Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Eight years, one man and the memoir lurks
To say I was a different person eight years ago is true on many levels. At this exact hour, I was still single, farmless, barnless, and donkeyless.
At precisely four post meridian, the music was cued- Doc Watson singing "You are My Special Angel" and my father, cane in one hand, my arm in the other, walked me down my garden path to my future Dirt Farmer.
We were very clean then, or at least on that day - and we didn't know the place called "Apifera". Like any marriage, there were some bumps along the way, one or two thuds, but because I married a genuine hearted creature who allows me to be genuine, we have a good marriage. I married the person that I knew would stay, without glitter, and the same person really can make me laugh.
When you get wrapped up in a horse fence one day and nearly die, it's good to have a mate that can make you laugh.
Many of you knew me in Minneapolis, and know that heart ache propelled me West back in my mid forties. I landed out of the sky in a little village near Portland, Oregon in a little house with a front door beckoning me to paint it Chinese red. I did. I planned to live there forever, I really did. And then came a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbor, who just happened to have the same last name. Friendship evolved, and one hot summer day he climbed a cherry tree to pick me cherries. I knew this act in and of itself was a marker in our relationship - climbing a tree in a heat wave has real meaning to a fair skinned lass who can't cope with heat. Like a bird bringing worms to his mate, he was helping to sustain me. Very worthy. The next day, the heat wave still blazing, I felt compelled to bake him a cherry pie from his gifted harvest...without air conditioning. I knew then this was more than a pie, it was a pie of love, one of many I would bake in years to come. It was my first raggedy crust.
That is just the beginning of our life, and I put it all down in an illustrated memoir that is currently being pitched to publishers. It has been rejected by four places and even though this is par for the course, it is a rather depressing journey. I just know and believe in this book to be, full of inspiration and magical connections to inspire anyone seeking their place in the world, encourage all those farm dreamers, and comfort the broken hearted or discouraged. The pages and art of the book sit waiting to find an editor that will take a chance on it, not afraid of the fact that an artist with a little donkey has written it versus a current pop idol, fallen politician or chef of the moment with a big "platform". It's a story worth sharing.
I would love to give this book to the world, and I must imagine the day I hand it to my husband. Hopefully we can both still walk by then, and I'll gather the fresh cherry pie, raggedy topped, and we'll climb Muddy Hill for a picnic. I'll read it to him, and we'll remember how magical it is that we were brought together, first side by side in our little houses, and then side by side as Dirt Farmers of Apifera.