At the farm

I have known those hands all of my life
and many times I have looked at those hands,
at big rough hands that worked the fields
and calluses in their palms tell a story
and the fingers are big
and when they grab they hold on.

Those are very strong hands
but they are gentle when they touch the family.
Those hands sowed the wheat
and harvested the sheaves,
those hands planted maize
and brought home the first ripe corn.

~ from The Hands Of A Farmer by Daleen Enslinstrydom

Perhaps I should start by sharing that we are from farm people. My father's parents both came from farming families. Daddy grew up on the farm and told many stories, some heartwarming and some terrifying, about the land and about the family. Mom's folks were more on the business end of farming - I don't know if any of them ever drove a tractor or  plowed behind a mule (maybe Roberto as I think there are few things he didn't try).

My brothers worked for my uncle in the summers. And we still have shares in the family farm. Still, my truth is that I am a generation removed from the land. And I know very little about farming "back then" or now.*

Great grandpa J.W. broke the ground for the first time with a steam tractor. The land was part of the Taft Ranch.

An old barn on the family property

and an old cistern and water tank

I know that it is hard work. And I do know that I am happy to see the corn and grain and cotton in the fields. It makes me feel like I am back home.

Field of grain - storage complex and barns in the distance

I was "back home" not too long ago and was blessed by the opportunity to spend time with some of my brother's good friends on their farm.

BR grew up farming for his father and now farms in partnership with his brother. I knew his family (everyone knows everyone in a small town), but not well. His wife, CR,  grew up in an even smaller nearby town. The story of their meeting is legend (I have heard it with smiles and laughter from each of them).

Their farming enterprise is large and complex.** According to one of their four boys (I quizzed the youngest one day), they grow sorghum, cotton, corn and sesame. The grain is almost ready to harvest and I think corn is next. The cotton may be late this year. Sesame seeds will be last harvested.

But these folks raise more than boys, cotton, sorghum, corn, sesame and dogs. They raise spirits. They share their love of each other through their honest, hardworking, living of their lives and caring for the people in their lives. They have a deep and abiding respect for one another which radiates and reflects in their respect and concern for those around them.

Laughter rings out at meals, during game nights, and as stories are told. A host of friends, neighbors and family are in and out of their home all the time. I have never seen anything like it. Some people may talk about open doors and open arms and boundless welcome, but these folks really mean it. They live it - all day, every day.

So, this is a thank you and my way of honoring this wonderful family. They have inspired me in ways I could not have imagined. They have changed me (and I am an old dog - hard to change).

I still may not know a lot about farming, but I know so much more than I did a month ago. And I know I want to go back to see some of the harvest, play with the dogs, tell some stories, lose at dominoes, set off fireworks, ride a cotton picker again, and share in the blessings of this family.


Assorted photos:

The grain was just too beautiful, gold and brown in the sunshine -

Figs -

The figs were a dark purple - almost black - and delicious!

I think this is a buckeye butterfly that has found a dried fig.

Dogs - I drank my coffee with these two in the mornings -

Tanner new how to stay cool by the ice machine.

Ringer wanted attention.

Old rusting equipment whispered some of the history of the farm -

A work of art or instrument of torture. It once broke the ground.

Oh, and I got to ride on a cotton picker (as it was headed for the dealership to be traded in on a newer model--round bales of cotton!) -

This is a pretty impressive piece of equipment (see the ladder you use to climb into the cab?).

The trip was about 15 miles - past many fields.

This machine is equipped with loads of rear view mirrors.

Crossing an overpass was something.

A landmark was coming up on the right.

Destination.

NOTES:

* I spent a day with that same uncle stomping cotton and Daddy took us out to pick cotton by hand when we were little. Daddy wanted us to know what hard work it was. I recognized it was hard and hot and dirty.

**My brother drove me through the countryside and showed me many of their fields. Harvest must be very carefully coordinated, I am sure. While they may say, "you just go in order of planting," I know there is more to it than that. Which field got rain and when? Which grain has ripened first? How do we move the equipment most efficiently?



So if you faithfully obey the commands I am giving you today—to love the Lord your God and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul—then I will send rain on your land in its season, both autumn and spring rains, so that you may gather in your grain, new wine and olive oil. I will provide grass in the fields for your cattle, and you will eat and be satisfied.

Deuteronomy 11:13-15

Little dog lost, little dog found?

I am watching the clock this morning. Lola, the pet of my friend, OB, has gone missing. Yes, by the date you know it was a fireworks escape.

Flyers posted all over the neighborhood!

