Category Archives: Childhood

06.21.20
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Velveeta & Chessy Cat Grins: A Nod to My Dad

Happy Father’s Day to the first man that loved me.

My dad somehow managed to provide for a family of 7 and still be the calm, patient voice at dinner, though we called it “supper” back then. Insistent on a prayer first, a prayer after, and then a Bible Story, we never felt the stress of his day at Caterpillar, though hindsight, I’m sure the demands at work were massive and he was making a very conscious choice to create a separation.  He valued dinner time in a way that almost seems foreign now, as if the phone rang, he’d literally answer it with something like, “It’s supper time at the Rocke house…what’s so important that you’re calling at 6 pm?”

He taught me how to drive a stick shift uphill on our gravel road, Rural Route 1.  But I couldn’t even get out of our rock driveway without listening to the entire workings of an engine and practicing the clutch. Talk about patience with a 15 year old who just wanted to drive already.

My mom cooked during the week, but Sunday morning breakfast was all dad. He always made scrambled eggs in a large cast iron skillet. Any leftover proteins and veggies from the week got thrown in, and as he knew I hated green peppers, he’d puree them first and then mix them in. I used to think that was so mean, because if they were big pieces I could just pick them out. As an adult, I think it’s a proper love gesture. He’d top the eggs with 2 1/2″ squares of thinly sliced Velveeta cheese, which helped determine portion sizes. Though I know now that it’s “processed cheese food,” it’s still one of my favorite nostalgic, guilty food pleasures.

As the youngest, I sometimes think I got the best of my dad.  He retired from Cat when I was in college, and actually came to campus at Millikin, slept on the floor and took me to my favorite spot back then–Texas Roadhouse. Having dinner alone with him (especially as a poor college kid) is a memory I’ll always treasure. I know this pic is breakfast and not Roadhouse but I couldn’t find that one… same year, though.

I spent my college summers back on the farm, working through laundry lists of to-dos that were never complete come August, but that wasn’t the point. I knew I would move away after college, and was glad to have the time with both my parents to work on the garden, repaint the fences, and have an early dinner together before I scooted off to my waitress job at “The Homestead”  in town.

As fate would have it, I got to tag along with my parents to Atlanta on a business trip for dad, not realizing that the city would soon become my new home where I’d meet my husband and spend the majority of my adult years.

After I moved to Atlanta, my first visit home required me to bring Oscar, my kitty-cat companion, in tow. Dad pretty much hated cats in my childhood, as there were a million of them, and every winter they procreated and then cuddled up next to the porch door and were just a pain underfoot when he’d open the front door. But when I showed up with Oscar, he not only let me bring him in the house, but I have evidence of dad on the couch with my little furball. That was the first (and last?) time there was an animal in the house, (at least a live one).

He has always called me “Jewler,” loved me through some tough choices that were hard for him, and while I’m super close to my mom, I’ll always be a “Daddy’s Girl.” There’s a million more stories and things I love about my dad, but as the ugly tears are starting, I’ll wrap up with my favorite picture of us–this was in preparation to meet my sister’s fiance and we thought it’d be funny to wear our overalls with a gun/holster. Lol. I love his “chessy cat grin” (as he calls it) in this photo.

Love you, dad. Thanks for your wisdom, unconditional love, and really bad jokes.

 

 

05.08.20
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Wilma is alive! (and other Covid ruminations)

I stopped counting the days, or weeks during this wild time.

Instead, I started really plugging into the stuff that makes me feel whole; and for the most part, that comes from my childhood. So forgive me for the constant farm stories, or shenanigans about the past, but (I think) there’s some funny stuff in there that resurfaces in my memory in the most random of moments.

