Forty Dollar Toast

The toaster my mom and dad had when we were kids was the same one that they got for a wedding gift. It lasted forever. It was a silver toaster with black trim – kind of like this retro looking one I just got in May.

This is the first toaster I have purchased. Our wedding gift toaster (almost thirty-two years ago from my brother and sister-in-law) lasted about twelve years. The four or more subsequent toasters that I received from my kids for Christmas each had a useful life of about four years each. (Yes, I always ask for toasters for Christmas – it makes their shopping so easy – and you can get them almost anywhere, cheap!)

Back to the subject. Now if you do the math, you will realize that it doesn’t compute.

Yes, I’ve tricked you! I said “useful life”. Each of my toasters also had at least a year of “un-useful life” as well.

You’ve probably done it too. Pushing the lever down several times to make it stay down, cranking the darkness knob up more and more each time you used it to get the toast the color you wanted, or letting the toaster cool down between slices so it wouldn’t pop up right away again while the bread wasn’t even warm yet.

My new toaster was expensive in my books. It cost forty bucks. It has four push buttons for reheat, defrost, bagel and on/off. Although I don’t know what I would ever use the first two buttons for, the bagel button caught my eye. I quickly put the toaster in my cart before letting myself second-guess this expensive purchase.

The box and its directions (who needs directions for a toaster?) went unread and in the trash can and my new toaster found its home on the counter next to the refrigerator. I set the darkness dial in the middle and tried it out. Perfect!!

By now, Mickey has moved the darkness dial up and down from the center mark and I haven’t noticed. Until I hear my toast pop up and see with disgust just how dark it got. I put two more slices in and try again, this time moving the darkness dial a little towards the way I think it should go to make it lighter. The toast pops up and again I am disgusted! Still too dark. I am convinced that this toaster is a lemon.

Unless maybe I’m not reading the darkness dial right. Hmmm……

The little darkness dial has no words, just pictures. Two pictures, one of a piece of bread filled in with solid white, and one of a piece of bread outlined with white. With the directions long gone I decide to test my toaster.

I started with a piece of bread and the darkness dial all the way to the solid white. After almost four minutes, I smell burning toast. I pop it up and toss it.

Making sure to let the toaster cool down, I wait about twenty minutes and then try another piece of bread – this time with the darkness dial all the way to the outlined white. It pops up in less than two minutes with just barely warmed bread.

People always ask me what I am doing this summer since I have taken time off from work. I tell them I am working on my book and tearing my kitchen walls down for remodeling.

Now I can add wasting time playing with my new toaster to the list.

It sure is a nice toaster, though.

Direction

It’s not about going right or left. It’s not about going north or south.

It’s about guiding your children in their decision-making. It’s about asking“What do you think you should do?” instead of saying, “I think you should do this.”

But, instinct tells us to protect them and take care of them. So saying the latter is much harder – especially when you can see disaster coming.

For instance, relationship issues sure can tug at a mother’s heart. We see them happy in relationships and it warms our heart. While at the same time, we remember from our own youth just how devastating relationships can be when things go south. We mothers may even ending up gaining or losing a new found friend out of the deal whom we hold dear in our hearts as well.

The whole picture-

It’s so easy to get caught up in our children’s lives that we often forget that being a parent is about helping them see the whole picture so that they can make a good decision on their own. Or maybe a bad decision – in which case, would be one to learn from.

We need to ask questions like, “How does that make you feel?”, or “What do you think will happen if you do that?” And once in a while (if you have a grown boy, for instance) you might need to be pretty specific and say, “Here it is from a female perspective”, just to remind them that girls often think quite differently.

And in the end, we are always there to help pick up the pieces, get them back on their feet, brush themselves off and continue on with life – their own life. Hopefully – a bit wiser the next time around.

Hey, did you figure out that the "we" in this story might really be "me"?

Just For A Little Bit

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Each day is filled with routine. The nurse helps her use the bathroom. She gets dressed for breakfast. They wheel her down the hall to the dining area, where she waits patiently by her table for the tray. Will today’s tray be filled with something different from yesterday’s tray? Small talk is made at the table by those who can talk. “How are you today?” “Fine, thank you.” The lady next to her is cordial, but after a minute begins spreading grape jelly on her toast. This lady continues to spread the jelly, compulsively scraping every smidgen of it from the serving container. She spreads it back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again, never actually taking a bite.

