Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

Love, Rach

It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.

Disaster

Dear UD,

One of the worst things I can imagine is the carcass of a charred library. Can you imagine if we lived in Bradbury’s world? All the libraries burned, empty husks. All of that history, knowledge, shared connection throughout time wiped away as if never there.

That's how I feel in this world now.

One by one, you topple, the generations before us, gone of a sudden.

We are not ready to carry on without you. 

I am not ready to be the one who remembers.

I remember the generation before and the one before that and even the one before that.  Four generations, five including the one that comes after me, but I don't remember clearly. I don't know enough.

A kaleidoscope of images flashes through my mind:

Picking strawberries from the patch with Grandma Iva, snuggling on Grandma Bonnie’s lap as she reads Hop on Pop and The Little Red Hen, turning the handle as I make ice cream on the back porch with Grandpa Bruce long before he teaches teenage me to play Bridge, picnicking with Grandma Bessie at the yearly reunion, peeling fresh garden tomatoes at Grandma Juanita’s knee, reeling in big ole catfish from the pond on the family farm with Grandpa Crawford, listening to Dad’s eclectic music while learning everything from vocabulary to tolerance to history from him.

So many memories, so much shared history.

And you, Uncle David, you who could hold me in one of your hands from the day I was born, you knew me, the real me in a way others don't, can't. 

And now that you are gone from this world, I stand alone in the ruins of all of that history, knowledge, shared connection and weep. 

Love, Rach

Newton Ulysses Crawford, the First

On April 5, 1918, Woodrow Wilson was president, and nations around the globe were locked in the campaigns and battles of the First World War.  On that calm spring day in a log cabin on a Missouri farm deep in the Ozark Mountains, a blessed baby boy was delivered into the world by a country doctor who arrived on horse and buggy. Born to Bessie and Homer, Newton Ulysses Crawford, the first child and only son, would see 96 years, some 35,000 days of family, laughter, love. So much change, yet he always approached life as an adventure, even throughout the three wars that he served as a Naval Officer—he was a true war hero who fought with honor in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

His father, Homer, was born in an alfalfa field in 1894. His parents worked on the land as farmers except for one year when they lived in town to work in the Brown Shoe factory after it opened. Homer and Bessie had two more children, daughters Dortha and Juanita, and the siblings always got along.

Newton farmed, fished, hunted, and explored the 320 acres of forests, fields, hills, river bottoms, and bluffs. Mostly, he worked with his relatives, plowing fields and hauling hay. In his spare time, he walked to school, starting school at four years because he “fussed and fussed” until they let him and making it through two years of high school. He loved going to school, and recess was his favorite part. His mom sent box lunches with peanut butter and jelly on homemade bread and fruit from the orchard on their property. He walked to school, crossing a swinging bridge over Possum Creek.

He didn’t have shoes and went barefoot most of the time, though wore lace-up boots in the winter. He often walked ten miles back and forth to town. They did not have electricity until after he left home, so he did not grow up listening to music on the radio or watching television. He carried in wood every night for the fire. He said that they normally had cornbread, beans and milk at night and oatmeal on eggs for breakfast while lunch was chicken, squirrel, quail, or pork. They sometimes ate opossum or frog legs. They grew or raised everything they ate except for sugar, salt, and pepper.

On Sunday mornings, he went to church with his family, and afternoons he played games like baseball, horseshoes, jacks, dominoes, and cards. Sometimes, they flew kites, made mud pies, or went roller skating or sledding. They often met for picnics, potlucks, or family reunions.

When he turned 16, his grandpa bought him a tractor to keep him home, safe on the farm for a few more years. But Newton joined the Navy and served for 30 years, traveling the world, surviving three wars, making the highest ranking as a Naval Officer, CWOW4 or Chief Warrant Officer W-4.

Everywhere he went, Newton planted a garden, if he could, and told stories of his gardens in exotic places during his years in the Navy.

Retiring from the military, he spent 30 years as a cattle farmer on his family farm where he lived in a white house built by Crawford hands many years before. Two careers, two lifetimes.

He married his childhood friend, Juanita Allen, the girl from just down the road, on September 30, 1944 at the preacher’s house in Houston. He said about his wife, “she’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!!  She was really pretty!” Married for 61 years, always together until her death in 2006.

His only son, Newton Ulysses Crawford, Jr. was born on March 1, 1948 in California. Newton, Sr. said, “Newtie was always laughing and having fun.  He liked to have a bath and play in the water.” 

Newton Jr. returned to the family farm with his own family. Another white house that had been built by Crawford hands moved, driven down the roads to the hill, placed next to its match. From one son, 10 grandchildren, 20 great-grandchildren, including Newton Ulysses Crawford III and twenty years later, Newton Ulysses Crawford IV. Newton the First also had a decade plus of being the grandpa next door. We remember playing rook, watching movies, eating holiday meals...every family event, he stood strong and tall; his presence always there, steady, soothing. Most of the time, he wore his three-time war veteran hat, blue jeans, a blue button down work shirt, and brown cowboy boots.

His sun-spotted hands built houses, a family, a farm. Like his mother, Bessie, he lived into his nineties, driving his own car, and living in his own house until the very end. Change, war, loss, laughter, love—through it all he remained kind, with good humor and an optimistic spirit.

