Saturday, July 21, 2018

Beyond the plastic barrier

Shapes loomed and elbowed throughout the new house. Large plastic mounds hugged the middle of each room. Loren is known for his photography of plastic wrapped buildings. I think perhaps he should start shooting shapes that haunt rooms in the process of being painted.

Far from the olden days when a drop cloth was tossed across your worldly goods, the current mode is to wrap everything in plastic in the middle of the room. The pile is wrapped in multiple layers as masking tape companies reap the profits from the rolls of tape used to secure the furniture so it will not escape. Yes, indeed, every blasted thing in the house was wrapped in lumpy bundles. Hence, when it came to finding my phone and computer chargers, clean clothes, etc, they were not to be reached. Hm.  Looked like I would be washing out underwear for a few days! Ah, plastic. Can't get rid of it, and it separates you from just what you need.

The contractor brought Isaac and his team in to paint the entire inside of the house. And, truly it was in need. A house that was built in '84 had had no new paint on the ceilings or in the closets. The musty smell that greeted us when we entered would soon be gone. Isaac brought with him four men.  All were Hispanic, speaking broken English. Of course, we greeted them with open arms, since these four men would be part of our family for the next week.

I argued with our contractor on bringing in a port-o-let. It was to be in the upper 90's all week, reaching over 100 one day. "They can use our bathrooms," I said. Our contractor said that they needed to use the big, green, stinky thing in yard. When the men arrived, I informed them that they were to use the inside bathrooms. The contractor insisted that they could eat outside, hooking up their microwave in the hot sunshine. "You can use our microwave. We have water in the fridge and cups for you to use," I told them.

So why I was breaking the rules? I was raised when migrants were lodged in sheds with dirt floors and no running water or bathroom. They used the outside faucet and outhouse if they were lucky. They slept on wood pallets or on the floor. Whole families lived in a room. As a child I didn't understand it. I still don't. These people were my people. We all came from the same God. They were doing jobs that we didn't want to do. They were trying to make a living in a safe place just as we were with our families. No, there was no way I was going to treat these men less than I would my friends and family. They are my brothers whether they speak my language or are my race. I love them with no expectations. I was taught that as a child.

Over the week, we started joking and having a great time. We left the house all day leaving computers out and telling the men to come into the house to stay cool on their breaks. They worked hard and did a beautiful job. I smiled whenever I heard the toilet flush. Yes, we could show them what America is all about. We could show them what love means. One person at a time.

Our furniture was wrapped in plastic. We thought our lives would be complicated in having no access to what we used daily. Instead we found that on the outside of that plastic barrier, friendship was alive and kicking. We found joy and delight in another culture. Our newly painted walls broke down barriers.

Now we have our space free of plastic. I can write again. We have new friends we hope we will see again some day. It is time to move forward. I think we did.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

A breaking heart

Today I write with a heavy heart. In fact, my heart is so sad that I fear it might break. How much longer can I write about Neff Road? I am not sure.

I grew up in a red state. I didn't know any better. I just did what my parents did and was told all the reasons it was the best to be a Republican. Throughout my life I questioned what was happening in our country. I questioned my faith wondering why it was so narrow minded, why it did not progress with our awareness of life around us other than what we knew. I questioned why men wrote the Bible and its interpretations. I saw narrow-mindedness all around me and did not know how to cope with it.

Over the decades I allowed myself to stand back and make my own decisions and observations. I knew that the way I was raised was based on a patriarchal attitude. Men had the say. Cowboys brandished guns and took what they wanted. People were shot and no one seemed to care. They just went on to the next scene. I watch old shows and wonder how we could even have tolerated the discrimination. What was wrong with this life I was raised in? It was a great life on the farm, but the scope of life in general was limited. There was no new input because everyone believed the same thing. I was suffocating.

All of the siblings in my family could not wait to escape the narrow bounds of our growing up. We all went to places where we were surrounded by other cultures and ideas. We had neighbors of all colors, all orientations, all religions, all nations. Our view of the world expanded, and we continued to delight in what we could learn. New idea, new awareness, open love and admiration for all took the place of that tiny place we had dwelled for the 18 years of our lives. Our God grew, our opinions about freedom of expression expanded, our views on violence found a place that felt right to each of us. We found that we were more drawn together even though the three of us lived far apart.

My life is rich for the people that have accumulated in it over these many years of living. I have grown and learned what love of humanity really means. So why am I writing this. Remember? Because my heart is broken.

Where were the churches when children were put into pens? Outrage!!! There is no justification. Why are we blocking people from coming to a country that accepted our immigrant forefathers on it shores??? Who do we think we are? I don't get it.We took the very land we live on. What hypocrites! How can we arm everyone in a country that already is the leading country in violence? I just read an article about how violence is increasing rapidly in farm areas? Why can't we be a country of peace? How can we judge people who protest by taking a knee? We are allowed to have a voice. This is a flag that has let people down. It is a flag that represents to many all that is not allowed under that flag. I came from a time when men did not want to join up. Our country made them. We did not want war. Now war is a real money maker for our economy. Why are we so egotistical that we think everyone is treated like white, anglo us? Now we have a man who gropes women, who has no idea what it means to be honorable and kind, who listens to only one news media because all the others do not feed his ego. Truth is in hearing it from all areas. When we turn off our news sources, we become a nation of one, and he is really working on it. We are moving backwards. We are losing all of the protections that have served our people and our land well. I am heart broken.