Breakfast is done and the old woman is wheeled back to her room. The nurse helps her brush her teeth and she lay back in her bed, takes her medication and falls asleep for a nap. She awakens to the sound of the nurse in the room. After getting out of bed to use the bathroom, the old woman sits in her chair for a while. She hears children in the hall. They are here to visit someone. But not her.

The old woman tries to make small talk with her roommate. “What is your husband’s name?” “Where do you live?” Each of them has forgotten that they had this same conversation yesterday.

She chooses to eat lunch in her room today. The nurse brings in her tray and she sits up in bed to eat. It’s just easier than getting up and getting out. After lunch and help using the bathroom, the old woman again lays down to rest. The clock ticks, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the afternoon is long gone.

Supper is eaten and she goes back to her room.

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Having my mom stay at the nursing home for the last ten days for rehabilitation has given me a new perspective on aging. I wish I would have visited my Grandma more, but I was too busy. Go visit someone who is lonely today. Just for a little bit.

The Game of Risk

The game of risk. We play it every day.

The rows sustain our very lives and the hills that are the backdrop for these rows is our reward for the labor and the worry, the stress and the strain.

In winter’s snow and cold, we retreat to our house. As we sit by the fire, we watch the snow gradually cover last year’s rows – eventually to melt with spring’s rain, saturating the soil below. The soil will stockpile the moisture – hopefully long enough to sustain the rows through the hot summer months.

Spring brings with it the readying time, where much thought and energy is put into planning each and every row. The weather must cooperate for the rows to sprout and flourish. We must have sun to warm the soil, and rain to hydrate the seeds in the ground.

With the hot sun of July comes the threat of unwanted predators which may jeopardize the rows, and the lack of rain, which causes the rows to curl and burn while every bit of moisture reserve from the soil is evaporated.

We pray for rain. But not too much. It can rain on our picnic, we don’t care. Because we know that without rain, the rows will die and the hills will no longer belong to us. We pray for others in times of their misfortune – too much rain which drowns the rows – because we know that they are just as vulnerable as we are – and that they also have hills they are fighting to protect.

Finally fall harvest comes – it is an ending time, when we will at last determine the success of the rows and see our fate. As the evening comes more quickly, and the cool autumn air sends a welcome chill through us, we wash the soil of the rows from our hands until next spring.

When we will do it all over again.

The risk never goes away. It is there every day of the year – but the hills that are the backdrop for the rows remain – an ever beautiful sign of just why we take the risk again and again.

Does My Mascara Look Okay?

Two years ago, my husband and I were in town. The tire on our car looked low to him, so he had me pull over into the gas station to the air compressor. Being the manly man he is, he got out to put air in the tire. I’m tuning in the radio or something when all of a sudden I hear a knock on the window.

“Come here. I need you to look at the tire pressure tester and tell me what it says. I can’t see the numbers.” I got out, read the tester and told him just what I saw.

A year later, we’re in the pharmacy department looking for cold medicine or something. Perusing through the many brands to choose from on the shelves, we each pick up a package and turn them over to read the label. Neither of us can make out the writing. We put them down, I pushed the cart over to the reading glasses, and we picked out a pair that we could share.

In a few months we both realize that one pair isn’t enough. I pick up a pair to keep at my computer, while he gets some to keep in the kitchen where he sits to read the paper. By Christmas, I have purchased another pair for my desk at work and he gets some to keep in his truck.

It isn’t long and the power isn’t strong enough. We both need to up the magnification, with him needing just a tad more than I.

By now, I’ve added a pair in my purse, plus a magnifying mirror in the bathroom so I don’t go to work looking like I missed my eyelashes with the mascara.

Last week, we were working on the kitchen remodel, trying to read a tape measure, mark cut lines and run the table saw. Each of us wore our glasses, I flipped them up on my head when I had to walk from room to room so I didn’t trip, then back down again to measure and cut. Sometimes I’m too lazy to take them off, then I just get dizzy.

The eye doctor had no sympathy for me – he simply told me, “I can’t do anything about your age.” Gee thanks.

