Category: Memories

Holidays, Memories, Nature, Nostalgia, Scripture

Snow??!?

Lisa Burbank

“Come now, and let us reason together,” saith the Lord: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” (Isaiah 1:18)

I’m one of those weirdos that actually likes snow. I think it’s the memory of an unexpected snow day as a child. They were always a special treat. If you lived in Rhode Island in the 60s and 70s, no doubt you hated anyone who lived in either Foster or Gloucester since these rural communities were always the first to receive the benediction of “No school, Foster/Gloucester!” from the infamous Salty Brine (a Rhode Island legend).

We received a few inches this morning here in Connecticut. Not exactly a white Christmas since it’s a couple of weeks’ away, but I’ll take it. The only drawbacks are the shoveling, as it’s heavy and wet this time, and my spine isn’t as young as it used to be, and having to drive in it because, even though the schools are closed today, the library will likely be open.

Still, I love the first snowfall. And the world really does look magical today. If you are driving somewhere in similar conditions, take it slow. Safe travels! If you’re lucky enough to have a coveted snow day, enjoy the rest and brew a cuppa for me!

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Alcoholism, Bereavement, Christianity, Forgiveness, Friendship, Grief, Healing, Humanity First, Love, Memories, Politics, Prayer, Scripture, Self-esteem, Tradition, Understanding

It’s An Age Thing

Lisa Burbank

“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green, to declare that the Lord is upright; He is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him.” (Psalm 92:12-15)

I turned 58 last Wednesday. Not a milestone of any kind, and a day like any other. The many Facebook posts and text messages wishing me a “Happy Birthday!” were about the only occasions to mark it (outside of dinner on Sunday with Mom and a friend). None of this is a lamentation of any kind. I am grateful for all the well-wishing. But, damn, if I don’t feel every inch of those 58 years these days!

Aside from the usual aches and pains that accompany aging…especially those of us who have long abandoned our yoga practice…it’s the heartache that also accompanies this aging process. As the old saying goes: “Growing old ain’t for sissies!”

It’s the faces no longer here, which seems to occur with more rapidity as the years advance. It’s also the changes in relationships.

And, along those veins, a lamentation against modern technology and the havoc it can wreak. I.e. We are far more open about our thoughts and feelings on social media than we are in person. We say things maybe we wouldn’t. And, for those of us who have always been the dour church mouse in the corner, we speak up for ourselves where, in person, we’d probably continue to take the verbal abuse.

My bestie since middle school unfriended me because she didn’t agree with whom I cast my vote for in the presidential election. That’s her right not to agree with my choice. But it was the insinuation posted on Facebook that she wouldn’t trust old friends with the whereabouts of Anne Frank that stung. I haven’t become this racist, homophobe, wannabe fascist because my more conservative side has emerged in the face of certain social changes. Whatever your skin tone, religious beliefs, country of origin, gender, or sexual orientation, you are welcome at my table as a friend…and always will be. If someone slights you because of who you are, I will still fight by your side for fair treatment. As long as you treat me and mine with the same respect and courtesy, that will never change. I will add whatever your political views to the list above, too.

I don’t care about any of that. I care about YOU.

There’s been a lot of reflection this past week. And a realization that my bestie hasn’t picked up the phone to call me just to chat in almost 10 years. I assumed it had to do with the “convenience” of social media. But, over the years, my calls to her have almost always gone to voicemail…and never a returned call. Those rare times that she has answered, it was as though she couldn’t wait to get off the phone again. I’ve wracked my brain for some sort of incident that might have precluded this behavior. We’ve never had an angry exchange of words. And I’ve never known my bestie to be shy about expressing her feelings…even before social media.

I could be entirely barking up the wrong tree: she got married about 10 years ago. For those new to the blog, I grew up with a stepfather who, to keep it G-rated, wanted a little too much to do with me. He was also an alcoholic and, when under the influence, would fly into rages. Little by little, he pulled Mom away from the influence of others in her life: friends, family members. I can’t help wondering, when looking back over these recent years, if my voting preferences weren’t simply a final excuse to cut me out of her life…because maybe her new husband is doing what my stepfather did and constantly reminding her of “offenses” that were never really offenses to pull her away from others (i.e. a control issue).

The changes in our relationship over the years haven’t been lost on me but, knowing how strong of an inferiority complex I have from the aforementioned childhood, I’ve always assumed maybe I was being overly-sensitive. I’ve always trusted that our friendship was solid enough that, if there was ever a real problem between us, we could talk about it.

