The Mountains Are Burning - Again

It's a mountain thing. No, really.

Down here in Surry County, we think it's just a Lowgap thing, but it's not. It's a mountain thing and one of those traditions that seems to die hard.

In the spring, the mountains burn. They've done so for decades and although they don't burn every year (and I don't even know if this year's fire, which started Feb. 14, was "set" or not), they burn.

We react as though it's a bad thing, especially if our homes are clustered so close that we can see the embers glowing after the sun goes down (not unlike the friend who made this picture). But the burning of the mountains isn't the evil we would have it be, especially if we didn't build our new mountain homes along the steep ridges and keep all those beautiful trees so close by to preserve nature.

My granny used to tell stories of the mountains burning.

Back in the 30s and 40s, and through the millennium before that, mountain families let much of their livestock run loose in warm months. While milk cows and the horses used for farm work needed to be close at hand, sometimes cattle and almost always pigs and other animals were branded (usually with ear notches that neighbors recognized) and left to wander the mountains through the warm months. There was no such thing as cars whizzing by at 60 mph to put an untimely end to the prospect of winter bacon. It was a much easier task to fence in gardens and let the animals find food wherever they could.

Hence, burning off the mountains.

Indians recognized that burning the prairies (I occasionally get a dose of the History channel from hubby) created new, tender growth that attracted game. Here in the mountains the same theory applied. Cows, sheep, pigs, whatever, couldn't eat the brush, and new growth was less likely to come up through inches of dead leaves. So the farmers burned the mountains.

If they were lucky, whoever set the fire did it on a still day in February or early March. Those who lived closest to the mountains kept an anxious eye on the wind and smoke, and if the fire turned, neighbors arrived to help keep the blaze away from buildings with wet sacks and hoes.

My grandparents had one of those farms through which the Blue Ridge Parkway eventually carved its way. The unsettled slopes of Fisher Peak weren't too far in the distance, and in the spring smoke would often curl over the mountain ridges.

I remember Granny told about one neighbor who had a white baby goat that followed her everywhere, and when the mountains were burning the goat came along when she and her family came to fight the fire. All day long the little goat followed in her footsteps as she beat a soaked cloth sack against the flames. At the end of the day, the little goat's hair was singed and he was as tired and dirty as the people who had fought the fire.

In those days, neighbors came together and only worried about what was worth saving -- homes and barns, corn cribs and haystacks. These days, it's still largely neighbors (better known as volunteer firefighters), but they fight the fire in the forest. They have to because not doing so could mean that instead of a brush fire that cleans the mountain, the fire feeds on several years of debris and grows to a blaze that leaves the mountains scarred and bare instead of ready to grow again.

It seems that, even without the livestock running free, we might be better off going back to the old ways, burning the mountains every year and concentrating our efforts as our ancestors did by taking care of homes and buildings.

The Reluctant (or Maybe Surprised) Caretaker

I never felt like I was born to be a caretaker. The whole baby doll, play house, girlie girl stuff didn't come natural to me. I'm a haphazard housekeeper, a mediocre cook (with a few good dishes, but no gourmet fare) and only batted about .750 on childrearing (they both survived and one has been successful).

My grandmother -- now she was apparently a born caretaker. Despite losing her own mother when she was only an adolescent and being booted from the house by an evil stepmother (no, it's not just in fairytales), she was the ultimate in nurturing. She spent her teen years tending house and raising other people's babies. As long as she was able she had a monster garden that filled the pantry and the freezer, her house was immaculate, there was always a meal to be had and any child needing a sitter had one. She was what I imagine the perfect grandmother should be.

With her as a role model, I feel a miserable failure. So it sometimes makes me pause to see the direction my life has taken in the last two years.

I'm virtually a full-time caregiver.

When I stumble into that bit of reality, I wonder if I had some misconception of what I was good at. Or if I'm just bumbling through what I'm doing now and that at some point I'll be found out as a fraud.

For 25 years I had a career and made good money. I knew the movers and shakers. I wrote the headlines, the editorials and the columns that helped people understand what was happening in the communities where I lived. I was, like it or not, somebody that people knew. I never left the house without being prepared for some event or at least the possibility of running into someone who knew me. Most of the things I liked to do took second, or often third, place to work, which consumed my evenings and often my weekends.

Then unemployment struck like a lightning bolt one fine January morning.

When the smoke cleared from the shattered illusions of what I expected out of life for the next 10 years or so, I was left with an altered landscape in which to live and I was, for a while, lost. As I began to find myself, it wasn't the things that I'd done for years that I wanted to pick up. It was the things I'd left undone.

