The Ancestor

I am a writer. I always have been. 

Not a writer who makes a living writing. If you define "writer" as "someone who gets paid to write" or "someone who has published their writing", I don't fit. But, if you define writing as "someone who writes", I am most certainly a writer, and I have been one nearly all my life. 

For me (and for many other writers I have talked to, some of whom meet those far stricter definitions), this means I have these...characters...that wander about through my brain. Some of them are different facets of me. Some of them are entirely fictional creations that will go down on paper and live through various things for my amusement. Some of them...some of them are a bit harder to pin down. 

There is one that I think of as "The Grandmother", although "Ancestor" is probably a better word. She shows up in the very late winter, enticed out by the seed catalogues that arrive in the mailbox. She whispers to me, very softly. I don't even realize that I'm listening to her, but pretty soon the catalogues are marked up with stars and circles, bristling with sticky-notes marking pages. My husband looks at me sideways and informs me that I have to leave *some* lawn intact. "I could dry these" I mutter. " I could can these, freeze these...these say they will store in a cool, dark area for up to 6 months!" 

Hers was the voice that convinced me I needed pet chickens. She was delighted by my experiments making jam and pickles. Shouldn't everyone know how to sew? Knitting a sock is a skill everyone should have, isn't it? When my husband asked me if I wanted to purchase a deep-freeze so we could buy half a beef from a coworker, The Grandmother was right on board. When I think back to the cross-stitched sampler I saw as a child, reading "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Do without", I picture her hand on the needle. 

When the weather starts to change towards fall, she shows up in force. The first morning that carries a bit of bite to the air, I know she is going to start speaking. "Winter," she says "is not something to ignore. It's not a time to become complacent! There is danger coming!" It was silliness, but I would listen without realizing it. Even when I lived in an apartment, a block from the grocery store, the shortening of days prompted me to start stocking up. I would bring home a couple extra cans of soup every time I went to the store. Pretty soon, the tiny kitchen of my tiny apartment had no more storage space. The canned veggies, fruits, and soups took up residence in my closet, displacing my shoes. I would laugh at myself as I tried to find space, and then buy more the very next time I ventured out to the grocery store. 

She whispers to me from a time and place that was darker and more hostile than the soft world I inhabit. "Your children are small and vulnerable" she says. "You must be prepared for anything." She got louder, after Iraq. Like many other veterans, I carried with me a bone-deep belief that everything could go to shit at any time, with little or no warning, and you better be ready for it, because no one is going to save your ass. I married a fellow veteran, who carried the same belief, not just from war, but from the harsh reality of New Orleans, where he worked as a paramedic after Katrina drowned the city. She was positively screaming when a spring ice storm took out the power for a week, driving us from our house because it was too cold for Sam (who was still a baby). When we decided to move to the country, I insisted on getting a generator. Between that and the woodstove, I'm pretty sure we can ride out any future power outages. At least, I think I'm the one who insisted...

This year, when the seed catalogues show up, we will be in uncharted territory. I have nearly unlimited space. I have the luxury of room for fruit trees. I have an already-established asparagus patch. The design for the chicken coop is being tweaked to allow for a combination chicken coop/goat barn. There is a woodshed full of firewood, and more waiting to be split. BJ mentioned the possibility of a pig, which would require a smoker...and he would like to try building an outdoor, wood-fired bread oven. A compost pile. A root cellar. You know, brewing beer would be a neat hobby...The Grandmother smiles, and nods in approval.