Want to Play a Game?

I knew the decision to buy Nora Jane a chess set for her birthday would be one I'd later regret.  And, as predicted, I did.  At first.

For, you see, I am not a gamer.  I have never really liked playing board games.  I don't mind playing

cards, rummy from time to time, (especially when I'm whippin' Dave) and I am awesome at Twister, unless I'm playing Dave.  But at six-foot-seven he yields a slight advantage.   As for board games, though, they have never been my thing.  I find them boring.  And all those teeny tiny pieces.  All that set up.   And then, after all that work, the game is over.  Unless-God forbid--you've been suckered into playing Monopoly or Life.  Those games NEVER end.  Ever!  Once you've selected your little silver shoe, or dog, or wheelbarrow, (what do any of these things have to do with the acquisition of property?) carefully laid out your cash, you might as well forget about any other plans you had for the day, or evening, or the next day.  Plans that may include eating, bathing, or sleeping, for they aren't going to happen.  You are stuck there.  

I think my game aversion has more to do with my intelligence, though, (or lack thereof) than anything else.  Games require smarts.  Smarts that I don't have, apparently.  I'm not a strategist. I have a hard time looking at the board and all its colored pieces, and predicting the outcome of my actions.  If I move here, then I can do this.... If I move there, my opponent can kill me.... It just doesn't work.  My eyes look at a game board and see just that: a game board complete with squares and colored pieces, knights, pawns.  I don't know how many times, during the game of Checkers, I've uttered the words, "Oh my God, I didn't even SEE that!"   Given the choice, I'd prefer to just throw the dice and see where I land.  If it happens to send me to jail without passing Go, and without collecting $200.00, well that's fine.  I'm happy to hang out on the bunk in my cell and read magazines while my opponents scoop up Park Place and Board Walk for ridiculously over-market prices.

Thus, unless Lady Luck is watching down on me, I am not usually a big winner.  But I don't let this bring me down.  If it's Game Night at The Larson's and I'm the first one "out," I happily trade in my game piece for my book and whisper, later suckers!

So, as you can imagine, I have never seen myself as a chess player.  Chess players are uber-smart.  They can ponder a move for hours.  Why they've even been known to walk away from a game--before it's even over--to go and do something silly like eat, or sleep, and then return at a later date!  Who wants to come back to a game that wasn't moving along in the first place? 

Nora Jane does.  For she does not share my disdain for board games.  At. All.  And as much as I'd like to run for the hills every time she asks me to play Checkers, or Battleship, or--God Forbid--Mousetrap, she could  play these games All. Day. Long.   

"The Hills," however, are a long way from my house; so I stay.  And I play. Because that's what we mums do.  We play with our children.  Because play is important.  It teaches life skills.  Skills such as sharing, taking turns, good sportsmanship (no one likes a sore loser).  And we play with our children because we love them.  But mostly because it's important.  And as I know so well, it also demonstrates how, in order to be a good friend, we sometimes have to play things that we don't enjoy.  Thus, I have been a very good friend to my children over the years.   I've endured hours of Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders, the two most boring games ever.  I have Connected Four.  I have discovered Professor Plum, with the candlestick, in the library, and I have traveled down the roads of Life.  Yet I have never won this game.  For there is no winning.  Whether I choose the college path or the career route.  Because these decisions do not matter.  All that matters is paying my mortgage.  A mortgage on a Tudor Mansion that I can't afford, because I spend all day driving around in a pastel colored car with a set of blue and pink twins instead of going to my job as a salesperson.  What kind of life is that?  But then Nora declares, "don't worry Mom.  You'll be out of debt on your next turn."  A very unrealistic one, apparently.  

Luckily, though, I'm not called upon to play board games as much any more.  Oh Nora still enjoys them, but she has become very interested in playing games on the computer.  She is completely enthralled with "Minecraft."  And she couldn't be happier than when she's building her own Minecraft world, complete with square sheep (that actually baa).  She's even constructed a library for me, with a pond outside, so when I visit her in this virtual world I have a peaceful place to read while dipping my toes.  While I really try to limit her computer time, preferring her to play outside in the real world, I  am grateful for this game.  For like Monopoly, it goes on and on and on.  I can prepare an entire dinner, read half a book, or scrub the bathrooms before she even looks up from the computer screen and wonders if she's going to be fed today.   Thus, I thought I'd finally found my replacement.  

But no.  Nora Jane's classroom is filled with a bunch of little smarty pants.  A bunch of little smarty pants who like to congregate after math time and play chess.  (Maybe this is why I don't enjoy games, I hate math)  I don't even like to balance my checkbook.  Ask Dave.  No, don't.  Forget I even said that.  

So it was only a matter of time until Nora started asking for a chess set of her own.  At first, I simply responded with the standard, "can't you just play with your friends at school?"  I know.  Nice mommy.    When that didn't work, she came up with a new game. A game entitled "How Long Will it Take to Get What I Want?" A game wherein I was her only opponent.  A game she never tired of playing.  In short, she wore me down.   

So as I stood in Target, staring at the game-filled shelves, I knew that we would meet on the battlefield.  I knew as I grabbed that darn box and headed to the cash register that my game-playing days weren't over yet.  Or were they?  I was formulating a plan.  Maybe I'm a bit of a strategist after all.

