Frostfire Journal

...So God Made A Farmer

2012-01-23T10:51:00.000-06:00

This past week brought much discussion in regard to an article published by Yahoo!. In it, the author listed his ideas of the most useless college degrees, with agriculture topping that list. Every fact available refutes his claim, and so I will not elaborate other than to say many of the highly successful people I've met over the years have agriculture degrees hanging on their walls.

My friends at Agriculture Everyday shared this video on their Facebook page. It rings true and touched me deeply; I hope you will enjoy it as well.

Have a great day!

Don't Like Bullies?

2012-01-19T12:25:00.000-06:00

So you say you don't like bullies? That bullies ruin lives, hurt innocent people, are a pox on society?

THEN PLEASE… DON'T BE ONE.

According to Wikipedia, "Bullying isa "form of aggressive behavior manifested by the use of force orcoercion to affect others, particularly when the behavior is habitual andinvolves an imbalance of power. It can include verbal harassment (emphasis mine), physical assault or coercion andmay be directed repeatedly towards particular victims, perhaps on groundsof race, religion, gender, sexuality or ability. The "imbalance of power" may be socialpower and/or physical power. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to asa "target"."

While we tend to think of a bully as some kidwith crooked teeth handing out swirlies, these days the bully is usuallyfar more anonymous (and sinister).

I've been surfing the internet since it was aseries of grey pages littered with blue links. Even after all theseyears, however, I cannot understand what it is about the internetwhich makes it okay to virtually tear people apart in themanner of a rabid dog, with language filthier than a used toilet brush.

There is no longer a need to bully face-to-face; now one may do sofrom the comfort of your own home and destroy, with a few keystrokes, anotherhuman being. I love free speech, but if the attack is intended to harm or intimidateanother it is not free speech. Its bullying.

Far be it from me to suggest the government do something about it. It is not the government's role... its OURS. Your responsibilityand mine.

So how can we address the problem? Here are some of my ideas:

· Don’t participate. It is easy to fall into a pack mentality whendiscussing a subject about which we are passionate. Passion is good. So use that passion to fuel your own research, andwrite something thoughtful and articulate rather than vulgar and dismissive.People will take notice.

· Don’t let your kids participate in it, either. Period. Pay attention to what they are doing online, and the attitudes theyexpress about others. If they seemheaded in that direction, address it immediately

· Call out the behavior when you see it. This is the scary part, the one that takes thecourage to stand for the truth. You maybe attacked in return, and it may be that no one will step up in yourdefense. That’s okay. Even if no one says it, you will (hopefully)have caused them to think about just what is happening.

I’m not really a “let’s all just getalong” sort of person, and have been known to delight in a good debate fromtime to time. What disturbs me, however,is that we seem to be confusing thoughtful, civil discussion with guerillawarfare.

I would love to hear your ownexperiences in regard to this sort of bullying, and your ideas as to how to weall can work together to share ideas, rather than spew hatred. Please comment and join the discussion!

Real Farmers

2012-01-16T15:26:00.000-06:00

Recently, I read anarticle written by a woman who waxed eloquent about her dream to be a “farmer”.As I happen to be one (a farmer, that is... well, and a woman, too) and have beenknown to wax eloquent about it myself at times, my first thought was,"Awesome! Another sister in agriculture with whom I can relate!"

That is, until Ireached the second paragraph and was told exactly what she thinks it means tobe a "real" farmer... a few acres of hay, a couple acres ofvegetables, some chickens and goats, maybe a horse or two... and definitely NOTsomeone who might be "driving a combine over row after endless row of cornor managing a CAFO".

At that point, Icould not decide whether to laugh... or be highly offended.

I come from a longline of farmers and married into another. My definition of"farmer", when compared to that of the writer of said article, isvastly different. While the fanciful dreamscape this author envisioned istruly admirable and, at times, attainable in certain snapshot-worthy moments,it is far removed from reality.

Why do farmersfarm? That question is akin to "Why do fish swim?" Farming is in our blood. It is what we were born and bred and put on this Earth to do... and we will do nearly anything in our power to keep doing it.

In my life as afarmer, I've experienced days (weeks) on end of riding a potato harvester as it lumbersup and down the field through wind and rain, sleet and snow, with black dirtgrinding its way onto every crevice of my body as my raw fingers bleed from hoursof picking dirt clods from the conveyor. I've spent sweltering daystrucking grain from the field to the elevator, sweat running rivers down mybody, chaff clinging opportunistically to every inch of exposed skin(and throwing a party in my bra). I've sat in a banker's office and soldmy soul to the devil across the desk, for the resources to farm just one moreyear.

I spent my wedding anniversary, later that same year, waist deep ingumbo and floodwater after a seven-inch rain, attempting to save our crop fromdrowning. We did save much of it; and my husband and I sat on the bin boards of the potato warehouse the night we finished bringing it in, crying tears of joy... only to have the bottom fall out ofthe market and to see most of those potatoes hauled back out of the bin, spread for cattle feed for the not-so-premium price of 25 cents perhundredweight. There is a reason we now only raise potatoes in thegarden, and it was not one of our choosing.

As a farmer, my lifeis one in which I am blessed with many beautiful, serene moments of bounty, joy, andnew life... consistently (and sometimes unfairly) balanced by days of back-breaking work in heat andcold, mud and manure; devastating loss; gut-wrenching heartache. Sometimesbringing new life into the world means finding myself shoulder-deep in the backend of a laboring cow or mare... in the middle of the night... with a snowstormraging outside... without benefit of an obstetrical glove or anyone around tohold a light or call the vet (or, God forbid, the ambulance, should I get kicked in the head).

So why do I feel it… theheat, cold, mud, gore, hard work, monetary risk, chronic physical pain andgrief… all worth the cost?

Because I am afarmer. Its what I do.

I am totally,thoroughly, abundantly grateful for this life, all I am blessed with, and theability to farm even though its on a much smaller scale than we had once hoped. But those who look from the outside in, such as the woman who wrote thearticle in question, need to keep in mind it is not, nor will it ever be, Nirvana. The scenario she imagined was one more akin to the retirement years oflanded gentry rather than the life of one who is charged with the noble and daunting task offeeding the world.

What concerns me is the fact that so many are now so far removedfrom any understanding of the realities of agriculture and the sacrifices ofthose who engage in it. These same folks are passing harsh (and, in my opinion, uneducated) judgment, pushinglegislation based on misguided assumption, pointing fingers and labeling as “good”and “evil”, aspects of farming which they do not understand nor have personally experienced.

I’ve known many a farmer in my life, but cannot recall evermeeting one who did not love the land, appreciate nature, or care for his orher livestock to the best of his or her knowledge, resources and ability. Most have, at some point, driven a combine "over row after endless row" of corn (or wheat, barley, oats, beans...), and know what an accomplishment it is to bring a crop from tiny seed to abundant harvest; nothing can compare with the high of bringing in a bin-(or corral-)busting crop. That feeling has little to do with money and a whole lot to do with fulfilling the very purpose for which you were placed on this Earth.

I have no issue whatsoever with those who dream of moving to a rural area to try their hand at a self-sustaining, organic, greens-and-grass-fed lifestyle. My own is closer to that now than to one of highly technical and mechanized modern agriculture. To cultivate the land and dutifully tend to animals in any fashion is a noble pursuit and a lovely way to spend one's time.

What I do take issue with, however? Someone with little experience outside the ivy-clad halls of academia or the concrete jungle of the city, judging and deriding those who have succeeded in overcoming the elements, the cost of land rent and inputs, government red tape, public opinion and all the other obstacles to modern commercial farmers. To call one of those folks anything but a "real" farmer is akin to saying a person cannot be a "real" corporate executive if they are any color but white, happen to be female, or perform their job in a less-than-conventional manner. The trend of bashing farmers with the insinuation they rape the land and are Enemy Number One of Mother Nature and all that is good seems to be the last socially-acceptable form of discrimination.

When did being successful in one's chosen field become equated somehow with being anything less than real? When did the use of knowledge, technology and resources to improve productivity and reduce cost become equated with something akin to evil?

I'll continue to ponder those questions as I don my boots and coveralls and venture out in the below zero windchill to tend to my animals. The biting cold and frozen... everything... will invariably be balanced out by the cuddle of a friendly barn cat, the romp of a loyal dog, the friendly yearlings jostling for my attention. The sight of a pileated woodpecker flashing among the trees and sound of a blue jay scolding the dogs. The smell of supper simmering in the slow-cooker when I walk back through the door and stomp the snow off my boots.

These same sights and sounds, or similar ones, will greet countless farmers and ranchers all across the northern part of this nation as they go about their chores and come in for supper on this January evening... hugging their children, kissing their spouses, watching the weather forecast.

I'm quite sure few, if any, will be plotting the demise of Mother Nature as they do so.

I am also quite sure each and every one of them is "real".

Totally Random Gratitude

2011-11-09T09:07:00.000-06:00

A quote posted to Facebook awhile back sticks with me...

"If you woke up tomorrow with only those things for which you expressed gratitude today, what would you have?"

Really makes you think, doesn't it?

My friend and mentor Heather O'Sullivan Canney is a big proponent of keeping a gratitude journal, and I've acquired the habit from her. The process can be life-changing, if you give it a chance. While I don't always write everything down, the simple process of expressing gratitude for the blessings in your life eventually becomes automatic as breathing. Better yet, when your heart and mind are full of gratitude it leaves little room for negativity. Those two qualities can't seem to share the same space.

Gratitude is fairly easy to muster when it comes to family, home, and finances (at least I hope so!). But what about the little things which make life so much more pleasant, interesting, or comfortable? Or those which challenge us, making us grow in wisdom, strength, intellect? It's become a pet habit of mine, to think of new, random, and sometimes silly things for which to be grateful.

And so, in the spirit of Thanksgiving which is but two weeks away, I offer my first installment of Totally Random Gratitude...

Barn cats: Without them, we would be overrun with vermin. My youngest spends more time with them than any toy I've ever purchased. They are always happy to see me, and as long as they have a dish full of food and a warm place to curl up, they are totally content. Barn cats provide a valuable (and totally organic) service and ask little in return. It doesn't get any better than that.

Onions: Rare is the meal I cook without first slicing or dicing an onion. I can't imagine a soup, casserole, stir-fry, omelet, spaghetti sauce or taco without one. Or three.

Microfleece: A miracle of modern technology and absolute godsend to those of us living in frigid climates.

Water softeners: Without one in this house, there would be no such thing as "whites" and my laundry would consist of darks, mediums and "oranges". A lady who grew up in this house told me once that her mother would melt snow in order to acquire soft water with which to wash their whites.

Mentors: The list of people from whom I seek advice, knowledge and inspiration is a long one indeed. Some are friends I've known for years (or decades), some are professionals in their chosen field... and of course my beloved parents top that list. Also included, however, are lots of people whom I've never met in person but am still so grateful for the value they provide. One thing I've learned over the years is if I'm not particularly gifted or educated in a particular area, there always is someone who can help. "Do it yourself" is not always applicable or wise. My hair stylist comes to mind here...

...and the list goes on. I will add to it in these days leading up to Thanksgiving. In the meantime, for what or whom are you totally, randomly grateful?

Wasted

2011-09-07T10:17:00.000-05:00

This post is brought to you today by my shiny, new, programmable coffee maker. Mr. Coffee, I think I love you!

On a more serious note...

"Do your little bit of good where you are; it's those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world" ~Bishop Desmond Tutu

This week's Parade magazine reported a statistic that literally made my jaw drop.

40 percent of the food produced in this country is wasted.

Honestly, I don't even know what to say about that. FORTY percent? Are we so indulged, fussy, and spoiled as a nation that we allow nearly half of the food we produce to go to waste? If we have so much food, how can there possibly be people going hungry... and what is the definition of "hungry"? Do people have any idea the work (or for the environment-conscious, the resources) which go into producing that food?

The statistic alone, disgusts me. What further adds to my dismay is the constant barrage of "eat only organic", and the overabundance of recipes published which require ingredients as inexpensive and easy to acquire in my neck of the woods as Hungarian yak. How about we instead teach folks to utilize what is readily available? Like, say, the ten pound bag of chicken leg quarters for $5.00 which, with the addition of a few inexpensive vegetables and seasonings, can be made into over a week's worth of delicious, healthy and hearty meals?

I will be the first to admit that my family throws out our share of food. Food poisoning is akin to Dante's Third Circle of hell in my book, and so I'm careful about food safety and abide by the adage "When in doubt, throw it out". But I've also changed how I plan our family meals. It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking we need a cooked-from-scratch fresh meal for every supper of the week. That thinking, however, resulted in way too much wasted food. My family is a busy one, with my husband often working late and both he and my daughters attending tae kwon do and other classes a couple times a week.

Enter leftovers. A beef or pork roast, a chicken or a big pot of homemade soup goes a long way, even with a family of four. Vegetables languishing in the crisper are easy to add to just about any meal to stretch or embellish it. The trick is to actually eat the food you make for more than one meal, and plan for those leftovers rather than relegating them to purgatory in the back of the fridge.

Here's an added benefit, for those who doubt. Earlier this spring, my health was at an all-time low and my weight, an all-time high. Now, I've done about every "diet plan" out there, from the frozen meals shipped to your home to low-carb to vegetarian/lowfat (ugh) to following make-at-home pre-planned meals. I was sick of it, sick of the constant focus on food, sick of being told that the ridiculously-priced foods in the organic section of the grocery were the only ones safe or healthy to eat. All the "can'ts" and "don'ts" and "big money is trying to poison us all" were really beginning to tick me off.

And so, I quit.

I quit obsessing about food, decided to accept myself right then and there just as I was. I listened to my body and ate what I wanted when I wanted. My attention shifted to focus on my family, my hobbies, my horses. Ironically enough, I began to eat less and move more, instinctively. The meals my family got were generally homemade with simple ingredients... meat, vegetables, milk, eggs, butter, fruit and (gasp!) bread. When there were leftovers, we ate them.

The pounds began to fall off... thirty, so far, in the past few months. My grocery bill is lower, and I can't remember the last time I had the "munchies". Its been months since I baked a pan of brownies or batch of cookies. Not that I won't; just haven't had the desire. And... I'm happy.

It all came from the decision to quit obsessing about "diets", to stop obsessing about food and instead be grateful for what we have... and enjoy it. I savor the experience of preparing a good meal, and relish foods such as a BLT made from my home-grown tomatoes and the bacon my dad cured. I don't hesitate to use mayo or butter or bacon when they'll add to the flavor and the experience.

One of my favorite sayings is, "Charity begins at home"; I would add that it begins not just at home, but right with each and every one of us and with the seemingly minute decisions each day. Who knew that being charitable and loving toward myself, in the form of letting go of the "should's" and "have-to's", would result in such monumental personal growth and improvement of health, and far less wasted food (and time and resources)?

I didn't. All I did was make a decision to listen to my body and simplify my life, but sure can't complain about the results. Imagine what could happen if more people decided to quit being led around by all the talking heads, and instead made the decision to eat and live in a way that actually works for them. My guess is that we just may also quit wasting half the food we work so hard to produce, pay so much to acquire and spend more yet to dispose of.

Just try (as the FlyLady Marla Cilley would say) to finally love yourself... just as you are, just for a little while. Try being charitable to yourself, and see what happens. I bet you'll be amazed by the results.

P.S. My total cholesterol is 168. ;)

Summer's End

2011-09-06T10:29:00.000-05:00

Today is the first day of school for my daughters.

Eighth grade for the eldest, first grade for her younger sister. I snapped this photo while walking them up the driveway to meet the bus this morning, after my teenager quipped (with a wink), "Oooh, so THAT'S what a sunrise looks like!"

I took a sabbatical from writing this summer, to spend more time focusing on my girls while they enjoyed their vacation, and am so glad I did. This summer went by in a flash, and I wanted to make memories. God willing, I'll be able to write for many years to come... but my girls are only six and thirteen one summer of their lives. We made the most of it.

We slept in when we felt like it, rode horses, grew a big garden, planted waves of flowers and 80 little trees and shrubs. We welcomed three beautiful foals into the world, and played with them often. We hosted a 4th of July party, read piles of books, took in a county fair and journeyed to the Science Museum in St. Paul to take in the Egyptian Pharaohs exhibit.

Both girls helped with barn chores, and if I payed allowance per wheelbarrow load of manure picked or scoop of grain doled out, the oldest would probably have enough to buy herself the car she's already talking about. The youngest, she kept busy with new kittens (after joyfully informing my sister, "I'll take all you got!"), wiggling out her front teeth, learning to ride a bike without training wheels, practicing her reading and brushing her ever-patient pony. The rag doll we made together one day last spring, Thumbelina, went everywhere with her: to the barn, to the beach, to Grandma and Grandpa's house, to tae kwon do lessons... and she rode along as we fished from the boat, tucked into my daughters life-jacket.

This day brings such mixed feelings for me; joy at the prospect of more time to myself to write, organize, and work on projects... and yet sorrow at the passage of time. Both girls were excited to get back to school, to see their friends, to get back into the routine. I've watched them both grow so much over the summer, their confidence and self esteem blossom... what a gift. It is the very reason why I don't schedule many planned activities over the school break; I feel they need the rest after a busy school year, and plenty of time to explore their own interests and develop their own personalities. It seems to work, as by the time mid-August hits they are rejuvenated and eager to resume a busier schedule. And, quite honestly, I am ready for them to do so. Their company is a joy, and yet it seems there is an instinct on my part to keep them home and nurture them some, then send them out into the world to test their wings. I send them out a little at a time, then welcome them home so as to feed them, build them up and teach them a bit more before sending them back out again. No parenting expert am I... but so far it seems to be working.

And I can't wait for them to get home, to tell me about their day.

Meanwhile, I need to go buy a new coffee maker. Mine died this morning and its truly a miracle I wrote this post without coffee. :)

It's good to be back.

The Last Day of Kindergarten

2011-05-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is the last day of Kindergarten for my youngest daughter... and I've been teary-eyed about the fact all day. Not because I'll suddenly have less quiet time for a few months, or have to remember just how to make lunch again, but because after tomorrow my baby won't be a Kindergartener anymore. In fact, she won't be a baby at all. She will be a first-grader.

She has grown and learned so much these past nine months, under the tutelage of the most wonderful of teachers. She can read and write and add and subtract and tie her own shoes. Last week, she came home with the "Dairy Queen Superstar Award", given to only the most dedicated students, due in part to the fact (at least, according to her) that she has not once this whole year received even one warning for bad behavior. She can't wait to cash in the coupon for a free "treat meal" at DQ.

Today she brought home the most beautiful gifts... a memory book of the whole year, assembled by her teacher Mrs. Marshall. It has photos and projects and drawings my daughter created from the very first day of school and all through the year, bound together in a book with her photo on the front. I have most of the projects stored in a box, as I could not bring myself to throw out much but the most basic of worksheets when they came home in her tattered backpack at the end of each day. But for this teacher to make sure each student made two of everything, so that she could gift such a lovely book to the parents (who, even in the best of times, can be frazzled and disorganized) is such an act of forethought and kindness it brought tears to my eyes. She also sent a DVD of photos taken throughout the year, of the first day and of field trips, of "Donuts for Dads" and "Grandparents Day" and "Moments with Mom". These are the sorts of things that, when displayed twelve years from this very weekend as people gather in my home to celebrate her graduation from high school, will be priceless mementos we might not otherwise have had.

I am so grateful to Mrs. Marshall for giving my daughter such a perfect introduction to lifelong learning, and documenting the entire year as she did. What a wonderful gift, and one that will positively impact my daughter for the rest of her life. No parent could ask for more. How lucky we are to have enjoyed such a wonderful Kindergarten year!

Right now, however, I don't want her to be a first-grader... not to mention a high-school graduate. I want her to be my baby for a little while longer, to curl up in my lap and let me read to her, to need me when she scrapes her knee or fights a cold. I want to hear her ramble on from the backseat, relating her kindergarten soap operas and what she learned about spiders that day. I want to preserve that baby-toothed smile that stops me in my tracks; to stop time, make it stand still, capture and caress it. I want her to keep surprising me with big words she shouldn't know and pragmatism far beyond her years and humor all her own.

She's my last baby, a miracle and a treasure. I've savored every moment of her existence... and just wish that existence wouldn't fly by quite so fast. But I am forever grateful that when it came time to let go a little and allow someone else to nurture, teach and guide my precious child, it was Mrs. Marshall who took her by the hand and ushered her so lovingly into her school years. What a blessing.

Thank you, Mrs. Marshall, from our whole family. It's been a wonderful year and one we will remember always.

Pluck

2011-04-11T10:02:00.000-05:00

My littlest girl has been fighting a cold for weeks now. Try as we might to encourage her to rest, however... when you are six years old, there is just too much to do.

One cannot expect to sit on her laurels and still keep on top of one's social calendar. There is a Kindergarten musical to rehearse, Grandparent's Day in her classroom is approaching, and, joy-of-joys, the school principal recently issued the proclamation that snow pants are no longer required playground attire. Meaning, of course, that it will make the chasing of boys so much less cumbersome. Only the most fleet of foot win at that game (and of course, Mom doesn't know what she's talking about when she says that catching one, may not actually be considered a win...).

Today, when she didn't leap out of bed to embrace the dawn, I took it as a sign that she needed a bit more rest and decided to wait and see how she felt later in the morning before sending her to school. "Later in the morning" turned out to be less than an hour later, just after the school bus made its departure (of course). She appeared in the kitchen, mad as a wet hen that I would keep her from school when she had so many commitments and so much accomplish. So, we saddled up (figuratively speaking) and headed for town.

I couldn't have asked for a better way to start the day... or week. After a dark and rainy Sunday, this day dawned with a cloudless sky, the air fresh and filled with birdsong. Hints of the first green grass emerging in the roadside ditches. The sight of hilltops beginning to dry in the fields, meaning it won't be long until the farmers are out turning the soil and planting this year's crop. Country music on the radio, and the voice of my plucky little six-year-old socialite in the back seat telling me...

"Turn it up, Mom... it's JOHNNY CASH!"

Together, she and I concluded that listening to Johnny Cash cranked up on the radio while cruising down the road on a sunny spring morning was totally worth a tardy slip.

Mission Accomplished. Maybe.

