I doubt anyone was watching for the annual slightly strange list, (it’s late) but I have been collecting it in a notebook anyway. This year it’s a theme of first world problems.
Budget airlines. You can (cheaply) speed to your destination at 500 miles an hour and you cannot be upset about that. And yet there is the anxiety that is unassigned seating and being among the last to board with only middle seats available and nobody meeting your eye, because they do not want you to sit in that seat.
The detergent aisle at the store. So many ways to get clean, but you scoot past as fast as you can after picking up that one unscented thing before you pass out with Island Breeze overload.
Reusable straws. Much better than all the waste, but there is the uneasy question of whether the person who washed the dishes actually used the little straw brush or just swished them through the water and hoped that took care of the milkshake residue.
Parking garages. An indication that you are someplace teeming with people and excitement and muggings in dark, claustrophobic places.
Parking meters. So many places to go and you can play “How many quarters will still not be enough quarters?”
Buffet lines. Think about the lovely sharing of food and never mind all the (unsanitary) hands touching the serving spoons.
Water fountains. Best just to drink the water and not think at all.
Water bottles. The green option that spares you the water fountain, but how are there so many? Is it normal for them to live on the kitchen countertop? Are they canoodling in the cupboards with their cousins, the insulated coffee tumblers? Is that where all the freebies with logos come from?
Italian food. Yes, it tastes amazing, and yes, your breath smells like garlic for two days and you don’t even know it.
Home remedies when the OTC stuff that is too much or not enough. Yes, garlic is good for you and it might even work better than the prescription. Also yes, you smell like garlic.
Library books. How amazing to be able to borrow whole worlds for free- and to lose them so easily too!
Boots. Practical, ubiquitous footgear where we live. Always in front of the door, ready to be tripped over. Six people with at least 2 pairs each, and not a boot tray big enough to handle the volume.
Eye exams. So many choices, one or two? three or four? five or six? All the choices while in close proximity to a person who showered with Irish Spring and drenched himself with Bay Rum so that your nose is tickling and finally you just SNEEZE.
Health care professionals who are young enough to be my children. Brisk and well-educated in the latest of whatever is latest. But do they know things?
Pedestals. Beautiful for cakes and horrible for people.
The inter-webs. So many helpful connections, but you access them through a minefield of booby traps and wormholes.
This post serves no purpose aside from entertaining myself, and possibly you, with the flip sides of our conveniences and comforts, not the least of which is my very sensitive nose. Add to the list if you want. I would be happy to be entertained by your uneasy relationships.
a pile of papers and stuff I need to do at my desk, so I unplugged the laptop and took it somewhere with less urgency.
my husband come quietly into our room, back early from men’s camping because his glasses broke and he needed his contacts so he can make breakfast. I stayed in bed.
a picture of a garden with only white flowers planted in it, and it was beautiful. I looked out the window at my splashy portulaca row and the purple coneflowers and yellow day lilies, and I knew I would never be able to manage a monochrome garden.
a box of glazed mini donuts on the counter that my daughter brought back from the store where she works, and I snagged one to go with my decaf coffee.
two people at Walmart, both quite grown up, hugging dirty, much-loved stuffed animals while they shopped. Then I drove away, and I saw a man walking his dog, who was carrying a big teddy bear in his mouth.
a little green truck that was so cute, I wanted to pet it.
a garter snake sunning itself, in that split-second before I mowed over it, and I did not stop to assess the damage. Then I saw a large pile of dog poo and casually mowed over that too. The next thing I saw was a roll of green garden tape for tying up plants and I couldn’t stop in time, so I mowed that, then I had to extract it from the same spot that had just splattered the poo.
that the locust trees beside our driveway are already scattering yellow leaves, and I gripped a little more tightly to the summer magic.
a fawn kicking up its heels beside the road, “bound and leap, like a zephyr set free,” just like in Milo and Otis.
a large crayfish and a small catfish that my daughter caught with her bare hands.