My brilliant plan would require the help of Meredith, Nora Jane's BFF and one of the above mentioned smarty-pants.  This sweet, unknowing, victim would simply spend the night after Nora's birthday party thereby providing her with a worthy opponent and endless hours of fun-filled chess playing.  And did she ever. Those girls played chess in the living room, they played outside on the patio, they played on the kitchen table, and they played in Nora's bedroom.  Until, eventually, they'd "had enough"  and decided to "do art."

Unfortunately, my inability to predict the consequences of my actions, once again, backfired. Meredith doesn't live here.  Meredith has a home of her own, complete with siblings and parents who probably play chess with her whenever she asks them to.  Thus, come Sunday, she departed, leaving Nora Jane and her lonely chess set with only me for comfort.  Dave was busy laying tiles in our TV room.  So when I saw Nora Jane look to the chess board, I silently willed him to ask me for a helping hand, or a sandwich, or to drive to Ace Hardware and pick up something for him.  Anything--but he didn't.  So, instead, I high-tailed it into the kitchen to get dinner started.

But I wasn't quick enough.  "Mom, will you PLEASE play chess with me?"  Her voice was already pleading.  She knows me too well.  So I responded, "sure," all the while hoping she'd lose patience and give up on me while I carefully got dinner ready.  No such luck.  She was ready to wait it out.  She was ready for battle.  So while I prepared the chicken, she prepared the board.

When dinner was, finally, in the oven, she explained the rules to me and we began.  Considering we were both novices, there were a lot of questions, pauses for explanation,  and several consultations with the instructions.  It wasn't long until I had acquired a good portion of her army.  And I was happy to see that I wasn't the only one saying "Oh, I didn't even SEE that!"  And then the game was over.  And I'd WON!  And, yes, I realize I only beat a nine-year-old girl.  But that nine-year-old girl has been playing for a few months.  While I also realize this may indicate that my intelligence is on the same level as my nine-year-old daughter's, I prefer to think she is just advanced for her age.

Either way, it was fun.  So we played again.  Then our neighbor came over and asked to play, so I was released from duty.  Until the next morning, when we played over oatmeal.  And then again yesterday, when I asked if she wanted to play.  

Maybe I'm not a game-hater after all.  Maybe I can learn something new and enjoy it.  Maybe buying this chess set wasn't the horrible decision I thought it'd be.  Maybe  I just can't stand it when my kids whine.  Yep, that's it.

Keep on keeping on-
S-

Weekend Days

After a Saturday morning stop at Starbucks and a stroll through the Proctor Farmers' Market, this is what our weekend entailed:

Dave's Saturday: 

My Saturday: 

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie with fresh rhubarb from the Proctor Farmers' Market.  It doesn't look pretty, but it tasted delish!

And yes, I may have nibbled on a bit of the crust before serving--
but all in the name of quality control

Nora's Sunday: 

Sometimes it's nice to just stay home for the weekend.

I Have a Problem, Part I

Hello. My name is Sonja and I have a problem.  I'm addicted to farming books, or farm books, or books on farming.  On agriculture.  I'm not quite sure how to categorize them.  

I know it's impossible to be addicted to books, (of any genre) and I'm quite certain there are no known cases of farm-book junkies. Or, maybe, I'm simply the first to declare my addiction publicly. :) I also realize my body doesn't need these books.  I don't get a rush, or a high, from them.  Although I do get red, blurry, tired eyes after a late night reading-bender.  And, yet, I can't stop reading them.  For, like any fantasy, or mystery, or good old page-turning drama, they transport me.  To a world that is foreign.  A world of mystery, of husbandry, of hay-filled barns.  A world of vegetables, herbs, and cocky, spurred roosters.  To a world I think I would like to visit.  To a world I might like to live in.   

It all started with those darn chickens.  The chickens I couldn't stop reading about.  Well, I should have made myself.  My husband should have made me.  Someone should have made me.  But no one did; so I kept reading.  I have since read about raising cattle, sheep, and goats.  I've read about raising rabbits and keeping bees.  And then I read some more about chickens.  I've read about CSA farms (Community Supported Agriculture).  I've read about men farmers, and I've read about women farmers.  (Funny, smart, women farmers.)  And with each new book, my addiction grew stronger.  For all of these books were so good, so funny, so heartwarming.  And, yes, so sad.  For as Catherine Friend so gracefully wrote,"with raising livestock comes death stock." Mostly, though, I loved how all of these women writers/farmers (the common thread) embraced their hobby, their craft, their livelihood, with joy, grace, and humor.  Farming is not an easy life.  But the love these women have for their land, their animals, their fellow farmers makes it a very appealing lifestyle to those of us not lucky enough to be a part of it.

My original plan was to blog a little about each book after I finished it.  A quick, little review wherein I'd share the few tidbits I learned.  Nice and simple.  Short and sweet.  And then, I'd be done.  Finished.  I'd move on. Back to where I belong: The Land of Fiction.  I'm hearing very good things about The Burgess Boys, by Elizabeth Strout, and Kate Atkinson has a new book out.  Sadly, it is not a Jackson Brodie novel, but that's okay.  It probably doesn't have anything to do with husbandry, or dispatching animals, or how to care for a  pullet.  Or, even what a pullet is, for that matter.

