by jphilo | Oct 18, 2010 | Out and About
Yesterday afternoon the weather was October bright and sunny, perfect for a drive to northwest Iowa. There are plenty of state highways that wind from where I live to where I needed to be, plenty of ways to vary the route. But most of the highways in that part of our state are two lane roads. Which means the speed limit is 55, practically crawling along.
But this time of year, in a state covered with drying soy bean and corn fields ready for harvest, 55 miles an hour is a luxury on dry, sunny, October days. Slow-moving vehicles – combines, tractors pulling grain wagons full or empty, and grain trucks – crowd the highways as the farmers scurry to harvest the fruit of the past year’s labor.
Stuck behind the giant farm machines, I had time to observe the activity in the fields. Combines ate rows of corn in giant mouthfuls, spitting the golden kernels in the wagons following in tandem. In other fields, the bounty already devoured and carted away, farmers steered tractors down stubbly rows, disking the rubble into the black dirt.
Trailing behind lumbering, clanging wagons, I took in the last, mad, magnificent gasp of fall. Milkweed pods were bursting open in the ditches. Blossoming mums created splashes of bright color beside farm houses and barns. Grain dust turned the sunset pink and lovely. Trees glowed gold and red and orange along the banks of wayward cricks and streams. The rustling, crackling ditch grasses swayed in the light breeze.“Slow down,” they whispered. “You move too fast. Got to make the moment last.”
Calmed by their soft whisper, I patiently plied the breaks. Smiling, I hummed a little Simon and Garfunkel under my breath, and relished the drive.
by jphilo | Nov 13, 2009 | Daily Life
The weather was gorgeous last Saturday when I drove home from northwest Iowa. The farmers, unable to harvest their crops during our wet October, were out in force. Mile after mile, combines devoured the straight, rustling rows. Augers poured golden streams of corn and soy beans into waiting grain carts.
Sunset came and went, but the work continued. The powerful headlights of the farm machinery illuminated the darkness on both sides of the road. Even though I was wary, scanning the highway for slow-moving vehicles hauling the grain to storage, a deep peace enveloped me as I sped towards home.
The feeling was the same one I experience on days like today, the quiet housework days that tag along behind a string of hectic weeks. For some reason, a to do list of ordinary tasks, the rhythm of the washing machine, and the aroma of crockpot stew mingling with the scent of whatever’s baking in the oven speaks peace and contentment to my harried soul.
So today I am busy with mundane tasks, and anticipating this weekend’s visit with my daughter and her boyfriend. I’m looking forward to supper with them and several of Anne’s college-aged cousins on Saturday night. I’ve already made and frozen applesauce for them to take back to their apartments and dorms. Later today I’ll whip up pumpkin bread to send along, too.
But I hope to send more than just applesauce and pumpkin bread when they go. I want to pass on this harvest of contentment found in everyday life. I want to shower these young adults with the abundance of common delights God has rained upon my generation. I want to send this crop of men and women, our family’s precious hope for the future, wrapped in the ordinary goodness of fellowship, simple food, and home.
That’s a tall order for a supper with relatives, pumpkin bread, and applesauce. But it’s all I have to give. Somehow, I think, it could be enough.
by jphilo | Sep 22, 2009 | Out and About
Fall is not my most favorite season, mostly because I’m the kind of person who’s always looking ahead and planning for the future rather than enjoying the present. So instead of relishing cool nights and pleasant days, the beautiful colors and signs of God’s faithfulness in another bountiful harvest, I view fall as the precursor of winter, my least favorite season.
But a goodly number of people who I love and respect think fall is the best thing since sliced bread. And last week, as I drove through the Iowa countryside on my way to some speaking engagements, I found myself agreeing with them. The corn was firing in the fields. The leaves on the trees displayed the faintest hints of yellow and orange when they waved from the roadsides. The cloudless, brilliant blue sky glimmered from one horizon to the other.