We were in this spot last year. [Our Paddy was frightened during the day of the 4th, we suspect, by the fly-over of military jets. She was gone for 3 days before she returned home covered in burrs.] So we knew the drill - flyers out in the neighborhood, visit the pounds, and pray she comes home. We also know the worry. That worry must be even harder for a young girl.

OB and I visited one pound on Monday - no Lola. We arrived at the second pound only to find it closed (FYI some places have very limited hours - call first). I promised I would go the next morning (when OB was in class) and tried to memorize Lola's image...black, small, curly-ish hair, and floppy ears. She looks a bit like a poodle mix.

My visit to the pound (I hate this. I want to bring every puppy home.) resulted in the discovery of a small female dog resembling Lola. She was picked up near the area where Lola went missing a few days after the 4th. Of course the dog did not make it easy for me. "Lola? Lola!" I called. The dog just looked at me. If it was Lola I could imagine what she was thinking - "Who are you? I don't know you? Where is OB?"

I emailed OB's parents that I thought I had found the dog, but we would have to get a positive id in the morning.  I picked up OB after her class and she peppered me with questions: "Was she small? How small? Was she black? What did her ears look like? Her hair, was it curly? Did she bark? She just looked at you? That sounds like her."

I tried to keep expectations low. It still may be someone else's lost dog.

The bulletin board at the pound is full of "lost dog" flyers.

We discussed our approach - our "story."* What will we say? In situations such as this, it is best not to say too much and see how things go. Once OB identifies I will do the rest. If it is Lola, I am sure there will be paperwork...and bail...maybe fines.

But for now it is a waiting game. We have another couple of hours to go. I need another cup of coffee and another prayer.

Well?

We headed to the county pound. An unexpected change of schedule allowed me to take my lawyer (DH came along). Everyone knew their part. OB would identify the dog. I would plead ignorance of just about everything. DH would take over if I got mad or cried. And I think we all prayed - let it be Lola.

We walked in and handed the officer our flyer. "We think you have our dog."

"I think we do too," she said.  "Please sign in and we will go look."

We signed in and headed down to the kennel. The small black dog was in the back part of the pen, but whimpered and came running when OB called her. Yes, it was Lola.

Lola in jail. 

We went to the office to fill out paperwork. The bail should have been $85 but we got the "senior discount"** and paid $35 to spring Lola. Proof of rabies vaccine would also be required. We didn't have to do anything, but listen to the officers and follow the procedure. No tears (or lawyers) were required. The officers were professional, kind, and very sensitive to potentially emotional situations.

One happy dog and one happy girl!

After thanking the officers*** and wishing them only happy reunions today we headed to the vet. They were able to work us in and provided the rabies shot with no fuss or bother.

"What do you mean I have to have a shot?"

We aren't sure what Lola did while missing, but this cover dog we saw at the vet looks suspiciously like a pooch we know.

Making herself at home on the ride home. Our pups will wonder who has been riding in their car.

Where do you celebrate a successful missing dog investigation? Well, we went to a local restaurant famous for good hamburgers and great shakes.

We toasted Lola's return with chocolate shake, blueberry shake and diet Pepsi.

Yum.

Seriously folks: Only 13% of lost dogs every find their way home. We have been very fortunate in our last two experiences with runaways. Please secure your animals during parades, fireworks, and other times of loud noises. Chip your animals and make sure they wear their collars with tags.

We wish you fun times with your cats and dogs (and gerbils and raccoons and opossums and birds and lizards and turtles....).


NOTES:

*Oh my goodness! This is a kid after my own heart.
** I have gotten so many senior discounts lately that, although the officer did not say it, it was kind of implied. I guess the rule is - send grandparent types to bail out run-away dogs.
***A thank you note will also be forthcoming.

Glass - almost magic

Using the wet wooden block to shape the layer with the second addition of colored glass.

Working on the neck of paperweight.

Focus

JD shaping a piece with a wooden block with the assistance of SB.

KB opens the lip of a cup while SB paddles the lip to keep it level (as he helps spin the pipe a little).

....Never from herald's breath    In brazen horn, Telling of strife and death    Or of peace new-born; From silver clarinet    By fingers small To lips of ruby set    In raftered hall; From jilted shepherd's reed    Plaintively proving How he in very deed    Must die of loving– Never from all these came    A music sweeter Than this bright sphere of flame With neither sound nor name,    Cadence nor metre, That steadily, as he blows    On his iron flute, Trembles and swells and glows, Gold-amber, amber-rose,    In melody mute. ~ From The Glass Blower by "Jan Struther" (Joyce Anstruther/Maxtone Graham/Joyce Placzek, 1901-1953) Copyright, The Estate of Jan Struther, 1940

I ran into an artist friend at a concert a few weeks ago. "We are going to teach a glass blowing class this summer. I thought you might be interested," said he.

