16 Years of Practicing

After I wrote the annual letter and we declared it finished, I noticed that I did not mention life at Blueberry Hill. Usually I do, so this was interesting to me.  It's not that there is nothing to say, but maybe the ups and downs no longer seem newsworthy.  After 16 years of practice, we just take it in stride. We don't take it for granted -- people keep moving out and moving in, shaking us up -- but we have a steady hand on the tiller, more or less. We are building rituals and traditions and ongoing systems and that helps.

I don't think that most of the people who live here would put it this way, but I will:  we are practicing what it would take for the world to be a better place.  We are learning what it means to love your neighbor.  People who don't live in intentional communities, looking in from the outside, can't always understand what the experiment is about. It is about having faith in relationships, even if those relationships might not even be good. We practice caring about each other, creating memories together, paying attention. We practice patience. This is really hard.  We don't choose our neighbors -- there is no guarantee that would work any better, actually.  Our neighbors choose to move here. 

Ever since the beginning of this endeavor, I have known that it is not about loving each individual neighbor. It is about loving them for being in the neighborhood and for wanting to be part of this experiment. Not everyone comes for the same reasons, and that can cause some difficulties, but just about everyone gets something out of being here.  There is a couple who moved here knowing nothing about the concept, and they have been here for the whole time, and they are still mostly staying on the fringes. But they are an asset to the group through their willingness to share technical expertise, occasional cooking, and participation at meetings, help in emergencies and lots of friendly smiles.  Another couple has been here from the beginning, also came with no background, and has been deeply involved the whole time. They are also traumatized by the experience the most often, as they are so deeply well intentioned that they work very hard and they suffer disappointment when other people don't work as hard as they do.  There are single people who came here because they wanted the community and sometimes they are disappointed at the reality of living amongst a bunch of nuclear families.  There are elderly people who could use more attention than they get but who do get attention when it is really needed.  More than half of the neighbors have lived here for fewer than five years and this presents an ongoing challenge of redefining ourselves, teaching people what we know, letting them have a say in what comes next.

But I think this is such an important effort, this effort to work together even when it is hard. We get upset with each other, we cry, some people stomp out of meetings. And this fall, after a particularly unsuccessful meeting, the next evening we had a common meal, scheduled before the meeting had been planned.  Lots of people came, we ate together, we resumed life.  Even the person who stomped out of the meeting came to dinner.  She was brave and she knew it and she said it. And we welcomed her warmly.

My nephews are in a graduate program, studying peace and transformation.  Even though this is a wealthy, suburbanite-populated, small goal community (we want to be good neighbors), we are also studying peace and transformation here at Blueberry Hill.  We stumble along, doing our best to learn from our mistakes, but we never lose hope. We have had estranged neighbors, angry for months, come back into the fold and start cooking and eating with us again.  There are so many ways to eat these days, and we try to accommodate each other when we cook.  We have discovered, like all tribes before us, that cooking and eating together is the most reliable way to keep ourselves close. 

When we first moved in, many people who were watching expressed their doubts.  They knew that people don't want to behave for the good of the whole, they take care of themselves first. They knew that making decisions by consensus would never work.  Certainly they are not wrong, but they did not understand how affirming and inspiring it can be to create something with a group.  Many of us cannot imagine living in a normal neighborhood again, not after living in a place where people can ask for help and get it (rides to the airport, taking care of children, soup for the unwell, packing boxes...) and learn to cook for 30 and live through multiple snow events (so much shoveling, cheerfully done).  It would be so insular.

The other night we were having a family dinner here.  Before the family dinner, Jon and Rebecca and I had cooked and packed a meal for 25 at the Hypothermia Shelter.  Two of our neighbors came to our house and picked it up: they were the serving team.  Because one of them is Jewish and they had asked about this earlier, we invited them to come back and light Chanukah candles after they finished serving the meal.  While we were eating dinner, our next door neighbor came and dropped off a check for egg nog that I had ordered from the dairy for them. We waved, he left it on the counter. Eventually the other people came back from the shelter, bringing their 6 year old with them, and we all lit candles together. We told the story of Chanukah as best we could (shameful how we can't even remember all the details) and put it in context because that's who we are, and we spent some time together.  It was all so normal even though we don't socialize with them generally.  We are just happy to be neighbors.

Not everyone who lives here likes groups. Jon isn't particularly comfortable going to meetings or making decisions with a long process.  But he is an important member of this community -- he contributes his skills and work all the time. He is part of the program, he just doesn't love all the process.  We have all kinds of people here and we just figure it out.