We turn away people who live in fear, who are raped, whose lives are always threatened. Why? Because one man says they are all criminals and will take away jobs. These people are why our country is great. They are the backbone of our country. Our economy is better with these people in our lives. People of color have suffered terribly in this land that welcomes all to its shores. We should be beginning them for forgiveness and see if they want to accept us.

Hitler convinced a society that they were the best. Books were burned. People were slaughtered and placed in cages, so to speak. A man determined what the public could hear. He convinced a nation into his illusions that they did unspeakable acts and caused a war that killed so thousands of our own. Yet here is a man who is doing exactly the same. He makes his own laws, he dictates what press he relies on calling all other liars, he makes people look one way while he sells them down the river the other direction. And......people are easily lead.

My heart breaks when I read what some people post. I wonder at the ignorance of it or the lack of caring for other people. I am crushed that churches do not stand against such vulgarity and do not stand up for all human rights. I am stunned that people do not believe in global warming because that and gun control just might upset their own narrow world. If you say it isn't happening, then it isn't true. Read only what will feed your beliefs, and it will be fact. Well, that's a crock.

I am sad. Why should I write? Entertainment? Is that all we think about now. Put all other thoughts of this declining country aside? So many people have said to me, I just can't think about it. Well, we have to think about it. We will not be another nation ruled by a dictator. We have to take a stand. I cannot preach to closed ears. I cannot preach to blue or red states.  The sadness I feel in my heart is that of losing someone I love. I am losing a community and a country. I can try to save that community, but they will not turn from what has always been.

So......do I keep writing?

Monday, July 9, 2018

Coming home again

House sold. Check. House bought. Check. Moved in. Check. Surrounded by boxes. Yep. Hm. Must be time to plan a trip to visit June.

For some reason moving seems to eat up your life. Packing, packing, packing. Unpacking, unpacking, unpacking. A ritual that I have repeated too many times and am finally at the last destination.....at least until I start running into walls and swearing my name is Bette Davis. Moving is indeed the appropriate name. I seem to have been moving constantly for the last month. Now I sit looking at the boxes saying, "What's the rush?"

Thus it is indeed time to plan a trip back to Angola, Indiana, to visit my sister. A lengthy visit. I leave here the last day of July and am very excited to pack a suitcase instead of a box. Sister time is the best. We always pick up where we left off even if it is a couple of years later than our last meeting. Yes, we are rather selfish with our time together, because we have so much fun reminiscing and going to our favorite places. I dream of tenderloin sandwiches and Shipshewana. June's friends have become very special people to me. Going to her house is truly like going home.

So how do we do it all in about three weeks? A look at the calendar says that we should have time during the end of the trip to make it to Ohio for a couple days. Loren will be there and wants to walk down Neff Road, see the farm and meet the people in my life. And, as luck would have it, the fair will begin. Hm. Two birds, one stone. Home. Perhaps we will do a meet and greet as we did before allowing me to meet all of you and spend time laughing and making new friendships.

I could say I am going home. But truly home is where the heart is. Our new home is indeed a dream come true. Spending time with my sister is a home where my heart sings and renews itself. Coming back to Neff Road is that blanket of love that has surrounded me my entire life. I look forward to meeting you and visiting with old friends. I look forward to coming home.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Walk the lane

Walk the lane with me one more time. I'll hold your hand, and you hold mine. We will share the memories of another time. Please walk the lane with me one more time.

A sweet neighbor posted the grave marker of her parents. I sat looking at it with tears streaming down my cheeks. Dolores and Carl Bucholtz were more than neighbors. They were our Neff Road family. Carl farmed with Dad, so heard his tractor or truck often coming back the lane. When we held the farm sale, Carl sat with me by the big, white barn. He told me that he did not think he would beat this cancer that he was battling. We had lost Dad and now his tools were being sold. It was the end of our farming, one that Carl was so much a part of. I held his hand knowing that I was not only losing the things that surrounded me in my growing up, but I was losing a dear friend.

That lane on Neff Road had seen many who returned again and again. The house back that lane seemed to be a beacon of love. Warm loving arms always welcomed whoever came through the back door. There was always time to sit and talk, even when work was calling. We stopped for friends and family. And sometimes for people we didn't know. Dad would stop working in the field when he saw a car in the driveway. The lane brought us together. And, even in parting, we held dear those it brought to us.

I often think of that lane. Our families walked it each time they came home. From the house to the bridge and back, or maybe we wandered off to visit Lavy's or Stager's. The lane represented our family. A trip to loving arms and loved land.

We live lives in transition. We go from there to here in the blink of an eye. We either embrace the new, bringing a newness in ourselves, or we lose precious time hanging back. Over the years, I have found that what I learned on the farm, back that lane, has brought old friends back into my life and new friends to continue new journeys with me. The link from the past to the future. From the road to the house.

When my mother passed, I asked friends and family to send their favorite memories of my beautiful mother. I came across those letters again as I packed to move. They are memories from the past that have traveled to the future, allowing me to see new visions of this mother who rarely shared about herself. She was always too busy asking about others. I think everyone should ask for those memories when a loved one passes. A bridge from one time to another.

Walk the lane with me one more time. I'll hold your hand, and you hold mine. We will share the memories of another time. Please walk the lane with me one more time.