My latest column for Prairie Farmer was just released: https://www.farmprogress.com/commentary/3-steps-for-nonfarm-heirs-to-be-better-managers?
I tackle the “math anxiety” I experienced when taking on the farm after Dad’s passing. Over time, my “figuring” has improved some, but it’ll never be a match for Dad’s “calculating” mind!
Yesterday marked the sixth anniversary of my dad’s passing. The day got away from me as I sprinted between classrooms and meetings with students, but I carried memories of Dad with me amid the scurry.
Not any day goes by without me thinking about what made Dad unique: his quick Irish wit, his sharp mind, his sense of right and wrong, his kindness, his faith. I miss him.
Since Dad left us, I’ve replayed moments from the nine months I spent in Illinois with him prior to his passing. We whiled away just about every day and evening side by side, a proximity that hadn’t occurred since I left home at 17. Some of our exchanges were surprisingly similar to those we had before I ventured into the world on my own and Dad was an “over the hill” fellow of 44 years. We still argued over where to set the thermostat, how quickly I took the curb in the pickup (too quickly, according to Dad), and what to watch on TV.
But some things had changed, too.
I’d lived away from home longer than I dwelled there, and I’d built a life of my own. I had a family and a career. I’d experienced the world, traveling to more than 30 countries during the decades I spent away from the farm. I survived breast cancer, twice.
And while Dad still resided in the surroundings I fled at 17, he’d seen plenty during those years we spent apart: worrisome changes to the farming landscape; loss of friends, family, and neighbors; Mom’s slow physical and cognitive decline. He’d experienced many joys as well: new land purchases, gatherings at church and the Eagles in town; road trips with Mom including visits to Alabama to spend time with his granddaughters; long chats with farmer friends at the local elevator; many, many growing seasons.
Dad and me peering out from the combine, Harvest 2017. Thanks, Doug Bergeron, for the pic!
I recently told my BFF Tanya that one take-away from the nine months I spent with Dad resonates more than any other. He accepted me and the person I had become, regardless of our differences. And he told me so. Years of living away from home had hardened me more than I realized, and I needed a reminder that I was enough.
While the nine months Dad and I spent together were some of the hardest of my life, I also needed that time–to learn to let go, to relish the bond the two of us shared, and to remind myself that we all matter in this world. Just as we are.
I saw the following on an Illinois friend’s FaceBook page and couldn’t stop laughing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znaeRtIzijU
These two Midwesterners nailed it–the cold (topping -4 degrees today), the hunting, the strolling through frozen cornfields, the hesitancy to “talk about feelings”–all of it!
I’ve lived in the Southeast for close to 30 years now, yet I am a Midwesterner at heart. I tell my girls that some identities are etched into our souls.
Last night, I finally watched God’s Creatures shot in and around Donegal, Ireland. The film is set in a fishing village where lives are tethered to the sea. When the oysters and salmon are plentiful, the villagers are able to make enough to survive. When fungi invade or catches are sparse, however, their livelihoods are threatened.
While not the best of images, the expressions on the faces of both mother and son are an indication of the pain and wonder of this film.
Brian O’Hara (played by Paul Mescal, one of my favorite rising Irish actors), the son of one of the local families, returns to the village after several years away in Australia. It’s evident from the moment he appears in a village pub that he left Ireland on unfavorable terms, the cause of which is never completely revealed–and his return is viewed warily by many who are unconvinced that Brian has changed. His mum, Aileen (actress Emily Watson), holds out hope that her son has “grown up,” as she puts it, and has returned home to make an honorable living in the tradition of his father and grandfather before him.
As the story unfolds, Brian is involved in some nefarious business activity and eventually accused of assaulting a young woman in the village. Aileen lies to the Gardai to give her son an alibi, and the charges against him are dropped.
Things take a turn, though, when Aileen realizes that her son shows no remorse for the things he’s done, even joking about it in the same pub where he first reappears in the village and where he crossed paths again with the woman claiming assault. Brian’s unwillingness to acknowledge the pain he has inflicted is too much for his mum, and she lets him go one last time. The scene is which this decision on Aileen’s part plays out is powerful, so I’ll leave it up to readers to watch rather than attempt to describe a mother’s indescribable act.
God’s Creatures was beautifully made, and the setting took me back to a visit to Donegal town where I stood on a rocky plateau watching the tide come in. But the story and Brian’s character reminded me also of my own family dynamics growing up.
