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?

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.

Playing Grown Up

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, don't we? Ahhh.... 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.

Catching My Breath

So, I guess I haven't written in a while. Sorry 'bout that. I started this blog for  myself - a place to drop all the random little thoughts and tangents that rattle around in my brain all of the time. (It's very busy up there.) It surprised me that since the first entry it has emerged as a platform for cohesive messages and thoughts (at least most of the time)... a collection of essays more than a log of my daily comings and goings. Funny how that happens.

Now that my blog has started out thus, is it too late to change? Would my adoring fans (all 26 - and God bless each and every one of you) revolt? Stop reading? Complain to headquarters? Have me booted off the internet? Guess I'm going to have to take the leap of faith and hope I can make a giant U turn and redefine what this thing is all about, at least for a while. Apparently when I started this blog I needed a soapbox. Now I need a journal. Or a diary. Or a confessional. Maybe I don't know what I need, but that's never stopped me before. I guess what I think I need is just to be able to share everyday life in its simplicity, without having to have a point. After all, often life doesn't have a profound point, at least not one that can be immediately figured out. Sometimes the scattered events must be noted - jotted down and preserved for posterity - so that they can be examined later with more perspective. So - here goes.

It's been a long, hard 13 weeks. My beloved mother in law went into the hospital with end stage ovarian cancer in the end of February. She was there for 5 weeks, and in Hospice for another 2. That was 6 weeks ago, and it is still hard to think about it. It was a long haul, full of so many profound and difficult moments.  She taught me so much about myself during these past many years (we celebrated the 14th anniversary of our meeting a few days after she was admitted). She taught me about my husband. My children. My home. My God. It was not always easy, but it was good. She never lied to me, and we always loved each other.

Watching her slip away from us for the past 3 years since her diagnosis was awful. Watching her transition from this side of the veil to the other during her last 7 weeks was likewise awful, but also... well... life changing. Living without her for the past 6 weeks has been lonely. I am angry at God for what I thought He would do and didn't (I know - it's not logical or fair, but still feels pretty real nonetheless), but I am also so eternally grateful for the little graces and big lessons he granted during that time. He and I are still a bit on the outs, so to speak, but I can never again doubt that He is there, and He is listening, and His promises of life on the other side are real. She got to see it. Got to tell me about it. Got to pass on reassurances about beloved friends long gone. I was so caught up in caring for her, helping the rest of our family, participating in this enormous thing that was happening, that I am at a loss now that it's over.

I've never been a terribly 'slow and steady wins the race' type person. I move from one emergency to the next, expending every bit of energy I have with each and every one. If there's nothing particularly 'exciting' going on, I'll go and seek out someone who needs saving, a situation than needs to be fixed, a fire that needs to be put out. I breathe in (take a few days, sleep a lot, bum around in sweat pants, veg out), and then I breathe out (run! rescue! move! do! fix!).

I'm afraid, however, that I've broken myself this time. This event syncopated my life to the point of breaking my natural rhythm. In a very real way, I guess you could say that I haven't been able to catch my breath. I am quite literally 'exhausted' - consumed entirely, emptied, drawn off, a vacuum, void of previous content and value. I'm not even equipped to deal with the drama of dishes and laundry these days. Am I ever going to be able to go back to slaying dragons? Is there enough rest to be found to fix this worn out body and spirit? Will I ever draw that healing, deep breath again? I'm hoping that, just like the bigger picture - the "point" of life - that is often only found in the magical, mathematical formula of everyday life + some perspective, my healing will come one smile, one nap, one afternoon, one hug at a time. Guess I'll have to keep you posted.

Electron Annie!

Time and all my best laid plans
Cease to exist with shovel in hand...

 I garden the same way I clean house - randomly, and with reckless abandon. I often find myself out for a leisurely stroll around the yard or to pick up a bit of litter after church, and end up hours later with grass stains on the hem of my Sunday skirt and good, clean dirt under my fingernails. Oh, and a smile on my face. The same is true for cleaning (though it's less poetic to write about). I don't know how many times I've started in just to tidy up a little pile of papers and ended up mopping floors in good clothes. I'm not much of a planner, you see. Plus, life is so much more interesting that way, isn't it?

