Night Flight

The first time I hear the story about Grandma being a Superhero I think it is a joke. I am at my Aunt’s house and my two uncles are sitting at the kitchen table augmenting and spinning the tale about Grandma saving lives. The whimsy of their rendition makes me laugh out loud with them. If you knew my grandma, you’d laugh, too.

As a teenager, I am becoming increasingly convinced every day that everyone over 35 is old and an idiot. My criterion is strictly based on the urgency to gain independence and separate from those people I perceive have power over me. My parents are always complaining, “You’re reacting instead being considerate and thoughtful. in the family  ought of her as lbecause I could hear no hoofs rhymically landing in the snow.ed downsticle.      jjjacted and spYou are not treating us like humans. Do I know who we are?” I’d never thought about that. I guess I see them as the sum total of my experience with them as a child plus how others relate to them. I really don’t care, as long as they leave me alone.

Take my grandmother, for instance. I can’t think about her without searching for her image in the shadow of my grandfather. His status, power and everyone’s’ love and respect for him completely blinds me from even being aware of my grandmother. Everyone sees him as Superhuman. I don’t honestly know if that is fantasy or reality?  I just know Grandma as a quiet, withdrawn old woman who likes her gardens more than people. That’s why I think you would join me in laughing at the thought of her as Superwoman.

Come to think of it, I have spent a lot of time with my Grandmother working in her gardens. She is kind of superhuman in her world. She awes me how hard she works. Her physical strength is incredible. It is way beyond any other woman’s I know. I would even consider her courageous in the way she tackles projects that seem impossible. She is ingenious with how she Gerry rigs every resource she has into whatever she needs. She has the patience of an old soul being able to wait for her newborn plants to pop up out of the dirt every year. I wonder if these qualities were the ones my uncles were thinking of when they told their story? I’m in my bedroom thinking about this and looking out the window. There was something about Grandma being heroic when she was a girl but I’d been laughing too hard to remember the details.

The more I think about it the more I want Grandma’s story to be true. I could use a strong woman role model in this family and superwoman would do nicely. Something about this story begins to intrigue and excite me. I can’t stop thinking about it. I find myself acting like a dog that has hidden a bone and cannot find it. I am driven to find the back-story that will make this Superhero tale believable. This thinking gets me wondering what Grandma was like as a child and what her world was like back then.

I know if I ask her about it she won’t tell me anything. How can I find out about her history? Suddenly I remember several years ago mom handwrote our family history in her beautiful cursive in the back of an enormous old Bible that sits in a special place in my grandparent’s living room. Would reading that give me any clues? I find an excuse to go to my grandparent’s house and wait for an opportunity when they are both busy to bring the Bible out and open it to the back. I flip to the section entitled “Momma”. I have never looked at our family tree before and generations of people start coming to life:

Rosalie Gilson and her brother, Aleixandre, boarded the St. Laurent ocean liner in Lehavre, France and landed in Boston on May 14th, 1879. She was 16 years old and was sent ahead of the rest of the family to America with her brother after a fire destroyed the family home in Switzerland. Colin Rosier, a 39-year-old dreamer who had read every transatlantic novel ever written was living the romance as the pastry chef on the ship. On the journey over the Atlantic, Rosalie and Colin met, fell in love and after being processed (where he said on his form he was a farmer) they made their way to a European immigrant settlement in Green Bay, Wisconsin where they were married. My grandmother, Leah Rosier, was their second daughter, born in 1886, in Green Bay.

Soon after she was born the family moved to a Swiss settlement at Neuchatel, Kansas where they homesteaded 180 acres and lived a hard but content life in that community of about 200 people. After Leonie and Leah, Louise, Matilda, and Lucy were born. Aleixandre, who suffered from crossed eyes, endured a botched surgery in Kansas City after they’d lived in Neuchatel for a while. His good eye was removed by mistake and it left him blind. He always lived in his sister’s home after that.

My grandma is aware that I go and look at the family Bible whenever I am at her house. She doesn’t mention it, and neither do I.  I am sure she doesn’t have a clue what I am searching for—and frankly, neither do I. I just know I am finding comfort when I read the family’s history. I am beginning to feel part of something that has shaped who I am. Meeting my relatives, living and dead, and understanding their place in our story somehow is beginning to give me a history and a place in it, too.

