More Snow!

Yesterday I discovered the first seedling peeping through in the greenhouse; today brought another batch of fluffy flakes.

 Elizabeth

Just Pottering About

I smile as I sit here with teacup at hand and my trusty computer back in my lap eager to lap up the onslaught of words spilling forth. My photo program has vanished in the melee of recent computer follies but I can adjust to that in time. (and post without a new photo treat as blogger stubbornly refuses to recognize input from my stockpile of photos -- hrmph!  All fixed now.  *smile*) For now I sing and dance with joy at the touch of familiar keys answering my every command. Simple pleasures, indeed!

In my blogging-free days of late I have wandered into so many delightful pursuits. I finished off nearly a dozen books that lay around my choice spots of repose. I also managed to order dozens more (or so it seems as my dear husband staggers through the doorway with “the mail” for the day – oh my!). I recently happened upon a sequel to Rosanna of the Amish, a favorite of mine. The original book by Yoder relays the delightful account of a young girl adopted into the Amish ways when left as a foundling among the Amish by a devastated Irish Catholic family. It reads like a sweet novel/fairytale with so much Amish flavoring for those intrigued by simpler ways and unique expressions of faith and family. The sequel by Yoder, entitled Rosanna’s Boys, should arrive any day now. I will see it come through the door, admonish myself to walk calmly toward it, and resist all temptation to cast aside the daily doings for an enraptured and furious read-thru. Bibliophiles and read-a-holic kindreds know exactly what I mean, right?

Amongst the many reading hours offered by my computer-free spate and a steady string of rainy days (the most I can ever recall in my life, it seems) I have pursued many a new project in the kitchen, like homemade ice cream from raw dairy – delicious and easily digestible by those here that lack lactase. Sourdough muffins, biscuits, and waffles graced our table often with most unexpected beauty and scrumptious taste. I keep finding ways to substitute and “play” with this gooey “sour” friend. I’ve also come near to fully replacing canned refried beans with homemade. Sadly, we must adjust our palate to the less salty flavor of these delicious and more nutritious beans as the saltiness of the familiar processed beans captured our taste buds in a grip. With the addition of a few herbs and a bit more “spice,” along with some inspiring Mexican music and a colorful table setting, I’ve brought everyone onboard with eager smiles when I announce “Taco Salad” night!

I try to make every meal a celebration with candles and music and seats for all around the family table, but sometimes the somber details of life challenge me. This past week I pulled out the “Taco Salad” trick but got little enthusiasm. The beans weren’t to blame; our hearts lay heavy as we had buried one of our precious kitties that day. Mr. Darcy will no longer frolic in the grass and pounce on us playfully; he met his demise by the bumper of a vehicle on a nearby roadway. The kitty who had never strayed far from home and obediently came in each night recently developed a sense of adolescent rebellion and began to run away to play when we closed the doors at night. Each morning the naughty but neutered cat greeted us . . . until one morning. While leaving for an errand I spotted the loveable fluff by the road side . . . and wept aloud. We buried him in a special place he loved and now he joins the list of kitties we have loved but no longer cuddle.

Life journeys on despite loss and pain . . . new beginnings spring up with each step if we can see through the tears. Of late, our gardens dance full force with daffodils, camellias, hyacinth, and so many more, with the added delight of an indoor ball springing to life in the greenhouse. The tiny broccoli seeds have proven the first to accept invite to dance. Our early starts tremble toward the sun in a warm and cozy house of green. Truly a miracle abounds at every turn. Each day more progress excites conversation. The girls squeal with delight in between working hard to clear land and lay out the lasagna beds or rearrange the potager garden for maximum yield of foods from our lands planted by our hands. Likewise the egg gathering each day spurs us toward new projects and plans for a simply wonderful life from the land. I’ve dreamed dreams galore my whole life and each new project brings greater delight thus encouraging more dreaming. I’ve infused my children with the same gift, it seems. Lately Elizabeth has begun researching the keeping of a dairy cow. From our lands; from our hands . . . the blessed journey continues.

And so I’ve prattled on and on again. It’s a wonder anyone muddles through all my circuitous rambles . . . but you do. And each one of your comments and emails warms my heart so. I am trying desperately to “catch up” with all of you now that I have a computer again, but please be patient. My new found love of blogging without obligation has blossomed with an ease in my heart that I am not wont to lose. I shall simply wander and chat with simplicity and joy, for that’s the best part of blogging – the friendly chats and deepening bonds we share.