2011-03-31T00:45:00.000-05:00

One evening last week, my husband came to me with the request that I use my treasure-hunting skills to find a dresser for the bedroom at our cabin.

Nothing too big, as the room is pretty small. Nothing expensive, because... well, its a cabin.

I was on that assignment like white on rice. Seriously, the man actually asked me to go shopping... and for furniture! It was as if the heavens opened up and the angels burst into song.

A few days later, I stopped by one of my favorite thrift store haunts and found this neat little antique pine chest of drawers. It sat amongst the grungy sofas and laminate bookshelves so typical of such an establishment, just waiting to be rediscovered. My guess is the chest is pretty old; its made of solid wood, and the drawers lock with a skeleton key. It is not fancy or elaborate, but I took one look and fell in love with its spare simplicity.

There is one problem, however... it fits in my kitchen just perfectly, and sits there now, longing to be filled with vintage linens.

I may have to go shopping again.

Frugal Food & Gratitude

2011-03-15T12:40:00.000-05:00

In the past, frugality was something I considered somewhat of a burden... though, at times, a necessity. I never really thought of it as a chosen lifestyle to be undertaken for any reason other than to keep the wolf from the door. Recently, however, my attitude has been shifting; partly in response to the heartbreaking tragedies taking place around the world (most recently Japan), and partly in response to what I see at my local grocery store.

So often (and much to my dismay) when I reach the checkout line with my staples and produce, there will be a family ahead of me with a cart (or two) piled with convenience food. Frozen pizzas, snack chips in crinkly bags, cases of single-serving bottles of fruit punch, boxes of sugared cereal adorned with neon colors found nowhere in nature. Hot dogs. Snack cakes. Processed cheese "food". And it seems, more often than not, the nutritional black hole before me is paid for with an EBT card or WIC coupon. It makes my heart sick.

So, I decided to undertake an experiment to see what it would take to feed my family of four well, but with frugality. Not because I have to, or in judgment of others, but as a challenge to myself to live what I believe... that I should be a good steward of all that I've been given... less wasteful, more mindful, and to live with more gratitude.

We are so blessed to have a freezer full of meat (beef we raised ourselves, venison harvested by my husband and daughter, pork purchased on the hoof from an Amish family, along with a few fish from area lakes), but for the purposes of my experiment thought it best to start from scratch. So, I went to the store and bought a ten-pound bag of chicken leg quarters for $5.49. As I always have carrots, onions, and celery on hand, didn't need to purchase those items but the cost of those ingredients would be less than $10 (and that's in Minnesota in the winter).

Yesterday I pulled out my big soup pot, put all ten pounds of chicken in it and covered the chicken with water. Setting it on the stove, I turned up the heat and simmered it until the chicken was cooked thoroughly, then removed all the quarters from the pot and placed on wire racks to cool, leaving the pot still simmering. Once the chicken was cool enough to handle, I removed the skin, separated the meat from the bones and threw the bones back in the pot along with a two sliced carrots, two stalks of celery, a couple quartered onions, some peppercorns and two bay leaves. While the whole works simmered, I diced up all the meat, divided it into two-cup portions and froze the portions in zip-top freezer bags.

After simmering the stock for a couple hours (the house smelled heavenly) it was time to strain and package it. Putting a cheesecloth in a colander, I strained all the broth into a large bowl, then divided it into four-cup portions for the freezer, reserving two quarts for supper.

I was thrilled to discover my little bit of effort yielded over TWENTY cups of wholesome chicken stock, and eight cups of diced chicken.... enough for at least four big pots of soup (each of which generally feeds my family 2 main course meals and sometimes more, depending on what I add to the soup).

For last night's supper, I put the reserved stock in a clean soup kettle, added more vegetables (two carrots, two stalks of celery and a diced onion) and 2 cups of the reserved chicken and simmered it until the vegetables were tender. Meanwhile, I mixed up some flour, salt, baking soda, egg, water and milk into a dough, and dropped bits of it into the soup for spaetzle (dumplings). When my family burst through the door at suppertime, they asked (as always) what was cookin'... and were overjoyed with the answer. They sat down to eat and gobbled up that humble chicken soup like it was the best food ever created and my culinary talent rivaled that of Rachel Ray.

But here's my point... for less than twenty dollars, one can create a healthy, wholesome, tasty basis from which to create over a week's worth of evening meals. Depending on what is on sale or in season, the variations are endless. The past couple weeks (with stock I made previously) I've made basic chicken soup with spaetzle, chicken tortilla soup, a creamy wild rice soup with chicken, broccoli cheese.... knoephla soup... spanish rice... and plenty more I can't even remember, but all were fantastically tasty and nutritious and drew rave reviews from my family. They have not once lamented, "Awww, soup AGAIN?" But they have said, "Yay, AWESOME! I love your soup!"

Cooking this way does take a bit more time (though not much), and a bit more planning (though I'm not really known for that either). But this way I can take a container of stock and some of the pre-cooked chicken from the freezer, cut some veggies and add whatever other ingredients suit me and have an awesome, homemade meal ready for my family in less than an hour (and usually only 30 minutes). The aroma welcomes them through the door with open arms after a long winter's day, the meal nourishes them and the time gathered around the table sustains and lifts us all up.

And so, I've decided to be a bit more frugal in my ways on a permanent basis, more mindful of how I manage my household. Not out of necessity anymore, but by choice... out of a desire to be more responsible with and grateful for all we've been given.

As for the money saved, I will take a lot of satisfaction in using it for good. To bless others, to improve our farm and make investments which further the vision we have for it, to save for our daughters' educations. But also to enjoy life and live in the moment a bit more. There is little joy to be found in buying (or consuming) "fast food"...pre-packaged, chemical-laden fare of so-called "convenience".

On the other hand, a whole lot of joy and satisfaction (and savings) can be found in the simple things such as mindfully preparing, sharing, and dining on "slow-food". Now that I've made a game of it, seeing what awesome fare I can conjure up is a challenge I embrace.

Today's project: beef stock made from the roasting pan of soup bones and spare ribs currently thawing in my fridge. Can't wait to get to it... or to hear my daughter exclaim, "Mom, this is AWESOME! YOU ROCK!" :)

Winter Reflection

2011-03-10T11:04:00.000-06:00

This is the time of year when, despite all I love about winter and its slower pace, it seems to be lasting forever. I tell myself, "C'mon, Amy... it's just another season on the calendar, no longer than any other. Enjoy it while it lasts because when spring hits you'll be busier than Lindsay Lohan's lawyer...."

It's hard to wait patiently for spring, though, and the flowers and sunshine and new foals it will bring. The cold grey days eventually wear on my creativity and enthusiasm. So, this morning I went through some photos from the past few months, reflected with gratitude on the joys and accomplishments and laughter. Here are a few....

My big brother met his first grandchild at Christmastime this year...

yes, that makes me a great-aunt and I don't mind that title one bit!

Little Trevor John is beautiful and such a good baby, a real blessing to our family.

My husband's family spent Christmas Eve at our house; what a busy, happy time that was!

Christmas Day, we went over the river and through the woods to my parents house,

and welcomed our soldier home.

Best Christmas present ever.

My older daughter reminds me of him every day, they are alike in so many ways... and he's her hero. :)

My Dad makes the most mouth-watering prime rib on the planet, and so we stuffed ourselves silly.

After awakening from our holiday food coma, it was time to get back to work...

and it's really hard work supporting kids and pets. Like, literally.

Well, okay, SOME of us worked... my oldest daughter worked very hard and in February,

accomplished her long-time goal of earning her Junior Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do. Yay!

She then celebrated by attending her first formal dance...

and ignoring her mother's tearful plea to quit growing up so fast...

My baby is growing up fast too... she's reading now(!)...

but at least she's not yet too cool to snuggle with Mom.

I've learned to enjoy those chocolate-rimmed smiles, and not wash those crumbs off so quick.

Because it won't be long, and she'll be looking like this... not a crumb in sight.

Looking at these photos this morning, it reinforced one of my core beliefs.

Enjoy. Every. Single. Day.

Even, and maybe especially, the cold grey ones.

Vacation

2011-02-09T16:00:00.000-06:00

One week ago today... this was my view. I was fortunate enough to escape with my husband (and approximately 130 of his colleagues) to the beautiful island of Jamaica for a few days of sun, sand and relaxation.

While it meant four days of travel (and a couple weeks preparation beforehand) in exchange for five days of paradise, it was worth it. For all the benefits of vacation, certainly; but especially for the renewed perspective I always seem to bring home.

Preparing for the trip was a stark reminder of all I'm responsible for here on the farm. My children, pets, horses and home all needed someone capable to care for them in my absence. I was incredibly grateful to have parents willing to take my girls (and dog) into their home for a week and spoil them all rotten. To have a sister-in-law, an experienced farm-girl in her own right, willing to house (and horse) sit. To have the best-est girlfriend in the whole world willing to be on call and come to the rescue in case of any equine mishap... and to have all of them tell me, "Go, have FUN. We'll be just fine."

I did have fun, once I relaxed and the travel-weariness subsided. (Upon arriving in our room, we dropped our bags, collapsed on the bed, slept an hour, went to dinner, returned to the room and slept twelve more. Heaven.) My mind was almost always back home, however... wondering what my girls were doing or if they were homesick. If the horses were healthy and behaving. If my sister-in-law was enjoying herself at my house or having to shovel too much snow. When I would see something beautiful or of interest, I would make a mental note to tell them all about it, upon my return. And quite often, my husband and I found ourselves talking about our daughters, about how they would enjoy the beach or the plane ride or the sight of the beautiful Caribbean Sea.

Everything about the trip was relaxing, beautiful, luxurious (well, except maybe the security and check-in lines... they always make me feel nervous and claustrophobic, like a steer in a sorting pen). But after a few days, I was ready to return home to my girls and my horses and my dogs and my life.

Even though going home meant a 100-degree drop in outdoor temperature and a return to laundry, chores, cooking and cleaning, this is where my heart is. Yes, it is rather divine to be waited upon by someone who addresses you as "mah-lady"; have fruity, frozen alcoholic concoctions delivered to my lounge chair on the beach; dine elegantly in the evening and afterward sleep like a baby in a giant four-poster bed which cradles you like a newborn... I am so blessed to have the chance to experience it. Better yet, however, was the joy in my daughters' smiles when I walked through my parents' front door. The nickers of the horses when I walked into the barn. The familiarity of my own bed and the comfort of the routine of the life I've created here on my farm.

This is where I am free, where I belong... and knowing that truth in my soul brings more satisfaction than I could ever find elsewhere.

Now if only I could train my children to address me as "mah-lady"....

Its good to be home.

What I Love About Winter - A List

2011-01-24T18:05:00.000-06:00

1. Friday night is family night... especially in winter.
After a busy week filled with work, school, tae kwon do classes, church youth group activities and which sometimes includes overnight business trips for Dad, Friday night is our night to come back together as a family and just... be. We make a pizza, watch movies, make popcorn, watch more movies, laugh and snuggle by the fire and sometimes the card players play cards. I am not a card player, but just listening to the banter while the rest of my family is embroiled in a heated game of Crazy 8's brings me great joy.

2. Snow days.
Working from home means when Mother Nature shuts down the school, I have no need to scramble in an effort to find child-care or venture out in horrible conditions. So, we sleep in. Drink hot cocoa. Watch the snow fall. Make a pot of soup. And enjoy every minute of it.

3. Homemade soup.
And speaking of making a pot of soup... well, I love making homemade soup or stew. Venison or beef stew, koephla soup, chicken soup, chili, broccoli cheese, chicken tortilla, minestrone. There is nothing quite so therapeutic as chopping the vegetables and simmering stock, nor so comforting as a bowl of hot, homemade goodness after spending time outdoors in frigid temperatures. Yes, I do make soup the rest of the year... but in winter it restores my soul.

4. Learning
Winter is the season when I have a bit more time to take classes, read, and try new things. If there is a project I need to tackle, winter is when I have the long evenings to read, research, contemplate, and create. This year one of my new projects is creative journaling, using paint and decoupage and embellishments of all sorts. My dining room is now a studio and my astonished family intrigued by the sudden burst of creativity.

5. Rest.
Dark winter afternoons often beg for a nap. And sometimes, I indulge them. Having endured years of chronic sleep deprivation when my daughters were younger (and even mono when the youngest was a baby), I've now rediscovered the bliss that is sleep. While I feel guilty taking a nap on a beautiful summer's day (and usually have little desire for one), in winter its a different story altogether. And... a rested mom is a happy mom. :)

6. Dreaming... and planning.
Winter is when I do the most dreaming in regard to where I want to go in regard to my farm, family and business. Its when I plan the next year's farm improvements, the vegetable and flower gardens, and which mares will be bred to which stallions in the spring. I ponder whether to raise more bottle calves, or if we should build raised beds for the vegetables. I dream about the foals growing in their momma's bellies and prepare for their births. This is also the time of year when I catch up on the organizing, paperwork and correspondence which falls by the wayside during the busy summer months when we are haying, fixing fences, mowing, gardening, barn-cleaning and, sometimes, fishing.

7. Cozy things.
Warm shearling boots. The wool scarf my mother brought back from Ireland for me. Micro-fleece neck warmers. Duo-fold long-johns. The jeans quilt my husband had a friend make for me out of our "farming jeans" for Christmas when I was pregnant with our oldest daughter. Yes, I am thrilled when the weather warms and I can pack those items away for the next season... but the winter makes me eternally grateful for their presence in my life.

8. School.
My family is profoundly, abundantly blessed by the fact our children attend an amazing public school with a wonderfully kind, attentive and creative staff. The academics are top-notch, the school concerts and activities always enjoyable, and I take great pleasure in watching my girls learn and grow by leaps and bounds in that nurturing environment.

9. Reading.
Yes, I mentioned it earlier, but winter reading is in a category all its own. In summer, I trend toward novels which can be read in fits and starts on the front porch while resting between chores. Wintertime brings with it deeper, more thoughtful reading, the sort which commands more time and attention. It broadens my horizons, yet clarifies my perspective.

10. Springtime.
Yes, I realize this is a post listing all I love about winter... but hear me out.

On the coldest, most brutal of days, when soup and warm boots and a good book don't work, I rest in the knowledge that spring will, indeed, arrive. I never know exactly when; it could show up anytime between March and (Heaven forbid) June. But that's precisely my point. It is something we can look forward to and depend upon. I know that when the weather breaks and the snow disappears, I will hit the ground running and slow down very little until freeze-up. Knowing the hard work and long hours of springtime are just around the corner, I take pleasure in mindfully creating a pot of soup, in devouring a new book or taking the time to learn a new skill, in sinking into my sofa under a warm quilt and taking a nap. Its about enjoying the moment and the life I've purposefully created.

I cannot live for summertime alone, at least not here in Minnesota, lest I spend many depressed months lamenting bad weather and boredom (believe me when I tell you I've gone that route and it wasn't pretty) . Life is what you make it, every day, every single season of the year.

And right now, I'm making soup.

Afternoon Delight

2011-01-15T21:46:00.000-06:00

Relating with small children, other than those I've actually birthed, is not one of my natural talents.

While I've done plenty of outside-the-box, adventurous and even (dare I say) courageous things in my life, a room full of Kindergarteners strikes fear into my soul. The very thought of a troop of Brownie Scouts and their mothers gathered for a meeting gives me heart palpitations.

Needless to say, I've never been among the first to volunteer for "classroom mom" duty.

Having said that, I love my daughters (and being their mom), love to read to them and love books. (My husband will verify the last statement with a copy of the credit card bill, the Amazon and Barnes & Noble purchases highlighted in pink). So, when the opportunity arose to help out in my youngest daughter's Kindergarten classroom for a few hours on a Friday afternoon by reading stories for their "Winter Literature Day", I felt it would be a good opportunity to do my part, spend a bit of special time with my daughter, and face my personal demons (or one of them, anyway).

Yes, I was nervous. Seriously, all I had to do was read a couple books to some little kids and help with a craft project, but it felt like I was heading for a court appearance or something. Thank goodness for the "reading" part; it was my crutch, shield and security blanket. I did not know ahead of time that I would also be helping with crafts, which is good considering crafts are only slightly less terrifying to me than other peoples' small children.

Another mom went first... it didn't help my confidence any to learn she was a trained teacher and had even substituted in that very classroom before. She donned the microphone (since when do they use pyrotechnics... er, I mean electronics... to that degree in Kindergarten?) and read her book, turning the pages and showing them to the class like an elementary school version of Vanna White.

When it was my turn, I shunned the microphone; anyone who knows me, knows I don't need one in a room housing fewer than 50 people. Stepping to the front of the room, I picked up Jan Brett's Daisy Comes Home, and related the tale of a little hen in China.

So, two counts were in my favor... reading, and the fact I was reading about a chicken.

I know chickens.

Boldly, I made the leap of faith that chickens in China behave very much like American chickens.

I'm not sure if the children are used to ad-libbers reading to them while also making comments about geography, chicken flock dynamics, or fishermen who claim "finders keepers"; they were, however, either extraordinarily well trained or really enjoyed the story. They sat quietly and attentively while I read to them and responded with great enthusiasm to my questions and comments. I had great fun with it, and totally enjoyed the experience.

So much, in fact, that I wasn't even all that scared when it came to making crafts with them (though I did offer up a prayer of thanks that my craft station used adhesive-backed peel-and-stick foam shapes as the only ingredient). The children were divided into four groups and each group sat at a different table, heard a story, and then did a craft related to the story.

The lovely book at "my" table was The Mitten Tree by Candace Christiansen, about a little old lady who misses her grown-up children and begins to knit mittens for the children she sees gathering every day at the bus stop near her home. I would read the story, we would decorate foam cut-outs of mittens with the peel-and-stick foam shapes, the children would rotate to the next table and I would do it all over again with the next group. I have to say it was great fun to spend a little time with each child in my daughter's class, putting faces to the names she mentions every day and getting a taste of each unique personality.

The best, best, very best part of the whole experience, however?

The smile on my little girl's face when I showed up... and the whole time I was there.

It didn't matter to her how well I read the book, my page-turning skills or whether I am all thumbs with glue and Popsicle sticks. All that mattered to her was that her Mommy was there. She was radiant, and overjoyed, and proud to have her mom visit her classroom. Just for her.

I wish I had a picture of her smile that day, though really don't need one as I doubt I'll ever forget it.

And besides... I'll see it again, very soon, the next time I volunteer to read to her class.

Winter Horse Care, The Frostfire Way

2011-01-11T10:38:00.000-06:00

People often ask about my winter horse-care routine. Since we spent some time last week digging out from back-to-back blizzards, filling stock tanks and moving the horses out of the barn and back into their outdoor digs, the subject was on my mind and I thought I'd share some of my ideas in regard to it.

Horses were first domesticated on the Eurasian Steppes in what is present day Kazakhstan. The place is not known for its tropical climate... quite the contrary, the winters there are frigid and somewhat similar to those here in Minnesota. While the ancestors of the horses I raise trace back to the deserts of the Middle East, and when we think "desert" what comes to mind is "heat"... the nights there get very, very cold, and its a brutal climate in its own right.

Horses evolved, and were selectively bred, not only for their ability to look pretty and tote humans from points A to B... but to survive, and even thrive, in less-than-ideal conditions. It is my opinion that keeping them swathed in blankets and in a heated barn is usually unnecessary (if not detrimental for some). Obviously if one has a sick or elderly horse which requires that level of care, or even has high hopes of showing a slick show-pony at an early spring event, the barn and blankets are wonderful help in that regard. But for a breeding or pleasure horse, I've found that a much more simple routine yields healthy horses with sound minds who thrive in all but the nastiest of weather during our Minnesota winters.

Care, and not fine stables, makes a good horse. - Danish Proverb

During the winter months I keep my horses in small groups of three to five animals, and put those groups together giving consideration to age, nutritional requirements and temperament. They are provided with good-quality hay, fresh water and salt, free-choice; the young stock are fed small amounts of concentrate as necessary to promote adequate growth and condition. Each horse has a stall in the barn, but unless the weather is particularly nasty or we are awaiting a visit from our friendly farrier, they normally live, and are happiest, outdoors. They do have shelter from the wind, which is important. Horses' coats get quite thick in winter and are good insulation, provided they can get out of the wind and are not soaked through with rain.

Having been at this more years now than I care to admit, I've experimented with just about every winter horse-care routine out there. Stabling with daily turn-out, stabling and blanketing with turnout, blanketing with full-time turnout... you get the idea. (I've also used every bedding system out there... deep litter, straw, sunflower hulls, pelleted bedding... but that's a post for another day.) My experience (and I'm just sharing my experience and opinion, not judging anyone else's system or making any recommendations!) has been that my horses are healthier, happier, and make it to springtime in much better shape when allowed to live in a herd situation, with hay available at all times (the digestion of roughage is what keeps horses warm) and free access to fresh water and salt... along with fresh air.

No matter how nice the barn, how immaculately its kept or what bedding system used, the air quality in a barn simply cannot match that of the outdoors. I've experienced far fewer vet bills with horses living outdoors; they seem to avoid the respiratory ailments associated with stall-dwelling, as well as other injuries and mishaps such as stable vices and getting cast in their stalls. There is also the added bonus of reduced bedding costs and far less time spent mucking stalls.

In Minnesota, water is the most difficult to provide in the winter, but it can (and must) be made available. A few years ago I purchased a heavy-duty hose reel on wheels and it has been a God-send. It allows me to keep the hoses in the garage, which stays above freezing on all but the most frigid of days. When it does get cold enough that the hoses are in danger of freezing up in the garage, I roll the hose reel into the foyer to warm up before taking it out to fill the stock tanks. Not a practice which would earn me "Homemaker of the Year", but it works... and, well, this is a farm and the well-being of the animals is the priority. By next winter, I plan to have my tack/feed room insulated and heated in order to store the hoses out there and thus avoid dragging them to the house; what a joy that will be! But this works, for now... and actually quite well.

Each little band of horses has a large water tank with an electric de-icer which keeps the water from freezing. I've found the drain-plug de-icers work the best, as the animals cannot flip the heating element out of the tank and the cord stays out of harm's way. One day I will own automatic, heated waterers and my days of dragging hoses and filling tanks will be a thing of the past, but for now I just consider it part of my fitness routine!

Its good to have helpers!

