The state of our house come Monday morning tells a compelling tale of the weekend past. All of the elements accounted for – you can’t miss them – piling up around the sink, around the laundry pile, glimpsed through the windows, strewn about the yard. Crusty soup bowls flecked with green, for instance, whisper a reminder of the sorrel soup that heralded the first harvest from the garden. It was tangy and bright. Vivid orange-crusted plates call to mind the yolks burst open there, a late morning Sunday brunch made by Daddio, enjoyed outside. The pebble-size bits of soft chewed wood cemented in yolk remind us of the red-bellied woodpeckers overhead, a nesting pair that carved their home while we ate, baptizing the table and everything on it with the discarded bits of wood. All of this from a mountain of dirty dishes. That not a clean plate remains in the cupboard is testament to how fiercely we clung to the outdoors this weekend.
The laundry pile is full of stories, too. A pair of denim overalls, Momma-size, lay crumpled in a heap. Sawdust laces the pockets; there was some impromptu Chick House siding installed on Saturday. Potting soil tumbles out of the creases of the cuffs. And most notably, the unmistakable bouquet of newborn lamb emanates from those areas at fingertip length, where a quick motion of hand-wiping is secondhand, goes unnoticed amidst the frenetic activity. Only the most discerning nose would pick up the milky sweetness of rich sheep colostrum, but it’s there too, worn like microscopic badges as I worked to strip a plugged teat. The tense panic of the situation was briefly abated as I found myself smack in the middle of a cliche. Puzzling a way to help unblock Momma Ewe’s teat, I had fetched a sewing needle, cleaned it, then promptly lost it in the bedding of hay inside the lambing jug. Searching for a needle in a haystack is just as hard as you’d imagine. The needle remains lost. But I laughed out loud, long and hard.
Taking stock of the weekend, it occurs to me that the needle/haystack cliche was not the only once to come to fruition. A heady whiff of smokiness can be found strewn about in several small piles on the floor as well as from within the bedsheets and pillows, where we collapsed last night after a supremely relaxing campfire. If you will accept gooey roasted marshmallows as evidence, I can honestly say that we wear our hearts, our life, on our sleeves. And our pants, and jackets. And in the case of Lucy, (the pug) we wear it smack-dab in the middle of our back, shaped in a size 3 hand print.