Years ago, my dad would buy reading glasses from the drug store – a whole display card at a time, about a dozen of them. Each pair was different, some were ladies styles, some men’s styles, some were fashionable and some were ugly. I never really understood, just tried not to laugh when he was wearing purple glasses with gold and diamonds on them. Until now.

Bargaining With the Tooth Fairy

Mickey had two permanent teeth pulled today to make room for some more. She is a real trooper – at age thirteen, she knew she would not enjoy it, but knew she had to do it. Seeing those huge teeth come home in a box as a souvenir of today’s braveness, my thoughts wandered …

She lost her first tooth back in 2002, in first grade. Sitting there deep in thought and not even aware of what she was doing, she would take her tongue and push the little tooth back and forth. While she was watching tv, she would take her fingers and manipulate the tooth even more. All the wiggling finally paid off – eventually causing the tooth to just hang there – as if by a thread.

“Mickey, you need to try and get that tooth to come out,” I said. “Come into the bathroom.”

Perched on a stool in front of the mirror, I handed her a dry wash cloth and showed her how to wrap the cloth around the tooth. I told her to pull on it and try to get it to come out.

After a few foiled attempts, I asked her to let me touch it. A quick vision of my dad telling me “just let me touch it” ran through my head. Because he touched it alright, he pulled it right out! It happened so quickly that I didn’t even realize it. And now, thirty-five years later, I found myself in those same shoes.

The tooth came out almost effortlessly; after all, it was hanging there by its very tiny baby sort of a root. There was a spot of blood, but biting on a cold, wet wash cloth soothed her little jaw in an instant. The tooth was ready to be put under the pillow, where it would anxiously await the Tooth Fairy’s arrival.

I tucked Mickey in that night, we said our prayers, and I thought about the tooth laying there under her pillow. I remember when she got that tooth. It was July. With the temperature well over 90° that day, along with unbearable humidity, I sat in my un-air conditioned house rocking a very fussy sixth month old baby. No matter which way I rocked her, or jiggled her on my lap, she was not happy. No matter which lullaby I sang to her, or which book I read to her, she was not happy. She was just plain crabby, crabby, crabby. Until the tooth finally erupted from her swollen gum.

I bargained with the Tooth Fairy that night to let me keep her first tooth, because as I looked at it, I realized that this was a part of her that I would never see again. A part of her life that she and I experienced together – as we sat in the rocking chair together on that hot July day … when she needed her mom to comfort her.

Just like she did today.

Attempting Green

Fifteen years ago I had a huge clothesline in the back yard. Dairy farming at the time, we generated a lot of dirty laundry! I remember one Saturday afternoon, after washing continuously all day, counting thirty-five t-shirts hanging on the line – plus fifteen pairs of jeans, twenty-five pairs of socks and a dozen towels.

Eventually the cows were sold, the boys grew up and moved away, and my huge clothesline was usually empty. Mickey told me, “I don’t like the smell of the clothes after you take them off the line. They smell like air.” My husband said, “My clothes are too stiff and scratchy when they come off the line.” I simply thought, “are they crazy, or what?”

But, after getting tired of avoiding the clothesline with the lawnmower and trimming with the weed eater around its frame, I eventually found a new home for it. A woman I work with, who lived on a dairy farm with her husband and her three boys took it ever so graciously out of my yard. The clothesline was finally gone … until this spring.

That’s when I decided I wanted to go green, but with a smaller version of the clothesline.

After much thought, I bought a little umbrella-style portable clothesline that I could fold up and put aside when I wasn’t using it. Eager to install it, but dismayed when the directions told me that I needed a bag of quick setting cement for the post, I had to wait until I went back to town. A week later, armed and ready, I finally convinced my husband to dig a hole for me. Three days later, he actually dug the nice, neat hole, and we added the cement. It set up quickly and I knew that the next morning I would be able finally use my clothesline!

Early Saturday morning I threw a load of jeans into the washer. As soon as they were done washing, I grabbed them and went out to the line. Oops, I realized that I forgot one important thing – clothes pins! I flopped the jeans over the line anyway.

An hour later … it started raining … and rained off and on all day.

I took them back off the line, and put them on again - twice.

Finally, I brought the jeans in and threw them into the dryer.

The River Of Life

Mom and Dad married on June 28, 1958. They began their journey on the river of life in a little house along the highway, one in which the five of us would end up spending a good chunk of life at, in our own circle of love – our family.

