A Country Minute

Graduation was lovely. It started at good with the diploma and then just kept getting better with friends and family and jolly toasts and warm funny stories. The weather was sunny and cool and as we stood amid lambs and kids, under a canopy of old maple trees I thought how different we are as a family than when Benjamin first began his college journey. Then we had just moved to Vermont and had no idea who our friends would be, or that we would buy America’s oldest country store and run town Easter Egg Hunts for hundreds. I didn’t know that I would start and sell a couple more companies or expand this development business that would fulfill me in new and deep and unexpected ways. We didn’t know that we would be raising chickens much less lambs. I had never imagined herbs in the windowsill nevermind a whole way of eating and feeding ourselves with juicy tomatoes grown under the sun next to dandelions and ancient maples. Home schooling wasn’t even an idea back then. Before a year had passed it was a passion that transformed our lives for a while. Our kids had barely given up malls and we hadn’t yet found badminton, the river over on Peace Street, the waterfall or movies on the side of the house. Living in the country was still about the views and not so much yet about the life.

Along the way we have said goodbye to Sophie the eighteen-year-old Tabby cat who shared our lives from that first sweet little house in Edwardsville to the grand old Victorian along the city streets of St Louis to this old restored farmhouse in the mountains of Vermont. We have said hello to new friends whose own lives and rhythms now help us define ours. We didn’t know Karen and Jack or Ellen and Roger when Benjamin began college. Now we have been to Italy with two of them and shared a business venture with the others. We have all experienced great pain and joy together and I can no longer imagine our lives without them in it. We said goodbye to our dear Eloise who helped us write this whole story. She was a guide for almost every part of it that is real and that lasts.

And much of it has all been written and told here on the pages of this blog. Sometimes I almost feel like a thing hasn’t happened if I don’t write about it here. It has been interactive too. I have relished the relationships and the kindness and support of folks who email and comment and make me think about my life in new and welcome ways.

The time has come now for me to take a break from this space. I have long wanted to pull together a book about this move and our decisions to live closer to the natural world. I have tracked the seasons and felt the power of the wind, the weight of the snow, and the sheer unadulterated joy when the leaves come back. We have lived our lives in ways that have brought us new pleasures and great satisfaction. I seldom know very far in advance what the next new passion will be and only recently have I known about a sadness long enough in advance to adjust and accommodate it into the mix. I think one of the great reasons to be alive is not knowing what might be just around the next corner. Italy might be in the future or so might a city spin. Our kids are talking a little bit about a California life. Maybe it will be time to give someone else the reins and follow their dreams to the beach or along side a west coast mountain. We don’t know what’s coming, but I want to take some real time this summer to write about what has already happened. I am grieving Eloise and want to do this book in her honor. Her life was short, but as meaningful to me as any other has ever been. In ten years we packed a whole lifetime and a bunch of adventure besides. From her I learned about patience and a calm steadiness born of practice and love. I want to take those gifts and put down our story in one long narrative. And for that I need space from these essays and from the urge to mark the quotidian experiences. I have experienced enough of Vermont to know what is coming and how to plan for winter. I know about ordering the hay in May so as to have plenty in January. Same for the wood and a stockpile of cash for the oil. I know to get ready in the sunshine and how to keep warm in the deepest winter. I think this is a story I can tell.

Thank you for coming by and for sharing your stories and your kindnesses with me. I may pop back in from time to time, but for now at least I want to give myself time and space to remember. I want to write about about this slow sweet country life and the transformation we found in this high sweet valley under these old mountains where the stories have a gentle rhythm and the music is as familiar as warm pie……

Graduation!

The crab apple trees are blooming. They are about the only thing since lambs are eating everything else. The hydrangeas are long desperate looking sticks. The geraniums look forlorn without blossoms and the pansies all gave up without even bothering to flower. It looks like a commercial for a vacation on a desolate stretch of desert. The lambs are eager tasters. Luckily the crab apples are just too darn tall. There’s a lesson in that I think. Stand up; rise above the worry, the pain, even the heartbreak. Reach for the sun, soak it up and forget about the mess on the ground.

