Siri is Speechless

by phylton on June 19, 2013 in Farm Life, Humor with 2 Comments

Bent over the hard, red clay, I contemplated the last few weeks and along with that, my life.

Who would have guessed one year ago, that I’d be covered with red dust, digging holes in rugged ground? Not only that, I’m talking to miniature plants we grew in moist soil blocks.

“Okay little beet, time to grow up. Can’t let strong wind knock you down. It’s a tough world out here. Put your roots down deep.” I’d caress my little beet one more time, then place him gently in his clay box to grow into a mature plant. Then I’d move on to the other 198 seedlings.

Silence is all around me.

It makes me think of Siri.

I haven’t heard from her much. And when I do, she’s kinder. Instead of, “Pauline! You have to unlock your phone to search the web!” spoken in a patronizing manner–she is silent.

When she speaks, it’s more like, “To help you find what you’re looking for, why don’t you unlock your phone, Sweetie?” The country air is affecting her program.

I think she’s shocked by my appearance, and softened by my workload. She’s getting older, just like me. Siri feels sorry for me because she can relate. She understands the up-and-coming programs who have a snappy name like Sam who can do more and have a younger voice.

Like fine wine, Siri is getting better with her updates. But she can’t change the fact that she’s older–some think even passé.

Still, seeing me with hair pulled back, red clay covering my face and feet, dirt caked under my fingernails, Siri’s speechless.

We work side-by-side in the field with only the sound of wind blowing through tall poplars.

No one is calling. Not many texting.

Her directions are even getting more informal. “Watch out for Pickles Curve on Siloam Road, Pauline. Remember how the chicken truck turned over there. What a mess!”

Sometimes her silence bothers me. Sometimes I wonder if anyone remembers me, including her. If in such a big world with so many people anyone cares. Then I listen to the trees and think about their creator and it clears my mind.

NWIF–No Whining in Farming.

Why? Because I’m blessed: spiritually, physically, personally.

Just now a tiny hummingbird flew to the feeder about three feet from me. I heard its insect-like wing pattern and we stared at each other.

I’m making new friends. Good friends that take time who happen to have a southern accent.

I’m able to work. That is a blessing.

My husband and I like each other. In fact, we love each other.

And then there is my church family. The one I worship with a couple of times a week. We’re served up a heaping portion of God’s Word preparing us to share some of that bread with others.

Delicious.

So Siri and I are growing in our relationship. It’s a comfortable silence.

Last Saturday, I traveled to Winston-Salem for the day. It affected Siri. Her voice got back some of that edge and her words were abrupt.

I think it was the traffic.

I don’t think Siri is passé, I think she’s ready for silence.

Just like me.

 

Missing Dad

by phylton on June 16, 2013 in Caregiving with No comments

Seated at a booth in the local Mexican restaurant, Tom and I shared a meal with a young farm couple half our age.

We yacked about farming for a good while, but then the young man shared a story about his father–who is probably our age. The story concerned a snake and a gun. The young farmer smiled as he spoke fondly of his father.

My mind traveled back to a time with my daddy.

“Do you know what to do if I get bit by one of the snakes?” Dad asked my 10-year-old self.

I nodded even though I had no idea. I knew nothing bad could happen when I was with my father. Even when we hunted poisonous snakes in a quiet cornfield in Kansas. Not usually what a 4th grade girl and her dad did for an outing. But then, nothing my daddy did could be labeled normal.

I loved it, even though I was scared.

After we caught various kinds of snakes, we’d take them home and put them in fish aquariums in our back yard. (This made us extremely unpopular with our neighbors.) Dad used the specimens as he spoke to Boy Scout groups in the area. He’d handle the snakes and point out their beauty and strength, and the intricacies God used in creating them.

He loved nature and always took time to appreciate it and share it with his three daughters and anyone else who would listen. But he loved the Creator more than the creature and always gave God the credit.

I appreciate all of it now.

Ray Wert was an in-your-face kind of guy. Most people loved him, but some hated him. I admired him in the 4th grade, was embarrassed by him in high school, and tolerated him in college. As an adult, I realized his imperfections and often concentrated on them.

“You have a good father,” my mom would say when I complained.

Then he got sick. Lost both legs to diabetes while he lived with us. My out-of-the-box father became dependent on me.

That was hard.

Sometimes it was incredibly sad. Other times he annoyed me.

Last night as I sat across from the young couple, I missed him.

Today, it hurt even more.

I have some regrets of how I handled his care. Mostly, I regret not enjoying him those last few years.

Now, my father is with his Father.

