I like sitting. Or, at least, I like the idea of it. While I’m pretty oblivious to most aspirational magazines and catalogs that I stumble across, I do find myself drawn to flip through the pages of anything featuring home furnishings. I have no desire for a new couch, better dinnerware, a patio dining set or a new kitchen table. But I’ll stare at such images at length — the ones with the Adirondack chair on a manicured lawn or a lakeside edge, positioned to capture a view of the sunset; the cozy living room free of dust, puzzle pieces, cobwebs, dirty socks or shreds of paper and yarn from abandoned craft projects; the uncluttered, un-sticky, crumb-free kitchen table bathed in a pool of morning light, ornamented by a bowl of fresh fruit and devoid of a resident swarm of fruit flies; or the freshly set dining table with dishes washed by someone else, ready to welcome guests and a delicious meal cooked by an invisible hand; or my favorite at this time of year, the lovely stoop decorated with the welcoming site of flowering mums and a bright orange pumpkin. I gaze at these images and fantasize about sitting quietly and watching the sunlight fade; about welcoming friends amidst purple mums and orange pumpkins and laughing together over a nice meal; or enjoying an intimate moment, a glass of wine and a few funny stories about the day with Bob. It’s all a bit like porn for radical homemakers.

 

These days, when Bob and I sit together, it feels more like a business meeting. “What time do we start processing chickens?” “Can I have the car today so I can take the kids to XXX?” “Will you be going to town anytime soon?” “What beef is left in stock?” “Can you take these things to the mailbox?” If these agenda items are satisfied and we can turn our heads to gaze at the front field and take in a sunrise or sunset, the conversation shifts to “Geez, I gotta mow that field;” “These dogs need to get flea combed again tonight;” “I’m just gonna go throw in a load of laundry and I’ll be right back;” or “I can only sit for 10 minutes, because I need to get to bed early.” And forget about visiting with friends. We haven’t invited anyone over in ages, as we just can’t find the time to make the house presentable enough to welcome anyone.

 

And then, last Saturday, as we were packing up at the end of our farmers’ market, two young strangers appeared at our booth. I recognized them as having visited the market once before, and we entered into a brief conversation. Jaime is 31, Emma is 25. They’ve self-published a coloring cookbook featuring local foods for kids. They have been living on the economic fringe in New Jersey. They were up in the Catskills for a little weekend getaway. They were supposed to be staying for free in a second home owned by a friend, but when they arrived at 2 am Saturday morning, they discovered the house had been rented out at the last minute to weekend guests. So Jaime and Emma were sleeping in their car. And they were really okay with it. Their youthful imaginations were waxing poetic about the beautiful and adventurous spontaneity that was erupting out of a simple inconvenience — the lovely sight of the stars they were taking in from gazing up through their windshield, the kind people they had met who had let them park in their driveway and use their bathroom.

 

It all sounded like hell to me, especially in light of the big rainstorm that was supposed to be rolling in later that night. I felt sorry for them. They clearly weren’t feeling sorry for themselves, but at this stage in my life, while I can live with fruit flies and cobwebs, I’m getting too old and set in my ways to go without a bed, a bathroom and a good hot meal.

 

Bob and I looked at each other, and had one of those silent conversations that long-married couples so fluently execute. Telepathically, we assessed the state of our home. It just so happened that I’d mowed the lawn a few days ago, but our suitcases from our recent trip were still sitting in the middle of the living room floor. We had a pretty big chicken already in the oven, but the bathroom was in desperate need of wiping down, and the rest of the house was strewn with toys and kid clothes. We were exhausted from a long week, and we had really just wanted a quiet night at home…

 

But sometimes, hospitality must be a command performance. If we were in a similar situation, we would want someone to come forward to care for us. We offered them our spare room for the night.

 

“Can you give us until 6 to have dinner on the table?” I asked them.

 

We rushed home from the market, stopping at a nearby farm stand to pick up some extra vegetables and a few of those potted mums that I’d been pining for. The girls ran out to the garden to grab some pumpkins and grapes, Bob put the market inventory away, and I put some extra squash in the oven. Together the four of us made a mad dash to unpack our suitcases, clean up the bathroom, pile dirty clothes in the laundry pile, take out the compost, wipe down the table and counters and make up all the beds. It was a pretty good performance for 90 minutes’ lead time. We even got a pumpkin and a pot of mums out on the stoop.

 

Jaime and Emma joined us for dinner shortly after 6pm. They brought us some pears they had found on someone’s lawn who wasn’t home. We scrounged up some wine, then sat down and watched the storm clouds roll in on the fringe of the spectacular blue sky that was showing off the sunset. We asked them to sing for their supper by telling us the life story that eventually led to them sleeping in a car in the Catskills. Saoirse and Ula retreated to their respective craft tables to draw pictures and mold beeswax sculptures as gifts for our guests. Meanwhile, We were regaled with tales of their adventures living with vegetarians on a commune (where Jaime took to eating bugs, and discovered that stink bugs taste like cilantro), with stories about their travels, past marriages, future dreams, deepest beliefs and prayers.

 

And Bob and I sat and listened. And laughed. And sat some more. And we stopped thinking about the next day’s schedule, the laundry pile, about mowing the front field. We feasted on a simple meal, followed up with our dessert of foraged fruit, complete with stink bugs from the garden (which Jaime ate for our amusement), and even a few crawling snails (which he declined).

 

There was still dog hair and dust, cobwebs and a few fruit flies. But that Saturday night, there was rest and pleasure, too, far more lovely and far more welcome than anything that could be offered up in a home furnishings catalog. And this morning, as I think about that young couple and wish them every success on their way in this world, I would like to pat myself on the back for offering them hospitality. But the truth is, I didn’t offer it. They brought it to my home for one evening, helping my own family to experience the warmth and generosity that we too often forget to provide for ourselves.

 

This essay was written by Shannon Hayes, whose blog, RadicalHomemakers.com, is supported by the sale of her books, farm products and handcrafts. If you like the writing and want to support this type of creative work, please consider visiting the blog’s farm and book store.

Feel free to click on any of the links below to learn about Shannon’s other book titles: