Love Letter To A Maine Seed And Plant Cooperative

There's one spring Friday that we count down to, beginning in January, when our catalog arrives in the mail, and that's the Fedco Tree Sale. We've held this tradition for ten years and as far as I'm concerned it's got to be one of the best resources for Maine gardeners and farmers. Fedco is a seed and plant cooperative, with a meticulously detailed catalog, chock-full of fascinating and even radical advice and information. We spend hours combing through and dog-earing pages, our eyes bigger than our .11 acre lot and we dream of growing green things during the barren winter. Every year we say we have no more room for trees and every year we bring home more trees. As this Fedco trip falls on or near Arbor Day and the Beltane sabbat, our Fedco trip has become part of our spiritual, Earth-honoring ritual as well.




Spending a couple of hours traipsing though a corrugated metal building in relative dimness, sloshing through puddles and sawdust, searching for the perfect tree or shrub, just beginning to leaf out, shouldn't be all that exciting and rewarding. Oh, but how it is! We inevitably meet friends and family who are there to do the same and we exchange news about how it grows at our gardens and farms. We chat with the knowledgeable Fedco staff and other farmers who join in the sale and we always return home a bit wiser. (On other floors or in a second building, we shuffle through seed packets and admire the Moose Tubers, or seed potatoes.)






And once home, we unpack our carefully wrapped trees and their gorgeous root balls and work the rest of the weekend to dig holes and plant our precious loot. In ten springs, we've planted well-over thirty trees and shrubs. We will plant eight this weekend. We'll have to keep the seedlings we purchased from Checkerberry Farm by sunny windows a bit longer and in a few more weeks we'll be able to direct-sow the seeds. But the trees; the trees that are alive and already unfolding tender green leaves, those we plant now, and all thanks to Fedco and their amazing Tree Sale weekend.

My Mother, The Poet

Three years ago, today, April 27, 2008, my mother went away from us forever. I miss her, of course. It helps to remember her and her stories and the gifts she did leave behind. My mother was talented and remarkable in so many ways. She could design and sew whole sets and period or whimsical costumes for a community play. She wrote plays. She designed and drew in meticulous pen and ink, the theater posters. She wrote music. And so many other things, like poetry. She wrote this beautiful poem when our daughter, Olivia was born in 1997 and we used it a year later in Olivia's UU dedication ceremony. She was so many things to me, but for today, I remember my mother, the poet.

Olivia Elemental
by Janine Stafford, 1997

Earth

An olive stone from heaven fell,
Lay buried in a fecund hill-
A mound, a tree, a hut, a tell,
A grove anchored by labored till.

With roots in earth we raise the pale-
A timbered wall. A village call
A home, a place from which to sail,
To trade, to deck the festive hall.

Within to dwell, a hearth of coals
To cook upon. With oils anoint
The blessed feasts, the babies's souls,
The lintel post, the compass point...

Air

We nomads fly like ravens do
As embers rise to silvered skies,
As ash becomes transformed to dew,
As wat'ry susurration sighs

Upon the plain. The currents loft
A dampened breeze from cloud to cloud.
The winds are kind, the air is soft, The groves are
ripe, the people proud.

The dew becomes a torrent then,
While lonely Noah sails the flood.
Until a dove returns to men
An olive leaf, that promised bud...

Fire

A tree becomes a torch. A wheel
Is forged from flame and sweat
(Which is the fuel upon the steel).
The heat of flame and oil are met

Upon the hearth, and pots are cast.
Amphorae brim with wine and oil,
And fury like a comet's blast*
Explodes on Troy to burn and boil.

Etruscans flee to Rome's new shores
And hearths are laid and babies born,
And lamplight glows within the doors
As mothers spin, as sheep are shorn...

Water

As Pisces** swims through cosmic seas
An icy comet soars the skies.
On Tuscan hills the olive trees
Are christened when Aurora cries.

Where living waters gently flow
As liquid as the flood, as birth,
The tender shoots of olives grow,
A dove's green promise brought to earth.

Beneath a Roman harbor's quays
The ancient oils anoint the wrecks,
And spread within the planet's seas
A baptism of foaming flecks...

Coda

A single babe, an olive stone,
The bud, the living fruit, the tree-
Each makes a story of its own
As life, as possibility.

