Stuff!

You  may have noticed that I am looking a bit thinner these days. You see, in the last few months I've lost close to 1500 pounds... of things, that is. You'd think that getting rid of nearly a ton of stuff would make a remarkable and significant difference in the appearance and functionality of our home. Alas, that is not quite the case. In fact, I'm sad to say that there are still piles on many of the flat surfaces, way too many clothes and toys, and a garage full of mysterious items with dubious histories and even more questionable futures. (Just how did a family of five end up with eight broken bikes, and what made us think they were all worth saving?) But, I'm making progress.


I come from a long line of packrats. (Sort of a disturbing mental image when you picture it literally - isn't it?) My paternal grandmother lived through the Great Depression, and saved things because of a real and rational fear of having to go without.  My grandfather on the other side was a farm kid, and knew the value of a bit of twine or a length of wire in a pinch. I think it's fair to say that the sound logic behind the saving has gotten weaker with each passing generation, though the desire to collect has not. Granted - everyone in my family manages our possessions with enough order and organization to ensure that they don't become a real problem in our lives. However, I sometimes have to ask myself whether I am the possessor or the possessed.

A dear loved one recently passed away. Long after she had settled her accounts, had her say,and  made her peace, she had one last burden that she couldn't seem to shake. With a heavy sigh late one night, she made me promise that I would help go through her home after she passed because she was worried that people would judge her harshly for all of the things that she had. I have never looked at my 'stuff' the same way since.


In a way, it was frightening to think that someone's last worries on earth would be about something so trivial. But, if I'm really honest with myself, I must admit that that's probably what I would worry about in that situation as well.  I sensed more deeply in that moment than ever before that stuff can be a blessing, or stuff can be a curse. It's all in the way you look at it. It was an amazingly liberating experience.

Since then, I've had a different perspective. I supposed it's possible that one of those broken bikes in the garage might be worth fixing (old me), but I can guarantee that not a single one of them is worth worrying over (new me). So, I got rid of them. I got rid of things I thought I could use, things I thought I might use, things I thought I would use, and even things I thought were way too special and sentimental to ever be used. And, boy - did it feel great! Around our house, we've started calling it "getting flexible". I've heard some call it lightening the load, de-cluttering, de-junking, letting go, giving up, and even getting free.Whatever you call it, I'm just glad that I'm the one who possesses my stuff these days, and am determined to never again let it possess me.

Readers' Favorites Series - Playing Grownup

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

 

Well, here I am attempting a second time to write a post with more of myself included. I am no longer pontificating... have stepped down off the soap box. Is it more human and approachable this way? Perhaps I'll consider this a group therapy session. After all, you must be reading this blog for a reason. If it's to search to answers, I can only tell you, in all honesty, that I do not have them. But, perhaps we can discover some together. I'll go first.

Hi. My name is Andrea, and I feel under-equipped to deal with life. I suppose there are so very many more things I could admit to - over eating, over sleeping, over doing. But, I think I've come a long way by being able to really distill what's going on down to such a pithy and provocative statement. You see, I've always been the one able to handle it all. Keep all the balls in the air. Keep all the plates spinning. Now I've come to realize that those things are what the analogy implies : games - just part of an act. It looks good (and feels good) on stage, but when the makeup comes off and the costumes are put away at the end of the night, there are still children to raise, souls to save, bills to pay. Life is not the circus act.

My best friend and I (both of us turned 30 this year) were wondering together on the phone the other day why no one warned us of what it means to be a grown up. Why did no one tell us how serious and earnest this thing called life can be? Why did no one think to warn us that we would endure indescribable difficulties even as we enjoyed unparalleled joys? Why didn't anyone let us know that this is what it would be like? I've been trying to abdicate my adult responsibilities for years, but they keep coming back. All this time I've had the sneaking suspicion that this thing called life is perhaps a bit more serious and taxing than I wanted to let on.

For my friend, it all started with her first vacuum. You see - it wasn't her mother's vacuum. It wasn't borrowed. It wasn't temporary. It was hers. Forever. You don't buy a vacuum unless you need it. You don't need a vacuum unless you have a home. You don't have your own home unless you're a grown up. See the connection? To this day I think that vacuum causes her pause on good days, panic on bad ones. It's a sign that she - all of us, really - is inextricably engaged in the forward march of life, and that can be a sobering thought.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the sense to pause and consider the implications of my first vacuum. I was very young and idealistic when I plunged headlong into life. It wasn't until sometime after a college degree, two home purchases, a brand new car, three children, and a dying loved one later that I started to have the sneaking sort of panic that my friend's small appliances stirred up in her. Now I find myself very much entrenched in this thing called life, and feel ill equipped to handle it. Who am I to hold the hand of the dying? What do I know about helping those left behind in their grief? What words can I offer to bolster my brave husband, who faces the world with the weight of his family on his shoulders each day? Where will I go for the wisdom to bring forth these children that I feel so fiercely proud of and responsible for? How did I end up here?

Some days I think I'll wake to discover that it's all been a game of house. We (the good children, intently engaged in our play) will be called back to reality by our parents. We will put aside our drama and aprons and vacuums and go have a snack under the watchful eye of a capable and caring adult. Our vain striving over who is in charge, which person says what, where things will go, what we will do... it will all be forgotten. After all - if we are honest with ourselves in the deepest and darkest places in our hearts, we somehow sensed all along that it is foolishness to pretend we are really adults, didn't we? True enough, but what can be done about it? Therein lies the trouble.

And so, I will continue to be a little girl her mother's high heels. I will pray for wisdom in bringing forth and carefully preserving the treasures in my husband. I will shore him up on the days when I can see that he is a little boy in his father's tie and suit jacket. At least there is much comfort to be found in knowing that I am not playing this game alone. I will trust the promise God gave me that when I open my mouth, it is in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness will be on my tongue. When that promise is stretched thin and looks like it will run out, I will go to Him for a fresh slice of truth and a cold glass of grace. (Perhaps there is a kind parent who watches over this game of house after all...) I will guide and guard, praise and raise, teach and treasure my children each and every day. And, I will never, ever tell them what it's like to be a grownup - how earnest and serious life can be, and what indescribable difficulties and unparalleled joys you discover along the way -  because they deserve to discover it on their own.

