My Favorite Things, Part 3--My All-Time Favorite

In tribute to my three years of living in Hyde Park on the south side of Chicago, I am having a favorite things week. You can thank me later. 

An old and dear friend visited me this past summer.  This friend and I became acquainted thirty-two summers ago and we were inseparable for years.

Katie Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler and I.

Desperate for something to read, I pulled Gone with the Wind off my family's bookshelf for the first time when I was almost eleven years old.  I don't remember what motivated me to take this journey--I'm sure my mom had somehow directed my choice--but I do remember the exact script used on the binding and the exact color blue of its cover.  I was undaunted by its size; knowing me, I'm sure I saw its 739 pages as a mountain to conquer with a badge of honor to wear with pride at completion.
 
Little did I know that I would find in its pages a kindred spirit to which I would return so many times that I memorized page numbers of my favorite chapters (the library at Twelve Oaks, the bazaar in Atlanta, the makeshift jail at the train depot, the long-anticipated marriage proposal in the parlor, the back yard pony accident); in fact, Mom's my copy became so dog-eared from traveling in my book bag or under my arm that the binding broke down in those well-read locations to the point that sections of story loosened and eventually fell out.

What drew me to this antebellum world?  Like Scarlett, I was passionate and feisty and determined.  I also felt the pangs of unrequited or unfulfilled love--powerful emotions in the young and naive.  I, too, spoke my mind, to the annoyance of those trying to teach me the manners of society, but unlike her, I lived in the boring world of modernity.  I longed for the suitors and the balls and the mansions and the dresses!  The dresses with their endless yards of lace and ribbon and fabric captured my romantic heart.  Two summers after my love affair with GWTW began, Mom found a 50s-era hoop slip at a garage sale, and she made me a skirt to fit over it--a floral print skirt in soft greens and muted yellows worthy of Scarlett O'Hara herself.  I was almost thirteen that summer, and all it took to transport me from boring Twin Falls, Idaho, to war-torn Georgia would be my overactive imagination and slipping into that skirt and a pair of ballet slippers.  I was Scarlett O'Hara as I delicately tiptoed from one stepping stone to another in our backyard with my skirts swaying and mind racing from one scene in the book to the next, running from Yankees with helpless family in the back of a rickety wagon or prancing down the streets of New Orleans with dashing Rhett Butler on my arm. How I wish there was a picture of me from those days.

Years passed and I entered a modern universe parallel to the 1860s. I captured the heart of my first love and lost it.  I attended dances in dresses designed to my specifications and danced and danced and dreamed. Throughout those high school years I would return again and again to Scarlett's world, relishing the familiar details of her life each time I opened the book. How many times I read it I can't even calculate.

And then, I grew up.  First a husband, then children came one by one by one. We moved and moved and moved again, and each time my precious copy of Gone With The Wind would move with us, its loosened pages and torn binding lovingly restacked in order, then placed in a spot of honor on my shelf.  In a fit of madness, I found a new copy for a dollar and replaced my worn copy with this pristine one--a different edition with a different typeface and different page numbers. I read it a few times, but something just wasn't right. It didn't feel right.  It didn't open right.  It didn't read right.

Things between me and Scarlett were never the same again. I began to think that my love for her world was simply part of my childhood--something I had outgrown, almost a joke.  I mean, who dresses up in hoopskirts and fantasizes about mustachioed men?  Certainly not me. 

Until last summer.

Last summer, I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to drive across the country to Wyalusing, PA, with my four youngest children--Our Grand Adventure. As a definite nod to my past, I decided that detouring through Atlanta would add only four or five hours to our drive, so why not stop?  And if I was going to stop in Scarlett's homeland, I might as well dust off my copy of Gone With The Wind and reintroduce myself, right? I packed it in my overnight bag and began reading it on the first night of our journey.

What happened next surprised me.

From the first pages detailing Scarlett's flirtatious conversation with the Tarleton twins, I was hooked again--hooked in a way I never expected and in a way I had never experienced before.  Margaret Mitchell's writing enveloped me in Scarlett's world.  I could smell the red Georgia clay in my hands. I could feel the tightening stays around my waist. I could smell the barbecue wafting from the slave quarters at Twelve Oaks. I could see the Yankee soldier intruding upon Tara's sacred soil and feel the fear that blanketed the South during Reconstruction. I fell in love not with the story but with the words--how the words flowed together seamlessly and beautifully and lovingly, detailing a world that will never live again. I appreciated Gone With The Wind from a literary perspective--unlike most current fictional heroines, Scarlett will live on like Thackeray's Becky in Vanity Fair or Cathy in Bronte's Wuthering Heights. This was great literature, and my romantic teenage mind had completely missed that fact.

