Helena Smrcek's Blog, page 7

Becoming a Storyteller

I have been asked many times how I become a writer. To be honest, I’m not sure. The love for words came to me naturally, and was nurtured by my doting grandparents.Living in their villa, adorn with a tower, life was a fairytale to me, filled with stories, endless dress up, supplied by the old wardrobes in the attic, peculiar objects worthy of a front window placement in an upscale unique store, and most importantly their garden.Grandma and Grandpa, both widowed, married a few months after I was born. She was sixty, he ten years her senior, didn’t think that living in a same household, as an unwed couple, would be proper.Of course I don’t remember their simple wedding ceremony; the only memory is a snapshot, Grandma in her smart grey suit, Grandpa in his Sunday best. And as she slipped his wedding band on his wrinkled finger, my fairy tale childhood began.I grew up behind a powder blue chain link fence, immersed in their unconditional love and limitless patience, protected from the harsh gray world that began at the sidewalk.Oblivious to the perils of the subdued nation, ruled by the fist of communism, I climbed trees and indulged in freshly whipped strawberry mousse.Stories of their childhood and days-gone-by became an inseparable part of my growing up. Summers were filled with hand-on learning, growing peas and picking currants, but as the days grew shorter, the story telling returned.Grandpa called it the black-hour. There was nothing sinister about it. I absolutely loved it. We would sit in our living room, Grandpa in his favourite wing chair, his tom cat purring in his ear. Grandma would settle on the sofa, and I’d often snuggle against her.The sun set, and darkening twilight filled the quiet room. Nowhere to rush, the day’s work already done, my grandparents would take turns telling stories from their childhood. There was no particular order, or theme, whatever memory came to mind, they would share, recalling their relatives, places they lived, tragedies and funny stories. They let my imagination paint a vibrant picture of their past. And as the darkness settled around us, I was magically transported to the world of simpler times.

I Promised to Like Fall

Some ten years ago I made a conscious decision not to resent fall. Until then, every time someone named autumn as their favourite season, I cringed at their short-sightedness. Didn’t they know what followed the two short months of splendid glory? A couple years into my conversion attempts, I decided to escape the horrid season and took a September trip to Nevada. Even there, the local merchants, obedient to the calendar, rolled out their autumn stuff. In 35C+ weather. Trust me when I say, Pumpkin Delight plug-ins turned positively nauseating in such heat.With not even one red maple leaf in sight, the displays seemed so fake I longed for home. For the first time I missed fall. I promised to like the frosty mornings followed by the tank-top-heat of the afternoons.My change of attitude didn’t come easy, although scented candles, pumpkin pies, spice lattes, cosy scarfs helped.Today, I’m a convert. Picking my late vegetables, I marvel at the colours of gourds. Perfectly useless, yet so charming. Pie pumpkins turned out great. Tomatoes missed the memo and chose to stay green, but the pole beans are drying, getting ready to be shelled.Our Guinea fowl came home, after a summer spent in our neighbours’ fields. For months these birds mocked our attempts to capture them, and bring them back to the netted enclosure my husband and I so lovingly constructed in the spring. Much to his delight, one fall afternoon, they simply marched into the barn, all sins forgiven.The birds announced their takeover so loudly that our turkeys pressed against the wall, frozen in fear. Everyone else hid, as the regal poultry collectively decided the hayloft rafters are the perfect place to winter.They are still there. I checked. I brought corn and water, so they wouldn’t starve. But when they spotted my bold intrusion, they squawked as if I was there to rob the place. I ducked my head and retreated, wondering what a roasted Guinea hen would taste like.The livestock has been shipped off. The vegetable garden is mostly cleared. The bees are fed. The cold cellar is filled with Mason jars, and crates of produce that will hopefully keep fresh for the next few months as the soil rests.I look over the list of pre-winter chores and long for a break. Tools and trellises tucked away. Hoses rolled up in the barn. Hay under the roof. The garden tilled. Fall is marvellous, because after the splendid leaves cover the ground, and the air fills with the smell of woodstoves and frosty morning. Finally, calm settles over our farm.And then we rest. As we reflect on the season, we realize how truly blessed we are. God gave us hot summer days. Crop-saving rain. Bountiful harvest. Health and strength to get it all done. And then I reach for my calendar and count the days till spring. Because like it or not, winter is coming.

