Simply Truth

1/6/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Simply Truth

            We took a time out over Christmas. Ran away to a mountain cabin with relatives and relatives of relatives for three days, ate well, laughed a lot, expressed appreciation of one another, and refrained from second guessing politics. Well, I had better qualify that last statement. My son and his father in law declared they had solved all the world’s problems in the hot tub while recovering from an afternoon of skiing, but the rest of us weren’t party to the discussion.

            The TV was tuned to Nebraska’s game, and those that watched ended up pleased, but a couple of folks hadn’t even heard of the Mall of America shutdown, and didn’t take much interest in hearing about it when someone mentioned that bit of news. Sometimes you just need to ignore the hullaballoo and relax.

            The thing about a time out is this. You always have to get back in the game and take your chances on the outcome. We’re off and running now, into 2016, and the political issues are heating up. Some of us just want to bury our heads and go back to bed until the mess is over. Others want to argue with anyone who will participate. (Kind of reminds you of the candidates, doesn’t it?) Of course, neither option is productive or helpful. 

            It’s hard not to become cynical or just plain scared, when we hear of riots, protests, shootings and disruptions. The notion that such atrocities can’t happen here has long been disproved, and much as we might wish to help heal our society, it’s hard to imagine what one person can do to resolve the unrest.

            We were discussing these matters on the way home from our reprieve, perhaps in an effort to transition back into reality, when a billboard outside Hot Springs, South Dakota caught our attention.

            “All Lives Matter,” was the headline. Underneath were three words, and three pictures. 

            “Protect,” alongside a baby in the womb.

            “Teach,” with pictures of school aged children.

            “Honor,” beside a group of gray haired elders. 

I’ve no idea who, or what organization, may have sponsored that sign, but I can’t stop thinking about it. And that’s a good thing. I hope it makes some people question their attitudes. That others might draw their children into a conversation about it, and that more of us find creative ways to express values of hope and integrity.

Hope is alive and well, although we may need to hunt a bit harder for it these days. Chatting with a teenager who was working the ski concessions on Christmas Day, Bruce mentioned it was too bad she had to work on a holiday.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Somebody has to do it. And besides, look at all these happy people I get to be around.”

There are questions to be answered here. Do I protect, teach, and honor? Am I one of those happy people? Are you? If not, why not? It’s not rocket science, and for any of us who are confused, there are plenty of examples. Some are even teenagers.

Finding Christmas

12/23/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Finding Christmas

            My daughter says that she never knows when she’ll find Christmas, or even where, but each year there comes a moment when it magically appears. Perhaps you’re looking out on the meadow at a deer standing in softly falling snow, or the radio plays a favorite carol of your childhood. Maybe neighbor stops in to chat and brings a plate of fudge; suddenly the doldrums disappear and there’s kind of a glow on all the everyday things that surround you.

            It never occurs to children that Christmas could get lost, but as years wear on us and the world’s realities are sharper and less pleasant, the shine of this season often becomes tarnished. Or perhaps it is that we put aside a childlike attitude, forgetting that Christmas is really all about a Child.

            This year, there’s much to worry about; news that’s anything but good, the economy on a downward trend, and various businesses and learning institutions that forbid any display, or mention of Christmas lest someone be offended. It’s enough to make a body want to hibernate and wait till it’s all over.

Our holiday plans are on hold due to some unforeseen circumstances, and the uncertainty nearly had me convinced not to bother putting up a tree and the trimmings at the line camp where we pop in and out sporadically. It didn’t seem right not to; Dad always insisted on a tree in that house, but it wasn’t practical to go to the extra work, either.

Early in December, we were in Valentine doing errands and delivering gifts, then on to the ranch for an overnight, getting in just at dark. The outdoor lights are traditionally done by my son, so it was cheery welcome. Then grandkids hit the door, and after telling us it had been too long since we’d been there, the youngest wanted to know when we were going to decorate for Christmas. After all, their house had been decked out since Thanksgiving vacation, and mine looked pretty blah by comparison.

“After you have your supper,” I said. “Come back then, and we’ll make it happen.”

Supper must have gone down in a hurry, because they appeared shortly, along with their folks. While the adults chatted in the kitchen, the kids went downstairs for the makin’s and before I knew it the tree was decorated, door decorations hung, nativity set up, and angels grouped here and there on tabletops. It was fun to see where things were placed, and made me realize what a rut we get into sometimes about holidays. The tree doesn’t always have to be in a window, and angel figurines nestled under a lamp, rather than swinging from a branch is a nice reminder that they probably enjoy a bit of fellowship as much as we do.

I hadn’t exactly decided that Christmas was lost, but there wasn’t much ho-ho in my head until that evening. The kids knew where to find Christmas though. It was right there in the basement all the time.

No Gift Wrapping Needed

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

No Gift Wrapping Needed

            My mom’s parents lived in Omaha, and we only saw them a couple of times a year, so when Christmas came around they sent gifts that would survive mailing. I was their only grandchild, and Grandma loved making me doll clothes; the trouble was that I didn’t care much for dolls. Years later, when I tried making doll clothes for my daughter, I realized what a labor of love it was; luckily, dolls weren’t my daughter’s thing either.

 By the time I reached junior high, Grandma took to sending me a five dollar bill—big money in those days. She always apologized for not shopping instead, and I could never convince her that I absolutely loved, and looked forward to that money; just enough to buy something really special that my weekly cream check allowance wouldn’t cover. 

What goes around comes around, and now I’m in Grandma’s shoes. Well, not really, she wore a size 4 ½. The average shoe size has grown about as much as the amount needed to equal that old time five dollars, and I have many more young people to buy for than Grandma did. So I’ve gone the money route a lot too, even for my own kids. Who knows what anyone really needs these days? But I’m also starting to know how Grandma felt about taking that shortcut to shopping.

Last spring, a family member thanked me for the birthday money, saying she spent it on new boots for one of the kids. “Wait a minute,” I protested. “You were supposed to buy something nice for YOU!” She promised to get herself something later on, and in reality, I know that gifts shouldn’t be conditional.

It’s here again; my holiday shopping dilemma. But recently I read of a person whose monetary gifts are conditional—the recipient has 24 hours to give it away. My imagination went wild. What fun it would be to decide who should benefit! Even better if it could be passed along anonymously. Exciting to know how they used it; oh, but that’s none of my business.

Of course my conscience is still alive and well, and there’s just enough kid in me yet to think everyone should have a little something under the tree to unwrap. Then, a sign, in the form of an envelope containing payment for a long forgotten loan made by my first husband, some years before his death in 1990. It really isn’t my money, is it? So pass it along—some to buy little trinkets for Christmas gifts, and some to give away whole.

If you get cash from me this holiday season you have a week to give some of it away. Pay it forward at the coffee shop, drop some extra in the red kettle, make a payment on your friend’s loan, or simply leave a surprise on someone’s doorstep, ring the bell, and run away. I won’t know if you did; no strings, remember? This is just a challenge to experience an adventure, and share the real spirit of the season. Keep the chain of love going.

Have fun. I know I will.

Open Season

12/2/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Open Season

            The first shot echoed across the valley as I tended the trash fire in our incinerator, clear and unmistakable as death itself, shattering the frosty stillness of a perfect fall morning. It wasn’t unexpected, after all, this was opening day of deer season; just unsettling, given the events that had taken place in Paris less than twenty four hours earlier.

            It would have been friendly fire, if there is such, because the only people with permission to hunt on my spouse’s ranch are relatives; responsible folks who always ask first and let us know where they will be. The meat will be used in some appropriate manner, and they won’t abuse the land by making tracks in delicate areas that tend to become blowouts.

Still, the sound of gunfire hit my gut and ear hard; made me flinch and say a prayer for the hunted, of any species. I tried to pray for the hunters as well; the ones who do it for sport and for sustenance; even for those who are somehow convinced that killing in the name of ideology and religion is heroic. But sometimes my prayers are simply words, and I have to hope that a higher power can turn them into real intention for good. At such times, I say the words anyway, for whatever they are worth.

As the quiet, peaceful day wore on I hung out laundry in shirtsleeves, watched sun sparkle on the lake, and listened to geese gabble their way to winter quarters, while sitting on the porch swing with a purring pile of fur on my lap. I swept a collection of leaves off the patio and pondered the necessity for us to sweep thoughts of hatred and resentment out of our heads, so as not to become like those who live only to harm the innocent.

Also in shirtsleeves, Bruce worked at repairing a shed, but instead of accompanying him, our dog cowered indoors getting underfoot and displaying general uneasiness. Maggie hates guns, and although there were only a couple of shots near enough to be heard, instinct told her that it was time to take cover. Lately, it’s hard for us two-leggeds not to adopt the same attitude. We could let fear and uncertainty overshadow the joy of a season predicated on our belief in ultimate forgiveness and love, but if we do that, the terrorists win.

I’ve waited a while to write about this, knowing my tendency to react, rather than responding thoughtfully. Here’s what I do know. Maggie lost a lovely day, perhaps one of the last we will enjoy for a long time, because she was afraid of something she can’t understand, that occurred at a distance. The possibility of shots nearer the house certainly existed; our relatives sometimes get their deer in a tree strip just east of the barn, but on that day, it didn’t happen.

Life is risky. Live it anyway, with all the joy you can muster.

Gratitude Versus Grumpy

11/25/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Gratitude Versus Grumpy

            Abraham Lincoln is credited with saying that most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be. A friend of mine put it this way. “We all have a choice. Helpless and hopeless, or humble and helpful.” And every now and then, someone happily reminds us that wherever we go, there we are.

So what have you decided about today? You can bah-humbug all you want about the approaching season of marathon holidays, and I have certainly taken my turn in that barrel, but if I must take me wherever I go, I’d prefer better company than the Grinch.

            Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Author Terry Hershey writes that an optimist is merely someone who doesn’t have all the information. Pessimists, on the other hand, are realists who have forgotten to take their medication.