The other possibility is she’s afraid of saying something more hurtful and destroying the relationship altogether. And I’ll give her that. It’s a rather childish response, and a hurtful one, but I can accept it.

I just hope she knows I’m still here if she needs a friend to talk to (incidentally, my bestie and I live half a continent away from each other…not exactly a ride across town to see what’s up) if my earlier suspicions are correct.

These are the complexities of getting older, of seeing friendships change…some for the better, some withering away. It’s especially heartbreaking in this age of advanced technology that, while it has its uses, like everything, it also has its evil side. Relationships are always changing and evolving, always has been that way, but today, it’s much easier to slam the cyber door shut than it was the physical one in generations’ past.

I love my bestie. I love a lot of other friends who have gotten angry over my recent political choices. We don’t have to agree with each other, but we should be willing to look past those differences of opinion to the person inside. When we shut our hearts, and our minds…and our screens…against any effort to understand at all the what and why that may be driving those choices, we open the door to the adversary even more broadly. With today’s technology, he’s wringing his hands with glee and ecstasy the more divided we become…as individuals, as a nation, as a world on the cusp of nuclear war.

I hate how complex life seems to get the older I get. I feel my age more and more as the world changes around me…and feel a sense of rebellion against it. I understand my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles more as I age, the clinging on to fond memories…and the feeling of being forgotten by a society that scoffs at those memories.

My door is still open to my bestie. My hope and prayer is that, once the mad fades away with time, she’ll “friend” me again, answer my calls and/or return them. If she needs a friend to talk to, I hope she knows, I will always be there for her. Perhaps she won’t understand it, will mock me as a door mat, or some such. She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of forgiveness, of loving the whole person despite their sins. She’s an atheist to this born-again Christian, so perhaps this was bound to happen with such a differing worldview. But I will always love her…despite those differences.

That’s one of the many blessings of getting older: you understand what matters most. It’s the people who share all those memories, who share however many trips around the sun we get to travel in this life that matter. And, because they do, I refuse to close that cyber door in return…or any physical doors. Life is too short.

May God bless you & keep you!

Alcoholism, Birthday Wishes, Chess, Family, Grief, Love, Memories, Nostalgia, Reading, Writing

My Poppop

Lisa Burbank

“They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green.” (Psalms 92:14)

My Poppop was a wealth of knowledge. He wrote for the Providence Journal Bulletin for 40 years and was even nominated for a Pulitzer’s Prize for his work. As an investigative reporter, he rubbed elbows with some of the best…and some of the worst. His obituary speaks proudly of the organized crime ring that he helped take down through his reporting. He also interviewed Henry Ford for the Ford Motor Company’s 50th Anniversary; I have some of the stationary and memorabilia from that event.

But none of that is why I loved him.

Obviously, I get my love of writing from my paternal grandfather. In part, my love of music (he played multiple instruments), as it runs on both sides of the family. I get my love of learning from Poppop, too. And my chess-playing ability. I’ve squared off with some of the best. I haven’t always won, but I’ve always made them work for the win. (Of course, I haven’t played in a while, but I’m confident it’s like riding a bike…)

Going to my paternal grandparents’ home each weekend was a magical time for me. Yeah, I’m honest enough to admit they spoiled me, but I’m going with age and experience on their part on how to teach children the wonders of the world.

Some of my fondest memories of Poppop are of Saturday nights sitting beside him on the couch while he read stories to me, or listened to me read them aloud to him, while occasionally blowing in my ear to make me giggle from the tickle of it. Sometimes he simply shared little tidbits of knowledge with me: “What letter of the alphabet is the most used in the English language?” I may have been 5 when he posed this question to me. I remember saying “A”. The correct answer is “E”.

When he wasn’t banging away at the keyboard of his manual typewriter, he was sitting out in the yard, smoking his cigar, and watching the birds. He was an avid birdwatcher (I am, too). He kept an assortment of bird feeders well-stocked and a bird bath to which a ceramic cardinal and ceramic blue jay perched alongside their living “cousins”. (One of the first knick knacks that I ever purchased for myself was a cardinal and a blue jay sitting on a branch…)

He tried to teach me to play the piano a time or two, but I wasn’t receptive to that teaching (something I rue to this day…).

