Out in the Stalks

Deck the Halls

2010-12-22T06:03:00.001-08:00

I have written before about Christmas tree hunting growing up. I have told you of my sister with the six pairs of gloves, nine pairs of socks, four pairs of pants and two coats, (I may be exagerating...but I MIGHT NOT BE. You have to know my sister) and a cheerful smile on her warmth-flushed face ready to hold out to the end so she could be the one to pick the perfect tree. One by one the rest of the family would get too cold to care, and she would nonschalantly walk through the acres of tree farm "Oh, this one is nice....nah, too flat on this side...OH! how about this one? Nah...the third limb up from the bottom has a bit of sap on it..." as we pleaded with her to just PICK ONE ALREADY!
And so it was all of my growing up years, except for one Christmas when we gave up the whole hunting thing and just got a tree from Fred Meyer two days before Christmas. It just wasn't the same.
But since we now live in a state that is not bedecked with evergreens, the only tree lots you see are in front of grocery stores and those who do farm trees plant them like they would corn. The hunt just doesn't feel the same.
We have had a bit of an odd fall and early winter, one where Phil has been gone on a few mission trips and we have been quite distracted when it comes to preparing for Christmas. When one morning we woke up and realized that the big day was indeed only two weeks away, the thought of spending money on a tree from HyVee just seemed...like a waste. I mean, the whole point of getting a tree is for the experience, right? Our kids are small...no one comes to our house but us...no drive-by neighbors to see (or not see) our tree. So we kind of decided to maybe not getting a tree this year.
Phil was talking about it at work when his boss asked him "Why don't you just get a ditch tree?"
"Excuse me? A 'ditch tree'?"
Apparently there are some trees that grow in the ditches along our roads (they are big ditches because of the snow we get) that just grow for a few years until the county comes along and cuts them out. So there are a number of people who go out and just cut them down for their Christmas trees. There are families out here who have the debate of whether to get a store-bought tree or a ditch-tree.
I had never heard of such a thing! But it was free! And we really didn't care about the perfection of the tree...we were looking for the experience, really.
So, one day before a big snow storm, Phil drove home slowly looking for a ditch tree.

*****

"Well," he began as we finished dinner that night, "I brought home something."
Ryan perked up "What is it??"
"I cut down a tree on the way home..."
Before he can finish Ryan squeals loudly, springs down from his chair and runs to the front window, straining to see in the dark.
Phil looks at me hesitantly "Don't think of it like a tree...think more 'shrub' and you will be better off. It's not easy picking out a tree from the ditches on the way home. It was getting dark or I would have looked further."
"That's fine, honey. I really don't care. It's more about the fun than about the perfection. You know that."
As we sat and talked for a few minutes, Ryan and David were putting on their boots and carting tree decorations from the basement. Box by box they carried up all of our decorations, which is a feat, considering the size of Ryan and the size of those boxes. He was determined and excited "a tree!!"
Oh yes, I thought to myself, this is why we do the lights...the decorations...the tree hunt and capture. Over time I may have lost that wonder, but they have not.
In the boxes I found CD's of Christmas music and put them on while Phil brought in the tree- which was indeed very shrub-like, lopsided, gangly - overgrown in parts and stunted in others. "You can tell which direction the wind was from, eh?" he laughed as I looked at him cross-eyed. Ok, HOW were we going to even decorate this thing?
"Come on, mom! Let's get the ornaments!!" Ryan piped up in the background and I began to just laugh. Only a child could see this as magical, see that tree as worth decorations. It was catching.
So Phil put it in the stand and I headed out for some pruners and we began the much-needed trimming of the tree, laughing at how awful it looked. But we persevered, and bit by bit it began to take more of a "tree" shape. We turned the tree this way and that and finally decided which angle was it's most becomming. I dried its limbs with a towel and we strung lights.
The music played in the background and the livingroom exploded with holly and pinecones and every other kind of decoration as the kids pulled apart each box marked 'Christmas." They took the ornaments and one by one decorated that little tree- David putting three or four ornaments on the same 3-foot high limb and Ryan doing his best to get to the rest of the tree.
The snow flew around our house outside and the fire warmed us inside. The lights from the tree (my multi-colored lights and Phil's "pure" white lights strung together, because we could) shone on those bright child-faces as they carefully placed the ornaments from our own childhood days.
It was magical.
Maybe I don't have to lose that wonder.

Anna, 7 months

2010-12-17T21:58:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to say that this little girl is crawling and babbling and all smiles. She is so much fun!

Family Photo

2010-10-05T09:14:00.000-07:00

I have come to believe that it is nearly impossible to take a perfect family photo at this stage. Someone is always sticking out their tongue, frowning, or showing off their best dance moves. Or crying, of course, we can't leave that one out.
And the kids don't always cooperate, either.
Just kidding.
So I wanted to share some family photos...

See how calm and innocent they appear to be? (bribed by Jelly Bellies)

Mostly, though, you have one adorable smile that can be cropped from the craziness. Because while I would like to believe that our family is mostly like this:

This may be a closer representation

So, instead, I catch sweet moments where I can.

And there is no shortage of those.

Anna Marie

2010-07-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

Nothing eloquent by way of commentary just yet...but I couldn't help but share a bit of our sweet girl with you. She turned 2 months old yesterday. What a joy!

Dreaming of Spring

2010-02-25T19:23:00.000-08:00

This has been the view from our front window for a number of months now. Needless to say, we are ready for spring. Really ready. So, the other night we decided to have a spring-themed family night.

David helped me mix up the dirt cake batter. We may or may not have tasted some.
Ryan had the honor of serving the dirt cake...note the lack of flowers. That's because this is a spring party, not a summer party...there is just bare dirt in spring. At least that is how I justify my lack of frilly-ness for this event. There were, however lots of worms. And I learned two things that night about eating gummy worm cake with boys.

First, if they are little boys, they need gummy-grubs. Worms are too easy to slurp up quickly and choke on. Cut those worms into fourths and call them grubs. Just as yummy and not so dangerous.

Second, if they are older boys, avoid letting them see you cut the worms into grubs. Because they may just start talking about how real worms bleed when you tear them in two. Your husband might join in when he sees you turn green, talking about how slimy and gooey they are. They may banter back and forth, father and son, tormenting you with gross boy talk. And then you may not want to finish any of your own dirt cake.

After we finished eating, we played a game of Memory. I printed out two matching pictures of different fruits and vegetables from Henry Field's online seed catalog, then cut and pasted them onto some colored paper. Then, I sandwiched the cards between clear contact paper to make them kid-friendly and a bit more durable.We had a blast with this! Even David got in on the fun. Games with kids this age can be a little tough- they are just learning how to take turns, be patient, not knock over the playing pieces, etc. Something this simple challenged both our boys while still being really enjoyable for mom and dad.

We were planning on more spring stuff that night...I had visions of actually pulling out the suntan lotion and a picnic blanket for dinner, maybe even playing some beach boys...but that morning we were surprised with our first two lambs of the season. So, we ended up having to do quite a bit of work in the machine shed for the little ones, making the time we had for our family night a bit shorter. Although, being boys...I am sure they had nearly as much fun playing in the machine shed: moving wood in their wheelbarrow, jumping on hay bales, and seeing new baby lambs as they would have at mom's fake picnic.

However, if this lingers much longer, I can't be held accountable for any sand I import from faraway lands to make castles in my living room.

2010-02-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

The water is boiling and the plates are clanging together and I am in a flurry of last-minute dinner preparation. It's late so I'm focused on the task - realizing that a 6:45pm dinner could easily become a 7:30pm dinner with just a few interruptions here and there.
And Ryan walks in with a mason jar full of paint brushes, asking if he could, maybe, possibly, pretty please paint a picture?
And I offer that right now I am making dinner and maybe, possibly, pretty please could he set the table?
He looks sideways at me and then down at his jar of brushes. "It won't be messy mom. It will be really clean painting."
And inwardly I groan because I want to be that fun mom who says yes to painting at 6pm, and the guilt sets in because I know how little creative time they have gotten this week with all of the running around to doctor's appointments. But outwardly I smile weakly and say "Sweetheart, just not right now."
With a small sigh he places his mason jar on the counter just as his brother comes careening around the corner with a delightful squeal.
His face brightens. "Hey Dave! You wanna wrestlehouse?"
David grins wide and answers YES! and lunges toward him, arms outstretched ready for the tackle.
I gasp and immediately start to rethink the painting idea when Ryan, once again, reads his mama's mind.
"Not in the kitchen, Dave, we gotta go in the other room." And they run off in a whirlwind of laughter.
And I add noodles to that boiling water and stir salad and think how very grateful I am to have these two brothers.

Early Morning Conversations with Ryan

2010-02-20T05:50:00.000-08:00

7:30 Saturday morning
Ryan: Good MOOORNING! It's time to wake up. You can't just sleep the whole day away.
Me: But I'm tired.
Ryan: Sorry. You can't sleep anymore. It's morning time.
Me: But I want to sleep just a bit more.
Ryan:Would you get up and make us a little snack? Then you can go lay downstairs or something.
Me, (laying down and feigning exhaustion.)
Ryan: (Leaps up on the bed) Mom! It's halfway through the morning. It's Time. To. Wake.Up.
He then proceeds to tie open our curtains, and I think of all those mornings taunting my sister in the same manner. Or my parents, for that matter.
_______________________________
Me, trying to fasten Ryan's pants that are getting just a bit too tight: Ryan! These are getting too small! We are going to have to get you some new pants aren't we?
Ryan, beaming: Yep!
Me: Who told you that you could grow so much? I think you are getting too big.
Ryan, in a sing-song taunt: You and dad fed me, and I GREW!
_______________________________
Ryan: Do you see how old I am mom? Soon I'm going to be five.
Me: I know!
Ryan: Yep! Five then six then seventy!
Me: It will probably feel that fast at times.

Pink and Blue

2010-02-19T04:09:00.000-08:00

It’s funny what you get used to.
Before I had kids, all I knew was girls. Besides being one, they are all I ever babysat. We didn’t know a lot of other boys until we were far past the tiny-tractor stage. When I found out our first was to be a son, I was overwhelmed at the thought because of this stage- the rough and tumble and wrestling and go go go energy...
And of course they are all of that, both boys.
Case in point:

Yesterday as I was making dinner they de-cushioned the couch and chairs to build a fort. David came and offered me an imaginary snake from his hands with such a delightful smile that I just had to take it from him and squeal. Later they turned off all the lights and crept through the doorways hunting for monsters (David was looking for "mosters," but he crouched down and kept up with that big brother of his). Of course they needed swords for their expedition into the unknown (colanders and bowls provide needed head-protection).
And when they went up to their room in a post-dinner tornado they dismantled their train track and re-engineered one that looped under beds and around tables and through tunnels.
And then big brother redecorated his shelf...
...mostly to see his mother squirm, I am positive.
It's comic, almost; that this was the stage I was so nervous about. And of course they are rough and tumble and go go go and mud-covered and bug-loving and lincoln-log constructing. How could life be any other way?
I had another ultrasound yesterday, my second for this little one. She's 28 weeks old and the technician confirmed once again that baby is, in fact, a girl. She even sent me home with a little picture that had the tiny words "girl parts" typed out. It makes me snicker...usually doctors are so technical with their descriptions.
And I wonder what she will do in a world of tractors and trains and worms. What will we do in a world of dolls and tea parties?
I'll have to get a pink colander so she can hunt those monsters like a lady.

Return of the Eggs

2010-02-17T08:37:00.000-08:00

Chickens and I have not always gotten along. They have some...how should I say this...un-cultured aspects. They lack manners. (Translation: They poop on my sidewalk.) They are smart enough to know where the Humans leave the house- those Humans that bring food and water, and well, when they are lacking (or feel that they are lacking) in either area, they will come and wait for me At The Front Door.

Hence, the sidewalk *mess*.

ANYHOO.

There are, however, some really great things about chickens. Bug control, for instance. While they are doing all of their scratching and walking about they are also eating any teensy cricket they can find. They will come and clean between my garden rows and even make a (small) dent in the mosquito population. For their bug-decimation abilities alone, chickens are worth the hassle of a messy sidewalk here and there.

But the other reason I love chickens is for the eggs. Free range eggs are so good for you, and there is something wonderful about having an unlimited supply right outside your back door. I haven't always been so thankful for those eggs- in fact there have been times I have been downright overwhelmed with them...but I'm learning.

Every year around late fall, the chickens stop laying. The days get shorter and colder and they go into "molt" and for two or three months we feed chickens day in and day out and there are no eggs to show gratitude.

It feels...just...wrong to buy eggs when you have chickens right outside your back door. It feels weird to ration eggs- to debate whether or not to have scrambled eggs in the morning because you would also like to make cookies in the afternoon! Strange, I tell you!

So when our chickens started laying again this week, I did a little hop-skip-jump. It's so nice to have farm-fresh eggs here once again...and to lighten up on the rationing.

Because there are some days that I need cookies AND cake.

Miracles

2009-10-04T19:41:00.000-07:00

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. )
_______________________________________________
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

2009-09-30T13:15:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

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.

.
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

2009-08-28T06:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-17T20:48:00.001-07:00

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.

-------------------------------

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

2009-08-12T04:50:00.000-07:00

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

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)

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

2009-08-05T05:31:00.000-07:00

Typed down this past April. Wiping off the dust, thought I would share...
------------------------

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

2009-07-03T13:34:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-06-22T05:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-06T06:06:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-23T16:09:00.000-07:00

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.
---------------
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

2009-03-22T18:09:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-02-20T20:59:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-02-20T20:42:00.000-08:00

...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

2009-02-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

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.

A Winter's Dream

2009-02-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

About this time each year, I start to forget what the world looks like when it's green. I love the white, the sweet, quiet blanket of snow that covers a multitude of imperfections in our landscape, but I am ready for chirping birds and warm breezes through open windows and and green.
One can get melancholy, come month three of winter. And though I am still thankful for this time of rest, this time of rejuvenation, what has become a balm to my winter-weary soul is the seed catalog.
Oh, sweet nectar of dreams, plans, and inspiration! In the pictures, there is nothing but lush, perfect produce. Flowers in full bloom. Sunshine poured out on bushels of potatoes. And I soak in each delightful page, the garden growing in my heart and mind with each sub-freezing day that passes.
This year, on the third Sunday home-bound (from snow or illness, alternately) I took down the three catalogs that we had received, and asked Ryan for scissors and glue. We spent the next few hours dreaming of pumpkins, tomatoes, spinach, watermelon (!), green beans, popcorn, fresh sweet basil...We discussed the strawberries that had done so well last fall, and the raspberries that need to be moved. In my brain, where the work is magically done and no sweat is involved, the garden is nicely planted, expertly and effortlessly weeded, and produces an abundance of produce. And I can almost smell that sweet summer air just thinking about it now.
Of course, this has not always been my cup of tea. Learning to enjoy gardening has been a real treasure (though, still I could do without the bugs...).
This year I think I might actually plant flowers...unlike me, because I am usually a practical gardener (How much of that do we eat? Is that really a necessary thing to grow?) and quite impatient (why plant flowers now when they won't bloom for weeks, months, even!). And, every year come flower-bloom time, I am sad that I didn't take the time to sow any seed. This year, I plan on breaking that cycle and adorning my table with fresh-cut flowers, planted with patience and cultivated with love. I would love (truly) suggestions on what kind of flowers to plant around my garden.
How do you beat the winter blues?

When Dad Plays

2009-02-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

For a kid who loves the outdoors, the winter months of indoor play can seem so long. It takes a stretching of the imagination, these hours upon hours of time without world to explore (with stick in hand).

One morning Ryan was digging around in the game cabinet and found a pack of playing cards with airplanes on the back. He ran into the kitchen and nearly yelled "Mom! Look at this AIRPLANE!" (You would have thought it swooped down in our front yard for all of his excitement). He turned his head to the side and said in a sweet voice "Do you think we could make this?"

"Make this? What do you mean, Ry?"

"Oh, like make the airplane!"

"Oh, I don't know...we could try, I guess. You get started."

And at this point my mom-brain turned back to the stack of dishes and the rising bread dough. Minutes later the silence was once again broken by a now discouraged preschooler.

"I can't do it mom. It doesn't work right."

He pulls me by the hand into the living room, where he has dismantled the couch and the cushions are piled un-dramatically into a heap in the center of the room.

"See? I don't know how to make the wings." He holds up the playing card, still clutched in hand, and shrugs sadly.

"Well...honey, I don't know that we can make an airplane out of couch cushions."

"You see how this has wings, mom? Like this one and this one?" he turns the card slightly so he can see and still show me, and traces the wings of the plane with his fingers. This is important.

But truly, I am at a loss. Airplanes are pointy...couch cushions are very un-pointy.

"Maybe you just need to pretend, sweetheart."

And then Phil walks in. Dads just think differently.

"He is trying to make the airplane with the cushions." I nod at the heap hesitantly.

Ryan is right behind me, pleading his case with Dad. "You see dad? It needs wings like this one and this one."

"Oh, well...let's see what we can do."

Retreating to the kitchen to finish my chores, I only hear muffled voices as the boys work. And then, sure enough, I am interrupted once again. This time, though, by Phil. "You want to go see his airplane?"

And I walk in to the living room to see a boy, grinning ear to ear, thrilled with the results of his real-live airplane. As he sits in the cockpit, ready to take off, I can't help but be delighted at a dad and his creativity.

Dads just think differently...and I'm so glad they do.

Other things we have done to pass the time, sans-TV:

Go on a bear hunt
Hunt for letters/colors/etc.
Play animal charades (using stuffed or plastic animals chosen from a pillow case)
Play-doh and coloring
Lots of cooking!
Cleaning (they do the hand-vacuum, dusting, sorting and towel-folding)
Play the game of opposites (say this quietly, loudly, be small, be tall)
Sing songs (hokey pokey, little teapot, if you're happy and you know it)
Cut out pictures of produce and make a garden calendar for Spring

Our wonderful sister-in-law sent us this book for Christmas, and it has been a lifesaver. They have different versions for different ages, and I highly recommend it. I am thinking about getting one for David's age, because many of the preschooler activities involve items that would be too old for him...but come to think of it, he delights in just running as fast as he can after that big brother of his, anyway. "Toddler Busy Book, idea number 366: Get him a big brother."

2009-02-01T06:00:00.000-08:00

Still Three...but not for too much longer.
Oh, how I love talking with my oldest these days. He is such a delight!
This evening, as Phil was talking with him, he started one of his favorite games.
"I love you." (Dad says, quietly, normally.)
"I love you more" (Ryan emphasizes, stifling a snicker)
"I love YOU more" (Dad raises his voice in mock-indignation)"No, I LOVE YOU MORE!" (Though peals of laughter, legs poised to run, expecting a tackle)
"I bet you don't love me enough to pick up all of your toys!" (Dad says playfully, eyeing the enormous tornado that is the play room, a valiant attempt at Tom Sawyer psychology).
Ryan looks sideways at the room, nudges a toy aside with his foot, and says nonchalantly "I don't."
At least we know he hasn't lost his spunk.

