How long has it been since you received a hand-written letter in the mail?  How long since you sent one? 

I honestly can’t remember the last time I found a newsy, hand-written letter in my mailbox and I miss receiving them.  To read words chosen carefully by someone who believes I am worth the time it took to gather the materials and to share their thoughts, while thinking of me with every loop in a word touches me like nothing else can.  

Growing up I loved sending and receiving letters.  I had pen pals in France and Spain and I wrote to friends in neighboring towns.  The best part about writing everyone letters is that they almost always wrote me back and when I found one of their letters waiting for me in the mailbox, I couldn’t wait to tear open the envelope and read what they had written.  I’d read the letter as fast as I could, hitting all the main points, gathering the gist of how life was going for them since our last correspondence.  Then I’d read the letter again, this time very slowly, taking in every detail they shared.   

As soon as I could, I’d write my friends back, commenting on their news, and adding bits of pieces of my own to the thread of our ongoing conversations.  There was nothing like savoring the delicious hand chosen and hand written news from a friend and knowing that they were looking forward to the same from me.  I saved many of the letters from my friends so I could revisit them when I felt lonely, or re-read them and feel the presence of someone I missed as though they were right there with me.  

These days it’s easier to hurriedly send an email or text than to sit down with pen and paper and hand write a letter.  Don’t get me wrong, I love email and texting.  They are quick and easy and allow me to stay connected with many people near and far.  But, since I rarely keep emails, they are not the same as receiving hand written letters that can be kept as reminders of our connection.   

Important pieces of our history, as a nation, as a modern civilization and as individuals are preserved in letters.  They offer us glimpses into what others held important and how they were feeling as they steered their way through life.  Without those letters we might never know the details of the human condition in times past. 

With the loss of letter writing we are also losing big chunks of our personal history. Most of the ways in which we communicate with our modern technology are little more than blips across a lit screen. Without letters that can live on without us what will future generations learn about our time on this planet?  How will they know what we valued, who we loved, how we navigated heart break, disappointment and how we celebrated the joys and triumphs of our lives? 

So, I’m on a mission.  I have made a vow to write one hand-written letter every week.  That’s not a huge investment of time or effort and even at my busiest, is completely doable.  I’ve been doing this for several weeks and everyone who has been a recipient has been touched by and appreciative of having once again received a hand-written message.   

I know this because they emailed to tell me so. 

I’m sure it will come as no surprise that my favorite Super Bowl commercial was the one created by Chrysler for Ram trucks, “So God Made a Farmer”. 

I’ve watched the commercial, narrated by Paul Harvey, on You Tube several times since the Super Bowl airing and still can’t get through it with dry eyes.  It reminds me of my father, who was a farmer and a teacher.  But honestly the teaching was mostly a way to support his farming habit. Dad use to say that if he had a million dollars he’d farm until it was gone.

“So God Made a Farmer” could have been written specifically for my father, and every other hard working farmer out there.  For me it was particularly heartwarming because it reminded me of my father’s hands.  They were the hands of a workman, a woodworker, a craftsman, a mechanic and a farmer.  They were strong with visible dings, nicks, and scars that served as reminders of long days filled with hard work.  Dad’s hands were his most reliable tool. 

As a young girl, I watched my Dad’s hands clean a plow, pull a calf, hammer numerous nails flawlessly and fix too many to count farm implements.  Dad’s hands were strong, but also gentle.  They could tighten the smallest nut on the screw that held the large front wheel of my tricycle together and pick up a newborn kitten and pet it until you could hear its contented purr clear across the room.   

I can still recall the feeling of safety that my father’s hand offered as he steadied me, then gave me a quick little push sending me off for my first spin on my blue Huffy bike after the training wheels were removed.  Dad’s hands taught me to catch and throw.  They
taught me how to drive a car, a wheat truck and a tractor without turning any of them into implements of destruction.  Dad’s hands were always there to help steady me and to offer me help in getting back up whenever I fell. 

Dad passed away in December 2002 and I’ve missed him every day since.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him, especially since I moved back to this farm.  He is in every nail in this house that he built, and every inch of soil and blade of grass that makes up this place.