However, I never left my grandparents’ home on Sunday evening without my Poppop driving his big old black Buick sedan to the railroad tracks on Kilvert Street in Warwick, Rhode Island. We would sit in the parking lot beside a tenement there (from which I rented an apartment years later!) and wait. Almost the whole family–Poppop, Nanny (my grandmother), Aunt Margie and Mom & I (sadly, my father, his son, never wanted to be a part of my weekend)–went along for the ride. We sat and we waited until those railroad lights started flashing and the arm came down to stop traffic going over the tracks. Once the train went by, we drove down the other end of the road to another parking lot–usually the bank’s–and watched one jet take off and another land, all with a sense of wonder over the marvels of modern technology.

Poppop’s 119th birthday was this past Sunday. Alcoholism took him from us too soon at the age of 68. But, despite this social “disease”, he lived a life well. He will forever be my “Poppop”.

May God bless you & keep you!

19th century, Animals, Appreciation, Culture, ecosystems, Global Warming, God/Jesus, History, Homesteading, Memories, Nostalgia, Scripture, Tradition

The Comfort of Fire

Lisa Burbank

“Love each other deeply. Honor others more than yourselves. Never let the fire in your heart go out. Keep it alive.” (Romans 12:11)

I shared the photograph below on social media over the weekend, but it bears sharing here, too. Because nothing brings about a sense of tranquility and peace like a warm fire blazing in either a fireplace, or in my case, the woodstove. It really is a comfort.

Yes, I know a few European countries have banned the use of fireplaces and woodstoves, citing climate change, pollution and air quality as the reason. But how much more is our air quality challenged by the smoke stacks of various manufacturing facilities, jet exhaust, crop dusting, and the mining for various minerals and precious metals that go into our electronics and so-called “green” energies? Even with the recycling of some of those components, it doesn’t completely offset the harm done of this last.

Yes, my minor was environmental science. I’m familiar with the science, have seen the evidence that the climate is changing, and that Mankind is responsible for this change. But it’s not you or I driving back and forth to work each week, or the woodstove you’re lighting to save money on heat each winter, that’s the cause. Both are just a drop in the bucket against corporate violations.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m here to talk about fire…the good kind that satisfies the soul on a chilly autumn night. Can anything else compare? Surely no electric, oil, or even gas, heat soaks into the bones as readily as the fire on the hearth.

What is it about fire that soothes so much? Is it ancestral memory? Surely our ancestors spent their winters gathered around such, praying, reading, telling stories, making music together, sharing a pot of tea and a wedge of pie.

Granted, before woodstoves were invented, they wouldn’t have been warm. Houses from the 19th century and before were not insulated. And, while the fire on a true hearth (i.e. fireplace) satisfies almost as readily as that in a woodstove, much of the heat actually escapes up the chimney. It’s one of the reasons why woodstoves caught on: the heat stays locked in the cast iron, radiating throughout the house. With a fireplace, unless you’re sitting right in front of it, you cannot feel its warmth.

Perhaps the ancestral memory goes back even farther…to days of living in caves and the crackle of a fire keeping predators away. Is it that sense of safety and security that make it such a joy? While we may not need to keep a fire going to save us from being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger, perhaps there’s a transference of that safety and security onto the knowledge that, in the event of a storm and subsequent power outage, we’re still safe from freezing to death.

It’s likely we will never know the true answer to that, but what a time to mourn if we’re ever denied the comfort of that fire as some of our European neighbors have been. It truly is a gift…as Miss Zelda would agree (below).

May God bless you & keep you!

19th century, Animals, Christianity, Exhaustion, Faith, Family, God/Jesus, Gratitude, Healing, Herbs, History, Homesteading, Memories, Nostalgia, Prayer, Religion, Sleep Deprivation, Writing, Yoga & Fitness

Getting Back To My Roots

Lisa Burbank

“O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens.” (Psalm 8:1)

Sunday was Palm Sunday. I went to Mass and served as Lector, reading through Judas’ betrayal of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s one of those rare moments when Mass becomes almost a play, with Father Ben reading the words of Jesus; Lectors, like myself, reading the parts of the narrator and “voice”, and the rest of the congregation reading the parts labeled “crowd”.

I sometimes kick myself for not pursuing a career in acting. I studied acting in high school and, again, in community college. I’m quite good at it. And, after several years of serving as Lector, my knees no longer knock together in front of a crowd.

But I wasn’t really thinking about acting as I stood in front of the congregation on Sunday and read for the “voice”. My mind was reflecting over the last 5 weeks of Lent. I gave up junk food, at least the more popular definition of it (candy, sweets, chips, etc.). Living with the definitive junk food junkie (Mom), it’s tough to resist. However, as a measure of Mom’s sweetness and solidarity, she also gave up junk food for Lent so it wouldn’t be so hard for me. She didn’t want to eat chips and cookies in front of me.

