Heartland Holiday

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

Dozens of flags, triumphantly unfurled in a stiff breeze, provide sober pause as we enter the rural cemetery on this hot, dry, late May day. Treading lightly, we traverse the maze of weathered headstones, searching for ancestors, wandering the lush grass that blankets souls hardened from the atrocities of global conflict. Many in our generation continue to honor the legacy and character of these brave forbearers. Patriotism swells within, both from the full regalia of visible Americana and the staunch local observance and reverence for this weekend that remembers so many lost. 

These historical markers evoke slower times and remind us to leave the busy world behind as we embrace what matters: the importance of lineage. Each pilgrimage to this part of America’s heartland starts with this foremost habit of paying our respects and reconnecting the dots of our past.

Once back on the “hard road,” we watch the neatly sown rows of corn and other crops whiz past, heralds of a new growing season. Not yet “knee-high,” the corn has several weeks until the Fourth of July to reach its characteristic milestone. Field after field offers a rich bounty in its infancy; a delicate summer dance with Mother Nature determining its (hopefully successful) fate.   

Eventually leaving pavement, the crunch of gravel signals the promise of loving hospitality. The large noon meal – “dinner” in farm-speak – consists of an enormous ham with obligatory spuds, a variety of sides, and a generous slice of homemade chocolate cake or blackberry pie, with plenty of iced tea to wash everything down. Visiting commences in the yard under the cooling shade canopy of a large old tree. A retired pacing horse-turned-pet lazily munches grass close by, preferring to be near his humans. Despite his imposing stature, along with the family dog, he, too, seeks the warmth of family, his genteel behavior and occasional snort of agreement his contribution to the fold.

Traveling down Memory Lane includes a drive-by of former farmsteads of earlier generations. Our time-lapsed visits over the years have watched these properties prosper, decline, and finally ease back into the earth. Searching for the trace of a foundation, an overgrown path, or a headstone reminds us of the ever-palpable rhythm of the circle of life. 

Both sides of my husband’s family call this area home and have farmed this land for generations. As suburbanites, the fact that so many have stayed in these adjacent small towns seems extraordinary to us. Our selected vocations have taken us to larger towns or cities, often to the detriment of our need for fresh air and space to roam. With each return trip, my husband relies on an uncanny knack to know just which roads to take amid endless flat cultivated grids. His summers spent on these farms must have embedded a sense of direction in his DNA that transcends conventional GPS.

Finding the next batch of kin, we settle in for some good old-fashioned tractor ogling and crop talk. As the men discuss machinery, we girls head for the kitchen to catch up over coffee. On the farm, a coffee pot is always on, a testament to this way of life’s perennial hospitality. Inside, the newest baby coos and waves her arms. A soft breeze blows through the kitchen window while the circle of women shares, reflects, jokes, and munches on freshly baked cookie bars. All is right with the world at this moment around this convivial table.

We keep memories alive through food, and this weekend is no exception as recipes are eagerly exchanged. Farm women are notoriously good cooks and these loving kin are a testament to that legacy. Early in our marriage, my husband brought me to meet the rest of my new family. Their warmth and acceptance were overwhelming. A few days in these productive kitchens provided a culinary education that has served me well ever since. What appeared effortless to me at the time was the result of years of practice, along with reassurances that I, too, would become proficient with repetition. They were correct, and any chance to expand my historical repertoire each visit is a savored gift.

Visits always end too soon. As hugs are shared, we savor these final moments of pastoral living. Tending to the earth is serious business, requiring devoted stewards possessing patience and respect for Mother Earth and her sometimes wily ways. Love for the land often walks hand in hand with love for others. No matter how much time lapses until schedules permit another visit, we will pick up where we left off, circling back to peace.