One rainy afternoon I’m sitting with my grandmother in her house. She is teaching me to embroider. I am feeling too restricted with her “right and wrong” ways to do each step of the process. I want to take all the colors of thread and stitch outside the lines. I am thinking—I wonder if she would let me into her world if I just asked her to tell me one story? I hold this question a long time. Finally, I take a chance and ask her to tell me a story about when she was a girl. She looks off in the distance and then without hesitation she takes a deep breath and begins...

“The person I loved most in the world was my daddy. He welcomed my help with the farm because he had no sons, Uncle Aleixandre was blind and I was strong as an ox. We took turns breaking ground on the land behind a plow pulled by our two mules. Together we worked the land, planted crops, built a house with some neighbors’ help, put in a large garden for my mother and tended the animals.

Every day when we finished our work Daddy would say, “go on and ride that pony.” I’d pull myself up onto the back of our small black mare and ride down the lane bareback. I’d gallop across the fields and along the creek that wasn’t wide but was pretty deep.

After a while everyone in the community knew me not just as one of the Rosier girls but also as the best rider around.

When I was 12, Daddy caught a cold the first week in December and the bitter cold and harsh winds blustering across the plains took its toll on him. He was in bed for a week with a high fever. The doctor even came out. “Pneumonia”, was all he said in front of us girls. I had never heard that word before and didn’t know what it meant but I could tell by the way he shook his head and looked concerned Daddy was really sick. He talked in a quiet voice with Momma by the front door for a while before he bundled up and disappeared into the frigid night.

We were not allowed to make any noise so Daddy could sleep. One night Momma woke us up and called us into their bedroom. The doctor was there. Daddy looked horrible and was having difficulty breathing. I was frightened. He called me to come sit on the bed beside him. Then he put his hand on my head and said, “You are my little curly head”. What I didn’t realize was that he had died as he said that about my curly head. My feelings imploded when Momma, wailing uncontrollably, suddenly shushed us out of the room. I couldn’t stop crying. I had more feelings at that moment than at any other time in my life.

When Daddy died, I was shattered but I felt like I had to hide my feelings because everyone, especially Momma, was hurting so badly. I hid them behind an imaginary mask and tried to face my fears and find the strength to keep going. I had to grow up fast. I knew I had to step up and be the “strong one”. Momma seemed so fragile and vulnerable. All she was able to do was try to keep up with taking care of the little girls. At first I faltered—not knowing what to do or how to do it. It was when I became completely overwhelmed and discouraged that I began discovering strengths I didn’t even know I had. By simply believing I could keep things together, I did.

I found I had the ability to put myself back together for the family. I could face danger and combat problems that came our way. Gradually, I got so I could work through all my fears. I did things as they presented themselves because they were right, not for praise and recognition. I always acted and spoke in the way that came from my best self. I loved with an all-encompassing love that didn’t come from what I did but who I did it for. I began to feel like I was stronger than reality and that I could overcome any obstacle. As long as I got myself out of the way I could face anything.

Christmas was sad for us that year. Momma didn’t know what to do. She was a widow with 5 young daughters, a blind brother, and 180 acres of farmland, chickens, a cow, a horse and 2 mules. I reminded her often everything would work out. The burden of saving my family and only being 12 years old weighed heavily on me. When spring arrived after what seemed like an endless winter I was out in the fields from sunup to sundown doing everything just like Daddy had taught me. I hadn’t imagined I had the ability to put myself back together after being so torn apart.

That fall two brothers, Jules and Armand Chatland and their father, who was a watchmaker came through Neuchatel on their travels. Armand, 21, was dying of dropsy. The cirrhosis in his liver was advanced. My first memory of him was trying to figure out what was wrong with his grossly distended belly. He was obsessed with going back to Switzerland to die and was determined to use his charm to get there.

He saw Momma as his ticket. She was a widow with 5 children who could easily be convinced she needed a man to help her survive. His illness was quite advanced and he had no intentions of staying around or becoming a farmer as he promised Momma. They were married, at his pressing insistence, which Momma interpreted as love. Almost immediately he started trying to coerce her to sell the farm and go back to Switzerland. Momma did not want to go back to Switzerland and she didn’t want to sell her farm. He continued to bully her and they fought all the time. The twins were born the next spring but only Alice survived their first year. Magritte was born right after her sister died. Now Momma had seven little girls.

