Connecticut

I don’t think I can post the blog I was working on this week in light of the tragedy in Newtown, CT. I have been playing around with another post about a genuinely funny classroom happening, but when I opened my news browser on Friday and saw the first headline about the school shooting, I immediately shelved that entry for another day. This particular tragedy just hits me too close to where I live. On one hand I am a teacher and on the other I am a parent of elementary students. Those two things together make this particular tragedy almost more than I can manage.

I haven’t been able to read much about it; I can’t look at the pictures, I can’t listen to the interviews. My empathy button is too easily pushed, and with all I have going on in my life right now, I just can’t let myself be affected the way I know I will be if I open myself up to those feelings. My Carys is 6 years old. She is in Kindergarten. She is the sunshine of my life and every single photo of every smiling child reminds me of her. I can’t go there.

I’m trying to remain in my intellect; I’m trying to stay a thinking person instead of a feeling one this time. I know that 26 other families don’t have that luxury, and that makes me feel lucky and selfish at the same time.

Unfortunately, every time I open my Facebook and Twitter feed, I am assaulted anew with images and stories and rhetoric that threaten my resolve. There are generally two types of posts flooding social media. One is an outpouring of pain from parents and educators, and the second is a swift and angry response from the gun lobby in America. A whole faction of people support more restrictions on gun sales, more paperwork, longer waiting periods. They want to limit the access to guns and make them harder to own and therefore use. On the other side is another faction of people who stand on their 2^nd Amendment rights as if it is the last port in the storm.

Once again, I find myself in a unique position on this issue. My husband is an avid hunter. We own firearms. I have my own hunter safety certificate, and can shoot a shotgun and rifle with relative accuracy. For a time I was even into shooting trap with Aaron on weekends. Of course I agree that guns don’t kill people, people kill people.

However.

I think the anger and fear of the gun lobby is misplaced. I don’t hear our government saying that all guns should be banned. I hear them emphasizing restrictions and policies and procedures and safe guards. This somehow gets translated to “They’re trying to take away our right to bear arms!” That is a sweeping generalization, and I can’t go there either. I am never swayed by arguments that are conveyed with passion unless they are carefully worded, and as a wordsmith, I am always paying attention to the words.

For some reason, people really enjoy living in extremes. There are so few moderates out there anymore; it makes me feel very lonely. I wish people would realize that the sharply divided political structure we have today will never allow for either side to win completely. No sweeping legislation is ever going to get through the minefield called Congress. Never will a bill or a proposal succeed in completely banning or completely promoting ANYTHING because somebody somewhere won’t let it happen. On some levels, I get frustrated at the gridlock, but in this example, I find it somewhat useful.

No one is going to take away guns. What they MAY hope to accomplish, is raising the bar on who gets them, how they get them, and when they get them.

And here’s where my heart really lies on this issue. If it takes me, (a sane and non-violent homeowner) a little bit longer to obtain a weapon so that the Adam Lanzas of the world (a definitely not-sane and violent person) cannot obtain them, then so be it. I will sacrifice my ability to walk into a store tomorrow and purchase a weapon and as much ammunition as I can afford on the spot if it means that the next Adam Lanza cannot do so either.

Would greater restrictions on gun control have prevented this tragedy? Probably not. Lanza, though reported to be mentally ill, took every single one of those weapons from his mother. She, as far as I am reading, was perfectly sane and even a pretty kind and generous person. Certainly more restrictions would not have prevented her from obtaining those weapons, and that is a valid point too.

I don’t pretend that greater restrictions would have solved this particular tragedy; very likely it would not have. But I also don’t believe that we can continue down this path of unlimited access to weapons without having some checks and balances in place. We can’t have it both ways, unfortunately.

If we aren’t willing to bend on access, then should every school be in lock-down mode from 7-4? Should my Kindergartener have to walk through a metal detector to go to school? If you ask me to choose between owning an assault rifle and my child requiring an armed guard to attend SCHOOL, then I am more than willing to give up the gun. (What exactly is the burning desire for assault weapons anyway, may I ask? The last time I checked, our 12 gauge was providing food for my family on a regular basis and I’m pretty sure it could protect my family from an intruder just the same.) But I digress.

One last wondering, and maybe this is the real question of the day. Why is it so difficult for the parents of mentally ill children to get support and the resources they need to address their situation? (And this IS a problem. Having worked for 13 years as a teacher, I have seen first hand how many parents struggle to get help for their children.)

Our farm feels like a pretty safe little bubble; it feels safer and safer every day. I don’t have any real answers; I have no truth to take away from this. I am sure that even my blog today will raise the ire in some of my friends. I’m not trying to be argumentative, and I’m not trying to push an agenda. I don’t even know for sure exactly what I think/feel because I am so carefully guarding my emotion at the moment.

 There are a few things I know for sure. I know that when Carys gets in my car everyday after school, she is positively bursting with stories about what happened that day. She loves her teacher, her classroom, her locker, her school. She can’t wait to get there every morning. It brings me real joy to see that light in her eyes and hope that the love of learning she is developing will burn even brighter as she gets older.

I know that I drop her off every day in the capable hands of a magical teacher who is kind and gentle and excited about school. I trust that her little heart will be cared for. And I trust, somewhat blindly, that she will be waiting for me at 3:00pm to tell me what she had for lunch and what she painted that day and what story they read and what song they sang.

I know that 26 mothers would give anything to be me right now.

I keep stumbling around for a closing, trying to tie together these threads into a little nugget of truth I can look back on later. I am looking for some kind of wisdom to impart to my children, who will be reading this one day. I can’t find the right words, I can’t find the message, I’m not even sure that I will feel the same way next week that I feel today.

Maybe what I take away today is that our time here is limited; I need to love more and argue less. I need to be more patient, more kind, and more present in my relationships because you never know, you really never know, how long you have with them.

My favorite Facebook posting comes from a movement to perform 26 Random Acts of Kindness to honor the lives of those 26 angels. I’m participating in that one for sure. To the mothers of the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, my heart goes with you.

Hopeful

I haven't written about teaching yet; I have tried several times to write a post about something that happened in my classroom, but by the time I get to the end of it, the meaning and depth of the story somehow gets lost in translation. I don't know why it is so difficult for me to express. For many of the moments or stories, you really just had to be there to understand.

This time, however, I found one worth sharing.

Right before Thanksgiving break, our school invited some speakers to come and talk to the student body. They were wonderful; they brought the message that we make a choice every day in how we respond to the world around us, and to the situations we are exposed to. One component of the message had to do with the word "Stupid." Their point was that there are no stupid people; that is a term that we accept and use to define us. They challenged us to view our mistakes as learning experiences, and not to let those mistakes define who we are. Good stuff, and they modeled it really appropriately for 7th and 8th graders. It was a lovely way to spend the last day before break, working on ways to improve our life experience.

Heart, happy.

I was sitting behind a row of 7th grade students. I teach 8th grade, so I haven't had these particular kids in class yet. I don't know their names or their personalities, so I was mostly planning to just manage and supervise, and make sure everyone behaved themselves. Throughout the presentation, however, we were asked to break off into small groups and have discussion over the topics. I found myself leading a very spirited group of kids. I had forgotten how fast 7th graders bond to you; I had about 9 best friends in 15 minutes. These kids were eager to talk, and to share, and to ask me a million questions.

Heart, full.

I admit my mind was already on Thanksgiving break; I was listening with half an ear to the lecturers, and also mentally planning my grocery shopping list when I saw the boy in front of me getting kind of wiggly and agitated. I tuned back in to hear the lecturer say, "What if you are called "stupid?" That doesn't mean that  you are stupid, because stupid doesn't exist." And the boy turned around and said to me, "I don't get it. What does he mean, stupid doesn't exist?"

I was caught off-guard, and I didn't have a stellar answer ready to go, so I just said, "Well, nobody is stupid, we just make mistakes and have to learn from them. Just because someone might call you that, doesn't mean you are. Does that make sense?"

I could see he was still skeptical. I assumed that someone had definitely called him this before, so I followed up with, "You just know in your heart that you aren't stupid, and you have to let those words other people say kind of slide off your back. You know? Just decide that it isn't true, and you don't have to believe it when people say it."

And then this boy, with big blue clouded eyes and brown curly hair frowned at me and said, "Yeah, but what if your dad calls you stupid? Then you are, right?"

Heart, broken.

Did you feel that? That little pinch in the stomach, that lump in the throat? I don't know if I can tell the story in such a way that you can feel what I felt right then. I am sorry to say I was speechless. I was not expecting him to say that, and I had no response. I just kind of blinked at him. I mean, what can you say to that?

As he turned back around in his seat, and slouched down into it, low, my heart broke into a million tiny little pieces. I don't know this kid yet; I don't know his dad, I don't even know his last name yet. But I do know that he is carrying around a heavy little rock in the middle of his soul.

Now, to be fair, I have no idea what makes him feel that way. As parents, we are all guilty of speaking carelessly. It could be that one careless word or remark could have stuck, and maybe there were no intentions at all in undermining the confidence of this young man. But somewhere along the line he took hold of that message. I want terribly to undo it.

This one moment prompted me to do a lot of thinking over the weekend, and I will say I have been more careful in the way I temper my words with my own children. I sent up a couple of prayers, too. One, that this young man can feel his worth and value, and that people be placed in his life who can guide him and lead him. And two, that I never make that mistake with my own. Please let my words come carefully; let me think before I speak, let me look at them always like I am their biggest fan and not their harshest critic.

Today we returned from break. As I was walking down the hall to my classroom, I heard someone shout, "Hey! Ms. Gudahl!" I turned and spotted Mr. Blue Eyes himself as he was weaving his way through the crowd to get to me. He said, "Hi. Good morning!" and then buzzed right on past like he was on a mission. I'm looking foward to having him in the room next year...and I'm going to try my level best to give him something good to carry with him when he leaves me.

Heart, hopeful.

Losing It

My favorite poem of all time is Elizabeth Bishop’s poem titled One Art. I read it in college, and was gripped with the certainty that it contained huge truths about myself. I wrote an essay for Dr. Wood in which I poured all my fears and feelings into 3 pages of despair, convinced that I was irretrievably damaged emotionally. I will never forget this; Dr. Wood was my advisor, and a kinder woman doesn’t exist on the planet. But she wrote in bold red pen on the back of my essay: “This poem does not define you.” That’s it, that’s all. I got a B-. I’m not exactly sure why it wasn’t worthy of an A, but the extreme relief I felt at being given permission to separate self from experience, was enough for me.

I am reminded of that poem today, 14 years later, as I cycle through another round of Losing It.

I think my brain is full. I wish I could find a way to empty it of contents I no longer find useful, like the address of my first apartment, the phone numbers of my high school friends, and word-for-word lines from Tommy Boy. I need to clear up some space for things I really need, like remembering to pick my son up from pre-school, to buy Carys a white t-shirt for a school project, to submit that grant application before the deadline, and to get milk on the way home because we’ve been out for 3 days and the kids are balking at eating dry cereal for breakfast.

Bishop uses her poem to suggest that losing things is an art that one should embrace, admire, and even practice. Certainly, she means to lighten the blow of losing the love of her life, but I still take comfort in the lines “Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.” Well, thank you, ma’am, I surely will.

Let’s take a brief inventory. So far this school year, I have forgotten Cooper at school 3 times. (Thank God for good friends, because one of the other moms has taken him to daycare each of those 3 times so I didn’t have to pay the late pick-up fee.) I forgot to turn in a field trip permission slip. I forgot to take Emma to Choir practice. I forgot to order a new title on Aaron’s truck, and he has reminded me only about 10 times, and a definite edge is starting to creep into his voice. I have forgotten 2 morning Student Council meetings. I forgot to call and reschedule a hair appointment, and I got the reminder call while I was at basketball practice. I missed a parent-teacher conference for one of my own kids! (And I’m a freaking teacher! I know how important those are!)

Yikes.

I would just like to know why in the world I cannot remember these key components to my daily life, yet thousands of useless pieces of information are stubbornly stuck in my brain. I can remember the names of the families I delivered newspapers to in 5^th grade. I know the number for JG Wentworth. (If you watch any television in the afternoon at all, I bet you know the phone number if you NEED CASH NOW. I bet you’re even singing the song…) Why do I remember that the wall art in our recently remodeled hometown hospital is a giant stalk of wheat, but I don’t know what day or time my daughter’s Christmas concert is this year?

Even the students in my classrooms are beginning to recycle themselves. More than once this year, I have looked a student directly in the eye and called them by the name of a student I taught 10 years ago. What is up with that?

But the piece de resistance came the morning that I actually drove down the driveway without one of my children in the car. In my defense, I told them to get in the car, then I went all through the house shutting off every light and unplugging various cell phone, Nintendo DS and tablet chargers. I didn't see my little man Cooper run upstairs to get a truck to play with at daycare. I got in my car, hollered, "Are you all buckled?" to the backseat, and shifted into reverse. I suppose vaguely I remember that only female voices answered me, but it wasn't until I asked "Cooper, did you find your backpack?" that it registered that he wasn't in the car. I was already down the driveway approaching the mailbox. I looked into my rearview mirror, and spotted him running headlong down the driveway after my car.

If there is a sadder commentary on the state of my parenthood, I don't know what it is.

I should be too embarrassed to share this publicly with the world. But I cannot be the only one out there running on half-cylinders, so I'm gonna hope that some of you mothers out there can sympathize and don't judge me too harshly for this one. I guess I'm just going to cling to Dr. Wood's kind analysis, and believe that this moment, this lapse, does not define me.

I stopped the car, of course, and when he got to my door, my little munchkin was pissed. (Sorry about the swear word, but truly, the occassion calls for it.) He hasn't let me forget it, either, let me tell  you. I'll be making this one up to him for the next 20 years.

Bishop writes that the art of losing isn’t hard to master. Clearly.

Laundry Soap

By request, I'm posting my tutorial on DIY laundry soap. Try it...it will change your life!

A few important things to know:
1.) This is safe to use in regular and HE washers.

2.) While the initial ingredients have a pleasant "soapy" scent, there is no fragrance added to any of them. That means your laundry will not have that "laundry soap" smell when it finished washing. Your clothes will just smell CLEAN. And I can't really describe that to you. You'll see what I mean.

3.) These ingredients are all natural, with no added chemicals. It's kind of like using Tide-Free, without the price tag. It is safe for sensitive skin...at least I have yet to hear of someone who reacted badly to it, and I give this away to anyone in the world who wants to try it.

4.) The Downy-Ball Vinegar rinse is completely optional. But I highly recommend it.

5.) This is my recipe for powdered detergent. I can give you the directions for the liquid version if you prefer, but truly it adds an extra hour to the process, and I'm all about saving time, people. The powder works perfectly, and I've never had a problem with residue.

Okay, here we go.

Go buy these ingredients:

These are the prices at my local Wal-Mart:
Borax - $2.39
Arm and Hammer Super Washing Soda - $3.19
Fels-Naptha Soap - $0.97

I buy about 8 bars of soap at a time, because you can usually make the detergent that many times before the boxes run out. The first time I bought this, I got the soap on sale 2/$1, which made me even happier. Now I watch it from time to time to see if I can catch it on sale again and stock up.

Step One:
Grate the bar of Fels-Naptha soap very finely into a bowl. I use a microplane grater that I got at, (you guessed it) Wal-Mart for $2.99. It is important that the soap is very finely shredded - the smaller the better.

This will take a little while; sometimes the girls will work on it for me in the kitchen while I'm working, but mostly I like to sit with a bowl in my lap and grate soap while I'm watching something on TV.

Step Two:
Pour 1 cup of Arm and Hammer Super Washing Soda and 1 cup of Borax into the bowl with the soap shavings. Stir well.

And...that's it. Well, there's an optional Step Three. If you prefer your powder to be really really fine, you can blend all ingredients in a blender. The consistency gets really really powdery, and some people prefer that. I personally like to be done after Step Two.

I bought a cute little white canister with a measuring spoon attached to the side of it. I pour all the soap in the canister, and use the spoon to scoop it into the washer.

Here's the best part...

It only takes 1 Tablespoon of this mixture to do a load of laundry. Seriously!

Finally, here's my last best-kept-secret.

You know those blue plastic Downy balls? I bought one ($1.99 Wal-Mart special!) and I fill it with vinegar. That's right, vinegar. No, really, you heard me correctly. Vinegar. Just fill it up, pull the little plug tight, and there you go.

I drop that ball in with the load and hit start. The vinegar will leave no smell, and also is the best fabric softener known to mankind. For real, I am not kidding, I swear to you it is true.

**ADDITION**
After lots of trial and error, I have added 1 cup of regular Baking Soda to my mix - it seems to be just the right thing for the hard odors!

Convenience

My entire generation has been built on the concept of convenience. So many people laud the advance of technology, and marvel at the advancements of each approaching age, but instead of feeling the excitement that is supposed to come from the launch of iPhone27, I seem to feel more dread than anything.

Chalk it up to “old fogey” syndrome, or whatever you want to call it, but I’m starting to understand why our grandparents scoffed at our new technologies. I’ll go so far as to say that I’m even a little alarmed at the pace at which our country is advancing. Everyone seems to have a “hurry up and get there” mentality. The question is, hurry up and get to what? What ideal is everyone in such a hurry to get to?

I was raised in the onset of the generation of Convenience. Every new product, every new commercial proposed some new, innovative way to get things done. We stopped drying sheets on the clothes line, we made complete meals in microwave minutes. We found ways to travel faster, travel lighter, we streamlined everything from automobile assembly lines to furniture that snaps together, to nail polish that dries in seconds. We can purchase any item, any time, anywhere in the world, in just a matter of clicks.

Not to mention the way we have improved communication. No more lengthy letter-writing, with cramped fingers and rubbed out mistakes. Now we can email, we can text, we can Skype. If only we could just master telepathy, we could cut out having to speak at all!

I feel sometimes like I stand alone in the center of a busy tornado of technology. I watch the world spin faster and faster, all in an effort to produce the next big thing that will enhance our busy lives. I watched tapes turn into CDs, videos turn into DVDs, computers turn into laptops turn into handhelds. I see that the phones that teenagers carry have the ability to video chat, text message, surf the net and watch movies. Every week somebody somewhere launches a new product that incites such hysteria that people will camp out for days just waiting to get their hands on one.

For much of my life, I have participated in this race. And it feels like a race; it feels like I am forever trying to keep up with what everyone else has. Even in the grown-up world of house-hunting and car shopping and designer clothes-wearing…it feels competitive, and I have often felt the compelling urge to work harder, make more money, and go go go and buy buy buy.

Last night I made laundry detergent. I know lots of people do that already, and it isn’t some major accomplishment on everyone’s bucket list. But it gave me a rush of power I can’t even describe to you. The first time I made it, I Googled a recipe and discovered that everyone in the world makes the same basic recipe with a few variations. At the time, I didn’t recognize the names of the products on the list; I had never purchased them, never seen them, and had no idea where to get them. (Turns out every single one is carried by Wal-Mart. Who knew?)

Anyway, when I got to Wal-Mart and located the items, I bought several containers of each item. I figured that eventually I would need more, and I hate extra trips to the store. The first batch I made was good. The second was better, and now I’ve adjusted my own formula to the one that is, in my opinion, the most amazing laundry soap ever made. It’s ridiculously inexpensive. I spent $10.82 on the ingredients the first time. I bought them in March, 2012. Today is November 1^st, and I estimate I have used half of what I originally bought. Do you have any idea how many loads of laundry I have done for $5?!

But the part that got my wheels turning this time, was that little rush of power I felt when I realized that I really could just make it myself. The age of Convenience put ready-made laundry soap at our fingertips, but it also gave me the (false) belief that I NEEDED that grocery store to produce it for me.

The truth is, long before the age of convenience, we provided for ourselves. Money was necessary only for large, start-up purchases, and then people generated for themselves. The culture of capitalism has created an entire generation of people who are so dependent on the dollar, that without it, they are crippled. As the economy took a downturn, poverty and unemployment hit an all-time high. And I believe the effects are more detrimental than ever before, because the vast majority of people can’t provide for their families without that all-important job. Money makes the world go round, and it has never been more true.

We have experienced the highs and the lows of finance in our family. There were certainly good years, when we had enough money to take vacations, make large purchases, go anywhere and do anything. But when the economy started to slide, and things got lean, it was a very difficult transition to make. I had a nagging sense of unease each month, which intensified into a dull panic. The numbers weren’t good, and you really feel helpless when you know you are working as much as you can, and somehow the numbers still don’t add up.

I hated most of all the feeling of helplessness. I hated feeling like there was nothing I could do to make it better. Cue my husband, who is ever a solution-finder and problem-solver. The self-sustaining farm was wholly his idea, and it seemed very Little-House-on-the-Prairie to me, and a rather impossible undertaking. But the deeper we get into this little project, the more freedom I feel both financially, and in my heart. Take that laundry soap, for example.

It wasn’t easy…the residual feeling of “store-bought is better than home-made” is deeply ingrained in me. (Thank you, Advertising Executives.) When my family wanted pizza, I bought one. The recipe for homemade dough is not difficult, and I know that lots of people make it, but I approached it with the same mentality I had approached everything: why take the time to make it, when I can just buy it? This is perfectly fine, if you make a lot of money. This works great if you don’t have to worry about where your next paycheck is coming from. But what happens when the economy takes a nose dive, and you suddenly have to start budgeting for purchases? $14 laundry soap starts to look kind of expensive. $16 for a large pizza is ridiculous.

I love the freedom I feel when I can make something myself. And now that I’m reading more about the chemicals in our products and GMO food crops, the better I feel about the decision we made. Yes, I am trading homemade spaghetti sauce that takes me about 20 minutes to make, for a jar of Ragu that would take 2 minutes to heat in the microwave. But every single ingredient was planted by us. Nurtured by us. Chopped and cooked and served by me, and Emma sometimes. At 8 years old, she is discovering a real love of cooking already, and the 18 extra minutes it takes us to produce that home-made sauce provides me with 18 more minutes to laugh and teach and talk to my daughter. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Convenience and technology certainly make things easier and simpler and faster, but I’m not sure the trade-off is worth it, to be honest. Think of all the skills you lose, when you let someone or something else do it for you. Think of the control you are actually ceding to big business.

One more small example…the kids wanted BBQ chicken for supper one night. I didn’t have any bottles of BBQ sauce, so I figured I would have to put them off and pick up a bottle on my next trip to the store. Then I stopped myself…someone somewhere makes BBQ sauce, obviously – why can’t I? I looked up some recipes, and lo and behold, I had all the ingredients. 10 minutes of experimentation later, I made the sauce of my life. Even Carys, who doesn’t really like it, said it was her favorite BBQ sauce ever.

Huh. I almost didn’t learn that skill, because Convenience had trained me so well.

We have friends and family in our lives who think we’re a little crazy. They love us, but they definitely shake their head sometimes. Like when Aaron announced that next summer we’re going to get some goats. (Goats?!) But I like to think that we are modeling a lifestyle that will help our kids learn to sustain themselves, and not be governed by the whims of politics and economics and the much heralded system of capitalism, which is showing serious wear and tear in today’s world.

Right or wrong, this is our path. Traveled by few, perhaps, but the journey is just that much more interesting for the weeds we have to step over and the brush we have to clear. This road was paved long ago, and we let it get far too overgrown.

Thanks

I am a lover of words. Some of my earliest memories are of playing word games with my mother at the kitchen table. I can remember playing a game called Perquackey with her as early as 5 years old. (I remember this, Mom, because I can clearly picture sitting at the table in the kitchen of that tiny house in Wells. The one with the tuck-under garage on the back. Remember that house?) Anyway, that’s the first time I can remember learning to build words. I remember my mother showing me how to change word endings and beginnings to make new words. I remember what it felt like when I came up with a word she missed. (Probably she missed on purpose, but at the time I felt a grand sense of accomplishment.)

My mom made me a reader. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up; my dad was a teacher, and we moved around quite a bit in my younger years. I don’t remember having vacations, or new furniture, or expensive toys. In fact, we were a one-car family until my third year of college. But I do remember going to the library and visiting the Bookmobile on a very regular basis. I remember that my parents would bring home 4-5 novels each, and I would get to bring home 1-3, depending on the size of the book. We were always reading to each other, reading to ourselves, talking about what we read, and then reading some more.

I got lost in the worlds of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden and Laura Ingalls Wilder. In junior high, it was the Girls of Canby Hall and Sweet Valley High. The book series’ were fun; they gave me great insight into character development, and taught superficial life lessons in gentle ways.

But once I read Bridge to Terabithia, I was changed forever. You cannot possibly read that book and be the same person afterward. I can remember finishing it, setting it on my nightstand, and being overwhelmed and bewildered by the sheer magnitude of my sorrow. My 10 year old self had never felt something that powerful before, and while it was largely unsettling, it also made me even more voracious in my reading selections. I came to see that shiny Newberry Medal imprinted on the corner of a book as a billboard shouting “Read This!”

I read every Newberry Award Winner I could get my hands on. I remember exhausting the section of the library reserved for elementary students, and surreptitiously moving over into the Young Adult section long before I was “supposed” to be there. I also remember my mother coming up to turn my light off when I was in 5^th grade and finding me reading Flowers in the Attic. (Thinking about that now, I cringe…I had NO business checking that book out of the school library in 5^th grade!) But I will hand it to my mother: she didn’t make me stop reading it. She simply told me that it contained themes that were beyond my years, and that we should talk about it when I finished. Seriously! She actually said that!

My parents encouraged me to read absolutely anything I showed an interest in, from romance novels to Stephen King and back again. When I got to high school, I landed in the Humanities class of one Rita Vondracek, who opened up Shakespeare and Alexander Pope and Machiavelli to me. I was now navigating the waters of a multitude of genres, and marveling in their differences and similarities, and all the while feeling like I had some secret knowledge about the world that other people were missing.

Through all of that, I viewed reading as a hobby. I never considered making it my profession…it was something I just liked to do.

I went to college to be a Social Studies teacher like my dad. That was the original plan. I remember slogging through Poli Sci classes, feeling disgust over the politics of a particular teacher, and missing terribly the methods my father had always used to keep me interested. Growing up with a father who talks current events with you on a daily basis, and presents both sides of an issue, and asks me to offer an opinion because he genuinely cares about what I think, and then argues with me just to make sure I can defend a position and also see the other side…well, that spoiled me. It was painful to take notes in lecture halls all day from professors who were, in my opinion, biased and boring and probably delusional. I started sneaking Lit courses into my schedule, just for the fun of them.

[Side Note: No, it never occurred to me that I was PAYING for those extra classes. I kind of thought of school in terms of “semesters” and simply tried to fill up a full time schedule with stuff I needed and a couple of things I just liked. I was perhaps a little uninformed, financially, but it was a providential mistake.]

Because that is how I met Teresa Brown. Faced with a schedule full of Economics and Civics courses taught by my least favorite professors, I signed up for a Women in Literature class from Dr. Brown during my sophomore year, and it changed the course of my life dramatically. She introduced me to Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath and Charlotte Perkins Gilman and suddenly every single minute of time my mother gave to me made sense. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Dr. Brown opened the shutters and threw up the sash on a window to a world I didn’t even know I’d been missing.

All those precious minutes my mother spent “forgetting” to spell MAT and RAT, and those wonderful hours spent lazing around the local libraries and her willingness to let me look through windows into lives I could not possibly live, added up to a momentous change in the way I viewed the world. In the way I was ABLE to view the world, actually. Some of the most profound truths are buried in language beyond simple conversation, and only with practice do you have access to the hidden meanings cleverly disguised with archaic words. The world becomes richer, deeper, more vibrant and more meaningful when you can connect to the all the places you’ve never been.

I realized at 21 years old, that the key to higher thinking came not from school, and not from my teachers, but from the ways I connected to the words on a page. I changed my college major immediately to English; I decided my purpose in life would be to offer that experience to as many people as possible.

I thought I should teach high school; I thought I should be that teacher who is passionately connected to works no high-schooler would dream of opening, who strikes you as slightly crazy but somehow makes it possible for you find meaning buried among the words of old, dead, white guys. That was the plan.

But you can’t get to the point of appreciation if you don’t have access to the words.

That is why I teach middle school.

I sometimes sorely miss the fact that I’m not the one watching students be devastated by Of Mice and Men. But I know that you can’t be devastated by it if you can’t read it. Or understand the words on the page. And I have come to see the tools of the trade need to be purchased long before you know you need them.

Thus begins my struggle. Despite my passion and conviction, at 8^th grade they don’t really thank you for trying to push them to a higher plane. Then again, when I was crying profusely over Toni Morrison’s Bluest Eye, it did not occur to me to call my mother and thank her. And when I was angrily throwing Bastard Out of Carolina at the wall in my apartment, it did not occur to me to call my mother and thank her. And when I was relishing in the triumph of The Awakening, it did not occur to me to call my mother and thank her.

October is my birthday month. Every year I get some lovely things that I need, some things that I want, and always I’m surrounded by people I love. But as I write these words, I can tell you that the gift of greatest value was given to me 33 years ago at a kitchen table in a tiny house with 6 lettered dice, a pad of paper, a pencil, and my mother. Humbly, Mom, thanks.

Chickens

One of the reasons I have warmed to farm life is the level of responsibility it is teaching my kids. I personally am not a huge fan of chores. Of any kind, really, but especially the stinky dirty outside kind. Now that we have animals to take care of, those chores are essential to the operation of our farm. And fortunately my kids haven't yet inherited my low tolerance for getting icky.

In fact, they actually thrive on it. Aaron is a hands-on dad; he wants them to have the full experience. (My thoughts are that the better they get at chores, the less we have to do...yep, that's me, always thinking of myself.)

The first run of chickens we bought as layers, the kids were over-the-moon about those little balls of fluff. They nurtured them into adults, and now the hens cluck happily when the kids arrive at the henhouse door. They let them take their eggs, and they get really excited when the kids bring them treats like leftover cereal, crackers, and garden discards.
We moved on to broilers after that; we raise about 60 at a time. In six weeks' time, they go from downy balls of yellow fluff to 8 pound, fully-feathered, chickens ready for eating. I was initially worried that the kids would have a hard time when the animals went to butcher, but that was unfounded. They really do understand the "circle of life" I think, and have so far shown no qualms about loading them into the truck and waving goodbye.

Recently, the town nearby had a moment of indecision regarding allowing chickens to be kept within city limits. I followed the story with keen interest, because our chicken endeavor has proven to be extremely valuable to our family in so many ways.

If you eat chicken and you buy it from a grocery store, you may want to consider doing a little research on the company who produces your chickens. I won't spoil your appetite here, but a quick visit to You Tube and a Google search should be enough to seriously change your purchasing habits. One of the main reasons I am glad to raise chickens is the knowledge that the chicken we eat is a fully-grown, vaccine-free, injection-free, chemical-free, additive-free, preservative-free chicken who ate his food at his leisure while wandering around our farm.

In addition, the eggs are second to none. I was low on eggs one week and I had to buy a dozen from the grocery store for the first time in a year. I could barely bring myself to eat them. They were watery, and the yolk was a light yellow - it looked like it had been bleached. Our eggs have a beautiful speckled brown shell. The percentage of yolk to white is much higher, and the yolks are a brilliant orangey-yellow. Yum.

I was glad to see that the local city council voted to allow chickens in town; in today's economy, with the growing number of artificial substances injected into our food sources, I think it is not only wise, but morally sound to allow people to do what they can to improve their food source.

And chickens are truly humble, gentle creatures. Our rooster can get a little territorial from time to time, but the hens are lovely. My kids carry them around the farm, under their arms, and the hens do nothing more than cluck softly to themselves. We often move chickens from one pen to another to clean the pens - and that is good entertainment. Have you ever tried to catch a chicken? I love watching the kids chase them around the pen and scoop them up. Even Cooper can tell you the right way to hold them so they don't flap their wings in your face.

Taking care of the animals is teaching my kids to care about the well-being of other creatures. It is teaching them to  be responsible, and to take part in the work that helps provide food for our family. I was impressed by the way Emma informed me the other day that the feed-to-grit ratio in the feeders was a little off. She went in and rectified the situation by herself, and then launched into an explanation of why it is important to keep that balance. (Is she her father's daughter, or what?)

Camping

When we lived in Colorado, Aaron and I were big on outdoor activities. The culture and climate of the entire state really supports healthy living, and we tried it all. From kayaking to rafting, to hiking to biking to rock climbing to skiing to snowboarding to camping. It was a blissful existence; we were all alone out there, and literally spent every penny we had trying every kind of new adventure. Growing up in Minnesota had really only developed a hatred of the cold and an appreciation for corn, so all this new adventure made us feel alive, somehow.

We were truly unprepared for Colorado. Our first attempt at camping there became the family joke for years to come. In Minnesota, you camp in campgrounds. You pay a small fee and set your little tent up in a pre-arranged little area, next to a fire ring and a picnic table. So when we got to Colorado, we went looking in the yellow pages for a campground to camp in. We found only one entry in all of Denver, called Chief Hosa Campground. I was pretty surprised to find only one campground in the entire yellow pages; there were stores specializing in camping every three blocks, so I just assumed we would have a plethora of campgrounds to choose from. (Thanks, Mr. Plocker, my high school math teacher for the word "plethora"; I use it whenever I can.)

Anyway. We called Chief Hosa and reserved a tent space for the weekend.Then we moseyed on down to the local REI Outfitter, and spent a boat load of money on lots of fancy camp gear and headed on out to the campground. It was exactly what we were expecting; a small campground full of RVs and tents. Our tent space was nestled in between two campers. We marveled at the quality of our new gear, we experienced the first-timer's feeling of arrogance as we expertly set up our campsite and sat down on our special camp chairs. We drank cocoa out of our special camp mugs. We inflated our special Thermarest sleeping mats. We spent two days there and went home feeling proud of ourselves.

It wasn't until I spoke with a friend at work about the weekend that I realized our blunder. The reason there was only one campground listed in all of Denver, is because the entire National Forest is open to camping.

To anyone.

Anytime.

Pretty much anywhere.

Oh.

I felt kind of silly. I remembered with a flush that arrogant feeling I had as I was setting up our perfect little campsite. The whole set-up probably screamed tourist. Oh well.

Once we figured it out, though, it was on. We explored every twisting winding mountain road we could find. We found high mountain lakes, abandoned mining camps, rock outcroppings on the top of jagged cliffs, and we began to camp in earnest. We quickly discovered what materials we could buy to enhance the experience, and carefully whittled our camp gear down to high quality essentials. We bought a tent that withstood temperatures below zero and camped in the snow. We hiked in for miles and set up camp and left reality for days. Those days were truly blissful. I have strong memories of sitting in the perfect silence surrounded by stars and moonlight, with no sign of civilization beyond the blue and white Kelty tent staked out next to us. We had our best conversations on camp trips. I learned so much more about Aaron and we learned so much about how to be together from those trips. I think it was perhaps the single most influential activity that would eventually help strengthen the bonds of our marriage.

We moved back to Minnesota in 2007, and the camp gear box was carefully stored in an outside garage. I've given little thought to it in the last  five years, honestly. We've had the whole "farm thing" to learn now, you know. But last weekend, Aaron came into the kitchen and said, "Let's take the kids camping."

Because Aaron is Aaron, going camping for a weekend was a very simple endeavor. Everything we needed was still carefully and meticulously packed away. All together, all in the same place. It was truly a matter of moving it from garage to car. We didn't open anything, just trusted it would be what we needed, and headed to the campground.

We found a nice little spot with a fire ring and picnic table. Aaron grinned at me when we pulled in and said, "Chief Hosa?" A flood of memories engulfed me and I developed a little lump in my throat.

Once we began to unpack, that little lump turned into a thickness that I could barely swallow. The blue and white Kelty tent came sliding out of it's package. The guy wires were still wrapped around the tent stakes, exactly the way we had last used them. I managed to get it up in a matter of minutes; this time, I had three sets of eager little hands helping me clip it together.

The best part, or maybe I mean the worst part, was when I opened the gear box. There, in perfect little bags and packages and containers, were living embodiments of a time long past. I realize you will think me a fool at worst, or wildly sentimental at best, but I swear when I opened up a tupperware container and saw the dish towels that I bought at a tiny little convenience store in the middle of nowhere, I got tears in my eyes. Those tears swelled to actual puddles when I opened another box and found the set of camp dishes Aaron gave me for Christmas that first year.

There was the propane lantern that Aaron tried unsuccessfully to light the first four times that we used it because we didn't understand what mantles were and that they really are as fragile as they advertise. There was the small cutting board and utensil pack that I color coordinated with our sleeping gear. There were tiny boxes of matches, a box with tea bags, a dry bag that contained a cook set that nested one inside the other to form a compact little unit. There was a wide collection of instant oatmeal packets, hot cocoa mix, and our spices and seasonings box was still neatly organized and carefully labeled. I was overcome with feeling; I could barely speak. I looked up at Aaron with this stricken look on my face. He laughed at me, and shook his head. And I know, I know...what a silly thing to cry over...but there I was, crying anyway.

But I could not dwell in the moment; I had three buzzing little bees getting into this and that and the other asking, "Mom, what's this?" and "Mom, what's this for?" and "Mom, how does this work?" When Carys pulled out the shovel and axe kit, I decided I better snap out of my reverie and take control of the unpacking.

I took great delight in cooking our supper with all the forgotten pieces of my life. I am totally serious...I really love that stainless steel spatula and cast iron skillet. Everything was in perfect working order. Even the oatmeal, I discovered the next morning. To my horror, I woke up to Cooper happily eating peaches and cream instant oatmeal out of my favorite camp mug. (It turns out Quaker Instant Oatmeal has an impressive shelf life - I bought that box more than 8 years ago.) And when we managed to (successfully!) light the lantern and play a vigorous game of Uno with cards that are older than all of my children, I decided I was going to be okay.

I just need to make a few new memories.

Summer

Finally, summer. This is an indication of what my summers are like; I haven't posted since May 25th. Here it is, July already, and this is my first chance to sit down and record my thoughts.

The first week out of school isn't ever a week off; I have to pack up my classroom and finalize my grades, and clean up any committee/paperwork issues from the year. Then I spend a week coaching youth basketball camps. By the time summer actually starts, about the end of June, summer gardening is in full bloom and my days are spent weeding, watering, getting the patio ready, and trying to take my kids to the pool at least a couple days of week to head off their entertainment demands.

Lots of fun stuff to recap though, so buckle up.

Let's see...last August sometime, one of my munchkins got a popsicle out of the outside freezer and forgot to push it shut all the way. That resulted in the great Freezer Panic of 2011, in which I was cooking ridiculous amounts of pork and chicken in an effort to save it. Now, a smart girl would have taken that little lesson to heart and purchased a freezer alarm to prevent that from happening again.

But this is me you're talking about here, and buying a freezer alarm would have resulted in an extra trip to an appliance store AND having to admit that I was not vigilant enough to keep it from happening again. Well as it turns out, I'm not vigilant enough to keep it from happening again.

This time, I rearranged the freezer to get some things out from the back, and when I pressed it shut, it popped back open. I didn't notice for about 36 hours...just enough time to partially defrost 16 chickens and completely ruin 4 boxes of Schwan's ice cream treats.

And because this is me you're talking about here, it happened in the same weekend that I was baking/building a 3-tier wedding cake for my cousin. The cake was due in approximately 1.5 days, and now I have the freezer to deal with. I started cooking chicken at 11pm on a Thursday night, and cooked, roasted, shredded, diced, chopped chicken the whole night through. That was super fun, especially the lovely scent of cooked chicken and sugary fondant ruminating nicely in the kitchen all night.

I still haven't gotten the alarm, but I SWEAR it is on my list.

Now on the Great Gardening Extravaganza 2012. The early spring and warmer than usual temperatures this year allowed Aaron to get our garden and greenhouse planted extremely early this year. Last year, we were lucky to get everything in the ground by mid-June. This time around, I am already harvesting cucumbers, peas, carrots, kohlrabi, potatoes, green beans, yellow beans, raspberries and strawberries.

The cucumbers in particular went crazy; we put just a few hills in the greenhouse, and thought we might get a handful of cucumbers before the outside field took off. It just so happens that Aaron is also a big believer in composting. He has been using our home compost as fertilizer all winter, and this year the cucumbers went crazy. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I said that the cucumbers grew taller than me, and have grown out the doors and on to the ground. So I took a picture to prove it.

I have been pickling since June 20th, and it shows no sign of slowing down in there. PLUS, the outside cucumbers are now flowering, so I anticipate that my August blogs will be dominated by snide remarks about that particular vegetable.

Let me elaborate a little on the joys of gardening. Do you know me well enough yet to hear the sarcasm in that sentence? Just wondering.

Anyway. Gardens, when planted prudently, can provide an adequate amount of fresh vegetables for a small family to enjoy for the summer. Gardens, when planted by my husband, can provide an abundance of fresh vegetables for our family, my in-laws, my neighbors, my teacher friends, the friends of my kids, and random strangers who are kind enough to take them off my hands.

This summer is hot and dry, so the watering begins in the early morning before the humidity really takes over. I'm up around 6:30am most days, rotating sprinklers and checking soil conditions in each of the nine (yes, that's right, I said nine) plots that Aaron planted this year.

And every summer we have a different pest to battle in the garden. This part may seem a little odd, but it is actually true. Every year, some new pest invades our area, and many of the big farmers spray chemicals of various kinds to eradicate that particular pest. So a different one takes it's place next year, and the cycle continues. One year we had ladybugs like crazy. One year we had those little green aphids. One year it was gigantic black crickets. One year I had thousands upon thousands of frogs and toads in my yard. This is the year of the Picnic Bug. Sometimes known as Raspberry Bugs, these little nightmares are everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

Any vegetable that nears ripening is invaded by one of these little bugs. We have had to harvest early and meticulously to try to save our veggies before they are eaten. We are philosophically opposed to chemicals and pesticides and insecticides and other unnatural things, so we are doing our level best to deal with the little buggers the old fashioned way, before they ruin our crop. (Incidentally, the farmer who farms around us is super-awesome...he knows we don't spray, and will choose a very still day to spray his own crop so as not to over-spray on our property. Good people, they are, and we're lucky to have them as neighbors.)

But these black bugs are the bane of my existence this summer. They also bite. And it hurts. I think maybe my favorite part of this summer has been bending down in the garden to look carefully at every single developing vegetable, in 85 degree heat at 6:30am 7 days a week and being bitten at random intervals by tiny black bugs that fly in your ear, down your shirt, up your shorts, inside your socks, and in Aaron's case, in your mouth.

You caught the sarcasm in that one, right?

After I've done the daily hunt for ripe stuff, I am off to the kitchen to prepare a box for sale, or can/pickle whatever the family can't eat. When I'm all done canning this year, I'll take a picture of the outcome...you really have to see it to believe it.

So far, that's my summer.

We have a few fun activities planned for late July and August, but this is me you're talking about here. I'm sure there will be plenty to write about.

Listen

Listen to me. Are you listening? Did you hear me? What did I say?

I can’t count how many times a week I say this to one of my kids. On some days I say it to all three of them. It is exhausting, really. It feels like I am talking to thin air sometimes.

Put on your shoes.

Find your shoes.

I’m leaving in 2 minutes, please put some shoes on.

What?

Your jacket?

 I don’t know, I didn’t wear it.

Are your shoes on?

I’m leaving in a minute, seriously.

Leave the cat alone. It’s time to go.

Did you find your shoes?

We’re leaving.

Did you hear me?

I’m leaving.

Now.

Shoes.

Find them.

And nine times out of 10, I am walking out the door when I realize he/she is still barefoot.

It’s a small thing, perhaps, but enough to make me crazy. I often lament to my friends on how much I talk and seem to be ignored completely. They don’t hear me call their names when it’s time to come in. They don’t hear me ask them to get their jammies on. They don’t hear me say that no, you really can’t have any more snacks before bed tonight. They don’t hear me tell them to clean up their rooms. They don’t hear me ask them to put boots on before they collect the eggs in the chicken coop.

I question my parenting abilities on a daily basis. If they can’t follow a simple direction like “put on your shoes,” how in the world are they going to navigate the hard parts of life?

And just when I am convinced that they hear nothing, they absorb nothing, and I officially suck at parenting, I overhear a conversation that stops me cold.

I was in the kitchen making supper, and I could hear the girls in the backyard talking. I couldn’t make out their words, but the tone was pleasant. I decided I wouldn’t check on them, since I was in the middle of a complicated recipe, and they didn’t appear to be killing each other yet.

Before long, I could hear Emma shouting “Mom, Mom! Come here quick!” I bolted outside, convinced that there was some disaster in the making, and privately berating myself for trusting the quiet a little too much. I rounded the corner of the house to see Carys riding her bike (no training wheels!) and pedaling her little heart out. She was laughing out loud with that incredulous giggle, like even she could not believe what she was doing. Meanwhile, Emma was jumping up and down and cheering from the sidelines.

I was overcome. This was a long time coming for my middle one…she has always been more timid, more careful, more cautious, than her older sister. When she finally stopped and I was able to scoop her up into a hug, she exclaimed, “Emma teached me, Mom!”

That alone, was a proud moment, knowing my oldest took the time to pass on some knowledge. Then Emma decided to start her up again. As Emma held the seat, she was quietly murmuring instructions. I heard her say, “Okay, get the pedal up to the top. Good job. Now put one foot on the pedal, sis. I’ll hold the seat til’ you get goin’. Don’t worry, I got you! Pedal hard, remember. You can do it!”

I can still hear Aaron using the same words when he taught Emma to ride. Once Carys got going again, Emma threw her arms up in the air and yelled, “Whoo Hoo!” She came over to me and said, “I’m so proud of her, Mom!”

I was feeling the same thing. About both of them, actually. She’s listening. They’re listening. Maybe not to the day-to-day boring parts of life, but at least some of the time, our words are getting in there.

I just hope I can remember that, the next time I stub my toe on the kitchen table leg and have to answer the question, "Mom? What does that word mean?"

Truth

The difference between Moms and Dads, according to Aaron:

When little boys crash, Dads put them back on the bike.

Moms pick them up and carry them to the house.

True.

Unplugged

On Friday night, we unplugged the satellite dish from our television sets. It was more or less an impulsive decision, based largely on the fact that our kids are gravitating more and more to the TV than to anything else on the farm and also that I can stand right next to them and call their name and they don’t even hear me. Our television must have some strange magnetic pull or something. Lately they have chosen television over outside play more often than I’d like to admit.

I will be the first one to say that I thought it would be torturous. I use the DVR on our satellite to record lots of shows, and I watch them back after the kids go to bed. I am a night owl, so I am often up until midnight “catching-up” on things I missed. I really thought it was going to be difficult, and it was. For about 24 hours. That’s when I came to the rather painful realization that TV has been my escape hatch for far too long.

Okay, let’s be honest, here. I look forward to the kids’ bedtime so that I can have a couple of hours to myself. From 6am when I’m getting the kids up and fed and dressed and off to school, to work where I interact all day with middle-schoolers, (yes, you’re jealous, I know) back to home where I cook and clean and bathe and check homework and strain lard and start kitchen fires, to bedtime at 8:15pm, I am at the beck and call of a whole lot of other people. My husband wonders why I like to stay up late…I tell him it’s the only time all day where I belong to me.

Until last Friday, I devoted way too much “me time” to the television. I won’t even try to defend that decision with excuses about staying culturally relevant and mindless entertainment. Until I Unplugged I didn’t really see a problem. Once the television was no longer available to me, I experienced a strange, mindless phenomenon. More than once I wandered into the living room before I remembered there was nothing to do there. Except vacuum it. (Which I finally did, BTW.)

I actually wandered aimlessly for hours around the house. The only thing I could find to do in the kitchen was clean off a countertop. In the dining room I decided to disassemble a fort made of afghans and pillows. The bathroom was a disaster, as usual. Spent almost 20 minutes in there. Hmmm….it’s only 9:15. Let’s see…I can fold some laundry. And pick up the toys on the steps. (Are you sensing a pattern, here?)

I finally went to bed at 9:45. Of course I couldn’t sleep, so I wrote a quick note to a friend in a card, then picked up a book I’ve been meaning to get to. I read until about 10:15 and then I actually shut off the light and went to sleep. At 10:15!

The result? I woke up without an alarm at 5:15. I was ready for work more than 40 minutes before I usually am. And I actually felt pretty rested. And my house was clean! (Well, clean-er, but you know what I mean.)

Sounds awesome, right? It actually is. I got a little panicky when I realized I was going to miss the finale of The Amazing Race. And The Voice. And the next episode of Chopped: All-Stars. But honestly, once I resigned myself to finding something else to do, I stopped missing it.

We left the DVD hooked up; I rented RedBox movies for the kids on Sunday and we had a popcorn night. That was super-fun, and after they went to bed I was able to organize three drawers in the buffet and bake a loaf of banana bread. I am making no promises about how long I can sustain this. But I will say it has improved the quality of my life for the time being.

The kids, you ask? The kids didn’t even blink an eyelash. I said the TV was done, and they put on their shoes and went outside. We have two new baby piglets to take care of…the trampoline is swept off…the bike tires are pumped up…the tire swing is ready to go. They haven’t missed it at all.

Saturday

I had a terrible Saturday. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day as Alexander might say.

When my kids came downstairs at 6:15 on Saturday and wanted me to make breakfast RIGHT NOW (please, mom? I’m really hungry…insert puppy dog eyes and cute 4 year old smile) I grudgingly got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen.

I’m kind of abstract-random in my everyday life, so it isn’t really surprising that getting milk into the cereal bowls turned into noticing that someone spilled on the shelf in the fridge. Which turned into noticing that what they spilled was dripping down from the shelf above. Which turned into noticing that someone had shoved a bowl into the shelf so far that several open containers had overturned, creating a sticky puddle of congealed mystery liquids in the back. Which turned into deciding right then and there at 6:30am that I needed to clean out the fridge.

So while the kids argued over who got to use what cereal bowl, and who had more cereal, and who got to use the “zipper spoon,” (please don’t ask…that’s a whole other post) I was methodically removing items from the fridge and stacking them on the counter. Which turned into realizing I can’t take out shelves and drawers for cleaning without moving the whole fridge away from the wall. Which turned into getting my husband to move it for me.

Still with me? By now the fire was lit, and I was gonna clean that fridge, gol’ darn it. (That’s the clean version because you never know who’s reading this and I don’t want to call into question my upbringing.)

So. Fridge is moved. Stuff is out. Things are clean. Enter the husband, who has stopped back in the house to get the egg basket for the chicken coop. He says, “Are you going to vacuum under the fridge before I move it back?”

Um. Well, I guess I am now.

I took off the front grill and was shocked and appalled and horrified at how much yuck accumulates under your fridge. No, I have never in all the years I’ve been on my own pulled off the grill of a refrigerator and vacuumed under it. Don’t judge me.

I must have looked really disgusted, because he took pity on me and crouched down to vacuum it out for me. Which turned into a really big job, because Aaron never does anything half-way. He started mumbling about how all that dirt makes it hard for the motor to work, blah blah blah, and how we should really do this a few times a year, blah blah blah and how we don’t want to have to buy a new refrigerator just because I was too grossed out to do this blah blah blah. I swear he would have used a toothbrush to make it sparkle, except in all his cleaning fervor he bumped the water line that runs to the ice maker. And suddenly the compression fitting broke and water began spraying all over the kitchen.

Fabulous. To make this long story a whole lot shorter, I ended up spending the next hour and a half driving to hardware stores looking for parts. I preferred the hunt for parts to staying home alone with a potential flood problem in my kitchen. The local hardware store had no compression fittings. The hardware department at the Wal-Mart had no compression fittings. Neither did the other two stores I visited.

By now I was pretty worked up and sick of driving all over the county. Did I mention it was pouring rain? Well, it was. And all the in-and-out of the car was getting me soggier by the minute. That’s when it occurred to Aaron to have me call Culligan, who supplies our water filters. Quick promo for the Fairmont Culligan people: one phone call to the on-call guy resulted in me getting parts and pieces replaced almost instantly. They were super wonderful, and I sure wish I would have called them right away.

It is 11:30am when I finally get home, and I discover that all my fridge contents are warm and barely salvageable. (No, Aaron did not put anything back in the fridge while I was gone, thank you very much.)

And now I have three kids clamoring for lunch. And my kitchen is pretty much trashed. *sigh*

But it’s not over, folks!

After throwing together chicken noodle soup and sandwiches and letting the kids eat in the living room in front of the TV, (don’t judge me, I said) I got my kitchen put back together. I will say my refrigerator rocks. Sometimes I like to open it just to look at how clean and sparkly it is right now.

If you read my previous post about straining lard, you’ll better understand Round Two. If not, please go read it right now. Thank you.

So I have a bag of lard to render. It is a simple thing to do, but the one part that is a little time-consuming is the straining process itself. It’s sometimes hard to strain it quickly, and I was feeling like finding a new solution to that problem. I have a great stainless steel kettle with a spaghetti strainer in it. I put the lard in the strainer, and turned the burner on low.

Now, in my mind, this is a great idea. The lard will drip slowly through the strainer into the kettle below, making it a really simple way to separate the lard from the crackling. Right? That sounds reasonable, right? Right away I could hear the hiss of a drop of lard hitting the pan. Perfect. I’ll just come back and check on that in a few minutes.

About 10 minutes later, I can smell a rather unpleasant smell. When I looked over at the stove, tiny tendrils of white smoke are emerging from the sides of the pot, and the smell of burning lard (it is horrible, just so you know) begins to fill the kitchen. When I get closer to the pot, I can see that there is a fire (a FIRE!) in the bottom of the pot. Fabulous.

I picked up the pot to carry it outside. When I jiggled the pot, the strainer wiggled loose and now smoke is POURING out of the pot. The fire alarms are going off, the kids come barreling down the stairs into the kitchen, I am trying to hold my breath as I stagger toward the front door with the pot. I didn’t even put on my shoes, I just managed somehow to get outside and set my very expensive stainless spaghetti cooker outside on the ground in the pouring rain, hoping to put out the fire.

When I return to the house, it is smoky and horrible, and the kids are coughing, and I made them go outside too. In the pouring rain. Barefoot.

I am a great mom, I will have you know.

My husband comes out of the shop and sees his wife and three kids huddled in the garage with a pot of smoking something planted in the yard and smoke alarms still going off in the house.

But it’s not over, folks!

Believe it or not, right at that exact moment, the tornado sirens in town go off. We live about 4 miles from Sherburn, but we can hear the sirens plain as day. I absolutely could not believe it. The rain stopped, it got very still, and off to the north you could see the black clouds rolling eastward. I herded the family out to the shop where we could listen to the radio. (I got their shoes and jackets for them, first, don’t worry.) I was honestly thinking, you have GOT to be kidding me. This day just keeps getting better. Fortunately, the storm continued eastward, and despite a quick smattering of hail, we remained unscathed in the storm.

Many hours later, I was able to take care of the mess in my house, get the kids fed and bathed and read and in bed, and I even managed to clean my scorched kettle thanks to my mom. (Vinegar and baking soda, in case you were wondering.) I thought I would try to get a last load of laundry done before I went to bed. I went upstairs to get a laundry basket, and I missed a step coming back down.

I’m sure it was a sight to see. I landed hard on my bottom and I think I actually felt my spine compress as I subsequently hit the next three as well. I slid the rest of the way and bounced off the wall on the landing at the bottom. Swell. I kind of laid there for a minute or two. Once I established that though I was certainly sore, I was more or less intact. I promptly went to bed before I had a chance to wreck anything else.

Yes, Alexander, it really was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Here’s hoping tomorrow is a little less exciting.

Lucky

When we bought our farm, I knew that my husband planned to have a few animals. We came here 5 years ago with just a cat. Taking inventory of the situation last week, I realized we now have three dogs, three cats, 9 hens, 1 rooster, a lot of homing pigeons (they keep multiplying – I don’t know how many) and lately we’ve been trying our hand at raising a few pigs. Aaron is talking about adding a couple of cows this summer – we’re still working out the details on that one. And not long ago the kids were telling him how much they’d love to have some goats. (Goats? Seriously?) The worst part about suggesting new animals to my husband is that he is more than likely to follow through. He buys animals for the kids the way I might buy them a candy bar at the grocery store.

At some point or another, I’m sure I’ll write about each of the animals that have a home with us. Every animal is important to someone for some reason, and I like the level of responsibility that having them is teaching my kids.

Today I want to write about Lucky. Lucky is our outside Tomcat. He lives in the garage, and has the auspicious responsibility of keeping the mouse population at a minimum. He’s also taken it upon himself to keep feral cats off our property too, which is no small task. Before Lucky came to live with us, we would have a different random cat wandering our property at any given time.

Aaron found Lucky about 3 years ago, when he rescued him from the burn pit out back of our house. We don’t burn all that often, and it’s a fortunate thing, because this poor, tiny, mewling kitten was trying to live in it. There was no mama-cat anywhere around, and this little creature was barely recognizable as feline. It was jet-black and its fur was so matted and dirty, I couldn’t really tell it was even a cat.

We brought him in the house and bathed him. We already had some ear drops for the mites he was carrying, so I dropped a few drops in him and made a little nest in the front porch. When he was wet, his body was no larger than a gerbil. He was clearly in bad shape, and I didn’t have a lot of faith that he would make it. But never underestimate the love of a young child; it is powerful indeed. My oldest daughter spent hours in the porch with that cat, coaxing food and milk and water into it, and loving it just as hard as she could.

When we were pretty sure he was going to make it, we decided it would be okay to name him. 5-year old Emma had a lot of ideas. First she wanted to name him “Strawberry.” Given his jet-black color, that was a little difficult for me to go along with. After much deliberation, Dora, Nemo, and Princess were also eliminated as options. Finally Aaron said, “We’ll call him Lucky because he’s lucky to be alive.” That satisfied her, and Lucky he became.

Eventually, the cat looked strong enough to bring into the house. It was clear from the start that it would not be getting along at all with the cat in residence. Seven is my 12-year old tabby that I got when I first moved to Colorado. She’s been my baby for a long time, and considers the house to be her personal castle. I somehow thought that “Lucky” and “Seven” seemed to be names that went well together; therefore it was a good omen for their future relationship. In reality, they hate each other with a ferocity that is both impressive and alarming.

What reasonable pet owner could banish an established member of the family in favor of a younger version? Not me, I say. We made a comfortable home in the garage for the new kitten and Emma transferred her daily food/water/attention/love ritual to the garage.

In the last 3 years, Lucky has evolved from the “Little Kitten That Could” into something you would be afraid to meet in a dark alley. We must live on a feral cat highway or something, because we’ve had a lot of cats wandering around, at least we did in the early days. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen one in a long time. The boundary he’s created for the farm must reach beyond the line of my hearing. His arrogance grows with every cat he battles, and he swaggers around the farm like the seasoned Tom he is. I think his job description prohibits him from being a very cuddly cat.

Lucky is the one animal on the farm that no one messes with. And I mean no one. Every dog on our farm maintains a wide berth around that creature. The house cats will sometimes play at the deck screen and if Lucky happens to be on the deck he will pace the screen making god-awful sounds trying to get at the house cats. He’s friendly to me in an “I won’t claw you, but don’t touch me unless I want you to” kind of way.

But he does have a well of affection for Emma. She’s allowed to pick him up, and he purrs something fierce in her arms. He rubs his head hard all over her chin, which is actually a little endearing and also kind of disgusting. The top of his head bears the scars of his many battles, and it is rough, scratchy, and missing chunks of fur. But these two have a bond, of that there is no doubt.

One morning we came outside to find him loudly meowing in the yard. Emma could see he had some swelling over that eye. It took three of us to get him wrapped in a towel and put in a kennel to take him to the vet. We were able to get an antibiotic for him, (do not ask me what the vet was thinking…do you really expect me to forcibly get 10 tiny little pills down the throat of a cat who doesn’t like me all that much anyway?!) And I won’t go into the description of that event. But he healed up, and lives to battle another day.

Lucky’s birthday is this weekend. Well, his “Found You” day, anyway. We’re thankful for him, and consider him to be part of our animal family. I will find a way to celebrate him whether he wants to acknowledge me or not.