But I couldn't get enough of this memoir stuff.  Did you know memoirist is a word?  I did not, until very recently.  But I like it.  I can even see this word after my name; if I close my eyes and try real hard, Sonja Larson, Memoirist.... Yep, it has a nice ring to it.  I don't have any cute sheep to write about though (at least not yet) and I don't know if anyone wants to read about my summers at Pillar Point, playing Yahtzee with my Grandma in her motor home, all the while counting the minutes until I could grab hold of her CB radio and bellow out to the water, "breaker Ripcord.  Are you and Big Hammer coming in for lunch soon?"  

So, yes, returning to fiction is probably a good idea. 

But not today.  Maybe tomorrow.  There's more to learn, to enjoy, to dream about.  And I just discovered the author of Chick Days, Jenna Woginrich, has several other books. (See what I mean about the whole fascination/addiction thing?)

  

Nora Jane and I read this book together.  And the pictures
of the "three girls" as they grow will make grown-ups and kids alike
flock to the computer and order up a batch of chicks.
(At least in this house)

Unless you want to try to make your own butter (it's surprisingly very easy and your kiddo will declare, "it's delicious!") or bake your own bread, you might want to stay away from her book, Made From Scratch, however.  

The problem with books is that they put notions into your head.  Which explains why, in the last week, I have churned butter, and baked two beautiful loaves of bread when I have four perfectly good grocery stores within a mile of my house.  So, not only have I been reading about farm-life, I've been wondering if it could be a life (style) for me.  I think I'd make a darn good farmer.  I get up early. I'm already a home-body.  I've got a healthy, green thumb.  I'm nurturing.  I enjoy animals.  I care about the environment.   And, while I don't want to get too New-Agey or anything, all of these things bring me great joy and inner peace.  There's a peace in nature, the natural world, the animal world, that we miss out on when we aren't surrounded with it.  I'd like to have more of that in my life.  

And, besides, why else would God give me Nora Jane.  The only nine-year-old I know who CANNOT sleep in past 6:30 a.m.  EVERY DAY.  She's meant to be up, gathering eggs, milking something.

And I come by all of this naturally.  It's in my genes.   I've heard that my Grandpa Dahl used to grow enough vegetables to keep my Grandma canning all summer and I remember him growing enough corn to feed our entire neighborhood.  His parents, before him, raised livestock, grew vegetables.  My Great-Grandma even traveled to Seattle's famous Pike Place Market to sell her eggs.  I like to think she'd support my decision to farm, but who knows.  She might just tell me to put down all those damn books and go for a bike ride.  Oh wait, that's my Dad's voice I'm hearing. 

But my Dad isn't my only obstacle. I am married to someone who, for some silly reason, enjoys leaving town on summer weekends, to play, and who is completely happy buying his meat and vegetables.   So you can see my dilemma.

Farming definitely comes with a lot of commitments:  time, land, money, energy.  But I don't think any of these memoirists intended to convert the rest of us to a life of agriculture.  I think they simply wanted to share their stories, provide some entertainment, get their readers thinking about where their food comes from, and show us that we can be involved in that process, as much or as little as we choose.

That's what I'm doing now, choosing.  Choosing to be more involved in the process.  Choosing to be more aware of my food sources.  Choosing to grow a few more of my own vegetables.  Without any livestock here on the farm,  the only eggs that need collecting are colored on Easter,

Easter morning egg collecting

Notice the lovely, functional farm-attire
(aka pj's stuffed into boots)

and the only jersey cow milk we drink comes from the store in cute little bottles with hefty price tags.  But that's okay.  

I may not be a farmer per se, but I still have a garden and containers filled with the promise of a summer harvest.  I have fingers anxious to dig in the dirt.  I have bird feeders that need filling, a dog that needs medicating, and a cat that needs to stop shredding my couch. And, come summer,  I will have my own cutting garden.

Cutting Garden in Spring

Best of all, I will still be able to pile into that van on Friday nights with Dave and head out to play.

So if you think these books aren't for you, think again.  Just like the heroes in your favorite novels,  farming memoirs are filled with protagonists who struggle to overcome, who prevail, who experience heartache and loss.   They are faced with conflicts every day.  Whether  it's moving pigs thirty feet into a new barn,  assisting a ewe with lambing, halting a runaway horse, or keeping the weeds from overtaking their grape vines, they are all struggles.  All real.  And all worth reading, learning from, and laughing about.  

So give them a try.  When you're done, you may just want to plant your very own herb pot.  Or start your own cutting garden.  But be warned, if you decide to go big, (you know, like inviting a couple of chickens into the family) I can guarantee you will meet Mr. Skepticism.  And he has friends.  And they aren't very nice.

Keep on keeping on-

S-

P.S.  A pullet is a female chicken under one year of age :)

Bird Nerds

There is something wrong with this picture. Actually, there are two things wrong with this picture.

The Lonely Feeder

1:  The line of feed has not moved in days, and

2:  There are no birds here (not that they'd probably stick around while I took their picture anyway.)

