Fretless Fiddler

Work

2011-08-24T16:22:00.009-07:00

I ask my son, “What does WORK do for us?” His learned response is, “It makes us happy and strong!”

I threw myself into the work of building our chicken coop last month. It was hard labor and tested my convictions and beliefs at times, but "Work" passed the test. I enjoyed it. I also learned mothering has to stay my first work. The boys turned feral from too many treat-bribes and movies watching.

I remember when I called my Grandmother Naomi after giving birth to my first baby. I told her I quit work and planned to stay home with him. Her reply, in her Southern Florida accent: "Oh, honey, WORK just found YOU." She was SO right.

I have to interject another Grandma story. When she was pregnant with her last of six children, the nurse was taking her information at her first doctor visit. She asked my grandma her age. "Old enough to know better" was her reply. My dearest wish is that one-liners are genetic.

Meanwhile, back at the coop...

Kurt designed and created a model of it on the computer so we could do a virtual walk-through.

Yes, it IS over-designed, and yes, it IS the Fort Knox of coops...but we love it. It sits just outside our great-room doors to the south (which are glass) and we can see it clearly at all times. It had to be attractive. We spent time to love and raise these sweet chicks and can’t bear the thought of them being some predator’s midnight snack. It had to be secure.

I will let the pictures tell most of the story. What isn't clear in the slideshow is that the coop has a sliding door and will have a roof garden once the planting season arrives. I learned to weld during this project! The picture of my hand shows a few tiny burns from welding. Cool. I still need to paint the doors to the nesting box. The box has plexiglass sides. The rest should make sense.

We would all like extra points for doing this during the hot, muggy monsoons of a desert summer.

PS I just viewed the slideshow. The music cuts off before it is half over. I will try to fix it asap!

Chickens and Dickens

2011-06-30T06:31:00.009-07:00

Last night I dreamed of Little Dorrit. She's my Easter-Egger chicken. She's still just a chick but in my dream she was her beautiful, full-grown self. She ran to me to be picked up, tired of being in a coop and treated like a common chicken. I felt her soft nut-brown colored feathers and saw her puffy cheeks before she buried her head in my arm.

My pretty little chick has the most mellow and sweet disposition. I got her, along with nine other chicks (Rhode Island Reds, Buff Orphingtons, and Red Stars) from someone who ordered them by mail from a hatchery. As I drove them home in their tiny box, one chic kept chirping loudly. I wanted to pull over and hold her, but it was a hot day and they needed the water I had ready for them at home. The cry baby was Little Dorrit. For the first few days she continued to cry now and then until I carried her around in my apron pocket. Now that she is about three weeks old, she sits on my shoulder to nap, completely camouflaged in my hair. I heard her "purr" today. It sounds like a rolling, soft chirp and sounds extremely content.

I call her Little Dorrit after the Charles Dickens novel of the same name. Her calm, sweetness reminds me of the heroine of the story.

Last winter, as I was starting a sewing project, I began listening to the audiobook. As the first paragraphs were being read, I had to put down my work and just listen. My life was about to change; I knew it, and wanted to soak in every aspect of the delicious process. Have you ever been in a dark barn at noon? Imagine slowly opening the heavy creaking door to return to a meadow of brightness and fragrant grass. That is what I felt as the words were read. The words weren't revealing any profound truth. They described the heat and sun of the South of France. How could that change my life?

A while ago, I cut off TV, most movies, and even listening to the radio. It all happened gradually, in response to having watched a popular crime drama one night. After viewing it, I had to ask myself why in the world would I find that entertaining? It was a collage of the sickest aspects of human existence, sensationalized and sexualized, being play-acted by pretty people and punctuated with commercials for toothpaste, insurance and a bowel-movement-inducing yogurt. Lovely. I realized I had just wasted an hour of my life, not to mention all the previous hours wasted on the same mental garbage. It made me angry. I felt like such a fool.

Compare that to Little Dorrit. The masterpiece painted with the skillful reading of well crafted words absolutely transported me. I followed Dickens as he beckoned me to the South of France, to the debtor's prison and the to hilarious Circumlocution Office. Within ten minutes, I joined the ranks of his admirers. Within ten minutes, I felt my senses sharpen, my soul expand, my world change.

My pretty little chick is a reminder of these contrasting experiences. She reminds me that I could have missed my days with Dickens, missed that chance to expand. Had I not turned off the screaming world with all its miserable counterfeits, a new world would not have opened. It is a beautiful world, a fun world...where you can hear the purr of a chicken.

Artist

2011-06-22T09:23:00.005-07:00

Here is my apology to the fine art world. My experience is my own, and not a blanket that encompasses the entire world of fine art. There is beauty there, somewhere, but I don't have it for myself, yet. I'm still not prepared.

I was born with a slight gift for art that I worked for a time to develop. I got pretty good. I stood on the threshold of Fine Artist and put my toes in the door. People urged me to go in.

I have not been drawing or painting for some time. This may appear to be a shame or a waste. But is it?

As I stood on the threshold I saw some things in the room before me I did not like. Now, I know that I am the only one to furnish and outfit the room I saw, and that not every budding artist would see the same scene, this is just a description of what I saw.

In the room, which was small and dark, were the tragedies and inhumanities of the world begging to be expressed. There were immoral teachers and others of authority, whose lust for my youth, beauty and talent would only be satiated with my destruction. The room was intriguing to me, I saw it as a way to prove my strength and worth. I spent many years squinting to adjust my gaze as I looked in the dim space.

As alluring as the dark room was at one time, there became, even more so, a bright world shining at my back.

And one day I turned.

I felt the warmth. I began to lean into it, until I eventually found myself running wild in the green land under the sunshine.

Out in this sunshine I saw things more clearly. The true artist was awakened. Teachers arrived bearing platters overflowing with delicious experiences. On the trays were Joy, Hope, and Laughter. Each one consumed would reveal others. Through this nourishment I began to create.

I created a peaceful home of beauty and learning. I created physical and emotional strength. I created loving relationships. I created children. Sure, lots of people create children...but do they allow the wonder of childhood to chip away their crust of pride, do they give in to the magic? Not that I can see. I created a life permeated with true art and inspiration.

Can you see how I would come to the opinion that ANYone can slap some paint on a canvas and act mysterious enough to hook a selection of weak minds? I don't know how to express that without sounding condemning. People of that realm are fulfilled. They need not follow me. But I feel the desire to let them know I am not fooled. Clearly, the emperor has no clothes. And today I pause at the edge of his parade just long enough to get a good belly laugh and think, "Whew!" It coulda been me out there in my birthday suit!

Someday, when I return to the dark room, I will have no apprehension about running through the door, for I will carry the light that reveals beauty. Someday.

Turn, Turn, Turn

2011-05-27T09:12:00.006-07:00

"And when true simplicity is gained, we'll bend and we'll bow

and we'll not be ashamed.

To turn, turn, turn will be our delight, and by turning, turning,

we'll come 'round right."

Simple Gifts-Shaker Hymn

I left my blog alone for over a year. Life became very intense and scary stuff consumed my attention. I couldn't write anything because I needed both my hands as I was holding on by my fingernails. During that time I learned important things, helpful things, that have changed my life. I like to say I've been in Universe Law School. There I learned that there is nothing in my life, (past, present or future,) that has come uninvited. The good, the bad, and the ugly have all been of my own creation. With this understanding, and the past year's crash course in "how," I look forward to bringing happier experiences into my life.

My current creation is our big move out into the desert. It is a step toward my dream of having an off-grid farm. Getting out of a cramped neighborhood is delicious! I wake up every morning and a grin creeps across my face and settles in for the day. There are no neighbors calling an HOA because they can see my grape arbor above the fence, or for having weeds among the rocks in the front pathetic-excuse-for-a yard. No more dirty looks because my kids are playing too loudly. The only solicitors knocking on my door are scorpions looking for crickets.

Our new house is huge and sits on an acre of land. This is an area of State Trust land with free range cattle. Many mornings we have to shoo cows away from the house. Since I don't have my garden planted yet, this is still great fun. We are slowly putting up a fence. Many of our neighbors have horses, but we will stick with mountain bikes for a few more years. The horse folks share their 50 Year Trail with us. I try to ride everyday.

