Column Clippings

GEORGIA’S WEEKLY COLUMN – As seen in the Defiance Crescent-News and other publications, Georgia’s writing is laidback and homey – an ongoing commentary about life on Heritage Heart Farm, often with a little . . . well, okay, sometimes a lot of humor thrown in. Frequently her work is referred to as Erma Bombeck - Down on the Farm and each week one of Georgia’s vintage newspaper columns will be featured here.

THIS WEEK'S CLIPPING

Part Two

BORN IN A BARN

12-20-03

 

     “Are they gone?” A small voice came through the chill darkness of the barn.

     Ginny the dove didn’t recognize it as anyone she knew.

     “Who,” she asked softly, not wanting to disturb the rest of the animals.

     “Who!” A sparrow chirped in the rafters. “Look out it’s an owl!”

     All the sparrows fluttered around in panicked confusion.

     Ginny called out, “There’s no owl! I was simply asking a question.”

     The sparrows settled down with an occasional nervous twitter.

     “Are you still there?” Ginny asked the voice.

     “Yes. I was wondering about the people’s dogs.”

     “They’re up at the house,” Ginny said. “They usually stay right with the people.”

     “May I come in then,” the voice asked wearily. “It’s so snowy and cold.”

     The thought that she may have welcomed the stranger a little too quickly suddenly occurred to Ginny. “You’re not a fox, are you,” she asked.

     “No, I’m only a cat.”

     A broken board in the double doors left an opening just wide enough for small animals to slip through. Sometimes wild folk like skunks and possums used it to come in and check out the supper menu.

     The cat put her head and front legs through, then stopped and cautiously looked around. “You’re sure it’s all right?”  

     “Yes,” Ginny said. “We get all sorts of visitors.”

     The cat was young, Ginny noticed, probably a spring kitten. Miss Kitty the barn cat was big, orange and striped. This cat was delicate, mostly white with a few light gray patches, at the moment heavily dusted with snow.

     “Hey! What’s going on over there,” Rutherford the goat bellowed cheerfully.

     The cat disappeared.

     “Oh, Rutherford ,” Ginny said, “it’s just a cat who wants to come in out of the weather. You frightened her away.”

     “Aw, corn shucks! I didn’t mean to!” The big goat said remorsefully.

     “I know,” Ginny said. “Cat,” she called toward the doors, “that was just Rutherford . He’s harmless.”

     By now most of the animals in the barn were awake. Outside the December wind blew through the old pines until their trunks creaked and their branches sighed. Only snowflakes drifted between the doors.

     Then the cat’s round eyes reappeared. She put her front paws through, then stopped.

     “Really,” Ginny said, “we won’t hurt you. Come in.”

     “I . . . I can’t,” the cat said. “I’m stuck.”

     “No wonder,” Rutherford said. “You’re fat!”

     “ Rutherford !” Ginny scolded.

     “He’s right,” the cat sighed. “I am fat.”

     “You can’t stay half in and half out all night,” Ginny said.

     “She makes a great draft stopper,” said Eustace, the homing pigeon with a crooked leg.

     “Eustace, you’re as bad as Rutherford !” Ginny said.

     “Heavens to hollyhocks,” Honeybunch the rabbit said. “Fat! That cat’s about to have a litter! Come on over here, dear. I have a nest box you may use.”

     With much effort the cat finally squeezed into the barn and wearily climbed into the box.

     Eustace glared down at the shivering animal. “Just what we need is a bunch of brats running around. Why doesn’t she go up to house? Cats live in luxury up there. Never have to set a paw outside.”

     “There isn’t any room,” Muir said. “I heard the father say that if one more cat came in the back door, he was going out the front.”

     “Ah say,” Fernando the rooster observed as he strolled over to check out the newcomer, “that nest doesn’t look very comfortable.”

     “It’s fine,” the cat said, daintily picking a snowball from between her toe pads.

     The hens clucked amongst themselves. “Nest! You call that a nest? Why, there’s nothing to protect her eggs! They’ll crack! How will she ever keep them warm?”

