Out of the Mouth of Nora Jane.....

Nora Jane did not want to take a shower last night after soccer practice.

When I told her she needed too, because today is Halloween and she'd be busy this evening, she said, "can't I just take a REALLY long one on Friday?"

How to Tell if the Man you Love is a Keeper (In 30 Easy Steps)

Disclaimer:  I, personally,  have only conducted the following study ONCE.  Because my results proved so positive, however, I feel confident that if you would like to try this study yourself you should see very similar results.

In order to guarantee these results, though,  it is absolutely imperative that you follow these steps precisely.  Do not skip any steps.  Make sure the steps are completed in the order posted and ABSOLUTELY DO NOT begin this test until AFTER your man has left town FOR AT LEAST A WEEK!  With any luck, you, too, will realize that the man you are with is the one you should never let go.

Good luck!

1.  While your man is away, phone him nightly and inquire about his day.

2.  While on the phone with him, remind him how much he means to you, and that you can't wait to see him again.

3.  While this step goes without saying, DO NOT forget to tell him you love him... A LOT!

4.  After he's been away for five days, take a trip to your local animal shelter to see about adopting a puppy that you previously viewed online.

5.  Once at the shelter, you will learn that said puppy was adopted ONE HOUR prior to your arrival.  Do not despair, however.  Instead, listen to the shelter staff and agree to  a walk-through to view the other adoptable dogs.

6.  STOP--as soon as you come to a kennel housing the little brown dog winking at you from deep inside her e-collar.

7.  Place your right hand over your heart and feel how quickly your heart is beating while you look at Little Brown Dog's sweet face.

8.  While continuing to smile at her, tell her how beautiful she is even though one of her eyes doesn't seem to open.

9.  Kneel down on to the concrete floor and slip your fingers under her cage COMPLETELY DISREGARDING the DO NOT TOUCH DOGS sign posted RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.  Let Little Brown Dog sniff and lick your fingers until Ms. Looky-Loo rudely informs you "that you shouldn't touch the dogs.  It says so right here."

10.  Even though you feel like telling Ms. Loo to mind her own beeswax, you must, instead, smile and politely tell her "thank you for the reminder."

11.  Play with Little Brown Dog in the "Visitation Room" all the while trying to take pictures of her with your iPhone despite her inability to sit still.

12.  Stick your hand inside her collar, scratch under her neck and behind her ears, and watch her melt like buttah.

13.  Feel your own heart melt the very same way.

14.  Tell Little Brown Dog that you'd like to adopt her, if she'll have you.

15.  Spend an eternity filling out the necessary paperwork to make her yours.

16.  When all the I's are dotted and all the T's are crossed, kiss her and tell her you're ALL HERS. :)

17.  Place her into the back seat of your daughter's tiny little car and RUSH to the pet store before picking up your child from elementary school so that you can buy a new dog bed and some dog food.

18.  Introduce Little Brown Dog to your child after she puts down the book she is reading while walking to the car to meet you.  (I guarantee said child will IMMEDIATELY fall head over heels for said doggie)

19.  Once you arrive home, snap a picture of Little Brown Dog and send it to your far away man with the attached text:  Meet our new baby!!!!

20(A).   PRAY that he calls back.

20(B).  PRAY that he will still return home at the end of his trip.

21.  When he finally calls you, be sure to repeat steps 2 and 3.  (This is very important.)

22.  Begin describing Little Brown Dog to your man.  Tell him how sweet and cute she is.  Tell him how she will be such a good fit for your family because she's so athletic.  How she will surely be a good runner and MOST DEFINITELY a FABULOUS mountain biker!  And how, with training, maybe she could even play hockey!  (Okay that may be a stretch)

23.  After your man says okay, send him constant doggie photos and updates with messages that read:

"Hi Daddy, can't wait to meet you!"

"Hi Daddy, had such a good night.  I slept all night long!"

"Hi Daddy I haven't had ONE accident in the house!  Not one!"

"Hi Daddy, met Grandpa Dahl Today.  He's super cool!"

And so on...

24.  When the time comes for your man to meet Little Brown Dog have NO fear!  He will come prepared with a bag of doggie treats that he purchased on his way home therefore making their first meeting a successful one.

25.  Spend the next few days with your man, your child, and Little Brown Dog at the soccer field, 

Cheering on Nora's team

in the woods, or driving down the road in your man's truck.  Feel your heart grow every time you look at them all together.

26.  Three days after your man comes home from his trip, accompany him and Little Brown Dog to the vet where you will learn that Little Brown Dog needs immediate eye surgery.  In Seattle!

27.  Tell your man how sorry you are for taking on this dog, on your own, without any input from him, only to learn that she has "some issues."  

28.  Smile when he responds with, "well, we better fix her then."

29.  Load Little Brown Dog back into your daughter's tiny little car, kiss your man goodbye, and head North on I-5.

30.  When your man texts a few hours later and says, "Don't stress about Hattie.  She'll be a good dog with one eye or two.  She's what REALLY called you to the pound that day.  To save her!  Karma Points for you!"  wipe your eyes and reply with the message: "I LOVE YOU!"  

To which he will reply: "LOVE YOU MOST!"  Which will make you cry again and realize that this man you love, this man you married, is a keeper!  To be kept close forever!

Welcome to the family Hattie!  I hope you'll like it here :)

This post is dedicated to Dave (and Hattie)

Whose Version is Right When it Comes to the Truth?

My oldest daughter has a special talent.  She can recall any line from any movie she's ever seen.  I don't know how she inherited this gift, since Dave doesn't even really watch movies (sitting still is not something he does well) and I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday.  So this ability of hers, this power to recall even the most insignificant detail, is, to me, quite amazing.

Despite my lack of talent in this area, I have memories I would give anything to forget.  And, believe me, I have tried.  For years I have pushed them away, buried them deep, only to have them resurface.