Now I must be off to tidy the kitchen, load some laundry into the favored machine that makes the job so simple, and of course I must find a moment or two for some reading. Now where did I put that new book on the midwife among the Amish . . . or should I read the latest from my growing collection of Elizabeth Goudge . . . hmmmmm?

Happy Monday!

: D

Gentle January

“Where has the time flown?” I wonder as I gaze out on the blustery day. Predictions for power outages and flooded creeks fill the headlines of our local paper, and yet I sit beside my fire in blessed coziness. It is good to be quiet in the midst of a storm. So it is with life these days . . .

January as a child signaled CHANGE in my home. My mother would pack away Christmas before the New Year arrived and set about remaking our life in the first month of the dawning annum. Often times that entailed a big move to a “fresh start” or at the very least we would evacuate our present life with a whirlwind cleaning frenzy complete with fresh curtains in the kitchen, fresh spreads on the beds. To a point I enjoyed the “carnival” atmosphere, but once I began my own life with my own address I abandoned that family tradition in favor of a very quiet entry into January.

Our tree stands tall and tinkling past January sixth, and then we celebrate with cocoa and treats as the ornaments come down to loving wrappers and snuggled-away safety until next Christmas. Once the last jot of holiday dust has been dispatched we arrange the furniture right back where it always goes . . . tradition. Books tumble from bedsides and closets (hastily hidden before the series of celebrations with guests) as we move back into our same-old daily routine. I love the same and the old . . .

The excessive feasts of the Nativity fade into hearty soups and crusty bread products; frothy cocoa mugs step aside as clear fragrant (calorie-free) teas take center stage in the slimmer days of January. Red and gold candles scented with spice burn low and sputter, only to be replaced with rich creamy vanilla pillars that burn brightly in the darkened eves. January seems to cry out for simple and quiet. We oblige with pleasure.

’Tis the season for beginning that series of books sitting in community upon the shelf. So Elizabeth has entered Jan Karon’s world of Mitford, while Lydia crosses the pond to Peter Mayle’s Provence; Rachel takes flight with C. S. Lewis into the wonders of Narnia and wins the prize for fastest devourer of a collection – two days per book with the final book just begun this morning. Hmmmmm . . . what will come next? Wizard of Oz? Peter Pan? The Five Children and It? The choices cheer from the bookcase, “Pick me!”

I have fallen back to my beloved old routine of multiple reads on multiple topics all at the same time, though I struggle to finish Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver – for me, something just lacks in the prose sprinkled with dullish essays of conservation and lack-luster recipes for garden wealth. I can’t get a visual of Barbara’s home or gardens or surrounding lands. Her family and friends remain sketches and their lives empty of color. I just want to cry out, “Barbara! I know full well what a ripe tomato looks like, now show me your life and loves in bloom and fruition.” But alas, the chapters drag on and I sputter along in my resolve to finish this book (my third attempt due to a friend’s gushing praise of it being “cute” – I find it bland). So, while my fingers linger on these required pages, my eye roves to the latest arrival from my mail-order treasure hunting of used books: another gem by Elizabeth Goudge. I am slowly filling my shelves with her gentle, picturesque novels sharing lively lives and colorful descriptions of the simplest of pleasures found in a day’s measure. I crave color and fragrance and windy wisps of prose that catch me up and carry me aloft into the writer’s magical world. A peek in through the windows to Miss Goudge’s world offers so much. Thus, I begin to cave to the temptation to set the Kingsolver book aside once again, trading plain cake for fancy flavor.

As for my most interesting read these days, The Music of Silence fills that spot. Benedictine Monk David Steindl-Rast opens wide the doors of his heart and shares the sweetness of a day punctuated by praise. His simple text, coupled with the famous recording Chant, unlocks the mysteries of a Catholic tradition I have never taken part in. My religion-lite upbringing followed by Protestant teachings beginning in the later teen years and then later-in-life reading about monks and nuns in novels and then biographies never fully explained the rich tapestry of prayer woven throughout the monastic daily life. Brother David has invited me in and I am savoring the experience. When I happened upon this fifty-cent book at the library booksale last month, I figured the cd made it worth the price alone – I failed to notice the treasure of experience that lay between the simple dark cover. The music of silence fits perfectly with my January’s pace.

Thus it goes in Gentle January around Wisteria Cottage. I haven’t posted much of late because I keep waiting for an “event” or inspiring photo shoot to replenish my blog trove of thoughts. The gardens slumber and I have taken this opportunity to rest my still-recovering elbow so that it returns to “normal.” To date I feel nearly 100% with no lingering arthritis or such, but I must admit that I relish the idea of taking just a bit more time away from stresses and strains at the elbow and the heart in this quiet, restful month. And so I rest . . . and read . . . and simmer . . . and smile.

