Jeff Cullen, guest writer for today’s post, was a dear friend who left us, all too soon, in May this year, a month before his sixty-fifth birthday. Before I knew him, Jeff was my husband’s college friend, a funny, bright, surprising guy. He grew up on a farm in southeastern Pennsylvania, went to college in Maine, and over his lifetime, maintained a love of the sea as well as a love for the farm. He was a hard-working man, generally holding one or more – up to three – other jobs while also working on the farm. Jeff was a prodigious reader who loved history and literature, and who could launch into the most surprising discussions at any moment. No matter if his subject was the Civil War, the battle of Agincourt in 1415, or the conversation he had with a dissatisfied customer in the supermarket a week ago, Jeff was a gifted storyteller. And funny – oh, he could bring the house down sometimes. He was a beloved uncle to our children, a dear, dear friend, a curmudgeon with a heart of gold. Today, on Jeff’s birthday, I am honored to present “Farmers’ Time,” the eulogy he wrote for his own father.

FARMERS’ TIME

Guess maybe it’s how you look at things – the face or the edifice of a coin, the dawn and the sunset – you know, how life meets death and shudders and emerges as life again.

My father, a farmer, died in early June, unloading hay in the top of his barn in the cool evening quiet that comes after a hot day of toil and deadlines. Sudden, final, the last worst thought of our minds, like an awful aberration, a crushing grievous jolt to the rhythm of his family’s lives that had seen the best spring start in years.

Yet I wonder at this tragedy, and somehow see it as part of a grand puzzle come together to form an unforgettable memory that will warm and comfort his survivors as the years move on.

It looked like he had just lain down; his color was still robust; there were no signs of a struggle. Only our dog saw it, and ran to show us. Dad was kneeling against a bale on a wagon bed he’d built, in his barn, back lit by a 150 watt bulb overhead, with the fresh perfume of beautiful hay in the cool even darkness that comes only on a cloudy night.

I rushed out, hoping to breathe life into he who had given us our lives and everything good in life. Oh, I knew when I saw him, but it could not make me quit trying. There, for a precious few minutes, we lay with him, trying to kiss life back into him until the paramedics could get there with the proper tools. Too late, and how cruel it seemed. Two hours in the emergency room, and a restless tearful night of organizing – planning for the events of the coming days.

His children and his dearest neighbors were all there before dawn, forming a grieving wall for his shaken wife, who loved him utterly, totally, without constraints. Three acres of his hay, his final windrows, lay in the heat under a cloudy threatening sky. A chance for one last challenge that would have made him proud, something to do when we all felt so helpless and missed him so much. We turned it twice and baled it up, unloading, even selling it, before it got cool and the showers came.

Then, a quiet sleepless night while the news filtered through all its passage ways to our community and our extended family. Two days of unseasonably cold weather, clouded, sunless, and drizzling, gave us time to tie things up, for our friends and neighbors to put aside their labors and send their sympathies, pay their respects, and comfort us with their kind words and support.

We found a place to lay him to rest, near enough to visit at a whim, overlooking another farm, its pond and cows, and in sight of where he had, himself, torn down and saved two barns last fall to rebuild on our place.

The day of his funeral was cool and rainy, rain coming as we stood at his grave, hurrying us away to our friends, and away from any morbid contemplation. And it rained all day, a good sign, for we needed rain, and as Dad would say, a good day for a funeral, for a farmer couldn’t do much in such weather. A day to finish his work, and three days to rest and plan and remember him, without the sunshine to give us guilt or make us look beyond his memory.

And that night, as the front pushed through, a rainbow at sunset, there just long enough for Mother to see and know it was God’s benediction.

A series of little weather events, all entered into my father’s daily weather diary – all rare and deliberate and unforgettable, reminding us of the rhythm of the earth that is part of us and to which we belong. This was a farmer’s time, the puzzle pieces all falling into place – in respect for my father, who was a steward of the land and a flower on this earth.

Jeff Cullen 

June 13, 1995

Hettie La Greem and the Fox 

a verse

for a day, such as today,

when one feels one may have been 

quite inadvertanly, I expect,

courting disaster

but one is still hoping that all will end well

Hettie La Greem is my very best friend.