     “ Rutherford !” Amelia the speckled hen with a lot of common sense ordered. “You didn’t eat all your hay. That young mother can make herself a proper nest with it!”

     Soon the hard, cold box was transformed with fresh, fragrant hay. Exhausted, the cat nestled into her warm bed. Despite all the excitement, the rest of the animals settled down to sleep. Outside, the last snowflakes drifted silently to earth as the clouds began to thin.

     Although it was too early for sunrise, Eustace awoke, squinting against a light coming through the barn doors. “Dang people,” he grumbled, turning his tail to the brightness, “wish they’d remember to turn off those consarned electric stars! Even barn folks need their sleep.”

     But this light was different. It came from a real star hanging low on the eastern horizon. It poured over the frozen fields and stark woods with a radiance so pure, soon all the other animals awakened. They murmured in wonder. Even Eustace had to turn back for a second look.

Something rustled in the nest box. Eustace hobbled over to the wire and peered down. The cat was curled around a single, tiny kitten, purring contently as her baby nursed, its pink paws pushing industriously.

     “Well, I’ll be,” Eustace said, “would you look at that.”

     The cat smiled. “Isn’t he wonderful? Since you’re the first to see him, I think I’ll name him after you.”

     “Why . . . I . . . well, I’ll be . . .” Eustace stuttered, his breast feathers puffing with pride.

     “Except two of you may be confusing,” the cat mused. “What is your name?”

     “Eustace.”

     “Then I’ll call him Twostace,” she said.

     Eustace beamed. “Everybody! We a have a new baby in the barn! His name is Twostace!”

     All the animals called out congratulations while Eustace grinned and nodded as if he were personally responsible for the miracle of the new little life. Suddenly he turned back to the cat.

     “But, cat, what’s your name,” he asked.

     “It’s Mary,” she said.

This is Part One of a Christmas story titled: 

BORN IN A BARN

12-14-03

 

     Ginny the dove side-stepped across the perch and nudged her mate. “Muir, there’s something odd going on up there at the house.”

Muir was napping, but he opened one eye. “Odd?” His soft voice was slightly muffled. His beak was tucked into his breast feathers that were fluffed against the sharp air of a December cold snap.

and irritably tossed it aside. “People always act odd.”

     Eustace was a little cranky and crabby. Ginny had seen him staring intently through the wire of the pen, looking longingly at the rest of the homing pigeons when, with whistling wings, they swooped from the barn rafters out into the clear blue of the sky.

     “Well,” Ginny said, “the Mother has been cutting branches off evergreen trees and tying them with ribbons. And the Father . . .”

     “I’ve only seen the Father mow grass when it’s warm and cut wood when it’s cold.” Eustace interrupted.

     “He brings fresh water for our bowls every night,” Muir said mildly.

     “Well, today he hung stars on the house,” Ginny said.

     “Stars!” Eustace snorted. “People can’t get to the stars. They can’t even fly up to the barn roof like pigeons. . .” He stuck out his crooked leg and glared at it. “Most pigeons, that is.”

     “Eustace is right, Ginny,” Muir said, opening the other eye and snuggling closer to her to keep warm. “How could People bring stars down from the night sky?”

     “You stay awake tonight,” Ginny said, “you’ll see. When the sun goes down and it grows dark, stars will shine all around the house.”

     “I suppose the barn isn’t good enough for the People to hang stars on it,” Eustace grumbled around a millet seed.

     Fernando the rooster ambled up to the dove pen. He’d been around the barn for years and looked it. His bright red comb had been dulled by frostbite and some of his fancy tail feathers were missing. Although the long curved spurs on his legs leant him a dangerous air, Fernando was afraid of the other roosters, even the small ones. The People liked Fernando a lot and spoiled him with rich grains – oats, corn, wheat and sunflower seeds.

     “Now Miz Ginny,” Fernando drawled. He was an Ohio bird, but he sounded like he sat around and sipped mint juleps all day. “There’s nuthin’ odd goin’ on. It’s Christmas time. Those aren’t stars, they’re lights. It’s a celebration. A wing-ding, as it were.”

