Newlyweds Inspire Memories

As I sat on the patio this morning cleaning onions my mind drifted to the days when we were still young.  It was at the time of our first anniversary.  We had moved into a trailer on the farm and had a garden for the first time.  I was enthused about learning to can, and I had always loved my mother's home-canned tomato soup.  Mom gave me the recipe and I gathered up the goods to produce it.  The cans all processed well, and the glowing red contents were beckoning us to sample them.  I popped open a test jar for Sunday dinner.  The flavor knocked us back in our chairs!  It was full-bodied but hot, hot, hot.  Mom's was never like that.  I scooped up a bowl and dashed to get her opinion.  One taste and she had the diagnosis - too much onion.  Really it tasted like concentrated onion juice with a hint of tomato.

"But, Mom," I insisted, "I followed your recipe exactly."

"How much onion did you put in?" she asked.

"I put in 12 like the recipe said," I confidently replied.

"How big were they?" she chuckled.

I held up my hand to indicate softball size.  That melted her into a full-fledged guffaw.

"The onions were supposed to be no bigger than a shooter marble."

We ate every bit of that soup confident that it was a once in a lifetime experience.   That memory fled back to me today as I sat and cleaned onions.  The men had dug all the onions the first of the week.  It has been such a wet summer so far here that about 1/3 of them came out rotten to some degree.  I sat and cleaned the rotten ones.  An onion that started out the size of a tennis ball would end up the size of a shooter marble.  Those were the size I should have used 35 years ago.  Finally, I understand.  I had Laura can a batch, and she did it properly.  Human progress.

Call Out Our Pluck

2 AM Saturday
"So," Renee asked, "did you ever dream we would be doing this?"
"If I'd have known," Laura groaned, "I'd have gone to bed earlier."

Laura and I were standing elbow to elbow pulling pinfeathers from two little roosters we had just harvested.  You see, a raccoon inspired us to butcher these little beauties.  At about 1:30 a.m. we were all awakened by a ruckus in the yard where the chickens are penned.  Horrendous scream after horrendous blood-curdling scream exploded from the pen of the little cockerels.  The screams only briefly blotted out the flop and drumming of dozens of wings as they were fighting off the intruder.

Peter, Richard and I grabbed flashlights and ran out to find a raccoon scrambling about in the pen.  In the beams of our lights he was groping to find his exit point while we were circling the pen to find his entry point.  The areas we had feared vulnerable were still soundly fortified.  The pen still looked impenetrable but the presence of the coon was chilling testimony to our error.   We three circled and circled the pen, as the raccoon ran to the concealed roofed area of the chickens' roosts.  The poor little terrified and battle-weary cockerels cowered in the farthest corner from the raccoon.  I ran to enlist John and Emory, Peter ran to get the air rifle, and Richard continued searching the pen for the breach.

While circling the pen, Richard tried to keep an eye on the vermin, but with only one flashlight beam to illuminate the area the raccoon was able to slip out. Since Richard was near the cowering cockerels when he noted the raccoon's absence he deduced the breach in cage integrity was on the opposite side in the roofed chicken roost area.  Relaxed that the critter was gone, Peter and Richard opened the gate to the roost area.  Aha, the hole the raccoon had created - it had pushed the fencing away from where the roofing extended down.  Some clips and nails had given way letting a slit open in the construction. Emory held a flashlight while Peter wove taunt wire into the fencing to repair the slit.

As they worked Richard tallied the damage. The count yielded five casualties - one dead and four wounded. Two of the wounded needed recovery time and further assessment later at a more civil hour.  The other two were in critical condition needing immediate harvest.

In the time it took to boil water, Richard sorted out how to butcher the chickens.  He had to reach back in his vintage memories to a time when he was a young boy at his maternal grandmother's side.  For me, I discovered I had no memory of how to process a chicken.  By the time I was old enough to learn chicken butchering my grandparents were all dead, and my parents had discovered a butchery that would process home-grown chickens.  So much for being a farm girl!

Richard slaughtered, dipped in hot water and plucked the birds.  He brought the carcasses in for Laura and me to finish cleaning.  Since he plucked them by the light of a single yellow bug light on the porch many feathers were left behind.  Laura and I had our work laid out for us.  We mustered our pluck (courage) and plunged in.  A half hour later we came up for air. Together we survived our learning and grew in female bonding over the sacrificed cockerels. By 4 a.m. we all went to bed.

We relied on memories to build memories beyond our dreams.

Getting the Business Going

All the necessary papers have been submitted for our business to be valid in the state of Missouri, so we are simply waiting for the numbers to arrive.  Armed with the complete tax numbers we will be able to wholesale purchase the materials for the robes.  Well, that is if we can find the materials.

On May 10 we made an exploration trip to St. Louis to try to connect with a couple sources we had identified on the internet.  When we arrived at the first one I think we were mutually shocked. We walked through the door that we thought led to a showroom only to find some stacks of papers and a couple women with desktop computers.

The lady nearest the door politely informed us, "I'm sorry, but we only do internet orders.  If you have the item number we can order it for you."

"Could we see some samples? Renee asked.

"No, we don't have any samples here; our goods are drop-shipped from several different warehouses."