This newfound appreciation for its literary value wasn't my only surprise.  I discovered that after years away from the familiar Ashley/Scarlett/Rhett triangle with the loving Melanie always in the background, I knew these characters in ways that I can only inadequately explain.  For the first time, I grasped how deeply Rhett loved Scarlett and why.  I recognized his love for her in small gestures--his indulgent smile, his eyes searching her face before he restored his mask of indifference.  I understood Scarlett's fiery nature and deep-seeded need to always be safe, despite the fact that her safety came from the devotion of her husband, not from her bottomless bank account. I appreciated Melanie as the strong, unwavering pillar I had always overlooked in my childish obsession with the willful Scarlett.  Most surprising of all, I agreed with Rhett when he walked out the door forever, uttering some of the most famous words in literature or cinema, "My dear, I don't give a damn."

These were my people. My story. 

Why had I been away so long?

This post is dedicated to my mother--who transformed me into Scarlett, who allowed my imagination to run free, and who encouraged me to write about it.

Wyalusing

 Wyalusing, PA

Population 564

One supermarket

One gas station

One Dunkin' Donuts

I wish I'd taken more pictures in town . . .

. . . just wandering around and blending in like a native.

One bit of heaven on earth

 wish they'd had this shirt in my size!

I left a piece of my heart in northeastern Pennsylvania.  Maybe I'll return one day and reclaim it.

Or just maybe I'll return one day and leave another piece behind.

Linking up to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday W post.

Foto Friday--The Mechanics of a Barn

No words necessary.

Have a great weekend!  It's cool in AZ for the first time in months!  Yahoo!

Unexpected Wisdom

I arrived in Pennsylvania with a heavy heart, which I talked about a little in my birthday post.

I was really looking forward to time away from crazy busy normal life.  Time to think.  Time to sort some things out.  Time to get reacquainted with myself.

Help came in a very unexpected way.

From the moment we met, I knew I liked Mark.  He came out of the barn, dressed in a farmer's uniform--well-worn t-shirt and jeans and dirty boots.  Refusing to shake my hand because he'd been in the barn, he kindly interrupted his evening milking to show me and the kids our home for the next three weeks.

Every day I would see him around the farm, always working on something--driving the tractor, moving cows, cleaning stalls, preparing the gallons and gallons of milk twice a day.  Only once did I catch him sitting for a moment on his back porch, a Gatorade and sandwich on the table and the newspaper in his hand.

One day I offhandedly mentioned how I'd love to let the kids get a chance to milk a cow while we were there. "I'm in the barn between 6:30 and 7 every morning,"  was all he said.

Two mornings later, I had all the kids up and dressed and ready to milk cows.  In my mind, I thought he would line them up, let each kid have a chance to pull an udder, then resume his work.

But this was the man who had surprised us with a new swing seat just days earlier, so this quick approach wasn't in his plan for the morning.

Instead, Mark helped Lily, then Micah, then Hyrum glove up and spray a cow's udders with a light disinfectant before beginning the process.

After the udders were clean, they would prime them by squirting a little milk into a tin can from each teat.  When the milk was flowing, Mark would show them the mechanical milking machine, let each of them feel the suction, then he would assist them in attaching it to the cow.

My kids exploded with happiness from each new piece of the process--being that close to a cow, stilled by Mark's gentle touch, touching the udder and feeling the milk flow, hearing the SLLLLLP as the milking machine began its job. It was an exhilarating experience for each of my children, but I'm sure it took much more of Mark's morning than he anticipated.

Never once did he make us feel like we were intruding.  Never once did he step in to hurry up the process.  Never once did he lose focus on the cow and the child.

I watched this unobtrusive, kind man many times over the next few weeks.  I wandered into the barn often, needing to surround myself with its familiar sounds and smells.  Whenever Mark was present, he would stop what he was doing to answer my questions or talk about life on a Pennsylvania farm.  I was fascinated by his wisdom and his experiences--from farming to family to the history of his beloved Wyalusing.

One particular day is forever imprinted in my memory.  Lily came bounding in the house, exclaiming that another mama was in the calving pen, ready to give birth.  We were excited and we all trundled down the hill to witness another miracle.

