A Very Different Christmas

This year for Christmas, I will be spending some time in my barn. I have forsaken the decorated tree, the trimmings, and all the trappings of a modern holiday in favor of a simpler, more meaningful experience. After all, isn't a barn where it all started, anyway?

I will take in the mustiness that lingers in the aisle; I will feel the cold as it flows through the wood siding; and I will listen. Yes, I will listen to the breath of the donkey, his exhales looking like smoke from a chimney in the crisp, cool air. I will listen to the soft sounds of the sheep as they work on a new bale of hay. The cows, I'm sure, will be lowing in the pasture, and the thundering hoofbeats of the horses racing one another in the cool early morning will resonate in my very core. I will watch as the wind whips through naked branches, causing downed leaves to dance across the yard, and I will wonder what it was like that first morning--a newborn baby in a dirty, cold barn. It is the epitome of humble beginnings, and a lesson in how they can turn into greatness.

There is a scripture that says, to paraphrase, do not despise humble beginnings. Perhaps Christmas should remind us of why.

I believe I am too far down the road to go back to the glittery, tinsel-filled holiday celebrations of times past. I am older and, hopefully, a bit wiser now. I want to remember and contemplate the essence of what Christmas is--or should be.

Fighting traffic in the city yesterday, watching the hoardes of tired people with unhappy expressions only underscores my conclusion that it isn't really about the gifts at all, but about THE gift.

Perhaps, this Christmas, we should take pause to remember just how simple and perfect that first Christmas morning was and appreciate the gift. I know that, sitting on a cold step in my barn surrounded by warm, furry animals crowding in for a gentle touch, I will.

Merry Christmas, all. May you be blessed with a vision of the beauty of simplicity.

Mice--the OTHER White Meat...

Two nights ago, my husband and I were returning from a quick-but-nice dinner out. Nothing fancy, just a trip down to the local Subway. We were full and satisfied, and the thought of a warm snuggly blanket and a good tv show sounded like the winning ticket for the evening.

Little did we know...

We arrived back at the farm just as twilight was falling. Yes, twilight...that time between day and night when the farm is settling down to go to sleep and the stars are coming out to shine. As we rounded the corner into the driveway, all seemed normal--the faint ribbons of peach, rose, and lavender fading from the sky. The noisy opening of the gate drew the attention of the yard beasts, and as we pulled our truck into its space and clicked the gate shut, we were greeted by a terrier, a sheep, and a deer. They knew. It was the blue and white styrofoam cup that gave it away. Each time we humans come home with that cup, it can only mean one thing: BISCUITS!! So I gingerly unwrapped the precious offering so as not to allow the napkins to be eaten as well, and divided the treat into three equal parts. With each beastie happily munching a mouthful of starch, we proceeded to the door.

Funny, I didn't remember the cat being a part of that raiding party.
Nonetheless, there he was, sitting at the threshold of the door not-so-quietly crunching on something. "Jaaaaaaack...?", I said with a question in my voice. He didn't move. He just continued to crunch--faster and faster so as not to miss anything should I shoo him away. Now, being a bit smarter than I look, I curbed the impulse to reach down and brush him out of the way to see what he had. No, I opted to use my foot to gently lift his chest out of the way.

Smart move.

As his fur cleared my line of sight, there it was in all its glory: a headless mouse. And NOT a small one, either. The cat looked up at me, meowed, licked his chops, and dove back in. Suddenly, I heard the theme music from the original movie, "Psycho", playing in my head. With visions of opening the door and the cat streaking in with mouse in jowls to hide just out of reach under the dining table to finish his banquet, I looked at my husband and said, "Gee, honey, why don't we go in the back door tonight." As we turned and rounded the end of the house, he wondered under his breath whether or not our cat was really a zombie disguised as a farm inhabitant. Probably not, he decided, or Jack would have been chewing on our heads long before this.

In my previous life, this sight would have caused me uncontrollable nausea and creeping flesh for hours. Now? Ha. It's a sight I take in stride. Farm cats, you see, provide a very valuable service. Had the cat not caught him, hat headless mouse could have made his way into my kitchen to hide in nooks and crannies and munch on any crumb we may have missed. I could have run onto him in the middle of the night as I stumbled in the darkness to find a sip of water. It's better that it happened this way. Cat doing his job, mouse losing the war.

It's all in a day's work for Jack, our farm cat.

Bottled Water is E-vil!

Allow me to first set the record straight. Although I am acutely aware of the need to recycle, our responsibility as stewards of the earth, and the aesthetic value of a clean environment, I am NOT an over-the-top eco-vigilante.

Now, I may not be, but that is not so much the case with at least one of our farm inhabitants.

You see, yesterday morning, in the early predawn hours as I finished loading my vehicle for the weekly trip to the farmer's market, I absent-mindedly set a case of bottled water onto the running board of our 1947 Chevy farm truck. "No harm, no foul," I thought.

Au contraire!

For, as my tail lights disappeared around the curve of the driveway, a figure stalked out of the shadows to right a grievous wrong. Seymour, it turns out, abhors cases of water bottles. They are evil, it seems, and I didn't know it. He, being such an insightful guardian, was ever-watchful--protecting us from the potential hazards of an all-out plastic attack.

