Why I Love Books

It seems that I'm not the only one in the family who gets a little carried away by books.  Nora, too, appears to have inherited this tendency.  

On a recent trip to the library, she picked this up. 

She, then, proceeded to read it cover to cover while we, very slowly, walked home.  Upon said arrival, she immediately began constructing her own country:  The Domain of Smiley Faces, "where shooting stars, soccer balls, and smiley faces make a better way of life!"

Now creating a whole country doesn't just happen in an afternoon.  It takes time, at least a week. So, since that day, about a week ago, she has declared herself President, of course, written a National Anthem, 

Hail the Domain of Smiley Faces, beautiful and true. 

We stand tall for you!

With some flowers here,

and some trees there.

Here a smiley face,

there a smiley face, 

everywhere a true smiley face (Old McDonald had a .... Oops, got off track)

Hail the Domain of Smiley Faces, beautiful and true.

created a Constitution, (here's an excerpt:)

"We believe the individual has certain rights such as, the right to live, freedom of religion, the right to have personal security, and the right to own animals."

and written a book of laws, of which she's up to twenty-two.  

The following are a few of my favorites:

#1Everyone must like smiley faces. (Seems reasonable)

#2 Everyone must like to smile.  (Again, reasonable)

#9 If someone is full, another person cannot force them to eat. 

(Hmm... sounds like dinner-time around here)

#13 Everyone must have some kind of decor (unless you can't afford it) 

This certainly brought a smile to my face.

#18 If you are in jail, do not break out.   

(Although, technically, no one should be in jail because law #5 states No Criminal Acts)

And, finally, 

#22 People need to be clean.

(this coming from the kid who runs and hides whenever I mention the words bath or shower.)

As President, she's also compiled a list of National Holidays: Smile Day, Read Day, International Spinathon Day, (which, in my opinion and experience, does NOT seem likely to generate a lot of smiling) I Scream LOUD Day, (what?) and, of course, National Independence Day.  Although I'm still not sure who DSF declared their independence from.  At any rate, there will be parades, flowers, dances, parties, and, obviously, no one will have to go to work or school that day.  

She's also created Citizen Passes, which must be carried by all citizens, at all times, (okay that sounds a little Big-Brother-ish) and she's drawn up a map, which is very difficult to read because it was written in light, neon-green sharpie.  Suffice it to say, there is an Anna Road, an NJ Ave, an Army Fort (for protection) and a Governor's House, which is where, I imagine, the President resides?

Now she's working hard to create jobs for her citizens, of which there are three.  So, naturally, she created a newspaper, The Smiley News Weekly Paper, which I am "to run" because "you like to write mom."  Although, she will fill-in from time to time, when her Presidential Duties don't interfere. Thus, she conducted the paper's first interview (of me) 

Such a striking resemblance!

wherein I reported that I was excited about my move to DSF and looking forward to my new life.  

I realized, at the time of the interview, this was probably her attempt to put off bed-time just a little longer, but I didn't have the heart to enforce that rule.  I mean how often does one get interviewed for the  National News?

So, yes, in this house we love books.  A LOT!  

And I wonder what Dave's job will be...

The Value of Training

Last weekend, Nora Jane learned what all weekend warriors, who have come before her, have learned: training is important.

Standing at the start line of the Mazama 5k, she was nervous, excited, and ready to release the beast.  

Eager to be on the front line, among the elite, she kept inching forward.  When I suggested she "hold back a bit," to avoid getting trampled, she just looked at me like I had never run a race before and said, "Mom!  At school I always line up in the front! And last week I came in second!  

While I wanted to say that you only race against seven other third graders, of course you line up at the front.  You all do!  I did not.  Instead, I held her hand and said, "just a little longer, just until the kids' race is over."  The race that I, initially, suggested Nora run.  The race that Nora simply would not do.  

"Mom, I've already run lots of 1k's.  I want to run the big race.  With you.  I can do it!"  

And there was no changing her mind.  

As race day approached, however, I suggested she might want to try training a bit.  

"Mom, I don't need to.  I know I can do it." 

"I'm sure you can honey, but three miles is a pretty long way." 

Finally, a week before the race, she gave in.  And while  I prepared dinner and set the table, she set out to run a few laps around our block while her coach followed along on his bike.  After the first lap, she came running inside to announce that was easy!  We're going to do another lap!  And back out the door she went.  

The end of the second lap, however, looked, altogether, different.  Standing in the doorway, huffing and puffing, chest heaving, she said, "Mom, my knee hurts!"  

Ugh, I thought.  This race is NOT going to go well.