A caveat... if the weather truly is bad and the horses look uncomfortable, I do stable them and am happy to do so. One of my favorite simple pleasures is tucking all the horses into the snug barn and feeding them while Ol' Man Winter kicks it up outside. They enjoy the reprieve as well, though by the time the storm has passed they all are more than ready to get back outdoors and into the fresh air and sunshine.

Horses can't talk, but they can speak if you listen.

I believe the most important aspect of horse care, not just in winter but year-round, is observation. One must know your horses, their personalities, idiosyncrasies and habits... that way, when one is a bit "off" you may intervene quickly to discern and remedy the problem. Of course, this observation requires presence, and so just kicking the horses outdoors does not absolve one from the responsibility of checking on them regularly.

Second to observation would be innovation. While the magazines and trade shows would have us believe that all horses must live in some sort of climate-controlled, horse-proofed and hazard-free Nirvana, that's not practical nor is it reality for most of us. I would garner that even the most successful among horsemen started their careers in fairly simple and humble surroundings.... those giant indoor arenas and climate-controlled barns (and the employees required to clean and maintain them) came later, after they'd established themselves.

So, how does one provide good care without breaking the bank (or your back)? You get creative. It does not take a big, expensive barn to keep a horse out of the bitter wind... a simple, homemade three-sided shed will suffice. Barring that, a windbreak can be constructed from big straw or hay bales, or even discarded pallets. Same goes for providing water; even if your horses are a mile from an open water source or a spigot, water can be hauled in (and, many years ago, I spent a winter doing just that. Not the ideal situation, but it worked.). I don't recommend any of these methods over having a barn with running water, and one should give thought to how adequate winter care will be provided before ever bringing a horse home. On occasion, however, situations and circumstances change (loss of a job, a poorly-timed relocation, etc.), and a committed horse owner will do whatever it takes to provide the basics of necessary care. If you own horses long enough, there will be times when innovation will make the all the difference in providing good care.

That, and a positive attitude.

When its fifteen below zero and the brass coupler snaps off the hose after you finally got the whole works thawed out and pulled into place... or the tractor won't start and you must resort to pitching (lots and lots of) hay over the fence by hand... or the tank heater mysteriously got unplugged and the brand-new water tank froze so solid it burst a seam... those are the days which test your attitude, your innovation... and your dedication. And, quite frankly, make you question your own good sense. Its important to remember, however, that spring always comes.The good news is that as long as the basics are provided and regular, attentive care given, horses actually do quite well living outdoors in winter.

Even in Minnesota.

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. ~Albert Camus

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T22:39:00.000-06:00

I cannot believe it's now the year 2011... last night as my husband and I were watching the Gin Blossoms and Rick Springfield rock Times Square before the big ball dropped, we were asking each other, "Can you believe its 2011??? Can you believe we've been married twenty years???"

Back when we were dating... like, twenty-one or so years ago (in a time our daughters call the "olden days")... the year 2000 seemed far in the future, and now we are eleven years beyond even that. In looking back, however, I would say while the time passed quickly and there were plenty of obstacles and heartaches and lots of hard work along the way, it was time well spent. Given the fact that one cannot go back and change anything, its probably a good perspective to have. Regrets are worthless, and dwelling on them a waste of precious time.

And so, I choose to live in this moment and to look ahead.

At this very moment in my home, we've just finished up a board game. Now my older daughter is upstairs practicing tae kwon do with her dad, while the younger is feeding our dogs (after compassionately encouraging the elderly, arthritic one down the stairs). Nothing particularly special or noteworthy about the moment, outside the fact that everyone is home. Everyone is safe, and healthy, and content. There is no drama, no crises, no pressing deadlines or weighty concerns. That, in and of itself, fills me with a deep sense of gratitude. My heart overflows with it, and to be honest, my eyes overflow a little as well. I don't think one could know that same depth of gratitude without first experiencing the obstacles and heartache and losses... and so I am grateful for those as well. Wouldn't want to experience them again, but am far richer because of them.

Now, as we begin a new year, I look to the future with gratitude for the opportunities and blessings to come, as well as great excitement and expectation. 2010 blessed me abundantly with some wonderful new mentors and friends, among them Heather O'Sullivan Canney and Amy Lundberg. They both have opened up great big new worlds for me, have set the bar really high, and I have a whole lot of work to do as a result... both inside (working on me) and out (growing my business). The thing is, I can't wait! They are both phenomenally gifted women and I am so grateful to have the chance to work with each of them.

The older I get, it seems the less I know, but the more I love to learn and grow. Now that my daughters are both in school and my days a bit more my own, it feels like a great gift to have the opportunity to focus more on my self-care, personal growth and business while they are in school, while still being an attentive and present mother to them when they are at home. 2011 will be a wonderful year, and I look forward to sharing it with you here in my Frostfire Journal.

Thank you so much for making the time to read about my thoughts and adventures here in this little blog... I appreciate it, very much, and hope you have a truly healthy, happy, prosperous and joyful 2011. Happy New Year!

B-L-I-Z-Z-A-R-D

2010-12-30T23:04:00.000-06:00

I took this photo from my front porch this afternoon. Right after the weather man said, and I quote, "Folks, its going to be bad."... and he was talking about tomorrow.

It was balmy here (well, balmy for Minnesota in December) last night, the precipitation came down as rain and Mother Nature graciously glazed every surface with ice before turning a cold shoulder and polishing it with snow. She then proceeded to throw a tantrum. And as any self-respecting woman knows, a good, thorough, hell-raising tantrum must last a minimum of three days to be taken seriously. Not that I've ever thrown one or anything... just sayin'.

So, we've been snowed (iced) in all day, and the worst is yet to come...with two more days to go. Every major highway within 75 miles, interstate and otherwise, is closed. Its officially a blizzard, no travel advised, we are taking it seriously... and I love it.

This is the stuff legends are made of, what separates the wheat from the chaff. As we say here in Minnesota... it keeps the rif-raff out. Its when we hunker down, watch movies, take long(er) winter naps, read, write, plan next year's garden, play crazy rummy, create homemade-from-scratch soup from the homegrown beef in the freezer and let it simmer on the stove all day. Its when I shrug into my winter gear and trudge out to the barn through snow over my knees to let the livestock in, then spend a few moments just listening to them appreciatively munch the fragrant hay I stacked in there for just this day, months before.

We don't have anywhere to be, the freezer and pantry are stocked (and failing that, we could probably live off our "reserves", especially after the gluttony of Christmas, for quite some time. Probably until spring, God forbid but truth be told). The livestock are sheltered and fed. This is what we plan for (and secretly look forward to) the rest of the year. It is why I keep plenty of food and candles, batteries and blankets and toilet paper on hand at all times. Tonight, and possibly for a few days yet, there will be no driving to the convenience store.

Granted, we are blessed with the technology and experts to forecast such events... far enough ahead, in fact, that we went to town yesterday to stretch our legs and pick up last minute items such as milk and produce. Once in the store, however, I realized there was really very little we needed to purchase, because I've stashed everything from bottled water to beans to band-aids. So instead of going home empty handed, I bought more books and pens and journals. My girls bought more books. My husband bought sidewalk de-icer, and was nice enough to refrain from complaining about us buying more books. We all came home happy.

I can't think of a better way to ring in the new year than safely hunkered down at home with my family, nowhere to go, plenty to eat, the livestock contentedly buttoned up in the barn, a stack of books and a stash of new pens. Well, and a bottle of brandy... its medicinal, you know.

Let it snow.

Freedom Isn't Free

2010-11-11T01:00:00.000-06:00

Today is Veteran's Day, a day in which we pause to reflect on our freedoms, to honor and thank those who fought for them, to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice and gave their lives so that ours may be free.

I write this as a woman who, just days ago, exercised my right to vote. I am blessed with the right and the freedom to bear arms, in order to feed my family if I so choose, and to defend them if necessary.

Unlike so many others the world over, I have, and exercise, the right to freely assemble with like-minded associates, and the freedom to worship my God... or not.

I have the opportunity to sit here this evening, writing my opinion and sharing it with the world, without fear of persecution.

My daughters will receive an education and grow into adulthood with the knowledge and confidence that they are free to achieve, to publicly express their opinions, to be whatever and whomever they want to be in life.

My gratitude to the men and women who fought and sacrificed so that my family is able to enjoy these freedoms, is beyond measure.

Thank you. To those young and old, to those who march proudly with the VFW and to the others who are private about their service, no matter how you served or where, how recent or long-ago... I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

My family lives free because of your service and sacrifice. Please know that we remember you with deep gratitude not only on Veteran's Day, but all year long.

It starts... and stops... at home.

2010-11-05T23:53:00.001-05:00

Last night, my husband came home from work with a sad story to tell.

It seems he spent part of his day visiting a farmer near Cooperstown, North Dakota. As they talked about seed, weather and markets, a hearse drove by on the country road and past the farmer's house. The farmer shook his head, and proceeded to tell my husband about a young girl, sixteen years old, who had been bullied incessantly at school. Early that same morning, she wrote one final post to Facebook... and then took her own life.

There is talk now in North Dakota, about passing a law which would address the problem and make bullying a crime. The video which follows is part tribute to the young woman who took her life, and part rallying cry to the people of the state, in order to gain support for the legislation now being drafted.

As we are all shocked and saddened by this tragic loss of a young, beautiful life, it understandable that we want to band together and DO SOMETHING. Passing a law is symbolic and important... but the problem goes way beyond what a law or the enforcement of it could do. We cannot depend solely on the government to fix it, because

BULLYING STARTS IN THE HOME.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, bullies get the impression that the only way to be someone in life, the only way to shine brightly, is to cut down the competition or attempt to blow out the flame which outshines their own. To say people like that are jealous, pathetic losers with a twisted view of what it means to succeed in life would be the understatement of all time... and yet, it doesn't really help the situation.

What would, then, help the situation? Paying attention to our kids, and to what is going on in their lives.

Getting our own heads out of the clouds, or out of the bottle, or off the computer, or out of the casino or shopping mall, or away from the career, and truly listening to them.

Having the courage to stand up in defense of those who are mistreated, to address the issue, and to quit worrying about what the neighbors might think if we do.

Teaching empathy and compassion to our children, that human beings mean more than stuff or status.

Also, teaching our children self-respect, along with self-defense.

The problem is two-fold. On one hand, we have the winner-take-all crowd, for whom little more matters than how they are perceived by society, and who will do whatever it takes to be top dog. On the other hand, we have the pacifist, nothing-matters-but-feelings crowd, the be-nice-so-people-will-like-you club.

As parents, it is OUR responsibility to raise our children to be decent human beings. We need to instill confidence, promote self-esteem, encourage and applaud achievement. But bullying ENDS in the home as well...we need to trim our kids' wings if they become aggressive little monsters. Throwing up our hands and saying, "Well, that's just how she is, I don't know how to control her..." isn't good enough, nor is pleading ignorance. It's OUR job to raise that child to be an upright member of society, and no one else's. Not the daycare provider's, not Grandma's, not the government's, not the church's, not the school district's, not the penal system's... ours. You'll sure as hell brag and take credit if your kid wins a State Championship of some sort... are you willing to take that same credit should they end up in the penitentiary?

On the flip side of that... parents also need to arm their children against bullies. Expecting the school to take notice when there is a problem and do something about it is naive. Children need to be supervised, taught social skills and proper hygiene, provided with adequate clothing for their needs (no, not designer duds... I'm talking about clean clothes that actually fit them)... and they need to be taught how to defend and stand up for themselves. These things are not the responsibility of the school system or the government, but of the parents.

My husband and I have two girls, one in high school, one in elementary. We have often been amazed by how aggressive, demanding and yes, mean-spirited, other little girls can be. More than once I have found myself in the position of backing a daughter away from a so-called friendship, until she could better learn to stand up for herself. I've had to explain that being a friend doesn't mean caving to every demand, or going along with the crowd if it doesn't feel right... and that its okay to have your own interests and follow the beat of your own drummer. We teach our girls that its okay to tease a little, in fun... but its never okay to taunt or intentionally hurt the feelings of another. That requires discussing which subjects are acceptable to laugh about, and which are not. And yes, it is an investment of time. We seem to find that time during family meals, eaten together at the kitchen table with the television OFF.

Having said that, however... both of our girls are enrolled in martial arts. I've told them repeatedly that while its never okay to start a fight, it is okay to finish it. That if someone physically harms them, they must defend themselves without giving any thought whatsoever to the sort of trouble they might get into. It gets back to the worry, "What will the neighbors think". Frankly, I don't care what they think, as long as my daughter is alive, safe, and well.

Girls, especially, often have the "you've got to be nice to be liked" mantra drilled into their heads. Nice just for the sake of being nice, however, is dangerous territory. They begin to believe that because they are nice, nothing bad would or could or should ever happen to them. That's a lie from the pit if ever there was one. Even Jesus opened up a can of "not-so-nice" on the moneychangers in His Father's temple. He demonstrated that sometimes, its necessary to stand up against what is wrong, in order to defend what is right.

As parents, we also need to remember that bullying is not only confined to swirlies and locker room altercations. As we have all seen on the news, bullying is beginning to take on new and ever more vile forms... stalking, harassment via social media, secret recording of private moments which are then shared via the internet or cell phone, even the parents of kids who are in competition with each other are getting in on the game. Its disgusting, horrifying, and real.

We need to open our eyes and pay attention to our kids... to where they are, what they are doing and with whom, and to what they are saying.

We need to pay attention to what is going on in their lives, catch the problems early on and DO something about them, before they spin out of control.

We cannot sit back and wait for someone else to take care of the problem, or bury our heads in the sand in hopes it will go away on its own. It will not. I'm not advocating "helicopter parenting" here... we cannot dip our kids in sanitizer and cocoon them in bubble wrap before sending them off to school. They need to visit new places, try new things, experience life... its all a part of growing up... and we need to let them. But we also need to pay attention.

My heart is breaking tonight for a family in North Dakota who lost their beautiful daughter unnecessarily at the age of sixteen. I implore each and every parent out there to step up to the plate with me and shoulder some responsibility... to stop bullies in their tracks, to open our eyes to what is going on in the lives of our children, and do whatever it takes to prevent further tragedy.

Boots

2010-11-04T08:18:00.000-05:00

These are my boots.

I purchased them at Sears more than ten years ago, before the start of one of my first sugar beet harvest campaigns.

You have no idea how difficult it was to find steel-toe leather work boots in women's sizes, back then... comfortable ones, anyway. I hit the jackpot.

This past decade, I've worn them more days than not, and if given the opportunity, they could tell quite a story...

These boots have worn out four sets of insoles and countless pairs of laces.

They have stood on concrete slabs out in the elements for twelve-hour shifts, in every sort of weather imaginable.

They've operated the control pedals of tractors, boom trucks, service vehicles, ATV's and quite a few farm pickups... with varying degrees of success.

These boots pushed my daughters' strollers, and escorted them to the school bus stop on their first days of Kindergarten and many days since. They've fetched the mail a thousand times over.

I have worn these boots while bringing life into the world, and while escorting it out again... while imprinting foals, building fences, butchering, throwing hay bales, cleaning stalls and burying the dead.

They have been coated with mud, dust, chaff, grass clippings, barn lime, wood shavings; baptized with Jack Daniels, barn paint and tears.

These boots have been soaked in morning dew, April slush, manure, motor oil, and blood. They still bear the the stains.

They have protected my feet from dropped hammers, heavy corral panels, scrap metal, grass fires, brush and more errant hooves than I can remember. Their heels have snuffed out spiders, mice, snakes and cigarette butts.

I've watched more sunrises, sunsets, frolicking foals, bonfires, wildlife and shooting stars while wearing these boots than some people take the time to notice over the course of an entire lifetime.

These boots have skimmed just inches over sun-baked asphalt at eighty miles an hour, serenaded by singing pipes, 600 miles in one perfect day... then worked to set up camp after that... a few times over.

They have leaped in joy, danced under the stars, slid into stirrups, shuffled in crushing sorrow, paced outside hospitals and scraped their toes on concrete while kneeling in desperate prayer. My boots have gone to the landfill, the grocery store, the feed mill, the lumber yard, and to Sturgis... they've gone fishing, often, and sometimes a little crazy... occasionally they have stood their ground in heated debate, though have run to the aid of others quite often.

Once, after an accident in which they were soaked in blood, I decided to never wear them again, thinking they were bad luck. I didn't, for a long, long time... even going so far as to buy another pair of boots, though I could never bring myself to throw this pair away. Those new boots just weren't made for my feet like these are, however; they rubbed until my feet were blistered and bleeding. I suffered and doctored my feet for weeks afterward. It made me think that maybe these old boots still had a purpose, even if they were stained and worn and carried some bad memories. Finally, I decided that the good in them, far outweighed the bad.

Why? Because some of my greatest accomplishments were earned by walking countless miles and working countless hours in these boots, and sometimes just by putting them on and showing up. I met some of my dearest friends while wearing them. I've endured some of the most difficult, some of the most heartbreaking, and certainly the most exhausting days of my life with these boots on my feet... but also experienced the most joyful.

My boots are not fashionable, not trendy, certainly not pretty. They are heavy, they collect and hoard mud like its Halloween candy. It takes time to lace them in the morning, far longer than it would to just slip into a lighter pair. Some days, after wearing them for particularly hard work, they feel like anvils tied to my feet.

But, they are comfortable. Safe. Well-made. Dependable. Functional. They have character. And every time I lace them up, the memories come flooding back, both good and bad. My boots are a reminder to keep going, keep fighting, keep believing, to never give up; they are a daily reminder of who I am, where I've been... and where I intend to go.

Think I'll keep them around awhile longer.

Angels on Earth

2010-10-15T15:31:00.000-05:00

David James

David James grew up in my hometown.

He was a few years my senior, liked and respected by many. I had the honor of playing in the high school band with him, in the trombone section.

Back then, I was a pipsqueak freshman and he was every freshman girl's idea of McDreamy... an accomplished athlete, confident and handsome with a thousand-kilowatt smile, and nice to boot. While I don't recall visiting with him one-on-one very much, what I do remember is that he was kind and always carried himself with such class. It was no surprise to hear that he went on after high school to serve twenty years in the Air Force, both in the Gulf War and Desert Storm. He really was the kind of guy that would make a career of serving his country with honor.

So the news two weeks ago that David was gunned down in a public park in front of his eight-year-old daughter, while defending some skateboarding kids from an idiot on a rant (you can read the news article here)... it was one of those things that hits you square in the chest as being such a senseless, horrific tragedy.

David and his family have been on my mind a lot these past couple weeks. I've been praying for his wife and children, that God grant them peace and comfort... and especially for his little daughter Danielle. She was at the park that day with her dad to play basketball, a game they both loved. Even as I write this, long-forgotten memories of David playing basketball for our high school rise to the surface; I have an image in my head of him smiling out there on the court, enjoying the game. One can only imagine the special bond that David and Danielle shared, for love of the game.

Cledus T. Judd

It seems I'm not the only one whose heart was touched by this sad story. Today, a friend posted to Facebook an audio in which the musician/comedian Cledus T. Judd read, on the radio, the most incredibly touching letter to Danielle James. He has never met her, but wanted to reach out to her in the spirit of compassion and friendship. One can hear the tears in his voice, the true feeling behind his words, and I feel compelled to share it. Please listen here.

There will always be tragedies and losses in this world; some of them close to home. It is so difficult to make sense of them... but I thank God for people such as Mr. Judd, who step up and step out in the face of such tragedy, to lift up those who grieve. While such acts cannot bring back loved ones lost or turn back time, they do bring comfort and restore our faith in humanity.

Thank you, Mr. Cledus T. Judd... and David, may you rest in peace knowing there are angels here on Earth, too.

This Is Your Life.

2010-10-14T22:03:00.000-05:00

This was posted on the SweetOnVeg.com blog and I just had to share it. I may just have to frame it to hang in my kitchen... especially love the "All emotions are beautiful." So true. There is beauty in tears, in anger, in love... they are what make us human.

Help Me God

2010-10-14T18:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes things happen in life which leave us bereft, lost, hurting so deeply and so afraid, that even a believer cannot form the words to pray. Challenges seem insurmountable, the night so black and without end. We've all been there, at some point... every single one of us. Probably more times than one would care to admit, as being strong and self-reliant is what's valued in this society, after all.

A friend posted this beautiful video to Facebook today, and it literally brought me to my knees.

Sometimes all we can say is, "Help me God. I'm lost and hurting, I can't see You, but I know You are there. Help me."

I share this for all those who are lost and hurting.

"Help Me God"
by Kathy Troccoli

Help me God I'm scared
And I'm unprepared to face the night alone
Hear me, hear my prayer
My soul it aches and I've nowhere to go
Help me God

Chorus:
In this dark hour
I know only the power that made the stars
Can mend my heart
Oh I've tried on my own but I'm not that strong
You're all I've got
You're all I've got
Help me God

Sometimes, people leave
And I can grieve cause life's not always fair
help me to hold on
though I can't see you, I believe you're there
I know you're there
Chorus

Haying in October

2010-10-11T12:47:00.000-05:00

In all my years as a farm girl, I cannot recall ever putting up hay in October.

So, this would be a first.

Let me just say, for the record, I'm okay with it.

When you're looking at six months of snow up to your derrière...

and temperatures plunging, at times, to -40F...

and herds of horses and calves looking to you as their sole means of survival...

hay put up at any time of year is good. But hay put up in October is an unexpected blessing.

As is having kids now old enough to help!

Dad giving instruction to the new driver.

She's twelve. Going on twenty.

And driving a five-speed, four-wheel-drive, turbo-diesel pullin' truck.

Daddy does the baling, and he stacks the bales I pitch onto the trailer.

The little one helps too. She fetched my camera for me. And keeps us in stitches.

Oh, and Grace keeps an eye out for varmints.

Life is good.

Another Creative Outlet...

2010-09-26T22:32:00.000-05:00

It was almost a year ago when my oldest daughter contracted the H1N1 flu, and was hospitalized with life-threatening complications. My husband and I took turns staying with her around the clock; one was at the hospital at all times, while the other would be at home with our younger daughter. We took 24-hour shifts and the arrangement worked pretty well, considering the gravity and stress of the situation.

