Fresh Paint, Same Old Wood

Outside Again

I dreamed of the farmhouse—outrageously
Victorian, the white frame house with tall-skinny
windows and fresh-creamy paint on a Nebraska
hillside, snug against a stand of trees just now
turning, just this minute in the boisterous 
dawn... the color of limes and luxuriance at the
cusp of ripeness. It's enough to give me breath, the
rolling farmland mated now with spears of
corn cascading in quivering arches to the
brown river lined with cottonwoods and
shrubbery, where the rabbits live. It is August, the
cruelest month, and the sun is just now brushing the
broad east porch, dispatching the chill with a
small, easy sweep.

Bleached oak floors in the front hall gleam now, but
yesterday was better. Then the seasoned planks 
cowered under plump wriggling baby bottoms and
chubby knees attached to a clump of ridiculous,
chuckling mopheads, fumbling with their cotton gingham
blocks or clutching soggy bears to bulging bellies. Polly
twists a silky yellow curl and with it strokes her
upper lip, now loosely bonded to her thumb. My heart
breaks a little bit from love too big to fit there and
from missing mommyhood, the minimalist existence
relagating war and pestilence to so much static behind
the urgency of locating the other pale-pink bootie
sock as the sole condition for returning equilibrium.

A small scream is instantly aborted and comes out a
squawk an octave higher than two smallish whimpers;
after just a tick — ah, there it is: a whine
of protest abandoned mid-wail. How easily I can
recall the rhythm of it, fall back into it. They fought
and lost and now are gravity's willing captives,
eyes drifted shut, squat bodies tipped like lazy
bowling pins... motionless now, but warm and
limp, trusting angels to come and lift and carry
them to waiting cribs and cradles.


Siblings, cousins, and the odd adult wore
stiff and proper faces over smirks and a few
eyebrows twitching in amusement. It was, don't you
know, High Tea, and we sipped from air cups beneath
twin walnut trees that shade the south porch. Drifting
out the door seductively were scents of bubbling
cheese and buttery onions, just-sliced watermelons and
come-hither chicken in the oven, wrapped in cloves and
peppers and my precious herbs, fresh from the broad
south window and the Herbert garden (my Dad’s term,
back when Mom started it with lemon mint), lush now
and abundant, giving off delicious hints of flavor;
clever and artistic, tucked among the granite
rocks that someone must have meant to be a
casual tumble of them strewn along a berm.

The chairs and hammocks on the lawn filled quickly, 
bliss for those who got there first. The siesta is, I
think, both self-indulgent and essential. And not
nearly long enough. The katydids' slow crescendo
was our signal to stand alert, and none too soon, as,
rested, rinsed, and powdered, a herd of toddlers
lurched from the doorway, fanned out, then landed
on my blanket. Books were thrust and lap space
claimed and tales invented on the spot. We played
bears and practiced taking turns until I got it right. I
talked like Papa Bear and Mama Bear and Baby Bear,
squealed in terror as I imagined a scared young
Goldilocks would do. Sweet faces creased in
smiles, soprano giggles warmed me to the toes. I
learned, not for the first time or the last, how large and
generous the hugs of little arms could be, and then they
watched respectfully as if I were a sorcerer while with a
stick whose tip was sharp enough I scratched their
names in that one shady spot that’s always a bit
muddy, even on the driest days.

I went inside to make pies from fat pumpkins
that only yesterday lay by untidy vines behind the
ranks of cucumbers, tomatoes, and a second crop of
carrots, thriving still because I am the mighty enemy of
aphids and red spider mites. The pies are sweet with
honey from my beehives, and molasses, just a blob, for
bite. Oh, Lord, we ate as if we’d lived till then on bark and
bugs. We laughed because we could, we were so
loose with nothing dreaded hovering. There was a
reverential silence when I whipped sweet cream (from
someone else’s cows, for now, at least) — more magic as
thick sugar clouds materialized to crown the gold-brown
pumpkin slabs, and I don’t skimp because nobody likes the
pie left over when they’ve gobbled up the cream.

Presently the cousins scrub the pans and
plates and rub the glasses to a high shine in the ancient farmhouse sink, white enamel comfortably mottled with a small chip in the drainboard; and someone sweeps the crumbs that fell and skittered underneath the table. It could tell some tales, that old, thick, serviceable oak, from six generations past. You’d think you could just flip a switch and all the conversations that have slid into the grain would bubble up again.

Now the children murmur secrets to their

books and bears and blankets, and the grownups

have a glass of light, clear Sonoita wine, or

coffee, rich and black from steamy southern

mountainsides where sun and shade are plentiful in

equal measure. A breeze hiccoughs, whispers

messages from heaven: “joy” and “bliss” and “peace,” so

why am I afraid, a little? Why is there a pulsing vein

beneath the skin of happiness, which, however, doesn’t

break when night falls, nor even when the children and their

parents have gone home?

This morning in the dawn the house is far too quiet,
unnaturally tidy — that, at any rate, won't
last. Respighi's Ancient Airs and Dances doesn't
fill the space, just glides like film along the surface.
Now I long for yesterday’s parade of sandaled
feet or bare ones, slipping up and down, up and
down the stairs on solemn errands of importance—
fetching paper and crayons, this trip, it seems. I miss
the laughter and the voices muted by old oak, the
cheerful clink of forks and dishes. Then I smile; today
I might prune roses and clip hollyhocks for lush
bouquets, and try to find a way to coexist with
aphids, and write stories, and select the
best pumpkins for the
gold-brown pies for
next time.

But I wake up in the
dark, alone, and wonder,
who am I to dream such
dreams?