"Well, honey, you still have time to practice.  And, remember, you can always opt for the 1k."  She just looked at me like I suggested she go and watch Dora.  

So, naturally, when the gun went off, she took off like a rocket.  Well, a rocket in the midst of a very crowded solar system.  She jockeyed for position, trying her best to get to the front of the pack.  A place I've always tried to avoid at the start of races.  You can get run over up there.  But Nora was determined.  She was infallible. She was completely and totally inexperienced.  

Ponytail swinging, she ventured off the trail and onto the grass to secure a better position.  She leaned into the first hill and I looked at Dave and thought, "she's going to smoke us!"  I was so proud!  She's a natural!  Look at her go!  Watching her feet barely hit the ground, I thought we have the next Pre on our hands!  I seriously get SO carried away.  

And then, we hit the half-way mark and Nora said, "how much farther?"  

We just looked at each other and thought, oh boy! 

One mile is not a very long way, but it can feel like forever when you're tired.  And Nora was tired.  Her ponytail, now still, hung straight down her back.  The feet, that had just moments before seemed to fly through the air, were now scuffling through the dirt, too heavy to lift.  And she got passed.  And passed and passed and passed.  

I tried to help her, to encourage her.  I took her hand and pulled her along jogged with her.  I sang the Geoduck song to her.  I said "almost there" way too many times to be true.  Dave just jogged alongside her.  Stopping when she stopped, starting when she started.  The man has the patience of Job!  Nora just kept going, jogging/walking all the way to the finish line.  

When we got close enough to actually see the finish line, she, somehow, found the energy to sprint to the end leaving Dave and I stunned and annoyed.  For now, child-less, we had to cross the line like a bunch of losers who couldn't even keep up with the kids!  

It was the slowest 5k I have ever run.  And running past those cheering fans, (because that's what you do at fun runs, you cheer --for everyone-- even the slow ones who probably should have just stayed home and slept in) felt humiliating. 

While Dave walked over to the water table, I headed for the brownies.  What the heck, I may not have burned enough calories to compensate for eating even one of these babies, but I didn't care.  It was over.  I ate another.  

As we walked over to the pancake breakfast, I asked Nora if she had fun.  She just shrugged and said, "I don't know."  When the lady selling the breakfast tickets asked her, "how'd you do?"  She, again, responded "I don't know."  Not wanting her to feel bad about her efforts, I leaned in and said, "she did great!  She just finished her first 5k."  And, at that moment, I really was proud of her.  She hadn't trained,  she ran entirely on faith, hope, and dreams.  But, who hasn't done this from time to time? And she stuck it out, without one single complaint.  

After a trip to the rodeo, a stop in Winthrop to try on silly hats, 

As you can see, Minnie Pearl is alive and well
and living in Winthrop :)

and a healthy dose of playtime  with all the other kids at the lodge, she was in much better spirits.  At dinner later that night, I, again, asked her if she had fun.  Her response was difficult to hear; the restaurant was crowded and her head was resting on the table next to her half-eaten plate of food.  She was minutes from falling asleep.  "I guess.  It was hard."

The next night, however, as she crawled into bed with me, she said, "Mom, I think I need a training plan."  So she got out her sketch book, drew out a month's worth of days and began to fill in dates when she has time to run.  

"I still think I'm more of a sprinter, but maybe I can go farther.  If I practice."

Good plan kid.  

Keep on keeping on--

S-

What Do You Do When You Can't Help Your Child?

My daughter, Nora Jane, is nearly perfect.  Both of my daughters are, actually.  But then, I'm probably a little biased.

Nora Jane, though, is smart, funny, and adorable in that I haven't grown into my body or teeth yet kind of way.  She is kind, sensitive, and has a never-ending love of animals, and me.  To me, that's really her most important and endearing quality: she loves her mum. 

She has one flaw, though.  One flaw that I cannot fix.  One flaw that I can't help her with, help her to overcome, help her to stop.  And it kills me.  And I don't even like to call it a flaw, because that implies that she's broken, or defective, or, somehow, not right.  And she's not.

Nora Jane has Trichotillomania, which is just a fancy way of saying that she pulls out her hair.  Not all of her hair, only her eyebrows.  And, really, only one eyebrow.  And she only does so when she reads. And she hasn't always done this.  It's something that she started this year, right after she started in her new class.  A class of third, fourth, and fifth-grade highly-capable kids. (I hate this label too, because, somehow, it also marks her as different.)

Naturally, I assumed this behavior was the result of her new environment, the higher expectations.  But after talking to her teacher, she assured me that Nora Jane easily adapted to her class, made friends, and was doing great academically.  So what then?  