Country Coffee

2009-01-29T16:14:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago our coffee carafe broke...right in the middle of a snow storm. Being at the end of a long, long gravel road, we can't expect to simply hop in the car to remedy such things. We must wait for the snow to stop falling, wait for the plow to uncover blanketed roads. Crestfallen and wondering what in the world we were to do, I was rescued by my sweet husband, who encouraged me to try the coffee pot mom brought when she was here this past Thanksgiving.

A gift from a friend and then gifted to us in turn, what a wonderful treat this turned out to be! I was hesitant at first- it is not electric...it is not my coffeemaker.

But oh! How feminine! Coffee is not distinctly feminine, like, say, tea can be. But this coffeemaker defied that notion, and for the entire week we waited for the new carafe to show up, I was thankful for this gift- not for just the mild, wonderful coffee it made, but also for the simplicity of it. I couldn't help but share my delight with you. Who'd have thought? Coffee- feminine!

---------------------------------------

And now I come to a very exciting piece of news. (Forgive me, as I spend time being a coffee-lover).

When we moved here, one of the hardest city luxuries to give up was Starbucks. It almost seems silly now, but I remember my favorite part of going to the big city was definitely a trip to Starbucks. Within days of arriving in Iowa, I had them scouted out and was feeling right at home (coffee-wise).

When we moved into our house 2 weeks later (and were hence placed 45 minutes from "town") the daily, or even really, weekly Starbucks run became really extravagant. So I learned to love drip coffee. With the right creamer, I actually prefer the coffee we make at home to the $4.00 treats from sweet Starbucks.

But the creamer? This has been a must. And not just half and half (it was too watery), but true-to-form loaded with (who knows what kind of) ingredients CoffeeMate creamer. Reasons we HAD to go to go to town now looked like this:

-The heat lamp keeping our water pipes from freezing burned out!

-We ran out of diapers!

-We ran out of creamer!

There simply was no getting around it...but it isn't the cheapest splurge, when one consumes it at the pace we do. And I had looked for ways to make it from scratch, as that is almost always less expensive, but the only recipes I found used Non-Dairy creamer as a base. Nothing told me the secret to the basic stuff. So when my mom-in-law sent us a link to this site and told us it had recipes for commonly used items, I thought "Hey, I wonder if they have a creamer recipe."

And you know what! They had it! A wonderfully creamy, easy, inexpensive creamer mix. And if you love drip coffee, and perhaps live 30 minutes away from your closest store, and perhaps don't have $60 every month to feed your coffee cravings- this recipe is for you.

Coffee Creamer

1 1/2 Cups Milk

1 can Sweetened Condensed Milk

(Truly, that's all!)

You can add other spices and flavorings (like a bit of vanilla, pumpkin pie spice, etc). They have the proportions over at the site if you are so inclined. We added 3T of white chocolate syrup, and made 30 ounces of creamer for under $1.50.

And, from the heart of a true coffee-lover, this one cuts the mustard. Takes the cake. Is quite divine.

Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

2009-01-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

...and ironically, also strikingly beautiful. This week has certainly been a chilly one, and we are so thankful to have a warm home and a stocked pantry!

Our mailman called me yesterday morning to explain that he has been unable to get to our house for two days, so there is some mail waiting for me at the post office!

And I promised soup- one of my fastest growing favorites.

Ahh, soup. Inexpensive, easy to stretch, quick to make, and hearty. It warms cold bones after they shake off the knee-deep snow from the wood and corn hauling expeditions. Or so my sweet husband tells me.

Today I want to share two of my favorite recipes. They are nothing extraordinary, rather, they are quite ordinary and easy to make. I have to apologize for my lack of pictures of the chicken and rice soup. For whatever reason, my cameras batteries were staging a coup throughout it's construction.

Chicken and Rice Soup

Carrots (2-4)

Celery (2 stalks)

1 medium onion

Chicken broth (4 cups)

Chicken or turkey (cooked, shredded or cubed)

2 cans of cream soup (like cream of chicken, cream of celery)

Rice (cooked, around 3-4 cups or whatever you have on hand)

This recipe, like the other I will share, is extremely forgiving. If you only have one carrot? That's fine! If you want to use 5? Go ahead! If you have no chicken broth, but can make some with chicken bullion cubes, that works perfectly fine. Trust me, as you make this, you will see how forgiving it is. If it looks too dry when you add the rice, add more water or broth. Play with it until it has the consistency you like. Also! This is an enormous batch- enough for many meals for my family. So, cut it down if you don't have a large pot to throw it in, or better yet, freeze leftovers.

OK, for the instructions:

Dice carrots, onions, celery. Throw in a large pot with a bit of oil or butter. You want to cook them until the celery is soft, and the onions are a pretty brown color. Don't overdo it, keep a good eye on them. Then, toss in your chicken or turkey to warm up and brown a bit. Add your chicken broth, and bring to a boil. Add your two cans of creamed soup, and return to a simmer. When that happens, throw your rice in (this can be cold from the fridge or just-made warm). This will thicken your soup and make it oh-so wonderful. Salt and pepper to taste, and enjoy!

Creamy Potato Chowder

Carrots

Celery (about two stalks)

1 medium onion (I see a trend!)

Cubed ham, or cooked bacon, or cooked sausage

2 cups Corn

4 baking potatoes

4 cups milk (rice milk works well in this recipe, too)

Dice and cube the carrots, celery and onion. Put in a large pot with a bit of butter or oil, to soften onions and celery. Add meat and stir a bit. Then, throw in the corn. I used frozen here, so wanted to just make sure it was warmed up. For this recipe, I also cubed and boiled the potatoes until just barely soft. You could just cook them in the soup, if you would like, just plan on eating later (like 40 minutes or so). Add the potatoes to the rest of the vegetable mixture, and then pour milk in.

Bring to a simmer and let cook about 15 minutes. The potatoes and carrots should be soft enough to easily break with a fork. Salt, pepper, and garlic to taste. Serve with toast...mmm!

Both of these recipes reheat very well from the refrigerator. and we will often eat it for dinner one night, and then lunch for a few days following that.

I love how these are easy to remember and forgiving with the ingredients (I need that, since I can't just run to the store for that extra celery stalk!)

What soup recipes do you love?

A Day for Everything- In My Kitchen, Continued

2009-01-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

But isn't it cumbersome? Do you live in the kitchen?
It can seem daunting- this cooking from basics. But let me just encourage you here: with the right rhythms, routines, and plans, providing good, healthy food for your family does not have to enslave you to your kitchen.
Let's take bread, for example.
Some people, when I mention that I make all of our family's bread, look at me cross-eyed. A few years ago, I would have looked at me cross-eyed, too. When we were first married Phil was intent on buying a 5 gallon bin to hold our flour. Mind you, I had never had anything but those storage canisters that sat on the kitchen counter-maybe a bag of 5lbs of flour in the cupboard. And when he mentioned this 5 gallon bin you have to believe I was ...less than thrilled. I would NEVER be baking that much, I assured him. What's wrong with buying flour more than once a year? Not in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that one day I would be so thankful for that flour bin, that I would wish I had more to store oats and rice and wheat flour and sugar. Because as much as I love to cook and bake, we do end up going through a lot of basics. And those basics aren't easily grabbed at the local grocery store when you live Out in the Stalks.

A day for everything: One of the best things I have done (that, by the way, was not my idea) was to start a baking day. Every Wednesday I set out to make the week's bread. This way, I create the big mess only once, I clean it up only once, and I ensure I have the right ingredients on hand. Before I started that, it would feel like I was in the kitchen all the time, because I would make just one batch of bread. And, that fresh bread would be eaten excitedly by myself and my boys...leaving me feeling like I had done a whole day's worth of work just to use it up that night.

This way, we all have something to look forward to (Wednesday baking day!), and when I am tired at the end of the day, I know I have a week before it comes again. I am refreshed and ready once again when that last loaf is sliced.

That bread, then, is used in a number of ways to make or add to simple meals:

Breakfast items: French toast, regular toast, "eggs in a basket", torn in pieces and made into a ham/cheese breakfast casserole (to name a few).

Lunch: Sandwiches, adornments for soups

Dinner: Toast and butter, add garlic and Parmesan to make a side for spaghetti, put with a big chef salad, etc.

Stale bread can be made in to croutons or bread pudding.

So, making four loaves of bread once a week pays off as the bread easily adorns many meals. It can be a quick snack for kids, too. This cuts down on our purchases of crackers, snack bars, granola bars, etc. Not that those things are bad, but my $.50/loaf for whole grain bread is hard to beat at the grocery store.
Practice and Persistence: When you first learned to drive, all of your attention had to be completely on the road. Where is my foot? Are my hands correct? I can't see back there and up here! It was a learned skill, that art of navigating within a vehicle. Now, we hardly think twice about it- it all comes so naturally. We can drive and talk, drive and listen to music, drive and think. Our brains can be involved in other places, too. Cooking is much like that. When I first learned to cook, I had to follow recipes exactly. If a recipe called for coconut and I had none, I would have to stop mid-way through a recipe and head to the store. (By the way, one of the best teachers for substitutions has been my lack of ability to do just that!)

The recipes I use over and over again have become known in my bones, so that throwing together a batch of bread is more physical work than it is mental. This, like driving, just comes with time- with mistakes- with perseverance. It is a skill like any other, and in my opinion, such a blessing to learn.
What tricks have you learned to help feed your family?

Next up: My winter favorite: Soups

On Mothering

2009-01-08T22:20:00.001-08:00

To Mother
is to learn the art of self-sacrifice
To give of yourself when you feel it least within you
To deny yourself when those cravings come
And with thanksgiving for the privilege,
serve.
Not for notoriety
Or fame
Or fortune
And often at the cost of such things.
One does not mother with the intent of greatness
But simply because it is what we do.
The fibers of our being start to change,
and we learn the beauty of giving, of sacrifice, of love.
Love, to a child calling when it is night
And sleep calls to your weary body
Love, to a child angry with circumstance
when your patience threatens to cut and run
Love, to those eyes, ready to learn and watch
when your desire is to be alone.
It is the art of sacrifice we get to learn first.
Laying down our most treasured strongholds for something so much greater.
Oh Lord, let me learn to love like You do.
For your ways are not my ways, and my bones ache to do less than justice to this calling.
Give me grace for a new day, for each precious moment I am given here.
Give me eyes to see those hearts, ears to hear those words, wisdom to guide those souls.
And thank you for giving me the blessing of this beautiful name,
Mom.
------------------------------
Thoughts as I am pulled from that sweet moment between the waking and sleeping world by my wonderful children- thankful that God meets me even here, at midnight, weary though I may be.

In My Kitchen

2009-01-08T19:14:00.000-08:00

As I was kneading bread yesterday morning, it occurred to me that it had been awhile since I shared the ins and outs of farm life...country life on this blog. I have been on a continual journey learning how to take care of my family and home as I learn to be a better homemaker. As I walk this journey, I would love to share some of the things I am learning here. Also, I would love to hear your insights and experience.
In My Kitchen
We do most of our cooking from scratch (we shop around the outer ring of the grocery store, if you will). There are a lot of misconceptions about this style of cooking- that it takes forever, its so cumbersome, etc. I want to talk about that, but first, let me explain why we do it:
Health: When I cook from scratch, I know what goes into it. My bread contains only flour, water, sugar, yeast, oil and salt. I know how much salt is in my soup and that the cheese we are eating is actually...a dairy product.
Expense: We don't have a lot of money to throw at the grocery store, and buying basics helps stretch those dollars. We aren't fanatic about it, we just mostly buy staples. I have a wonderful recipe book called "Make A Mix Cookbook" that shows many of the bought mixes and how to create them for much less money. I love it!
Space: We don't have a lot of room to put boxes and boxes of different things- or even cans and cans of things. Our pantry space is small, and the way I need to store things is cumbersome (in plastic containers). I find that piecing meals from scratch helps me to make the best use of that space.
Joy: This isn't done out of hum-drum requirement. Though at first I was overwhelmed with the idea of cooking all of our meals, I have learned to really love providing food for my family. There is a real sense of satisfaction I get when I sit down to a meal purposefully made. Oddly enough, it is something deeper than the satisfaction I ever felt when I stopped by the drive-through on the way home.
Love: We. Really. Like. To. Eat. And the time spent cooking, delving into that skill set has allowed us to make more food, better food, healthier food.
Next...but doesn't it take forever? Do you LIVE in your kitchen?

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello

2009-01-04T10:07:00.000-08:00

We love family traditions.

One thing we want to both continue and create for our kids is that sense of family that comes through tradition. This year, with Ryan being old enough to really remember Christmas and Thanksgiving, we felt that we needed to decide on some basics for our home's holidays. We listed out some of the things that had been special to us growing up. This is a process, and I know we will be adding to it as we go along. Some of my favorite family traditions are the accidental ones- unplanned and wonderful, they rank among our most cherished.

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello is one of those in my family. I don't know when it started, but it was by accident. The beautiful jello salad molded into a ring, complete with layers, has adorned our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables for as long as I can remember. But the treat in this salad is how it always goes wrong.

My mother and my aunt are both wonderful cooks- with skill they were always able to create meals that were delicious, comforting, and artistically thoughtful. But there was always something wrong with this jello salad. The top layer would slide from the bottom, or the nuts would appear brown and unappetizing. The fruit layer wouldn't set up properly or it would jiggle and smash upon unmolding. Every year, without fail, it was a delight to watch the unmolding of the Jello Salad, the more folly it contained, the more fun the event. I remember watching with rapt attention the unmolding, and squealing with delight as it slid to one side in it's imperfect glory. From two cooks who were so accurate and precise, it was the one dish that they were not ashamed to have fail.

(Or maybe they were embarrassed, but they never let it show.)

This Jello Salad took on a mind of its own when I was first married to Phil, and we explained the tradition to him over dinner one Christmas. Being a boy, with horrible boy thoughts, he started coming up with ideas for new flavors to try. And of course the other boys, loving the idea of ruining the appetites of their women counterparts, dove in with relish. As a come-uppons, someday I think it would be delightful to actually serve an Anchovy and Sauerkraut jello salad...if I could stomach it's creation.

This year, since my parents were here for Thanksgiving, I had the privilege of learning how to make this molded, layered salad from my mom. I loved the idea that three tables this Thanksgiving were to dawn their own SJS: Iowa, California, and Washington, and it didn't take me long to have thoughts of our kid's and their kid's tables multiplied with their own concoctions and mishaps. Thus the beauty of tradition.

The Thanksgiving Stupid Jello Salad: unmolded on a bare plate. The lettuce? An afterthought. The layers? Half mingled, half separated. Ah, imperfect glory!
For Christmas, I was on my own. To start with, I forgot that I was making this and told Phil to go ahead and use up all of the cream cheese. But! It was supposed to be imperfect- so great! I improvised with orange jello, tiny marshmallows, and pineapple chunks. So far, so good.

But then, upon unmoding- do you see it? I opened the mold the wrong way, leaving the plastic turquoise lid underneath the fragile, wriggly jello. I thought maybe I could slide it off, hence the broken side piece. Instead, I ended up sprinkling coconut over the top...snow? Camouflage.

Can I tell you how I love this? Being quite imperfect myself, it is a delight to make things that are more fun when they go wrong.

And, as David's inability to wait shows, no matter how ugly the salad, it always tastes good!

Big Dreams

2009-01-04T09:50:00.000-08:00

We sit curled together on the couch, Ryan and I, reading book after book on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I pause between books and smile at him "You are getting so big, kid. I don't know what I am going to do..." As I trail off, threatening to get lost in thought, Ryan doesn't miss a beat.
"Yeah," he says, bright-eyed, "and I will drive a lawnmower and have an ax and drive a car and have a tractor and a combine!"
From the speed and clarity with which he blurts all this out, I can assume he has been thinking about this.
"Yep," he concludes, 'when I get older, that's what I'm gonna do!'
And thus he leaves me in the dust- I was only thinking about the time when he would curl up on his own to read a book instead of next to myself, and here he is already tilling fields.

Moments in the Chaos

2008-12-29T09:01:00.000-08:00

The morning air has been pierced with wails. Not enough milk. He's nor sharing. I want this not that. Why can't I eat crayons? Fists clenched and jaw set there is no debating his thoughts on these matters.
My nerves twinge with over stimulation and I scoop him up and pull him close. We head upstairs to the boy's bedroom where older brother has been playing quietly.
It's naptime, I singsong, intentionally sweet, for it has been a rough few hours. Older brother nods and is generous with hugs and kisses and "goodnight" and "we'll see you in a little while" and "sleep well". In a rush of words he leaves and the room echoes quiet. I take that small bear of David's and hold him up. A smile creeps up and he sighs contentedly, wrapping his arm tightly around the furry bear-neck. He cuddles down under the warm blanket I have wrapped around him and we rock...quiet, silent, listening to small breaths and letting that sweet peace come over us both. What a gift, this silence following such strife.
A low rumble outside pulls and makes my heart leap- who is it coming down that road of ours? I lay down child, still awake but calm and ready to fall asleep, and head to search windows.
No one.
Immediately I am sad I put him down, for all of the busy-ness of a one-point-five-year old those times to simply sit and wonder at the beauty of him are so fleeting and small. These gifts, this enormous gift of precious child and smaller gift of the moment to cherish him, are both profound and simple.
While we are called to rush about and do more and more, there is that small (sometimes loud) voice calling us to slow, to enjoy, to simply be, experiencing His grace, His love, His peace once more.
Blessings to you - may you savor the simple that surrounds you today.

