtle dove back again, busy as ever. I stopped my work in order to observe hers. 

She was picking up twigs and dandelions and taking them into the lilac bush to build her nest. Incredible! Piece by piece she plucked and placed. Sometimes she’d drop the twig or weed and would swoop down in a rush and try to find another. I slowly walked over to the bush to confirm my belief and saw the nest, quite large, resting on a branch. I got back to work so I wouldn’t bother her. 

Then I made the mistake of hosting a post-nap ecology lesson for the kids. We went outside and quietly (as quiet as 1 ½ and 3 ½ year olds can be….which isn’t) snuck over the lilac bush to spy on the turtle dove.

Sure enough, she was resting in her newly created home, sitting straight up and alert to the chaos on the ground. I swept the kids up and we went to the barn to pick on someone our own size: Daddy.

When I was preparing for motherhood and in the act of delivering our children, I didn’t have an appetite for fanfare. My mother even asked to come in and visit and I declined the offer. This wasn’t the time to ask me if I’d seen how nice the produce selection at Aldi had become. Minutes later, she was at my bedside, encouraging me. I’m not sure who let her in, but something tells me it was my husband who needed a break from the 26-hour ordeal. 

I guess this is why I’ve tried to keep the kids away from the turtle dove for a few days, while she hopefully prepares for her family. At every meal we talk about her and every morning Caroline is quick to run to the bush to see if she is home. It is not easy keeping curious minds and hands away from something so intriguing and special. 

Particularly when we need some new life around this place. We scraped a cat off the highway two weeks ago and on Saturday Caroline brought me a cracked egg in one hand and a feather-less baby bird in the other. I didn’t react well to her presentation. Another ecology lesson and much hand scrubbing followed.

I think, now more than ever, it is critical to help our children find the magic in ordinary days. 

To watch a bird build its nest or an ant fill up on dropped popsicle pieces or clouds evolve into shapes and animals in the sky. 

To enjoy ruining clothes in soil and gravel and sand. 

To feel soft grass on their tender feet and experience eating a grape tomato warmed from the sun. 

We should be cautious about what they see and hear. There are unsettling words, stories and images all around them right now. 

Caroline prayed recently, “God keep away the wolves, werewolves, coyotes, the virus and mean geese.”

I was taken back that she knew enough about the virus to ask for God’s protection from it. I was also curious about her experience with mean geese, but I decided to save that question for another day. 

So for now, we’ll shut off the damn news,

focus less on mean geese

and be more like hard working turtle doves

who have built their home

on visible hope for tomorrow. 

Draining the Bunk

In 48 hours we have gone from a purebred cattle operation to a full-blown mud ranch. 

It really is amazing what 3+ inches of rain can do to a place in such a short amount of time. Nothing looks pleasant, everything is brown, and everyone moves slower than normal – humans included.

The mud doesn’t bother the kids, of course, until they’re face down in it. Otherwise, they appreciate puddles and endless brown paints to smear on the side of vehicles. 

I buckled them into the Kubota last evening to do chores and began filling buckets of feed from the bin. Because of the depth of the mud, I opted to carry buckets everywhere rather than attempt to drive an ATV through it. I let the kids know I was going to start carrying buckets and they could watch but they were not to go anywhere. This instruction was easier before Caroline learned how to undo seatbelts on her and her brother. 

I got about twenty yards into a lot when the mud got really bad; soupy, deep, bad. My pace slowed as every step was harder to lift my leg out of. I suddenly heard a strange noise coming from back in the barn lot. I stopped in my tracks and listened – it was Caroline, but what was she screaming?

“Gooooo Mommy! Don’t get your feet stuck!” Over and over again. I had my own personal cheerleader for MudFest 2020. That somehow made me stronger. 

Fifteen minutes later we moved over to the next lot where we feed our steers. I began carrying the buckets to the metal feed bunk and arrived to find it had standing water in it. The drain holes on each end of the bunk were plugged by sediment; remnants of feed, hay chaff, or mud that one of the stock had flipped into the feeder. I removed my glove and ran my hand along the inside of the bunk, finding the plugged hole. As soon as I cleared the blockage, brown water began draining from the bunk. The rain was still coming down steadily while I was draining this water, but I wanted to ensure it drained completely before putting anymore feed into the wet bunk, as cattle don’t like to drink their dinner. I stood in the rain and let it unload while the kids watched from afar. 

