No, Thank YOU!

In case it has not been overly apparent, Ryan likes food. He will eat just about anything. The only aversion I have noticed is to PB&J sandwiches. He will actually take the pieces of bread apart and eat only the jelly half.

I have been trying to teach him how to ask for food by using the name of the food. This is rather difficult, since he knows only a few of the names (including apple and banana). Most other requests are made with a (non-subtle) pointed finger via the wildly waving arm and a loud "mmmmm".

So, we are working on it.

There have been days where he remembers how to say "please" and will actually say it when prompted. There are other days when he just looks at me like I am crazy to ask him to say such a difficult word.

Today, he started out saying "apple", and when prompted actually said please. When I put it on his plate, he said "day-do" (small man's equivalent for "Thank you".) This was so cute. I encouraged it greatly and now he says "Day-do" whenever he gets something.

Except for that by the end of the day, he no longer said apple or please. He would simply point to something and say "day-do". As if it was already a given that he was going to receive the apple/cookie/sharp-pointy object. If that subtle command did not work, it turned into a more insistent, arm-waving "DAY-DO!!" I don't really know if I like this turn of events.

In other news, we had a HI of 68 degrees today. I wore jeans and a sweatshirt (I took from Tifani) all day. Ryan is in his footie pajamas for bed. Each day it feels more and more like fall is near...

Also, we have watermelon, muskmelon, cantaloupe, squash, and pumpkins. Lots. After picking a few unripe melons we finally got the one pictured above. It was as good as it looks. Yum!

Mmmm SO Good!

Ryan likes tomatoes.

The first time Ryan tasted a tomato, he made a face likened to the one his father makes upon tasting one. Pure distaste at it's best.

But I persisted. Each time we were near the cherry tomato plant outside I would eat one and let out loud exclamations of enjoyment "MMMM SO good!" Then I would offer one to him. Finally, one day, he again sampled a tomato. At first, he made that face of disgust, but then it turned into interest. Like the lightbulb suddenly went on and he realized that it might actually taste decent. Good, even.

And upon making this discovery, he started to hunt tomatoes for himself. Looking around the plant he found another small, round piece of fruit. It was green, and he threw it in his mouth before I could stop him. Even this did not daunt him from enjoying the tomatoes. We had a lesson on the difference between red and green - and I watched as he picked off all of the red tomatoes and popped them into his mouth. When they were gone, instead of walking away, he pointed his little finger at a green tomato and let out a loud sigh...and then exclaimed "RED!" and picked it.

Since that first day, everytime we go outside he runs over to the tomato plant. Shortly after, he will walk toward us, seeds dripping from his chin, his arm outstretched and a green or red tomato in hand wanting to share his bounty.

It tickles me because Phil's least favorite food is the tomato. He will eat the sauce or the salsa but a fresh tomato might as well be rotten if you were to decipher his look of disgust. But when Ryan offers a tomato, he knows that as a dad, he must take, eat, and pretend to enjoy if he wants to have a son who is not picky.

This is an enjoyable turn of events for me, as when we first started dating I was the one with the food phobias. My favorite meal was spaghetti with butter and cheese, and peas on the side. I just couldn't understand why he didn't want to eat that all the time. He started expanding my tastes. I found out that most vegetables are really pretty good, and that it's ok to use spices. He has a stomach of steel and can eat just about anything with a straight face and an open mind. (To illustrate my point further, one time at a mexican restaurant he actually ordered SOUP. Turns out, the soup was a nice broth with some vegetables and cow stomach. Or brain. We weren't sure. And he actually ate it.)

So, now here we are, and he is the squeamish one. Don't get me wrong, I still have a list of many "no-no's" when it comes to food, but my list is expanding. It has gotten to the point where my family really believes an imposter may have taken my place. A broccoli loving imposter. And while my husband enjoys my newfound tastebuds (it makes his own dining a bit more tasty) he has still not been able to move past this dlislike. And it's important to him, because he is a firm believer that when a kid sees you turn up your nose at food, they, too, will start to dislike foods. So, he takes the tomato from Ryan, says "Thank you, Ryan!" and pops it in his mouth. What a good dad!