Readers' Favorites Series - Out of the Mouthes (and Other Orifices) of Babes

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

The other night, while hurtling down the interstate at 70 miles per hour, I heard my precious toddler say to me from the back seat, "Here, mom." I knew her hand was groping forward in the darkness, with a special gift just for me. Sometimes in these situations I get stuffed animals to keep me company, pictures my adoring children have drawn for me, an offer just to hold my hand. Awww....

Of course, as much as I like to focus on the precious moments of parenting, I must admit that more often than not I am being handed trash, unwanted food, bits of miscellanea dug from the depths of a car seat, used Kleenexes, etc... But this time, it was even better. This time, the gift my two-year-old handed me was a booger. It took me a second to figure it out. I fumbled in the dark, trying to find the tiny little 'nugget' in her hand. Once I got it up front with me, I felt it carefully.  A lost tooth? Bit of food? Hmmm... round, smooth...Is this... is thisss.....? I couldn't help it. I found myself actually saying aloud, "Honey, is this a boogie?" To which she happily replied, "Yets, mommy." Hmmm... I thought so.

There was a time (not that long ago, believe it or not) when the idea of being handed a booger would have been enough to dampen my spirits, to say the least. Truthfully, however, it hardly even blips my radar these days.  It's not that boogers aren't gross, but they don't even rank in the top three anymore of nasty stuff I've handled. Who am I kidding with the past tense there? Really, it's nasty stuff I handle almost every day.

Case in point - my youngest is working on potty training. Tonight she sat on the potty for 2 hours straight. I, of course, had to sit with her. (Those of you who aren't parents might think that I am complaining. Actually, I was overjoyed to have spent my evening perched on the edge of the tub. Each moment she sits on the toilet gets us one step farther away from diapers, which is where much of the yuckiness that I must touch originates.)

Anyway, we successfully made pee pee in the potty (yeah!), but it came at a price. In order to not fall in, she had to lean all of her weight on the heels of her hands, which she had rested on the toilet seat. Periodically (anywhere from every 2 to 5 minutes) I was asked to kiss her owie hands. Though I resisted as long as possible, it became clear that this was becoming a stumbling block to achieving our ultimate potty goals. So, I did it. I puckered up and kissed, essentially, the butt of every person in  my home. And you thought boogers were bad.

But how could any rational person do that? It's nasty. It's gross. It's unsanitary. Yep, it sure is. But, parenthood is all about taking risks to improve your odds. You don't survive this game without nerves of steel and an immune system to match. I've been in training for so long that I've got my game face on, and nothing is going to stop me this close to the goal. (Besides, since I do the housework I know the toilet got cleaned a mere 24 hours earlier, and I didn't really make contact with her hand. Jeesh...That would be disgusting.)

I am hoping that at some point in the future I will gradually stop having to handle such things as boogers and diapers and toilet seat hands. God willing, barring a career change into nursing or wastewater treatment, I will eventually stop having to deal with anyone's bodily functions but my own. Until then, I will continue to willingly reach back when someone says, "here, mom" from the back seat. Be it bottles or boogers, toys or trash, valentines or vomit (and I am sooooooo not making that last one up), I am always willing to lend a helping hand. After all, I've already kissed my pride good bye, and watched my overinflated sense of self importance be flushed down the toilet. What more could I possible have to fear?

 

Readers' Favorites Series - Menu Minimalism

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

Tonight we're having beef for dinner. Each afternoon around 4:00, I seem to know that much, and not much more. Despite four or so years of being a vegan, the hub for my meal planning still comes down to which animal gave its life in order for me to eat, at least for supper. (The rules for lunch, of course, are totally different.) Anyway, so I find myself with a cut of meat in hand (sometimes literally) and no other plans. Oh, I could go for the usual side dishes that I fix every other night of the week, but is that the kind of person I want to be - a mac and cheese user? A woman with a frozen vegetable habit? Is that how I want my children to remember me!?

I could go old school - meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. This suits my 1950's housewife fantasy nicely. (Funny thing, that fantasy. Never once has my house become magically cleaner, my children more polite, or the shows on my television more G-Rated just because I put on a frilly apron and high heels. Go figure. It has once induced my husband to ask for a mixed drink, however, upon returning home from work. ) Besides just the all-American appeal, the trifecta meal planning method also does make for some darn tasty eats. Alas, it also invariably requires me to rummage in cupboards, dig through the freezer, and uncover a bag of taties that's been sitting too close to the window (sprouting), or too long in the dark (moldy). Curses, foiled again.

Never one to do anything in moderation, I then swing back to my hippy-trippy days, seeking to recall what were once the superstars of my kitchen reportoire, but which will now just be side dishes for my slab-o-meat. This, I am sure, is exactly how ex-Country stars feel at having to follow up children's singing groups and local talent shows on County Fair stages across the nation. So, will it be black beans and rice? Rice and red beans? Spanish Rice and refried beans? (Perhaps I am beginning to see why I am no longer a vegan. Hmm....) A quick thumb through my tattered New Farm Cook Book doesn't yield any appealing solutions for tonight, though it does remind me that the people who think I'm crunchy-granola now just don't even have a clue about ol' Earth Momma Annie at the height of her broomstick skirts and Birkenstocks days.

All of my freezer-fumblings, fifties-fantasies, and Farm cookbook remembrances have cost me an hour, and yet I am nowhere closer to having a side dish in mind. Meat and....? Meat and.....? Let's face it, I'm going to rely on my same old standbys that I always do. It will be meat and canned corn, probably with tortilla chips, because that's how we roll around here, baby. Why? Because we always seem to have canned corn and tortilla chips around, and I know that my famiy will eat them. Sometimes I might throw in some cilantro, or serve some salsa up on the side, but when it comes to supper I've got my Fave Five (give or take) ingredients that see me through. They are my go-to items, and as long as they never let me down, how can I turn my back on them?