*Hale Bopp comet was visible in 1997, and we could see it in the dawn sky while I labored with Olivia.

**Olivia was born March 13, which makes her a Pisces, The Fish.

Laundry Room Redux

In case you don't know this about me, I adore doing laundry in my home (at the laundromat? Not so much.) It took us a week of sorting, purging, reorganizing, painting and moving appliances and shelves, but we've finally finished the laundry room make-over. It used to look like this and though it still serves all the same functions-mudroom, laundry, recycling area, storage of seasonal, cleaning and cooking/canning items as well as tools-we've cleaned it up a bit. We kind of had too, since our ten-year-old washing machine blew a four inch hole in it's drum a year ago. Yes, we've been without a washer for a year. Sad face. Mostly because of this room and it's tiny footprint. We did have our last washer/dryer set stacked and we didn't want that this round, which of course, just made moving anything more challenging which meant other things became a priority and we just did the wash down the hill at the ol' Ocean Suds. Our ten-year-old dryer is still going strong, so we simply brought clothes back here to dry, either in the dryer on on the clothesline.

So after watching our two local appliance dealers' web pages like hawks for monthly deals and researching Energy-Star, low-water/HE washers, we lucked out last week when we saw the one we wanted go on sale at Vic's. Sweet! (If you're local, the folks at Vic's, downtown Saco are super good to work with. If you're not local to me, I encourage you to check out your locally-owned appliance store. Often the deals are better than what you can get at your big-box store, they sometimes have a dented and scratched section, and all the while, you are supporting a local business!)

The wall color is Olympic's No-VOC April Sky D56-1.




In this space, we plan to install one of these much-coveted-by-me airing racks.





This side of the room is the mini-mudroom area, for coats, boots, and a shelf for baskets full of seasonal items. I just switched out the hats and mittens for beach towels and bathing suits. Alex found a piece of interior trim we had salvaged from the Bradstreet homestead and we used left-over hooks to make this coat rack. I'm hoping I will soon be able to put away the last of the winter coats, once warm weather arrives and stays.



Every nook and corner is used and this time we took extra care to put things within easy reach. It won't be long before we will be reaching for these berry baskets for a day of picking.



Ah, it feels so good to have our laundry room back and in good order!

Shame And Blame Where It Belongs Regarding The Objectification Of Children

Yesterday morning, I had CNN on while folding some laundry and caught this opinion piece. I was initially stunned at the title, which refers to little girls as tramps, and as the piece continued and the reporter descended into gender tropes about how boys are easier to raise than girls, and LZ Granderson (the one offering his opinion) referred to his own son, I had to shut the tv off because I couldn't stand to listen any longer. When I later read Granderson's opinion piece, I was further disgusted with his casual mention of causing bodily harm to his son; the threat disguised as humor, "my son knows I would break both of his legs long before I would allow him to walk out of the house with his pants falling off his butt", he wrote. He later writes, "the way I see it, my son can go to therapy later if my strict rules have scarred him." This is the goal? We want to control and threaten our children to the point of scarring and needing therapy later in life? And I'm supposed to nod my head and agree with this opinion?

Look, I had all kinds of ideas about parenting long before I was a parent. I was never going to have video games in my house, for instance. Of course that was an uninformed decision, as in, I hadn't actually begun sharing my life with two other young people who would have their own needs, ideas and opinions about things. I never thought I would be the parent to take my young daughter to the mall for our biannual Sears portraits (when we were still doing such things), dressed like a princess, either. But when four year old Olivia was insistent that she wanted to wear the dress, I checked myself. I had to stop and think about why I objected and then I had to think about why or if my objections mattered. I soon decided that preserving my daughter's dignity, will and need to self-identify was far more important than my need to project some sort of ill-formed, base-less prejudice onto her. And then I thought, this is her, this is where she's at, age four. It was the making of a positive memory.