An hour stretched to two, and still Mama was lowing and pacing and miserable.  Mark's daughter was in town visiting, and she was in the pen assisting her dad, holding Mama's head and talking quietly in her ear, "Good girl.  You can do it,  good Bossie"  over and over and over. Two hours turned to three, and Mark's demeanor changed.  He knew something was wrong. Never once did he ask us to leave or make us feel like we were in the way.  Occasionally he would explain what was going on as he tried to assist Mama in getting her calf out, but he stayed gentle and calm through what was quickly becoming an emergency. 

When he pulled out his cell phone to call the vet, I knew things were dangerous, so I walked the kids back to the house, bathed and jammied them up, read them a story, then headed back down the hill to the barn.  I rounded the corner to find Mark stretched out on the grass in the dusky evening light, with his eyes closed.  I asked about Mama, and he told me the vet was at least 30 minutes away, and there was nothing to do until he got to Shumhurst.  Instead of panic and stress and worry, all of which I'm sure he was feeling, Mark was outwardly calm and had surrendered to the limits of the situation.

The vet finally arrived, but all of us knew it was too late for the calf--all of their energy was now focused on saving the life of the mother, and that was my cue to disappear and let them work.  Without getting too graphic in my description, Baby was eventually removed and Mama was okay, much to Mark's relief.

How I wish I could express how Mark changed me.  In my rushed, hurried life as the mom of many children involved in many activities, I rarely take time to just BE . . . enjoy the lessons of life, learn from my children, teach them things I love, stop and listen to them.

Mark wasn't trying to be a great philosopher as he went about his life, working and working all day, quietly creating a beautiful and serene corner of the world.  I will never forget who he was, and what he taught me during those few short weeks.

Never be too busy to listen and help

Kindness and gentleness are important and undervalued 

Be yourself, no matter what

My trip to Pennsylvania--farm life and unexpected wisdom from the example of a quiet unassuming farmer.

Linking up to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday.

Sunbake and Friend

Ten days after our arrival at Shumhurst, the kids burst into our little house with some exciting news: one of the cows was in the birthing pen, and if they were very quiet and brought their mom, they could watch the calf be born.

Although I grew up in the middle of farm country, I had never seen a calf's birth, so we all jumped at the chance to witness the miracle of birth.  I've never seen my rambunctious kiddos sit so still and so quiet for so long.

Mark told us he had to leave for about thirty minutes, but he thought it would be soon.

Mama was up walking around and lowing quietly when we got there, but soon she was down on her side, and we could see the calf begin to emerge.

It was hard to determine who was more excited--me or the kids. We sat there, spellbound, for the entire thirty minutes Mark was gone, but nothing really seemed to be progressing.  With each contraction, the calf's feet would move a little farther out, then retract back inside.

Mark returned, fully expecting to see a calf.  Instead, he quickly realized that the calf was breach.  Acting swiftly and expertly, he tied baling twine around the calf's protruding hind legs, then attached the twine to a chain and cinch.  In minutes, Baby was born.

I will never forget the excitement on my city kids' faces as they saw that brand-new calf lying in the straw.

Mark manages about sixty-head of milk cows alone, and one way that he keeps track of the breeding lines of his Holsteins is through their naming process. Male calves aren't ever named, but they are sold as soon as they are mature enough.  Girl calves are kept and named and their behaviors, milkings, and calvings are carefully charted.  Baby's mama was named Sun God--through the original Sun line, so Baby needed a name, of less than seven letters (to fit in the registration space on the certificate) with Sun as part of it.

We were a little excited about the prospect of naming a new calf, so we would go back to the house and think of every name we could think of.  This line has been at Shumhurst for a while, so many of the names we suggested had already been used.

Two days later, we approached Mark with a name we thought was perfect.  This last summer was one of our country's driest ever, with it only raining on us in Pennsylvania one day in almost three weeks.  In honor of the hottest, driest summer, and visitors from parched Arizona, we suggested Sunbake.  And that is her name.

We visited our calf every single day.

Then, when we returned from an overnight trip to upstate New York, Sunbake had a new friend in the baby pens:

Isn't she beautiful? 

Right from the start, she loved the kids--loved having them pet her, and especially loved sucking on their hands.

July isn't the normal season for calving, but we felt so lucky to be there to witness new life join the farm.

Shumhurst

Our summer adventure centered around Shumhurst--an organic dairy and farm.

Rolling pastures and acres of corn carved out of the thick forest.

My favorite part of the farm by far was the big red barn.

Here are a few of my favorite shots.

These pictures can't begin to convey how much I loved this place.  Paradise on earth, scented by hay and manure. 

Heaven.