Chard Tart

 I feel a sudden lift in the cloud of writers block. I've been distracted (going to school, landscaping my yard, gardening) and without a camera. But as I ate my lunch and thought on how superb it was I needed to write it all down. "Eggless Chard Tart" And that was it. Here you have the most important thing I've ever learned about savory tarts.

Savory Tarts: a History

Sometimes two miraculous things happen at once and whatever is left over falls into place as if it were masterfully orchestrated. Once upon a time I fell in love with a country, and a man who lived in it. Maybe sometime I'll tell that story. But this one starts in the middle of it and now we find ourselves with two offspring who are no doubt the best of both of us. But when it comes to food, they are still just kids. I am always amazed with people whose kids eat EVERYTHING. Not true. I am sometimes amazed with people whose kids will eat ANYTHING. I have a hard time finding anything that my fiery sprite of a daughter (by the same name, in a different language) WILL eat.
On to the next related tangent: We, in this great country have such a thing as quiche. A crusted egg souffle that is light and airy and where I grew up always included half cooked broccoli and a dab of ketchup on the side. In the land of the a fore mentioned Argentine, there is such a thing as a tart. I remember the first tart I enjoyed. It wasn't the first tart I ate. But it was the first time I knew that I was in love with them. Ariel an I were enjoying a day in 'el centro', La Plata, wandering through shops, window shopping with no money and people watching. It was during a time when we were waiting for his visa to come through the US Embassy so that we, a newly wedded couple, might return to live in the US. We were totally strapped, even for Argentine standards. The hand full of times we ate anything that wasn't labored over in our hot little refrigerator-less kitchen, usually involved a street stand that advertize one thing on its menu, 'Chori-pan'. The most glorified of glorified hotdogs. But today there must have been something special. Some reason why we couldn't wait to go home and cook something. Instead of our regular park-gazebo chori-pan visit, we stopped in a little shop that made pizzas and 'tartas'. This was a lesson in Argentine cuisine for me. Not the most delicate or sophisticated little shop, but one with a line that went out the door. Which was good for me, because I had no idea what I wanted to order. When it was finally our turn we ordered two tarts, one of them was onion and tomato an the other was some variety of spinach. After ordering, the already made tart was conveyer belted up into an oven and slowly passed over a covered gas flame, coming out on the other side unrecognizably, perfectly charred. Around the corner at the same park, San Martin, we delved into our paper wrapped lunch. It would serve for nothing to describe to you the details of the feast. Needless to say, it was good and I have yet to enjoy as much the combination of Onions and Tomatoes. I remember it romantically blurry, the way I remember most things from that part of my life. And now I find myself with a three year old that won't eat food. She'll eat lots of other things and I am afraid I see her rib cages more bare than before, but as most things in parenthood with your first child, I may be wrong. It may just be a little girl well on her way to being four.
When we were in Argentina for Christmas I wanted to find that little shop again. So I sent Ariel out in search of it while I readied the kids to go out into the city. Little delicatessen style shops are pretty common and my only specification was that I wanted something with green vegetables in it. Ariel came back unable to find the same shop, with a dwarf version of a tart made with Swiss chard. Argentines love Swiss chard. Probably because most of the year it's too hot to grow good spinach, which makes it more expensive. I hardly knew what chard WAS when I first visited Argentina, not exactly what one thinks of as typical South American Cuisine. But that is probably the one vegetable that Ariel asks for and misses. So I've started to grow the stuff, which is, lucky for me, quite easy. When my beets won't come up and my tomatoes won't ripen, I always have at least SOME Chard. It's taken me a while to figure it out. Mostly to figure out what to DO with it. When we were sitting again at a park in La Plata (different park) I had another epiphany. Mostly because as we sat there, I offered my daughter a peice of tart, thinking surely she would throw it on the ground and I would be ready to catch it in the event. But to my amazement, she devoured it. So I set myself in motion to figure out how to make that tart. We ate it at least every other day for the rest of our trip. And I am happy to say that I figured it out.  And my daughter eats it practically every time I make it. Today, my son ate three helpings. So here is the most simple most delicious savory tart that my children will eat. ( Did I mention it has green vegetables in it?)