Momma’s days weren’t any easier with Mr. Chatland there. She was up stoking the fire by 5 in the morning. She cooked 3 square meals a day and became an expert at stretching what little food we had. She washed clothes by hand in a washbasin with a wash board, took care of the girls, scrubbed the floors and kept the house pristine—which must have been hard with seven children, her blind brother and her lazy, sick husband. Between his disinterest and his illness he mostly stayed inside every day sleeping on the couch. I farmed. I did the best I could and worked hard. Some days I worked so hard I didn’t even feel like riding the little black horse. Fighting grew worse between Mr. Chatland and Momma. I knew she would never give in.

One night all the little girls started having pain in their bellies. Several vomited and the youngest ones became delirious. Momma was beside herself. She could see how quickly things were deteriorating and she was terrified. She kept putting cool washcloths on the girls’ foreheads. I imitated what she was doing trying to help my little sisters. At one point our eyes locked and the look in Momma’s eyes told me she was panic- stricken. At that moment I knew what I had to do.

I bundled up in the warmest clothes I could find. I slipped my handy down wool cape over my shoulders, buttoning it clear up to my chin. I wrapped Momma’s long scarf around my neck and when I opened the door cold air hit me in the face bringing tears to my eyes. I could feel butterflies fluttering in my tummy like I always did when I was scared. I never liked being in the dark and the task ahead of me was daunting! “I can do this!” I said over and over to myself. I slipped the halter over the little horse’s head with my eyes closed because I knew exactly how it felt and besides, it was too dark to see anything.

I had to go to the next town because we didn’t have a doctor in Neuchatel. I had never been to that town and only had a vague idea which direction to go. I wasn’t even sure how far away I was going. With an act of courage, I grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself up onto the mare’s back. The moon was a small sliver low in the sky. It reflected so little light there weren’t even shadows. It was a totally black night. I followed the cottonwood trees along the creek so I wouldn’t get completely lost in the dark.

The cold sent shivers up my back but I hung on tight and pressed forward. When my feet started to go numb from the cold, I only allowed myself to think about how much I loved my little sisters and that I didn’t want them to die. I knew the little horse could sense my fear because I could feel her gait quicken and her body extend so she could go faster. I was so full of fear and love and anxiety and caring that I rode faster than I ever had in my life. The wind whistled by me as I forged ahead through the night on the back of my trusted friend. The rhythmic pounding of hoofs on the snow ceased after a while and though I couldn’t look, I was certain we were flying! I hunkered down close to her neck to keep my face from freezing in the biting air.

I reached Onaga and found the doctor’s home just past mid-night. He readied himself quickly like he was used to making these late-night calls. His buggy lurched forward when his horse started out and he held onto the reigns tightly in one hand and his black leather doctor’s bag in the other. I rode my little horse alongside. All I told him was my sisters were dying. He was silent and looked concerned. Maybe he didn’t ask questions because I was so young? Maybe he was marveling at my bravery. We rode along, each deep in thought, the horses alert to the serious feelings they felt from us.

We reached the house and quickly went in to see the children. He carefully took temperatures and began treating symptoms: vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration, delirium and shock. I thought I could tell from the look on his face the seriousness of the situation and that he was worried the children would start dying. Maybe that was my fear. Momma was nearly hysterical and I knew she was keeping herself together only because the doctor was there. Mr.Chatland was on the couch snoring.

Toward morning Momma and the doctor saw that everyone was still alive. He had been so busy dealing with the immediate crisis there had not been time to diagnosis what was wrong. Now that things were stabilizing he began to examine the girls more closely. The first thing he noticed on several of the girls was small bumps on their hands that looked similar to very small warts. He carefully studied each girl’s hands. On several he saw white lines on the fingernails. That’s when he knew what it was. Arsenic poisoning. It didn’t take long for the doctor to figure out that Mr. Chatland had been putting miniscule amounts of arsenic into “the little girls’ milk” for some time. Momma and the doctor and I were so caught up with helping my sisters we didn’t hear Mr. Chatland slip out of the house and ride away on my little black horse. We never saw him again but heard he died in Kansas City”.