Why is that?  Why can I not remember what I wore two days ago, but can't forget something that happened over thirty years ago? Perhaps I buried them too deeply. Perhaps it's my obsessive personality that won't let them go. Whatever the reason, they are still with me.  With me during the day and with me in my dreams.  And though some of the images have faded, some of the lines have blurred, unlike yesterday's news, they won't completely fade away.  Because memories are powerful.  And they have a way of taking hold.

I'm sure there is a psychological name for this, some Freudian something or other.  But my Psych 101 class was a LONG time ago and asking an expert with a PhD after their name has, to this point, never been something I felt comfortable doing.  So, instead, I seek understanding through my writing.

In doing so, however, I realize that looking at one's past through a self-directed lens doesn't allow us to see the complete picture.  Memories can be very one-sided.  "Broken" is a perfect example.  This story is told completely from the child's point-of-view.  But, does this one-sidedness make the memory any less real?  Any less true?  I'm sure, if asked, the parents in this story would probably (both) provide very different accounts of what happened that day. And both of them would be right.

We all want to believe that our memories, our histories, are told accurately, truthfully.  Yet I  also believe that parents and their children can have very different versions of the same truth.  So whose version is right?

As children, it's very difficult to see past the noses on our own faces and understand how someone else is feeling.  We simply aren't capable of that.  We see events only as they relate to ourselves.  Maybe the mother in "Broken" really did need to get away from her family. Maybe the weight of marriage and motherhood was simply too much for her.  A twelve-year-old would never understand this. But that doesn't mean she wasn't right to feel hurt, angry.  Nor does it mean that as she moves into adulthood, living with these memories will become any less difficult.  If it did, there would be a lot of therapists looking for work.

Maybe, as adults, we shouldn't try so hard to forget.  Maybe we should use our past, our memories, as tools to learn from. I know that my memories have influenced my life.  They have shown me how not to parent.  How not to communicate.  How not to treat my body, my spirit.  Maybe that's why they are still with me.  Not to haunt me.  But to serve as a reminder.  To teach me.  To guide me.  

When the Writing Gets Heavy

Sometimes writing is hard.  It's heavy.  It's emotional.  It's personal.  But that's the nature of the beast. Yet we press on.  

But some days pushing through, digging deep, writing through the laughter or the tears is just too hard.     Some days it's just too much.

When this happens, there is nothing to do but close the notebook, cap the pen, turn off the computer, and go for a run.  

I See Dead People (or What I Think About When I Run)

Yesterday, I ran the trails at Point Defiance Park and it felt great!  It had been too long.  And since it is Fall, and Fall in the park is always beautiful, I could write about the dying leaves that blanketed the ground and crunched under my footsteps.  Or the birds that rustled deep inside the bushes and startled me at every turn.  Or how wonderful the soft breeze felt on my arms and legs.  But that would be boring.  And, besides, I just told you.  So, instead, I will write about what really made my run memorable.  And how it all started with a stumble.

****************************************************************

I had just entered the trail, after leaving my car in the zoo parking lot, when I tripped and rolled my right ankle.  Like I said, it had been a while.  The trail was no longer familiar, its unevenness hidden beneath brown and yellow leaves.  Since it was a minor incident, just a misstep really, I kept going and promised myself I'd keep my eyes fixed firmly on the trail ahead of me. Which I did. And all was well. Until I rounded the next bend and saw The Birdwatcher.

The Birdwatcher was dressed in her usual attire: puffy, blue parka; knitted, blue cap; khaki pants, and boots that are neither brown or gray, but somewhere in between.  Topping it all off was a set of binoculars draped over her shoulders.  The Birdwatcher and I have met many times.  Surprisingly, she always seems to be there, walking the trails, whenever I am.  Yesterday, like always, she stepped all the way off the trail, held her walking stick high above the bushes, and allowed me to pass.    As I passed, I said hi, like I always do.  Keeping her back to me and her eyes on the trail, she countered with her own very serious, very gruff "Good Afternoon" which, like usual, made me feel as if I had interrupted her.    Never knowing how to respond to that, I kept on.   Soon enough, she was far behind and the trail was wide open and smooth.  Until a few turns later, when I ran into another regular.

Bike Shorts Guy was also dressed in his usual trail garb; tight, black, bike shorts, puffy blue jacket, and ankle-high gray socks that seem to really highlight his bulging calf muscles. Like The Birdwatcher before him, I always see this man on my morning runs.  Morning being the key word here. When I ran into him yesterday, though, it was 2:30..... P.M.!

Why, I wondered, were they both here now? They should be long gone.  Don't they ever leave?  Do they spend their days walking laps at the park, looking for birds, and avoiding eye contact with runners?  Befuddled, I ran on and tried to clear my mind.  The same mind that has a tendency to get a little carried away.

As I climbed the trail up to Fort Nisqually, I ran into The Dog Walkers and their fat, black Lab.  The black Lab that always hears me before I see him and lets me know it by offering up a big, loud, intimidating bark.  Like The Birdwatcher and Bike Shorts Guy before them, The Dog Walkers stepped far off the trail, shielding me from Fatty with their bodies. But it was no use, Fatty knows a dog lover and smiled up at me and gave my outstretched hand a little sniff.  Neither of his owners said hello, but nodded, their eyes, too, averted to the ground.

And that's when my imagination got the best of me.  That's when my imagination told me that these people aren't just regular seniors, out for their daily walk.  No these quiet hikers are actually dead people.    And only I can see them!  What else could explain why these silent park keepers are always here?  Regardless of what time I show up.  And what else could explain why they are always dressed in the same outfits?  And why they never look at me!

Oh no!  Maybe I didn't just stumble earlier.  Maybe I actually fell and hit my head.  Maybe I hit it so hard I don't even remember it. Because I have a concussion!  Or, maybe now I'm dead too!  Only I don't know it yet!  And that's why they won't look me in the eye!  They don't want to be the ones to tell me!