Nora has always been fidgety, wiggly.  She cannot sit still, cannot keep her hands still.  But this seemed off the chart.  When I first asked her about it, she seemed completely befuddled.  As if she didn't even know what I was talking about.  And I don't think she did.  Her actions were completely subconscious.  She simply replied that she felt something "weird" on her face.  Not weird, honey.  Hairy, maybe, but not weird.  

And that, I thought, would be the end of it.  We'd confronted it.  We'd talked about it.  Done.  

I was so wrong.  By the time Halloween rolled around, her brows were almost completely gone.  That's how fast this evolved.  When she started school in September, she had a full set of beautiful, brown, brows.   On Halloween night, her big sister said she looked like a cancer patient.  And she was right, not that this was, at all, helpful.

Thus, I began to plead with her, make demands of her.  One night, in the midst of my frustration, I loudly told her "enough is enough, you are too old for this!"  Which did nothing but make both of us cry.  It was that night that I knew we were dealing with something that neither one of us could control. So, off we went to the pediatrician.  

When he said she has Trichotillomania, I wasn't surprised.  I'd already surfed the web and stressed myself out in an effort to understand why she was doing this and how to make her stop.  I got no answers.  Just A LOT of anxiety-producing information: it's a compulsion, it's a form of turrets, it's a mental disorder.  It usually occurs in girls, smart girls, around the age of ten.  (Apparently Nora's a little advanced, dammit.)  By the time Dave took my I PAD from my hands, my head was filled with worry and I had visions of my completely hairless daughter  entering high-school.   I started crying and asked him why.  Why is she doing this to herself?  She's the kid with no troubles.  No problems.  She's happy.  She's smart.  She's loved!

He just held me and said, "but she's not perfect."  He was right.  She's not.  But she is.  

"But why!"  I kept asking him, demanding an answer.  "Why would a smart, funny, well-loved kid start mutilating herself?"  

"I wouldn't call it mutilation," he replied in his calm-down tone that told me I was starting to over-react.  "It's just a phase.  Besides you pay someone to rip out your eyebrows." 

True.  Okay, I'll give him that.  But Not ALL of them!  Only the unruly ones!  And I pay someone because I can't do it myself.  Because it hurts!  And it should hurt Nora!  And plus, Abby always puts on that nice smelling lotion that soothes my skin.  And she has that soft, soothing, running-river-sounding music playing in the background.  Why if she wasn't ripping the hair from my face, I could probably fall asleep in her little room. 

Nora's doctor had no calming music in his exam room.  Only a bench that barely accommodated both Dave and I, and a swiveling stool that he sat upon while asking Nora a long series of questions: 

Do you have a hard time falling asleep?  Yes.

Do you wake up really early?  Yes.

Does it seem difficult for you to put your mind to rest and stop thinking about things? Yes.

Do you do well in school?  Yes. 

And just like that, he confirmed my diagnosis, "it's a compulsion."   Instantly, my mind started thinking about all those "weird people."  The ones with all the weird routines; like placing their keys just right on the table, or in the dish.  The ones who have to have all their yogurts facing forward in the fridge.  The ones who place their pantry items in a specific, systematic order.  (Oh wait, that's me!  But I get this from my dad, so I can't help it!  And not anymore!  From now on, my pantry will be one big, chaotic mess!)  Or the ones who count the stairs every time they climb them.  Even if they've climbed them hundreds of times before.  (Shit! That's me too!) 

God, the poor kid!  She was doomed from the get-go.  

The doctor went on to discuss the various methods of treatment.  The first of which was Distraction Therapy, which is simply giving her hands something to do when she reads.  Because this is when she plucks.  "Or," he continued, "you could limit her reading time."  What?  Do you know how much my kid reads?  Just the thought of limiting her reading time, taking books from her hands, would be like asking her not to breathe!  Two of her favorite past-times are going to the library,  the bookstore.  Just this morning she was ready to rush to the library to pick up a book she had placed on hold. It was barely past sun-up.

So, Dave and I clung to every word about distraction therapy, BMT (Behavior Modification Therapy) while Nora, clearly not bothered by any of this talk at all, patiently sat on her paper-covered exam table swinging her legs and thinking about the promised post-doctor trip to the frozen yogurt shop. "And whatever you do,  do not make a big deal out of it."   I've been bringing my children to this man for nineteen years, and, clearly, he doesn't know me at all.  He concluded his speech with "the bottom line:" she has to be retrained.  Retrained?  She's perfectly trained!  I know!  I trained her!  

