Country Living, City Style

I've just about done all the farming local laws and space will allow me to do on my half acre. As I'm not at liberty to use all of it because I live in a neighborhood where appearances must be kept up, I'm cramming my urban oasis into a tiny plot of land.

It's almost like my house has a split personality. Porchaven in the front,

and garden plot in the rear. 

My small orchard consists of a pear tree, a plum tree, a fig tree, a pecan tree and three thornless blackberry bushes. They aren't really organized into an orchard the way one would think. They just occupy any old square footage of earth that was available on planting day. Each fights for its life.

I've slipped an herb plot right under the neighbors' noses, putting it in a corner of a front flower bed.
And because every farm needs animals in order to be a real farm, I have set up a hive for the package of bees that will arrive in about two weeks.

Bees are not the kind of animal I pictured myself herding when I started designing my urban homestead. Honestly, I think it isn't very farmer-like to fear one's flock. But a cow grazing in my front yard wouldn't go over very well with the authorities or those who own homes adjacent to mine.

So I've been talking to my husband about selling Porchaven and purchasing acreage outside of town. He seems to be warming to the idea and to help get him over the land divide, I took him out to a farm on Sunday. He petted the horses. He helped round up the donkeys that stubbornly refused to be rounded. He called to the belligerent cows and he cuddled the barn cats.

It looked certain that I was making a real breakthrough with him, thus I went in the feed room and scooped a container of cracked corn to cast to the chickens. My soul mate was taken in by the throaty coos of the delighted hens.

But suddenly something in his brain snapped. He impulsively snatched a fish net from a nail and said, "What's this for? Catching roosters?" And he went all city-kid at the petting zoo on me, chasing panicked chickens that clucked and flapped and kicked up dust and escaped via any route they could out into coyote territory.

I'm taking it as a sign that he may not be ready for the farm.

Always on the Verge of Impulsive Behavior

Have you ever stood at the edge of a ravine and had the disturbing thought, "What if I jumped?" Or been sitting in a quiet theater and right as the lights are dimming dawdled with the wicked urge to shout, "Fire!"?

Occasionally, I feel the impulse to slowly slide down my stairs, pressing my body to the cold plaster wall, like the next hapless lamb in a black and white horror film. Fingers scrambling to grip the smooth surface, knuckles white from the effort, eyes wide and wildly watchful, I - the heroine - creep closer and closer to a dark destiny at the foot of the stairs.

The audience yells, "Noooooo! Stop! Don't go! Turn around! Ruuuuuunnnnnnnn!" But the screen writer of this, my B-movie plot, dictates in the stage directions that I must place the knuckles of my right hand between my teeth and proceed, shakily. My white gown billows in a mysterious indoor wind sweeping across the steps.

Of course, just as I seriously consider indulging in this ridiculousness, a voice calls up from below, "Mama, what are you doing? I can't find my other pink Espadrille. Can you look in my closet and bring it down?" Immediately, my gown ceases to billow and I straighten up and go look for the shoe.

I tell myself that other people experience these moments of odd disconnect, in which reason wrestles with recklessness. But I'm not sure. The ones who would admit to it have probably all jumped, which leaves me standing on the cliff alone.

Don't worry, though. I'm not taking the leap. I'm a victim of an overactive imagination, not insanity.

God Loves a Garden

God loves a garden. He’s done some of His best works in gardens. Ever since the fall of man in the Garden of Eden, He has been calling us back. He called us back to the Garden of Gethsemane and to Jesus’ tomb in the garden near Golgotha. He had things to teach us and tell us in those gardens.

                 

He gives us the same care and hope in the gardens we make and tend in our own backyards. He wants us on our knees. From that position we pull out weeds, pluck off pests and get a close-up view of His creation through our labors.

                 

In the garden, God develops my faith. I drop into the soil tiny seeds that barely hint at the life they hold, cover them and wait. I have to believe that even though I can’t see them, they are still there. I trust that the sun will shine on them when they need it and the sky will rain on them when they thirst. Day in and day out, I’m forced to believe that something is happening down there in the dark. Then, one day, I walk out to the garden to discover that seedlings have pushed their way to the surface, rewarding my trust and strengthening my fragile conviction.

                 

A garden has rhythm and timing. I have learned that the seasons matter. Regard for them while sewing impacts the bounty when harvesting. The pace is deliberate. Efforts to push or delay rarely result in more corn, bigger tomatoes or booming butterbeans. In the end, I surrender to the set tempo. It teaches me patience and enlivens desire for what is to come and gratefulness for what has passed. More than that, it keeps my attention focused on the here and now of getting my plants to prosper.

