Goodbye, Babyhood.

We've officially crossed the line I've been dreading for years, since the birth of my first-born.

Last week, we attended a "Back-to-School Night" at my youngest daughter's elementary school.  It was a Big Deal to the now 3rd-grader, a chance to drop off all her school supplies, find the classroom and meet her teacher.  We look forward to the event every summer; it really is a nice way to ease the kids into a new school year.

Dropping her older sister off at the high school to stash her slightly smaller stash of pens and notebooks in her locker there, we proceeded to walk to the elementary school a block away.  The parents and excited kids were streaming in its direction like a fall migration... in a way, I guess it was just that.

Out of habit, I reached for my little girl's hand like I've done a million times before when we've headed out on an adventure, be it down a jetway or the aisle of a grocery store.  And a million times, she's met me there, reached in my direction, grasped my hand in anticipation and squeezed it three times, our signal for "I love you."

But not this time.  This time, she pulled away. Her friends were there, and she didn't need to be seen as some kind of baby.

My heart broke in a billion pieces, but I smiled and teased her a little and proceeded into the school. A mom gets pretty adept at covering those feelings, after awhile... after all, we are continually watching our children reach milestones, achieve goals, grow up. As I write this now, however, the tears flow.

What my kids don't know, what most people don't realize, is that oftentimes I would hold my little ones close as much for my comfort, as theirs.  For over fifteen years now, I've had a baby or small child close at hand. When the oldest reached the age where she gained more independence, the youngest was born. I had another hand to hold, at least for awhile.

Now, the youngest has found her independence.  While she will still cuddle and hug (hopefully forever), that public hand-holding is now off limits, at least if any of her peers may be nearby...

It's a double edged sword.  The longer I know my girls, the more I love them (if that's possible), and the more they amaze me. Their kindness and empathy and manners and intellect and pretty much everything else, surprises me at every turn, and its always the best kind of surprise.  Watching them grow and learn and spread their wings really gives me such joy.

Except for this part.  This getting-too-old-to-hold-Mom's-hand part. It kinda bites, as I'll never be too old to hold theirs.

Before my youngest was born, a very wise friend counseled me to "enjoy every moment".  I took that advice to heart, using it as my mantra during the up-all-nights and terrible two's and the potty training and doctor visits and stomach-flus-with-projectile-vomit.

Sure am glad I did.  I held her hand every chance I got, and will never regret it.

"Good As Any, Better Than Most"

 It has taken me six months to work through my grief and muster the courage to write this post. In that time, I’ve written very little; sometimes one just doesn’t have the words. Once the muse visited, however, I worked through the night and well into the next day, to write it. 

This one cuts as close to my heart as anything I’ll ever write for public consumption, so please bear with me. It is my tribute and final gift to a precious, forever friend. 

If you wish to judge, critique, raise your eyebrows or make assumptions... you are more than welcome to take a long hike off a short pier. :) 

~Amy

"Iowa" Dave Sterner
1963-2012

 David Sterner was the childhood friend I didn’t get to meet until I was thirty-two years old.  His reputation as “the nicest guy in the world” preceded him, and on one brisk, sunny April morning in 2005 I could not believe my good fortune in finding out for myself the truth of those words. 

With a camera and a pen, still fairly unschooled in the ways of the motorcycle world I was covering for the local bike rag, and arriving on just my second assignment… I was nervous as a mouse in a lion’s den.  Nervous, that is, until I met “Iowa” Dave.

That fateful morning, I noticed the “Western Iowa” rocker on his back, walked up to him and introduced myself. When Dave told me his name I instantly recognized him as the guy who had given a lift in his semi, from Florida all the way back to Minnesota, to a very grateful mutual friend who later described him as “the nicest guy in the world”. 