            Expectations have a lot to do with whether we are comfortable where we find ourselves. I recently complained to my cousin that retirement was supposed to be relaxing, but we seem to be constantly busy. Signed off with this: “That’s all the news from Lake Insanity.”

“We’re blessed to be able to help out our families and communities,” she replied. “The alternative to Lake Insanity is Lake Boredom, and the people I see there are paddling around in a boat called ‘Woe Is Me,’ and looking for a doctor to fix them.”

Nobody will co-sign your self-pity? Too bad. I’ve learned the quickest way to stop someone’s whining is to tell them to write a list of five things they are thankful for, and it can’t be anything they made happen. Those willing to do that end up smiling; the others go away and quit bothering me.

Some of us have a custom of asking Thanksgiving guests to say what they are grateful for. One family does this every night at supper, as part of grace. How would our lives improve if we did it every morning?

Hate your job? Say thanks to your boss for hiring you so you can put food on the table. And smile at a co-worker. Weather cold and gloomy? Be grateful for having a warm coat. And look for an extra one in your closet to donate to someone who doesn’t. Have to work on the holiday? Be glad you can do that so someone else can have the day with family, and plan a celebration when you have time off.

There are many versions of this story, but the one I heard first was told by a wise old Indian to one of his white friends. “There are two dogs inside us. One is black, and represents negative actions and thoughts. The white one represents happiness and kind deeds. They fight for control, but we get to choose the winner.” How do we affect the outcome? “It’s the one we feed the most.”

So, who is coming to eat at your Thanksgiving table?

Three Little Kittens Lost Their Mittens.

11/18/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Three Little Kittens Lost Their Mittens.

            There probably aren’t many readers under forty who ever heard of the three unlucky kittens, and if you mentioned catching flies with honey rather than vinegar they’d go, “HUH??”

Nobody ever warned them their faces might freeze that way, or cautioned them not to get the big head, but it’d have benefitted society if that had happened. Nobody ever said, “See you in the funny papers” to them either. Is there a text abbreviation for that? Probably not, the funny papers are about to become as extinct as these old sayings.

            Instead of handing pre-teens a cell phone, we need to remove our own phone from their sticky fingers and tell them not to monkey with that. When they skip out on chores they need to be told to quit monkeying around and get to work.

            Granny would have said it’s the cat’s pajamas how people dress these days, let alone the way men wear hats indoors. She’d have been right, of course, but I digress. However, that does bring us back to the kittens…

            Our five little kittens haven’t any mittens either. I doubt they have lost anything other than manners, but apparently they believe something is missing, and it’s hidden in the kitchen. 

            They were born under the grill cover and now are out exploring the world. That cute, playful stage is fun, although we know they’ll soon be cats. Still, we laugh while watching them romp and pretend to do battle on the patio. The problem is that every time the door opens they race to come in. And carrying a basket of laundry, or something to put in the shop, makes it hard to know they are between your feet. I accidentally shut the door on one that was halfway in the other morning, and the squall woke my sleeping spouse.

Mind you, these entertainers have not been fed indoors or encouraged to enter. Well, that’s mostly true. Last week, the mama carried one in when the door opened for the dog. Somehow, I don’t think that counts as permission.

My hopes were raised when one son called to inquire if we had extra cats. Turned out he wants grown ones that will fight off a dog. We might be able to fill the order, but those fitting that category can’t be caught, which is why we’ve played with the latest litter so much, in order to tame them for give-away.

Which brings me to Christmas—surely someone out there has a granddaughter who has been begging for a kitten, and one of these is black, so it wouldn’t even get smudged when Santa carries it down the chimney. You know, of course, why I appeal to grandparents; it’s against the rules for parents to make a kid give back a gift from Granny or Granddad.

This is the first time you’ve ever heard me encourage rushing the holiday season, but emergencies happen. So, shop early, shop often, and shop at home. The coyote that’s been sneaking around to eat what’s left in the garden may soon decrease the inventory.

Gotta run. Not to be rude, but I need to go put out a cat.

Not Forgotten

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Not Forgotten

A majority of the books I’ve read recently have been war stories; unusual for me. My reading buddy, retired from military service, is understandably drawn to those topics, but sometimes, unable to wade through a book she enjoyed and recommended, I decide that, “you had to have been there.” Most of us require an anchor of common experience to really understand something.

Tallgrass, by Sandra Dallas, is a novel about interaction between a rural community and residents of a Japanese internment camp during World War Two. Growing up, I knew such places existed, though it wasn’t happening next door. Still, my parents made sure we never bought anything labeled “made in Japan,” for years afterward. There was plenty of suspicion regarding people with a German surname too, although most families in my neighborhood, including my own, had some German ancestry. Many of those names had been Americanized to avoid censure. Somehow, we never commented on that.

A Star for Mrs. Blake, by April Smith, is historical fiction, set around a program our government implemented after World War One that sponsored overseas trips for Gold Star Mothers to visit the gravesites of sons who made the supreme sacrifice. Apparently, segregation and prejudice were alive and well in the official realm but commonality of grief among the mothers managed to circumvent it. Incidentally, the total mobilized forces of the U. S. during World War One came to 4,355,000. Multiply that by however many family members would have been affected, and you have the ultimate in common experience.