This quiet, sad, lonely-looking bird feeder is usually the hub of our back-yard activity.  All through the Winter, and on into Spring.  Even after I drastically prune the Smoke-Tree Bush that they use as their staging area, while they are waiting for their turn to eat. (There's a pecking order they follow; the lower down the pole they are, the longer they wait to eat) Even when I forget to reopen the little holes, after refilling.  Oops! Apparently, Dark-eyed juncos are a very forgiving bird.  Or too lazy to look for food elsewhere.   

My juncos aren't a loud bunch, though they are chatty with one another.  Thus, I always know when they are around. I catch sight of them as I pass by the dining room window.  I watch them while I do the dishes. And I don't know how many times I have sent them scurrying away, in a panic, because I've rudely walked out the back door, without, first, announcing my arrival. 

So it seems strange, very strange, that they aren't here now.  It's too quiet.  We miss them.  (Oh dear, bird nerd detected) Especially Bombur. I don't ordinarily name the birds that come into my back yard, and I didn't name this one.  Nora Jane did.  And she named him Bombur, because he's fat.  Very fat.  Like Bombur, the fat dwarf in "The Hobbit."  But it suits him.

So where is Bombur?  Where have all the juncos gone? (I cannot read this line without singing it: Where have all the cowboys juncos gone?...If you don't know who Paula Cole is, or have no idea what I'm referring to, pardon this interruption) 

Well, we had an idea.  But since we weren't sure, we did what all good Bird Nerds do.  We turned to our "bird book."  Specifically, we turned to the "National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Pacific Northwest."  Unfortunately,  we only discovered what we already knew:  what they looked like and that they travel in flocks.  So much for our bird book. We moved on to the internet.  

And just as we predicted, it's baby time!  Mid-April is when big things happen in the sparrow world. After selecting their soul-mate, (these lovers are monogamous) the mamas (with a little help from the papas) begin to build a nest.  These ladies weave their cozy dwellings out of twigs, leaves, and grasses but prefer to line the interior with fine grass, moss, and animal hair. I like to think there are A LOT of babies staying warm and dry right now thanks to Jack and his endless supply of yellow-lab-fur. 

And then it's time to take a seat. For twelve to thirteen days, these mommies   will stay put.  Gotta rest up!  They need their energy because after hatching, they only have ten to thirteen days to get these babies ready for independence.   Yikes! (That's fast and furious!)  At which time they'll start the whole process all over again. And, these moms do not recycle; they do not reuse their nests.  Each brood gets brand new digs!  Ladies!  Come on....if it ain't broke....

But who am I to tell them what to do.  I'll just keep watching, waiting for them to return.  Until then, I'm going to check the list of ingredients on their feed bag.  I need to make sure it's loaded with plenty of millet since, according to juncos, millet tastes much better than that other crap sunflower seeds.

Yippee aw, Yippee yea!

S-

P.S.  All bird info gleaned from the following sources:

National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Pacific Northwest,

Animal Diversity Web (ADV), http://animaldiversity.ummz.umich.edu , and

Cornell Lab of Ornithology, http://www.birds.cornell.edu

but any mistakes or misinformation are completely mine :)

Sick Day

Nora Jane stayed home from school today.  She hasn't been feeling great the last few days and last night she was up all night coughing.  And sneezing, and kicking, and hogging the covers.  I know this because she was sleeping right next to me.  Just like she has been since Sunday, when her dad left to go  turkey hunting.  Needless to say, this morning we were both feeling a little tired and not our usual selves.

Oh, I could have made her go to school, but what's the fun in that?  Once in a while, it's just nice to hang out at home with mom.  So that's what she did.  

We planted a few things: 

a lilac,

a hellebore,

Such pretty flowers

a cute little boxwood, since Jack killed the last one, (I'll let you figure out how) and another tray of zinnias.

We also checked in with big sis to see if her zinnia seeds had sprouted yet.  We received an enthusiastic text in return,"yes they have!"

We sat out on the grass and let the sun warm our backs. 

We checked on the tulips. 

This is how I checked on the tulips.

Hello there cutie:) 

This is how NORA checked on the tulips.

Apparently, you get a better view from up there.

This was followed by further inspection.

 And closer inspection.

And then she discovered the joy of pruning.  After a few shrubs got a completely unnecessary haircut,  I put the pruners away and we went back inside

The evidence:
hidden behind a tree

where we did some knitting, (Nora's advanced from rectangles that vary in width from end to end to a dish cloth..woo-hoo!) and read from, yet another, chicken book.  Then she made a robot.  At least a robot head:

K-Kid

(complete with control panel)

The K-Panel

and since no sick day is complete without a little school work, she worked on her story.

I'm almost hoping she's still under the weather tomorrow. :)

S-

Tears on Patriot's Day

Yesterday was Patriot's Day. A day to remember our past.  A day set aside for commemorating the anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the first battles of the American Revolutionary War.  A big day if you live in Massachusetts; many offices close for the day and it marks the start of school vacation for many kids. It was also the annual running of The Boston Marathon, a race that I hope to run some day, and the day that a good friend of mine always volunteers his massage therapy services at the finish line.

As soon as I learned of yesterday's explosion, I called Dave and asked if he'd heard from Charles. He said the phones were down and he couldn't get through.  But he'd keep trying.  So I sat, and waited, and followed the reports on the internet.  I just knew he was there.  