As I’ve written in previous posts, my only sibling suffers from severe psychosis–mental illness caused by a triad of diagnoses including psychopathy, schizophrenia, and bipolar II disorder. From an early age, my brother seemed incapable of empathy. In fact, he relished the power he felt when hurting others physically and emotionally.
As my sibling aged, his detachment from others became increasingly evident. He hurt people willingly, sometimes gleefully, yet denied any responsibility or remorse. My parents, extended family members, and friends assumed/prayed that he would outgrow this difficult stage as surely all adolescents experience an ounce of narcissistic behavior on their path to adulthood.
But my brother’s behaviors grew worse, not better, over time. At 63, my brother routinely faces charges for theft, sexual and physical assault, and hate crimes. He’s been in and out of correctional facilities and psychiatric hospitals more times than I can count, and roams from one state to another while making his home on the streets.
One by one, my parents and I learned to let go. I’m not sure there’s any greater pain than realizing that someone you care about lacks a conscience and that allowing that person to remain in your life is a reckless choice. For each of us, there was a pivotal moment when letting go became the only way to survive.
The severing of a familial bond is fraught with second-guessing and pain that comes in waves, especially around the holidays. I think often of the sadness my parents experienced, especially in their final years, over the son they brought into the world. Neither of them made peace with the hurt he caused to so many, and they wondered aloud what they might have done differently to change the course of events.
While on a mission trip to India, Darrell Boone decided to visit a nearby farm. His story and vivid images appear on Prairie Farmer’s website:
https://www.farmprogress.com/commentary/1211m1-3403real-slideshow
Boone’s snapshots of men and women putting in the crops and herding livestock made me long for India. During my trips to the subcontinent in 2008 and 2013, I too had the opportunity to venture out into the countryside to visit farmers working fields, primarily of rice. I have to say that it seemed women were doing most of the heavy lifting, stooping over each row and navigating the waterways–occasionally with a child strapped to their backs.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that one of the souvenirs I brought back from India was a tote made from a used rice bag. In India, just about anything can be re-imagined and repurposed.
A rice bag with a strap is a sturdy choice for trips to the market!
Speaking of repurposing, I brought home some decorative cross bodies fashioned after dowry bags worn by grooms while in Ahmedabad, the largest city in Gujarat (and stomping ground for Gandhi), during my second trip to India to study the handicrafts industry that has evolved in the northwest region. Women in the small villages of Kutch near the Pakistan border are earning money by stitching a variety of goods that are distributed in local markets and worldwide. The operation is not without drawbacks, for example, changes to centuries-old patterns and colors to better meet the tastes of consumers, but the money earned leads to increased status and options like education and financial independence for the women and girls of this region.
I’m fortunate to live in a part of the world where such accessories can be used for a night out, not to secure a husband.
Perhaps I’ve one more trip to India left in me?!
Today, I taught the last face-to-face class of the semester. I still have some zoom interviews with graduating seniors to get through and a substantial stack of written submissions from my students to read before the deadline for grades on Monday at midnight. But the end of the term–and a momentary break from the busyness of classrooms filled with students vying for attention–is in sight.
I feel both relief and fear.
The sense of relief, of course, comes from knowing that for the next month, I’ll have a bit more time to focus on my family and personal interests. The writing that gets pushed to the corners while the semester is in full swing will take precedent. I can sleep in, linger at the dinner table, play board games and watch movies with my girls.
The fear stems from the silence that, while much needed, follows on the heels of a semester that began with a significant loss. Sometimes, it’s easier to cope with loss when the mind is caught up in an endless to-do list.
Less than a week after Mom’s funeral in August, I headed back to the university for departmental meetings and classes. I remember walking around campus feeling numb, as though I wasn’t really present in hallway conversations and classroom discussions. I felt detached from everyone around me and got through the day by knowing that eventually I’d return home, wrap myself up in Mom’s favorite chair, and let the tears flow.
The grief I felt heading into this semester never left me, but as the weeks passed, I figured out how to accommodate it. I learned to set aside time for moments of “intentional grief,” as described in a previous post, and to listen to my body when it urged me towards rest, nourishment, and prayer.
I survived, or am at least on the cusp of surviving, the noisiness of life amid loss.
Now I’m facing a new challenge: surviving silence amid loss. I wonder what the quiet will bring.
My latest column for Prairie Farmer was just released: https://www.farmprogress.com/commentary/how-do-you-name-your-fields-?
While it’s just a tad over 600 words, I struggled with this one. The landscapes we associate with someone once they’re gone have a powerful pull on us–at least, that’s what I experience from the window view captured in this piece.
Thank you to my BFF Tanya for her photography skills and to David Ross who shared the stories behind the names for some of his fields in Ireland!