Even as we clamor for equality, humans are inclined to sort themselves into categories. We attach labels, affiliate with groups, dress in certain ways, and speak slang that is common to our chosen community, thus eliminating the need to examine our true beliefs. And it’s easier to justify questionable behavior if we surround ourselves with people who speak rudely, dress inappropriately, or promote violence.

The premise that all people of a certain race, creed, occupation, or geographical background are alike is akin to claiming that purple is purple, plain and simple. Actually, purple includes violet, lilac, magenta, mauve, and various other shades, each suggesting a particular message.     

History offers plenty of examples of attempts to control society by labeling. Hitler comes to mind, but religion, entertainment, news media, marketing, schoolyard bullying, and peer pressure use the same tactics. The other side of the coin is exceptionalism. Author and therapist Mary Pipher says that down deep, each of us believes we are the sanest member of our crazy family. But chances are great that each member of your crazy family holds similar views of themselves, so here you are again, grouped and labeled with all the rest.

Perhaps the most important quality we can instill in our young people is the ability to think independently. How many of us back up our opinions with research that includes more than one side of a question? What percentage of our belief system is based on someone else’s interpretation? Have we truly learned from the past? Countless lives have bought us the freedom to build a more perfect union. We need to take that challenge seriously.

The Bridge of Love

11/4/2015       

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

The Bridge of Love

            I heard the song again recently on an oldies station.

Love Can Build a Bridge.

Followed by a political attack ad.

So, what are we supposed to believe? I wondered. The wisdom that follows is not my own, heaven knows, if you didn’t. But it might help us discern what’s really going on, with the politicians, and with ourselves.

“Anyone’s actions or words are an expression of either love or fear—their love or fear—and not related to me or anyone else…Our job is not to judge others but to recognize the call for help inherent in their actions.” Karen Casey

This doesn’t mean we have to love the act, Casey continues, in fact we may need to remove ourselves from the situation. She believes these two emotions give birth to every opinion and response we make. It’s as if two voices exist in our minds. We’ll know which voice speaks by listening to our words and the words of others. Attacking someone verbally indicates that we are afraid another is smarter, better, or has more, and believe that tearing them down builds us up.

“Gossip barbed with our anger, a polite form of murder by character assassination, has its satisfactions for us too. Here we are not trying to help those we criticize; we are trying to proclaim our own righteousness.” Bill Wilson

“What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart.” St. Matthew

“Much of my fear is of looking ridiculous or finding out I’m not too bright, or that I’m narrow and small minded underneath my civilized veneer.” For Today

“Therefore, what else are we to do but bear with one another and treat each other as we would be treated in similar circumstances? That is what love really is.”Anonymous

“How shall we expect charity toward others when we are uncharitable to ourselves?” Sir Thomas Browne

“A moment to reflect on the emotional upheaval my words may cause, not only to someone else, but to myself.”Daily Reflections

            Do you wonder if any of the candidates, charities, or causes vying for our approval (read that: money) have a clue about the portrait they are drawing of themselves? If this is the best of America there are dark times ahead. 

            Queen Eleanor, a character in James Goldman’s playThe Lion in Winter, knew that mean-spirited comments and criticisms are weapons of choice, and she asks: “For the love of God, can’t we love one another just a little? We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities. We could change the world.”

            And we can. Not necessarily by running for office, but by running from gossip, fear, and negative comments, and putting some planks on the bridge of love. When someone criticizes your neighbor or co-worker, respond by saying that person has a nice smile, or is a good dad. Tell Granny how good her cookies were; thank the teacher that taught you to read, or your boss for giving you a job. Go whole hog and praise your mother in law! That’ll be a conversation stopper.

Homecoming

10/28/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Homecoming

            This is the season of Fall Festivals, church bazaars, craft shows, and homecoming celebrations, featuring fun, fellowship, and comfort food like Grandma used to make. Many small towns have instituted annual events that focus on what we do best out here; old fashioned pastimes like sack races, skillet tosses, corn mazes, hay rides, and such. Local actors, artists and musicians of all ages have a chance to show off their skills, and fund raisers for community projects fit into the mix as well. When you feed folks and get them laughing, the wallet is more apt to open.

            There seems to be more emphasis on agriculture at these gatherings too, and that’s a good thing. The railroads were a huge factor in settling this part of our state, but none of these villages would exist today without farmers and ranchers. My other favorite part is when the activities take place on Main Street. Rural folks coming in to town for fun need to remember that without local merchants their gas bills would be a lot higher, and that when they decide to head off to a larger cities to get a price break, the so called better deal won’t be made on a first name basis, or sealed with a handshake.

