Miracles

October 1, 2009
"Mom, look! I got them for you!" He runs over to me, breathless, nose and cheeks flushed with the chill of a crisp fall evening. In his hand he grasps his prize and holds them out, a smile spreading across his face in anticipation of my reaction.
"Miracles. I picked them for you!"
And I smile at the irony- yes, "miracles" little guy- them and you...gifts in season. And of course, though I should correct his mispronunciation, I don't. (I am allowed some liberty as mom here, and if that liberty allows me some beautiful irony in life, then well, I'll take it most any day.) I take the bunch of marigolds from his hand and inhale deeply, that scent transporting me to days of youth and my grandfather and his garden. I treasure it up, this last bit of summer, knowing that soon it will die away, giving the ground rest until the next growing season.
Do I linger here enough, grasping to those last pieces of summer? In this present moment, do I enjoy that warm breeze, that handful of marigolds, that garden-fresh crisp green bean? Or even more, those gifts that will not return again next growing season...like the rosy-cheeked boy who sweetly miss-names marigolds and sees them as a prize. He will grow and stretch out of this 4-year-old body and transform into a young man. There are moments I am positive if I blink I might miss it. Like that last bit of summer, I must always remember to enjoy, delight, cherish each moment...for this too shall pass.


(above: Ryan helping around the farm last fall. )
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There has been a lot of life happening around here these past few months. I plan on sharing some over the next few days...
I wrote the above post this past October before I took my very long hiatus, and tucked it away in the "drafts" section.
It became meaningful to me months later, after I had forgotten the whole thing...Time passed and we found out we are expecting our third baby (a girl!). We have been talking for some time with the boys about their new sister.
Ryan came downstairs one morning in January (three months after I wrote the above post) and told me that he had a dream about what we should name his new baby sister. "Miracle, mom. We need to name her Miracle." And of course I thought it was awfully cute...until I found this post and remembered my reaction to his late-summer gift.
Miracle does seem to fit after-all, doesn't it?
And yet another reminder to me of why I should be writing these bits of life down...

Reasoning

Ryan: Are you ready to go Dave?
David: (sipping happily on his juice, swinging his legs) Nope.
Ryan: But Dave. We're going to the park. If you don't want to come we are just going to leave you. Do you want to go to the park, Dave?
Me: Ryan, we aren't going to leave your brother here.
Ryan: (still determined but relinquishes the threat) Do you want to go to the park David?
David: Yes!
Ryan: (with the distinct air of older-brotherly pride) That's my little guy!

Planting and Postcards

I can even see her face as I remember back to April.
“Let’s do it. Where are they?” She was determined this year. Undeterred by the chill of the air or the daunting nature of the task, she headed out to the garden with a purposeful stride. It was planting season and she was here again. Last year she was here too, with a spade, turning under sod by hand. This year, with that same spade, we easily turned over last year’s garden, thawed from winter and ready for another season.
“I want to come when you are planting your garden,” she had said by phone in early March. “When is that?” And I reassured her that we would be fine- that I could handle planting a garden by myself, and she again insisted “It makes the most sense. Besides, I like to work in the garden.”
Oh, that sister of mine. Through the years, when I was afraid to get my hands dirty, leery of the creepy-crawlies lurking behind this leaf or that, she dug and planted and harvested and found satisfaction there.
Years later, on an Iowan farm in the middle of nowhere, in the peace of an early-spring afternoon, she and I soaked in quiet while three small kids slept indoors.
She pushed each onion set gingerly into the earth, stringing underground pearls one by one. “Like this? Am I spacing them too closely together?”
“Oh, that’s hard to do,” I reassured her. And bit by bit we dug knees and muddy fingers into cool dirt and planted barren garden into hope of something more. And as we finished each row we measured with a stick to keep them straight. There was always much discussion on which stick in particular had been used to measure the last row (for the sake of consistency) and we both take it seriously\, as if the perfect planting of onion rows mattered beyond tomorrow. We hunched back down and planted, methodically, letting conversation steer us far from this piece of earth and into other times, other places.

And now, in the cool of a September morning, I go out and dig buried treasure; harvesting the bounty from what we started that day. The onions are plump and ready for drying and braiding and hanging out. The garden will once again be barren, the onions, eaten and enjoyed, and all that will remain is the wisp of time spent stitching those memories into hearts on that quiet afternoon in spring.