Not at all happy with the advice from my pediatrician, I sought out the other experts.  My dad said it's because she's too busy.  She has too many activities.  But he was wrong.  She played soccer and went to Girl Scouts TWICE A MONTH.  I hardly consider that "too busy."  Besides,  I probably shouldn't consult him on this matter seeing that he has his own share of idiosyncrasies.  Take his coin counting, for example.  Whenever he goes out, he counts out a very specific amount of change to take with him:

4 pennies, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing a nickel,

1 nickel, because carrying 2 would be the same as bringing a dime,

4 dimes, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing two quarters, and

3 quarters, because carrying 4 would be the same as bringing a one-dollar bill.  Yikes!

See what I mean?  Nora didn't have a chance!  But  we can't be the only weirdo-schmeardos out there.  What about all those nail-biters?  Biting their nails to the quick, until they bleed!  Or those people that are constantly clearing their throats. Or the ones who can't stand it when their foods touch!  Just to name a few.  

The difference between Nora's compulsion and my dad's, however, is that his doesn't cause him any harm.  It's just weird, calculated.  And while, technically Nora  isn't in harm's way, I don't think picking away at her skin and hair is a good thing.  And I can stop ordering my pantry, or counting the stairs (I think) anytime I want.  Finally, I could decide right now to never again have my eyebrows waxed.  And if it would make Nora Jane stop, I probably would.  But it won't.  I know, because I'm her mom.  I know her.  And I know it's not just a phase.  Otherwise, we wouldn't have entered Round 2.

Yes.  Round 2.  After many months, Nora's plucking seemed to have stopped.  I don't know if she just forgot about it, or if I just laid off her long enough, or if all the squeezy balls we bought for her to "play with" while she read actually did the trick. But for whatever reason, her eyebrows grew back.  And they were beautiful!   And Dave was right: it was just a phase.  

But now it's back.  And some of her eyebrow is, again, gone.  

And Nora, sweet Nora, said, "I feel so guilty mom!  Because you and dad keep buying me all these balls and I just lose them and it just doesn't help!  And I can't stop because it feels good!"  And I was crushed.  Crushed by the weight of those three little words.  Crushed by the tears and emotion that poured out of Nora as she stood next to the fridge, clinging to the handle, the snack she was after completely forgotten.  

I walked over to her, and hugged her and told her that she should never feel guilty about something she can't control.  And I told her I'd buy her every squeezy ball in the world if it will help.  And I told her it will be okay.  And that I  loved her.  I will always love her.  

Shearing Day

Who needs sheep or angora rabbits?

Not me.

I have my own fiber producer:  Jack, the Ever-Shedding Lab-Mix.

And yesterday was shearing day on the farm.

Just Like Grandma Used to Make

Since Nora Jane's after-school-hours have been consumed with a research project on Norway, and today happens to be Syttende Mai, (May 17th, Constitution Day in Norway) I decided to send one of her favorite Norwegian treats in her lunch today.  Since I didn't get up early enough to whip up a home-made batch of lefse, however, (nor have I ever made home-made lefse) we had to improvise.

And with just one minor adjustment, lunch was ready! 

I am Norwegian To THE CORE :)

Just like Grandma used to make... Almost.   

Prepared just the way I was taught,
with lots of butter, sugar, and cinnamon...

LUCKY NORA!
Just the way my Grandpa would've really said it :)

Happy Grunnlovsdagen (Constitution Day) everyone!

Out of the Mouth of Nora Jane

"Mom, can we lay off the rhubarb for a while!"

What I thought:  What?  Are you crazy?

What I said:  Of course dear.  Just as soon as I make these rhubarb bars

After the Rain

Yesterday's bike ride didn't happen.  There was the rain, the flat tire, the other flat tire, more rain.  In short, it just wasn't meant to be.

When Dave came home from work, though, he made me a happy girl.  For he came bearing gifts:

New tubes!

And wine!  

Apparently, one of Dave's co-worker's sister has a winery!  Lucky us!  

Today, however, dawned anew.  The wine had been tasted, the flat tires repaired, and the sun was out!  Thus, Dave and I hit the road.  

Just gotta read the signs.  

How I Became an Armchair Farmer, (or I Have a Problem Pt. II)

Recently, I read about a woman who has "fallen out of love" with where she lives.  And I wondered, is this what's happening with me?  Can we fall "out of love" with a place?  Is this what this whole "farm phase" is about?  Perhaps.

Tacoma has, certainly, been good to me, to my family.  It has provided us with a great way for Dave to make a living.  Our kids have gone to good schools.  And we are within walking distance to anything and everything we need.  Except for open-space.