It’s been just over a year since we moved to Sacramento, and we live in a 3-story town house with a 4th floor rooftop. I got a wild hair one night that we should start a roof top compost, and it seemed really easy. When I was a kid we had a plastic milk jug cut off at the top and we filled it with “sheep slop” that we’d toss into the pasture and anything else that was compostable, but the stuff sheep wouldn’t eat, we’d toss into this fenced off area at the edge of the pasture. Everything always broke down nicely and we had divine dirt to use on the garden each Spring. I have no idea why I thought I could re-create this in a 2-foot plastic bin in the middle of the city, but, as with most things, I’m full of hope and expectation.

So I took an old plastic bin from moving, poked holes in the lid, lined the bottom with newspaper and proper dirt, and then started filling it with eggshells, clementine peels, lettuce leaves, etc. I named her Wilma. And I took great care to make sure I fed her every night, added a little water, and told her a story or two about my day.

Months passed….nothing. The egg shells were still in full halves, the clementines were withered, but not breaking down, and it smelled to high heaven and was full of disgusting moving things that I’m quite sure weren’t actually good for the dirt or the flowers I wanted to fertilize.

Meanwhile, my husband Nicholas is kind of a city slicker, and thought this whole idea was ridiculous, but after a few months, I heard him reference my compost by her proper name, and my zest was renewed.

My compost’s namesake is not out of disrespect, but an ode to one of the sassiest women I’ll likely ever know. My great Aunt Wilma was the most independent woman I ever knew in the AC church (Apostolic Christian) and if you knew or met her, you were lucky. In a time when independence for women wasn’t the norm, she marched to her own drum, was full of saucy opinions, and while I’m quite sure she she was raised to be silent and bite her tongue, she certainly did not.  She was always dressed to the nines with a beautiful suit and matching brooch, and while single, hometown gossip said she had multiple proposals that she’d turned down. I don’t think I knew anyone else who never married and was a career woman in the world I grew up in, but she worked for Caterpillar for 70-ish years, and had her own apartment in Peoria before moving to the duplexes in Eureka, which is the only place I ever knew and visited.

She lived to be 104 (I think? I’ll have my mom edit if that’s wrong) but I remember she was 100 and still passed her driving test and was rolling around town like she was a teen. No one could tell her what to do, even when it came to re-using a napkin with someone’s gum in it. She had this wooden napkin holder on the table with used napkins from folks all over the country; while she was all fancy with her rolled hair and matching suit, she was busting out recycled items every chance she got.  You never knew if you were going to get a napkin with gum, snot, crumbs, or just mild wrinkles that she had freshly flattened. She saved everything. And recycled everything. Most folks in my world saved things in a similar way, but also had standards about used napkins. Not so much Aunt Wilma.

So you get the name—what better praise for a strong, wild woman in my life than to name the compost after her? In this way, she’ll always be alive to me.

And ALIVE she is! During Covid-19, I’ve spent a good amount of time on the roof, and one night I realized that Wilma’s pink lid had popped open, which is odd, because the lid has those snap down handles that are super tight. But this strong-willed woman busted those handles wide open and there was a full-on head of lettuce growing in the middle of the compost. I was in awe and picked a leaf, smelled it, took a bite, and then looked down to see the bugs and eggshells still in the dirt and decided that wasn’t a great idea for my gut health, but how rad is that to have a head of lettuce from Wilma??

While my sweet husband cringes at the stuff I save, I get it honest. And I’ve reused almost all of my sour cream containers, pickle jars, and cereal boxes for packages during this unconventional time to send out sanitizers and home goods into the world.

So here’s just saying, when I kick the bucket, I’d be honored if someone names their compost after me. And as for Wilma, I’m glad to still have a piece of her in my life–all strength and sass, busting a plastic lid open like that to see the world and get some fresh air.

08.10.19
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Tomato Talk, Honey-Bees, and Other Farm Goodness

Yesterday I got to run around an East Coast farm all afternoon—I was in Connecticut for a work summit, and the afternoon was dedicated to an excursion of our choice.  Ironically, someone I’d never met recommended via email that I check out this farm adventure, and I’m so glad I took her advice.