In those long minutes (maybe four, but it felt much longer), I thought about the things that take up space in life that need to go away so something better can fill it. 

Our house, especially after the holidays, has become a point of stress for me. Because I have a terribly hard time tossing anything related to our children, we now have double the toys any two kids could play with. We have books we haven’t read in months, but I can’t toss them because they bring back a special memory of two sets of footie pajamas on my exhausted lap. We have art brought home from Sunday school where Jesus’ head is missing because someone was curious and teething, and I cannot put that piece of paper in the trash. Don’t get me started on tiny tractors with only two tires remaining.

Then I thought about how I spend my time. I should probably cut out Facebook, but then how would I know what my second cousin twice removed had for supper? I should probably cut out Pinterest, but then how would I find hundreds of recipes for the four open containers of dry mustard I have in my kitchen cupboard?

What about you? 

Is there anything in your life, filling so much space or your precious time, that the things that bring you peace can’t fit in? Maybe it is clutter, knick-knacks you never even dust, clothes you’ve not worn in a year, or shoes that hurt your feet. Maybe it is time-wasters such as apps that consume your time and attention, taking you away from life happening right in front of you. Or perhaps, even, it is simply people who drain you, rather than fill you up. 

It’s ok to pull the plug on anything that is filling your bunk that shouldn’t be there. Could now be the time to finally make room for what truly belongs?

Of course, I pen this with a stack of Country Living magazines dating back to 2016, the year I had Caroline. I have saved them with great intention to “get back to them when things slow down.” 

When I have more time. 

Who am I kidding? I’m writing a newspaper column from a cattle pen in the pouring rain.  

  

The Pear Tree

We have a pear tree in our yard, and like nearly every other tree on the farm, it was here long before we were. We didn’t plant the dream, but annually we look forward to its bounty. 

Over the last six years I’ve been in awe of how much fruit one small tree can produce. I annually pick up buckets of pears that hit the ground, and in some instances, they hit me on the way down. I consider it a small price to pay. This tree has an amazing ability to not only produce many pears, but they’re quite large, also. The majority of the pears that fall are the size of softballs. It is incredible!

Last year, the small tree produced so many large pears that branches began splitting and breaking off. I was so disappointed to see the tree literally break under the pressure of itself. It took on so much that it was simply falling apart. In an effort to save the beloved tree, my husband decided to take a pair of pruners and snip off the branches that were broken. I wondered if this was a good idea. Don’t things in nature usually just work themselves out? Once the pears all fell, wouldn’t it just spring back into shape? Do men really always find the need to get involved….with tools? 

I would never tell him this, but between you and I, I was sick watching the situation unfold. He is so good at many things, but I silently questioned his ability to trim the right limbs that would ensure we’d still have a fruitful tree next year. I’ve seen the man’s resume. Arborist was never on it. 

I watched from afar, trying not to be in the way. 

A branch there. 

Another on the north side. 

Two more close to the bottom. 

One more on the south. 

By the time he was done, the pear tree looked more like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree than it did the original, strong fruit tree. I smiled and told him that he’d done a great job, secretly certain I’d just picked my last crop of pears. Ever.

But guess what. A month ago, a neighbor stopped by and picked up a bucket of pears off the ground to use for pear butter. 

Two days ago, I picked two full buckets of pears off the ground, beautifully yellow and turning sweet orange. 

As I pen this, I’m looking outside and see at least a dozen more that have fallen in the last 48 hours. 

The tree is back to its old self; it just needed help. 

I can look out at the pear tree tonight and think about resilience, strength and bouncing back. But this fall the tree has taught me even more about asking for help. 

What is it about asking for help – or even admitting that you need help – that is so tough? I remember well when a neighbor stopped in while I was carrying two buckets of feed with a baby strapped to my chest. She asked if I needed help – I quickly declined any assistance. Why would I have done that? Was I crazy? Yes, probably. 