And by open-space I don't mean some big fifty, one-hundred, or five-hundred acre spread.  I just mean a nice, little plot of land where I can have a decent garden, a few chickens (or a flock), and a dog or two (or five).  I mean a place that is ringed with trees, or shrubs, or, better yet, a hedgerow.  (Who wouldn't want to live where people use words like hedgerow?)  A place that is at the end of a long, winding, tree-lined drive.  Most importantly, a place that my neighbors cannot stand on their back deck and see into.  And it's not that I dislike my neighbors.  I don't.  They're quite nice.  I just like the idea of living in my own private paradise even more.  

So if I'm going to dream of paradise, why not include a few goats, a couple of sheep?  According to Catherine Friend, they're the perfect farm animal.  They simply play, and graze, and grow wool. And no offense to Catherine Friend, but if she can raise sheep, then so can I.  And I say this with the utmost respect for her as a farmer and a writer.  

You see, she, too, was a city girl.  A bookish city girl.  A city girl who loved nothing more than sitting around at the library, or bookstore, with her nose in a book.  Hmm... sounds familiar.  But when her partner asked her to help start a farm, being the good partner that she is, she said yes.  Of course I know I am jumping the gun on this a bit, as my partner has yet to ask me.  Nor will he ever.  Not when he's telling me "you've got to stop reading those farm books."  But he says it with a smile.  Or is it a smirk?

But he's right; it's time.  Time to shake this habit and get my life back.  My suburbian, city-slickin, Starbucks drinking, non-agrarian life back.  Step one on this road to recovery: return the library books.  All of them.  Keeping them will only prolong the suffering. But, oh how I've loved these books. They did what all good books do: they drew me in.  They made me laugh, made me cry, made me dream of a farm to call my own. Jenna Woginrich calls this desire, or affliction  "Barnheart."  And though it's "not recognized by physicians," this "dreamer's disease, a mix of hope, determination, and grit," is all too real.

You know you have it, she goes on to say in her book, also entitled "Barnheart," when you dream of chicken-coops, heritage tomato plants, livestock and electric fencing.  Like any addict, I don't want to admit I have a problem, but does dreaming of collecting chicken eggs and working in the garden really constitute having "a problem?"  Maybe, if that's all you think about.  But I don't.  I think about blueberries too.  And raspberries, and asparagus.  Why I just dug up more sod yesterday, just so I could make another new planting area.  And I'm now dreaming of owning my very own Vashon Broadfork.  But all in due time.

According to Jenna, none of this constitutes having a problem.  And I concur.  But you should decide for yourself.  So, whether you are interested in farming, fiddle-music, or simply love animals, you should check out her blog, Cold Antler Farm.  Or read her other books; Chick Days, and Made From Scratch. They're fun and informative.   Besides, she's cool, funny, and tells it like it is.  And, amazingly, she's running her own farm.  All. By. Herself.  Hence the title of her upcoming book:  "One Woman Farm."  (Yes, I see my fascination going on just a little longer.  What can I say, the road to recovery is riddled with bumps.)

So, if you're at all interested in farming, livestock, or crazy dreamers, but not brave enough to plow through the farming aisles of your own library, the following is a sampling of how my addiction fascination began.

Jessie Knadler showed me that that a writer from Manhattan (you can't get any more urban than that)   can give up Starbucks, yoga, and shoe shopping.  She can, then, move to the country, and take on the role of chicken farmer. She can survive a vicious rooster attack, learn how to dispatch said rooster, (among other chickens) and then, prepare coq au vin. More importantly, though, her experiences showed me that after trial and error and a whole lot of tears, it is possible to embrace a whole new life.  She wrote about this new life, with its new experiences, with such grace and laugh-out-loud humor, that when I finished this book, I thought, I can do that.  I can raise chickens.  I can get up early.  But I needed to do a little more reading first; so I went back to the library and found this:

In The Dirty Life, Kristin Kimball, another New York writer, also left her very comfortable life in The Big Apple to farm with her husband in rural, upstate New York. Their approach to farming, however, was very different from Knadler's.  Kimball and her husband weren't interested in simply producing enough food (vegetables) for their own nuclear family.  No; their dream was bigger. Their dream was to grow an entire diet (beef, pork, chicken, milk, eggs, maple syrup, grains, flours, beans, herbs, and vegetables) for an entire community. And they wanted to do it all with draft horses.  No modern conveniences on this farm. For they were also interested in leaving a very tiny carbon hoof-print.  Pretty lofty goals.  Goals that were met through hard work, and by removing the word "should" from their vocabulary. At least from her husband's vocabulary. And goals that continue to be met.  Essex Farm is, today, a fully functioning CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm. 