Onions

Growing up my grandparents lived four hours away. My sister and I always looked forward to the visits to their house. Our favorite part upon arrival was to jump out of the car, say hello to their big, fuzzy cat, and just as our parents were visiting about the long drive or how carsick my sister got on the way, we would sneak onto the lawn. And then, four or five steps out on the squishy grass, we would let out squeals of laughter and run toward the back of the yard. We would squeal with delight not because we had never seen grass before, but because it drove my grandfather crazy. He would chase us off his lawn (goodnaturedly, of course, but we always knew we were hitting a nerve) because he didn't want us "squishing it down and ruining it". This was so unlike home, where we were allowed to run and play and make forts on the grass. At home, we could put a tent up and camp out. But not at grandpa's.

It wasn't because he didn't like his grandkids, (truth be told, I think he liked us better than he liked most people) but it was because he took such pride in caring for his garden and his lawn. After his morning coffee each day, I remember him lacing up boots and heading outside. If the sky was dry, he was out there - picking fresh green beans or watering or weeding. My grandma's kitchen always served up something "just picked". I remember thinking that the garden was gigantic.

When my grandma passed away, grandpa moved closer to us. He so missed his gardening that he claimed a patch at my parent's house. I remember so many days coming home from school to see grandpa's big red truck parked alongside the driveway. He was outside, watering, weeding, growing.

I saw this picture a few years back of he and my grandma surrounded by a harvest of onions at that old house. The onions covered the porch - there must have been hundreds. They were beautiful and I remember being in awe of someone who could grow so many onions and have them turn out so perfectly. I remember thinking how well that picture described my grandfather's love for his garden. He would braid those onions and they would keep in the basement for the entire year, used up as my grandmother saw fit.

Today after harvesting my own crop of onions - my first crop of onions - I realized just how much I would have loved to sit down with grandpa and exclaim wth pride that I had actually GROWN onions. I would lament about how the white ones just didn't stand up to the bugs or the moisture like the red and yellow ones did. I would love to see that big grin on his face as he explained how "yeah, you just have to weed those ones really well" or some other green thumb advice. And when I cut into those onions the smell reminds me of my grandma's cooking- of warm and homey meals around the table. I was always young during those visits, and I don't remember much other than that I was still squirmy enough to be told firmly to "not get up until everyone is finished." Funny how those scents can be so comforting so many years later.

While my harvest paled in comparison to the bounty my grandpa got, I couldn't help but smile as I lined them up on my own front porch. I know that as he planted and grew his garden each year he never really guessed that he was creating memories or instilling values into small girls who ran on and squished his lawn. I suppose that he just went about doing what he loved -just like most of us do.

Yes, again.

Last week I got the opportunity to visit Washington -it was wonderful to spend time with friends and family. And, I know that there are some people who wish we would move back sooner than later. However, I do think it's a bit TOO cooincidental that the events of the past few days could have happened as they did. So, Michael...Tycen...Dad...I am ready for a confession whenever you are ready to fess up to the sabotage.

That aside, I can explain what happened in some detail. Tuesday morning I was starting to do dishes at 8:30am. As I filled the sink with hot water, I noticed Phil head up the stairs. The water started to slow a bit, and I figured he was probably taking a shower. But then he came back down the stairs. And the water stopped. I asked if he did something with the water, and he replied nonchalantly "No, why?"

It was at precisely this moment when a small inkling of fear began to creep in. Something might be wrong. I knew enough about water that it was somewhat hard to damage the supply without tampering with some pipes. Or something. Having been back only a few days, I was still working on re-acclimating myself into our "unfinished" lifestyle (the nice way of saying that we are still "under construction").

I have learned to be patient with this old house. Things happen, you know, when you are 80 years old. You have creaks and strains in places a youngster of say, 5, would not have. But water? We have been through this before. We have replaced pipes, installed a new water heater and a new filter. The water portion was not supposed to go "wrong" again!

So, we had to do some research. Phil headed down the stairs only to find there was no water pressure coming in to the house. Not really a good sign. This could mean a number of things- very few of which are inexpensive or quick to remedy.