            I haven’t missed many of the Old West Days celebrations in Valentine. That loyalty may be somewhat based on the fact that I met my husband at the first one, but after 24 years it’s become almost a family reunion to visit with folks that we see only at that time of year. I’ve stepped off stage in recent years, in order to roam and gather handshakes and hugs as old friends roll into town, but every year I notice more ‘old’ in Old West Days. A number of the folks we started out with have ridden over the hill, and others are pushing walkers, or using a cane, so we pin our hopes on newcomers and young blood to keep the traditions true. 

Of course these activities couldn’t happen without a lot of volunteers whose home town pride propels them through weeks of exhaustion, and sometimes frustration, so wise committees will rotate members to avoid burnout.

Having served on the Old West board during the early days, I recall how generously the Main Street businesses supported our efforts, and of course they still do. We couldn’t have done it without the backing of the Nebraska Humanities Council either.

It was kind of an uphill road, because many hairy-legged old Sandhillers reared back and growled, “POETRY????” But their wives dragged them to a performance or two, and now you can’t beat them away with a stick. In the Cowboy Poetry world, Valentine’s gathering has established a reputation as the place to be.

Valentine’s High School facility is state of the art, and their administration has welcomed the annual disruption as only fitting for an entity with “Rural” as part of its title. It’s the only possible venue for the kind of crowds that attend, so aren’t we lucky? Yet, I wonder if it’s time to take some of this downtown. Apparently, this year the list of poets and musicians grew, requiring expanded sessions. I’m not sure how much downtown benefitted though, because frankly, it was hard to tear myself away from the performances to get any errands done, and I always have errands when I go to Valentine.

Remember, Main Street brought us to the dance. Bruce and I have attended similar gatherings where a few downtown businesses set aside a small area for daytime performances. Music has a way of drawing people in to listen, and they might decide to shop. (I do, and I’m not a shopper!) Eating establishments offer “Sing for your supper,” where they feed musicians free in exchange for an hour of entertaining their customers. We sure tend to eat supper at those places—that is if we can get in the door.

I’ve no idea if there is any interest in pursuing these notions, but it might be a solution to offering more sessions without expanding the already long day.

(Yeah, I stole the ideas from festivals and celebrations in towns all over the Hi-Line of Nebraska and other parts of the West, so no credit or blame accepted. And no, Jerry, I don’t want to be on the board again, but thanks for asking. It’s your own fault, you know. The deal has gotten so popular that I have my hands full preparing for out of town guests that come to enjoy your efforts.)

Anyway, thanks for another good time. Congratulations to all the communities that work so hard to provide the rest of us such fun. Now, the rest of you, go shop at home, and while you’re at it, say thanks to the volunteers. They’re easy to find: they’ll be behind the teller window, at the checkout counter, at the sale barn pens, or serving your meal.

The Hideout

10/21/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

The Hideout

            One of my granddaughters lives in a tree. It’s a mid-sized flowering crab next to the bunkhouse with foliage not thick enough to hide in very well. Whenever she’s missing we know where to look, and sometimes when no one has missed her yet a comment comes out of the blue and causes us to look up and locate a bare foot dangling among the branches. I don’t know about you, but I like to have at least a clue about the location of someone with whom I’m conversing.

            About that bare foot—this is the child who runs across a driveway covered with six inches of snow to have breakfast at Grandma’s, never bothering with shoes. So why would she put on shoes to climb a tree?

            The youngster has her tree house well planned, although there’s not a board or nail in sight. A certain branch is the living room, over here is kitchen, and the flat limb that stretches out more or less horizontally is the bedroom of course. Sometimes she invites a brother in, but they’ve sort of given up tree climbing in favor of rooftops and football, so generally her companions, if any, are stuffed animals, books, and sometimes a blanket or balloon.

            The kid reminds me of me. Once upon a time, longer ago than I’m going to tell, an ash tree of about that same height grew at the edge of the yard where this grandchild and her family now live, and I took up residence in it’s branches for several summers. With foliage dense, I could, and did, hide in there sometimes, when my mother called for me. That tree also had areas designated as rooms, but it was too tight quarters to take toys and such up with me. I didn’t play much with toys anyway, and my dog and horse wouldn’t fit, so I kept a stash of treasures there, tied in an old scarf. I don’t recall what all; probably some pretty rocks and leaves, a favorite marble, a whistle, and a few cottonwood twigs broken at the star joint. A snakeskin, I remember for sure; a fancy button, and a yellow feather.

            I had a fort in the woodpile, a hideout in the grain bin in the hayloft, and another on top of the chicken house. Those were shared with playmates and visiting cousins, but I never invited anyone else to my tree. When neighbors came to visit of an evening, we kids walked the meadow, sat in the hayloft hanging our feet out the door and sang to the moon, or took turns walking the top rail of the corral fence. But I never took them to the hilltop where I went most summer evenings, as a teenager, to watch the sunset.

I’m sad for youngsters who have a television set and computer in their rooms, along with every imaginable toy and gadget. Parents ought not to deprive young folks of a chance to pretend. It’s always more fun making it up as you go along than having things planned out for you. That’s why a toddler discards the new toy and plays with the box it came in.