I picked up my pace, felt my head for lumps, bumps, cuts and blood.  I didn't feel any signs of trauma.  Nothing to indicate my earlier stumble was anything more than that...just a stumble.

As I rounded the last bend in the trail, I saw my car.  Right where I left it.  I saw an escaped peacock walking in the dirt.  I saw a Grandmother pushing her grandson in a stroller.  And she saw me!  Smiled at me even!  So I couldn't be dead!  Then she said, "hi, how was your run?"

Oh it was great!  Quiet, peaceful and absolutely not filled with dead people.

I said that last part very quietly, and with eyes averted to the ground.

Then I got in my car and had a serious talk with my imagination.

Why I Never Became a Nurse

I would have made a GREAT nurse.  I have all the right qualities.  I am caring, nurturing and I LOVE taking care of sick people. At least my sick people.  I love bringing them juice, soup, and their favorite soft foods after they have their wisdom teeth removed.  (Note how I didn't say pulled....just the thought of teeth being pulled, or ripped out, sets my stomach a-flippin)

Anna's soft food diet

I love fluffing their pillows and tucking them into their blankets.  I don't even mind running to the pharmacy to pick up their medicine or driving them home, with a mouth full of gauze and eyes that are glazed.  And how could I mind running to McDonald's for a nice, soft, chocolate milkshake?  That just means I get one too!  And fries!

What I don't like, however, is changing their bloody band-aids, seeing beneath their dermis, or looking at a bone after it's moved outside of their skin.  I don't even like talking about their ailments.   And, God forbid, one of my patients ask me to look inside her bloody mouth to see "what's hanging next to her cheek because it feels weird," because that, alone, will send me running to the bathroom.  

That is why I left nursing to the professionals and stuck with being Dr. Mom.

No Need to Rush

I couldn't wait to start reading my new book, "One Woman Farm."  I had been eagerly awaiting its arrival.  So, the night it came, I couldn't wait for dinner to be over, for Nora Jane to go to bed, and for Dave to head down to his shop.  When that magical hour finally arrived, I sat down on the couch, a fresh cup of coffee at my side, (I had planned a long night of reading) and hit the books...book.

I started out the same way I do when perusing a new magazine, flipping through the pages, looking at  all of the illustrations before going back to the beginning and working my way through. The images I saw, though, weren't just any ordinary drawings.  Beautifully simple, and almost child-like, these were hand-crafted with care, to appeal to both young and old.   I know, after Nora peeked through, she declared, "I want to read it when you're done mom!"

When I actually started reading, though, I realized this was not a book to rush through like a child on Christmas morning, eager to open each and every present.  Despite one of the comments on the back cover, "I didn't want to put it down," this is a book to be savored.  To be enjoyed bit by bit. And it can, easily.  For, really, it's a compilation of love letters from the author to her farm.  With each of her letters romantically describing her connection to her land and her animals throughout the changing seasons, months, days.   

You can open to the entry from February 28th and learn that following her pig harvest she felt "lousy with pork" (which simply means she's filled to excess with pork, not lousy at cooking pork like I initially thought).  

Or you can flip to October 12th (my favorite so far) and be reminded that clans are not, necessarily, who we are born into, or even who we marry, but "people who wrap you in their support and concern..."  People, who if you are lucky to find them, will make you realize that you've found "home."  

Or you can turn to page 69 and read "My Life, My Love," wherein she states that she's been criticized for writing too romantically about her farm life, only to respond "that's because this IS a romance.  I am head over heels for this place."  Seems like a reasonable response to me.  

It doesn't matter where you start, where you pick up.  Each page is a separate little story, lovingly crafted together to create one big romantic year-in-the-life.  

So, sorry Nora, you're going to have to wait.  For I plan to take my time and enjoy every minute of it. 

Finally, the author of "One Woman Farm," does not know me or know that I am plugging her book, I just want to let people know that if you need a little romance in your life, this could be the book for you. 

Happy Reading--

Broken (A Story)

Broken

I don’t remember the exact date my world changed, but I do remember the minute it changed, like it was yesterday.  It was the day I walked out of my parents’ bedroom, after being sent in there to fetch something for my mother, and saw her kissing a man.  A man who was not my father.  I was twelve years old.

Stunned, I stepped back into their bedroom before they spotted me. I felt myself shaking.  Like always, their bedroom was cold as it was the farthest from the living room, and the wood stove.  Despite the chill, though, I felt my temperature rising, my emotions exploding, heating me from within.  Not sure what to do, I sat at the foot of their enormous bed and looked at the headboard my dad had made from an old wooden door. He was always so resourceful. My mom’s book lay open on her nightstand, a pencil keeping the pages apart.  She would never dog-ear the pages like a normal person.  She said it was because when she was young a librarian told her that if she did that, it would hurt the pages.  It was waiting for tonight when she’d pick it up and read a few pages before sleep overtook her.  She had started going to bed early, retreating to her bedroom not long after dinner, while we lounged on the floor and watched TV until my dad woke up from his nap and ordered us to bed.  I thought about throwing that book at her, at him.  But not until I’d bent each and every page down into a perfect little triangle.  It was just some stupid Harlequin Romance anyway.  That’s all she and her friends ever read.  Passing them back and forth like they were treasures to be savored.  

I don’t know how long I sat there, but unable to stand the cold any longer, I stood up and with the magazine my mom sent me after in hand, the magazine that was just an excuse to get me out of the room, I walked out. I didn’t get far.  Just outside the doorway I saw them again, still standing too close, saying goodbye. I lightly fingered the piano keys to my left.  I didn’t want to make any sound.  I had plunked away on this piano for several years, before I became bored with lessons, practicing, and asked my mom if I could stop.  Without hesitation, she said yes.  Finances were tight and piano lessons were just another expense.  They must have heard me, for he leaned around behind my mom and quickly waved goodbye.  I hated him.  