Decades ago, my grandmother got kicked by a Holstein cow, broke her arm, and finished the evening milking by tying a cutting board to her arm with a handkerchief. I’m not from the kind of stock that is comfortable asking for help. Or complaining. 

Vulnerability. Fear. Rejection. Weakness. We’re living in a culture where none of those things feel warm or inviting. Maybe they shouldn’t. But maybe that’s what we need.  

Asking for help: Vulnerability. Fear. Rejection. Weakness. The pear tree never felt those things, but I can guess that maybe you have. I have, too. 

It is acceptable to ask for help. It is acceptable to not do it all alone. It is acceptable to admit that you need support, large or quite small. 

And between you and I: It is acceptable for someone else to carry the bucket. 

In fact, could it be that much of what 

weighs you down isn’t yours to carry?

Unless There Is Blood

I’ve seen many houses with “Family Rules” signs hanging on their walls. Some of those family rules are things such as:

Always tell the truth

Pay with hugs and kisses

Do your best

Keep your promises

I have yet to see one that reads, 

Don’t bother me on the lawn mower 

unless there is blood

and that was probably the number one family rule we lived by growing up. 

I never understood why my mother was so weird about her weekly time on the lawn mower, but I rest in full understanding now that I’m a mom. 

Besides the day-to-day lessons and laughter in raising two kids, the absolute highlight of my week is mowing our yard. It is the hour and a half that I have a task in front of me that doesn’t require cleaning maple syrup off a TV remote or disposal of any bodily fluids. It doesn’t require muck boots or fly spray, proofreading or editing in red pen. It is an hour and a half of me time. During a phase of life where I don’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom without an audience, an hour and a half of me time is quite significant. 

While I mow the yard, 
I play questionable music from college, way too loud through my ear buds. 
My mind drifts between travel and children and memories and places and people. 

My goodness, I love people. 

By the end of my lawn mowing chore, I have the world’s problems solved, though no one has asked my opinion. But since you’re curious, I’d start with major jail time for people caught littering. Because while I do love mowing the yard, I do not enjoy picking up endless amounts of trash along our ditches. To the person who threw out a single black sock, two rubber gloves, three Bud Light bottles and a lint roller: Please tell me what the rest of your life is like. 

On the lawn mower I develop my grocery list, but I have no place to record it. 
I mentally add on to my to-do list and cross things off, too. 
I rarely take phone calls on the mower, because I figure that if I cannot disconnect from the world for an hour and a half one time a week, I probably have bigger problems than tall grass. 

I generally pay no mind to the passing cars and trucks, but I will say it’s astonishing how many people go by our house on Thursday afternoons when I get the mower stuck in the fence. And the honking rate really spikes when they see Cody come pull me out with the Kubota. There is something about that activity that really gets people motivated to lay on the horn while passing Sankey Angus (and it also gets Cody’s blood pressure elevated).

I sincerely enjoy mowing the yard, having one task in front of me that I can complete without interruption. 

I remember well one weekend circa 1995 that my brother had his best friend, Ben Warner, over. Ben’s joints were very….fluid. I don’t know if he was double jointed or triple jointed, but he was able to bend things in directions that would have easily qualified him for the circus, had he not other aspirations. In fact, quit scrolling and try this: Bend your wrist down so your fingertips touch your elbow. Try it. You can’t do it, can you? Ben Warner could do it in 1995. 

Anyway, Luke and I came up with a grand plan to frighten our mother: We’d send Ben over to stop her on the mower and tell her he fell out of a tree and broke his wrists. Ben would then demonstrate two “broken” wrists. 

As we watched from afar (because we weren’t stupid), Ben ran over to mom and pulled his stunt. And Mom proceeded to jump off the lawnmower, as mortified as we expected her to be. 

I think Ben’s dad came and picked him up not long after that.   

I look back now and I realize that wasn’t nice of us, at all. She was likely extremely deep in thought, perhaps in middle of writing her grocery list or trying to figure out how to get George H. W. Bush back into office.