We uncovered the hole outside that holds the pressure tank for the well, as well as the pipes heading toward the house. It was a mess of wires and old plumbing (there's a good reason we had avoided this area so far). Phil tried to plug the light in so he could look down, but it wouldn't work. That turned out to be a really great sign, because it meant that the fuses were probably just blown. I got really excited about this prospect - because fuses were really easy to buy, and really easy to install. We would have water back in no time! Phil was not so excited about this news, because, as he informed me, fuses blow for a reason.

I quickly made the hour-long jaunt to the store and bought a two-pack of fuses. Upon my return, Phil found out what made it trip in the first place: something had chewed through, or worn through, the wire giving power to the well pump. Being the savvy guy my husband is, he made quick work of replacing the wire (putting it in conduit this time!)

"Great!" I thought once again- my water will be back as soon as we put those fuses in.

But, any old home owner or remodeler will tell you that this is foolish talk. To fix a problem like this that quickly is against the rules. There must be more hiccups. And true to Murphy's law, there was. While we were testing out the new power source, we noticed a leak out of the side of one of the pipes. Being cast iron piping, it should have been relatively easy to unscrew and replace the ruined part. So, we again went to the store, and picked up the pipe. When we got home, however, we discovered that no amount of tugging, pushing, pulling, yelling, or crying was going to get these pipes apart. They were fused forever.

And hence came decision time. Although I can't really call it that because we didn't have much of a choice. The whole shebang was going to have to be replaced. This consisted of about 30 pieces (joints, elbows, couplings, valves...etc) that had to be puzzled together just-so. So Phil took out a flashlight, and sat down to sketch out his version of what was going on with the pipes - and what would need to be bought in order to replace it all.

By the time we got into the car, the sun was setting low in the sky, and my trusty remodeler's gut told me we weren't going to have water before bed. So, we picked up some food and a few gallons of drinking water, bought many many parts, and headed back.

Yesterday morning we got an early start - with the day fresh we were ready to tackle the plumbing with new vigor. Phil spent a few hours assembling parts. Excited and ready for running water again, I figured it would be up and running within 20 minutes or so. Oh how I can be so optimistic, even given my background!

We were missing an elbow. It wasn't going to work without that elbow. Trying to be helpful, I started pointing out different pieces and asking "could you switch that one?" or "does THAT piece REALLY need the elbow? It seems excessive..." Nonetheless, I was off to the store once more. To save you the suspense, it was only twice more that we ended up needing small pieces. There is something decidedly unsatisfying about driving an hour to pick up a three inch piece of pipe.

While I was away on my errands, Phil decided he couldn't get a good enough view in the small hole provided from the cement top, so he used a sledgehammer to break apart the cover that was already starting to crumble in a few corners. When that was finished, because he couldn't get any of the plumbing apart, he ended up pulling the entire contraption from the underground connecting pipes, and hauling them out of the hole, along with the pressure tank. Further inspection of the cut pipes revealed a lot of rust and wear. Let's just say that I am glad to have all new fittings for my water.

When the last piece finally fit and Phil reattached the wiring once again, he shot a glance up at me "You know, this is only our first try..." he began, "I just mean, if this doesn't work or if there is a leak or something, I don't want you to freak out."

Freak out? Me? Over no water for two days and one night and dishes and laundry piling up as we spoke? I just smiled, and held my breath, and crossed my fingers.

We flipped on the power, and heard the rushing water coming from the well. That was a good sign. The pressure gauge showed that we were indeed in business. At this point, we noticed a small leak. "Easy fix" Phil said. I had heard that one before, so since we had to drain the pipes somewhere, I ran inside to fill up sinks and the bathtub (hey, I've learned that if there is ever a moment of running water during one of these projects, you have to take it and run...it might not be there in a minute!) But, thankfully, this one was a quick fix- just a tightening of a pipe. Phew.

Now, really, the sudden lack of running water (more than once) is getting old. But the great thing is that I am learning a lot about plumbing: the differences between cast and copper, the jointing methods used in each, what a pressure regulator does...why it's important to have wires put inside conduit when they are running near water, and other valuable lessons every housewife should know.

So, here we are 16 hours later, and there have been no more hiccups with the water. We smell nicer and have dishes to eat off of, and clothes to wear. Since it turned out to be a 15 hour project (not including sleep in between) instead of the initial 1 hour project I had dreamed of, I figure we have probably hit the end of this one.