My mom closed the door behind him, gave me a quick wink, which I returned with a gaze that could only imply that I knew, and returned to the basket of clean laundry on the couch.  This is where all of the laundry folding took place, in front of the TV.  Neat little piles of socks and underwear, jeans and my dad’s t-shirts lined up on the back of the couch.  Crisp and clean in their own rank and file. 

How could she just turn and dive right back into our ordinary life, our ordinary chores?  Our life was no longer ordinary! She had just changed it; I had seen it.  And if I could have, I would have told her so.  I would have yelled these words to her.  And more.  But that’s not how I was raised.  I didn’t sass my parents and I, certainly, didn’t “make scenes.”  Instead, I tossed her the long-forgotten magazine.  It landed on the coffee table in front of her, nearly knocking her half-smoked cigarette out of the ash tray when it landed.  Then I walked to the attic bedroom I shared with my  sister, leaving her on the couch to wipe up the scattered cigarette ash, my dad’s socks and underwear at her feet.

A few minutes later, armed with our clean laundry, she climbed the stairs to my room.  There was no door at the top of the stairs.  No protection.  No way to keep her out.  No way of signaling to her that I never wanted to talk to her again.  So, of course, she walked right in and sat down on my bed.  Even though I was turned away, facing the wall.  And then she asked me the question I have never been able to forget: “what do you think about going to live with him?” I guess she thought the direct approach would be best.  Did she really expect me to answer that?  I guess she did, for she tried again.  “It might be fun, a new adventure.  And we could bring your sisters.”   She sounded like she was trying to convince me to go to a party! Although I couldn’t see her, I knew she was wearing her  “I promise to ...., if you agree to...” smile.  

What she wasn’t offering was an apology, or, at least, an excuse.  I guess she thought I didn’t need one.  I guess, in her eyes, I wasn’t the one she was hurting.  But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in her apologies, her promises of happiness, or, even, a brand-new bedroom to call my own.  I didn’t need anymore happiness.  I’d had enough.  When she, finally, realized I wasn’t going to  answer her, or accept her promise of a shiny, new life, she rose and headed for the stairs.  As she walked away, through silent tears, I said, “you’ve broken us.”  She kept walking.  

A little later I heard her on the phone.  With him.  She wasn’t even whispering! It was as if she wanted me to hear. “She knows...she saw...I don’t know...I still want to.”  While I only heard snippets, it was enough to make me realize that it wasn’t just a mistake.  Or just a one time thing.  And throughout the call, there wasn’t a touch of shame in her voice.  

So much time has passed since that day.  I don’t even remember his name. My mom never got her shiny, new life with him.  She did move out, though, leaving us with my dad.  A dad who, at the time, was in no condition to be raising three girls.  Leaving me to take over dinner, laundry, watching my little sisters, all jobs that used to be hers. I never told my dad about that day.  For all I know, he already knew.  But I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him, to hurt him.  That was her job.

Eventually I saw him again.  I was sixteen and my parents were long divorced.  I had grown taller,  wore makeup and drove myself to work.  I was a grownup, or so I thought.  He came in to the drug store where I worked making milkshakes  behind the lunch counter for out of town tourists and after school kids.  He was picking up a prescription for his wife, who was with him.  Everyone else was busy.  It fell to me to help him.  

He looked the same, ordinary.  His hair was still brown.  He still wore glasses.  He still knew me.  Knew what I knew.  With the exception of the polite “thank you” from his wife, at the end of his transaction, his purchase occurred in complete silence.  I had no smiles, no have-a-good-day wishes to offer him.  So they turned and walked out of the store. As I returned to my regular post, behind the soda fountain counter, I watched them walk away with that comfortable familiarity that only comes from spending many years together. 

I still hated him.  

It's Going to Be a Long Night!

Fresh from the mailbox!

And it's beautiful!

The inside front:

The inside back:

The farmer:

 (and Merlin)

Yep, it's definitely going to be a long night :)

Out of the Mouth of Nora Jane

After school today, Nora declared, "Mom, I discovered that I like decimals and fractions!"

I don't think this kid is even 1/16th mine....

I Think I Found a Soul Mate

I discovered a new blog: http://www.bedlamfarm.com This farm is run by the writer, Jon Katz, and his wife, Maria Wulf.  Together, they live on their farm with a menagerie of sheep, donkeys, chickens, barn cats and, of course, dogs.  Three dogs to be exact; Freida, Red, and Lenore.

In one of Katz's recent posts, he wrote about how he doesn't mourn the loss of his dogs, but, rather, "gives thanks for his time with them and "acknowledges the gratitude (he) feel(s) for having other dogs who are just as wonderful and challenging and spiritual in their own way." 

I wish I could say I haven't mourned for Jack, but I have.  Although it doesn't hurt as much now, I still feel his loss every day.  

Katz goes on to say that after he loses a dog he chooses not to mark the anniversary of its death in any special way, preferring to relish in the love, the joy he gets from the dogs who are STILL living with him.  

But what if the dog you lost was your only one?  What if you don't have any others waiting to comfort you?  To walk with you?  To lick your face and your tears?  

His words made me wonder why I felt compelled to plant a tree for Jack.  Come July 22, 2014, that tree won't help me to remember Jack any more than if I had left that soil unturned.  

So why was it so important for me to pay tribute to Jack?  A tribute he would never understand.  Maybe that tree provides me something tangible, something visible to prove that Jack was once here.  That he mattered.  That he was loved.  I know it can't make me feel like he's still here, still with me. That's silly.  I know the only place Jack will be forever now is in my heart.

