Life on Chicken Creek

As a young girl of 7 or 8, I would sit and leaf through my older brother’s or my Mom’s yearbooks.  My Mom, class of 52 and my brother class of 73. I browsed the black and white senior photos of pretty, fresh-faced girls in soft sweater sets with strands of pearls or pendants with their perfectly coiffed hair. I paused over pictured of cheerleaders, majorettes, FFA sweethearts and homecoming royalty.  I would pause over choir and chess club, band and theater, basketball and football…pep club. The list went on.  I dreamed. I dreamed of being such a part of this amazing thing called high school.  I wanted to be all the things. Popular, liked, beautiful, important.

I was none of those things. If any classmates even remembered me, their feelings were more than likely negative. I was fat, loud and demanded too much attention. I never had a date, and friends were fleeting until my senior year when a classmate became my sister in law. 

I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I did it to myself. I took up too much space when that space and time was not mine to take. I recognize that now. But I also have come to understand why.  The story is mine and I won’t make anyone bear witness to it.  All I ask is this. If a child is demanding space, time, attention..maybe we need to ask ourselves why. Why do they feel so small that they spread themselves into places that they aren’t wanted?  There is nothing I can say now, that would change anyone’s opinion of me that was formed nearly 50 years ago.  The yearbook pictures I realize now, were just a brief glimpse..a mirage of 4 short years of our lives. 

Last month, my sister Tonya and my niece,  Laura and I, set out for an afternoon of thrifting.  Thrifting is the humane equivalent of stalking,  hunting, and harvesting game.    We spent the early afternoon looking through the racks and shelves of a Goodwill. Celebrating my Old Navy jacket, Maurices jeans that fit me perfectly and a nearly new stainless steel Cuisinart blender for next to nothing, we broke for 2pm Tacos.  We then strolled through endless booths of an antique/collectible mall. I scored an ironstone pitcher. We circled and dug, and inspected, sharing moments when we recognized an object from our youth  “Oh my gawd! we had one of these (fill in blank here), remember!?!   At times it was like a step through a time machine, recalling the familiar everyday items, long ago discarded. 

Do/did I need any of these items?   Sadly, no. I have quite a collection of collectibles and well, a pile of junk.   I have,  over the past year been making monthly trips to Goodwill already. Not as a hunter, but as a contributor.  I have already donated ill- fitting jeans, sweaters, dishes and small appliances that have never been utilized or used or even seen as they hang out at the very back of my cabinets. I recently donated decor that I no longer enjoy, and a half crocheted afghan that I have lost interest in. Even furniture that have no room for in my trailer have been carted off.  With all of this, why, pray tell would I go thrifting to look through other people’s junk to haul back home?

Well, because it brings me joy.

Sometimes, we do things for nothing more than the sheer gratification. 

Granted, these acquisition trips mustn’t happen too frequently,  or my trailer could begin to bulge at the seams. But, an occasional thrifting day with friends or family or friendly family (especially with the addition of 2pm tacos) are just the cure for a boring Friday…which is necessary.   So say I.

I will get my keys.

This winter has been a season of sorting. A time of gathering and picking through items, weighing their usefulness, condition, necessity, and then piling them to keep, or donate or to discard. Small kitchen appliances, articles of clothing, papers, decor, dishes, so many things to sort. As I handle each, I survey it and ask,  “is it as valuable as the space it keeps in my home?”  It’s a daunting task. But seeing bare space in a cupboard or drawer gives me so much satisfaction.  I read a few articles about “Swedish Death Cleaning”. Despite its ominous name, it’s just a practice of sorting and  weeding out one’s belongings to ease the burden on your children or carers when you become unable to perform that task, yourself.    I’m slowly coming to the realization, that my “treasures” are not always treasured by my progeny.  Cutesy clutter may not be met with the same enthusiasm as I had while collecting it. Therefore, distribution to people who will treasure your clutter should happen sooner, rather than later. It should be given to those who do find value in it. One’s loyalty to you as a human or family member, isn’t transferred to your stuff at the time of death. More than likely…. those items go to them with a certain amount of guilt, dread and resentment because of the impossibility of finding room for all of it.  That’s worth remembering.

Continue reading “Sorting Season” →

Mother nature is giving us tantalizing glimpses of warmer temperature, blue sky and mud to remind us, that soon the earth will thaw, the skies will warm and all the little green things will sprout forward. The temporary “death” will give way to healing and growth and the return of the growing season.  I too will undergo an anniversary in early March. It will mark one full year of holidays, birthdays, weather, and life, without Lyle. Is it too cliche to say it feels like a lifetime ago?   Im not going to lie, I dread this anniversary. Its just another notch on my belt of “withouts”…but I suppose it stands in testament to my ability to “make it”. I didn’t want to be strong, but its just required during grief.  People tell you how strong you are, despite feeling broken and exhausted. 

I decided to maybe do some short day trips or even an overnight trip to mark the occasion. See something new, try something new…grow in some way. Growth is important in spring. It reminds you that while it aches without Lyle, I am alive…and it is spring…its time to sprout a bit.🌱

All indicators point to fall. Some trees are voluntarily dropping their leaves. My tomato vines are a sickly green with a few green and a few overripe tomatoes.  My mum’s are in full bloom. The hummingbirds are busy fueling up for their long trip south.  I love this time of year. Some warm days, with cooler evenings.  I feel a bit more distance from the trauma of this past spring.  It’s not better, not healed, but just a passage of time.  I hope others are finding happy distractions from the grief they carry every day.  I hope you find more smiles than tears. But enjoy the tears too, it’s just a reminder of the intense love that you still have. 

