The Sins of the Mother - An American Monologue

It turns out Fletcher also writes less funny performances pieces based on American History. I remember hearing about this one in the news, and the mental health piece kind of hits closer to home than I’d like to admit. I think because the people are still living, he asked to be credited under a pen name. You never know what someone is going through; and it’s never a bad idea to get some help. More resources here:
https://988lifeline.org/

The Sins of the Mother
The Story of Andrea Yates

By Fletcher Stein

BANG. It’s the starter’s pistol. It goes off, and BANG. You don’t need to think anymore, you just DO. With that BANG, the world becomes clear. You don’t have to decide to dive, you dive. You don’t have to decide to swim, you simply become a swimmer. You take a breath and put your head down and it’s finally quiet, and you follow the blue stripe at the bottom and you don’t have to think about what you should have been, what you could have been, what you might someday be. When you’re underwater, a swimmer is just what you ARE.

Outside of the water is where the trouble starts. I climb out of the pool to be…judged. My father shaking his head at the stopwatch my coaches have asked him to stop bringing to meets. My mother’s eyes searching my exposed skin for any insistent fat. My coaches looking for bulimia scars from sticking fingers down my throat. Scars, the price of pursuing perfection. Everything else the shame of falling short.

I hadn’t swam in competition in fifteen years when Rusty and me had our fourth baby. Luke. But that feeling started to surface up all over again. I told Rusty, and I told all the doctors he took me to that I knew I was a horrible mother. I was cursing our children to Hell. I deserved to be punished and they needed to be free of me. The doctor that was there when I was let out of the psych ward told us we shouldn’t have any more children. But if you want to be a perfect partner to someone like Russ you don’t admit defeat. And within a few weeks baby number 5 was on the way.

Trazadone is a Seratonin Antagonist and Reuptake Inhibitor, a second-generation antidepressant that is often prescribed in low doses to treat insomnia. I used to know about those things when I was still a nurse.

In my family, you would never get away with doing something to the bare minimum. Perfection WAS the bare minimum, and that’s what Rusty Yates represented to me.

I met Rusty when I was in nursing school, actually. We lived in the same apartment complex, this big sprawling sun-belt style thing where all the units were accessed by balconies that looked out over this beautiful pool. Of course, when I first knocked on Rusty’s door it was because his unit looked out over a parking lot. I asked him if he’d seen who hit my car, and even though he said he didn’t he said he recognized me. He’d seen me swimming and sunbathing, and we decided to go out and get a steak sometime.

Nobody had ever hit my car, really. I just made that up to have a reason to talk to him. I had never done anything like that in my whole entire life, but I was desperate. Growing up, my parents expected perfect grades, the perfect backstroke, the biggest paper route in Houston, up at 5 AM everyday before school - and I never learned to have time for other people. I was 23 when I got my first boyfriend, and when he dumped me was the first time I felt really depressed.

So when I saw a handsome jock in my apartment building carrying math and computer textbooks around, I memorized his schedule. I bought a new bikini and I made sure I was out at the pool times he got home so he would know who I was, and I figured out which one was his window and I made sure I parked there every day so I had a reason to knock on his door.

And Dammit it worked, because I am a Valedectorian, and a Swim Team Captain and I was not going to let my father down by dying some lonely old maid.

At our wedding, Rusty told everyone loudly that we never planned on using birth control, and that we were going to have as many children as nature permitted. And I was going to be as perfect of an obedient wife as I could. I had Noah two months before our first anniversary, and was pregnant with John before the second.

You don’t talk about depression in good Texas families, so Rusty never knew about the visions of bloody knives I had when Noah was born, or the voices telling me I was a terrible mother who didn’t deserve happiness after I had John. Any signs of depression I showed, he just wrote off as the Baby Blues, and moved on.

When he got the chance to work with NASA in Florida for six months, he told them yes without asking me, and he decided the whole family could drive down there in a camper, and then we’d just live in it. And when we got back, pregnant with Paul, we’d keep living in RVs.

Maybe if we could have just stayed in Houston a little longer - where my parents and my brother could help with the kids. Where the friends I’d drifted away from might see me in the supermarket and corner me and ask me if I was OK. Where we had a real house for our boys to grow up in, and we didn’t have to sell the ornaments I’d bought for Noah’s first Christmas tree, Maybe it would have all been different.

But that would have meant Rusty admitting something was wrong with me. Admitting he knew I was broken. I wasn’t perfect.

But still. He knew that when I was pregnant with John I quit swimming. I quit working, and I quit seeing my friends. He didn’t know about my struggles with bulimia when I was younger, but he was aware that I never got undressed in front of him anymore, only changing behind a closed closet door. He noticed that I avoided arguments by giving him the silent treatment for days at a time, I know that, because he’d beg me to react to him. “Throw a frying pan, please! Anything!”

He knew that while we were living in a bus I never let my brothers or their kids visit us at home, and I spent all my time caring for my Dad but he just wasn’t getting better, which just proved that I was right to give up Nursing because I just couldn’t take care of anyone. But I gave it up to take care of my kids, but I couldn’t take care of anyone, and it was just so much.

Postpartum psychosis isn’t just some Baby Blues you get over, it is a serious depression and it can get worse with every baby you have. A few months after Luke, our fourth child was born, I took forty Trazadone, which is a Seratonin Antagonist and Reuptake Inhibitor, which had been prescribed to my mother in a small dose to treat insomnia. I took forty Trazadone because I wanted to sleep forever.