Truthfully, the best tale to be told around here can be found in the cozy, snuggly pace of a family in hibernation. Well-fed, well-read, and very well by all accounts summarizes my time away. My camera lies fallow (a fact my children have noted with pleasure) while my journal fills up: So much germinating while hibernating. Spring-time plans for gardens and summer-time thoughts of dining from the bounty keep us from completely walling off tomorrow as we glide through another stormy, windy day of thanking the Lord for providing such peace and calm in the midst of a world tossed to and fro.

With prayers for all of you and prayers for those precious ones in Haiti, and prayers spoken from the heart of all matters, I have been hauling a bushel-basket of prayers to the feet of the Almighty these days as I pace my day with prayer times that my monk friend has inspired. He hears . . . He knows . . . He listens . . . all ways.



p.s.
My computer also lies fallow much of the time these days, but I plan to step in to say “Hi” at each one of your lovely blogs in the coming days. The writing of letters, answering of emails, returning of phone calls, and commenting on blogs seem like the perfect activity for a Gentle January day.

Oh my! The power just flickered, so I must leave off the wandering chatter and post or I shall surely lose it all and spoil my “gentle” day. ; D

The Gift of January

Can you hear the quiet?

It’s the gift of January at Wisteria Cottage.

These chilly mornings beckon me to linger by the fire with a warm pot of tea and I obey. I lace my day with fewer tasks and greater spates of peaceful space. While so many others pin up a new calendar which opens the floodgates of new diets, exercise routines, cleaning frenzies, home remodels, and self-improvement regimes, I must confess that Wisteria Cottage quiets down almost entirely with the Gift of January. A gift of time to read, savor, dream, sort, wonder, and reflect. New ideas and projects come to the forefront naturally, most notably seen in the seed catalogs and garden plans that begin to litter countertops and tea tables, but the dreamy scope of possibility makes the planning of these goals more fun somehow . . . less a mandate. It works for us.


While I sit cozily in my favorite chair listening to Chant and reading gentle poetry at day’s beginning, my children tumble down the stairs sleepy-eyed and heat-seeking, book under arm. The Gathering Room becomes a haven in January. Empty teacups, rumpled quilts, and scattered crumbs from a nibbled slice of just-baked bread add a measure to the tidying up session which will ensue this afternoon, but for now I cannot see much beyond the beautiful Christmas tree standing tall, twinkling in competition with the frost-bitten gardens. We keep the Christmas celebrations flowing until the Kings arrive on the 6th of January. We discuss the journey between the Birth and the Epiphany. We question ourselves, wondering what it must have been like to be a Shepherd or a King on that starry, starry night. We spread out the Christmas season in the old-fashioned 12th Night sense. It serves us well. This tradition grew up solely in our little nuclear family, though our extended families pour all partying into the 24th and 25th with a race to take down the tree, stow the decorations, and get on with the new year before the clock strikes Midnight on the 31st. We prefer to savor the festive feeling and coast into the coming year on yet another gift: The Gift of January.

We rang in the premier of 2010, as Handel’s Messiah filled the airwaves with expectant joy, piecing together a puzzle depicting a Christmas-bedecked Victorian neighborhood all a bustle with holiday merrymaking. We toasted the New Year with fizzy sips of organic root beer. We made our way to bed in the wee hours of the morn with the satisfaction of knowing we had just opened a new gift – peaceful January has arrived.

Sweet friends, I bid you peace in the new year . . . tardy though this greeting arrives by the world’s pace. If you should find yourself in our neighborhood do not hesitate to stop in. We can easily move aside the books and quilts to make room for another soul seeking to put their feet up, hoist a china vessel, and gently glide along life’s path. Unlike Spring, Summer, and Fall when you will likely have to search for us in the gardens, Winter finds us cocooned by the stove in sweet accord.

Welcome January.

Our First Fire of the Season . . .

. . . means cozy days have returned to Wisteria Cottage.

Life around Wisteria Cottage has lulled back to our normal pace after a frenetic ride that derailed the routine we have come to love so much. With Grandma Gloria mending nicely in a care facility and her daughter waiting at Gloria's home to care for her upon release, we of the nether reaches of the family have once again returned to phone chats and e-pics until we meet up again.

It is GOOD to get back to the boring business around here of ordinary life . . .

. . . like collecting eggs, warm and adorable from makeshift nests.(When will these ladies learn proper household keeping?)