Soon as we shook hands, I smiled and said, “Word has it you’re the nicest guy in the world.” True to the 1% diamond on his chest, Dave narrowed his eyes for a moment and said, “I should kick the ass of anyone who says that.”  His subsequent laughter betrayed him, however; it rang out like church bells on Easter morning, carrying joy on its gossamer wings.  My nervousness vanished, never to return. We bonded over coffee and doughnuts and were instant friends.

The event we were attending was a charity ride, with a subsequent party that lasted until the sun rose the next morning.  Dave teased me relentlessly to leave my cage (vehicle) behind and ride with him on the bike; I smiled and replied that I needed to preserve my "journalistic integrity".  He laughed uproariously at that, and conceded. (Truth was, I love riding more than just about anything else on Earth, but needed my rig as I was working on two different events that day).  

When I returned to the party from covering the other event of the day, Dave and I shared a few beers, shared our stories, sang along with Dago under the full moon, and we shared laughter.  Oh, the laughter. I don’t know that anyone on the planet could laugh, or make me laugh, as he could. I was a little sad to see the sun come up that morning; he was a long-haul truck driver from Iowa, and I lived on a farm with my family near the Canadian border.  The chances of seeing him again any time soon were plenty slim.  I chalked the meeting up to one of the awesome benefits of the job, having a great time meeting some really amazing people.

A few months later, however, while at a regular weekly “Bike Night”, who should walk in but Dave, fresh off the road with his semi parked outside.   He’d been passing through and stopped in to visit with his local Brothers.  He had a great big hug for me and when I asked him how he’d been, he replied, “Good as any, better than most!”  Little did I know that hug was the first of many joyful reunions, and that phrase would greet me countless times in the years to come. We traded phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

You’ve heard it before, the idea that true friends can go for long stretches of time without being in touch, get together again and pick right up where they left off.  That was Dave and I.  My role shifted over time, from a columnist for the local magazine to working on a project that allowed me to attend various motorcycle club events around the country, events Dave also attended.  The people became like family to me, but David, especially so.

We would call one another occasionally, and could talk for hours at a stretch, on any topic… about our faith (we’d both been raised Catholic), about our beloved families, about growing up as farm kids, about our hopes and dreams and troubles and disappointments. 

Much of what I learned about the biker life came straight from him, and some of my best work, he inspired. He never judged or ridiculed me, and always patiently answered what questions he could, no matter how basic. I once asked him about the black ribbons of fabric hanging from his vest; he explained they were cut from the t-shirts of Brothers of his who had passed.  Caressing each one with a far-off look in his eye, he named the Brother each ribbon represented. For some reason that moment really touched me; it drove home the weight and importance of remembrance and symbolism in a way I’d never before understood.

Dave didn’t enjoy reading all that much, but he loved what I wrote and so I would call him with a new piece and read it to him over the phone.  If he said, “Damn, girl, you’re gonna make me cry…” that told me I was on the right track.  If my words about his lifestyle and belief system could be strung together in such a way that it moved a bad-ass biker to tears, especially one who didn’t much like to read, I felt I was getting it right. 

I don’t know if there ever was anyone more solidly in my court than Dave.  He believed in me, in my talent, in my dreams, and he wasn’t afraid to say so, to encourage me or go to bat for me if needed.  In retrospect, what moved him may have been the depth of the friendship, and the fact that I grasped what mattered to him, rather than the quality of my writing.

When something terrible happened in our shared “family”, which it did on more than one occasion, he was usually the first person I called (or vice versa); if something wonderful happened, same thing.  Over the years we relayed the news of accidents and deaths affecting those we both cared about; we prayed and cried over them, right there on the phone. And we shared the joys, as well… news of births and weddings and career successes and happy news of all kinds. 

Best of all, however, were the few times a year when we found ourselves in the same zip code. The reunions were always joyful and much anticipated. I would grow hoarse, talking so much. And laughing.  Oh, the laughter.

We looked out for one another, Dave and I, and rescued each other when necessary… usually from ourselves, if truth be told.  I once found myself in a situation over my head, texted him for help and he showed up at my side in 30 seconds; he was half guardian angel, even then.