That Ram truck commercial is a stirring tribute to all the men, and women, like my dad who work hard with rarely taking a day off, and who love and respect this land and the satisfaction of a job well done.  But the best part of watching that commercial is that it reminds me of how fortunate I am to be a Farmer’s Daughter.

Yes, God made a farmer, then he made a farmer my Dad! 

It is the time to once again gather around our tables, heavy with delicious food, and give thanks for what we have, for what we have had and for all that is coming to us. There is nothing like a feast of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, and of course, pumpkin pie to kick off the holiday season. I began my pre-feast fast a week ago in anticipation of the huge, table bending meal. Thanksgiving is the best holiday of them all. It is like Christmas without the stress of shopping. 

Every family has their special traditions this time of year. Some do the traditional turkey feast, others will be setting their tables with goose, duck, ham or, like my friend Troy's family, lasagna.  

One of my family’s traditions that I miss the most was sitting at the Kid’s Table. I loved sitting at the card table set up in the kitchen or other place a comfortable distance from the Adult Table. The Adult Table was always set with the "good dishes," usually some sacred china gingerly passed down from one generation to another. The Kids' Table was set with the everyday dishes, and that was just fine with me, because everyone cared less if you accidentally broke one. 

It was at the Kids' Table where our great family traditions began. It was at this simple table that some of the best stories first happened and were shared. It was here that I once laughed so hard milk came out my nose, at which point my cousin Paula started laughing so hard she wet her pants, which we both thought was hysterical and commenced to laugh even harder, so hard we made ourselves sick, all to the escalating voices from our respective parents inquiring, "What's going on in there? What are you two doing? What in the world is so funny?" And at that, with our faces flushed from laughing so hard we were hyperventilating, we burst into even more uncontrollable giggles. 

Laughter like that almost never happened at the Adult Table. They were always so serious and proper, so somber and polite. It was at the Kids' Table that you could really cut loose and have a good time. 

Sometimes the stories begun around the table never die, but follow us from holiday to holiday, from year to year. One Thanksgiving when I was eight or nine, I blurted out toward the end of the meal that I could always tell when I was getting full because I started to sweat. For years, I couldn't sit down to a meal with family members without someone asking if I was sweating yet. It was funny the first few times, but after several decades, the joke grew old and stale.  

I not only miss the Kids' Table, but I miss gathering with my extended family at the holidays.  I no longer have any family to include me in their feasts, so I’ve been creating my own, new traditions, which often include crashing my friend’s family gatherings.  

I feel fortunate and am grateful to share a Thanksgiving meal with my chosen family of friends, but I miss those days when the house would be full of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The women gathering in the kitchen making final meal preparations, the men in the living room watching football, us kids racing around from one room to the other until someone shooed us outside to burn off some of our excitement. There was laughter then and the warm, secure feeling you get when you are surrounded by the people who have known and loved you from your first breath. I miss the feeling of belonging to something bigger that being around grandparents, aunts and uncles gave me. Why, I even miss being asked if I am sweating yet. 

But the only constant in life is change. Without it, we would all be stuck in the monotony of sameness. Despite not having my own family to sit with around a Thanksgiving table, I am grateful for so many fond and fun memories of Thanksgivings past and for having a large and loving circle of friends with whom to share this year's feast.  

So next Thursday, as well as every day, I will give heartfelt thanks for all of my many blessings, including things just as they are. 

My mother use to apologize for leaving me with the task of clearing out her basement.  I would quickly suggest that she help me by bearing witness as I pulled each box down from the shelves, opened it and began the arduous journey determining what was to stay and what was to be thrown away.  Mother would just as quickly back away from my suggestion, obviously preferring that I take that journey alone after she was gone.

And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since she passed over four years ago.  Box by box, whenever I felt strong enough, I’ve been going through the many shelves and piles of things left behind from lives well lived.

Sometimes I find things that I know must have been important, and may still be, but I have no idea about the story behind the items.  But every once in awhile I come across something that is pure treasure. That was the case when, in a box of hankies, photographs and unopened bottles of Avon cologne I found an old autograph book.  As I carefully opened the worn orange cloth cover with the white plastic flowers on the front I was treated to my Great Aunt Pauline’s carefully scribed name, followed by the year, 1895.

