Becky Ansbach has her hands full. Farming is a 24/7/365 kind of a vocation. Even with her hired hand, industrious Guatemalan Juan Morales, and with the tutelage and labor of her father, the earth and sky command lots of attention. There are the grapes that required a keen eye, for it was about ice wine time, and now that the farm was growing hemp for the CBD market, regulations increased.
Becky is grateful her parents had required her to read every night after dinner. She remains a strong reader, and farmers must weigh a lot of the printed word in their lives. There was the millet and the sweet potatoes, all the greens, the fig trees, all of these required specialized strategies, unique skill sets. The hay she knew, and when she felt challenged with harvesting, she would wander in her mind and drive the swather or the baler in perfect weather, working on her farmer’s tan.
And the animals! The lambing in snow, the come-along for breech calves, the search for wayward eggs. Becky may never be a mother, but she lives vicarious motherhood daily. She has this Ansbach brood. None of her animals are stupid; they live each in their own way to survive, to thrive the species. Her dragging departure from drug addiction had given her a vision.
It has seemed to her that humans are the one species capable of squandering the bounty bestowed. How many of her partying friends were now lying out the Last Mile, having turned their backs irrevocably to that universal truth, life is to be lived.
This morning in the Ansbach duplex on the knoll, Becky cooks herself a hot breakfast of cheese grits, bacon, eggs, and an English muffin. Butter she churned herself! Red raspberry jam she picked and boiled herself! Faintly she hears a Latin rhythm coming from the Morales apartment next door.
She knows what she has accomplished, what she is accomplishing. Her future is the present. And still, she goes to the past, longing for her mom, for Angeline loved the kitchen and taught her children many things at the sink, before the oven, dicing and slicing at the butcher block.
Angeline stands at the range, fork in the skillet of sizzling bacon. She is dressed in a red Christmas sweater and jeans, her hair tied back in a pony tail.
“You kids, don’t ever take for granted this smell, this place, this moment.” She waved her fork around for emphasis. “You raise your kids like this, I’m telling you. Let them smell bacon, let them have some grease on their English muffins. Yeah, even occasionally let them eat like pigs because they can’t help themselves with delight.”
Becky hears the laughter that wisdom had elicited, so relaxed, so unguarded.
She ponders how her soul ever fell into disrepair through the abyss of addiction. She admits, she had been a follower. She admits, handsome boys had swayed her better reasoning. She admits, it had a certain initial thrill. But then her glasses fogged over and she lived in an unpleasant cloud of myopia able to see the nose on her face, but not the flowering trees, the buzzing bees, the many marvels by which she was surrounded.
In and out of recovery, stumbling to find a way, Becky chanced upon a sponsor in Narcotics Anonymous who hooked her like a fish and would not release. This woman saved Becky’s life. Maybe it was not chance, not luck, perhaps fate. Perhaps Providence? Yet another mystery that fosters hope here in Warhaven. For our purposes, let this woman stand anonymous. Be content to know she remains a faceless angel before you, and a living bedrock for Becky who sees her twice weekly at meetings and at social gatherings of their faith community.
Inhaling the bacon aroma, Becky sighs, thinking, “Oh, Mom, I miss you so!” Becky imagines her mother — who often suffered from and complained of cold feet — marching up to the pearly gates and being greeted by St. Peter.
“Welcome, Angeline Elizabeth Ansbach! Come in. Here are your wool socks and your slippers.”
And Becky’s reverence helps sustain her. And something from below, the earth and all it gives, holds her in embrace.
•••
The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week in Columbia Gorge News.
Commented
Sorry, there are no recent results for popular commented articles.