Upon arriving at her new home, Kimball, like Knadler, found herself in a community, that despite its warm welcome, was completely foreign and, initially, skeptical of their efforts.  As time went on, however, she not only embraced her new neighbors, but the farm, and all it's work, and found  herself happier than she'd ever been.  "For the first time, (she) could clearly see the connection between (her) actions and their consequences." I think those of us who live in the city, and rely upon farmers for our food, are much too removed from this.  It saddens me that the only connection, or bond, we have with our meat, our eggs, is the time we spend wheeling them through the grocery store.

While I didn't find this book to be as laugh-out-loud funny as Knadler's,  I loved it just the same.  Kimball  is  thoughtful, insightful, and has an expansive vocabulary.  Let's just say I now know what a doyen is, and I like to believe I am one. :)

Because I couldn't stop there, I started in on Catherine Friend's, Hit By a Farm and laughed and laughed as I followed her on her farming adventure.

Hit by a Farm, by Catherine Friend

Catherine Friend, may not have called New York City home, but she definitely started out as a city girl.   Specifically, a Pennsylvanian city girl.  But as I mentioned earlier, when her partner asked her if she'd help her farm, she jumped right in.  Well, maybe not right in.  But she agreed.  And like the above-mentioned fellow farmers, she learned a lot along the way.  So did I.  

I learned that lamb (the meat) is not just a baby lamb, but a nearly full-sized sheep.  I learned that sheep are one tough animal.  They can survive extreme temperatures, (of course shearing in the summer months helps) and they are good mothers.  So good, in fact, that they have been known to try and steal another ewe's lamb. Okay, maybe that's not a good mother.  I learned that one pound of wool can produce ten miles of yarn.  Ten miles!  I wonder how many dish cloths I can make out of that!  Finally, I learned where the term spinster comes from.  

In Sheepish, Friend's follow-up to Hit By a Farm,

Friend revealed how serious those Massachusetts colonials were about spinning wool. "Each family had to spin a pound of yarn a week for thirty weeks out of each year, and the colony charged a penalty of twelve pence for every pound a family fell short.  Thus, many families began supporting an unmarried relative, or friend in the house to perform the task." Voila; the spinster.

So that's it; my list.  But clearly I could continue on this journey for books to come.  Currently, I'm trying to finish up this one, 

but it's a little more difficult as it brings me face to face with the lives and deaths of the animals that I eat.  But I think that's a good thing.  

The common thread among all of these books is the authors.  All women.  Women who were raised in the city and, then, as adults, transplanted themselves into the country.  None of them had any experience at farming, they just dove in head-first.  Which is probably the best way to tackle a big, lofty, goal.  Kimball reflected upon this too.  After struggling to get their farm up and running, she wrote about the peace she found "inside an infinite challenge."  This line really resonated with me for I feel that sometimes with all the hustle and bustle of our fragmented, modern world, and all the work we do every day, somehow we are missing out on the peace, the joy, that comes from taking one difficult thing and really doing it well. Whether it's tending a garden, building a bicycle, or writing a story. 

What I loved even more about all of these authors/farmers, though, is how much they love their work and their animals.  Yes, the animals they raise to feed others.  For they take pride in raising happy, content, well-fed, free-range animals.  They feel proud knowing their livestock feeds their neighbors, their communities, themselves.  They also love the work farming requires.  Even, as Kimball declared, "the overabundance of it."  That's a lot to feel good about. No wonder I'd like to join their club.

But not now.  Now I'm off to the library.  To look my Barnheart right in the eye, and say goodbye.  Because it's time for this girl to stop dreaming about sheep,  buff orpingtons, and soft, loamy, soil. Because Nora Jane came downstairs this morning and told me she had a dream that we bought a silkie bantam.  Because they make good mothers.  Oh dear.

Keep on keeping on-
S-

Best Laid Plans and All That

Some days you've just got to listen to the signs. Take today, for instance. 

The weather app on my phone predicted rain at 2:00 p.m. I know this is just a prediction, but these modern weather guys are pretty spot-on for the most part.  Thus, with a few hours of dry weather before me, I planned to hop on OB, (orange bike) my new bike from Double Tall Cycles, aka Dave, and take her for a little spin.  So after I took Nora Jane to school, and after a quick walk around the blocks with Jack E Boy, (that's about all he can do these days), I ran upstairs to change into my cycling clothes.  I had, literally, just pulled on my last sock when I heard the rain come roaring in.  I thought, you've got to be kidding me!  It's only 9:48 a.m.! 