Through the years on this river of life, there were tears, laughter, sadness and joy – family, sharing, learning and loving.

In the tough times, we stuck together. Together we survived Dad’s bout with an infection that kept him hospitalized for over thirty days. Together we shared in the household chores – cooking and cleaning while Mom spent several times in the hospital herself, for various illnesses. As a family we held each other tight when we lost our grandparents and other special people – aunts and uncles, family and friends.

In the joyous times, we celebrated together. There were awesome birthday parties – home made cakes and sleepovers. There was a move to the farm – remodeling our bedrooms, with each of us picking a totally different theme. We celebrated weddings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and today – an anniversary.

When Mom and Dad look back on their life to list their accomplishments, they don’t have to look much farther than this family. They have raised three pretty decent children, with admittedly, a few family quirks, but nonetheless, decent children.

Accomplishments in life may mean giving birth to three children while wheelchair bound, stretching meals when times were tight, or pitching a tent in the back yard and roasting marshmallows for entertainment. Accomplishments may mean always providing for your family, working long days to make sure their needs were met, or spending time with them at the lake, not letting them know that you really hated fishing.

Mom and Dad continue to live their river of life as an example to us all.

Fifty years ago, he lovingly carried her over the threshold and today, he lovingly carries her out of bed into her chair. Fifty years ago, she lovingly cooked a special meal for his birthday, and today she lovingly puts a meal on the table for him when she can.

As this river flows, the caring and commitment is never ending, around the bends and turns, through the turbulence and calm waters, through the highs and lows of the tides. The river changes as it runs – sprouting forth new streams, each by themselves insignificant, but together – all a part of the mighty river of life.

The River of Life is a true journey – and we are all in it together – as a family.

Beautiful? Ugly?

It’s amazing how something so beautiful can turn into something so ugly. Take wallpaper, for instance. Fifteen years ago, with great exhilaration, I covered my mismatched off-white painted and wood paneled laundry room walls with beautiful wallpaper. It had a cream colored background, with blue vertical lacey stripes on either side of rows of country red stenciled apples. And better yet, I found it on the clearance rack at the hardware store! Finally, I could stand in the center of my laundry room, turn a complete circle and see only one continuous pattern of this beautiful wallpaper, no matter which way I turned.

Today, in continuation of the kitchen and laundry room remodel I started a couple weeks ago, I started removing the old wallpaper. The strips above the washer and dryer came off in big sheets. A little spray of water softened up the remaining paper backing and it peeled off in sheets almost as big. Rounding the corner towards the half bath, getting the peeling started was the hardest part. I found that if I held my putty knife at a slight angle, I could start tearing a section that also peeled off pretty easily. I also found that if I held it at too much of an angle, the point of the putty knife would dig into the drywall and make a hole. By now I was working up a sweat.

The last wall was where I really started hating this ugly wallpaper. This wall was built and covered with unpainted drywall.

I remember someone telling me once that you should always prime and paint new drywall before you cover it with wallpaper. That seemed like such a waste of money, time and effort to me. I guess that must be why I just wallpapered right over the new drywall. I certainly wasn’t thinking ahead fifteen years in the future when I might want to remove the wallpaper. After all, this wallpaper was so beautiful I must have planned on keeping it up forever.

The ugly wallpaper finally came off the unpainted drywall after an hour or more of scraping it inch by inch, re-soaking it with water from my spray bottle, and scraping some more. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and I was covered in little flecks of wallpaper gone wild.

My arms and legs are sore, my back and neck are aching. Yet, I’m celebrating the fact that I finally got rid of the ugly apple wallpaper.

Behind it I am looking at the off-white painted wall, leftover from years ago, and I’m thinking – isn’t it beautiful?

Strawberries, No Shortcake Please

‘Tis the season. The berries are ripe for picking. I prefer not to pick them, however. I buy them in a carton – already picked – from a local grower.

Today I purchased two quarts of ripe, red strawberries. This would be enough for a batch of strawberry shortcake. I made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home from work to pick up some whipped cream topping.

Feeling very domestic, I stirred together a recipe of shortcake and quickly put it into the oven. While the shortcake was baking I picked over the berries, added some sugar, stirred and put them in the refrigerator. I called my daughter-in-law and invited her and the girls over for dessert.