Dave and Charles have been friends since middle school.  We all lived together one Winter in Boulder, Colorado.  The Fall and Winter we thought we wanted to relocate to the Rocky Mountains.  Back before we had kids, or dogs, or any responsibility other than paying our rent. That was a fun winter. We hiked, biked, played in the Colorado sunshine, learned how to cook in a very small kitchen, and  then realized we wanted to go home.  So we came back to Washington, and Chuck went home to Massachusetts.  Where he has raised his beautiful girls, Leah and Lindsay, with his wife Lisa.  

The events of yesterday made me remember another fateful day.  Ironically, on 9/11 Dave was coming home from a trip out east.  He had gone back for Lindsay's christening.  And, well, everyone knows what happened on that day.  Luckily, Dave had already left Boston and was on the ground in Detroit for a short layover, when all the planes were grounded.  Thus, he only endured a few days of discomfort, bad food, and the anxiety of being away from his family.  

I remember getting calls from Charles that morning, asking if I'd heard from Dave yet.  Did I know where he was?  All I could say was no.  We both sat in front of our televisions and worried.  So it seems like a weird turn of events to be doing the same thing today.  Worrying about Charles, like he worried about Dave, so many years ago.  

I don't know if  the masterminds behind this operation chose this date for its historical significance, or because they knew this event would draw a large crowd, or both.  But it pains me to see my fellow Americans, my fellow runners, suffering.  Instead of enjoying a revitalizing post run massage (from Charles) or a delicious pasta dinner, many of these families will be visiting hospitals, or, sadly, funeral homes.   If only we'd had a modern-day Paul Revere.

Last night, Nora Jane and I talked about yesterday's events.  She was confused by it all.  She wanted to know why.  Why would someone do this to another?  One of the reasons I write on this blog, is so I can try to find meaning in the everyday.  But, some days, like yesterday, it's just so hard. I didn't have a good answer for her.  

The good news is that Charles is okay. Although I did burst into tears when I got his text.  Tears of joy, and tears of sadness.  He was in a medical tent at the finish, but was safely evacuated.  But my heart goes out to those who didn't get out, those who got hurt, and, yes, even to those who didn't get to finish their race. Something they trained so hard for.  Something they might not get the chance to repeat. Somethings I just don't understand, no matter how hard I try or how many words I type.

Before bed, Nora and I checked on our zinnia seeds.  I told her that I read about a farmer who used to gently brush his hand across the tops of his tomato starts to strengthen their stems before transplanting.  We decided to try this with our seedlings.  We want them to be big, strong, and sturdy because we decided to plant them in honor of yesterday's victims.  "Like a memorial, right mama?" asked Nora.  

"Yes," I told her.  "Just like a memorial." 

S-

And Then I Was Done

My friend Monkey has officially moved out.  Last Tuesday, (two days before it was even due!) I turned in my final project, took my final exam, and sent him packing.  Then, almost immediately after hitting the final "submit" button, and before Monkey was even out the door, I received my electronic "Certificate of Completion."  Now that's efficiency!

Digital, Electronic, or Virtual--Call it what you want,
I was pretty proud of myself :) 

As I sat basking in the glory of my electronic achievement, however, I was already thinking ahead; asking myself, now what?  Should I sign up for another class?  I could, certainly, benefit from further instruction, more practice.  But is this what I really want to do?  I started this class on February 21st--on a whim--after receiving a pamphlet in the mail, from Tacoma Community College.  I scanned their list of upcoming classes, found this one, and thought why not?  I signed up.  I didn't even hesitate.  Which is a complete break from the usual.  Spontaneity is not my default mode.

But, apparently, this was a new me. So, after enrolling, I introduced myself, (it was an assignment) and after two lessons, started working on the final project. I continued to work on it for five weeks; something I haven't done since my college days. I literally lived with it, breathed it.  It kept me up at night. It entered my consciousness all throughout the day.  Of course, this could also be due to my obsessive personality disorder (unofficially diagnosed, of course) that just keeps getting stronger with age.  

Or, it could be, that, at forty-five, I am more focused, more mature, have a longer attention span. My drive, my commitment, definitely seem stronger than they did in my twenties.  Some things, however, haven't changed at all in that time.  I'm still not one of the more outspoken students. You know the type.  The kids that are always confident.  Always ready to raise their hand.  Always ready to share something insightful, something deep and profound.  

I have never been that type.  I was, and still am, happy to be the listener, the observer.  My brain doesn't process my thoughts fast enough to allow me entry into that other group. My ideas need time to develop.  I have to live with them for a while; jiggle them around in my head, bounce them off one another, until I get a good grasp of them.  In short, I have to write about them first.  Until I know exactly what I want to say, rather than the other way around.    (This could explain why I'm not the most consistent, or frequent, blogger)

I did, however, offer up some encouraging words from time to time.  These comments weren't required,  but since I know how nice it feels to hear someone say good job, I couldn't let some of my classmates' pieces go without a little validation. Ironically, this same "greatness" is what kept me from "speaking out" as much as I would have liked.  For, sometimes, after reading their stories, or poems, or even a simple exercise designed to clarify point of view, my confidence waned.  Their words seemed so carefully chosen, their ideas so original, they made me question my ability, my sense of belonging.  I decided the best way to deal with these feelings of inadequacy was simply to avoid entering the discussion forum altogether.  Instead, I did my own thing.  Quietly, from the back of the class.  So much for bravery.  So much for a "new me."