****

The bus; people always want to know why we lived in the bus. It was after our second baby, John was born, Rusty got this opportunity to do a project with NASA in Florida, and he thought it would be best if we all drove out there together in a camper trailer and just lived in an RV park for six months.

The whole time I was selling all the furniture we’d bought together so we could lease out our house while we were gone, none of the neighbors could say they ever heard me complain. While I tried to find space for family photos and my wedding dress in the storage unit where Rusty was stashing his table saw and free weights, no one could say they heard me complain.

When I was pregnant with my second child barely 18 months into our marriage, and I quit working. Quit swimming. No one could say they heard me complain.

As I withdrew from the few friends I had, as Rusty tried to get me to read challenging books like I used to. Or offered to cut back on work so I could go back to nursing. No one could say they heard me say a word.

When Rusty got scared and frustrated and angry at my silence. When he yelled “Say something! Show me you’re in there! Throw a frying pan at me. Do Anything!!” No one could say they heard me complain.

When my pregnant body brought back all those old high-school-bulimia feelings, and I stopped changing in front of Russ. When I refused to undress anywhere except inside a locked closet, at least no one could say they ever. Heard me. Complain.

“I’m a mother now” I’d say to him. Just as calm as anything.

Maybe if we could have just stayed in Houston a little longer - where my parents and my brother could help with the kids. Where the friends I’d drifted away from might see me in the supermarket and corner me and ask me if I was OK. Where we had a real house for our boys to grow up in, and we didn’t have to sell the ornaments I’d bought for Noah’s first Christmas tree, Maybe it would have all been different.

But that's not the role of the obedient wife. The obedient wife doesn’t complain.

In Florida, we got to know an old mentor of Rusty’s, Reverend Weurnike. He let me know, I was right to stay quiet. An obedient wife. It was the first time I’d felt like I was doing anything right in a long time.

The reverend was always after Rusty for working too much, for caring too much about material things. I thought he should’ve been at our garage sale. But Rusty took it to heart. “Travel Light!” became his new family motto. He decided we would stay in an RV when we went back to Texas. The Reverend thought this was a great way to simplify our lives. In fact he had a converted GMC bus for sale that would be perfect for our situation. Russ bought it hook line and sinker.

He thought it was exciting. “We don’t have a budget!” He’d say. “We just LIVE! Take it easy!” And that’s what he thought we were doing, for almost three years in RVs. An obedient wife doesn’t complain.

Until the day, a few months after Luke was born, I called him at work. He came home to find me slumped in the bus biting my fingers until they blood and my legs shaking uncontrolably. The next day I took the Trazadone.

****

Haldol is a brand name for Haloperidol, a typical butyrophenone-type antipsychotic, used to treat tourette’s tics, schizophrenia, and acute psychosis. I had already been discharged from the psych ward of Methodist Hospital after my Trazadone overdose, because of, quote, “insurance reasons”. I refused to take the Zoloft they prescribed me, and I would just stay in bed scratching bald spots onto my scalp and scoring scratch marks into my legs. I thought the children were eating too much. You know I struggled with weight in high school - or at least, being in front of crowds in a bathing suit every weekend, I had to keep an eye on it.

The day I met Dr. Starbranch, Rusty found me in the bathroom with a knife to my throat.

“Let me do it,” I told him. “Let me do it.”

They hospitalized me again, and I thought I was being a good obedient wife, just accepting my fate, not complaining. The doctors thought I was “Catatonic,” and as a last ditch effort they injected me with a drug cocktail that included Haldol. You don’t mess around with that stuff - in all those movies set in psych wards, when the hero wants to escape so they stop taking their “meds”, it’s Haldol they’re talking about. It can have nasty side effects, but it was the first thing that worked.

Rusty said the day I started Haldol was when I started looking at the pool again, longingly. When I started opening up to him again. How he saw the woman he thought I could be. He finally moved us out of the bus, into a three bedroom house. But I could never break the feeling that I had failed at being the obedient wife for Rusty’s “simple life.”

So I made up for it. I started swimming again - but it had to be 70 laps every morning at dawn. I started baking cakes, sewing costumes. I had the best-stocked stroller in the neighborhood. I homeschooled the kids, buying extra workbooks and taking them on field trips. But I guess I couldn’t even do that right - Rusty kept telling me I was making it too difficult on myself. “You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

Still. By the end of that year I stopped taking the Haldol. Rusty figured I was getting better. Who was I to speak up? Of course, Rusty never really seemed to want to know the details of what I was feeling. After the trial, he seemed shocked by the therapist’s notes that had become part of the record. Visions of knives floating above our first child. Voices telling me it would be better if I was dead. He never put together the Trazadone incident was a suicide attempt, to take my own life before I hurt somebody. He thought I was silent and nervous; I was just trying to stop myself from causing harm.

It took all of this for him to move us, with four kids, out of the RV and back into a house. I started swimming again, but Rusty was concerned that I was doing too many laps. I came up with really creative lessons for the kids’ homeschool, but Rusty thought I was “making it too difficult on myself”. We’d learned not to trust organized religion from a travelling preacher who was Rusty’s spiritual mentor when we lived in Florida. But when it was ME writing letters and phone calls with him and his wife, all of a sudden Rusty thought he might be too extreme.