I never knew Pauline.  I may have met her, but she died in 1955, three years after I was born, so I have no recollection of her beyond the photographs I’ve seen.  To hold something that she once held was humbling, but to read the carefully written friendship poems inside touched me deeply.  I felt connected to something much greater than I, much longer lasting than my fleeting lifetime.  I can tell by the carefully worn pages that Pauline must have looked through this book of wishes from her cherished friends many times.  Inside were “forget me not’s” and lovely rhymes, such as:

“Live for those that love you,

For those whose hearts are true,

For the heavens that shine above you,

And the good that you may do.” 

Many of the names were familiar to me, having heard of the Surdez’s, the Junod’s, the Bonjour’s and the Jeanerret’s, many who were distant relatives, all through my youth.  Pauline was my grandfather’s older sister.  They, along with their mother and three other siblings came to America from Switzerland in 1888.  I’ve heard the stories and I know my mother always had fond memories of Pauline, but holding her autograph book made her more real to me.

Maybe it’s my age, having just turned 60, but finding this book has somehow deepened my interest in learning more about history.  When you walk through your local historical museum and see your old high school band uniform on display you feel a bit historical, if not hysterical realizing that you are now old enough to have things that were part of your lifetime displayed as though they are artifacts of a bygone era. 

Maybe I’ve now lived long enough to have a history, or to remember history.  When you drive down the main street of your hometown and can remember what businesses were at each location…over the last 50 years, you have some history in you.

And holding something that I know was cherished by a family member who has gone before me makes me want to know more about the people from whom I came.  Aunt Pauline’s autograph book has prompted me to try to learn more of my family’s history, which I now realize is a significant part of my own history.

To hold something once held by a family member over 100 years ago provides a wider and deeper perspective.  Aunt Pauline lived, she had friends she loved and she kept this book to remember them by.

And now I will keep it too.  

Last Sunday I unplugged. I didn’t check my email, update my status on Facebook, or post a single tweet. I didn’t turn on the computer or even answer the phone. It was a day of silence and low-tech living and I wondered if I would feel uncomfortably disconnected without a computer, smart phone, social media and all the technological tools with which I spend most of my time.

Before the sun was completely up I set my intention to simply allow the day to unfold naturally. My goal was to be conscious of and pay attention to whatever was going on around me, and soon I felt myself settling more deeply into myself.  As I sat and just allowed myself to be, feeling the perfection of the day, it felt as though I was sinking into my core.  There’s a Zen koan that asks “what was your face before your parents were born?” and allowing myself to move deeply into that part of me that always is, has always been and will always be, I felt I was beginning to understand the question, if not the answer.

Of course, without spending time in front of a computer screen, or constantly checking email on my phone, or habitually scanning the various social networking sites, I was awake, aware and more conscious of everything that was happening around me. Every time I strayed and began worrying about some upcoming deadline, to-do tasks still undone, or wondering what was happening in the cyber world in my absence, something inside would gently bring me back to my intention of allowing myself to feel whatever this day held for me.  Often that reminding came from heart asking questions like, “Where are you now?  What can you hear?  What can you see?  How are you feeling?”  Sometimes it was my bladder asking, “Do you have to pee?”  And as a middle aged woman, I usually did.

But by allowing my heart to lead I started really seeing a plethora of things that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.  A raccoon ran across the road and into the shed, where I had noticed his tracks but had yet to spot him.  As I looked out my north windows four deer trekked up over the hill presumably to their daytime hiding places. I walked up along the edge of my and saw four red-tailed hawks enjoying some time riding thermals in the bright blue sky above me and heard a woodpecker in the woods tap-tap-tapping.  I felt keenly aware of every sound and sight and felt tapped in, tuned in and rather than disconnected, totally connected.

But the most amazing part of my day occurred while I was sitting on one of the large red granite boulders that dot my pasture. I had stopped for a break and to tune in even more deeply to the heartbeat of the day. The rock was warmed by the sunshine and the day felt about as perfect as it could be. Little did I know it was about to get even better. I opened my eyes and looked up just as an eagle flew directly overhead. An eagle!

What a sight!  What a day!  And what a gift to disconnect from technology and feel so incredibly connected to everything else, including myself.  It was such a surprisingly good day that I’m hoping to treat myself to a day of Connected Disconnection every week!