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It always amazes me that people will come and get dirty right next to me- painting walls or planting gardens or feeding sheep-the mess of daily life is something we often work hard to avoid. And yet time and again they come. And time and again, shoulder to shoulder, we work. And while so much of contemporary life allows us to be disconnected and individual, the yoke of work such as this asks us to pull on each other, to yoke up and walk in the same direction, to keep pace.

And in the moment we think we are planting a garden or tearing off a roof or canning tomatoes. But that dust soon settles and I realize that the work itself was nothing more than the tool used to stitch something lasting out of the temporary, fleeting everyday.

We pull them out and dust them off like cherished postcards from long ago, those memories made during the ordinary tasks of daily life.

How to Reap a Harvest

I pull down green beans by the handful this morning in quiet dew-dampened garden. That bucket fills and fills and thanks overflows.

Why is it so hard for me to remember the harvest when planting time comes?

Come early spring, I can pile those packets on the table, tear them open and hold dried beans in hand, only to see work, futility, toil, and the everlasting wait...instead of purpose, opportunity, and invitation. Why do I forget that tiny seed, when tucked into earth and cared for, tended to, will soon reap bounty? That summer is but a blink and before long, buckets will overflow and canner- weights will rock and shelves will fill and tables will be set...bodies nourished?

Is it because during harvest, it's easy to forget that it is a result of that first planting? Do I remember that initial leap of faith that pulled me from the artificial comfort of my climate-controlled house into the untamed out-of-doors? Do I remember, as I snap and seal into jars, that the overflowing harvest is a result of patience and diligence...plain hard work?

Harvest never comes without the planting, without the toil

So it is with beans. (So it is with brains. So it is with boys.)

Proper perspective is gained through remembering the whole process..and I realize I must be fully immersed in each step if I am going to be rightly hopeful as I sow those seeds. I must delight in the hope of planting, ache through the pulling of weeds, let the sun drench my back as I guide long vines onto trellises, and feel weary bones give way to rest as I soak in cool baths. I must always keep my eyes on the harvest to come.

It is possible to love each step- to give deep thanks with each bean plucked from the vine.

And it starts with answering that invitation written in postcards disguised as dried beans.

Come, dream, discover, be filled with joy and thanksgiving...Watch what the Lord can do with bit of dead, dried bean...He can bring life.

On Unplugging

Most of my blog posts are written alongside a clothesline.

Maybe it's the soft, sweet breeze,

Or the moments of solitude,

Or the deliberate, methodical act of placing of clothes and pins that refuses to be rushed that gives time and makes space for thoughts to blend and meld and make music worth sharing.

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My sister told me a few days back about this game on Facebook called "FarmTown". In this game you grow crops, harvest crops, earn money. Online.

I have not signed up (she and I laugh, I have my own crops to harvest). Although, it should be noted that I have yet to harvest potatoes after one day, nor have they ever brought me monetary gain. (So maybe I'm playing the wrong game?)

I hear about a game such as this and I can barely help but shake my head at how disconnected we become from real life. Not because anyone playing really thinks it takes a few hours to raise crops, but that it becomes more important than those things happening outside the screen.

And I shake my head, but in some ways, some days, I find myself guilty of just such misplaced affections. My relationships are buoyed not by heart to heart talks, but by sentence-long updates. My plans for being a better mom are delayed by the desire to read more ideas on being a better mom. The fountain of overflowing knowledge is delightful, and also quite distracting.

Delightful in that it creates community that I never knew could exist- kindred spirits hundreds of miles away. Delightful in that I have found inspiration and mentoring for those roles in which I long to excel. Some of those ideas are, well, amazing. And of course, delightful in that it does pull me closer to those I love who are so far away.

And yet distracting in that it is never-ending. It pulls on my brain throughout the day; I long to be here, learning and gleaning, instead of out there- living and being.

And so my real life crops over-ripen in the fields and my kids feel second to this little box and I am off-kilter and know it.

So...because it's nearly fall, with visitors and harvest and a myriad of projects to complete before snow flies...

And because I have a list a mile long of things that I want to do and be (that involve real -life action)

I'm taking a vacation from the Internet...to spend more time out by the swing, and in the sprinkler, and in front of the sewing machine, and curled up with a laundry-basket of library books and two sun-weary, dirt-laden boys ready for adventure of another kind.

I long to make that clothesline-like space in more places in my life, allowing quiet so that thoughts can meld into things worth sharing.