Weed or Not to Weed

I vividly remember sowing spinach into my cold frame. I was happy when the first signs of green appeared. Watering my baby plants every morning, I waited for them to grow, hoping to snip a few leaves, and present my family with a home-grown spinach salad.As my botanical marvels strengthened I noted that the plentiful little leaves fail to resemble the picture on the seed packet. Strangely, they looked very much like the tall weeds we fought last summer atop our manure pile.And here comes my question: How come weeds grow without planting, care, or watering (accept the ones in my cold frame), and yet make it through all weather extremes, bugs, and ever-hungry critters. Surveying my growing bounty, I tried to pull a few leaves. A spinach plant came out. Mathew, specifically the 13th chapter, came to mind; the wise field owner, faced with the same problem, instructed his servants not to pull the weeds, for they would destroy the harvest. I wished for servants, and resisted the urge to pluck everything out.In about a week I carefully inspected my current weed infestation, and realized that if I didn’t take action, the weeds would completely choke out the spinach. Upon close examination, I saw the rows of young spinach plants in the sea of weeds. Soaking the ground, I focused on carefully freeing my future salad from the invaders, thankful that I don’t have an entire field to deal with.The tedious task offered plenty of contemplation time. Cec Murphey, my mentor and dear friend came to mind. Tired of weeding, I could clearly hear his words in my mind: “You can’t do everything.” Of course, when he first said this to me, a few years ago, I didn’t believe him. Cec, in his 80’s, published over 130 books, and is currently working on a few projects, while developing a screen play, and running most mornings.Back then, “You can’t do everything,” became more of a challenge than advice. Yet, as the years went on, I realized I had to let go of many ‘weeds’ in my life, if I was to ever enjoy a true harvest. Cec was right. I couldn’t do everything, and stay healthy, happy, while focusing on my life’s mission. I began to examine my daily activities and ask: “Why am I doing this?” I disciplined myself to honestly answer, and then decide: spinach or weed.Idle TV watching, unnecessary meetings, fruitless discussions, negative people, unplanned trips to the store, underperforming business, our teens’ laundry, storage room items, extra clothes in my closet—as I worked along the length of my cold frame, the rows of spinach leaves became clearly visible. Freed, they basked in the sun, feeding on the richness of the soil.I served sautéed spinach last night, and no one asked; “Where are the weeds?” My family enjoyed the delicious, nutritional wholeness; blessing to me, but most importantly, blessing to them. - See more at: http://www.clilondon.com/index.cfm?se...

The Warcookies

Starting the car, phone on speaker, I knew my tardiness would mess up her day. My hairdresser kept her appointment book full. “I’m on my way,” I said, leaving the driveway. “Fifteen minutes.”Finally in her chair, I blamed the bees. I was to take the frames off the hive. My husband offered to extract the honey, using the brand-spanking-new stainless steel extractor he purchased, instead of the DIY contraption I asked for.Due to a beekeeper’s error there were complications. A honey super holds ten frames. I only put in nine. The diligent workers bridged the gap with honeycomb. As soon as I touched it, there was honey everywhere. Despite the angry bees, and my hair appointment, I had to clean it out.“I brought you a sample,” I said hoping a jar of sweetness would grant me her pardon. She thanked me with a smile. “You remind me of my mom,” she said softly. “We lived on the farm, but she wasn’t a farm girl. We had animals and a large vegetable garden. To balance things out she grew flowers.” My hairstylist folded a foil in my hair and patted it into place. “Even in the midst of war, where people struggled to find food, she had her flowers, cut them, and brought them to the neighbours.”We talked about her childhood before. Today, the harsh reality struck me again. This girl, immaculately dressed, with makeup and hair worthy a photo shoot, experienced life I couldn’t imagine. I knew her as an entrepreneur, a determined salon owner, one of the best in her profession; yet this remarkable woman lived through horror.“My mom dreamed of being a teacher,” she continued. “During the war she ran a free neighbourhood daycare. She’d take us to the river and teach us, making up songs about amphibians and things like that. She wanted to give us a normal childhood. “Admiration filled my heart. “She sounds amazing,” I said, feeling the inadequacy of my words.“She was. When she passed, many people told us how much they missed her warcookies—I miss her strawberry sorbet the most.”Finished with the foils, she reached for the timer. “I wish I had her recipe. My sister and I went to Italy last summer, tried gelato everywhere we went. There was only one that came close. It tasted like wild strawberries.”I looked around the salon. This beautiful young woman made a life for herself, despite the war, the refugee camp, and PTSD. Her mother’s love gave her strength and taught her to persevere. I couldn’t help but imagine her mom smiling from the realms of eternity, with pride, wrapped in the essence of flowers and wild strawberries, whispering words of encouragement to her daughter. Love, much like the sweet honeycomb, has the power to bridge the gaps others leave in our lives, to fill the empty coldness, and offer hope. Embrace its power, accept it, and then pass it on. - See more at: http://www.clilondon.com/index.cfm?se...