Home for Christmas

2008-12-23T14:26:00.000-08:00

Her words strike through to my heart.
She, too, is a mom of two young boys. She, too, is a wife of few but meaningful years. She, too, is displaced from all she has known and held dear.
In a strange new land her heart cries out for normalcy, constancy, familiarity. She yearns for home...and struggles with the reality that she is to create one here.
Immediately I am drawn to her- her light, her transparency, the way I know that story- that history.
She is me, minus three years in Iowa.
I watch her and can scarcely believe my eyes. Her struggles are ones I know intimately- the fears and frustrations and hurts and joys and guilt and love and triumph and overwhelm...I can speak her language and she also, can speak mine.
And my soul thanks the Lord that I have something to offer her, that she has something to offer me.
---------------------------
"How was it?" I asked her, wondering about her first trip back "home" since she and her husband moved here three months earlier.
"It was good. Both easier and harder than I had expected."
And then she recounts the moment, this moment that reminded me of how far I have yet to come. For none of us, not one, has arrived.
"T. told me how much he missed home. And here I thought he meant his previous home, the one I long for always. But no, he missed this new home, the one I have worked so hard to make him. And that warmed my heart, settled my fears, and allowed me to start settling in myself."
And I stand back in marvel.
How? How does that wisdom sink in so quickly? She went on to tell me of how she had been so pouring her time and efforts into creating a home for her two sons, that when this two year old told her he missed that place, she wept. It was all she wanted- for him to feel at home.
So often I get wrapped up in what I need. What I want. What would make me more comfortable here. And I lose perspective that I am a mom- I create, I serve, I inspire, I build for my family what someday my own kids will think back on as "home." I want them to remember not what this place was to their mom, but what this place meant to them. I want them to aspire to create wonderful Christmas mornings of their own, filled with joy and peace and goodness; days foreshadowed by those we hold in this house for them.
But this means turning my idea of home on its head. Letting go of my longings and desires to the extent that it allows me to build up for them...and for myself...a place worthy of being called home. And that goes so far beyond this furnishing or that meal. No, a home is built with the heart- the wholehearted love and care of a mom not clinging desperately in her deepest being to someplace else.
That sounds strange, you may say.
I know. It would, until you have been so far, wept for home, yearned for that place. And then you would know how that piece of you, though invisible for most days, does show itself in strange ways. Pictures don't get hung on the walls. I don't plant trees. Permanence, they mean permanence: these nails in walls and roots in ground. Friendships are shallow and meant for temporary happiness instead of deep, lasting growth. Whether or not I know it there is that piece of me that works against my whole self being here. And that creeps into how I build this place for my kids, for my husband, for myself.
I watch her yearn to create that sense of home for her kids and I want to have that heart for my family. To worry more about the home I am making for them than for my own comfort. Because this place, any earthly home, is here for but a breath of time. A sanctuary, a resting place. It is not the ultimate. It is not the end. We are but travelers, each one, setting our hearts toward the one true Home worthy of our unabashed longing. Here, on this journey, I am called to build up this home in Iowa worthy of comforting, teaching, transforming souls, and that doesn't happen one foot in and one foot out.
And I can say it and know it in my mind, but to live it out in my heart- that is where the battle takes place.
And so, in this month of Christmas, she gave me an unexpected gift. She renewed my focus, reminding me that I am here not for myself but for others. And I am setting out ready to create "home" for those boys in my life closest to me.
Truly, my prayer is that we will be home for the holidays this year. And that you will be, too, wherever you are.

The Making of Memories

2008-12-21T06:05:00.001-08:00

This morning Phil stated looking back at some of our old posts here. Oh, the trips down memory lane! Though I have always used this blog as a way to connect with people back in Washington, the secondary reasons of chronicling our lives here has always been a side-benefit I could look forward to.
But what a journey to recall where we have been. We read this, which was my first post on this blog. And marvelled at this, our three year old back when he was only one. We remembered crock-pot eating for three months and total room transformations. Traveling down memory lane we laughed at Millie, our large, bossy two year old sheep when she was just a bottle lamb. All this and we were just scratching the surface.
This three year journey has been a wild one. And, truly, continues to be. What a gift to look back and reminisce. And, what encouragement to continue writing about this journey.

Not the Sharpest Crayons...

2008-12-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

As we watched our chicken flock dwindle dramatically this past summer, we eventually decided that "flock fortification" would be necessary. We ordered two types of birds to add to our remaining three layers.

The first kind is a heavy breed- the ladies from which will weigh upwards of 9 pounds(!). They have small combs and feathered feet, making them ideal for winter in Iowa.

The second breed we ordered was my choice- they are called Easter Egg layers, for the beautiful blue and green hued eggs they produce. Understandably, I was quite excited about this prospect! While Phil's choice may be more practical, certainly I have chosen the more aesthetically pleasing!

As they have been growing these past few months,one thing has become clear- Phil's "large" birds are lazy. That, or they are lacking a few important brain cells.

Let me explain

There is a house we drive past on our way to the "big city" that has free range hens. These hens hunt and peck all the way out to the ditch, and right next to (but never on) the main highway. We marvelled at how these unfenced hens could roam, but never meet a car with unpleasant results.

Did the owners train them? How did they learn to stay close to home? How did they know to go back in the coop at night? Was this a lengthy training process?

And then we got our own chickens, and found out that this is normal. Chickens love to roam and look for food, but will rarely go more than 100-200 feet from their coop. Come dusk, they will fly home and roost on the highest possible location out of harms way. No intensive training program needed!

But these hens? They don't go inside at night. While the Easter Egg chickens and our three older layers were inside rustling and jostling for a comfy nighttime spot, these ladies were hunkered in a ball outside the coop. This time I had my camera, because it was the fourth night in a row I had picked them up by hand and delivered them into the door of their coop.

The first night I found them along the coop's fence, barely visible because they were all smashed together as low as they could get, murmuring shivers against the cold winter winds.

Can't you just see them freezing? Waiting for the elevator? What are they doing? Didn't they get the memo about all chickens hunkering down in the coop at night? Oh ladies...

Go inside! Aren't you cold?

Overwhelm

2008-11-24T07:25:00.000-08:00

Another post I wrote way back in 2008 and never posted...found it today and it still rings true. And while they still., 14 months later tear apart the couch with remarkable speed, they have gotten quite good at putting it back together.
_______________________________________________
One of my son's favorite things to do is tear apart the couch. Between both boys, total destruction can happen, to my great dismay, in less than one minute. Seeing the large, plush object as a mini indoor jungle-gym, they toss the cushions onto the floor, hop excitedly from side to side, hide under haphazardly placed pillows, and squeal as they topple from back to front to cushions on floor.

Why I ever let them start this is a story left for another day, but this couch, it draws them. Though I have since asked them to start using it for it's intended purpose, often if I am off making dinner or step upstairs to put away laundry, upon my return I will find a livingroom filled with cushions and squealing boys.

But what I realized this morning was how typical that three year old response is. I often find myself telling him things that, sheepishly, I notice, I should be heeding as well.

Like so many other mornings, I had just lain David down for a nap. When I came downstairs, Ryan was laying on the floor in front of the couch, his right foot sneaking under the cushion. I peered at him, and then slowly shook my head. "No, honey, we aren't going to play on the couch this morning."

"What?" He asked, his entire leg now under the cushion.

"No. Just no." And then, fatal mistake, I went to get a cup of coffee.

Left to his own devises, my son nicely replaced the cusion, smoothed out the lump he had made with his foot, and sat down to quietly look at a book.

Ok, that's not what really happened. That's what I wish would have happened. No, as soon as I was out of sight, half the couch cushions quickly piled on the floor, and upon my return I found son, upside down on the back of the couch "Lookit ME mom! I'm falling!"

Ahem.

My point to this story was his response on picking up the cushions.

"Put them back, right now."

"I can't! I don't know how. You help me."

"You took them apart, you put them back."

He looked at the looming pile of cushions, too large to lift and place easily, and was suddenly daunted with the task. What came down so effortlessly was not repaired with the same ease. But, faced with further correction he decided to try.

Grabbing the cusion at the very bottom of the pile, he strained and pulled, cringing with frustration. "I just can't!"

"Just take one off the top, work slowly, bit by bit. You'll get there eventually."

And immediately my own list popped in my head.

Then, more comic irony followed. Instead of following my sage advice (of course, I was shocked that he didn't, at three, internalize something that I, at 26, have a hard time following), he flopped in a heap on top of the pile of cusions.

Inaction.

Overwhelm's favorite friend.

Eventually he tries and is more resilient, placing the cushions back somewhat normally on the couch. I am tired of the constant pull-down, pick-up, so I get picky.

"Well, you're almost there. That bottom one needs to be fixed." I say, pointing to a cushion jutting out perpindicular from the couch.

He looks at me plaintively "Mom, could you give me a handle of this?"

And I have to admit, I'm easily swayed when he pulls out grown-up phrases, and can't help but go and lend a hand. Together, we place, poke, mush the couch back in place..

And flashes of our farm, our home, our kids run through my mind.

Teamwork.

Overwhelm's worst enemy.

Wednesday Morning Thankfulness

2008-11-19T06:27:00.000-08:00

Ann Voskamp has captivated me with her gratitude.
This morning, beyond all understanding, I want to dive in the deep end, wallow in longing and sadness. I stand here in the balance once again. Bah, too often.
This morning, though, I choose gratitude, for I know no other antidote. For it is only when I lose perspective- look past those sweet and abundant gifts- that I can be at all discontent. Who, upon opening their eyes to the true beauty around them, can be anything but thankful?

eyes searching, wonder reflected

A blur of energy, 15 months in constant movement

grass, green in November. A small bike waiting for adventure

I asked Ryan to "do what I do" and his tree, my tree side by side result. We dream of apples on green-leaved trees, swings and blue skies to dream under

Wood piled high to warm the house for the day, brought in by husband in the early hours before work

Warmth and glow, the hum and backdrop comforting our days

Gifts and connections- a table runner made lovingly by my mom, tiny perfect pumpkins and squash from a friend, a computer that spans miles, a red shaker to make music

Light of day spilling into our house

A rocking chair, made by great grandpa, enjoyed for (now) two generations

Compassion shown to a hurting friend, three huddle close and share comfort

Hair mussed from a warm, long sleep, eyes defying age- when did he grow so old?

Tiny hands grasping the same wood turned by great grandfather, generations linking

Dad and boys, teaching and learning, patience and love shine through

"... a happy day is not the genesis of thanksgiving,rather,
thanksgiving is the genesis of the happy day."

-Ann Voskamp

The ability to live full of joy is not so much our circumstance, but more about our orientation to it. Sometimes, I just need a moment or two to re-orient myself.

What are you grateful for today? Beauty abounds for us all, for the Giver is quite generous. I would love to hear of the beauty surrounding you today.

Morning

2008-11-18T04:36:00.000-08:00

I am called.
It started out with one day.
David wakes up at 4am, body clock set specifically, and alarm unfailingly sounds. I am pulled, unwillingly at first, from deep sleep, wondering if it is possible that the time has actually come. Unsteadily and blurry-eyed I stumble to his room and comfort. He reaches those hands up, smiles through tears at my entrance, and his relief is palpable. He knew I would come. I always come. But still he rewards me with sweet thankfulness. And when he is calm, nourished, and tucked cozy under covers once again, I, instead of scurrying back to my own bed, slip downstairs.
The house is still dark, silent except for the steady hum of the furnace, warming the house. Though my body is still tired, my mind still in a haze, I push the button on the coffee maker and promise myself hot, creamy coffee. The house has chilled a bit, the fire burning through the night but having to battle against much stronger winds and colder temperatures. I walk down the back steps and push open the door into the breezeway- cold, dark, and silent, and sneak a few pieces of wood from the wheelbarrow-full from last night’s trip to the wood pile. I walk stocking-footed down to the furnace and open to see the warm bed of coals within. Always replenishing- the hallmark of winter in this house is the steady tending of home fires, the stitching hemming in our days, calling us always back home.
The furnace is large and forgiving: the wood, piled haphazardly, will burn well despite my lack of fire-building expertise. I head back upstairs to fill my mug, the coffee now ready, and sit in dark, in silence. And here, unhurried by expectation or distraction,
I type. I write here, or email friends in far-off lands. And I read: read and reflect on thoughts which, when read with a backdrop of squeals and stories and climbing and crashing towers, are not fully or appropriately internalized. I sit and read and write and feel the slow rejuvenation of my soul, waking and rousing, ready to give for another day.
An hour, then another, pass quickly, and the sky in front of me starts to lighten; sweet hues of crimson blend with that dark of night. The world, like me, wakes slowly. First, the faint silhouettes of trees come into focus, a still painting. Then, a grove of trees beyond the next field, slowly, assuredly, darkness becomes light; the obscure comes into focus.
Still, I am in awe of a simple sunrise, stretching brilliance across the sky, bringing light into a world darkened for rest. In contrast to our light switch, it comes gently, slowly. It is intentional and gradual, this turning on of the light of the world. And I know, you scientists remind, it’s because the earth is turning…can one not be in awe, reminded of simply that?
And that sun: it always raises, always sets. How many generations has it seen? What fullness of life has lived out beneath its rays? What tragedy? Wars. Hunger. Laughter. Happiness. Grief. In this context, I can begin to grasp that life for us on earth is so fleeting and small. I am reminded of the vastness of eternity, and in contrast, the brevity of life; that each day is but a whisper in a grand, unending story: a tiny stroke of the brush on the world’s canvas. And yet, this life composed of a pearl-string of days is astoundingly precious.
But I digress.
I am thankful.
This morning, I am rewarded with a gift, both small and brilliant. I watch the world come alive again, and I am renewed.

Simple Abundance

2008-11-14T03:36:00.000-08:00

Wednesday morning dawns, and I rise, ready to create, nourish, renew.

Baking day. In days gone by, this was arduous, all-consuming. But like many of the overwhelming tasks of old, it has since shed its arduous nature, becoming a work of pleasure rather than duty or necessity (as the stores carry many loaves of bread). It has been distilled to only the blessings that come from such a routine task, one that is chosen and stems from only a desire to nourish family through the most basic forms- time, teaching, and full tummies.

I stir simple elements- yeast, sugar, water. Tiny hands reach forward to help, and I hold out the measuring spoon, letting those 1 year old hands turn it upside down into the bowl. He, delighted, bounces for more, and each time over, he rewards me with such sweet enjoyment of the simple.

We push the small bowl aside, and the other ingredients are poured into a large bowl- oil, water, salt, flour. Again the tiny hands long for involvement and again I slow, reminding myself that there is purpose here beyond outcome- that process matters just as much, if not more, than the finished product. His older brother, at three, is a "seasoned" helper, able to measure and pour ingredients without spilling, stir without splashing and sploshing. But those hands, too, started out unsteadily. The spoon jabbed and splashed and dumped. I must again remember patience in process for the small one, giving him the same opportunity to develop and learn.

And still, here is the calm before the storm. All elements remain in bowls, not yet mingling with table or hands. We pour all the pieces together, a mere six ingredients, and stir, the dough stiffening and resisting, taking form and pulling together. At last I turn it onto the floured table, sticky and flat. Immediately my helpers notice we have moved on to the most delightful stage of any bread baking (the most delightful stage of cookie-dough making, of course, is the tasting) But this? This unfettered ability to indulge in mess, to roll and create and pinch and smash in little hands? I might have offered them a trip to CandyLand, for the sparkle in their eyes. They delight in the process. Process, mom, I remind myself, noticeably calming my hurried nature, gearing up for the flour dust-storm on the horizon.

Once a week. And they learn. At first, it's mess- unhindered and all out destruction. Then comes imitation, then form. Fingers and hands and coordination all strengthen through process, and someday, they will know the measurements and steps in their bones. Purpose will collide with ability and then creation will become natural.

Perseverance and patience follow: Perseverance to clean sweet helpers, sweep and mop and shine, and patience to wait for the rising, the punching down, the forming, the second rising, and baking. Patience to await sweet aromas and warm butter spread across fluffy warmth. In all honesty, past this first amazing mess, the patience isn't all that hard to muster.

A glimpse into my heart- I read it and it sounds polished, like maybe the mess is pretty, or not so bad. But know this: though there is purpose, it is still, in all actuality, quite imperfect in practice: Memory-building at its best.

And here, each Wednesday, thirty-four cents is poured, stirred, mashed, kneaded and transformed into abundance.

A First Snow Falls

2008-11-07T12:37:00.000-08:00

I stand near the back door holding coffee, ready for my husband who is busy rebuilding the fire that was reduced to embers throughout the night. The smell of wood smoke mingling with the clean frosty air of snow is nearly intoxicating. Swept away with anticipation I am brought back to places of warmth in years past, where the formidable cold was held back steadily by a sturdy house and a crackling fire.

Near the end of summer and throughout fall, I start to feel splayed out- pulled in a hundred directions and always seeing more that needs to be done. I am taken from home, beckoned outside to do, do, do. Even inside, the call is to do- do cleaning, do canning, do winter proofing, do laundry. This first blanket of snow is a sign that the frenzied work of fall is nearing completion, and a worthy and welcome rest is on the horizon.
Winter calls us home again, and we hunker down inside, cozy and content, for there is no endless project calling our names. Food has been put up, the garden lain to rest. Warmth wraps its arms around us this time of year and pulls us in close.
David, upon seeing the earth blanketed with snow, bounces and squeals delight, and then pads his way in fleece footed pajamas to the front window. He spreads his arms wide and leans his forehead against the cold glass. Watching kids experience this world is a training ground for appreciation. We lose the magic of simple beauty as we cram every space with speed and grandeur. We grow taller and complain about scraping the snow from windshields, but those little eyes haven’t yet become immune to the beauty, and they delight in the simple, yet incredible, wonders around them. He studies the world outside and its new clothes, and contrary to my normal character, I slow down and watch with him. I notice a small bird, hunting for scraps to warm her own nest between the patches of snow. The earth seems quiet here, covered just for this morning in perfect white, its blue hue streaming through our windows so that whether or not you are looking outside you know the snow has fallen. The world, despite its many imperfections, is momentarily pure and clean. Our home, warm and inviting, comforts and renews this morning, and I am filled with thankfulness that we have this refuge. And I am equally thankful that winter is on its way with its call to rest weary bones once again.
Where we, with our lists and agendas, would have fall last endlessly so we could ever-more complete important tasks, God, with His wisdom, will soon say “It is finished,” providing promise of a coming rest we did not know we needed.

“He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men.”
Psalm 107:29-31

Expecting the Unexpected

2008-11-04T07:31:00.001-08:00

We have had a week of amazingly warm fall days. The forecast says "rain" tomorrow, and so its about time I started gearing up for the "real" fall and winter days. There are a few things I did today that are so simple, I often skip them altogether. However, this year I decided to give my future self a treat and accomplish the tasks before they become absolutely necessary.

First, I cleaned and vacuumed the breezeway, which will probably be our normal entrance during the winter months. I went out and found our snow shovel, ice scraper, and stiff broom, and put them right inside the door, ready for the first snowfall. This way, I won't be hunting them down after those first flakes come. Simple, yet I know when the time comes, I will appreciate it greatly.

I then took advice that my sister gave me awhile back. Since we live so far from, well, everything, she mentioned that I might want to have a bag I keep in the back of the van, filled with blankets and such to be used in the event of an emergency.

Have I ever mentioned how great my sister is at being prepared? Well, she is.

Anyhow, I cleaned out the van and set out to pack a duffel bag with winter back-ups. Here is a list of the things I put in there, just in case you want to make your own. I love knowing that if need be, we will have the ability to stay warm in a worst-case scenario.