Jess from Making Home decided to take a similar net-break earlier this summer, and for her reasoning, she mentioned that she desired to "neither overestimate the importance of online activities, nor underestimate the resources, wisdom, and camaraderie available here...Time away helps me to rightly value what's here, and rightly value what's NOT here."

May we always try and keep that perspective.

What would you do without the pull of media? What would that quiet space allow in your life- just for a week or two?

(And of course, though I will not have the Internet in my house for a few weeks, I will still check on emails at the library once a week or so...so if you comment, know that I will get it, it just might take me a few days to respond.)

And he turns two

He replies "YES!" excitedly and closes his tiny, chunky hand around two of my fingers. His grasp is firm, and he is ready for adventure. Of course, we both know that we are doing nothing more than feeding our sheep- the daily work of nourishment.

But when you are two, is not everything an adventure? (Isn't it too bad we lose that?)

We walk along in silence, hand in hand, and I wonder back to when the last time was that it was just he and I- not he, I, and big brother. What a different world this second one has- always in community. I marvel at how different our communication is- he with the excited one-word exclamations, me, with returned delight and awe, and then more silence.

A contrast from 4yo brother, who chatters along contentedly like a regular teenager, recounting the day that has been and the day yet to come (and the reason planes fly in the air and do they come in the day and the night like Hallie says they do? And did I know that the beans were now in the garden, also tomatoes? What should we name that cat?).

But today brother stayed inside- a rare experience for the little guy and I. Perhaps, on this birthday of his, a perfect moment. A moment to reflect on him, and the joy that he brings.

"Ooooh, wow!" he stoops down low, his entire body curled around his knees, and peers at a bee working on a bud of clover. I stay and look too, noticing new things yet again (don't we always when we slow?). For a moment, he is taken with the swing, swaying idly by and calling for us- "Wing! Wing!" He lets go of my hand and runs to it- old friends reuniting. I implore him "But Davey, we need to feed those sheep- they are hungry. Maybe another time." And he and friend part ways and he again clasps my hand.

We reach the barn and I lift down a bale of hay. He stands back, wide-eyed, looking for his chance. I untie it and he grabs a handful of dried grass and strides over to the door. He is still too short to see on the other side, to reach over with that hand, and so he stands on tip-toes and tries his best. I see him and lift him up to toss it over. He watches those "steeps" intently, eyes darting from one to another, checking, noting; farmer in training.

'Tis the work of my life as a mom: encourage, guide, correct, support. Today it looks like a trip out to the sheep barn, but it is a precursor- we are both practicing for those bigger walks, those larger lessons of life to come. Me, learning how to encourage, guide, correct and support, and he learning how to listen, learning what matters, learning how to persevere. A small dance that started back before that first birthday- foundations for something greater.

Chores done, we again match hands and start the long walk back to the house. This time when we pass the swing, he looks at me questioningly and I nod. And quietly, I push him and he flies back and forth with that wide smile that melts hearts and I take time to delight in this boy given to us two years ago today. We feel like bandits, not having to share "turns"- just he and I, I and he (and the swing, of course).

We run to the house and there is a piece of me that wonders if it's fair, this always having another around- always having brother and never just being one alone. It's not something I even consciously think, really, just a question lingering in the back of my heart.

When we hit that door, I hear the clomp clomp clomp of boots over kitchen floor and a squeal "RYYYYAN! STEEPS! WING!" And that smile of delight stretches across his face. His face is flushed and he is out of breath for all of the excitement. Ryan watches his brother closely and David again recounts our journey to his big brother, and I realize that most of the fun was coming back together with that brother of his. He's not really missing out at all- he's getting more- mom, dad, and big brother

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They say that after you have kids, it is hard to remember what life was like before them. I can remember a bit- I remember quiet, reading for hours, the freedom to come and go without carseats and sippy-cups and extra changes of clothes (or babysitters). I remember long nights of uninterrupted sleep. But then I remember two kids. It's as if they have always been here together. There is life before- and then life with kids. And I love the relationship I have with each of them, decidedly different and each delightful. And no, I can't imagine life without either one of them.

You see, I need that reminder that a trip out to feed sheep is an adventure.

Among many, many other lessons, they have taught me that slowing down brings more joy, more appreciation, more gratitude. And where there is gratitude, you can't help but feel abundantly blessed.