Obviously I could go on forever.  There is so much to learn from living in community. We have been very lucky and we have also worked hard to keep it functioning.  The world would work so much better if everyone tried harder to be in relationship. 

On Marriage

I knew this sounded weird when I said it to my mother, and I didn't mean anything deep or serious, but I said recently that I believe now that I can see that Jon and I will make it through our whole lives staying in this one marriage.  There has never been a question.  But you just never really know.  When you start out and you decide to marry someone, you don't know all that much about who you will become or who they will be (I am practicing using that terrible new pronoun which has been accepted by the dictionary-powers-that-be and by Rebecca the grammarian). You don't know whether you will get to a place where you can't do it any more, like if a tragedy hits and the two of you find that you don't have the strength to stay together.  You can't know whether one of you will meet someone else by accident and gradually fall into an unexpected parallel relationship and then have to decide what to do.  There is no way to predict, when you are in your 20's, that you will still really like this person in 5 years, or 15, or 30.

When I watched all those Oberlin marriage dissolve or explode -- the ones in my parents' generation -- I began to devise a social theory that didn't really end up working because people have feelings. But I seriously considered the idea that marriages should be set for a certain time period, like 20 years, and then people could decide whether they wanted to re-up or not.  It would be a contract that would get you through the child raising part of life, but would not require you to commit to the next phase. And the couple could agree on how long the next phase would go -- 10 years, 20 years. Divorce would have a different meaning. It wouldn't be a failure, it would be one of the options. Some marriages would be one phase, some would be two phases, some would do all three phases. Some people would renew and some people would say no thanks.  Of course there is a fatal flaw here and that is that both people might not agree on the choice, and then feelings would be hurt and that sort of undermines the whole point.

In Cutting for Stone, there is a very sweet version of this (I think it is sweet, anyway) where the wife has the opportunity once a year to tell her husband whether she wants to be married to him for the next year. He had to convince her to marry him in the first place, so I suppose he is at a disadvantage from the start, but they do love each other as equals (marriage is not as important to her). He  works hard all year to earn the right to continue to be married. Of course the story tells it much better than this, but it is a superb illustration of how a relationship could go, for a lifetime.

Anyway, back to me and Jon. Ever since we decided to get married, I have enjoyed the secure feeling of knowing that I had met the right person and I would stick with it.  I have been lucky.  We have been lucky.  In so many ways, it is so much simpler to have just one marriage in your life.  You get to skip all the logistics of separating yourselves and your shared family and your stuff. You just have to do the work of staying together. Both paths are hard, but one is much less messy.

While I have nothing original to say about marriage, I have plenty of opinions about what matters when you are figuring out who to marry.  I have told my children and everyone else many times: the fundamental qualities you want in a partner are kindness and intelligence (the kind of intelligence that feels like a match for you, not the same kind that you have).  If you start with that, you have a hope of succeeding.  If they are missing one of those, no hope.  There are no guarantees of success because there are dozens of other character traits that could make for a mismatch eventually.

But why are those two qualities so important?  For one thing, this is the person who you will spend your life talking to. So it is really much better if they are kind and smart because who wants to spend a lifetime talking to someone who can't be relied upon to have a good heart or who you feel is not your equal?

In the last week or so, I have spent many hours meeting with people or visiting,  having lunch or sitting at the hospital -- lots of social time and business conversations and reconnecting.  These are conversations I don't get to have as much during the farm season, so I have a lot of catching up to do.  But then it takes hours of talking in the night, just telling Jon all the things I have learned or thought about, and answering his many questions.  I swear I have spoken more words in the last week than I say in a month in the summer. Not all marriages have so much conversation material, I am sure, but I bet the ones that last a lifetime (happily) do. 

I don't tend to think that marriages that don't last a lifetime are failures.  They are just shorter marriages.  People suffer a lot when their marriages are shorter, and that feels unnecessary to me (even though it appears there is no way around it).  I believe that relationships are never a waste of time, if they are established with the best hopes and intentions. If something causes them to fray or wear out or explode, that is more work for everyone, but it does not need to be labeled a failure.  But if love is what makes being human meaningful, then we have to keep being in relationships.  Sometimes they turn out long and sometimes they turn out shorter.  No matter what, being in conversation is better than thinking all by yourself forever.

And you should never think that you are better than someone else if you happen to have a long marriage. You are just lucky.

(I know that I have not even entertained the idea that people don't have to be married.  That is clear.  But for the purposes of this train-of-thought, I am using the word marriage to stand for any committed long term relationship.)