Warm clothes, including sweaters for each family member, warm pants for the boys, long sleeved shirts for the boys, and an assortment of orphaned socks (we won't be entering a fashion contest, and I figure the matching socks can best be utilized for everyday wear).
Extra diapers
A warm hat and a thick pair of gloves for each family member
A high-strength flashlight (actually a head lamp with an LCD light)
Bottles of water
Two warm blankets
A whistle

This process also allowed me to think of last year's winter, and plan to pick up a few things at the store next time I am in town. To the above list, I plan on adding:

A small shovel for each vehicle (for getting out of snow drifts, if necessary)
Granola bars and other non-perishable food items
Hand warmers (those ones you can bend and pop to heat up)

I think I will also make a mini-bag for Phil's truck, including some of the same above items. As normal as it is to bring things like a hat and gloves with you out on the road during winter, every once in awhile something happens and we end up unprepared for the unexpected. This is just a way of ensuring we have backups in that event.

OK, Sis, what have I missed? Does anyone else have ideas or tips? My bag still has some room, and I am anxious to hear what you would pack away for worst-case-scenarios.

2008-10-31T06:15:00.002-07:00

Growing up, my sister and I were always in cahoots. This teamwork and delightful companionship is one of my greatest desires for my boys. I know that I need to be careful what I ask for, as that teamwork could work against their mother.

This morning, while I was making coffee (i.e. I was absent from view for two minutes, tops) the boys decided to reorganize for me. Brother Cahoots, I tell you, is unfair before morning coffee. I should call foul.

When I saw what they were up to, I informed Ryan that we were not going to empty the entire pantry into the playpen. Nossir. He needed to stop.

Plaintively he looked at me, sweetly and said "OK mom."

Seconds later I looked back and this was happening. Upon first reaction I thought "Argh!" But, admittedly, it was the beginning of the day, and I had far less frustration built up than I do at the end of a day, meaning I am also a bit more easygoing. I asked him plainly "What are you doing? Didn't mom ask you to stop?"

"I'm just helping Davey."

And true to his words, HE was not throwing anything in the playpen. You can see him stop himself a few times in this video, and that is the result of thinking he would get in trouble if HE were to do such a deed. The last container he wants to throw is sugar, and I tell you, the MESS if I were to let that be tossed over. Canned goods are one thing, flour, sugar, baking soda? There are limits, even before my morning coffee.

I also had to share this small snippet, which was filmed a few minutes before the above video. David, upon first coming downstairs, became fascinated with his shadow. Stand still, wave, grab, bob-up-and-down fascinated. It's so neat watching their little minds explore. Often, I get moving so fast I don't notice small moments like this, and it was such a treat to see him try and figure it all out.

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Speaking of comprehension:

While I was typing this, my phone rang. The cordless phone ran out of batteries and it went to the answering machine. It was my mom-in-law. In her message, she gave some detailed questions about Christmas gifts, asking about appropriate ages and a specific toy. Ryan was standing here and when she hung up here is what he said to me, in an excited, wide-eyed tone:

"A Noah's Ark! For me? Is she going to bring that for me? COOL!"

"Who?"

"Gramma Calli? Is she going to bring me clothes and a Noah's Ark?"

I'm telling you, I had no idea I would have to start hushed Christmas conversations so early.

Growing Pains.

2008-10-27T18:37:00.001-07:00

So, we've reached another milestone. I knew, instinctively, we had to get here at some point, but I did not know it would come so soon. Most milestones our kids reach are met with a bittersweet feeling- our loyalties drawn to both camps: one for our kids to grow up, one for them to stay at the very spot they are now. So, we practice practice practice for them to roll over. And when they do, we lament that no longer can they be left alone. Anywhere. Same with crawling, walking, climbing, running, jumping. And I am sure there are more I haven't yet reached with my oldest (bike riding, driving aaahh I did not just type that!).

These universal and well-known milestones are ones we work on developing in our children. But there are those we don't even know exist until we stumble upon them unexpectedly. For example, when Ryan was finally old enough to face forward in his car seat, I was thrilled! Yay milestone! But what I hadn't factored in to the equation was that he could now see what I was doing. Was I eating a treat? Now he needed some. Was I drinking something? He would also like a drink. No longer could I quietly enjoy a milkshake without his knowledge. My days of private and solitary car-food decisions were over.

I have noticed lately that his vocabulary and sentence structure have quite improved. I had not expected that it would be around this time he would start asking me in-depth questions about conversations I was having in his presence. After a phone call he will ask me "Are we going to see Amanda tomorrow instead of today because you still need to finish your work?" And instead of answering the only thing I can register is HE IS LISTENING TO EVERYTHING YOU ARE SAYING! AND HE UNDERSTANDS!

The other night we were coming home from The Big City and I had picked up a small milkshake for each of the family members (see above) who would not readily end up with said milkshake drenched about their person before we reached the interstate (so, everyone but David got one). About halfway through his small shake, Ryan handed his to me and said "I'm all done, I want to save it for later."

Mind you, it's 8pm. And we're talking milkshake here. Let's keep this in perspective.

We got home and he headed up to bed without so much as a peep about the milkshake. And at this point, I did what any self-respecting chocolate lover would do. I drank his milkshake.

The next morning, he stumbled down the stairs blurry-eyed and flushed from a warm night of sleep. He walked into the kitchen and mumbled a greeting to me, and then continued into the pantry-room, then to the living room, dining room, and eventually back to the kitchen. With a big sigh he exclaimed "I'm just looking for my milkshake."

My back was to him, and, a bit taken aback, I responded "Oh, honey, its all gone." Neutral, non-incriminating, safe. No one wants to be in the way of a three year old who's just woken up.

"Did you drink my milkshake all gone?!" He asks accusingly. Like he knew already what had happened to his precious goodness.

But How? That kid has eyes in the back of his head, I tell you! (Does that trait skip a generation?) Up until now, if he decided to "save something for later" it was basically put in the fridge and forgotten until I pulled it out, soured and sad, a week later. But this? Oh no. And on the week of Halloween, too.

"Yes, honey. I did. Sorry." What else do you say? I mean, I drank the kid's shake. Guilty as charged.

"Don't drink my stuff Mom! You are not sposs'd to do that!" (I warned you about those groggy three year-olds.)

So, now I can no longer eat contraband in my car unnoticed, have private conversations, and my last holdout- munching on leftover goodies, has been stripped from me.

I'm sitting next to his bag of Halloween candy as I write this. Oh, the restraint* I tell you, it's painful. Have you ever had those moments where you realize your child is suddenly older or wiser than you thought?

*About restraint: I have none. I am still eating his chocolate candy. Some have peanuts in it (that was how my transgressions started, upright and true- keeping my kiddo safe from his allergens! Admittedly, those were a gateway sweet for me, and I have since taken the slippery slide into non-peanut goodies). BUT! Before you send me to the place where bad parents go- know that I'm leaving the good stuff- suckers and skittles and fruit roll-ups and gummy ghosts and pumpkins. Oh, this new stage is going to take some getting used to.

A bit chilly

2008-10-25T20:27:00.000-07:00

It's only October, and already I am finding myself jealous of the cookies; longing to crawl inside the oven and bake at 350 for a few minutes now and then. Don't worry, I resist such temptation.

Being Neighborly

2008-10-24T07:01:00.000-07:00

Growing up I can distinctly remember times where we stopped at a pay phone (ha!) to call people and ask if it was convenient that our family stop by, as we happened to be in the neighborhood. This culturally obligatory frantic-cleanup barrier provided a grace period I did not quite understand until I had a home of my own. Time to get dressed, shove extra items in closets, do a quick vacuum. With the courtesy call, a home keeper had a chance to get hold of herself and her home, and could meet you, ready (albeit breathless and red-faced from hurry) at the door when you finally dropped in.
Rarely is such courtesy afforded in the country. This, I did not know before I moved here, and it's taken getting used to the new custom. And I'll tell you a secret: I am now a perpetrator, guilty of drop-ins-without-notice. And I LIKE it.
The first time I experienced this walk-in culture was when Ryan had his seizure, and by the time we returned, two neighbors had been in our basement, fixing a leaky pipe.
Since then, I have become used to the knock, no answer, open and call culture. Of course, this is only OK between friends- we don't just do this with people we don't know (I'm sure there are NRA members in the country, too).
Yesterday I was talking with a group of women who had also been caught off-guard:
"I was upstairs taking a shower. When I came downstairs, there was a plate of cookies on my kitchen table. I stood very still, and then slowly turned around. I called out..no answer. I KNOW that plate wasn't there when I went up to take a shower...either I am losing it or someone had been in my house!"
Another chimed in with a laugh "I learned my lesson about staying in my bathrobe half the morning. If I don't want to be greeted that way, I make sure to get dressed first thing!"
I didn't mention, bud did recall times where I had done just this very thing with friends- leaving a loaf of bread or some cinnamon rolls not on their porch, but on their kitchen counter. Sometimes I add a note, explaining, other times I just simply leave and run. I admit it, I have a problem. Also? I can hear my mom's quiet gasp "I raised you better, honey!"
As a result of this culture, many more of my Iowan friends and acquaintances have seen an untidy house than my Washington friends, but it has also allowed for a more relaxed atmosphere. See, I have seen THEIR lived-in houses, too. Reality is, there is no perfect home all the time. Most of us have toddlers, teenagers, (selves?) that live in our homes, and that makes them...gasp...imperfect. And though we are constantly working on our houses: their homeyness, improvement, welcoming nature, this culture of drop-ins has one of two effects- you go insane with trying to hold it all together at all times, or you relax just a bit, and realize that there are more important things to hospitality than perfection.

Houdini? Houtdiness? Part II

2008-10-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

Not long after the last video was filmed and the usefulness of these little birds was sealed in my heart (ok, not my heart, but my brain finally understood it), we lost four of them. Phooey, that Murphy’s Law.
Someone had gathered eggs and left the chicken coop door open one night- in the morning there could only be three chickens found. Three. And the pretty rooster was gone, too.
It happens out here in the wild. Life. Death. We don't name many things here. (And when we discuss our “farm” to new people, we mention that we inadvertently feed a lot of the wildlife.)
So when one of the last three chickens went missing the day my mom arrived for her visit a few weeks ago, I sighed heavily, wondering if I would need to start buying store bought eggs to make "ends meet".
Mom spent a week here, and then flew home. A few days after that, I took the boys out with me to do the morning chores. We don't normally linger over the water shut-off, but this morning I had to reconnect the hose to the faucet so I could fill up the cows’ water trough.
"The chickens in there," Ryan said conversationally.
"Mmm Hmm? What chicken? In where? The coop?"
"No, the chicken is in the watering 'hingie."(the word "thingie" used aptly to any object where a proper name alludes him at the moment -I have started picking up this practice, too.)
I listened for a moment, and I heard an echoing chortle. A chicken cluck-cluck-cluck. It did, indeed, sound as if it was coming from within the well pit. But how in the world...?
With David in one arm, poised on hip, I lifted the heavy lid. Sure enough, perched high on an awkward plank teetering ten feet over the gravel pit below, sat our missing third hen, looking no worse for the wear. Ten days in solitary confinement. At the first peek of light, although obstructed by three heads peeking in at her, she mustered all of her chicken-guts and flew right over Ryan's head. We all shrieked and jumped and the hen waddled as quickly as she could back to the coop.
"WOW! DID YOU SEE THAT RYAN?" I said, breathless, laughing. I could NOT believe that chicken had lived in a damp, dark, scary hole for over a week. Plus! I was back up to three hens.
Ryan, however, was nonplussed. "Well, Sadie chased her in there." As if he was discussing some mundane issue like "It's kind of sunny today." This made perfect sense to him, apparently.
Upon inspection, I found a small hole where she must have squeezed under the roof of the well cover to flee our chicken-loving canine. Needless to say, I am going to have to start listening to my boy a bit more closely.
And as I mentioned before, we don't usually name animals on this farm, for the obvious problem with retention rates, but since this chicken seems to have multiple lives, I think it's safe to give her a name. But creativity alludes me- any suggestions?

P.S. She's the black and white one on the left in the picture above.

P.P.S. Honestly, I don't really know which black and white one she is. Who can tell those two apart? Not I. Not that I couldn't if I tried...it's just that I don't spend THAT much time watching those ladies.

P.P.P.S. It is raining, raining, raining today and so I, one who loves warmth, refuse to go out and take a new picture of the afore mentioned well-pit. However, in the interest of visual aid to the story, the well-pit where the chicken lived is shown in the top picture on this page, behind ol' Roostie (rip). The roof covers a hole about ten feet deep and four feet wide, and houses our pressure tank and numerous connections for well water on our property.

Houdini? Houdiness? Part 1

2008-10-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

It was about the time that I started enjoying my chickens that they also started disappearing. One by one, a steady trickle of poultry feeding the crafty wildlife. We ended winter with 15 chickens (one pretty rooster, 14 layers). By this time last month, we were down to seven (one pretty rooster, 6 chickens). And I have to be honest with you. A bit honest. I was OK with this drop in numbers. I liked six. Six was comfortable, easy to count, and the eggs they produced were enough to be generous with yet not so many that I couldn't use them all up at home if need be. It was not an overwhelming number, and they did a nice job grazing for most of their food.

Chickens, though, had to work their way into my heart. They are not overly cuddly (well, not really cuddly at all) and don't have an endearing look to them (ala puppy). But, oh my are they functional! Eggs! We know about the eggs. But, did you know they eat most of the irritating pests strewn about the Iowan yard? Crickets and worms and grubs in the garden. Mosquitoes and flies and lightning bugs and beetles. Weeds! They like small weeds! Also, cucumber beetles and ladybugs. It's like having a mobile, quiet yard/bug/cleaning machine going at all times.

We turned my garden by hand this year, and while it was wonderful because it buried the tough layer of sod deeply in the earth, it was not the easiest task. After such labor, one is not too thrilled with the prospect of breaking up the clods, removing the fat white grubs, and smoothing out the ground for planting.

ENTER CHICKENS!
Before I knew it, the ladies ran over, thrilled with the new treat, and started scratching, digging, pecking and pwoking. A few minutes later, Voila! Ground ready for planting.

It was about this time that our dog, Sadie, decided the chickens had better stay in their pen, and started "showing them the way back" with her mouth. Needless to say, we lost a few in that process. By the time she was trained and all animals were happy, we were left with the six hens and 1 rooster. Here is a video of the ladies at work in my garden this spring. Ok, maybe not thrilling to watch, but let me tell you! It's wonderful! Also, I like how the Rooster is all "uh, you ladies do the work over there. I'll stand here and supervise...don't want to muss the feathers you know." Periodically he would traipse over, survey their progress, and then walk away again, aloof and regal.
I know what you are thinking. You want chickens now, don't you. It's ok, you can admit it here- we're all friends. See that smoothing action? That skillful bug extraction? I'm telling you, chickens are neat.

Second installment of The Amazing Chicken to come...

The call of the ocean

2008-10-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I fear, the desire to swim is unavoidable.
The bright morning sun streaming through my windows as the day dawns tries to lure me into cheerfulness. Come, it beckons, there is more today. Each day deserves your heart.
The warm, steaming, creamy coffee draws me close and comforts. Come, it says, take heart and renew your spirit.
Boys with light steps and rosy cheeks beckon me. Come, they say, build towers to the sky! Crash them down and build again and again! Create and dream with us!
Harvest time calls with its cozy hues. Come, it beckons, delight in the blessings bestowed! Bring thanksgiving for all you have been given!
And then, to overshadow all of those quiet, sweet voices, comes the loud crashes of ocean waves. Stay, it says, long for what cannot be. Wade in deep waters and let the ache wash over you. And that water, though warm and familiar, slows. Feet that were made to run freely are pulled down relentlessly by the strong ocean currents. I know this. Muscles, though toned and ready, burn under the force and resistance of the waves. The water wasn't made for running.

Come, they beckon. Come and live wholeheartedly! Rejuvenate and renew! Play, dream, and dance! Let gratefulness and gladness overflow!
I hear them loudly now, and I want to be there. But that water, oh, with its deep blue recesses and rolling waves that touch the horizon lures me. Stay...
But the chorus of quiet voices still sings. Come, they call to my heart, be with us! Come, they beckon from the grassy knoll above me, run unhindered the race set before you.
And I stand on that sandy shore, toes sinking slowly into the warm, silky sand. Tiny waves wash over my feet, waiting for my heart to decide. I hesitate, not fully ready to choose either path, as it will mean leaving the other behind.
In the rythym of it all, if I listen closely, another voice resonates.
Be still, he quiets my heart, once frantic for clear direction. For it is not from within you that you pull this strength you desire. This endurance comes from Me. Be still, set your heart with Me. Only then will you be able to run the race set before you.

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I have a story about a crazy/amazing chicken to share following this post. You will laugh. In the meantime, thank you for indulging me in these not-so-lighthearted posts- they are quite therapeutic for me.

The Pace of Peace

2008-10-01T22:27:00.001-07:00

It all started with a mishap. I suppose that's how most of my stories start- as when things go along quite swimmingly, there is nothing too surprising to report. That old pipe under frozen ground, stretched between house and well, broke- burst-cracked, or in some way, shape, or form, ceased to work.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets. But I digress...
This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. Hurry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers, crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and ssshh, thud, ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.

A new journey

2008-09-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

Three Novembers ago, we boarded a plane headed for farm country.
I looked down. The world below was covered in a blanked of white. Tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill. I pulled my baby. now seven months old, a bit closer. The heart-split happening mid-air, above the great nation spread below- a world divided. It was a beginning. A terrifying, jolting, wondrous, faithful beginning. Just two days before we'd had a teary, sweet Thanksgiving, filled with the aromas and people that had accompanied the major holidays for my first 23 years. It felt right, real, and on this particular occasion, solemn.
Above that great land, in the hours which transported my life between the world that was and the world that was to come, my heart cried for a respite from the turmoil. This dichotomy, the pull between here and there, this life and that, ebbs and flows, pushes and pulls, and has since that first flight, grown fainter, but is an ever present reality for me.
I held that little boy, small, sleeping, precious and unrambunctious, knowing that tomorrow he would wake up to his mom. And then I would be with him all day. I would make him his food, care for him when he nosedived learning to crawl. It would be his mom that would reach down and rescue him, wide-eyed and arms outstretched, after a long nap. After seven months as manager/mom, spending so much of my best energy focused on building another's castle, I was ready to be a mom-only.
The rest of the world was in a frenzy, lapping up the best deals at their local retailers, hastily devouring ads and planning elaborate shopping days that started before the first light of day. This would have been my world, only from the inside-out. Holiday hours for retail managers were in the 60's, at least 6 days per week, late into the night (or early into the morning, depending on perspective) and that one day off would be a mid-week break. My job this holiday season would have been no different. So as I sat on this plane, holding that sweet baby of mine, I distinctly felt the gift that had been given to me- I was to experience life as a mom, Christmas as calming, the New Year as renewal.
I am not good at this job. There are days that I wonder who in the world hired me for such a role. And then I am hit with the realization that God knew what He was doing- motherhood is not for the weak. It is for those willing to persevere, be patient, and above all, it is for those who can love.
That moment, that distinct moment is etched quite clearly in my mind. His tiny hand wrapping around my finger, his eyes closed and his body warm with sleep much needed. My mind swirled with longing for home, and then, sporadically, there was a spirit of adventure, although not one that I was willing to admit to or indulge. But it was there, bubbling underneath the surface. This, I knew deep down, was an adventure of the highest sorts.
And, in my innocence, I was right. Right in the way someone who has never seen a tree, after hearing it described and pondering it in thought might say "that sounds large, leafy, and wonderful." Its magnitude, its precise, intricate, and grandiose wonder is impossible for one to comprehend until seen, touched, and felt.
And, true to His way, the way I saw our journey here, and the way He had it all planned out, were worlds apart. Being human, I much prefer a simple, straight line, A to B. But oh, how I would have missed out! The curves, friends, are what make the road interesting. An Iowan mile can be driven without thought. And there can be comfort in seeing the entire road, the entire way. But the curves of a Washington road are beautiful, dangerous, alive with trees and wildlife, take you past cliffs where you can see seemingly forever out to the deep ocean. With only one life, can I afford to miss the scenic route? More specifically, can I afford to miss the route set aside for me by God, only because I prefer the simple A to B, without hills and valleys, cliffs or towering rock formations? We love to drive past those magnificent pieces of earth, in awe of their beauty and depth, but so resist becoming such a creation.
Three winters later, Lord, let me stay the course, with renewed determination to do it Your way, hills, valleys, cliffs and all.