And sometimes, it's best to run full speed ahead, with wild abandon and without care or cause (they are boys, after all)

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Pictures: David getting boots on for chorin'; David 2 weeks old, and toy that Ryan thought he would like to play with placed carefully so he could "reach it"; David today, two years old and full of spunk.

Indoors and Out

Typed down this past April. Wiping off the dust, thought I would share...
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Having been myself, a child, content to be indoors
(climate controlled and comfortable was my favorite way to explore)

I could sell lemonade in a stand, and make a nice picnic outside
But the dirt? That could stay far away.

The garden and flowers could be tended by another
I would stay inside, if I had my druthers.

So it seems to me odd, a strange thing, for sure
To find myself with boys who can’t stay indoors
Before they even climb out of PJ’s
They are asking and pleading if today is the day
Could today be the one? Please mom, let it be
Could this be the day we are to be free?
Outside to roam to search and to climb
To seek ordinary treasures, to delight in the find?

They pull on chore boots to combat the mud
And a snap of coat buttons and off they run.
And I watch with delight as they go, one after the other
Small one working hard to keep up with that brother
They head out to discover, to play and delight
To hunt for robin’s nests, to see them take flight

How did this happen? Boys who love mud and bugs?
Kids who would choose grass any day over rugs?

That great yawning outdoors now draws me, too
With it’s warm sun for my back, it’s cool morning dew
It is true, that bright, crisp, clear day calls my name,
And that indoor-only girl? I hardly remember her name.

And now I get my grandpa’s love of the dirt
How he could work out of doors until sweat drenched his shirt
Long days you could find him, content with the ground
The midday rustling of trees and his spade the only sounds
I know the delight in that cool lemonade
Taken after a hard day’s work, sitting down in the shade.

Let us not forsake the time we have

A few thoughts on the brevity of life, the downfall of distraction, and the sweet delights of the ordinary.

May I not forsake the time I have
A fleeting moment…a catching breath is all we have (in the grand scheme of things)
Let me not squander, waste, sit idly by and leave behind even a moment
Which I can never capture again

There are times
When being a mother of young children seems endless
(of course, that’s what I think I’m getting- endless time- though this has not been promised)
For no man knows his hour-
We know not when we will be called home

And I am reminded by this fact that though I must live like I will see generations to come,
I must also live as if tomorrow will see my last hours here.
During these moments of clarity,
I realize that my calling to motherhood is so much greater than sippy cups and dump trucks (although it is this, too)

So Lord, I pray…remind me to live each moment
Each hour
Each day
With purpose, passion, commitment, love
Renew me each morning
And don’t let that wane or fade as the days pass

Help me to step back, to take note.
To adore chubby hands and jam-smeared faces
To delight in mispronounced words
To wonder at the way a mind develops and grows, bit by bit
Oh, what an Artist you are!

Let each moment here be marked with intention
Keep in the forefront of my mind that which is known
(who You are, who I am, what is my purpose here)
And that which is not known
(when it will be over)
And might You give me the strength to daily, hourly even, live in light of these truths.

Don't forget me!

Yesterday we spent he afternoon with some friends in celebration of Father's day. During the preparations for lunch, their son had to have a bit of discipline....which is no stranger in our home, either =)
Anyhow, we ended up eating lunch and after cleaning up, started playing a card game. Halfway through, C (the dad) suddenly got up and walked upstairs without a word. A minute later he came back downstairs laughing.
"I just wanted to make sure my son knows I love him. I went into where the kids were playing and said 'P, I love you.'" There was a bit of silence, and then Ryan looked up and said matter-of-factly "Ryan's here, too." (Third person reference and all.)
So, our friend chuckled and said "I love you too, Ryan. I love it when you come over to play."
To which Ryan replied "I know. Sometimes we do come over to play, and sometimes we don't."

A clean slate

My favorite part of the school year was always the beginning. Ah, the beginning, what with the empty notebooks, organized divider system, color coordinated doo-dads and a new pack of pens. Not to mention the clear determination that THIS would be the year that I would be ahead on homework for every subject, organizing all of the notes and paperwork diligently in order to ensure low stress levels and high success levels. It was a clean slate- a new beginning. And the blind optimism never failed to show up each September.

While my family was here over these past two weeks, we turned over the garden once again and planted teensie seeds into black earth with hope of new life. This weed-free, straight-rowed piece of ground is the equivalent to my adolescent new school year. I find myself with new determination to keep the garden free of all weeds, nicely watered, safe from bugs and other pests, and pruned and tended appropriately.