One of my very favorite places on the planet, Spearfish Canyon, I experienced for the first time from the back of Dave’s motorcycle.  He seemed to delight in showing me the beauty of the place; Dave had a somewhat innocent, childlike wonder about him.  And yet, at the first hint of trouble of any sort, he would snap to attention and be off like a shot.  Rumor has it he could be one tough S.O.B., of the sort you really want to have on your team in the event of a dust-up; I was never privy to that but have no doubt as to its accuracy.

Our friendship grew to the point few really ever do. I knew I could call him, any time day or night, for any reason.  If he was busy and could not visit, no harm, no foul; he always called back when he could.  He knew he could call me, too, and often did.  In the years that passed, we each went through our own very dark and difficult times, but neither of us was ever truly alone.  We shared a tendency to want to retreat from the world when things got really tough; that also meant we both knew what worked in building up and coaxing the other back out into the light of day.  More than once, one of us said to the other (usually with a smile), “Do I need to come up there?” Or, “Do I need to go down there and kick your ass…?” There was never any ass-kicking, of course.   There didn’t need to be.  The point was made, and usually, the course corrected.

So many conversations we shared, so many topics, but there are a few that come to mind time and again.  Once, we touched on the topic of forgiveness; Dave said, “I HAVE to forgive, or I just can’t look myself in the mirror each morning.”  I believe it stemmed from the knowledge of his salvation. Knowing that he was forgiven and saved, he couldn’t bear the thought of not forgiving another.  It’s just the kind of guy he was.  And speaking of salvation, Dave seemed to have no doubt whatsoever as to where he would go after his death.  “I know where I’m going,” he said. “I’m saved by grace through faith in Jesus Christ.” And he said it with enthusiasm, like a rooster announcing the dawn.  In a way, I guess he was.

Dave was motivated most by his love for his family; he would do anything for them, it seemed, and our conversations always included family updates.  It felt like I knew his entire family, even though I met just one of daughters.  When my own daughter fell gravely ill, Dave was a major prayer warrior for her, and called me often during her hospitalization to check on both of us. 

Being the father of daughters, Dave was no stranger to female topics or emotions and was skilled in navigating both.  I could talk to him about anything, and know with complete confidence that it would stay between us and go no further.  There was trust between us; an easy, comfortable friendship like a favorite soft flannel shirt. We didn’t always agree on everything, and neither of us was afraid to tell the other the hard truth; in trying to remember if we ever had cross words, however, I can’t recall even one. Nor do I recall him ever betraying a confidence.  He wasn’t one to say anything bad about anyone, either. Only once did I ever hear him do so, and even then it was for my benefit.

Dave eventually gave up the motorcycle life (temporarily, he thought) to care full-time for his father who suffers Parkinson’s disease.  That, too, was the kind of guy he was.  It got to the point he couldn’t bear to leave his family for more than a few hours, in case he was needed or something happened to his dad while he was away.  We had a lot of visits about that and it was just so ingrained in him, his devotion to family and his desire to keep his father at home rather than in a nursing facility. 

I so admired his selflessness, though truly mourned his loss of the life he loved on the road, of Brotherhood, and especially the fact we no longer had the opportunity to see each other in person. By then I’d been away from the bike world for a few years (not by choice, but circumstance),  and many of the friends made there had drifted away, but never Dave.  He was my friend regardless of the situation, no matter what, and he made sure I knew that. We continued to visit on the phone as always, and texted often.

The last time I spoke with Dave was on his 49^th birthday. We always called on birthdays. He was on his way home and eager to visit; I was busy working on multiple projects, and so I cut the visit shorter than usual with an “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, I was too busy, and the next day, too.  

The day after that, Dave woke up in the morning, made coffee, went back upstairs to his bed for a while, and died.