Back in the old days, neighbor kids and I ventured to a blowout, or junk pile, where we gathered scraps of this and that and created play houses for ourselves, arranged communities, and roads; a whole world, just as we wanted it to be. We gave ourselves different names, and pretended to work at various occupations, but what we really were doing was practicing for adulthood.

Do kids nowadays play house, school, store, cowboy, and policeman? Have we filled their heads with superheroes and fantasy characters, while discouraging any tendency to copy realistic roles in their play? In classroom settings, they are encouraged to work in groups; a useful skill, but where is the opportunity to develop imagination, creativity, and self-direction?

Perhaps the world would be a saner and safer place if, as kids, we all had a tree where no one else was allowed. Even a nook behind the couch would do; a hole under the porch, clearing in the grove, a blowout, or back yard swing. So if you missed out back then, find a way to make it happen now. We need to know ourselves in a way that only comes with prolonged solitude. Hiding out, you might say, in preparation to branch out later on.

Pay Attention

10/14/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Pay Attention

            Writers and artists are busybodies; it’s how we gather stories or find images worth recording for the enjoyment of others. Quiet observation reveals deeper layers of meaning than Facebook (the modern version of a party phone line, where folks put forth what they are willing to have known, or speculation about acquaintances and controversies) so we writers eavesdrop on conversations and watch people, while waiting in line, rather than getting out our phones. When there aren’t people around to watch, we look out the window.

            Taffy cat spent her summer ignoring the taunts of barn swallows. Stepping lightly across the early mornings, she poked around the garden and then perched on a corner post in the yard to observe the meadow. Some days she spent half an hour there, focused on who knows what; moving so little that a visitor might have thought her a ceramic yard decoration.

            I spent part of most early mornings taking Taffy lessons; attempting to focus on what lay in front of me, rather than letting the birds of busyness light in my hair. Once upon a time, that quiet hour would have found me making a to-do list, which by evening became a tool to destroy serenity by noting things that remained undone. There’s something to be said for lists when properly implemented, and there are still days when the only way to quiet the committee in my head is by insisting they abide by Robert’s Rules of Order. But for obsessive people like me, the list is mostly an excuse to outrun my headlights; in other words, a distraction.

            Taffy rule # 1: Brook no distractions. For other rules, see rule # 1.

            For a cat to take her eyes off a prospective meal means going hungry. Well, perhaps not. We try to keep the feeder full, but sometimes we go away for overnight, even days at a time. Still, paying attention is vital to her survival. The eagle pair sweeps over the valley almost daily, and this morning a coyote trotted out of the swamp and crossed within yards of her perch. Last week, the coyotes cleaned out the last of our melons. The remnants of their midnight feast lay a few feet from the deck—gone the next night. And Taffy lives primarily on the deck. She also lives in her skin, so to speak; always cognizant of the moment. Unless it affects her directly, she’s not much concerned with doings of neighbors.

            We are surrounded by voices that urge us to prepare for the possible. “What if? Don’t be caught in a financial crash,” and, “The best time-saving tool ever—order now!” Everything seems predicated on the future, and slowpokes deserve whatever leftovers they can gather up. In addition, we are beset by news of what others are up to; our neighbors, politicians, and world leaders.

            Taffy doesn’t perch on the post much lately. She’s living under the grill cover, with her new family, but pretty soon she’ll bring them out to introduce them to us and a wider world. Early on, she’ll teach them to pay attention, like she’s been teaching me for the past few months. If she had the ability to speak in sentences she’d probably wonder why I make those lists, fret about whether it will rain, or what someone said to me last week.

While the recent lunar eclipse was in progress, family members called, reminding us to watch. As we sat on the deck paying close attention to something that had nothing to do with the efforts of humans, all the clutter and chatter disappeared from my head, and I recalled the saying, “Just stay in your shoes.” Taffy doesn’t wear shoes, but we do. Life goes better when we try to stay in them.

           

Change What You Can

10/7/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Change What You Can

            The windows were full of cobwebs and smudges so I washed them, inside and out, in August. Too early, but I didn’t realize that, because window washing is one of those “I’ll get around to it,” deals at my house. Generally, it happens about now, when I have to battle the wasps for territorial rights or wear a jacket.

It was a joy, looking out at the world clearly, not to mention having no guilt and “Should do that” to deal with. Nice while it lasted; which wasn’t very long. Once again, the corners of the inside windows and corners in every room are webby, there are moth stains on the outside glass, and screens shimmer with a coating of silk.

We divide our time between an ancient house and one that is “only” 60 years old, so it’s inevitable that we’ll share space with a few invaders. The Daddy Long Legs are gone, thanks to bug bombs in basement and crawl space, but we still have spiders, most of which are almost too tiny to notice. This time of year the little critters are busy preparing for the winter. If you get outdoors on one of our warm Indian-Summer afternoons, and look into the light, you can see the evidence. A sheen of gauze covers field and flowers, connecting a hay bale with the corral fence and windmill. Sitting down in the porch chair, you hop up and brush some sticky off your jeans and arms.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but the person in my shoes often feels pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. That’s not a bad thing, except when we use it as an excuse to remain on the sidelines of all the chaos in our world. “What’s the use of getting into the fray?” we ask. “One person out here in the boonies doesn’t have much to offer, and anyhow, the votes are all in the metropolitan areas.”