Chard Tart:

Things you'll need:
1 onion
about 1 lb of Swiss chard, chopped (preferably fresh, but frozen will do)
1 garlic clove (minced)
nutmeg
salt
olive oil
roughly 2 Tbsp flour, any kind
pan for sauteing
2 rounds of pastry shell, frozen pie crust or whatever you like to use for a crust(that isn't sweetened)
8 inch pie pan
2 tomatoes sliced (optional)
1 cup grated mozzarella cheese or other cheese (optional)

Preheat your oven sometime during this process to 400 or whatever your pastry dough instructions say. The filling won't be raw so it doesn't matter how it cooks.
Chop your onion finely and saute in olive oil slowly (medium low heat) until just BEFORE brown. sprinkle flour over top of onions and mix in with a wooden spoon until flour has absorbed the oil. There should be no dry flour, let it sit for a minute. Then add garlic (minced) an allow to cook momentarily before adding chard to pan. Allow the chard to wilt and mix thoroughly, sprinkle about 1/2 tsp nutmeg and about 1 tsp salt over the top and mix it in with a wooden spatula. Take greens mixture off of the heat and set aside. Roll your pastry shell and place in pie pan. pour filling into shell and place tomatoes evenly over top followed by cheese. Place 2nd pastry shell on top and roll closed. (You can also use a larger piece of pastry dough rolled out and simply fold excess over the top lightly.) My husband always prefers a little egg(or alot) brushed over the top of the dough before it is cooked. You can also add an egg into the filling if you cool it down first before putting it into the pie pan, however I don't. I Love this method with chard because it takes any bitterness or acidity out of the chard. It has a creamy texture instead of a springy/airy texture. That's why my kids love it too!
PS. The best thing I've learned about tarts is that they don't have to contain eggs.

Life: People. Places. Sounds. Words. Time.

  As we come across and over and through everything that life is, we all search, actively or passively, for what makes it worth it. Sometimes in our finding, we lose a little too. Lose a little of ourselves, lose a little of the ones we love.  Maybe it's a big chunk that breaks off and leaves the exposed flesh raw and burning. Or maybe we shake it off, scrub it off, say good riddance and walk away with no second thoughts. But I think more often, the pieces that we lose don't come down in a big splash, like a rock falling off a cliffside into a river. They fall away from us in the wind and in the rain. Not uncommon, and not altogether unpleasant.

Today I am reminded that the search is ongoing and though we do leave some pieces behind, very few things are ever lost. Today my life is a little brighter and the colours don't run so much, because I found one of my missing pieces. I found a friend that I had not forgotten, but had forgotten that I had. Just looking at a face and thinking of the sound of a voice reminds me that there are others like me. And when you're me, probably when you're you; it's easy to think that you're the only one.

This is a story about a boy and a girl.  One of them little and the other one littler. Both with quirky smiles, that come out once in a while. Usually I am the quiet giddy observer to the silent thoughts that creep across these soft round faces. Hardly ever on camera and even less with a clean face. Those things are overrated for a kid made to play. This is the famous head tilt, left eye lilt that makes me blush everyday.

This is Ada. She recently left the age of two but she hasn't gotten over the terribles yet. However, she is really wonderful at some things, like kisses on owies; she always remembers just where he gave them to you. Shes also marvelous at yelling 'wahooooo!!!' and shaking up a storm whenever there's a good beat. She's cool enough for cats (they're her favorite). Over the hill, over the edge...over anything, and under it too. Shes a mean green potty trained machine and she happens to have just had a Birthday Party.

Here she is, in her fancy white party dress. Everybody whose anybody who knows Ada knows there aint no party without opening presents. She's not so concerned with what's inside, just make sure the wrapping's something to touch, squish, throw over your head and wave around.

And of course, what would a party be without a birthday cake?