Less mindful after Mass, I took Mom out for Chinese food and broke that Lenten vow by eating a fortune cookie (sigh!)

I also vowed to get back to reading a chapter of the Bible each morning and focusing more on my prayer life.

I’ve failed miserably on that score.

It’s amazing how hard it is to rekindle a habit once it’s been broken. It’s also amazing these epiphany moments.

Earlier blog posts have often sung the praises of working for a living history museum. It was the dream job come true. And, in many ways, that statement was true. I learned all sorts of things that will aid me on my homesteading journey, things that have been a major blessing already. Perhaps the sin of pride, but there was recognition as a herbalist…because that was my title: Herb Garden Lead. And, in many ways, I got to act. There were “scripts” to memorize (i.e. historical facts) when interpreting for visitors to the museum. There were skills to learn so we could demonstrate life in the 19th century.

It was also a very demanding position.

Prior to getting this job, I had a habit of rising everyday at 3:30 a.m. I blogged, prayed the rosary, and hit the yoga mat. Then I headed downstairs and outside to the barn to take care of the animals. I didn’t have to be to work until 3:30 in the afternoon at the dealership so I spent late-morning, early-afternoon writing. If the dealership had been a full-time position, it would’ve been ideal for this writer. I got home at 7:30 in the evening, spent some time caring for my animals again, and then went to bed.

Living history, however, demanded swing shifts. Evening programs on a Saturday didn’t see me driving over an hour home until after midnight…only to have to get up again a few hours’ later to work Sunday morning. 3:30 a.m. and writing became an impossible dream. The rides into work each morning found me playing “beat the school bus” because every route into work seemed to be a school bus route…no matter what time I left for work. I spent my mornings literally running through the barnyard, 19th century skirts hiked up over my knees as I threw hay and feed at the animals and yelled at them to get out of my way (we had to be fully dressed in period attire walking into the museum). Even changing the animals’ feeding time didn’t help because of how late I often got home at night.

And then I got my wrists slapped a few times for what few blog posts I still managed to create. I wrote about something unethical I witnessed in regard to the animals kept at the museum. I lamented being unable to attend Mass on a Sunday morning because of a conflict of hours. I own my bad on the first but, the lamentation over Mass was simply that: a lamentation. Not a dig against the museum.

I remember coming home from one of those evening programs, collapsing in the easy chair in the living room, still fully dressed in period garb, getting up 4 hours’ later and going back in, rumpled plaid still hanging from weary shoulders. I drove home the following evening praying, telling Him how I simply couldn’t do this anymore. As much as I loved interpreting, as much as I loved wearing the period clothing and learning all of these antiquated skills, I simply couldn’t devote every ounce of my being to it, as it seemed to be required.

I slipped while shoveling snow the following Tuesday so I could go into work on Wednesday and fractured my shoulder. The rest is history.

I may not have kept my Lenten vows as well as I would have liked this year. However, this Lenten season has been a time of reflection. How did I stray so far away from all that I hold dear? Writing, herbs, animals and homesteading…the things that make me, well, me. More importantly, family, friends, and above all, faith. I feel like this has been a long lesson in the sin of idolatry.

Because I truly idolized what seemed an idyllic job. If I had lived closer, if I didn’t have farm animals and pets, if, if, if…it might’ve remained a dream job–despite the grueling work schedule. But, perhaps, it was also a lesson that I’m not Supergirl. Like every other human being, I am gifted with 24 hours each day. How am I spending them?

As I continue to reflect during this Lenten season, I’m starting to go deeper. I feel like Job, questioning the why and the how. Maybe it’s time to re-read that book from the Bible.

However, for the moment, I seem caught up with the Psalms, finding balm for my spirit in shorter verses that always seem to pack a punch. It’s a reflection on my life these days: slow and steady, short and sweet. Baby steps forward, learning to take those steps and not being too hard on myself for being unable to handle anything bigger these days; it’s too overwhelming because of how far I’ve fallen behind in, well, everything. The good habits will return, or morph into something better. The life I dream of living will become a reality…or He will mold and shape it into something beyond my wildest dreams.

Amazingly, He’s been using my work at the library to teach me this very valuable lesson in taking things one step at a time. Rome isn’t built in a day but, those baby steps make a difference. It’s time to apply them at home. I can’t twitch my nose and do it all in a blink. But, each baby step will take me that much closer to that dream life…and maybe I’ll finally have time to enjoy some of that journey doing what I love, sharing it with those I love, and above all, praising Him whom I love above all else. In short, getting back to my roots.