As soon as we feel settled, part two of my dream will begin. Homeschooling the boys has always been the plan. Charlotte Mason's approach to education resonates with me the most and should fit seamlessly into our lives. I will write about that experience, soon.

As I write this, I sit in wide-eyed (near) disbelief that this is all coming to fruition. It was not so long ago that life was down right scary. Thank God I did not give up. Thank God I did not give in.

A year ago, as I walked in my neighborhood on the asphalt streets, I would close my eyes and imagine the crisp crunch of decomposed granite and sand under my feet. I would glance at the overly manicured HOMOGENIZED landscaped yards and trade that vision for the "wildness and artifice" of the untamed desert. The smell of exhaust was replaced by the invigorating scent of fresh desert rain. Revving engines gave way to Gamble's quail couples summoning their chicks.

All this I lived before I lived it.

Desert Spell

2011-05-16T13:01:00.005-07:00

Two dozen ghost faces stared down at me from the sun scorched slope. I froze in my tracks with a gasp before my mind could tell me what my eyes were seeing. Floating skulls with black eye sockets shot a wave of seemingly shocking calm energy through me. We stood stock-still, looking at each other. Under my breath I whispered, "Oh! You're beautiful!"

Only the white faces and dark eyes of the herd of wild burros before me were visible against the rocky hillside. Time stopped, sound stopped. I felt the souls of these old desert wanderers. I quickly wondered where they found food and water, wondered who took care of them. My heart was instantly pierced. No one. They needed no one. I wanted to be with them, to run, to be free, to hide in plain sight and stand self-assured when discovered.

Slowly the spell lifted. One by one they broke away on their journey over the hill crest, without me.

Food Storage Made Easy

2009-11-16T19:57:00.006-07:00

Dent Corn for cornbread, tamales, tortillas, hominy, polenta and more.

I just added a button to my blog for the Food Storage Made Easy site. I first got the bug to develop a food storage one year ago. I had no idea it could be so fun or that I could become so obsessed. These gals break it down and make it easy. They have instructional video clips, too. I almost started a food storage blog...until I found Food Storage Made Easy...no point in reinventing the wheel!

Dry pack canning at home.

Clockwise; Farina, Yellow Grits, Split Pea, and Quinoa

Happy Halloween!

2009-11-01T20:28:00.002-07:00

We've done "The Duke and Duchess of Death" before, but this year we added the kids...fun!

Beenut Milk

2009-10-17T16:07:00.017-07:00

Our Jersey Cow at the New Hampshire homestead was named Beenut. She was more beautiful than a cow should be...dark blonde with big brown eyelashes.

Here is a gorgeous photo of a Jersey that looks like what I remember.

I can see a jug of her milk, still warm, on the worn counter in the old farmhouse. The cream is separating into a thick band at top. Soon we will start the endless yet rewarding task of churning butter.

But before Beenut there was...Beenut. Now this is a sad little thing to remember as an adult, but as a small child it was quite fascinating.

For one day only we had our first cow named Beenut. Buddy brought her home late one night before he had prepared a place for her in the barn. Mom had spent all the money she had in the world on this cow, $500.00. Considering that we lived on less than that in a year's time, it was pretty shocking to lose her.

There was an uneasy feeling the morning after we got Beenut. The air was crisp and damp as usual, but filled with a deafening silence. The adults hurried around not paying attention to me. I think it was Walt who shouted that the cow had jumped off the bridge. We all ran up the road to look. Down by the creek lay the distorted figure of the first Beenut.

Buddy had staked her in the yard like a dog. He gave her a bucket of water and planned to put her away the next day. For someone who typically had a lion's share of common sense, this was incredibly stupid. The neighbor's horses had gotten loose and scared the poor cow, forcing it into the ravine. I cannot imagine the shock and loss that mom felt.

Our second Beenut was the one I really remember. I sat on her only once to know why people don't ride cows. Mom let me try milking her, but I was just not coordinated or strong enough.

She was a sweet cow that gave delicious milk. Mom loved her.

If Beenut was ready for milking before mom had gotten to her, she would knock on the kitchen door. One time she was found eating the heirloom gladiola bulbs that were wintering in the woodshed. But my favorite story of her is not in my memory at all.

One day mom was left to do all the chores by herself. Running a self sufficient farm alone was an impossibly exhausting task. Mom said there were days that she worked so hard she would have to stop and rest on the spot, or nap in the field to keep from collapsing.

The air was chilly and dusk was threatening. It was time to put Beenut up for the night. She was laying in the grass near the carriage house chewing serenely. It was all mom could do to go over and sit beside her for a rest before the short walk to the barn. She laid her head on Beenut's warm belly. Soon the grass turned forest green, then black as the light faded. Rocked by the rhythm of Beenut's steady breathing, mom fell into the secure and satisfying sleep of a babe in arms.

I cannot tell you why that makes my head swell with tears. I picture my young strong mother with her thick long dark hair asleep with her pretty cow in the grass.

It is something I never had that I want so much to never lose.

My Sippy-Nahs, My Sippy Heroes

2009-10-12T21:40:00.004-07:00

That is how Marshall pronounces "Superman". He runs through the house jumping on and off anything he can find while yelling "Sippy-Nah!" Of course Jess is now following right along. The other day I was unable to leave the house before I tucked a blue and red shirt in his bibs to act as his cape. He points to himself and says "Jesse, Supa!" At eighteen months old, he is more sure of himself than I have been.

Maybe that changed today. While I sat in our backyard watching the boys play, I felt very strongly that I really am living my true dream. I want everything else to fall away as I turn my focus wholeheartedly upon my family. Sure, many things will change soon, and these little guys will grow, but we are here, and it is now, and I long to spend my time with my face buried in their necks and hearing their laughter.

White Mountain Week

2009-08-06T12:41:00.006-07:00

Jess and Marshall each grew a foot taller while camping.

Grandpa is a hit, even without the Rhino rides.

Wow, I needed that...we all did. I love to push the reset button by camping.

Arizona is such a surprise. I never would have guessed it could have so much. You can go from hot, hot, dusty desert with ghost towns and leathery cowboys to cool, breezy, pine covered mountains with hidden chilly lakes, mossy craggy slopes, and miles and miles of eye soothing green.

My Chuckleheads

2009-08-06T12:25:00.003-07:00

It is finally HOT here in AZ. We just returned from a week in the White Mountains (pictures to follow) to barricade ourselves in the air conditioning as we readjust to the triple digits. I love AZ. These few weeks of scorch are worth it!

The Silver Box

2009-06-10T22:05:00.010-07:00

Buddy and I crouched in the breezeway of the old farmhouse. This one-on-one attention from him was strange and a bit scary. Mom's boyfriend was a very intense man. He had the body and temperament of an overly stretched rubber band. I listened intently as he spoke. "You must keep this a secret. We will work on this together. It is better to put thought and effort into a gift instead of spending money."

Money wasn't something we had anyway. I didn't know or care. Living on the farm was rich with new experiences and the type of wealth that has nothing to do with money. We had food to eat, clothes to wear and a warm place to sleep at night. Simple. Beautiful.

The theme that permeated every minute of every day was that of economy and self reliance. Nothing was ever wasted, and what was gained was only through hard work. One day Joseph (Buddy's son) and I tore pages from a coloring book to make a pretend fire. We wadded the pieces and threw them under a quilting frame because it looked like a fireplace to us. We were pretty proud of ourselves. When Buddy saw what we had done, all our toys were taken away for a long time. I never wasted anything after that.

From behind his back Buddy produced a small dingy object for me to see. Mom's birthday was approaching and this would be her gift. He handed me an old toothbrush with some goop on it and showed me how to polish the box. As I scrubbed, ornate details of silver scrollwork emerged from the tarnish of ages. An old silver soap box eventually came back to life...and what? I don't remember. Did I give it to mom? Where is it now? Not important.

I remember the important things from the experiences.

Waste Nothing. Use Thought and Effort.

Whoa, where did the time go?

2009-05-28T22:19:00.010-07:00

Jess is a great help in the garden.

Tomatoes, ready to plant.

The corn is planted in my tiny garden spot....

Jess and Marshall enjoy the last of the winter garden...

If you want carrots like these, plant them and neglect to water them.

Okay, enough of the picture book. These are pics from February, so I need to update. The corn is 6 feet, sunflowers are around 9 feet tall. It is amazing what consistent watering will do for a plant.

