Some things are worth waiting for.
Thanks, Dad, for all your knowledge, help, and encouragement.
Spring. Spring. Spring!
It finally seems to be here after weeks of teasing. Proof? The bluebirds are back, we planted onion sets this past weekend, and I rode with the top down twice in the past week. Dad put the nucs (short for ‘nuclear’) in the hives we lost this winter. It was a tough one, and the bees felt it. But now the new bees are buzzing about, and I can’t wait for more honey.
So, this isn’t something I usually put on my list (other than Sherlock of course), but my brother finally convinced me to watch House of Cards. I’m only two episodes in, and stylistically, I’m hooked. I love the direct address to the audience, I love Kevin Spacey’s voice, and Princess Buttercup is even more stunning thirty years later. I’ve heard through the grapevine, however, that things get a little racy. We’ll see if I can handle it. It always makes me wonder what kind of person I would be if I’d ended up in Washington or in some other political arena. I’d probably be some ruthless cutthroat with pork-filled bills.
Celebrating poetry month…in Latin.
My students, while not in English class, are still not immune to National Poetry Month. For three weeks we’ll be memorizing Latin poetry together, and I tried to sell it by using my 105-year-old great-grandmother as an example:
“You know what? My great-grandmother is 105, and sometimes she doesn’t remember who I am. You know what she does remember? What she learned in third grade.”
That got their attention. Yes, Gramma can recite poems and songs she sang as a child. So I told them I was giving them the gift of poetry for when they’re old.
They laughed, because none of us is getting old, please.
One of the poems we’re memorizing is Ecce gratum (See, welcome). Written sometime between the 11th and 13th centuries, it is one of 245 poems in the Carmina Burana. Feel free to memorize it yourself in honor of spring and poetry month!
Vēr reducit gaudia.
Sōl serenat omnia.
Iamiam cedant tristia!
grando, nix et cetera.
et iam sugit
Ver Aestatis ubera.
Illi mens est misera,
quī nec vivit,
sub Aestatis dextera.
in melle dulcedinis
Simus iussu Cypridis
pares esse Paridis.
See – welcome
Spring brings back joys.
flowers the field.
The sun clears everything.
Now let sadness recede.
the savagery of Winter.
hail, snow and the rest.
and now rises
Spring, the heart of Summer.
His mind is miserable
Who neither lives
under the right hand of Summer.
May they exult
and be joyous
in the honey of sweetness
to make use of the gift of Cupid.
Let us be by the order of Cypris
to be on par with Paris.
Start off the New Year with a birthday and a dance party. Enjoy the fact that 2 goes into 4 twice and 24 makes a beautiful number.
One of the perks of sticking close to home is you get to visit your old favorites.
The girls had a rainy spring and the garden went through a transformation.
At first, I was completely against the pond. “It’s too big! Who’s gonna maintain it? My forsythia bush!” Now, though, I’ve grown to like it. I do NOT however agree with the unceremonious way my forsythia was disposed of.
We sold out of honey for the first time this year – a good thing, in most ways, but I hate having to tell people to wait till the spring. We’re also doing the favors for two weddings. Picture this: cute little glass jars with “One Pound Honey” on them, a simple cream label and a bow of twine.
My first wedding of the season was on a beautiful island in Maine. We sang “My Shepherd Will Supply My Need” and frolicked in the night along the dark streets of a sleepy town.
I learned that you can have the wedding you want and surround yourself with all different kinds of people at once.
We drove half-way across the country to celebrate another college friend’s wedding. The groom made their wedding shoes of leather and they danced to swing.
I even missed a wedding, but I got to go on a hiking bachelorette – that’s the way to do it!
The wine tasting which brought four friends together on a hot June Sunday. It’s also where a little bet began, but that’s for another day.
The best summer job ever – teaching English at my Alma Mater.
We didn’t have any fun at all.
And then a trip to London, a trip I never thought I’d go on.
A train-ride away was Oxford, and this is my attempt at a panorama.
We stumbled upon an exhibit of mystical writings and illuminated manuscripts at Oxford University. We also found a large blue rooster.
This photo was taken at Kensington Gardens, after a not-so-pleasant run trying to catch a tour through the palace (“I’m sorry, it’s 5:02. The tours are closed.”). I look much happier than my feet were feeling at the moment.
A week at the Swiss L’Abri and mornings of “Oh my gosh, this is real.” Did you know the Swiss care about bees, too?!