Addy’s kitten practicing a stalking movement as it hunted in its imagination, and I thought about how I would be moving on if I were one of the chipmunks stealing the chicken food.
the raspberry canes so loaded with fruit that they hang completely onto the ground, breaking down their support wires, and form a tunnel where it is rich picking, but not fun picking.
the first ripe cherry tomatoes, yellow and so sweet they completely obliterate from our memory the ones in plastic boxes. Hallelujah!
hot sunshine wilting the world, and cool rain restoring it in a cycle of breathtaking beauty that is almost heaven, but not yet.
the ground venison that tastes gamey in my freezer. I decided to treat the chickens with a little every day. Just like that, the slumping egg production picked up, because deep in their hearts, chickens are greedy little carnivores who need protein.
an old Subaru Outback beside the shop, waiting for someone to buy it for parts so it can be moved on and continue some sort of useful life now that it no longer performs for grocery hauls and milk runs.
my daughter, who is a small person, driving a Suburban with the seat set all the way up and forward so she can see over the dash.
a small Kia for sale beside the road, whose owner was selling it because she didn’t want to pay to get the brakes fixed, which were terribly bad. It was cheap, and we needed a little car for the daughter who can drive, but who cannot drive a manual transmission and is a bit undersized for running errands in a Suburban.
when my husband put it up on the lift, and it was really bad around the wheels, no grease ever apparently, and so he has been working on it in all his spare time.
my son pack his car to the gills, “off on a new adventure,” he said. And I felt my heart lurch and settle down again as I committed him to God and let him go.
my baby turn thirteen, and we celebrated her with the things she loves: art supplies, books, and a snorkeling mask.
my Greg, who struggled to eat anything except pale carbs when he was a youngster, chopping and mixing up a chimichurri with fresh onions, garlic, and herbs. Without a recipe. I saw it with my own eyes, and then I ate it. It was good.
my parents, who are needing courage to face my dad’s liver cancer diagnosis. I saw the aerating fountain he just bought for the pond, and the planters full of flowers on the deck, and the hummingbird feeders abuzz with activity. I saw how much they are surrounded and supported with loving friends.
my doctor, and then I didn’t see her for four hours as she performed a skilled surgery, and then there I was, done! It was astonishing, really, and I am so grateful to have that over. By faith I see normal life and health again, just around the bend.
a brilliant sunset, purple glow instead of orange, spread over the whole sky.
I saw the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
There are a few days each spring that are so glittery green that you feel as though the air itself is tinged with color, and you feel that if you blink, it might disappear. It’s the same time that the bleeding hearts and pansies show off their best, all the tiny crinkled leaves are unfolding by the minute like origami in a massive installation, and the birds are totally uninhibited in their courtship songs and rituals. I marvel, hold my breath, try to take in the miracle, and then my eyes can’t stay open anymore. When I wake up, it looks like summer. It is my favorite, favorite thing, what I long for every winter. And it always comes, as promised.
This year was astonishingly early here. No frost for the whole month of May? Yes, please! I know it’s not over yet, but there is no freeze in the forecast and with no full moon for another week, we boldly planted out tomatoes and peppers last week. I have covers and sheets ready for any hint of chill, because I also listen to old-timers, but I cannot quite hold myself back.
Gabriel gave me a wonderful gift in the form of an act of service that took a few days: he edged and placed borders of rocks/logs around my gardens to keep the grass from constantly growing into the planting areas. It all needed to be squared up with the patio and driveway, since my initial method of unrolling old hay bales was pretty much seat-of-the-pants, eye-it-to-look-good. The driveway got changed and fixed last year, so we now have a curb and a solid reference to go by. Every day I look out the windows and rejoice!
Big things have been happening. There is a post and beam pavilion being set up, also designed and built by my husband, who can do pretty much anything he sets his mind to. (Given enough time…let’s be realistic.)
Alex has been here for a few weeks, and he took on the task of edging and mulching all the fruit trees and other landscaping. He also tilled the garden for me, and helped spread horse “by-products” onto it. Half of the garden is planted, and the other half will be quite soon. It has been so wonderful to have him here, available to help when he doesn’t have part-time work.
Normally I revel in these springtime tasks, but this year found me so anemic that I had to sit and rest after digging a hole in the garden. “Looks like the beef liver isn’t cutting it,” said my nurse husband when he saw my labs. He also said,” This is the level where people get transfusions and we should probably just go to the ER and take care of it.” So we did, and it helped a lot, but it will be a while before I get back to normal. I hadn’t realized how much I was compensating for my low hemoglobin until I started feeling better. I hadn’t noticed how much energy was going into staying upright, and how little was actually getting to my brain. Ha. (Very mirthless ha.)
This is too public a forum for details, but I can assure you that I am under good medical care and there is a plan to get to the root of the problem. Should be fun. Sarcasm aside, I am so very grateful for options and help. How often I have thought of the woman who stooped to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe, and that moment when she felt His strength coursing through her! A friend recently told me she thinks that lady touched the bottom of His robe because she was so weak that she was down on the ground. I agree with her. It is a great comfort that He is accessible to those who are completely flattened by life.