A freshly planted garden is a beautiful clean slate, filled with opportunity and hope.

Of course, a large piece of me knows that, like the school year, the work quickly piles and it is near impossible to keep all of those goals listed above. Having planted and harvested three gardens, I now know that there will be weeds...probably at least one kind of bug will attack a prized crop, and the chickens will make dust baths in the middle of my bean rows. My children will tromp through my flower garden and pick the peas from the roots. Despite my best efforts, the grass will creep into the garden edges and those dandilions will make their attempts at being a volunteer salad crop. There will be mud-prints more days than not through my house, up the stairs, and the laundry will triple with soaked, dirt-laden clothing.

In short, it will be delightfully imperfect.

And no matter how frustrated I get with the process, sometimes it helps to put it in perspective. The mess, the imperfection of my gardens, only leave room for improvement the following year. The zucchini planted in my front flowerbed (instead of the garden) is testimony to the delight my kids find in gardening- a passion I would love to cultivate in their own hearts. I won't really want all of those bean plants anyway- and the chickens will remove some of those pesky bugs in the course of their bathing. And throughout, if I can keep the delight rather than the frustration, we all end up enjoying the process, giving thanks for each sun-filled day, for good ground that produces excellent tomatoes, for full canning shelves and for each other.

So, in the past I have shown you the pictures of the clean slate...and this year, since my sister planted nearly my entire garden with me, it is my intention to share with you it's progress each week- the good, the bad, and the ugly. Weeds and all. Because, in my book, a girl who spades a garden by hand and plants her sister's garden without the hope of reaping harvest, at least deserves some pictures of it along the way.

Plus, it will keep me motivated through the trials.

Here's to a new season of gardening!

Married to a Carpenter

This year, as one of our winter projects, we decided to tackle the downstairs bath. We had torn it out when we first moved in three years ago, and it has stood abandoned ever since. This was for a couple of reasons- first, we could never agree on what this bathroom should look like- or should it even be a bathroom? And secondly, with so many other projects on our list, it simply was never high enough on the ladder to warrant tackling it.

And so, for the better part of three years, the door to this room has stood closed. It is directly off the kitchen, and looked more like a back door- a way to a patio of some sort- than a bathroom door, and hence, we were rarely ever asked about the room. But this was the year we were to reclaim this room. Besides the obvious benefits of the extra bathroom, there are other reasons I am excited to have a bathroom on the first floor. First, we garden so much in the summer, that a room to wash up in straight "out of the dirt" will be fantastic. No more muddy footprints through the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hallway. Secondly, as we get set to "train" yet another young boy, I am left thinking of convenience and accessibility.

So, we set out to plan this little project of ours. When we had the layout figured- one that included a shower, toilet, and sink, we started to look at dimensions.

Do you know how difficult it can be to plan those three fixtures in a room with two doors, surrounded on all walls with windows past mid-point, and only 6ft by 6ft? It's...challenging. One of our biggest obstacles was the sizes of sinks. Even if we went with a pedestal sink, we were looking at a 25 inch depth, which we didn't really have room for. After many searches on the Internet, we started thinking outside the box. We came across this picture of an old-time wash stand. I loved it's charm, but knew we needed something with running water. It was on Ebay, and I asked Phil if he could modify it, but he was less than pleased with that idea. But it got us thinking- could we make a sink? So, we set out to do just that. We planned an early morning trip to a number of stores- starting with Target, where we bought this bowl. At Lowes, we picked up this tile hole saw for $13 and some drain parts.

We realized after we were home that we only bought one bowl. If it happened to crack or break, we were sunk. We also only bought one of the hole saws. Again, if it wore out, broke, etc, we would be facing another trip into town. But it went swimmingly. But, if I were to do this again, I would have doubled up on supplies. Once we had the bowl and the drain complete, we discussed what the finished product would look like. And here you can see why one of us is a carpenter, and the other one is clearly not. I drew the top picture, and showed it to Phil, explaining my idea and the parts to it. Then he looked at me quizzically, drew the bottom 4 illustrations, and said "I was thinking more like this." Also, let it be on the record, his drawings took as long as mine. So. Sad.

And then, the neat part comes- where he turns that drawing into furniture!
Here is the finished product- minus the drains and faucets (which will come at the next stage of progress). But, I think it turned out pretty well, and it fits our space!