We kept on moving.  A retail store nearby was more promising.  We found a couple bolts of fabric that would work well.  After buying samples, we went home and started some more research.  We came upon their source of one fabric, but when Renee telephoned about ordering it they were surprised we had found that one on a store shelf.  "We quite carrying that one about ten years ago," the representative said.

The other fabrics were unfamiliar to the company rep. Now back to the drawing board to search for a source for quantity and quality fabric.

Meanwhile, Richard is sewing up the samples for the materials we were able to get.  This week it looks like the rain may be letting up so he is pursuing his seasonal passion - gardening...

... and Renee's seasonless dream.

Richard has taken on keeping the laundry done and Renee is euphoric.  The Lord has mysterious ways of providing even in earlier assumed adversity. {wink}

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

The reality is sinking in that Richard is home full-time now.  As of April 22 he was “resigned in good standing” at the Missouri Veterans Home as is their policy when a person enters long-term disability.  The maximum time of disability support will be four years given Richard’s age. At that time he will be rolled over into early retirement without penalty at age 62.  Since his time of service within a state agency was only eighteen months, his state retirement will be quite small, significantly smaller than disability.  Also his retirement from any other sources will not kick in until he reaches 65 or older. 

Anticipating a gap in income, we see a time to take stock of our future by looking at the past. We recalled that Richard had received a parcel a few months before his incident that led to his diagnosis and brain surgery. The parcel was from Jane Hillhouse, a cousin and graphic design artist. 

Back in 1994 he had been corresponding with Jane about publishing the patterns he had developed while he was in seminary.  In the 1980s during his seminary years he had supported the family with a home-based tailoring business specializing in ecclesiastical garments.  He had developed his own patterns for albs, cassocks, surplices and other components of the clergy wardrobe.

In 1994 he was seriously seeking to publish the patterns but even with Jane’s help he could not find a printer to reasonably produce an affordable product.  Botswana then came into our picture and Richard told Jane, “Thank you, but we can forget this.  It isn’t going to work.” Jane set the parcel of samples aside.

In 2010 Jane was cleaning a closet and found the parcel.  She posted it to Richard.  He looked at it and placed it on his I’ll-get-to-it-later shelf, dismissing it at the time.

As is the natural nudging nature of a wife, I reminding him of the pattern parcel when we were waking up to our financial future.  He pondered it a few days and then declared, “I’d like to try my sewing business again. I’d like to be my own boss.” 

We have embarked on the new journey back to tailoring.  This time I am more intimately involved because Richard is not certain about managing the financial and marketing side.  We are not living in a seminary community, thus we will have a different challenge in connecting with customers. 

To assure himself that he can do it, Richard decided to construct some test garments to confirm that he can manage the patterns.  It looked like watching a man take to a bicycle after years of sitting on the curb.  He was a bit wobbly at first, but then the momentum grew.  Soon he had the small, medium and large albs completed.  What a blessing that the Lord so conveniently provided models for test fitting them.  He was even able to try different styling features on each one.  Voila!

MAN OF THE CLOTH is born again.

A Close Clip

Yesterday (Thursday) was the clearest day Richard has had since surgery.  He started the day out saying, “I feel great! I am thinking clearly.”  He was as sharp as my best kitchen paring knife.  As the day progressed, he tapered to be more like a nice quality butter knife, but he still had a cutting-edge wit. 

At bedtime, we talked about plans for the next day.  He offered to give me a haircut since I was looking a bit shaggy.  He has been my primary hairstylist throughout our 35 years of marriage, so I said, “Let’s plan on it.”

Today, Richard sat up in bed and said, “I’m cloudy today.”

I instantly thought – do I want a brain-damaged man taking a sharp instrument to my head?  Should I let him give me a haircut?

I voiced my reserve at the breakfast table.  My children were so consoling.  They came to the comforting consensus, “Dad won’t do anything that a buzz-cut can’t fix.”

They all offered to do before-and-after pictures to document Richard’s prowess with the scissors.  I was afraid they were really thinking of making a bizarre Power Point to post on YouTube.  I declined the photo documentation.

After breakfast, Richard asked, “Well, do you trust me?”

How could I say “no” to such a sincere offer? We chatted further, and I agreed that the children were close to correct in that even if Richard failed I could have it repaired elsewhere. 

I smiled a weak smile and resolved to sit in Richard’s stylist chair.  He draped me with the barber’s cape and set to work. I closed my eyes, as was my usual, to keep hair chaff from flying in.  Snip, snip, comb, part, snip, clip.  Soon he was finished.  

I loosened the clamp on my eyes and peeked out. He was smiling a wide silly self-satisfied smile as he held up the mirror for me to inspect his work.  The mirror only reflected the barber’s cape.  I reached up to try to reposition it, but he kept tilting it down.  He didn’t notice the mirror’s angle. He was grinning with pride at my haircut.  I couldn’t see it very well, so I said it was fine as I scampered off to the shower for a wash. 

After I was out of the shower with squeaky clean hair and with a wall-mounted mirror I could utter the verdict – PERFECT.  It was one of the best cuts he had given me in at least five years.  I gave my stylist a big kiss and “thank you.”

“See,” he declared. “Your brain-damaged husband can still cut hair. It is only the communication I have a problem with.”