I moved all the houseplants onto the back deck this week, so the house feels more open. We don’t need green therapy inside for some months, hallelujah! We have also been clearing out some holes with shamefully large deposits of things that don’t have a home. Springtime is the time to let it go, dig down through the strata in the closets, and assign the stuff a place or a donation box. “The thing is,” Olivia said, “we like stuff,” and she hit the nail on the head with that observation. We like making stuff and having it, thrifting for it and restoring it. I don’t see a problem as long as we share our stuff and don’t let it take over our lives, do you?
We have been to homes where there is no clutter, no rugs to catch dust, nothing slightly imperfect or mismatched or chipped, no real flowers or plants, and the minimalism is impressive indeed. It would be so easy to clean this place, I think. “That’s like an Air B and B,” the kids said, “it’s too sterile.” So in the interest of coziness, we embrace having stuff around and taking care of it. We even embrace dust and strata in closets, up to a point. I have limits, and I am sure you do too. I’d love to hear where you draw the line in your home. Do you keep things that you haven’t used for a year, for example? How do you figure out what to store, in case you need it? What makes something a keepsake?
Every spring there is my birthday and Mother’s Day, which are only a week apart (unfortunately, because I love celebrations and I wish my family weren’t still tired from figuring out one before another one shows up, to be honest). Gabriel surprised me by inviting friends for a cookout on my birthday, and it cheered me right out of a funk of surprising ickiness where I was feeling like my birthday was lame and not fun. I told you that my brain has not been getting enough blood flow, right? Sometimes I remind myself of what my older friend Ellen says, “When you feel down and depressed, you have to know you aren’t thinking right. You have to get your head straight about how good God is, and start thanking Him, and that takes care of it.” It’s very good advice, and she lives it. Maybe by the time I am seventy-five, I will have learned this lesson.
Anyway, Mother’s Day was special in a different way. Gabriel was at work three hours away, and the rest of us woke not feeling great. Addy and I both had swollen eyes and I think I sneezed a hundred times that morning. Olivia and Greg had no voices. Only Rita was fit to go to church, so Greg dropped her off. I was going to listen to the sermon online, but the website was down, so that didn’t work. I sat like a bump in my chair and napped when I wasn’t busy sneezing. Olivia had assembled a lasagna for lunch and was fixing some side dishes to go with it when Greg left to pick Rita up again after church. He told Rita that there isn’t any lunch at home (because obviously, Mom was sitting in her chair and nothing happens that way) and they were hungry, so they went to KFC for chicken nuggets. Meanwhile the girls at home finished the meal and set the table pretty and we waited and waited. At last we called, and they were finishing up their nuggets, oblivious to the awful faux pas of having missed lunch with their mom on Mother’s Day. They felt really bad about it, but I bet it will make the family archives of funny stories.
I have been thinking a lot about parenting, about the long-term proposition it is, about the way we are asked to give up ourselves and give lavishly and never give up, either. So much giving. This spring I found myself fresh out of oomph, feeling like a hoarder. I need to save my strength. I don’t want to be inconvenienced. I don’t feel like sharing.Could you all just leave me alone and not need anything for awhile? What do I think I am saving my strength for in those moments? What is a hoarded power bank going to do for me in ten years if now is the time that my child needs my love and attention? What good will it do me in a lonely world of the future if I have kept myself well-preserved but inaccessible? I know, there are boundaries, but many times “boundaries” are just a way to make me feel good about being selfish. It’s a buzzword in the current therapy speak, and I don’t see it in Jesus’ life anywhere at all. I think of the Kingdom principle in Matthew 10:8, “Freely you have received, freely give.”
That’s plenty for me to chew on today, for sure. I truly believe God does not waste anything we give to Him, but I no longer expect to see short term rewards. Not to say that that wouldn’t be gratifying sometimes, but it seems as if it is more like planting trees. You shovel and fertilize and stake and prune and water and hope. It’s a very long-term situation. And here’s the thing: the end result is all grace. It is all out of our hands anyway. It is His business, what He does with what we give Him.
I remind myself of this again and again, because being human means feeling like I deserve things or don’t deserve things. Sometimes I just need to shut up my feelings and get my head straight about how good God is.
Every spring the miracle happens, just as He promised. I have seen forty-seven of them now, so I know. He is good.