Stone Acre Farm in Stonington, CT is bordered by the Atlantic, and while it was 86 degrees, the town pulls an awesome ocean breeze every few seconds. About 40 of us stepped off the bus and onto a gravel lane that led to an open lawn area for lunch.  A local chef mixed up a variety of greens (and even some “weeds”) in a perfect summer salad, grilled jalapeno-Parmesan corn on the cob, and topped our pulled pork tacos with pickled red onion and cojita cheese. We sat in the sun on picnic tables, sunflowers in milk jars as our center pieces, and sipped local brews and ciders between bites.

It was divine. The food, the scenery, the company. I found myself tearing up a few times (and again now as I’m writing this) in the name of both nostalgia for my childhood and gratitude for the life I have as an adult that is so rich with adventure and opportunity.

After lunch, our farm education began in the form of a tour and strategically placed “stations” around the property.  We stood 10 feet from the honeybee swarms and hives while we learned about the importance of pollination, the purpose of the Queen bee and her drones (now there’s some girl power), and then got to taste this season’s harvest in comparison with another local honey. My mind flooded with memories of Rocke’s Honey (my paternal grandfather was a beekeeper) and I loved the gentle reminder of nature’s beautiful intricacies and the vivid memories of my Grandfather telling me to “put some honey on it” whether that was my sore throat, an open cut, blisters, or a broken heart.

Next stop was “tomato training” and I was in hog heaven. I had a custom tote-bag made last year with my favorite things printed on the front, and garden tomatoes made my top 3 short list. We tasted juicy heirlooms and dark yellow Sun-golds, and then traipsed through the dirt of the greenhouse to learn about pruning and plant “training.”  (Who knew you could train tomatoes to not only resemble a vine, but produce clusters of 15+ tomatoes instead of the usual 1-2?) I found myself sharing stories of growing tomatoes and sweet corn in central Illinois, and how proper protein is super overrated when you have a plate heaped with thick slices of salted garden tomatoes and “peaches and cream” corn on the cob from Uncle Kent’s field. As we walked to our last station, I was already scheming about adding tomatoes between my yellow roses on our rooftop patio in Sacramento…I just need to get my hands on some heirloom seeds and good dirt.

Speaking of dirt—last stop—composting.  I was in a navy dress and pearls (I’m fresh out of overalls, and somehow thought this was appropriate for a hot farm tour.)  Anyway, poor clothing judgement didn’t keep me from getting really excited about playing in the dirt. I don’t think I made any friends at that stop, however, as the rest of the group backed up a bit when our “teacher” invited us to get messy.  I played with a pile of regular dirt, partially composted-dirt, and super rich composted-dirt. Again, I was thinking through the logistics of a compost pile in the corner of our rooftop back home and chided myself for living the last 20 years without any composting. (Hopefully my husband doesn’t read this until my tomatoes are planted, and compost has begun so he can’t talk me out of being a farm kid in the middle of the city.)

After our stations, we had time to roam aimlessly about the property—a field of Queen Ann’s Lace bordered the back portion of the property with elaborate flower gardens next to the homestead. The “Yellow Farmhouse” has since been converted into a non-profit, educational space for all things regarding nature, farming, and cooking.

Pretty awesome. I was geeking out the entire afternoon and my heart was ready to burst by the time we boarded the bus to head back to the hotel.

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My family’s farm (in Metamora, IL) will always be my favorite place, as it’s a collection of my best childhood memories that have gently shaped me into the adult I’ve become.  I didn’t appreciate it too much as a kid, as my idea of a good time wasn’t gathering eggs through chicken poop, walking beans in the summer, or stacking split wood in the cellar.  But a day like yesterday reminds me of the goodness that I knew on the farm because it’s where I learned almost everything that matters to me now.

It’s where I learned about hard work, the power of Faith, the strength of family, how to properly compost, and how to best plant beans in straight lines.  It’s where I learned about broken noses, broken hearts, and broken fence.  I learned how to make jam, strip wallpaper, run a saw, preserve beef and butcher chickens.