Man on a mission

2008-09-26T20:26:00.000-07:00

Though it looked daunting a few weeks back, this has been an amazing start to a fall. What with 75 degree days, pure, crisp breeze in the morning and calm, whispering evenings filled with crickets, there has been much to be grateful for.

Tonight before dinner Phil took a walk down to the water (an old, overgrown bridge with a weensie stream flowing beneath) with Ryan. I caught them on their way back. I had carried David out there, hoping to just take a minute to snap a picture of the wonderful Fall evening (hence the stocking-feet). Alas, I should have known better. Now that the 1year- old can walk, that is all he wants to do. That and climb. But this walking, its a must. My once calm, boy, content to sit in a wagon and watch the world go by as the family gardened, has all at once realized that this world he has been observing? He can be a part of it! He can touch, taste, smell, throw, tug, build, explore and oh, my, does he have a fervor for it. Now, he is constantly trying to crane his neck this way and that, arch his body in just the right way, so "Mom will stop this whole "carrying" nonsense and let me free already!"

And, I realized that though I mentioned he learned to toddle around while mom was here, I have not shared any videos of the little guy. As we pass this new milestone...a vivid and vibrant one, I am once again struck with the amazing blessing these two kids are to me.

Notes on the video: Phil and Ryan caught a tiny snake on their way back to the house, and are discussing it behind me. When David isn't responding to me, he is watching his brother intently. That's pretty much the way it is around here. And...honestly...it feels quite comfortable, because I always made sure to keep my little sibling's full attention. Also, the road is the one directly in front of our house, headed to a grassy and impassable end. The opposite direction is three miles of twice-a-day-traveled road (we get mail). Don't worry, we don't let him run on normal streets. This one barely counts.

Attitude and the Home

2008-09-20T06:45:00.000-07:00

"How how HOW?" With two small children, an old farmhouse, piles of produce waiting for sterilized jars, and laundry that was beginning to take over the basement, I finally sat down exasperated in front of my friend Stephanie.
"I mean, I don't do my laundry by hand, I have never butchered a chicken for dinner, I have modern cleaning products, and I still feel like I am being buried in it all. How did those women make it work without going insane?"
"Well, they did have fewer clothes," she reasoned "but truly, I have no idea either."
Thus began my search. There had to be a way to make a home -my home, specifically, with all of its flaws and imperfections, feel like a real home- full of rejuvenation and comfort rather than a space filled with quicksand.
I still don't have it all figured out. Sorry. I know you were reading that thinking "Surely! She must have figured this out if she is writing about it!" But the reality is, homemaking is such a skill. I know it is one that can be honed, that much I have learned so far, but I have no corner on the market, no slick trick or new ideas. Truthfully, I have been trying to reclaim the old ideas, mostly because today's schedules and routines rarely involve washing dishes by hand, gathering eggs and watering cows, tending a garden or canning produce, things that would have been second nature, or at least quite well within the scope of a homemaker's duties in days past.
Not too far into this quest I came upon a piece in Cheryl Mendelson's Home Comforts book that has stuck with me, inspired me, and changed the way I think about my home. I wanted to share it with you:

"Unfortunately, what a traditional woman did that made her home warm and
alive was not dusting and laundry. Someone can be hired to do those things (to
some extent, anyway). Her real secret was that she identified herself with her
home. Of course, this did not always turn out well. A controlling woman might
make her home suffocating. A perfectionist's home might be chilly and
forbidding. But it is more illuminating to think about what happened when things
went right. Then her affection was in the soft sofa cushions, clean linens and
good meals; her memory in well-stocked storeroom cabinets and the pantry; her
intelligence in the order and healthfulness of her home, her good humor in its
light and air. She lived her life not only through her own body, but through the
house as an extension of her body...."

As I walk into this fall season, the season where we return indoors, settle down,
fill the home with sweet scents of baking and the warmth of cozy fires, I want
to remember this attitude. That I love my kids not just by sitting and playing with
them, though that does play a part. Rather, I show my family love by how I care for
them. Preparing food, washing clothes and dusting does not detract from my ability to be a good mom and wife, but instead shows them in new and tangible ways just how important they are to me.
Winter preparation, then, by means of canning, storing up wood, and tightening windows is less about a laundry list of items to accomplish and more about the idea that I am preparing a place to love my family through the cold, forbidding months ahead.
By the way, Home Comforts is full of encouraging tidbits, as well as detailed information about caring for your home- A home reference I heartily recommend.

Home

2008-09-18T18:37:00.001-07:00

"Do you miss grandma?"
"Yah."
"Me too. Thanks for staying here with me."
"Your welcome."
"I would have missed you."
"I would have missed you, too."

Without my intention and truly, without noticing along the way, this blog has become a story of God’s faithfulness to His people. Our red sea. Our manna. Our five loaves and two fish. This journey to Iowa has not been easy. There is beauty, surely. Serenity and peace in fields of whispering corn and rest for the weary soul in the sweet breeze across the land. And by contrast, there is hardship. Harsh winds, bitter cold.
And longing.
I miss my family. I miss my mom. She left today after staying a wonderful week with us. What a beautiful time we had- watching David learn to walk, watching Ryan cling to her and inform me that he was, in fact, going home with Grandma and in no way going to stay with me. (After one particular tickle-torture session I demanded of him “Say ‘I love you mom! I will stay!’” With a shriek of laughter he yelled back “I love you mom! Goodbye!”) Her encouragement, laughter, and her piece in our daily lives will sorely missed. But, she is needed at home. I haven’t asked, but I am sure dad would be unwilling to trade her for a steady supply of cinnamon rolls. Hmm…(*strums fingers together contemplatively*)
I know many of you wonder from time to time why we would stay here, surrounded by all of these trials and so far from people we hold so dear. If I could write you one sentence for that answer, believe me, I would. I suppose that’s why I avoid the difficult discussions here. It’s easy to show the trials, much more difficult to explain faithfulness as it relates to our lives. God is faithful to us. I can’t say it’s an easy journey. I can’t say I understand His purpose or even His will with all of this. But I cling to the knowledge that He knows when even a small sparrow falls. He watches over the lilies of the fields and clothes them in great splendor. How much more valuable are we than a weensie bird?
In all of our trials, all of our discouragements and ups and downs, He has walked so faithfully with us. No, nothing has been perfect. Laughably opposite, in fact. But I know my job is not to be comfortable, but only to be faithful back- with each step, with each breath- walking straight ahead whether I am terrified or at peace, onward, onward.
I sat across from mom at lunch, discouraged, sad. I missed her already and she wasn’t even gone. This, I have come to learn, is an emotion directly related to the distance between us. And then, I looked at each of my boys, one by one. David scrunched up his face, smiling with his entire being. He let out a shriek and then a giggle. And Ryan sat politely, eating ice cream and refusing the bite offered by Grandma, because “I have my own, right here. No thank you.” And all of the sudden this amazing feeling of love for those two boys ran through my veins. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
Love can be so painful. When it’s far away. When it’s gone. When it’s wrapped up in someone who is making bad choices. But would you trade it? Could you? Is not the entire fabric of life weaved of love?
“When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You who know my way." Psalm 142:3

Fence, Fence, Wherefore art Thou Fence?

2008-09-16T05:46:00.001-07:00

Last weekend, according to our non-systematic winter-prep plan, we worked on fencing. Yes, fencing. In our grand plans, fencing solves two major areas of frustration for us: Animal control and snow drift management.

--------LATE MAY---------

"Mom…the cows are out of the fence."

"Mmmhmm" I respond distractedly from the kitchen.

"Cows! Go BACK to your fence!" Ryan has pushed open the front door,
poked his head through and is demanding the stray bovines return to their
rightful location.

"COWS? Where???" The situation finally sinks in, and I run to my front
window. The two cows, normally corralled behind the fence in the pasture (and I
use the term fence loosely here) were now traipsing throughout my front
flowerbeds, munching and, well, doing another inappropriate things cows do.
Wherever they please. Because they don’t realize that cowpies don’t belong on
the driveway, or truly, in any other well-trodden area for that matter.

Drying my hands on the towel I had grabbed in my haste to the window, I
panic. WHAT am I going to do? These cows, though small and quite
docile, are still cows. They don’t exactly follow me like our bossy
pet sheep, and I cannot simply walk back to the pasture with them patiently
following. And husband? In route between Washington and Iowa, cell-phone-less and
quite unavailable for aid in this endeavor to corral said bovines. Don't forget
the two boys- not old enough to manage themselves alone.

Think think think. I watch as they head to another flower bed. Plop.
"Ahh! Stop that!" I lose composure momentarily.
I don't have time to think! Wait, what did Mike say? Cows like
apples- that's right- he collects dropped apples from a friend to give to his "girls". I rush to the fridge- one apple-check. Maybe they will also like other
things, like fresh asparagus- yes, possibly! Worth a shot, no? I reason these
things to myself while fastening on my boots, Ryan's boots, and coats for the
two boys. I hoist David to my hip, and hand Ryan the apple. I explain my plan to
Ryan, who heads out with determination.

"HERE! Cows! EAT THIS APPLE!!!" He charges toward the cows with determination and glee.

The cows, however, do not return this glee. Nor do they show the slightest
bit of interest beyond that of getting as far away from the small human as
possible. Unfortunately for me, their flee-ing did not take them toward their
pasture. Rather, they cared much less about what direction they headed, the only
criterion being that it was away from me- toting the smallest human, and the
skipping, loud larger one walking with us.

For half an hour we continue an awkward dance of sorts with our cows. Two
steps left, turn, gallop, turn, swoop. Plop. Plop. David, nearly 20 pounds, is
starting to get heavy. Ryan, as energetic as he is, is torn between
being exasperated with the cows and the thrill of the hunt. The
cows don't want fresh asparagus, apples, hand-held grass or any other sort of
thing we have to offer. I have tried luring, cajoling, sweet talking, demanding,
and at this point, I am simply tired.

When he returns, I tell myself, we will be fixing this
fence! But that was the thing- I couldn't even see where they got out. It
looked quite intact, and it sunk in that even if I were able to conjure up a way
to return the cows to their rightful location, they had a way to simply escape
that I couldn't see, let alone fix.

Failure, however, was not an option. The freshly sprouted cornfields
surrounding our house were prime munching ground, and if the cows wandered that
way and realized the goldmine they had at their hoof-tips, I would have a whole
new set of worries on my hands.

I both wished a person would happen by and dreaded it, longing for another set of able hands yet knowing how rediculously dressed I was, baby on hip, chasing cows with apples and asparagus spears.

It was late by this point, so I stuck my tongue out at the cows, stomped inside, and hurriedly lay the boys down to bed. David, worn out from the excitement, was quickly asleep and Ryan was not far behind him. With both hands free I returned outside with renewed determination. I grabbed a bucket and filled it with
oats- the only grain I had on hand. In my other hand I held a rope
with a slip knot I had seen Phil use when he moved them once.

I sauntered up to the skitterish animals, and they munched grass, eyeing me with curiosity.

"That's right guys...look at this YUMMY food..." I crooned. "Why don't you
come see how good it tastes? There's no harm in a taste, right?" The light brown
one brought up his head, and to my delight started walking toward me. "That's
right...here, have a taste" calmly, as sweetly as I could muster for two ornery
cows, I lowered the bucket so the first one could take a few mouthfulls of
grain. As soon as his head was lowered and he was in range, I slipped the noose
over his head, carefully, quietly. Then, I lifted the bucket. He walked a bit
after the grain, but decided he didn't like my direction. "ho ho! I have you
now, cow!" Clearly, I and my rope had gained the advantage. With exhaustion my
inhibitions fell to the wayside and I leaned toward the pasture with all of my
might. Maybe he realized that you just shouldn't mess with a mom who's tired, or
maybe he just wanted some more oats, but at this point he just gave in. He
walked dutifully behind me to the pasture gate. I swung it open and led him
inside.

Now, Mike always says you have to be smarter than the cows. As I have learned with both chickens and sheep, this is true with most animals. The wisdom and ways you may think are going to work will normally fail. You can rarely chase animals in the direction you want them to go. Herding works with some, bribing with others. Slowly but surely I have begun to "understand" the
different species in our petting zoo. These cows? They like to be together. If one gets out and the other is in, OH my, do we get an earful. Also? There is a leader, and the other one will almost always follow behind him (if you take the follower, the leader could care less, for some reason). Thankfully for me, the
one I had captured was the head honcho of the twosome, and the second cow, upon seeing that there was Food! To be had! That might be good! sauntered along behind him, right into the pasture.

Ahahahaha! VICTORY! I closed the gate and walked the fence line, still unable to detect how they had escaped in the first place. But, it was late, and I knew it would at least be morning until they would try another Houdini. I went inside and called one of my farmer friends- "I need help. Can you come check my fence tomorrow morning?"

"Sure, what's going on??"

Ahh, community.
---------------------------
Since then, we have pounded down poles, replaced gates, moved various animals to different areas, and put up for a number of months with "free range sheep", as Neighbor Mike warily calls them. With harvest coming, and winter not too far behind it, a solid fence will be quite necessary. We have mostly wire fencing, but noticed that wood fencing has a dual purpose in that it also works to capture and direct snow. So, in phase two of our fencing project, we will be extending our windbreak and directing the snow that comes in a new and specific way using wood fencing.
Last weekend we built a gate and four sections of fence, fixing the makeshift enclosure and turning it into a fence a normal farmer would even appreciate. I say we...but truly I was mostly food-lady, kid-manager, and conversationalist. The only actual work I got to do was remove nails from some of the recycled lumber we used. I think it turned out nicely. And, the thought of not having to chase animals around the property with a baby on my hip? Priceless.

What I meant to say was...

2008-09-16T05:46:00.000-07:00

The comments from yesterday's post made me want to clarify a few things. First, we are OK. Thinking back over the past winter is truly a terrifying process, but it is also important to remember that we did make it. Spring did eventually come, and the snow did finally melt. While some of our hardships were flukes, most of them will be avoidable this year with proper planning and preparation. Thank goodness!

Secondly, I realized that I have been including only the positive here for awhile. Times where I am the most stressed, the most down, I write the least- partly out of self-preservation, partly because it's no fun to read when people are having a rough time. Whatever the reason, I also realized I am simply not being honest with the entire picture of a move like this, and it cheapens the story.

A quiet, absolutely soul-renewing Christmas makes much more sense when contrasted with the harsh realities of our winter last year. (Or a nice hot shower sounds mundane until it is written in the context of trenching a 200 foot water line by machine, and then by hand.) Too often I leave out the bad, the ugly, the strenuous, and it leaves the picture half-painted. Pretty pinks, blues, and bright shades of green might be pleasant, but if you add the shadows it becomes poignant, vibrant, and true. In short, my attempt to bring you into the fold, as it were, is not an attempt to scare you, frustrate you, or even make you sad...(although given your relation to me and my family, you may feel any of those regardless of my intent). Rather, my goal is to flesh out the story in full, so that you might appreciate the amazing blessings that come our way as deeply as we do.
Lastly, I realized that my comment about being jealous of the grasshoppers might have come off wrong. I have edited it to be more accurate. The truth is, I spend quite a bit of energy fighting my own desire to escape from work like this. It can be tedious, and there are things I would much rather be doing. However, when winter comes, I know I will be so thankful for those long days spent canning, or those weekends in the shop fixing windows. I don't hold it against anyone that they have a less...strenuous life in certain aspects. I am thankful that most of you don't fight the elements like we do, oh so thankful. I am clearly aware that we are the crazy people who chose to live in the 1925 farmhouse, raise animals, and install a corn burner. And never do I sit and think "oh, look at those people enjoying life! How dare they!" However, I do spend time talking myself out of "running to the big town" or even taking a fall trip home versus putting those time and money resources into winter preparation. Those are the real battles I struggle with (because my grasshopper side says "It's warm now! Live it up! Think, Starbucks!!!")
And now, those clarifications aside, the rest of the story....

On being ants...

2008-09-04T19:47:00.001-07:00

Last winter was hard.
If we had any romantic delusions of what an Iowan winter could be, this past winter shook those right out of us.
Recalling it now, I am little but somber, solemn, and terrified. At the risk of sounding "I-used-to-walk-10-miles-in-the-snow-both-ways-uphill-barefoot," here is a small list I compiled of the challenges we faced just this past winter.

We started off the winter with a pre-Thanksgiving ice storm that left us with two inches of ice coating everything. Then came snow, snow, and more snow. Not until March did we have above freezing temperatures. I shudder now just thinking about it.
Being that we had animals, we carried 5-gallon buckets of water out to them each day over snow drifts so hard that you could walk on top of them (you, plus the 10 gallons of water). They were so tall, though, that if you fell through you would have been up to your chest in snow.
If you'll recall, we changed our furnace to a corn-burning stove. This was great for economy, but we had no storage in the house for such grain, and therefore used those same five-gallon buckets and carried nearly 700 of them through snow, into the house, and down the stairs to the basement.
Twice the gate on the corn bin froze shut, meaning that the house grew cold until Phil carefully warmed the door enough with a torch to slide it open.
We learned where our snow drifts on the property...right through the pile of stored wood we had lined up. Phil spent entire afternoons chipping at the mini-mountain with a pick-ax and a shovel.
Also, he had been working as a carpenter, but they had no inside work last winter. The early ice scratched out roofing and siding as a possibility, and you would be hard-pressed to find a homeowner wanting a window installed when its 15 below freezing outside.
Wait. I can't forget about the water main that froze under the ground a month before thaw. We spent a few days carrying buckets to the house, and then, when it was warm enough, we stretched a hose between the well and the house, leaving a small drip running at all times so it wouldn't freeze.
Each month we would cling to "oh, it's already , surely winter is just nearly over!" We crawled through February, shivered through March, took out a pair of shorts in early April and re-stored them later that month. May was chilly, wet, and stormy. And then, with June, came floods. Needless to say, it chilled us so long, and so deeply, that this spring and summer have been nearly exclusively geared toward preparing for the upcoming winter.