I took my coffee out the door this morning, slipped into my gardening clogs, and watched the sun blaze over the horizon, lighting the clouds with pink and orange. It’s all waking up out there, filled with birdsong, buds ready to burst into leaves, tiny creek rushing to drain the land. Every day I check on the daffodils, urge them to hurry up and open. I feel like I need to plant things, but when I expressed that thought to my husband, he got a kindly, pitying look, “It’s much too early.” Never mind; I will not let the late, rogue frosts we get here freeze my delight in the benevolence of these warm days.
We have a row of milk jugs that we split in half to winter sow some flowers and lettuces. The tops fit over the bottoms full of soil and make mini cold frames. I have never tried this method before, so we shall see. It was easier than rigging up grow lights in a space that isn’t big enough to accommodate all the things I want to grow. I have also decided that the Amish ladies who have greenhouses around here deserve my support when it is safe to plant tomatoes and peppers. It is a lot better to pay them than to babysit plants in our unpredictable spring. One unwise choice to leave them in the sunporch at night instead of bringing them into the living room or basement can kill off weeks of work. To date I have found six greenhouses within twenty minutes of our house. None of them have websites, so it’s a word-of-mouth delight trail we follow, one after the other. I can hardly wait!
The forsythia bush that is clinging to the creek bank is still showing only cracks of color at the buds, but I have been bringing in branches to the warmth and they open right up. We have a steady supply of brilliant yellow blooms in the house. It begins! The fresh cut florals that delight my heart, even if it’s just a few tiny crocuses at first.
There’s a mosquito flying around me, an opportunist who slipped in the door when I left it open while I was making chicken scampi last night. Across the road from our house is a shallow swamp that is a breeding ground for these pests, but it is also a swamp that is alive with spring peepers that trill their hearts out every warm evening.
Every beautiful thing has its price. If you want to enjoy the sunrise, you have to wake up and get out of bed. You place more value on the things you make sacrifices for, and certainly you are more grateful when you wait a long time and then it comes, it is here, you can have it!
Addy and I cleaned the sunporch yesterday. Somehow it is the place that collects everything we don’t know what to do with over the winter. It is like a gigantic utility drawer for excess furniture, recyclable trash, cardboard boxes, and boots. We put the cardboard in the shed for gardening layers, boxed up the donations for Salvation Army, put the boots in bins in the basement (I know, we’ll be getting them out again),and washed the floor. Addy was enthused, “I could live out here!” She’s always the one who loves to rearrange and domesticate wild places.
I noticed that our elderly neighbor was out picking up sticks in her vast yard yesterday, and walked over to chat. She is a spry little octogenarian who wears sparkly lip gloss and plays pickle-ball to stay nimble, but it was a big job, so I sent the girls over to help her. It was the task of a half hour, with them all helping, and she was relieved to have it done. She rewarded them each with a can of ginger ale, after being assured and reassured that their mom won’t mind. Possibly by the time you are in your eighties, you think of teenagers sort of in the same rank as toddlers who might not be able to handle fizzy sugar.
I cleared a space on the desk in the office to write this noticing post this morning. It is in a state of becoming, an exciting state! We planned floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in this room when we bought the house, and last week Gabriel built them. I have been painting and scheming, finally giving this room the love it needs. Hopefully today I can finish it and take care of the piles and boxes on the floor. There are still boxes of books in the attic that we have’t had space to put out, and there is a growing pile of culls.
Addy was helping me with this project, and kept mentioning books she never read. I was appalled! How can you be almost thirteen and never have read Little Women? Or the Little House books? The Wheel on the School? I guess what happened was that about the time she was into Henry and Ribsy the older children were into TheHobbit or The Bronze Bow, and she skipped along with them, leaving a whole delightful section of Elizabeth Enright and Eleanor Estes books unread. I tend to pick our read-alouds for the more advanced listeners, so there we are. She is making up for lost time, and happily, the books are right there at eye level for her.
Gabe took Rita to orthopedics this morning to have them look at her swollen knee. It started acting up during volleyball, so we kind of assumed it’s a minor sports injury. X-rays showed nothing, but the knee remains swollen four months later. We had a child with Lyme disease that manifested in a badly swollen knee years ago, so possibly it’s that. Our doctor mentioned sending her to ortho to have it drained, and I chickened out on the spot. Gabe takes the children to any appointments with the potential to make their mother faint. This is one of those. I do not do needles, tubes, and fluids collecting slowly in clear containers. I have accepted that no matter how sturdy and practical I might be, this is not a mere mind-over-matter situation. I have fainted an embarrassing number of times, including at appointments for my children. How wonderful that my husband loves needles and blood draws!