     “Whatever could they be celebrating?” Ginny wondered aloud. “It’s cold. We can’t have our daily bath because our water freezes and we get very thirsty by the time the People come down for supper.”

    “Hey, Fernando’s right,” a loud voice bawled from the other side of the barn. It was Rutherford the big Nubian goat. Rutherford was the size of a pony. He wasn’t very smart and he was more than a little greedy. Every night he cried for his supper and budged in front of the other goats.

     “People have lots of good things to eat this time of year, too.” Rutherford hollered.

     “Why?” Ginny asked.

     “I don’t know,” Rutherford said around a mouthful of hay. “Boy, I love those leftover cookies, though.”

     Ginny closed her eyes, dozed and dreamed of stars.

     A few days later, the skies darkened and snowflakes began to tumble from the low, gray clouds. When night came the snow fell harder and just as Ginny had predicted, the stars began to glow on the People’s house.

     “I told you so,” Ginny said to Eustace and Muir.

     When the People came to the barn for feeding time, they were happy and brought special things for all the animals to eat: a small can of food for Miss Kitty, the barn cat, carrots for the rabbits, bread and cookies for the goats, grains for the chickens and extra sunflower seeds for the pigeons and doves. Despite the cold, the People stopped working frequently to stand in the wide doorway and hold their faces up to the falling snow. The People’s two dogs ran around and barked with excitement.

     After the People had gone, the only sound came from the chickens, who always sang themselves to sleep. It was then that a small voice came from the crack between the wide, double doors.

   “Are they gone?”

    Ginny’s eyes popped open. It was hard to see, but she knew the voice of every animal in the barn and this one belonged to a stranger. “Who’s there?” The dove whispered.

 

Continued next week . . .

NO CATS ALLOWED!

12-7-04

     Like the first flakes of an early winter snowfall, debris has once again begun to settle over the house. But, for a brief, shining moment, all was perfect. Sunday the house was in the local Christmas Walk and for a short time, it was warm, festive and orderly. Candles glowed; a cheery fire flickered on the hearth and the scent of evergreen hung in the air instead of the usual eau de guinea pig. The aforementioned and their trail of wood shavings were excommunicated to the garage. Guinea pigs are a tropical animal and do not tolerate cool temperatures, so the cages were covered with a quilt. The three bad cats, Moody, Murphy and Corky, along with Dill the rat terrier, were also banished. The cats took it graciously and napped atop the guinea pig quilt, but Dill spent most of the time hurling his body against the door, in a furious attempt to batter it down. By the time I took mercy and let him in, he was tired and slept peacefully in my lap as people wandered through the house.

     No wet towels were lumped on the girls’ bathroom floor. No book bags or backpacks lay about, their contents spilling out. Not a single pair of hot pink high-top sneakers or athletic shoes to trip over. And the kitchen sink was – dishless. No balled up dirty socks, empty pop cans and dog fur puffs decorated the living room and even the coffee table behaved.

The knob on the front of the table has a tendency to fall off and roll around on its own accord, seeking out obscure places in which to reside. On Sunday however, it remained stationary and attached to the table for four hours – a new record. When the kids bring their friends home, we all play the coffee table knob game and wager how long it will take until the guest accidentally sends the knob skipping across the room. Official timing begins when the shoes come off. For some reason, sock-footed toes cannot resist that knob. We all exchange amused glances as the toes first hook onto the edge of the table, then gradually creep along, exploring. We catch our breath and try to remain nonchalant when the toes discover the knob because it’s a done deal by that point. No matter the method used to repair the knob – wood glue, screws – it will inevitably pop off. While the knob, free on its own recognizance, goes skittering off, the visitor is sent into paroxysms of apologetic embarrassment. The game concludes when we say merrily in unison, “That’s okay, it happens all the time.”

     As the walk progressed, someone said that from reading about the house in the column, they didn’t imagine it would look like it did. Rest assured, dear lady. Had she arrived an hour or two earlier, she would not have been disappointed. As I ran hither and thither, stuffing evergreens into anything that didn’t move and a few things that did, Tim was flinging the vacuum cleaner around and our youngest scooped up the layers of paperwork that usually cover the counters in the office. The middle kid hid in her room, putting on makeup. The oldest offered up prayers of thanks that she was in Chicago .