With the loss of my spouse 5 months ago, I quickly discovered that if I wanted to stay on this “half-block small town homestead”, I was going to have to be brave and learn new skills. In the first 30 days I had to learn to run our zero turn radius mower, and the chainsaw. Watching you tube videos helped tremendously. I’ve made through most of the summer without traumatic injury, albeit the mower required repair from my apparent over aggressive techniques. I had numerous toe curling near misses, and weedeating had been one of my least liked chores, so the half block isn’t very picturesque. My garden was merely 3 small raised beds, two of badly neglected tomatoes and one of similarly neglected strawberries  🍓.  Grieving took far more energy than I could have imagined. I am still trying to find the energy to get things started and completed. I hope I figure it out soon. 

The very early mornings are for cats.  Well…and dogs. The very early mornings are for cats and dogs.  I find myself rising way before dawn to set out Gertie, our 11 year old dachshund mix. As a senior citizen, not unlike myself, an early morning tinkle and drink are mandatory.  This morning’s tinkle involved a trip out into the bitter artic air that is scraping across the prairie.  One the stab of cold air strikes, I am awake. Very awake.

So, once all our necessary chores are complete, I sit in my recliner to unload my very awake brain, but as I mentioned, very early mornings are for cats.  Romare, our grey and white tabby, invites himself to take up residence on my chest. It makes writing very difficult, but after a few moments, I pause and let his warm presence and enveloping purr overtake me. I sit my writing aside.  He demands my attention and my affections by thrusting his pointed little chin into my hand and demanding the little scritches that he loves.

   I’m not sure what cats think about. As Romare lays across my chest, I’m sure it’s things like, “ooo that feels nice” or ” Why is she always picking up that little black thing that lights up, instead of holding me?  So annoying!  I’m out of here!”

I wonder if he is aware of cats who struggle to find food and shelter.  I wonder if he is aware of cats who are  abandoned by those who promised to care for them, but failed in their commitment and dumped them along the road, or in a cardboard box and turned a blind eye, a deaf ear as  as they were left alone to survive or not. Had my husband and I not opened our door and welcomed him into our home, haring  our abundance, buying  him food, giving him a warm place to sleep where would he be, what life woukd he be living?

We made room not only in our home but in our hearts.  His affection towards us sometimes looked a bit foreign to us  with its aggressive demands for chin scratches and playful scratches that ended up with bloodied hands that we quickly forgave. He became family.  He flops in our path and is a bit rude at times, but we opened our door to him and our life, his life has been improved.

We have enough. Why would we not share?  Do I have less if I share?  Is my life less if I allow others in?

My thoughts then  bleed into thinking about not cats but people. There was enough for my great-grandparents to find a space when they immigrated here in the late 1880s from Germany.  Just 3 generations ago, Barbara was escaping poverty, and her passage was paid for the family that she was indentured to, to  feed, clean and raise their children, while only a child herself.  John, a teenager who avoided conscription by sailing away to the United States on a ship, and then to  Kansas by train. Completely alone. He was employed first, as a laborer working in construction of the Cudahay plant in Wichita. There, he met the beautiful  Barbara in early 1890. Their shared language and culture, brought them together.   They wed, built a family, purchased acreage in nearby Kingman, and started farming.

Growing wheat, primarily. They raised  cattle, built barns, and built a life with their own hands, taking nothing away from their neighbors.  They became part of the fabric of Kingman County, and for 3 generations, we continue to grow and prosper.  All because someone opened the door, invited them in, and shared. Giving them a chance to escape. 

I hate to think anyone thinks that closing the doors and refusing to share with those looking to improve their life takes away from anyone else. 

I hope we have more compassion for humans than we have for cats.

I heard an obituary read on a Tik Tok video the other day.  Instead of the flowery, saccharine obituary, that you typically read…The children of the decedent, knowing their Mother so well, instead, listed the things that best described their Mom.  The simple day to day things that made this rather ordinary woman, not into a saint…but an affirmation of who she was and what she did…the daily things, the un-extraordinary things.  I began to think about what things I do, that stand out and make up the essence of Tammy:
I love Diet Mountain Dew and Dr. Dr Pepper and hide the bottles from my husband.  I have an extraordinary sweet tooth and belive Little Debbie is a goddess..I leave every single kitchen cabinet door open when I’m cooking. I make yummy pies, especially peach and coconut cream. I make cinnamon rolls and homemade noodles. I cuss like a sailor. I know the Greek alphabet and the members of most 1970’s classic rock groups.  I adore The Beatles, U2, 90’s grunge bands and the Foo Fighters.  I will fight you about my top 10 guitarists.  I keep a messy car, and lose things constantly.  I love my husband my stepson and my Grandchildren. I sometimes forget they are not my own flesh.  I will spend every dollar I have on my husband or grandkids.  I love my animals, and honestly they are my favorite part of day to day life. My weenie dog Marlin is my best buddy.  I mumble a lot. I laugh at my own jokes because I think I’m pretty damn funny. My job broke my heart but healed my childhood trauma.  Saving lives saved my own.  I have a grateful heart for my family,  especially my siblings and my parents.( Despite the emotional space between us, I loved and admired each one.  I lived big and loud and was too much for some, but I was my genuine self, with every flaw and flair.

We should each write our own “obituary” to discover our own essence.  What would you write?