One of the dads at Nora's soccer game recently told me that the only way he's found to get over the loss of a dog is to get another dog.  And he said he's never been without a dog.  Until now, either have I.  

Maybe both of these men are right.  

A Parent's Dream

Thanks to Netflix, I have discovered a whole new world of television.  Over the past few months, I've watched the entire seasons of "Doc Martin," (how could I not love such an obnoxious, rude, know-it-all?) "Orange is the New Black," and, most recently, "Parenthood."  I can't wait for Thursday nights at 10:00!  

I love this show because the actors are phenomenal and the story lines seem believable, real.  But, the real reason I love this show is because the Braverman clan is so strikingly different from the family I grew up in.  And yet, it's what I hope my own family will some day become.   The Bravermans are a loving, loyal family who truly enjoy spending time with one another, traveling together, and, of course, are exceptionally devoted to the family matriarch.  (Okay, I made up the matriarch part--that's just my  own personal dream.)

Obviously, I realize this family is fabricated.  And they aren't perfect.  Like all of us, they fight, they suffer, they face real problems and real challenges.  But, since they live in Hollywood, by the end of the show, they have forgiven one another and are seated around their parent's dinner table, laughing and loving one another.  Just like the family I grew up in.... NOT!

I realize I'm not the only person to hail from a dysfunctional family.  There are a lot of us out there.  It could even be argued that dysfunction is the new norm.  That the Braverman-types are the exception.   All is know is that I have worked for over twenty years to ensure my family is loving, kind to one another, and happy spending time together.  

Because wouldn't it be wonderful to spend time with your siblings, because you want to?  To live in the same town.  To "pop-in" for coffee.  To share a favorite restaurant.  My sisters and I are as geographically and emotionally distant as possible.  They have struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction for much of their lives.  And the last time I saw the two of them was several years ago, at my nephew's funeral.  After he was shot, during a drug deal gone bad.  

Nor are my parents anything like the Braverman leaders.  They divorced when I was twelve years old when my mom left to find herself.  My dad married and divorced two other women before he found sobriety and peace with himself. In contrast to the Bravermans, my family looks like an episode just waiting for a call from Jerry Springer.  My husband's family has also had it's share of troubles, but since I don't feel I have permission to share that with the world, I won't.  Suffice it to say, that the my Larson Clan is small, probably too small to be called a clan as it numbers only four.  But four is a start.  

My hope is to see this number grow as I grow old.  To see my daughters love one another, laugh and cry together, go out for coffee, and talk about important things like Nora's Prom, and where she should go for college.  Then to move on to bigger things like their husbands and their children.  I'm seeing the beginning of this already. When Anna does Nora's hair.  When they go out to Starbucks for "treats."  When they watch Harry Potter together on the couch for the zillionth time.  When they strike ridiculous poses in front of the camera for Instagram or Anna's Face book.  Recently, I even overheard Anna ask Nora for "advice" on dealing with an over-booked social calendar.  Which I thought was HILARIOUS.  

While their closeness may only be in the developmental phase, and apparent only to Dave and I, I am beginning to see signs of their adult relationship.  This makes me very happy.  For, no matter what, they will always be ten years apart.   My dream is for them to always be something together.  Sisters.  What sisters are meant to be.  

After I Gave Thanks, or What I Did for the Rest of the Weekend

After the turkey was eaten,  and after Anna left for the Seahawks game, Nora played in the leaves, Dave and Nora felled our heavy, drooping sunflowers, and I made turkey noodle soup and knitted Nora a new mustache.  (Doesn't every nine-year-old girl desire a moustache collection?)

It was a little big.
And green.

Thanksgiving in October

During a visit home last weekend, Anna learned that she needs to have all four of her wisdom teeth removed.  Thus, she will be coming home again on Friday (yeah!) to have this done.

While I waited for her to finish consulting with the oral surgeon,  I learned that our dental insurance terminated Anna's coverage on August 31st.  

Fortunately, after a quick phone call from Dave, the insurance company realized their mistake and promised to rectify the situation.  (Hopefully by Friday)

Because Anna is facing a weekend of soft-foods, I decided to treat her to a big feast before she headed back to school.  So at 5:00 last Friday we sat down to our first Thanksgiving dinner of the year.  Admittedly, it was a slightly scaled down version of The Real Deal, but it still included the basics: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, and broccoli (which I hate, but the girls both LOVE).  The only dish I missed was a big bowl of cranberries.  But since I'm the only eater of these delicacies, I opted to go red with strawberries.  To finish it all off, of course, we had pumpkin pie.  

As we ate and talked (about everything but teeth) I gave thanks.  For our delicious meal.  For having my family together.  For getting to have Anna home again next weekend!  And, most importantly, for having dental insurance.

Happy Thanksgiving in October!

Fall Colors

Changing

Thank You Ellen Miles

I'm not the only Larson who has written to one of her favorite authors.  Nora, too, has done so.  Maybe she was my inspiration.  

Last summer, Nora wrote to Ellen Miles, the author of The Puppy Place series.  Nora has EVERY SINGLE ONE of these books and has read them all repeatedly over the last few years.  They are short, sweet, and, of course, all about dogs--Nora's favorite (right behind horses.)  So when she told me that she wanted to write to the author, I said, "go for it."

What I didn't expect, though, was that she'd write such a long, lovely, and thoughtful letter.  It was so lovely, in fact, that I now wish I had kept a copy of it.  In a nutshell, she thanked the author for writing "such good books."  She told her she'd read all of them.  She told her about Jack, and Cooper (our cat).  She told her that she wants to be a writer one day.  And she even sent her the first chapter of a story she's been working on.  Needless to say, the envelope was very fat.  