Do you remember looking at drawings of atoms in your high school chemistry book? They were so neat and ordered - the plump, happy protons with their cozy little neutron spouses, surrounded by a passel of electron babies whizzing around them in an orderly (albeit breakneck) manner. The diagram always implied that electrons followed a set pattern - much like the planets around the sun - always predictably in line and never bumping into one another or flying off into another 'nuclear' family's territory. In fact, scientists actually believe that electrons aren't quite the chubby little atomic cherubs we thought them to be. There is a theory called the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle that describes electrons more in terms of being a wave than a particle. Bill Bryson (one of my favorite authors) summed it up thus in his excellent book A Short History of Nearly Everything:

What this means in practice is that you can never predict where an electron will be at any given moment. You can only list its probability of being there.... until it is observed, an electron must be regarded as being "at once everywhere and nowhere."

Well, there you have it. I must be an electron. At least, that's surely what my family must think of me. My children certainly believe me to be either everywhere or nowhere at once, apparently. Sometimes they can't hear me when I'm standing right next to them, and other times they marvel that I have seen or heard their devious little schemes. I guess you can say that this is one example of how well home schooling works. These three kids already have an innate and deep understanding of the complexities of  Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and they're only 10, 6, and 3. For example, while they're not sure that it's totally possible for me to be in two places at once (or to disappear completely), they understand it, at least, as a theoretical possibility. They've also done some practical research on the topic, and have mapped out the most probable locations in which to find me. Apparently, according to them, I'm most likely to be in the bathroom or on the phone. Go figure. But, I digress...

I woke up today planning on cleaning, doing laundry, and catching up on bookwork. I'm not willing to concede that I'm still not going to do those things at some point today. Actually, I'm kind of already doing them, since I've got laundry in the machines, the dishwasher is open and half full, and my table is sprinkled with financial documents just waiting to be entered into the computer. There is still some probability that you might find me at one of those locations at some point today, albeit a low one. If I were a betting gal, though,  I'd say that it is much more likely that you'll find me outside today. After all, I've already felt the lure of the sunshine and gotten a bit of dirt under my nails while putting in some orphan plants given to me by a friend. (Of course, along the way I also started digging out an old tree stump, began weeding a flower bed, transferred a few strawberry plants, and got the yen to mow.) Whatever I end up doing, you can bet it will be seemingly random, but that's only to those uninitiated in the finer points of physics. After all, even those electric robot vacuums clean all the spots on the carpet eventually in their endless 'Roomba Rumba' dance through life.

I'm sure there are elements of the atom that scientists will continue to unfold as the years go by. God's handiwork is not well or easily understood by mere human minds, much as some scientists like to think otherwise. However, until they come up with a better theory, I'm in agreement with ol' Heisenberg. After all, just because no one can actually predict with any certainty where an electron (or I)  will be or what it (or I) will be doing in any given moment, I am content to know that God makes His own perfect order and purpose in what appears to be a confounding, seemingly haphazard series of events. At least, that's the story I tell my husband and children, and I'm sticking to it!

(I'm throwing in a bonus picture with this blog entry. Just in case I didn't really express myself well in words, or if you're more of a picture type person, below is an excellent illustration of exactly what I was talking about.)

Loss

I am bereft, adrift without a tether. It was one loss, and there are so many still here who ground me solidly. Yet, there is still a part of me floating through space, free-falling through the atmosphere, sinking beneath the waves. The loss itself has been nibbling away at her for months, but dealt its final blow in but a moment - a beat, a beat, silence. Now comes the agony of having to re-enter the atmosphere, the coming back to earth, the grounding. What a difficult landing it is proving to be.

I am finding myself first grieving over my loss of the past. There is no one else who can share with me that history, her history. No matter what facts were fuzzy, what details were disconnected in her stories, they were none the less the truth. They were the truth in a way that no one else can recreate, not only because they were hers and only hers, but because no one else walked the miles, saw the sights, felt the feelings, loved the people, lived each moment like she did. And these are just the stories that only she knew. What about the stories that only she and I together knew, only she and I together lived? With no one left to share them, they become a burden too big to carry. What was once a word or phrase that brought knowing smiles, shared laughter, a twin twinkle in our eyes, now brings heaviness and hurt. I don't want to rid myself of them, but I don't want to be the only one to remember them either.

Next, I find myself grieving over my loss of the future. As much as it makes my heart ache to carry our shared stories alone, the hurt is tenfold to think that there will never again be any more of them.What adventures are left unexperienced? What places left unvisited? What people left unmet? What words left unspoken? What love left unshared? I feel stunted, limited, orphaned, cheated. Where will I go when I need only what she has been able to give me? Who will I call when I need to hear only what she has to say? How will I solve the problems to which she has been the only answer? I know there will always be another place, another voice, another answer, but I resent the searching I've now been burdened with since she is gone. Will I become all that I am to be since I do not have her anymore? The future will suffer because of this event at this moment in time.

