robin tidwell « Robin Writes

This week’s adventures will include planting a garden in the mud and trying to mow the pasture, which is something like three feet tall at this point. We’ve borrowed a trailer, and will just take our mower along.

Apologies for the weird tense—I’m writing this before we actually go to the farm this week!

So, back to the garden. The asparagus never got in the ground last time, so that’s a priority. I also picked up some blueberry and raspberry bushes. As an aside, I cannot be trusted at a garden store or nursery . . . I also made up some more verbena baskets for the front porch.

Of course, there will be more rocks ready for harvesting. Ha. And I have a tin of seeds, too: carrots and three kinds of beans and a few other things.

We’re kind of at a crossroads here: we have things now to maintain, things to make nicer and more comfortable for us, and we’re still—and will be for a long time—cleaning up and renovating and working on all kinds of projects. All at the same time.

So here’s what we’ll do, and what any prepper should do:

Animals
Food supply
People

It’s just good common sense that a farmer or homesteader take care of his animals first. They’re relatively helpless, they don’t get to make the decisions, and they generally don’t have thumbs. Fortunately, we don’t yet have animals.

Food supply, aka the garden. In order to harvest, and therefore eat, you have to plant and weed and care for your food. If you don’t get it in the ground, it won’t grow, and you’ll be hungry. Worst-case scenario, of course. Fish, too, are on the agenda—no, I don’t consider them “animals,” they’re fish and they take care of themselves.

And then there’s us. The peeps. Sure, we need shelter and water—we have those. It might not be exactly the way we want it, yet, but it’s there and we can certainly live with it. What else?

Security. Our boundaries are fenced on three sides already, and the fourth side adjoins some pretty rough terrain and woods. Some of the things we’ve found are rolls and rolls of rusted wire, mostly hog-wire but some barbed too. All of that is going behind the fences, in the undergrowth. The fences themselves aren’t livestock-proof, but they don’t need to be; our biggest concern would be someone coming in on foot. The only way in by vehicle is through the gate and down the drive.

Speaking of the gate, we’ll surely have it installed this coming week. The one we ordered is STILL on backorder, seven weeks now, but we found another place that has them in stock. Whew. Besides, those empty gateposts look pretty silly!

And we have Bob and his friends, the .22s and so forth. Just picked up some new targets too, self-sealing rubber that bounce and spin and roll. Fun! And we always make time for target practice . . .

So we’re pretty well set. But then I figured up the time available for the big move next year, and we might have to get our butts in gear. See, we’re splitting time between home and the farm, but that works out to just over a month this summer. Come fall, we’ll have less time, and that works out to about two month, or three total, until we’re living on the farm.

Yikes!

Before that happens, we have some build-outs in the barn for storage, re-doing the lean-to, and adding walls inside the house. Plus a slight kitchen and bathroom remodel—those will be fairly easy, compared to the rest. I do, however, want that done before we move furniture and other stuff.

So, let the games begin! Feel like jumping in the truck and leaving right now!

Today, my son is back in jail. For at least two months. And I’m going to tell you a story:

In 1972, my friend Wendy said, “Let’s go to Girl Scout camp!” So we did. And I went back every year, once for a two-month stretch, until 1981 when I was hired as staff. I worked there until 1984.

Oh, I was still a Scout after that, on and off, and volunteered as a troop leader, delegate, trainer, cookie chair, and so forth. And I got married and had a few kids.

And then one of them had a few problems.

It started with a few lies; some trouble at school, an expulsion. Removal from the bus, kicked out of Boy Scouts. More lies, and stealing—from us, but some questionable “deals” with friends too. Then it moved to school suspension, more lies, tormenting his brother—not just regular stuff, but more—and another expulsion.

Then the violence began. He physically fought with his dad; he called me vile names. He trashed our house. He lied even to officers, over and over, and to caseworkers and school officials. And he hit me.

I pressed charges.

He spent three weeks in juvie, and was an angel when he got out. For exactly 24 hours. Ten days later, he was back in juvie, but this time something different happened.

He was put into protective custody, because he claimed his dad beat him.

We went to court. The judge ordered him into foster care to, and I quote, “Give his parents a break. They need it.”

So, because of this, we had to have “family meetings.” The caseworker, bless her heart, was just out of school and had no kids, no pets even, and started every session with, “No shaming, no blaming!”

That just didn’t set well with me.

And I said, “Of course, he should be ashamed of his behavior and of course it’s his fault—he’s sixteen, he’s knows right from wrong, he deliberately becomes violent and lies.”

Anyone who has dealt with or read stories about social services knows that common sense is often sadly lacking.

That was six years ago.

This past fall, I renewed my Girl Scout membership. I signed up to volunteer and received an email saying I’d passed the background check, etc. Come winter, I applied for and was hired to be a summer program specialist, part-time. I also volunteered to be a camp promoter, attended a kick-off event, and one promo event at a local school.

And finally, this summer, I could go back to camp!

Except I couldn’t.

Two days before the training was scheduled, I received a phone call. It seems more background info had arrived at Council, and according to social services, it was substantiated that I had “shamed a child.” Council wanted to ask me about this.

So I told them everything.

And I was fired. I was told, and again I quote, “We can’t have you around our girls.”

My son was in and out of jails several times, petty theft, etc., and a year and a half ago he spent six months in jail on robbery and property damage charges; this is the case that is still pending. In spite of telling me he’d taken care of things, he hadn’t, and so he violated his probation from a year ago. Rumor has it that he may be sentenced to two years in prison. I don’t know yet. Sentencing is in July.

But he’s the reason that I can never go back to the place I’ve always loved the most. Yet, he’s still my son.

I look back at all the sacrifices I made for my children, over the years, like most parents do. They don’t seem so difficult in retrospect, but this . . . this may be the worst. All my memories are tainted with that one sentence:

“We can’t have you around our girls.”