Discouraged, I sat on the bed, wishing I lived in a sunny climate, and tried to determine my plan of action: trade my riding clothes for running shorts and go for a run? Or, keep the riding clothes and hit the trainer in the basement?  

The latter sounded like less work, so I headed downstairs only to find a flat rear tire.  Oh brother! Already?  I've only taken her on four or five rides!  How could she have a flat already?  Maybe I'm not supposed to go for a ride today.  But not being one to listen to signs, I pressed on.  Besides, my girlfriends are getting ready for our Chelan Ride in a few weeks and there is NO way they are going to kick my butt.

Grateful that the tire change will occur in a nice, warm, dry garage, I got busy.  After I got the bike reassembled, I gave the tires a quick once-over and discovered that the rear tire was flat again!  What is going on today?  

So, again, and much more carefully, I searched the tire and there it was, the culprit: a teeny tiny piece of metal.  

By this time, the sun was out.  Blue skies were even spotted among the clouds.  But, alas, I am sitting at the computer for I am out of tubes, without a car, and hungry.  So, instead of riding, I'll eat my lunch, finish some laundry, and wait for Dave to come home with my new tubes!  Who knows, I may even talk him into going out for a ride with me :)

If it's not raining that is; unlike me, he does NOT mess with that sign.

On Meeting a Legend

Last Sunday was the annual running of The Tacoma City Marathon and due to a revised route, the runners ran right through our neck of the woods. Specifically, right past Starbucks. Always happy to sip coffee in the sunshine, especially if there is an event to watch, I was eager to attend.  Dave, being the agreeable fella that he is, was down with that.  Nora Jane, however, not being one to go out for coffee, took some bribing.  With the promise of a cinnamon roll for breakfast, however, she was quickly on board.   So we hopped on our bikes and pedaled to the race.

Upon our arrival, I quickly gave Dave my order and claimed the one remaining outdoor table.  Sitting there, under sunny skies, watching the first runners go by, I was happy to see the other fans who gave up their morning at home to come out and cheer on some crazy runners. And the runners appreciate it.  26.2 miles is a LONG way.  

While the crowd wasn't huge, or overly-loud, they definitely did their fair share of woo-hooing.  Except for Nora.  She remained silent, cheering from within.  Like Nora, not all of the spectators came for the race.  The man sitting at the next table told me he "just wanted a cup of coffee." But once the runners started coming by, he "had to stay and watch."  For, like me, he got pulled into the camaraderie,  the energy, and the goodwill those runners brought to our little corner. Having run this race myself, I think I appreciated his being there more than the cheering moms, husbands and kids.  Because he didn't have to be there.  But he got caught up in the costumes, the sign-waving fans, and, the pleasure of being  a part of something bigger than ourselves.

I believe events like these are not just healthy for the participants, they are good for the community.  As spectators, cheering on our friends and families, or people we don't even know,  we form a bond: a pride in the people who live here.  And we are happy to share that with one another.  So while we sip our coffees, and wait for our loved ones to arrive, we visit.  We visit with old colleagues, who are cheering on the barista from their favorite coffee shop.  We catch up on each others lives, the lives of our children.  Some of whom are having children even!  

We visit with the naval pilot who is waiting for his wife to arrive.  While we wait, we learn that he once ran an entire marathon on a treadmill.  On a treadmill!  Because running on the aircraft carriers was hard on his knees!  Egads!  

And we visit with legends, like Leon.  Leon, it turns out, won the Tacoma City Marathon way back in 1981.  And though he wasn't running on this day, he was very much a part of the race.  Standing on the corner, showing his Loggers Pride, mingling with the other former superstars, he was all smiles as he cheered on the runners and reminisced about the old days. 

Leon attended the race with his sister, our friend's mom.  This woman's sole purpose on this sunny Sunday was to introduce her brother, Leon Bombardier,--to everyone.  And, like a proud parent, she took the job of showing him off very seriously.  But her praise was justified, for Leon, it turns out, didn't just win way back in 1981, he won it in a time of 2:26:11.  Pretty impressive considering this year's first-place finisher, Bill Condon, crossed the line in 2:43:52. 

But that's not all; Leon also ran with Pre! 

"Really," I asked.  Not even trying to mask my surprise.  

"Oh, ya.  We were roommates."  I couldn't believe it.  I was standing next to a legend.  Our discussion, then, got more personal as we discussed the other local runners we all knew; Ring, Salazar. When I asked if he still ran, he just laughed and said, "I wish, but I need a new butt.  And a new hamstring."   Dude.  I hear ya.  