On that central point, I never will bend.

I admit that it's true, she would take to her bed,

Red bows taped to her elbows, a fox on her head,

Much to the distress of her Mummy, you see.



It was ever the case, perhaps ever shall be,

That the fox would climb nimbly as if down a tree.

The fox would descend from the head of my friend

And engage in a habit that Mummies despise −

Worse than tickling your goldfish or spilling on ties.

For the fox was an expert, an absolute whiz

At filling his pockets with things that weren't his −

Some coins and a pencil, a bottle of glue,

A small can of cat food, a tube of shampoo,

A skateboard, a hot dog, a tuba or two,

Three hair clips, a sneaker − but only the left.

His skill was uncanny, his fingers so deft,

But this was the story − it can't be denied −

His fingers were sticky, but he never lied.

If something went missing, one never need guess.

One would just ask the fox, and he'd always confess,

And quickly return it, no more and no less.



Which was why Hettie's Mummy, despite all her doubt,

Allowed him to visit, for truth must come out!

You know, Hettie's my friend! I'd praise her to the skies!

But her Mummy thought Hettie was telling big lies!

Her Mummy said, "Lies, they start small, but no matter.

Yours always gets bigger and taller and fatter."

Hettie's stories, it's true, were fast-growing and strange.

No matter the topic, her thoughts fit that range.



Why, she told me one time of a bad case of mange

On her darling pet turtle, Felicia Rosemary,

Whose shell one fine day grew remarkably hairy.

The turtle's odd hair was first blonde, and then red,

And a week after that, the poor turtle looked dead!

But before you cry out in surprise and dismay,

It turns out Hettie managed to quite save the day.

She rubbed the poor turtle with Reptile Hair Cream,

And the turtle let out an incredible scream!

It wiggled its tail, and its shell hair fell off.

And the turtle, it burped, and it let out a cough,

And the next thing that happened was also quite weird:

Hettie said that the turtle then grew a green beard.



But, back to the fox, no, we can't forget him!

One day he decided, perhaps on a whim,

To work out an hour or two at the gym.

He tried every sport, and his little heart pounded,

But his skills were so great that all watched him, astounded

As he filled up his pockets, already quite brimming,

Adding baseballs, a gym bag, a noodle for swimming,

Two rackets, a whistle, a bottle of water,

A towel, a dumbbell, a small teeter totter.



Then he hurried to Hettie's, for she'd promised lunch,

And she always had something delicious to munch.

Hettie set out two drumsticks, three large rounds of cheese,

Biscuits with honey, a bowl of green peas,

Some carrots and celery sticks for good crunch,

Chocolate chip cookies, bananas, and punch.

The fox stuffed his pockets, as quick as you please,

With both of the drumsticks and all rounds of cheese,

The biscuits with honey, the bowl of green peas,

The carrots and celery sticks for good crunch.

Then he crammed in bananas, each one of the bunch,

Every last cookie, so tempting to munch,

And poured into his pockets a good bit of punch!

He put down the pitcher, then grabbed it instead.

Hettie lifted him up to the top of her head.

Then up creaking stairs the two of them fled.



Meanwhile, in the parlor, some friends and her Mummy

Had formed several teams and were playing gin rummy.

Of a sudden, they heard both a crack and a roar,

And it's lucky they ran all at once to the door

For the ceiling fell in, crashing over the floor,

Spreading junk of all manner and kind, and lots more!

The cards and card tables were mixed in there too,

Under coins and a pencil, a bottle of glue,

A small can of cat food, a tube of shampoo,

A skateboard, a hot dog, a tuba or two,

Three hair clips, a sneaker − but only the left −

A green-bearded turtle who looked quite bereft,

A tuft of blonde hair and another of red,

The crumpled headboard of my friend Hettie's bed,

A mattress, a quilt with a lilac lace trimming,

Three baseballs, a gym bag, a noodle for swimming,

Two rackets, a whistle, a bottle of water,

A towel, a dumbbell, a small teeter totter,

Two drumsticks, three crumbling great rounds of cheese,

Biscuits with veggie sticks, honey and peas,

A whole lot of cookies, some crumbly, some wet,

All the bananas, some bruising, I’d bet,

A pitcher affixed with some red bows and tape

And I do not know why, there was also a grape.

