Ode to the modern Santa.

‘Twas a few days before Christmas, and all through the house,

all the creatures were stirring (though we don’t have a mouse).

The stockings were hung on the staircase with care,

In hopes that Saint Nicholas would soon be there.

The children were rushing hither and yon,

Visiting friends, buying presents, and eating bon-bons.

And Dad in his flannel shirt, and I in my sweater,

Were working last minute to make Christmas better.

In the kitchen, I’d been baking: cookies and bread

While Dad sawed and created out in the shed.

Liebkuchen!

When out on the yard there arose such a clatter,

I threw open the door to see what was the matter.

Outside on the lawn, dusty grass and limestone

Helped to create a dry, Texas tone.

The wind tossed dried leaves up and around,

And the sun lit up grasses, green and brown.

What to my wondering eye should appear

But a large brown truck drawing quickly near.

With a shorts-clad driver sporting a tan,

I knew in a minute he was the UPS man.

This is not my UPS man, but an apt photo
from the Lodi, California website.

He was dressed all in brown from his head to his foot,

His arms were quite brawny from lifting his loot.

His smile was so friendly as he asked if my name

Was Cynthia, and I told him it was the same.

He spoke no more words, but handed it over:

A box filled with presents for all my book lovers.

Stuffing his hand-held device in his pocket,

He turned and was off at the speed of a rocket.

He sprang to his truck, turned the key and backed out,

Waved jauntily out the window as he headed south.

But I heard him exclaim ere he drove round the bend,

“Merry Christmas to you, and to all of your friends!”

Ashe juniper Christmas tree, cut from our property.

"All I want for Christmas . . . "

The lobbying began before Thanksgiving, complete with song: 

            “All I want for Christmas is a real Christmas tree,

            A real Christmas tree, oh, a real Christmas tree.”

I think you know the tune.

The mighty woodsman chopping down
our Christmas tree.

Several years ago we had a lean Christmas, and decided that instead of spending scarce funds on a store-bought tree, we would cut a tree from our land.

Mind you, Christmas trees in the traditional sense do not grow on our land. We have Ashe junipers. Because they tend to grow in thickets, they are shaped by their quest for the sun: thinly branched and leaved, usually lopsided, with very long lower branches. When brought into the house, some might consider them . . . ugly.

In my eye, once one is hung with ornaments (some handmade, some sentimental favorites), strung with small white and multi-colored lights, swaddled in the tree skirt I crocheted early in our marriage, and topped with the angel Dan and I bought our first Christmas, it becomes beautiful. It is a cheerful symbol of the love in our family.

Once we broke that tradition of visiting the Christmas tree lot, wandering among the lovely evergreens, then dropping $75 on a tree that would die within a month, it was hard to go back. In prior posts, we have established that I am a cheapskate.

More importantly, it feels more Christmas-like to walk out the door and wander our land in search of the perfect – well, somewhat perfect – tree, cut it down, drag it to the house, wedge it into the tree stand, and decorate it. It looks like the appropriate tree for our house. It feels homey. It feels right.

My daughter yearns to hang ornaments on those thick evergreen branches once more. To her, our spindly cedar trees aren’t green enough, thick enough, or lush enough to qualify as perfect Christmas trees. As I write this, I feel a twinge of sympathy for her and her vision of Christmas. Maybe next year we will give in and go find that perfect tree at a lot. 

But when she’s grown with her own family, I hope she will fondly remember those years when we put on coats, grabbed the chainsaw and headed for the woods to choose a Christmas tree. 

Life on the frontier

Thursday, I was a pioneer woman.

Or at least as close to one as I’ll ever be.

First, I arose before daylight to get my daughter off to school. I usually poke up the fire in the woodstove at this point, but with pleasant weather we haven’t needed the heat. I prepared a nutritious breakfast (frozen waffle) and filled her lunch pail (a purple plaid insulated bag). We saddled up our ride (SUV) and rode off to school, eight miles away.

When I returned to the homestead, the chickens needed tending. Usually this is the husband’s job, but he was not available this day. I fed and watered them, then discovered a dead chicken in the coop. After examining it for cause of death – undetermined – I tossed it out in the woods. Returning to the coop, I gathered four brown and green eggs, and trudged back up the hill to the house.

Death is part of life here on the frontier. This chicken was one of our meat birds, however, so I was unhappy about losing the investment.

Next, I consulted with the well digger (more on that in a later post).

Time to bake bread! Can you see me, leaning over a floured board with sleeves rolled up, wearing a white apron, hair in a messy bun, sweat beading my brow as I vigorously knead dough? Oh wait, that wasn’t me. I made pumpkin bread – no kneading required.

My bones and rheumatism told me that rain followed by cold were imminent (those and the local weatherman), so I tied my bootlaces, left the bread baking and ventured forth to gather firewood. We don’t own a mule or horse, despite living in Texas. I really, really wish I could fashion a harness for Iris the dog to help drag loads. Short of these options, I was reduced to using the wheelbarrow. I did not have to cut or split the firewood (though I have wielded an ax before – scary, I know), just trundle my barrow out to the piles located here and there, load up, then return and stack logs on the wood rack.