It's good to know that I can still whip up a pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and broccoli with cheese sauce that would make the Beav's mom proud. Or, that my quinoa tabouleh recipe is still where I can find it should the need arise. (I can't help it - I'm chuckling here because I know good and well that at least three people reading this blog will not only mangle the pronounciation of that dish, but also spend several seconds wondering if perhaps I just made up some gibberish words to make myself look hippyfied. One of you might even Google it.)

Tonight, I will have beef and canned corn and tortilla chips. Tomorrow night I will have chicken with mac and cheese and a frozen vegetable. The night after that I will mix things up and have lamb with canned corn and mac and cheese (tricky,  no?). But - here's where the 1950's potluck mentality meets with my creative flower child - the next night, I shall have a casserole. And everyone knows, that it's no holds barred on casserole night...

 

Readers' Favorites Series - Late Night TV

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

I'm up late (again) and watching a mindless show on Public Television. (Ever since the big switch to digital TV we get 3 PBS stations. One of them is a knock-off Home and Garden / DIY channel. I guess it's a fair trade - we gave up 6 fuzzy stations for 3 clear PBS channels and NOTHING ELSE. Digital really stinks in the country.) Anyway, this particular episode is one of those 'make your whole life and home and meals and family all better on less than $0.37 a day!' shows. I can't stand those.

Right now the suspciously perky hostess is showing me how to glue mismatched tea cups onto an old silver candelabra for a festive centerpiece. An assistant is in raptures over what a good idea this is. Problem is, you just KNOW tomorrow she'll be explaining how mismatched tea cups at a tea party are all the rage, especially if you have a tarnished candelabra with some funky candles in the middle of the table. Where will that leave me? I'll tell you where - with super glue fingers and an out-of-style centerpiece. DIY show projects invariably lead to regret. Just remember that next time you're tempted to rush out for spray paint, floral foam, and copper tubing at the urging of someone who wears a home made apron with a lady bug painted on it on national television.

Next comes a 'money saving' menu idea. Turns out, Kelly (or Katie, or Kathy... whatever her name is) has never actually used leftover hamburgers. With a giggle and a toss of her teased hair she lets slip the secret that she's been throwing away perfectly good grilled hamburgers at the end of her cook out parties. After all, they are a bit dry and unappealing, she tell us. Sure hope my children never catch on to that, since I have been a daily leftover user for years.Sometimes I have been known to use leftovers twice or even three times in one day. (Don't worry - I am in rehab now ever since my family planned and executed an intervention for me.) Anyway, apparently it is entirely possible, with the guidance of a seasoned television professional, to actually use these leftovers to create tasty meals. Who knew? Tonight's suggestion is for a taco. Seriously? All she did was break up the burger (which included a close up on her dazzling French manicure), sprinkle on some salsa and cheese, and throw it in a tortilla. For THIS she has her own show?

Now we're on to practical ideas for the home. Don't you just hate it when you burn your table with a hot pan? Well, Kendra is going to show us how to turn old wine corks and heavy gauge wire into hot pads!! From underneath the work bench the hostess produces an enormous tin bucket full of corks. (I think I'm beginning to understand her frantic perkiness a bit better...) Doesn't anyone wonder about this woman? She can afford hundreds of bottles of wine, but not a few hot pads? Poor money management, a drinking problem, and she's been throwing out perfectly good hamburgers for years? Who hires the hosts for these shows, anyway!?

On the one hand, they're suggesting craft ideas suitable for pre-schools and/or in-patient mental institutions. But, don't be fooled! The moment you let your guard down you will find them instructing you on how to knit, their fingers and cryptic terminology flying left and right. I once tried to follow along on a 'simple' beading project and ended up with a sprained pinkey, a piece of beading wire embedded in my left thigh, and a squint that has only recently left. My poor husband came home to find me crying softly, saying over and over again, "but what if I DIDN'T end up with a third string? What should I do then....?"

Forget about it. I've had it with this little-miss-homey! Until someone contacts me to host "The Andrea Farrier Style of Living" I'm done forever with this insanity. Rest assured, dear readers, my show would ROCK and be full of genuinely practical tips. Things like:

• The definitive guide to knowing when food has gone bad (even cottage cheese!)
• Masking all your home odors the easy and effective way
• Dust Art
• 37 things to do with a chicken (and only the last 10 are for after they've been butchered)
• Decorating the creative way with clutter
• Knit your own sweater from the hair your pet has left on the furniture
  
• 128 uses for instant mashed potatoes
  
• The proper care and feeding of dust bunnies
• Making food your children will love to eat (OR - how to make your children eat the food you make)
• Make a handy organizer for all your favorite take-out phone numbers
• How to do ... well... EVERYTHING at the last minute
  
• 10 ways to reuse dryer lint.

(Confession time - I do really have a great tip for reusing dryer lint, and the chicken thing is totally true also. The rest, I might have to study up a bit on.) Anyway, must run... Even though it's late I'm going to go work on my manicure. I'm just POSITIVE the network will call tomorrow, and I want to be ready for my closeup.

 

Readers' Favorites Series - Success By Any Other Name

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...

 

Getting My Hopes Up

You're all aware, I'm sure, of the contest I've entered to win a six-month blogging contract for $30,000 and a laptop computer. (I mean - you are aware, right!? You're voting every day - aren't you!!??) Well, winning this contest, clearly, is a long shot. And yet, I am as giddy as a a thrifty shopper at a half-price sale. I can't seem to wipe the smile off my face. Certainly, much of my excitement is due to the overwhelming response that people have had to my requests for votes. Frankly, I'm both astounded and deeply humbled to have so many  folks doing so much on my behalf. Seriously - Me. Little ol' me...

However, there is another element, besides just all the help and support and the thrill of the contest itself that is keeping me grinning from ear to ear. This is just one area in my life right now where God has recently been expanding my horizons. In a very real way, He is renewing my sense of possibility. Awakening my dream gene. Getting my hopes up, so to speak. That last expression - it's a curious one, isn't it? I have often warned my children not to get their hopes up.Told my friends that they should be realistic in their expectations.  I've even been angry at myself for hoping to reach a goal that ended up, ultimately, being beyond my grasp. But, why? Why do I do this to myself?