Listen to chanjidadas Playlist

Get ready for a slew of posts from me. I can't really help myself, these things come in waves. Just now I was reading a dear dear friends blog and she said something that struck me. She said "I believe in some seemingly outdated and quaint ideas saving society."
Last night I was sitting in a class, which excites me from the start, because I LOVE to be in school. I haven't been in school for a long time and having been enrolled in classes for a total of two days has brightened my whole life. One of my classes is entitled 'pest management', specifically in agriculture. I have a very healthy relationship with my unkept yard. I love anything that is green, but more so if it actually grows. So I was sitting in this pest management class. Being the first day it was somewhat introductory. My professor was explaining why we needed to talk about pesticides. A little bit of background info...When I hear the word pesticide, my natural reaction is for my stomach to curl ever so slightly and to vomit it just a little bit in my mouth. I found myself in the portion of my class that really needed the explanation.  In the presentation he shared a list of thirty things ranked by their degree of lethality. On this list were cars, motorcycles, tobacco, alcohol, food coloring, and pesticides to name a few.  Motorcycles were placed lower on the list than cars, not because they are less dangerous but because a random person is less likely to be killed by a motorcyle than by a car simply because there are less motorcycles. Pesticides were ranked 28th out of the 30 things on the list because a person is less likely to be killed by pesticides than the 27 items preceding it in ranking. Food poison was 26th. At the end of this section of the presentation, I don't remember if they were actually written but I remember seeing the words in fat bold type why worry? I sat choked in my chair. I couldn't figure out what needed to be said, but I knew that there was more to it than that. To be fair, it was clearly explained that pesticides are one of the most controlled and potentially hazardous of elements in our modern world. My professor clearly explained that they are not something to be treated without great care. But in my opinion, just because something is not directly lethal when used in the smallest of quantities (2ppm) and we can't currently measure its potential for hazard, doesn't mean that we shouldn't worry about it. I left with the feeling that I need to learn all I can about pesticides so that if I am ever in a position to affect the way people see them or use them, then I can contribute the appropriate amount of respect. I hope that in 10 generations my ancestors will enjoy the same if not greater biodiversity than I do. I am now slightly more enlightened and much more enthustiastic about learning about pesticides.
To the point. I couldn't figure out what it was that bothered me. I left and drove to my next destination and couldn't figure it out, but reading what my friend wrote today helped me to see, not what my professor should have explained to the class about pesticides and the current residual effects of pesticides used over 50 years ago, but how I feel about them and how I feel about being a steward over this planet. It helped me to think about how I want to teach my children. I couldn't logically explain to my professor or my class about why we should be worried about pesticides, but I recognized that being a steward is to me a family value; just like teaching about faith, or selflesness or premarital sex. I too "believe in some seemingly outdated and quaint ideas saving society."  At least the little corner of the planet where I will make my safe haven.

Birth Journey

I started this about two three months ago in anticipation of my son's first birthday. I almost didn't post it. Not because it contains some may say inappropriate detail, but because I haven't really wanted to share anything personal for a while. Also because I know that all women are sensitive about the subject of birthing. In my experience it's because we feel so vulnerable in the experience. I enjoy the romantic idea that the growing of babies is something that unifies all women, and even all people. I even feel closer to my mammal friends in the idea that we go through much the same thing in the act of giving birth.  But there are undeniable and unfortunate expectations that are placed on a woman when she starts to compare notes with other women about the whole pregnancy experience. And in an era of information, when there are so many tools available to us, it is too easy to feel like you don't measure up or like you are suppose to do it a certain way. I know I felt like that after my first birth. But, as I try always to do, I pushed social or cultural expectations out of my mind and tried to just be and know what it was that I wanted. The labor of bringing life out of life is one of Love and beautiful in all of it's forms, as is the sharing of each birth story. I Love Traditions. They give us more reasons for living and tools for sharing this life with each other. The sharing of birth stories is a tradition that I've wanted to participate in for as long as I've been reading them. But before reading, be reminded that all of us are born. It really shouldn't be a big deal to think about how it transpires, but I won't be offended if you are offended. And then there was this:

Birth; not something that just happens, not a simple occurrence or even a situation, but a journey; a pilgrimage in the body of a woman. It starts not when a membrane is ruptured or a rhythmic throbbing begins, but long long before. When first the idea is formed and goes from the thought to the imagination and finally the reality is conceived in a woman's mind that this will end with a life being brought out of her vessel and into her arms.