In the Granderson piece and in much of the commentary since, there's a focus on who is to blame for kids' attire (most specifically, "Yeah, that 8-year-old girl was something to see all right. ... I hope her parents are proud. Their daughter was the sexiest girl in the terminal, and she's not even in middle school yet.") If you've never been shopping for children, I will tell you, it's not an easy task. What with the constant growing and wearing, kids can be tough to fit, let alone furnish with an entire wardrobe. Shopping for kids attire is further challenging because of what is available, or isn't. Not everyone has the financial means or access to shop the likes of Mini Boden, Hannah Anderson or Land's End, which all feature fun, cotton, mostly classic clothing, but at not exactly bargain prices. For many, this type of clothing may only be available through catalog or on-line shopping, which requires the use of a credit card, which assumes you have one. Other clothing options might range from what's available at the local mall, big box store, thrift shop or dollar store, the styles and material varying widely. What is purchased can further be limited by transportation access, whether the store is within walking distance or hours it is open. There lies within this blame the assumption that all parents have the resources, access and availability to shop a certain way (ostensibly the best way, or the appropriate way). There's also an ableist aspect to this assumption, too. Shopping with children in spaces where children's clothing is sold means navigating closely positioned racks, where clothing is hung high, and it often requires moving through crowds and covering some distance. Shopping for clothing can mean holding, hanging, sorting, looking, touching and folding, in spaces that don't provide seating or a place to rest, or hang a bag or a shelf to place a parcel. And doing so, presumably, with child(ren), that will need to be helped, dressed, assisted, nurtured, nourished and kept safe. When we assign blame to parents regarding what we might deem an inappropriate clothing choice for a child (especially what we presume to be a girl child), we are doing so without knowing anything about a parent's (or childs') path to acquiring that item of clothing. (This doesn't even address the ageist aspect of this, by asking how one determines the age of the person they are looking at? Granderson assumes the girl he was scrutinizing was eight; how did he know?)

As far as looking askance at a child and tsk tsking, shaking our heads and leaping to words like tramp, whore, slut or prostitute, that's contributing to the on-going objectification of children. It's called slut-shaming. Pigtail Pals addressed slut-shaming with regards to Granderson's piece, yesterday:

Clothing, or lack of clothing, does not make someone a prostitute. When we are cavalier about the degrading terms we use for our girls, we belittle their inherent worth, and desensitize ourselves to what it really means to be a prostitute. From what I hear, it isn’t a great lifestyle. The proximity I had with it as an investigator revealed it to be brutal, lonely, and dangerous. Our culture sends mixed messages to young women to be hot and sexy and available at all times, and then as soon as these women or girls become sexual agents and act on their desires they face the repressive push-back from society and are branded sluts and whores. Confused? So am I.

I'm frankly more concerned with raising my children in a rape culture than I am their fashion choices. When news outlets like CNN refuse to cover the rape of an 11- year-old girl in Texas by a gang of 18, March 2011, and the New York Times ran a piece that refers to the gang-rape as "vicious assault" and goes on to comment about the 11-year-old victim, "she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s. She would hang out with teenage boys at a playground, some said.", something is incredibly wrong. It's unconscionable to me that as a society, our first leap is to question, judge and comment on the clothing of a gang-rape victim, but not question why the 18 boys and men were raping. It's indicative of a rape culture that as a society, we objectify girls and women (and all children)and critique their clothing, rather than teaching people not to rape. Instead we scold, judge and blame and slut-shame girls and women for their clothing because we deem their choices to be trashy or attention-seeking and asking for it. Just like the presumably eight-year-old girl in Granderson's judgmental piece was asking for it, by wearing sweat-pants with Juicy printed on the bottom.

This may be the culture we live in, but that doesn't mean that I, as a parent to two, independent, bright people with needs and opinions of their own, have to like it and feed into it. When Olivia long ago decided a bikini swimsuit was a better fit for her, I trusted her to know what she wanted and needed. I wasn't about to admonish her with warnings of how she would be objectified by others, or how others might prey on her because she simply wanted to be comfortable. Of course my hope for her is that none of that would happen, but in no way was I about to lay that burden and blame at her feet if it did. What I do want to tell my children is that it's no one's business what they wear or why they wear it. And Mr. Granderson, if that makes me my children's "40-year-old BFF", so be it.

*With thanks to my 14-year-old daughter, Olivia, for permission to use both the photo and story and for contributing to this post with her thoughtful discussion about this issue.