Next thing I heard was the sound of little footsteps. After greeting them in the hall, I quickly led them into the kitchen and asked, “Girls, do you like strawberry shortcake?”

“I don’t know, Grandma, what is it?”

I explained to Chrissy and Kaitlyn by asking each of them –

“Do you like cake?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like strawberries?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“Yes (Chrissy).”

“No (Kaitlyn).”

“But this is the fun kind of whipped cream,” I told them. “It comes in a squirt can.”

“Yes, we like whipped cream (in unison).”

Chrissy adds, “can we both squirt it on the cake?”

I reply, “sure”, and then happily show them each how to run the squirt can.

About one minute after both girls had their dishes full of cake, berries and whipped cream, Kaitlyn says, “Grandma, I don’t like this.”

Chrissy says, “I don’t either. Can we just have a dish of plain strawberries with some sugar to dip them in?”

I smiled and told them, “sure you can.”

After all – their Mom would be the one who had to take them home and get them off their sugar highs, right?

My Gene Pool

Apparently my love for the orange-handled crow bar is genetic. My dear Aunt E, upon reading my last post about how I tore down the paneled walls in my kitchen, informed me that my grandmother did a little demolition in her day, too. Grandma cut the “horns” off the wooden chairs and the “claw” feet off the side table to modernize things a little. More importantly, Aunt E told me that Grandma got so sick of looking at the wainscoting in her kitchen that one day she ripped it off. After all, if she didn’t do it – no one would. Truth be told, if I were living in Grandma’s farm house today, I would probably put the wainscoting back on. But nonetheless, it is delightfully awesome to find out why I love the crow bar so much.

Excerpts from the writing I did when Grandma passed away back in September of 2001 –

Grandma is still very much alive in my senses.

Thinking back to when I mowed her lawn, I can smell the flowers growing in Grandma’s yard - lilacs, snowballs and peonies. In spite of being deathly afraid of bees, I would cross my fingers and duck around each bush with the mower, being very careful not to nick one.

My mouth puckers when I remember Grandma’s home made dill pickles. In the cookie jar, I can taste Grandma’s cookies with butter frosting and her cake doughnuts rolled in sugar.

In Grandma’s bedroom on the farm, I can see Grandma’s big bed with the soft white blanket with roses on it. I can see her tiny shoes, neatly paired up under the chair in our living room. I can see Grandma’s garnet ring on her finger and her purple sweater lying over the chair. One last thing I can see and never will forget is the love in Grandma’s eyes, as she looked at my little girl.

I can feel the love in Grandma’s hands as she wiped the grease and grime from mine, standing behind me at the sink with her arms around me and holding my hands under the water with hers, rubbing with soap and then rinsing both of our hands together. Snuggling in bed with her, I can feel her soft, silvery gray hair.

I can hear her telling me about her life as a young girl. With sadness in her voice, I can hear Grandma tell me about her sister Christina, whom she lost when she was young. I can hear Grandma talking with great pride about Grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was. I can hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her Norwegian heritage. I can hear Grandma talking with pride about Dad, Aunt E and Aunt J, and in later years, about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And most recently, I can hear Grandma calling “take me home”.

Our family touches us and gives us a sense of belonging and a place in this world. Grandma and Grandpa began their own circle of life many years ago, and I am here today because I am a part of it.

This is what makes me who I am, orange-handled crow bar and all.

Tear Down

All winter long I have been dreaming of the day I could begin to remodel my kitchen. My original plans were drawn up last winter, when there was still at least a foot of snow in the yard. They were erased, redrawn, erased again, and in the end, pared down quite a bit. One thing remains true to the original plan – rip down the paneling that has two layers of wall paper glued to it and put some drywall up!

I had one request for my husband. “Can you get me a crow bar, please?”

Much to my surprise, he actually came back from the shop with two. One was terribly greasy and heavy – it looked like something that could do some serious damage. The one I chose was lighter in weight with a cool orange handle. I thought to myself – if you don’t just do this now, it will never get done. After all, I know very well how intended projects go in this household.

I called Mickey in from the living room. “Would you please carry these coats down to the basement and hang them on the coat hooks at the bottom of the stairs?” I took the coat rack down. I moved the storage cabinet and bench to the other side of the room.

