2005 CONFESSIONS
December
November
October
September
July/August
June
May
April
March
February
January

Little Notes
Letters

Talk About Movies
Roamin' Catholic
Follow Me




Contents © 2005
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

CONFESSIONS
October 2005

---

FARM LIVIN' IS THE LIFE FOR ME

My wife has given up trying to avoid children's shoes made in China. She made the effort for years -- too many stories about child labor in the shoe manufacturing business, and those on top of the stories of forced abortions, political oppression, and yes, the loss of manufacturing jobs at home. Avoiding Chinese shoes wasn't easy. Searches always seemed to lead to Elefanten -- made in Europe, high quality, but very expensive. So she trolled eBay for used pairs. But as the kids and her duties grew in both size and number, she hasn't had the time or energy. She's yielded to something like what John Paul II might have called a "structure of sin" -- kids' shoes from China are just about all there is; a person has a hard time not participating. It's not the end of the world, but it did get her down. It was another compromise with the culture.

My brother, his wife, and their six children are moving to a farm this month. Children's shoes aren't the reason, but neither are they wholly unrelated. My brother and his wife don't want to be helpless consumers. They're not dropping off the grid, but to the extent that it is possible, they want to be producers. They want a connection to at least some of the goods they consume -- eggs from chickens, milk from cows, vegetables from a garden. It will be hard, they know, but they will have more of a say in how they live and eat, and that's important to them.

In early September, I met with my brother and his wife this time at a farm in Wisconsin, home to my friends Joseph and Canisius. It's also home to Barney, Canisius' father, and Cecilia, his sister (and Joseph's wife). And it's home to Canisius' sister Marguerite and her husband Chris. There are nine children under 10 between the two families. Another sister, Elizabeth, lives in nearby Madison with her husband Mike and their two children -- soon to be four as she is expecting twins.

But Elizabeth was in the hospital just then -- she had placenta previa -- a condition in which the placenta attaches over the cervix -- and had to be kept close to a doctor in case she hemorrhages. Mike is a lawyer; he had to work. So during the week, their two kids stayed with Joseph and Cecilia, in one of the three houses on the farm. When Marguerite went into the hospital with the exact same condition, her two kids went to stay with Joseph and Cecilia as well. That was the night before we arrived. Cecilia took the chaos with remarkable serenity. This is family; this is the first community. There is sin, there is stress, there is the special misery that only family can create -- but there is also love, and shared faith, and real intimacy. And it's awfully attractive.

I look at my own life. I am thousands of miles from family. My eldest son, the one with the least natural connection to the family, still gets upset at seeing pictures of his cousins because they remind him how much he misses them. He also takes every chance to soak up the culture offered by his urban environs -- I watch his eyes dart about, taking everything in, cataloging all those forbidden pleasures, all that beautiful stuff. And he's only eight. But there are opportunities here, I tell myself. And friends. And a job. And it's California. I am so blessed. Still ... mightn't it be better to be nearer to kin and further from the temptation that urban culture offers the young soul?

My brother arrived at the Wisconsin farm two days after we did. He helped to milk the cow that gave us all our milk, cream, and butter during our visit. The kids gathered eggs from the chickens. We dined on venison stew from a deer shot by Canisius and cooked by Joseph. We ate short ribs from a cow raised on the property. Homemade maple syrup topped the daily stacks of blueberry pancakes. Sixty jars of homemade chicken stock sat in the basement, next to the refrigerator with the beer tap jutting from its door. Freezers held the fruit that would be thawed out and cooked into jam that winter -- I topped my hazelnut cake with amazing cherries. Someone was always working -- cooking, harvesting, skimming cream, washing dishes -- but it was good work.

It is not a luxurious life, and it is not all freely chosen. Joseph heats his home with wood because it is more economical. The cow is probably more economical, too -- except that you pay in labor and time. But it isn't all drudgery. They eat and drink well. They provide one another company. There are books everywhere, and people actually read them. When Canisius visited us last winter, he couldn't say enough about Henri Daniel-Rops' works of Church history. And he brought with him two slim volumes from Dom Hubert Von Zeller, one of them on suffering. (It was Lent.) My friend Marcus took to calling Canisius the Renaissance Redneck, after he found out that a local priest had brought over some raccoon which turned out to be good eating. It didn't seem such a bad title to hold.

TOP