The Summer of my Childhood
Get up! The cows are out! The cows are out!
So much for my stolen solitude; hidden in the recesses of the farm house or the hay loft. A few golden, precious minutes... gone for today.
We all run out like firemen to a rescue, responding to the air of emergency, jumping into our boots, although complaining and groaning. Snapped to attention and organized for the event ahead. The cows are out!
Back when I was seven, when haying was a glorious, fun-filled experience. Riding on top of the wagon, when it was new – watching the strapping sixteen-year-old hired boys, muscles glistening under a sheen of sweat and hay seeds. When I was sixteen myself, and able to heft a bale to the top of the wagon, the hired boys long gone, the job of haying less a romantic venture and just sheer, hard work.
Most of the time, hay fever kept me out of the fields and in the kitchen – relief- although not so much. Picking and freezing broccoli, miles of it spread along the counter. Sometimes the neighbors stopped on their way down the hill and took us off to the pool, my mother reluctantly letting us go. By brother, seething, and rightfully so, watched from the tractor seat as we sped away in the neighbor's Volkswagen bus. We paid later in blood, sweat and tears.
Long days, long hours, lots of complaining, followed by a precious half-hour at the swimming hole before dinner – if the work was done in time. More stolen solitude, sometimes with a book at the top of a tree or the barn roof, always waiting, waiting for my name to be called for one chore or another.
Anne of Green Gables my most negative influence, along with Pipi Longstocking. Anne inspired me to walk the ridge-pole, Pippi to pick up our pony (at least I am told).
Ah, the pony. The wild little pony who used to take me galloping up the road and throw me off on the way back down. Later I learned always to walk down and run up.
My sister and I used to put on old dresses and pretend to be the Ingalls girls, running by the banks of the creek, and driving our wagon which was a large gray rock.
When weeding the garden or scrubbing oven racks, she and I used to pretend we were indentured servants, my mother the domineering land owner.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Five in the Bed (2006 or 7?)
FIVE IN THE BED...
“You could be divorced quite comfortably in a king-sized bed,” my dad announced to me one day. “Your mother and I slept in one at a hotel on the way back from your sister's, and we felt like we were miles apart.”
I have heard that kids can be a barrier to intimacy. I would say they are more like ten-foot stone walls topped with barbed wire. Nature has it's way of making sure that children are sensibly spaced in a family. My husband and I have gone through three bed sizes during our ten-year marriage. We upgraded with each new addition to our family. We now have a king-sized bed so that six elbows can jab us in the ribs even though in theory there is plenty of room for morning snuggles. It's hard to even hear your own thoughts while hearing “scootch over!” “No you scootch over!” “Mommmmyyyyyyy...he won't scootch over...” “OUCH! Watch the family jewels there, son!” Never mind hearing sweet nothings whispered from the other side of creation.
We got a cheap bed for half the price of a fancy no-flip brand, so we can truthfully say that our sex life is in a rut. We just have to decide “will it be my rut or yours?” In addition, at least one of us has to have the desire and the wherewithal to ascend the growing mountain of mattress between the ruts in order to make any intimate contact whatsoever. To a childless couple that may seem easy, but to tired parents it can be as daunting as ascending Mount Everest. All the right conditions have to be met before any mountain climbing can be done. The kids have to be in their own beds, ASLEEP. It can't be too late. It will NEVER be too early. It is always better if the dishes have been done, preferably without argument, because even the slightest tiff can ruin the mood for a tired couple. Even if all the right circumstances are in place, in fragile harmony, if one of the parties is nursing, all bets may be off for the next year or so.
Just in case anyone is wondering why we don't just flip the mattress more than once a year - well, first of all, we're just too tired. Plus, last time we flipped it I had a raging backache the next morning and every morning after that until we re-flipped it. Besides, let's face it - sometimes it's just more comfortable to stay in a rut.
The last time we spent the night at my parents' house, the kids and I brought them their morning tea in bed. Well, what a coincidence. Turns out my parents are in a rut also, although their's is smack dab in the middle of their full-sized bed. There they were, sleeping, arms wrapped around each other; I don't know if a chisel could have separated those two. It was a very endearing scene. One that not too many of us get to see any more. It all ended too soon. The threat of the next course of porridge in bed got them up in a hurry. No need for a chisel.
“You could be divorced quite comfortably in a king-sized bed,” my dad announced to me one day. “Your mother and I slept in one at a hotel on the way back from your sister's, and we felt like we were miles apart.”
I have heard that kids can be a barrier to intimacy. I would say they are more like ten-foot stone walls topped with barbed wire. Nature has it's way of making sure that children are sensibly spaced in a family. My husband and I have gone through three bed sizes during our ten-year marriage. We upgraded with each new addition to our family. We now have a king-sized bed so that six elbows can jab us in the ribs even though in theory there is plenty of room for morning snuggles. It's hard to even hear your own thoughts while hearing “scootch over!” “No you scootch over!” “Mommmmyyyyyyy...he won't scootch over...” “OUCH! Watch the family jewels there, son!” Never mind hearing sweet nothings whispered from the other side of creation.
We got a cheap bed for half the price of a fancy no-flip brand, so we can truthfully say that our sex life is in a rut. We just have to decide “will it be my rut or yours?” In addition, at least one of us has to have the desire and the wherewithal to ascend the growing mountain of mattress between the ruts in order to make any intimate contact whatsoever. To a childless couple that may seem easy, but to tired parents it can be as daunting as ascending Mount Everest. All the right conditions have to be met before any mountain climbing can be done. The kids have to be in their own beds, ASLEEP. It can't be too late. It will NEVER be too early. It is always better if the dishes have been done, preferably without argument, because even the slightest tiff can ruin the mood for a tired couple. Even if all the right circumstances are in place, in fragile harmony, if one of the parties is nursing, all bets may be off for the next year or so.
Just in case anyone is wondering why we don't just flip the mattress more than once a year - well, first of all, we're just too tired. Plus, last time we flipped it I had a raging backache the next morning and every morning after that until we re-flipped it. Besides, let's face it - sometimes it's just more comfortable to stay in a rut.
The last time we spent the night at my parents' house, the kids and I brought them their morning tea in bed. Well, what a coincidence. Turns out my parents are in a rut also, although their's is smack dab in the middle of their full-sized bed. There they were, sleeping, arms wrapped around each other; I don't know if a chisel could have separated those two. It was a very endearing scene. One that not too many of us get to see any more. It all ended too soon. The threat of the next course of porridge in bed got them up in a hurry. No need for a chisel.
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