Can't Fight the River

The creek is encroaching. One row of trees has already been washed away, the water has undercut the fields, there are washes hiding in tall grass, and the riding paths are unsafe. Yes, that high water is causing problems.

So we mow regularly. We keep an eye on certain familiar places in the fields and pastures. We do what we can to keep our area and our people safe.

Today, as I was driving my grandfather's tractor around fields and pastures, thinking about how I'd explain where I'd mowed, I thought, "Oh, I'll just tell them I mowed down by the creek where we played when we were kids," or, "by the hog shed," or, "along the old road." Sounds simple enough, until you realize that "we" encompasses four solid generations. We didn't play there at the same time; most of us have never lived there, but we were most certainly there together.

We saw our cousins there together, waded there together, walked there together, grew up there together. In all of our lives, those rushing waters, those rolling hills, those red barns, those solitary havens, have been the one common constant.

Some of us remember a basketball hoop by gas tanks, a pond raft floating on oil drums, and a silo glimpsed at the outer stretches of a swing's arc, while others remember jewel weed and mulberry trees in the ditch, a tire swing on a hillside, and patches of lawn worn bare by frequent baseball games.

Because of who and how we are, most of us have worked there and all of us have played there.

Every one of us has known love there.

And that love--the shared, enduring love for the people and the place--is what links our many generations and buoys us as dangerously high waters threaten to wash us out and away.

Fighting the water is futile; it will go where it chooses--where it was meant to go--and it will go when the time is right. No, we can't fight the water or coerce the water. We can only keep the paths safe, flag known dangers, and keep protecting the people and places we love.

The river will win; we will do what we can.

The Song of Spring

There is something sublime about a spring storm, about realizing that, while I was busy looking the other way, dark clouds were gathering forces behind the neighbors' houses, just waiting for a blast of wind to send them flying.

I suppose I could liken a storm to the multitude of unpleasant surprises we face, but in my mind it's not the same at all. There's nothing awe-inspiring about cruel twists of fate, the winding down of lives, or the workings of unhappy people. Instead, spring storms are the epitome of the never-ending force and beauty of nature.

I'm educated and most days am able to pass for not-entirely-stupid. I listen to the weather people who tell me to get inside, stay away from doors and windows, and hunker down in an interior room with plenty of flashlights and radios. But today, when the sky shouted from across town, showed itself over the neighbors' roofs, and stirred up the tree tops, where was I? Well, how do you think I know how it looked out there?

I was in my yard, under my beloved trees, listening to the song of spring play through the new leaves.

I stood there on a long winter's worth of empty acorn shells, thoroughly entranced with the kaleidoscope of clouds and leaves, letting the wind buffet me, welcoming a tangible reminder that spring did happen this year.

I need those reminders. We need those reminders. After all, we did survive a long winter, which followed a heartbreaking autumn and stress-filled summer before it.

And now, finally, renewal. Finally . . . life, hope, and a new set of seasons. Fresh air is wafting in through windows, flowers are blooming in spectacular fashion, trees are reliably preparing to shade us, mushrooms are surely about to pop, and the weather--Nature--is putting on her show, reminding us that we are not in charge.

For that reminder, I am thankful. I don't want to be in charge; I'm quite content to be eternally in awe.

Muddled March Musings

I would LOVE to write an honest-to-God blog right now. Really, I would. I know my mind would be better for the writing, but folks, it's just not happening. I've started no fewer than three blogs in the past 27 hours. Sadly, I've finished precisely zero and have decided to resort to a list of less-demanding thoughts, thoughts that politely refrain from insisting that I link them together in paragraph form. Therefore, in no particular order, I present my March Musings.

1. Ignorant, hateful people need to go away.

2. We all need to defend that which we know is right and decry that which we know is wrong, even when those actions cause us discomfort.

3. I am trapped in Bizarro World. Seriously. It's everywhere right now!

4. The Midwest is in a staring contest with Old Man Winter. So far, nobody's blinked.

5. It is MARCH. Winter will blink before long.

6. I have not worried about a filmy hula-hoop tornado falling from the flies for five days.

7. The aforementioned tornado did not fall during a performance. Thank you, God. We appreciate your cooperation on that one.