Benjamin is graduating. It has been a long road for him to get here filled with false starts, disappointments, and the struggle of a wildly ADHD 6 foot 4 inch mancub trying to survive amidst the orderly hall of academia. The business office called this week to notify us of $73 worth of miscellaneous charges that needed to be paid so the kid could walk. There were lost keys, lost books, and a lockout entry fee mixed into the fee. Locked out and lost were apt descriptions of the college adventure.

And yet at every turn, he persevered. He called campus security and sheepishly asked to be let back in when he lost the keys for the twentieth time, he ordered two sets of books, sometimes three, and he pounded on the door and just kept getting back in there.

I am enormously proud of this brave young man who is our son. It is an equally sad and joyous week and by God we are going to CELEBRATE with this kid who deserves trumpets. It’s spring and the sun is shining. We are damned well going to look up!

Our Eloise

Eloise had a sweet peaceful death with all of us holding her and telling her how much we loved her. We sat our on the porch and the vet sat with us for a little while. Everyone cried and petted and hugged her one last time.

The whole day was lovely actually. She and I sat out in the yard for a couple of hours yesterday morning and watched a robin couple fly back and forth from the meadow to their next in our front yard feeding their little babies. A hummingbird came by and so did a Baltimore Oriel couple. The lambs were baaing and the sun was shining in her honor. We talked about the robins and I sang a few songs and tried not to sob and worry her. She had scrambled eggs for breakfast and fettuccine carbonara for lunch with ice cream for dessert. Her jaw had been compromised and hard dog food was no longer an option for her.

The decision seems clearer in retrospect. Her life had been reduced to a couple of trips outside that took forever to accomplish and an occasional room change during the day. She was ready even if we weren't.

She elegantly gave the vet her paw for the shot and I held her in my arms as she died. Our vet had brought an assistant and the two of them wrapped her in a lovely old quilt. We kissed her one more time and they carried her solemnly like the best most gentle pallbearers to the back seat of their car. We will have her ashes in a few days.

Eloise was a big part of this family. She sat vigil with every one of us at one time or another though some flu or illness. She was calm and steady no matter what. If one of the kids yelled or wrestled too hard with another she would correct them with one bark and a gentle restraining Berner bump. She insisted on good manners. Her quiet elegance was a model for this loud rambunctious unruly group of ours. She was like having a sweet maiden auntie from another era around to remind us all to behave.

And she celebrated with us. Every holiday was more joyous because of her. She loved the festivity of the holidays, and Christmas, with all those cheese rinds and big fat bones, was her favorite. A walk in the snow after unwrapping a bunch of presents was her idea of heaven. Then she would settle down for a long chew and maybe a nap before the next round of partying began.

She had the biggest vocabulary of any dog I have ever known. She was brainy and beautiful, and everyone who met her was always smitten. She exuded a soulful gentle love that calmed and gentled colicky babies and grumpy adults alike.

We all loved her deeply and will miss her enormously but we are ever grateful to have had the time.

Eloise Rushing Stimson
December 10 1998-May 12 2009

Tuesday

Eloise has had it. We have upped the pain meds and are giving her all we can. She is droopy and her tail is wagging less and less. Last night she didn’t want cheese for the first time maybe ever. Our sweet vet, Rob, who has been there in the middle of the night for a colicky lamb, pumped Pippi’s stomach when she got the cheese laced with Eloise’s narcotics, made room in his tiny office for all five of us when we said goodbye to Sophie our eighteen year old tabby cat amid tears and funny stories, will come to our house at 2 o’ clock on Tuesday. Hannah will be home from college and Eli will come home early from school. The pain in Eloise’s leg would make getting into the car an ordeal and she has never liked going to the vet anyway. So instead he will come here and she will have scrambled eggs for breakfast and cheese and smoked turkey for lunch.

We have a houseful of company coming for Benjamin’s graduation beginning on Thursday. And there is no way she should have to endure that chaos. She doesn’t feel good. And all that company can make an old girl a little grumpy even when she feels just fine.