The role of the woman is derived from the sin of eve, he taught. And bad children come from Bad mothers. That’s why I worked so hard at the homeschool lessons; to give my children a chance to overcome my badness. It’s why I swam so much, because I needed to stay attractive to Russ. I kept the best-stocked stroller of all the moms at the playground and I sewed costumes for all the neighborhood kids. For a little while, it seemed like it might be good enough.

Postpartum psychosis is a serious depression, complete with visions and breaks from reality. It can get worse with each child, and the doctor I was seeing didn’t think having another child would be a good idea. But Rusty told her that the trade between my illness and the birth of our child was a simple one. A good wife doesn’t disagree.

My friend Debbie, from nursing, asked if I really need a fifth child, with all the struggles I’d already had. I didn’t understand what she meant. “Rusty wants more kids.” I told her. “Rusty only cares about Rusty” she said.

I wanted a girl. “Let’s get enough boys for a basketball team, and then we can talk about girls,” he said. My mother wasn’t so sure. She’d had to beg him not to make us go back to the RV when I was sick. I told her it made me feel like I had failed his vision of a family living a simple life. I wasn’t going to fail him again.

Mary Deborah was born in November of 2000. By March of 2001, my father died. I was back to not speaking, scratching my head bald and refusing to feed the baby. I didn’t want her to end up bulimic like me.

Rusty got me checked into a mental hospital at the end of March. They refused to give me Haldol, even though it was the only thing that had ever worked. I don’t know if the doctor there ever read my old records, but he insisted I didn’t have psychosis. I know he asked Rusty about me. I know Rusty would talk over everyone in group therapy sessions. I know Rusty would answer for me when anyone asked me a question. I stayed obedient.

In April I got sent home. I got worse. Rusty’s mom took the kids for a walk, and came home to find me filling up the tub. She asked why. “I might need it,” I said.

In May I went back. After 10 days, I got sent home. I would get worse. The doctors would tinker with my medication. Rusty would pick up a new prescription. I’d start to get better, and then I’d wake him up with screaming night terrors. Every couple of days I’d start to get better, then I would suddenly get much much worse.

I couldn’t stand watching my father get sick, then better, then sicker, then go to the hospital and wonder if he was going to come back. And I was an adult. I was a nurse. I was a valedictorian. It must have been terrible, for the kids to see their mother go through so much of the same. Their imperfect mother. What chance would they have?

On June 20, Rusty went to work while the kids were having breakfast. As they ate, I started filling up the tub.

I brought Paul upstairs with me, my perfect little three year old boy, and held him under. He had never been much trouble, never made much of a fuss, and when I tucked his soaking body into my bed he was just perfectly peaceful.

I brought Mary upstairs with me, and gave her a bottle to distract her while I drowned little Luke, and five-year old John, and tucked them into bed too. Once she finished the bottle, I held her under as well. I called Noah up to me now. He was seven, and could come upstairs on his own. Mary was still in the water, and he asked what was wrong with her.

He tried to run away, but it wasn’t too hard to catch him. He tried to fight as I held him under, but I wasn’t going to fail. When he stopped moving, I put Maty into the bed with the other boys and called Rusty at work. “It’s time.” I told him. “You need to come home.” Then I called the police, and waited for them in the living room. The sergeant who came onto the scene found Noah still in the tub.

I don’t know how to explain it. The children, they weren’t developing correctly. Does that make sense? I wasn’t a good mother to them and because of that they weren’t…develping…correctly.

I did not hate the kids-their death was my punishment, not theirs. “It would be better for a person to be flung into the sea with a stone tied to his neck than cause little ones to stumble.” That’s in the bible. And I had caused them to stumble.

Just like when I was young, I had stumbled. I had fallen short time and again. And just like when I was young, I hoped they would find peace and freedom under the surface of the water.

The Sinking of the USS Philadelphia - a 10 minute comedy.

It was a rare day off when I drove into town, with the chance to see a local arts fair. I was all alone on this trip, I thought I’d get the chance to take the edge off at the Stockman’s bar. Which, I think used to be actually just for stockmen but now is just a place where shedding taxedermied steers can get hairs into your drink.

The highlight of the fair for me ended up being the 10-minute play festival, where I got to see original works from around the area. The Spinners were descendants from a timber mill executive that settled out in the Shelton Area, back when there were still companies with executives anywhere within a hundred miles of here. By the time I was growing up, they were mostly notable as a family that had a real talent for producing backup football players. Trent Spinner was never a starting quarterback, but he was good enough to get subbed in every third drive. Kevin Spinner was part of a rotation at running back, which I guess in a way was kind of starting. The youngest one, Fletcher, got to be the starting kicker for about half of a season when one of the Pilion kids got expelled for throwing M-80s in the girls’ locker rooms.

Anyway, I’d never heard much about him since then, so I was kind of tickled to see his name on the bill at the play festival. And I’ll be danged if he didn’t crack me right the heck up. I bought him a hairy beer at the stockman, told him about my pumpkin patch site, and he gave me a copy of his script to put up here. I’d never heard about any of this stuff in history class, but he assured me it’s basically the true story, just really funny. Enjoy.