 

I first considered the birth of my son when I was birthing my daughter; preparing mentally (unsuccessfully, I might add) for an anesthesiologist to numb my body from my lower back down. From the moment I entered my sterile hospital room, I told the nurse that I wanted to birth 'naturally'. It was the first time I would bring a life out of my own. I was naive and unprepared, but I knew what I wanted. A few hours later, two strange women came into my hospital room and very actively tried to convince me that after spending all day with my water broken, contracting, a natural birth would be extremely difficult for me. One thing kept me from being angry at these two strangers, who were, though well reasoned in their suggestions, more concerned for my labor interrupting their routine than actually helping me to relax and bring my daughter safely out of the womb. I didn't want anger in that room. I wanted it to be a hallowed place, a sanctuary where I would meet this special soul for the first time. I was also afraid of what was happening in my body and of how long it was taking. I remember clearly the nurse telling me that maybe with my next pregnancy my body would be a little better prepared and I would be able to do it naturally. That thought stuck in my head. As soon as the epidural took effect I was able to sleep for a couple hours and during those two hours, my relaxed body dilated from barely a two to a 9 1/2. After the birth I wasn't able to move my legs for at least 3 hours afterward and felt them too weak to walk around for a couple days. I was relieved not to be carrying around the weight anymore, speaking purely physically. But in every way, physical and emotional, I felt completely at the mercy of my husband and that sweet innocent baby girl. As far as everything else, my first born was healthy and beautiful. And we got to know each other through the exhaustion as I imagine most women experience. When I found out nine months later that I was expecting another child, I remembered the words of my nurse and thought 'maybe this time'. As the thought of the pain of labor and the helpless feelings afterward became a reality over the first few days, the maybe dissolved. I knew that I needed to prepare myself better this time. With my first pregnancy, I thought romantically of how labor was something that tied me to every other woman that has ever become a mother. I was only interested in appreciating the experience as all mothers have over the course of many millennium. I thought that this connection was enough. Billions of women have had babies with out the aid of modern medicine and I chose to believe that I couldn't be so different from all of them. But that line of simplistic thinking had put me in a very vulnerable situation and I knew that I didn't want to find myself again, in a place where I was forced to base a decision on whether or not my nurse was sympathetic to my choice of birthing styles. So, along with making sure I could actually pay for having another baby, I went in search of myself and what it was that I really wanted to do with this birth. My journey was underway. I asked a few Mothers who I knew had birthed naturally how they had prepared and I realized that the first thing I needed to do was get some worthy reading material. Previously, I had as my manual, one solitary book. It had a patchwork quilt cover and a drawing of a bulging bellied woman in a rocking chair. It's all encompassing title told me that I would have in it, all of the keys that I needed to appreciate the experience of bringing a child into the world. Did I mention that I was naive? So I found some books. Some were helpful and others not as much. I started some underwater aerobics classes and started walking as often as I could.

I am a visually motivated person. I learn visually, I plan visually. One thing that really helped me was to make birthing art; a visual interpretation of the way I think of birth or labor. Birthing art is like a free-write. My very favorite English teacher in middle school assigned us free-writes every single day. It got our imaginations flowing and could not be right or wrong, it simply was. Through them I learned about who I was at that moment in time and was able to learn about what I wanted to do with myself (Thank You Gordon Cotrel). I've heard some mothers explain contractions as a series of waves coming up on a beach. One in particular repeated in her mind "the wave always hits the shore". It always confused me a little, this idea of having a phrase to repeat, almost like a chant. I didn't understand how this could help. The powerful idea of this is the inevitability. I remember my first birth, between contractions thinking that no matter what I do in the next few seconds of lesser pain, I could not avoid that the next contraction would come and I feared it in ever cell in every micro molecule. I believe that this was the most important part of the birth of my still-new little boy. It was what I needed to change. I realized that what was coming was inevitable. And I had to learn to accept that I was going to feel pain, and even welcome it. My birthing drawing is like that chant, a visual representation of the power that is in my body. I made this for myself and not as a framed piece of art to be shared. It is essentially a waterfall in the body of a woman. The trees above and below, and the calm pool at the end of the fall, all represented to me the parts of labor, all connected by a rushing unstoppable force of water...