The question of when is the right time has been consuming us. We don’t want to wait until one of her fragile bones breaks and she faces intolerable pain for even a little while before we can get her to the vet. But neither do we want to shortchange her or ourselves of any of this last precious time. This question is just really hard. Waiting too long because it is better or easier for us would be wrong. How do you know? We have wondered this again and again. Making this decision for a beloved friend who cannot tell you her own thoughts on the matter is an awesome and painful responsibility. And her mind is perfectly clear. She communicates with ease just as she always has. I wish I could ask her about her thoughts on euthanasia, or whether she is ready. But of course I can’t. We must rely on our own values and beliefs and so must Eloise.

Last night when she didn’t want the cheese and then this morning when going outside took several minutes to accomplish the answer began to seem clear. A little while later she rallied when Eli came home from an overnight party. She limped to the door to greet him and then mooched some of his lunch just like old times. But now she is asleep in a heap, sighing heavily. She is counting on us to do this hard thing......

May

The trees are covered with tiny leaves. The Maples are revealing their mapley selves with these miniature perfectly shaped leaves. They are almost transparent at this stage. The greens are fresh and lacy and they are climbing back up the mountains. In the autumn the color washes down over the valley in waves and then in the spring it gently climbs back up starting low in the valley and by middle May reaching high up the sides of the mountains. The last of the snow up there has finally disappeared this week and the joy of the greening has begun in earnest.

I love spring. It is chilly in the mornings when we go out and give the lambs their bottles around 6. John and I carry our mugs of coffee, their bottles, and blankets to cover the wet chairs. It rains about every night now at least for a little while. The chairs on the terrace are cold and damp. But by the time we come back in an hour or so later the sun is glowing through the trees streaming down in fat yellow drops. There are puddles of it all over the garden. John's rock walls have little bright pools glistening on top them, and inside their are bits of it all over the furniture and floors. Under an old quilt inside the cold house we drink more hot thick coffee and watch the lambs from the windows. It is an ancient looking landscape; sheep grazing amidst sun and spring lavender on a hilly smallholding.

Life is old here. There is a slow and dependable rhythm to our days. The seasons are more real somehow when you are living this close to the land. Farmer's markets are where we get most of our food for six months out of the year from people who make their living from this land. Our milk comes from a dairy up the road and often is still warm when we pick up our jars. And even the cheese in the refrigerator comes from local goat farmers who are trying to make a difference in their tiny part of the world.

Things close early up here. There is one movie theater with two screens. The restaurants wrap up by 9 because there just are not enough people up here to justify staying open any later. Even the newspapers don't get to Vermont before 8 or 9. This is not a state big enough to print its own and so we must wait for NY to print theirs and deliver us ours. You must like the people you live with a lot and you must know how to entertain yourself to feel happy. You walk in the woods because there are no art museums and you go to the waterfall for coffee instead of the cafe across from the park. We were always seriously big readers, but now books sustain us even more deeply than before. Some of us write and some of us draw. There is even knitting on the coldest nights. The pleasures are the same ones that our ancestors probably enjoyed. We cook elaborate meals and we care for and play with our animals many hours every day. They give us the daily responsibilities that keep us moving when it is 10 below. We do our work out in the world every day and then we come back here where the views and the slow moving time remind us to pay attention and remember why we chose this new life in this old place.
And on days like today when the lambs are munching in the meadow with these pools of sunshine all around I can hear God is whispering in my ear......

One Last Spring

I think I have always used animals as a reliably cheerful distraction from whatever was ailing me. There has never been anything much wrong with me that a few hours in the company of one good dog couldn't fix. I have turned to them also in celebration and so the joy I have shared with them has been a constant in my life. Charlie and Santi are proof that we have done it again.

Eloise is dying. I have never felt closer to a dog than I have to Eloise my spectacularly beautiful and incredibly smart Bernese Mountain Dog. "Beauty and brains", a vet once said about her. And he was right. She is my soul dog. She has taught me many gentle lessons about quiet pleasure and calm steady watchfulness. She is an old soul and I could use another lifetime with her to get the lessons.