Fishing trips in the Atlantic are always cold, even in August.
We didn’t win the photo contest, but the winners were holding a baby. Not fair.
Cousin Christmas pic.
The last photo of 2013. A reunion of roomies and I got to hold her little one for the first time.
[This has been a good exercise for me. Too often I let things slip through my fingers, moments of joy and communion, the hard lessons I’ve learned and re-learned.]
[Next week, I’ll be posting my favorite things of 2013. A little late, but I want to make sure it’s a rocking list.]
Music. Okay, I know this one isn’t new either. (I turn up a song on the radio, say, “Oh my gosh, I love this song!” and my little brother rolls his eyes and says, “Cath, this was big like six months ago.” Well, Harry, deal.) To add to my appreciation of this song: we sang it around a bonfire at the woodland wedding I attended this summer. Picture this: all of us wearing fern crowns at a cabin in the woods with a stream rushing by. This song will help you picture it.
Books. If you’ve even been in the same room as an education major, you’ve probably heard of the book The Skillful Teacher. Well, that’s what I’m spending my time with this week (getting ready for the second weekend of my grad class). It’s not too shabby, either. I even implemented a few ideas in the classroom already. Thank you, Saphier, Haley-Speca, and Gower. (I apologize for the blur.)Taking your contacts out. Okay, am I the only one who loves this? Whenever I wear contacts, I can’t wait to rip them out of my eyes. (Too graphic?)
Blogs. I’ve been following Bethany Suckrow over at She Writes and Rights for awhile now. She wrote this post, “Explicit Realities, Explicit Language,” and it struck a chord with me. It deals with the experience and expression of sexual abuse and how euphemisms just don’t cut it. I’m sure there are other sides to the issue, but she has a lot of good things to say.
Homemade beeswax candles. They are amazing. They burn so much brighter than you’d think, and they smell like honey and sunlight. We’ve also been known to make candles out of such things as turkeys, frogs, and skeps…
Children’s Musical. Yes, the time is here. We auditioned for “Aladdin, Jr.” this past weekend and rehearsals start Monday. Kids ages 5-13, faces beaming, singing their hearts out in Agrabah. I kinda wish I could be in it…
Hiking. I am eagerly awaiting a fall hike this afternoon. I envision me, somehow miraculously stronger than I’ve ever been, ascending a mountain far larger than I’ve ever hiked before. In reality, we will probably be walking more than hiking, and I will be just as un-strong as I am at this moment.
And I leave you with one last song. Enjoy your Wednesday!
I am from a thought-filled bed –
from pumpkin-pie candles and oak bookshelves.
I am from the white house on the slope,
homegrown apples and sage.
I am from the golden honey –
the towering pine whose long gone limbs
I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from dinners on the porch and too much laughing,
from an open-hearted mama and a dream-big father.
I’m from not enough cleaning and just the right living
and from stacks of books that beg reading.
I’m from “don’t wish your childhood away” and “try new food always”
and “Jesus called them one by one.”
I’m from cozy Christmas mornings and the yellow lights.
I’m from New and Old England,
sun-warmed vegetables and raspberry jam.
From sea-fishing, lake-fishing, ice-fishing,
when long-gone family breathe life again
for just that moment on the water,
and scrapbooks filled with newspaper clippings
tell us the world.
[This is part of a link-up with SheLoves Magazine]
1. Spring is springing. Finally. I will update the “View From My Window” picture soon so I can prove it.
2. The musical is over and it was beautiful. I keep attempting to write about it, but it deserves more time and thought than I’ve been able to give it. Expect a post soon, though, filled with quotes from darling children and an extremely proud director.
3. Went bee-ing for the first time this year. Sunday afternoon was spent in a smoke-and-propolis-filled jeep, bumping over bumpy gravel roads to get to the hives. (Propolis is a dark golden cement that bees use to hold their hives together – very strong stuff!) We checked on three hives and fed them. Oh, and we found a mouse nest (yes! a mouse nest!) in the base of one of the hives. Confusing, because Dad had put up a mouse guard, but the little buggers climbed in through the opening. It was filled with cotton-looking stuff, deer hair, and a bunch of cozy mouse things. Not good. Dad said, “Where’s the blogger’s camera?”, and I just shook my head; some things are better described than seen.
4. Did not get into the MFA programs. Am I shocked? Not really. I tucked the rejection letter in my briefcase of correspondences for the day when I will look at it and laugh. I’m not laughing right now, but I hope it’s coming.
