Burnt Granola

That indescribable odor that picks up just where the fragrance of warm vanilla oats leaves off curled my nose hairs so violently this morning that it finally woke me up. I probably got downstairs in 2 seconds flat, less time than it takes me even when I hear a cat getting sick down in the living room. The heated mixture was out in another second and I stood grumbling my eyes at it in disbelief.

Such a small thing. Extra toasty granola, still edible, but little better than a chore to eat. They've always told us not to cry over spilled milk. And yet I found myself musing on my granola still by the time I left for work an hour or two later, and occasionally throughout the day. I oughtn't to say it is the waste that bothers me the most since I just told you that the granola was not burnt, merely much darker than I enjoy it. Neither am I distressed solely by the fact that my brother is returning from Bolivia in two days and that he deserves much better than conversation-deafening crunches for breakfast. Perhaps it is the dismay that such perfectly tasty ingredients--the right ones, the right proportions--can so miserably be turned into delightless fodder by the mistake of an extra hour's heat.

One good thing about chewing something for a while is that it eventually because soft enough to swallow. This morning I could hear only the noise of my burnt granola in my head-- the little pinch of a small failure-- but upon working on it most of the day, at least some extent of digestion occured.

As children we are taught that when we make mistakes we must suffer for them, and that, to a great extent, is true. If studies are neglected, 'A's do tend to be rather shy. If we take too much food, well, the polite thing is to finish it. If we stay up too late, we will be tired in the morning. We are trained to believe that we will "pay" if we do something wrong. Life has therefore taught us that if we do something foolish like burning our granola, we must suffer through it and eat it until the very final toasted oat breaks between our teeth and makes its way through our bodies.

And yet, what are we as humans but perfectly wholesome ingredients gone awry? We are chosen, created, prepared, grown, nourished, perfected, confirmed, strengthened--and then we go and burn our granola. We rebel. We backbite. We scorn. But here is where the life-long lessons of justice are spun until their limbs are splayed out and then set shaking and confused on the ground: God doesn't work like life. God is merciful. As we recognize that we have burnt our granola, He is the one in the bakery, turning on the oven to just the right temperature, lovingly making us a whole new batch with His warm hands, and showing us how to do better next time.

Oh, For the Artsy Travelers

They tell me she sounds crochety. But that is after I have already boisterously agreed to drive several hours across the state to meet her. I wouldn't have been able to resist anyway. Another opportunity to get lost, and this time in pretty countryside, sounds intriguing and worth the gas to get there. And what can be sinister in hillsides bathed in baby leaves, misted with a light drizzle of fog?

It's all a wild goose chase. She might not be where I am supposed to meet her, in St. Albans, VT. Her phone number is wrong on her website. My boss shakes his head and jokes to his wife and I that we had better watch out for these artsy people who have difficulty with concrete and objective things. Like directions? Like equations? I squeak up a minor protest.

So here I am in Cambridge, VT after a wait or two here and there in Barnet and Morrisville. I've already gone past the Johnson Woolworks, the place where, according to my boss, they make the original red and black plaid wool shirts in a factory that has been working at least one hundred fifty years. I've already passed Hardwick too, with its bold yellow signs saying "WATCH OUT FOR SNOW FROM ROOF" and Jeffersonville with the yellow signs emboldened by a tractor figure. I pull off the main drag and call the webdesigner, this said artsy person. I am surprised that I have cellphone service.

I immediately decide that I like her. Crotchety? Bah humbug. I barely get it out that I am calling in behalf of my boss when she cuts in with a "yes, I know all about you, Emily." She won't let me call her Ms. but insists I call her Claire. She tells me that she will meet me in a few minutes at a "nice looking little gas station and convenience store" that will be off to my left in a few miles.

I beat her there and wait in my car. Perhaps the little gas station is nice looking for these hereabouts. And then she arrives. She is almost a second Paul Bunyan--decked out in a fishing vest, large glasses, and dark blue dungarees. I shake her hand and give her the information for the school website.