Growing up, the thought of preparing for winter meant "Get Excited About Your Christmas List!" or "Pray for snow!!!" And up until this year we have just about stumble-tumbled into winter here, as well. Sure, we bought fuel and such, but there was little else that went into the thoughts of routine and rhythm when it came to the seasons.

Not to be outdone, in March, three months before we would be able to plant our garden, we sat down and made a battle plan. Water, windows, wood, corn, doors, clothing, animals, roof, shop heat, and food were all discussed in detail. This new preparation seems both daunting and actually, a bit exhilarating. I know, I know, don't worry, it's not the overdose of coffee. Hear me out.

One of my favorite things to do before a storm is batten down the hatches. Warily eyeing the looming thunderheads, we pick up the toys, secure the machine shed, shut windows, put the animals inside. You spend that bit of time running around, always eyeing the clouds, wondering if you have another minute to pull that piece of equipment into the shed or if you should just head in because that thunder is starting to rumble a bit louder now. Its the imminence of the storm that brings it all into focus- a clear purpose.

And then it comes. Loud crashes, rain. Lightning. And we sit inside, watching the intensity of the storm with awe -just being so thankful for the protection of a strong and sturdy home. (When we first moved here, we would pop popcorn to watch a storm. They are that neat.) But, of course, the storm is only that delightful to watch because we spent the time preparing for it. If we were worried a door might blow off the machine shed and fly into one of our friend's campers, then it would likely invoke an entirely different emotion. And as a result, that process of preparation has become satisfying to me on a level that's hard to explain.

In the same way, preparing for winter can be the same thing. Sure, caulking windows isn't the most delightful job in the world, but we are going to war here! And, whether I like it or not, when one is battling the elements, attention to detail counts. When the fury of winter descends upon us this year, I want to be warm, cozy, curled up next to the wood-fire with my boys and a book...drinking hot ~~cocoa~~ coffee with pumpkin spice creamer. And that thought alone keeps me quite motivated to push through, squelching my inner grasshopper. Coffee, I tell myself. Remember the coffee. And the creamer. (This rationale most always works for a Seattle-ite at heart.)
So, that is where I have been lately. Battening down the hatches. The first few chilly evenings have come, meaning that I am just that much more aware that the enemy is nigh over the hill...

The wording's a bit off, but the sentiment is still there.

2008-08-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite childhood memories is the one where my dad, exasperated with my younger sister, decided to "switch roles" with her one evening at dinner. Therefore, instead of seeing my little unruly sister squirm, wiggle, put her legs on the chair, her feet on the table, her elbows in her supper, it was instead my father, who is 6'4". You can imagine the delighted squeals of young girls as they watched this normally quite stoic, proper dad exaggerate the common inappropriate actions of a 6 year old.

I don't know if it accomplished his goal, but I am sure it helped us realize how ridiculous we looked to our parents at times. (I think we got to play the parents, too, so there was a fair amount of scolding going on as well.)

Anyhow, off and on I repeat this at times with my own three year old. This morning, for instance, he came downstairs and informed me that he was going to take ONE MORE nap before he went outside with me. I dramatically laid down on the couch, squishing his legs, and explained in an exasperated tone that I, too, needed a nap.

But almost immediately I began to squirm. Kick my legs in circles, lift my head up and down, and sing songs loudly. Each of these antics was met with "You stop that!" or "Lay down now!" Also? We are at the "why" stage, where each of my statements, questions, or directives is met with "Why?" So, of course I had to throw a couple of these in there.

"Put your leg down!"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to do that!"

This went on for a number of minutes until I informed him that I simply could not sleep.

This was the last straw.
"No, we have to TAKE a NAP."
"Why?"
"Because God said we always take a nap!"

Now, I have never used this reasoning with him, but I think I am going to start.
-----------------------
We had another loud, jarring thunderstorm in the middle of the night a few days ago. Although neither Phil nor I act afraid during these storms (although admittedly my stomach sometimes does turn flip-flops during the closest lightning strikes) Ryan absolutely abhors storms. He talks about them constantly "Is it going to storm tonight?" or "Do you see that cloud over there? It looks like rain!"
So, when this huge storm hit as we were going to bed that night, Ryan was quite concerned. After much comforting and coercion, he finally went to sleep. The thunder had died down and he was exhausted from the worry of it all.
The next morning at breakfast, I started up a casual conversation with him about it.
"So, that was quite a storm last night, eh?"
"Yeah mom! It was a big one! A big TOMATO* storm!"

Did you know Iowa has tomato storms? Because if so, I would be happy. My tomato plants wilted so badly that I had to pull the plants after only two batches of salsa. This, compared to last year, when we picked tomatoes for more than 52 quarts of whole tomatoes, three batches of salsa, and one dryer full (for dried tomatoes). Thankfully, the bumper crop of tomatoes last year will more than sustain us one more year. If it's one thing I am learning about gardening and canning, it's that you take it when you get it. You never know what the next year will hold...draught, floods, late frosts.
Now, if there happened to be chocolate storms, that might even be a bit better. That's the stuff of dreams, right there.
*(I suppose he meant tornado, but don't worry grandma's, there were no funnel clouds).

David Turns One!

2008-08-01T05:34:00.001-07:00

This past weekend we decided it was time to finish Chicken Palace. What with its recycled wood exterior, partially completed (also recycled) roof and weedy, fenced-in run, we knew visitors questioned whether it was coming down or going up. Oh! I can't wait for you to see it now. (Pins and needles, I know!)

Up to the roof went Phil to finish framing in for steel, while Ryan and I worked on weeding and clearing out the run. David, being still an Infant, took the coveted "observer" position.

See, before his birthday yesterday, which officially made him a "toddler" he was exempt from arduous farm duties.

While his brother was made to pull weeds (unimaginably tall, stalky weeds requiring the entire force of his body), David sat back and made faces at him.

Oh, he would probably say they were "grins" or "smiles" but we older siblings clearly recognize a mocking laugh when we see one.

And when he felt he needed a little rest, he just lay back, unconcerned with the duties of those around him.
In fact, he did this little "lay down, get up" move quite a few times, alternating it with a giggle to his brother. Ryan, on the other side excitedly pointed to him "Maahm! Lookit David! He's bein' silly!" But mom, a seasoned older sibling, knew the truth.

And as I worked with my older son, cooing at my younger one on the other side of the fence, I thought to myself "live it up kid. A few more days and blammo! You will be a toddler. And you know what that means...chores!"

Oh, my sweet boy- now that you are a bonafide toddler, you have no idea the world that awaits you.

*Disclaimer: Even though we live on a farm, we wait until the kids are at least walking to assign chores. Although we have thought of making a sort of pack** for him to cart around things without the use of his hands.

**Don't worry grandma's, I'm just kidding. Truly. We have a three year old to do all of our packing.

Less than picture perfect

2008-08-01T05:34:00.000-07:00

Dear Kristina,
In a previous post, you asked me to share pictures of my garden. The garden you poured sweat and blood into while turning it from sod into workable ground.
This is an extremely reasonable request, and while I would be happy to oblige you, there is a problem.
See, ~~my dog ate it~~ ~~monster aliens from outerspace descended and took the whole garden~~ ~~it is embarrassingly infested with weeds~~ it is less than pristinely weeded right now. Its ugly, ok?? While I dream of beautiful, flower and vegetable filled gardens, the reality of my garden is much more hodge-podge and helter-skelter and weedy than my dreams. Alas, packets of seeds were "planted" by my son in strange areas and there are now tufts of errant pea plants here and there in the carrot patch. The carrot patch itself so sparsely sprouted that it looks as if it hs undergone chemo. My poor tomatoes, while off to a vigorous start a month ago, have wilted and as Ryan puts it, become "so sad". Sadie took a nap in my onion patch. In short, I would no more show you an overall picture of my garden than say, an overall picture of my kitchen after canning these peaches. Peaches: Pretty. Kitchen: Scary.
This is not to say that my garden is without beauty. There are bright spots. The zucchini, as you can see in this picture, are faring quite well. The cucumbers started flowering this week, and the green beans and peppers would make any gardener proud. My garden, one might say, has a special, inner beauty. And it will make wonderful food. Which I will also share through pictures. As a consolation, here are pictures of your extremely dirty nephews after a few hours of playing in the garden. Personally, I think it takes talent to smear dirt in so many places. But, that's just me. I'm a girl, and I don't always understand these things.

Love,

Your Sister

----------------------------------------------

Yesterday I was making dinner on the grill and looked out for my eldest charge. It took awhile to spot him because instead of running around with Sadie, picking tomatoes or raspberries, riding his bicycle, getting the mail or gathering eggs, he was simply sitting in the shade of a tree.

I noted his lack of motion and kept an eye on him for a few more moments. You don't realize what kind of constant motion they are in until they stop. Even a few moments throws me off guard. When I could no longer contain myself, I called out to him. He said he was "just sittin' and thinkin'."

How 'bout that? Old enough to ponder life, listen to the birds and enjoy a mid-summer breeze. And immediately it made me wonder what on earth a three year old has to ponder.

He sat there, silent, for maybe five minutes before deciding he would go pick some raspberries to share with us for dinner. Of course none of us ever saw these raspberries. I understand, though. Sometimes I think I am going to make cookies for the whole family, and instead I make a bowl of dough for myself.

*note Sadie in the background, never far from Ryan when he is outside. Probably both for companionship as well as protection.

Boys vs. Girls

2008-07-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

Today we spent the day canning peaches. I only bought two "lugs" of them this year, although I might have to go back for another box. We have four of us now, and I don't know if 22 quarts of peaches is truly going to last us an entire year.
Off and on Ryan's job in the canning process was to put 6 peaches into a bowl that were then put in the boiling water to loosen the skins. At one point about halfway through the day he took to a peach.
When I say "took to a peach" I mean, he started calling it his baby, rolling it up in his shirt, putting it down for naps, etc. He told me at one point he was going to go get the mail. I asked him to leave his "baby peach" in the kitchen while he went outside.
"Weeeelll, I think he wants to come with me."
"Maybe he just needs a nap, Ryan."
"No. He's NOT tired." (just so you know mom, Peaches only take three naps a day, not more!)
I started to get worried. A few minutes of fun banter is all well and good, but I didn't need him coming up with some attachment to such a volatile fruit. I mean, at least an apple would last a few days in a bed made of towels! A peach?? No chance. I envisioned swarms of fruit flies overtaking our home, or else a sobbing, writhing child wondering why I was slicing his baby up and STICKING IT IN A JAR!
Just as I am going through all of these awful scenarios in my head, Ryan looks up at me.
"Mom?"
"mmm?"
"Can we eat my baby all up?"
And at this moment I was both relieved and...a bit concerned.

To those who wait...

2008-07-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

In this day and age where quick results are the norm, a garden still unwaveringly demands patience. A seed still must germinate and sprout, and a plant must still grow two leaves before it grows twenty. Still, there must be a flower before there is fruit, and that fruit must ripen before it is ready to be enjoyed.

Patience is one thing that I am still working on learning. I realized just how deficient I was in this area when I found myself resisting putting seeds in the ground. Because do you know how LONG you have to wait to get food from that seed? Might as well just buy everything and have it right now. And if for only this reason I am thankful that I have my garden, because I am learning right along with Ryan that good things really do come to those who wait. I see him eyeing those pink tomatoes…and I encourage him "just wait another day or two, they will be much yummier (it’s a technical term)” Sometimes, he is strong. Other times, the plant will be completely stripped of any tomato with the faintest blush.

Seeds are really quite incredible. For those of you who grew up gardening, or truly who have ever gardened, you know what I am talking about. But one day I would love to actually take a picture of something like a zucchini seed through its stages. Talk about a prolific seed! In our first Iowan garden, Phil encouraged me to plant 5 large hills of zucchini. Apparently he was planning on feeding the entire eastern half of the county with zucchini fricassee. With ~~nightmares~~ pleasant recollections of that garden, this year, I planted only one hill. I eyed those tiny sproutlings warily- will you truly amount to much? Maybe I should have planted two hills this year, I need to replenish my supply of relish…Today I looked out my office window and lo and behold, the plant is enormous! Overnight it grew from a wimpy, spindly Olive Oyl to a regular Bluto.

Patience, I tell you, is something to strive for. Also, perseverance. This, ironically, can be learned through dealing with garden produce.

Brotherly Love

2008-07-19T05:43:00.001-07:00

If I were to pick a recurrent event to consider my favorite of each day, it would be the moment my oldest son wakes up. David, almost a year old now, is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6am most days. His older counterpart, however, still likes a healthy 8am. Bleary and coffee-laden I spend the quiet morning hours with the One Who Cannot Yet Speak, checking email, building block towers for him to tear down, etc.

Around 8am we hear thumpthumpthumpthump and immediately David leaps/squeals/laughs and zooms toward the door of the stairs.

Ryan, who has taken his time upstairs usually comes down completely dressed in mismatched and backwards clothing (which is especially charming when the shirt has a collar), starts talking animatedly. Take this morning for instance:

"Good Moooorning!"
*insert David squeak*
"I hadda good dreeeem mom!"
"Oh really? What was your dream about?"
*insert squawk*
"Um, I dunno...YOU didn't havva good dream!"
"I didn't? Hmm. Do you remember what your dream was about?"
"A...a bible. And then I stopped dreamin'."

At this point David can hardly contain himself and starts to laugh and jump at the door. A bonafide Good Morning if ever I saw one.

Its the time of day that everyone is most rested, on their best behavior, and happy.
It lasts minutes. And I love it.

Because through the rest of the day there will be spells of screaming, grabbing, crying, laughing, biting, yelling, and scolding. And this little respite each morning reminds me why siblings are truly such a blessing. Like the ebb and flow of lifelong relationships, good times and bad times come. Long after we, their parents, are gone, God willing they will use the foundations they are building now to give each other strength to fight the good fight, encouragement through trials, and laughter reminiscing of events that only family can provide.

And maybe I am a bit more excited about it because I am lucky enough to have one such sibling. Even if she was the biter in the family. It was her, I swear.

Hello? Tap Tap...This Thing On?

2008-07-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness.

Did you know that it has been SINCE MAY 22nd since I have updated you all on everything back here? There is so much to update you all on, and truly, I might just have forgotten everything but the last day or two worth of information. I swear, those brain cells never fully return from pregnancy. (Sorry Tif and Emily...it's the sad, sad truth.)

SO I am not going to try and give the complete all-inclusive run down. I am going to just start with this.

1. We did not blow away in the tornadoes that swept across Iowa, although we know many people who had family who were affected (i.e. lost homes, etc.) Parkersburg is about an hour and a half north of us, and though we have never been there, the tragedy sent ripples through our communities as well.

2. We did not float away in the floods. The flooding here this year was...incredible. Thousands of acres underwater- whole fields that should have been corn or beans looked like lakes and ponds. And that was in the areas least affected. Levies broke, water supplies were threatened, and again, people lost homes. We knew people with six feet of water in their basement and quite a few farmers with cropland that will be considered a loss this year. The rain has lifted, hay has been cut, and many fields, thanks to the record high prices of corn and beans, have been re-planted. Though wounded, I believe many are starting to come through it all.

It has been so cool here that it still feels like spring. Which is good, because it still felt like winter through April. I was three months behind getting my garden in, and only two days ago did we savor the first red tomato of the season.

So, there is more to share, but I will start with this:

Phil has been working on this pony cart for quite awhile now. He started with a falling-apart shell of a Doctor's Buggy that was used many, many years ago. The dashboard was mere shreds, the boards were rotting and coming apart. He stripped everything off, sandblasted the metal and painted it black, and started to design and build what you see above.

I can't explain how neat I think this thing is. Let's just say that while most of you know I don't favor the idea of more animals running about our property, this cart made me long for a pony. The curved back and sides, the black-lacquer varnish, the cherry finish, the hand turned spindles and the delicate style of the cart make me swoon. I know. Strange. But truly, it was just beautiful.

None of my pictures do the curved wood justice- the sides and the back of the cart are curved (these pieces of wood sat in vices for months acquiring their new shape).

The back has a door with storage underneath for a nice picnic blanket or whatnot. Now, I know I am his wife and all, but I think that this move alone sold me on the pony cart. A place to stash my stuff! What more could a girl ask for?

Two weeks ago we delivered this cart to its owners, who (we think) were pretty happy to have it. I can't wait to see it hooked up to their pony.

You know, I have no eye for process. I can look at a board, Phil can explain to me what it is going to "do" in a piece, and still, I'm lost. Its not until he starts to piece it together that I really get the whole picture. And truly, its not until it is stained, painted, and assembled do I really understand why each part was so essential. Maybe this is why I am so bad at chess. But Phil- he sees each tiny element, how it will fall in to place, its structure and how it will add or detract from overall function and beauty way before the piece is ever cut. I think it is that same brain structure that affords him the ability to re-do our plumbing from scratch. And beat me at chess. Amazing, it is. And now that its finished, he will be sleeping for the next two months.

Ok, not really. But I bet he wishes he could.

So, there you have it. Post one of hopefully quite a few more updates on the goings-on out here in the stalks.

I'm Not Biased

2008-05-22T06:26:00.004-07:00

I am sure it's not because I am her Aunt. No, this has got to be one of the cutest videos ever. The drama at the beginning, the mischief at the end...we laughed, we cried...well, we didn't cry. But we did laugh.
Chloe Crawling

Interlude for the Boys

2008-05-22T06:26:00.002-07:00

A bedtime prayer:

Dear Lord,

Thank you for, um, hotdogs...

And thank you for macaroni on top of the hotdogs...

And thank you for hotdogs.

Amen.

------------------------------

"Aw, don't discourage him, honey." My husband gently admonishes me for my loud and over-the-top girly disgust at the sight of a worm in freshly turned dirt. Still one of the many holdovers that I simply have not let go of yet- My name is Tracy and I'm creeped out by creepy-crawlies.

But I know that I shouldn't outwardly oppose such things of nature, lest my son become a ninny. And, growing up around other farm kids, a startled shriek and side-step away from the offending three-inch long earthworm would surely raise a few eyebrows. So, I let go of the theatrics for a moment.

"Oh, Ryan, that IS cool! Look at how he's squiggling around! What does a worm eat?"

"Um, grass."

"Hmm, I think he likes dirt."