During one of my shifts at home, however, I was feeling particularly restless and felt the need to DO SOMETHING. Hoping to share my daughter's story and send out a plea for people to pray for her recovery, I spent a few hours learning the ins and outs of video slideshow production. Quite pleased with the results, I then posted it to YouTube and Facebook. The video got a lot of positive response... and as a result, I found a new creative outlet in the midst of very unlikely circumstances.

In February, my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, and I wanted to create a tribute to them.

This is the result:

Of course, it was only fair to include my youngest daughter in the mix...

For my 20th wedding anniversary, a retrospective was in order:

And then, there is my most recent project, a video of some of the horses and scenes from around the farm:

I truly enjoy producing these videos. When my daughters ask about what they should do or be when they grow up, my answer is always the same: they should do whatever it is that when they are in the midst of it, they get so absorbed that time flies by and they lose all track of it. I am so fortunate to have a number of passions, and to have to opportunity to devote much of my time to them... my horses, my writing, and now this new creative outlet as well. Its amazing to see how they are all coming together to work in conjunction with one another... and proof positive that keeping an open mind to the possibilities in life really does open up new opportunities.

Of Teddy Bears and Pixie Dust

2010-09-24T01:09:00.000-05:00

Six years ago tonight, I was nesting. Folding and re-folding tiny onesies and sleepers while watching television, something I've done relatively little of in the years since. I was excited, restless, and yet... content. Looking back, I realize now that I should have been sleeping.

The next day there was to be a routine check-up with my doctor... then grocery shopping, and after that, a relaxing weekend with my husband and seven-year-old daughter. There is a saying, however... if you want to make God laugh, just make plans.

The next morning was rushed; I learned early on in my first pregnancy that if one does not wish to spend hours in the waiting room of a busy OB-GYN practice, its wise to make your routine appointments for early in the morning. So, it was hurry-up-get-my-daughter-on-the-school-bus, then jump in the vehicle for the seventy-mile trip to the doctor's office. I remember it being the most beautiful of September days. Little did I know, I would not return home for a week.

As is the case at every late-term prenatal appointment, the doctor took my blood pressure and then checked my "progress"... and I will never forget the look of grave concern which crossed her face. Nor will I forget the speed at which I found myself suddenly placed into a wheelchair and pushed to the other end of the building to the maternity ward, checked into a room and hooked up to an I.V. which would drip labor-inducing drugs into my system.

For a pragmatic woman like myself who likes to do things by relatively natural methods, the whole scenario was stressful and disappointing... yet when your baby's life (and your own) is at risk, ideals tend to quickly get thrown out the window in exchange for the most technologically advanced medical intervention possible. My labor was induced, I was given an epidural early on (as the baby was in a bad position and the pain excruciating), and we narrowly avoided a c-section. We found out days later that the baby had broken a clavicle (collarbone) during delivery; she was jaundiced, I was severely pre-eclamptic, we were both very ill, and we both spent the next two weeks in and out of the hospital before things settled down and we could just be a family.

But, despite our stressful introduction, one which would make any natural-childbirth proponent gasp in dismay (me included)... we survived. We bonded. We looked into one another's eyes (hers, rimmed with the most beautiful eyelashes to ever grace a human child) and fell immediately, totally in love... and have, until a few weeks ago, been apart very little in the years since.

The best advice I ever got from anyone in regard to parenting was to "enjoy every single moment. They grow up way too fast." I took that advice to heart, and stayed home with my daughters; it was a decision I will never regret.

That does not mean it was an easy road, however. The "date nights" were few and far between. We ate, at times, a lot of potatoes and venison. I learned to cook creatively out of necessity, rather than real culinary talent or desire. If I wanted Mexican or Chinese food, I learned how to make it myself. The telephone and computer were often my only social outlet. February usually lasted three months.

But oh, the joy. Of being there when my baby took her first steps, babbled her first words, cut and then lost her first tooth. Of walking the floor with colic/earache/strep throat, of the thousands of miles she and I put on our hand-me-down rocking chair. Of watching her personality develop, and her character and confidence blossom....

Three weeks ago, she started Kindergarten. It was an emotional day for me, but we were both ready. This daughter has always been an adventure-seeker, one who lives to see what's over the next hill, and had no trouble whatsoever walking on that bus and into her future. There were no "I miss Mommy" tears, no regrets, and there was no looking back. And now every day at 4:15, I do a "3-2-1" countdown before the hurricane of enthusiasm that is my youngest daughter, blows through the door to tell me all about her day.

As I tucked her into bed tonight, she was squirming with delight in the knowledge that tomorrow is her birthday, her first "friends" birthday party, that there will be gifts and cake and oh, yeah, gifts. It is also her "V.I.P." day in her classroom. Her joy and excitement is something I wish I could capture in a jar, to save on the shelf and savor in years to come. While she said her prayers in a sweet little voice, I found myself wishing for the ten-thousandth time that time would just... stop for awhile. That it would just let me squeeze out every last drop of her at five years old.

But as my friend Gladys would have said, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." And so I sit here tonight, having wrapped my daughter's birthday gifts, baked the birthday treats for her class and packaged the party favors... savoring the moment. She'll not be five years old again, after today. Gone are the days of diapers and pacifiers and that sweet, fuzzy, sweet-smelling head nestled against my shoulder.... of teddy bears and pixie dust... but that's okay. I savored them, drank them in, wrung every last succulent drop out of them. Those days are now replaced by ABC's and 123's and the occasional eye-roll. Much to my surprise and delight, they are every bit as joyful.

Oh... and and after six years, I am actually... finally... catching up on sleep.

Service With a Smile

2010-09-18T00:41:00.000-05:00

The small town nearest to my farm now has two convenience stores.

Big news, I know! But bear with me here for a bit... this is a teachable moment...

I frequented the first store every few days for a couple years, and while the faces grew familiar, they rarely were anxious to smile, converse, or thank me for my business. It often seemed as if they felt they were doing me a favor in taking my money, of which I gave them plenty (being one of those evil, die-hard SUV owners and all).

So when the second store opened, I gave it a try. Much to my delight, the staff is friendly, helpful, accommodating. They once tore the place apart attempting to find a stamp for me when the post office down the street changed its hours and I needed to get a letter in the mail. Tonight, while waiting for my "Friday Family Night" pizza, one clerk with whom I've chatted a few times suggested we should get together for coffee (she and I realized we are neighbors), and we most likely will do just that. I actually look forward to visiting that store, which is probably high praise for a gas station.

These two stores are similar in many ways. Their pizzas and prices are comparable, though the first store carries a larger selection of products. And, of course, gasoline is just that. But here's the kicker... to patronize the store I favor, I must go out of my way and cross a busy four-lane highway. This girl does not generally go out of her way, nor am I much of a shopper. I tend to visit the most convenient location, get what I need and get out, even if the convenience costs a few cents more.

Unless, of course, it feels good to go out of my way... and in this case, it does. By simply acting as if my business matters to them, by building a relationship and offering pleasant customer service, the second store earned my willingness to make the extra effort to cross the highway and spend my money at their establishment.

If that seems inconsequential, consider this: I drive a large SUV (a necessity), live fifteen miles from my daughters' school, twenty miles from the town in which those same daughters attend tae kwon do classes four nights a week, and eight miles from our church. That adds up to a whole lot of miles and a whole lot of gasoline most weeks, and does not account for the couple times a month I drive into the city, or to my parent's house an hour away, or the occasional family road-trip. We buy gasoline for my vehicle, more for my lawn mower, and diesel fuel for the farm pickup and tractor. And of course, we occasionally purchase a pizza, or case of soda, or some paper towels...

These two stores are an apples-to-apples comparison; the difference is in the small details. Relationship building and customer service are not rocket science. Its pretty simple, really.

Smile. Ask about your customer's day. Be helpful. Be authentic.

It makes a difference.

Lazy Pork Roast

2010-08-11T14:31:00.001-05:00

Its hot out today... and in all my infinite wisdom, I have been wielding a manure fork in the barn for the past few hours. In an effort to justify some time inside my beloved, air-conditioned home (and still feel productive), I thought I would share one of my not-so-secret recipes.

Each year in the late fall, we purchase a hog from an Amish family. They are kind enough to do the less-appealing work of raising and slaughtering it, and we take it from there... cutting, wrapping (well, vacuum-sealing), and eventually, eating the whole darn thing. First to go generally are the chops, as there is no finer gastronomical pleasure than a perfectly grilled pork chop. In cleaning out my freezer and doing an inventory a few days ago, I was thrilled and amazed to discover a few beautiful, precious packages of chops and ribs left to use up this year... along with around twenty roasts.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy roast pork! But with a whole hog, you do tend to get a lot of roasts. While the butt roasts usually are tender and juicy no matter the method of preparation, shoulder roasts tend to be a bit tougher cut. I have, however, found a (ridiculously easy) method of preparing them so they turn out juicy, flavorful and mouthwatering, no matter which corner of the hog from whence they originate.

The crock pot. I love my crock pot. All I do is throw the roast into it, top it off with a sliced onion, a couple minced cloves of garlic, 1/4-1/2 cup of water, salt and pepper... put the lid on, and let that baby cook. All day. Until it is falling apart, and has tormented my family with its mouthwatering aroma to the point of mutiny if I don't feed it to them. Immediately.

From there, I pull the meat from the crock pot, shred it with two forks, and toss it back into the juices in the pot. It makes awesome sandwiches, particularly on buns (and if they are homemade buns, prepare yourself to loosen your belt a few notches, as you won't be able to eat just one). I like mustard on mine, but barbecue sauce is very good, as well. My husband bastardizes his with ketchup... but to each his own, I guess...

A couple things to remember. Do not trim the fat from the meat before you cook it... you can always drain or separate the fat later, but the fat is important to the flavor and moisture of the meat while it cooks. Also, be sure to start the roast early enough to give it time to cook to the point of falling apart or shredding easily... it makes a *huge* difference in the tenderness of the meat. The water, even though it is a small amount, is important as well. It seems to facilitate and speed up the cooking process, and also improves the tenderness of the meat.

I've been known to throw all caution to the wind, and put the roasts in the crock pot frozen, cooking them on high... they turned out great, and none of us contracted food poisoning or trichinosis. But more often, I don't think about whats for supper until after lunch (great foresight, I know)... so then defrost the meat in the microwave and cook it on high. It works because we generally don't eat supper around here until dark... which, in the summer, means late. The best way to do it, however, is to do as I say, not as I do, and start the previously-defrosted roast in the crock pot, in the morning, and cook it on low all day so it is ready for a reasonable mealtime of say, 6pm.

Give it a try... pork shoulder is an inexpensive cut to buy, and with few other ingredients and little prep time, you can have a tasty meal, and the leftovers reheat well for lunch the next day.

Every Rose Has Its Thorn... That's What Makes Them Interesting

2010-08-09T18:12:00.000-05:00

I love roses.

Wild roses, shrub roses, hybrid teas... and I love rose patterned china and wallpaper and rose-scented perfume and the Jackson & Perkins catalog. My youngest daughter's middle name is Rose. During the college years, I actually worked in a shop that sold only roses... and never tired of being surrounded by them.

I love receiving roses, love arranging them and love growing them. My daughters gave me two rose bushes for Mother's Day... both hybrid teas, a challenge to my horticultural ability. They are both actually still alive. I'm not sure how to gently suggest that if, in the future, they decide to bless me with more rose bushes, that blessing might live longer if they choose the hardier "shrub" variety. Particularly those bred in Canada. But I'll do my best with these, and hope they prosper for years to come.

Where did I get this love of roses? Honestly, I don't know. Maybe I'm just fussy... but think its more likely the contrast between the delicate beauty of each rose, and its thorny backbone. To me, something is truly beautiful when it has a bit of an edge or a challenge to it. One cannot frolic about picking roses as you would daisies, without receiving a fistful of thorns. They command respect. Admire their beauty, inhale their fragrance, and pick them if you wish... but carefully, or risk being scratched...

A bouquet of roses from the bushes my daughters gave me sits on my table at the moment... the first of many (I hope). The flowers are a bit faded and droopy from the heat we've endured lately. In my eyes, however, a more beautiful bouquet does not exist.

The County Fair

2010-08-02T11:59:00.000-05:00

We've been working hard. Like, for a long time.

It was time for some fun.... so we went to the county fair.

We rode the carousel...

...played a few games...

...rode some more rides...

She scored the #24 car... atta girl!

Keeping her eyes on the... road?

"Don't text and drive... call when you arrive... don't talk to strangers..."

Here we go!

Hang on!!!

Then it was time for some fair food...

She doesn't like corn dogs (my fair food of choice) and wanted to buy her own lunch.
A pork chop on a stick.
How a child who doesn't like corn dogs could have sprung from my loins, is a mystery to me.
Its heresy.

I'll bet this gentleman's mother raised him right, and that *he* likes corn dogs.
(I love seeing the seniors at the fair. Especially old farmers in John Deere hats.)

YUM! Corn dogs!
(We are having more success indoctrinating this child. Guess practice makes perfect.)

The prodigal daughter. I love her anyway.
And she did eat most of my deep fried cheese curds.
There may still be some hope for her.

With full bellies, it was time for more fun...

Shaking a leg.
Yes, they are shy and reserved.... until you cue the music.

Taking a bow!

The crowd loved it!

With the show over, it was time to check out the livestock exhibits...

Milking a cow!
They made us sign a liability waiver, and dispensed hand sanitizer afterward.
I told the guy with the hand sanitizer they needed it more over at the carnival rides, than in the cow barn.
He laughed.

She earned her stripes... er, stickers!

The DNR had a baby fawn on display...

So precious and beautiful!

The day was a hot one, and all that fun wears a girl out, so we finally headed for home...

All that singing and walking and riding and dancing and corn-dog eating just plumb wore her out!

...and we went back to work...
sort of...

(Gotta love a man in a tool belt. Be still, my heart.)

Metamorphosis

2010-07-28T01:07:00.000-05:00

Ten days ago, I wrote about Stripey, the Monarch caterpillar who came to live in my kitchen.

This is what he looked like then, just before he shed his skin and turned into a chrysalis:

But, a lot can happen in ten days.

In ten days, we've had lots of rain, and seen lots of rainbows like these:

We've had a visit from the Tooth Fairy...

...and welcomed a new foal into the world...

...and watched baby barn swallows do what baby barn swallows do.

That is, eat.

They live above the foaling stall, and announced... "The new Prince is here!"

My baby bird likes to announce things and eat, too...

though here she is pleading for a brownie, rather than a bug.

But, back to bugs. Er, I mean, butterflies.

Ours made his appearance this morning, amidst a house-shaking, nerve-wracking thunderstorm.

We let the heavy weather subside, but then my little bird decided it was time for

Stripey to fly free (noting that he has to get ready to fly to Mexico soon)...

He let us admire him for a few moments...

...then flew up...up...up to the tops of the trees.

Just because he could.

Have a good time in Mexico, Stripey... don't forget the folks back home!

Dancing Under Rainbows

2010-07-18T00:25:00.000-05:00

When you are five years old (almost six!), a perfect summer Saturday includes:

A story with Daddy (in the middle of the day!)...

...a mission... or five...

...a small discovery...

...a BIG discovery...

...and dancing under rainbows!

When you are five (almost six!) you get to be silly...

...and introspective...

...and totally self-confident in your sister's hand-me-downs,

smeared with Fudgesicles.

You can dance, and laugh, with total abandon...

...stop to smell the flowers...

...appreciate natural wonders...

...and go to bed knowing that the world is a

wonderful, magical place.

Into Butterflies

2010-07-15T01:12:00.000-05:00

It took me a long time to become a mother. As a result, before my girls were born I had a lot of time to fantasize about all the wisdom I would pass along to the next generation.

Never would I have guessed that it was a two-way street... that being a mother is most rewarding when you are learning as much from, or as a result of, your children as they are from you.

We currently have a Monarch caterpillar living in our kitchen... my husband found him out in the pasture, and brought him in to show the girls. The younger promptly named him Stripey, and claimed him as her own.

We watched in amusement while he chowed down on milkweed, marveled at how much caterpillars poop, wondered together why they have antennae at BOTH ends... and today, noticed that Stripey was hanging upside down, with just his behind attached to the leaf. I figured it best to do some research into Monarch metamorphosis, just to stay one step ahead and know what to expect. We've been through this once before, when my older daughter was about this age, but apparently I've forgotten what I learned from the experience (other than make sure the chrysalis is under cover, just in case the butterfly emerges when the only one home to enjoy the show is the cat...).

So anyway, today I learned that rather than spinning a cocoon (as I had somehow assumed), the Monarch sheds it skin and the chrysalis is then revealed. It is soft, at first, but then hardens to a protective shell, sheltering the creature inside at it completes it transformation, which takes about a week.

A week? To turn munching jaws into a nectar-sipping straw? To turn a fat-bodied, grub-like eating (and pooping) machine into one of the worlds most beautiful, delicate, graceful creatures? Wow. There may be hope for me yet... but I digress...

Before I had children, the fantasy was all about rocking tiny happy babies who slept all night, then passing all my worldly (ha!) wisdom along as they grew. That fantasy ranked right up there with that of natural childbirth... idealistic? Yes. Realistic? No.

The truth is that every minute of motherhood has been a learning experience of the beautiful kind.

I've learned how bees make honey, how horses were domesticated, how Monarch caterpillars turn into butterflies. Yes, those things were all taught in my school at some point... but there is a difference between being taught something, and truly learning it through necessity... like having to explain it to your kids.

Then, too, I've acquired knowledge of things you can only really learn once you are a mother. Like how to survive on zero sleep while the baby goes through a colicky stage. How to be assertive with professionals who don't know your child as well as you do. When to give comfort and Tylenol, and when to head to the emergency room. And just how beautiful and wondrous this world really is, when you see it through the eyes of your child.

I hope that as they grow from little girls to young ladies to women, transforming from babies into butterflies, my daughters never lose their curiosity or sense of wonder... and that they never stop teaching me.

The Little Red-Haired Girl

2010-07-14T01:50:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while out doing my chores (and truth be told, petting horses and daydreaming... ), I was doing some reminiscing and thought of a story to share... just a tiny tidbit of Pintabian horse history.

Back in the mid-1990's, my sister Rosalie (that's her in the photo, holding the foal) and I traveled with some friends to a horse fair in the big city to help promote Pintabian horses. It was a first... and it was a BLAST.

We were so busy, with tending horses and tending booths and taking in the sights and yakking until we lost our voices, that I remember very little about the trip... it was overwhelming to the senses.

There is one memory of the trip I recall vividly, however... and that is our encounter with the little red-haired girl.

One of the big events of this horse fair was a "Parade of Breeds"; and since we were there promoting a brand-new breed, this showcase was a Very. Big. Deal. We had a beautiful mare and foal to show off, and when the mare was led into the coliseum, we turned her foal loose. The foal knew, somehow, that she was in the spotlight, and acted accordingly. She went racing around that arena as if doing a victory lap, and the crowd went wild.

Needless to say, on the way back to the barns, we were absolutely jubilant. People kept stopping us, asking if they could pet the horses, raving about how beautiful they were... and we were happy to oblige. One of those people, however, did not ask... at least, not out loud.

A little red-haired girl just stood there, quietly, her eyes begging us to stop and let her touch the foal.

She was maybe five or six years old... and pretty unkempt. There was not a parent or guardian of any sort, anywhere around; this little girl seemed all alone in the world. We attempted to speak with her, but she would have none of it... all she wanted was to touch that baby horse. We stopped there, right in the midst of the main drag, horses and people milling around, and watched as joy brightened that little girl's face just as surely as dawn brightens the eastern sky. The foal nuzzled the girl, ever so gently, and the girl practically nuzzled her right back. I think we all had tears in our eyes, watching the scene unfold.

All these years later, I can't remember just how we parted ways... if a frazzled young mother caught up to the girl, if she wandered off, or maybe we were entertaining an angel unaware. In any case, I often think of that little girl and wonder if she ever thinks of that day, or if it had any impact on her life.

It certainly had an impact on mine.

Confession

2010-07-02T19:20:00.000-05:00

Father, forgive me... I used Your name in vain today.

I'm really sorry for that.

Not that there is any good excuse, but I do have one... in case You would like to hear it.

It was hot, and I was picking up a load of square hay bales (aka "idiot cubes") from the field and loading them into the truck. I was topping off the load.... and since You created me to be short, I had to lift the bales to my chest, then heave them up over my head. As it was hot, I was tired, sweaty and in a hurry, and so ignored my self-imposed protocol of always turning a bale over before picking it up.

On what would prove to be the last bale of that particular load, I threw it up over my head... then looked square into the eyes of one of these as it dangled before my face:

And then I used Your name in vain. Really loudly.

I'm sure You (and all my neighbors) probably heard it, so I just wanted to say sorry.

I promise to follow the rules and turn the bales over before picking them up, from now on.

Over and out.

Emma

2010-06-28T12:01:00.000-05:00

Things were not going well.

Migraines, mud, misunderstandings and mishaps, poor hay-making weather, projects piling up; they were all getting me down. I worked non-stop, it seemed, and tried to keep a positive attitude... but it felt as if I would never get caught up, never feel better, as if I were caught in a really bad day that kept repeating.

One day, while ruminating on all that... stuff... I walked into our machine shed while looking for some nails to repair a fence. Again. In doing so, I was startled by flapping wings as a white bird flew up right before me. When my breath came back, I could not help but look in amazement at the creature which had shown up in my grungy old shop: a pure white dove.

At first I thought it probably an albino barn pigeon... an oddity, but somehow more likely. We have a few pigeons that hang around, eating spilled grain, creating a mess of feathers and excrement in the storage shed. But this was no common pigeon... she was beautiful. Pure white, docile... I could get within a few feet of her, and her calm demeanor was somehow so peaceful. Regal.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed she wore a leg band, and realized she was a domestic dove. Most likely she was released at a wedding or some such event, and for whatever reason ended up on my farm. I wondered about how to go about capturing her and returning her to her owner, but somehow that didn't seem quite right. She was a free bird, here by choice, and it blessed me. I dubbed her Emma, short for Emmanuel, which means "God with us"... and considered her a good omen of peace, happiness and prosperity for our farm.

Emma took up residence above some old wooden grain bins in the shed, and just hung around for awhile. I would set out extra grain especially for her, and she would clean it up once I was out of sight. Every time I saw her, it was such a lift to my spirits; her exquisite beauty, the pure white of her feathers, the peaceful aura which surrounded her and her unlikely presence seemed somehow supernatural.