Cukes or Pickles

Numbers 11:5 "We remember the fish which we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers and the melons and the leeks and the onions and the garlic, but now our appetite is gone.”This was the summer of our oversees girls’ trip; my niece was getting married. My daughter was excited, I felt a little reluctant. What about my garden?I picked, froze and canned all that I could, anticipating difficulties. Before we headed to the airport, I walked the men through my green patch and explained everything. They got it. Two days into our adventure I logged into Skype. The garden was fine, my husband assured me. When I inquired about the pickles, he asked where exactly did I plant them.A little concerned, I explain, once again, the simple layout of my two cucumber rows. First four plants on each side are regular cucumbers, the next four English cucumbers, anything after that, on both sides, are pickles.The next day I got a text from my son:Please explain to dad that pickles and cucumbers are the same thing.They aren’t. I replied.Yes, they are!A short lesson on pickling followed, including a Wikipedia link, and a picture of a cucumber plant. My twenty-year-old was lecturing me on canning?Thankful for my phone package, to be used in emergency, such as this one, I dialled my husband.“Tell him they are not the same,” I blurted, aware of the fleeting minutes.“They are. He researched it on the Internet.”I need a clear analogy. “It’s like apple trees.”“What?”“Like yellow and red apples. Both grow on apple trees. Different ones.”“What does that have to do with cucumbers?” He sounded impatient.“Never mind. Did you pick them? They need to be smaller than your thumb.”“I didn’t see any.”“Did you look under the leaves?”“What do you mean?”At this point I understood that pickles may not be happening this year. Perhaps it’d be better for our marriage if I didn’t bring up cucumbers in our conversations, ‘till I got home.Right after I unloaded my bags, I rushed to the garden. It definitely missed me. Weeds, massive zucchinis, and tomatoes screamed for my attention. Then I saw the pickles. Huge cucumbers, of all kinds, hung from far reaching plants, ready to burst.“You didn’t see any?” I asked as I grabbed empty bushels from the garage.The cucumber harvest came in strong this year, and I pickled, made relish, froze cucumber juice, grated, sliced, and pickled some more for the entire week. In the process I discovered a great jet leg remedy – giant pickles.I have three buckets fermenting in the basement, and there are at least two more bushels patiently waiting on the plants, but who is complaining. Last year I had to replant all my frozen cucumber plants, only to find out that the nursery mislabelled the pots, and my garden was overrun by peppercorn squash.So bring it on, cucumber plants, pickles and all, we leave no cuke behind. This is what farming is about, if you pray for the harvest, you better be ready when it comes.

I’m Exactly Where I’m Supposed to Be

I love the freshness of summer mornings. The high notes of birdsong invigorate my senses as I draw in that first fragrant breath. Every morning has a slightly different scent on our farm. Grass, flowers, and sometimes fertilizer.We have always been city people; such dramatic change in our lifestyle came as a shock to my husband, and a fulfilment of a life-long dream to me. When I suggested the idea for the first time, he resolutely told me he is a golfer, not a farmer.Living our hectic lives, much like most of our contemporaries, seemed just the thing to do, until little health issues started to crop up here and there. Nothing as terrible as cancer or heart attack, yet serious enough to make me think.Leaving the city traffic behind, my husband and I set out searching for a place that would be close to town, yet far enough to offer tranquility, and an opportunity to get back to earth. The eighteen-month-long search lead us to Everwind Farm. We fell in love and made the leap.This is our third spring here. Chickens get under our feet. The former horse paddocks house our sheep, goats and a bull calf. The barn became a brooding house, and since my bees unexpectedly swarmed last week, our garden is now home to two bee hives.Has our life become less busy? Definitely not, but it’s a different kind of busy. As the spring days rapidly turn from freeze to tropical heat, I look over my garden and panic. Everything should have been in the ground – yesterday, but not a day sooner, as my frozen cucumbers testified last spring.I called my neighbour and shared my feelings of anxiety, asking if she knew of a student who would be willing to spend a few hours planting broccoli. We talked about the endless lists, but then she suddenly said, “I pray during my morning devotions that God would give me strength and peace. And if I don’t get something done, I think to myself, okay, maybe I wasn’t supposed to be doing that in the first place.”Admittedly I was taken aback a little. We have only recently met, and our conversations centered around dogs, horses and gardening, but her openness made me smile. I though about our phone call later that day, and gleaned some wisdom from her words.I realized that I need to embrace not only the fresh scents of every morning, but the essence of God that surrounds me, as I step out, ready to face my daily tasks. Perhaps I’ll start bringing my Bible with me, taking a few moments on the front porch, before my barn chores, and look up to the sky, just like my sweet neighbour, loosing all fret, and presenting my heart filled with gratitude and praise, knowing deep in my soul that God is with me, right where I’m supposed to be.

I’m Exactly Where I’m Supposed to Be

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Dear Friends, The summer flew by, the magnificent fall...

Dear Friends, The summer flew by, the magnificent fall weather is slowly turning wet and cold, the Christmas rush has not yet begun - what better time to download a new book? I'm thrilled to announce that Glitter and Sorrow will be released this Friday on Amazon.com. It is the third book in the Alicia Yu, FBI series, and I promise, it will take you on a fast ride. I took a bit of a risk here and tried something different. The story will introduce you places most of us didn't know existed. Alicia Yu takes the center stage, and reluctantly opens up her past to us. It won't be all chocolate and roses for her, that is for sure, after all, life is complicated. I hope you'll like the chance to finally learn more about who she truly is. To pre-order your copy, please click here. If I may ask a favour, please help me to spread the word. Kindly share this post. Are you a Goodreads member? Please click the 'Want to Read' button under Glitter and Sorrow. Don't have a Goodreads account, consider taking a few moments and signing up. It's the best site for all things books. The best help of all? I'd love if you could write a review, once you finish any one of the three books, so others can find out about the series. As always, I appreciate your ongoing support and encouragement. Helena