And now I think of it - this moment. Forget yesterday. Forget tomorrow. My grief is focused now on now. If she were here, I would consult her. If she weren't gone, I would have her read this over, get her advice, reminisce, straighten my thoughts, laugh a little, get perspective. I know that our shared past isn't really gone, no matter how much it hurts to think of it. I will tuck it away and unfurl it bit by bit again as time goes by. I know that the loss of our shared future is, at this point, but a vague and intangible potential. It will become more real, but only gradually, and in keeping with the healing that I know will come to my heart.

I know all of these things. But, I also know, because every nerve in my body is screaming it at me, that the loss I feel now is real and immediate. It is not a paper dragon. It is not a threat of pain. It is pain right now. Right here. In this moment. It is tearing and aching. It is raw and hot and paralyzing, and it is mine. Much as I know she would have been willing to share it with me, I guess I'm going to have to field this one on my own. It will be my first hurt unshared with her - a new beginning born out of a new loss.

Pregnancy - Nature's Hostile Body Takeover

Warning: This blog contains mature content that is not suitable for children. Or men. Sorry, guys... This one is for the ladies only. Don't say you haven't been warned!


I am now just over three years out from my last pregnancy. It is a bit off putting to be in public, surrounded by pregnant women and nursing moms, and to realize that I have aged out (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'experienced out') of that club. I really thought that babies and bellies would be my reality for eternity. After all, I have spent 2 1/2 years pregnant, 5 years breastfeeding, 3 days in labor, and exactly 38,465,342.8 hours worrying about parenting decisions I've either made, am making, or have yet to make. Being a mom isn't for the fainthearted.

No one tells you what it's going to be like, do they? I mean, I know part of that is our fault, as new mothers, because we are so convinced we know what we're doing that when a well-meaning friend tries to give us advice, we roll our eyes and snicker behind our hands at them. "Well, sure you had to use a pacifier with YOUR baby, but MINE won't have any anxiety issues, and therefore won't need external comforting." Spoken like a true preggo or newbie. Just wait until the middle the night about 3 days in - you know, right after you've gone home from the hospital and it's just you and Angel Baby staring at each other by the glow of the nightlight. You'll be desperately digging in the bottom of the diaper bag to find that pacifier too, momma. Trust me on this one.

No, new moms aren't known for their willingness to take advice, but maybe that's because they feel ever so slightly lied to. Let me give you an example. When a pregnant mom asks me what pregnancy was like, I tell the truth - it was wonderful. I loved every minute of it. Couldn't believe what a magical experience it was. Would do it again in a heartbeat. Etc... This, of course, is the perspective I have about it now. You know, now that I'm on the other side of it. Now that it is becoming a memory. Now that I've reaped the rewards. I'm not lying when I say that pregnancy is awesome, but perhaps I'm also not telling the truth, the WHOLE truth, and nothing but the truth as I might have been experiencing it at the time.

The whole truth, of course, involves a bit of unpleasantness. It involves aches in body parts I didn't even know I had. Before I got pregnant I was only vaguely aware of being in possession of a cervix.  I had never seen said cervix. I didn't have an owner's manual on it, had never changed its oil or had it tuned, and I certainly didn't know it could hurt. Further, I never guessed that it would become fair game for discussions with colleagues after visits to the doctor. Let's face it - it's fair game for discussion with everyone near the end, when even great-aunt Lucy will ask how far dilated you are. (This is the same woman, by the way, who always chastised you for not acting like more of a lady when you were young, and now she's hollering into the phone to see how stretched and skewed your most private of parts has become.) By the end of it all, 3 doctors, 10 medical students, 18 nurses, and a cleaning lady who doesn't know how to knock before entering will all have seen the very same cervix you've still not been properly introduced to.

The whole truth also involves, shall we say... anatomical reorganization. These are similar to the theories discussed in college geology classes - poles shifting and causing wobbles and a loss of balance, new hilly eruptions and subsequent foliage cover, bulges in the equator, and the heartbreaking, gradual sinking of northern mountain ranges. Stuff just doesn't stay put when you're pregnant. Your belly button thrusts forward, as if trying to escape the disruptions to its previously-peaceful domain. Your feet widen. Your organs squish and slosh (sometimes even leaking). Fact of the matter is, you even get new body parts. It's true. Look it up. (Or, if you're pregnant, just look down.) Let me explain...