From Zero to Sixty

This summer, on a trip between Loudoun and home, Jon and I were alone with a load of vegetables.  So I thought it might be a good time to talk about a delicate topic -- his birthday.  It was many months away, so it didn't seem too dangerous and, somewhat to my surprise, Jon agreed to have a party.  He liked the idea of having it in Boston so his mother could come and so it would be quite limited in scope. We thought we would have it catered or maybe we could even go to a restaurant, but the most important thing was that we decided to let his family know that it was going to happen.

Months went by but there was no need to think or talk about it since we had a date and a time.  Gradually various decisions were made and little by little the plan emerged.  Sue offered to let us host at her house (which was the most perfect location ever) and Jon decided he wanted to cook all or most of the meal himself. Without asking his permission, I let a few close friends and relatives know about the event.  I had to be careful about it because each time he got more anxious and grumpy as he imagined a party that was far beyond its original scope -- and he worried that having people travel from far away would raise the bar beyond our capabilities.  I did not worry, of course.

He asked what we were going to DO at this party and I said that there would be no problem, we would have plenty to do.  Later I figured out that it should be a very low-key opportunity for people to perform or say things to Jon on his birthday.  The email invitation mentioned that people could write something if they wanted to, and I never sent a reminder (except to our children). 

On Tuesday Jon did all the shopping, on Wednesday he made the parts of the meal that would not be hurt by sitting in the refrigerator for a few days.  On Thursday we loaded our car to the ceiling with chafing dishes, coolers, food, supplies and drove to Lexington for a quiet dinner with Lilah and Dena.

We stayed with Sarah Newcomb and Jim.  They are in the midst of the move of a lifetime, going to an assisted living community that they hope will be a reasonable place.  It is a huge process, sifting and sorting and deciding.  Too painful to think too deeply about, this move, but they are wise and pragmatic and they are going.

On Friday afternoon we went to Alissa's apartment to use her kitchen for the next stage of food preparation.  A very nice kitchen, and we weren't in anyone's way.  Dena came and helped us chop vegetables.  

Friday night dinner was at Sarah and Jim's -- a transplanted Saturday night dinner from Virginia, with Alissa and Rebecca and Anna and Gordon.  Anna and I made dinner and we sat around the kitchen table by candlelight, for what was probably our last dinner in that house. We mostly ignored that and had a lovely time.

Late that night, after dropping Alissa and Rebecca back in Cambridge, Jon locked the keys in the car along with all the food.  Drat.  We went to bed and decided to think about it in the morning.  The next day he spent quite a while trying to break into our car without success and then Sarah called AAA and a nice man came and unlocked the car.  No worries.

I picked up Betsy and Kenyon at the airport in the afternoon, delivered them to Anna and Gordon, and Jon and I loaded up the car one more time, heading off to do the last party preparations.  This whole process was calm and drawn out, much more planned and strategic than usual.  All the mistakes and glitches didn't really matter because we were never behind schedule. Jon  had everything under control, and he even went and bought fresh cucumbers on Saturday morning because I disapproved of the condition of the cucumbers we had chopped on Friday afternoon.  I disapproved of the tomatoes too, but did the best I could with over ripe store bought tomatoes.  Jon and Dena did all the last cooking and we were ready on time.  It was quite a spread:  lots of delicious appetizers (roasted beet dip, hummus, tzatziki, eggplant dip, olives etc).  Main course was chicken kabobs and fancy meatball kabobs that are called kibbeh in some cultures. Salad was the best fattoush that Jon has ever made.

Sue's house was sparkling clean and the perfect space for a party.  The buffet fit perfectly on the counter, drinks fit on another counter and there were plenty of seats.  The house filled up with nice people and the party was underway.  We ate and we talked and we ate and talked some more.  Eventually I interrupted all the conversations and said it was time for the entertainment portion (probably not what I said, but whatever), and I introduced all the people to each other, explaining how they are connected to Jon.  This group was pretty special -- most of them have known Jon for most of their own lives, if not their whole lives. It was definitely a happy occasion.  Sarita came from San Francisco just for about 48 hours, Steve came from Albuquerque, Dena from Denver, the small contingent from Virginia, Rebecca and Alissa and her roommates, and local friends who have known Jon since their youth, plus Lilah from a half a mile away.

