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We are now, officially, in the weeds. This was a term I was familiarized with when I waited tables more than a decade ago. We would say someone was in the weeds if they had more than five tables ordering the same course at the same time, and probably had other tables that needed some special attention and a long line of hungry customers waiting for a table. If it was a good day in the restaurant everyone pitched in to pull you out of the weeds, filling up water glasses that were dreadfully low, delivering a dish to the proper table when it was hot out of the kitchen, and generally just helping to maintain the flow of the place. If it was a bad day, you found yourself in the weeds and when you looked around for help everyone else was in the weeds too. Those days went incredibly slow, earned ridiculously little in the way of tips, and usually ended up in a crazy nightmare reliving the whole sorry day at two in the morning. Fast forward fifteen years...
The remodel of the farmhouse is in full swing. So far the demolition, plumbing, concrete floors with hydronic heat, and the framing are done. Electrical will be done by next Tuesday and insulation should get done by the end of the week. Things are humming, but there is always more. I started consulting at the local private school three days a week, and Toby has finally turned consulting work into a full-time gig. These two things added into the remodel/living in a rental and trying to grow a farm just put us over the edge. The rental house is in total chaos with growing chicks in one of the bathrooms, seedlings growing on the kitchen table, dust bunnies so big they scare the cats, and a kitchen counter hidden somewhere under cookbooks and empty jars from the winter stores of pickles, jams and preserves. The farm itself if very forgiving, and we are grateful for the perennial berries coming back along with the rhubarb, and the orchard waking up and beginning to bloom. There is no way we can keep up with everything these days, but somehow our friends and family feel the vibe and are all pitching in to pull us out of the "weeds".
From building berry trellises to selling us plant starts, to feeding us dinner, we feel supported and uplifted. Just when we feel like we want to throw in the towel and cry, someone drives up the driveway for a visit and an encouraging hug. Others remind us that they want to buy produce and eggs from us when we are fully operational, and that alone is motivational. Bees have been gifted to us by wonderful neighbors, and sage advice has saved our skin more than once. This community, this time in our lives, is seeing a lot of uncertainty. We all struggle, stumble, worry. We all have strengths, passions, abilities. What seems to keep us sane, what keeps the weeds at bay, and what keeps us going are the neighbors we find ourselves among right here.
The Art Of Being A Neighbor
As heard on NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday, April 12, 2009.
I used to believe in the American dream that meant a job, a mortgage, cable, credit, warrantees, success. I wanted it and worked toward it like everyone else, all of us separately chasing the same thing.
One year, through a series of unhappy events, it all fell apart. I found myself homeless and alone. I had my truck and $56.
I scoured the countryside for someplace I could rent for the cheapest possible amount. I came upon a shack in an isolated hollow four miles up a winding mountain road over the Potomac River in West Virginia.
It was abandoned, full of broken glass and rubbish. When I pried off the plywood over a window and climbed in, I found something I could put my hands to. I hadn't been alone for twenty-five years. I was scared, but hoped the hard work would distract and heal me.
I found the owner and rented the place for $50 a month. I took a bedroll, broom, rope, a gun, and cooking gear, and cleared a corner to camp in while I worked.
The locals knew nothing about me. But slowly, they started teaching me the art of being a neighbor. They dropped off blankets, candles, tools, and canned deer meat, and they began sticking around to chat. They asked if I wanted to meet cousin Albie or go fishing, maybe get drunk some night. They started to teach me a belief in a different American dream—not the one of individual achievement but of neighborliness.
Men would stop by with wild berries, ice cream, truck parts, and bullets to see if I was up for courting. I wasn't, but they were civil anyway. The women on that mountain worked harder than any I'd ever met. They taught me the value of a whetstone to sharpen my knives, how to store food in the creek and keep it cold and safe. I learned to keep enough for an extra plate for company.
What I had believed in, all those things I thought were the necessary accoutrements for a civilized life, were non-existent in this place. Up on the mountain, my most valuable possessions were my relationships with my neighbors.
After four years in that hollow, I moved back into town. I saw that a lot of people were having a really hard time, losing their jobs and homes. With the help of a real estate broker I chatted up at the grocery story, I managed to rent a big enough house to take in a handful of people.
It's four of us now, but over time I've had nine come in and move on to other places from here. We'd all be in shelters if we hadn't banded together.
The American dream I believe in now is a shared one. It's not so much about what I can get for myself; it's about how we can all get by together.
Eve Birch is a librarian in Martinsburg, W.Va., where she also runs a small remodeling business that provides day work for needy neighbors. Two stories Birch wrote about her life in the shack are featured in the anthology, The Green Rolling Hills.