I had a life-changing experience back in March while attending a garden seminar. Seriously. I feel I have been set free. With my new understanding of vegetables and "organic" gardening, I have high hopes for this season's plantings. The seminar was based on Jacob Mittlieder's method. Find out about it at www.foodforeveryone.org

Now that my plants are producing, and I took care of the skunk problem...what the heck is running off with my veggies? Two bell peppers and two tomatoes are missing without a trace.

I suspect it is a raccoon this time.

The Two-Seater

2009-02-20T12:28:00.005-07:00

I was in a restaurant one time in a small town in Arizona. It was one of those home-cookin'-ma-and-pa types. As I reached to open the bathroom door, an old woman and her daughter opened it and walked out. She chuckled as she told me it wasn't a "two-seater" and added "you are too young to know what that means!"

As a child, I wasn't the least bit bothered by the lack of indoor plumbing at the Cooley Farm. It's probably because everything was so well done. We did have a hand pump that brought up water from the well in the kitchen. I do not remember bathing, except in the creek, which pleased me to no end. And the two-seater was very clean.

A breezeway had been added on to the farmhouse at some point and this attached to the indoor outhouse. Sounds smelly, I know, but it wasn't. Someone knew what they were doing. I think it sloped and drained away from the house. It had two holes cut in the bench so two people could go at the same time.

My best memory involves two colors; Cobalt blue, and Whelp red. The interior of the outhouse was painted a brilliant, cheerful Cobalt. The "Whelp red" was from the butt comparison that Walt and I did in the outhouse one day after a good switchin' by mom and her willow branch.

Raising Them Right

2009-02-18T19:17:00.002-07:00

Someday, M will be ready for pedals, and some trail riding.

I can and can't wait for that day!

Kurt and the boys hang out while I do the 7 mile loop at my favorite trail.

A Fast Begins

2009-01-20T22:23:00.004-07:00

Although I have been avoiding the news and tv for a few weeks now, I think I will make it official and begin a NEWS Fast. Four years is my goal. This is the perfect day to start. No one will have the opportunity to tell me how they think I should think. When I have taken a step back in the past, the absurdities spewed from the mouths of the worthless, condescending media were absolutely jaw-dropping. I couldn't abide the clarity of mind in the past, but I feel I am now up to it.

Just Like Riding a Bike

2008-12-10T21:26:00.009-07:00

I finally got back on the trails today.

It's time.

Jess will soon be 8 months old and the baby weight has got to go!

It's more than fitness I seek.

There are answers out there in the desert, there's peace, too.

I left a piece of myself out there when I became pregnant with Marshall over three years ago.

Now it's time to go out there and find it.

Incidentally, I ride a Santa Cruz Superlight...and her name is "Yes."

A Post with Practically No Foul Language

2008-12-08T21:24:00.008-07:00

This may be what I get for saying that I refuse to give up on gardening, saying that I refuse to get discouraged...

The other day, I went outside and cut some lettuce and picked a few beans. I trimmed my herb garden so it would grow full and not get leggy or go to seed too soon. There's a pretty little rosemary, a few thyme, cilantro, melissa, and some scented geraniums. The basil smelled rich and buttery, the chamomile like honeyed apples.

The aromas of the fresh herbs lifted my spirits, I returned to the house with a lighter step. I felt thankful for my sweet little garden growing magical charms to change my mood.

The very next day, this is what I found...

Holes a foot deep, plants thrown to the side or buried topside down. It looked like a rototiller had run across my herb garden, through the veggie patch and even torn up our grass.

For the next two nights, the damage got worse. The mystery creature(s) kept coming back. It was giving me the creeps because our yard is surrounded by block fence. I could not figure out what would do this amount of damage without a sound. It looked like a pack of dogs had run wild.

AZ Fish and Game said it was most likely coyotes. They love the manure in freshly planted gardens.

Javelina (nasty, mean, hairy desert pigs) couldn't get over our wall. They are usually the culprits.

Bobcats are common. I found evidence of pack rats. They had hoarded a bunch of mesquite pods in an old camp stove out there.

I did a little searching and feel pretty confident now that it was skunks They were digging for grubs. I wish I could shoot the SOB's. I would stay up all night for the chance if I wasn't sure it would end BADLY. All I can think to do is add some fine wire mesh to the gate and drains to secure the perimeter. Know any tricks?

Last night the smell of skunk woke me up at 2am. I diffused essential oils and finally got back to sleep 4 hours later. I'm mad just thinking about it.

So, if I look on the bright side, there are two good things. I have learned just how secure I will need to make my dream garden. With all the battles I have fought this summer, I know it will need to be caged completely. Birds, jack rabbits, coyotes, javelina, deer, bobcats, pack rats and ground squirrels are all looking for a meal. The other thing is, now I don't have to buy the expensive grub-killing soil amendment.

Forget the bright side, I'm still mad.

Dump Shopping

2008-12-02T00:02:00.005-07:00

We lived on very little money in New Hampshire. Most things we needed were created on the homestead or bartered for with neighbors. Cordwood was traded for gasoline to put in the car we rarely used. We went to a community center and traded clothes with other families. We made old things new.

Another thing we did is what I like to call "dump shopping." It is pretty self explanatory. It wasn't the sort of smelly dump that you might think of. I would have remembered a bad smell. What I do remember is enormous piles of stuff mixed in with sticks. maybe it was going to be burned. We crawled across the treacherous mounds of tangled trash and found treasures to take home.On one occasion, Walt found many pieces of a metal Erector Set, and I found a damaged dollhouse.

I was too young to understand how this might have been perceived by the world. It was like going shopping, only I could actually HAVE anything I could find.

I have more to say about this, but the words aren't coming. Part of me, a big part, misses that freedom. Freedom from shame. Freedom from societal pressures. The freedom of a VERY simple life.

The Bridge House

2008-11-28T23:24:00.007-07:00

Through a tunnel of gold, rust, and red foliage I saw the Bridge House for the first time. Sitting on the right hand of the road, it was cradled by birch and sugar maple trees and surrounded by a thick stone wall of about three feet high.

We entered the house from one of the ends that had been boarded up, and a door added. I think the other end had a window. Inside it was dark and hard to see. As my eyes adjusted, I could see there stretch a loft above and a rough wooden floor below.

I sat on a creaky wooden chair in the kitchen spot with my mittens still on and spied the stone wall outside. I wasn't looking through a window. I was looking through the gaps in the weathered wooden boards that made the old covered bridge. I thought for sure I would freeze to death in this place. But like most homes in the area, the Bridge House was equipped with a wood burning stove that made everything toasty. It was very much like being in a barn-sans the animal smell. On days when the sky was clear and bright, the open slits allowed the sun to squeeze its blinding beams across the floor in a stripped pattern.

The creek may have been diverted, because the bridge no longer sat on water. But more than likely, the entire bridge had been moved by some historical landmark lover or an artsy, frugal hippy. Whoever spent the time to do such a thing has my gratitude. It was the sort of experience one reads of in fairy tales, and for several years, drawings of the Bridge House flowed from my hand.

Crawling

2008-11-28T13:10:00.004-07:00

Jess is crawling!

Thinking About My Freedom

2008-11-11T08:47:00.003-07:00

I snipped this from an email...not sure of the author.

A veteran is someone who, at one point in his life wrote a blank check Made payable to 'The United States of America ' for an amount of 'up to and including my life.' That is Honor, and there are way too many people in This country who no longer understand it.'

My Heroes

2008-11-10T23:47:00.003-07:00

This was pure Marshall, he just knew how to pose. When he first put on his suit, he stood in front of the mirror admiring his cape and his muscles.

It took some doing, but I stuffed Jess into this costume. The boy is a tank!

My Favorite Way to Pass the Time

2008-10-21T12:18:00.005-07:00

Jess Valentine...6 months old.

Marshall Dempsey...2-1/2 years old.

Garden Update

2008-10-19T13:42:00.015-07:00

I put my heart into everything I do,

but sometimes that is not a good idea.

Gardens can break your heart!

Remember those beautiful grapes I planted? MMM HMMM...

Apparently there is a moth that likes grape leaves. It lays eggs on the back. When the eggs hatch, the babies ravage the plant and leave it looking like this...

I was told it is called the Skeletonizer Moth. I don't feel like spending the time to verify that because that is a darn good name for it.

