What I did with my weekend –

August 10, journal:

[Note: it occurs to me that my ending question (last post) may have appeared to have been rhetorical.  It was a real question.  Which still pleads for an answer.  Advice.  Comfort.  Shared shame.]

This is what I meant to post yesterday:

I have been working hard with my manure. Really. I have. And this is why:

 When you build your barn on a bed of tiny gravel, you need to take a lot of stuff in consideration. Like the way heavy buildings sink into tiny gravel, and the tendency of water to actually sort of rise pretty high when it meets an obstacle. Like a dam. Or a barn. It’s best to think of these things before you build. The alternative is — poop dikes.

Manure has wonderful water blocking properties. If you have enough of it in one place and you stamp it down really, really hard, you can make a pretty find dam out of it.   So it is that my driveway and the back of my barn are both lined with carefully mounded and tamped down dikes, homemade out of stuff I had, just lying around my barn.

This is what you start with when you manufacture manure.  It is worth taking a moment to illustrate the work that goes into the making of this useful and biodegradable material.

Most of this kind of work is done in the morning. I call it early morning because it’s the first thing I do in the day. Which means that Early, around here, = about eight o’clock. I used to love rising at near dawn on a summer’s day, showering in bird-song and expecting magic. But I am old now, and there is little magic about manure, really, except for the fact that it is evidence of horses. Horses are magical. When they are not stepping on you or shaking you down for treats.

These are the hay boys: (left to right) Spencer, Brennan, Austin and Nathan (sibs, the last two). You know you are lucky when you’ve got friends like these guys, who will show up and work themselves almost to death, just because they love to help.

Notice the counterbalance

Spencer and Brennan are – wait, are they fifteen yet?   

Weston, our farrier and manure supplier.  Hay, I mean.  Hay supplier.

Nathan is nineteen, first year of college on his way to a mission.  I shanghaied Nathan and Austin at the Pioneer Day breakfast – over pancakes: “Hey!!  What are you doing this morning?  Wanna lift 500 pounds before lunch?  Pretty please?

 

Another shot at that counter balance.  Makes for an interesting stride.

Brennan, who is our son in Murphy’s place, hauls his weight.  Well, about five times his weight.  And all of this without a murmur or complaint.

Side by side with Guy, he took the tough position – inside the trailer, stacking.  We are honored that his mother is willing to share him with us.

This is why we wear masks.  And what I mean by inside the trailer.

I think the point here is that K, in the morning, is not a fashionably clean person. I get out of bed, blink a few times, throw on my exercise clothes and my stinky barn shoes (which are left outside) and drive down to the barn to let out the howling masses. Then I shovel. Then I construct, bringing the car in as the heavy squishing equipment, and moving the fences so that the car can get in there to squish what it needs to squish where it needs to squish it.

Then I go home.

On Friday, I stopped by Rachel’s hoping to sneak in a little Samaritan manure shoveling there – she’s been so sick, and last week had to get all the hay in (40 850 pound bales, stacked by neighboring tractor) while her husband and older sons were all off at Scout Camp. But she was already out there, her four youngest kids hanging out in the wilds of the pasture, finishing up. So we dug up some goats’ heads (always a fine social opportunity) before I headed home.

I kicked off the shoes, fed myself breakfast, and spent a few hours scanning old family documents for my new brain-sucking project: a hardback collection of all the genealogical pictures I’ve inherited from my folks. Then it was up and out to take the horses back in and tidy up the barn for the day.

 

The man who gave me all the history.  Boxes of it.  Boxes and boxes of it.  And won’t come up to live with me so I can make him help me put these books together.  Can you believe it?  

 

(Texas aside:

So Gin – guess who we ran into at the home airport? She came in on the same flight I did, bless her. They’re living in Austin.)

On Friday as I worked, I saw a suspicious threesome tramping East along Center Street. I’d left the car down at the far end of the driveway, open and unlocked.  So very few people actually walk Center Street down this way, and most of them on the other side of the street where there is a sidewalk. But these three were on the rural side and too close to my car, so I kept a cynical eye on them till they were well past.

When I was finished a few minutes later, I climbed into the car and started off East toward home. And there were the three walkers, still slogging along up ahead. Let me explain that even with the sidewalk, the west end of Center is hardly a walkable neighborhood. Sometimes we get tourists from the RV park down by the lake tramping up the road to find a coke at the local convenience store – a good twelve blocks or so East.

All there is to see on the way there are the fields — corn now higher than your shoulder, hay just cut. Next, you’ll see the little old unspectacular cinderblock houses that line the road mid-way, and after those the encroaching  middle class, leaking ever westward over the last few years. It’s a beautiful walk if you love wide skies, gorgeous mountains and growing things, but not exactly tourist fodder.  And it’s all gravel and weeds on the south shoulder.