I hadn’t called him back. My friend, confidante, open-24-hours-at-your-service cheerleader and tear-dryer and prayer warrior died and I HAD NOT CALLED HIM BACK.  Because I was busy being busy, meeting a deadline, making a buck.

I’ve had a hard time living with myself, ever since.  Failing to call my friend back went against everything I am, everything he was; it was not an act of the person I thought I was.  And since Dave lived 500 miles away and things didn’t work out for me to go, I missed his funeral, too.  Dave would understand, he would forgive me… but I do not. 

David would want me to write, and would be so disappointed if I did not, but I just could not write anything else before writing about him, and it took me all this time to be able to do it. I needed to do it, in order to move ahead and write about other things, as he would want me to.

Every day, however, I think of my friend, miss him, grieve... Its been as if I were a three-legged stool with one of those legs kicked out from under it; makes it kinda hard to stand upright and do my job.  We didn’t visit every day or week or even every month sometimes, but Dave’s friendship was a constant presence and support in my life, a true and precious gift from God.  When life was cruel, Dave was kind, and I could count on that kindness as surely as the sun rises in the East. The hard part is that life still can be so very cruel at times, and yet Dave’s kindness is no longer so readily available, its not just a phone call away.  I must be very quiet and still now, and concentrate, to receive it.

They say one shouldn’t cry because its over, and instead smile because it happened.  I’m not quite to that place just yet. Not many people, only a very few, get close to me; those who do, matter to me so very much. I defend my friendships with a vengeance and have a hard time with loss, probably because when I do invest in a true friendship, I’m all in; totally, completely, without question or hesitation.  There is little I wouldn’t do for my precious friends-like-family.

In one of his last texts to me, on Thanksgiving Day, Dave wrote, “I thank God for you every single day, you are so special to me.”  It brought tears to my eyes at the time, and the memory of it still does; Dave was just honest and forthright and didn’t care what people thought of him or if they saw his heart.  He didn’t care what people thought of our unusual friendship and was not afraid to stand up for it, or me. This world would be a lot better place, a whole lot happier and more decent, with more men like him in it. Hell yes, I miss him; the world lost a beautiful soul, kind and true, the day he left us. The only good thing about his passing is I no longer fear death; instead, I just know when my number is up it will be time for the most joyous reunion of all, and my friend Dave will be there.

When things are hard or I have news and would normally have picked up the phone to call him, I often look to the sky and talk to him anyway.  In those moments, I can almost hear what he would say in return, and remember the beautiful music that was his laughter. I wonder what its like where he is now, that Heaven we both so looked forward to, and wish he could somehow tell me about it. His description would, without a doubt, be breathless and filled with wonder.  

Sometimes I’m angry that he was taken so suddenly, and sometimes I’m jealous as hell; seriously, who gets to just wake up in the morning, make coffee, lie down and take the fast lane to Heaven?

Apparently, David Sterner does.  

Because he was good as any, and better than most.

Thank you, Dave, for your precious friendship, for teaching me so much about so much; for your patience, for watching my back, coming to the rescue; for showing me Spearfish Canyon; for your unfailing belief in me, your encouragement, for sharing your light and your laughter. For being there. All I have to thank you with are my words, which you so encouraged... and my actions, in moving ahead as you would have wanted.... so here you go.

Rest in peace, David, until we meet again. 




Donec Mors Non Separat

Adventure Sandals

This morning, I received a text from my fifteen-year-old daughter stating, simply, 

"I can see the castle!!!"

Those words heralded her arrival to Disney World in Orlando, and I was insanely excited for her.  Having never visited anywhere "Disney", I am also a bit envious... as is her younger sister.  We attempt to take comfort in the idea that the elder daughter will act as scout for a family visit sometime in the future.

In the meantime, however, I'm thrilled to death that my growing-up-way-too-fast girl is off on such an adventure.  She will be performing with her high school band this week at the theme park, and while that performance is the main reason for the trip, it is also filled with lots of new experiences, sights and fun.  Selling cookie dough and candles, wrapping paper and kitchenware via fundraisers for three years, and working a Saturday job sorting eggs at a local chicken farm since December, helped to pay her way to Orlando.  