Two things I have learned from this:
First, if you are going to buy an old house, it helps tremendously to have an electrician, plumber, carpenter, and general handyman around (thanks Phil). Also, realize that this is the story from my point of view, where the biggest obstacles came from having to run multiple "errands" and do without a bit of running water. I was not climbing in claustrophobic holes or wrenching apart pipes. Really, I had it pretty easy.
And second, be thankful for the small things- as soon as I began to get pretty discouraged by all of this (oh, say around hour 5 or so) our neighbor Mike called to "check in on how the plumbing was going". He put it simply "Look at it this way," he said, "it could have happened in January."

It's in the Air

Yesterday we saw the first flock of geese flying south for the winter. The sprawling V formation was forshadowing of what I know in my bones to be true: fall is coming!

This type of anticipation is new for me. Sure, like most other people, I have always looked forward to the "holidays". There was always a sense of excitement each year when that first evening came - you know, the one where you stepped outside and you could swear it smelled like it was going to snow. Even though it was October. Or the feeling you would get when walking past a Christmas ornament display, or hear the first carol of the year on the radio. Each piece of the puzzle made you long for that time - for Christmas cookies and snowmen. For a bright tree and rows of houses decked in lights. I have always looked forward to winter- for the warmth of the holidays. But the others have been mostly "filler" time; the rest of life that has to happen between each Christmas season. I don't really know what started that, and it's not that I don't enjoy the rest of the year. It may just be I have been to busy to pay close attention.

But this year has been different. After such a long, cold winter I was so excited when spring came. To hear little chicks in the nests outside and see the plants and trees come back to life. To watch those fields (and farmers) wake up from their winter slumber. To go outside without three layers of clothes on! And summer, as well, was ushered in with anticipation. I was ready for long, hot days filled with watermelon and lemonade. For picnics and parades. To harvest the garden sewn.

And now, I eagerly await fall. I am ready for the days to get a bit cooler- and a bit shorter. I imagine hot apple cider from the stove and warm soup for lunch. I am ready for pumpkin pie and nights reading next to the warmth of the fire. I am ready to put the garden to bed until next year. To have my canning shelves full and the harvest inside.

So, the geese are flying south. And hey, I know it's still August. And I know that it was still 81 degrees outside today and the wood in the house is still swollen with the humid air. I know I still have the fans running all day...and all night. And I know that the sky is still bright blue without a cloud. Until 9pm. But I feel it- fall is coming. And I can't wait!

Summer Showers

It has been a dry summer.

Oh, they often claim to see "scattered showers and thunderstorms" rolling through- it is the normal forecast, along with "mostly sunny." We hear it so often, and yet see so few of those scattered showers, we now simply glance over the forecast. It's like in Washington, you just expect that most days it might rain. Or be overcast. This summer, you could just expect you would need your watering hose- it was going to be painfully dry today.

So when we heard the same forecast one night two weeks ago, we went to bed, not thinking anything of it. Until 4am, when we were awakened by a "CRRRACK!"

I awakened to a startling peal of thunder that sounded like it was right outside the window. Rain was pouring down outside -the gutters, too full to handle the onslaught, overflowed and water poured from every direction.

Lightning back here is incredible. When we first moved to Iowa, we would get so excited about a storm, watching it move in over the countryside. Far off in the distance we could see lightning that we could not yet hear, and watch the bolts shoot down or sideways through the clouds. I have always loved storms growing up, and these have just been supersized versions of those I expierenced in my youth.

There are storms you watch from the front room, where the windows cover two walls and you can see far across the landscape. But this was not one of those storms. Not at 4am when it was pounding on our roof and ripping through our sky. This was the kind of storm where you sit in an interior room, positive that if you get any closer to the window one of the thousands of lightning bolts will just shoot right in for lack of other places to go.

Our power went out before we woke up, and with such a racket going on outside, we had no way of going back to sleep. Though I could be confident we had no real emergency (tornado, etc), there is just something frightening about lightning hitting your front yard. It's just too close for comfort. Each time I would lull myself to sleep, reminding myself how safe I was in our brick home, I would hear another loud "CRACK". It just wasn't going to happen.