It also represents something that is as natural as snow melting off a mountain. I have never lived near the ocean and don't feel a strong connection to it, as did my friend who used the ocean waves as an image in her birth. But this, to me is powerful. About 7 months along in my pregnancy, my husband and I, with our one year old daughter, went camping to Grand Tetons National Park. We hiked around Jenny Lake to Hidden falls, a cascade of about 200 feet with such power that anything in the way of the water would be powerless against it and immediately overpowered and swept away. I watched that series of short bursts of water and saw in it my fear. That's how I felt in my first birth; fighting against each wave of my body, powerless to do anything and powerless to cope. As my labor started with my second child, two months after our camping trip, that image stayed in my head, not the one in this simple drawing but the one it stems from.

The contractions started to be steady at about One o'clock in the afternoon. I timed the first one as I got back in my car after buying a few things to make sure the family would be alright while I was tending to the new baby, whenever he came. I was two days past my due date and waiting...the way only a past-due pregnant woman waits. It was Wednesday and I knew that if I wanted my doctor to deliver, today would have to be the day. I didn't want my doctors partner to aid in my delivery as he was a little too comfortable with the scalpel in my last labor as my daughter crowned.  I had a few birthing projects planned. I was attempting to paint the fence next to my patio as well as tile my small entry-way. I drove home continuing to time each contraction, about 8 minute apart and getting more painful. A bitter sweet part of labor. I was filled with the fear of what was to come, but relieved that I might not have to wait anymore. If this was just the beginning, how bad were they going to get? When I got home it was fluctuating between 8 minutes and 5. I called my Mom as she would need to make the hour and a half drive from Logan before we could go to the hospital, unless we wanted to take Ada with us. I wanted to labor at home as much as possible and so, continued preparing my fence to be painted, trying to pass the time. At this point the contractions were painful but I could still hold a conversation and think about what was transpiring.  Fortunately my daughter was enjoying a lengthy nap and Ariel called in to work to tell them he wouldn't be in. I ate grapes and wandered around picking things up and moving them menially between contractions. Picking things up helped a lot as I found that the most comfortable position for me was to be crouched on the ground.

Looking back, it's comical, but it probably helped a lot. I remember feeling like everything was just fine and I'd just wait it out until it got really hard. I knew that this was against the doctors orders, but wasn't really concerned. The contractions were every 5 minutes when my Mom came and Ada was still asleep. I couldn't have timed it better if I had planned it. I remember just eating grapes and talking until another wave of contractions would hit, until my Mom finally told us that we REALLY needed to go. By this time it was 6 pm. Suddenly I felt an urgency and rushed to get everything in the car. We drove to IMC (the hospital) and the contractions worsened as we drove. Pulling into the hospital, they were coming about every 2-3 minutes. We got checked into a labor room and after the nurse checked my dilation and put in an IV line for the antibiotics, for step-b, I got right in the tub. I was dilated to 6 cm. Contractions after contraction, Ariel poured warm water over my belly sticking out of the water. I can't say that the tub was the most comfortable place to labor but the water was so nice. There was no time to put in any music to help me focus or for Ariel to massage my feet or any of the other things I thought might help me along the way. I just focused on breathing and tried not to get annoyed at interruptions. Ariel was so wonderful and just took my cues that a contraction was coming and to shut up, let me concentrate and continue pouring water on my belly. This went on for about an hour. When we heard that the doctor had arrived I got out of the tub. Still the most comfortable position during a contraction was squatting on the floor, as they got longer and harder I crouched lower and lower. Ariel put pressure on my lower back, which helped a lot. The worst part was when the doctor came. While I was relieved to see him, he told me that I needed to get up on the bed. In all of my reading I understood that laying on your back was the worst was to labor and I didn't feel like I had it in me to getup there anyway. But I knew that he at least needed to check my dilation and I didn't have the will power to ask him to come down to the floor, so I got up on the bed. He immediately said I was dilated to a 9 1/2 and asked if I was ready to push. Everyone started running around grabbing things, taking the bed apart and calling other nurses. I can't remember exactly at what point I started pushing but it was only a couple minutes. My doctor talked to me in the few seconds between one contraction and the next and told me that I needed to listen to every thing he said and when he told me that I needed to NOT push, I had to do what he said. I was VERY hesitant to agree, but I did. I suddenly felt a HUGE urge to push. He told me to push, I pushed. Then all of the sudden in the middle of the most intense sensation, when everything in my body was telling me to push that baby out, my doctor told me STOP PUSHING. The hardest thing I have ever had to do, was not push in those few seconds. It felt like I might explode, because Pushing felt like the most wonderful thing and I WANTED to. The pain was virtually nonexistent. I've read descriptions of women having what they termed as orgasms during labor and never could I imagine that there could be any validity in that. But that pushing gave me a pretty good idea. However, I was NOT pushing. A few seconds later my baby came sliding out of me, and suddenly I knew why I wasn't pushing, or at least I felt it. The sensation of release, all of the pressure in my body that has been building for 9 some months, all of the water that was cushioning the pain, and of course, the beautiful baby boy came slithering out. And It Felt SO GOOD. I remember too well to say that it was orgasmic, but close enough that I can appreciate the sentiment.

And there he was, all covered in a fuzz of black hair. I brought him up on my belly and instantly he latched on to my breast. We were both cold, as I had gotten out of the tub only 20 minutes earlier and he was still covered in fluids and vernix, but I took off the blanket that separated us and held him close to my body. It was instantaneous; some loves come easier than others and some we have to suffer for. I believe the latter influenced the former because I can't imagine any other reason why my connection with my son was so much stronger sooner than with my daughter, born just 18 months earlier.

The reason I needed and felt relieved to not push when I felt the urge, was that I pushed a ten pound (o.k. really only 9 lb 14 oz.) baby boy out with out tearing my perineum. When I compare that with my daughter, who was 9 lb 9 oz and with whom my doctor wouldn't even tell me how many stitches I had, I recognize that the difference was in the doctor. He knew what he was doing instinctively. As hard as it is for ME to trust people that I don't know very well, he made me feel comfortable enough to take the risk and do what he said; and I am SO glad that I did.  The other big difference was that not ten minutes later, I walked across the room to where my little boy was being weighed and tested and didn't lie down again for a couple of hours afterward. That alone was worth any amount of pain to be able to get him out without an epidural. And there you have it, the whole story. After THAT I know that I can do ANYTHING. Running a marathon seems like an easy feat. I know I make it sound like it was simple. But the reality is that I was incredibly blessed AND I had the right tools. I am so Thankful for that little bundle of cuddly mama's boy. Looking back, I don't have many complaints, which is more than I can say of my first hospital/labor experience. My nurse was so supportive and actually seemed re leaved when I told her that I was going to try to have the baby naturally. But even with such a positive experience, my birthing journey is not over, as I'd like 3 more babies, give or take. I hope next time to have the means to do it in my home and I'll probably being living in a third world country when I do. But that's another birth story.  

Even Good Dragons Make Stormclouds.

If your are only mildly stimulated by a girl pouring her heart out and have found yourself on this page, consider yourself in luck: It's a double feature today. True to redneck style, I found this small tale at my local thrift store. On some level, conscious or unconscious, it speaks to me of my life right now and all that is therein. I only hope that someone on this small planet of ours can identify with some part of my ramblings.

Emma's Dragon Hunt

Story and Pictures by Catherine Stock

Close the Door

 

Over the last few months I've composed numerous blog entries. All of which sit on my list of posts, unpublished. I know that there are relatively few people who actually take the time to read my blog. It is somewhat of an internal struggle for me that I don't know who. You see, I suffer from a condition that keeps me from posting. It's called:  a general mistrust of the human race. I believe, generally speaking, that people who don't trust others are themselves untrustworthy. Maybe I am, ask friends who've needed my listening ear, they'll be the best judge. Its not that I don't trust people to be honest, its more that I don't trust them with my emotions, with what's really going on in my life. I don't believe that they care. Though I am easy on the listening end, I have always had a hard time sharing things of myself with others. 