So, in addition to being insanely excited for her, I'm ridiculously proud of her.  My shameless pride stems, in part, from the fact that of her very own accord, she packed my adventure sandals in her bag for the trip.

This girl of mine is very down-to-earth and tends to live in jeans, grey hoodies and sneakers.  Shopping is not a favorite pastime of hers, and since she is disinclined to ask for anything at all for herself, we oftentimes find ourselves on the brink of an impending event, scrambling to find her some proper attire. Or, as in this case, footwear.  

As she was packing for this trip, I raided my own closet and deposited my fairly scant sandal collection at her feet.  In doing so, I pointed out the pros and cons of each pair, i.e. "cute but relentless devices of torture until you get used to them" or "comfortable but not up to the demands of walking all day on hot pavement."  

Then, however, we got to the adventure sandals.

Those kicks are an old pair of leather Borns, approximately the same vintage as my traveling daughter. They are comfortable, sturdy, all-day walk-able, and they have served me well.  Despite many attempts to find suitable (and possibly, more chic) replacements, I've never found a more comfortable, serviceable pair.

Those sandals have stories.  

They've boarded the crazy, smoke-belching city buses in Puerto Vallarta which race pell-mell through the streets, clad with the sort of oversize tires one would expect on a pickup running a mud bog.  Thankfully, they've safely disembarked those same buses.

They have booze-cruised, whale watched, and sailed the coastlines of Mexico, Jamaica, and three Hawaiian islands.  They've dangled from a doors-off helicopter ride over Kauai, been to luaus, peered from the summit of Haleakala and explored the depths of the Iao Valley. They have trod the markets and quietly caressed my feet as I've haggled with vendors, walked the length of the Vegas strip and back again, perched on the dash of the rented Jeep with Sheryl Crow trilling about "soaking up the sun" as we've cruised the Maui coastline, played in the sand with my daughters on Waikiki.

My adventure sandals have been fishing, barbecuing, fireworks and parade watching, flea-marketing, road-tripping, bon-fire tending and Jamaican-dancing. (Thank you Lord, for the lack of video cameras in the vicinity on that last one.)  Speaking of dancing, they've danced to Garth Brooks in Jamaica and to LMFAO on Kauai and to the Beach Boys on the swaying deck of a Mexican charter boat and... I digress.  

The point is that it wasn't just a worn old pair of sandals that my daughter decided to pack in her bulging suitcase.  

It was a part of me that I've passed on to her... a sense of adventure, a gypsy soul, a "let's do this" attitude, a practicality vs. fashion statement sensibility (after all, its no fun to be sidelined by blistered feet; been there, done that, got the t-shirt, not-going-back).  The best part is that my daughter made the choice, not me.  I left them as an option, then left the room.  Upon my return, my adventure sandals were in her bag; the cute-blingy-uncomfortable sandals were discarded in the corner of her room.

In all that I've taught my daughter in the past fifteen years, my hope is that what she remembers when I'm someday gone is that I taught her to say yes.  Yes to life, to adventure, to opportunity.  To spring for the  good shoes and the doors-off helicopter ride, to try the sushi (or calamari or jerk chicken or that weird fruit they don't sell in Minnesota), to dance on the beach when you get the chance, because we only live once and the ride is sometimes way too short.  To be curious and bold, to always jump at the chance to see a new place or meet new people or try new food or ride on your belly in the net at the front of the sailing cat, because that's where you are closest to the dolphins...

I really hope she takes lots of pictures, and can't wait to see them. :)

What Are You? WHO Are You?

Alida, my new little buddy. I found
her abandoned in my pasture.

The other day, after doing a small favor for a friend, in her gratitude she asked me,

"What planet are you from?"

That question has been on my mind ever since.