Whatever happened to clotheslines? When I was growing up, everyone had a clothesline. Ours was strung between two steel Ts in the backyard and every Monday, my mother's wash day, the metal lines would sag with sheets, socks, jeans and the rest of our laundry.

I feel sorry for anyone who hasn't experienced pulling on a shirt that's dried naturally in the sun. And there was nothing like the smell of fresh, outdoor-dried sheets. I'd often help my mother get the laundry off the line, and as we folded those sheets I'd press my face into their crisp whiteness, breathing deeply of the sweetness that was now a part of them.

You don't see many clotheslines anymore. I suspect it's simply easier to toss everything in the dryer and be done with it, but I miss the smell of line-dried sheets, shirts and socks. I also miss seeing those large, white sheets snapping in a spring breeze like billowing sails on the prairie. If you've never experienced the smell of sheets that have flapped freely in the sun all day you've truly missed one of life's greatest pleasures.

There was a technique for hanging the clothes on the line. My mother taught me the proper way to hang them so they wouldn't blow off the line and would dry with a minimum of wrinkles. Sheets needed to be doubled over the line and clipped tightly so they wouldn't drag on the ground. We used wooden clothespins, never plastic ones and not the kind with metal springs, but the longer old-fashioned ones that slipped over the line and clothes snuggly.

Socks were hung in matching pairs, whenever possible, and with just enough toe folded over the line to secure them. Shirts were clipped at the side seams after being stretched tightly. My father's jeans were hung by the waist with metal stretchers in the legs to create a straight crease in each one. Everything smelled like springtime and innocence after hanging on the clothesline for a good part of the day.

I always knew when it was time to put away the heavy coats and sweaters. It was the day my mother first hung the laundry on the clothesline to dry. That was the sign that it'd soon be warm enough for outdoor play, mowing the lawn and going barefoot again.

It also meant a good night's sleep was ahead. Knowing that fresh, line-dried sheets were on my bed, I could hardly wait for dark so I could crawl between them, and when I did, the sweet smell of musky earth, hyacinths and spring breezes floated around me. I rarely slept so well.

There aren't as many clotheslines in use anymore, but soap companies try to replicate the aromas of laundry dried on them. They come in "Spring Breeze" or "Fresh Lavender," but as hard as they try, and despite all our modern technology, the delight of fresh, sun-dried sheets can't be captured in a bottle. For that you need a clothesline.

When some friends came to visit recently I was reminded of how foreign living in the country feels to those who live in cities.  My friends’ first words after crawling out of their vehicle was, “Are you hiding from the law or something?”

Now, I don’t live that far out in the boonies, but to my friends who live in the city, any stretch of dirt road means those who live along it are surviving in the wild isolation of “the
sticks”.

So how do you know if you live in the country?

Well, if people come to visit and they say things like “Wow!  I can’t believe I found you” or “It’s so quiet out here,” then you probably live in the country.

If you see a bandanna and think “neckwear”, you live in the country. And if the jingle in your pocket is from bolts, nuts and washers rather than quarters, dimes and nickels, then you are in the country.

If you wave at familiar vehicles even though you have no idea who is driving them, and a trip to the grocery store includes a list and at least a quarter tank of gas, you are living in the country.  If you don’t have to look up to see the sky, and your commute to work includes regular sightings of hawks, geese and an occasional coyote, you are blessed to live in the country.

You live in the country if you plant your garden with six rows of everything – two for yourself, two for your neighbors and two for the wild things. You’re in the country if you mark time by sunrises, sunsets, full moons and seasons rather than putting too much stock in clocks and calendars.  And if you can tell when the seasons are getting ready to change by what kinds of equipment and implements are lined up outside of farm supply and hardware stores, you probably live in the country.

If you dread having to get new boots because the mud, grit, sweat and goo incrusted ones that are now so odorous that even your dog wants nothing to do with them, fit your feet perfectly, you’re definitely a country person.

If you open your door in the morning and find that your outdoor pets have delivered you reminders of how the food chain works in the form of large, unidentifiable critters, then you live in the country.

And bless us all who do live here, because we feed, serve, provide and remind everyone else of the peaceful good life that exists out here in the boonies!