     So, as Christmas classics played softly in the background and friends and neighbors dropped by, it was just charming – not at all a typical day here on the farm. Not to worry, though, because now we have witnesses as to how quickly chaos can ensue.

     A kitten, not ours, appeared at the back door. “Isn’t this the place where you can drop off cats?” Someone was heard to say.

     Let me take a moment to clarify this issue.

     NO! THIS IS NOT THE PLACE TO DROP OFF CATS! NO. NOT NEVER. NOT NO HOW!

     Cause for half the disasters around here can be directly traced to the overpopulation of cats.

     The girls wanted to bring her in. Once inside, the frightened kitten ricocheted like a super ball. The youngest daughter picked the cat up to calm her. The cat reciprocated by sinking needle-y little teeth into a finger. The kid yelped and dropped the cat, which zoomed off. The only recourse was to call Tim. The cat bit and scratched him, too. Two days later the cat is still wild, but will only eat if Tim stands by. He is trying to lure her down to the warmth and comfort of the barn. He’s thinking of a name.

     NO, THIS IS NOT THE PLACE TO DROP OFF CATS!

 

NOTE: Clawdette has been here four years now. She is a feral cat and doesn't allow us to touch her. She is tidy, house trained and adores our three brother cats. But, this is still not the place to drop off cats!

TRULY, IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS

11-10-01

 

     A line from an old song says, “little things mean a lot.” A few years ago a friend gave me a small gift as a gesture of appreciation. It was a thank-you for a very small favor. Like most thank-you gifts it wasn’t at all necessary, because, like most favors among friends, it was a pleasure to provide. The gift is a little frame printed with this quote: “It is often life’s smallest pleasures that make the most lasting difference.”

     That statement reminds me of a little book covered in green calico that my younger sister had when she was a child. It was titled “The Casual Observer.” The main character is a little girl who wears a big bonnet that shades her face. In fact, her face is never seen because she spends most of her time just looking at little, singular things – a caterpillar on the ground, a flower, a fluffy cloud in the sky. I can’t remember how the story ends, but the concept has stayed with me through the years.

     I suppose I am a casual observer and have been blessed with the ability to enjoy the smallest of life’s pleasures. A day doesn’t go by in which I take time to watch deer grazing by a hedgerow on a frosty morning, look up at stars sparkling like diamonds scattered on navy blue velvet, hear the soft quaver of a screech owl calling from the pine trees behind the barn or crack an egg fresh from the barn into my favorite mixing bowl without sending up silent thanks.

     I’m grateful for the slow roll of the seasons, the very first flash of a bluebird’s wing in the spring, the drowsy chorus of cicadas in July, the first crimson tomato off the vine in August and the knowledge that soon there will be more than we can possibly eat. When winter casts her icy net over the land, I can still enjoy the sharp, citrus scent of fresh lemon because stores overflow with bright tropical fruits and crisp vegetables at any time of year. The earth effortlessly yields foods that add zest to life – salt, onions, garlic and a myriad of spices and herbs. When cooking I get much pleasure from tossing a hand full of freshly picked garden herbs in the pot along with plenty of TLC. One of the reasons I have time to notice and appreciate life’s smallest pleasures is because I don’t have to scrounge all day just to scrape up enough to feed my family.

     Our family has access to state-of-the-art medical care, but, although all people deserve it, not everyone gets it. Our pets get better care than the majority of the world’s population. We worry that our shoes match our outfit, when so many don’t have any shoes at all.

     It’s difficult to imagine a life where women are forbidden to walk freely, without veils or shame. Under the Taliban, teaching a daughter to read and write is punishable by death. Unfortunately in the U.S. , children often view learning as a punishment. Would I risk my life to preserve the right to learn?

     Though our country has had horrible things happen in the past few months, leaving many families wrapped in the dark shroud of grief, we are a lucky people. The most pressing concern for the majority of us is not whether our house will be standing tomorrow; it’s getting into our jeans after the holidays.