The trim around the doorway was so loose, it practically fell off. The wooden wallpaper-laden paneling came down in nice big sheets, exposing the old exterior house wall. Hey, this eating area used to be a porch! Look, that’s probably where the front door was. And next to it, a window. A few scribbles of an old green color crayon decorated the old and well-worn wood. I wonder who left me this art? A little boy that lived here? Or a little girl? These mysteries of yester year entangle in my brain. I called to Mickey again, “Hey, come in here. See this? You should get a marker and sign your name on this board too, before we cover it up.” Her name … is now preserved in time.

Ripping off paneling and trim pretty quickly, and rounding the corner to the current exterior house wall – guess what? Underneath all that paneling was drywall. The excitement mounted. Could this be true? Nothing good like this ever happens to me! Awesome! As I try to piece together this puzzle of days gone by – how this used to look, why they covered it up like they did, I really find myself wondering – if there is drywall under here, why in the world did they cover it with paneling? Why not texture and paint it like the rest of the house? I was tempted to call the people we bought this place from to ask. But I didn’t.

Oh, and by the way, my husband helped me take the last two pieces down. If by chance, at that moment, you had stopped in to visit, I would imagine you would have seen him standing there with the crow bar in his hand and thought – it sure is nice of you to do that for your wife.

But now you know the real story.

My Number One

Today my number one child turns twenty-nine.

Being number one can be good – or not so good.

You get a lot of new clothes that no one else has worn. All of your toys are new. Your parents have tons of time to spend playing with you and holding you. The photo album is filled and bursting at the seams. Your baby book actually has things written in it. You have your own room. Grandma and Grandpa ask to have you over. You don’t have to share anything. And your parents will give in to just about everything.

On the flip side, you have to endure your mom changing those outfits 4 times a day, just to make sure they all get worn once before you grow out of them. You sometimes wish you had someone your age to play with. And probably the biggest disadvantage – you have to train your mom and dad how to be parents. Yes, the number one child has the disadvantage of inexperienced parents.

At age one, dad handed him an ice cream cone and he didn’t know what to do with it so it went “plop” on the floor of the car. At two, his mom gave him hard candy and he nearly choked. And then at three, when he was just potty trained, Mom let him stand in front of the toilet like a big boy and the lid came crashing down. Ow! When he was five his mom put him on the school bus and waved good-bye - she didn’t take him on the first day to make sure he found his classroom.

In spite of growing up with inexperienced parents, my number one found his way. He learned how to do things for himself. He became an intelligent and creative man. He learned responsibility and thoughtfulness. He turned out just fine in spite of his incredibly inexperienced parents.

However, from time-to-time, I do have to let my daughter-in-law know that "no, I didn't teach him to be that way", or sometimes admit, "yes, I'm so sorry, he got that from me."

Happy Birthday, Dear Child of Mine!

Love, Mom

42 cents and an old Oldsmobile

I got home from work today and lay down on the sofa to watch the news. The cool breeze was blowing in the living room window – it felt good, but I was compelled by a shiver to grab the afghan and pull it up over my shoulders. I tucked it in snugly around myself and it wasn’t long before the drone of the news was far off in the distance.

In the course of just under an hour, I found myself navigating our big old 1976 burgundy colored Oldsmobile (the one that my dad had back when I got my driver’s license). Going up and down some pretty steep bluff terrain, I struggled a bit to get the old car to stop. It was apparent that the brakes were not working completely. I coasted into the gravel driveway of someone’s trailer. Two big, fierce looking dogs rushed over to the car, barking and jumping up on my door. Because the brakes weren’t working, I was able to coast right on through the driveway, out the other side and back onto the bluff road. Again, I pushed the pedal in to the floor, as hard as I could with my dress shoes on.

Around the corner and just like that, I was in a public building. Maybe it was a school. Or maybe it was a library. No, there were no books. I was in a restroom. There were private facilities and facilities right out in the open, in front of the massive wall of windows. I guess you could choose where to sit. Someone must have told me that for a mere 42 cents, you could enter the private facilities. I dug through the change in my purse, trying to count out the exact amount of coins needed. Before I got the change counted, I was suddenly conversing with some young people outside on the sidewalk. As I made my way up the hilly path (on foot, not sure where the car was) … I heard the telephone ring.

Thank goodness this dream was over.

Isn’t the mind mysterious?