It’s where I learned to drive…a 3-wheeler, a tractor, and a 5-speed stick shift on the back gravel road. (What I really learned, was that my dad had/has the patience of a saint, and that his attention to detail and requirement that I listen to all things about proper engine functioning was going to teach me patience, too, as I had to take it all in before I could even start the engine.)

It’s also where I learned to paint, mow in straight lines, play football, recycle before it was easy, and build a mean snow fort.

I credit almost all of my imagination and sometimes excessive creative thought to having a childhood void of pop culture. I learned to play, imagine, create, read, and write, in lieu of TV or radio entertainment.

I know general education, college, higher degrees, and ongoing learning are super important, but I’ll also argue that a proper farm education trumps everything else.

So thanks, mom and dad, for the farm degree and thank you “Yellow Farmhouse,” for the refresher and for carrying on a farm education through each lesson you provide the folks who visit your property.  Maybe you could take a page from Robert Fulghum and create a collection of vignettes: “Everything I need to know about life I learned from the farm.”

I’d buy a copy.

07.13.19
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Big Love and Mullets: A Rocke Family Anecdote

Family can be hard.

You can’t choose them or change them, but I’ve learned to love them hard for a million reasons. And the older I get, the more I appreciate our differences because the one thing that’s constant is the big love we share, and the even bigger love my parents have instilled for us to have Faith; over the years, they’ve really embraced whatever that Faith and Belief looks like for each of us, as we’ve not always chosen the same path, and while that has created some momentary dissonance, in the end, great love and faith has always trumped all the idiosyncrasies….and as I try really hard to root all things in gratitude, I’m most thankful for the nimbleness of our family and the willingness to really try to understand and table judgement in the name of a bigger love.

I mean, we might share the genetic “fisherman’s nose” (sorry Jeff, you and I got that one honest from Dad and Grandpa Rocke) but sometimes the similarities can end there. We all grew up in this DIY world together on Rural Route 1 (yes, that’s a real address) but we couldn’t have turned out more differently. But that’s what makes the Rocke clan pretty awesome–we still make massive effort to gather together even though we’re as different as you could imagine.

My oldest brother is a father of 5 kiddos (can you imagine??) and the Elder of our family’s church in Minneapolis; he is the master-mind and owner of an engineering company and his daily tasks are so far over my IQ that I have to take notes on things to Google later so he won’t think I’m a complete idiot.  (As I’m writing this, I’m not even sure that it’s an engineering company…but again, over my intelligence level. It’s something important.) Being the oldest (especially of 5) comes with its own set of challenges, none that I pretend to understand, and he continues to be our leader of sorts and make time for family shenanigans even when I know that it has to come from some personal sacrifice.

My only sister is an interior design genius that left an architecture firm to go out on her own a few years ago, and is a super-mom (of 3) who literally has her hands in every possible honey pot in Bloomington, IL. You need her to bring food for 150 high school kids after the Joseph Musical? No worries. Give her 2 hours notice. Want her to run Bible School or the Vacation Bible School program? She’ll do it in her sleep while she coordinates a mission trip to a remote place with no running water. I need a Xanax and stiff drink after hearing about her day, but meanwhile, she’s already on to saving whales or planning to re-do the entire backyard without using a handyman (insert her husband here, but I’m just focusing on the core 5 here.)

My middle brother is a total unicorn. (Sorry, Brad…but I always joked your fashion style would never find you a wife…lol.) But he married young, had 4 amazing kids and started his own Ag company before being an entrepreneur was even a thing. Like my eldest brother, if you ask him about his business, it’s so complicated I feel like I need a translator just to have appropriate responses. I do care, but it’s so over my head that I resort back to that big love concept and just embrace that he’s happy and try not to have a brain implosion when I try to understand better. He’s the calm, even voice of us kids, as I don’t know that I’ve ever heard him get loud or irrational like the rest of us so easily do. (And his little bum was just too cute not to share here.)