In all of my years of knowing God, He has never been stingy. The earth is the Lord's, and all that it contains. He is our good father, and it is His delight to give us good gifts. He doesn't say that if we seek His Kingdom first, a few things, or even some things will be added to us, but all things that we as humans need and seek in righteousness. Don't get me wrong - I'm not preaching a prosperity doctrine whereby every person will have a mansion and a garage full of luxury cars. God promised salvation and eternal life through Christ, not 40 acres and a mule. But, I'm also saying that we should not limit our almighty father to the things that we have determined are sufficient for us. Rather, shouldn't we dream big things and submit them to Him with a willingness to receive whatever He chooses for us? Read that last sentence again. Are you sure that you're really willing to receive what He grants for your life - even if it is good things beyond your wildest imagination?

I live with a poverty mentality. I have already spent each paycheck in my mind before it even hits my account, and I worry over where we will get enough money to cover the gaps that I imagine will pop up. I horde half-broken and obsolete items because someday I might need them. And, even though I claim to be in the world but not of it, I sure find myself willingly conforming to the limited opportunities it affords me. Again - why do I do this to myself?

Granted, as a family we've been through some tough times financially, and carefulness in handling finances is wise. But, worry is not. No matter how hard things might have gotten, we've never gone hungry. There has always been enough money to cover our need, and it was never my fears that caused things to work out alright in the end. And, while I've occasionally found myself very, very grateful to have had just what I needed just when I needed it because of something I had saved back, most of my stockpile of the 'potentially useful' ends up just being a burden I carry instead of a blessing that sustains me. If Peter - who was fully in the world and subject to its natural laws - could live in the reality of finding the money to pay his taxes in a fish, why should I also not believe that my God is big enough to not only provide for my every need, but to also surprise and amaze me while doing so?

All too often I find myself with tunnel vision - going to work, paying bills, putting food on the table. These are good things, and were given to me by a gracious Father, and I thank Him for them daily. But, while I am aware of them being a miraculous provision from Him, maybe others around me are not. Maybe God wants my simple life and gratitude to be a testimony to His goodness. Or, maybe - just maybe -  He wants to use my life to bring Him glory in a different way. Maybe he wants to do great things to and through and for me so that, through His actions and my acknowledgment of His actions, the world can be reminded that God is still big, and He still moves mightily, and He is still both willing and able.

If I do not win this blogging contest next month, I will still be grateful to God for His miracle provision of the steady jobs, warm home, and food on the table that He has already provided. If tomorrow God sees fit for my husband or myself to lose our jobs and for our family to be faced with real financial hardships like we have never known before, I will still be grateful to God for His miracle provision, which I know will always be what sustains us, no matter how hard things may get. However - today I am choosing to get my hopes up. To look up from my everyday miracles and be open to the God of hope and accept whatever else He might want to give to me - even miracles beyond what I've already received.

I will dream big dreams, and crawl up in my Daddy's lap to whisper those dreams in His ear. And, unlike the advice I have unwisely given to my children, my Father doesn't ever tell me not to get my hopes up. Instead, He smiles and shows me greater things than I could ever have imagined, and in doing so confirms my faith, expands my horizons, renews my sense of possibility, awakens my dream gene, and gets my hope in Him up in a new and fresh way. For, just as it would be wrong of me not to thank God for the provisions He's given up to this point, it would be wrong to be unwilling to accept more in order that He may be glorified. So, God - for your glory, bring it on!

Shameless Self Promotion

I've used this blog to whine, to celebrate, to complain, and to expound, among much else. It's been an outlet for so many different things, that I thought I'd go out on a limb and use it for shameless self promotion.

See - there's this contest. A supplement and herb company (and you know I'm all about natural health!) called Nature Made has decided to hire (yes - HIRE - for PAY) a blogger under a six-month contract. Said blogger would be writing about (wait for it....) good mood things, like joy in everyday life. (Hmmm... don't I have a whole category called that? Isn't that what most of my blogs are about? Doesn't this sound like the absolute perfect fit for me?) So, here's a contest that's right up my alley, that I'd be really good at (if I do say so myself) and that would give me the chance to help others look on the bright side and see the humor in this roller coaster ride called life.

Oh, and did I mention the financial incentive? The winner, in addition to fame, fortune, and the opportunity to spread joy, would also receive $30,000 for their six-months of blogging (that's right - $5,000 a month) and a brand new laptop. I think this is my dream job.

However, there's a catch. (Isn't there always!?) In order to win, I have to receive among the top 20 votes of all the contestants. Basically, in order to go on to round 2, you have to pass the popularity contest that is round 1.

Wanna help? (Oh please, oh please, oh please!!!!!?) Here's how:

1. Go to http://www.sam-e.com/job/entries/595 and vote EACH AND EVERY DAY between now and November 10th. If you have 2 computers, vote from each one. If you work at a place that has a whole bunch of computers, vote from each one every day! If you neighbors leave their doors unlocked during the day, go in and vote on their computer. (Ok - not really, but you get the idea...)

2. Tell you friends. Tell your family. Spread it to everyone you know in your email account. Put up fliers. Hire a skywriter. Whatever it takes - it's not that I'm exactly desperate, per se, but I'm begging for your help!

Think of it this way - not only would you, my faithful readers, get the chance to read my inspiring brain droppings five days a week, guaranteed, for six months straight, but I'd also be able to afford some more stylish clothing and be more likely to be generous at birthdays and Christmas with an extra $30,000 at my disposal. Thanks in advance for your vote today (and tomorrow, and the next 14 days after that.) I'll keep you posted!

Corrupting the Youth

Socrates and I - we're like two peas in a pod. We both like to hang around all day in comfy clothes, have a little bit extra around the middle, and have been accused of corrupting the youth. For him, of course, the outcome of such accusations didn't go well. (Note to self : stay away from mobs and Hemlock.) Thankfully (at least, so far) no one in any official position who could cause me anything more than minor annoyance has questioned my motives when it comes to teaching. Faithful readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret that some of you might not know - though I am fully trained, licensed, and equipped to be a standard classroom teacher, I would rather take a sound beating than do so.