I am from this planet, of course, and to be honest it was a bit disconcerting to me that my small kindness was viewed as so rare and unusual.

It made me think a lot about some of my core beliefs, including "Life is what you make it", "Behave as the person you want to become", and especially "We all have a great purpose to fulfill".

I truly believe that as long as one's heart is still beating, we have not yet fulfilled our divine purpose for being put on this planet. Of all the verses in the Bible, the one which speaks to me the most is Jeremiah 29:11: "'For I know the plans I have for you', says the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"


So how do we find out just who we are and what those plans might be?  Can we log into our divine account online to check our assignments on God's home page? 

My current art journal; working on it is
very meditative and inspiring.

No.  We find out in two ways.  First, by quieting ourselves.  By logging off, tuning out, finding some time alone to meditate/pray/commune with nature/create art/listen to music/ride a motorcycle... whatever it is that quiets and calms, restores and inspires you.  This opens up our minds to receive the inspiration we need to pursue our purpose. It is where we get our marching orders.

Sometimes I forget to do that, let the busy-ness of life get in the way, and fail to seek out that restoration which brings balance to my life and clarification to my vision.  When that happens, I get physically ill. It's my body's (and God's) way of saying, "Slow down, Amy.  You need to rest and chart your course for the next leg of the journey".

This happened to me recently, and it was a good reminder to step back, seek that peace, and remember just who I am and the purposes for which I was put here on earth; why I do what I do.

The second way we discover our purpose is to live life with a generous spirit, engaging and collaborating with others in an authentic way, so we are receptive to the cues given to us in regard to where our time, talent and energy is best utilized.

Some of my art, a page from my journal.

I'm a firm believer that the best ideas are not those which are forced, and the greatest contributions are not the ones other people expect.  The best ideas and the greatest contributions are those which are unexpected, come from the heart and are acted upon selflessly.  They are often the ones others deem  "crazy", "impossible", "impractical".

This does not mean that one must contribute your ideas and hard work to the world for free!  I believe we are granted inspiration and talent with every intent that we capitalize on it.  We must, of course, help others with it in a generous fashion.  The most successful people I know tend to also be the most generous with their time, talent and resources.  Funny how that works.

Before sharing that time and talent with the world, however, one must decide on what you are, WHO you are, what you stand for, what your special talents might be.  

These are decisions based upon what is divinely placed in your heart.  They cannot come from what other people think, want or expect.

This life of mine has been totally unconventional, my path circuitous, my choices often unexpected.  In school I played the trombone while most of the girls played flute or clarinet.  I took agriculture classes instead of typing (and it seems I now type just fine).  When everyone else rode Quarter Horses, I chose Arabians (and then Pintabians!). When others were partying, I worked, and when others worked, I stayed home with my babies.  My life is one that sometimes makes others look from the outside in, and say "Wow, you are so lucky!"

Yes, I am... I am very blessed.  But is is also because I decided to be.  I made the choice to follow my own path and not anyone else's, to actively seek my purpose in life.  I am a writer because I choose to write, an artist because I make art, a horsewoman because I choose to be.  No one else determines those things, that decision belongs to me alone.

It has come from listening to my heart more than my head, working hard at what I believe in, and not worrying about what other people think.  It was not always easy and was often isolating, until I found the courage to be who I am meant to be, believe in that person, throw myself out there and contribute my gifts to the world.

My purpose in this life is to inspire, encourage and support my friends and family, to help them see their own beauty, value and potential... to create things which didn't exist before, be it a blog post or article, a poem, a photo, a piece of art... to breed beautiful horses and share my passion for them with the world... to give sanctuary and comfort and friendship and food and love to people and animals who need it. Not necessarily in Africa or Haiti, I haven't been called to that.  My purpose is to start right here in my home, my community, and work outward.

I know these things because whenever my life has spun out of control, when my body has rebelled or my heart been broken, it has made me get quiet and seek these answers.  Those dark times have great purpose for me in that they result in my coming out stronger, more determined, more passionate and creative and generous than ever before. I know who I am, what I am, what my purpose is, at  least for right now. 