Though we had no flashlight, we were able to easily maneuver down the stairs using the constant strobe-light effect of the lightning outside. It's hard to even believe - but for two hours we sat, feeling as if we were in the middle of a carnival ride where the strobe lights flash on, and then pause for a split second, and then flash again to taunt the young riders.

When morning broke through, the we went outside, breathing in the wonderful freshness rain brings. We called the power company, who eventually found that we had blown a transformer. (Thankfully, we were able to get power back around noon, after they tracked down a new one.) As I watched the day begin to brighten, it struck me how tender and innocent the line of storms looks. Fluffy white clouds nestled along the bottom of a deep blue sky - letting on nothing of the fury raging within.

"Scattered showers and thunderstorms" seemed to be just a bit too mundane to describe this one. Of course, Ryan slept through it all.

The Jones's or the Waltons?

Lest we believe that life might slow down, or get a bit more mundane – Garden, Cleaning, Housework, Kid, etc. – we must remember that our lives need a bit of spice. Thankfully, we don’t have to go far to find it. Just about six hours.

Monday the sale became final and we said goodbye to our old “new” truck. That same day, we headed to Illinois (yes, Illinois) to pick up our new “old” truck.


We had decided to sell our truck oh, about a year ago. We drug our feet on the ordeal- too much work, there were a million trucks for sale already, we didn’t have a replacement, etc. Plenty of excuses to wait and continue to pay our loan company the high rate of interest. Finally, one day, I became tired of waiting and looking at the truck as a big item on my “to do” list and posted it on Craigslist. Being that Craigslist is not a well-visited site back here, I thought we would have no takers. Within two days, we had been contacted by a potential buyer, and had to make the hard decision to actually sell the truck.

Now the hard part came- we needed a truck…but what kind? How new, how old, where from? Phil fell in love (ok, had been in love for awhile) with trucks from the 1950’s. I, however, was drawn to trucks with say, heating, air conditioning, and seat belts. We ended up deciding on going with an older truck if we could find one in our price range- because, among other reasons, it gains, rather than loses value, has a wonderful flatbed for delivering furniture and picking up wood, and is a great advertising tool. (Besides, it gets us just one step closer to becoming the Waltons) We began searching for a truck that would fit, and to our delight found one in Illinois – only a six hour drive – a mere day trip away.

So, Monday morning, we drove our old new truck down to Des Moines, said goodbye (sniff), and headed out to a small town outside of Chicago. We were rushed – already behind schedule – and didn’t get our morning Starbucks, even though we were less than three blocks from the wonderful pick-me-up. We drove straight through, and only about half way through did we discuss how this could be a fun trip if we would just relax and allow it to be.

We finally picked up the truck- for the price we had planned on spending. We felt good about it, and then started the trek home. It was about 5 in the afternoon, but we figured we would still make it back by about midnight. Perfect, as there was so much work to be done at home.

About 20 minutes into our drive, we stopped to get gas. After filling up, the truck refused to start. We exchanged a nervous glance. Phil got back in the truck, and was a bit more persistent with the starter. It gave in, and we were back on the road. Tentatively maneuvering out of the “big town” and waiting for the slow pace of the two-laned country roads. We still had a long way to go.

We decided to pull off and take a dinner break at about 7:30. We had been driving awhile, and thought that we all could use a break (including the truck). The light was turning red as we drove up the off ramp. When it was time to go again, we all waited. And waited. The truck was not moving. Following behind him in my little car, I used the walkie-talkies we had brought along to ask what was going on. It had died.

After the second light and more persistent attempts to start the Chevy, a nice man helped us push it off to the side of the road. Phil called the man who had sold it to us to see if he had “any ideas” as to what might be going wrong. He was told that the carburetor was probably too hot, and the fan belt might be slipping (we knew it was the wrong size to begin with, but we didn’t exactly expect trouble from it this soon). He suggested we let it cool down, and then go a bit slower.

Ok, we were willing to give it a shot. It was, in fact, a very old truck, and a very hot day. After writing a note promising to return in 30 minutes, we all piled into my car, and we continued down to find a restaurant. Two blocks in, I hear “Pshhhhh”. I look at Phil – “What was that??” He looks puzzled, and we decide to check it out when we get to the restaurant. But we didn’t get that far. My car begins to make the “thump thump thump” sound that could only mean something was wrong- and we needed to stop right away.

