Dirty Days in Heaven
You smell like old iron. Go wash your hands.
This is Essay #210
This is a short story about where I came from, a safe and wonderful place that defined me. I have several more “chapters” stuck in my head. We’ll see if I can coax them out. I’ll bet you have a safe place in your past. Where was it? Tell me in the comments.
My thanks for spending some time at Susan Speaks. 💙
“The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings.” - Masanobu Fukuoka
The back screen door slammed with a familiar squeak, then a bang. Two little girls land in the mud room, happily covered in dirt. From head to toe. Giggling with the unbridled joy only a morning spent tromping through woods and streams can bring.
Two cousins, explorers of the land. For two weeks almost every summer. But because Michelle lived far away, I was usually on my own. Fine with me.
The mudroom was small. There was an old but solid wooden table to the left of the screen door that held a beat-up silver wash tub. After a meal, thats where the table scraps went to feed the kitties. There were ALWAYS kitties. Off to the side was a chair where Grandad could sit and pull his boots off before he came in.
There was a gigantic deep chest freezer in that little room that held freshly butchered chickens, cows, and pigs, wrapped in white, waxy freezer paper. And every package was clearly marked with its contents and a date.
There were flat, aluminum TV dinner trays, wrapped in foil in that freezer, too. After the Swansons meat loaf and peas were consumed, trays were washed and filled with real food, leftovers from a big holiday dinner.
Nothing was ever wasted.
She came out of the kitchen to inspect us and just shook her head. “You two smell like old iron. Go wash your hands before your grandad gets in.”
For most farmers, lunch was the big meal of the day. To us city kids, it always felt like a Christmas dinner… the table groaned with ham or beef, real mashed potatoes or noodles, green beans from the garden, the ever-present relish tray, thick slabs of homemade bread, and blackberry jam my great grandma made because Grandad liked to have something sweet after his meal.
Then he went back to work.
And we went back to explore some more.
Up the road, at Mr. Ben’s farm, there were hogs. We would stop and sing to them… they would snort and grunt and shake their heads and we thought that was the most hilarious thing in the world.
The barn was full of opportunity for two nosy little girls. Once I saw a sow roll over on her new piglet, crushing it. Then I saw her eat it. I started crying. Grandad made me leave, but I was traumatized by the barbaric act.
Hay was stored in this ancient barn. We climbed all the way up to the top of the stack, then slid all the way down on old towels, hearts pounding with excitement and shrieking with delight. It’s a miracle we didn’t break our necks. The hay in our hair was grandmas first clue of where we had been.
These were days to cherish. I was away from the anxious chaos delivered daily by my father. I was free. Free to play with kittens, dolls, read story books, and let the love of my grandparents wash over me.
Heaven.
Grandma Nellie Lee taught us how to be farm girls.
How to shoo the chickens out of their nests to collect their warm eggs.
How to use a rolling pin to flatten dough for thick egg noodles.
How to water the houseplants.
How to trim her patterns so she could cut fabric to sew a blouse.
Today, I have a pretty green thumb but can’t sew on a button. My noodle making skills never measured up. And I did end up having chickens of my own. But mostly, the farm taught me to be a tomboy.
There’s a confidence that’s built by going into the woods as a kid by yourself. No adult is there to tell you “Don’t do that.” Examining rocks in the stream. Using them to build a little wall to divert the water. Finding just the right walking stick. Picking a flower to stick behind my ear. Getting back to the house to wash the dirt out from under my fingernails. Sitting on the front porch with my grandma to watch the lightening bugs.
I grew up to be fairly bold and confident and I’m certain it’s from my time here. No one was around to tell me I couldn’t go into the woods by myself. I just did it. And later in life, no one told me I couldn't start a business. I just did it… with good counsel from my mentor.
Grandad’s family were pioneering settlers of the county. A great-great-great grandfather was the first practicing physician here. Great grandfather served as a Democratic representative in the Missouri house.
I think of these ancestors and what kind of people they must have been. Of course they worked hard… that’s a given. Most importantly, they were determined. I’m convinced that trait is in the family DNA.
I grew up hearing: “Hard work never killed anybody.” “Dirt is proof you did something.” “That bug won’t do anymore than chew your arm off.”
All true facts.
There are places and people in your past that shaped you, helped you, saved you. My place was the farm. My people were my grandparents.
Lucky, lucky me.
Did you have a safe place? People in your life who loved you without conditions? Whose kindness wrapped you up so tightly you never wanted to leave? If you did, how did it impact you later in life? Tell me!
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See you back here for Photo Friday… this Friday! I share some of my photography with you. Did you see this one from April? It’s buggy! 😂
This is awesome. I'm glad to see you dipping your toes into this kind of writing. :-)
Write a biographical essay about Grandma Nell. We have seen references to her since you started your Substack column. She was a big influence in the person you are today. Remarkable person obviously.