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Books, Christianity, Creativity, Faith, Fiber Arts, gardening, Gratitude, Greenhouse, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Memories, Plants, Poverty, Prayer, Spices, Spinning, Straw Braiding, Weaving, Wool, Writing, YouTube

Where He Leads

Lisa Burbank

“Your road led by a pathway through the sea–a pathway no one knew was there!” (Psalms 77:19)

I received a phone call from a realtor a couple of weeks’ ago. It’s not the first offer that I’ve received for my property but, up until this point, they’ve been offers simply to list it and, knowing it’s fixer-upper state, I’ve pretty much ignored the letters and calls.

Until now.

Granted, selling would solve a lot of my financial burdens. Previous realtors talked about “staging” and, in short, wanting to “showcase” it for potential buyers. In its current state, I doubt it would pass an inspection for anyone other than a house flipper. If I had the financial means to make some of the repairs, or the plumbing, carpentry, or construction skills to do it myself, it wouldn’t be where it is in the first place and I probably would’ve sold years’ ago.

This guy was different. After total transparency on my part: it needs a new roof, new gutters, a new hot water tank (we haven’t had running hot water since last November), a new water softener (buying in water every couple of days for humans, goats, chickens and ducks to drink is breaking the proverbial bank), some electrical work, the foundation repaired, and the back door doesn’t close properly due to too much settling, this realtor tells me his interest is in its commercial value. He would like to see the property, of course, but his plan is to remove the house and rebuild for commercial use.

This looks hopeful. There’s even a chance of recouping some of the equity in the home to start over again.

It is also bittersweet. On the one hand, I’m feeling a sense of hope that maybe I have a future after all…beyond pitching a tent in the woods somewhere. There’s an impending sense of relief to be free of the roller coaster emotional ride that foreclosure mediation inevitably brings. On the other hand, I’ve lived here for over 20 years. There are a lot of memories, both happy and sad, and the dreams I had for this place that have never been realized due to the financial burdens that started with the Great Recession and appear to be ending with the current recession. I have many beloved pets buried here, too. I hate the thought of them being paved over or dug up.

However, I’m also seeing how limited I would be to make those dreams a reality even if I stayed. There’s still the zoning issue to resolve…and no guarantee it will go in my favor. The property isn’t big enough to accomplish what I have in mind. There’s no parking for that second-hand book store. No room to grow things like flax or rye straw, or cash crops like elderberries. No pasture for the number of fiber-producing animals that I’d need to raise to truly become “The Herbal Hare Tomestead and Animal Sanctuary: Home of Misfit Animals and Books, and Makers of Herbal, Apian, and Natural Fiber Products”.

“Leaf It To the Goats” isn’t even on the radar here.

I could go much smaller, of course. I could be content with turning much of this almost-acre into an extensive herb garden, maybe add a small greenhouse for warmth-loving spices, like cardamom and turmeric. I could still grow microgreens, maybe get into growing mushrooms. There’s a planned YouTube channel, regardless of where we land, and I could still produce it here as its main focus will be herbs. I could be content with rabbits, maybe a couple of Angora goats (if I won the zoning case), for spinning. And honeybees don’t take much room. However, the latter haven’t done well here. I think it’s in part because I’m so close to a major interstate; they don’t have much of a “fly zone”. But I’ve also heard from more seasoned beekeepers that it can take years to get an apiary up and running…and there’s always Colony Collapse to contend with today. It’s not a bad plan and would leave more room for writing (always a plus).

In short, I’m leaving it all in His hands. I will be calling the realtor later today to schedule a visit. I’m also waiting to hear if I’ve gotten the director’s position I applied for at the library where I work. I had the interview on Friday. I’m hoping I hear something before my foreclosure hearing on Monday. This could be the definitive moment. As the salary of a director is considerably higher than a part-time librarian’s it might be enough to modify.

Again, it’s in His hands. I know what I’d like to do. And I have contingency plans. But, in the end, it’s His plan that truly matters. Talk about one’s faith being challenged.

May God bless you & keep you!