8. I have not set off a hand-held incendiary device in five days, and I miss it. Maybe tomorrow. Fireballs are great fun when they are intentional.

9. By virtue of hard work, team work, and MUCH work, we did a fabulous job with a difficult show.

10. Free time and normal amounts of sleep are good.

11. That time-consuming, grey-hair-growing, sleep-depriving, trickery-filled, working-with-friends show made winter bearable.

12. Currently, I am hosting a brain riot. I do not enjoy hosting brain riots.

13. Camera-friendly days cure brain riots, so anytime Old Man Winter wants to blink and get it over with, it will be fine by me. Psst! God? You could pitch in if you were so inclined.

14. I am grateful to know the cures for what ails me. Some of those cures come from Walgreens, and some of those cures come from knowing myself and what works.

15. I would REALLY love a day to myself with my camera and some cooperation from Mother Nature.

16. Kid #1 will be 21 in two weeks and is looking at grad school.

17. Kid #2 is working nights.

18. Kid #3 takes the ACT next month.

19. I got old.

19a. Old isn't all bad.

20. Right now, my perfect day (and it could happen whenever you see fit, God) would involve my hammock, my pool, warm sunshine, my camera, my book, Miller Lite, and the time to wander back and forth. I can forgo the beer if it helps.

21. Switzerland may find it unsettling to learn that they were, in fact, a powerful German state during WW II, and that Prussia is a fine place to go if you want watches, chocolates, or secret accounts. (according to a few of my 7th graders)

22. Soon, and for the first time in my life, I will go mushrooming and not be able to share the fun and the find with my grandpa, a realization that makes me ache.

23. I know that I will feel him there with me nonetheless, walking stick in his hand, Old-Timer knife in his pocket, and twinkle in his eye.

24. I am blessed--thoroughly and undeniably blessed--by simply knowing some of the people in my life, young, old, and in between.

25. Just how much would it bug my Aunt Audrey and my math-brained, inside-the-box, perfectly-organized friends if I ended on a number that is not a multiple of five?

26. And I end with a wondering, ornery smile . . .

His Life, Well-Lived

As a child, I couldn’t understand his stoic nature, his quiet demeanor, his steadfast faith, his rigid self-discipline, or his exhausting work ethic. Eventually, though, I started to pay more attention to those around me, and I noticed that there was this look I could relate to--a mischievously crooked grin and quick waggle of the eyebrows--that let me know my grandfather. I grew into him, and now I realize it took me far too long.

Simply put, he was the best and wisest person I’ve ever known. He lived his life with an Old Timer knife in his pocket, a twinkle in his eye, and love in his heart. He adored the same woman for over 60 years and the same land for his entire life. He worked hard and loved deeply, but did both with quiet steadiness. And now, he is gone--gone from our sight, gone from his home, gone from our world.

There is no formal test at the end of a life, no real assessment of how well we did at living life. So, at the end, how will we know? How will we know that our lives were time well spent on this earth? How will we know that we have touched others, made a difference, and left a legacy? What proof exists of a life well-lived?

For this man, for Grandpa, there can be no doubt.

When we drop down into the valley, cross the bridge and see the family farm, the farm that exists for us because one man chose to spend his life on that farm, the farm that is our collective refuge from the world, we have proof.

When children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren rush to the hospital on a Friday morning, we have proof.

When we set our jaws with strength and resolve, even in the face of undiluted terror and unprecedented grief, we have proof.

When our laughter, true and deep, cuts through our tears, we have proof.

When a grown son holds his father’s frail hand in his own rugged grip and daughters tenderly whisper permission and reassurance, we have proof.

When generations proudly step forward to sit at a bedside through long days and nights, we have proof.

Today, we grieve. Today, we are envious of heaven and sad for ourselves. Today, we are quite human.

Nevertheless, his legacy does exist. When we carry on, move on, live on, with his strength, his courage, and his love in our hearts, we will be proof of his life well-lived.

Would You Like Those Tires Gift-Wrapped?

Tires. You want tires for graduation. No matter how many times I ask, how many chances I give you to change your mind, you want tires. "I don't want stuff," you say, "just tires."

Tires it shall be.

