I Love My Mom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.