After she mailed it, she asked me if I thought she'd write back.  I told her that I didn't know and that authors are pretty busy.  So when Nora's letter came in the mail this summer, we were both excited.  I was excited because she had personally written a note to Nora, even though the pre-printed card said she wishes she "could answer every letter personally, but then I might not have time to write more books!"  She went on to say that she enjoyed Nora's story and to "give Jack and Cooper some hugs for me."  

This card now sits proudly on Nora's dresser. 

Ellen and one of her pups

Along with her soccer trophies, her pictures of Ella and Meredith, (her two best buddies) and the framed picture of Secretariat she downloaded from the internet.  (I kid you not)  I don't know if Ms. Miles remembers reading Nora's letter, or writing her back, but her kind and thoughtful words to Nora will definitely remain in this mom's heart forever.  

She Wrote Back!

Last week, after I ordered "One Woman Farm" from Battenkill Books, I did something I've never done before:  I emailed the author.

This may not sound like a big deal, but it was for it's SO NOT something I do.  And I told her this.  I told her that I don't usually even comment on other blogs.  I'm just a reader.  But I really felt compelled to tell her how much I enjoy her books (and her blog). Everybody likes a bit of praise from time to time... While my email wasn't anything magnificent, or delightfully clever, it was short, simple, and intended to show that I appreciate all of her efforts to keep her farm running and the books coming. Finally, I wished her and Gibson and The Street Gang (aka her crazy sheep) much success.

And that was that.

And I felt great.

And I had a new book on the way!

So I was really shocked to receive an email response from her--in just a few hours time!  Like mine, it was simple, direct, and thankful.  She probably writes a million of these.  But this one sure made me feel great.

Terribly Write

While I was writing about Dave's fashion sense, or lack thereof, I wondered if the word oversized requires a hyphen. So, of course, I googled it.  In doing so, I found the web site http://terriblywrite.wordpress.com

This could, very possibly, be one of my new favs.  It has everything I need to know about writing.   Such as; when to hyphenate, (not when writing oversized) when to use commas and parentheses, how to spell those tricky "confused words," and what modifiers are.  Modifiers?  It even has sections devoted to "unnecessary words"and "wrong words."  What?

I'm so happy I stumbled upon this site.  Based on my second paragraph alone, I'm sure I will be referring to it a lot.   

When Men Lose their Fashion

Recently, I heard that once a man reaches the age of forty-six, (Dave's age) he stops caring about fashion.  At. All.  In essence, the clothes he owns at this age will be the same clothes he ends his life in, barring any significant weight gain or loss, of course.  

Dave, however, must be advanced.  For he has been wearing, basically, the same outfit since I met him: Levis, (until they stopped making them long enough and he had to switch to Wranglers) t-shirts in navy, black, or gray, and tennis shoes or boots.  Occasionally, when he's feeling fancy, he'll accessorize with a baseball hat or an oversized flannel shirt, but these are donned more out of necessity (he's cold) than fashion.   

Dave and I met when we were nineteen.  So I guess fashion went by the wayside a long time ago at the Larson house. But that's okay.  I can't imagine him any other way.....except for, maybe, clad in spandex.

Pumpkin Gathering

Yesterday was a truly glorious fall day.  The sun was out, the weather was warm, and thoughts of pumpkins were on my mind.  So, with the grass freshly cut, and a Sunday afternoon with absolutely no plans ahead of us, we decided to do a little pumpkin gathering.  

We opted for a new pumpkin patch this year and I'm so glad we did.  Creekside Farm in Port Orchard is exactly what we needed.  While it may seem small in comparison to some of those productions in the Orting Valley, this same smallness is what made it so charming.  It's a Mom and Pop operation through and through, with all six of their children helping out where ever they could.  

Initially, Nora was a little disappointed that there was no corn maze to wander hopelessly lost through, but the farm animals, a little hay ride, and pumpkins galore more than made up for it.  So after a very detailed account of the farm, it's offerings, and activities, by one of the farmer's young sons, we set off with baggies of feed for the goats, sheep, chickens and ducks.

Despite being an experienced horse-feeder, Nora was, surprisingly, afraid to feed the goats and sheep. First, she dumped their food in the trough:   

Here ya go little sheep!

When she got a little braver, she tried to pet them through the fence.  

I think she almost touched him here

I don't know if she thought they were going to bite her fingers, or tickle her, or what, but it took her a long time and many examples of "how to feed a sheep," from her dad and I, before she overcame her fear.  

Just hold your hand nice and flat Nora, like this.

See Nora: This sweet face would never bite you!

But when she did, they became fast friends.  

And then it was all smiles

But not as good a friend as Dave; they really bonded.  

That's the spot!  Keep it coming big guy!

Apparently, goats are a lot like dogs.  They like to get scratched!  And they know dog people when they meet them.  

Oh that feels sooo good Dave!

As did Sophie, the real star (in our eyes) of the farm.  

We loved Sophie 

Sophie is a sweet, gentle, all-black Australian Shepherd.  We spent a lot of time playing with her, petting her and wishing she could be ours.  Okay, maybe that was just me.  But I would've brought her home in a heart-beat, given the chance.  But, alas, unlike the pumpkins, she was not for sale.  

Although I could have stayed and played with Sparkle, Sweetie, (the goats) and Sophie all day, eventually it was time to load up the pumpkins and head home.  

So we did: even Nora's forty-pounder!

That's right: the littlest Larson picked out the biggest pumpkin!

Sonja Gets Wet and Dave Goes Shopping

Last Saturday we went to Nora's soccer game.  Just like we do every Saturday this time of year. Even when it rains. Even when it rains so much, and so hard, that we expect to see Noah paddle by. Even when it rains so hard that the parents leave the game as wet as the players.  

And it was brutal!  In every possible sense. In addition to the weather, the girls lost.  More accurately, they got killed.  Something like 50-0.  Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but that's what it felt like.  Our girls were totally dominated by the other team. 