Too often, the things that are buried in my head come out only in writing. I consider that I don't really deal with an issue in my life until I have delved into it on paper. And I am willing to wait until it comes out on its own to really get it out of my head. The only problem with this is that it is usually only to myself.

I have, on blessed occasion, found confidences in others in letters or e-mails. The first of those was my brother Mark. I write not his name but in reverence, because writing is the only way in which I feel I could possibly communicate with him now. Though I haven't yet. There is a part of my psyche that doesn't understand how to make the words flow, yet. And so I wait for it.

Through these exchanges I have often learned about myself what I wouldn't otherwise. Of others I've learned to trust a little more with each strand of words on a page. I am much more an observer than a partaker. And I feel that through peoples written words I have observed more honesty in other human kind and in myself than in simple social interaction. But those places of language have been sparse in life (before blogging). And so I find myself in a general lack of trust. 

 My metaphor for what I have just described is this: There is a part of my brain or my heart where a very small box holds a key to a lock on a door with roughly carved letters that read "Do Not Open". Behind that door are all of my insecurities and all of my reasons for being. 

Throughout my life that key has taken the form of correspondence with some few who have helped me open the door little at a time until one day I created a blog and actually wanted to share things of myself to a public that was completely unknown to me. To this audience I flaunted my insecurities as if I were proud of them, because in a way, I am. They were miniature mosaics in words about what I think of myself, how I live and relate to the world.  A few months ago, a storm cloud hit. When the thunder quieted, I shut my door, locked it, and stuffed the key-holding-box deep inside a closet that holds all of my other favorite junk.

Some people are naturally accident prone. My family is naturally tragedy prone. Particularly in the years of 2005 and 2006. Though the tragedies themselves are for other blog posts and not this one, it is enough to say that every oh-crap handle was challenged. Every "well at least we still have..." or "well, at least...hasn't happened" was defied. Life was one hollow bellied hail storm, with no calm after it. 

We are all, as a family and as individuals, left scarred from the downpour of those years. I didn't think I would ever see a time in my life or my family that challenged that one. But in the words of a French pigeon atop lady liberty, "Never Say Never". 

Throw away the Key

This year does not yet beat 2006, but it rivals in close second. The effects are a bundle of words that won't write themselves on a page. And that door was effectively closed. I have tried on numerous occasions to sit down and write it all out, everything that I feel. And for some reason I've even tried blogging about it.  Maybe because on a level not too under the surface I want very badly to express what I feel to those in my family who have created this storm cloud. However strange it may sound, a public forum feels like the only forum that won't create deeper rifts, wounds, reopen closed scars, or strengthen the animosity that divides our family.  There is no other effective communication. And I don't believe that we are so special; that our tragedy's are worse or our inspirations more real than those of the rest of God's creations, including each other.

The door is shut. I didn't close it on purpose, but too dear to my heart are those stormy dragons to flaunt or even express the ways in which I feel injured. It is simple betrayal to me. However I know that if I don't share something and soon, that door will remain shut forever. I have no intention of alienating my family. I don't actually intend on telling a story about our joint trauma from my perspective. But I am just too damn tired of tragedy to let myself simmer this way. I want light and air and song to penetrate that door and so I write this. It's the second night in a row in the middle of the night, trying to force the door ajar,even if I can't find the key under all that junk. 

Break the Door Open

The topper on the cake is that I really do believe that as humans and as God's creations, whether you believe in that or not, we are capable of lifting one another more than tearing each other down. I write this message to the world, not as a public display of the tragedy that has touched my life, but because I believe that every life has been touched by tragedy and trauma. Every heart has small tears, and I am on a quest in search of people who, like me, want to sew them up. I tire of the idea that everything is suppose to be o.k. I tire of the expectation that all people should be the same. And I tire of expecting the worst in humanity. I rejoice in the act of celebrating our differences. Intolerance is the rotten core of a very old fruit. So, to any dragons reading this, I wish there was some distant star that could sweep away all those storm clouds. It just isn't really worth the pelting we're all taking from those ripped open clouds. But I take comfort in the idea that a friendly dragon is just under the hill waiting for the sun to go down.