Well, I have noticed long enough, and it appears that this room will not paint itself. When it is all done, I will show you a picture, and that will be hallelujah!
I hope your day is happy and warm, and contains something precious.
… for the privilege to go “home” for Thanksgiving, even though I never lived in that house, to unpack in my parents’ guest bedroom, put my feet on their coffee table, and visit long and slow with them and my brother Nate’s family.
… that my husband, who was supposed to work Thanksgiving Day this year, had the choice to work the day before and the day after, so that he could join us for a beautiful feast on the actual holiday.
… that my son made it back in time from a harvest job out West, driving 14 hours so that we could all be together for a day.
… for shared memories and old jokes and photo albums full of snapshots of a funny childhood that wows our children and their cousins with its quaintness.
… for words: quirky, hilarious, perfectly descriptive words discovered in a game of Balderdash in the living room. And for the antics of the children we have produced who entertain us regularly with their almost-adult selves. Not to mention hearing them voice their own refreshing, occasionally startling opinions
… for colored glassware, and that the pieces I bought at a thrift store to decorate for Christmas did not quite all break when the box fell out of the back of an inexpertly packed Suburban when we opened it. At least one survived, and also the white pedestal bowl for fancy serving.
… for the meat sale I managed to hit while I was “home” for Thanksgiving, so that I could pick up cases of chicken at unbelievable prices just before we hit the road to come north again. Which, incidentally, is when the box of glassware fell out of the vehicle, along with a lot of other things that were not secured because we needed a space in the back for the meat, and our leaning tower of baggage did not have structural integrity when the hatch was opened.
… for a sense of humor because when I came through the parking lot with the trolley of meat, I texted my son to open the back, he complied, and everything spilled out. The space behind our vehicle looked as if a gypsy caravan had disgorged its contents: suitcases, baskets of dress-ups that the girls had sneaked along, boots collected and thrust in at the last minute, and a bag of vintage fabric scraps spilling out. Also the box of glassware. And I stood there and giggled helplessly while I tried to assist my son who was grimly reloading and muttering under his breath about his sisters who cannot pack lightly.
… for a pressure canner so that I could make short work of processing a lot of chicken for quick meals this winter.
… for having found a kiln repairman not terribly far away who replies to my questions and plans to come as soon as possible to check out what is wrong with my kiln that it keeps giving me grief at extremely inopportune times.
… for having had a premonition to not take any custom pottery orders, because if I had, I would be stressing about the Christmas deadline.
… for try before you buy, and cyber shopping because shopping in department stores gives me the actual heebie jeebies on Black Friday. But when you need boots, you need boots, and the sales right now really are phenomenal. And when your child has no boots either, you need to figure out something before the snow flies. Also flannel sheets, because it’s coming, oh yes, it is!
… for the amazing resources we have to have comfort and cheer. I feel gratitude every time I pull on wool socks, don a colorful cable-knit sweater, wrap my hands around a hot mug, light a candle, or turn up the heat.
… for knowing people who look and sound like Jesus, and inspire me to become more like them. This week a friend I have known since I was a tot lost her mom in a shockingly sudden way. “Linda’s mom” is how I think of Iva, who was unfailingly glad to see me and catch up with me, “Linda’s friend.” I remember a time in childhood when we were at their house, and the adults seemed a little stressed, possibly about church issues or maybe a business problem. Iva was pulling an amazing concoction of graham crackers, butter, and brown sugar out of the oven when we got there. I kept running in and out of the kitchen to sneak more bars until my mom saw me and reproved me because I was being a piggy. Iva just laughed and took my relish as a compliment. The impression I got was that they were so easy to make that she would be honored to make another panful of bars if I ate them all. Her whole life was characterized by giving freely and it was because she loved the One Who freely gave to her. There was never a question about her motivation to love, and I am grateful to have known her.
… that our house is south-facing so that every time there is even a stray ray of sunshine in the wintertime, I am aware of it, and so are the plants that line the windowsills. Like right now when I am sitting in an armchair in a puddle of golden light.
… for hope, and for goodness that is given in so many perfect gifts from Above. Graces that surround me and mine, mercies new every morning. Yesterday when we were getting close to home, I saw the solid cloud cover up ahead, compliments of our Lake Erie weather system. I took a picture, and I asked the Lord, “What would You like to teach me about this?” You may wonder at His answer, but He said quite clearly, “It’s a blanket. You can get under it. It’s safe.” And so I say, “Thank You.”