But here are the spiders again, to prove otherwise. They accomplish what they are created for, when it’s time to do that, with little regard for the weather or any other circumstance. And it’s amazing what they manage to change, even overnight.

No matter where we live, a lot needs changing, and most of it is right under our noses. IT may be dirty windows, a child needing encouragement, a lonely neighbor, or a policy proposal which is beneficial to those in power, but detrimental to the community as a whole.

I’m not sure when I’ll tackle the windows again, or what other element demands my interaction next. But this much is true for all of us. Nothing changes if nothing changes, and we all have the ability to change something, starting with ourselves.

Celebration

9/16/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Celebration

            “I got tired of going to funerals and seeing all the people we never take time to visit,” my neighbor said. “We should get together while we’re well and happy, and celebrate what’s good. So this isn’t really a birthday party so much as a chance to value the people who share our lives.”

            With a horseshoe competition going on in front of the barn and a volley-ball game on the lawn, it was evident that the good times aren’t all in the past. My son had brought the team and was offering wagon rides, kids were practicing their roping skills, and we old timers were content to catch up on news and recall the ancestors that married us to this community.

            With the food put aside, and tables dismantled, my family members played and sang old country music, and there was dancing in the haymow where I played as a child. That century old barn was built to last, and likely those present were too, though some of my playmates have gone on ahead.

I still know most of the places in that haymow where you can see through the boards to the stalls below, and to watch for uneven spots that might trip up a careless dancer. Just for old time’s sake, I descended the sturdy steps, wandered into the tack room, and took note of the stall where I tied my horse on summer afternoons after riding over to visit, back when we took time to do that.

I think people are hungry for old fashioned fellowship, and perhaps we’re remembering to make some of our own fun, rather than settling in front of the TV, playing video games, or being spectators while our kids entertain us with sports events. How will young folks ever learn the value of community connections if it’s not modeled for them? This summer, I’ve attended pot lucks and a couple of birthday celebrations where people’s faces were relaxed and joyful. You don’t see that at a football game.

On the other hand, a crowd isn’t required to make a celebration. Due to unfortunate circumstances and choices, an acquaintance lost literally everything but the clothes on her back. She was left no options other than asking for help and following directions. Now she has a home, a good job, her kids, a car, and even her cat back. “We had a Thanksgiving dinner in July,” she said. I made a turkey; everything you’d have for Thanksgiving, and my children and I celebrated and gave thanks.”

One family has a private celebration at the end of haying season. The table is set with crystal and flowers, and the young people dress to the nines. Their dad presents them with checks for summer wages, but more importantly, they are commended and thanked individually for the ways they have improved, and things they learned. “We want our kids to know that celebration doesn’t require a houseful of company, or an official holiday,” their mom said.

I grew up with winter card parties and summer fishing trips and picnics. Gradually, that has gone away, mostly for lack of effort. It’s a lot of work to put on a barn dance. To organize a reunion, or pot luck and street games at the old hall, in what’s now mostly a ghost town. At a recent gathering, a friend who is my kids’ age said I was missed the Seneca Reunion. He reported there was a good crowd, and that a local lady has committed to keeping it going. “I just wish more young folks would come,” Dan said. It made me wonder if maybe they don’t come because no one took them to that kind of gatherings as children. We need to fix that.

Half a dozen years ago, Bruce and I put on a shop dance, and neighbors have asked every year since, when we’re going to do it again. Then other neighbors took that on for a couple of seasons. In the days of community card parties, each family took a turn hosting, but lately people aren’t as eager to step up for things of that nature.

Gee, did I just box myself in, here? That would mean cleaning out everything we’ve put in that shop since it was built… my husband would never go for that. Well, it’ll soon be too cold, so I’ve got all winter to come up with another option.

Take It Down a Notch

9/30/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Take It Down a Notch

            Comes now the time of long shadows. Sister Sun is slow to awaken, and I too find it tempting to lie later abed. She doesn’t have the energy to climb so high before taking herself off to sleep, so more of the world lies in shadow. For some of us who find the shortened days difficult, it would be easy adopt negativity, but we always have a choice about how to adjust our perspective

            The ancient elms in our yard cast shade clear across the driveway for most of the day now, and every hollow in the hills is darkened long into late morning. Even at noonday, there’s a softer cast to the light—everything seems to slow down and mellow out. The mood is catching. I’m somewhat disinclined to accept social invitations, more content with my own company, and reluctant to stay busy. Some part of me begins to believe that it’s just fine the way it is, and if not, then tomorrow will be plenty early enough to fix it. For a workaholic like me, that is huge progress.

Just as the leaves turn color and fall, and the critters put on winter coats and store up food, we are meant to prepare for change, and contemplate how to adapt. Sadly, we get that trained out of us pretty early. Our culture encourages the opposite. Organizations begin fund drives and plan conferences this time of year. Sports schedules get more crowded and hectic. We’re advised to plan a tailgate party and get our predictions in for next week’s game, not to mention supporting the home high school teams, whether or not we have youngsters involved.