My question is, what are you? WHO are you?  Have you found your purpose, your passion?  

If you cannot answer those questions, it is time to get quiet, log off, tune out, put on some music or go for a ride, ask your heart those questions until you have an answer...

and then, LIVE that answer, with everything you've got.

Corn

Our family truly enjoys sharing the work of the garden and preserving the food we harvest.

Most of the activities we share are enjoyed more by some than others... Dad will go along with helping with the animals when he can, albeit somewhat begrudgingly; its just not his thing.  The girls will fish with us... for awhile.  But when it comes to the garden, everyone seems to take a genuine interest.

This, for us, is sweet corn season, and I planted quite a bit of the "Bodacious" hybrid.  So despite the drought and my intermittent watering, we now have corn to pick, husk, cook, slice from the cob, and freeze.  Or eat fresh.  Or make into fritters, salsas, salads, cornbread... you get the idea.

On Sunday, we harvested and put up about one quarter of what was planted.  As the saying goes, "many hands make quick work", and while it took up a good share of the afternoon, it was fun to work as a family.

Photos by Rebekka Dagen.

"Bodacious", husked, cooked, cooled and draining.

I slice it off the cob into a Bundt cake pan; works slick as a whistle!

The production line

We use a vacuum sealer to package in plastic, it really saves on freezer space.

Our little helper. She learned how to pick and husk the corn, and labeled all the bags.

We froze twenty-two bags of sweet corn that day; each was about three cups (or 1 1/2 pints).  The golden kernels are scrumptious, even cold, and run circles around the store-bought stuff.  I cannot wait to enjoy their golden goodness alongside a pork roast some wintery Sunday evening next winter; it will be a ray of summer sunshine on the coldest of days.

What the Magazines Won't Tell You

I just came in from plucking the first ripe tomatoes from my garden, and it occurred to me that the magazines have it all wrong.

It doesn't matter if its a glossy fashion magazine, or a recycled-paper tribute to green living.  They all are about three months (or more) ahead of reality.  Those mid-May "Recipes For Your Bountiful Garden!" issues are great, but my garden isn't "bountiful" until late August.  By then, the magazine has been long since recycled... and no, I'm not organized enough to clip the recipe and tuck it away for later.

The horse publications showcase their "Groom Your Horse to WIN!" articles in February.  Seriously?  No horse on this place will even consider a public event until late April.  I've never body-clipped a horse and don't intend to start; the idea of all that white hair flying up my nose and down my bra is less than appealing to me.

"Spring Fashion!" seems to bloom on the magazine racks as soon as the Valentine's candy is marked 50% off.  Awfully optimistic, considering we can't count on spring until June, around here.

And then, of course, my favorite: Christmas in October.  We've just spent a king's ransom on back-to-school clothes, and now they are marketing Christmas? When I've barely got my tomatoes canned?  Sheesh!  I don't want to even think about Christmas until Thanksgiving dinner is consumed and its leftovers properly refrigerated.  Then, I'm ready to settle my gluttonous self into the recliner and peruse the ads... not one moment sooner.

Yes, I do realize that magazines cater to dreams and optimism, and for that reason alone I'm a hard core addict.  Few things give me greater pleasure than twenty minutes of free time to enjoy a diet soda (yeah, yeah... I know) and a shiny new magazine, be it published by Martha or Oprah or Mother Earth.

Don't believe for one moment that the internet will ever totally replace paper magazines; so many are impulse buys ("Wow, a magazine about junk decor! Booyah!").

I do wish, however, that those who publish them would head out of the concrete jungle for awhile to see how the rest of us live... and when we harvest our tomatoes.

Our Summer, So Far...

Realization of the fact our summer is half over hit me yesterday; my girls go back to school in six weeks.  We were finally blessed with over two inches of rain last night, the first substantial rain in many weeks, giving me time away from moving the sprinkler around the garden to share a bit of our summer with you.