… to eat marshmallow peeps at Easter because I like them.
… to have a flip flop collection, and to wear them in the snow when I get the mail. If there is any snow, that is.
… to hang a hammock in February and lie in it on every sunny day.
… to sleep on my husband’s side of the bed when he’s on night shift, just because it feels different than my side of the bed.
… to paint any room I want to paint.
… to throw away clothes that make me feel ugly.
… to dote on my chickens and buy them treats.
… to keep buying children’s books even though my children are not little anymore.
… to put as much cream in my decaf coffee as I want.
… to rearrange the furniture in my house when I need a fresh look, even if it’s the same furniture and the same house and other people think that’s funny.
… to decline politely when I don’t want to play a board game, specifically Monopoly or Life.
… to be a word nerd and make lists of good words and think about ways to put them together.
… to spend money on a writing course and take time to practice what I’m learning.
… to plant flowers everywhere in the garden, even in the vegetable rows.
… to laugh at my wobbly shopping cart wheel and show others how hilarious it is.
… to cry when I’m reading a book that touches my heart or singing a song that expresses my longings.
…to hide the Cadbury mini eggs and dole them out bit by bit so that they last for a while, because the Easter season has the best candy.
… to walk the two miles to the garage to pick up a vehicle that has now been fixed for the very last time, I hope.
My walking buddy
Last night one of our writing prompts was “I am allowed,” and that’s where my thoughts went. Are there things you’re allowed?..
of things we are thankful for. These are contributions from various members of the family.
Gregory: When I get up and discover that Mom already packed my lunch. (This is the kid who this very morning packed popcorn, Takis, and a dry sandwich from yesterday, ignoring the yogurt and fresh fruit scattered around in obvious places.)
A heater to keep the bedroom warm where a window got broken in an exceedingly odd and thoughtless manner.
A big brother who brings a replacement window pane and installs it in ten minutes.
A garage to park my car, even if it is a primitive one with a dirt floor and no garage door opener.
Olivia: Just five minutes without anyone doing anything gross. (Is that too much to ask?)
A plant collection on the windowsill, especially the dolphin succulent and the string of pearls, and let’s not forget the baby cacti growing from seeds.
Yogurt, mashed potatoes, and all the soft foods because braces…
Rita: A heated waterer for the chickens so that I don’t have to constantly haul water for them.
Enough turkey to snitch bits while it was being carved the day before Thanksgiving, then eat all I wanted, then have leftovers to put into my pot of Ramen noodles.
Addy: Books with other worlds, AKA imagination.
A fireplace so I can make fires in the house whenever I want.
Siblings to fight with and do stuff.
Mine: the desperate person who cracked open a squash with a sharp rock, and discovered it is edible.
Rita’s income from her mouse trapline is drying up, with the count standing at sixteen.
Seed heads in the garden, so pretty in a monochromatic sort of way that they look good in a vase.
Three deer to process for the freezer, and all the scope for learning to make bologna, jerky, etc. etc.
Kids who spin clever puns endlessly and who have Opinions About Life and push back and keep me on my toes.
Instructional DVD courses for my child who is doing Algebra 1 because I really dislike teaching it, and in fact have forgotten what I knew about it which wasn’t ever much.
A husband who puts driveway markers all along its edges so that we can remember through weeks of mild weather that snow is coming and the brown world will be beautiful again.
Online shopping, because I love getting packages.
Cheese. I am grateful that most of the cheese was not moldy.
Gabe was at work when I quizzed the children. I could sit here for another hour and continue this process of picking things I am thankful for, but right now we need to get going with our school day, which itself is a privilege. Depending who you ask and which day you ask it, of course. 🙂
Have a good one! If you feel like it, tell me something you are thankful for that is not on the approved Sunday school list.
The farmer who is kind enough to load his old hay on my trailer every spring lives just a mile from our house. He and his wife are the nicest sort of people, down to earth and full of country wisdom. Her voice message ends with a cheerful, “Leave a message… blessings!”
This spring when I made my trip for hay, I asked if I may pay for it, and he said, “No, no, just bring me some produce.” As I was driving past this summer I noticed that they have four times more garden than I do. We’re talking a field with like 96 pepper plants and I think they said 200 tomato plants and everything else you can imagine. So tonight when I was digging my red potatoes I thought, “You know what, I don’t think they have potatoes,” and I called them to check.