Walking on two legs. Maybe talking to the Lord or one of His saints about God’s handiwork.

One day, I’ll see him again.

That makes me smile.

So do snakes.

 

New Growth

by phylton on June 11, 2013 in Family Life, Farm Life with 1 Comment

Miriam and I straddled white plastic planting beds, poking holes and popping seeds in as fast as our tired arms could muster. Clay-like, rocky soil lay just beneath the thin surface. After we finished one packet of seeds, we tromped to the old farmhouse and checked our diagram.

“What did we just plant?”

“Not sure. Was it the yellow crook, or the marigolds?”

“Let’s check the wall,” Miriam suggested.

“The Wall” is our backwards, upside-down diagram of the field. Instead of above and below, it is beside. Instead of back to front, it’s front to back. Needless to say, the wall was my invention–more confusing than helpful. Still, it was something.

I picked up a cucumber packet. “How should we grow these?” We went to YouTube.

We tromped back out to the field.

I practiced side-ways lunges as I plunked cucumber seeds into the holes.

“Really, Miriam, I can’t imagine anything would grow in this soil. In fact, it would be a miracle!”

God still does miracles. Our seeds sprouted. In spite of our ineptness and in spite of five million gallons of rain in five days.

Yesterday, Tom sauntered our to the field to check the irrigation lines in-between rain showers.

“Pauline, come quick! It’s growing! We’re farmers!”

We high-fived each other as we took in the sight. Tiny, green shoots sprouted out of clay-like, rocky soil.

It kind of reminded me of the time Tom and I sat in an auditorium of over 5000 as young people marched across a simple stage.

“Sarah Ray Hylton,” they called. “You are awarded a master’s degree in nutrition.”

Once, she and Micah were little seeds in our Hylton house. Our family soil was filled with rocks, and we had no experience. Yet God granted the growth–in spite of us.

Isn’t that just like Him? Taking our inadequacies and producing growth for His glory.

I’m glad.

And just like we had to keep Sarah and Micah alive, we need to keep those little seeds alive.

Pray.

Hard.

 

Our First Day as Farmers

by phylton on June 8, 2013 in Farm Life with No comments

So it stopped raining long enough for us to start farming.

Now it’s raining again, but we do have stuff in the ground. Check out my Grit Magazine Blog:

http://www.grit.com/blogs/blog.aspx?blogid=4294968271#axzz2Vccsdj3J

A Cock Fight, A Day in the Life of a Farmer’s Wife, Day 8

by phylton on May 31, 2013 in Farm Life with No comments

Birds crowed and dove at an unseen enemy. Loud enough to rouse us out of in bed after just finishing our first cup of coffee, we peaked out the window.

“What’s all the ruckus about, guys?”

We noticed the cat. He toated a small bird in his mouth. Tom sprayed the predator with a water bottle. Kitty dropped the bird who sat stunned.

“It’s a cat eat bird kind of world.”

After the bird drama, I ventured outside to feed our neighbors dog, cat, hens (who are caged), and a rooster who wanders the yard aimlessly singing lonely rooster songs . He’s a surly looking creature. Once, he had a harem of hens but they died. Now he’s a bachelor.

Everyone knows that hens are all called ladies. I called to them as they cooed and pecked. I summoned the rooster. We’d gotten along famously until then.

“Hello Sir!” I called happily.

Sir must have mistook my greeting for a threat. He charged me, jumped, and kicked me with his whatever you call rooster feet. Shocked, I yelled. He continued jumping and kicking. I called for Sam. He idled a safe 20 feet away.

“Tom! Help! The rooster is attacking me!” I saw Tom in the distance working on our soil blocks, but his head didn’t even turn.

Desperate, I took off my $5 Dollar General Store shoe. I smacked the rooster who responded with more kicks. I backed up and swung three or four times. Undeterred, the rooster kicked again–kicking my shoe out of my hand.

Kung-fu Rooster.

Finally, he backed off and I stopped sweating.

“How’d you make out with the rooster?” Tom asked.

“You saw him and didn’t help me? I called you when he attacked me!”

“I did notice until after the altercation was complete.” Tom smiled. “You’ve got to toughen up.”

At that point, I wished I’d had my shoe to throw at him. But then I laughed. He felt a little bad when I pulled my Bermuda shorts up to reveal two small wounds.

“I’m bleeding. You happy?”

We laughed again. Who knew a small farm could be such a treacherous place?

“Carry a stick next time,” Tom advised.

“Or heavier shoes.”

Tom put the rooster away that night.

Rooster Sir just may be fasting for the rest of the week.

I think he needs to toughen up.

But then, who likes a tough bird?

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