Just a Finger

Sunlight drenches and soft music fills room, finally- quiet rejuvenation.
Weary eyes and blurry head strain to re plan to-do list, re-sort the day's priorities.
That dull throb and those heavy eyelids ache for rest, defying midday brilliance of spring sun.
Small boys don't understand sleeping in. Burning candles at both ends takes creative restoration these days.
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Husband has been on vacation this past week, and we have been knocking one project after another off the list. Late nights and early mornings and plan plan plan and then, a saw blade and a fingernail pull us to a halt.

We stay up late, he with pain piercing hand, me with worry and fret. We pass the hours of early morning, debating a midnight trip to the ER. Eventually the pain subsides, and husband reassures that the finger will be OK.

He laughs, "just a hangnail" as I dab blood away from and wrap gauze around 3/16 inch puncture wound in his fingernail (only a carpenter measures injuries in sixteenths.)

And as the moments pass through the night it strikes me anew- the ever present danger of his profession, the inherent perils of our lives on the farm. A split second changes lives. Such an encounter only serves as a reminder of how fortunate we are each day for the limbs we have, the hands and feet and ears and eyes and oh, what would we do without? Certainly life would be changed.

My offer of chore duty for his recuperation is met as if it were a challenge. "Oh, I it's just a finger," he assures me, pulling on those boots and winning that race to the barn.
And so he heals, still stubbornly hauling buckets of water to animals under this nurse's protest that he just rest and get better. Taking trenching shovel and post hole digger to soft ground, gingerly holding out that poor finger with the half-torn off nail, wrapped and taped. That warm day calls to him louder than that throbbing hand, and he will not be deterred.

Certainly a farmer he is becoming.

Starting Seeds

This past week has been so beautiful that we could not stay indoors. On days like these I feel like the oft-depicted weary sea-traveller, so elated with dry land that they stagger in from the salty sea and revel in the feel of sand. We winter-weary Iowans throw open windows and make sweet tea. We walk a few feet out the door and can't help but close eyes with face pointed sun-ward, inhaling spring- glorious, life-giving spring.
To my delight, when Ryan has asked if he can go play outside, I can once again say yes, rather than reasoning with him that it is really too cold. David, intent on being right behind that big brother, finds any shoe he can (dad's, Ryan's, whatever) and follows me, holding it as high as possible, saying "boot" repeatedly, until I relent, find his boots, and we all make our way outdoors.

The average last date of frost for Iowa is in mid-may- quite awhile from where we are now, with many a-frost likely in between. So, Phil built me this cold frame from a salvaged sliding glass door and some wood. This way, the seeds stay warm and protected from the cold at night, yet benefit from the sun during the day. I was delighted with the idea of starting seeds now, rather than having to wait. So, yesterday, on a particularly calm, warm, delightful day, the boys and I took off in the truck in search of gopher holes.

Yes, gopher holes. Phil had heard that, before fancy potting soil came in bags from Lowe's, one would go in search of gopher holes, the dirt from which would be extra-fluffy and *ahem* fertilized, is perfect for starting seeds. I had also read about using egg cartons for the planters, because they are biodegradable and can just be planted directly in the ground when the seedlings are ready for transplant. We have an abundance (read, 30) of these egg cartons, so it sounded like a perfect plan to me.
We planted mostly flowers in this round- zinnias, bachelor buttons, marigolds and sunflowers. Even some heritage seeds (meaning, from grandpa and grandma and uncles, passed down and saved carefully in envelopes). I love the idea of having a "frilly" garden (as my Aunt Sydney describes her beautiful garden) and this year I am determined to line those practical plants that fill tables and tummies with beauties that stir hearts and lift spirits. We also started zucchini, beans, bell peppers and peas, not so much because they need help getting started (we all know how well zucchini grow here!) but because Ryan remembered a stash of seeds from last year that we had kept in the garage, and brought them out to add to the stack. He really enjoyed this project.

Those egg cartons were nice, too, because after each one had been filled with seeds, it could be closed - protected from tiny hands until it was ready to be opened and placed in the cold frame.

Do you realize how much dirt a gopher can throw out of his abode? I had no idea. I pulled 10 gallons (those two buckets there) from one hole, and it still looks like I barely scraped the surface. Here you can also see the cold frame and the patches of old garden space that will soon be turned over once again.

