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Agua Linda Farm Journal – May

May 1, 2010

This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.
Agua Linda Farm
520-398-3218
Stewart@AguaLindaFarm.net
www.AguaLindaFarm.net
P.O. Box 975, Amado, AZ.
85645

Agua Linda Farm Journal – May
This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.

Agua Linda Farm520-398-3218Stewart@AguaLindaFarm.netwww.AguaLindaFarm.netP.O. Box 975, Amado, AZ.85645

Written by Laurel Loew · Filed Under Agua Linda Farm Journal 

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