Emma is gone now. Maybe she just flew off course, needed a rest stop and we offered her the food and shelter she needed; or maybe she was here for a higher purpose. At first I was so disappointed to realize she had moved on, but now have adopted the attitude that having her here, if only for a little while, was one of those little blessings in life that one must appreciate in the moment and later remember fondly. I'm so glad I made no attempt to capture, cage or return Emma to some owner, contrary to her free will. Doing so would have served no purpose, and somehow diminished the experience.

As it is, the little white free bird is, indeed, free. Interestingly enough, the migraines have also subsided, the weather improved, the mishaps and misunderstandings and projects not quite so overwhelming, and my mood improved.

Thanks, Emma.

"You're on your own, kid..."

2010-06-22T12:35:00.000-05:00

Its been awhile since my last post... mostly just because springtime on the farm is busy. I'm bottle feeding a dozen calves, keeping fences up... and the yard mowed... and the barn clean...and hay put up... and weeds pulled or killed... and foaling out mares. And it seems that when it all gets done I'm fairly exhausted and left without the energy or creativity to write about the experience, and its time to start over anyway... but that is life on a farm and the life I chose.

The foaling part is the biggest deal for me; I rearrange my stalls to allow for a large foaling pen in the barn, have my vet kit ready, and check the mare every two hours around the clock as she approaches parturition. It can be exhausting, but I really wouldn't have it any other way. While a barn camera which would allow me to check on the mare from the house is a nice thought, it somehow cannot replace my 2AM walks to the barn, pausing to breathe in the mellow air of a balmy spring night, looking at the stars and wondering whats beyond them.

When the big moment arrives and the mare stretches out in the straw to push her baby into the world, I do my best to be there. That is the moment of truth, when a year (or fifteen, if truth be told) of preparation and planning and dreaming and hard work come together and that new foal draws its first breath. While its icing on the cake if the foal happens to be a color and pattern I've hoped for... the real satisfaction comes in seeing the straight legs, long arched and refined neck, the laid-back shoulder, the long hip and level croup, the short back, the large eye and exquisite head, the breed-type and refinement and athleticism and the disposition I've bred for and come to expect over the years. Regardless of the color or sex, it seems that each time I dry off and imprint a new foal, tears of joy and thanksgiving roll down my face. I will never get over the delight in helping these foals into the world, in being the first to caress their delicate muzzles, in witnessing them take their first clumsy steps and first vital gulps of colostrum. I imprint, or bond with, them all at birth... after that, while they belong to their mommas for a few months, they are in my own pocket for life. That's due in small part to the process... and in large part to the breed I've chosen. The experience makes all the blood, sweat, tears, and cost worthwhile.

Yesterday was a beautiful day, of the sort that have been somewhat rare this year with all the rain we've received. It was the perfect sort of day to turn a new, week-old foal and her momma in with the herd for the first time. The rest of my family had been gone for a few days, and while I normally wait until someone is here with me to do any major rearranging of herd dynamics, just in case something were to go awry... turning out a new baby is usually no big deal, and I was looking forward to watching her stretch her legs and discover the new world.

Um.... yeah.

Upon releasing said mare and baby into the pasture, it was a pastoral scene for about thirty seconds... and then hell broke loose.

Creedence, our herd sire, was very happy to see Momma, so to speak, and said so in a loud, trumpeting manner. Daddy's exuberant greeting scared the living daylights out of Baby. Baby fled for the hills... in the process, going through a fence and into another pasture occupied by two mares who would have been more than happy to claim her as their own. Their misguided affections spooked Baby further... and so imagine my horror as she ran/tumbled/scrambled/rolled down the hill...

into the lake.

Now, my pasture is surrounded on three sides by this little lake, and while I always foal the mares in the barn rather than the pasture to avoid a newborn falling into it during its first awkward attempts to stand... the lake has otherwise never been an issue. The shore is mucky and the horses tend to avoid it. Water? No thanks! They prefer theirs from the tap.

Apparently, however, this baby felt the murky depths to be a safer option than the terrifying sounds and smells and sights of a milling herd of monsters... or the thorny grasp of the brush and trees clawing at her as she made her escape. I watched and waited for a moment, thinking and hoping that Momma would run down to the water's edge, holler for her baby, and that Baby would do as she was told and return to her mother's side.

No such luck. Momma was busy romancing Stud Boy, who was, in turn, unashamedly admiring the miraculous return of her girlish figure. Realizing they would be no help whatsoever, I went into motion, running down the hill with one goal in mind... to save the baby. In doing so, I thought about the fact no one else was home... and thought, "You're on your own, kid..."

Truth is, however, I'm never really alone. I've got a few bad-ass guardian angels who've been battle-tested through the years, and I trust God to command them concerning me and guard me in all my ways, as He promised. I'm thankful its not so much great faith on my part as it is faithfulness on His. I knew, as I dove into the lake and called out to Him for help, that He would.

That said, I *hate* murky water, and the mud beneath it. Murky water is creepy... I cannot see what lies beneath, be it fallen trees or snapping turtles or leeches or dead bodies. Our lake is murky for two reasons; one, because we have a lot of iron in the water, which oxidizes and turns it brown. Another, because this farm was once a dairy... and all plumbers will tell you that, put politely, manure runs downhill. Fifty cows times fifty years, you do the math.

And so, until yesterday, suffice it to say I'd not yet taken a swim in our lake. But when a baby is in danger, be it human or equine, maternal instinct takes over... common sense flies out the window... and I went for a swim. With a panicked foal.

She would whinny to me, let me approach, almost get to her... and then swim away. Further and further into the lake. As I was fully clothed and wearing shoes, and the bottom slimy, slippery, muddy, my feet sinking in if I tried to walk rather than swim, it was a fight. I had a lead rope in hand, but they tend to be too floppy to make a good loop to throw; one has to be right on top of the target. I simply could not catch her. The only option was to swim to shore, run up the steep hill to the barn and retrieve the lariat. I thought of the two boats sitting in the shed, knowing I did not have the time or strength to get them in the water by myself, nor the skill to operate one (if it would, in fact, start) and simultaneously capture the foal alone.

After scrambling, water-logged, up the steep incline... I was beat, and thinking, "How am I ever going to do this alone?" I made a couple quick phone calls, seeking prayer cover (successfully) and the remote possibility of physical help (no such luck), caught my breath, retrieved the lariat, and ran back down the hill... back into the lake.

It took some swimming, and a few throws and misses (water-logged lariats apparently don't travel as straight as dry ones).... but finally, the rope encircled her neck. I swam to where some footing, albeit treacherous, could be obtained, and proceeded to lead/pull/encourage her to shore. I was exhausted, somewhat jubilant, and relieved.

That relief, however, would be short lived. She did not *want* to come ashore. It was too muddy, too scary, too steep. The water was, somehow, safer.

I could get her out of the water, past the muck, and onto dry land. She would then proceed to panic, turn tail and head back to the water. Even with the rope in a snug figure-eight around her body, a configuration which will usually control the most fractious of foals in a safe and effective manner, I simply did not have the strength to push/pull/lead her up the steep incline with her fighting to get back to the "safety" of the water. We struggled there, at the lakes edge, tripping over fallen logs and sinking in the mud, for some time. It was like Jacob wrestling the angel. At this point I was not going to give up, lose the ground I'd gained and lose this foal to the lake... and she was not going to give up, either. My compassion for that scared baby was overwhelming. It was not stupidity, nor stubbornness, which made her fight... but fear and inexperience. Until then, all she'd known in life was a safe, dry stall and the comfort of Momma at her side. For her it was like the gates of Hell had opened up and surrounded her with every terrible and frightening demon it could unleash.

Enter Creedence.

Stallions can be a pain in the neck. They are driven by hormones; the urge to gather, breed and protect their harem is their primary focus in life; pity the fool who would get in the way of those instincts. I have been so fortunate in the fact that Creedence is so tractable and good-minded, and has been since birth; he is, quite honestly, one of the most quiet and well-behaved stallions I (or my farrier) have ever encountered. But he is still a stallion, still a horse programmed by God to fight-or-flee when necessary... and so what I would do next would be one of the greatest risks I've ever taken with horses in my thirty years of working with them.

Creedence stood by, watching the struggle... somewhat nervous about the chaos taking place in his kingdom. Nearing exhaustion, I realized I had to do whatever it took to get that foal up the hill and away from the water. Saying a prayer, I put another loop in the lariat, at the opposite end of the foal... and put the loop over his head, and down around his shoulders. Pointing him uphill... I said, "Okay, boy... I need your help here. Lets pull this baby up the hill."

What happened next was not perfect, not story-book, not pretty. I could say that the stud just plodded up the hill like an old plow horse... truth is, I've never once in fifteen years asked him to do such a thing. While he did the job, it was not without some fast-talking (and moving) on my part. I could say the foal just gave in and trotted up the hill behind her Daddy... um, not so much. I could say that it was a piece of cake, that I did not risk life and limb and trampling by looping a lariat around a stallion's shoulders and asking him to pull a trashing foal up a 50-degree grade while navigating brush, rocks and trees.... truth is, it was risky, it was scary, it was dangerous for all involved and could have resulted in disaster.

But it didn't. It worked. Creedence helped me, albeit reluctantly, to get the foal up the hill to her momma and away from the lake. We were all shaking, exhausted, dripping with lake water and mud and sweat... but we did it. No one got hurt beyond a few scrapes. All horses involved have forgiven me, and now placidly graze in the summer sunshine.

Best of all, however... the experience reinforces, yet again, the fact that regardless of the circumstance, this kid is never really on her own.

God is so good.

"Go Away"

2010-03-31T11:06:00.000-05:00

No matter how many times you hear it, the words never lose their bite.

As the mother of a sometimes-temperamental five-year old, I've heard it more than once.

"Go away."

Those words always are rooted in hurt and shame. She lost the game. Fell off her bike. Or maybe I found something valuable, mangled beneath her bed, and asked her to tell me how it happened. Could be I found her doing something I'd asked her not to, and yet she just could not resist the temptation. She's mad... not so much at me (other than the fact I've put a dent in her fun), but really at herself, thinking she's disappointed me.

She simply does not realize yet that no matter what she might do, even if it hurts or disappoints me, I love her... completely. That everyone, no matter how good they are (and she really is a very good girl) messes up, gets embarrassed, gets hurt. And that my job is to be there to hold her, support and encourage her, and lovingly establish and enforce boundaries (for my sake, yes... but especially for hers). To show her that regardless of the transgression, I will always forgive her and always, always love her.

The thing is... I love to see her test the boundaries. Her curiosity, sense of fun and zest for life are second to none, and there is so much for me to learn from her. But since I care about my daughter, her well-being and the person she will be when she grows up as well as those whose lives she will touch... sometimes I have to be the bad guy... er, gal. I cannot look the other way, no matter how easy it may be. Its difficult to address issues with her at times; she is who she is and I know she will sometimes have a melt-down because she is hurt, embarrassed, sick, tired, or sugared... and tell me to "go away". It would be so much easier, in the short-term, to look the other way... but in the long-term, it would be doing her a grave injustice.

Even though I'm her mom and know that what she really is saying is, "I feel bad, please just give me a little space to pull myself together", it still cuts to the core. Sometimes I will just hold on to her real tight; that's my instinct. But I'm learning that it usually doesn't take too long for her to want Mom again, to feel the safety, acceptance and love in my open arms. So lately, what I do is say, "Okay. I'll be right here if you need me. I love you forever." And then I make absolutely certain to keep that promise.

We always have two voices in our heads. One says, "You messed up, you're worthless, you've done too many bad things, hurt too many people, you'll never be any good... who do you think you are, anyway? You don't deserve forgiveness, or love, or happiness".

The other voice is God's. It says, "You messed up... you feel bad... but there is nothing I can't forgive and I forgive you. I love you. I created you. You are My child, let Me comfort you and bless you. Come here."

My job, as her mother, is to teach my daughter to listen to the second voice... the voice of Truth.

The best way to do that is to show her I listen to it myself.

Mending Fences

2010-03-30T13:35:00.000-05:00

"Just then I saw a young hawk flyin'

And my soul began to rise

And pretty soon

My heart was singin'..."
~Bob Seger

Today is the day for which I wait every year. The last traces of snow have melted away, the ice on the lake is releasing its iron grip, corrals are drying out... and if I looked hard enough, could probably find thistles poking through the soil somewhere in the pasture. It is the first day in months I find myself doing chores in a light jacket, and moving about the yard while giving no thought to mud or snow.

While out there today, I began to work on repairing the winter damage to my fences... they usually need quite a bit of attention after months of heavy snow, deer running through them, horses in closer confinement than usual and squabbling with one another as a result. This was just busywork... when truly serious about the job I'll retrieve my bucket of fencing tools and supplies from the tack room and set aside the time to go over every inch of fence line. Today it was more about enjoying the day, soaking up the sun and giving thanks for spring's arrival.

As I straightened wires and made adjustments, it made me laugh to look at my handiwork of years past. In places there are knots and tangles; some lengths of fence have plenty of extra wire with which to make repair, and in other parts its a struggle to make the ends meet. Different gauges of wire, different brands and ages of posts and insulators. My fence is a cobbled-together arrangement in places, but serves its purpose in keeping my livestock contained, safe from harm, off the road and where they belong.

The term "mending fences" came to mind, how it it applies to fixing damaged relationships as much as it does to straightening and re-wrapping wire. I can't remember a time that I've ever just given up on a fence because it was broken and needed repair.... fences are expensive for one. But there also is some pride in making the old one work... in carrying my bucket up and down the hill, mending what was broken, making it whole again.

Oftentimes I pound my fingers with the hammer, get scratched by the thorns on the plum trees, trip over stumps hiding in the grass, slip in the sticky wet clay. Sometimes I dread the fixing, the work, and wish for a brand new maintenance-free version (is there really such a thing?). On a particularly trying day, one might even wonder what on earth compels me to this lifestyle and this work when I could be sitting in a nice suburban home somewhere, maybe blogging from my well-appointed sun room or taking my turn hosting the neighborhood mommy group. But then, I am reminded of the fact I chose this life, and for good reason. Its where my heart led me, I pursued it with a passion and did not take no for an answer.

As for the fences... they can always be repaired. It may take some work, but is worth the effort. I've built my fence, tended it, cursed at it and apologized and restored it time and again. Its far from perfect or even picturesque, but it works, and well. A new one might be prettier, more convenient, and less hassle than the old one comprised of mismatched wires and posts of all sizes... but that old fence? Its unique, I know and appreciate its idiosyncrasies, and its all mine.

So I pick up my bucket and move on to repair the next broken wire or replace another missing insulator, looking around for evidence that I did, indeed, make the right choice... and God always provides it. Today, on this first real day of spring, it was the first robin. Not just one robin... but an entire flock, merrily hopping around beneath my favorite tree, a grand old ash which stands watch over our farm. Those robins were congregated in the special place where I often retreat to think and just be, when necessary.

I followed them and sat beneath that big old tree for awhile. Just then I saw a young hawk flyin'... my soul began to rise... and pretty soon, my heart was singin'.

Spring is here. It always returns. No matter how long the winter, no matter how dark the night... the sun always rises, spring always comes again... and with it, the chance to mend fences.

Love

2010-03-28T19:39:00.000-05:00

"I'm not a smart man... but I know what love is." ~Forrest Gump

While sitting in a smoky bar, years ago, someone once asked me, "What is love... really?"

It was a rare instance in which a definition completely escaped me. I was speechless, and always regretted my lack of an answer. As a result, I've spent a whole lot of time in the many years since, thinking about love and what it really means. Much as I would like to sit here and give a concise definition... I still cannot. What I can do, however, is tell you what love means to me, and what it does not.

Love is not hearts, gifts and flowers, cards and cake. Those things can represent love, or offer a show of affection, and are often appreciated by the recipient, but none are the nuts and bolts of the emotion. To equate a bunch of flowers or a card to love, is to diminish it in a profound way.

Love is not what makes babies and brings new life into the world... its what nurtures that life; before, during and long after the birth. Its what walks the floor at 2am with that colicky baby, cleans vomit out of the carpeting, changes the nasty diapers, waits up past curfew for rebellious teenagers to arrive home safe and works the third shift to pay for it all. Love is working overtime and setting that money aside to put those babies through college.

Love is not words. All the fancy words in the world cannot express it, without the action to back it up. Love is action; its about being there, standing by and supporting someone you believe in, even when they don't always believe in themselves. Love is about going farther, reaching higher, working harder, dreaming bigger and digging deeper than you ever thought possible... not for yourself, but for another. Love is about giving of yourself, and your time.

Love is not always pretty. Its about weathering storms and standing firm in the face of adversity. Its about taking the pain with the pleasure, the sorrow with the joy, the mundane chores with the wild adventures. Love is as much about sickness, loss and sacrifice, about blood and pain, about hardship and arguments, as it is about the happy times, prosperity, fun and romance. Its about taking the bad with the good... which makes the good times even better.

Love is not about youth and beauty. It is about acceptance and forgiveness. Its about making accommodation for age and idiosyncrasies, looking the other way when things aren't perfectly pretty, about forgetting the angry and derisive words and remembering the supportive, encouraging and affectionate ones.

Love is not a silent doormat. Sometimes, love says what needs to be said, stands up for itself regardless of the consequence, points out the wrong in an effort to make it right. Love is not politically correct or cowardly. Love is about hanging in there, about fighting for what you believe in... and sometimes, about letting go. One thing is certain, and that is the fact that human love is never, ever, perfect.

I am so abundantly, profoundly blessed with love in many forms, as a mother, daughter, wife, sister, and friend... and to have borne witness to so much of it, even in ways I will never personally experience. Love is what gets me out of bed in the morning, and what lulls me to sleep at night. Love is what drives everything I do throughout each day... whether cooking or cleaning or writing or shoveling out the barn. Its what focuses my passions and sparks my dreams, makes the tough decisions and allows me to give just a little more each time. I will never be perfect at it, and will always fall far short of the goal... but I will always try. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing." 1 Corinthians 13 v.1-2

Invasion

2010-03-20T13:16:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason, we have been invaded.

By shrews. The Northern, short-tailed variety, I believe.

They are ugly, and sneaky, and squeal and chatter like tiny disembodied spirits.

On my blind, half-asleep jaunt to the coffee pot this morning, I noticed the cat seemed rather... um, active... in the downstairs bathroom. Upon hearing the squeak and chatter of her prey, I knew she wasn't just doing her morning calisthenics.

So I did what every self-respecting woman in pajamas does when faced with a home invader...

I woke my husband. (For what its worth, he needed to get up anyway.)

Nice guy he is, he set the nasty vermin free in the forest. Thankfully, our dogs are not quite so compassionate. They have been honing their shrew-hunting skills all winter (we seem to have a bumper crop), and proudly displaying their trophies on my front porch for all to see.

I am forever beholden to them. Good dogs. (Okay, the husband gets some credit, too.)

Maybe I should be more compassionate, but just really hate when I'm watching a good movie from my favorite chair and wonder, "What's that smell? Honey, is there a propane leak or something?"... then have to push around all the heavy furniture to find the dead shrew. And then remove the dead shrew and clean the carpet.

It sort of hoses up my evening.

Though I will admit to preferring that over, say, a bat flying around my bedroom at midnight. Bats in my bedroom make me scream like a little girl and hide beneath the covers.

Just sayin'.

Ah, the joys of living in a 96-year-old farmhouse.

Just A Mom

2010-03-20T11:38:00.000-05:00

As I sit here this morning sipping my coffee, watching the news and waiting for my precious daughters to awaken, a great sense of foreboding overshadows the beautiful sunrise.

1,330 miles from here, politicians gather in our nation's capitol to cast their votes on a bill which would forever change America, mortgage my children's future and, most frightening of all, give the government control over one of our most basic needs: healthcare.

While not a scholar, a politician, a pundit or a medical professional, I do have a vested interest in what happens in that Capitol Building today. I am a mother. And I have experienced what happens when the government gets involved in health care.

Back in October, and as many of you already know, my twelve-year-old daughter contracted the H1N1 flu, which weakened her defenses and allowed all sorts of infections to run rampant throughout her body. She fought strep, pneumonia, thrush... the most life-threatening of which was the pneumonia. The staff at the Children's Hospital saved her life by inserting a chest tube which drained nearly two liters of fluid from her chest cavity. I am filled with profound gratitude that my daughter's life was spared, each and every day.

The problem is, she never should have fallen so ill in the first place. A drug exists which would have saved her before the flu weakened her immune system to the point of such acute susceptibility. Its called Tamiflu and is readily available. From the moment my daughter spiked a fever, the very first day she was ill, I fought like a tiger to get her a prescription for Tamiflu. I called every hotline, every clinic, every emergency room around, in an attempt to acquire treatment for my daughter. Maternal instinct drove me to pursue every possible option in a desperate effort to get the anti-viral drug my daughter needed.

What kept the Tamiflu out of my hands? Was it a greedy, giant insurance company? A selfish, profit-driven pharmaceutical giant? Some rich doctor who didn't care about my child?

No. We have excellent health insurance and skilled, compassionate doctors. It was our own government standing in the way of my daughter's treatment. At every single turn, I was told, "Ma'am, we need to follow CDC guidelines, and your daughter is not eligible for Tamiflu. She is not in the right age group, and she does not have an underlying medical condition which qualifies her. I'm sorry, but its just the flu. Do not bring her in, we will not do anything. Give her fluids and Tylenol." My daughter was denied treatment because she was in the wrong demographic. The government, in its infinite wisdom, had instructed the healthcare industry to ration the drug, for fear of a shortage. It instructed them to tell people to stay home, for fear of hospitals being overrun. It was the RATIONING of healthcare, and it was only the beginning. I shudder to think of the children who died as a result.

Tamiflu is most effective in the first 48 hours. I knew that, and therefore fought like hell as soon as my daughter fell ill to get my hands on some. Instinct drove me nearly to the point of taking hostages. Had there been a black market for the stuff, I'd have sold my soul to get it. But hey... I'm just a mom.

