Change is always in the air

by Mimi Hedl

What an odd year 2025 has been. Such chaos and mean-spirited language coming out of the People’s House. Then to begin this year, a young friend, a fellow homesteader, her partner and dog, have decided to move back to the west coast. She wrote me this morning and it felt like a bombshell. She is one of the few people I can speak openly with in our community of 1,545. That has never bothered me, people are people though it does feel good to speak unbridled now and then.

As life constantly surprises us, another new, even younger friend has come into my life so perhaps I should celebrate for Elizabeth and Cody and not mourn their loss. As I wrote Elizabeth, when Ron and I left Colorado forty-four years ago many people experienced that same bombshell, including my daughter, too young to understand. Change seems to come out of the blue, shocking us at the moment, but if we pay attention, we know everything is constantly moving. It’s just our stubbornness that tries to cling to the old and to our fears of what the future might hold.

 My new friend Lilly, the woman from the Research Station who came with Gen to tag monarchs in October, has come back to visit several times most recently on New Year’s Day. She brought shortbread and a winter bouquet along with her sweetheart, as she called Jack. In the Scottish Hogmanay tradition they were the first feet to cross the threshold and indeed they portend good fortune.

Jack, a professor of computer science at Missouri S & T, had eyes wide-open at this humble place we call Strawdog. He has the most penetrating blue eyes, and I watched those eyes track everything in the house, including the ladder stairway that mesmerized him. When he climbed up the stairs and looked in Hilary’s old bedroom, he smiled big at the ceiling plastered with maps Hilary had put up years ago, now in the state of partial disintegration.

He didn’t say much as he looked. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all. I’m not used to someone reacting with such interest and admiration. When Jack and Lilly left, Jack said, “Thank you for the gift.” I was stunned and knew I’d met another kindred spirit. Pretty nice when you live in the middle of nowhere. The gift felt like mine.

As far as the gardens, the head gardener and I have pushed onward with our winter chores. The warm, dry weather has made it possible to mow up the leaves collecting in the paths. If we don’t deal with them, they become a potential fire hazard when we begin burning the quadrants we don’t mow in the warm months. Plus the gardens in the Park beg for mulch. A foot of leaves over any of the beds means the latent weeds lying in wait will be slowed down or sidelined and thus gardening work in the spring will be easier. “We gardeners are like military commanders” I said to the head gardener, “strategizing before the enemy strikes.”  The head gardener scoffs at me and pushes the wheelbarrow out of her way. I ignore her and smile at my cleverness. If I don’t, who will?!

The lettuce continues to survive, even thrive, in the cold frames. This German winter lettuce seed came many years ago from Edna Rieke, a stern German woman. In the early years of Strawdog, the old timers were still around. I was attracted to any and all of them as they had gardening in their bones and could teach me something, share seed with me. Now, I’m one of the few old timers who still gardens and almost no one but me is home during the day. Everyone works. No one has time to visit. It’s a new world. I feel lucky to have a handful of young people who come to Strawdog and want to learn, help, visit.

Santa Claus brought me this new chopping block. The old one, still standing but somewhat of a challenge to find a level spot for a block of wood, served me well for many years. It came from an ash tree Josh’s dad had cut down, due to borers. It took all our efforts to get it off his truck and into position. It was my first chopping block. Before that, the earth held the wood we split and it could be difficult to keep the wood steady. I celebrated this change.

One recent sixty degree, sunny day, I went out to the site of St. Fiacre’s downed shrine. Ron built this out of admiration for rough shrines we saw along dirt roads in New Mexico where we first looked for land. The shrines were dedicated to different saints. The affection the people gave to these shrines made them sacred. Canned food, flowers, knickknacks, letters and other oddities were left on or near the shrines. Sometimes we’d stop, other times we’d slow down and admire. We loved New Mexico but the land was expensive and water was scarce.

This shrine stood for over thirty-five years. I wrote about the winds that took it down in 2023. I had rescued St. Fiacre then, but the bulk of the shrine remained laying on the earth. Now, three years after the downing,  I hauled the heavy oak lumber back in the wheelbarrow. Pulling the nails out of the old wood was a chore.  Three pieces of wood that made this shrine were worth keeping. The rest had done its duty and would finish its usefulness by cooking many meals, once cut and split into cook wood.

I’d promised Brother Cadfael to put the shrine in his garden and I still intend to. Jeremy took out the huge mimosa tree in his new garden and opened up a potential site for the shrine. As an unskilled carpenter, I’ll have to think long and ask many questions before I can put it together with a more stable base, the moss and lichen pieces part of the new shrine.

I try not to mourn the loss of friends in the many ways this happens, especially in our vintage years. We seem overwhelmed much of the time and we lose track of each other. Several friends have told me they keep up with me via these posts and feel a bit guilty, as if they’re voyeurs. I laugh. We do the best we can and let memories fill in the gaps. Now I can text with my grandsons and that’s priceless and a fair trade for the old ways. Come on 2026. We’re ready for a new course! I feel change coming through the chaos of 2025.