But right in the center, with a fox on her head,

Was Hettie, my friend. And her Mummy then said,

"Hettie, what happened? What did you do?"

Hettie looked down at her dusty right shoe,

Retaped a bow to her elbow too,

Reached up to pet the fox perched on her head.

"I don't know," was all that she said.

But the fox, he spoke up, as quick as a wink:

“It was overly full pockets, I think.

Too much weight in them, maybe, a little excess.

I’m sorry I’ve made such a terrible mess!”



The fox, Hettie tells me, returned, as was right,

All those things that he’d taken, sewed his pockets closed tight.

Not again will he take anything but what’s his!

And that is simply the way that it is.

Hettie told me herself, as all honest friends do,

"Every word of this story is nothing but true!"





~Kate Lydon Varley

Chance Encounter. How benign it sounds!

When the weather warms up, it seems everyone wants to get out and enjoy what nature has to offer. Well, maybe not absolutely everything nature has to offer. (I say this as a loved one of people who suffer seasonal allergies, and as the owner of a tick transport system, otherwise known as a dog.)  Still, while all are out trying to enjoy spring, it might be helpful to recognize that a chance encounter may pose a danger or two. Thus, the following poem.

Chance Encounter

I know someday I will begrudge

 your every meal, detest

your very existence. If ever

I try to get you drunk,

beware!

It won’t be some benign

gesture of friendliness,

anything but! Between

your kind and mine,

peace is illusion, all-out

war the plain reality.

Today, though, I meet

you unawares

on this blindingly beautiful day

when warmth and light

cheer friend and enemy alike. Besides,

you are so young,

your skin gleaming with sunshine and moisture.

Don’t trust me!

Someday I may try to kill you,

but today, on this glorious April day,  

I am complicit in your safe escape,

you,

first slug of spring.

     ~ Kate Lydon Varley

April Poems and Memories

In his nonetheless wonderful work, "The Wasteland," T.S. Eliot began by maligning April, characterizing it in a manner I've never been able to accept:

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

For me, the spirit of change, the color, the textures, the brightness and breezes all suggest a spirit of hope and growth, the memories welcome, the desire a step toward something growthful and good.

So, sue me.

In that spirit, I offer a poem I wrote in which April, the kindest month, offered me its best.

Magill Road

In the time when every sentence

began with the word Mommy,

I spread the ABC quilt under the blooming cherry

in front of the house where I thought we'd live forever.

We snacked on graham teddy bears, my little ones and I.

I told them stories, sang with them, wiped their faces.

Then we lay back, looking up

at the flurry of falling pink petals, rich,

my arms full of cuddles and giggles.

   ~ Kate Lydon Varley

A Piece of Work

I’ve developed the unfortunate habit of looking for jobs. The lack of response makes it seem much more like a hobby than a serious pursuit. Nonetheless, I muddle on.

One job I applied for was as a volunteer coordinator, a position which involved recruiting, training, supervising and mentoring people to be hospice visitors. A tough context maybe, but I’m reflexively empathic, and strong as an ox. I could handle it.

And what do you know, pigs must have been flying, because the company emailed back. They liked my resume and wanted to proceed. Could I come for an interview Thursday at 1:00?

I had plans to get together with some writing friends on Thursday afternoon. But saying no from the get-go wouldn’t exactly endear me to a potential employer. Of course I could come.

And would I fill out the following additional form and return it?

No problem!

Then I read the form.

What intrigues you about this position and this company? I have never in my whole life been intrigued by a company, but I imagined I could drum up something if I studied their website.

Why are you leaving your current job, and why did you leave each of your previous jobs? Oh, come on! I’m an aging boomer, living in a job-hopping era. Why did I leave? Let’s see – because when I started my first job, I was too young to know any better, and thereafter too wise to believe that perfect jobs exist? Because no job is ever as good as it’s cracked up to be? I’d just have to use some of my fiction writing skills for that one.