Please don’t offer me any explanations – it sounds to me like my head is a jumble of messed up thoughts today – and I don’t think I care to know its meaning.

Unless it has something to do with the cost of postage.

The Valley

We took a drive to check the crops on the 95 acre parcel of land we purchased from my husband’s parents. As our pickup truck ever so slowly maneuvers over the bumpy field terrain, my husband is looking to the ground, seeing the small plants just appearing, almost overnight. Scrutinizing the soybeans and corn, his eyes are like a microscope as he looks for the tiniest hint of weeds.

My eyes are not looking to the ground. I look up and see the beautiful valley in front of me. The valley is overwhelmingly green with a forest of tall hardwood trees surrounding it from all three sides. Where the hills meet the flat, tiny corn and soybeans plants are emerging from the soil, just starting to make the rows that wind around the bend and over the knolls. Separating the two fields from each other is a narrow road, flanked on the right with a pond which stays filled with water with runoff from the hills. Deer and other wildlife are abundant. The valley is beautiful - just about as close to God as one can get here on earth.

As we drive along the field road my thoughts retreat to thirty years before, when his family was actively farming this same land, spending many hot summer days baling and chopping hay, when the cattle grazed in the nearby pastures and the hustle and bustle of the busy farm life wore his family ragged – in a good way. They were hard times, but they were good times. We didn’t notice the beauty of the valley then - we were too busy. But memories were made from those times – children grew up, had families of their own and have since moved off the farm. My husband’s parents have just sold the last piece of the home farm – the house, barns and outbuildings. There is no hustle and bustle here anymore. Left now is just the immense peace and quiet, the beauty … and the memories.

Although my husband isn’t looking at what I am looking at on our drive today, I know that deep down in his heart he sees the same beauty of the valley, and treasures the memories made here.

To My Brother, With Love

My brother requested this post – indirectly – so I’d like to take this moment to share with you as well, this entry from my October, 1999 journal. Some of you might even remember this one.

It all started two years ago, this fall. I decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Prepping the room for the paper hanger, I removed all the light switch and outlet covers. The paper hanger came, did the work and left. All was well.

Except for the one outlet cover and tiny little screw left behind. I searched high and low throughout the kitchen to find an outlet without a cover. None were to be found. So I strategically placed the cover and its tiny little screw into protective custody on the countertop, behind the flour canister, in anticipation of the day when it would find its home.

Two winters have come and gone, with a third beckoning at the door. The outlet cover and its tiny little screw have traveled up and down the countertop, from behind the flour canister to behind the radio – and back.

Yesterday, I decided to thoroughly clean off the countertop, from end to end, from top to bottom. I pondered for a moment what to do with the outlet cover and its tiny little screw. Like the flash of a lightning bolt, all of a sudden it came to me. Why not search other rooms in the house for a missing outlet cover? Okay. It didn’t take long and I found one missing in the laundry room – by the dryer. I jumped for joy, rejoicing in the fact that finally, my outlet cover and its tiny little screw would have a home.

With a quick “pouf”, I blew the dust balls (yes, dust balls – imagine that …) off the outlet and the surrounding wall. They fell down behind the dryer, into the dust ball haven, safe and sound from my hap-hazard vacuuming. I proceeded to put the outlet cover in place and gently took the tiny little screw and lifted it into position. Wait – I should get a table knife to use as a screwdriver. Back from the kitchen, I ever so carefully again resumed my position - turning the tiny little screw into the hole.

It made one turn and fell out of the hole. The outlet cover, along with the tiny little screw, fell down – deep down into the pile of dust balls behind the dryer – never to be seen. At least until the Maytag repairman comes again - which, according to my experience, is seldom.

Enjoy The Mess

Who ever said boys and girls are similar, obviously never raised both. Raising two boys had its advantages – and its disadvantages, depending on your point of view. With the boys, there was no everlasting shower or bath, no hair curling and styling, no seven different outfits before you find the right one. With the boys, I could shout, “come on, let’s go!” and they were instantly calling “shotgun” for the front seat.

Yes, it has taken me quite a while, but I have finally learned that if we are going somewhere, Mickey needs an hour to get ready. That’s an hour after the hour long bath.