On days like these, I  questioned what I was doing in this class.  What I was getting from this class, this project.  After all, silly as it sounds, five weeks is a long time to dedicate yourself to something.  Despite all of these mixed feelings, though, I never once thought about dropping out. I did think about changing topics, but never dropping out. Even on the night, a few weeks ago, when I was completely overwhelmed with the enormity of my task: creating a coherent, readable, valuable essay from the myriad of rough drafts, free writes, ideas scribbled upon sticky notes (not the ones I lost) that were completely covering my dining room table.  Even then, I forged ahead.  And it was at that moment, with orange highlighter in hand, ready to begin my Circling and Slashing, that Dave walked into the room and declared, "wow, you look like you're studying for finals!"  And he was right.  I felt very much like a stressed-out college student.  But there was more to my stress than just pressure to finish.  I was also putting on myself the pressure to be good, or at least as good as my peers.  

Thankfully, I didn't quit. Or change topics even.  For if I did, I wouldn't be the holder of the afore-mentioned, certificate.  (And we know how valuable that is!) Instead, with the help of my orange highlighter, and my computer's delete button, I managed to cut and slash and rewrite just enough to come up with a piece totalling 1500 words!

My limit was 500.

I remember reading in the course material, that writers love the sound of their own words.  (Well, ya!) But getting these words to matter to others, to readers, is not easy. So the goal for writers is to "steal (them) out of their present lives and send them into the reality that you conjure with your words."* I thought this was a difficult thing to accomplish in only 500 words.  My teacher believed otherwise.  Fortunately, she also said we could turn in an excerpt.  So that is what I did. A 615 word excerpt. A pretty good compromise, I thought.  

So here I am, one week later, feeling like a little kid the day after Christmas.   The rush is over.  The cookies have all been eaten. The presents all unwrapped.  I've read the lovely comments from my classmates and my teacher, bless her heart, did not go crazy with that cyber-red-pen of hers.  So, now what?

Now I do what I always do:  I carry on.

And then I write about it.

S-

P.S.  I think now would also be a good time to thank my family for letting me have such a great time these last six weeks.  So here goes:

Thank you Dave for not minding, or at least ignoring, the dog hair and the dust bunnies that have mated, spawned, claimed our place as their own. And for picking up dinner on your way home from WORK because I let my homework keep me at the computer and away from the stove.

Thank you Anna for reading some of my pieces (from afar) then sending back your compliments (complete with a smiley face :)

Thank you Jack for keeping me company late at night when everyone else was asleep.

Thank you Monkey for keeping me on track.  I'm going to miss you :(  Who knew?

And, finally, thank you Nora Jane for doing your homework, while sitting next to me at the computer, so I didn't have to leave what I was working on to walk all the way over to the dining table to check your math sheet.  And for laughing at my silly sticky-notes poem.  And for leaving me a writing prompt today, so I'd know exactly what to do when I asked myself, Now What?

(Is this child REALLY only eight-years-old?... Not really, she'll be nine in six days!)

There's More Than One Way to Skin a Cat (or plant a flower)

Last night, after dinner, Nora Jane and I got down and dirty.  Since it's still too cold to plant my zinnia seeds directly outside, we turned our kitchen and dining room into a pseudo-potting shed.  All the while trying our best NOT to look out the window at our actual potting shed. (It was cold out there too) Thus, after convincing Dave, the builder of said shed, that this was, in fact, the right place to perform this task, we set out our seed tray, our bag of dirt (seed starter for you serious gardeners) our big bag of seeds, and got to work.  

I thought it would be fun if we divided the work.  I'm weird that way.  So, since my experience has taught me that letting your kids play with dirt in the house can get pretty messy, I filled the tray with the seed starter and decided it would be Nora's job to create all of the little holes for the seeds to be placed into.  And when her time came, she was ready and excited for the task.  

I quickly demonstrated how to do this.  Not that this is a very difficult task, but a reminder is always good. (Okay, I wanted to show her how to do it my way.) I then handed over the chopstick, stepped back and watched in horror as she plunged that stick in and out of my neat, brown dirt, like a vampire slayer in the throes of murder, with nary a thought to the mess she was making all over my table.  

I stepped forward and gently reminded her that this is a process to be savored, not rushed.  It's not about speed, or efficiency, but precision.  A job to be handled with care.  Because we love our seeds and we want to do everything we can to give them a good start in the world.  (Yes, I know I get carried away)

But Nora didn't care about any of that.  She wasn't feeling the love.  She was antsy "to get it done" and continued to plow her way through the tray. When she reached her goal, she plucked that chopstick out of the last cup, raised it high into the air, like a prized trophy,  and declared, "done--seventy-two holes in less than a minute!"  Apparently, she was timing herself as well.  

As she smiled up at me, full of pride and big front teeth, I tried to mask my shock.  Why would she want to rush through something I could sit and do for hours?   Is she just that impatient?  Does she have something better to do on a Monday night?

I realized that we definitely have two very different gardening methods.  But I don't think that means either one of us enjoys it any more than the other.  Nora's smile clearly showed me that she loved each and every one of those sixty seconds.  Maybe it just means that we like different parts of the job more.   Nora certainly seems to have an affinity for digging holes.