But most eye catching of all were the golden soybeans, halfway through their swift turning from green to brown. Field after field shimmered in the sunlight, a vast pirate’s treasure of glittering doubloons, piled acre upon acre, field upon field. mile upon mile.
Finally, on my way home, I pulled onto a gravel side road and photographed the scene. How could I not recored this annual flash of beauty which would soon tarnish and fade away? For once, I ignored the approach of winter, shoved aside the tasks waiting in my office, and relished the moment.
Then, I climbed into the car slowly and drove onto the highway. Winter grew closer, my tasks multiplied in my head, but nothing could steal the treasure stored in my heart. The dry smell of autumn, the crackle of leaves, the soft breeze and warm sun, the haze in the distance. My golden, fall day.
by jphilo | Nov 7, 2008 | Current Events
Monday, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Today, there’s a skiff of snow on the grass, and the temperature won’t get out of the thirties. The change in the weather is a real shock to the system. But I’m not going to complain. I’m just grateful the weather held on Monday, the day a dozen or so local farmers harvested grain for a fifty-year-old farmer, Lyle Babbitt, who was diagnosed with lung and liver cancer two weeks ago.
I drove to their farm Monday morning and took pictures of the big event so the Babbitts would have a constant reminder of their community’s support. Lyle’s wife Brenda babysat for Anne (from birth to age 3) and Allen (from age 6 to age 8) before her first son was born. She used to take our kids to the farm sometimes. Anne was too young to remember much about it, but Allen has fond memories of the farm, of calling Lyle and reading jokes to him from whatever joke book he’d bought from the monthly school book order.
Wednesday, I emailed Allen about Lyle. Our son was pretty shook and called later in the day. “Why Lyle?” he asked. That’s the question the whole town’s been asking. Why Lyle? He doesn’t drink or smoke, is a wonderful father and husband, a valued hospital employee, a wise farmer, a Christian who lives his faith every minute of the day.
The only people not asking that question are Lyle and Brenda. “We’re Christians so we know everything works out for good,” Brenda told the newspaper reporter who came out to cover the harvest story. “We just don’t know what that’s going to be and God’s timing is not our timing. We’re just taking a day at a time.”
“At least it’s a beautiful day and we’re making the most of every day we can. Praise the Lord,” Lyle added. “Every day is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.”
I read the article to Allen on the phone. He was quiet for a moment and said, “When I have a chance, I’m going to write to Lyle and and list every joke we told each other. I can remember a lot of them. And Mom,” he added, “tell them I love them, and I’m praying for them.”
I hung up the phone, thankful for a double harvest: Lyle’s grain is safely stored in the elevator, and the compassion his love reaped compassion in my children’s hearts. Will you join me in praying for his sons, Chuck (16) and Eddie (13)? Pray that Lyle’s love and the influence of men of character and faith who fill in the gap after their father is gone, will lead them to trust God as their parents do. Pray for people of compassion to surround them and comfort them in the hard days to come.
by jphilo | Sep 26, 2007 | Out and About
From Sunday to Tuesday of this week, I traveled to and from northwest Iowa for a speaking engagement. Sunday, its summer-like weather hot and humid, brought the farmers to the soybean fields in droves. Combines and grain wagons were everywhere with harvest in full swing. By the time I drove to my speaking engagement Monday evening torrential rain nearly forced me to park at the side the road in a downpour more reminiscent of spring than early fall. But when I drove home Tuesday the air turned cool, and the constant switches left me feeling a little crazy.
The three day kaleidoscope of weather reminded me of a trip to a pumpkin farm last fall. An early frost had damaged the vines. But the warm days and rain that followed fooled the vines into sending out new blossoms which attracted worms worms usually seen only in spring. The odd chain of events resulted in an interesting picture.
When life doesn’t go the way I expect, I should be more like the blossoms and the worms. I should take advantage of unusual events since they make life interesting. If I don’t learn to do that, I’ll get a little crazy. Or a little crazier, if I’m completely honest.