Where do you see yourself five years from now? In an NPR studio being interviewed by Marty Moss-Coane regarding the amazing success of my latest book? No, guess not. Having a great time over lunch with friends? More realistic, but not impressive to a potential employer. Working at something I find to be incredibly thrilling and life-enhancing, so much so that I never want to retire? Yeah, that could do, provided I could keep a straight face if it should come up during the interview.

I filled out the form, and sent it back.

Their next email said my responses were great, and they’d send further information later.

Then another email telling me I would be meeting with, oh, let’s call him Justin Doe.

On Wednesday, just before I went out to a salon for my pre-interview haircut, I got an email informing me that since there were several openings, this would be a group interview.

What? If we were applying for different positions, why would someone interview us together? Maybe to give everyone background on the company, and then we’d move to individual meetings? Hell, I thought, if I’d known it would be a group interview, I might have told them sorry, I can’t do Thursday, I have plans with my friends.

On interview day, it was raining, sometimes pouring. Of course there was no parking space close to the door of Impressive Office Building, where we were to meet. I dashed from the car, uphill through myriad puddles, arriving slightly damp. When I opened the door to Deluxe Suite XYZ. I almost collided with a fellow in chinos and a button-down shirt, wearing a name tag which read Justin Doe. “Here for an interview?” he asked.

I said yes. He led me to the meeting room, then disappeared.

I entered a small, ugly conference room with a conference table too big for the space. All the chairs were backed up to the pale yellow walls, and there was absolutely no art work of any sort in sight. Six women were squeezed in around the table. Other than a place at the head, only one seat was empty, and I had to work my way around half of the women to get to it. As I sat, one woman, arms crossed over her chest, spoke up. “We’ve already introduced ourselves, so you should too.”

I told them my name, and asked, “How much information are we sharing?”

Amid some laughs, she answered sharply, “Just our names!”

Then each woman in turn said her name, nothing else. The woman who started it demanded, “Now, how many of those names can you remember?”

I managed to get three, including that of the cross-armed woman. She nodded. “”Pretty good.”

The group settled into uncomfortable silence.

“Where’s everyone from?” I asked.

The answers came – various suburbs, plus one woman from Philadelphia.

“I love Philadelphia,” I said. “When I first moved to Pennsylvania, that’s where I lived. What a great city!”

“Crowded,” someone said.

“I’m hoping to move out soon,” the Philadelphia woman answered.

Ah, so we’re a down-on-Philadelphia crowd, I thought. “There’s a lot going on in Philadelphia,” I said, “and it can be a pretty interesting place, but you do have to breathe a lot of bus fumes.”

Laughter, although brief, and then, more uneasy silence. I was wondering which jobs the others were applying for when Justin returned. He squeezed himself between chairs and the wall, edging toward the front of the room, and took the seat at the head of the table.

“Now as you all know, we’re doing a group interview today,” he said, “and you’re all applying for the same job.” (Wait a minute! That wasn’t what the email said!) “Everyone here is a good candidate for the position. But, you know, sometimes you read someone’s resume, seems like a perfect fit, but when you meet the person, you realize, for one reason or another, it’s not the right person. I had all these great resumes, and I got the idea, why not get everyone together at once! So, what we’ll do, I’ll tell you some things about us, and then we can have a discussion.”

Everyone smiled pleasantly as if delighted, although I imagine we were all feeling more like Scar in The Lion King.

Justin asked if we knew how hospice services became so common. I immediately thought of the work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, her work on stages of grief, and acceptance of death and dying. Not even close! Justin launched into a history of legislation from the 1980s which authorized Medicare payment for hospice services. From the get-go, the bill required that at least five percent of the work of any company providing hospice services must be done by volunteers. In other words, the legislation that got Medicare involved in paying for hospice became law because it guaranteed using volunteer labor which would save the government money. Since saving money necessitated all that volunteer work, it also led to the need for paid volunteer coordinators, to make sure the money-saving labor was performing as planned.

My cynicism thus primed, I listened to Justin’s cursory run-down of some of the functions of a volunteer coordinator – recruiting and training new volunteers, providing support, introducing volunteers to clients, team meetings, and documenting things; especially documenting things. “Over half your time is going to be spent documenting,” he said, “and we have to be up to date. You don’t know who may come in tomorrow to look at your records – the federal government, the state, insurance companies. We’re only as good as our records, so everything has to be kept up to date at all times. Two mistakes and we’re non-compliant, and if we don’t comply with the law, we don’t get paid.”