The other day, when I was working in the yard, she asked if she could use a shovel.  I just grunted, or smiled, and kept on working.  The next thing I knew, she'd dug a hole, behind the bird bath, deep enough to get her knees down into!  When I asked her what the hole was for, she replied with a shrug, "I don't know.  I just wanted to dig one."

I, too, enjoy digging a good hole, when the need arises.  But, unlike Nora, I take care.  I don't fling the dirt all over the place.  One could argue that I don't fully embrace the act of digging like she does.  And, perhaps, one would be right.  But, in the end, we both wind up with holes that need filling and that's really all that matters.

So I looked back down at my dirt-covered table and admired all seventy-two of Nora's holes.  I grabbed that dirty stick from her, high-fived her little, dirt-covered hand and said, "thanks. Good job kid!"  And then she was done.  She turned away, returned to the computer to finish working on her story.  I sighed, relieved that I was left to finish the job on my own, at my leisure.  Which is exactly what I did.  

With care I dropped a seed into each one of those roughly made holes, gently tapped them closed, and gave them a final tap for good luck.  When they were all tucked in, I covered them with their dome and bet Nora how many days until they sprouted.  She said twenty.  But then quickly changed it to thirteen.  

Day 1

As I  cleaned up the dirt Nora Jane flung all over the table, I picked up the seed bag and discovered a big hand full of seeds still hiding out in the bottom.   I was so happy to see these guys, because that meant my job was not done.  

So this morning I returned to the nursery and bought an additional seed tray, so I can start the whole process all over again.  And since I don't have enough zinnia seeds to fill the entire tray, I might just move on to my lettuces.  I better get busy though.  I want to have them all planted before Nora Jane gets home from school.

Keep on keeping on-

S- 

Outta the Mouth of Nora Jane.. (Laughter! At Her Mother's Expense!)

Last weekend Dave, Nora Jane and I hiked, biked and turkey hunted (more on this later) the woods above Lyle, Washington, in the Columbia River Gorge.  Lyle is just a hop, skip, and one bridge ride away from the town of Hood River, Oregon.  One of our favorite places to relax and play.  And if Nora Jane is along, a fun place to get ice cream cones and shop for books.  

It wasn't the ice cream and the shopping, however, that created the large mountains of dirty clothing that have over-taken my laundry room.  For unlike our summer excursions, this trip was wet, muddy, and wet.  Did I say muddy?

So this morning, when Nora Jane and I walked by the laundry room and I commented that this was how I would be spending my day, I was shocked (surprised, and a little miffed) when she looked at me and laughed.  And not just a little chuckle.  I'm talking full-bellied, hearty laughter.  

I'm hoping she was just confused about what I was saying.  That she was still tired from her busy weekend.  That she doesn't really get pleasure from seeing her mother labor.

And, I'm telling you, if I wasn't so anal about keeping dirty laundry on the floor, especially dirty laundry, that could very possibly be infested with ticks, I'd have half-a-mind (as my mom says) to make her do her own darn laundry.  

Since it's now 3:13, and, apparently, I'm still upset about it, I might just make her fold it :)

Keep on keeping on... 

S-

About That Monkey

So... about that monkey.

Well, he's still here reminding me that my final project and final exam (yes, there are tests online) are both due on April 12th.  So, true to my nature, and like the over-zealous college student I once was, I'm feeling a little stressed out about it.  

I try not to think about it.  I mean what's the worst I could do?  Fail?  I don't think so. I have tried my best, or at least tried--every day--so that, in itself, has to be a sign of success.  Right?

Despite how I do on these last projects, this class, and my monkey, have been very good for me.  They have opened up a whole new world for me.  A world where I can write every day.  A world where I even have permission to write poorly every day. (my instructor says so)  

And they have taught me to listen to myself, to "write the thoughts and ideas inside (me)...even though they may not be any good, (for) this is where (I'll) find the cake. The rest--the rules, the techniques, the examples of other writers--is frosting." (Ann Lindquist, Beg. Writer's Wk. Shop)  

So, that's what I have done.  I have written.  I have written well (a few times) and I have written poorly (a lot). I have written early in the morning and late into the night. I have written with a smile on my face and through big, fat, sloppy tears and I've come out fine.  But mostly, I have written daily.  Surely that can't be seen as a failure.   

Oh, and of course, they've taught me about plot, conflict, dialogue, flashback, scenes, and all sorts of things that real writers use, yet don't necessarily seem to fit in with the way I write.  But through their examples, their exercises, they've provided me ample time to practice.  Which leads me to my biggest revelation:  Writing is just practicing.  Every day.  Getting better.  Doing poorly.  Trying again.  Writing more.  And more.  And more.  

So thank you Teacher Ann and thank you Monkey.  It's been a pleasure

S-

Moving Day

Today is the first day of Anna's spring quarter and she is starting it off in a place of her own.  For the rest of the year--eleven whole weeks!-- she will have no roommates.  She will answer to no one.  She will come and go and do just as she pleases, (hopefully in a way that will please her mother) for she will be the sole keeper of her very own 400 square-foot studio apartment.  Which shouldn't be that hard, really.  But in case you're like me, and not very good at math, let me just say that 400 square feet is pretty. darn. small.  Like three big steps for Dave.  But to Anna, I'm sure it feels like a castle, she its queen.  