When the misery game was finally over, I hurried Nora Jane to the car where blankets, towels, and clean, dry clothes were waiting. Once there, I wished I'd packed a dry set for myself. I couldn't believe how wet I was; I was completely soaked!  My jeans were soaked, my shoes were soaked. My jacket was...well, you get it.  So much for taking cover under the "tent."  

While I helped Nora peel off her wet clothes, Dave stayed behind to help the coach dismantle said tent and carry supplies to his car.  And he was in no hurry.  For, unlike me, he had prepared for the weather.  In addition to the soccer chairs and snacks that were loaded into the van before we left home, he also threw in his wide-brimmed blue, rain hat, complete with chin string, a red rain jacket and his rain pants.  The same camo rain pants he wears hunting. The same camo rain pants I had made fun of, as we searched the soggy field for our team,  by claiming they had turned him into that dad.  

To which, he replied, "what do you mean?"

So I continued to tease and replied that "no one wears camo to their kid's soccer game."

He just smiled, gave my purple jacket, jeans, and black vans a once-over, and continued walking all the way to the side-lines.  Where he stayed the entire game!  Facing the weather head on. With all the other smart dads, who had dressed appropriately, albeit colorfully, in a wide array of rain gear, boots, and hats.  But, of course, the joke was on me.  While he was enjoying his relative dryness in the eye of the storm, I was huddled under the tent, struggling to hold on to my coffee cup with one hand and a tent leg with the other, lest a gust of wind come through and blow the whole thing over.  And, all the while, I was getting drenched.

Needless to say, come Sunday morning, I had no desire to leave the house (in the rain!) to go shopping (at Cabela's!) for rain pants! More precisely, hunting rain pants.  

Even Nora didn't want to go. And, for some reason, she likes that store.  So, instead, she and I stayed in bed, for a long time, and read.  (I love that my children are readers) Eventually, after a breakfast of eggs and toast, she moved on to her Littlest Pet Shop collection.   (Unlike the Polly Pockets, these guys aren't going anywhere for a long time. But that's okay.  I don't expect her to give up the farm quite yet.)  So, while she played, I baked a pie and worked on my scarf. And it was a wonderfully warm, dry, and relaxing Sunday.  

And then Dave sent me a picture of a bow and arrow along with a message that read, "should I get this for Nora?"  My first thought was, No. No.  H.E.L.L. NO!  When in the world would we ever add this to our schedule?  But I couldn't say such a thing when he's obviously only thinking about our daughter.  That and  the opportunity to shoot off arrows.  So what I texted back, instead, was,"are you serious?"  Which I then followed with, "No.  That's so sweet, but no. We don't have time for any new hobbies!  But don't forget your pants." I even ended with a smiley face.  

It wasn't until a few minutes later that I realized what I should have said: Would you please pick up a pair for me too?

The Check is in the Mail!

Jenna Woginrich's new book!!!

I ordered my copy directly from Battenkill Books in Cambridge, New York because I wanted to support the local bookseller that supports Jenna and her endeavors.  However, it's also for sale, and just a click away, on Amazon.

Yay!

A Tree Has Fallen

My neighborhood is expanding.  For the last two years, our very quiet, undeveloped block has been under construction.  Last year two homes sprouted.  And, currently, development is underway for two more.  

When we first moved here, there were only two houses on the whole block. Of course, we knew that, eventually, the rest of the block would be developed.  Especially given that there aren't many empty, vacant lots in the city.  They're kind of a prized possession.  And while we welcome the new neighbors, it's hard to say goodbye to the open space that served as Nora's soccer field, and a feeding stop for the deer that like to wander through and feast on fallen apples.

Just last week I watched a beautiful Maple Tree fall.  And it happened so quickly.  Within thirty-five minutes, the trunk and branches, still heavy with red and orange leaves not ready to let go, were cut, chipped and loaded into the back of a truck.  

As a grown-up, I understand that sometimes trees have to go, to make room for other things.  We had to cut down a little tree when we built our house too.  Nine-year-old Nora, however, hasn't grasped that yet. Instead, her heart was broken.  Just like it was when the big Douglas Fir next to our house was cut down.  The tree that she used to climb.  The tree she used to climb so high that we could only see her feet dangling through the dense branches.  (Actually, I was glad to see this one go.  I was convinced that it was a broken bone just waiting to happen) 

But Nora, too, dreams of open space.  She tells me so all the time.  Just the other day, while we were on a walk, she said, "mom, when I grow up, I want to live in the country.  So I can have horses, and dogs, and so I can be an author.  I want to be able to write where it's peaceful."

I told her I thought that was a great plan.  And I meant it.  

Being Environmentally Responsible is No Fun

I may have mentioned (once or twice) how much I love my Keurig.

I love it so much, I've even joked about packing it up and taking it on trips with us.  (Don't worry, I haven't. That would be weird) Though I'm not the only one in my house who feels this way.  My husband, who likes to get out of bed in the morning at the last possible moment, and, thus, "doesn't have time for coffee at home," now, sometimes, does.   My college daughter, who spent much of her growing-up years sitting inside a Starbucks, and is now discovering just how expensive buying her own take-out coffee really is, (although her grandpa definitely helps her out with this) has been known to call on Mr. Keurig whenever she's home, in need of coffee, and too broke to go buy a cup.  Even Nora, who doesn't even like coffee, has been known to ask if she can make a cup--for me. 

Why do we all like it so much?

Well, Nora would probably tell you it's because it's easy, fun, and using it makes her feel like a grown-up. Dave might say it's because it's quick and convenient.  Anna would probably say it's because it provides her with coffee she doesn't have to pay for.  I like it for the following reasons:

1.  It produces one delicious cup of coffee in no time flat,

2.  It has cut down on my Starbucks bill (a little),

3.  My dad gave it to me.

But #3 is why I really love it so much.