As we shook hands and said goodbye, I told him to enjoy the morning.  He replied, "oh I am!" 

Riding home after the race, I thought what a great morning!  I went out for coffee and met a legend.  Oh, and I got to eat a cinnamon roll.  It doesn't get much better than that!

The Boys are Back in Town!

Guess who just got back today?
Those wild-eyed boys that had been away
Haven't changed, haven't much to say
But man, I still think those cats are great...

The Boys are Back in Town!
The Boys are Back in Town!

Okay they aren't really boys--or cats--they're juncos; but that's how the song goes. And they aren't ALL back, just a few here and there. And they brought friends: House Sparrows and Golden-Crowned Sparrows (who are very pretty by the way.)

Although I'm still hoping to see a few more juncos, it's nice to have life back in the backyard.

Blueberries, Raspberries, and Compost-- Oh My!

Our computer was on the fritz this week so, since I was unable to do any blogging, I did the next best thing: I dug.  And dug and dug and dug.  

My intentions, prior to all of this digging, were simply to plant a few flowers and

amend my flower beds and vegetable garden.  My soil is very heavy.  It's hard-packed clay and it will break your back, and your spirit, if you let it.  But I don't.  I just curse it and add more compost.  This method seems to have worked fairly well for me, though, and over the last few years, the flower beds have become a little easier to dig and work in.  Creating a new planting area, however, is a whole different story.

So when my sweet friend, Addie, called the other day to ask if I'd like to have some raspberry plants, I thought hard about my answer.  Of course, I'd love to have some raspberries of my own.  They're sweet, delicious, and they're Nora Jane's favorite fruit (not including mangoes, but we can't grow those here). Since I didn't have a planting area ready for them, however, and I wasn't in the mood for ground-breaking, my plan was to thankfully decline.  Well, she wasn't interested in my plans, and before I could pick up my phone to return her call, she was at my house with a bucket-full of transplants.  I looked from her bucket to the bags of compost lying near the flower beds and thought, sorry guys; it looks like we're going to have to do some real work.

  

Upon hearing there was ground that needed breaking, Dave headed to The Range to test out Nora Jane's new shotgun, so I headed to the shed for the shovel.  A few hours later, my six little canes were in the ground.

After school, Nora Jane decorated the border with rocks and bricks while I sat in the sun, drank a beer and thought about dinner.  I was tired, but the sun was out and it had been a good day.  After dinner, I put all the tools back into the shed and promised the remaining bags of compost they'd get tucked into the flower beds tomorrow afternoon.  But that was before I had dreams of blueberries. 

People like me should not drink coffee at night.  They probably shouldn't drink coffee at all.  It just makes us jittery, keeps us awake and fills our heads with all kinds of plans.  Plans that include adding a trellis to your back fence, laying a path inside the back gate, and growing your very own blueberries.  And since the Internet is accessible twenty-four hours a day, and from your bed via your iPad, you can dream and plan simultaneously.  So that's what I did.  I planned out a planting site, and dreamt of blueberry muffins as I drifted off to sleep.  

The next morning, after dropping Nora Jane off at school, I, again, got out the shovel.  And as predicted the ground was hard.  Harder, in fact, than I thought it should be.  Or maybe I was still tired from the digging I had done the day before.  But I kept at it, enjoyed it even, after I got into a groove.  A few hours later, under the supervision of Jack, my trusty sidekick, I was done. 

sleeping on the job

I know that despite all of my spring-time digging, I won't get much summer-time fruit, (this year) but the promise of next year is alive.  And my belly and my aching back can't wait. 

For now, today is Saturday and that means Market Day.  So after Dave went for a bike ride, Nora Jane and I went  to the Market.  She got a pot of marigolds and a little pot of lemon balm, "because it smells nice mom."  I picked up some onion starts, more spring lettuce, (mine is coming though!) TWO BLUEBERRY PLANTS

Sunshine Blue

and more rhubarb.  I think I'm obsessed with this plant.  I should probably just get my own plant.  I want to make rhubarb sauce,  rhubarb upside down cake, and almond rhubarb breakfast bars.  But those will have to wait, Dave requested another pie.

This week's is a little prettier :)

I realize that growing my own rhubarb will require another planting area, but that's the good thing about gardening.  It never ends.  There will always be another tomorrow.  A tomorrow when my body and my back are rested.  Besides, a new planting area also means asparagus--my favorite vegetable.

Keep on keeping on--

S-

P.S.  Apparently, Saturday also means Lemonade For Sale!

Nora and Meredith
of
Nora and Meredith's Orange, Lime, Lemonade Stand