Like much of the country, summer has been a very hot and dry one here, and so I'm looking forward to the cooler days of autumn.  (Oh, and boots.  I happen to love fall fashion, and boots.)  I am genetically programmed to be making soup when the temps outside are -10F and the winds are howling. My wardrobe is designed around jeans, sweaters and... boots... while my 40-something hormones abhor humidity and my feet detest flip-flops.  So to say the heat is a challenge for me is the authentic truth, as is the fact my darling husband purchased a window air-conditioner unit for our bedroom despite the fact we already have central air, in hopes he could have his sweet-natured wife back to replace the cranky, sleep-deprived insomniac who arrived when the warm weather did.

Despite the heat, however, we've had a good summer so far.  On the last day of freedom (oops, I mean school), we hooked up the boat and went fishing.

I believe it was the last time this year we wore jackets.  It was a beautiful morning to be on the lake!

Our girls were overjoyed to welcome some baby kittens... in the summer kitchen, in the barn, under the porch... these are some of the porch kitties:

I don't watch any TV this time of year, except for the news and maybe a rerun of "Lonesome Dove" if its on while working in the kitchen.  For entertainment, there is so much more than television, here.  Porch kitties are great entertainment, and as a bonus, their industrious mother brings all her prey right to the front door.  Four to six times a day.  We no longer have a chipmunk problem.

But if the kitties get tired and decide to nap, we can always go watch the foals play.

They leap,

and prance,

and dance,

and live as we all should, simply enjoying the sunshine and good company.

With all this entertainment, I rarely leave the farm, but do occasionally go off-site for some fun. Our town has a great little rodeo every year, and so we made sure to attend.  At the gate, our older daughter disappeared with her FFA friends, though for a good cause... they sold popcorn and bandannas to raise money for a local boy who is fighting cancer (and raised $3000! How awsome is that?!) The younger one soon found her best friend and left Mom and Dad in the dust.  She's the one up front, in a pink shirt and cowgirl boots, flanked by her buddies and heckling the rodeo clown... 

My girls are so much fun, I'm really blessed to have the time with them!  And they are turning into equestrians, if not exactly cowgirls just yet...

They really have progressed in their riding, and it thrills me to watch them ride and enjoy it.  My baby has graduated to a bigger lesson pony, and the teenager is now learning to jump.  We can't wait to watch the equestrian events at the Olympics! 

Our 4th of July was more quiet than most, but we did head to the lake in the evening to watch some fireworks.  This is my treasure:

And, as we often do, while the sun went down we marveled at the fact that folks come from hundreds of miles around to spend time in this neck of the woods, year-round, and yet we get to live here all the time! We are so, so fortunate.

This past weekend, I was getting antsy and decided my family needed to experience the wonder that is the local flea market.  It was hot and crowded, so we didn't stay too long (though I WILL be back, sans children, in the near future! There are too many rusty, junky delights for me to stay away...).  We headed into town for some refreshment just in time to catch the Water Carnival Parade.  We waved at beauty queens, ducked the fire from water cannons, caught candy and clapped for the bagpipers.  My personal favorites are always the marching bands...

I felt great sympathy for everyone marching in the heat... and yet wished I were marching with them.  Marching band ROCKS.

ANY way, after reliving my youth a bit, it was time to head home and get back to work, as my loving husband had purchased fifty pounds of cucumbers a few days earlier.  He likes pickles, apparently.  Lots of them.  Oh, and chokecherry jelly...

This photo will be on the title page of my "What I Did Over Summer Vacation" report... okay, if I were accountable to someone and needed to write a report, that is.  But it does sum up how much of the rest of my summer will play out... I've got LOTS of canning to do.  More jelly, peaches, tomatoes, corn, raspberries, green beans...

I'd better get to work on that jelly!  Hope you are having a great summer, too. :)