Sharing a bathroom with Mickey tests my unconditional love for her every day. Amidst the puddles of contact solution on the countertop, strands of foot-long hair wrap themselves round and round into never-ending circles, and every container in her basket lay open on the countertop, leaving the basket itself, empty. Two pairs of flip-flops, along with yesterday’s socks are scattered over the floor, strewn together with the nine million towels – some hung over the rods and some just laying limp on the floor. Her job is to clean the bathroom, and now you know why.

Driving past a nearby house, I think to myself. Their two girls are gone. Graduated from high school, college and moved on. I’ll bet their bathroom is as clean as a whistle.

So I take a deep breath and try to somehow enjoy the mess while I can.

The Little Red Tree

My son and I planted a tree the second summer after his best friend died.

Early in the spring of 2005, I asked Jonathan if he thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree to remember his friend, Kyle. He agreed. I asked Jonathan what kind of tree he thought we should plant. It didn’t take him long to decide. After just a split second, he replied, “a red one.”

His friend Kyle loved red tractors and red barns. A red tree would be perfect. Jonathan and his dad dug the hole in the back yard. Mickey and I added water and packed the dirt back into the hole, making sure the tree was in the ground straight. I watered the tree faithfully, protecting it from drought. I carefully pruned a few branches, sculpting its shape, ever so slightly. Each spring I marvel to see how the little red tree has survived the long, cold winter and I wait anxiously for the leaves to magically appear, almost overnight. The tree is filled with life, it’s is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

As the little red tree grows and transforms itself into a mighty maple, I am comforted by its beauty and its strength. This mighty maple will someday tower above us, have branches that will eventually shade us, and the wind through its branches will cool us from the hot summer sun.

Every single time I mow around the little red tree, I fondly remember Kyle spending quite a bit of time mowing this same lawn. He wasn’t very good about going around the trees without bumping into them. I remember gently reminding him to watch out for the trees. Thinking about him mowing, I quietly laugh just a little to myself and then wipe a tear from my eyes as I make another round past the little red tree, wishing Kyle was still here, offering to mow my lawn.

The little red tree points straight to heaven. And, as I make a final round past this special spot in my yard, I feel that Kyle is probably looking down on me as I mow – making sure I take care not to bump into the little red tree.

The little red tree - as reminder of how beautiful heaven is.

Like A Sponge

At age four, like a sponge, Mickey soaks in all the letters of the alphabet, the numbers to one hundred, colors, shapes and even beginning social skills. It is her first experience with preschool and I am amazed at how much she can learn. At age six, she can read a book. No longer is my Christmas list safe in my desk drawer. Like a sponge, at age eleven she learns the names of all the states and their capitals. At age twelve, about the world – the history of Egypt, Greece and Rome. This year at age thirteen, like a sponge, her brain sorts and stores information about the branches of the government, the election process; along with cells, vertebrates, and animal kingdoms, circle graphs and percents.

In my second trip around parenting, this time I am much more in awe of the learning process and how much my daughter really wants to learn (even if she doesn’t admit it). I realize now that the people she spends more time with than her parents indeed shape and mold her mind with every little speck of information they throw at her. They are a very important part of her life, because they are teaching her things that I can’t, things that she will someday pull from the catacombs of her mind for retrieval when her daughter asks her, “Mom, what does biological diversity mean?”

Like her mother, she probably won’t remember exactly, but she will know how to figure out the answer, and like a sponge, her daughter will soak it all in.

Kudos to all the teachers of our children.

My Thoughts Wander

As I drive past the neighbors, I see they are re-shingling their roof. My thoughts wander.
We re-shingled our roof over four years ago. I can remember debating on the color for months, driving around town looking at houses, riding across the creek on the 4-wheeler, gazing back towards the house from a distance, imagining different colors. I always feel like these kinds of decisions will be easy. Until the time comes to actually make the decision - then it’s always hard. Finally, I decided on green. My thoughts wander.
Back then, when I was worried about what color shingles to put on the roof, I had no idea that in the near future, life as I knew it would no longer exist. There would be twists, turns and detours. Hopes and dreams would be put on hold indefinitely. My thoughts wander.
Today there remains a true dividing line in my life, an instant in time if you will, in which every thought I have either happened before or after that time. My thoughts wander.
Over four years later, I wish I would have chosen charcoal shingles instead of green. Over four years later, I wish things could still be that simple and carefree.