Sarah N. started us off with a medley written for Jon, and we all got to sing You Are My Sunshine for the last part.  People recited poems and limericks and said nice things about Jon, or about how they have known him and what that has meant to them.  Betsy and Kenyon sang an elaborate rewrite of an anthem from Jesus Christ Superstar that made us all laugh.  The last song was written by Benjamin and performed by Alissa and Rebecca, a rewrite of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.  They delivered it beautifully. Jon was able to enjoy and absorb all of it and he appreciated that we did not torment him with a round of Happy Birthday, nor were their candles on the three layer German Chocolate cake that Rebecca had baked (it weighed many pounds and fed everyone).  She also made a whole sheet pan full of raspberry cheesecake cupcakes -- we were too full to eat very much of that, but they were spectacular.

Since it was a party for a 60 year old, most of us were pretty old, and we were all ready to go home by about 9:30.  We cleaned up and said goodbye at 10:00.  

By all measures, it was a successful event.  And the birthday boy himself, the curmudgeon for all time, said that it was heartwarming. And he said we will never do that again.  Fortunately, he is not the boss of me.  

About Cows and Rats

Yesterday I was texting with Zach about a rat problem he is having at the pole barn in Loudoun.  At first he was going to move all his sweet potatoes out of there and retreat to safer, cleaner storage places away from the rats. But then he decided to stand his ground and wage war, rather than retreat.  I supported his decision, saying that I hate rats more than any other varmint.  The conversation rambled on into talking about other hateful varmints, but rats are at the top of both of our lists.

So then this morning I was in bed, thinking about things as I often do, I was thinking about why I hate rats so much, and my memories went back to high school time.

When I was 12, our parents decided to get a milk cow.  This had a huge impact on the next six years for everyone in our family.  Each of us had to participate regularly in the milking and maintenance of the cow.  Of course there were probably more positive moments than negative, but my main memories are of the disgusting things that happened.

While the cow was in milking mode (which is most of the year after she has a calf), she had to be milked twice a day, without exception.  We had a milking schedule: a rotation of the six of us.  For most of those years, two of us would work together but later on I think it went down to one person alone (by then I was away at college, having escaped the cow duties).

In brief:  we had to bring a clean bucket out to the cow shed, we had to get the sweet grain that would keep the cow occupied, get the cow out of the stall and put her in the stanchion.  If we were unlucky, she had spent the night or day lying down in her poop.  If we were lucky, she was relatively clean.  After we got her installed in the stanchion, we would pull up a stool or a cinderblock and use a warm bucket of soapy water to clean off her udder.  This could be a small job or a big, nasty job depending on how much wet or dry and crispy cow manure was on her udder.  This was often a direct result of how well someone had cleaned her stall, but not always.  The warm water encouraged her to let her milk down, so we had to massage her udder anyway.

Milking the cow meant putting your head right against her flank so you could lean in to get a strong hold on the teats.  We were warned about getting ringworm if we put our bare head against the cow, so we sometimes remembered to wear a hat, but certainly not always.  Other people who milked cows would laugh at our family because we did it with one of us on each side.  Most people milk a whole cow by themselves, but we split the job.  So we put our hands as high on the udder as we could and we milked her until she was dry.  

I am forgetting to talk about the gross parts, but they were a part of our daily experience:  sometimes the  cow was in a mood and she would smack us with her tail while we milked, and sometimes her tail was covered with wet manure, so we would duck our heads down as low as we could but on occasion our faces would be whipped with stripes of green-brown poop.  Sometimes she would  be ornery and she would purposely stamp her foot and put it into the milk bucket and we would have to throw out the milk.  And always there was the stall cleaning afterwards -- not necessarily gross, but a part of animal care that never goes away.  Cows can produce a voluminous amount of urine and manure, and the smells are forever imbedded in our memories.

When the cow had recently had a calf, she could produce two gallons of milk twice a day.  Later in the year, she might be down to just a couple of quarts. Either way it was a chore to deal with the milk.  We took it into the house and poured it through a fine cheesecloth, catching whatever yucky things might have fallen in.  We marked the jug with a piece of tape that said "15-1," for example -- the first number was the date and the second number told whether it was the first or second milking of the day.  Our refrigerator was always full of milk and we used it in order of age.  Sour milk went to the chickens.  All of us shook milk jugs vigorously, to mix in the cream, even years after when we did not have a cow anymore.

But what has this got to do with rats?  They are deeply associated with milking in my memories.  When we went out in the dark for the night milking, we turned the light on and just expected to experience the rustling and squeaking and movements in the sudden shadows. And once I remember a rat running directly over my foot.  I scream for mice and I definitely scream if a rat comes toward me. I hate rats more than any other varmint.