From "An Essay On Love"
(Another from Tracy's original blog, dated January 28th 2010. Edited by Emma, who thinks this blog very generous but perhaps not entirely accurate, at least in regards to depictions of her teenage self.)
Greater love hath no man than this, that he would lay down his life for his friend.
So no, we’re not saving the planet, or doing anything noble, unless you would consider working together as a family to ensure the mortgage gets paid this month as noble. What I do consider noble is when my 14 year old daughter steps up when her decrepit, old mother falls short. (A note from Emma: If I was 14, then "decrepit, old" Mom was a mere 40.)
We are the Vanilla Family; Grandpa, the Patriarch, who lives at the Vanilla Villa; Jim, my fearless, popular-sanguine husband, grower of 5 children and vanilla; Me, wife of Jim, mother of 5, chef of Vanilla Kitchen; our 5 incredible children, truly gifts of God, ranging from 16 to 8 years of age. We moved to the Big Island of Hawaii from Oahu (where both Jim & I grew up), to raise our children in a rural environment. We have always homeschooled and have been growing vanilla for 12 years.
We’ve been working a lot to get the Mill/Farm/Shade houses in functioning order after losing both full-time employees. This is my second six day week. Yesterday I called it a day at about 7:00 p.m. It’s Wednesday, 5:30 a.m. and I woke up feeling like I’d run a Marathon. I’ve never actually run in a Marathon, but am feeling this is pretty much what I’d feel like, and have now decided I never really want to run a Marathon. (Emma Edit: Reader, Tracy did in fact go on to run a solitary marathon in 2011. She swears she got hypothermia and promises never to do anything like that again.) I am achy all over and am shuffling around, moaning. The little guys are still sleeping. I peek in their room. The floor is covered with the colorful cacophony of lego minutia and the boys and their bedding are piled on the floor, next to the night light (I later find out that they wanted to read before going to bed—by night light). Emma’s still sleeping and Jim took Ian and Isaac to get manure at the O'okala dairy for the fields. So, feeling like I can moan in complete self pity for a while, I head to the kitchen where I plan to make some orange juice. My biggest boy-man, Ian appears in the doorway to the pantry and startles me. I guess he got out of the manure bit. I moan.
“Mom, go sit down”
“I hurt all over”, I moan. “Make me some eggs and rice.”
I am not sure I have ever asked him to make me something. I mean something for me, personally, that I’m going to eat. I must be deliriously exhausted (I believe we’re both thinking this). I proceed to tell him step by step how to prepare breakfast for me; start heating the pan, just a little olive oil, how I want the eggs cooked, when to add the rice to the pan, I would like a little butter on the rice (it’s a haole thing), some kosher salt on both please, did Dad bring the Frank’s sauce down from the Mill (a must with eggs)?
Emma enters in. I moan a good-morning.
“Mom, you’re not going to work today. I’ve got it.”
This is not even a consideration for me. I have the pepper jelly to bottle, lilikoi dressing to mix up and bottle and we’re expecting at least 30 for lunch. I moan/chuckle at the thought.
“Mom, you’re not going.”
“Yeah, Mom. Emma can handle everything. And Elizabeth is coming in.” Ian chimes in.
She seems quite determined (although she is stubborn as well, I wonder where she gets that from?), and I know she is very capable. I love how Ian knows this too, and encourages her, with her in the same room. In fact, I don’t know of any other more capable 14 year old than Emma. Plus I really don’t have the strength to contest. I moan a somewhat defeated consent. She finishes her breakfast and proceeds to get ready, actually puts her hair up (a dreaded requirement for her abundant, Boticelli-curly locks) without me having to “remind” her. I proceed to drive her the ¾ miles to the Mill even though she offered to walk. I never drive when I (they) can walk. I drop her off after giving her the litany of minor jobs that Absolutely, Must Be Done and the things that I feel I am the only one who thinks about. I tell her I’ll be up at 11. She says no I won’t. I smile grimly at her silly notion of me, staying home. And this is why.