This mom sat here four days, watching my daughter's previously vibrant health fail, bathing her with cool water to reduce the fever, pushing fluids and Tylenol and Motrin. I spent countless hours on the phone with nurses, seeking advice. We took her to the emergency room once, and she was sent home (with a high fever, full-body rash, deep wet cough...). When we took her back the next day, she was in excruciating pain (a couple liters of fluid crushing your heart and lungs will do that), covered from her neck to her ankles with a bright red rash, fighting for breath, rapid heartbeat, dangerously low blood pressure. When she was finally admitted to a local hospital, she stayed there for three days, failing further, until she was rushed by ambulance to the Children's Hospital which saved her life and where she stayed for three weeks.

We found it ironic that while in the hospital, she was finally given enough Tamiflu (and other antivirals) to choke a horse. Ironic, too, that when my parents contracted the same flu, I went through the same fight to find Tamiflu for them... this time, calling from my daughter's hospital room, working the phone for hours. A compassionate nurse finally put me through to my personal doctor who, knowing our story, immediately asked where he should send the prescription and for whom he should write it. My parents, both in their 70's, were better within 48 hours of taking the drug, though their initial symptoms were every bit as serious as my daughter's.

Tamiflu, administered immediately upon the onset of her symptoms when I asked for it, would have saved my daughter three weeks in the hospital, five weeks absence from school, endless suffering, numerous painful procedures, the failure of her kidneys due to the heavy doses of antibiotics, and a serious brush with death. Our insurance company would gladly have paid for the drug... if not out of the kindness of their hearts, then for the fact it would have saved them the nearly $60,000 in hospital bills they did pay. Oh, and by the way... they paid immediately. Without question. That big, bad, horrible insurance company. Go figure.

The government, in its desperate need for control, and its bureaucrats, in all their arrogant self-importance, nearly cost my daughter her life. In taking away the power of doctors to make the best decision for each individual patient, and in taking away the power of parents to decide what is best for their own children, they not only complicate healthcare... they prevent the immediate and instinctive care that most medical emergencies require. When people sit around on their hands, waiting for some bureaucrat to make a decision regarding treatment for fear that if they make their own decision, they will lose funding and good graces from the powers that be, it cripples the system... and PEOPLE DIE.

Healthcare decisions need to be made by those passionate about the well-being of the patient... that patient, her family, and her doctors. As I sit here sipping my coffee and watching what goes on in Washington, it makes me sick to hear the politicians accuse the doctors and insurance companies and pharmaceutical giants of greed and callous disregard for life, while simultaneously selling their own votes to the highest bidder. Its an absolute freak show... and yet they want to be in control of my body? Or, God forbid, those of my children?

For Americans to willingly hand their very lives over to bureaucracy, believing they will be coddled and their best interests guarded by people who "care", is proof positive we are victims of the biggest snow job in the history of the planet. NO ONE is going to care more about your health and well-being than YOU. And none of us, save the veterans who have honorably served this country, the genuinely impoverished or the truly and permanently disabled, should expect the rest of the nation to pay for the care of it. We've adopted an embarrassing sense of entitlement in this country... we have the best healthcare on the planet, the most compassionate, dedicated and skilled doctors, the most advanced technology, the most progressive research, and the most generous philanthropists who help to fund it all... and yet, its not enough. We think everyone should have everything all the time, on demand. For free.

Those misguided expectations will cost us our freedom... and possibly, our lives. Our children and grandchildren will certainly pay dearly for our selfishness in countless ways. Their tax burden will be overwhelming, and their choices and freedoms severely restricted compared to those we've known.

As a mother, I make every attempt to teach my children responsibility, generosity, selflessness, independence and empathy. Today's antics in Washington fly in the face of all that. This is not about the care of our fellow human beings, not about putting others' needs above our own. This is not about generosity nor about philanthropy. It is all about greed, power, corruption and control... truly, a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing. If what those politicians are doing were right, they would not need to be usurping the very Constitution our forefathers set in place to guard against such evil. There would not be such a desperate push to "pass the bill so we can then see what's in it". I've heard quite a few good lines in my time, but that one takes the cake.

I teach my children that when they are pushed to make an immediate decision, before they know all the facts and ramifications of that decision... it probably is best to step back away from the situation and take deeper look. Usually, its an attempt to get us to sign on the dotted line before we realize the full impact and the negative consequences of that decision.

But hey... I'm just a mom.

Rubber Duckies Are Dangerous

2010-03-03T09:42:00.000-06:00

While enjoying my coffee this morning, my sense of peace was shattered by some disturbing news:

Rubber duckies are dangerous.

One of the morning programs aired a segment regarding childrens bath toys, and unveiled the scary fact that dangerous bacteria grow and spread like wildfire amongst the rubber duckies and toy boats. One reporter sent her kid's toys to a lab, which swabbed for the treacherous bugs... lo and behold, it was contaminated with "fecal bacteria"!!!!!

I kept sipping my coffee.

Maybe its just me, but having survived the toddler years with my kids (twice over, as they are seven years apart), I've come to accept the truth that bacteria, fecal and otherwise, is a fact of life. While its important to keep hot food, hot and cold food, cold... to encourage hand-washing and cough-covering... to keep the kitchen and bathrooms acceptably sanitary (my standards for which vary, depending on the week)... one simply cannot live in fear of every nasty little bug lurking in the crevices of our homes.

Seriously, no matter how vigilant you are about bubble-wrapping your kid and dunking them in bleach water, they will, at some point, play in the cat box (or the cat will use the sandbox), get french-kissed by a dog who just ate something dead and putrid, eat a bug, romp in a stagnant, scum-covered mud puddle. The antidote always has been to toss my little one into a suds-filled bathtub and let her play (with those sewage-infested toys!) until the dirt from beneath her fingernails dissolved and her toes wrinkled like prunes.

Now, after all this time, some guy in a lab coat informs me that those baths were "bacteria soup"?

I don't think so. Bacteria soup is the juice which collects in the bottom of the garbage bin while it waits for the truck to empty it on Monday morning. Its the stuff that overflows the septic tank, or cultures in the Cool-Whip container of leftovers shoved to the back of the refrigerator and forgotten for... well, a long time. Bath water is soap and water... still proven to be the most effective kid-cleaning solution to date.

In my opinion, its far more important to make sure the children are well-fed, get plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep and more than enough love. No matter how vigilant you try to be, bacteria (and viruses, and fungi) are everywhere. They outnumber your kid a bajillion to one. Common sense tells us that if your kid's bath toy is looking grungy or black furry stuff starts growing inside it, you toss it in the dishwasher or throw it away (when Precious Darling is otherwise distracted, if peace in the home is your preference). Otherwise, rather than trying so hard to shelter the children by sanitizing and bubble-wrapping and forbidding them to play with bath toys... maybe we ought to lighten up a bit and focus on building healthy immune systems?

The amazing thing about the immune system is that its automatic, its free, and works remarkably well. The immune system is vigilant 24/7, even when Mom's back is turned. It quietly does its job, destroying E. Coli and Staphylococcus and myriad other invaders on a daily basis, and we don't even hear about it or get a progress report from the battlefield. We only get notified when the immune system is overwhelmed and needs to call in reinforcements.... a relatively rare occurrence, usually when it has been compromised by fatigue or poor nutrition.

Life is too short to be stressing about the bath toys and fearful about what lurks in the bathwater. Hyper-vigilance is not only redundant, it is exhausting. We need to relax a bit, enjoy our children, nurture and spend time with them, while placing just a little faith in the fact that we, and our children, are fearfully and wonderfully made.

It Is Not "All About the Color"

2010-02-28T22:20:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago, I came across an article about Pintabian horses entitled, "Its All About the Color". While the article was very well written and quite a good synopsis in regard to the development of the breed, its title missed the mark.... by a hundred miles.

If, in fact, the Pintabian were "all about the color"... the breed itself would be completely unnecessary and totally redundant. One could buy a tobiano Paint horse, Gypsy Vanner, Shetland Pony, Spotted Draft, any type of Pinto (all wonderful breeds in their own right), or select from any other breed which carries the tobiano spotting gene. The type, conformation, disposition and pedigree would matter not... only the color.

Fortunately, the opposite is true.

Here at Frostfire Farm, we require all our horses to be, first and foremost, of sound mind and temperament. Nothing less than a docile, friendly, intelligent and willing horse will do. Our children handle these horses; their safety is our first priority. We also appreciate the fact that our farrier and vet enjoy coming out here to our farm, because our horses are easy to work with and pleasant to be around. Our trainer tells us that if everyone bred horses like ours, he would be out of a job; he raves about their intelligence and train-ability. Pintabian horses were, and still are, selectively bred for intelligence and quiet disposition.

We select our breeding stock based on correct conformation, classic Arabian "type", and athletic ability in addition to the aforementioned disposition. The good news for us is that classic Arabian type, correct conformation and athletic ability all tend to go hand-in-hand. When you start with good stock, you are richly rewarded in the generations that follow. Quality begets quality.

Knowing the pedigrees of your horses, and the assets and liabilities in those pedigrees, is vital. One can make far more knowledgeable breeding decisions when you know the genetics with which you are dealing. I, for one, will not purchase a horse "eligible for registration"... only animals from reputable breeders, which are already registered with the Pintabian Horse Registry (or Arabian Horse Association, in the case of our Arabians). Does the deal seem too good to be true? You know the rest. If a breeder does not have the integrity or faith enough in their own program to sign on the dotted line, attesting to the fact the horse they are registering is, in fact, the product of Sire X and Dam Y... is this really someone with whom you wish to do business?

The importance of purchasing foundation stock from reputable breeders, keeping accurate and up-to-date records, and registering your animals with the established registry or association for your particular breed cannot be overstated. If either a breeder or a registry is willing to "look the other way" in regard to parentage, transfers of ownership, parentage verification or any other aspect of record-keeping in order to make a sale or collect a fee, it destroys their credibility and brings into question the integrity of all involved, horse included. A breeder must have absolute faith that the horse they purchase is truly a product of the pedigree it is said to represent. In the absence of that faith, one is dealing with the unknown... and breeding that horse is a crapshoot. That said, representing a horse as something it is not, especially a breeding animal whose value depends heavily on the genetics it will pass along to the next generation, is not only irresponsible... it is also illegal.

You will notice that I leave "color" for last. It truly is at the bottom of the priority list in terms of my selection of breeding stock. No matter how flashy a coat a horse may wear... if it cannot stand up next to a top-quality solid-colored horse of the same breed and compete on equal terms... if it is handicapped by poor conformation or a sour temperament... it has little value as a representative of the breed.

That said, when you have a horse with a wonderful disposition, classic Arabian type, good conformation, athleticism... and then add the glitz in the form of a wild, show-stopping coat pattern... then you truly have a "statement horse", and one built on a quality foundation. Quality and color are not mutually exclusive, it is possible to have both. One just needs to make thoughtful and responsible breeding and buying decisions in order to get there.

I Still Believe It's a Miracle

2010-02-26T01:56:00.001-06:00

Tonight, my daughter (pictured here with her Daddy) earned her red belt in Tae Kwon Do.

Forgive me if you've heard about it already... by phone, by fax, by e-mail or Facebook or Twitter or carrier pigeon (I've probably spread the word by every one of those means, by now)... but my gratitude over the fact she is breathing and walking, not to mention breaking boards with her bare feet, is overwhelming.

Four months ago tonight, she lay in the ICU of a Children's Hospital, desperate for breath, her lungs filled with fluid, her temperature frighteningly high, body riddled with infection, tubes and needles... fighting for her life.

She lay in that hospital for three weeks, first battling the H1N1 flu and pneumonia (and other assorted bugs, as well)... then the failure of her kidneys as a result of all the antibiotics it required to fight the infection.

We prayed. Fervently. For complete healing.

Three months ago, the doctors said it would take six to twelve months for her lungs to look anywhere near normal on a chest x-ray.

Two months ago, her pediatrician stared in amazement at a perfectly clear picture of those same lungs. They were totally clear. The doctor said, "You are perfectly healthy!! I don't need to see you again for a whole year!" That was the very same day her nephrologist joyfully reported that her kidneys had resumed normal function.

Six weeks ago, she resumed her Tae Kwon Do training, something she has worked at since she was seven. Its a sport she shares with her dad... their special time together.

And tonight... tonight, she earned her red belt. It was, however, about way more than progressing to the next level in a sport.

It was about coming full circle. About fighting back from the brink of death, about the faith and prayer and miracles and love that made it happen. It was about her own strength of spirit, and a testament to the power of the prayers of the hundreds of people who prayed for her healing.

We did not pray just that she would survive... we asked, and believed, for complete healing.

Our prayers were answered.

Looking back... I still believe it was a miracle.

Snowflakes

2010-02-22T17:13:00.000-06:00

One day last week, while hustling my five-year-old daughter out of the SUV and into a store while running yet another errand, I grew frustrated with her dallying.
Her response to my irritation? "Sorry, Mom... I keep getting distracted by the snowflakes!"

Her sweet little words stopped me in my tracks.

Having been in "go-go-go" mode for weeks with assorted projects and events, my mind was not on snowflakes. It was focused on "Important Grown-up Issues"... which, as I've come to realize in my years as a mother, are really not so important. At least not when you have a five-year-old who sees the world through different eyes.

I looked around, and sure enough, the snowflakes were distracting. Though the sun was shining, snowflakes still floated from Heaven... each one delicate, exquisite, unique.

The thing about snowflakes, however, is that it is so easy to miss their one-of-a-kind beauty. It takes time to stop, look at them, and appreciate their individuality and intricacy...

just as with people.

I am so thankful to have a daughter who gets distracted by snowflakes.

War Horse

2010-01-27T15:26:00.000-06:00

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Fall seven times, stand up eight. ~Japanese Proverb

There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth in Minnesota this week (and to be truthful, in my own home as well)... a lot of arm-chair quarterbacking and "what-if's?"... after our Minnesota Vikings lost the NFC Championship game to the New Orleans Saints in overtime on Sunday.

I am not an expert in regard to the game of football. My experience consists of performing on the field at halftime with the rest of my high school marching band, of watching my future husband play football for his own small-town high school team (waaaay back in the day), and of following the Minnesota Vikings and the NDSU Bison with varied levels of interest and passion over the years. And of course, we watch the Super Bowl.

My husband and I have watched every Super Bowl game together for the past 22 years. We've watched from every home we've ever lived in... from college dorms, from restaurants, from an ocean-side tiki bar on Maui. We've watched while rocking babies and while in the midst of home renovations and... well, you get the point. And every single year, we've said, "Wouldn't it be great to someday see the Vikings in the Super Bowl?"

This year, we thought just maybe that long-held hope would manifest. When Brett Favre signed with the Vikings in August we rejoiced, knowing that even if our team didn't get to the big game, it would be a helluva season to watch.

And oh, was it ever! I watched much more football this season than in recent years, and enjoyed it immensely... it's great to be rooting for a winning team, after all. When our Vikes scored a touchdown or forced a turnover, we would knuckle-bump, whoop and holler and high-five and dance around, scaring our children and causing the dogs to bark in alarm.

It was... FUN. Great entertainment. Something to look forward to every week. Something to talk about at the dinner table and the in the grocery line. It was really great while it lasted.

And Sunday's game will stick with me for a long time. Not the loss... while disappointing, it is still a game... but rather the images I took away from it. Brett Favre, in my opinion, is a hero regardless of the final score. To watch such a consummate professional at work, so passionate about and skilled in the game, was pure joy all season long. Particularly so on Sunday, however. What I will remember about that game, and about Brett Favre, is not the final score nor the mistakes that led to it. What will stick with me always was the manner in which he just kept fighting.

Forgive the analogy, but that battle-hardened war-horse just kept getting up, no matter how hard he was hit, nor now many times. He would limp off the field, get patched up, and then head back into battle, tougher and more determined than most players half his age. The sight of it, as well as the camera shots of his wife sitting in the stands with concern written all over her face, nearly tore my heart out. But it reminded me of the value of tenacity, of honor, of passion and determination. I wish I could play a montage of those hits and Favre getting back up again after each and every one, for every school-age kid in America. I wish I could tell them, "Brett Favre didn't get to be a legend, a hero, a record breaker and a multi-millionaire just because he's got some talent and had a lucky break or two. He got there because he believed in himself, and picked his butt up off the turf, time and time again. He got there because he prepared and he practiced... at times throwing the football thousands of times a day. He got there because he worked harder than anyone else, and dreamed bigger than anyone else, and took risks few others were willing to take, sometimes in the face of ridicule. He got there because of his determination and the content of his character."

It still has not been announced whether or not Favre will play another year with the Vikings, but I truly hope he rests, heals and does make the decision to come back. In any case, Favre's time spent with Minnesota was a gift to those of us who watched this season, and one I will remember fondly.

Cortisol

2010-01-11T15:10:00.000-06:00

Image via Wikipedia

I hate cortisol.

It serves its purpose, I suppose... as the so-called "stress hormone", it is excreted by the adrenal gland in response to stress and anxiety. It has also been linked to weight gain, especially of the dreaded, heart-threatening "belly fat".

It has always been my dream to be one of those people who lost their appetite and shriveled up to nothing whilst enduring a stressful situation. I am not one of them. No, when the chips are down, they are literally so... as in, down the hatch. Along with anything else even remotely considered to be edible.

And so, when my daughter was hospitalized with a life-threatening illness a few months back and remained so for three weeks, my adrenal glands and my appetite had a heyday. The met, got married, and had babies... like, *millions* of babies, in the form of fat cells. My diet of McDonald's and cafeteria monster cookies and Pepsi and Chinese take-out certainly fostered their romance, as did sleeping (or not) in a not-so comfortable recliner at my daughter's bedside. And of course, good mother that I am, when the doctors admonished her to eat as many calories as she could in order to regain her strength, I took one for the team in demonstrating to her just how to accomplish that goal.

The worst part of cortisol is that it is sneaky. You make it through the crisis, thank God for His providence and protection, life starts getting back to normal, and then one day you realize your clothes aren't fitting quite as they should and you step on the scale. That is the moment you realize not only did the monster cookies and french fries and lack of sleep come back to bite you in the behind, they cemented themselves firmly to it.

Apparently my adrenal glands have convinced the rest of my body that we're in World War III and facing famine, therefore making it necessary to stock the bunker with groceries. LOTS of groceries.

They will be in for a surprise when they realize this girl didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. Having been around this block before, I have plenty of weapons in my arsenal... and those misbegotten fat cells are already packing their bags. It is, in fact, a war...

and they're toast.

The Go-Giver

2010-01-06T11:10:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, if it could break, it broke... if it could freeze, it froze... if it could spill or mess or interrupt my work or tick me off, it did just that... and I was on a tear. Not sure what came first, the chicken or the egg, if my mood was the cause or the result of all the chaos or misfortune... but it sure did not further endear me to my loved ones. Or myself, for that matter.

Something needed to be done to change my attitude, and quick, before I further spiraled into self-destruction, alienated every one of my family and friends, and consumed an entire box of something chocolate.

So I took the night off.

Now, I'm not sure about other people, but while I have fanciful ideas about getting all my work done by 5pm, enjoying a peaceful home-cooked meal with my family, and then relaxing by the fire with a good book or an enjoyable project of some sort while watching my children play.... its usually just that. A fanciful idea. I seem to always find myself doing laundry, making one last trip to the barn, catching up on cleaning or correspondence or... well, you get the idea. And to be honest, I'm finding its not a very good idea, not at all.

But last night, I gave myself a gift, without even knowing it. I took the night off (more out of exasperation and desperation, if truth be told), and picked up a little book recommended by HeatherO called the "The Go-Giver". Read it cover to cover. I consumed it, devoured it, immersed myself in it... and was profoundly rewarded by the ideas found inside.

In short, giving myself that gift of time and the permission to read this book was not only a gift to me, but all those around me.

That is all I will say, other than *GET YOUR HANDS ON A COPY OF THIS BOOK AND READ IT*.

Thank you. :-)

Whirlwind Tour

2009-12-30T22:07:00.000-06:00

Image by stu_hall via Flickr

We made a whirlwind overnight trip to our cabin last night, and oh, it would have been so easy to stay there and hibernate in the snowy silence for awhile...

The purpose of the trip was to get our daughter to her orthodontist appointment. We started her orthodontic program before we knew we would be moving to our current location, and decided to stay with that doctor after we moved, despite the inconvenience of making a 300-mile round-trip once a month.

And inconvenient as it may be... it does give us the excuse to spend some time at our beloved cabin, no matter for how short a stay.

Last night I did the evening chores here at home, and finished up just as my husband got home from work. The girls and I were all packed and ready to go, and we were on the road soon thereafter. Its about a 2-1/2 hour drive from our home to the cabin, and last night it was a dark and quiet drive as well, as it was late and we were all tired. But when we pulled up to our little home-away-from-home at 11pm... oh, what a feeling.

The woods were silent, lit by a waxing gibbous moon, and the snow was deep; but inside the cabin it was bright, warm, full of memories and the scent of knotty pine... as always. Walking through the door was like walking into a mother's embrace; she beckoned us in, and seemed to say, "Come in, sit down, relax, quiet your mind. You are home, you are safe."

As we arrived so late, and had to leave for a morning appointment, the stay was far too short. We went to bed, got up, had a cup of coffee while admiring the snow-covered landscape, and left. Reluctantly.

But as we drove away and over a nearby dam, I looked over and saw, of all things, a bald eagle sitting in a tree just below the gates... fishing. It took my breath away to see such unexpected grandeur at 9am on a winter Wednesday. It also told me that we needed to return, and soon, to fish... snowshoe... drink hot cocoa... and just be a family without any televisions or videos games or anywhere to be... for just a little while.

The Sacred Hour

2009-12-13T01:19:00.000-06:00

It's been a long day... long month... long couple months... Yes, quite some time has passed since my last post. So long, in fact, that when I logged into my Blogger account, it said, "Hi there! It's good to see you again! Looking for a topic? Get inspired or just start writing!"

All those exclamation points nearly made me turn around and leave. I'm not in an exclamation point sort of mood. Because, as I said, it's been a long couple months.

On October 12th, my daughter Rebekka came home from school with a "scratchy throat" and the news that one third of her class was absent that day due to the flu. An intuitive wave of foreboding passed through me, and I remember thinking, "Uh-oh, here we go...". And boy, did we ever.