“We also fall under the federal requirement that the work force needs to resemble the client population being served,” he continued. Justin had said the average age of their client population was somewhere in the eighties. So they may want older employees, I thought. And what about gender? Hospice workers are much more likely to be women. So maybe the government wants to get more men working in hospice, since many clients are likely to men?

“I became well acquainted with this regulation when I was working with teens in another city – I also have a Divinity degree, you see,” Justin continued. “So when we’re hiring, the racial and ethnic mix is something we need to be aware of.” What did Divinity have to do with it? And whose race and ethnicity should employees match? Justin didn’t say.

But he did explain that their client population is defined by geographic area. “We’re strictly County A,” he said, despite the fact that we were all sitting in a conference room in County B. “Well, and the northern and western parts of County B. Oh, and the southern areas of County B, where it gets near the state border. Well, I guess along the interstate, east to west.” With those added areas, I wondered if there were any parts of County B he didn’t cover.

“Luckily, all the places we serve are within a half hour drive from here.”

One woman said her drive starting within target area County A had taken almost an hour, and it wasn’t a peak traffic time. “Okay,” Justin said. “Maybe it depends on time of day and traffic, but about a half hour.”

Next he told us about the teams. “Team meetings are on Wednesday afternoons, so Wednesday is definitely a workday, and everyone has to attend, because that’s how the physician on the team learns about what’s going on, so he can make appropriate orders. Nothing happens without a physician’s order. No volunteer visits unless the physician says they are needed. If he says two visits a week, it has to be two per week, or else we’re out of compliance, and if we’re out of compliance, we don’t get paid. That’s why the documentation is so important.”

I was still waiting for the part when we talked about people, but Justin didn’t say anything about the people. Finally, he let go of the compliance issue and asked us what we thought.

Some of us thought about days of the week, and if any day, other than Wednesday afternoon, is specifically required, or is there some flexibility. Justin responded without providing an answer, but no one seemed to mind.

Crossed-arms lady wondered about hours, “I’m a full-time volunteer coordinator for a hospice now,” she said, “So I’m already doing all the things you mentioned. I’d like to have more free time, which is why I want to go part-time.”

“Well, then you know,” Justin said.

She nodded, knowingly, and asked, “Does the job take the current part-time volunteer coordinator more than twenty-five hours?”

“Oh,” Justin said, “well, I don’t know. Our current volunteer coordinator is full-time. But that’s because she’s also the occupational therapist. We’re looking for a part-time occupational therapist too, so if anyone knows someone?”

No one knew someone.

“But is she able to do the coordinator job in the twenty to twenty-five hour range?” Crossed-arms persisted.

“Well, it depends,” Justin said. “You know how it goes.”

Apparently, Crossed-arms did know how it goes, because she nodded again.

Another woman, whose shoes made me wonder if she was a nun, spoke up. “I’m a part-time volunteer coordinator for a hospice, and it’s a great job, but I’d like to work closer to home. In your organization, does the volunteer coordinator have any contact with clients?”

Ah! At last we were going to talk about people!

“Definitely,” Justin said. “The volunteer coordinator goes out with the volunteer on the first visit and introduces them.”

“So the volunteer coordinator meets with the client before the volunteer does,” Nun-shoes said.

“No,” Justin said. “The coordinator represents our organization, and makes the introduction, but generally that’s the first time the coordinator meets the client too.”

“How often does the coordinator need to meet with the client?” Nun-shoes asked.

“Just once, usually,” Justin said. “For the introduction. But the volunteer makes twice weekly visits, and that all needs to be documented. I can’t overstress how important the records are.”

A thin, shy-looking woman spoke up. “I’m a volunteer coordinator too, but not for a hospice. We do a lot of our work with groups. Do you have groups?”

Groups, I thought happily, is a strength for me.

“We have team meetings on Wednesday afternoons, and we get everyone together so we have input from the whole group of people working with each client,” Justin said.

“Where I work,” Shy lady said, “we have support groups for the client, and the facilitator has to be a person who has experienced the same issue as the clients. That’s how I got involved to begin with.”