PS Please keep the prayers & positive thoughts/energy coming. And I would be eternally grateful if you would share the Go Fund Me link below. Praise the Lord!

https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-this-animal-sanctuary-grow-and-thrive

Appreciation, Bereavement, Brothers & Sisters, Christianity, Compassion, Culture, Diversity, Faith, Family, Friendship, God/Jesus, Gratitude, Grief, Healing, History, Love, Memories, Nostalgia, Politics, Prayer, Religion, Scripture, Understanding

Remembering 09/11/2001

Lisa Burbank

“The path of the godly leads away from evil; he who follows that path is safe” (Proverbs 16:17)

I had just come back from the company cafeteria with a cup of tea when a co-worker hollered over the foam-filled cubicle wall, “Oh, my God! Did you see that?” And then a cacophony of voices asking, “What?” “Yes, OMG!” “Holy crap…my sister/mother/brother just texted me; look at this!” “What happened?” and “This can’t be real.”

And, yet, it was.

As the images scrolled across every screen in our corporate facility, I remember glancing at the plate-glass window behind me and trying to imagine what it would be like to see a large commercial airplane heading straight for me. Granted, I was on the ground floor and our facility sprawled rather than rising up to touch the skyline but, at that point, I believed anything could happen. I thought of the family and friends those people would never see again…because, in that instance, you would know there was no escape.

Glancing at the clock on the PC, I picked up my extension (I wouldn’t join the ranks of cellphone users for many years to come), and called my parents’ house in Warwick. I knew they weren’t flying anywhere but, you know, you couldn’t help but check-in with all of your loved ones at a time like this. Every other extension was lit up with the same type of phone calls. Nobody was working on September 11, 2001…outside of first responders and hospital personnel. And, as news footage rolled, janitors, cafeteria workers, assemblers, accountants, executives and technical engineers stood shoulder-to-shoulder to watch in horror.

Mom wasn’t up yet. My stepfather had just awakened, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. His two-plus-packs-a-day-early-morning-gravel declared, “It looks like something out of a Sci-Fi film”. As he could likely quote dialog from Star Trek, I agreed with this assessment. I still had that feeling of otherworldliness myself; it would not wear off for some time. For me, it was more like Freddy Kruger meets Godzilla, or something equally as fantastical and unbelievable.

My stepfather woke my mother up. It felt good just to hear their voices as I watched new footage rolling of people trapped in the upper floors of the Twin Towers jumping to their deaths.

Suddenly, my Mom mentioned a new neighbor of theirs who had sat outside with them a few nights’ earlier, showing off a new tattoo. She remembered it depicted an airplane flying into a pair of towers…

They hung up to call the local police station.

Nobody ever responded, took them seriously…even after they discovered only hours later that the couple had moved out in the middle of the night on September 10th.

Later, as the list of casualties scrolled across every news outlet feed, I learned that Mom had an old high school friend on board one of the planes. Carol was en route to her daughter’s wedding. I can’t imagine her last thoughts…or that of her daughter on what should have been a day filled with joy, not sorrow. And, as my mother’s side of the family is mostly police officers, I couldn’t help but grieve for those who lost their lives trying to save others, while also admiring the bravery that every emergency worker displayed as they rushed in, heedless of their own safety.

Of course, with the renewed sense of patriotism after these attacks, and the pretty much unanimous approval for our commander-in-chief to invade the Middle East, came a great fear in the hearts of many for anyone of Middle Eastern heritage. Or anyone just sporting a head covering of some sort. Memes spread via email hating on anyone Muslim or Middle Eastern…or both. I understood the fear behind it but, when one such meme surfaced quoting passages from the Quran, I decided to risk some censure. The quote and the book didn’t even exist in the Quran (and forgive my faulty memory for not remembering the fake quote from 20 years’ ago). Though I am Christian, I have a copy of the Quran in my home and have read it cover-to-cover. I double checked and then copied down text from the numbered passage the meme claimed as “gospel”.

Yup. I got reamed. Family, friends…was I crazy?

No. Just trying to do what I thought Jesus would do: counter the lie with the truth…and stop the persecution of innocent people. While all members of Al Qaeda and the Taliban identify as Muslim, not every Muslim is a member of Al Qaeda or the Taliban. It’s like members of the Ku Klux Klan claiming to be Christian, but not every Christian is a member of the KKK. Both are fringe extremists of their respective religions and cultures.

I was called un-American for pointing out the error in the aforementioned meme. I had a brother deployed to the Middle East right after 9/11. Of course, I was worried sick over his safety, and that of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Of course, I supported (and still support) our troops, our police officers, firefighters, EMT’s and other emergency workers.

And I always will.