When I have my game on, I am an Ultimate Worrier. No, I didn’t mean Warrior, no matter how much I would love to be (and I know the profile photo would be better). I can take the least, little thing and truly create a horrible new world. I’d like to thank Stephen King for this, but am not very thankful for all the disturbing images he created and I inserted in my head. Take for example; our tenant telling Jim that, when it rains, the water from the field closest to their cottage flows directly under it, in a stream, and that when he can, if he could make a swale with the tractor. That night it rained. Hard. I could not sleep. How could anyone sleep? The rain was drumming so hard on the greenhouses it sounded, and felt, like angry, stampeding cattle. All I could see when I closed my eyes was water, wickedly forming a river near the cottage, moving towards it, and building, getting stronger, slowly eroding the earth away from the pillars supporting it—and not just any pillar, but the one nearest to the bed chamber of our tenant's three, sweet, innocent children sleeping inside. I could see the post begin to shift, slowly at first, then violently giving way and the children’s bedroom collapsing as the water engulfs the structure and washes it into the cold, dark, unforgiving gulch. Of course, after 3 hours of struggling, wrestling, praying for God to take away these images (the rain getting steadily stronger), I wake my sweet husband to join in on the misery. I say he is sweet, and I truly mean it. He is not only sweet, but a real trooper because he offers to go and check on my nightmare and come back with a full report. I offer to go, feeling I might assist in any rescue, but he tells me to stay. He returns 7 minutes later. Obviously they all survived. This is just one example. This is what makes me a Very Good Kitchen Manager/Chef, and why I feel no one can do the job the same way I would do it, or how I would want it done, or to my standard of doing things. So when I say I’ll be there at 11, I mean it.
But lately, I’ve been noticing something pretty special with my three young apprentices at the kitchen. They are doing things just before I think of doing them. I believe they are starting to think like me. They are seeing the systems that move in the kitchen and understand the patterns of what needs to be done when, and are beginning to perform methodically and efficiently. Could they actually function without me there?
The phone rings at 10:00. Aha! She needs me to zoom up there as fast as I can because she can’t handle ______, she whines. I answer the phone. “Hello Maman.” She loves to speak French and always calls me that. She is calm. Even cheery. Actually, she is always pretty cheery. (EE: Was this before puberty??) We call her “Miss Merry Sunshine”.
“Do you need me up there?”
“No. I just called to tell you the dough isn’t rising. I have the proofer at 112.”
“Oh. Well, just leave it in there until it rises. I’ll be up at 11.”
“No Mom. We’ve got it. Everything is done and we even set the dining room.”
“Are you sure?” I am starting to play with the idea of doing some laundry.
“Yes, Mom.”
“O.K., then we’ll be up for lunch.”
“No Mom. I want you to stay home and rest.”
Here’s where the greater love hath no man kicks in. I think Jesus means that when we can lay down our lives, our needs, our wants to help someone else, to give to someone else your time or material possessions, to take on their worries and burdens, this is the truest expression of love. And here is my daughter, presenting me with not just one gift, but many. She gave me time (to feel peace, to write this essay, to notice the great mowing job the boys did yesterday, to listen to the thunder rolling, to eat crackers and tuna—sitting down), she gave me confidence (in knowing that I have trained her well enough to handle the jobs in front of her, and in her abilities) She gave me these gifts not expecting anything in return. She just called to ask how much pectin goes into the pepper jelly. She took my place and took it willingly, cheerfully, lovingly. She has given me the greatest gift today. She gave me herself.
***Footnote: Ian just walked in and said, “I got a treat for you.” And pulled out of a shopping bag a half-gallon carton of Blue Bunny Chocolate Ice Cream. Love is your oldest son thinking of you and buying you ice cream. I feel another essay coming on.
Bonus from Emma: These are the hooligans Mom had spearheading the kitchen for her, myself and the aforementioned Elizabeth