The Sinking of the USS Philadelphia
A short, Humorous Piece of American History

By Fletcher Spinner

Characters:

Stephen Decatur, Sr. - The first captain of the Philadelphia when it was commissioned in April 5, 1800
Stephen Decatur, Jr. - Senior’s petulant son
Pasha Yusef Karamanli - The Pasha of Tripoli during the Barbary Wars. Don’t do the accent!
Turner - Captain Decatur’s first mate.
President Thomas Jefferson - Reminds you of someone…
Robinson - Jefferson’s Chief of Staff
Barbary Pirate - Pasha Karamanli’s chief of Staff

By Fletcher Spinner

Prologue

(It is 1804, and we are on a pier. Stephen Decatur, Sr. is giving a speech.)

SENIOR: Gentlemen, we are here today to plan next year’s celebration of the anniversary of the United States Navy! Ten Years already!

CROWD: Hear Hear!!

SENIOR: You all know me, of course, I sailed in the Continental Navy during the War of Independence, I took the first American Military Vessels into foreign waters. I captured dozens of ships in the Carribean. I am, of course, Captain Stephen Decatur!

TURNER: Ahem. Senior. Sir.

SENIOR: What’s that, Mister Turner?

TURNER: Stephen Decatur Senior, Sir. Your son is also a captain in the US Navy, called Stephen Decatur. So. We probably best call you Stephen Decatur Senior. Sir. To differentiate.

SENIOR: I understand the need to differentiateat. Call him Junior!

TURNER: That seems kind of infantalizing. He’s a Captain in the US Navy after all. Sir.

SENIOR: I was in the navy when he was in diapers!

TURNER: Er, That was the Continental Navy.

SENIOR: So?

TURNER: This is the United States Navy.

SENIOR: It still counts!

TURNER: I don’t think so, Sir. You just said. Remember? Ten Years!

CROWD: Hear Hear!

SENIOR: Fine. I’m Stephen Decatur…Senior. In 1794, George Washington established the United States Navy to protect our merchant ships from Barbary Coast Pirates.

TURNER: Oh that reminds me!

SENIOR: What is it now?

TURNER: Sorry, Sir. You just reminded me, I have a message.

SENIOR: And you have to tell me right now?

TURNER: It’s about the Barbary Wars. The enemy have captured the USS Philadelphia.

SENIOR: Philadelphia, eh? You know, I was her first captain.

JUNIOR: That’s right!

TURNER: Captain Decatur, Sir! (doffs his cap and bows)

SENIOR: Ah hello, Junior.

JUNIOR: Hello Daddy. The Philadelphia is my Daddy’s Ship!

SENIOR: It was four years ago.

JUNIOR: What has Captain Bainbridge done to my Daddy’s ship!

TURNER: She’s been captured in Tripoli.

JUNIOR Shrieks Not by Tripoli! Oh Daddy That’s terrible. Where is Tripoli again?

TURNER: Tripoli is a semi-autonomous Ottoman city state on the mediterranean coast of northern Africa. It, along with Tunis and Algiers, make up what we refer to as the Barbary states.

SENIOR: You’ve been there, Stephen.

JUNIOR: Of Course. How many of our men were lost in the battle?

TURNER: Oh, well that’s the good news! No men were killed.

SENIOR: Then how did we lose her?!

TURNER: She ran aground!

SENIOR: Ran aground?

TURNER: Right. I think they hit a reef.

JUNIOR: shrieks Not a reef!

SENIOR: Did they deploy countermeasures?

TURNER: I’m told that Captain Bainbridge tried to refloat her, sir. He jettisoned all of the heavies. Cannons, water barrels.

SENIOR: And how did that go?

TURNER: They’re all captured sir.

JUNIOR: Shriek Catapulted?!?

SENIOR: Captured, you idiot. (to aide) And the ship?

TURNER: The Tripolitanians are working to repair her and use us against us.

JUNIOR: Well that is just not ideal at all. It looks bad to lose a ship.

SENIOR: I agree with the boy for once. Looks bad to lose a ship.

JUNIOR: Although I love Tripolitanian ice cream.

TURNER: Well if anyone can save us, it’s Captain Decatur!

SENIOR: Well, I suppose I do know my way around a ship after all these years.

TURNER: Oh, sorry sir, I meant him.

JUNIOR: Yes, I’ll do it! I’ll go get my Daddy’s ship back from the Tennesseeans!

TURNER: Tripolitanians.

JUNIOR: Tripolitanians! Come along mister Turner. We must discuss this with President Jefferson.

CROWD: Hear Hear!

(Exit Turner, Junior, Crowd)

SENIOR: Have kids they said. The greatest joy in the world, they said.

(Exit Senior, Lights go dark. Then lights back UP on the Oval Office, where President Jefferson and his Chief of Staff Robinson are doing business.)

ROBINSON: President Jefferson, sir, you have a visitor.

JEFFERSON: (Trump voice) What is it, Robinson? I’m very busy, as you know, trying to do more Deals. The Louisiana Purchase was a very good deal.

ROBINSON: Are you sure you talk like this, sir?

JEFFERSON: Obviously I talk like this! I love to build things, but I don’t like to pay my workers. Remember Monticello? We love Monticello, it’s America’s favorite house. We started building it in 1768, that’s a long time ago now.

ROBINSON: And when will you actually finish it?