As I sit here remembering 09/11/2001, my heart grieves for Every. Single. Life lost in this terrorist attack. I grieve and pray for all of the unsuspecting executives and office workers, maintenance and food preppers, blue color and white color, who went to work that morning never realizing what that day would bring…or the ultimate sacrifice they would have to make. I pray for the passengers and crew aboard each airline. I pray for the emergency workers and first responders who gave so selflessly. I pray for the lives lost over the last 20 years due to the myriad pollutants inhaled during and after the attack. I pray for all of our soldiers, many who also gave the ultimate sacrifice to defend our country, and for those who came back less than whole with limbs missing, sight and/or hearing destroyed, suffering from PTSD and, like so many of our vets from Vietnam, found themselves homeless upon their return to the U.S. (we can do better than this America…). And, yes, I also pray for those caught in a cycle of hate for their heritage and/or beliefs since this attack, whether Muslim or Sikh or any other individual mistaken and mistrusted for something they had no more control over than any other American.

Twenty years…

The children of the soldiers deployed in 2001 are now old enough to be soldiers themselves. 13 of them died as our current administration finally pulled out of Afghanistan. Yes, it was time and past for this war to end.

More criticism: I’ve been told I have no idea how hard it is to pull a whole army out of a country like that and I shouldn’t judge…even though thousands of American citizens and Afghan allies were left behind. I should focus on the, I believe the number is over 120,000, people that were rescued. Focus on the positive; this has never been done before (yeah, there’s an echo chamber here from the previous administration…). Those left behind are essentially hostages now. And, no, I really don’t know how hard it is to pull out of a country like that. But my brother could’ve been one of those 13. And I believe my critics are missing the point completely as we all mourn the loss of who I pray will finally be the last of those lost since 9/11 and the seemingly endless war that has followed in its wake.

May God bless you & keep you!

And may we never forget: 09/11/2001 – 09/11/2021

Animals, Brothers & Sisters, Christianity, Compassion, Exhaustion, Faith, Forgiveness, Friendship, God/Jesus, Gratitude, Grief, Healing, Homesteading, Humanity First, Memories, Nostalgia, Poverty, Prayer

And Then the Other Hammer Falls

Lisa Burbank

“But Lot’s wife looked back as she was following along behind him, and became a pillar of salt.” (Genesis 19:26)

I feel a bit like Lot’s wife. He’s been pointing me away from here for years now. And I keep looking back, allowing nostalgia and sentiment to sway my decisions. Now home has become unsafe and I received the foreclosure notice yesterday.

WARNING: There may be some redundancy in my blog posts as the weeks roll on. I will be sharing the link to my Go Fund Me campaign periodically in my posts. Please forgive me; these are desperate times.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-our-farm-is-being-foreclosed?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cp_guide_do&member=12637057

Even if you cannot help, if you could share this link on your social media pages, I would be forever indebted to you! Your prayers, positive thoughts and energy are also appreciated!

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Appreciation, Bereavement, Brothers & Sisters, Compassion, Faith, Family, Friendship, Grief, Healing, Holidays, Homesteading, Memories, Nostalgia

Hindsight is Always 2020

Lisa Burbank

“Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where then your victory? Where then your sting? (1 Corinthians 15:51-55)

I don’t believe I am alone in saying this has been one of the most challenging years we have ever faced: A contentious election; conspiracy theories of wide-spread voter fraud; a deadly pandemic; the worst economy since The Great Depression of the 1930s, and a whole new meaning to the phrases “2020 vision” and, to reiterate the title of this post, “Hindsight is always 2020.”

As midnight creeps ever closer on this December 31, 2020, the only place I ever want to see 2020 again is through hindsight!

Of course, my inner-Pollyanna still looks for the silver lining: many of us have also renewed our appreciation for what matters most. As we sheltered in place, we got to rest, to read a few good books, enjoy the company of immediate family, pets, and find creative ways to occupy our minds and bodies.

I pray that everyone reading this is hale and hearty, and that somehow, some way, you are still standing strong. We WILL get through this challenging time.

And, as the tradition I started last year for New Year’s Eve, this last post of the year also remembers in a very special way those faces that will no longer grace The Herbal Hare Homestead…except in our hearts and the memories we keep deep inside.

My uncle, James Kimble, passed away in January. Sadly, by his own hand. He was 58 years old.

My Auntie Anne Marie Heon passed away due to complications from Covid-19, as did a family friend’s boyfriend, Richard.

A childhood friend, Paul Shelton, passed a couple of weeks’ ago due to a heart attack.

Technically speaking, none of these people ever physically visited The Herbal Hare Homestead; all of them lived in other states. However, they were loved and, again, will live on in our memories.