A Glimpse Of Their Days: Learning In Freedom

One of these days I'll both a)shake this bit of writer's block I have and b)make time to write. Until that happens, here's a glimpse, a mere hint at our days. This is just some of what we do instead of school. There's hours spent with focused attention, which leads to mastering skills. Passions are followed, inspiration is acted upon and discussion happens every moment. There's enormous amounts of independence, on bikes, building fires, crafting, designing, creating, learning. There's visits to the friend with goats, the friend that bikes all day long with them, from one end of town to the other. There's the books read and discussed and treasured. There's music found, absorbed and knitted into their lives. There's the presence of a parent, a confidant, a friend, for hand holding, for hugs, for comfort, assistance, support and fun shared. It's days spent in consensual living. We live without school's interference in our lives, our days belong to us, to them. This is just a little of what their days look like.

April:: Emerging

Forty Is Fine And Fabulous

So yes, today is my birthday and yes, I'm forty years old. Navin R. Johnson's voice rings in my head, and my story, you ask? The one that goes it was never easy for me, I was born to hippies in 1971...I remember the days ridin' in the VW Bus and performing in musical theater in downeast Maine... Oh anyway, yes, I've had forty years on this good earth and though undeniably I'm aging, I don't feel all that old, except when I think about how lately people are complaining that hearing Kurt Cobain on the oldies station makes them feel old, well, 1971 begins to seem like days of yore when compared to 1994.

me, age 40


And knowing myself, I knew I wanted to keep today simple, as in, no big bash for me, thanks (maybe later I'll throw a party when the my birthday isn't the focus) and as usual, Olivia, Adam and Alex lavished the love on me. We started the day with bagels, sweet cards, a bouquet of tulips and thoughtful gifts, including this (I had no idea a new one was out. Alex and I didn't love the last one, so we're keeping our fingers crossed, Jean Auel! I'm certain we'll still fight for dibs of this copy, regardless.)



Then, because spring puts me in the mood for a mini-road trip and it's one of my favorite places to visit, we all went to Ikea together, where we had lunch, including cake, and did a small amount of shopping. Mostly we did what we always do when we visit and we took notes and snapped photos for our home idea book.





It's just inspiring and fun to be there and to examine ways to use space in our own home. More than anything, it was just a good way to spend the day with the people I treasure most. Forty is good. Forty is fine by me. Now excuse me while I go listen to a true oldie.

Cake, Tea And Catalogs At The Kitchen Table

Here On Bradstreet, we're all about family traditions and ritual. We think it's important to mark time and to recognize those moments, large and small in our lives. We're big on building and recording memories, laughing and loving together. As such, we were at the Bradstreet homestead this weekend to celebrate my father-in-law's seventy-eight years. Nana made a delicious lunch for us and we brought a cake from our favorite local bakery.





Nana poured tea, Papa cut the cake (into gargantuan servings, with instruction from Adam) and later, the kids played a duet on the antique and mostly tuneless piano.







After a walk in the snow covered woods and various cat naps, we were all seated around the pine table again for more tea. For some reason a ritual has evolved where we sit at the table and peruse the countless, odd catalogs that come in my in-law's mail. We find this relaxing, I think, and everyone does it, and for the nearly twenty-one years that I've known them, we've had this ritual. When someone discovers some particularly dubious item, it's pointed out to all so we can share in the derisive mirth.






I sincerely hope that no one in our family feels the need to invest in charcoal filters for their undies (or fashions for their yard goose, for that matter.) These catalogs are always full of such items, varying from the seemingly plausible usefulness, to the bizarre and ridiculous (unless of course you want your garden goose to glam it up rockabilly style.) While we can not picture ourselves wanting fake ivy for our fence or giant plastic hollow rocks for our garden or ever wishing we had a fancy lace dickie to wear with our v-neck sweater, we might secretly find that one incredibly useful thing that someone had the notion to invent. And that's why we enjoy sitting and laughing together over stacks of catalogs. It's that combination of the hideous awkwardness, shared snickering and the thrill of discovery, sitting together on a weekend afternoon. It's one of those rituals, like cake on birthdays, that builds family traditions. Tea and cake and tunes played on the piano and local gossip, those rituals come easily to mind when I think on the things that make us a family. But it's those little things too, like discovering and sharing in the absurd around a kitchen table that makes us family. And I've got the pictures to prove it.