This friend directs the art department at a local college.* We have discussed different community classes that colleges are providing these days as costs continue to rise and enrollment begins to drop. I confess I have been suggesting a summer clay class...almost every time I see him. And, while this was not clay,** it would be something new - a challenge.

[I have had some issues with fire. I burned my left hand in a space heater when I was 2 or 3.*** There was a brush fire in the neighborhood when I was about 12 that we don't talk about much. I burned my face with a marshmallow when I was at scout camp (sounds funny now, but the left side of my face was seriously blistered). There are more stories, but these illustrate the reason(s) for my hesitation to be working with molten glass and furnaces.****]

I signed up.

The first day I learned to blow a bubble and came home with a small bit of my breath encased in clear glass. "Here." I offered it to DH. "This is my last breath."

That first day we learned about the process and the tools. Each devilishly hot thing has a particular use.

FURNACES:

Three furnaces are fed and emptied as the week goes by. One furnace holds a crucible of clear glass. While some can open, gather, and close the door to the furnace by themselves, we learn to hold the door open when our partner give the signal they are ready. Our partner spins the blow pipe (if blowing glass) or punty (if making something where no blown air is required) in the hot glass gathering the right amount and exiting as the furnace door closes.

Yes, the furnace is hot...very hot.

The second furnace is called the glory hole. One reheats glass or melts color into a work in this furnace. It stands with its glowing eye open. Successive doors allow for larger and larger pieces to enter or exit. Glass must be worked at the appropriate temperature. It is a subtle art.

Why the hula girl? I do not know. Whimsy?

A cup in the final stages of shaping returns for heating.

The third furnace is the annealer. It allows the completed pieces to slowly cool to prevent thermal shock and a fractured work. [It is just a box really. You can see it just to the other side of the glory hole furnace.]

TOOLS:

Some appear to be instruments of torture, but in the right hands they guide the glass: Edges to shape and cut and twist and pull. Paper and wooden blocks for shaping. Water to cool. Wax to decrease friction on the glass. Gloves to catch and carry works to the annealer.

Blowpipes and punties are heated before used to gather the molten glass.

A number of sizes of jacks are used to narrow necks and shape pieces and cool glass.

Shears and tweezers.

Paper used to shape pieces burns in a beautiful pattern.

Teamwork. JD, the gaffer, sits at the bench and spins the blowpipe. She has tweezers in her right hand. They are used (among other things) to carry water to drop carefully at the neck of the piece allowing it to fracture when the pipe is struck.One instructor uses the jacks to narrow and cool the neck while another prepares to catch the work when it is separated from the end of the blowpipe. It is a dance.

The second day I made a clear glass cup. It was a quick project and gave me time to try another work. I decided to try a paperweight. I learned how to twist and swirl the colorful inside layer, gather more clear glass,  melt on tiny bits of black glass, and add a final gather of clear glass.

The instructors assisted with each stage - helping the neophyte blow a bubble, add the colors,  spin the glass, gather more fluid yellow/orange/red-hot glass, reheat when necessary, shape the creation and, finally, remove it from the metal rod - all without putting a hand down where it should not be. The instructors were relaxed and professional, efficient and crazy/mad/brilliant artists.***** They explained and collaborated. They were able to salvage a bubble or blob of glass gone awry. They coached and, I repeat,  prevented placement of hand on hot pipe or hot glass.

SB and HS reheating. Unfortunately I found I had no photos of the loyal and helpful volunteer, ND. She works behind the scenes - bringing water, switching out and organizing tools, cleaning up blobs and shards and wisps of glass, and so much more! All three of these folks make amazing glass creations.

My first paperweight:

The intended view.

The side view. OC has a number of paperweights and I thought she might appreciate this, my first attempt.

During the third class a made a blue cup. It is a perfect size for a whiskey.

OK. OK. I love blue...get ready for more.

Top view.

 

At the end of the first week (three classes) I concluded that I was glad to have tried glass, but probably wouldn't take another class. Ambivalent. Is that the word?

But then, during the next three classes, I decided to make more paperweights. I needed no cups or goblets or bowls, but there is always  room for a paperweight:

Three types of blue glass "dust" smokes through the clear glass.

And yesterday brought:

Blue and white and bubbles

[You will have to wait for the last paperweight. It is still in the annealing oven.]