Grandma stops talking and looks directly into my eyes. I am at a loss for words. The story is true! I heard it directly from her! She is superwoman! Just then several tears slide down her cheeks and I hold my breath because I am trying to keep back tears, too. I am overcome with respect, pride, and gratitude. In the sharing of this one story my love for my grandma has expanded exponentially! I don’t even mind when she stands up, puts down her sewing and walks into the kitchen to be alone.

You see, what I understand from Grandma’s story is that superwoman is not a fictional character. She is a mindset.

--> in the family  ought of her as lbecause I could hear no hoofs rhymically landing in the snow.ed downsticle.      jjjacted and sp

“WHERE ARE WE?”

The sun woke me gently with an expansive beam cascading over my bed and across the room. I could tell from its intensity it was going to be another hot summer day. As the sun rose in the sky loud buzzing insects replaced the birds’ harmonious songs. I imagined everywhere shared nature’s morning routine but I only knew the Kansas version—its familiar sounds that meant “home”. I liked waking up slowly without an alarm clock or an intrusive knock on the door—rousing me so I would miss the early morning wonder.

My mind slowly began to piece together my upcoming day like a quilt emerging by taking one small stich at a time. It would be a “regular” day. Grandma was expecting me at her house first thing this morning to work in her yard before it got too hot. Then there was the problem of how I was going to convince my mother to let me go to the swimming pool and meet up with my friends in the afternoon. It was too far-fetched to think Mom would give in easily without a fight.

I puzzled about why my friends only talked about boys lately. I listened to them, baffled by why they would care about anyone whose intelligence was so questionable. Why, boys our age communicated by pushing each other around, not unlike 3rd graders. They were, in my opinion, about the most uninteresting people on the planet.

My little “party of five” as we were known had been close since kindergarten. Going through grade after grade together had solidified our friendship. We knew each other backward and forward and even this new development of “boy-crazy talk”, while confusing to me, brought up strong feelings of loyalty and “being there” for my friends no matter what.

Personally, I loved my girlfriends. I loved our camaraderie. I appreciated the time we spent together and liked feeling cared about unconditionally. How could they possibly long for more than that? Why did they even think they could spend time with a boy expecting their company would top ours?

It was a good feeling being loved without question. My family had so many strings attached to their loving. It was a relief just to relax with my friends knowing they would accept me no matter what I said or did.

I hesitated before putting my feet on the floor. I knew full well once I was up my day would push me into the outer world where I didn’t feel as comfortable as I did being with myself. I also knew if I didn’t show my face soon I would get the “lazy lecture” and I just didn’t feel like starting my day with that rant.

My sister had just left for her freshman college orientation. It was different being the only kid in the house. I hadn’t experienced much of a shift when my brother left seven years ago because he was too old to have much to do with me. Other than being allowed to move out of my sister’s room into his, I didn’t notice much of a difference when he was gone. My sister, however, was both my nemesis and ally. We fought constantly; all the while knowing we had each other’s back. We had a complicated relationship—not surprising considering how complex our family was. Not only was I missing her and our bantering but also I had become the single focus of Mom’s attention. I could already feel the tension rising between us.

I just reached into the refrigerator for the milk when Mom came around the corner. My shoulders stiffened and I held my breath. To my surprise she greeted me like a real person. She even asked me how I had slept. I knew something was up because this was not normal.

Then she came out with it. She had planned a picnic with her family that afternoon. “Could I please be back from the pool by 5?” We would be leaving at 5:30 to pick my dad up and meet my 2 aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents. My jaw dropped and I quickly agreed in disbelief. Wow! Being allowed to go to the pool without even asking, or having a fight!

I left the pool a little early and when I walked into the house at 4:30 I could see Mom had been busy preparing food for the picnic. The wicker picnic basket was sitting next to the door, full of fried chicken, Waldorf salad and deviled eggs. The red and white carrier filled with ice and drinks sat next to it. There was even a washtub covered with an old rag rug that I knew contained a metal canister filled with homemade ice cream. The peculiar thing about this scene was that my family always brought a dish to share and Grandma always fried the chicken. Mom had spent the entire day doing everything herself. What was going on?

We picked up Dad from work and drove out to Auntie Lou and Uncle Glenn’s farm. Aunt Loreen and Uncle Tommy, my younger cousins, Lou Ann and Julie, and Grandma and Grandpa were all waiting for us, as usual. The adults decided we would take 3 cars. I ended up riding with my 2 aunts and Lou Ann. I was so used to not asking what was happening that it didn’t occur to inquire about where we were going. I sat up and watched when we stopped. Dad got out of Grandpa’s car and slipped the wire loop over the rough pole. Then he dragged the gate until it was open enough for our cars to pass through.