Let me be clear - I have nothing but the utmost respect for public schools and their superintendents, principals, teachers, etc.... But, I've seen their job, and I do not want it. I don't envy them the gags and tied hands that come with mandated curriculum, the endless carrot and stick of chasing standardized test scores, and the ceaseless internal politics inherent in the system. No, I'd rather circumvent all of that and spend my time corrupti...er, uh, teaching the youth. At first, I started with my own. After all, who better to experiment on than flesh and blood? I'm ultimately responsible for them anyway, so I figure I have the right to corrupt them as much as I want. The thing is - they loved it. Positively thrived. We did all sorts of unorthodox and heretical things - like teaching division before multiplication, coloring outside the lines, introducing ancient history before we even studied basic maps skills, and going out into the world around us to learn about the world around us. It was nuts, but it was working. And, aside from the occasional query about socialization or prom, most people were cool with our choice in lifestyle and education. That is, until the chicken incident.

When I was 25 years old, I embarked on a grand new adventure.. And, because we like we like to do stuff together, my then five-year-old and one-year-old came along for the ride as well. In fact, it was totally a family affair, with three generations of us present and excitedly peering over what I immediately recognized as one of the most powerful science lessons I'd ever taught - the innards of decapitated hen. That's right, the family that butchers together, stays together... or something like that. We processed around 20 birds that day, but the real 'meat' of the experience for me (couldn't help myself there - sorry) was the learning.

Do you know how cool the inside of a chicken looks? Are you aware of the amazing similarities (and differences) between chicken anatomy and human anatomy? If you are, you'll know what a privilege it is to see God's handiwork laid out in front of you even as you experience it silently humming away inside of you. If you're not, you're probably still worriedly wondering where your gizzard is. At any rate, just as our roundabout explorations of division and multiplication had taught me more about math than I had ever previously known, and our forays into the real world taught me more about life than I had learned in my 17 years of formal education, that one day showed me the reality of the scripture that says we are fearfully and wonderfully made better than just about any other thing I had experienced during my first quarter-century of life. Wow. I was hooked.

I started telling everyone I knew about the experience. My children excitedly chimed in in the background, "tell 'em about the guts, mommy! Tell 'em about the guts!" However, instead of being met with enthusiasm or curiosity, people looked at me like I was covered in innards, and not just talking about them. Apparently, not everyone is on board with allowing children to see nature at its best. In fact, one person suggested that I was damaging my children's psyches, and another went so far as to suggest that this was borderline child abuse. There I go again - corrupting the youth. Socrates, my friend, I feel your pain.

Well, wasn't this a fine mess I'd gotten myself into? What was I to do? On the one hand, I could choose to deny myself and my children the opportunity to learn about the glorious handiwork of our Creator in order to shield them from whatever unpleasantness it was that such opportunities supposedly contained. On the other hand, I could - well - just not. I could just not care what people thought. I could just just not worry about the opinions of others. I could just not take the conventional road. Hmmm... what to do, what to do?

Our next butchering experience was even more fantastic - hogs. Wow! We then moved on in quick succession to sheep and goats. It was glorious. Not only did we get to enjoy (and learn about!) the lifecycle of animals raised in fresh air and sunshine, but we also got to give our beloved livestock a quick, painless, and humane end. (And, of course, there was also all that fresh, yummy, healthy meat.)  My kids can tell a spleen from a kidney. They know not to contaminate the work surface with bile. And, more importantly, they also know where to find the bile and what it looks like. We have poked and prodded, stuck our fingers down aortas, tested the strength and stretch of various tissues, and even laid out whole body systems to explore.

After a while, the enthusiasm my children had could not be contained, and they began (once again) telling friends and family about their experiences. Slowly, reluctantly, even painfully people started coming around to at least being willing to be curious, if not entirely certain about whether to join in the fun or run for the hills. Eventually, with much coaxing and encouragement, butchering day at our house became a social occasion. There would be curious eyes and tentative fingers everywhere as we talked our way through anatomy and biology and chemistry and theology. It had happened - I had branched out beyond just corrupting my own youth, and had started doing so to my children's friends as well. When would it end?

I suppose there must have been a point at which Socrates knew he had crossed the line. Somewhere along the way he had gone from being an educational pariah to a local hero because of his unorthodox traveling classroom and his endless rhetorical questions, but he had to push it. He couldn't be content just raising awareness, introducing new ideas, and living outside the status quo.  Boy, do Socrates and I ever have a lot in common! I, too, have kept pushing. I speak openly, now, about how much fun it is to home school. I no longer fear to tell people that we choose real-world experiences (even butchering!) to augment our learning. And, just last week, I did the unthinkable and brought a set of sheep lungs, complete with trachea, to forty or so young children between the ages of five and twelve. That's right - I was no longer taking the children to the guts, but had branched out into taking the guts to the children.

It was a beautiful specimen - very pink and healthy and fully intact. The initial 'ewwww's changed to 'oooohhhh's when the kids first got to see the lungs up close and experience their beauty and magic. The best part of the day were the excited 'aaahhhhhh!'s that came when I inflated the lungs to their full capacity. Now those kids fully and deeply know what I learned and my kids learned during our first day of butchering - indeed, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


So, I guess I have a choice to make once again. Am I going to learn from my buddy Socrates and back off before the disapproving crowd rushes in, or will I (like he) continue to corrupt the youth every chance I get? Tough decision. Hmmm.... what to do, what to do? I guess I'll have to get back to you on that. Next week I'm supposed to be teaching about the nervous system, and if I'm going to have a brain to take in, I need to start making phone calls.

(p.s. - I really did inflate a set of sheep lungs, and it really was a rockin' experience. You can see the video for yourself here. Science and learning are cool.)

Milestones

Today is sort of a big day. You see, I just marked the one year anniversary since I started this blog. Today I am making my fiftieth post, and it is also the six-month anniversary of my mother-in-law's passing. Important milestones, one and all, and each significant in their own ways. The fact that I have been able to sustain doing this blog for a whole year is big, because I usually am a strong starter, but not so strong when it comes to keeping things up. Maintaining, for me, is a dirty word. And, making fifty posts in one year means that I averaged almost one a week. (Not that I actually achieved my goal of posting once a week consistently, but at least I have hope that it might be possible in the coming year - at least in quantity, if not in timing.) And, I often hear people speak about how hard the first year without someone else  is- all the 'firsts' you experience. It's hard to believe, but we're at least halfway done with those difficult firsts without my beloved mother-in-law. My, how time flies.

Of course, it's easy to notice big milestones and use them to take stock of where you've been and where you are. But, if we're really honest with ourselves, there are plenty of other important roadsigns all around us besides just the milestones. Today was the first time I'd ever ridden in a combine. A few nights ago was the second time I'd ever slept out under the stars. Tonight will be the third time I've ever cooked a venison roast. A few moments ago I reminded my youngest daughter to say, "please" for the fifth time today. And on, and on, and on it goes.

Those things may not be anything worth getting out the video camera for. Hallmark doesn't make a card for them, and I've never yet seen anyone bake a cake to mark those occasions. But, I think it's fair to say that the things I am doing for the sixth or thirtieth or hundredth time are equally as indicative of the importance of my life's journey (indeed - perhaps more so) than the big 'firsts' that are so much more celebrated, but perhaps not really as significant. The fact that my three-year-old points out the moon to me each and every night is no less endearing now than it was the first time. Isn't the comfort of a nightly bedtime story better than the excitement of the first? A thousand humble meals eaten with loved ones much more rich than one tremendous feast eaten alone? The hurried hugs and stolen kisses from my life-long sweetheart so much more passionate and filled with love now than our dizzying first kiss could ever have been?

I remember the first time I became aware of the fact that a birthday celebration is actually marking the end of an era more than the beginning of one. On your first birthday, you turn one year old, but you've already lived a whole year. The vanity of women who want to hold on to their claim of being 29 becomes doubly ridiculous when you consider that a 29th birthday really marks the beginning of a person's descent into their third decade, and not the last year in a person's delightful and tumultuous second decade of life. Likewise, other special events - be they first communions, graduations, wedding ceremonies - they are a momentary marker of an event that signifies the end of something more often than the beginning. These big milestones we celebrate, in truth, are a way of looking back at what has been - the miles we've already covered - and hoping that things will go well for us on the road ahead. Perhaps mile markers aren't really all that helpful after all.

The earthly destinations I am ultimately headed for are still a mystery to me. I don't know how long my journey will be or where it will take me. Therefore, knowing that I've passed a certain number of miles - or events, or activities, or special days - really isn't nearly as important as knowing that I'm still on the right road, or how fast I should be going, or when there is likely to be a curve ahead. For those things, I must learn to focus on the other roadsigns on the path.  The tenth spontaneous snuggle from my six-year-old this week? Yep, I'm still on the right road. A liltingly-spoken request from my three-year-old (coupled with two dark brown eyes looking up at me with utter trust and love) for one more story? Yes, I really do need to slow down and enjoy the ride. Philosophical questions that I still struggle with myself being asked of me by my beautiful, blossoming ten-year-old? Watch out - the road is about to get curvy.  But, it's ok. I may not be able to see what's ahead, but I'm going to remember to focus on more than just the milestones we've passed and see the truly important signs of a life well lived instead.

Back Up On the Horse

I'm dieting. Again. I have become the ubiquitous thirty-something woman who is trying desperately to shed unwanted pounds, and that's ok. I've struggled with my weight my whole life, and have only had a BMI in the 'normal' weight range for about thirty seconds total - when I was eighteen, naked, and dehydrated. I try really, really hard not to look down on those women who struggle to lose that "last ten pounds." Seriously? That's like worrying about your mansion not being as nice as the mansion next door, isn't it? If I was within ten pounds of my ideal weight, I'm afraid I'd be walking around nude to show off what hot stuff I was!

No, on second thought - I guess I would not. In truth, I would probably feel just as insecure and unhappy with the way I look as I always have. When I got married I was 70 pounds lighter than I am now, and ten dress sizes smaller. I was, most likely, within that last 10 pounds of being at an ideal weight (give or take a few pounds). But, was I happy? Was I ecstatic? Was I walking around nude? Or, even in trendy and cute clothing? Of course not. I was worrying about what I was eating and how I looked, just like I had been fifty pounds earlier, and just like I would be seventy pounds later. I cannot blame those ladies who fret over their last ten or fifteen pounds any more than I can blame someone for fretting over an extra 30, 50, 70, or even 100 pounds. Let's face it - it's not about weight, is it?

I'll tell you - the moments in my life when I've felt the best about my body came when I stopped focusing on how it looks and took the time to appreciate all the things it does for me. I've created, nurtured, brought forth, and nourished three beautiful people. I might not like my hips, but my babies sure fit well there. I wish that my thighs were a little less dimpled, but they have never yet failed to carry me through life. I might grumble when I see floppy arms and thick shoulders in the mirror, but my friends and family never complain when they are encompassed in a heart-felt hug. And, though I might not be happy with the way I look, my husband is, and making his eyes light up and a smile slide across his face is one of the best things that this old body is able to do.

So, I'm trying to find the balance. I don't hate my body anymore, but I also know that I'm probably never going to love the way it looks, no matter how much weight I lose. I, like 99.999% of American women, have a love-hate relationship with my physique. It's a game I've gotten comfortable playing. I know the rules. And, though I'm not quite sure you ever really win, at least I've learned how not to lose at it. I think I've become a better player as the years have gone by. I've traded in starving for savoring, binges for bites, and trends for the tried-and-true. So, why am I dieting again? Simple -  I'm working towards dropping a few pounds in order to stay healthy enough to keep playing this game for many, many more years to come. After all, I may never get to where I look great in my birthday suit, but I want to able to at least keep enjoy the cake and parties for many, many more years to come!

Autumn!

Of all the equinoxes, the autumnal really is my favorite, by far. (Ok - I know. There are only two equinoxes, but it sounded so good in my head that I just had to give that opening the chance to live, in black and white, for at least one brilliant, blazing moment.) It's true, though. Fall is my favorite time of year. Granted, there are some parts of fall that I could do without; namely raking, football, and the impending doom of winter. The last one is especially heinous, but I've chosen to overlook it and maintain Autumn as the season I look forward to most of all anyway.