                

 I am fed. My family is fed. On vegetables and herbs washed by the dew.  Real food.

                 

God is there with me in my humble backyard garden. When my hands are busy and my spirit is quiet, He speaks to me. He shows the wonders of His design. I am awed at the rows of green, leafy plants boasting colorful yields and robust flavors. I look at my hands, very small, and accept that I have not done this myself. No one is on her own in the garden.

                 

Row upon row, the beauty of forgiveness quilts the black earth. Seeds planted too deep or too shallow find a way. Leaves wilted from soil drying around their roots promptly perk as the sprinkler sends droplets cascading over them. Despite my amateur skills, the plants in my care almost always find a way. I am absolved of my blunders and I receive second chances, so that I am continually molded into the best gardener I can be.

                 

The toil tones my muscles. The fresh air cleanses my lungs. Moving, bending, squatting, stretching, hoeing, shoveling, tilling, digging keeps my body conditioned and my mind sharp. The exercise teaches me to love the weeds as much as anything else. Long live the weeds. It is here in the safety and tranquility of the garden that He prepares me for what He has planned. I will be ready when my purpose unfolds.

                 

God loves a garden, no matter how big or how small, no matter how productive, no matter how well-kept or weedy. He has a history of working miracles in gardens. All that is asked of us is that we meet Him there and give our labors over to Him. He will help us grow.            

copyright 2013 Lucy Adams

(Lucy Adams is the author of Tuck Your Skirt in Your Panties and Run. She lives in Thomson, GA. Email Lucy at lucybgoosey@aol.com.)

Gardening Tip

Feed it and water it and watch it grow. . .

. . . into cat-nip.

The Neighbors Are Really Talking Now

Big news today. My husband and I finally did it. We named our house and we boldly posted its new and well-deserved name on the wall of our front porch. Like most other things we do - grow weeds instead of grass, sneak laying hens into the backyard, leave bikes scattered from one end of the lawn to the other - the neighbors are talking. I see them walk by, squinting their eyes to read the words on the new plaque and whispering to each other.

Nonetheless, I know as a southerner that I've done the good and proper thing. This week I've been writing a book review of Ghosts of Grandeur: Georgia's Lost Antebellum Homes and Plantations for Lake Oconee Living Magazine, and as I've studied the tome I've come to realize that not only is giving one's home a proper name okay, it's an obligation. Look at these monikers: Fair Oaks Plantation, Calico House, Summerland, Cedar Valley, Glen Lora, Dungeness, Paradise Hill, Pomegranate Hall and Ingelside.

The one commonality that all of these names share is that they something about the people who lived in the houses or the identifying features of the landscape surrounding the houses or details of the houses themselves. In naming our home we avoided ostentatiously adding on words like hall or manor or house or plantation. We avoided using the sir names of past residents.

Our guiding principal was to find what was special about our house, that makes it home to us. Our conclusion: The front porch.


So let the neighbors banter if they must. As my husband says, "It's branding, and there's no publicity like the opinions of the public." While they're talking it up, we'll be taking it all in from the safe haven of our porch . . . from Porchaven.

Somewhere West of Sparta, GA

This is the kind of sign that makes a person ask, "Where am I?" and vaguely answers the question.

It was the hotspot for buying jumbo frog legs and collard greens.

Brown Nose Points

Though I've never ever seen football players cut the grass or re-line the field after a game, I can't say the same for baseball players. Following every home game my son and his teammates hit the field one more time to tidy it up. Mostly they rake dirt, which I don't understand and assume is some kind of coaching strategy to harden them into men.

The other night, while waiting for him to finish his maintenance duties, my daughter observed that my son was among the few who jumped to action every time the coach barked. "Why does he keep going out there?" she complained. "I'm ready to go home. Can't some of the other players do something?" Only 11 years-old, her attention span for baseball and its varied rituals isn't much longer than mine.

"He's doing what his coach wants him to do," I told her.

She responded, "Yeah, but nobody else is. He ought to go in the dugout and flop around like everyone else."

Well," I said, "he's trying to earn his brownie points."

"He's doing what?" she asked.

"He's earning his brownie points."

My daughter inhaled deeply. A huge smile spread across her face. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm lost by the close of the first inning. "We're having brownies for dinner tonight?" she exclaimed.