Her illness brought enormous sadness and pain. And so before long we found ourselves fostering some little lambs. Watching them run and jump has been entertaining for Eloise too, especially now that they are out of her kitchen. The gate that barred them in kept her out, and had to be moved completely so she could walk gingerly in. But now, in this northeastern heat wave, she lounges in the grass and watches their silly antics. We have nicknamed them her Hospice lambs. We never meant to become shepherds. I have never even had a passing fantasy about owning sheep. A cow, yes. I loved imagining milking in the mornings and then scraping the cream off the top for our coffee. As a child who missed out on a particular brand of mothering I have long had recurring dreams and fantasies about sleeping with a cow. But sheep, never.

And yet it was sheep who dropped into our lives. Sheep whose lambs my husband took us to see to welcome spring. Lambs who Hannah and Eli held and bottle fed, and whom we agreed to foster for one quick spring because we have always aimed to be yes parents and to live our own lives filled with the answer yes. And now sheep who love us and who are bonded to us think we are their family. Small sheep, but sheep just the same, who run to meet us when the car pulls up, and baaa at the window when they want a scratch. Sheep whom we watch and laugh with, coo and aww over like kids with a basket full of kittens. Sheep who are spending the day at the vet getting shots, and wormed, and neutered and in general made fit for a family smallholding. These little sheep won't go to market. Instead they will live lives in only a flock of two unless you count us, their adopted relatives. But live they will surrounded by people and dogs, chickens and cat. The have a little lamb cottage with fresh hay and sweet grain to munch and chew. They have humans with bottle instead of mamas with milk. They get snuggles and when they nuzzle us the maaa sounds they make are a sheep's version of a purr.

Sometimes the universe gives us exactly what we need. This little distraction has reminded us that life moves inexorably on. Eloise intends that we remember to get on with it in love and joy and gratitude for this life in these high old green hills among the people and animals we love so much. Eloise sees cancer as a reason for cheese. All of her pills come wrapped inside her favorite cheese and so as she thumps and wags her tail, smiling up at us these last times, she reminds us that even in cancer she finds reason to celebrate. It is no picnic. Her leg is atrophying and when she is annoyed at Pippi she has to bark now instead of chase. But so long as she takes pleasure in us and in the cheese, wagging her tail and getting big belly rubs we will tend her and love her and feel lucky for these days. Our closest friends have been coming round to say goodbye. The vet says we might have two months left at the outside with the rate we are ramping up the meds to keep her comfortable. Two months. By then Charlie and Santi will be jumping fences and driving us some new kind of crazy. There are lessons here. And once again Eloise is my teacher....

Shepherds

We have a barn! Or anyway a little lamb cottage. It came on a big truck with one sweet Vermonter delivering it. He had a hydraulic system to lower it into place and then he used sort of a hydraulic jack to move it around just so. It is small and cute with a green roof and a little window in front beside the door. Of course it weighs two thousand pounds so once in it sure isn't going anywhere. Allen the delivery guy had all kinds of sayings as he lifted and pushed, grunted and pulled. At one point he was trying to lean it over just enough to get some concrete shims underneath and I heard him, with his shoulder heaving mightily into its side, his breath becoming ragged, and the jack tipping the whole thing precariously into the yard..."I wonder how much tip this rascal will take"

A classic Vermonter....

The lambs knew immediately that it was for them. They climbed right in and began munching hay. And so...Ta..da.. da.. da the lambs are living OUTSIDE! We go out early in the mornings with bottles and throughout the day we pet and nuzzle and add hay or grain topped off by a bottle at night. Then we tuck them in and not a baa is heard until morning. They sleep tucked over on one side where we still put their kitchen blankets atop the straw. The saw those blankets and headed right for them the first night. "Oh yeah we are sleepy. This spot looks good"

There have been a slew of stories in between, but after days of no sleep, bottling in the night, and trips to the vet, I am too sleepy and muddled to tell them. Suffice it to say that bottle lambs are exponentially harder than chickens ever were. But they are cute and when I come home they run across the yard to greet me and baa and maa for a nuzzle and cuddle. They have settled in, and after chopping down our practically ancient rhododendrons, (poison), and removing ten thousand holly berries, ( same), walking unendingly one night to relieve bloat, and building a fence......so are we.