We pulled over into a “Firestone Tire” parking lot. The business was already closed, but if it had been open, they might have been able to help me with my ever-so-flat front tire.

So, here we were, with two vehicles a mile apart, broken down, in the middle of a city in Illinois. We just had to laugh over the whole thing. What were the odds?

As we begin to hike up the hill past bars and gentleman’s clubs, we began to get a bit concerned- it was evening, and there was not a whole lot of light left in the day

To our relief, within a few blocks we found an auto parts store, and bought some fix-a-flat. We explained our situation to the clerk- who ended up even looking up hotel phone numbers and recommending a nice place to stay (without hourly rates) for the night.

We walked back to the car, but the hole was too big for the fix-a-flat to actually stay in the tire and do its job. We could drive on it, but it left little white spots where the goop was leaking out. It did, however, give us enough “tire” to get back to the auto parts store before it closed. We hurried in, and decided on buying 8 more cans. Two to get us to the truck to see if we could get it running, two more to get to a hotel, two for the morning so we could get to a tire store, and two extra, just in case.

Phil walked confidently up to the counter to this same clerk- Chris. Chris looked at Phil a bit warily, then at the cans, and then back at Phil. He shook his head and smiled “I could sell you those, but I wouldn’t be a very good guy.” Chris informed Phil that he was going to sell him a patch, and since we had no way of pumping up the tire, he was going to use a display model so we didn’t have to buy that. This man took an hour of his time knelt down next to our car, patching our flat tire, just to be nice

When we went back to the truck, we were able to start it just fine. However, it was late, and dark. We had recollections of the trip OVER to Illinois (corn, beans, corn, tiny town, corn) and were a bit concerned that we might not have the access to mechanics we might need on the return trip if anything else were to go wrong. We decided to call it a night, and landed a hotel room. The next morning we were able to get a new tire, and though they did not have time to fix the truck, the nice man called around to find a mechanic who had time, and that could be trusted.

We could tell that this mechanic, John, had been working on cars and trucks for some time. It was obvious that it had been awhile since anyone had cleaned or dusted - although the tool organization was impeccable. The office area was total utilitarian – a Costco-sized container of red pepper flakes sat next to the microwave. The couch was probably from 1972, and had the distinct feel of having gone through a couple of “bachelor houses” before it landed here, for customers. There must have been 20 phone books stacked in piles, in and among delivery packages, invoices, car manuals dated to 1981, and the outdated computer. His shop had the distinct lack of attention that came from his passion for his “real job”.

Unlike any other mechanic I have been to, John invited Phil to watch everything he did. He walked through the truck- noting the things he saw, explaining how things worked. He hooked up machines to the truck, tested the engine. He highly recommended a new fan belt, because it not only runs the fan, but also the water pump. The fact that it was skinny (something we thought less-significant) was actually the source of our entire overheating problem. Other than that, he was confident that the engine sounded and looked good. But, the belt would take another day to order, which meant another night in a hotel.

Up until this point, we thought this town was pretty small (and a bit seedy)- maybe the size of Marysville, a medium-sized town with a couple of hotels, maybe a restaurant. We asked for some more recommendations on places to eat, sleep, etc. And he just kind of looked at us, and said, “Drive east a bit, you should be able to find something.” So, we left the truck with him, and hopped in the car. At 2 pm, we were set on staying for the night, and decided to just enjoy our mini-vacation. The small town of Rockford turned out to be very large. There must have been 13 hotels to choose from, many, many dining options (including Red Robin, which we had not had in a long time!) a Borders and a Barne’s N Noble. We were thrilled to find the “good” side of the tracks.

The next morning, we hopped in the car, picked up the truck – new belt installed- and started the drive home. We took a smaller road home than on the way there, which turned out to be very scenic. The truck drove beautifully the rest of the way, as did the car

There is an amazing sense of relief that comes when you drive up to your home, which had previously been the source of much stress and worry (garden, projects, etc) just to be thankful that you are even there. That you aren’t stuck in the middle of Illinois, with no working vehicle and only your feet to take you places. It’s wonderful to meet unassuming people along the way who make your stay a bit more pleasant- and help you get from point B back to point A.

But seriously, a horse probably would have been easier.