Leigh Shearin, Writer
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Perhaps They Walk Among Us

2/28/2016

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He sat alone, three pews ahead of me, bony elbows resting on his knees.


His dirty brown hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail, Rastafarian style, clumps of stringy hair hanging halfway down his back. The untrimmed, scraggly beard covered the lower part of his face, and together with his elf-like delicate eyebrows, made him look for all the world like Jesus Christ.


It was that thought that stopped me in my tracks as I nearly sneered at the dingy Army green vest with obese sumo wrestlers embroidered on the back. When he got up to greet someone who reached out to him, the broken, unlaced workboots on his feet made me gasp.


What was HE doing HERE?


I couldn't help myself. Among the splendor of our high Episcopal church, full of elderly, genteel folk, and young families with smartly turned-out children, this vagrant seemed distinctly out of place. Our soaring, historic stained glass windows cast jewel-like shadows across nearly 200 years of Gothic architecture, beautiful sculpture, and gleaming metalwork crucifixes. The scent of incense, used during high Holy Days, wafts up from the royal red carpet, which blankets the floor from the iconic red front doors to the ornate altar.


Settling myself in what I considered to be “my” pew, I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I mean, he was so different. Although clearly he was a young man, his grimy hands were gnarled like someone decades older. His knees bent outward like an Old West cowboy who'd spent too many years in the saddle. No wrinkles marked his pale face, but the countenance spoke of age, nonetheless. Leaning back in my seat, I pondered on him, tapping my 3rd Sunday in Lent bulletin against my chin.


Of course, the stranger was unaware of my musings. At nearly 50, I've spent 48 years people-watching; even as a young child, speculating on their life's story. It's human nature to make assumptions, but as I've grown up, I've tried to tamp down those bad habits.


Still, this was my church, and this stranger rattled me.


Then she approached him. It was a parish member, clad in a black velvet dress who'd just 3 days before endured the sudden death of her husband. Despite the crushing blow, she was still present this sunny Sunday, a wan smile on her face. She gripped the tall back of the pew with one hand and leaned in with the other graceful hand, reaching out to the stranger.


Their brief handshake turned my heart.


Who was the stranger? A tramp? An addict down on his luck? A drifter passing through town? Or was he an angel in disguise, sent to remind us of the value of ALL human life, regardless of outward appearances cultural practices, or language.


One never knows, does one, whether they walk among us. I for one, hope I never disappoint them.  

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Humble Pie

2/21/2016

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​hum·ble

(Huhm-buhl) adjective, hum·bler,hum·blest, verb, hum·ble,hum·bling. adjective
1. not proud or arrogant; modest: to be humble although successful.


Humble is a great word. It rhymes with such conversational charmers as bumble, stumble and crumble. Perhaps it's definition is what makes it such a standout. In a world where elementary school children sport "bling" and carry expensive cell phones, Humble has been forgotten in the pile of elderly and obsolete phraseology. People seldom behave in a Humble manner these days. Shocking conduct is routinely splashed across gossip rags, and celebrated in cheaply produced "reality" T.V.

For many, Humble is without a doubt out of fashion.
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I, however, see Humble as a reliable partner. Combined with Strength and Confidence, Humble provides a catalyst that can lead to the path of success. As an amateur Historian, I believe that the indomitable and tenacious Victorians used this Humble formula in the most effective way.  Buoyed by scientific breakthroughs and astronomical economical accomplishment, Victorians thrilled to new ideas like Spiritualism,bicycling, day trips and ice cream. Through this modernity, however, the rigorous and unyielding class system remained intact.               Servants, however, weren't the only members of society who lived a Humble life. Even the most powerful industry chiefs managed to stay Humble while still flashing outlandish displays of wealth and prestige, perhaps unconsciously knowing everything in life is vulnerable and can be swept away in mere minutes.

Victorian cooks embraced Humble. Serving a magnificent roast for Sunday dinner, they continued to use the meat throughout the week, transforming the large cut into salad, hash and soup. The next Sunday, they'd start all over again. A wonderful television series was made by the BBC in the 1980's that walks  modern folks through the daily life of a Victorian kitchen. This series is a wonderful experiment caught on film and will make anyone grateful for even the most annoying, antique or ragged 20th century kitchen. The Victorian Kitchen on DVD can be purchased through Amazon.com. It's spin-off, The Victorian Kitchen Gardens, is equally inspiring; available on YouTube, thankfully!  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1xK3vvdh7g

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Farming is a Humble occupation. Some might take offense with that idea, seeing Humble as a degradation or insult. Really, though, many occupations could be described as Humble or certainly Humbling. Farming is a little different. Daily, Farmers are hand-in-hand with dirt, manure, after-birth and innards. (Not to mention Insurance bills, late payment notices, and capricious government mandates.) Each day can bring the joy and heartbreak that is firmly tied to the whims of nature and the wisdom of choices. 

This year the Lenten season comes early. Meaning "spring", Lent is a time for self-examination, modesty, and duty. Combined with the grey, cold, muddy and colorless state of nature in my northern region, Lent has a decisively Humble feeling. Even food in Lent has a self-effacing sensibility. Many people, for reasons that stretch back to Biblical times, choose to eat fish on certain days of the week. Near our mountain home, there is a tradition of Volunteer Fire Companies holding Fish Fries on Fridays during Lent; some achieving local fame with their long-standing, tasty plates. I certainly love a good fish fry, but now and then, I reach max capacity on oil-based cooking methods.