JEFFERSON: Enough about Monticello, Robinson, who is here to see me?

(Junior enters with a flourish, followed by Turner.)

JUNIOR: Hello Mister President! It’s me, Captain Stephen Decatur!

JEFFERSON: Stevie! Swimming Steve, I call him, because of Ship. Man I love this guy.

JUNIOR: Well, Mister President, I need your help! Those nasty Tarabithians -

TURNER: Tripolitanians.

JUNIOR: Have captured the USS Philadelphia, and I mean to go rescue her!

JEFFERSON: Right, gotta get our ships back.Looks bad to loose a ship. But we’ve got a great navy, you can take as many ships as you need. Robinson, how many ships do we have?

ROBINSON: Five, sir.

JEFFERSON: (to Junior) You’re going to have to find your own ship. But it’s OK with me, you’re going to find a tremendous ship. A beautiful ship, maybe you’ll name it after me, who knows, I think America would love it. Definitely not going to name it after John Adams. Everyone forgets him.

JUNIOR: We won’t let you down sir!

JEFFERSON: I know you won’t, Swimming Steve, I know you won’t. Now get out of here, me and Robinson need to redact the rest of the Ben Franklin files.

(EXIT all, lights down.
LIGHTS UP on the Pasha of Tripoli’s palace)

PASHA: (in a Russian Accent) The American ship is nearly free. It will be a fine addition to our fleet!

PIRATE 1: Sir, ye are Pasha Yusef Karamanli, the Bey of Tripoli, and part of the Ottoman Empire. Why do ye have a Russian Accent?

PASHA: It would be problematic for the actor playing me to do my real accent, so we thought we’d avoid it altogether.

PIRATE 1: Argh, I suppose that makes sense.

PASHA: It is why you have your accent to, no? Barbary pirates are not English.

PIRATE 1: Aye Aye, ye scallywag.

PASHA: Now go see to the torture of the American prisoners.

JUNIOR: Not if I have anything to say about it!

PIRATE 1: Avast! It’s the US Navy!

PASHA: Da, this is problem.

JUNIOR: That’s right! I sailed from America all the way here to Tatooine -

TURNER: Tripoli

JUNIOR: To taking back my Daddy’s ship! I’ve freed the prisoners, and now I will defeat you!

PASHA: Bring it on, Daddy’s boy.

JUNIOR: *Shrieks* Daddy’s boy!?! (pulls of his glove) Why I never! (Slaps Pasha with a glove)

PASHA: (pulls off his glove) I will break you! (Slaps Junior with his glove)

JUNIOR: (slapping like a dork) I will avenge my Daddy!

PASHA: (slapping like a dork) The ship is mine! No takesy-backsies!!!

JUNIOR: We built it, we get to keep it!

PASHA: Your captain ran it aground!

JUNIOR: You didn’t mark your reefs! You’re supposed to mark your reefs.

PIRATE 1: (to Turner) Arrrrgh. Is he always like this?

TURNER: He sort of is.

PIRATE 1: You think we can settle this without them?

TURNER: Oh yeah. I’ve got an idea. Follow me.

JUNIOR: (Still slapping) No one even wants to come here to Timbuktu!

PASHA: (Still slapping) It’s Tripoli! It’s not that hard! How did you ever get to be a captain?!

JUNIOR: My Daddy wrote me a recommendation!!!

PASHA: I should have guessed…wait stop! Times! Times!

JUNIOR: What now?

PASHA: Look in the harbor! The ship!

JUNIOR: It’s….it’s burning up!

PASHA: No! Not my brand new ship!!!

JUNIOR: I guess neither of us can have her now.

PASHA: I guess not.

JUNIOR: Which means…America Wins!

PASHA: No! No! It’s a tie!

JUNIOR: I’m going back a hero! Turner!

TURNER: Yes Captain Decatur.

JUNIOR: Let’s go home and report our victory to Daddy.

(LIGHTS down, Lights back up on Senior’s Office)

SENIOR: Let me get this straight. You went to retrieve the Philadelphia before the Barbary pirates could use her, but instead of bringing her home, you just burned it down?

JUNIOR: That’s right! It was exciting! Daring!

TURNER: It was alright.

JUNIOR: A battle for the ages!

SENIOR: Well. I guess technically, you did prevent the ship from falling into enemy hands.

JUNIOR: Oh he was so mad!

SENIOR: And you freed the prisoners.

JUNIOR: Imagine, wasting your years in a Tijuana prison.

TURNER: Tri….actually that one makes sense.

SENIOR: So I suppose, I must say, congratulations on a mission well done, son.

JUNIOR: You heard it everyone, Daddy’s Proud of me!! Hooray!!!

JEFFERSON: And there you have it, America’s first overseas naval engagement was a success, no one can say otherwise. And no one ever will. All because one man wanted to impress his dad. Well I guess that’s why we do anything. So Dads, never tell your sons you’re proud of them. And they can claim they are doing great things, too.

Spooky Season is All Year Round

How do you do Halloween in a pandemic? Ghosts and goblins and witches and werewolves abound, but for once it doesn’t matter what the creature is. The bark is actually just as frightening as a bite. Especially since kids tend to get right in your face when they bark, mouth open.