I'd started boarding dogs as a sideline a year or so earlier because I saw a need and really enjoy the company of dogs. As I walked my few guests and my own pack in the mornings, I mourned for my loss of direction, and prayed for guidance. Either the job I was seeking would come through, or if I'm meant to stay here, more dogs would be good. Dogs showed up. I picked up odd jobs to supplement unemployment and the bills were getting paid. I was taking care of dogs and, while some had eccentric needs and desires, and the hours were lousy (would you rather get up at 6:30 a.m. or clean the kennels because bladders can't wait?) and seven days a week, I was happy.

Then there was the question of my eldest - the so-far successful offspring. She was expecting my first grandchild. Would I be willing to babysit? This was where the real shocker came in. Me, babysit? I had hardly spent 8 hours a day with my own children - other than holidays and weekends. And babyhood was never my favorite part of the process anyway. But at the same time in made economic sense. Why should she have to pay someone hundreds a month when I was home anyway? And where would I rather my grandchild be?

So I went for it. Nearly 18 months into this experiment (I still consider it an experiment), I occasionally chafe at the inability to leave the property during the sacred hours of nap time, but my days have become structured around a toddler's needs. And, to be quite honest, while I enjoy a "free" day now and then, I miss her big blue eyes and birdlike babble when she's not here. For the next six weeks, I'll have many of those days as she's home with her mom who has just added to the nest, and then the experiment will enter phase II. While Mom is wondering about handling two under 2, as a still befuddled grandmother, I'm doing the same.

When babysitting duties resume in late March, there'll be two granddaughters requiring my care and I'll be finding out exactly what I am made of. Will I snap under the pressure, requiring professional assistance to care for the children, if not to recover my sanity? Or will I adapt to this latest change with the same flexibility that has allowed me to get this far? Since this is not a role I'd have envisioned a few short years ago, I'm at a loss to give a good answer. Past performance, however, indicates I may manage to adjust.

What I do know is that each of these changes has enabled me to find out new things about myself, or at the very least rediscover things I'd forgotten. Perhaps the "dog whisperer" in me means I can also work with small children without losing my sanity as I keep drawing comparisons (socialization, training, etc. LOL) much to my daughter's chagrin. Once I accept that I'm going nowhere, there's something essentially rewarding and peaceful about spending the afternoon doing yard work or yarn work, depending on the season.

And the rewards, if not financial, are ample.

The dogs greet me each morning with wagging tails and excited barks as I drag my coffee-wakened self through the chilly air for "out." Cold noses and warm tongues proclaim their undying devotion, until their humans return. A brisk walk in the morning sun gives my heart the workout it needs, and sends them back to the kennel ready for rest.

The toddler greets me with a happy dance and searches for a word to call me. We're shooting for Mimi, but whatever label she pins on me I'm sure I'll accept. Cuddles and kisses share germs, but warm my heart in ways I still find surprising.

No, I'm afraid I'll never turn into my grandmother. I'll never measure up to that standard, even if I do manage to learn a thing or two from it. And I think most important thing I've learned may have come from my own perspective -- dogs or kids alike can tell when you fake it.

Love them and the caretaking comes easy.

Cold and flu season has new meaning with a toddler

I haven't had a cold for years, especially the last two years when human contact has been limited to my husand and occasional outings where I generally didn't spend a lot of intimate time with anyone.

Put a toddler into the equation, however, and all that changes.

My granddaughter comes each day while her parents are at work. We have lunch, she naps, and we spend the evening doing what adults do with little people they love, including lots of hand touching, kissing and cuddling.

All the germs I once passed by without any awareness, she tends to pick up by touching with her hands. Once they're on her hands, they go to her mouth where they incumbate until she's shedding them everywhere she goes. Eventually, she gets sick, but by then she's already shared her ailment of the month with me.

As a result I'm sick, again. Geez, I'd forgotten how awful it is to be sick. I now take pity on any fellow sufferer of anything from the common cold to a stomach virus or, heaven forbid, the flu.

The first ailment came along the end of December. Baby got up from her afternoon nap throwing up. Two nights later at the church's New Year's Eve celebration, I felt I was going to join her and a few hours later I did. Prior to that morning, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been sick to my stomach. And while the darling granddaughter was better in 24 hours or less, I was a good 36 in recovering. Her granddad, Mom and Dad also had a dose and we were all envious of her quick recovery.

Last week she came in with a runny nose, a day or so later she's acting like she feels better and I'm getting three hours of sleep and sore muscles from coughing.