5. Last week before April vacation!!! Can you tell I’m psyched? But I can’t imagine how hard it’ll be to motivate my seniors when we get back…ugh…
6. Finally figured out the email subscription thingy. All it took was, “Um, Harry? Will you help me?” and with one simple click he changed the entire thing. Embarrassing. So if you’d like to be notified via email of new posts, sign up! It should finally be working!
7. Listening incessantly to: The Shins Pandora Station. Love.
Have a wonderful Monday!
After work yesterday – after a day of 5th and 6th grade Latiners, being interviewed for the 6th grade newspaper (Yes! Finally, celebrity status!), and a couple hours at the desk sorting out parent-teacher conference schedules – I headed straight to an indoor farmer’s market.
My mother was waiting eagerly for me. When she found out she had to run the “honey table” alone for the first hour, she wasn’t too thrilled. (“Wait. I have to answer their questions?”) And when I walked into the community building, it felt like entering a small church: everyone stared at me because, clearly, I was not yet part of their group.
“So,” Mom said, looking at her small pad of paper, “I’ve sold a turkey candle, a large muth jar, and a regular jar.”
Now, you’re probably wondering what a “turkey candle” is.
I was too, when my Dad came joyously into the living room a few weeks ago, a small yellowish thing cupped in his hands.
“Look, Catherine! A turkey candle!”
Dad had gone online and purchased a candle mould – shaped like a turkey.
I looked at it skeptically. Who in the world would buy such a tacky thing?
And I said as much.
Dad was slightly offended, turning on his heel and saying over his shoulder, “You’ll see!”
Yesterday, I did see.
We sold a total of FIVE turkey-shaped candles.
I was shocked. They were flying. Like hotcakes. What I couldn’t believe was that right next to these tacky little gobblers were beautiful wax skeps: classy, smooth, beautiful. Skeps are the rounded hives you’ve probably seen in cartoons.
I just didn’t understand it.
We’re going back next week, and I’m sure Dad’s planning to replenish his flock, because as he said, “After Thanksgiving, all these turkeys are going back into the melting pot.”
It’s their last shot.
That just goes to show you I don’t yet understand the candle and honey market.
It isn’t a stretch to say that my hometown is small. Very small. Not the smallest, but close to it.
The farmers’ market started up again, and it’s like going back in time. Everyone knows everyone, and if you don’t, you pick up on it really fast. The coordinator is funny – he walks from table to table, chatting it up, and one question can get him going for twenty minutes. I thought I had the gift of gab.
I wouldn’t say we make a killing at this farmers’ market. Dad’s not quitting his day job and neither am I. But this stuff is right up my alley. I hear such interesting stories from all different kinds of people. The old man next to me farms and sells clams. Yes, apparently one can do this. I learned about infusing honey with vanilla and lavender and cinnamon last week from the certified herbalist (yes, apparently one can be a certified herbalist, as well). I can’t wait to try it; can you imagine a little vanilla honey in your tea? Or cinnamon honey on your toast? I smell another blogpost brewing.
So that’s what I’ve been doing with my weekends. It’s not a bad way to live. Spreading love through sweetness and bee talk.
As part of my attempt to reconnect with my “younger self” (a.k.a. rediscover things I used to do before I went to college…), I’ve been making granola. I didn’t even know you could make granola when I was younger, but if I had, I would’ve been the first one on the bandwagon. Anything that was natural and more self-sufficient was worth trying in my book (hence my willow-stick broom I made, just like the one in Little House…needless to say it was used once and then lovingly retired to a corner of my bedroom).
I know I’m not the only person to make granola, but oddly, it makes me feel pretty good. Mixing the oats, almonds, pecans, honey. It’s the yummiest, least-expensive, healthiest alternative to store-bought cereal I’ve found. And it’s not like we have a shortage of honey – we jarred around thirty pounds yesterday after church, and now they sit gleaming golden on our counter.
After I bake the granola and let it cool, I break it up into chunks. I mix in dried cranberries and chopped up apricots and put the whole thing in large glass container. Not only does it taste delicious, it looks delicious, and it’s hard for me not to slap my mom’s hand when she reaches in for “just another taste”!
Yesterday, I went to the store and got all the ingredients. I hate going to the grocery store, so this in itself was a feat.
Then I mixed everything up, patted it into a lined baking sheet, and popped it in the oven.