I thought about a few of the possible solutions. Maybe I could invent some sort of trick-or treating slot machine to dispense candy? With disinfectant wipes available to clean the handle, of course. Or make a drop zone, where a kid can stand and get their treat package dropped from a little drone? I think the kids would get a kick out of it.

But as it gets closer and closer, it seems like we are just going to end up doing things more or less normally. At least, out here in our small town. I don’t know if that’s right, or dangerous, but I do know for a lot of folks the quarantine fatigue HAS been dangerous. Folks get depressed out here, and they don’t talk about it, and it kills people. Not always a noose in the barn, but folks drink themselves to death, or take oxy, or…I don’t know. They don’t always take care of themselves.

I guess they’ve just decided the risk is better than not being a community. I guess I’m going along with them. It’s not as if I haven’t been driving into the farmer’s market every weekend, talking to who knows how many people, putting myself at exposure risk, and then coming right back home.

People need their pumpkins. The people staying home more than ever. Stay safe, whatever you do. And comment below - what are your favorite pumpkin carvings?

The Catch-up, Part Two: Weeding

Over the last few months, I've begun several posts without publishing. Over the next couple weeks, I'll be publishing them here, unedited, unfinished. This post was begun on March 27, 2018.

Growing out pumpkins takes so much TIME and CARE and ATTENTION. A late frost will hurt you. A mild drought, a hailstorm. Heck, even a heavy rain. Bugs will eat your whole crop, if Raccoons don't get to it first. Last year we had vandals. Two years ago, Pumpkin Spice Latte Backlash.

Knowing all this, I'm amazed at the way some other plants seem to grow no matter what. Little grasses and weeds pop up everywhere, when there's barely any water, barely any sun. They find a way.

It's never a helpful plant, of course. I never get surprise pumpkin vines fighting through the tangle. Just grasses whose heads prick through your socks, into your shoelaces and jeans. Or the big nasty weeds, with their thick stems and broad leaves, that make you stink just from trying to pull them. Or the innocuous wildflowers, that seem like the only splash of color in a sea of green.

They're pretty, those wildflowers. But they're wild. And they're taking away from my pumpkins. A wildflower stands out, but it stands for nothing - it comes as it pleases, but it doesn't give you any sustenance, it just distracts you from the task at hand: putting in time, and care, and attention to the crop that pays your bills. To the crop you love.

The Catch-up, Part One: Tillage

Over the last few months, I've begun several posts without publishing. Over the next couple weeks, I'll be publishing them here, unedited, unfinished. This post was begun on March 13, 2018.

Well it's Luke the Labrador's birthday today. Eleven years old! And I've been with him just about every single day. The most notable exception, the longest, was the week I left him with the Kroellsners so Tara and me could go on our honeymoon. It's also the one Tara reminds me of the most when she wants us to go somewhere. You don't have to dig deep to catch her hint.

The digging, I'll leave for the fields. Winter doldrums meant I was a bit lazy, and the tire ruts from those kids were never plowed under. It's not the worst thing for the ground, of course. Tillage opens you up to erosion, and the ruts caught the drifting snow this winter, so that when it melted it puddled and quenched the thirsty soil. 

But the appearance... Tara says she hates driving past it (though only when she's mad about something else), and Stu Parementer likes to rib me about it (though only after church, when everyone can hear him). I'm sure they know how hard-frozen the ground is this time of year, and how hard that can be on equipment. But I guess people tend to focus on how these things affect THEM.

Of course, Stu's wife Kelly says it looks rustic, like an English Garden. Which is a charitable assessment. But I'm mostly impressed that she knows about English Gardens. Folks around here don't bother themselves with that kind of thing. Kelly, she's always impressing me. Surprising me. I wonder if she'll help me work the markets again this harvest.

Or not. Maybe it's good the ground is still frozen. There's some digging that it's best not to do.

Sun Come Through

Winter is a strange time for a pumpkin farmer. You spend months eating nothing but unsold squash, and hours brainstorming with your spouse about yet another decorative use for gourd shells (maracas? bolt bins? cocktail shakers?). The holidays are such a sprint to finish things that you get used to the long days, the pace, the stress. Sitting at home feels like and earned reward.

But then January comes. The pumpkin patches are dormant, and Christmas' brilliant white snow has begun gathering dust, waiting for a warm day to become mud. There are still plenty of chores to do but the urgency is gone.  In the always-fading daylight, they just feel like...chores.

Then today came! The sun was out with a vengeance! Luke the Labrador, he's like a puppy again! We went out and restrung the broken wire in the fence, that's been staring at me through the kitchen window. On the way back to the shed, I grabbed him by the scruff and we wrestled like kids. Snow was getting down the scruff of MY neck! But I didn't mind a bit.

Luke seemed, almost relieved. If I'm telling the truth, he's been waiting for a day like today. It's me that hasn't been "alive". As the vines go dormant, I guess so do I. But he reminded me that that kind of winter is all in my head; the world is always there ready to be wrestled. I think I even caught Tara watching from that kitchen window. My "wrestling" for the day may not be finished.

Wish me luck!
-David

Deepest Winter

"Frost on the Pumpkin" is a well-worn turn of phrase in old-time Americana-speak. It's along the lines of "sitting in the cat-bird seat" or "Shiny as a new Penny." Frost on the pumpkin symbolizes the first steps of something ending, of something's death. A man's first few white hairs, for instance. Youthful vigour growing cold. A once-blazing love burying itself beneath so many countless layers...