So, with antlers in place, he proceeded to destroy the suspect plastic and cardboard packaging, scattering the individual bottles far and wide over the front yard. Not meaning to merely wound--but to kill the invader in its tracks--Seymour went so far as to skewer several of the bottles and leave them lying to bleed their precious contents onto the ground. Upon my return home early in the afternoon, I was greeted by the sight of the ever-vigilant deer lying in the front yard, watching to be sure none of the survivors made a break for it. And, while I quietly procured a couple of plastic shopping bags, Seymour was there at my heels to poke at the quickly-growing cargo, lest it escape and wreak havoc on our little hamlet.

What a guy.

We can always count on Seymour. Whether it be a wicked case of water bottles or a malevolent cardboard shipping box insidiously placed in his domain by the suspect UPS driver, he has our backs.

We can sleep soundly knowing that while "something wicked this way [may] come", Seymour will stop it before its foul agenda can be accomplished.

There's a Change in the Wind

Fifty-four degrees.

That is what the thermometer read this morning as I ventured out to begin my day, sipping on a piping-hot cup of steaming black coffee. What a welcome respite from the temperatures of late--nearly topping 100 degrees in the heat of the day while never venturing much below 75 at night! Isn't it amazing how quickly discomfort is forgotten in the face of an absolutely sublime morning?

A heavy dew on the grass, a light mist in the pasture, and a quickening in the steps of the Great Pyrenees as they return from their nightly rounds. The light this early in the day is a soft purple-blue, and the rays of the newly dawning sun slice through with pink and peach rays. The yard deer, Seymour, is shedding his summer hair in favor of a thick coat of soft darkness that envelopes his body. The velvet on his antlers is beginning to dry, a sure sign that his annual tree and post rubbing is about to begin. Of course, it is not unfathomable that a wayward leg be mistaken for a good rubbing post.

It has happened before, much to my chagrin.

His apology for such an oversight is a series soft, warm kisses on the forehead, his newly-acquired spires tapping me on the top of my head as he works his way across my eyebrows and down the bridge of my nose. It is his way of keeping me close in his herd, and I appreciate his efforts.

Out in the pasture, the horses awake, sleepily making their way--one by one--from their evening shelter to the troughs brimming with cool, fresh water. Each nods in greeting as he or she passes close by, some stopping for a scratch or a rub while others continue on , intent on being first to quench his thirst. The mares stand guard as the babies drink, then take their own sips. As I rub the side of one of the stragglers, the familiar smell of horse and hay mixes in my nostrils. It is a warm and comforting smell--one I wish I could bottle and keep with me always. The cows, with their sweet, grassy breath, moo a few yards away, anxious for the horses to finish their business and move on. Then, the donkey girls arrive, switching their tails and rotating their antenna-like ears in the direction of the slightest break in the silence.

Lily, a mini horse and year-round yard resident, moves in closer to investigate the goings-on at the fence, while Newman, our gracefully-aging Suffolk sheep blocks my way in a mock train robbery--waiting for me to scratch along his spine. This is a region that has been impossible for him to reach this past year as arthritis has set in, and he licks the air in sheer delight as I make my way from his neck to his hips...and back again. His deep, baritone "BAA!" coaxes me to continue with our arrangement--YOU scratch, I enjoy--for just a couple of moments more. My fingers sink deep into his growing wool, and the lanolin hidden deep within feels soft on my skin.

As the ducks and turkey hen noisily round the corner of the house looking for some leftover morsel of grain, I finish the last sip of coffee in my cup, and it is time to head back in for another. The mist is lifting now, but it will be hours before the dew burns off and the day warms. This is life on the farm, and as I make my way across the yard and up the steps, reaching the door that hides my next cup of liquid contentment, I am thankful for its simplicity.

Fifty-five degrees...

It's been a year, now...

It is difficult to imagine, but it has been a full year since I last wrote.

For quite a while, it seemed as if my writing muse had packed her bags and left on an east-bound train. So much has happened in the past twelve months that it would be far too long a read to detail it here, but suffice it to say that we have been running full-steam ahead. We have purchased and renovated a 2-house rental property here in West Tennessee, we have seen our two youngest children become more settled in their personal lives, and our cast of critters continues to change.

Perhaps two of the most difficult events of the year, though, have been the passing of a very dear friend and bright spot in the world, and the discovery that my mother has cancer. These two things have affected me deeply--to my core--and it is difficult to put into words exactly how this has changed me. It is my hope that I will be able to see God's hand in it all. To see how the greater good is served. But, at the moment, I see only feet into the foggy mist that we call the future. I don't know what the next weeks and months will bring. I only know that--with God's grace--I will make it through each moment as it presents itself.

And, I promise to write more.

For weeks, now, there have been "bubblings" in my soul. Those feelings of "gee, I really would like to comment", but I have been far too busy to sit down at the keyboard.

No longer.

There is far too much beauty in this gift we call life, and I intend on shining a light on as much of it as possible. So, consider this my recommittment to my posts, and know that I intend to live life out loud and to its fullest.