My Dad is not the kind of man who will tell me he loves me.  Although he will write these words in every Birthday and Christmas Card he ever sends me, he will not say them aloud.  Instead, he shows me he loves me with food.  And it's always the same food.  And it's always ready and waiting for me whenever I visit him.  Hanging from the banister, at the bottom of the stairs, in a white plastic bag, I always find; one bag of mini-Snickers for me, one King Size bag of Peanut M&Ms for Anna, one bag of Tootsie Pops for Nora Jane, and one bag of Red Vines for Dave. 

Now, in addition to all of the above, (as if that isn't enough) awaiting my arrival is a bag of Keurig K-cups.  And not just one box!  Oh no!  When it comes to food, my dad has never lived by the "less is more" philosophy.   On the contrary, he's a firm believer in more-is-better.  It's a trait that was passed down to him from his own father.  Thus, since he knows that the coffees that come in the green box (Green Mountain) are my favorite, I get those.  I also get the blue box, (Emeril's) the brown box, (Tully's Italian) and the black box (Revv).  I've been too afraid to try the latter, however.  The name itself is too strong, too bold. I fear it might rev me and my easily agitated system a little too much.  Actually, all the coffees he picks for me can be described as strong, bold, extra dark.  Surely, this can't be how he sees me?  Obviously, I'm more of a medium blend, though definitely complex.

Needless to say, my dad is intent on keeping my coffee addiction (and supply) both strong and well-stocked for the foreseeable future.  And I love him for it.

What I don't love about the Keurig, however, is the waste. When I used to make coffee the old-fashioned way, (you know in an electric coffee pot), there was very little waste. Just a mound of spent coffee grounds and a paper filter.  And they were the brown paper filters, the ones that hadn't undergone any bleaching, so the whole mess could go out with the trash ready to decompose once it hit the landfill.  No harm, no foul. 

This is not the case with the Keurig.  Inside those cute, prepackaged, little pods, with their colored paper tops, something dark is lurking. And I'm not talking about coffee.  I know; I've dissected a few.

There is more inside these little, environmental killers than you think.

Inside that little, plastic cup, underneath the foil lid, buried beneath the coffee, I found not only paper filters, but little, tiny plastic trays.  (And no--I don't know what their job is.) All of this from just one little pod.   And when all of this goes in the trash, that makes for a lot of plastic pieces hitting the landfills, then the barges, then the oceans, and then the bellies of baby albatrosses.

When I mentioned my concerns to my dad, and how I felt compelled to recycle all these little bits and pieces, his response was, "but you only make a cup or two a day.  That's not much at all!" But every Keurig owner out there could claim this very same thing.  One of my friends actually did. While she was passing out coffees to my girlfriends and I after a dinner she gave. And do you know how many Keurig owners there are out there, having just one or two cups every day? They're everywhere! The other day I even  saw one at the jewelry store while I was dropping my necklace off to get repaired.  

I'm not implying that we all need to dump our Keurigs and go back to making hobo coffee on the stove-top.  No one wants to do that.  I know I don't, not for just one cup of coffee.  For now, they are with us.  Part of our busy lives. Until something new and even faster comes along.  I'm just thinking that maybe we could take a minute or two (after they've cooled down)  to  disassemble those cute little pods,  and recycle those little bits and pieces.  It's really not hard.  I promise.  I've done it.

And if you miss one from time to time, don't beat yourself up about it.  I'm the first to admit I'm not the perfect recycler.  I, too, sometimes get lazy.  Sometimes, my recycle bin is SO full (from being such a good recycler) there is literally no more room.  And then, I admit it, the stuff goes into the trash.  The point is: I try.

So, since I started this post with a list of reasons why I love my Keurig, I'm going to end it with a list of reasons why I'm going to keep it.  And keep using it. Although, admittedly, I could do with a caffeine cut-back.

1.  I enjoy being able to  run downstairs in the morning, brew a cup of coffee and take it back up to my bed in a matter of minutes. Thus allowing me to sip, and read in quiet comfort for a few minutes before Nora wakes up.

2.  Like Nora says, it's fun!

3.  My dad gave it to me.

But #3 is really why I'm going to keep it. 

A Day for the Books

At breakfast this morning, Nora very casually asked, "Mom, can I get rid of my Polly Pocket toys?  I don't play with them much anymore."

This question may not seem like a big deal to those of you outside of the Polly Pocket World, so let me explain....

Polly Pockets are very tiny dolls (much smaller than barbies...which, by the way, Nora asked to get rid of too!) with very tiny clothes.  

And even tinier shoes!  

Shoes much too small to put on said dolls with adult-sized fingers, or child-sized fingers for that matter.  Shoes that have a tendency to get lost, stepped on, broken, or sucked up into the vacuum cleaner.  Which, probably explains why, after a bit of digging, I was unable to find a matching pair. 

But, of course, these dolls don't come with just clothes and shoes.  They also come with buildings, homes, furniture, cars and anything else you can imagine.  And all of these girls (and the occasional boy/prince) --and all of their stuff-- have been in my life for a very long time.  I'm pretty sure our "collection" began way back in Anna's doll-playing days.  

Thus, when I heard those glorious words this morning, I wanted to stand up and cheer.  I wanted to dance around the kitchen singing, "yes, yes, oh, finally yes!" I wanted to go dump the whole lot of them into the van and immediately drive over to the Goodwill Donation Station before she changed her mind.  

But I didn't.  I played it cool and replied, "sure, if that's what you really want to do."

_________________________________________________________________________

In other news from the Larson Front:

There's snow in them there hills! 

That's right. Crystal Mountain is opening today for a limited one-day event. On October first!  That's got to be a record.  

Not that I'm a skier. 

But the girls are.

And Dave is.

And his friends are.  

And they were all texting and calling this morning.  

It was big news...big, big news.

October 1, 2013.... this day is definitely going down in the books :)