The human body is full of strange sounding parts. You have to wonder if the only reason some people go into medicine is because no other area of science or technology would hire them because of their funny names. They only backed into stellar careers in gastroenterology or otoloaryngology because their initial interviews at, say, NASA or the National Parks Service went something like this: 


"I'm terribly sorry, Mr... uh....Kiesselbach, is it? Though your credentials are excellent, we can't run the risk of you discovering something truly remarkable and then wanting to name it after yourself. It's just a PR nightmare. Have you ever considered medicine, though?" 

So, that's why we now have parts inside each and every one of us that sound like they're more likely to be out of a Star Wars movie than a medical text. I kid you not - if you looked hard enough (and knew where to look) you could find your very own Hydatid of Morgangi (didn't he rule the Mongols in the mid 1500's?), Islets of Langerhans (makes you want to vacation there some time, doesn't it?), Space of Moll (right next to the Black Hole of Moll), and White Line of Tolt (every bit as spectacular as the White Cliffs of Dover, but not nearly as crowded). 

Anyway, these funny little innards are silently working away inside you all the time. But, when you're pregnant and breastfeeding is the only time that your Montgomery's Tubercles kick into gear. They're actually little bumps around your nipples that secrete a special oil to keep things properly lubed for breastfeeding. Montgomery originally described these glands as "a constellation of miniature nipples scattered over a milky way." Very poetic. Most women, however, describe them as just another part of the hostile body takeover that is pregnancy. Oily bumps. On your breasts, no less. Great. Unfortunately, they go perfectly with those dark hairs you sprout on your upper lip and the unexpected gift that is urinary incontinence. You see why pregnant women don't exactly fall for my 'everything is beautiful' explanation of motherhood?

No, one cannot deny that there are some parts of pregnancy that aren't all glowing beauty. Here's the thing, though - that doesn't all magically go away when you give birth. That first post-baby look in the mirror is quite a shock. Your breasts sag. Your belly is floppy. Your stretch marks shine. Your leg hair is thicker. You see things you haven't seen in 9 months, and they're not pretty. Worst of all, you're convinced you're never going to be the same again. And, I've got to level with you here - you won't. Sure, things will get better. Heck, you might even get back into your old clothes and look just as smokin' as you did before, but you will still be forever changed. You will regard your body with new respect. You will cherish the memories, and honor the sacrifices it has made. Those aren't stretch marks - they're battle scars, and you've earned 'em, momma -  just like you've earned a special membership into the exclusive Mommy club, and the right to tell expectant mothers the same truth about pregnancy you heard all along- it's absolutely wonderful!

Friendship Happens

I am amazed at the process of friendship. It happens when you least expect it, often when you don't even want it to, and most of the time it is completely beyond your control. I mean, there I was one day going about my own business, when I happened to meet a boy. He was nice. I liked him. We talked on the phone, went out to dinner a few times. Next thing you know, we've been married 10 years and have 3 small children living with us. (I'm told they're our children. But, of course, we're far too young to have kids of our own. I think they just popped in from the neighbors' house and liked our food so they stuck around.)

Anyway, somewhere between that Friday night in September almost 15 years ago and now I've gained a best friend -  my husband, and three amazing young ladies with whom I am privileged to spend most of my waking hours. Let's be honest here, I spend much of my sleeping hours with the younger two as well, as they still tend to migrate to our room at night. There you go again - a perfect example of friendship occurring in the strangest of ways. Who else would I allow to cry at me, poop at me, vomit at me, and kick me all night and still love as much I do these children? And, don't forget - they're also eating all my food. Friendship is a funny, funny thing.

But, of course, it doesn't stop there. Attached to my husband (at least figuratively, if not sometimes literally) are relatives. He's got parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents. These people slowly started encroaching on my circle of acquaintances from the very first day I met Mark - initially as only as faceless characters in the stories my future-husband told me over dinner.  Of course, that soon changed. With each passing holiday or social gathering they gained standing in my friendship lineup - moving up from batboy into cleanup position. Now, these people are among my heavy hitters - often my go to batters. How did that happen? I'll tell you how...