October 12th was the last day Rebekka would attend school for five weeks. That "scratchy throat" was the onset of the H1N1 flu virus. The next day, she spiked a fever which would be her constant companion for weeks. A few days after that, an opportunistic strep infection moved in, bringing with it a neck-to-ankles red rash and pneumonia. Our previously profoundly healthy daughter was going downhill fast, yet when we made a trip to the emergency room that Friday she was sent home with the advice, "Its just the flu; give her Tylenol and fluids." By Saturday night she was struggling to breathe, and in severe pain... we brought her back and this time they admitted her.

Bekka spent three days in our local hospital, and while she received good care, her condition progressively worsened. That third day she was rushed by ambulance to Meritcare Childrens Hospital, where she would be able to receive more specialized care. Her condition was very serious by the time she arrived; to be honest, I did not even realized just how close a call it truly was until later when one of the nurses who worked on her upon her admittal, confided in me just how hard she'd been praying for Bekka while hanging her I.V.'s.... I guess at that point I was too busy praying myself, and coaxing my daughter to keep breathing.

I thank God for candid nurses. Once we got to Meritcare, it was determined that Rebekka had a large volume of fluid on her lungs and would need a chest tube installed to drain it. I asked how serious a procedure it was, and if they thought I needed to call my husband to come to the hospital (he was at home with our five-year-old at the time). The doctor downplayed the gravity of the situation, but once he left, the nurse looked me in the eye and said, "Call your husband. He needs to be here." Wow.

That night, they drained nearly two litres of fluid from my daughter's chest cavity. The idea that the same amount of fluid as in a two litre bottle of soda was inside the chest cavity of an eleven-year-old, crushing her heart and lungs... well, the fact she was still able to breathe at all is a testament to her strength and the power of prayer.

Bekka gradually improved after that; she spent about a week in ICU and another week in the regular pediatric unit. At one point that brave little girl had a nasal cannula, a central line, two I.V. lines and a Foley catheter... and yet, she never complained.

We were hearing talk of a potential discharge date, when suddenly she became very ill again, and this time it was due to high levels of antibiotics in her system shutting down her kidneys. We got her through that, and finally, on November 4th, we brought her home. The joy!

And the fatigue! I have a whole new respect for people who endure a family member's long hospitalization. Its been over a month since Bekka was discharged and I'm still catching up. Granted, we've since had the stomach flu go through our family, and now I've got a cold/flu/laryngitis thing going on and have lost my voice, and it certainly would make things easier if we all could just remain disease-free for any length of time past, say, a week.

But no matter how exhausted I am, every day contains a sacred hour which is all mine. In the evening after the children are in bed, I still have yet to feed my bottle calves and put my horses in the barn for the night. Some nights, I truly dread the process of mixing up the milk replacer, struggling into my insulated coveralls, boots and jacket, and trudging out to the barn for that last set of chores. At that point all I really want is a good book, a chair next to the fire and a hot toddie. But duty calls and I bundle up to tuck all the critters in for the night.

And once I do, I'm so glad that I did. The calves are dumb and stinky and dumb (yes, I know I used that word twice, and it was for good reason), but they are so grateful for that warm milk. The horses line up at the gates, anxious to get into the snug barn and out of the -20F windchill. They know the routine, and yet every night I am amazed with how sensitive they are, how responsive to the slightest body language or flick of the lead rope as we manuever in the darkness, through the various gates and doorways into the barn.

Once everyone is settled in, I open a couple bales of the beautiful hay that I sweated, lugged, swore and bled to get put up in the barn last summer. It is, to me, like manna from heaven but for my stock, which somehow seems even more precious. And in that sacred hour, while I feed calves and put horses to bed and distribute green slices of summer bounty to all who reside in my barn, a profound and overwhelming sense of gratitude overtakes me.

For my family.

For my horses.

For the ability to feed and care for them all, and well.

For a snug barn, and a warm house.

For medical miracles and those who perform them and the insurance that pays for it all.

For friends and family who call and write and share your concern to such a degree that one can never truly thank them enough for their support.

For the burgeoning bellies of the mares, and the promise of a bright future.

For Nyquil.

For lights in the barn.... and a thousand other things.

Really, I could go on, ad infinitum... but instead I'm going to take some Nyquil and go to bed. With gratitude.

I Love My Mom

2009-10-16T01:10:00.000-05:00

My mother is completely and totally wonderful.

Tonight, she sent a care package home with my husband, which nearly caused me to shed tears of joy:

A book on natural healing, with a sticky note on the cover which read, "Amy, Fever is in Chapter 10".

10 pounds of apples.

Half a dozen home-grown tomatoes.

15 pounds of absolutely beautiful russet potatoes.

Two big winter squash.

A Tupperware container filled with hamburger-macaroni hotdish.

AND....

(be still my heart...)

A freshly baked apple crisp.... STILL WARM.

I love my mom.

Gratitude

2009-10-15T20:21:00.000-05:00

My 11-year-old daughter has been bed-ridden with the flu for three full days now, and conscientious mother and citizen that I am, I've not left the farm in that time. As the "Ask-A-Nurse" advised the other night that this thing will linger for five to seven days, I'm looking at a long stretch of seclusion... partly because I won't leave my daughter and partly because it would be irresponsible to encourage the spread of this nasty bug.

I like being at home. Really, really like it. Its where my family lives, where I keep my stuff, and its got lots of nice things like heat and hot water and pretty horses. But even for me, the consummate home-body, forced seclusion eventually turns into a punishment of sorts.

Cabin fever in October? This could be a loooong winter.

It snowed all night last night, adding yet more moisture to our already saturated ground... and so outside its grey, snowy, muddy, cold, puddle-y. Today while doing chores I looked up at the steely, cold sky and said, "Thank you, Jesus, that I no longer have to pile sugar beets or dig potatoes for a living... that I can do my chores quickly and go back into my nice warm house and not have to go anywhere or work in this freezing mud for twelve hours... and please bless those that do. Amen."

Gratitude. Yes, its cold and muddy and grey outside and my daughter is sick... but we have a warm house and my daughter has a soft, clean bed with fresh sheets; we've got plenty of gatorade and Children's Motrin and Tylenol, a digital thermometer, and capable doctors a phone call away if needed. I'm getting cagey, stuck at home... but am so grateful that I *can* stay at home with my daughter, without having to ask for time off from a job or entrust her care to anyone else.

I am grateful for a five-year-old who is content to play games and cut and paste and draw to keep herself entertained, and a husband who is willing to shop for groceries and livestock feed and pick up a bucket of broasted chicken from the local pub when I have a hankerin' for it.

I'm grateful for my mother who is sending home some hotdish and fresh Amish produce with him tonight, after he spent the day there repairing a part for the tractor. Yes, I have a husband who uses his vacation time to lay in the cold mud, repairing farm equipment so he can feed my animals.

There are always two ways to look at a situation... with a cynical heart or a grateful one.

I choose the latter.

Oh, and the best quote of the day comes from my worldly five-year-old, while she gleefully consumed the last of that heaven-sent broasted bird...

"The chicken we eat comes from the chickens that are pets, except they're the wilder ones!"

Gotta love a grateful, carnivorous pragmatist.

With a Vengeance

2009-10-15T00:13:00.000-05:00

We are now paying dearly for our short, beautiful summer. Winter bullied Autumn into submission, gave her a swirly and stuffed her in a locker, it seems...

My eldest daughter lies up in her room, fighting the flu... 102F fever, sore throat, headache... for the second day now. On Monday she came home with the news that 1/3 of her class was out sick, and that she had a scratchy throat. By noon the next day her symptoms were full-blown, and today, some schools in the area are closed due to half the students being absent, fighting the same bug.

My calls to various "Ask-A-Nurse" hotlines resulted in a total of 45 minutes on hold, listening to elevator music, and the same advice: "Do not bring her in unless she is not drinking and needs IV fluids or is in respiratory distress; we are following CDC guidelines and will not administer Tamiflu unless she had an underlying medical condition. There are 100's of kids out of school... we've stopped testing for H1N1 as 90+% of the tests came back positive... keep her home, keep her hydrated, give her OTC pain relievers and expect that everyone in the family will catch it and that it will last 5-7 days".

Allllll-righty-then.

Not that we would be going anywhere, as it is raining/snowing/sleeting outside, the tree on the front lawn is doubled over under the weight of the ice, and I shudder to think of what the roads must be like. It seems that winter has, indeed, arrived with a vengeance.

And so, what was supposed to be a a few days of playing with the horses, dabbling with various home-improvement projects and enjoying a long, glorious autumn weekend, will instead be one of seclusion, hand-sanitizer and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Its scary to see my normally bright, sunshiny 11-year-old, so incredibly sick, and scary to know that her younger sister will most likely soon be sick, as well. We do, however, find one thing about the situation truly endearing... her cat, Star, does not leave her side. That big, black, one-girl cat lies on the bed, or on the sofa, right next to her 24/7.

Star will get some cooked chicken and a big thanks from me, tonight. For tonight, it doesn't matter that she cold-shoulders everyone in the house but "her" girl, or that I could spin wool and knit blankets for an army from the fine, black hair she leaves behind on everything from the commodes to the tv screen, or that she occasionally upchucks a nasty ball of it for me to step on, barefoot, in the middle of the night. Tonight, she vigilantly watches over my beloved daughter, as do I... and I am grateful for the company on this cold, dark, stormy night.

Autumn

2009-10-09T17:26:00.000-05:00

Autumn has arrived at Frostfire Farm. We had the first hard freeze of the season last night, and the first snowflakes this afternoon.

This past week has been, for me, all about nesting, as it's been predominantly cold, dark and raining outside. While for some, nesting means cleaning and organizing... in this house, it is (unfortunately) about cooking and baking. Why the primal need to feed my family to the point of acute carbohydrate overload, I've no idea. But after five dozen buns, a couple pans of brownies, six loaves of bread, a big batch of rice pudding and a pot of knoefla soup... I'd say the comfort food thing needs to slow up a bit or we risk a visit from the food police. In my defense... much of that is still on the freezer, and there was a batch of elk stew in there somewhere, too. So we've consumed at least some protein and a few vegetables recently... but have otherwise been a dietician's worst nightmare. On the upside, I'm now actually craving salad...

As I've finally come to terms with the fact that I cannot live without the pleasure of creating yummy treats for my family to share and enjoy... in abundance... my only option is to make exercise as much a habit as brushing my teeth. The treadmill and Jillian Michaels are my new best friends.

I snapped the above photo this morning, while enjoying some otherwise elusive sunshine. It was brisk, bright and beautiful out, the colors so gorgeous that no snapshot can do them justice. This afternoon, however, a front came through and brought with it both sleet and snow (its snowing heavily, now), reminding me to batten down the hatches for another long Minnesota winter... and to buy a new pair of running shoes...

The Great Escape

2009-08-11T20:20:00.010-05:00

This is our cabin.

Its where we go when we need to just... be.

This is our boat.

Its not big, not fancy.... but it works.

From it, we catch some of these:

And, some of these, too:

Walleye, perch, northern pike, bass.

(The kids, we don't need to catch... they just showed up a few years back and decided to stay.)

We built the cabin about seven years ago, and it was one of the best things we ever did
(besides deciding to let the kids stay).

We had a contractor put up the shell, but did the rest of the work ourselves.

My husband built the bar. We'll hide beneath it if ever there is a tornado.

As you can see, he's a better woodworker than I am a decorator... but its on my to-do list.

The problem is that I'd rather walk the trails around the lake...

fish...

eat s'more s'mores...

look at the flowers...

...and just... be.

Only in Minnesota

2009-08-10T12:16:00.003-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

Last night we spent a few hours finishing the fence around the new cow pasture. It was a sun-kissed, golden late-summer evening, and even the deer flies were held at bay with a modest spritzing of bug repellent. Some girls prepare for a relaxing Sunday evening with their spouse by dabbing on Chanel and packing a picnic basket... but not me. I pour on the Avon Bug Guard Plus and toss my fencing supplies into a plastic pail.

Okay... so the tools vary... but the general idea does not. There is always a project to tackle, but this year it seems the focus has been specific to building fences meant to contain domestic animals and repel the wild variety.

So far... the fences have performed well in the former category... the latter, not so much. This spring, numerous pairs of Canadian geese saw fit to take up housekeeping in the horse pasture, and now upwards of thirty of the noisy feathered nuisances graze there, peacefully co-existing with the horses. At least, as peacefully as possible, for geese. They do get progressively more bold, and now come right up to the barn. Ironically enough, we live across the road from a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service "Waterfowl Production Area", which the government spends quite a lot of time and tax money maintaining... but the geese don't go there. No geese there at all, not one. It seems they feel they are above living in government housing and instead prefer this side of the tracks.

The geese aren't alone, however. They've been joined by, of all things, snapping turtles. We saw a few earlier in the summer, when they would come up from the lake to lay their eggs. It seemed an interesting anomaly to see two of them in the same year. That is, until we were out fencing last night...

We were wading through the tall grass, chatting away, my husband carrying a huge spool of fencing wire and I, the bucket of insulators and tools. Suddenly, he emits a surprised "Whoa, hey, look at this... I stepped on a rock and it moved!" And there, hissing at his feet, was a huge, algae-covered, prehistoric-looking creature. We marveled at it for a bit (always have to do that, looking at a snapping turtle is akin to rubber-necking while passing the scene of an accident... the temptation is hard to resist), and then my spouse picked the two-foot behemoth up by its scaly tail and moved it out of the pasture... carefully avoiding the snapping end.

It was not five minutes later, at the opposite end of the pasture, when he stumbled across another, even larger snapper. I'm not sure if its an omen or what, but seeing two of these lake-dwellers crawling around high ground outside their normal breeding season really was pretty odd. We speculated that the second was Momma Snapper out hunting down her philandering mate... at least that's what we garnered from her cranky demeanor... moved Momma out of the pasture, as well (meanwhile cautioning her that we have, in fact, been known to consume snapping turtle)... and finished our work.

Now, finally, my cattle have a nice new pasture with belly-deep grass in which to graze and lounge under the oak trees. And, for once, the shoe is on the other foot (hoof?), as I cautioned them to watch where they step.

Good Dog

2009-05-06T22:55:00.009-05:00

She was a placid little pup, when I found her waiting for me at the humane society shelter at seven weeks of age. I can still remember her sitting in that small steel cage, a black and tan cherub, with folded ears and and a take-me-home-and-I'll-love-you-forever look on her face. That was twelve years ago.

When I brought her home, I was pregnant with my first daughter. As my father-in-law is a big country music fan, he'd been teasing me that the baby should be named for his favorite artist. I had no desire whatsoever to name my precious baby after a celebrity of any sort, gorgeous or not.... and so to appease him (and as somewhat of a joke), the new pup was named Shania. In the photo, she is the dog on the right.

Shania was a farm dog, through and through. She was simultaneously the most compassionate yet tenacious dog I've ever known. When it came to my children, she was the perfect guardian. Patient, alert, and while she would enthusiastically eliminate any wild critter that dared venture into our yard, she never once so much curled a lip at any child, ever. The barn cats were her special buddies... she snuggled with them often (she was a "closet" snuggler... it was her not-so-secret passion), and took a particular liking to one tom cat in particular. She would groom him with her teeth, to the point his fur matted into a slimy mess, but he absolutely loved it and often sought her out for his spa treatment.

In her younger years, I never knew what sort of dead critter Shania might have waiting for me in the yard when I walked out for morning chores. Many muskrats, rabbits, raccoons, woodchucks, skunks, weasels... and once, even a mink... met their demise when they faced her. Our farm was her territory; our family, her pack; and she felt it her job to protect us. She did the job exceedingly well. The only creature that ever got the best of Shania (to her great discomfort and dismay), was a porcupine.

Shania was never a demanding, yappy, in-your-face dog, but always in the background, patiently waiting for a pat on the head or (joy of joys!) a belly rub. She was wary of visitors, and so would make a polite and obligatory showing as they first arrived, then fade into the background. When I was nearby, however, her eyes rarely left me. Shania was never formally trained, and yet would respond to the slightest verbal or hand gesture command from me. More than once, my mother-in-law commented as to how that dog always gazed at me with utter devotion. It was not human-like love, however, so much as it was the fact I was the "pack leader" and Shania looked to me for direction.

Yes, Shania looked to her humans for direction... just so long as that direction did not involve restraint. To confine her in any way was the ultimate punishment, and she would whine and claw at the door until she was released or found a way out. There was not a collar made that could be kept on her. She was independent, and yet she chose to submit to us. To confine her, it stole her spirit, and so we never restrained her. She never spent one day of her long life with us chained or kenneled. Few dogs are so fortunate. Shania seemed appreciative of the fact... and never abused her freedom, but always stayed within sight of the house unless accompanied by one of her family.

I can think of only one serious crime over the course of her lifetime... Shania was the instigator of the Great Easter Chicken Massacre. The summer prior to the Massacre, I purchased quite a few chicks, and cared for them through the long hard winter so as to have a lovely flock of layers come springtime. They were free-range hens, foraging for worms, weed seeds and bugs in addition to the mash I fed them. That Easter Sunday, we enjoyed dinner with my family a few hours away, and had a lovely day... that is, until we returned home to absolute carnage. Pulling into the yard that evening, we were met with one very guilty-looking dog.... and around twenty dead chickens, scattered hither and yon, the green grass of spring nearly obliterated by chicken feathers silently fluttering in the lilac-scented breeze.

Whatever sparked the whirlwind of squawking hens and provoked Shania's usually dormant hunting instinct that day, I'll never know. She never did anything like that ever again; the shame of her transgression seemed to haunt her for weeks afterward and one can only guess that she never wished to revisit that feeling again. What I do know for certain is that I now look back and smile at the thought of that normally polite, reserved, stoic dog, bounding through the feathered chaos of panicked poultry with unbridled joy in the moment.

Shania was our friend, companion and guardian for twelve years. Last year, however, we noticed she had lost her hearing (ever try to call a deaf dog off a raccoon? At night?). She spent most of this past winter lazing on front of the fireplace... and to her great delight, atop my cushioned ottoman. As winter gave way to spring, I noticed some weakness in her hindquarters in the mornings when I would put her outside... and also that she spent the bulk of her time napping in the sun, on the patio furniture.

In a weeks time, Shania went from romping in the new spring grass with my daughter, to the point where she was unable to walk... her physical deterioration was rapid and heart-breaking to watch. We made her days as comfortable as possible, spent a little extra time, gave her a few extra special treats... and then faced the unavoidable decision to end her suffering.

My husband and I brought Shania home before our children were born, and we were there with her at the end, hugging and petting her and thanking her for being such a loyal friend and guardian to our family. It was most profound when, at the moment Shania passed from this life to the next, a moment when most animals would struggle or paddle in the throes of death... Shania simply wagged her tail.

She had not been physically able to wag her tail for over a week.

It was one of those touching and miraculous moments in life which reinforces our faith and gives us a glimpse of what Heaven might be like. I told my husband that it was as if Shania were greeting someone she was overjoyed to see again... our long-dead dog Misty, maybe, or our beloved Grandpa Ding.

Together, we buried our old dog under a full spring moon, tears flowing down our faces. This all happened a few weeks ago, and yet I'm still so touched by the bittersweet beauty of that night. We were blessed to have such a good dog part of our family for so long, and so blessed to share the grief and beauty and mystery as she passed to the next life. I like to think she's now healthy, happy, pain-free... and waiting to welcome her family home with boundless joy, as she did countless times here on Earth.

Good dog.

Mother of the Year

2009-05-05T23:02:00.002-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

I will never earn an award for Mother of the Year, nor even of the month or day. I am way too impatient, often wrapped up in my own thoughts, and have been known to actually use the phrase "Suck it up, kid..." (though only in response to idle whining and never to serious injury or heartbreak). My routines are sometimes anything but, and I've been known to actually feed my children brownies and ice cream for supper... though at the time, that did get me nominated for the award by my adoring children. The selection committee didn't think much of my meal-planning skills, however, and immediately disqualified me.

But, after reading the news tonight... I no longer feel the need to seek the approval of the Mother of the Year Selection committee... nor anyone else but my own children, for that matter. It seems a mother in a neighboring town was arrested today for punching her seven-year-old daughter in the face because she did not eat fast enough. The child went to school with a bloody nose and when questioned, told her story. Social Services was called, and the mother arrested.

That news article made me sick, but it also made me think about my own parenting skills. It is so easy to judge others, particularly in a case such as this. Tonight, I turned the spotlight back on myself and think about what the world would believe about me if there were a hidden camera in my home. What if it were to record the moments I lose my cool and yell at my precious daughters, or forget about something they need for school, or fail to supervise them closely enough and the four-year-old cuts her hair off with my sewing scissors...?

As the world is full of harsh critics, they would most likely tear me apart in their blogs, and the evening news would have a hey-day with it, probably even come up with a catchy term like "Neglecto-Mom". My angst-ridden face would be captured on film by the paparazzi and emblazoned on the cover of Time magazine with the headline "How Could She???"...

And so, there are no video cameras allowed in my home, no broadcasting of my maternal failings to the masses. The only witnesses to my bad-mothering moments are my girls, and they are still solidly in my court. According to the four-year-old, I'm the "Best cooker in the whole wide world!" and the eleven-year-old contends that I'm the "coolest mom EVER".... at least when their smiling faces are ringed with brownie crumbs.

I intend to keep brownies on hand for the next fourteen years, at least.... and hug those precious, forgiving girls, every chance I get. Hopefully, when they grow up and read the news about mothers who harm their children, they will remember a mother who loved them totally, protected them fiercely, encouraged fun and spontaneity... and while sometimes cranky and/or scatter-brained, never, ever, hurt them.

I pray tonight for that little girl, and for her mother, as well. May God heal them both.

Making Memories

2009-04-28T08:20:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a big day for my youngest daughter. She was born with a rather large bump on the middle finger of her left hand; it was not growing or causing any problems, but her doctor thought it wise to have it removed and biopsied.

We were up early and on our way to the hospital early. Daddy was on the road and could not join us, so this was a real mother/daughter day. Admission to the hospital was surprisingly efficient, and soon we were in a private room, dressing her in a gown and surrounded by nurses. In a small-town hospital, they do not get many pediatric surgical patients (dealing more frequently with complaints of the elderly, gallbladders and such), and so my daughter was a bit of a celebrity. The staff doted on her and I could tell it was sort of a fun break in routine for them.