As for residents here, we lost quite a few beloved furry family members: chickens Goldie, a Buff Orppington, and Crow, a Black Austrolop; my first goat to be lost, Domino, who succumbed to heat stroke, and two beloved felines: my Pearlina Wilhelmina, who suffered cardiac arrest while being given sub-Q fluids by our vet, and Priscilla, who was found a couple of weeks ago on the floor of the rabbit room, also a stroke. And, though she was only here for a little over a week, Dolly. Dolly was a stray cat that showed up just before winter. I finally trapped her and took her to the vet for shots and testing to make sure she was healthy and, sadly, the vet found that she was having trouble breathing, there was an irregular heartbeat, and she was ancient. All of her teeth had fallen out, she was well beyond motherhood, and she had been lucky to have been carried as long as she had on the heart issues he detected. The kindest thing was to put her down. Still broke my heart.

I hate saying “Goodbye!”

Somehow, I believe this time next year will see me saying “Goodbye!” to the current location of The Herbal Hare Homestead as we search for new digs. That breaks my heart, too, as all of the aforementioned pets, and more, are buried here. But the fixer-upper house needs far too much TLC–more than I can give it, and it has become unsafe. I can no longer afford the mortgage payments. And, with the new neighbors raising Cain and Abel about zoning regulations, there’s no reason to fight in the first place. It is time to move on. Maybe we’ll bloom better where next we are planted.

In the meantime, may auld acquaintance be forgot, etc.

May 2021 be a better year for everyone…Happy New Year, my friends! May God bless you & keep you!

Pearlina Wilhelmina (white cat with black patches); Priscilla (tortoisehell laying across back of chair, her daughter, Emmylou, is the Russian blue tuxedo on the right)

Domino

Bereavement, Brothers & Sisters, Christianity, Compassion, Faith, Family, Friendship, Grief, Love, Memories, Nostalgia

The Cycles of Life

Lisa Burbank

“And now, dear brothers, I want you to know what happens to a Christian when he dies so that when it happens, you will not be full of sorrow, as those are who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and then came back to life again, we can also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him all the Christians who have died.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14)

My heart is heavy yet again.

Snow is drifting and blowing about outside my window. There’s at least 10-12 inches on the ground, more still falling, and a prediction of up to 20 inches before it is done. Usually my heart delights like a little kid over a big snowfall like this. Instead, I keep thinking of a childhood friend: Paul “Peewee” Shelton.

Paul’s family rented the apartment above my family’s in St. Louis, Missouri about a year after we moved there in 1979. We were neighbors and friends for a number of years afterwards; have remained friends forever since. I went to school with his older brothers. His niece, Amey, played with my baby brother, Shaun. Our families went to Six Flags together and I saw my first concert–Johnny and June Carter Cash–with them at Six Flags. Our mothers became the best of friends, their birthdays a day apart, and every night (weather permitting, of course) like clockwork, the two of them would sit outside together on the stoop and chat about everything under the sun. They were like family.

They were family.

And always will be in my heart.

So that heart broke a little last night to learn that the youngest passed away yesterday. He’s younger than me. That just seems off balance for some reason. It’s hard for me to credit him as being 50-something (I’m 54; he was 2-3 years’ younger). I still see the gangly string bean of a boy who teased me throughout my teen years. I’m also reminded of a time–I’m not even sure how old we all were–but Peewee, as he was known then, had broken a window. It was an accident but, he was sure he was going to catch hell for it. He ran off and hid. When his mother got home I went looking for him. I found him sitting on the retainer wall by the basement door. He was still working off the mad, or fear, and told me to get out of there. I braved the mad to let him know she had said he wasn’t in trouble; she knew it was an accident. My heart went out to him in that moment of time. I’m guessing he was maybe 12 or 13. Later, he dumped the “Peewee” nickname, but I had to translate for Mom when I told her last night; she never knew his first name was Paul. He was always Peewee to her. She also caught herself thinking of him as that youngster, too; long distance will do that.

It sucks having loved ones scattered all over the country. One of the drawbacks of homesteading, or farming, is not being able to travel as readily as others; your animals always need care. I don’t begrudge it; they are God’s gift to me on this earth and they keep me going. But, when something like this happens, I wish I lived closer to hold a hand, to cook a meal for his siblings, to help them in whatever way I can to get through this hardship. They were always there for us when we were neighbors; it would be nice to return the love.

The best thing I can do from this distance is pray: for Paul, for his family, for everyone who loved and knew him…and at least offer my ear if they need to talk to someone who shares at least a little of their pain.

Rest in Peace, Paul Shelton…we will meet again. May God bless you & keep you! Love you always, my old friend!