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 Mealtimes during the Lenten season can be Humble to the point of dull. Not because of religious adherence, but because fresh ingredients are limited and expensive, many traveling from the opposite ends of the earth, where the growing season is still in full swing. Although we work hard to fill our 4 full-size freezers during our short summer, the frozen kale, green beans, zucchini, garden peas, and rhubarb begin to loose their appeal. The cellared potatoes become markedly withered, skins thickening to an unpleasant leather-like consistency.  

Still, dinner looms daily. It's rare that I don't look forward to creating meals, but today is one of those days. Stricken with the ubiquitous winter cold, it's all I can do to get off the couch to blow my nose.  Racking my brain for nutritious options. The shrunken-head potatoes in the cellar taunt me, sure in their tuber wisdom that I won't be able to use them. I cock an eyebrow towards the cellar door and iron out my plan with resolute determination. It's then that I remember the 2 packs of frozen bass I put away before our fish sank to the bottom of the pond to begin their winter hibernation. Along with a couple of onions, which sit in a crate next to the potatoes, dirt still clinging to their roots, I gather the cellared produce and head to the freezer for beans. 

We're having hash! Fish hash!

Hash is just a medley of ingredients thrown in a pan and stir-fried. It's a great choice when there is not enough of each separate item to serve them alone. The leftovers -if there are any- are even better thrown together with some scrambled eggs and dumped into a pastry shell. Humble pie, for certain. Made even more delicious, perhaps,  for it's humility.

Winter'Rest Farm Fish Hash

5-6 white potatoes, peeled, boiled and cubed
4-5 Bass fillets (or other fish of your choice)
2 onions, sliced.
A handful of green beans, blanched and chopped into 1" pieces

Evoo and butter
Salt and pepper 

Heat a large skillet. Melt the butter and evoo. Today, I used 3 TBSP of butter and a 1/4 cup of evoo. The evoo helps the butter reach a hotter temperature without burning, and the butter is a key part of the final flavor.
Toss the potatoes in and brown them on medium/low. Remove. Add the fish and brown. Don't worry if it flakes and breaks. That's what you want. Add the onion and continue to cook. Add back the potatoes and toss. Sprinkle with the green tops of the onions and serve. Delicious.
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Breaking Wrenches

2/13/2016

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There are days when I find myself bemused by the wicked sense of humor the Universe can show me from time to time.

"Hey!" It bellows from the heavens, lobbing It's celestial curve-ball at me, "catch THIS!"

"This" turns out to be shaped like a wrench. With a monkey attached.


Stretching out, I grasp for the unexpected missile. On this day, I manage to catch the end of it as it sails past my head, grappling with the monkey-wrench, trying to gain a purchase on the stinker. Finally it comes to rest in my hands. I look at it with disgust.​ Over the years, I've wondered if there's a monkey-wrench limit in the Transcendental General Assembly's Rules and Regulations.

Starting a farm- or anything with challenges, for that matter- is a daily hopscotch of ups and downs, punctuated with some slippery sideways maneuvers- and we're just getting started, even going into our fourth year. Compared to most farmers, things are easy. Our year-round livestock consist of fish and honeybees. There's only so much trouble they can get into. There are no large animals to be up all night with, wrestling with mastitis, colic, or messy, complicated births. 

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We have no house on the farm, nor is there any electricity to run the invisible home. The only running water is that which we push through a 99.00 electric pump, powered by an old tractor battery. (Or the continually flowing stream, now cutting through the lush hayfield, following the downing of a mammoth black willow tree, which we've still yet to clear from the creek bed. But that, dear readers, is a story for another day.)

Regardless of the simple nature of our farm status, however, we still struggle. Issues and problems I never thought existed pop up continually. The 2-year timeline of building the farmhouse and barn, installing permanent fencing, establishing breeding animals and large plots of reliably producing fruit trees, has stretched to almost 5. In short, life is getting in the way of carefully laid plans, so much so that at times, it's painful.

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There are lots of cliches written about this phenomenon: "life isn't fair", or "when the going gets tough, the tough get going", or "that's the way the cookie crumbles". That last one is my favorite. I mean, what kind of cookie are we talking about? It's got to be some kind of shortbread or it wouldn't crumble unless it was stale.

I suppose that stale cookie is the most powerful ammunition against succumbing to the potency of the monkey-wrench. The stale cookie does crumble. But the world continues to turn. Children are born, cakes are baked, dreams are realized.

I look at the loathsome monkey-wrench in my hands, then down at the pile of cookie crumbs at my feet. Closing my eyes, I reach into the depths of my soul, calling on the vitality that lives there, asking that spirit to help me transform the monkey-wrench into something more manageable...like a stale cookie.

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Lifting the monkey-wrench high above my head, I fling it to the ground with all my strength. It shatters to bits, shards breaking off, skittering away. With my trusty supernatural broom,  I sweep the debris into the pile of broken wrenches already littering my proverbial corner. Worry and anxiety roll off me, having just been cheated. I dust off my hands and place them on my hips, looking skyward.

"Thanks for that, Great Spirit." I say with a sigh. "That was just you reminding me that everything has a purpose and any obstacle is surmountable...especially with faith and a sense of humor."

Right?

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    Leigh Shearin

    I didn't start life as a writer. I started life with a set of parents who gave me books.

    Now that I'm nearing the middle part of my life, (assuming I'll live to 100), the Writing Gene has ignited. I can't seem to quench my thirst for words.

    I'm following my goal to write full-time, to farm full time, to dream full-time, This is just the beginning. I hope you'll come along for the ride.





    See my other blogs:
    www.winterrestfarm.
    weebly.com

    www.farmeatlove.blogspot.com

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Photos used under Creative Commons from Violette79, Jinx!, smudie, Ole Husby, bernard_in_va, philip_sheldrake, joncates