"Um. No, I 'hink he likes GRASS."

Seeing that I am clearly outwitted, I let him have this one.

"Pretty neat, huh."

"Dad, can I touch him?"

His father lights up immediately. "Sure you can. Just pick him up...yup, like that. Ok, now put him back, he doesn't do well outside of the ground for very long."

*insert wild shriek of delight via three-year-old

"Ok, now put him back..."

"LOOKIT MOM! YOU SEE HOW HE'S A-WIGGILIN'?" Clearly ignoring his father's coaxing.

And thus began his delight with all things gross. At the tender age of three. And all I can think is, worms will be cool for awhile...then we'll move on...to watering plants or gathering eggs or something. Something that doesn't involve things I find slightly objectionable wriggling within inches of my nose.

Two days later:

"Mom. Look. Look, mom. Do you see it? A little baby frog!"

Intent on my weeding project, this comment barely registers with me. One of a thousand sentences throughout the day. I do a quick glance to his hand, seeing a worm dangling from two fingers.

"That's a worm, babe."

"No, look at it's EYES mom! It's a tiny frog!"

And then, then I see his other hand, wrapped tightly around a little toad. Only it's head is visible, eyes bulging from the sides, and I can hear his little toady voice pleading "he's suffocating me!"

I leap from my weeding job with a quick "stay there!" and run in to get Dad, who is decidedly not creeped out by amphibians.

"Um, can you come up here, please?"

He knows it's important because I am pulling him away from plumbing. And that doesn't happen on a whim these days.

"I just want you to know that this is your fault," I start before he's even up the stairs. "And the first time I pull a frog out of a pair of pants in the laundry..."

And the boys spent the next twenty minutes learning how to properly hold baby frogs without making their eyes bulge from their heads. And I sat, paralyzed with fear, thinking of squirming laundry piles, wishing I would have just kept up the grossed-out theatrics. Because now that insects and worms and frogs are COOL, I am sure to be seeing a lot more of them, close up and personal-like.

--------------------

And David! Nine-month old David has four upper teeth now, giving him a new total of six teeth. Also? He is crawling, which in the country and in the middle of an outdoor trenching job just means that he can make his way off the safe, clean blanket and into the black soil quickly enough to get a nice snack before mom catches him.

But truly, how neat it is to watch him roam around. He is pulling himself up now, so the morning squeals are accompanied by a delighted bouncing baby in the crib. He is quite pleased with himself.

--------------------

I love spring for the warmth. For the lack of frostbite. For running around in bare feet and hanging laundry on the line. The writers of that Christmas song had it all wrong. While winter can be nice, I can assure you that (cue mental tune) the Most Wonderful Tiiiiime of the Year is definitely spring. Spring with no heating bills. Spring with Asparagus. Spring with babies everywhere. Spring...oh delightful, non-horrible spring! We have waited for you for so, so long. And even through all of this daunting/tiring/exhausting/trying plumbing work, I can't help but wake up to sunshine-filled mornings, breathe in the sweet, warm air and be so, so thankful that I have these two kids. And the husband. He's pretty neat, too. Even if he does touch worms.

Big Hank and Grit

2008-05-19T10:07:00.001-07:00

I'm here.
But I'm weary.
And oh, the hill we have to climb this week!
-------------------------
Staying at our house was once likened to a camping trip. With a torn apart kitchen, an entirely un-usable second story, and water that was less than inviting, it was an understandable diagnosis.
Not exactly the relaxing getaway we had dreamed of for people.
-------------------------
For two and a half years we have been fighting our Water. So far, it has been "Grossmann's: 3, Water: 4". The gameplay has been fiesty, the Water throwing it's first pitch- a foul smell and taste. We fought back with a filter- point: Grossmann. Then! In a twist of events, Water burst pipes throughout the basement, requiring a complete re-plumbing of the first story. Point.
And so the battle began. Water is a dirty fighter, yes siree bob, it is. This last point was scored in the dead of winter, four months in, one and a half to go and BLAMMO! Water stopped dead in it's tracks. Burst and solid under three feet of frozen ground. Team Grossmann took a swing at the pitch, bringing in a Neighbor with a large backhoe.
Slick move, Team Grossmann.
Alas, Water's close friend Ice stood strong, making a mockery of the mammoth machine.
Grossmann waved the white flag, crying mercy for the remainder of winter. Using a hose above ground, they linked together the well and the house, allowing usable, unfiltered water for showers, dishes and laundry, allthewhile plotting their next move against Water.
And this weekend! This weekend Team Grossmann made their move. The family loaded in the New Old Red Truck, packed with sandwiches, cold lemonade and an ample supply of red vines, and pulled out of their driveway toward the nearest Big City.
Yes, they were headed out to rent a Ditch Witch. A trench machine capable of digging four feet into the black Iowan soil. "This," TG was overheard bragging pre-game, "will be our finest hour. Water will have a hard time winning after this move!"
Willfully ignoring the Universal Rules of Remodel (URR), (being 1. All projects must take at least twice as long as planned, and 2. Must cost at least three times as much.) the giddy family planned on trenching a line not only to the house, but also to their barn- working to avoid mid-winter chores carrying five-gallon buckets of water over frozen and snow-covered tundra.
But Water had big plans. Noting the strategy of the family, it devised a plan of resistance. No, Water was not going to go down without a fight.
More to come...
--------------------------
P:Ahh, now THAT looks useful! taking a long-handled tool from Mike
Neighbor Mike: This might have been used by Big Hank. he says, putting emphasis on the name, nearly begging for the question so he could tell the story.
T: Who's Big Hank?
M: Oh, he lived in town. He used to do tiling work by hand. Legend has it he would head out to a field, his 16 inch trenching shovel and a five gallon bucket of water. It would last him half the day.
T: Tiling by HAND? Don't they use huge machines for that now?
M: Yup. He would do three spade-depths. Two side-by side, then two right below that, then one last one beneath those. Half a mile into a field either direction.
T: What was the bucket for?
M: He would dig, lay a few tiles, take a few drops of water and put it on the tiles to make sure it would run the direction he wanted it to. Then, onto the next. He did it all his life.
-----------------------
Every time a trial like this hits us, and we are told of stories of those who have come before us, it reminds me of truly how easy we do have it now. Our nation was built on such grit, such hard work and honest ethic it's astounding. Our house is nothing to brag about, nothing to squeal over, surely not. But it is also no sod hut, no mud house, and we aren't farming 80 acres with a mule team. Or, trenching our entire water line by hand. Perspective can be some of the best medicine.

PB&J

2008-05-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Do you remember doing the listening activity in school where you are supposed to explain to someone how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? And often, the activity started with a loaf of bread in a plastic sack, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jam?
The poor "direction giver" would start with "Open the bag of bread."
Appropriately prepared for this task, the "listener" would grab the bag in two hands and rip it down the middle.
Because the direction was "open" not "grasp the twist-tie with one hand, the bag with the other, maneuver the tie off the sack so you can open the bag."
And the exercise would continue, with peals of laughter from onlookers, conjured looks of confusion from the participant, and increasing frustration from the direction giver.
This, friends, this is what it is like to live with a three year old.

In the Market?

2008-05-03T08:28:00.002-07:00

Real estate should be sold differently out here. Rather, I think it is sold differently out here, but that should have been stipulated on internet listings that can be viewed across the nation.

A house is just that. Four sides (or more, if you're a fancy house) a roof, water system (if you're lucky, apparently), floors, a kitchen. I'm sure you can see one in your head. A house is given its merit by the type of flooring, how many square feet lie between the walls, what type of curb appeal it has, its proximity to major highways, industry, grocery stores.

Before moving to this house, our understanding of "neighborhood" was someing completely different. Our neighbors were right next door. And my, did we have some wonderful neighbors. Sweet people who were encouraging and nice.

But the web of support that a neighborhood in Iowa provides is, well, quite remarkable. It should be listed as an asset on the sheet (or a liability, depending on your particular neighbors!). Beds:3, Bath:1.75, Sq.Feet: 2015, Neighbors:Excellent.

Sure, a safe neighborhood is nice. You don't want to worry about getting mugged on your way to the grocery store. But if that is not your immediate concern, then the type of people you will be surrounded with for the next number of years should be highly considered.

Because until we moved here, I had no idea the depth of support that a neighbor could provide.

This winter, one neighbor, on his birthday, brought over his grain wagon filled with 100 bushels of corn and parked it in our machine shed because we had run out of corn the day before. This same neighbor (without prompting) plowed our driveway after two notorious storms this winter.

Another neighbor hurried over when we had a feed truck stuck in our side-yard. Just, you know, dropped everything he was doing and spent a few hours helping me with a mid-day dilemma.

And who could forget Neighbor Mike, who did this, and this. And many more things that I have yet to list on this small internet space. Yesterday he drove his tractor over and ran a disc and a harrow over our "old" garden. Our HUGE garden that will now be made back into hay ground. I will explain that a bit more in later posts, but the important thing is that he spent the better part of an afternoon driving back and forth over this third of an acre, smoothing it out. Then, he and Phil spread pasture mix seed on the ground. When he was done, I brought him a few cookies and asked him what we could pay him for all of this work.

In his gruff manner he paused, tilted his head and said "Lady, you can't afford me." With that, he got back up on his tractor, waved goodbye to Ryan, gave Phil and I a nod, and headed back to his place, 4 miles West.

A friend recently asked me if we would consider moving to a different house in Iowa (like, one with fewer problems). When I thought about this later on, I realized how important this whole sense of community is to our survival out here. Our house is not just "4 bed, 1 bath, 1 torn up bath, one partially effective kitchen." It's also Within Tractor-Driving Distance of Farmer Mike. I've tried, but can't quite find a local house that stands up to that kind of competition.

Life With Three

2008-05-03T08:28:00.001-07:00

Me: "Com'ere Ryan, let me do your hair."
Ryan: "I hink I already had a haircut at Gramma's house, hun."
(Reader's notes: we don't quite have the "th" sound down yet, so Think becomes Hink, Thank you is Hank you", also, we pick up on quite a few things, so I am often called "hun" or "honey" by my son. I'm glad we don't use more inappropriate nicknames for each other in this house...)
Me: "I'm just going to put water on it so it looks nice. Come on now."
Ryan, sidestepping quickly toward the stairs and responding in a singsong, yet firm voice: "NoooOOOooo, I don't need to be haaaandsome."
By the time I can dry my hands hastily on a towel and head down after him he is reaching the last step of the stairs.
He looks back at me with a smirk and says quietly "No hanks, hun, I don't hink I need to be handsome anymore."

Overprotective or a bit of Sibling Rivalry

2008-05-03T08:28:00.000-07:00

Sitting and playing a game of patty-cake, coming to the end of the song:

Me (moving David's hands in a swirl to make something resembling air-letters): "And mark it with an R and a D"
Me: "And put it in the oven for David and Ryan!"
Ryan: "No. Not for David. He could choke on it!"

I'm probably made of a bit more water than the rest of you

2008-05-02T11:23:00.000-07:00

We walked along the shoreline, naked three-year-old feet and my own, sinking into cool sand, light waves rushing over our toes now and then. To look out at the vastness of the sea allowed me a serenity I had not felt for two weeks. Truly, a comfort that I had not felt for three years. There is something about the moist sea air, the endless waves and the distant horizon where they meet that draws me in, calms my soul. Nothing is perfect at the seashore. It never is. Broken shells, seaweed on logs- all so imperfectly natural and yet calming because it doesn't try to be anything else.

That water- that crisp, endless water calls to me like few other things do. When I was in college, I nannied for a family who lived right on the waterfront. My favorite time of day was the evening, when the girls were near sleeping and they would curl up on my lap and we would rock, rock, rock. I would look out over the ocean and the cares of this temporary world would pass away- and soon the baby would be heavy and warm, fast asleep. I would continue rocking, enveloped in the silence, watching that perfect child sleep so soundly. The feeling of that place, that time in my life is so real to me I can still feel it, because it was my refuge through the chaos that was my last year of college. I would leave refreshed, only to plunge myself squarely back into the hectic pace that was college, jobs, apartment, dishes, homework.

The week I spent in Washington was wonderful. I saw friends and family and new babies. I accidentally bumped into an old friend and had an amazing talk with my sister. It was a week filled with visits and the luxury of endless hot showers. I ate Thai food. Never do these times seem long enough. I look back and with such warm longing - remembering the laughs, the baby giggles, and the talks long into the night. I am amazingly blessed to have the people I do surrounding me.

But amidst it all, I had no idea the noise was effecting me so. Not until I walked along that shoreline did I realize what was missing- the quiet, the peaceful silence that allows my mind to recharge.

It has taken me days to quiet my brain down from the constancy of the city- like a young child giddy with excitement plays a party game by spinning head-down on a bat. Round and round they go, excited but a bit disoriented until they reach the magic number, let go, and stagger about, searching for solid footing. I came home to a quiet house, filled it up with lists and busy-ness, still reeling from my jaunt into modern society.

And finally, today, I found my solid footing. The skies opened up and poured water on that black, black ground, soaking the thirsty roots of new spring plants. The clouds made the earth that pale-grey hue every Northwesterner knows. If I close my eyes, the wind is that same wind that travels over miles and miles of ocean waves to brush up next to me. The world outside my front door now consists of endless rows of corn and beans that stop only at the horizon. Tractors drive slowly back and forth over the fields and birds fill the air with their songs.

Though quite imperfect, it is serene and un-complex. Though lacking the sea-salty air, it is my ocean in the middle of nowhere. Simple. Quiet. To some it may seem lonely, forbidding with it's lack of noise and entertainment. But it grounds me, allows me to think, to breathe. Finally, God reminds me that home truly is where you make it and what you make it. He has given me an ocean in the middle of a continent.

Getting Strong

2008-03-20T12:18:00.002-07:00

When you live three miles from your nearest neighbor, you don't think much about what you wear in your house. Or your front yard. Your kids can wear pajamas outside and no neighbors gossip about it. Chores? Chorin' can be done in bright pink boots with a bathrobe covering all else and? Nope. Still no one cares. However, I don't own pink boots and I like to keep my bathrobe clean...but I COULD IF I WANTED TO and that's really the point.

The problem is I get a bit lazy with this beautiful freedom we have. We dress more for comfort (what in this closet is warm...) rather than style (oh! Here! Buzz Lightyear pajama pants...perfect!)

We dress all warm and then? Then my little guy goes and does something adorable and I can't help but capture it to share with you all. And even as I am taking this video, I am wishing I had something a bit more...normal on him. But you know what? I think you can look past the buzz lightyear pajama pants which clash with his bright yellow sweatshirt and don't work at all with his SNOW BOOTS that I put on him even in the lack of snow because they are warm. What crazy concoction mommy put him in really isn't his fault. I couldn't help but let you watch as he works on training his overly-submissive new dog, Sadie.

Sadie came to us a few weeks back. She is about a year old and a ball full of love. However, she and Ryan are the same height. She Luuurves Ryan. Ryan is both terrified and delighted by this. Because Sadie runs up and squishes right into Ryan until he is huddled in a little ball on the ground. Upon hearing his cries she's all "Oh, don't worry! Let me cuddle with you and help you feel better" and proceeds to nuzzle up closely with all the graces of a wild chihuahua. This doesn't help the crying.

But, my dear husband has recognized that this is one of his first fears we get to help him conquer. Me? I would rather put him in a large inflated bubble. There are a lot of logistics problems with my version of comfort, however, and so here we are, working on guts.

I love that big sigh at the end like "phew. I survived again."

This may sound crazy...(OAMS Part One)

2008-03-20T12:18:00.001-07:00

A marriage magazine that Phil and I subscribed to last year had an article about once a year shopping. Truly. One time a year? After picking my jaw up off the ground, I continued reading that this couple had started out simply doing once a month shopping. Then, they figured they could shop every three months. This was the way they made the progression to once a year shopping. Though I had originally been quite excited about this prospect, the reality of life and my dislike of planning kept me from it.
And then, my friends, gas prices hit $3.30 per gallon. And I started actually tracking my expenses and grocery costs.
My goal is to spend around $50 per week on groceries. This includes things like foil or dish soap, toilet paper, etc. But the past few weeks I have not been meeting that goal by far.
Grocery stores believe that the more times you go into the store, the more impulse buys you will make. AND IT"S TRUE! For example, with my lack of planning, we will end up hungry on a Friday night. I will suggest running to the grocery store, picking up a pizza or something. And while there, I will get a pop...and maybe something fun to snack on for a game...and what about that extra bottle of creamer because we are running low? Oooh, a good price on carrots/flour/raisins/M&M's!
And there goes any harebrained idea I had of budgeting.
Some people are really good at cash-envelopes. Dave Ramsey calls for them and I think they are fantastic. But I like food so much, that I will steal from other envelopes because I am out of creamer.
The biggest problem I have is that I just don't plan. When I have my meals planned out, and the ingredients I need to make them, we are happy, well-fed campers. When I don't? The house is seemingly empty. And we are ravenous. A quick run to the store for us is a 30 minute trip (and that's to the highly-priced store, it's an hour round trip to the reasonably priced one.)
Add to this the need to cart kids back and forth to the car, the multiple stops we make each trip to make the drive worth it and voila, you have a great reason to dread the shopping trip.
So, here's my plan. I am going to try this once a month shopping thing.
For those of you who would like to follow along, let me tell you how the first part has gone.

We went into town on Saturday (the 29th). We bought all the animal feed we would need for the next four weeks (ouch! Cows and sheep and chickens and dog oh my!) But, you know what? It was so painful to buy all that food we didn't walk out with the extra bucket or a few small tools. We just ran.

Then we hit two really well-priced stores in our area: Aldi's and Fareway. You west-coasters don't have either of these stores, and I am so sorry for you. However, you do have Costco...it's all about options and prices!
We spent $60 at Aldi's and $160 at Fareway, putting our total groceries so far at $220. We only ended up with one gallon of milk because of expiration dates, so we will need to see if we can con some close friends to add a gallon or two to one of their shopping trips. BUT do you know how many things don't expire for over a month when properly stored? I know we could have been purists and frozen our milk or maybe bought powdered milk...but we thought...no.

In planning for the trip, I made a month's worth of dinner plans. I decided what we would eat for breakfast (a combination of oatmeal, homemade granola, and breakfast casseroles) and thought through some lunches for Phil (like making a roast a week so I could put sandwiches together). I even planned out treats (like week 1, I will make an apple pie, week 2, bread pudding, etc.) It wasn't as daunting as I thought it was going to be. And, looking at meat prices at the store, I changed some of my plans to save money (like buying a "family pack" of pork chops instead of chicken breasts, getting a well-priced turkey over a roast).