I've never been a big fan of moving households.  It's a huge task, requiring back-breaking work, cleaning, scrubbing, navigating tight corners with furniture that never wants to fit.  But this was not the case last Monday.  After loading our truck, 

Ready to go

and filling Anna's car to its very small capacity, we headed north with all of her worldly possessions, and one of our couches.  After a drive that took a little longer than usual, due to the all-too-frequent stops we made to re-tuck our flapping tarp, we arrived in Bellingham under sunny, blue skies and got to work.  

When you have very few possessions, however, and live in a very small castle, the work of moving is over very quickly.  I think Dave and I unloaded said couch, her desk, her bed and a few small tables (more like nightstands really) and tucked them neatly into their new home before Anna was finished hanging up her clothes.  (I realize what this says about Anna's closet).  While she finished this task, I made a list of things she still needed from Fred Meyer, and began emptying the remaining boxes and finding homes for their contents.  Mostly I tried to keep busy.  Which is very difficult in a space as small as hers.  So, basically, I just drove her crazy.  If she set out a candle, I moved it.  Just an inch or so, to be symmetrical, to look better.   Then she moved it back and told me to stop.  So when she asked if we could go to the store,  I replied with a very enthusiastic "let's go!"

At Fred Meyer we bought a few more necessities: waste baskets, a shower curtain, a bath mat, and a candle to mask the smell of garlic and kimchi. (The former tenant, of six years, cooked a lot of Asian food)  When I directed our cart to the grocery aisles, however, she said she didn't need too much food.  So I just bought her usuals: yogurt, bread, the cereal neither she or her dad can live without, and some fruit.  She promised she'd make another food run later.  After she settled in.  A food run that would include vegetables.  But I didn't hold my breath.  Anna may have moved out.  She may be relishing in her new found freedom, coming and going at her leisure, but she has yet to discover the joy of cooking, even if she is starving.

Since her dad and I didn't want to eat yogurt for lunch, though, we stopped downtown and grabbed a bite.  At the restaurant, I sat in the sun with Jack at my feet,  just waiting for a crumb to fall his way,

and my husband and my grown daughter laughing and smiling at me (probably making fun of me) from across the table. 

You can see how hard Anna is trying to contain her
laughter.  I have that effect on her.  Not so much on Dave.   

And I thought, we did it.  We made this big girl.  We made this big grown-up-girl.  This big grown-up-girl, who now has her own apartment.  

We did a good job!

And I picked up my menu, pushed back my sunglasses and pretended to look for something to eat.  

With full bellies, we took Anna home.  To her home.  Her new home, that on the inside, looks amazingly similar to our home.  There sits the couch where, until very recently, we all sat eating popcorn and watching movies.  On top of Anna's old nightstand rests the lamp I bought at Target when we were just building our house.  The lamp I never really liked.  And at the far end of the room, next to her bed, sits the desk Anna and Dave painted black a few summers ago, because the natural pine color looked too babyish for her liking.  

And now here it all sits, looking perfect in its new home.  I hope this furniture does more for Anna, though, than just look good. I hope these familiar faces bring her comfort when she returns home at the end of the day. I hope that soft green blanket, tucked into the corner of that old brown couch, will keep her warm on a chilly spring night.  I hope that when she reaches to turn off her lamp at night, she'll look at that black desk and think I wonder what my dad's doing right now?  I hope that when she looks at the  little wooden Valentine I gave her a few weeks ago she realizes the truth behind its words: LOVE YOU MORE.  

And then, all too soon, our job was done.  Anna was ready to rearrange everything I carefully put away for her.  To make her place her own.  To settle in.  So we hugged her tight, kissed her goodbye, sternly told her to respect her neighbors (in other words keep the noise down on Friday nights), got in the truck and started our drive home.  

For most of the drive, I thought of all the things I should have told her:  

make sure your door and windows are all locked when you go to bed, 

blow out the candles, (even if it still smells like teriyaki)

make sure you turn off the oven, the stove burners, 

and don't turn on the heater unless it's freezing. (I'm trying to teach her the value of a little suffering)  

Dave must have known exactly what I was thinking, for after a long, quiet spell, he grabbed my hand and said, "she'll be fine."

I just nodded and looked out the window.

Then, to my surprise, when we got near the U-District,  he exited the freeway.  When I looked at him, he said, "we need to go to Dick's."

"But I'm still full from lunch!"

"Me too," he said, "but we still need to go."

So we sat in the parking lot, eating our Dick's deluxes, Jack begging from the back seat.  By the time we were done, we both felt better (though very full)  and were ready to go home.  

After I tucked Nora Jane into bed that night, I paused in Anna's doorway.  Her bedroom, so empty, it looks like she never lived there.  Her bed, and a wall shelf filled with trinkets not worth making the trip, the only remaining items.  But she hasn't really lived here the last two years.  She's just been a visitor; coming home on school vacations or when her fridge is empty. This is the way it's supposed to go though.  Each trip home bringing her closer to that final goodbye. 

I turned off the light, closed her door, and went back into Nora Jane's room.  I climbed the ladder to her bed, crawled up next to her, and THANKED GOD for making me smart enough to have my children ten years apart.