Hayfield Hijinks

Although this is not a photo of the wheat field I grew up with, it reminds me of it because of the hay bales and the tree right in the middle of the field. Our forty acres boasted two apple trees--both planted smack dab in the middle of the arable acres. Dad refused to cut them down and each year planted around them. The trees produced wonderful fruit for our family and dad's motto was "if it's edible, leave it alone." To mom's dismay, flowers had no standing with a man who had farmed all his life. Soon as mom would choose a likely spot for some beauty, dad would rip them out and plant vegetables. It was a battle that continued throughout their lives.

I absolutely loved harvest time. The Minnesota sun was softer now and our hayfield wove its own magic by smelling both sweet and dusty at the same time. Every autumn my middle sister and I rode atop the horse-drawn wagon while my dad and our hired man walked alongside and pitch-forked the hay shocks onto the wagon's wooden bed.

With great anticipation, we watched for the field mice to scamper out of the shocks so we could catch them and pretend they were our children. Hey, we didn't have dolls. Besides, mice were cuter. We loved the way they wiggled their tiny nose.

Once the wagon was piled high it was over to the thresher where the wheat kernels went one way and the stalks another. My sister and I were allowed to sit in the grain truck bed. We loved having those millions of wheat kernels rain down over us. Dad had shown us how to crack the wheat shell and dig out the germ. Get enough and you had a sort of chewing gum. Who knew?

The year came when dad announced that a bunch of farmers had gotten together to help one another with the harvest and my sister and I wouldn't be part of it. We were devastated. "But dad," we whined "we always go so we can ride on the wagon and play with the tiny mice. Besides, we like sitting in the grain truck.

My mom was soft spoken, seldom raising her voice. But not today. I hear a shriek and a single word. "Mice," she shouted. "What do you mean--mice?" We explained and I swear, she looked like she'd just stuck her finger in a light socket. "No," she said as adamantly as I'd ever heard her. "You're not going."

Dad laughed. It was the wrong thing to do. Mom turned her snapping hazel eyes on him. "Why on earth would you let the girls play with mice?" she said accusingly. "Such filthy, dirty, germ covered animals. Dad looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, and said he was always so busy with the wheat bundles he hadn't known what we were up to. He figured we were just riding along for the fun of the harvest.

My sister and I knew how to approach dad. We grabbed his hands and pleaded. "Please, please, daddy. You always let us ride the wagon." I could see him giving in but what he said was, "It's up to your mother." Being the eldest, I came up with what I thought was a good compromise. I turned to mom and said, "What if we promise not to play with the mice. Can we go then?"  She gave it some thought, then reluctantly agreed.

Harvest time was the highlight of my whole autumn season. To this day I cannot drive by a hayfield or see wheat shocks or even come across a photo that reminds me of that time without seeing two little blond girls giggling in delight at the sight of a furry mouse or the cascade of wheat kernels or the hay flying off into the bailer. It's one of my favorite memories and although I'm now past 70, my minds-eye remembers every detail.

Perhaps the reason haying season remains so indelibly printed on my memory card is because it was not only an adventure for my middle sister and me but because it ushered in crisp mornings and the knowledge that as autumn crept into the hardwoods in layer upon layer of color, it would be time for hayrides and apple cider and molasses cookies. Soon it would be time to walk through drifts of crimson and gold leaves, just to hear them crunch underfoot--my middle sister's and my favorite past time.

The spectacle known as Fall was on the way and though each year seemed the same, it always varied as the crimson and gold blazed across the countryside. How I loved watching the colorful parade as it spread from tree to tree that I might walk to school beneath a blaze of crimson or clouds of gold and orange. Or sit atop a hay wagon full of hay bales, nothing but a lantern or two to show the way along dirt roads, and all the time singing songs with the friends my sisters and I had invited to ride with us.

I've heard it said that city kids have the greatest advantages and the best chance at a productive life. Who makes up this stuff? Far as I know, all the adventures those city kids ever had involved either riding a bike or playing with dumb old dolls. I always felt sorry for them. They had no idea how cute a field mouse was up close and personal. Or how soft was their fur. Or how intriguingly they twitched their nose. I can still envision it. And it still makes me happy.

A King James Virgin For Father's Day

Christie was our second child, and while my husband Jim loved our son and daughter equally, it was his daughter that had him wrapped around her little finger--practically from the moment she was born.

When my daughter was in the fourth grade, her Sunday School teacher announced that the class would be having a contest and the winners would receive a Bible with their name on the cover. All they had to do was memorize the books of the Bible and be able to recite them in order and without coaching. Christie took the contest to heart and much to my surprise, was determined to win one of those Bibles.

The contest would be six months long. Thus giving each contestant time to recite the books already memorized and to let the teacher know which child was actively participating. Christie and her dad worked each week on memorization, building her knowledge bit by bit. And while many in the class had undertaken the challenge, in the end, only a few could recite every book without faltering. Christie was one of them.