And my littlest bro…he’s the family trail blazer…He’s always been the strong willed one who knew what he wanted before anyone else could even hope to start tracking; we spent the most time together “on the homestead” before the West called him for ranching and all the wild things that entails, but he’s the hardest lover…we used to fight and act crazy, but I always knew he had my back and would love me over the disagreement. He’s the awesome dad of 3 kids…and he’s a grandpa..which is amazing and hilarious at the same time, considering he’s the youngest of us that had kids. In a lot of ways, he’s been my person as we’ve gotten older, which is pretty wild if you see us together, as he’s usually trying to start a farting contest and I’m worried if I picked the right nail color.

I bring up the rear, as the perfect child, of course. Just kidding. Nicholas (my hubs) and I wore matching “Black Sheep” t-shirts to our family bash, and while I think I’m pretty well behaved, it is kind of true…I left for Atlanta when I was 21, met and got engaged to Nicholas in 3 weeks, and later decided we didn’t want to have any children.  We live in California now, and while my life choices haven’t taken the traditional or expected route, my family has embraced our path and only care that we are happy and have some version of spirituality.

All joking aside…we’re an interesting bunch and we love each other in spite of any difference in life choices, and while I’m clearly biased, I think my parents raised a pretty awesome clan.

My parents have been married for 50 years. Seriously?! Can you imagine being married to anyone that long and still look at each other fondly? Well, they do…and my dad shared a bit of their story this week that none of us had heard.

My mom was pretty hard-headed (shocker) and had no plans to every marry. Now that’s something we ironically have/had in common. She was in school at Illinois State to be a teacher, which was somewhat unusual in her time and situation, as women were typically not college bound, and instead were more apt to take a church marriage and settle in to raise children. Somehow, my mom was ahead of her time and managed to not only do both, but do so with 5 hooligans on a farm with little money and the need and/or desire to grow and raise our food, sew our clothes and manage family camping trips every summer.

And my dad was the guy who openly said, “I’ll love her enough for the both of us.” Thankfully, while their engagement began as my mom saying yes because she believed it was God’s plan more than anything, she wound up loving him completely (duh–to know him is to love him) and 50 years later, they’re a love story that we could only hope to replicate. It’s the Faith-based, all encompassing love that transcends all else, and this Rocke, motley crew was and still is fortunate enough to see in action.

I’ve always joked about my parents’ frugality (and I’m a self-proclaimed exaggerator, so sometimes Nicholas doesn’t believe me and I have to fact check to be sure I had the core stories straight.) True story–mom made most of our clothes, matching whenever she could, cut our very uneven mullets (and sometimes permed them) and we all bathed in the same 2 inches of cistern (rain) water.  There was no such thing as expired food (because if it did come from a store and not from the garden) it was never going to waste…insert Mystery Meat Mondays and solutions for spoiled milk. I’ll spare you too many details here.

Their frugality in our childhood and understanding that there are more important things than store bought Levis and Guess sweatshirts were the reason that they could fund a beach trip like we had this week. Their generosity and constant need to make sure we all stay connected is one of the many things that I’m thankful for, as it’s too easy to grow older and grow apart.

We gathered in Hatteras, NC this last week to celebrate them (and my mom’s 70th, though she looks 50) and it was an awesome time to connect, laugh, and share the many stories of childhood with our spouses and kids.

Mom prepped a slideshow of old photos, and I took the liberty of sharing some goods here–hilarious. I know that only folks that know us or grew up in a similar way might be amused, but I wanted to share a taste of our Rocke childhood on RR1 and all the love that grew with us.

So because I like to cheers all things lovely in this world, here’s to you, mom and dad, the beautiful story that you’re still living, and all the goodness you’ve planted in the Rocke kids. I speak for all of us when I say that we love you more than we’ll ever be able to articulate in mere words, and we’re so thankful for your love, your faith, and you’re incredible influence in the adults we’ve all become.

PS–I still claim the kids’ table.