What is it about this glorious time of year that is so refreshing? I love the crisp air and the cool evenings. After a summer of humidity so thick you can chop it with a cleaver, it's nice to be able to sit outside and declare casually, "You know - it's a bit chilly out tonight. I think I might need a sweater." The best part, of course, is that you never actually get up and go and get said sweater, opting instead to be chilly just for the novelty of it. The thrum of the cicadas is replaced by the hum of the combines, their lights burning away, late into the night, in ever smaller circles on distant, hilltop fields. The heady scent of chlorophyll and pollen is replaced by the more demure aromas of dusty apples and (unfortunately) heavy-laden ragweed plants. The sunsets are softer. The pace of life slower, and there is an expectation of the end in the air. Ahhh - the end! That, really, is what I love most of all about Fall.

You see - I am a starter. If ever you should find me grinning with a group of friends in a jail cell, you will know that whatever plan got us there was probably hatched by me. I am always leaping before I look. Getting my cart before the horse. Counting my chickens before they hatch, and whatever other idiom applies to people who don't have the sense to stop and think a moment before tearing off down the road toward some new adventure. I guess the way I see it is that Autumn is God's annual loud-speaker announcement to me that it is alright to stop. Cease. Desist. Rest - even in the middle of a project. The gentle droop of my tomato plants and the dry rustle in the corn fields is not a signal to God to work harder, to do more, to try one last thing to bring forth fruitfulness in the earth. When fall comes, all things find closure - from the tired tomatoes, to the worn corn plants, to the budding weeds just staring to grow in the path. In His goodness, God truly did ordain a time to plant, and a time to reap.

So, fall is when I take a step back from the hundreds of little projects that I have set before myself, and take time to reflect. What things in my life have proven fruitful and deserve, now, to have their rest? What seeds and new things have I been busily collecting, sorting, storing, preparing, that now I should plant and walk away from for a season? What budding pet undertaking is it time to acknowledge as a weed in my path and let it go, promising and exciting though it may be? What things should I let die away in order to put my energy into the vital roots that must go deep if I am to survive the winter ahead?

It was chilly this evening as I walked out to shut my hens in for the night and check on the baby chicks, huddled under their heat lamp. On the way past my garden I noted that the annuals seemed to be the saddest of all the plants left. Their vigor and energy and ability to always set on a new fruit or stem seems to have left them, and they seem left startled to have come to the end of themselves and their own abilities and desires. God, I pray that I might not just be a busy annual. The biennials, likewise, are despondent. There is a hint of desperation in the last growing season of these two-year wonders. Wise enough to conserve for one winter, they fail to plan for any more, and end up all used up by their own initiative and pursuit of desired outcomes. Lord, let me be more than a short-lived burn out in your garden. It is only the perennials who maintain a hint of dignity and a promise of future usefulness this time of year. To be sure, they are tired like all the others, but rather than dreading the killing frost, they welcome it as a signal to stop their labors and take their rest. In that rest will come renewal, and with it is the assurance of  season upon season upon season of new starts and fresh tasks ahead. Lord, grant that I may learn the Autumn lessons you labor to teach me, so I can be rooted and find my rest in you and be perennially fruitful for your glory.

Moving On

My grandfather was an antique dealer, and I grew up going to auctions with him. I loved the rhythmic rise and fall as the auctioneer cried for a higher bid. I loved the colorful patchwork of decades of someone's life splayed out on hay racks and folding tables. I loved the smell of auctions - oftentimes part old lady, part wood shop, part fresh fruit pie from the lunch wagon, and just a hint of mustiness in the mix that clung to your fingers after you thumbed through piles and poked around in boxes.

Grandpa had a knack for knowing what things were - the things that no one else would be able to identify. The auctiongoers around us would pick something up gingerly, examine it, and turn it over in their hands. Often the item would have a hidden spring or recessed hinge that would cause it to dance briefly and unexpectedly, and the holder to jump back in startled surprise, then look around sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed. My grandpa always noticed, and covertly pointed out the incident so we could share in the fun together.  When it was time for the item to be held up in the ring, the auctioneer would stumble along, searching for an explanation, until he finally pulled out one of the standard favorites, like, "You don't find many of these around anymore..." or "I don't know what it is, but it's a good one. Who'll give me ten dollars?" And off he'd go.

After bidding once or twice against a hesitant and curious opponent, my grandpa would invariably win the prize, and be invited to share what it was by the auctioneer. Then, eyes twinkling, he'd bring to life a piece of rustic, primitive American history for the gathered crowd with both his practical demonstration and his earthy, comfortable storytelling. After taking it home and cleaning it up, he'd write out a tag for it in his meticulous handwriting, and it would be sold within a day or two - a piece of someone's past rescued for another generation to treasure. He was a mover of goods in the best of possible ways. I still turn to find him and share a half smile or a quiet chuckle when I see someone puzzling over a mysterious piece of Americana at my local auction house. But, nowadays the joke is always on me since he's been gone for almost ten years. I miss him terribly.

I am thinking of him this evening because, I, too have been given the task of moving goods, and I am at a loss. Just like my grandpa, I know all too well the value and importance and history of the items before me, but I am finding myself unable to preserve the treasure, as he did so well. So, instead, the things I am tasked with moving will be packed into boxes and given away -  no meticulous label, no way to convey what they mean to me.

I did fine with the underwear and socks. The cosmetics didn't even give me pause as I threw away what was used, and donated the rest. The nondescript, long-sleeved shirts and black leggings were easy to fold and lay aside. However, when I got to my mother-in-law's jacket an hour or so ago, I had to stop. As I pulled it from the hanger, I was caught up by the smell of her coat and the sound of her coat and feel of her coat, and could almost imagine that instead of me wrapping my arms around an empty garment, it was her wrapping her arms around me. I wanted to believe that when I opened my eyes I would see her smiling in more than just my memory - wanted to have one more moment with her, even if it was stolen out of those difficult, painful last few months. But, it was not meant to be. The coat hung slack and vacant in my hands, and the smell of her perfume dissipated in my living room and soon disappeared entirely.