The farmer’s wife told me that her family makes her so mad because they don’t want to hill potatoes but she would love to have some fresh ones. She is in a wheelchair and can’t grow them herself. I told her I would bring them right down.
I didn’t have a vehicle because it’s in the garage for inspection and my husband is at work. It’s close enough to walk, but I decided to put my box of red potatoes in the basket of the little yellow moped that Gabriel bought this summer. I puttered down the road in the soft light, and all was mellow and lush. Just before the farmer’s lane the moped sputtered and I thought that I should have checked the gas tank, but I made it and parked it.
There was a considerable amount of racket in the yard because the farmer was doing some power washing and the little grandkids were talking to each other in their outside voices. I picked up my box of potatoes and walked up the hill around their vehicles. The dog saw me first, and then the other dog and the other dog and the other dog also saw me. To be truthful, I am not a dog lover at my core, although I’m not really afraid of them. I took a step back just from innate self-preservation, and bumped my leg against the large rocks bordering a flower bed. The dogs crowded closer, a huge black lab with a tongue the size of bread plate, a yellow nondescript mutt with a tail like a baseball bat, a shifty-eyed spotted one who stayed on the periphery and growled, and a very small terrier with a very large ego. I backed up a little further but there was nowhere to go because I was against those rocks. I completely lost my balance and sat down very gracefully in the flower bed, legs stuck out over the rocks, holding my box of potatoes aloft. Not one of them spilled. It was too bad that the farmer’s wife didn’t see me until I was down, because by then it was no longer graceful. I had four dogs crowding around my lap, and I was giggling helplessly, unable to pull myself up. Feebly waving my hand in front of my face so the black lab would stop licking me, I peddled my legs and let her know that I was okay.
Her two grandsons walked over and tried to call off the dogs while the farmer’s wife hollered at her husband who couldn’t hear a thing because the power washer was loud. The grandsons looked at the woman laughing in their flower bed and didn’t know what to do. One of them tentatively held out his hand, and I gave him the potatoes. They didn’t know I suffer from a condition that causes me to lose all control and giggle helplessly when I am in a ludicrous situation, but once the dogs were out of my lap, I struggled to my feet. I was still chortling, so the farmer’s wife knew that I wasn’t mad. She wheeled herself to a quieter spot in the yard, apologizing profusely all the way, even as the dogs continued to leap around and take stabbing licks at my face while the terrier barked. “What in the world is wrong with you?” she yelled. I have been blessed with a number of friends who have large dogs and they all seem to feel the same helplessness when their dogs don’t listen.
We ended up having a great chat under the shade tree where her family had piled the produce they picked in the garden. I felt a little despair in my heart when I saw the buckets of tomatoes, bushels of cabbages, gallons of cherry tomatoes, a half bushel of green peppers, and so on. I don’t know how she does it in a wheelchair, but she was cheerful about it and she was delighted with that box of red potatoes. The black dog eventually quit trying to lick me and sauntered to the backyard, but the yellow dog kept backing up until his tail was between my legs, whacking me hard as he wagged. It was quite ludicrous enough to send me off in another spasm of laughter, but I controlled myself. The shifty-eyed growler was gone, but the terrorist terrier made a tight, barking arc around us every few minutes.
They told me about the neighborhood and how things used to be around here, and what farming is like now, about their family and they wanted to know about mine. Like I said, lovely people.
It was getting a little dark and I needed to moped on home. I prayed a desperate prayer that there would be enough gas in the tank, but this time the answer was no. Of all things, I had to walk back up the hill and there came the dogs! The farmer noticed right away and he was still nice. “Not a problem, happy to give it to you, anytime you need anything just ask.”
He sloshed in a few quarts, but that moped wouldn’t start. The two grandsons stood there and stared again as I vainly pumped the starter pedal, jiggled the choke button, and tried to remember if I was missing something crucial for the starting of a moped. Finally it coughed a bit and then it flooded. I pumped it some more. Nothing. The little boys drew closer in fascination. I got the feeling they were prepared to push it home for me. Finally, blessedly, it purred to life. I said good night and headed home in the twilight. Mission accomplished.
They said next year they will give me more hay and all the barnyard compost I want. I will have to brainstorm something awesome to grow so that I have it to give them in return. I wonder if they like eggplant?
I feel like this moped deserves a small Asian lady to ride it, but I am all it’s got.
Hello, friends! I don’t know if anybody remembers when I used to do a post every day in February, the short month? I don’t know how I did it.