7-10-15

OK. Here is the last one. It has some beautiful "moments." I love the red and purple swirls and the big bubble.

 

By the end of the course it was clear. I was in. I would be back next summer.



NOTES:
  
OK. There's supposed to be a video of KB wrapping a cup with a ribbon of black glass right here. I am having technical difficulty. I will add it to this post when I figure out the process. Bummer.

*The University of Mary Hardin-Baylor. This college has some wonderful fine arts (and science) programs for young people during the summer. And I recommend the glass blowing class.

**I did have a long discussion with one of the students who focuses on pottery. While we were looking at her work, the pottery professor arrived and gave me a tour of the studio. We talked equipment, clay and kilns. He showed me his work and we discussed summer internships and fall classes. I requested and received permission to visit their fall classes and volunteered (in advance) to stoke the wood-fired kiln (they don't have one yet, but will - I have confidence!) and to provide sustenance for the workers.

***My sister and I were playing "king of the suitcase."  It wasn't as dangerous as the time she told me to bite into an oleander branch. Maybe.

****I burn myself cooking all the time, but that doesn't stop me from baking banana bread and chocolate cake. I have hit the hot engine on the lawnmower more than once, but I still mow. So...

*****I have known one instructor peripherally since I was a teenager. He grew up 30 miles from my hometown and played in a duo that performed at area churches.  But then his children and mine went to school together here. We share this town and a connection to the arts community. And we have "run into" them at parades and art shows, concerts and school events for years. Our oldest children even "ran into" each other at a gated apartment complex in LA when he was there to cut a record and she was interning for a semester. The other instructor is "family" to some of our good friends from the neighborhood. We are all connected. It hardly needs saying.

An assortment of works (some from the summer course, some from the college course) just sitting around on tables: 

JD has been working on jellyfish creations. This is her jellyfish paperweight.

Another view of the jellyfish.

Bowls, flowers, cups paperweights and maybe a shaman or two.

One of the jellyfish "bells"

JD holds a jellyfish under construction.

More works awaiting photography.

A new first...

We headed out to the countryside this afternoon. We had been invited to a "first" and we needed to be there. We turned down one country road after another until we saw the two towered church rising before us.

Upon entering this church - built in 1894 - one is immediately drawn to the bright stained glass and statuary. We knew no one and so simply looked for empty seats, finding them midway up the main aisle. We were early, but the church was already filling up.

This Catholic church is located in a small farming community surrounded by other farming communities. The area was settled by Germans and Czech families.* They broke the ground and built their lives here. Together they built churches and schools. People of faith, they have raised 13 priests and 35 sisters. Some of them returned for this celebration.

The noise of people entering and greeting each other ceased as the choir began to sing and priest after priest walked towards the altar. Finally we saw the youngest priest, newly ordained, son of the land,** son of the community, and my friend approach the altar. Dressed in his green vestments he began to sing the mass, his first.

At the reception that followed I helped to fill the tea glasses and spoke with the ladies of the church (you know the ones - they are ever present and ready to feed a crowd for a celebration or a grieving family). I then found the wine station where I commented to one of the priests, "I find that when this many priests are gathered in one place I am in some kind of trouble."*** He laughed and we talked about the newly ordained of the diocese.

Before long the new priest, my friend, DK, made his way into the hall and I was able to visit with him for a moment. I had planned to ask him for a blessing. But he had blessed us repeatedly through the service. And, after all, he had also blessed me with his presence, his faith, and his friendship for the past 8 or so years. 

I know he will continue to pray for me as I will for him.

NOTES:

*I have written before about feeling at home among folks sharing the last names of my early classmates and friends - Havelka, Psencik, Vanecek, Valenta, and Schmidt, among others.

**He was a farmer when he received the call to the priesthood. I knew he was serious when he told me he had sold his cattle. He was also a member of the choir that sang the hymns for his first mass.

***I save the tales of the misspent youth of this long-time Catholic school student for another day. I suppose you could ask the Havelkas, Psenciks, Vaneceks, Valentas and Schmidts (among others) for the stories, but we of an age now where details begin to blur.

Additional note:

My mother's priest, SM became a friend of the family years ago. She used to remind him that he had to stay healthy as he promised to say her funeral mass (and he did). Mother would call him from time to time, just to check on him. I have not seen him since 2010.

I was shopping in the city near my home town recently. My nephew and I had taken a break at the coffee shop in the local book store. I noticed a familiar looking man at the coffee bar and realized it was SM. I walked over and greeted him and was doubly blessed. We talked about this and that. I told him of the first mass.

I also took his appearance as a sign from Mom.