We are well into February, which makes sense because "Frost" has been on the pumpkins so long that it's hard to remember a time before it was there. I pick one up every once in awhile, unsold and unwanted, and no matter how many times I see it I'm amazed by the fact that there's still green grass underneath. And I watch the neighbors' cattle nuzzling through the snow, realizing, of course there's something there for them to eat.

A February pumpkin is something to behold. Unseasonably warm December days falling into freezing nights stress the thing beyond what it's designed to handle. A younger pumpkin, maybe, but it's small. It has excess energy to burn, to store. An older one is swollen fat and needs every calorie it can get its hands on.

So the big gourd begins to die, decay. I think it's strange how it happens from the inside out, but Tara takes one look at me and she says "no, things definitely die on the inside first." Their outer shell keeps that all hidden for awhile, until wrinkles start to form, and the thing shrivels. Crumbles. Dies.

If only the pumpkin were as resourceful as the cattle. I guess the lesson is, no matter how cold, how deep the snow, keep looking deeper. Something's down there, to nourish you through the night.

Church for the Dead

The Day of the Dead isn't something that our culture, that my church, officially acknowledges. I love my faith, but there is something sad in our Protestant blandness - even the name of the movement is bland: "Protestant." As if all we care about is shaming everyone else. Although, when I listen to the gossip at after-church coffee, maybe it's accurate. Stu was telling the new cop - Coulson, I think? - about the kids who drove through my field. Saying they ought to be thrown in prison, made an example out of. As if he forgot about the time he nailed a coyote pelt to Ms. Talles' front door when he had to repeat Freshman Speech. Or when he backed up the Solomon Irrigation Canal because he wanted to prove his fishing boat would float in it. Or...well this isn't supposed to be about Stu's hypocrisy. It's about mine.

I suppose the idea of a day when the spirit world is closer to ours appeals to me the same reason it would appeal to anyone. There are so many people I want to talk to again. Grandfathers I want to ask for advice. A father, who never knew if I'd keep this farm going. A mother whose love didn't care. And Kelly...

You just don't fall in love again the way you fall in love when you're a teenager. Even if you feel the pain and the yearning for someone just as strong, it's never quite as unexpected. It's never as new. Farming, now, I wouldn't do anything else. But back then, it wasn't part of the plan at all. Or rather, "not farming" was the entire plan. Everything else was up in the air, confusing and uncertain, except for Kelly. I knew that whatever I was going to do was going to be with her. For her. I'd live where she wanted to live, do whatever would make her happy. If she wanted poems, if she wanted feasts, if she wanted furs, I'd make them for her.

Wives tend to outlive their husbands - I'd thought this plan through! But she never became my wife. A crowded lake, an extra beer, a kid too young behind a boat's wheel...it was the first funeral I'd ever been to. The first time my friends saw me cry. The first time I saw them as something besides my friends, as people who didn't understand me. Ciphers in friend suits.

You don't learn how to talk about something like that, growing up in a small town. You don't learn to deal with that kind of loss, and pain. You try to push it down, but everytime you have more than a couple of drinks it starts to come out. It comes out in tears, in anger, in dangerous actions. Self-harm of one form or another. I had to quit drinking in college, for a couple of years. I still am real careful.

The good thing about leaving town is, I learned to feel sad about it. To talk about it. To work through it. Except for to Tara. Tara doesn't like to hear about Kelly. She doesn't say so, but she disappears inside herself when it comes up. The one person I'm supposed to be able to tell anything to, I just can't. She thinks it's just this little part of my past. And it is that, but it's also a big part of who I am every day. Luke the Labrador has heard about it a hundred times. And now you. 

But no one has heard more about it than Kelly. It's why I go to church - the ritual, the prayers, they're the tools I have to get closer to whatever world the dead live in. And while the preacher talks about Jesus' boundless love, I'm telling Kelly about mine. Especially this time of year. The barrier between us feels so much thinner.

Vandals

Last night, as Tara and I slept off a hard day's work, someone used our pumpkin patch as a four-wheeling course, leaving huge ruts in the mud, smashing half of my favorite "New England Pie" pumpkins, and tearing out vines. Which means the Baby Pam's will have to be harvested earlier than is ideal. Dottie Anderson will be disappointed (although I think her family wouldn't mind if she switched to "Cinderellas" this thanksgiving; they were untouched!).

 Tara keeps up with the kitchen trends, so I surveyed the damage with a poured-over coffee in my hand, completely in shock. Every bit of damage was another dollar short on the bank payment, another hour of labor spent not harvesting pumpkins, but throwing them away. I tried to decide whether the ruts were deep enough to warrant re-working the soil, or if it could wait until the end of the season. I started piling up the New Englands that survived, each as precious to me as a Spanish Galleon.

Even Luke the Labrador, indomitable spirit that he is, sensed that something was wrong. He looked up at me in that way that only dogs can, as if to ask "Everything's OK, right?" Well, Luke, I'm not so sure this time. Steve at the insurance agency will have to take a look, maybe those premiums will finally pay off.

But then Tara came out, and she was hopping mad. "Who could do something like this?" she was saying, interrupting the quiet that had been balancing me. "They ought to be shot." And then she asked why I didn't lock the gates, like she'd asked me to. Why did I think tree-rows could really work as fences (forgetting how pretty she used to think they were). She asked me what I was going to do about the situation, but expectantly, as if I'd have an answer right then.