“So your groups are run by volunteers?” Justin asked.

“Yes,” Shy lady answered. “We train them as group facilitators. Do you have support groups?”

“We work with individuals. Well, with the family too, in support of the client,” Justin said. “But we don’t do support groups.”

“I’m also a volunteer coordinator, for a different kind of organization, not a hospice,” said the woman who wanted to move out of Philadelphia. “Does that count against me?”

“No, no,” Justin answered. “Not necessarily.”

The conversation thudded along. Someone would introduce a topic, almost going somewhere with it, but then it would quickly fizzle out. I broached the subject of client needs, which to me was the central concern, but it was a fruitless effort. Justin cheerfully brought any conversation back to his chief focus: the need to document, so that funding would continue.

At last, he began to wind things up. “I didn’t know how the group interview would work out, but you’ve all been great! So much talent! I’m going to have to call every one of you back for an individual interview.”

“I didn’t know how it would be to begin with,” Nun-shoes said, “but I really liked it.”

Justin beamed. “You enjoyed it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was very informative.”

“It would be great if we could all keep in touch,” Flee-Philly said.

“We could do that through email,” Shy lady pointed out.

“How about this?” Justin said. “I’ll send you all an email with everyone else’s email, and then we can all keep the conversation going!”

“Is everyone here okay with having your email sent out?” Crossed-arms asked. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be included? Speak up now!”

No one spoke up.

“All right, then we’re all in,” she announced.

Amid promises to keep in touch, we left the conference room.

I stopped in the ladies room before leaving and found four of the group talking about keeping in contact with each other. “We may not get the job,” Shy lady said, “but what a great networking opportunity!”

When I got home, I sent Justin an inspired, obligatory thank you note for the interview, giving several suggestions for attracting more volunteers, although I didn’t mention documentation.

I waited. No email list sent. No scheduling of further interviews. Not even the tiniest word of acknowledgment from Justin.

I imagine it was Crossed-arms lady who got the job. She is probably, even now, documenting something.

And me? Looking for jobs is getting old. I’ve got to find a new hobby.

     ~ Kate Lydon Varley

 A poem for a snowy April 9

SEASONAL SURPRISE

Bird calls summon me from slumber

happy chirps mark change of scene

warm, entrancing invitations:

wake,  to love and light and green!

Too long I’ve burrowed under blankets,

saved my strength to bear the drear

of snow and shovels,  slush-filled roadways.

Now, at last, salvation’s here!

I jump from bed, make my ablutions,

dress in colors bright as spring.

Put off  breakfast for a walk?

Yes! Embrace it! Birdies sing!

Enough of winter hibernation!

Leave the gloom of that dark den!

What hope! What joy! What wonder! 

What?

It cannot be! Not snow again!

                            ~ Kate Lydon Varley

Winter Rant ('Tis the season . . .)

Okay.

So I’m not an innocent party.

Six days a week

I go out to the mailbox

pick up the contents

carry the stuff in –

catalogues.

Scads of catalogues.

I dump them on the table,

and then the trouble begins.

I admit it.

I search through them

an awful waste of time

if you think about it

but I do it

because I never know if maybe

something good

something great

something special

or something expensive

I can’t forget expensive

because it’s bound to be expensive

but whatever it is

it might be available

only by catalogue –

that all-important catalogue.

Mind you

I’m not saying

I never get anything good from catalogues.

There was that cute butler cast in resin holding a corkscrew,

the bright red miniature British phone booth for storing CDs

the Rocky and Bullwinkle sweatshirt I gave my husband one Christmas

but please!

These catalogues end up

sprawling all over

the kitchen table

the counter

the dining room chairs

the piano bench

the end tables

the couch

my desk

the computer keyboard

until I can’t find anything

and I realize

I’m drowning in multiple copies

of the same stupid catalogues –

all advertising the same kinds of

pointless idiotic junk

that nobody really needs

especially me

because if I’m crazy enough

to buy more of this stuff

cute

decorative

special

or worst of all

unique

though it may be

I still won’t have

even two square inches of space

where I could fit it

because everything

yes, everything in

my whole house is already covered with

catalogues.

     ~Kate Lydon Varley