We have reached the point of winter where it has settled into our souls, and even though we know in our heads that it will not last always, in our souls it feels like we might as well make plans to continue indefinitely in this season. I saw that Walmart is putting all the snow clothes on clearance. I bought two coats for the older girls. It seemed a reasonable way to spend seven bucks.
Gabe got a mighty itch to buy a snowmobile since we got such a handsome amount of snow. First there were fourteen inches and then a few days later there were ten more inches on top of that. Very little of it melted, so it is quite brilliant outside. He actually did get his hands on an aging snowmobile, apparently one built to go get the groceries in the Arctic, with heated handlebars and all. It is enormous and may reach speeds of 65 mph, requiring a field to make a turn successfully. Yeah, it was quite the thrill, until it died without explanation as he finished the last ride on Sunday night. Now we get to figure out what makes it tick, and maybe the snow will last for a few more months so that we can use it lots more. I believe this could happen. I do heartily endorse finding ways to enjoy it. I break trail down to the creek and walk the trail a few times every day if I can. I remember a Lewis quote: “What must be the quality of that Being whose far-off and momentary sparkles are like this!” (edit: I just looked it up. Lewis said “coruscations” instead of “sparkles”. I think in this case, Lewis overdid it.)
Yesterday I was just walking along, minding my own business, when I felt my bum knee go out. It feels as if the kneecap is sliding down beside my knee, only an MRI a few years ago showed that it is only a small piece of cartilage that is floating loose and occasionally giving me grief. As a result, I cannot bend my knee, which is a little unhandy. Eventually it will float somewhere less offensive, and I will only have soreness to remind me it is there. They said it looks like a sports injury, and the only thing I could think of was that time in fourth grade when I wiped out during single base at school. I could schedule a surgery with ortho, sit in the waiting room with all the silver haired folks who need hip replacements and the kids with sports injuries. Meh. I think it will have to get worse before I do that. This bum knee is the reason I do not have the fun in the snow that I used to. Skating, sledding, skiing, even snowshoeing, are all out because of it. It seems the Lord’s will that I winter somewhere tropical, wouldn’t you say?
Meanwhile I shall hobble about in the house, pottering with houseplants, cooking soup, and looking out at the birds at the feeder, watching the lazy flakes swirl down. Yes, that is what they are doing.
I find myself trying to explain to one of my children what I want them to bring up from the basement, feebly waving my hands around my head as I grasp for what you call it. “Words, Mom,” they prompt helpfully. “Use your words.”
I was trying to make up a meal schedule last evening, and found myself writing “soup” repeatedly. It’s appropriate, and that’s what we’re doing. Hearty hamburger soup. Toscana with kale. Chicken broth with vegetables. Ramen. I bet you didn’t see that coming, but hey, my children like Ramen. Who am I to quibble? (I am feeling satisfied that I thought of that word “quibble” without too much feeble hand waving around my head.)
We had a sunny day last week that melted the stuff on the roof, so that we had enormous icicles growing outside the windows. Rita called the most impressive one Big Jimmy and everybody got invested in watching how much he would grow. Two of the girls even dreamed that various neighbors came and broke off Big Jimmy before he reached full potential. Methinks we need broader horizons.
In an effort not to get too mush-brained, I paid for a writing course from Jonathan Rogers, called The Habit. (Author of The Wilderking Trilogy, highly recommended for kids and adults both. We got the audiobooks, and they are top-notch.) The idea is that you must make an every day habit of writing if you’re serious. I have been trying, I really have. One thing I have established: my fiction attempts are total rubbish. But I keep making a stab at the assignments, trying to string words together in fresh ways. The problem is that it has all been said before. Occasionally I get frozen with fear that I am subconsciously quoting another author whose work I admire, thinking I am making this up all by myself. What a fraud! Rogers uses samples from authors like Tolkien, Lewis, L.M. Montgomery, and Harper Lee to explain excellent writing. One is reminded constantly that one is very. small. potatoes. Especially in February.
I also signed up for a lot of studying in Sunday school this winter. We are doing a course called Search the Word from The Daily Grace Co. I like the discipline, but admit, I have to crack the whip over my mind repeatedly. There are ladies in the group who put me to shame with their level of study. In this season I have no excuse not to search the Word, but I do have endless interruptions, so I am taking it as the enrichment I need without dipping into any guilt when my summary misses a few points.
Gregory has volunteered to make omelettes for lunch. Rita is singing, “I’m leaving on a jet plane,” at her desk, and Addy is studying adjectives with much drama about boring school. How are you fine folks holding up?
wocket in my pocket 