06.21.19
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De-cluttering & Enemas: a real ‘clean out’ story

My husband, Nicholas, is a bit of a neat freak. He scrubs the counter tops obsessively to make sure there are no streaks, and if I leave a pair of heels on the stairs he breaks into a full body rash. Before I purged for the big move, he would regularly peruse the house for anything he thought he could discard, in spite of the fact that I constantly had a designated “Goodwill” box in the garage to assist in regular clean out.  Last summer, I was couch-bound for 3 months with a shattered knee, and he knew I wouldn’t scoot down multiple stairs on my hiney to check any recent additions to said donation box. And thus, about a quarter of my “treasures” mysteriously disappeared into the abyss of the local Value Village.

In his defense, he’s been (mostly) a good sport about my constant stream of family inheritances (I don’t mean one expensive vase….I mean, boxes and boxes of things from my grandparents, my parents’ farm, childhood things…the list is admittedly excessive.) In the last 4 years, we lost two of my grandparents, Grandma Hodel moved into the local nursing home, and my parents moved off the farm.  All of these changes and transitions were emotional and tricky for me living out of town, and I found myself claiming boxes of country and gospel records, candy dishes, floral china, toothpick holders…I even saved the “1-2-3 Enema!” recipe card from my Great Aunt Edna. I mean, what if Google implodes and I need a little GI assistance to the rescue?  I like to be prepared.

The pending move to Sacramento sent me spinning, and I called in my parents for de-clutter reinforcement. They drove 12 hours South from Central Illinois in their work clothes and tennis shoes with game faces on. I was terrified to leave to-do lists and disappear for work, but I knew that I didn’t really want to know what all they were purging.  I just knew I had to get rid of about 1/3 of our goods, as California real estate thinks everyone made big in the Gold Rush and a square foot costs 2 new borns and a pair of this season’s Frye boots.

Everyone survived the chaos…I mean, some of my things suffered a home displacement, but I couldn’t tell you what’s missing. I look around our Sacramento digs and grin at my little mighty mouse toothpick holder, the pearly white chicken candy dish, and the fancy decanter and shot glasses from Great Aunt Wilma, (who I can only assume had for decor and not functional use).

I appreciate a good de-cluttering session, as it actually has an emotionally cleansing power as well.  I’m thankful for the bits of our families that surround us in a modern

space that hasn’t been lived in before us.  The Pacific Railway runs right behind our patio, and as I type, it rattles my mom’s old metal picnic trays and the lid on the penguin ice bucket from Nicholas’ mom. For a fleeting moment, I forget I’m in the middle of the city and not one of the box car children on a rural adventure from my childhood story books.

I do think I should get a free pass for a year or so on any other clutter commentary from the peanut gallery…and in exchange? I’ll share the family enema recipe.

 

01.18.15
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Grandma Rocke, A Self Help Book

In a portion of my recent interview with my dad’s mom, I was shocked and humbled by some of her responses. I asked her for a fond memory of her parents…and she launched into the details of her dad’s premature death, and the fact that she then became her mother’s right hand. While these were details that I did want to know, it didn’t answer my question, so I redirected her to “fun” family nights, vacations, weekend getaways, etc.

Silence. Vacation? “No, honey. The first time I took a trip was with your grandfather for our honeymoon.”

My mind flashed to the camping trips my parents took me and my four siblings on every summer of my youth. We camped in every state except for Hawaii and Alaska, and while we were always on a budget, we did incredibly fun outdoors activities, like white water rafting in Oregon, camping next to the California Red Woods, and hiking down into Crater Lake. One year we even splurged big time and went to Orlando for Christmas.

My grandmother, however, had not been privy to these childhood luxuries. She helped raise her siblings, cooked, canned, and gardened at a young age; she dropped out of high school her sophomore year when she joined the church. After committing her life to the Lord, the expectation was that she was grown enough to quit school and get a job; her situation was taking up a job as a nanny with a local family, making $2 a week in turn for caring for two children.