I miss you, Mom.
Thanksgiving this year involved creating new traditions. My BFF Tanya suggested volunteering at a soup kitchen. I called the Jimmie Hale Mission in Birmingham and learned that while they had plenty of servers for Thanksgiving dinner, they were in need of drivers willing to deliver meals to those unable to make their way downtown. I figured that 1) I know my way around Birmingham pretty well after living here for close to 30 years, and 2) while I’m not the best driver in the city, chances are good to fair that I can get plates of food to their final designation!
On my way to Jimmie Hale, I passed Sloss Furnace, a reminder of the industrial beginnings of the city. Sloss is now registered as a National Historic Landmark (and opens at Halloween for one heck of a scary experience!), but it once operated as a pig iron-producing blast furnace (beginning in the 1880s and continuing through the early 1970s). A number of Birmingham’s poorest communities today are linked in some way to the worker communities that were associated with Sloss–and had no where to go and no opportunity for work once the industry shifted gears.
My view today of Sloss Furnace from 1st Avenue in Birmingham.
Close to Sloss sits Jimmie Hale, a faith-based mission serving men who are struggling with homelessness, addiction, unemployment, and other life challenges. The campus includes a chapel, classrooms, counseling rooms, and recreation areas.
The cross hung high at the Jimmie Hale Mission reveals the faith-based services provided to men in need. It didn’t escape my attention that the sun was beaming down on us as well.
Following a prayer, drivers’ names were called. Each was given a single bag filled with 3-4 meals along with instructions for the recipient of each meal and their address. Thanks to the creativity of children from Spring Valley School, each recipient also received a paper placemat that had been colored and inscribed with a kind note. One that I gave to a sweet woman living alone included a drawing of a pig with angel wings; another featured a turkey that looked a bit like a dinosaur!
Some drivers were unable to follow through due to sickness or an unexpected obligation, so I volunteered to deliver a second bag of food. I’m so glad I did.
My designated bag was filled with meals for delivery in Center Point on the North side of Birmingham, but the extra bag that I picked up was going to West End–Edwina’s old stomping grounds. I felt overwhelmed with memories as I drove the streets of West End, down familiar paths that I’d visited so many times before with Edwina riding shotgun.
Edwina has been gone for more than two years now, but the place looked the same if not a little worse for wear.
Same Save-a-lot where I used to take Edwina shopping when her government aid came in.
Same streets lined with churches, flower shops, and an expansive cemetery–the kind of neighborhood where the death of young and old is a daily occurrence, oftentimes from violence or inadequate resources like food and healthcare.
Same houses featuring fallen-in porches, broken windows, and sagging roofs. One of the houses I delivered to was wide open–no doors but evidence of blankets and clothing piled into the corners to keep its residents warm as the temps in Birmingham are beginning to dip, especially at night.
Returning to West End reminded me that in some ways, delivering hot Thanksgiving dinners to those most in need isn’t really a new tradition I’m establishing. For more than 12 years, I volunteered my time to people in need at Church of the Reconciler and several other downtown locations with a mission to show God’s love by doing rather than talking.
When Edwina passed away, I sort of lost direction. As a result, I stopped giving to others who have so little and need so much. You might say I fell off the giving wagon, and today forced me to climb back on.
Thank you, Edwina, for the wake-up call this Thanksgiving. I won’t be waiting until next November to get back to West End.
The New York Times published a mouth-watering article today on some of the culinary delights that await visitors to Dublin:
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/11/15/travel/dublin-restaurants.html
One cafe that’s burst on the scenes is called “Assassination Custard,” an allusion to my friend Philip’s grand-uncle James Joyce who once called literary great Samuel Beckett, who was apparently feeling under the weather, one and the same.
Have you visited the cafe, Phil? The stewed fava beans with a side of dandelion greens looks delectable!
I came across an essay written by former student, now Dr. Valerie Gribben, in Hektoen International: A Journal of Medical Humanities.
As in her previous work, Valerie examines the connections between the fantastical world of charms and curses discovered in fairy tales and the endeavors of men and women in modern medicine. It’s a delightful essay!
Unsurprisingly, I first met Valerie when she enrolled in my Writing and Medicine course as an advanced undergrad. She was as engaged and brilliant then as she is now. I’m not the least surprised that while working as a pediatrician at the University of California, San Francisco, she continues to ponder the rich stories weaving together ancient and contemporary beliefs about the body and the magic made possible in both this world and beyond.
Well done, Valerie!
Cancer Hits the Streets 