Apparently whatever germs are involved are looking for one thing, new hosts. She's small and they want to move on. Once she's done her task -- spreading the love -- she gets better and those who have been given the bug of the day suffer on.

I know all toddlers are susceptible to any ailment coming down the pike and getting the bugs while she's this age means she will have fewer ailments when she gets ready to go to school. Kindergarteners who've gone to daycare miss less school, and first year teachers of little kids spend a lot of time sick. (I know because my mom taught first grade one year.)

So I guess I'll spend the winter battling every ailment that toddlers need to battle, since through isolation apparently I've lost the immunity I would have otherwise had. By the time she starts school I'll be well innoculated against most of the common ailments for a few years.

Maybe I'll invest in more sanitizing spray and wipes, to see if there's any hope for avoiding a germ or two. In the meantime, I may have to spend more time on the couch than I'd like.

And does anyone have a Kleenex?

Learning God's Love Through Parenting

If you're like me, you grew up going to church and hearing about God's fatherly love for us. That was all well and good for someone whose father was an affectionate, loving dad. Yet for me and many of my generation, those words didn't carry the same meaning.
Instead Daddy was a distant sort of figure. He was at work all the time, even though he was self-employed. The whole community counted on him and he was known across several counties, yet I didn't feel comfortable telling him about my day. Life around the house changed when he came home and wasn't as relaxed. As I grew older, there was no understanding for the pangs of adolescence or the conflicts of teen years. I don't remember ever hearing him tell me "I love you."
Granted, at some level I guess I knew my father loved me, but he was a product of his upbringing. Generations of strong mountain men who didn't betray their emotions, good or bad. They worked and provided for their families and that was all they needed to do. I have to say my dad did that and did it well. We always had food on the table, toys and clothes (although not necessarily the latest styles). I had a dog and a succession of wild pets, an allowance, and a car when I was 17. Life wasn't bad, but it did shape my view of God.
To me, God was distant and disappointed in my failures. My bad choices as a teen, my failed marriages, my acting out because I'd already failed so what difference did it make. He'd forgive me, because he was my Father, but I didn't really feel love in there as part of the equation.
Even when I had my own children, that view of God didn't change a lot. Yes, I loved them with all my heart and I was willing to die for them had it been called for. I loved them from the first time I felt them move in the womb, through dirty diapers, skinned knees, hormones and tantrums. Like me, God would have to find it easy to love the children who didn't fail.
That changed when my youngest child hit high school and discovered failing, not because he couldn't do better or make better choices, but because he didn't want to. He discovered drugs and alcohol, shoplifting and truancy. He cursed me when I wouldn't give him what he thought he needed. I made him leave home when he graduated from high school (he'd already left once on his own) and when he was 19 he was living in his car and unemployed, a far cry from the successful future I'd seen for him.
That's when I realized how much God loves us. Even though I dreaded my son's tirades and was worn down by trying to cope with him, even though he'd failed himself at so many levels and wasn't facing the rosy future he could have had, I knew I loved him. Then it hit me that God must look at us the same way.
He provides us with a plan for life, and we push it to the side to do things our way. We don't ask for His guidance and we make bad choices. We ask for things we think we need like mended relationships and better jobs, then get angry when those things don't happen. Spiritually, we wind up unemployed and living in our cars, hurt and angry because, after all, aren't we children of God? Isn't our life supposed to be better than this and wouldn't it be if He really loved us?
The simple fact is that, as a parent of a troubled child, you learn that love isn't always enough. For life to get better, the beloved sometimes has to listen and sometimes has to go through tough times, and even then everything won't necessarily be OK. Sometimes the course we're settled into will never lead to the life we could have had, but it will still lead us to heaven and our Father's arms because he loves us.
Accepting that real love means God forgives my mistakes just as I love my son through his troubles, means I've finally opened myself to more of God's grace than I ever imagined. No, life isn't suddenly full of rainbows and flowers. I'm still out of work, but my bills are paid and I have time to go to church and be involved. I still don't have a big house, but the one I do have keeps me comfortable. My wardrobe isn't the latest fashions and expensive accessories, but it suits my lifestyle. I still dream of earthly things I may never have, but I have a healthy granddaughter that I get to spend a lot of time with and, so far, my own health enabling me to do the things set before me.
My prayers haven't healed my son, but they've helped me look beyond his illness and past his struggles to help him when I can and say no when it's something I cannot do. And they've helped me put aside old hurts and learn to accept my Father's love.