For once, I remembered to bring the camera, and made an effort to document the experience. Lately, making memories has become more important to me... maybe its an age thing, but I've also been looking back over the years and realized my memory is not all its cracked up to be. Its so easy to get caught up in the daily grind and forget to document all the interesting moments that make our life special and unique. Obviously, the events like births and baptisms, weddings and vacations get lots of attention, but they are the exceptions to everyday life. I want to capture the memories more from a mother's perspective... precious moments buried amongst the laundry and homework and chores that make up the bulk of our time together.

My daughter made it through the procedure just fine, and was bouncing off the walls, harassing her older sister within an hour of our return home.

Her sister, on the other hand... she was home sick yesterday and now today, as well. Typical cold/flu symptoms... sore throat, cough and sniffles, and she woke me up in the middle of the night complaining of an earache. As both my girls have pretty high tolerance for pain, if they complain about something hurting, I take it seriously. And so... I will watch them both closely today and be prepared to make yet another trip to the clinic.

In other news... our calves have been born and we were blessed with healthy mommas and babies, with no complications. This morning I turned them all outside, and took great pleasure in watching those calves bounce and frolic in the morning sunshine. The fencing on the second pasture will soon be up and it will be great fun to watch the babies explore their new world.

How Precious, Life

2009-04-21T12:04:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I helped to bring a new life into the world. It was only a calf, thousands of which are born every day under similar circumstances. Some would consider it just part of the job, not much different than changing the oil in a vehicle or tilling the garden... but not me. No matter how many times I see a living creature take its first breath (or, conversely, fight for its last), I will never get over the feeling of what a miracle life is, be it human or otherwise.

As a woman who has given birth to my own babies, tending the cow as she was in labor and then focused on her new baby was instinctual. The look in her eye as she pushed... one of experience, yet tinged with pain and desperation, was familiar. The calf was a large one and did not come as easily as some, so I knelt next to the cow, tore the membrane away from the little black nose, grasped the legs and eased the baby into the world.

The metamorphosis which takes place in the next few moments never fails to bring tears to my eyes. To watch a wet, slimy creature slide into the world, so seemingly helpless and vulnerable, struggle to breathe, then rise, then nurse... and within hours, transform into a dry, furry, bright-eyed and hungry little animal with an attitude and a personality... it is nothing short of bearing witness to a miracle.

I've often wondered how anyone could witness birth and fail to believe in a Creator. Or death, for that matter. If we are but biological organisms, taking up space on the planet and with no purpose beyond reproducing, exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide and food for fertilizer, there would be no need for emotion. No need for love or anger, fear or happiness; none of that would matter. We would not feel such joy at the creation of life and such profound sadness at its loss.

I believe in God the Creator and always have... but to be present as His Spirit breathes life into a creature, certainly reinforces that belief. I understand biology, but will never understand the miracle and mystery behind it. I will never understand why some creatures live, and others are conceived but never get to draw a breath. I don't need to understand; it's part of the mystery. Just because I do not understand it, however, does not mean I rejoice in life any less. On the contrary, the mystery of life and the loss of death, make life all the more precious.

Every breath, every moment, every creature... precious.

Pullin' Truck

2009-04-16T21:01:00.002-05:00

My husband rarely buys me flowers, and if I had to sell my jewelry to feed our family, we wouldn't be eating well for very long....

But after nearly twenty years of marriage, he knows me pretty well, and buys gifts that keep on giving. Not in the sappy Hallmark sense; rather, the gifts he surprises me with are the kind that serve me well as I do my job and make my life a whole lot easier.

Once, it was a heavy-duty stand mixer. I was overjoyed to the point of tears to receive it, and that machine has mixed hundreds of pounds of bread dough over the years. Last year, it was a much needed tractor that would help to put up hay & feed hay to the livestock and clear out snow.

A few weeks ago, when I was out of town for the night with our girls, his gift was to completely renovate our poorly-designed laundry room and replace the old machines that came with the house, with the newer, more efficient ones we had brought from our old home and had not yet installed. He stayed up all night to finish it, and even bought me new laundry baskets.

And today... today, it was a pullin' truck.

My old pickup's engine had given up its ghost, its tires are bald, and some jerk had found it necessary to smash out the rear window while it sat waiting for us to retrieve it from our old farm. Fixing it up just to the point it was usable would prove quite expensive, so we put off making a decision on it. I've since been finding it difficult to haul all the feed and bedding necessary for our animals with our Expedition, or wait until he was home and could help with his work pickup. And now, of course, we will more frequently be hauling cattle and horses to various places for various reasons.

So, he bought me a truck.

It's not a fancy truck, by any stretch... but I love the thing. We went to pick it up today, and while it is starting to rust a bit around the wheel wells, is missing some trim and needs a new front grille, to me it was a thing of beauty. She is an older diesel Ford F250 Lariat, red and silver, regular cab, five-speed 4x4 with lock-out hubs, a fifth-wheel hitch in the box, a heavy-duty bumper, trailer brakes, big ol' tires and an aftermarket turbocharger under the hood. Seriously, is sounded about like a Kenworth when I fired it up.

As I pulled out of the lot and into traffic, I gave thanks for all those dark nights chauffeuring my friend Tom around in the service truck during sugarbeet harvest, years ago... and all the miles driving grain truck in the years before that. I've not driven a five-speed or any truck like that in probably five years, and so was a little hesitant to jump right out into rush hour traffic....

But it all came right back. And as I drove out of town and began to see what she could do... WOW. It is not a Ferrari, and does not corner like its on rails. But its got snort. And guts. And rides far better than my husband's company pickup, a year-old Chevy .

I found myself eagerly anticipating each stop light and turn, because feeling the horsepower while I slapped through the gears was so much fun. Its low-geared and doesn't care to go much over 70, but sure doesn't take long to get there!

It even has an FM radio. Better pinch myself, either I'm dreaming or died and went to heaven!

Okay, so I like gifts that are practical and help me do my job. I don't need fancy, or shiny, or expensive. My favorite gifts are those which will put in as honest a day's work as I do.

The other girls can keep their flowers and jewelry. I'll take a truck with a turbo kit, any day.

Thanks, Honey!

Of Slander

2009-04-01T11:54:00.005-05:00

"No soul of high estate can take pleasure in slander. It betrays a weakness." Blaise Pascal

It never fails to amaze me, the lengths some folks will go in order to slander and harm another, whether it be an individual or an institution. The greatest lies... and as a consequence, the greatest harm... seem to come from people who have an irrepressable need to blow out another's candle in an attempt to make theirs glow brighter. The problem is that in the process, they significantly dim their own.

One must always question, just what is the intent behind malicious words? So often, those who tear others down do so in a self-righteous, finger-pointing fashion. I've seen it so often that my first questions are, "What has this person got to hide? How might they benefit from harming this person (or entity) they so vehemently attack? Or are they simply so lacking in their own self-esteem and accomplishment that their only way to gain acknowledgement and self-satisfaction is to harm another?"

In regard to the horse world, there are even websites and blogs which attack individuals in a most vicious and vulgar manner. Breeders bad-mouth other breeders or even registries in their little phone and e-mail circles. Some intentionally attempt to harm others in every possible way... and I always consider such attempts to be a red herring. Rather than look at the horses and actions and website of those they attack, I look at what the attacker has produced and accomplished. Most often, its a very short investigation which raises significant questions as to the credibility of the attacker and the quality and legitimacy of their own stock and operation.

Frequently, however, and even more disturbing, are those who anonymously make these negative claims. If a critic cannot sign their name and stand by what they say, in front of God and man, it has no credibility whatsoever. A screen name or avatar is an assumed personalty and I consider them to be fiction, right along with whatever garbage they might spew.

The same could be said for any other corner of society. Trace a character assassination to its source, and there you will usually find a putrid, gangrenous root. Jealousy, most often... and usually accompanied by its pathetic friend, insecurity.

I truly feel sorry for those who get their kicks by tearing others down. Its pathetic, unseemly, and destroys their own credibility. For many years now, I've made a point to avoid association with such folks, but at times the spirit of negativity is so widespread it is difficult to escape entirely.

Slander, lies, untruths, malicious gossip... no matter the name given, the intent and the result are the same. It hurts innocent, often hard-working people, seriously and sometimes irrepairably. If you participate in it, your credibility and integrity and reputation are significantly diminished, both in my opinion and that of much of the community at large. There are still a few among us who see it for what it is...

Darkness.

Evil.

I, for one, intend to be of the light... and shine that light into the darkness at every opportunity.

Oaks and Diamonds

2009-03-31T22:02:00.006-05:00

"When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grow strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressure." Peter Marshall

A friend once told me, "God is using this trial to strengthen you, just as iron is tempered into steel by fire and therefore made stronger". That was a lot of trials ago, and I guess one can say I've experienced my share of contrary winds, pressure, and tempering fire. No more than anyone else, nor any less, just different... and my share.

I would not trade any of it. Not for an easier life or a smaller butt or a brand-new King Ranch Edition Ford F-250 4x4 with saddle-leather seats. All of those contrary winds and pressures and fires gave me an education and perspective on life that is valuable and mine alone. As a result, I know without any doubt what matters to me, who I am, what I want out of life and the people with whom I prefer to share it.

We had a whopper winter storm here today and received well over a foot of snow, maybe eighteen inches. Of course that meant extra barn chores and tougher ones at that... hauling water to the livestock this morning meant carrying full five-gallon pails through snow drifts that were, in places, up to my hips. But much as I dread it... I still love the work. There is something very satisfying about truimphing over a storm like that. Everyone else can whine about how awful it is and the fact they can't go anywhere... but I'm in my element.

The enforced solitude of a storm day always makes me reflective, and always reinforces my ideas about what matters. Sometimes, well-meaning people attempt to tell me what matters, what my priorities should be, what should make me happy. But there is a difference between perception and reality. My heart has always known what makes me happy, and I've always instinctually sought it, even fought for it when necessary.

Oftentimes wise people will advise others to "Go with your gut". That is how I've lived my whole life. For better or for worse, when the chips are down and a choice needs to be made, I always go with my gut... with instinct, or discernment, or that inner voice... whatever it is. Doing so does not always make me politically correct, or popular, or wealthy. What it does do, is give me a life that is my own, and leaves me with few real regrets.

Sanctuary

2009-03-30T22:56:00.006-05:00

Tonight was one of those nights when I wanted to go out to the barn and do the evening chores about as much as I would want a hole in the head... which is to say, not very much at all.

After a full day with an early start, making and serving and cleaning up after supper, and with a winter storm bearing down, the last thing I really wanted to do was pull on my bibs and boots, hat and gloves, and trudge through the snow for yet more work.

But a transformation takes place during the few steps I take from the house to the barn. Hungry calves bawl and push each other around in an attempt to be the first to greet me. The horses whinny and the cows moo and everyone is happy to see me. Its controlled chaos and a chorus of hungry mouths to feed.

I start with the bucket calves, who would put any champion beer-guzzler to shame as they bury their noses in their warm milk, guzzling it down... its a wonder they don't drown. The bottle calves are next; they stand side-by-side, their little tails swishing in unison, big brown eyes half-closed as they savor the joy of feeding time.

Next, all the cattle get their grain, and they settle into Nirvana. At that point I never fail to remember when I was a little girl, watching my dad feed his cows and him telling me that to cows, corn tasted like chocolate pudding. That was in the days before "Snack Packs", and homemade chocolate pudding was about as wonderful a treat as we could imagine!

I bring the horses into the barn, one by one, taking the time to correct them if they attempt to get pushy. With my children around and handling them at times, I have little tolerance for a horse that thinks it can walk all over you. In the past, I would often let the horses into the barn as a group and sort them into their individual stalls, but have found the few moments it takes to catch and lead them in, individually, is worth the extra time. They benefit so much from that extra handling.

A few more moments of chaos ensues, while the horses wait impatiently for their rations. The Pintabians, true to their quiet nature, just nicker and look at me expectantly, while my daughters rangy Paint is more demanding, pawing the floor and shaking her head. Peace descends as I move down the row of stalls, doling out the grain... and I never fail to appreciate the quiet as they all happily dive into their grain.

Now, time for the heavier work, carrying water and hay to each animal... but somehow, it is not as daunting a task as I imagined before heading outdoors. By now I'm warmed up, into the job, and take pleasure in it. I sort through the hay to find the most soft and tender stems for the baby calves, who are just learning to eat it, and make sure the rest is free of dust and mold.

Soon, I realize all the necessary work is done, and yet I am dawdling, enjoying this time in my sanctuary. It is peaceful here, and I feel a great fulfillment and sense of accomplishment in a job well-done.

Here, too, I find hope... in the swelling bellies of the mamas, heavy with calf or foal... in the projects that need to be tackled when the weather warms up... in the saddles lining the tack room wall, in the anticipation of trail rides and shows to come. This is the time when I see the unborn babies kick, making their presence known; the time when I scratch the cows and play with the calves and tell the horses how breathtakingly beautiful they are, even wearing their winter grubbies (as if they didn't know!).

Yes, I am tired, and sore, and my soft warm bed will feel absolutely divine when I finally settle into its embrace. But that can wait just a few more minutes... I'm in my sanctuary.

"I Believe In the Future of Farming..."

2009-03-21T23:01:00.008-05:00

"I believe in the future of farming..." Those were the first words of the FFA Creed when it was still the Future Farmers of America, and I wonder how many times I recited them in high school. There were countless moments over the ensuing years during which we farmed for a living (depending on it for our sole income), times when I was waist-deep in mud, trying to save a flooded potato crop, tired out of my mind during planting or harvest, or worried sick about finances and the future, that those words became a bit of a mantra.

We no longer depend on the land as our sole source of income and have not for many years now, yet we choose to farm on a small scale because it is what we love. We enjoy growing our own food and caring for the animals and living this lifestyle.

I often marvel at the fact that over the course of one or two generations, our country as a whole has become so far removed from the farm that many kids don't even know where meat or milk or bread comes from. Our lives are so sanitized and commercialized and conformist... and I, for one, rebel against it.

That would be one of the many reasons why we live in the country, raise animals and plant a garden. I want my daughters to understand the sanctity of life, whether it be equine, avian or human. I want them to be self-sufficient, confident, faithful and tenacious, all qualities required of those who plant seeds in the ground in the hopes of a harvest, or breed an animal with the expectation of improving upon both sire and dam. I want them to know thier roots in the land, to understand how hard their ancestors worked just to feed and clothe and shelter themselves.

It disturbs me somewhat that the wording of the FFA Creed has been changed from "I believe in the future of farming..." to "I believe in the future of agriculture...". Those words do not possess the same power or meaning. The farmer is the very root of the agriculture industry... without the farmer, there is no agriculture.

The ag industry is considered to be the largest in the world, and in its broadest definition, includes pretty much everyone in the food, fiber, biofuel, and chemical industries... even tourism is sometimes lumped into the group (there is a growing sector called "agri-tourism"; people actually pay money to experience the country life and work on a farm). But in any one of those sectors, if you trace the supply to its source, you find yourself back on the farm.

I've always been suspicious that the FFA creed was changed for two reasons... one, that it was an attempt to make it (and the FFA) more inclusive (how sad); and two, the term "farmer" was just not considered "cool". And it's too bad, really. Frankly, I consider those who bust their butts to feed and clothe and fuel the entire population of this planet, to be very cool indeed.

I believe in the future of farming.

Recipes

2009-03-11T14:48:00.007-05:00

Thought I might take a few moments to share a few of the recipes I've mentioned recently. The first is for "Dutch Babies". They are sort of an oatmeal/spice pancake that my mother would often make as I was growing up... I just loved them. My own daughters have recently been introduced to this recipe from my youth and now ask for them often! I usually double the recipe.

Dutch Baby Pancakes

1 c. flour

1/2 c. oatmeal

2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1 T. sugar

3/4 tsp. cinnamon

1/4 tsp. ginger

1/4 tsp nutmeg

1 egg

1 c. milk

3 T. oil

2 T. honey

Mix dry ingredients; set aside. Whisk together wet ingredients, add to dry ingredients and stir to combine. Fry on hot greased griddle until brown on both sides.

This next recipe is a new one to me; we tried it over the weekend and really enjoyed it! The chipotle chili pepper powder gives the pork a "smoky" taste, reminiscent of that from and old-fashioned pig roast! This recipe has some kick. I left out the poblano chili as there were none available and it turned out just fine.

Green Chile Pulled-Pork Burritos

(From the Pillsbury "Slow Cooker Come Home to Comfort" cookbook)

1 to 2 T. chipotle chili pepper powder

1 T. vegetable oil

1 t. salt

1 boneless pork loin roast, trimmed of fat

1 poblano chile

1 16 oz. jar green chile salsa

14-8 in. flour tortillas

guacamole, if desired

sour cream, if desired

1. Spray 4-5-quart slow-cooker with cooking spray. In small bowl, mix chili pepper powder, oil and salt. Rub mixture over pork; place in cooker. Sprinkle with poblano chile. Pour salsa over top.

2. Cover; cook on Low heat setting 8-10 hours.

3. Remove pork from cooker; place on cutting board.

Shred pork with two forks; return to cooker and mix well.

4.Using slotted spoon, spoon about 1/2 cup pork mixture onto each tortilla; top with about 1 T. each guacamole and sour cream. Fold tortilla around mixture and enjoy!

This last recipe is not for food at all, but for homemade laundry detergent! Just today I mixed up my second batch, and just love this stuff. I add a few drops lavender essential oil, just because I love the scent of lavender.

Laundry Soap

(adapted from Reader's Digest

"Homemade - How to Make Hundreds of Everyday Products You Would Otherwise Buy")

2 c. soap flakes

2 c. baking soda

1 c. washing soda

1 c. borax

1 clean ice cream pail with lid

1. To make the soap flakes, grate a bar of pure soap, such as Ivory, on a coarse kitchen grater.

2. Mix all ingredients together in ice cream pail, and store tightly sealed.

3. Use about 1/2 cup of the mixture instead of detergent for each load of laundry.

I've been using this homemade laundry detergent for a few weeks now and it seems to clean just as well as the store-bought stuff, even in our very hard water. One may wish to use bleach in addition, for whites... so far, I have not noticed the need to do so.

Blizzard

2009-03-11T13:08:00.003-05:00

Today, we are digging out from quite a blizzard. Its started two days ago, and finally let up about 5am this morning. This is the second straight day my older daughter is home from school... and I cannot recall her enjoying two "snow days" in a row since she started kindergarten!

She braved the storm to help me tend to the horses in the barn; what a help she is! I can now send her out to bring the horses in from pasture or put them out, feed them their grain, etc., with very little in the way of supervision. It does not hurt that I am able to see everything right from the big bay window in the kitchen, and the barn is really only steps away.

I have been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, with the weather like its been. Friday night we had a fiesta! Fajitas, chips & salsa, and margaritas (for Mom & Dad). It was fun. I enjoy prepping and cooking with my family gathered around the kitchen island, visiting... and try to make a point of making Friday evenings special in that regard. We might make homemade pizza or subs, or in nicer weather, grill steaks outside... the whole idea is to sort of gather around and celebrate the family and the weekend.

Saturday I made Italian meatball subs for supper... wow, were they ever good. The meatballs and sauce simmered in the crock-pot and smelled so good all day. Sunday, it was a big breakfast of "Dutch Babies" (a cinnamon/oatmeal pancake that is my mother's recipe... *so* yummy!), eggs and homemade sausage. Tuesday I made a big double batch of oatmeal raisin cookies and we had Adobo Chili Pulled Pork Burritos for supper... and just now I finished cleaning up the dishes from our snow-day brunch; made-from-scratch buttermilk pancakes with side-pork from the hog we bought from an Amish farmer a few weeks back. And tonight it will be the last of some homemade beef stew from a huge batch I put together and froze months ago, along with some homemade buttermilk biscuits.

Not exactly your low-fat, low cholesterol, vegetarian diet... but interestingly enough, both my weight and bad (LDL) cholesterol have been going down and good (HDL) cholesterol going up! I do have a nice treadmill and try to use it every day. It does make a difference, as does the activity of working outside around the farm and in the garden.

Well, better get back to "digging out"... tomorrow it will be back to real-life again, and by the end of the weeks it looks to be warm enough to start melting some of the foot of snow we got over the past few days....

Fireproof Dreams

2009-03-09T20:28:00.004-05:00

Dreams sure do die hard, don't they?

I am the sort of person, that when I am given a vision or a dream to do something, its never a little dream. Its always a big, huge, gigantic dream. When I find something to believe in, I embrace it. I eat, sleep and breathe it. The cliche' "blood, sweat and tears" is no stranger to me.

And when I find a group of people to believe in, multiply that embrace by a thousand. Its not very often I get close to people. I am a private person; just ask my husband. We have been married nearly twenty years and he still is trying to figure me out.

I believe that God gives us our passions and dreams, chosen specifically for our particular talents, personality and gifts. But He also tests us, and tempers us by fire just as iron is tempered into steel. Right now, I need to be patient, and wait on God, and wait on people, and wait on so much stuff...

For a long time now I have been fighting for a particular dream, and have been met with resistance, test after test, and profound heartbreak. I am at one of those crossroads where, as I told one good friend, it feels like a gangrenous leg... I don't want to be without a leg but am concerned it might have to be sacrificed to save the rest of my body.

And so... while I wait on God to give me the answer, I keep going back to a song from the movie "Fireproof"...

For the YouTube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3b2jw1rjBc

Lyrics:

While I'm Waiting

John Waller

I'm waiting

I'm waiting on You, Lord

And I am hopeful

I'm waiting on You, Lord

Though it is painful

But patiently, I will wait

I will move ahead, bold and confident

Taking every step in obedience

While I'm waiting I will serve You

While I'm waiting I will worship

While I'm waiting I will not faint

I'll be running the race

Even while I wait

I'm waiting

I'm waiting on You, Lord

And I am peaceful

I'm waiting on You, Lord

Though it's not easy

But faithfully, I will wait

Yes, I will wait

I will serve You while I'm waiting

I will worship while I'm waiting

I will serve You while I'm waiting

I will worship while I'm waiting

I will serve you while I'm waiting

I will worship while I'm waiting on You, Lord