To be honest, I was surprised to have had to leave the coat hanging over a chair and take time to cry and remember. This is most likely her last batch of clothing - the last of many, many that I have gone through and moved on since she died in April. It was indescribably difficult to walk away from a consignment store rack filled with her colorful dresses and signature vests this summer, and I thought that by having achieved that task I was done with the grieving, done with the difficulty, done with the memories. I guess I was wrong. I know, now, that I am not my grandfather, and it is not my gift to be a mover of things.

In the letting in and letting go, the moving out and moving on - in this auction called life, where we all, at times, find ourselves bidding on the unknown and praying for a kind storyteller and a merciful auctioneer to come to our aid when we are suddenly lost and bewildered, I think that I am meant to be a mover not of goods, but of memories. It's true - I cannot keep her coat forever, but will always know what it felt like to be hugged by her, to be loved by her. That coat itself could never convey those things to anyone, but perhaps I can. I will trade in meticulous handwritten tags for late-night, hurriedly-typed blog entries, and know that the outcome of the two tasks is ultimately the same - a precious piece of the past, rescued for future generations to treasure.

Bypass the Good to Reach for the Best

I can never seem to get over just how busy life is, especially at the start of a new school year. There are classes to fit in, books to pick out, field trips to attend, new friends to meet, and so much more. I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams with opportunities to learn, grow, share, play, dream, volunteer – the list goes on and on. It seems like every day brings new, wonderful activities into my life. The question I often face isn’t what can I do, but what should I do? Or, more accurately, what should I do without?

It occurred to me one evening this past week, as I dove into bed, utterly exhausted, after midnight, that I had had a wonderful and productive day. Sure, my school time with the girls was shorter and more rushed than I would have liked it to be, and I ended up having to grab a fast-food lunch because my morning appointment went longer than expected, but I had gotten so many things done – good things! As I lied in the state just between dreamland and the real world, I looked back at all the good things I’d done during the past week, and the many more good things on my calendar for the weeks to come. Many, many more good things. Suddenly I was more than just tired. I was weary.

How was it that I had come to dread the busyness of my days, when they were filled pursuing what I knew to be fruitful endeavors? As I started to go over the responsibilities that I had for the next day, I realized that I need to gather the library items that were due. We make a trip to the local library each Friday. It’s a highlight for my children, since books hold such magic and possibility. Library day is like Christmas to them. For a moment, I was absorbed in the happy thought of how much fun we would have on our weekly ritual together, until I realized that the best part of library day for my girls isn’t picking out the books, but the promise that we will read them together.

You see, it isn’t the place or the people or even the books themselves that makes library day one of their favorite days of the week. It is the fact that checking out a book, to them, is like putting down earnest money on snuggle time with mom – no distractions, no schedules, no phone calls. My heart sank when I realized just how many of those books from last week had been left unread because we were busy doing other things. Good things, mind you, but things that got in the way of the best thing of all – just being together. Had I really been trading in my best life for the many good things that had fallen in my path?

The only way I finally found sleep (and peace) that night was to make a promise to myself to do something about this profound night-time revelation. It has not been easy, and I have been amazed at how much of a constant struggle it is to say, “no” to things that are worthy and good in order to save time and energy for the best things – the ones I know are what I want to pursue. Difficult, to be sure, but worth it. I measure my success over every lingering lunch and snuggly story book - far greater rewards than I had felt in all of my busy good deeds.

Parents - I invite you to join me this school year in acknowledging that there is only so much of you to go around, and that’s ok. For this brief period in time we have a heavy responsibility to a few precious people who deserve all that we have to give them. To those who don't have children, or who have already blinked and seen their children grow up, I invite you to join me as well. After all, perhaps in the end the sign of a truly successful life isn't necessarily in how much good you did, but how much of the best you reveled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some children and a husband who want to be with me, and I can't imagine anything better than that.

Canning

Tomorrow I am going to introduce my dear, life-long friend to the mystery and alchemy of canning. Just like the 'scientists' of yore who labored over bubbling pots and boiling beakers, I like to think of canning as a mystical art form. The perfect beauty and bounty of summertime being distilled and preserved forever (or at least a year or two) - making it possible to taste June in January, sunshine in snowstorms, green growth in grey skies.

I am (don't tell!) actually pretty new to canning. I put my first pears and peaches into jars just a few years ago - busily humming away late into the night, paring knife flashing, canner steaming on the stovetop. I was hooked from the first 'pop' of a sealed jar. My mom canned some when I was a kid, as did her mother before her.  I have vague but comfortable memories of it. I like to think that this, like so many other things I do, is a return to something important from my heritage - something I have grown up enough to now be proud of.

Last summer my daughter would sneak upstairs and sit on the counter next to me as I worked. It was late, and she should have been in bed, but I couldn't help but feel, deep in my bones, that it was more important for her to be putting in the memories of canning as I put the peaches in the jars than it was for her to get enough sleep - at least for that night. So, we canned together. I washed the fruit, blanched it, and squished the skins off, the sink turning a murky pink color. I let her halve the peaches and remove the pits. We both had juice dribbling down our chins and off our elbows, nightgowns smudged and damp. It was well past midnight before the last jar sealed and we went to bed. I don't remember what we said, but I know it was good. Surrounded by fresh fruit and jars and history and heritage as we were - how could it not have been wonderful?

I know we're staring off small - just a few pints of homemade salsa - but I hope my friend gets hooked on canning, just like I did. Not only because I want someone I can share recipes with and trade produce with and ask to borrow a jar lifer or a canning funnel from once in a while, but because I want the people I love to get the very best from life. And, I can't imagine anything better than that late night with my daughter, the satisfaction of a cupboard full of gleaming jars, and knowing that you have been a part of something important from the past, and are making it possible for that something important to continue in the future.

Besides - it means I'll get to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen with my dear, life-long friend and six children, watching our progress wide-eyed and eagerly, and grinning in delight when they hear the jars seal. What could be better than that?