We have one more door that we hope to make into another cold frame, and if that happens this year I plan on starting some seeds directly into the ground- like lettuce and spinach, and a few herbs. This type of planting suits me really well- keeping the garden dirt in the garden, and taking advantage of those first beautiful days of spring.

Now, it's a waiting game- how well does this work? Will they come up too quickly? Will spring not set in by the time the seeds need to be transplanted? This is certainly a trial run- but oh, what fun! To think, flowers!

When winter decided to come up for air, and we were graced with a few days nearing 50 degrees, we could hardly contain ourselves. Fresh air and open windows and romps in the mud beckoned, and we answered with delight.

I found Ryan's first pair of "chorin' boots" and pulled them out for David. It was a good thing, too, because boys and mud are like glue and paper...birds and song...Oreo's and milk, and it was not long before he was tap-tap-tap-splish-sploshing through the nearest puddle.

Ryan, true to form, was off on an adventure. Of course, note that he has his stick in hand- never leave home without a trusty stick.

I hope when these days are long gone, one thing I remember is how much I loved hearing David call for Ryan. He 's doing that in the picture above- pausing to call with all his might...waiting for an answer, waiting to run in the right direction.

Ryan, (stick still in-hand) has found the half-melted snow-cave his dad carved out for him only days before.

And of course, we couldn't take a trip outside without seeing the "ladies". In a few months, we hope to be calling them "mom's." We can't wait! See that one on the right? That's Millie. And she still thinks she is more human than sheep.
We still have one cow (see those horns!?). He has grown a little, too.

It has turned back cold again this week- back down to the 20's and 30's- but oh, that breath of Spring was enough to get us dreaming...and planning...and hoping for brighter, warmer days!

Just Try...

...to keep from laughing as you watch this video.

You can see him looking over the camera- Phil came in during the song, and started acting out the story as Ryan was singing. When his dad opened the door and watched in amazement as his imaginary meatball "rolled out the door", Ryan could no longer contain himself.

I love being a mom.

Easiest Pie Crust Ever

You probably have those recipes- you know the kind I'm talking about. You take it to a friend's house and they rave about how wonderful it tastes, and you think inwardly (or outwardly, if you're me) "if you only knew how easy this was to make..."

For my wedding shower, each attendee was asked to bring a favorite recipe of theirs, and they were compiled into a recipe book that I now treasure. This pie crust, the only pie crust I know how to make, by the way, was a gift handed down to me at this shower. Now, I share it with you.

My mom...my mother in law...my aunt...oh, they make wonderfully crumbly, flaky pie crusts. This crust is more of a sugar-cookie texture, but I find it delicious with many of the traditional fillings. Raspberry, apple, pumpkin, lemon...all go really, really well with this crust.

The recipe originally calls for these ingredients:

2 cups flour

3 TBSP sugar

1 tsp salt

2/3 cup oil

3 TBSP milk

This will make a pie crust (bottom only).

Often, though, I want something on top of the pie as well. So, for apple pies, I add 1/3 more to the recipe, and save 1/3 out when pressing in the bottom crust.

So, my ingredients for a double-crusted pie end up being:

3 cups flour

4.5 TBSP sugar

1 1/2 tsp salt

1 cup oil

4.5 TBSP milk

What you do:


Take the dry ingredients (flour, sugar, salt) and mix in a medium bowl with a fork.

In a small saucepan, pour the oil and the milk and stir over medium heat until bubbly. You don't want a rolling boil here or anything, just some nice bubbles, so you know it's heated through- a light simmer, if you will.

When it starts to simmer, remove from heat and pour into the dry ingredients.

Mix around until fully combined. Pour 2/3 of the mixture (or all, if doing only a single-crust) into an un-greased pie plate and press down. Poke holes all the way around with a fork (sides, too) to keep bubbles from forming.

For baked pies (like pumpkin, apple, lemon)

Put empty crust in a 350 degree oven for 15-20 minutes, until just barely browned. Then, add pie filling. and bake to pie's specifications.

For my pie, I added the pie filling (from a jar, got to love those canned goods!) and then crumbled the remaining 1/3 crust mixture on top. I sprinkled sugar and cinnamon on top before putting it back in the oven for another 35 minutes.

If it is a chilled pie (pudding, berry)

Bake pie crust thoroughly at 350 degrees and remove from oven. Cool completely and add filling before chilling in fridge.

I hope you enjoy! And, learn your manners from someone other than Ryan's Hand.