You're probably not curious, but I am.

I've been wondering to myself for some time, about something that I already know the answer to, mostly. It's a question about myself and why I do things the way I do. A question about where I came from, who I am, and where I am going. The question is: Why am I a redneck? More specifically, What makes me a redneck? and Why am I proud to be a redneck? So I've decided to devote a portion of my diaper changing, potty training, love-food making, self each week to answering a portion of this self proposed question. I'd like to laugh with you, at myself  while I do it. This weeks red neck moment was, if you're like me, not so silly. But if you happen to be like my husband, pretty ridiculous. Sometimes that is my mark for when I am being a redneck, whatever my husband (and my neighbors) thinks is ridiculous.

Trimming the hedge with scissors.

To start out, I might explain that I have very green heart. My brain doesn't always work perfectly in that way, because I don't really put forth the time and energy to educate myself on everything I might do better, to be green. But it is instinctual to do whatever is most natural in any given decision. I am also a process oriented person. Much of the time, this also means that I will only begrudgingly pay someone else to do something for me, that I can possibly do for myself and usually I'd rather spend an afternoon doing something by hand than use a machine to do, even if it's easier or saves a lot of time.

My poor husband, comes from a place where water falls from the sky every other day. (That's why we dream every day and night of moving back. I am addicted to rain.) But as such, he has never given a second thought to leaving water running accept to avoid the annoying sound of a drip, drip, dripping faucet or using up the entire tank of hot water before it can be reheated.  I have two pet peeves: the biggest being when people, living in a desert mind you, water their driveway or the street with their sprinklers. The other (what would talk of rednecks be without mention of one's neighbors) is when my well intentioned friend Mike, comes over with his spray can of Round-up or his huge, heavy, riding lawn mower and tries to aid me in my lawn endeavors. I can count for you the number of times that it has killed the grass seedlings I have patiently and diligently watered and watched inch by inch spring forth from the ground only to have him kill them off in five minutes. I can only imagine that more than one of my neighbors is peeved at my sometimes called grass, being always overgrown and patched with brown spots and rotating areas of weeds because I insist on three things; watering without hitting the fence, pulling the nasty buggers by hand as a opposed to spraying some chemical based fertilizer or weed killer and my favorite tool is an aluminum push mower that is badly in need of a sharpening. And this concludes the introduction portion of our blog post...las (laugh-at-self)

But what I was really getting at was this:

To solve my neighbor trying to save the day with his mower I started a little home improvement project. I dug a very small ditch in my front yard separating it into two zones one side where next year I will plant a waterwise bed of rocks and perennials etc. the other side I will plant a tree and keep green grass. The green grass has been a success for the first time in my grass growing life!

The other day my smallest little nanite gave Ariel and I a healthy nap and we used it to therapeutically get some stuff done outside that normally isn't possible. And I did what my neighbors have been waiting for all summer, I cut my grass. Yes, I used my push mower. And then afterward, I realized what most suburbanites realize on a regular basis, my edges were a bit shabby. And not having an edger? I went for the kitchen sheers.

 

With my husband scoffing at me in the background, I cut the thick grass-like stalks down to show what is my beautiful shabby redneck border, enjoying myself immensely in the therapeutic process. Seriously. And I think that this redneck business must be contagious because after that my handsome husband invented a way to use the water that drips pesteringly from our faucet to water the beets that grow near bye, using a large broken ceramic jar I made in college. And thus, a tragic end to a piece of hard earned clay turns serendipidously to save us all from wasting our precious water.

I Love stuff like this! And that, my friends, is why I am a redneck. Lest I forget, our larger, more independant nanite helped too. She is very talented in the art of gathering weeds and putting them in a pile. She does this for me every time we go out and pull weeds from the grass. She loves to make piles. Her favorite kind of pile is a pile of blankets. Here she is in the act: