Home is Where the Scraper Is

I come from a pretty small family. My mother and father each only had one sibling. My maternal grandmother was an only child. My paternal grandfather was one of just two in the family. My dad's mom came from the biggest bunch, and there were only 5 of them in all. You know what this means, don't you? It means that I cannot expect a big inheritance check from some long-lost great aunt. That is why I have been outside scraping my house today rather than just hiring someone to do it for me. Well, that, and because I really do love this old place, and I know you would too.

I live in an old one-room schoolhouse smack dab in the middle of old-order Amish territory. There is a field that surrounds my house on two sides. The other two sides are flanked by dusty gravel roads, each of which is bordered by lovely pastures  with grazing, wide-eyed cows. The sky above is always big, whether it's filled with fluffy clouds or surging storms, and the breezes are never cooler or the stars ever more abundant than they are in my side yard. We have a swingset there, complete with a two-seater that I like to lay back in and watch the world go by. It's right next to our hen house (former outhouse) and the chickens will gather and cluck conversationally in my general direction when I sit there. It's a great place to pass an hour or two, or even a whole afternoon. Our yard has hideouts around the LP tank and in the overgrown bushes. It has sunny expanses to play ball in, a patch of cement to draw on with sidewalk chalk, shady corners to lie in, and a pasture complete with tall grass, Maples to climb, and a mulberry tree you can stand at for hours and get increasingly purple, full, and happy with every passing minute.

And, that's just the yard. The house itself is, basically,  a 30' by 30' square, except that it has a 12' by 8' bell tower tacked on to the south side. When you come in through the blue door in the bell tower, you are taking a step back in time. This is where almost 50 years' of school children started and ended their industrious days, and eagerly went out and came in from recess. You can go downstairs (to your left, and past a large, sunny window), or upstairs (to your right, and also past a large, sunny window.) When this house was a school, the basement was mostly just a place to house the boiler, coal hopper, and other mechanical equipment. There was a ping pong table for the kids to play on if it was too wet to go outside, but not much else. Today the basement has a family room, two bedrooms, and a combination bathroom/laundry room. Despite the many windows, it is cool and shady, and pleasant down there. It has a sense of stillness that I think comes from it having been largely forgotten by the kids all those school years ago.

Upstairs, however, is where the magic happens. The steps from the entryway still creak and groan in a satisfying and familiar fashion, just as I am told they did from the beginning of this old school. Up the stairs and through the doorway you find yourself in a great room, and I mean that in both senses of the word. Three-fourths of the 900 square feet on that floor are all open, including our dining room, our kitchen, and our living room. The ceilings, which are sixteen feet tall, are paneled in pine. There are three big skylights and eight enormous windows - enough to let in that giant sky and all the lovely breezes and stars. The old wood floors and plaster walls may be a different color than they were back then, but they still echo the whispers and recitations from years gone by. It's hard to explain, exactly, but I know that this old schoolhouse is happy. It was loved and a part of something sacred and important for almost a half a century. I guess you could say it still is. What we are doing here - raising our children and living out, the the fullest, the act of being a family - is also sacred and important work, and we couldn't ask for a better backdrop for it.

See - I told you you'd love it. Everyone who comes here falls in love with this happy schoolhouse. Maybe it's the architectural uniqueness - the fact that it's not like every other house these days. Maybe it's because of its historical importance. After all, there has been a schoolhouse on this site continuously since 1864 (though this is the second building), and this was the last public one-room schoolhouse in Iowa to close, maybe even one of the last in the nation. Maybe you, like me, love this place because it is a chance to slow the rhythm of life and fall in pace with a simpler time and era. Maybe it is the memories, or the promises of what's yet to come in this home that make it so lovable. I can't quite pinpoint my favorite thing about this house because there is so very much to love about it. Enough, in fact, that I'm willing to dangle precariously off ladders, wear the ends of my fingers off with sandpaper and scrapers, get bumped and bruised and banged up, and even battle the occasional nest of yellow jackets just to ensure that it will be around for another generation to enjoy as well. Now that you've fallen in love with it, feel free to join me. I'll be the one clinging to the south side, scraper in hand. :)

Laundry

Well, here I am, in the middle of laundry. Again. Or, maybe more accurately, still. It seems to be a never-ending process at my house. I realize, of course, that the odds are stacked against me, since there are 5 people living here, three of whom still regularly spill any liquid or semi-solid they are responsible for conveying any distance farther than one micron. (I will not divulge the names of these people in the interest of protecting my fifth amendment rights.) So, our baskets overfloweth. Of course, not all dirty clothes are created equal. Last week I had to wash the same shirt four times because it was so filthy. In the end, I went ahead and threw it in the dryer anyway, despite the fact that the stains were still there. At that point it's easier to try to convince the smallish person who owns it that it always was that shade of grey than to waste any more laundry detergent, stain remover, energy, or time - especially time. Plus, grey goes with everything, so it really was a win-win situation.

I have the same problem with laundry that I do with dishes and our annual tax return - there are just so very many steps involved! Isn't it enough to gather the clothes, carry them to the laundry room, sort them, check for stains, and pop them into the machine? Apparently not. There's also the transferring, the drying, the folding, the putting into the baskets, the carrying into the rooms, and - the piece d'resistance - the putting away! It's enough to drive a person crazy. I mean, I often skip several of those steps (and not always the ones you might expect) in an effort to save time and preserve my sanity, but the process is still way too long, and nudist colonies have been looking more and more attractive to me in the last several years. That is not to say, however, that the feelings are necessarily mutual. I can only guess that my appeal to a nudist colony has waned in the last decade or so, even as my interest in them has grown. Because of this inverse relationship, I will continue to be a slave to my washer and dryer.

Perhaps the real problem at our house is not the amount of laundry, but the amount of clothing. That may sound paradoxical, but follow me on this for a minute. My middle daughter has 23 t-shirts in her drawer. Her three-year-old sister, I believe, owns even more than that, but it's hard to tell. (One time saving measure I have taken up to lighten my laundry load is to have the girls put away their own clothes. I only know that the basket comes back empty, but still haven't quite figured out where she is stashing all of her things.) Anyway, this overabundance of clothing means that we can, quite literally, go two weeks or more without having to switch on the ol' Maytag. And, often we do. Ergo, the next time we have laundry day, it's a real whopper. I suppose that, when you average out all the time I spend doing laundry over the course of a year, it might be about the same as everyone else spends. I guess when it takes a week and half of sorting, washing, drying, and folding to catch up on two week's worth of laundry, I'm not really saving myself much time after all.

It would seem logical, then, that the answer to my little problem, would be to get rid of some clothes. I should just figure out how often I want to do laundry, and then make sure we have exactly the right amount of clothing for that time period. Therefore, if I want a five day break between washes, I think we should pare down to 5 outfits, 2 pajamas, and 2.876 towels each. (That includes a bath towel, a hand towel, two wash rags, and the appropriate number of kitchen towels we would need for five days, divided among all five family members.) But, let's be honest - I don't really want to do laundry every five days. Maybe once a week? Once every ten days? I've got it - how about once every two weeks? Of course, that would require everyone to have 23 t-shirts and... wait... now we're back to square one.

No, I don't want to do laundry for a week and a half straight every two weeks, but I also don't want to have to do laundry every day. Just between you and me, I'd prefer to never have to do laundry again. Of course, that means that we can't have any clothes, which takes us back to the whole nudist colony dilemma. Perhaps if I could find one where everyone was terribly nearsighted. Or, better yet, we could just start out own. Unfortunately, that would require a lot of research into state and local laws, zoning regulations in this county, which SPF is most effective for which areas of the body, etc... And, of course, I don't have time to do any of that research because the dryer just buzzed, and I've still got 42 loads of laundry to do before I'm off the hook. If you'll excuse me, the laundry cycle is calling my name...

In the Good Old Summertime...

My dear, adoring public - I must apologize. I have used this blog for many purposes. It has been my sounding board. My confessional. My soapbox. My diary. It has housed my deepest thoughts, and the wildest wanderings of my cerebral frontiers. And now, I must admit to you that I have allowed a terrible a injustice to occur right here in these hallowed pages. (Well, characters, more accurately.) I can stand it no longer. Justice must be served.

You see, I have complained bitterly about winter in this blog - whined about it, some might say- and, alternately, have been in ecstatic raptures about spring in previous posts. Through all of the weather writing, I have neglected the blissful bounty of summer, and I think it's time for summer to get its due. After all - living during these fleeting three months in Iowa is like no other experience in the world. This year we had a very wet latter part of spring, and it has blossomed now in these past few weeks into a glorious, sticky, sun-drenched July. It's hot, it's humid, and it's glorious - everything summer should be.

This morning I picked green beans - ice cream bucket after ice cream bucket of them from my friend's garden. She shared her bounty with me, just as a neighbor did when they dropped of a bag of summer squash on my doorstep. I will return the favor to someone else with something from my garden, because it is summer. In Iowa. That's what we do. The soil here is so rich and alive that anyone can grow anything, but there is something mystical and satisfying about being a part of 'the club.' Whether it's a backyard container with a single tomato plant, or a half-acre survival garden, we are all part of that group, whose membership is made possible by our beloved state's benevolent weather and good, clean dirt. And, it's a good club to be a part of it. There is something inherently wholesome about sun-warmed, dirt-fresh, dimple-fleshed produce from the garden, and the grubby fingernails and toes that go along with them. They makes you want to do the right things - like eat better, read a bedtime story to your children,  go to church more often, and make homemade ice cream.

Of course, it's not just the produce and gardens that inspire goodness. It's in the air. Yes... We do have more than just humidity in the air, though sometimes it can be hard to detect. Listen... listen.... can you hear it? That sound - just now? It is the frogs in the neighbor's pond. The crickets in your basement. The cicadas thrumming away in the top of your maple trees. It is the crack of a bat, the whir of a child's bike tire, the distant rumble-grumble of thunder. It is summer, singing its endless and humble song. From the percussive rattle of metal wheels and horses' hooves on my gravel road, to the woodwind's mellow refrain as the wind blows through the pasture grass - it is summer. If you're not paying attention you will miss this concert, and it's playing its heart out just for you.

This week I made it a point to take a break from the beans and the weeding and the work. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, slipped into my worn sandals, and stepped outside of my air conditioning and busy life. I chose to spend an hour or so sitting on the swing with my friend during the hottest day we've had in years. The sun and humidity were intense, but the joy even more so.We heard laughter in the forefront and lawnmowers in the distance. It was nice. Tonight I found myself returning to that swing because of the delight of an enraptured three-year-old, who proudly pointed out that she had found the moon. Indeed she had - a more important and astute discovery than most people make their whole lives. We lingered for a while as the yellow, new moon skimmed across the sky, listening to the breeze in the corn. When the lightning bugs showed up and the whole sky was lit with star upon star upon star, I knew they were simply the flashbulbs and marquee that come with any headlining act, for I was in the presence of greatness.

They are dedicated and capable, practiced and finely-tuned, but don't be fooled - this band has been booked for a limited engagement. I'm ever so blessed to have been given - free of charge! - a front row seat (and a swinging one at that) for this multi-sensory, life changing, outdoor musical extravaganza. They have the biggest stage, best acoustics, most talented musicians, and most outstanding special effects you'll see anywhere. When the kitchen is empty and the clothes have been left half-folded, you'll know where to go looking for me. After all, it's the social event of the season. I surely do hope to see you there.

What's in a Name?

Shakespeare waxed poetic about the beauty of Juliet. In the story, of course, Juliet was in love with the handsome Romeo, who also dearly loved her, even though their families were bitter rivals. Juliet pined about the fact that her only love (Romeo) was sprung from her only hate (the family Montague). It is her famous "What's in a Name..." soliloquy that many eager young thespians memorize and recite. Yesterday I, too, was thinking of Juliet (well, at least a Juliet) and, like her, pondering the nature and meaning of names.

See, we have three kinds of chickens in our little flock. Our old hens (which are a breed known as Production Reds) were purchased from a neighboring hen house after their peak function was past. They had been housed with 1200 other Production Reds and lived only to eat, poop, and (of course) lay eggs. These kinds of ladies are known, without any effort at romance or honor, as 'spent hens' after they are around 18 months old. Remember, there is no glass ceiling or social security program for poultry. They were lucky to have been brought to our green yard and cozy hen house, where they have been allowed to live out their days eating bugs, being given swing and sled rides (sometimes against their wills), and laying the occasional egg as they chose to do so. Since arriving here, my girls have called this batch of chickens Henny Pennies.

Why Henny Pennies? I don't know. Though some of them did have their own names (including Le Morte and Mr. Chicken - I am not making this up), it is rather difficult to tell one spent hen from another, so it made the most sense to my girls to name them as a group. Plus, it distinguishes them from the two other types of chickens we have. Besides the Production Reds, we also have two white hens. One is a Leghorn, and the other a Californian. We came by both of these gals separately and in a somewhat strange fashion. Tracy came first. She had been purchased along with 29 other tiny, day-old white chicks by a friend of ours. The others in her group quickly grew fat and sassy, since they were Cornish Rock Cross - a breed that grows 6 pound birds in 8 weeks. Alas, there was one lone, mis-sorted Leghorn chick in the bunch. It soon became apparent to my friend that 'Mini-Hen' (as she had been dubbed by the resident namer at their house) was better suited for a hen house than a freezer. So, she came to live with us, and was promptly renamed Tracy.

The other white hen was part of group that we chicken-sat for over the Christmas holidays. (Hey - don't laugh. You would do the same for your dog or cat, right?) When the owner of this bunch came to pick his ladies up, he couldn't tell the difference between our Tracy and his white hen. (I find it incredibly insensitive of him to not be able to tell one white girl from another, and am infinitely glad that we got to keep this hen so she didn't have to go back to her obviously racist owner.) Anyway, her new name is Not Tracy. So, we find ourselves having conversations like this:

Me: Did you put the chickens in tonight?
Child: Yes, all the Henny Pennies are in, but not Tracy.
Me: Do you mean not Tracy, or not Not Tracy?
Child: Yes.
Me: But which one did you...
Child: [re-donning shoes] I'll just go out and put her in so I don't have to explain, ok Mom?

Our last group, which started out as a batch of 15 half-grown, mixed-sex (11 hens and 4 roosters) Rhode Island Red chickens purchased from Craigslist, have been affectionately known as Juliets. (I told you I'd eventually be talking about Juliet...)  Their numbers have since dwindled to six. We lost four hens to predators and cold this winter. One rooster was hit by a car. The other three had to be 're-homed' after they got a bit aggressive with the girls. And, alas, we lost one Juliet hen to a hawk yesterday. So, we're down to just six Juliets now. Our Henny Pennies have suffered some serious losses this past year as well, and now number only two. With those eight, along with our pair of white hens (who, of course, each already have their own names) it is looking more and more like we could move from group identity on to individual monikers for my lovely laying ladies.

Since it is my children who come up with the names (and spend the most time with the chickens) I'll have to check with them and see what they think. I'm inclined to keep things simple. And, since I'm able to both distinguish between and remember the names for Henny Pennies, Juliets, Tracy, and Not Tracy, I'm content to keep to keep things the way they are. Plus, as amusing as it can be, the process of getting the girls to agree on a name is rather like giving birth. There is much yelling, fist clenching, and the occasional Lamaze-style breathing through pursed lips. Just yesterday we travailed to bring forth names for our two new goats, which had to be agreed upon by three young girls. The process is harder than you might imagine. But, at the end of the labors, we were presented with our bouncing, brand new names - Marshmallow and Kid. The girls are happy, and the goats are indifferent, so I think it was a success. But, I'm not sure that our insurance will cover another naming for at least a year, so perhaps the hens will keep their current classifications after all.