She didn’t attend school dances, participate in local activities, sports, or otherwise usual childhood experiences. She helped her mother, raised her siblings, and served the Lord.

Nicholas and I recently booked a cruise to the Eastern Caribbean, and it’s literally the only thing we talk about at night…we read cruise reviews until we fall asleep, and check our “cruise countdown” app every morning.

I recognize the stark difference in my current life and that of my grandmother, and I listened in awe of her as she spoke so matter-of-factly about her life. Her voice didn’t resound with an invitation of pity or empathy for the childhood she experienced, the challenges of being married to a beekeeper who often didn’t make enough money to get through the Midwestern winter, or her current situation as a patient/guest at the nursing home; she speaks of her past with the same tone of voice she does about the Chinese food she had on Monday for her 98th birthday celebration. She sees the world through a lense of thankfulness. She’d never dream of being ungrateful of her experiences or wishing for more.

Every time I call her, and ask her about her care, she raves about the nursing home: the food? “Amazing. I couldn’t dream of more. Do you know they have unlimited ice cream? And for my birthday, they were willing to go to any local restaurant and get me anything I wanted. Of course, I asked for Chinese food.”

She’s incredibly resilient, and has so much to teach me.

I keep ordering and reading books about leadership, inspiration, and otherwise “self help” type books for my new career. The reality is, all I really need to do is keep interviewing my grandmother, and replay the audio when I need to refocus. Her life stories, experience, and wisdom is more powerful than any book I could order from Amazon—and I get the bonus of hearing her sweet, raspy voice with each replay on my audio. What a gift she is to me.

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10.15.14
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An Ode To My Mason Jars

(Well, It’s not really an ode…just a blog.)

This past spring I made a few road trips from Atlanta to central Illinois, where my parents were cleaning out and preparing to sell the family farm. Regardless of whether it was just nostalgia, or a general need for certain items, I hauled full loads in my CX7 back to our townhouse, in hopes of preserving pieces of the farm in the city.

One of the many items I rescued was a serious stash of Mason/Kerr jars that were in my parents’ cellar or in the chicken house. Much to my dismay, my mom actually admitted that she had thrown a load away already, and terrified at the thought, I took as many as I could box up.

My sheer delight regarding my farm things hasn’t exactly been shared by my husband, who is under the delusion that I have inherited too many jars. Too many?? That’s impossible! The options are endless, but he doesn’t quite appreciate that, as he only sees the precarious stack of them on a garage shelf. I say I’m hoarding them because I use them for my homemade detergent, but the reality is, I have a hard time parting with them, even for a sale.

In perusing Pinterest the other day, I determined it was time to begin my fall decorating, and as I began changing the seasonal goods around our house, the ideas for my sacred jars began: candle holders, toothbrush holders, make-up organizers, vases, weight loss marble visual aids, and the list goes on.

I love to find a purpose for them, but I don’t mind just having a serious stash of them for the intended use—next summer when I have a neighborhood garden plot, I’ll can up any kind of fruit or veggie I can harvest from our red-clay soil. Until then, I love having them sprinkled throughout the house, and don’t mind that there’s still an un-used stash in the garage. I feel a bit of the simple, country life every time I dust one off and use it, and the older I get, the more inclined I am to cling to a few things from the past.

Disclaimer: I know this is a lot of pictures–that’s the point. 🙂

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09.12.14
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Fish Filet Lessons, Rocke Style

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When I was kid, I was pretty “squeamish,” as my mom would say.  I hated the sight of blood, despised butchering day, and wouldn’t even consider touching a worm long enough to get it on my fishing hook.  I suppose this is probably par for the course for most girls, but as a “farm girl” with three brothers, I think the expectation was that I should be a little tougher.

This summer, my youngest brother, who is the closest person I’ll ever know to a real cowboy and professional fisherman, was catching and filleting fish in mass quantities at my sister’s lake house in central Illinois.  The family was all in town for the 4th of July, and what I assumed would be a leisure day in the hammock, turned in to a blood bath of catfish and walleye.