Once in a while we get odd walkers of differing nationalities and legalities, and or joggers or walkers – again mostly on the north side of the street. But these three – as I passed them, I knew they were way out of place. I don’t know what it was, perhaps they were dressed too well for walking the million miles of dusty West Center. Perhaps it was in the way they moved—walking as though they were a touch bewildered and dismayed to find themselves there. And then I realized that they were very Asian. Which might not mean anything, except for the fact that it is simply a rare face-type down that-a-way. And they were clean, which means they were not just coming off the lake, not farming, not camping and not jogging.

All of this together pulled my car into a U turn, and before I knew it, I was asking the father of the two trailing girls if I could give them a ride somewhere. He studied me, his face pleasant but thoughtful. The decision did not take long – with a grin, he nodded. “Yes. Please,” he said.

I pulled across the street, and they piled in. The daughter who sat in the front with me had the English, but all did well. Very nice people – lost in the wilderness. “Where shall I take you?” I asked. And they gave me a number. “The address of your motel?” I asked. No. The number of the bus that had dropped them off way East and North of where we were at the moment. They had taken it with the intention of walking down to see Utah Lake. Nobody walks over fourteen blocks to see Utah Lake. I’m not sure anybody walks three blocks to see Utah Lake. Without pulling a boat, anyway.

They were from Taiwan, here for three days, most of which already spent exploring BYU where the daughter in the back was soon going to start her studies. Now, here they were, cameras full of Utah Lake and environs, almost late for their travel connections, no chance of finding the right bus and almost thirty blocks to walk to get close to home. I stopped by our house to get an address for their motel (and my license) then schlepped them on up to University Avenue. I found this family absolutely charming. And certainly, they were delighted that I did not turn out to be a serial killer. I dumped them off at their motel, still in good shape.

It was only as I drove away that I became aware of the nice, warm, brown smell rising from my shoes and remembered that I hadn’t even brushed my hair. Morning doesn’t usually involve people for me. And, beliee me, when I’m hosting guests, I try to dig the gravel out of the carpet of my car. Still, they hadn’t seemed to have noticed any of this.

We’d passed the big bandstand park on 5th on the way to the lodgings.  On the corner had been a hand lettered sign: Come See the Japanese Performers.  And since the park was unusually full of folks, all seeing interested in something happening in the middle, I called Char and told her to shine herself up into town and check out it all out. I went home, changed into a human being and followed her, camera on the shoulder, to see the broo-ha-ha for myself.

It was a tour group, busses full of kids from all over the planet: Harmony in Motion, I think they called the group.  When I got there, 30 adorable kids from Kenya, all tricked out in yellow polo shirts, had just finished singing. And an actual tour bus full of Japanese tourists, stopping at the park at the same time, filled the lawns, watching the show. Some Native American kids finished up their number, and then a bunch of T-shirted American kids took the stage, hamming up “You can’t stop the beat.”

Kenyan children’s choir

Mixin’ it up: the world prancing together

What you’ve got here are the blue shirted Americans, the orange Japanese kids’ choir and the yellow shirts of the Kenyan kids’ choir, all “beating” together.

“I can’t figure this out,” Char said as she found me. “There are just these people from all over –”

So I found somebody who seemed to know what was going on, a woman from Scotland  who helpfully explained the group and its two week Utah tour, evidently part of a national tour. 

I loved this.  The way all the world should be.  No tanks.  No exploitation.  Just friends.

 

Exotic for this particular park

The American kids moved through the audience, grabbing Kenyan and Japanese kids, dragging them onto the little stage to reprise The Beat. Raucous but energetic. And then a troup of Japanese dancers took the stage, choreography that kept moving from traditional to pop to Tai Chi. They were having the best time ever, and suddenly, I flashed on Sailor Moon – so all that posing is actually truly cultural.

After the ldancing came a Japanese children’s choir who opened, strangely, with a rendition of “Edelweiss.” The voices were very sweet and pure, though, and the harmony sweet – and as they sang, it all began to make sense. They finished with a wonderful Japanese song. I kept trying to get Charlotte to speak Japanese to someone – anyone. It seems that one component of speaking Japanese is being traditionally reserved and shy and polite. She did unbend enough to almost whisper Japanese praise as the girls passed us, coming off stage. Interestingly, those quiet words were caught by the girls, who turned and beamed at Char.

But it was Charlotte’s rude, forward American mother who cornered her favorite of the Red costumed Japanese ladies, asking personal questions like, “Where are you from?” From Japan, of course. With no English. And that’s when Charlotte really came alive, suddenly chattering along in musical, indecipherable words that lit the lady’s face with delight. I just stood there, listening to them – and watching the absolute joy passing back and forth between them.

Great fun.

We spent the rest of the day working on the book and waiting for Donna, G’s aunt and my good friend, to roll into town with her hubby. I will not tell you that they took a wrong turn on the way to the restaurant and found themselves headed for Las Vegas. But I will tell you that we had a great dinner, and great conversation and then spent a couple of hours with the rest of the family, culminating in a purely accidental watching of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies.