That was when I began to really pay attention. I saw that my mother was driving in the lead with my grandmother sitting in the passenger side and Julie bouncing around in the backseat. My mother was driving as though she was on the Kansas Turnpike but when I looked closely, there was no road! We were driving across a wide prairie expanse. Fast! Where were we? I had been to each of my relatives’ multiple farms but had never been here. Were we on someone else’s land? Were we trespassing? 

My aunts were trying their best to follow the family code of conduct by not talking about what was actually going on. Even with all their years of experience at staying silent this situation eventually got to be too much for them. I heard my Auntie Lou say a little too loudly, “Where in the hell is Alice taking us?”

I was a little alarmed at the speed we were driving across that pasture just to keep up. Several times my mother stopped and got out of her car to look around. Then she got back in and took off again. Finally my grandpa and aunts caught up to her one of the times when she was stopped and rolled down their windows. There was a tense exchange with Mom but I couldn’t catch exactly what it was.

I was feeling really scared now. This behavior of my mother’s was all wrong. She never did what she wanted, always caving in to whomever she was around, especially her family. I understood because she had taught me to do the same thing. I was no more able to express my opinion or say what I wanted than fly to the moon.

We were up high on a flat mesa that stretched out several miles in front of us. When I looked out over the rolling patchwork farms below I had no idea where we were. There were absolutely no landmarks I recognized that would give a clue. My aunts and grandpa slowed down and I could hear loud bickering going on in my grandpa’s car. I could tell by the tone the men were angry.

After three more stops my mother got out of her car and walked toward the west where the sun was hiding behind a cloud. The high-pitched drone of the chacadas and the angle of the sun distracted me for a moment. Then I saw that my dad and uncles had gotten out of their car and were trying to build a fire to sit around. They were having trouble because the wind was blowing so fiercely. We were up very high and there was nothing to block the gusts. The wind was bending the tall grass almost to the ground.

My grandfather sat silently like a stone, alone in his car with the windows up. I could tell by his profile he was FURIOUS. Lou Ann and I were anxious to get out of the car but my aunts told us with a look to stay put. They leaned in and whispered in voices too low for us to hear. We could tell from their hand motions they were upset.

It was then I looked out over the vista. It was so beautiful it took my breath away. A sudden movement caught my eye and when I turned around I saw my mother. She was near the edge of the hilltop with the sun setting behind her, highlighting her aura with a thin pink glow. Her back was to us and she was singing and spinning around with her arms outstretched. It was as though she wasn’t even aware we were there. My aunts were convinced she had lost her mind. “She is just too happy” they said.

From that moment on I was suspended between 2 worlds. The first was the consistent dependable one my family had created long before I was born, where you were expected to never express any feelings. The other world I had never been introduced to before. In it there seemed to be freedom, creativity and actual happiness.

Set free from the expectations that had encased my mother all her life she was finally overlooking her vista—looking out from her own perspective and celebrating with song and dance. I was mesmerized by her whimsical moves, her grace. She continued on, moving through the life she hadn’t lived, for what seemed like a long time. Everyone else pretended she wasn’t “out there doing that”. I couldn’t take my eyes off her and I edged closer and sat on the hard ground.

I don’t remember whose house we ended up at when the fire wouldn’t start, the wind wouldn’t stop and the family piled into their cars to get out of that pasture before dark. I couldn’t stop thinking about the impression Mom’s “celebration ritual” had imprinted on me—empowerment and permission to trust life and live it fully.

I will treasure this memory with all its oddities forever because it was the only time I saw my mother do what she wanted. The experience, which was SO out of character, left no question in my mind that in those ecstatic moments, she was blissfully happy. I will always remember this extraordinarily restorative interlude, which almost felt like a beautiful dream, when my mom astonished me and made me smile.

GREEN GENES

My maternal grandmother loved her gardens. By the time I was 9 years old her peony, rose and iris gardens, vegetable gardens and orchards not only caught my attention, but drew me into a deep fascination and new way of being in touch with cycles and process. I am only now beginning to understand…

The first awareness I had of Grandma’s magical world occurred in April 1959. She was a brittle and cantankerous woman with practically everybody. I was scared of her. For some reason, that day, I stopped by her house. I was out on my Huffy seeking adventures that the safe little Kansas town made possible.