The man and the land leave a significant legacy. An honor to his generation, he will be missed. From him, how much we learned. Thank you, Dad, Grandpa, Great-Grandpa, Newton the First, for showing us the value of family, hard work, a positive attitude, and kindheartedness. For displaying the importance of keeping a garden, raising our own food, and taking care of our land. For teaching us to explore the world and live as an adventurer. You will live on in our hearts and minds from a million treasured memories. We love you.

“A Single Step”

Photo taken around seven years ago after a month of all raw fruits & veggies.

          Ever since I had a health scare last summer, I have been mulling over the idea of taking one step at a time. My uncle, mom, friends, and doctors all cautioned me to add and/or subtract a single action to my life rather than going to the extremes that I have tried in the past.

For instance, I could stop drinking anything with calories (for me that would be almond milk in coffee, 100% fruit juice, and sweet tea). Or perhaps I could eat a large salad every day or walk 30 minutes four times a week. Or maybe I could start writing down everything that I put in my mouth. The point is to choose something small and begin. As Lao-tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

But where does the journey really begin?

Over ten years ago when my mom mentioned the Daniel Diet and the internet first became popular, I took a step towards a healthier lifestyle diet while gobbling down information.   

I’ve studied the raw food diet for years, read numerous books, blogs, and websites, starting with Shazzie, The Garden Diet Family, Frederic Patenaude, and From SAD to RAW, and brainstormed plans or challenges with friends. Before raw foods became all the rave, I completed a 15-day master lemonade cleanse, a 40-day juice cleanse and 30 days with only raw fruits and vegetables. I’ve even been quoted in a raw food book.

What keeps taking me away from an all-raw diet?  It’s extreme and so difficult to maintain.

What keeps bringing me back?  It’s healthy and brings so much energy, clarity, and health.

Going back and forth does not work, so what is the answer?  Balance, yet I believe balance is different for each individual.  I haven’t completely discovered balance in my diet yet, but I am closer than I was when I took that first step.  When I do discover balance, it will not be something to copy.  Read about…yes.  Study…yes.  Learn from…yes.  Copy…no. 

For me, it’s all about health, not dieting.  Choice, not willpower.  Abundance, not lack or deprivation.  Blessings, not curses. 

The truth is I know what it is to be healthy, and I’ve taught that to my daughters.  I know what is best for me to eat. I have a strong foundation, not only from everything I have researched in the past twelve years but also from my childhood. I grew up on a 300-acre beef farm in south-central Missouri where we ate fresh meat, eggs, and milk from the farm and vegetables and fruit from the garden.

I remember shelling peas, snapping green beans, washing beets, eating carrots straight from the dirt, shucking corn on the cob, picking apples and strawberries.  I remember carrying buckets overflowing with potatoes, tomatoes, and cucumbers. I remember canning pickles, okra, and salsa for colder months. 

We dined on farm-fresh scrambled eggs with our diced tomatoes, onions, and jalapenos, stir-fried chicken and fresh veggies, or spaghetti made with our canned tomatoes and fresh ground beef.  We rarely ate out, rarely drank soda, rarely consumed junk food, and usually had home-baked breads and desserts.  Our drinking water came from an underground well, and we were an active and hardworking family. 

I had a strong foundation for what it meant to be healthy physically, for what it meant to eat well. However, I did not have a strong foundation emotionally and became an emotional overeater and eventually a yo-yo dieter. How I hate the diet mentality, and how glad I am that I am moving away from it and towards balance and health.

No matter what, never allow yourself to get caught up with the diet mentality, which is mired in extremes and unhealthy measures.  Unfortunately, in today’s society, we are raised on it, suckled on new fads, fear-based advertising, and misinformation.  What that leads to is desperation, from which there can be no true transformation or complete health.  I know because I lived it.  About six years ago, I wrote this:

          My whole life, I have felt a desperate need for instant salvation, for cleansing:  immediate weight loss, beauty, healing or change. I’ve relied on juice cleanses and fasts to miraculously fix everything and hated myself for not sticking with extreme diets. I’ve thought that if I were clean and good, then I might be worthy. The loss has eaten at me; I’ve coped by filling it with so much food the face in the mirror, my body, became a stranger. Only recently did I discover that the fat cocooned a lost self. The authentic child floated, drowning in an ocean of masked fins, trapped in a world of phoniness, lies and power struggles. The forsaken child became the forsaken woman. Who I am frozen inside an ice sculpture fashioned by everyone else.

Since then, I have learned and grown so much. Finally, finally, I am starting to see my past and my present clearly. I am starting to live balance and health in all areas of my life. What does it mean for me in terms of my daily food intake?  It means that I eat around 75% fruits and vegetables for each meal and add daily green smoothies and salads (and the other things I eat are gluten-free, dairy-free, mostly chemical-free, whole foods, organic when possible). It means that I eat mostly home-cooked meals and choose healthier options when eating out. It means that I cut out all sugar except dark chocolate and honey.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”

And maybe there are multiple staircases. We can take a step up one and reach the top only to discover that we have another staircase to climb. The important thing is that we are taking action and climbing. 

Whatever the first step is for you…take it…begin today, right now.