I stocked up on diapers (sorry, price not included in the above costs- add $20) and took inventory of my laundry supplies, toiletries and cleaners. Planning so well for a shopping trip for some of you might seem natural, but was kind of new to me. Surveying the landscape, if you will, puts my mind at rest that I won't run out of vanilla right when it's time to make my three year old his birthday cake! Not that I would ever do that...
So, here we are on day three of my little experiment. My cupboards are stocked, I have a plan for dinner and I'm a bit giddy to not have to enter the grocery store for a month. But? Already I can tell I am going to be low on creamer. There may be all-out wars by week two here if we use up our planned "month's supply".
I guess so far that 's the one thing that has surprised me: how much you actually use of an item over a month. Like I have heard financial planners talk - if you just cut out your daily Starbucks...this is how much you would save!...I feel that way about coffee already. I never paid attention to how much we actually go through because of our multiple trips to the store.
So? There it is. Can we save money on gas and groceries by switching gears? Will I go stir crazy without the ability to be at the market each week? Will I stash the last bottle of Chocolate Raspberry creamer in my sock drawer and feign ignorance, forcing my husband to drink his black? Only time will tell...

7 months, 3 years

2008-03-20T12:18:00.000-07:00

Every time I think I am going to get a few minutes to sit and write a blog post, something crazy will happen. I have had this video for a week or so now, along with the pictures.

But, oh, the stories my friends! Chicken chomping, cow wrangling stories of farm-folly glory.

More posts surely are to come...too fun not to share. But, for now, for the grandparents and aunts and aunts-in-spirit, here are new photos of the boys.

Ever since Ryan learned what a camera is my response to "smile!" has either been RUN! or the most overplayed, cheesy, unrealistic plastered smile I have ever seen. Think:silly putty face meets windtunnel.

But two days ago he was sitting so nicely giving his dad a hug and let me actually capture the sweet little face I so often see and also the face the keeps me from moving his room out to the barn. Because he is nearly three and sometimes? We test mom.

David has started to really, really like his big brother. Some of my best delights come from watching David spring with joy as Ryan does something REALLY EXCITING like hold a block out to see! Or maybe? Ryan will do something CRAZY like RUN from one end of the room to the other, flopping on the couch. The video is a bit dark (sorry for the bad cinematography...) but for those of you who want to see what those little kids look like when they are not in a still frame, here it is:

Farm Follies

2008-03-14T06:08:00.000-07:00

This winter has been full of experiences which I will laugh at later in life. Like twenty years from now. “Remember that winter where there was 3 feet of rock-like frost in the ground and the water main into the house broke under it? Hahaha that was an experience, we’ll say. We’ll share them like war stories with other old-house owners, or fellow farmers. Like all other fun Iowan farm stories, the reality of it, being in the middle of it, makes me want to eat an entire batch of cookie dough. And finish that off with a pint of ice cream and a grande nonfat with whip white chocolate mocha. And then cry. And then repeat.

But because the new struggles are just a bit too raw to make light of just yet, let’s review some of the previous doozies for fun, shall we?

My personal favorite and the one that initiated us into the community of farm-embarrassment: the time we had 3000 ladybeetles appear in a gigantic crawling swarm days before four friends came to stay with us. The little beetles set up camp and stayed for, oh, the entire visit. Our friends and the bugs engaged in all-out war that ended with squealing and “the wicked witch is dead!” being triumphantly shouted down the stairs post-bug-massacre.
The time Phil’s sister and brother in law stayed with us and the toilet ran overnight, flooding the basement and leaving us waterless with three children and four adults in the house. (hmm, that one still doesn’t seem very funny)
When we were driving the big green truck back from Illinois and it overheated so we pulled off the freeway to let it rest. It stalled and we were unable to revive it at the stoplight directly off the freeway, so we all piled into the car. Two blocks down, the car got a flat tire. At 5:10pm. We walked a mile to retrieve fix-a-flat and ended up spending two nights in Illinois to get it all fixed. But we had no idea that this was a big city and ended up being grateful that there was a motel, as seedy as it was, and spent the night in the red-light district. The next day we got the car fixed and asked to be directed to a different hotel. It was like driving from White Center in Seattle to Redmond and THERE WAS A RED ROBIN THERE and we all lived happily ever after (ok, I can chuckle at that one).
When I hit a deer with my car and totaled it (the car, the deer was fine) soon after we sold the truck, leaving us car-less. (“oooh, and isn’t it ironic…don’t ya think?”) BUT I GOT A VAN IN REPLACEMENT and we lived happily ever after.
When we had a big ice storm and it knocked out power for 12 days and we ended up moving in with our pastor and his family. Two days after we got there I took Ryan to the doctor and found out that he had some fun contagious winter bug that he spent the next week spreading around their house. Ha! We bought 4 cans of Lysol and two large bottles of hand sanitizer to protect everyone (read: my highly illness-prone pastor).We ate lots of double-stuffed Oreos and coffee, which helped everyone make it through alive.
Or when our tractor broke down and I spent a week trying to mow our gigantic yard, 9 inch tall grass and all, with a walk-behind bag mower. HAHA It went like this: walk behind 1/3 yard width, dislodge bag, walk across yard, drop on ever-growing pile, walk back, restart. Hours, days, weeks. And then, Phil finally fixed the mower and spent 30 minutes mowing the rest of the yard. I cried. And then I kissed the tractor. On the lips.
The time my mom came for a visit in February (still quite cold here) and we had a really neat idea to hook up an add-on wood furnace three days before she came. Minutes before the final hook-up, at 2am in a 50 degree house, we found out that the chimney liner was crumbling and therefore unusable (for those of you who don’t understand furnaces and chimneys, like me, it means: no heat for you! At all!). So husband and friends spent the next day in below-zero weather on top of our roof re-lining the chimney.
Or when our clean city friends came back for another visit during a nice, long, hot summer that had bred a lot of flies, and we spent the entire week eating with a neon swatter as a centerpiece. Sort of as a scarecrow for flies, if you will. Mmm.
Or yes, remember not too long ago when my sheep dog protected me from the big-bad farmers who were here to deliver our fuel and had ended up sinking into my lawn?
Okay, this one is from this month: three weeks ago my new “protective dog” scared a skunk RIGHT NEXT TO OUR FRONT DOOR and Phil, who had been sick in bed for two days and had, among other maladies, not been able to smell for its duration, woke at 3:30am to the terrible smell wafting up and throughout the house. His first scent in days, so strong it woke him from a sound sleep and sent him outside with a gun in search of a culprit. (Haha I didn’t say we always think through plans. We can’t be held accountable for decisions made before morning coffee.) As it turns out, the scoundrel sprayed our new barbeque grill…because nothing says yummy like Skunk-scent infused burgers. Ryan kept asking “Mom? Is there a Stunk outside?” Yes. Yes there is certainly a stunk outside.

I know you are laughing now. See, horribly embarrassing in the middle, fodder for stories later on. What would I do if I always had electricity, running water, and working vehicles? What if there were no wild vermin running around to make my life interesting? WHAT WOULD I DO??? Heh heh. Probably? I would eat cookie dough, ice cream, and Starbucks. Just not so ravenously.

Crackers YOU can make!

2008-02-19T09:08:00.001-08:00

On my further quest to create yummy food for my family, I came to learn (thanks, Calli) that you can actually MAKE crackers. Yes, they are not born in boxes, unlike I had previously thought. My initial suspicians were the same as yours are now: oh, that must be time consuming/expensive/take fancy ingredients. But NO! Crackers are easier than bread, satisfying to the snack-craving, and delightfully free of additives, preservatives, corn and milk products (for those of you who care about that).

As I was rolling out my second batch of these little guys, I thought "I need to share this" because, hey, who doesn't like easy homemade food, right? So, here you are. A basic basic recipe that can be changed innumerable ways with a bit of creativity and a spice cabinet.

Basic Crackers

The Ingredients:
3.5 cups all white flour, or 1 3/4 c wheat flour and 1 1/2 cups white flour
1 tsp salt (plus some to sprinkle on top)
Some other spices (to taste- I used garlic, basil and rosemary)
1/3 cup oil
1 cup water
Small bowl of Harry and David's Chocolate Fruit for snacking while cooking (omit this ingredient if you have dietary restrictions, include it if you are, like me, a bit addicted)

Mix dry ingredients together. Here's where you can have fun with this recipe. You can add cheeses like parmesan, cheddar, swiss. You can add chopped nuts or sunflower seeds. Be crazy here. I know, I know, I am a recipe lover, too. I'm telling you, it's a hard thing to mess up here. For mine, I used probably 1/2 tsp rosemary, 1/2 tsp basil, and 1 tsp garlic.

Now, mix in your liquids. Just use a wooden spoon, nothing special. When it looks about like this, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and mush a couple of times until it forms a ball. This does not have to be perfect, just "together".

Glance nervously at dwindling supply of chocolates. Debate getting more out, but decide that probably, you should just hurry up and finish the recipe.
Here's the hardest part of the recipe. Roll it out. Really, really flat. It's kind of a tough dough, so be patient with yourself. It needs to be less than 1/8 inch thick. After a few passes, you are going to be like "Tracy! What did you get me in to?" But then, give yourself a few breathers and remember that it counts for a daily workout AND that you are using those calories, storing them up so you can eat more crackers! And truly, if a two year old can do it...maybe you should give it a shot.
When that dough is all flat and your arms feel like spaghetti, slide it onto a cookie sheet. I used a pizza cutter to trim off the overhang, and then placed those onto a second cookie sheet. Then, lightly mark out the cracker shapes on the dough (don't cut through, though). Brush the whole thing with oil, sprinkle some salt on top, and prick MANY times with a fork. (Otherwise, it will grow and puff and look strange, not that I found out.)
At this step I added a sprinkle of sesame seeds which gave them some extra flavor at the end.

Bake these at 375 degrees for 15-25 minutes, until they are a nice golden brown. Remove from the oven and let them cool. Break them apart and enjoy! They are good right away, but great the second day for some reason. Try them with cream cheese. Mmm!

In which we become Those People

2008-01-29T06:45:00.006-08:00

It started way back when we first got our bottle lamb, Millie. Sweet, tiny Millie. At first, she was so terrified of us that we played a bit of cat-and-mouse with her, and then (when she realized we were now her sole source of food) she could not get enough of us. We knew she needed a friend when she would throw her little body against the door whenever we went inside the house, yelling at us to either LET HER IN or COME BACK OUT! These are your options, people!

So, we went to a sale barn and bought another lamb. This lamb was slightly older, knock-kneed, and a bit on the jumpy side. It took a long time for her to warm up to us, but Millie thought she had died and gone to Heaven. A FRIEND who did not abandon her by going into the large brick structure!

Molly, the sale barn lamb, was also a bit craftier than our innocent Millie, and figured out quickly how to excape from the pesky fenced-in area. Over and over we would have to chase her back in. Finally, she taught her cohort how to do the same, and the war began. Apparently, electric fences are not the way to keep animals with 4 inches of thick wool caged up. (Oh, that's a nice little massage...Look Millie! I'm on the other side! With the GREENER grass!)

One day, our electric fence shorted out and a hole burned through one of the ropes, leaving it useless. Again, since our sheep were extremely docile and not too interested in people, it wasn't a big deal. They just roamed at leisure and ate the various grass patches on our property. Imagine a nice green oasis in the middle of a desert- they didn't have a big desire to stray far.

Then Molly died. We think she overate...but we don't know for sure. One day she was fine, three days later she was gone. This sent Millie into a bit of a tailspin. Sure, the cows are company...but certainly they are not sheep. So, each time we come outside, she leaps and bounds and wriggles, excited as can be out to see us. She pushes her head inside the van as we're loading the kids up, ready to hop in with us if only we wouldn't be so STINGY with the whole "no sheep in the van thing." On the way to the mailbox, we always have a pal to follow us.

Yes. She had, in fact, become our sheep-dog.
***********
But then, it happened.
We got a call from the local co-op saying that a Christmas Angel was sending us 100 bushels of corn and would we like to have it delivered.
Of course we would.
As soon as the truck pulled up, I started to get nervous. Here was Millie, my sheep leaping and bounding out to visit the truck.
The driver stepped out to greet me. "Don't worry, she's really harmless." I say, offering a nervous laugh and swatting her away from his leg, where she was sniffing and licking his pants.
"Oh, down at my property I have a goat like this."
Phew. At least he doesn't think we are crazy.
Long story short, he ends up getting this 15 ton feed truck stuck in a soft spot on the side of our house trying to deliver this corn. Yes, I said STUCK in my SIDE YARD because of some sink hole we had no idea about until we put 15 tons of pressure on it. He hooked up chains, tried to drive out on plywood, and 30 minutes later came over to me and said "Do you know any neighbors around here?"
Groan. Kind of.
"We might need one of them to bring a tractor over and pull me out."
I started calling around to the few farmers I knew and eventually got hold of the neighbor straight south of us, who both farms corn/beans and has a cattle feed lot. He agreed to be right over. Oh my.
I started to search frantically for a way to lock up Millie. Perhaps back behind the old fence? Or maybe in the chicken coop yard. Or maybe even in the machine shed. But all of the doors were frozen open. There was nothing I could do. She followed me dutifully as I searched, bouncing sideways and leaping in circles, her excitement barely contained "lookee! lookee! Visitors! DO YOU SEE THEM?" Yes. I did indeed see them.
He soon arrived with his tractor, and again my sheep bounded over to greet him. "Don't worry, she's harmless." I managed to squeak. He pushes her head away from nibbling on his shoe and says "Is that a pet?"

Now, it's one thing if a guy from a town many miles away thinks we are a strange kind of folk. But this was my NEIGHBOR. My neighbor who raises cattle for a living. Probably? He doesn't have a small cow that follows him to the mailbox. I could hear the stories being told at the local diner about that crazy Washingtonian couple who moved out here. "Have you seen their *snicker* pet?"

Anyhow, when I unmelted from my puddle and explained that she was a bottle lamb that no longer had another sheep to keep her company, he just smiled. Then he asked "What's her name?"

Busted. Millie. He grinned a knowing smile, thinking "suuuure she's not a pet." Eyeing the harness that was thankfully/mortifyingly still on her from this experience. Thankfully: I could hold her back from sniffing at our visitors...Mortifyingly because, hello? A harness on a sheep?

For my kids and for my friends, I am glad we have really manageable animals. That I can go in the cow pen or our sheep can be running around and not do anything more than sniff Ryan. In those ways, it's really nice ot have a petting-zoo hobby farm. But I don't really think it gains a lot of respect from the local cattle-men.

For the record: We do know. We do know that barnyard animals belong behind fences. Someday they might actually be there. I also know that I should not be out doing chores in my fuzzy blue bathrobe, even if our closest neighbor IS 3 miles away. But I just needed a few eggs.

Later edited to add: Sheep and cows are currently effectively locked up in a pen. Still, no recent visits from the cattle-farming neighbor.

Perspective

2008-01-29T06:45:00.005-08:00

"Mom? Can you draw a bunny for me?"

"Um...."

"Pleeeeeze?"

"ok:"

"Ooooooh! THATS a nice bunny!"

"Thank you, Ryan."

So, in retrospect, when he says dinner is de-LI-cious! I need to take this particular instance into account.

Farmwife Feats of WONDER!

2008-01-29T06:45:00.004-08:00

Our chickens have started laying once again. Oh, they would give us eggs over the winter, sure. But now that the days are a bit longer, the ladies are a bit happier and they are a-layin like all get out. Nowadays we can plan on about 10-12 per day.

Last fall, this was a bit overwhelming. I would almost groan as Phil walked in the door with the basket of eggs. Oh, not e-lev-en! Our fridge was full of cartons, then bowls of eggs. Out of necessity, they were placed higgledly-piggeldly on the shelves, and multiple fights...no, discussions were had on the dates, which were newer, which were older. How long had these been here? WHY WAS THERE NO ROOM FOR REAL FOOD?

Thankfully, we started talking to people about these eggs, and OH my did they respond with cartons. During their winter hiatus, we had received and stored nearly 40 egg cartons. Now, I can grab a carton, write the date collected on the top, and stack them neatly in the fridge to be used or given away.

Also, I have been collecting many recipes that call for eggs. No wonder farm families ate so well, THEY HAD NO OPTION. If you wanted to use 4 gallons of milk one gallon of cream and 80 eggs per week you had better get a-baking.

And, so, here is my Farmwife Feat of the Day: I used 51 eggs this morning.
Two loaves of bread- 4 eggs
2 Lemon Meringue pies: 12 eggs
Raisin Bread French Toast: 3 eggs
2 egg casseroles - 20 eggs
1 dozen given to neighbors: 12 eggs

Considering this used up 5 days worth of eggs, I'm pretty pleased with myself. Now, where's that dairy cow? Bring it on, I say.

For the Boeing Guys

2008-01-29T06:45:00.003-08:00

Ok, not really. But I'm sure they will get an earfull of this new updated version of twinkle twinkle little star. After the first video, I thought it would be neat to sit the kids in the same chair as they grow up, singing the same song. Already you can see changes in Ryan- he can say "s" now (not "twinkle twinkle little dar..."

You might also note that David is much more active than last appearance.He doesn't quite understand/ like the whole "sitting for the camera" thing. It might just be me, but the first few times I watched this it made me laugh out loud. I love the over dramatization of Ryan and, well, the end. I love the end.

Here you go:

Also, I was able to inadvertently get a great shot of David's two front teeth.

Cold Shoulder

2008-01-29T06:45:00.002-08:00

Just a head's up- for some reason some comments have been randomly deleted or not showing up at all. This is not my doing- I don't delete anyone's comments. SO if this has happened to you, please know that I am not just giving you the cold shoulder or something- there is probably just some glitch with Blogger. Sorry! I love you all and really, really enjoy your comments...Don't let the system discourage you =)

Frigid

2008-01-29T06:45:00.001-08:00

What you can't see:

*blowing snow swirling around at amazing speeds, obstructing views of the road, buildings, etc.

*7 degree temps with negative something windchill

*my disappointment at the weather, which was so warm yesterday and today is just...terrible!

*seed catalogs spread out on our dining room table as we peruse, dream, and plan for warmer days ahead.

2008-01-29T06:45:00.000-08:00

Ryan's Alien. He actually had this guy "talking" to a toy giraffe. "You havin fun? You go school? Yep? That's cool!"
Later that morning he drug a chair across the kitchen, helped himself to two plates and a fork, pulled the chair to the other side of the kitchen, climbed up and cut two pieces of lemon pie- one for each plate. When I found him, he was carefully balancing two plates on his way out to see me (one for me, one for mom). At least he is thinking of others...

Imagine this picture coupled with a high-pitched squeal. SO excited!!!

The boys spent the better part of half an hour like this - David sitting up and watching Ryan set out his train.
About to cry...attempt to comfort...
If you were to hold David when he is ready to fall asleep and he is trying to grab your long hair and PULL REALLY HARD this is what it would look like from your point of view.

I have been a bit tardy/sporadic in posting pictures of my growing boys...hope this helps.