Tires to take you to college, to work, to wherever you decide to go.

Yes, the tires will take you, but I will let you go.

Of course I will miss you. I will miss your silent eye rolls when stupidity threatens to overtake a situation, your steady, strong presence in the school halls and your camaraderie in the yard, your guffaw that escapes when I least expect it, and your enduring grin that breaks through when I do expect it.

Still, I will let you go.

A lifetime ago, I wouldn't let you out of my sight, then I wouldn't let you out of the house. Eventually, the boundary edged the yard, the block, and our side of town. Now, the boundaries are nonexistent. Now, I don't want you to stop.

Now, you are ready.

When you offer a frail great-grandparent your solid arm, you prove you are ready.

When you follow the rules that matter and ignore those that don't, you prove you are ready.

When you do the right thing when nobody is watching, you prove that you are ready.

So use the tires. Use the tires and go. Choose your destination, follow your instinct, and disregard all boundaries.

Whatever you do, don't stop.

Day Into Night

Today, I am reminded of what keeps me rooted to this small town I call home.

Off and on for years I have railed against living here, railed against the astonishing familiarity so many people have with my life, railed against the proximity of people I wished to escape, and railed--ferociously--against the numbing sameness of a small town.

But today . . .

Today, someone I've known nearly all of my 39 years, someone my parents and aunts and uncles grew up with, took her own life. It had become a tragic life, punctuated by pain and sorrow none should feel--a life so sad, so broken, that she couldn't find her way back out to peace.

She tried. She clung to her church and to her faith. In the end, though, her despair was overwhelming.

In thinking about her life and death, the web of people around her astounds me. There aren't six degrees of separation. There are no degrees; there is no separation. In this community, with its maddening, smothering, ultimately touching closeness, there is no separation.

No, no separation. Instead . . .

There will be another empty spot in my pew at church.

Her neighbor, who will live the rest of his life with today's images burned in his mind, is one of my father's best friends.

The students in our school will have a new cook.

My parents have lost another life-long friend.

Our rescue squad is made up of her neighbors and friends, her children's classmates, and her coworkers.

All of these are personal to me; for every person who knew her or knew someone who knew her, another list exists.

Our lists overlap.

Our hearts break together.

Our tears fall in sorrowful rhythm.

Our prayers reach out to her tonight.

Together.

Yes, I have railed against much of what makes a small town, but tonight there is no rebellion. Tonight, there is only the comfort that comes from all that makes this small town my home. Because tonight, so many of us are searching for comfort in the familiarity, the proximity, and the sameness. Tonight, we are one, and we are wishing peace for Debby.

I Hear You're Into That "PHOTOGRAPHY" Stuff!

Since I enjoy being in denial about being middle-aged, this cannot be a mid-life crisis. Instead, I like to think of the evolving adventure of photography as a developing hobby and potential source of income.

After all, it can't be a mid-life crisis if I feel like a kid playing grown-up, can it? Really?

A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I've known for over thirty years--I grew up with her kids. "I hear you're into that photography!?" My soft response--"yes."

"Well How'd you learn?!" "I study, I mean read, a lot. And I take a lot of pictures. I practice."

Then it was my turn to ask who'd told her. She decided it must have been her daughter-in-law. I thought that made sense, because the daughter-in-law is on Facebook and has commented on my photos. I mentioned the connection.

"I hate that Facebook. It's too damn nosy!" was her proclamation, obviously disregarding the nature of her own questions.

A simple conversation, the likes of which I've often had with this woman, makes me nervous. The idea of doing something new makes my head spin a little. Saying "Photographer" when I describe myself makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Maybe a lot. Putting myself out there is terrifying. People won't choose me. There will, inevitably, be rejections. There will be comments made behind my back and maybe to my face about the quality of my work.

Perhaps my work is nothing special, except to the families and friends of the subjects. Perhaps my work is mundane, and there is nothing remarkable in the thorny beauty of a thistle edging up to a rusty barbed wire fence, both softened in the light of a setting sun. Perhaps the babies I love to photograph could be just as well served by their parents' point-and-shoot cameras and far less fuss.

Perhaps. After all, I don't know the answers to these possibilities.