I kept watching Jeff skillfully turn a flopping lake catch into two fine filets of dinner, and decided I really  needed to know how to do this, too.  I think he thought I was kidding when I asked him to teach me–my white ruffled skirt was trimmed in delicate lace, and I had a pretty fresh manicure, but I was ready to take over the knife.

I’ll spare the bloody details, but after a few rounds of coaching, I did a pretty decent job of prepping a good size catfish for the fryer.  It sounds terrible, but after I did a few, I wanted to filet every fish that was unfortunate enough to be hooked that day.  We dredged filets in this yummy cornmeal called “Fish Fry” and golden-fried fish all day.

I know I didn’t master something crazy hard, but I was oddly proud of myself, and felt like I added a “skill” to my arsenal that I just may need some day.  You know, just in case I ever get stuck in the wilderness with a stream and a knife.

I still have a pretty weak stomach and am certainly not signing up to help with butchering day ever again, but the next time we’re all gathered and fishing at my sister’s, maybe I’ll give the knife lessons. 🙂

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09.07.14
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September Resolutions

I know it’s a little early for New Years resolutions, but my cousin, Jolynn Hodel, posted a new blog tonight; it was her final post about their journey to a new home this past year, and I got to thinking about all the changes you never imagine will happen, and the hindsight that allows you to realize it’s all in a perfect plan.

I lost two great men in my life this year, my grandfather in March and my dad “Poppi” in July. My husband left a 14 year career without a new job secured, and my parents sold the only childhood home I ever lived in. I ended the only “career” I’ve ever known and have two degrees in a file folder that are, at the moment, irrelevant. And if that wasn’t enough change, an age old friendship ended abruptly this summer without explanation.

I’ve written before about change and transition, and at the risk of sounding redundant, I wanted to wrap up the changes like a Christmas present, and take this time to be thankful, press forward, and make some resolutions.

I resolve to have faith, in spite of the the need I have for control.
I resolve to spend time with the people closest to me because tomorrow is never promised.
I resolve to not be complacent in a job just because it’s easy.
I resolve to only maintain the relationships in my life that are positive and good for me.
I resolve to always remember where I came from, and keep calling my grandmothers every week.
I resolve to continue “Sunday gravy,” Italian style, even though very batch of red sauce stings a little.
I resolve to worry less about money, but keep shopping at Aldis.

And I resolve to eat a few more greens and drink less wine. 🙂

I know it’s just September, but a cooler night reminds me again that the seasons start over, and so should we. So here’s to a new season, a few resolutions, and a reminder that the only constant in life is change.

06.11.14
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The Girls With The Dragonfly Tattoos

When I was 21, my best friend and I made a permanent decision: we tattooed a dragonfly on our right foot; it’s relatively small, but big enough to make a statement for us.

We had an explanation that only could have been created and understood by us. The “cool” tattoo at the time was a butterfly, and we scorned the cliché ideas we felt surrounded this “insect of beauty” and found it completely unoriginal to follow suit. Instead, we wanted to be like the often over looked dragonfly, who isn’t perhaps as ornately beautiful as the butterfly, but in fact is more interesting, complicated, and delicately beautiful in an obscure and undefined way. Thus, we decided we were like the dragonflies of the world, not the butterflies and decided to don them on our feet forever.

I know it seems silly, but I’m proud of my dragonfly, the bond that it signifies with my best friend, and the reminder of the insecure girl I was then, just trying to find my way and make decisions beyond my years. I love the permanent reminder of who I was then, and the older I get the more I’m proud that I haven’t changed too terribly much, in spite of how badly I wanted to break free and be different back then.

Denise and I continue to blaze our own trails in life and keep each other close, in spite of the entire continent between us. I was in her wedding two years ago, and one of my favorite pictures was the shot of our dragonflied-feet. Few things in life are permanent, but our tattoos and friendship might be as close as it gets.

My dragonfly and Denise continue to remind me to be different, take risks, and find beauty in the unconventional.

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