The good news is, all three plants are coming out of it. Whew.

Everything came up beautifully in the raised bed, only to be half eaten by who-knows-what. I now suspect cutworms, grubs and gigantic grasshoppers.

My neighbor, "Q", gave me some cuttings from three cactus plants. This was part from generosity (he is extremely generous) and part from wanting to use one of his man toys (of which he has many).

WARNING: Do Not Sneak Up on This Man!

One can be eaten raw or cooked. I am letting them scab before I plant them,

otherwise they may rot.

More than once, I have heard recently that, in gardening, one should not be so arrogant as to expect every seed to produce, and every plant to bear fruit, and that you will be the one to eat it. There are a lot of hungry things out there that compete with you. They work when you sleep, they munch when you turn your back...

I replanted the raised bed.

Only four cucumbers survived, along with two rows of beans. Now it is planted with spinach, beets, carrots, lettuce and -maybe- peas. I say "maybe" because the day after I planted, it looked like a little mouse dug a tiny hole above each pea to retrieve it.

I knew there were kangaroo mice out there, but I didn't want to kill them. Now I know I must. Not because of the peas, but because of this guy...

He saw me first.

I must have startled him, because he kept hissing and shaking his rattle.

The mice attract rattlesnakes. I don't get too freaked out about snakes. But now that I have little ones, I can't stand by and admire them in my yard.

Every time I see another setback in my desert gardening efforts, I try to remember not to be arrogant. I try not to get discouraged or feel defeat. Hope is important.

She that hopes...receives.

My SIL, Gabby, gave me a little card that sums it up:

"Gardening is a way of showing that you believe in tomorrow."

Flying Jack O Lantern

2008-10-09T14:20:00.012-07:00

Walt and I had been at the bass pond examining the work of the beavers that lived there. The pond was at the Cooley homestead, just up a winding dirt road on the property. It was late October, brown leaves crunched under foot. I was imagining my teeth aching from chewing the trees to make logs for a dam, glad not to be a beaver. Besides, I was a groundhog, and everybody knew it. (That's another story)

In just a few days it would be Halloween.

We had been told the scariest story. I didn't really believe it, but I was a little worried. Thirty four years have passed now, so I don't remember really what I was told, but I do remember it was about the Flying Jack O Lantern.

On Halloween night, it was said he flew through the air looking for... something. Was it his lost love? His body? Or was it children who weren't in bed? Whatever he was looking for, he searched from the flaming eyes of a fiery carved pumpkin.

Halloween came. I was a gypsy. This was an easy costume to assemble: one of mom's thin cotton tapestry skirts, a few bangles, bells and a red headscarf. Trick-or-treating was a bust. We walked far to get to houses only find no one there, or no one expected us. One house improvised and handed us each some dimes. We were grateful, because that is how we were raised.

Soon after we had gone to bed, there was a commotion. Mom hollered up to us, saying she thought she saw something out the window, and began thumping up the wooden stairs to our adjacent rooms. Suddenly a blazing face swept across the floor-to-ceiling window in my room! I was paralyzed with fright!

Mom came running in and scooped me up. The Jack O Lantern swam in the blackness back and forth in the windows in Walt's room. We all began running back and forth, screaming, half-laughing, and chasing it from room to room.

After a few minutes of terror and excitement, the searching pumpkin head disappeared forever.

Anyone who has known me more than a year, knows that Halloween is my favorite holiday. I have no doubt that the Flying Jack O Lantern planted that seed!

Kurt and I have enjoyed Halloween together these past 10 years....

2003 The Duke and Duchess of Death (my favorite)

2004

2005 Banshee and Tree from the forest.

Kurt is on stilts, his face is barely visible in the leaves.

2006

2007 Halloween, we carved pumpkins with Walt and his kids in West Virginia.

Kurt transformed Marshall's stroller into a coffin.

Banging Down the Bees

2008-10-04T17:40:00.005-07:00

By the time we had spent a few months in New Hampshire, I had made peace with bees in general. It was explained that bees don't just ATTACK people unprovoked. Apparently, when my little friend from Florida wanted to show us how harmless her grandpa's bee hive was, and she flipped the lid off the top, that was called "provoking."

There is still a vivid memory of mom's face with a look of terror as she flung open the door to see her two little ones screaming, being chased and stung by a swarm. She beat at her long, thick hair to kill the bees that tangled there as she rushed us inside. My brother and I shared a shivering, sniffling bath of baking soda as we examined our head-to-toe whelps.

At the Stone Farmhouse, old Bud Stone kept bees in his attic. I suppose it was as good a place as any to keep bees. Their flight path was very high in the air, so there was not much contact with them. Plus, he could walk upstairs to easily harvest honey . I can recall a quart jar with a draining piece of honeycomb on the window sill in the kitchen, a bee suspended in the amber liquid. I waited as patiently as I could for a piece to chew on, enjoying the initial jolt of sweetness all the way to the soft, barely sweet, waxy gum.

One day there was a lot of commotion. The adults had gone mad! Excited voices called everyone outside. They were under the attic window banging loudly on pots and pans. I couldn't imagine what it was all for at first, but then I felt the fat dark raindrops hitting my head. Bees were falling from the sky like rain. When they fell, they seemed disoriented and would roll around a little to get right again. The bees were confused and stumped...but that was the point.

The banging kept them from organizing. A new queen had hatched and her followers were gathering in a nearby maple, wanting to form their own hive. We banged and banged until a neighbor was able to come and remove the extra queen and provide a place for the bees to relocate.

Gathering Mushrooms

2008-10-02T04:06:00.009-07:00

The drizzly rain softened the layers of fallen leaves, making the ground feel spongy and hollow. My chilly red nose was filled with the clean, refreshing smell of rich black earth. Tromping around in the woods was high adventure. This day, we were looking for mushrooms around our New England homestead. We were not disappointed.

High on the side of a sugar maple tree clung several large shell-shaped mushrooms. They looked like stair steps, perfect for a squirrel to use...if a squirrel needed steps. We pulled them down and examined them. One side was woody feeling and the other was soft. Mom showed me how to take a sharp twig and press it into the soft side to draw on it. We stood around making marks on the mushrooms until there was no drawing space left on them. These were not edible mushrooms, of course. I took some home to draw on later.

Further into our wooded walk we came upon a frilly log. It appeared frilly because it was covered with bright orange mushrooms.

These were called chicken mushrooms.

Now, adults often think it is funny to tease a child with lies, so I was reluctant to believe this mushroom was really called a chicken mushroom. Mom assured me it was so, and she always respectfully never teased. We put them in a sack and continued to explore.

Our final harvest was a mushroom that grew on another fallen mossy log. It was white and not as frilly as the chicken mushroom. It was an oyster mushroom.

On the way back from the walk I hadn't made my mind up to actually eat our harvest. This was like no other food I had ever eaten, or even seen. But mom knew me, and injected enthusiasm and adventure in the prospect of trying something new. I was primed and ready by the time we reached home.

We took our sack of chickens and oysters back to the farmhouse and spread them out on the enamel tabletop. A little time was spent brushing the mushrooms clean of rotted wood and slicing them to a uniform cooking size.

I loved helping to build the fires in the cast iron cook stove. It was a monster black beauty that heated quickly, but needed plenty of attention. There is a real art to cooking on one of these. We tossed the mushrooms in a hot black and buttered skillet where they sizzled and softened in no time.

If these mushrooms had not tasted better than anything I had eaten by the ripe old age of four, maybe I would have forgotten this experience. But they were delicious beyond description. I couldn't wait to go mushroom hunting again.

Sometimes I feel I should end every entry I make about our homesteading experience with three words..."Thank you, Mom."

The Visiting Fiddler

2008-09-21T16:23:00.012-07:00

Our New Hampshire homestead experience was rich with the everyday happenings that never happen anymore. This was the last time I experienced a true country lifestyle.

We always entered the house at the side, through the kitchen door. I didn't know there was a front door, or even a front porch for a while, because it was never used. The kitchen was small and had a big white sink next to a hand pump to bring up the well water. This is not as easy as having modern indoor plumbing, but was much easier than having to lug buckets of water from an outside well.

In the dining room, large windows with many panes stretched along one side of the house. The glass was old and appeared to have melted to the point where it was twice as thick at the bottom as the top. All the floors in the house were wooden, but I only distinctly remember the dining room floor. I spent a lot of time under the table in there, taking every advantage of being small and flexible. The old wooden floors were painted grey, and walking across them made the most satisfying clomping and creaking sounds.

At night, for a brief time between sundown and bed time, our old farmhouse was lit with hurricane lamps placed here and there. We had no television or radio, or even electricity. We entertained ourselves and each other. This was the same for most people around those parts, so it was quite common for people to stop by unannounced. It was the country way.

One cold evening, before the snow, a man with a fiddle came to visit.

No one can tell me who the man was. This was the only visit I remember from him. He could have been a complete stranger who was passing through and saw our lights. Who would turn down the company of a man with a fiddle?

He was a nice man. ( I say this because I believe I was a good judge of character at age four. With all the people coming and going from my life by then, I had more than the good and evil detector of youth, I also had a little experience.)

The fiddler was a nice man. I watched with great anticipation as he took his fiddle from the case. He showed me the instrument and allowed me to pluck the strings as he tightened the hair of his bow. Somebody said something about cat guts that I didn't understand. I was warned to be very careful! but I didn't need to be told this. This instrument came out of a velvet lined box, so of course I knew to be careful.

I took my favorite spot under the table. I didn't want to push my luck and get sent to bed early because I was in the way. Through the legs of those standing around the room I saw the fiddler raise his bow.

Immediately my hands shot up to cover my ears when he started to play. It was pure reflex to the intensity of the sound that burst forth from the instrument. The sound filled the room. It bounced off the wooden floors and sagging glass windows and found me in my hiding spot.

After the initial shock was over, my ears adjusted, and I began to hear that the sound was actually the most delightful music. It must have been a jig. Jigs have a driving, irresistible beat that even the shyest people find they must force themselves to NOT clap.

I watched in amazement as the adults who always seemed so stern, began to clap and tap their feet. After a "whoop" or two was let loose, I knew it was safe to come out from under the table.

Quickly, the music took over and I began to DANCE! I didn't know how to dance, but the music taught me, right then, right there. I remember my shear delight looking down at my legs as I hopped rhythmically back and forth. The brown corduroy pants I wore swished and swiped while my hard shoes kept beat with the music The adults clapped to the beat with smiling faces, making it all too irresistible.

The visiting fiddler left sometime after I had gone to bed. Naturally, he hadn't come to see me, but I was forever changed by his jig.

Desert Highway

2008-09-21T16:01:00.010-07:00

We often travel to Phoenix "the back way." We love this less-used highway because the desert scenery never disappoints. In the spring there is a profusion of wildflowers along with the many textures of cacti and desert trees. Here we stopped to give the boys a break from the three hour drive home from Grandma & Grandpa's house.

Kurt holds a freshly diapered Jess.

Marshall tries not to look like coyote bait...

and I enjoy another beautiful drink of the high desert.

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

2008-09-07T15:25:00.011-07:00

On our way to Jane's, we passed Barkley coming toward us. Barkley was the funniest animal I had ever seen. He was the neighbor's friendly Basset Hound. I could not suppress my giggles at his droopy eyes and drunken walk. He sat on the side of the road, clearly torn between following us and continuing his original direction. Once decided, he left us with the wag of his tail and a "Bar-Rooh!"

Outside of Jane's place was a fenced area containing animals. I watched with bossy disapproval as Walter teased a ram. Walter is my older brother and I usually disapproved of everything he did. The ram did what rams do and rammed the wire fence to try to get to Walter. This was terrifying to me. The fence kept stretching with each attack, but fortunately, it held.

Jane was a friend of mom's. Her picture in my memory is a pleasant one. She wears a long heavy dark skirt and long brown hair passed her full hips. She is smiling, her chocolate colored eyes twinkle with warmth and kindness. She laughs easily.

How old was the one room cabin that Jane lived in? It must have been one of the first homes in the quiet area of Warner, New Hampshire. Herbs were hanging from the ceiling to dry and there was a cast iron wood stove where she did her cooking. I can vaguely see a patchwork quilt on her rumply (probably feather) bed. It was quite dark, lit with only kerosene lamps, and had a dirt floor. Jane would sweep the floor. This took some explaining for my four-year-old self to understand. Apparently, the dirt compacts into an almost cement like surface, and it can be swept clean.

Fieldstones and Chipmunks

2008-09-04T22:50:00.006-07:00

A lot of time was spent in my childhood riding in the car, looking out the window. A slight bend or dip in the road would make my stomach feel sour with nausea. I hated car rides. Mom always told me to look to the farthest green I could see to help curb the sick feeling.

The view was a green blur driving in New Hampshire. Occasionally, the leaves would part enough for a glimpse of the thick stone walls outlining most properties in our area. These were old, old walls. I don't know who built them, but I was told they were stacked with the rocks plucked from the surrounding fields. The once jagged stones had been softened by the years and years of seasonal changes. Many were green with moss or spotted with lichens.

I could always count on the chipmunks for a race. The sound of our old car would send them scurrying along the top of the walls until one would dart out of sight and another would appear. It was a relay race. Little striped twitchy competitors bolted into action. I have no doubt their noisy chattering was filled with boasts of victory.

Gentle Jess

2008-08-30T13:37:00.009-07:00

I really wanted to name him Rowdy Valentine instead of Jess Valentine, but I am glad I didn't. This little guy is so mellow and gentle. His whole presence has a soothing effect on whoever is holding him. He's bright and engaging, too, but not in a rambunctious way at all. He lulls me with his peaceful power into hours of holding him as he sleeps. I don't get much done, and most times, I don't much mind.

Since his birth, I find myself experiencing real moments of tranquility. I know it is a gift he carried into this life.

Sweet Grass and Sick Hot Hay

2008-08-30T10:40:00.012-07:00

A continuation of the post titled "Mercy"

sweet grass...

The grassy areas surrounding the farm were littered with (what I call) chamomile grass. When I walked my little bare feet in the fields, the smell of honey and apples would spring from the earth. This chamomile grass had a wonderful, soft feel, almost like a tiny, fuzzy succulent. I can't help but smile when I smell chamomile. (hey, that rhymes, if you pronounce it wrong!)

sick hot hay...

I grumpily skulked along side the wagon. All the adults were in the field with pitchforks in hand. A number of days before, the hay had been cut and left on the ground to dry.

Today was the day it needed to be moved to the barn for storage. The sun was hot, the air was muggy, and our activity was sending the bugs flying angrily in the air and around my face. I couldn't have been more miserable!

I watched as the adults threw forkfuls of hay into the wagon, first filling the corners and then the middle. This enabled them to stack it very high before taking it back to the barn. There they would again use their forks to unload it. It was a time consuming process that was an eternity to my four year old self.

I wondered why I was even there. It could have been because all hands were needed for the work, which left no one to look after me. It could have been to teach me my place in the world, to pluck out any seed of entitlement that might have begun to take root in my soul.

The smell made me feel sick. The sun baked the grass until the sweetness was overpowering. Its rays reflected off the dry grass, burning my eyes. I will never forget that day.

For years and years, after leaving New Hampshire, I couldn't bear to look at a sunny field. It does sound silly, I know, but it is true. Riding in the car, passing a sunny field, would strike a chord of dread in me. My eyes would fervently search for the shade of a tree to counteract the effect.

I am amazed that I live, and love living, in Arizona. The sun always shines. I think it has forgiven me for hating it all those years.

When I studied with The School of Natural Healing, working to become a Master Herbalist, I had a question answered that had been in the back of my mind since that hot hay day. We studied the chemical constituents of many herbs.

Coumarin was the answer.

It is the constituent responsible for the sweet smell of freshly cut grasses.

New Garden Planted

2008-08-26T12:01:00.010-07:00

We found another little space in our yard to plant a garden.

This is where I put the corn and pumpkins.

I should have planted about 20 days ago, but I wasn't ready.

We'll see how it turns out.

I made a stone path down the center.

This puts everything within a two foot reach.

Here is another bed against the house.

It will have more tomatoes, soon, and some peppers.

Our strawberries are very happy under the pine tree.

I am catching lots of runners to plant!

Here lies the raised bed that will grow us some green beans.

I went ahead and planted some cucumbers with them

to see if they can get along.

The grapes like their new location.

Garden good news:

This is the biggest tomato I have ever grown in AZ!

It is actual "tomato-sized!"

Too bad I dropped the biggest one on the floor and busted it

before I could stow it for ripening!

ARGH!

I'm going to eat it anyway.

Mercy

2008-08-23T22:15:00.009-07:00

Mom moved us from southern Florida to New Hampshire when I was four years old. There she embarked on a dream of living a homestead lifestyle. The farm we lived on belonged to Mrs. Cooley and had been built in colonial times. We lived there about a year, but it was a short season packed with so much newness, that I swear I can remember almost everything.

There was a snake that slithered across the floor of my bedroom the day I moved in. It really scared me and gave mom a little start, too. Needless to say I was reluctant to spend the night or even set foot in the room. I don't know how long it took, but mom reasoned with me and I finally showed my bravery by sitting on the floor in front of the dresser where the snake had gone. The big help was learning there are no poisonous snakes in New England. Under the big step of the barn was a nest of snakes that I ended up befriending. I have not been afraid of snakes since.

I've decided to write a few paragraphs at a time about this period in New Hampshire. Only recently have I realized how tremendously that short time has impacted my life. It was a perfect set of experiences.

Hmm. It just occurred to me that it had to be spectacular.

This was the move that separated me from dad.

Perhaps God mercifully sent me this slow-motion set of magical events to distract me from the full force of loss that would have been too much for a little girl, had she been looking straight at it.

Here is a list of a few things I want to remember to write about:

The Two-Seater

Banging Down the Bees

Sweet Grass and Sick-Hot-Hay

Tapping Maples

The Glass Eye in the Mystery Room

The Visiting Fiddler

Beenut Milk

Flying Jack O Lantern

Dump Shopping

The Silver Box

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

Fieldstones and Chipmunks

Building Blocks and Relationships

2008-08-15T10:44:00.018-07:00

It has been a challenging few months.

Marshall is two.

When Jess was born I felt like I lost my best little friend. Marshall withdrew from me and seemed unhappy for a while. Knowing that this is normal didn't take the sting out of it. He and I had been inseparable for almost two years. I left him with other people less than a dozen times in those two years-no joke, so you can imagine our attachment.

His turning two has not been fun either. Again, knowing he is acting normal doesn't lessen the ever changing struggles and stresses of having a child this age.

Forget the "reality" shows that sensationalize hard jobs that people do! Let's see a crab fisherman keep his cool with a tired (because he refuses to nap), hungry (because he refuses to eat), screaming (because he's tired and hungry) toddler who just deliberately woke up the baby after trashing the kitchen you spent an hour cleaning and removing his diaper before releasing the trouser trout to swim on the newly shampooed carpet because company is coming.

But yesterday, I got a glimpse of something

WONDERFUL,

something MAGICAL!

I can see the day coming soon when we will play and learn and talk together. This thrills me! The magic is coming back to the mothering. It is new and different. It is easy to feel the magic with a newborn or a squishy goo-gooing baby, but to have it with a two year old takes work.

We have been playing blocks everyday for a week.

Each day he throws them less.

Each day he creates a little more.

Each day we fight a little less,

and each day a little more light shines on the future.

We are building together-ness.

Important Instructions

2008-08-09T14:31:00.007-07:00

I am so lucky.

I happened to be at Logan's house (brother) when a package arrived from his grandmother who lives in West Virginia. I knew what was in that package. It was unopened and Logan was still at work. Hmmm...

I asked Gabby (SIL) to call and ask if I could open it. His answer was "Yes, and you can have half." I am 10 years older than Logan. Although he is an adult, a married man, and serves in the military, I like to think he is still a little afraid of me and that is why he made this generous offer. But maybe he is just generous. Or, maybe he does not worship the red gold as I do.

Behold the Beefsteak

I do not believe this can be achieved in Arizona. I don't think they can grow like this here. I would love to be proven wrong, wrong, wrong. Until then, I will have to rely on my luck to get my hands on beauties like these. Either that, or have Logan's mail forwarded to my home every August...

And now for the important instructions:

World's Best Tomato Sandwich

Toasted bread

Miracle Whip (one needs the "tangy zip")

Fresh Ground Sea Salt

Fresh Basil Leaves

One inch thick slice of Beefsteak Tomato

Assemble and enjoy!

Remember to Laugh

2008-08-01T17:14:00.007-07:00

This is what I tell myself everyday as I attempt to be a mother to MARSHALL. His name is in all caps because that best represents him these past few days. I lamented to a friend that when a baby turns two years old, there should be a special coupon that arrives in the mail for the parents...$5.00 off "Shut Up" Spray and Buy One Get One Free "Sit Down!" and "Quit It!" homeopathic tablets.

What works best right now is to remember to laugh. Let's see what I laughed at today...

(lipstick)

I sat on the couch, nursing Jess, thinking how nice it was to finally have Marshall occupied and quiet in another room. Then I realized that silence from a toddler only means trouble. After I saw what he accomplished in less than 10 minutes, I honestly felt it was worth the 10 minutes of peace.

Mangos and Memories

2008-07-26T06:57:00.007-07:00

The mangos have arrived! A few days ago, Grandma Lovett called to ask if I wanted any mangos from her tree in southern Florida. I didn't hesitate because, well, I am not stupid.

Grandma Naomi Lovett is one of my most favorite people on this planet. She is a true southern Floridian. This is very different than being a southerner in general. The way a southern woman is typically portrayed is sugary-sweet, exuding an aura of helplessness and insincerity. This could not be further from the truth. I wish I were talented enough to paint a word picture of her. You would love her as I do.

I don't often get to see my family in Florida, which is very sad. Although my brother and I didn't live near them after mom and dad split when we were very young, we both have a tremendous amount of "Lovett" in us. I am not talking about looks, we don't look like them at all. Instead, somehow, in our DNA, we were slipped the same sense of humor and splash of "quirky" that you just don't get unless you've spent a lot of time marinating in the sweet, balmy humidity of Homestead, Florida.

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," was a favorite thing for mom to say when I was -no doubt- whining about something as a child. But if wishes were horses, I would ride to see Grandma Lovett. We would sit on the front porch swing and talk about nothing. I would swat mosquitoes and she would probably be grinning so I couldn't see her because mosquitoes know better than to bite her. I'd walk through the house and breathe in as much as I could. There is no better smell than the smell of her house. It must be from the aroma of years of the world's best cooking seeping into the knotty pine walls and wood floors.

This year I will put up some of her incredible creamed corn recipe. I don't remember a meal at her house without this corn. It is a simple recipe: Fresh Corn cut off the cob, salt, pepper, butter and bacon drippings. Can't go wrong with that!

Connection

2008-07-22T00:53:00.009-07:00

My adventure today started at 10:15 pm. I had 20 pounds of peaches to process. This was another first for me. I learned so much! I am sitting on the couch with my body sort of throbbing, waiting for the boiling time to be complete. It is 1:00 am. I only canned a little over half the peaches. Tomorrow, if I get out of bed, I will prepare the others to be frozen pie filling.

A few things I learned...

Canning can be done all by yourself, but should be done in a group of people whose company you enjoy.

There are two categories of peaches. One has the type of seed that is connected to the flesh of the fruit, and the other's seed is not. It would make for prettier canned peaches if you choose the free floating seed. My peaches were not this type, so they look a little abused.

Peaches are SLICKERY once peeled.

In order to place the peaches "cut side down" as per the directions, first, pick them up out of the boiling syrup while they are facing down and then slide them easily into the jar. Don't frantically pick at them with a fork or cuss at them, that doesn't seem to work as well.

The last thing I learned is more of a reminder.

It is something I have felt before.

When I am engaged in homemaking activities, I feel connected.

I smell the fruit or the dish soap, I see my hands cutting an onion or sewing on a button, I feel the ache in my back from mopping, or maybe throbbing feet from standing in the kitchen too long, and I feel connected.

I only feel connected when my heart is open to enjoy the activity

instead of grumbling about the work.

Brief glimpses of women, that I don't even know, float through my mind. They have done the same thing I am doing - whatever it is -and I feel that feeling of connection to them.

This lets me know I am in the right place, doing the right thing at the right time.

It is a feeling of harmony and privilege.

My Fruit Bat

2008-07-17T23:30:00.011-07:00

I can't get my tomatoes in the house.

Marshall (age 2) thinks whatever is in my harvest bowl is lunch.

He ate 12 tiny cherry tomatoes and five "big" tomatoes in one sitting.

He ate the three-inch ear of corn, too. After all that, he insisted on eating a green bean, but spit it out because it took too long to chew. A few days ago he came in the house with a mesquite pod that he was chewing on. If none of these items are around, he picks at my herbs, crushes the leaves and shoves them up his nose. I tried to teach him to smell the different herbs, but he has his own way of doing things. Little Show-Off!

Whooping Around the Fire...

2008-07-17T19:02:00.009-07:00

That was the expression Mom used today.

I did my first waterbath canning just a few hours ago.

How do Black Forest Preserves sound?

Yes, "Oooh!" is right.

It is amazing what some sugar, cocoa, and cherries can become.

I called mom to tell her what I was doing because I was so excited about it. I had no idea how fun and instantly rewarding doing a little home canning could be! She immediately understood. "My Mom would always be there to whoop around the fire with me whenever I did something like this," she told me. "We would do a little canning here and there and then get so excited as we watched the pints and quarts add up to a colorful display on the shelves."

My memories of mom canning were skewed by the whininess of being a self-absorbed little girl. It would be fun to turn back the clock and savor those days of picking tomatoes as big as a softball in the hot buggy days of summer, putting them in bushel baskets and fighting with my older brother, Walt, over who has to lug them in the house. We were both afraid of getting stuck helping if we were seen in the vicinity of work. One year, I swear, Mom canned one scrillion-bazillion quarts of tomatoes. I tried to stay far away from the kitchen while she canned. In my ignorance, I thought she must be miserable in that hot steamy kitchen, scalding the tomatoes, burning her fingers as she peeled away the skin and loaded them into jars. But now I know the truth- it was pure bliss- and I missed out on it! Fortunately, it is not too late. Today was the first day of a new tradition. It is hard to explain, but today I changed again.

Bread Report

2008-07-04T13:09:00.010-07:00

I am trying to teach myself to make bread from scratch and by hand. There is a learning curve to this and I am still at the bottom. I love the idea of it though, so I am not discouraged. I have my bread guru, my sister-in-law, Jen, that I seek guidance from in troubled times. Look at this trouble.

In other words, it was too dense and should only be used as a doorstop.

Jen gave me this great book on bread basics,

but I'd rather have her here to hold my hand.

She has already been through all the work of perfecting the art of bread-making. She's so good at it, that she could probably make bread out of two gum wrappers and some saw dust. She's the Bread MacGyver.

Bountiful Harvest

2008-06-27T08:59:00.004-07:00

I refuse to be bummed out about my pathetic garden. I guess I should be, though. We spent several hundred dollars to plant and feed and water it. So far, I have only harvested a handful of beans, a few pitiful ears of corn and some already bitten or pecked tomatoes. Here is today's harvest.

MMMMM! I could eat for a week on such bounty!

Okay, sarcasm aside, I am actually pleased with my beautiful garden.

For one thing_ I did it! I planted and tended a garden here in the desert.

The green leaves of all the vegetables and pretty blossoms of the nasturtiums remind me of my West Virginia home. I love to look out my window and see it thriving and full of life. So really, I have been feasting for months on the eye-candy that it affords.

For another thing, I am learning a great deal. I planted my corn too close. It is a hungry plant. I didn't assist my summer squash to bear fruit. I didn't tie up my tomatoes in time, and now it is too late. My beans aren't easy to harvest where I put them, so I am reluctant to do it. I planted peas too late and didn't protect them. I have to create better soil next time and fertilize more often. I have to protect everything from all the damn birds, especially red things like tomatoes, raspberries and strawberries. If a plant gets stressed it is more likely to attract harmful insects.If I don't listen to what experienced gardeners say, then I have to find out the hard and expensive way. And finally, there's something with little teeth out there that likes only one or two bites of everything.

"And yet, I am unmoved."

I LOVE gardening. I believe that soon I will be very successful with it.

Master, the Tempest is Raging

2008-06-13T10:45:00.034-07:00

I have been thinking for a while about posting the birth story of my first son, Marshall. It was almost the polar opposite of Jess' birth. It was a beautiful and valuable experience that I created for myself. I, in no way, see it as a "bad" experience, but in the telling, I'm not sure that will be conveyed.

Jess' birth was a spring rainfall. It was healing, soothing and gentle.

But here is the story of the tempest.

When I attended Seminary, I had an excellent teacher the year we studied the Old Testament. He frequently pointed out and explained symbolism, imagery and parallels from the Bible. We talked about Adam and Eve, the Creation, the Fall and the Atonement. Among many other things, I was taught about the parallels of Christ's Atonement to a woman's giving birth. I was fascinated!

I woke up from my Sunday afternoon nap with mild cramps. After seeing a tiny bit of blood, Kurt called my midwife to tell her. Mom made me a sandwich and started recording my contractions on paper. I took a bite of my sandwich and couldn't chew it. This should have been told to my midwife immediately, but we were new to childbirth and we questioned ourselves. (Not being able to eat is a sign of the start of hard labor.) The mild crampiness turned into strong contractions within 15 minutes. There was no time to ease into what was happening. I got into the birth pool to try to manage the pain.

Right away, I was worried. My insides were being ripped assunder with each contraction. I was really scared that I would have a long labor...feeling this intense, indescribable pain for 20, 30, or more hours. I had no idea something could hurt that bad and not kill me. (Now I understand that this is not typical of most labors-especially for a first time mom, and fast labors tend to be more intense.)

Strange things happened in my mind. I began to feel sorry for myself. (BAD IDEA) With each surge of pain I slowly comprehended that I was utterly alone, that no one could do anything to help me, that I was going to do this all by myself...no matter who was there "with" me. My midwife was almost two hours away. There was no time for her to get there.

I did not feel like I was participating in the labor. I felt acted upon. I felt my free agency taken from me. I saw some of the skeptical faces of women I had enthusiastically told about my plans to give birth naturally, and these faces mocked my pain. I felt angry. I didn't expect to feel angry in labor. This seemed wrong to me, and so I also felt disappointed.

From taking Bradley Childbirth classes, I knew I needed to empty my bladder every 30 minutes. A full bladder can increase pain. Increase? The pain could increase? I made three trips to the bathroom. The last time, two contractions came close together when I was out of the water. My husband was holding my hands. I vividly remember my feelings of desperation and despair. I looked into his eyes, no, past his eyes and into his soul. I wanted to climb in them, climb out of who I was, climb up and over and away. I could barely breathe. I tried to breathe.

In the Garden of Gethsemane He labored with great agony

to enable our re-birth.

His disciples came with Him, but all fell asleep as He suffered.

He only could do what had to be done. He bore it alone.

His blood was shed for us, so we could have free agency

and be redeemed from the Fall.

My mom recorded that my Bradley teacher, Nancy, arrived at 4:35pm, two hours and 48 contractions after I felt those initial cramps. She also wrote that I kept whispering " I need a break...please...please...please" and "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." I wouldn't move from my side-lying position in the water. I was afraid to move for fear of losing my mind. I was afraid to lose my mind because I feared it would cause more pain. I was just holding on by a thread. It was more like I was trying to grasp at a rope, only to find it made of sand: it was a cruel joke.

It didn't feel like my body was floating in the water. I felt like a rock. Barely a sound came out of my mouth, and that seems incredible to me because all I heard was screaming and the roaring, rushing water of the tempest.

I was in transition. Transition is the "Valley of the Shadow of Death." But I did not feel God. Where did He go? All I felt was black space and nothingness.

I didn't care about my life anymore. I wished for death; death seemed merciful to me. Hope was gone. I floated in blackness.

"My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"

Nancy touched a cool washcloth to my forehead and hand.

This simple thing saved my life in that moment. I turned away from the darkness and began to move back to the world. It was like she was an angel whose message was, "Not today...you will not die today." It was time to return and have a baby.

My body shook violently on the inside. I felt a jackhammer pounding with the next stage of contractions. Down, down, DOWN! These contractions didn't hurt the way the others did. These were almost exciting to feel in comparison. I was still unsure of myself, though.

