The Slow Lane

I had to go and buy a baby gift for a baby shower; I also had offered to go to the "Duck" store (Oregon Duck's for those of you who don't know), because the "theme" of the shower is "Oregon Duck's" and my friend needed some "stuff" for the top of the cake. To accomplish these goals, I had to go to...the mall.

Those of you who know me well, know that I abhor the mall; too many people, too many noises, too much consumerism.
So I did what I had to do, made a couple of other stops and headed home.

I hadn't realized until I was "leaving town" that I had been anxious and agitated; it wasn't something I'd noticed or even felt; until I was leaving the city behind.

I turned on to the country lane that headed out of town, and my tension literally lifted; I felt softer somehow; lighter.
As I traveled on, the flicker of sunlight through the trees seemed to be beating the tension out of my mind and out of my heart, one filtering branch at a time.
Each winding curve pulling me further and further away from the organized chaos; lulling me back into myself, where I could think and breathe once again; the whir of the tires on the blacktop coaxing me back from my self-induced coma.

Crossing the river, the water seemed to carry my troubles oceanward; swiftly and steadily soothing my visual senses, harassed by the concrete jungle.
I turned onto our gravel road, safely home again, healed from the hustle and bustle of city madness; I reminisced about another gravel road, and a dear friend I had to leave behind in one of the many places I've been privileged to live in.

My friend would tease me, because of my love for dirt roads; not the "off road" kind of dirt road, but the "way out in the toolies" kind of dirt road; you know, with battered and weather beaten mailboxes and quail skittering ahead.
"Dirt roads are dusty" she'd say, and I knew that well enough; but dirt roads also mean solitude, serenity and a removal from civilization; peaceful places are usually at the end of a dirt road.

It's a slow life, living on a dirt road; a life measured by the season's, not the sales; by the rising and setting of the sun, not the alarm clock; by the heart, and the heart alone; a life I treasure one day at a time.

Seven Stories Up

Today my window looks out on 14th and Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.; the height and the double pane windows do not entirely obliterate the cacophony from below. However dampened, the discordant sound seeps in to my soul, causing unrest.
How I long for home; my little gravel road, my expansive backyard, my sheep baaaing at me from their corner of pasture, the rooster announcing his prowess, the stars in their proper and visible place in the firmament; all these I crave while here in this bustling, vibrant city.

The sounds, the smells, the energy of the city-any city really, are not for me. I've lived in large cities-Toledo Ohio, 309,000; I've lived in small towns-Hotchkiss,Colorado, 1000. I prefer the small town; there is a heartbeat that can be heard as well as felt.
The pace is slower, life seems to be really lived and not hurried through; time has less importance, and is measured in days not hours.

I love going on vacation, seeing something new, learning something I hadn't known, but going home to the pace I live by is beyond satisfying.

Autumn

Yesterday was September sixth; early yet in the month.

I went out to make sure the chickens were buttoned in for the night, and it SMELLED like Autumn; woodsmoke.
Someone, somewhere nearby had a fire going to take away the chill of this rainy, Oregon evening.
It was a glorious smell, not yet mingled with the smell of dry leaves; pure and unadulterated.

When I smell the smell of perfect woodsmoke-and there IS a good and a bad kind of woodsmoke, it just depends on the wood, I am transported back to my childhood, the good part of my childhood.

First, my parents had some friends, the Bredemeyers. We called them "Grandma and Grandpa Bredemeyer"; I had no idea, until I was older that they were not really my grandparents. They had the most amazing antique store inside a barn, and lived in what I recall as a cabin, next door; not big enough for them and our family when we came to visit. They heated each building with a woodstove, and the smell was heavenly.

Second, later, My real grandparents had 40 acres on a hillside not far from a little tiny place called Mountaindale, Oregon. We lovingly referred to these 40 acres as "The Farm".

On the farm, there was an old hunting cabin that my grandfather worked hard to make habitable. It was a mess to begin with; I was a child, yet even I knew it was a mess.
But oh what he did to that cabin. The best part was, that he installed a small wood cookstove. My grandma would do all her canning in that cabin; I got to use it as a sleepover spot for my girlfriends and I--I think this started after the night I had a friend sleepover, and we left the radio running all night; did I mention we lived in a 1970's era double wide with very thin walls?

Nevertheless, this sleepover haven was at it's best when we were out there in the winter, with a fire in the cookstove to keep us warm and toasty.

If you've never heated with wood, you don't know what you are missing. The heat is dry and cozy, solid in it's properties, like another being in the room with you. So unlike it's blustery cousin the forced air furnace, whose presence is just that, forced upon you; with all it's comings and goings, there is never real peace in the house.

No, a wood stove-my preferred method of wood heat, is like a reliable friend, steady and sure; making comfortable inroads into your psyche.

Autumn is my favorite time of year; leaves, scarlet and gold, green and orange make a feast for my eyes. The woodsmoke? A feast for my heart.