"At least you got to see a lot of Vermont," she says as she walks to the driver's side of her dark green Chevy.
"Uh huh, especially after being in Michigan so long."
She leans on the roof of her car. "What're you studying?"
I can barely reply "English" before she is nodding her head.
"Excellent!"
I grin and look up at her in time to hear the rest of her sentence: "...and a perfectly useless degree." She beams back at me. We share the glow for a moment and she gives me a knowing nod.
"Yep, we English majors are poor, but we sure lead interesting lives. Keep at it. Oh, and by the way, they make great sandwiches in there," she says, pointing her chin at the little shop.

Dirt Under the Fingernails

It is raining lightly--I suppose it is about time since we have had three days in a row of sunshine.

Mum and I tromp down the bank to the garden, stomp on the tops of our shovels, and begin cutting away the grass that has crept into the soil. Within minutes my hands are nearly black from pulling up the chunks of sod and shaking the mud out of the roots.

These two weeks at home will grant me the extent of my gardening experience for the summer. Even so, they are infringed upon by the gut-deep guilt that I should be doing something to earn money. And yet, what can replace these hours of grubbiness, these conversations with Mum, these wet heads? The worms whisk slickly into their holes as we disturb them. The spearmint that has taken over the far corner of the garden also claims a patch of the surrounding air and I am so tempted by the fragrance that I grab a leaf and chew it. "We could pick it and dry it," I say, thinking of cups of hot tea come wintertime. "Yes," she replies, her eyes all chipper-like, "we could make our own toothpaste." We laugh. But I've always liked wintergreen better anyway.

Somehow it is peaceful down here, sandwiched between the blueberry bushes and the pond, and I have trouble leaving when we go in to make supper. I tell the garden that I want to return; no, not just for a visit to this little plot later on this summer, but to the whole mindset when I have the space to plant my own tomatoes. It is safe here, restful, necessary. No amount of money can change the fact that most of us, come about five o'clock in the evening, feel the questioning murmurs in our stomachs. No amount of efficiency can hurry the growth that God is in charge of. No amount of stress can erase the recognition of His bounty. Yes, I will be back-- hopefully in time for the blueberry season too.

Some Thoughts on the Present

This morning my father took his five students--ranging from fifth to tenth grade--out for a paddle on Joe's Pond. With very little convincing I came along as a driver, a boat loader, and as the second person for one of the canoes.

Dad stopped at nearly every curve in the channel to point out something. There were the methane gas bubbles, rising to the surface from the decaying process underneath the mud. There were the kingfishers and the swallows, fleet by wing, bugcatchers, nimble. There was the loon on her nest and the crow in a treetop standoff with protective redwing parents. There was the mayfly in the short non-larva lifespan of some three days. Dad talked about the lily pads beginning to grow as soon as the ice goes out, gradually uncurling their reddened leaves into the sunlight. He mentioned that only a month ago this particular pond was still covered in ice...

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When I was in elementary school and highschool I took it for granted too. There were always the camping trips. There were long walks on Sabbaths in which we learned how to sit quietly on mossy streamrocks, listening to the water gurgling across old leaves and smoothed stones. There were the horses that came along, the cats, the dogs, the turtles--all gifts that I could hardly see because they were as much a part of my cheerful bubble as sleeping was at night.

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Last night I went to see Grayson. It has nearly been a year since he came to his new home, and I was not surprised to once again find him in excellent health, good spirits, and with an unsatiable desire for May green grass. When I arrived back home later in the evening, my parents mentioned that next weekend they had decided to go visit my grandfather's little old cabins and property in the woods of Heath, MA. Coming off from my slightly wistful visit of my childhood buddy, I found myself free to answer that I would love to go, noting that I was unconfined by a horse who would need his supper back home.

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And neither will my present moments return--the tiny world of a university campus, the flexible job schedule, the opportunities and freedom to go anywhere, do anything, as long as the money holds out. Working at a summer camp, taking the morning to help my parents cut and split their winter wood, going along as a driver on my father's school-outings...

Ask Mr. Renkins, the old Vermont farmer who stopped by yesterday morning as we ran our neighbor's wood-splitter, the same guy who watched me ride my white horse "king Arthur-like" through all the green fields as a homeschooled highschool student. He would shake his head again and say that I still haven't found it yet either, in the same way I watch my father's students squabble amongst themselves, not clear whether it was a kingfisher or a barn swallow who just flitted in front of them, and wonder where they will be in the next five years.

Extravagance

Credit for top photo--Jodi S.