Since I wasn't exactly out husband shopping that night in September almost 15 years ago (I know I've said that already, but 15 years... seriously!?), I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences of that boy calling me up the next day. I know we need to educate young people about the effects that their youthful indiscretions and energetic actions can have on the rest of their lives. But, I'd say I was far better informed about sex, drugs, and rock and roll as a teenager than I was about the cold, hard facts about acquaintances, friendship, and love. Oh, you think you'll be able to play around and stop whenever you want to, but before you know it you'll wake up a dozen years later with an in-law habit that won't quit, craving time with your husband's friends, and (as long as we're being frank, here) hanging out with a totally different crowd than you used to when you were young and innocent.

Often, they'll expose you to bad habits - like baseball and seafood. You'll start inviting them over more and more often, spend your money on vacations and gifts. At some point in the process you will have to look at yourself in the mirror and admit that you are addicted. Not only that - but you've gone and spread the addiction to your own friends and family as well. There will be times when you'll look around you and see your family, his family, and families you never even dreamed of knowing all hopped up on sugar and good times together, and you'll have to admit that you're the one who brought this about. You're the one who created this chain of people addicted to each other. You're the one - you and that night 15 years ago. How did it all spiral out of your control so quickly?

Next time you're surrounded by these family and friends, brought together only by your actions, I hope you're pleased with yourself and the situation you've created. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize that the term 'in-law' has become obsolete and unnecessary. I hope you're pleased with yourself at night when you can't sleep because you're worried about people you didn't even know when you were a kid. I hope you're pleased with yourself when no one can remember who was on the groom's side or the bride's side at the wedding, since they're all piled in together at one table during the holidays now. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize the imperceptible process of friendship that has taken place in your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself and the people you're surrounded by. I do sincerely hope so, because I know I am....

Spring

It is time! The captives are returning home, the ravages of war are receding, and I'm beginning to believe that we just might live to see another day. It's a cyclical battle that rages around us - the combatants scheming in their lairs when not engaged in active warfare. When the forces collide they leave destruction on their wake, and it's come to the point where the locals barely notice a change in power. Invaders from the north? Terrorists from without? Factions within political parties? Nope - just Old Man Winter and Spring in their eternal tug of war.

Our snow is almost all melted now. I'm a combat veteran, so I know better than to think there won't be a few last barrages of snow before an official ceasefire is called, but the tide has turned and I think that Spring is most certainly going to be victorious. Trust me - there were times when I wasn't so sure. There's typically at least a temporary shift in power in mid-January, which didn't happen this year. Winter has apparently been improving its training techniques. No, one thaw does not a summer make, but just as surely as the first killing frost has power, so too does the pull of Spring.

When winter comes, it often appears to do so suddenly, but only because we are not paying attention. We disregard the threats -  pretend we don't see the subtle shifting of the landscape, the invading army camouflaged in reds and oranges. We fool ourselves into thinking that early frosts are just heavy dews, that cold rains are a relief after the heat of summer. But, try as we might, there comes a point when we can no longer ignore the fact that the enemy has surrounded us, and has set up camp to stay. By the time we are pulling on the armor of sweaters and jackets, we've already lost the fight. The first heavy frost of the season kills the vegetative resistance. The geese and songbirds take flight. The squirrels and rabbits go underground. We often don't realize that the battle is lost until the snow slides in to claim the land for its own.

But, of course, even if winter won the battle, it never fully wins the war. All through the dreary months when we suffer under Winter's tyranny, Spring is gathering strength, calling for reinforcements, and planning for its victorious return. Sometimes it engages the enemy in an exhausting and drawn-out campaign. Some years it sneaks in, planting its forces until is has winter surrounded and calls for an immediate surrender. This year, though, it rode in strong and hit hard, striking a decisive blow. The tyrant, snow, has been unseated. Freezing temperatures are afraid to even make night-time attacks, and the first blush of green has returned to the landscape. Come back, you refugees. Come out from hiding, you prisoners of war. Spring has returned and is victorious once more!

Tonight I will fall asleep to the artillery of a beautiful Spring lightning storm. There will be more battles in the weeks to come - with winter throwing all the cold and snow and ice it has left at us, and Spring fighting back with glorious sunshine, sudden explosions of color and life, and the subtle strength of a warm, southern wind. At some point we will all cheer the final seasonal departure of Winter to his retreat. I know he will be plotting his revenge while I am reveling in the heat of summer, but that's ok. The eternal seasonal war may be never ending, but at least winter is not!