Fern

I have Fern because she was on the last leg of her life at Walmart a couple years ago. She was like $15 when I brought her greenish-brown, crumbling, ferny-frame home. 

Fern got all over the vehicle. You know how it goes if you have a Fern of your own too. All over, that’s how. But I didn’t care. I wanted Fern, so away we went, tiny leaves and all, strewn about my pickup floor. Besides, I needed to vacuum it out anyway. 

My vehicle is like my second office, a second home of sorts on wheels. It’s also the “limo” for my daughter who can’t drive yet. I actually prefer it that way. I love life on the road with my precious cargo, the “Miss Ferns” we pick up, and Miss Caroline. 

Away we go, all of us. We travel about, with the gravel from country roads embedded in gray mats on my Chevy floor. Country roads that wrap around my tires and carry me to the next mom thing, or unpaved dream. 

It’s a privilege to live on an unpaved road in a paved world. Even more so to live on a farm. That’s why I brought Miss Fancy Fern from the city to her new farm home to face out the east window. Maybe she’s dreaming of New York City. Maybe I am too sometimes. Maybe I have a high heel in one world, and a worn-out tennis shoe in the other. 

But really, like the song about the “Big Apple” goes, “start spreading the news,” because, well, characters like Fern and me can head anywhere and find adventure. But, it’s also good to come back to Nebraska too, with all that potential stretching along those gravel roads. Roads that roll by graves and grain bins, everything else, and nothing else too. Nothing to some, everything to someone else. 

I drive on those roads, and love them, contend with them, but I never really leave them, no matter where I go. I suppose I have breathed in so much dust from them, they are part of me now. A part I can’t escape. A part that escapes me. I get confused by them, so stern and stagnant they can also be. So, I hang with Fern awhile, my laptop, and my thoughts. I write. I do the housework. I keep thinking maybe I can still change the world for the better. I load the dishwasher. I make sure all the calendars are in order. I breathe. Fern watches my busy bodying around. I watch her perfectly content to be Fern. 

Yes, she’s something, Fern. My mom Lorraine had her own Fern too. Maybe that’s what draws me to the plant. It seems to have some sort of intellect, a touch of soul and style.

My mom’s Fern paired well with the New Yorker magazine covers she used to frame and put on the farmhouse wall. She liked to cover about every inch of the wall with something. I do too. Pictures of the kids, family, and friends who are like family. I even have mom’s old fancy, red, high-heeled shoe on a shelf next to one wall. I made a bouquet in it. I clipped an old earring on the end. I like decorating. It takes me somewhere else, when I need to go adventuring but can’t. 

Things adorning my home may not seem valuable to some, but they are to me. They hold memories and stories. Those stories are more precious than gold. Fern agrees. She fits well into my eclectic style. She’s eclectic too. She’s Fern. 

Fern and I, we also talk. I help her grow. She helps me grow too. We look out the east window together. We are always searching for something. She reaches out with her tender, lacy, green leaves. I reach out with my open mind, tender heart, imagination, imperfections, and stubborn will. I get her. She gets me. Those who have a Fern of their own understand. 

We’re quite the pair, Fern and me. We’re living a thousand lives on these unpaved roads. We’re doing what we can, but it never seems like enough. We’re also pounding the paved streets time and again too. 

Awe Fern. She came home with me at the last leg of her life. I have had days like that too, last leg days. But there was hope for her and I must believe there’s hope for me too. 

Maybe you feel like Fern did back when she was all dried-up leaves with just a touch of green. I feel like that too sometimes. But remember how winter looks on trees, pretty empty. Still, that emptiness is just potential frozen in time. You’re just taking a break maybe, like those frigid limbs. Too much luscious, green growth can make branches break too you know?

Here’s to Fern. Here’s to you. Tis’ the season of stress, joy, depression, celebration, grief, gratitude, and whatever else. 

Be like Fern, even if it’s just inside yourself in a crowded room that doesn’t always get you: remember, you get you. That’s why Fern says, “Be you beautiful. Be, totally, you.”

Copyright© 2024 All Rights Reserved, Kerry Hoffschneider