Perhaps. Yes, putting myself "out there" makes me nervous. Nervousness aside, even though I feel like a kid playing grown-up, I also feel that this is a step I'm ready to take. When my camera is in my hand, the confidence chases the butterflies away. When I feel my camera resting in the small of my back, waiting patiently, I am sure, content and perfectly happy. Anything that makes me feel like that must be right.

Perhaps it is.

The Porch Light Flickered

On a day when my age was undeniable, I was thrown back in time to the summer nights of my youth. Unwelcome in a conversation that was as vital as any I've had recently, the signal came from inside her parents' house. The porch light flashed on-off-on: time to go inside. Tonight, the porch light flickered, but we were allowed to stay out just a little while longer.

Tonight, we were girls. Jennifer in the porch swing, long legs dangling, idle feet in and out of her father's borrowed shoes; Tonya on the porch ledge, back against the pillar, leg swinging over the edge. A passerby would have seen two grown women tiptoeing around the boundaries of middle age. In a way, the passerby would have been right. Jennifer will turn 37 next month; I turned 39 this month. She has a 7-year-old son and worries that he could be an only child. I have three teenagers and worry about paying for college. These are not the worries of our youth.

However, that same passerby would have heard the soft murmurs of an easy conversation, voices filled with emotion and cushioned with the comfort of years. We talked in the way that only old friends can talk. Months pass without contact, but buried in our busy lives is a friendship that endures. Time and distance are reality. I live in Illinois and she in Indiana. We have families and jobs--we have lives. Somehow, though, this friendship lasts.

Years ago, our stream-of-consciousness conversation was about the tyranny of our parents, the demands of our teachers, and the details of our plans for and exploits in love. The stream-of-consciousness conversation still flows, but now it is about our aging grandparents, our own families, and what love turned out to be. Then and now, the conversation wove in and out of our very hearts. Our words were different from all those years ago, but the tone was the same. The difference is the undiluted honesty of our conversations now. The bravado of youth has been replaced with the courage to act on our convictions and the belief that affection and admiration should be shared.

Would that passerby have thought "middle age," or would that passerby have thought "friends?"
Both are accurate, but only one is forever.

And the porch light flashing on and off? Her son. Full circle.

Six Minutes

I keep thinking I'll get "the" sunset photo, so I took off again tonight, shortly after 8:00. The sky was beautiful, the sun was slipping down the sky, and I was idle.

Under 10 minutes passed between deciding to go and actually taking the pictures. For six minutes, I stood at the side of the road, camera clicking, filters and lenses on and off and on again, through forty pictures. In six minutes, the sun went from a fat, fluid, blinding orange in a pink sky to a wisp of pink in the dusky blue-hour sky, and then it was gone.

Six minutes.

In my non-science brain, sunsets amaze me. The sun goes down, goes away. I watch it happen. In my brain, if the sun is gone, the sky should be dark.

Instead, we are left with the most beautiful light of all.

Dear Summer . . .

Here I am, nudging the line of spring into summer's territory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is report card day. Translation: Summer starts tomorrow. The grades are done, the room is packed, and the requisitions are nearly finished. Yes, I'm eager. My plan is to leave school tomorrow and not go back until August. Not to clean, not to work, and not to visit. Nothing until August.

This year, summer vacation is sacred. I do not exaggerate when I say the next two months are therapeutic--they are restorative and healing. After a school year that only administrators and lunatics would call good, this summer is to be treasured. For two months, I am in charge of my time and who shares it.

I will stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm not. I will be part of a love triangle involving my camera and my hammock, splitting my hours between the two. I have photography skills to learn and a newborn to photograph. I have a pile of books and hours to spare. I have an iPod Touch and wireless internet. This year, I deem all these things necessary.

Yes, summer has a project in me. Summer has work to do, because this year has drained me. There are a few requests I have of summer: May my brain recharge enough that I can finish a book in a respectable amount of time and a sentence without searching for words; may my body recharge enough that I stop looking like shit and feeling like yesterday's shit; and may my attitude recharge enough that I rise out of the bitchy range . . .

I'm kidding about that last request; bitchy is fun. Really.

So, Summer, here I am. Heal me. Relax me. Relearn me. Warm me. Massage me. Summer, work your magic.