I said I was going to call Steve, but when I pulled out my cell phone, there was a text on it. From Ever Parmenter.  Neighbor Stu's young wife, who's been helping with the markets. "This weekend was wonderful. Even if I couldn't keep the flowers."  And I looked up at Tara and realized that I was the one responsible for being the balance. I had to be the quiet.

So I put my phone away and told Tara "I'll call Steve, but not right now." And I asked her to make me another pour-over, and as we walked back towards the house I reminded her of our first "date", in high school, taking my rusty old truck through Tom Anderson's grazing fields. She almost argued, but then she started to smile. She put her head on my shoulder, where it just fits, and I put my arm around her. Luke the Labrador bounded in front of us, his worries gone, playful again.

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider

A spider found it's way into the patch. I found its web, strung between two vines this morning, shaking with dew. By the time I got my phone out to take a picture, Luke the Labrador bounded through and knocked the whole outfit down. I'll always have the mental picture, though, of the two symbols together to remind me...

That's it's nearly Halloween! Only a week away, and most of our big carving pumpkins have been turned into crooked grins and spooky scenes by the spells of little witches and wizards. Tara and I drove into town last night to see some of the more impressive creations. Except to shift, I never let go of her hand the whole drive. Which means I forgot to take pictures then, too :).

It's amazing the magic that comes from these simple transformations. My preference for "eating" pumpkins and squashes is no secret, but some careful attention turns these otherwise useless gourds into something fun. Something beautiful.

And I've found that over the last week, a little more careful attention paid towards Tara, towards our relationship, has enhanced the beauty that was already there. It's added strength, it's made love fun. It's made it so that I look forward to either answer to that age old question...

"Trick or Treat"?

If It Seems Too Good...

Well the rainy day I enjoyed so much turned out to be a mixed blessing. Tara woke up the next day with a bit of a sniffle, and she of course blamed Luke the Labrador, even though he was bone dry when I brought him in. Not so when I took him out of the house - he was immediately covered in mud.

We all were. The weather put us behind on our picking for the day, so Tara had to come out and lend a hand. She was NOT happy - I swear she doubled up on her sniffles to make a point. To make matters worse, Luke was loving the mud so much he didn't really read Tara's mood. He'd try to nuzzle up to her while she was bent over a tough vine, but was just in her way.

I thought she was about to snap, so I tried to lighten the load. "Boy, if we'd just had kids when we first got married, they'd be out here helping!" I thought we'd just accepted that kids weren't part of God's plan for us, but I guess it's still a raw spot for her. She just quietly went back into the house. I didn't argue.

When I came in for lunch, she was really hacking up a lung. Her sniffles had morphed into something truly frightening. I drove her into Doc's clinic, and he thinks it might be a pneumonia. Caught early enough that he'll be able to fight it off soon, but still. She can't leave bed tomorrow. One of the biggest Market Days of the Season.

Usually I'd ask our neighbor, Stu, to lend a hand, but he's got a booth at the Organics Expo in the city. Which means I'll have to ask his wife. His young wife. His wife who's very...well, Tara won't be too thrilled about that, either. After such a nice afternoon in, it seems like everything is going wrong. Well, you know what they say. When it rains...

Rainy Days

Hello readers, our time together has been so short recently. That's unfortunately the consequence of this season, harvesting harvesting harvesting is all I seem to do. Weekends for me mean markets, driving my old blue Chevy into town and weighing down a card table with soda flats full of Autumn Golds, Luminas, Cinderellas and New England Pies. Of course, my favorite customers are the kids, who only have eyes for the big carving pumpkins. And getting dog kisses from Luke the Labrador.

But today was rain, and rain means a break from all that business. I get to actually use the fireplace that Tara insisted we add on to the house (as well as a new kitchen!), and just sit and reflect. Tara makes cocoa with cream from the Kroellsner Dairy, just down the road, and a shot or two of Peppermint Schnapps. My favorite thing about the rain, though, is that it's the only time she lets me bring Luke inside. He's getting older, ole' Luke. I guess we both are. A couple old dogs, keeping warm by the fire.

It could be a lot worse than that.

New T-Shirts Are Coming!

The old T-Shirt is tried and true. I've worn mine nearly every day since Tara had them made...how many years ago was it? Luke the Labrador (readers of the old site remember my pup!) was brand new, so it must have been five years! Wow! Time flies!

But we decided (Tara decided...) that it's time for an update. The adult education Graphic Design students gave us a hand, and I think you'll really like the new ones! Keep checking back here for updates on when they are ready!

The New Website

The New Website is running! We are very busy with harvest right now, but it feels good to give our farmer's market customers a place to check in on what we are up to during the rest of the week.

As usual, Tara is obsessed with the big carving pumpkins. They get all the attention, the big blue ribbons at the fair. And it does warm my heart to see the kids at the pumpkin patch trying to carry a big orange pumpkin that's bigger than their head.

But my soul is with the pie pumpkins. The little guys, you could say. They aren't as impressive at first glance, they are overlooked. But when the jack-o-lanterns are all gone, pie pumpkins still have a job to do. I can't wait for that thanksgiving pie.