I could tell Grandma was home because I could see laundry flying on the clothesline against the blue spring sky filled with big white fluffy clouds. I parked my bike by a series of buckets that lined the garage. Later I found out that the buckets were there to catch rainwater for her plants.

She wasn’t in the kitchen. When I yelled out, “Grandma”, she called up from the basement and told me to come down. I had never been in the basement at my grandparent’s house before. I felt the dark dampness and a significant drop in temperature as I descended the stairs. I remember swallowing hard and feeling a tightening that was taking over my tummy.

She was bent in two, leaning over hundreds of tiny pots and trays of dark, rich dirt. “Watcha doin’?” was all I could get out. She twisted around in her cotton-print dress and snorted her reply, “planting.” It wasn’t a friendly “planting” but I assuaged my desire to run back up the stairs by reassuring myself that my mother and aunts had grown up to be adults with this woman and probably, I would too.

Then out of the darkness, she extended her hand toward me. Her body was still bent over with her head down. She didn’t look up. Some tiny seeds dropped into my trembling hand. I had received my initiation into her world. I’m not sure if anyone else in my family ever got to enter her gardening universe, but I know the lessons I learned in her domain turned my life upside down.

It took us hours that day, and several others, to plant all those seeds and place the pots carefully on little shelves she had built in front of the windows around the dank, stone basement. We worked in silence, which felt to my nine-year-old self like an ancient, sacred ritual. I followed her lead and because she offered no words or direction that told me what to do or how to do it, I became adept at watching.

Every day I found myself descending those stairs to be with my new master and her plants. Sometimes she would run her hands over the tops of the little green shoots and talk right out loud to them. She would tell them that they were wonderful. Beautiful. She said things to those plants that apparently never occurred to her to say to her own children, or grandchildren.

When school let out for the summer, I found that I wanted to go to Grandma’s as soon as I got up every morning. I didn’t try to explain this impulse to anyone, because I didn’t understand why it felt so important to me. There was just no place else I wanted to be.

One morning I arrived to find my grandmother outside, leaning over a flowerbed surrounded by all our little pots. She didn’t look up when I came into view but handed me a funny-shaped metal tool with a worn, wooden handle. I got down on my knees beside her and began to imitate what she was doing.

We transplanted the sprouts into the ground all morning. At five minutes to noon, she suddenly stood up straight and literally ran into the house. I followed her, a bit bewildered and perplexed. She pulled off her sweaty, dirt-covered frock and slipped into a clean, starched dress. This, she covered with a full apron with hand-embroidered flowers on the pocket. I wondered if handy-work was her wintertime garden, and if I would be old enough this winter to learn how embroider flowers on my clothes?

She stirred the soup that began bubbling on the stove. She took cold cuts and cheese out of the refrigerator and placed them with quick precision onto a turquoise plate. Beside the meat she put a pile of carefully counted pieces of thick, white, spongy Wonder Bread. She was moving so quickly around the kitchen that I slid under the table to keep out of the way.

Just as the teakettle whistled and the coco clock struck noon, my grandfather walked through the door. He sat down at the table without a word and began to make a sandwich. Grandma served him with grace in silent, slow motion. It was as if she had been in the kitchen, suspended in the same position he’d left her when he departed for work at eight. It was as though we hadn’t been outside digging in the warm earth all morning.

At five minutes to one, our secret intact, we both watched my grandfather pull out of the driveway. Before the back end of Grandpa’s Chrysler was even out of sight, the dirty clothes were back on and Grandma had her hands in the earth again.

These gardening years lasted until I grew up and went away to live my bigger, more complicated life. It’s funny how every winter I find myself looking to embroidery my feelings and stories into flowers on clothes or towels. When spring comes, just like the bulbs poised underneath the last snow, I feel something awaken in me. The old magic flows through me, and I can’t wait to get my hands into the dirt. I watch the flowers in my own gardens break through the earth, bud, blossom, and fall away. What wonderful gifts my grandmother shared with me! Feeling the cycles of life, and learning to tend life with love fills me with sheer delight, day after day, season after season, year after year.