No Better Subject More Deserving

As much as I blab away here, in real life, I generally keep my emotions in check, really hating to ever cry in public, but yesterday's church service 'bout tore me up. It was a water baptism event, and folks give their testimonies. One couple told their story together, in which the wife's parents, who were both clergy, had committed suicide together on an Easter Sunday after church some 12 years ago, how the husband had overcome a painkiller addiction, and that their marriage had finally survived all this, all contributed to an intense time. The congregation, including my group of teenagers, was glued to the speakers.

I talked to my kids later, who are just like me in that we simply think our family is off the charts in terms of issues and challenges, yet we have absolutely no clue regarding the sufferings and problems of others, so wrapped up are we in our own continuing drama.

Surprisingly both Paloma and JoJo, who rarely even have a civil conversation with each other, teamed up with me and we worked all afternoon, only getting three more mongo truckloads of manure, hardly making a dent in our needs, but making me happy as a pig in a poke.

JoJo, our resident family clown, who feels it's his personal responsibility to entertain a Type A choleric workhorse like me, flung himself down on the ground between the barns at the horse farm, flopping like a beached whale too far from an ocean, where other horsey-type folks were grooming their beautiful horses, in contrast to this raggedy ole woman who was way more interested in their horse's by-products. Mmmmm, mixed with wood shavings, hay and straw, I was one happy fall gardener.

Paloma and I wisely ignored JoJo, we just kept shoveling, and he rejoined us, later shedding his shirt in his 12 year old, seventh grade attempt at hotness, or so he claimed, prancing, clowning and acting the fool as he's wont to do on all occasions. Truly I don't mind. It beats the tarnation out of his previous attempts at violence. He's taking Depakote, which has curbed much of his aggressiveness, allowing the funny side of him to take over.

"Mom, these folks must think you've hired Mexicans to work for you," he hollered loudly for all to hear.

I stopped shoveling, since I was working the hardest. "Right, and you're calling me mom while I'm doing all the work. Guess I got a raw deal in your imaginary transaction." Plus I'd just got sucked in to his silliness.

Jack and Nando, wanting to step up to the plate like the big boys, shoveled from the truck to my wheelbarrow. I'm so particular about where each load goes, how deep, how it should be spread, that the kids wander off, leaving me to do some right heavy lifting all alone, which I so don't mind, knowing within five years or so I'll finally be all alone, to get it all done by myself which in no way daunts me at all.

We took the third load of the day to Grandma's gardens, which are large and productive, especially when you factor in her age. She was thrilled at the load, but she's also gonna need a lot more this winter to be hauled for her.

We caught yet another mouse, bathed a big elderly yard dog, I fried up individual corn tortillas to wrap around black beans and brown rice with grated hot pepper cheese, guacamole, sour cream, and topped with Fire Hot Pepper Sauce. Chuy ate THIRTEEN. Pure shock as they're huge servings and he's not that big of a fourteen year old. Three can fill me up and I'm a pretty big eater. Chuy sat at the counter, as I fried for over an hour in my huge black cast iron skillet, prompting the Bubbas applause and respect. I know that boy must've had to sleep on his back lat night what with that bulging tummy.

All that wheelbarrow hauling and shoveling knocked me out by 9:30 last night, my whole house was blessedly quiet.

"Mom, why do you work on the Sabbath?" CW asked me.

"Honey, this ain't work," I smiled back at him, while busting my butt. "This is fun!" And there's been no better subject more deserving of an exclamation mark than when one is involved in gardening/farming.