See what I mean by fun?

What’s It All About, Really?


Ten years ago, my husband Don finally decided to take up a hobby that was just for him. My dad gave him a Mississippi hunting license for Christmas, loaned him a gun, and off he went. For a few years he went in December and soon the trip became a biannual event. He and a buddy began to plan more and more elaborate trips, building a cabin out of a cow shed in the pasture my family owns in Newton, MS. We gradually accumulated enough hunting gear to warrant the purchase of a trailer for him to use for storage and transport.

These trips have become the highpoint in the year for Don. He plans them out, preparing for them months in advance, meticulously packs and repacks the trailer, and then sets out on his grand adventure. His entourage now consists of his buddy Matt, and cousin Mickey. It’s great to see him enjoy their company and the time away.

I often wonder what his trips are really like. I mean, what do guys do when they’re all alone in the woods? Do they read? Reflect on nature? Think about their loved ones? I know that if I were to get some time alone, that’s what I’d do. I’ve often peppered Don with questions about the trips, and have gotten some very interesting answers….

“We put up a fake deer out in the woods and Matt shot at it.”

Oh.

“We went to the fish camp and Matt ate a quart of cole slaw.”

Uh-huh.

“We went to Wal Mart and the Waffle House.”

Ah… “Did you get a deer?”

Some trips the answer is yes, and some no.

“So, what else did you do?”

“Sat in the deer stand.”

When I saw the pictures he’s taken from the various trips I truly understood. They simply play. Good old guy kinda fun-- probably the kind that involves laughter, cigars, camo, and outdoor toilets. (Maybe we should add beef jerky to that list…)

Last Fall he and Matt went duck hunting near Mosquito Lagoon on the East Coast of Florida. Rising in the pre-dawn hours they set out and spent the morning hiding in the reeds and sawgrass. I asked him if he got anything when he came home that afternoon.

“No… it was really quiet out there—we didn’t get anything,” he explained. “But we still had a good time.”

I understood just how great it was when he showed me this picture.

Reclamation



I’m slowly reclaiming our yard. The uncommon luxury of a 3 day weekend combined with glorious Florida weather and softly ringing windchimes worked together to entice me to attempt to shrug off the remnants of our illness and to lure me out into the yard.

Saturday morning I ventured forth, donned my leather gloves and proceeded to clear the backyard of unwanted plants. During my grief-driven gardening days I planted many different tropical plants, trying my hand at growing plants that caught my fancy. After 5 years of neglect some had proven to be poor choices for our yard, but terrifically prolific plants! I pulled out at least 200 of one variety of a dwarf variegated ginger that had taken over the beds.

On Sunday afternoon, I tackled the ferns that had come up in the hedge along the driveway, coming upon about 10 Chinese fans that had taken root-- some coming out easily, while others had to be coaxed out of the ground. When I crawled into bed that night, I ached all over, and felt the triumph of having completely cleared the area of weeds and unwanted plants.

Monday found me clearing out the side yard beds of variegated pothos, ivy, briar, and numerous other vines. Once upon a time I had planted a lovely winding path and the satisfaction I found in restoring it to cleanliness was rich.

Each day I worked while listening to a book on my ipod. Over the three days I listened to “Icebound” by Dean Koontz, “I am Legend” by Richard Matheson, and “Coraline” by Neil Gaimon, all very different and interesting. Between books I contemplated what I want to do with the yard, and even managed to clear an area where I’d like to plant a privacy hedge, to hide the hunting and boat trailers.

Digging, pulling, coaxing, I managed to clean up the yard, and in the process uncovered some beautiful things. The spathiphyllum that I planted so many years ago were lush and large and would be a great base for lovely bedding, and the giant lariope would work well around the Drake Elm in the front yard. It was good to get out and work after these past weeks of sickness. Taking the occasional break to rest, use a tissue, and enjoy the shade made the work manageable.

Late yesterday evening I walked around the yard, surveying what I’d accomplished. Now that things were tidy, I could begin to think about creating places in the yard for retreat and relaxation. There, up in the canopy of live oak branches was one particular branch that begged for a swing. A swing! I’d always loved the porch swings that graced my grandparent’s home when I was a child, and the thought of hanging one in the yard made me smile. My dream of a yard that speaks to my spirit seemed just a little more substantial.

Good Medicine

The past few weeks have not been so great. We’ve been besieged by a virus that hit first Don, then Dan, myself, and now Marla. It’s been tough caring for sick family, trying to work (quite unsuccessfully) and coping with the stress of managing all of it on top of daily life. On Saturday we took a little time to sit outside and get some fresh air, study the sky, enjoy the greenery, and listen to the bald eagle soaring overhead screaming his fearsome call.

Marla brought out some musical instruments and began arranging them on the ground: an electronic banjo, a maraca, a train-whistle, and a harmonica. She then handed Don and I instruments and instructed that when she counted us off, we were to play. Neither of us really felt like playing, but we decided to indulge her for just a few minutes.

We began to play. It wasn’t much of a song—mostly tooting, shaking, and squawking, but it was enough to fire her imagination.











“Now everybody, move with the music,” she commanded. We moved, blew, plucked, exchanged instruments, played some more, and laughed.

“Daddy, you’re supposed to stop when I cut you off!” she giggled, as Don just kept right on tooting his train-whistle, and then sheepishly dwindled away as we stared at him. More laughter.

I was grateful for the unexpected lightness of spirit that our impromptu jam session had brought—music is good medicine.