This is way too early to worry about Halloween costumes or who to invite for Thanksgiving dinner, but we’re not supposed to say that. Christmas catalogs cram our mailboxes and store displays began going up right after school started.

At the risk of repetition, or seeming a Grinch, I have to say this.

STOP! SIT DOWN. LOOK. There’s incredible beauty all around. The air is crisp and fresh, afternoons are perfect for porch sitting, and evenings cry out for popcorn and board games with the family.

Don’t have a porch? Go sit on the neighbor’s then, and bring a cup of comfort to share. Have a visit, or just sit quietly together. Take a walk, pet a dog, watch a swarm of gnats, and breathe. You don’t have to succumb to the mad rush. You will, of course, eventually, and so will I, but we’ll have the memory of these contented and calm moments to sustain and warm us. Nothing lasts forever. Soon the contrasts of long shadows will be replaced with gray days when you can’t see a horizon, and there’s no differentiation between light and shadow. You’ll hunker down indoors then, probably with a box of Kleenex and some AlkaSeltzer Plus. But we don’t have to think about that now, any more than we have to plan the holiday meals. Get out there in the light, while it lasts. Take it down a notch, and mellow out.

Well, That Didn’t Work

9/23/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Well, That Didn’t Work

            My dad refused to have carpet in the house. Thought it inappropriate for a ranch. And to those who had carpet, and requested that family remove shoes indoors, he’d say, “So what if there’s barn stuff on the rug? What do you think paid for that carpet?”

            Regardless of her training, my mom put carpet in the living room after she was widowed, and I replaced that with more carpet when hers wore out. And no, we don’t remove shoes indoors. It’s just a house, and we intend to live in it. But Dad had a point. If the floors are bare it’s easier to see the sandburs that fall off your pants cuff, or get dropped when a dog pulls them out.

            There are other inventions that aren’t very sustainable for ranch life. One of those is sliding patio doors. It seemed like a good idea to put them in when Bruce added a deck to the century old house he was raised in. We do enjoy sitting out there on summer evenings to watch fireflies and listen to the coyotes and owls.

            He recalls that when he was growing up, the yard and adjacent area leading to outbuildings were mostly blow sand. It got better with his parents’ care, but there was still plenty of bare ground when we took over a dozen years ago, so we spread a lot of hay on sandy spots and watered diligently. It filled in nicely, and since the yard backs up to a lush hay meadow, we’re mostly immune to blow sand nowadays. Except in the grooves where the patio doors need to slide. Those need to be cleaned out on hands and knees, washed down, and lubricated regularly. And they still stick; still gather blow sand and particles of unnamed stuff that town dwellers never encounter.

            The screens need to be slid shut, especially if we leave, because one of our dogs has learned how to jump up and bump the latch on the glass door, to let herself inside. She also requests entry or exit by scratching at the door, so the screens are shredded, just at the time of year we need them most. Don’t suggest putting up a mesh shield on the lower part of the screen. We did that. She just reaches higher. After all, that’s where the latch is.

            Some of my friends have worn the same pair of summer sandals for years. I can barely get one season out of mine because they’re always damp from tripping around in wet grass to change sprinklers or feed the cats.

            Granted these are minor complaints in the grand scheme, and we who choose the perks of country life shouldn’t expect manufacturers to realize that something built for city use is often impractical elsewhere. But ignorance sometimes has a long arm that extends to the production of agricultural items.

            Decades ago, after years of putting up with tired iron, buying other rancher’s problems and scrimping to make payments on something that was obsolete when we purchased it, my husband went out on a limb and bought a brand new baler. For once, we vowed, this hay will get put up right. No more scouring junk yards for parts, late night trips halfway across the state to get something that turned out to be as worn as the item it was supposed to replace.

Haying went along pretty well for a few days. Then we pulled into the meadow that is always a problem. Rough ground there, some ditches to cross that aren’t always completely dry, a few swamps, and a lot of coarse grass. And the new baler plugged up every few yards. Stuff  broke that didn’t even have the paint worn off. We called repair men, who scratched their heads in frustration, or came up with a fix that wasn’t, but we never knew that till right after they drove out of the yard.

Finally they sent out a rep from the factory. By then, Bob knew what was needed to alleviate most of the trouble; a modification he could probably accomplish in our shop, with little additional expense. But surely the factory rep would know a better solution.

He took one look at the terrain we were in, and said, “This machine was never intended for such conditions. It works fine in a smooth alfalfa field.”

“All righty then,” my husband said. “What if I do thus and so, which will allow the hay to feed in smoothly?”

“Oh no,” said the expert. “Any modification will void your warranty.”

We modified it anyhow, put up the hay, and traded the beast off as soon as we could. But I don’t think there’s a modification like that for the patio door, and trading it off would be some kind of difficult. Maybe I’ll shop for new carpet instead.