Then came the day the contest ended and the teacher asked the six winners whether they wanted a black, red, or blue Bible. Christie ordered the blue one because that was her father's favorite color. I wouldn't have known any of this had my daughter's teacher not sought me out after church, purposely wanting me to tell me what had transpired in class that day.

Seems that Christie insisted her dad's name should be on the Bible and when the teacher tried talking her out of it because she had worked so hard to win it, my daughter told the teacher that during their months of practicing together, Jim had happened to mention that of all the translations he had, he didn't have a King James Version--which Christie misinterpreted as King James Virgin. Understandable,  considering kids are taught from the beginning of Sunday School that Jesus was born of a virgin.

When the Bibles arrived at church with names imprinted, Christie brought home the gaudy blue Bible with my husband's name printed in gold. She hid it under her bed (along with everything else in her room she didn't wish to put away) and waited a couple of weeks to surprise him with it. The Bible was to be Jim's Father's Day gift--not something I'd purchased, but something just from her.

In all my years as a parent, I've never seen a child present a gift with such joy as my daughter exhibited that day. Nor the surprise on my husband's face as he unwrapped it and saw what it was. He grabbed our daughter and hugged her so hard I thought she might break--little thing that she was. Then she climbed into her dad's lap and said, "Well, daddy, now you have a King James Virgin. I bet you're happy, huh?"

Because both Jim and I were Sunday School teachers for 30  years or more, our Bibles were well-used. Jim's King James Virgin was his favorite. Can't you tell?

"Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, The fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, So are the children of one's youth. Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them." Psalm 127: 3-5

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved
Photos are the property of the author and may not be reproduced

Weed Flower Memories



While this canvas I finally finished needlepointing isn't a replication of the flowers my son brought me so many years ago, it is as close as I could come to putting my weed flower memory into a picture. 

 Mother's Day is upon us. Funny, isn't it, how certain times of the year flood our conscious with memories of the past. So it has been with me. As I reclined in my rocker last evening, I thought of other Mother's Days when the kids were young and happily bounded out of bed that particular Sunday  morning to hand me their highly decorated construction paper cards fashioned in school. There was always a gift to go with them--and while my husband had chosen and paid for it, the children always grinned and danced about as though it had cost them every last coin in their piggy banks.

The gifts were never huge or splendid. Usually they consisted of a new housecoat or a sweater or a tool I had requested for the kitchen or all the sewing projects I had going. Each year I suggested Jim just buy me flowers. I loved getting flowers and I cared not what kind they were. Every year Jim said the same exact thing: flowers are a waste of money; they die and then you have nothing. How little did I realize that the kids were collecting information about me. To my surprise, I would find out the year my son turned six.

It was a lovely spring that year. Plenty of rain had fed the hills and valleys, bringing the wildflowers out of their seculsion and painting the land with their lovely yellows, blues, whites, and pinks. My son had been out playing with his two best friends from school and as I looked at the clock, I realized they'd been gone entirely too long. Calling his name at the top of my lungs hadn't brought him home. I was irritated more than scared--but only because we live in such a safe part of the city. I started supper, chopping, dicing, and mincing the vegetables and herbs that would go in the stew pot. I kept glancing at the clock, my irritation growing.

By the time he was 30 minutes late, I had a loud reprimand on the edge of my tongue, along with a plan to restrict him from playing with anymore friends till he turned thirty. Well, maybe only twenty-one. When he finally appeared, his blonde hair touseled, his clothes filthy, a mysterious grin on his young face and both hands held behind his back, my imagination ramped up. How grateful I am to this day that he spoke before I could open my mouth.

Excitedly, he thrust his hands toward me. Clutched in them was the saddest, most beautiful collection of weed flowers I'd ever seen. "I picked these for you, mommy," he grinned. "I love you." I held back tears, knowing he wouldn't understand.

"Oh, thank you, honey. They're beautiful," I said. He squirmed  about with such pleasure it was hard not to smile. "I went all the way down into the canyon to get them for you because I know how much you like flowers and daddy always forgets to buy you any."

The canyon! He wasn't allowed in the canyon. And he knew it. Not only is it two blocks from our home, but it runs nearly the whole width of the mesa we live on. It is filled with all manner of cacti and thistles and prickly things that stick to your clothes and sometimes penetrate your skin. Add to that the many wild critters who reside there--most of whom are not friendly--and it becomes the forbidden land. Not a good place for six year olds. Or adults either.

I held my tongue. We'd talk about the canyon later. For now I whispered a secret prayer to God. "Oh Lord, teach me to be quick to listen and slow to speak, lest in my own foolishness I somehow ruin a precious weed flower moment with those I love more than life itself."

"Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord."  Psalms 127:3

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L. Keith. All rights reserved.

Photo by Sandra L. Keith. Do not reproduce without permission of the author.