I’m on a roll here.

On Saturday, I put the last touches on my dikes. Spent a little time on the way home picking up Rachel’s goatheads. Drove out to Lehi to pick up a box of ancient pictures from my brother’s house, came home, picked up Guy and headed for the Farmer’s Market. We have friends there now—Madeline, who sells her fused glass pendants, Kenna who brings her hand bound books, Dru and her husband who cut and polish and wrap their stones in silver wire. We passed up the hopeful honey seller, bought mango popsicles and pot stickers, found Noah and bought more felt goodies (Char got these adorable kiwi tipped hair clips). Char and Guy went last week, too, when I was gone and found that Noah had made special dipped “chocolate” truffles for us, each topped with a rhinestone initial.

More cute Noah

Finally caught the drummer with the band.  These guys are great.

And we met the lavender lady who sells lavender flavored lemonade and lavender soap and dried flower ornaments. Char is allergic to lavender, but we couldn’t resist stopping: they bring the kids and the aussie dog with them. And the Aussie is a lovely little tri-colored girl, sweet and Aussie to the heart. We talked for a while as Char and Chula lavished love on each other, and it came out that the family has to go overseas for a year or two, and aren’t sure they can take Chula with them. I found myself offering Sully’s place in our yard to her. I’d been thinking about puppies, considering Piper and Skye’s advanced age and the pain I know will be coming. But puppies are a lot of work. Then here comes Chula. And we’re used to having our hearts broken, giving dogs back – so, what the heck?

Saying Goodbye to Sully

Horses in for the day. And finally, the rain and thunder we’ve been waiting for all these weeks – down it came. And then today, church with people we love, and Cam and Lorri stolling over after their meetings, bringing a Scooter who now talks to himself and laughs his head off from time to time. Our hearts are lost forever.

One last story. I will not begin to talk about Texas here and now. It was a dear visit, but a little difficult at times. I am not sure that I believe in what is happening to my mother. This story is about the flight home. I was tired and needing to process some things—looking forward to my non-stop couple of hours flight. A little Sudoku. A little reading. Maybe even sleep.

But I changed seats so a father and daughter, split up, could sit together, and found myself in the middle seat next to a ten year old boy (eleven in September) who was traveling alone. Going home to his dad after three months of being with his mom in Texas. Kids’ name was Chance. And five minutes hadn’t gone by before I was thoroughly charmed. A cheerful, open face – great eyes, alive with light. Verbal as the day is long. We decided that the plane, taxiing to take off, was definitely going faster than a Lamborghini. We talked about everything from his head-roping champion daddy to theology to getting good grades in math to his very, very, very famous thirty year old champion eventing horse. He explained his frustration with adults: “I just want to know the truth. I just need to know the truth. But they don’t give you a chance. They don’t even let you explain yourself.”

He told me a long story about his half brother, who spoke up when he shouldn’t have – reporting something that happened to his father, when all the time, that brother had been playing a video game and had no idea what had actually happened, sparking a family feud. “That was just wrong,” he said, eyes sparking.

But hard on the heels of this, his feeling about his father – oh, I can’t remember his metaphor, but he painted a picture of some extremely exciting kid situation. “That’s exciting,” he said. “Really exciting. But you know what? That’s nothing to how excited I am to see my dad.” He bragged on his dad and told me story after story, telling me more with the joy in his face and the pride in his voice. He invited me to a fair way up north to watch his dad rope, and I had to explain that I could not go. “But I know your father will do really well,” I told him. “I know he’ll be great.” And I did know it. I was seeing through the son’s eyes.

That kid stopped talking, looked at me with those great eyes and said, very solemnly, “Thank you.” Then he threw his arms around me and hugged me hard. In the end, he remarked that maybe he might just like me more than he even liked his friends. “I know that’s weird,” he said. “For a kid to like an old person.” Then quickly, “Not that you are old. Just older.”

I couldn’t help but think, as a person who writes for a young audience, how adults underestimate children. When you hear a small town Utah ten year old—who is worried about getting into college already—use a phase like, “I never had the opportunity,” you know that kids are so much better, smarter, more articulate than their media reps allow. They think more deeply than the du rigeur smart-mouth, shallow minded kid characters are ever allowed to do in so many adult generated stories and scripts.

This kid looked me in the eye, invited me into his world and held his own in our conversation. Heck, he floated the whole boat – for two solid hours. By the end of that flight, we had established private jokes and knew each other’s kin. Does that sound like the media’s brand of kid to you? But it sounds like ever so many kids I have known.

This is the kind of kid I love to write. As ephemeral and unlikely to many literary gate-keepers as any chimera. (I was definitely not thinking of you, Rosemary, my darling girl). And how sad is that?

Well, there you have it—Feasting on People.

Sounds terrible.

Feels delicious.

What the heck?  My kitchen window.