The midwife that lived closest to me arrived around 5:30 pm. (My midwife often works with two other midwives.) She had my husband turn me from my lying position to a sitting one. A gush of blood filled the pool. With the next contraction, I pushed out my baby's head. With another contraction and a slight push, out came my little baby boy. 7 pounds 9 ounces. This was a three hour labor.

Hope, joy and peace returned in full.

But on what shelf in which room had they been put as I suffered?

Who was the keeper of such a horrible place?

It was me, I owned that room. I created it along with the entire experience of this birth. I created my own Gethsemane for reasons that mean nothing to anyone but me.

I have been taught that we sometimes pass through sorrow so that we may know joy. I have lived that truth. I have fulfilled that principle.

I no longer fear the pain of laboring to bring a child into this world.

It was once my biggest fear.

More importantly, I no longer fear JOY.

Jess' Blessing

2008-06-10T10:11:00.004-07:00

His little white blessing outfit was the same one his father was blessed in 35 years ago. My sister-in-law, Jen, crocheted his booties using my Grandma Lovett's pattern. Marshall wore the same outfit for his blessing. Grandma Brown made a white blanket that we used for both boys. Our little family is stitched tight!

Right now, Jess looks most like my mom's family. I see her mother, Ruby, and father, Benny, in his face the most. I love feeling that connection to my grandparents since both have passed away and I am homesick for West Virginia.

No. 1 Son

2008-04-30T14:45:00.005-07:00

Marshall is adjusting really well. The first week was a bit rough, but now he seems to be in love with his little brother. Everyone told me that having two kids is easier than one. I can see how that can be, especially when these two guys start playing together.

In this picture, Jess has the hiccups which Marshall thinks is hysterical.

Comments?

2008-04-30T11:22:00.002-07:00

I posted my entries before I enabled the "comments."

Feel free to comment here on previous posts. Thanks!

Home Water Birth

2008-04-27T11:04:00.013-07:00

I had a scheduled prenatal appointment at home a day before my due date. Since my midwife, Stephanie, lives over an hour and a half away, I joked that I would try to go into labor when she arrived to save her an additional trip a day or so later. My previous labor lasted only about three hours, so going into labor while she was already in town was important in that respect, too. Okay, I admit it, I am a baby! I wanted her there to "hold my hand" the whole time.

Steph arrived about 12:30 and we had lunch and a typical prenatal. I DID NOT want her to leave; the thought made me panic a little. The feeling in our home just made me feel like it was time and I would be in labor soon. I asked her about "stretching the membranes". I had heard it was terribly painful. Remember, I am a baby, a whining baby. She said that it can be very intense. She checked my dilation, which was about 4cm, and did a little stretching at my request. It was intense, but not near as bad as I expected. Whew!

I started having some mild cramping. The time was between three and four in the afternoon. It didn't feel like the start of my previous labor, so I didn't think it was going to turn into anything. I was wrong. Never had I been so happy to be wrong! After a nice walk around the block with my husband, I knew I was in labor. This was not news to Stephanie. She called the other two midwives to put them on notice, but not to rush over. I was feeling extreme excitement! Soon I would be holding my new baby. I didn't know if it was a boy or girl. I have never felt convinced that sonograms are completely harmless, so I never had any done.

While I was feeling these early contractions, Stephanie noticed I was giving them too much attention. She recommended I let them pass unnoticed for as long as I could. They would intensify, and she didn't want me using up my coping skills on the little ones. That was some of the best advice I had ever gotten in my life. My perspective changed after that.

I began to have FUN. I helped cut up a tray full of beautiful fruits and veggies for everyone to eat. I made sure I ate as much as I could, too, because I didn't want to run out of energy. I walked around the house, just feeling happy. I sat out under our canopy of desert trees on a big ball, next to my herb garden. When the contractions got more intense, I took a little time to play my fiddle for a distraction. Around 9:30pm, I was finally ready to get in the birth pool and relax.

The water felt so good! It relieved the intensity of the contractions nicely even though they were stronger. As I floated in the little pool, I was amazed to find that labor could be this gentle. This didn't just happen on its own. I had to willingly take the guidance of my midwife and the reminders of my husband. "Relax" and "Breathe your baby down" were helpful to hear during contractions. Fighting a contraction by tensing up or not actively surrendering to the surge of energy made it worse.

Two hours of hard labor passed quickly. I was getting tired as it was nearing midnight. I think this is when Stephanie asked me to get out for a potty break and try to sit through two contractions while on the toilet. I really, really, REALLY did not want to do that. During my previous home birth, I remember two terrifying contractions on the toilet. But deep down I knew it would speed things along and I wanted to be able to hold my baby as soon as possible. A week earlier Stephanie had prepped me by assuring me that anything she asked me to do during labor, I would be able to do it. I can't remember if she meant physically or emotionally, but for this request, I needed courage in both areas. I did four contractions on the toilet! Yes, I am proud of that fact.

I practically ran the few steps back to the birth pool. This field trip did its job. I soon went into transition. Transition is often the shortest stage of labor, but it can be the most difficult. Self doubt lingered around these most intense contractions. Again I received reassurance and reminders. During transition I felt my baby wiggling gently down. This was incredible to me. This baby was working as hard as I was! It helped me bear the intensity to realize this and it made me feel a swell of compassion and love for this wise baby.

Then, at last, transition was over. I knew it was over because my breath caught. It is like an involuntary stuttering while breathing. Second stage contractions had begun. These are the "pushing" contractions. Without pushing very much, the baby seemed to move quickly down and I felt it pressing on my pelvic floor. This was so exciting! Soon I would be able to hold my baby! I listened to the instructions given for gently pushing the baby's head out. I felt I had done a good job birthing the head only to find it was the sack of water! Stephanie had to use two hands to break the sac; it was so tough. Soon, the head was out and I felt it with my hand. Can you imagine how wild that would be? Bizarre and Beautiful. Another contraction came and with it, the baby. This all took about 15 minutes, about 4-5 contractions.

It's a boy! 12:26am...on his due date. Upon my chest was a wide

eyed, vernix covered, chubby and squishy nine pound three ounce baby boy. He lifted his head and I could feel his strength. His head seemed huge, 15cm I found out later. The midwives rubbed his back and he got nice and pink quickly. His umbilical cord was fat and short. We waited for it to stop pulsing before his papa cut it. Then, as if on a timer, in walks my two year old son who had been sleeping. Everything was perfect!

That early morning I nursed Jess Valentine for the first time. He latched on like a pro and nursed for about 30 minutes before drifting off to sleep. He looked like an angel and smelled divine! I couldn't dream of sleeping and missing a moment of the magic. Who was this new, strong little person that was entrusted to my care? My life had already been beautifully altered by his presence. His birth was a healing and illuminating experience. I stayed up all night looking at him.

My Rowdy Valentine is here!

2008-04-26T14:26:00.007-07:00

His name is Jess Valentine, but I call him Rowdy. I'm not sure the name will fit, yet, because he is such an easy baby. Before he was born the name fit perfectly! He was very active and especially rowdy every night from 9pm to midnight. So, time will tell if the nickname sticks.

Until I have time to type up my version of his birth story, this picture will have to do. Jess is 3 or 4 days old here. I love his smile. When he isn't preoccupied with nursing, sleeping or pottying, he will charm me with a knowing smile. I am in big trouble!

Biking and Birth

2008-01-15T13:35:00.001-07:00

My favorite trail is the 50 Year Trail in Catalina, Arizona. In this picture I am about to go down "The Chutes", a fast and fun roller coaster of desert trail that takes only about four minutes to complete. It is a short section of this beautiful 6 mile trail.

I haven't put any serious trail time in since about Summer of 2005, when I became pregnant with my son, Marshall. We suspect I became pregnant during a biking trip to Moab. My husband and I biked "Slickrock" trail that trip. We ran out of water and energy because it was a hot day and we had started too late. Trails are much harder when you don't know them well. Knowing a trail helps you know how to spread out your energy and ration your water. I was exhausted by the end; I couldn't lift my leg over the bar to straddle my bike - an important skill if you would like to pedal. I could hardly even push my bike up the last long hill.

One of my mantras has become, "Nothing is as bad as Slickrock!" I used it while in labor with Marshall.

I have gladly put biking on hold to focus on being a mother. Soon we are expecting our second child, and hitting the trails will have to wait a few more months. Before labor starts, I will remind myself that nothing is as bad as Slickrock, and nothing is as good as being a mom.