In the Market?

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

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

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

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

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."