     Knowing the entire family is once again under one roof, even if only during the holidays, is to know contentment. When I let the dogs back in after their final foray outside for the night, I turn off the lights, all except for the lamp in the dining room window. The household is snug, warm, safe and tucked-in when I slip cold feet under a warm quilt. I don’t have to worry about being cold, hungry or forgotten because my heart is full of family and friends that, if needed, would drop what they were doing and come running.

     I’m not so naďve as to think that all is right with the world or ever will be, but I am thankful that we as a nation, along with many other across the globe, have the energy and the compassion to continue to try to do something about it.

THANK GOD FOR LARRY

11-19-06

     Our oldest daughter had a flat tire last week. It was late at night and she was in Chicago . Her new husband, as she puts it, is a little grease monkey. Unfortunately she had forgotten her cell phone and the grease monkey and all his tire changing skills were sound asleep on the couch. His phone, across the room, was on vibrate. I will let our daughter tell the rest of the story in her own words:

     As I drove I noticed a rather loud, what can only be described as a "farty" sound. I stopped at a stop sign and switched on the light thinking that maybe a seat belt was flapping in the breeze. Meanwhile, a large group of middle-schoolers was walking past and began to point and laugh hysterically. I looked at them blankly, assuming that by turning on the inside light, the van turned into a mobile television with me as the star. I figured they were laughing at my new leopard print hat with the ball on top. I grimaced, sunk down in my seat and drove on. Why is it that a group of twelve-year-olds can still make you feel like a dork, even though you are more intelligent and twice their age? I have a newfound respect for sixth-grade teachers.

I drove past the group of hecklers, the gaseous sound continuing, and pulled over. Lo and behold, I had a flat. Not a losing air flat. It was a Donald Duck cartoon flat.  Flat enough to make a whapping, farty sound. 

     During the excruciating five blocks to a gas station, I drove about 15 miles an hour shouting "I KNOW!!!" at anyone who glanced in my direction because the sound was increasing in intensity and I was beginning to feel stupid in that hat. 

I called my husband approximately 59 times. It was 37 degrees and I was wearing red ballet flats with no socks. I began to cry at this point and called my parents thinking that, you know, they could drive in from Ohio and rescue me. Now, my mother assumes if you are anywhere in Chicago alone, especially in a parking lot, you are most likely going to be raped, murdered, and shoved somewhere full of bacteria. 

     The first thing she said was "GO SOMEWHERE SAFE!”

     "Um, okay." 

     That's not to say I was in the kind of place to walk around waving fifties and singing the "I Got a Dollar" song from the Little Rascals movie. (I got a dollar, I got a dollar, I got a dollar! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!) But it was well lit, on a main thoroughfare and lots of customers were at the gas station. 

     Then, a man on bike looking, as my mom would say, "Rode hard and put away wet," pulled up. The man's name was Larry and Larry fixed the tire. I think he might have been homeless. His coat looked to be from a collection bin and he had a pizza box strapped to the back of his bike.
     "Can I write you a check?" I asked. 
     "Sweetie, I wouldn't have anywhere to cash it." 

     It was right then I received my reality check. Sometimes I get a little self-centered. And here's this man . . . in the cold . . . nowhere to go.  He helps me out – some helpless privileged girl in a silly little leopard hat and ballet flats.

     "I'll be right back," I said and walked back into the gas station to use the ATM. I profusely thanked the gas station attendant for calling Larry and grabbed some cash.

     I handed Larry the money. 

     "You know," he said, "if you had told me you didn't have any money, I still would have done it. You know why?" He pointed skyward. "He takes care of me." 

     It was very humbling. This was truly a happy man. He had nothing material except a Cubs hat, a dirty old coat, a squirt bottle for washing people's windshields and his bicycle. All I could think was how I could have spared a little more cash. I felt ashamed about whining to my mom about my lack of money. I shook his hand and said goodbye. Then I cried all the way home. 

     The grease monkey and I made a pact to not leave our phones on vibrate when one of us is gone and he’s going to teach me how to change a tire. I also made a pact with myself. I'm going to make sure I remember to give thanks for Larry on Thursday.