At one point, logs and brush piles sited to slow water run-off distracted me. I moved a few logs around . . .

. . . only to arrive back at the house and find I had come perilously close to burning the bread.  I rescued it in the nick of time. Just a little burn smell tinged the pumpkin bread fragrance. It dissipated quickly. No one will notice.

Lunchtime. And naptime. And a Facebook check. What? Pioneer women didn’t have Facebook? Lord, they were deprived.

Next, I needed to plant vegetable seeds in the garden before the aforementioned rain fell.  I gathered my gloves and seed packets, collected one of my buckets of worm dirt, and followed the path to the vegetable garden. Usually this is my husband’s domain, also.  This day, Pioneer Woman was in charge.

I turned the soil, pulling out weeds and mixing in dried chicken poop and worm dirt. I carefully placed seeds for mixed lettuce greens, spinach, turnips and Swiss chard. I offered a benediction over the garden, something like this:  “Please grow. Rain’s coming. Good luck.”

In the middle of planting, I saddled the SUV again, retrieved my daughter from school and fed her a picnic supper, and delivered her to an evening commitment.

Final chore of the day was to prepare a home-cooked meal for my hard-working husband who had been out laboring in the fields all day. Or maybe he was riding on an airplane, returning from a business trip. On the menu:  turkey tenderloin topped with pecans, sautéed spinach and salad. Welcome home, honey!

My day of pioneering was fun. When I imagine doing all that and much, much more in a long skirt and bonnet, with no electric appliances, grocery stores, neighbors, gas-powered transportation or indoor bathrooms – jumpin’ Jehosaphat. I’m happy to be a pioneer woman on my own terms, assisted by modern conveniences.

Favorite spot in the garden:

A prior resident planted this Moses’ boat (Tradescantia spathacea, I think!) in small beds under trees, and they are flourishing with no attention from me. They have been doing well with our recent rains, but their days are numbered as surely a freeze is near.

Other names for this beauty are Moses-in-a-boat, Moses-in-a-basket, boatlily or oyster plant. According to Dave's Garden,  it is invasive in Florida, and contact with leaves can cause an allergic reaction.

On hanging laundry.

The only color in my yard this summer came from clean laundry 

flapping in the breeze and backlit by the sun.

When our children were very young, we lived on 10 acres of Blackland Prairie east of Austin, home to Johnson grass, bluebonnets, two trees and scads of fire ants. We were poor as church mice. When our second-hand dryer broke down, I was forced to engage in the vintage activity of hanging laundry out to dry. My husband built an iconic clothesline behind our rent house, with two galvanized iron T posts and four lines strung between.

I hated it.  I hated it as much for its symbolism of our status in the world as for its inconveniences. In summer, the clothes were stiff as boards, and about as comfortable to wear. Our underwear dangled for the world to ogle. Yellow jackets crawled over the clothes, pins and lines, waiting to zap the laundress. In winter, clothes wouldn’t dry, and so we draped them all about our very small house. But more pressingly in my young mind, CIVILIZED PEOPLE SHOULD OWN A CLOTHES DRYER!

When our fortunes improved, I bought a dryer and never looked back.

That is, until we faced the same situation here on the hill. Broken dryer, not enough scratch to purchase another. This time Dan strung clothesline between oaks in a small motte outside the laundry room. It was winter, and we frequently resorted to drying clothes over the stair rail and on hangers in doorways.

My in-laws saw our plight, and very generously gave us a dryer for Christmas.

But something had changed in me since those early years. Perhaps it was a deeper appreciation of nature, or a diminished concern for what others think, or a greater interest in the wellbeing of the planet (sounds lofty).

I now enjoy hanging laundry. Saving electricity - for my pocketbook and the planet - is how I justify the extra time it requires.  But really, I just love it.

I love the small break from inside work. Standing outside with clean, fragrant laundry in my hands, I feel the breeze and the warm, healing sunshine on my face; listen to birds singing, insects whirring, and maybe far overhead an airplane droning; look around at the trees, grass, flowers, and a vulture soaring overhead in the blue, blue sky.  These are stolen moments of peace in a cacophonous world.

Did my great-grandmothers feel this way about laundry? Their world was simpler. Perhaps this was just another household chore among many, without the luxury of a stand-by dryer. I hope that they stopped occasionally to enjoy their natural surroundings, took a deep breath of clean air as I do, and returned to their other chores rejuvenated.

Now, it’s time to bring in the laundry.

Favorite spot in the garden:

This may not look like much to you, but – hallelujah! - green stuff is growing in my yard! It seems like eons since we had a green lawn, but probably it’s been about four months. (I use the term “lawn” very loosely. These green seedlings are probably grass, wildflowers and  . . .  well, weeds.) Whenever I glance out, I must smile.