Forty minutes later, a charcoal mess emerges from the oven, stinking and black and horrible. I just kind of stared at it.
This isn’t my first time around the block. What happened? I broke off a piece and tentatively tasted it – Disgusting. What a waste! Maybe I should eat it anyway? I could hide the burntness with lots of fruit and yogurt, maybe? I’d decided my last granola was a little too sweet, so this time I mixed in extra honey and no brown sugar at all. That was the only change I could think of, and I don’t even know if that’s enough to burn a perfectly good granola.
I’m hoping my next installment of Natural Living will have a more positive result, but right now there’s a slab of black granola on my counter. I think I’ll feed it to the chickens. They’re not too picky.
I sit on my bed, legs crossed, with three delicious-smelling candles burning. I haven’t pulled the shades down yet because I like the way the night looks against the candlelight. I had an unexpected revelation today, and I think it has made all the difference.
For awhile now, I’ve been fighting a lot of things. One of the more upsetting of late is the idea of womanhood and what it means to be a “wife.” (I put the term in quotation marks because it scares me, and putting words in quotation marks dilutes their power!) But more to the point, I have been scared of what it means to be a person – and a woman, specifically – in marriage. I’ve been watching a lot of friends and acquaintances get engaged, married, pregnant, and I am overwhelmed. I feel like I can’t even catch my breath from the almost-daily Facebook notifications. All this activity in the matrimonial department has me thinking: what kind of wife will I be? what kind of wife do I want to be? and why am I so scared?
The answer to that last one is, I’m pretty sure at least, that I am scared of losing myself. Scared that binding myself to another for life will, instead of making me a more complete Self, blur the lines of me until I am unrecognizable. It is this fear that drives me to some of the ideas of feminism, of maintaining autonomy, of being equals within a marriage, and of feeling the desire and need to create something outside of that marriage. Some of these ideas sound selfish to me even now; how can you be autonomous and truly engage in life-changing communion with another human? I wrote communion instead of union because I am STILL scared of the fullness of that concept.
Then a little voice in my head says Cath, you’re not even in a relationship. Marriage isn’t on the horizon. This is way premature thinking on your part. But then I look around me and see so many young people throwing themselves into a life-long commitment, and I wonder if they have any idea what they’re embarking on. It isn’t too early to be thinking about how I hope to function within one of the most beautiful relationships God has given us, and it certainly isn’t too early to think about living with excitement for the future instead of fear.
And here is where the revelation comes in: I picked up one of my Dad’s bee journals (yes, they actually publish magazines on beekeeping, and yes, we have multiple). It was sitting on the coffee table and I saw an article on the cover that intrigued me: “Beeconomy – Women and Bees.” The revelation didn’t come from bees, or women keeping bees, or anything really to do with bees. It came in these brief sentences:
“A shift from a rural economy to more urban capitalism saw a decline in the value of the ‘good wife,’ an equal partner with her husband who would serve the community and barter with neighbors. Instead, women were expected to be at home, providing the primary care for children” (McNeil, M. E. A., “American Bee Journal” Vol. 152 N. 1).
Suddenly it came together for the first time: I wasn’t bucking the eternal, time-honored tradition of women in the home cleaning, laundering, feeding, and raising. I was bucking the 20th century version of that tradition. I HATE cleaning and “keeping house” (there I go again), but when it is in the context of partnership – in the context of running a business, running a farm – the idea is not nearly as scary. A few weeks ago I met up with an old friend who has four children and another on the way. She and her husband recently built their own home in the woods, complete with a wood stove, long windows overlooking the backyard, and a table big enough to entertain twenty guests. I asked her how she did it, how she resigned herself to washing the dishes, doing the laundry, making three meals a day for four children, keeping everything running smoothly.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I said, as I watched her baste a homegrown chicken. “I just can’t do those things every day FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.”
She didn’t stop what she was doing. She just talked while she finished basting and put the chicken back in the oven.
“You know what, I had the same problem. And then I realized: you have to view it, not as ‘doing the dishes,’ but as creating a home. You do the dishes, you do the laundry, not because you absolutely love doing it, but because by doing so, you create a home for your family.”
And so, together with a little nugget of knowledge from a bee journal, my friend created for me a new outlook. I don’t know entirely what my life will look like as a wife, or even if I’ll be one. But at least now I know how I want to be one: the wife who works alongside her husband to create a home.
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