Recently we purchased four adorable little pullets (ladies, not yet of egg-laying age), sporting the cutest coats of houndstooth check. Unfortunately these sweet ones have disrupted the harmony of the feathered colony a bit, but soon all will smooth out . . . or so we hope. ; ) Though we enjoyed the raising of chicks, the prospect of double the eggs without all that stinky indoor mayhem makes me positively giddy!

. . . and the Baking of Pies, like this one sporting braeburn apples.(Observe Miss Elizabeth's very first attempt -- a fine specimen, I'd say!)

Our recent culinary adventures have taken us deep into the South for some good ol' cookin'. The recent reading of Screen Doors and Sweet Tea by Martha Hall Foose inspired me to crank up the Jazz music and cook away. Elizabeth's gorgeous pie shows that the adventurous spirit has spread deliciously around here. : D

. . . as well as the routine bread baking and yogurt making to fill the tummies with healthful sustenance and tangy delight.

I'm sorry I have not posted the details of my yogurt-making adventure as of yet (though I did promise, I know). Sadly the close-and-play instructions of my Yo'gourmet appliance produced a heat factor too high to retain the essential cultures I seek. BUT . . . with a bit of coaching from Gary about thermal properties and a handy instant-read thermometer, I have managed to find the perfect technique for attaining the 100-110 temps required for healthy fresh LIVE yogurt incubated over a 12-hour period. The nifty appliance promised to be oh-so-easy, but the contraption topped 120 degrees on my first attempt, hence no live cultures likely survived, though it tasted delicious. After a "testing period" with thermometer in hand and experiments regarding water levels in the "bath" I have quickly zeroed in on the "formula." (Any interest in a step-by-step post? Let me know . . . )

To date I am turning out several quarts of LIVE yogurt in a week to keep up with the needs of my family. Though noses turned up a bit at the first tasting of this tangy "unsweetened" product, a drizzle of local honey and a sharing of the health benefits of said yogurt, coupled with a few delicious dips and delights of Mediterranean cuisine ("Tzatziki, anyone?"), has relegated "store-bought" yogurt to the bottom of the shopping list. (Though it is nice to know I can still buy that yummy tangy Bulgarian yogurt at my little market in a pinch -- if there remains any on the shelf after delivery, that is . . . it goes F-A-S-T!) The buying of Greek God's brand "Honey" yogurt will become a treat, like ice cream -- a once-in-a-while yummy treat.

I wax joyfully over the ordinary miracles in a day and celebrate the peacefulness that reigns in our routine around Wisteria Cottage even as I pack for a trip taking me far away from home. This coming Sunday I shall accompany my dear friend Lily to Honolulu, Hawaii to attend the funeral of her sweet sister Susan. Lily and I will reside for several days at the Hilton Hawaiian Village and enjoy the tropical breezes, fresh seafood, and relaxed life of Hawaii, where both Susan and Lily lived for many years.

So, as I will not be carrying my laptop with me to Hawaii, my blog will lie fallow on holiday as will I. When I return my camera will surely spill with gifts for all to share here. Though I have visited Hawaii before, I choose to leave the busy tourist pace behind on this trip, preferring to R-E-L-A-X after such a busy time of late.

When next I post I shall sport a tropical glow
and new tropical tales to share.

Until then . . .

ALOHA!

If We Were Neighbors . . .

Recently a friend and I chatted away on the phone and she dropped the sweetest compliment on me. She said if she could move anywhere she would choose Grass Valley and be my neighbor. It served a double compliment, as in days gone by we had been up-the-road true-life neighbors and seen some dark days swirl all around both of our families. Despite those hard times in our life, the friendship and interwoven habit of our days (she served as a nurse for my son before she advanced to friend) created a sweet bond that we relied upon in walking that rocky path.

Years have flown and our addresses lay states apart, but our hearts remain bonded and pining for that neighborly thing we enjoyed once upon a time. Blogging keeps us in touch (if you haven’t already guessed, my friend is Karen Deborah over at Fresh Fixins), but emails and phone chats remind me that blogs only share a portion of life, true though that glimpse be.

What else would you find out about me if you lived next door?

First off, you’d never “see” me if you didn’t come on by and enter our gated acres of gardens and farm projects and wooded wilderness, for we live off a highway, down a winding way, and off the landscape of the casual observer. But, once you stopped in you’d find me pretty much as you’d expect . . . which is to say, here at home: in the gardens, at the stove, poking around in the pantry, or snug in my favorite chair with a book. You can pretty much count on a welcoming face to open the door as we live, work, school, play, and even shop from home.

As you walk up the path to the front door you’ll see why we call Fall our

"Second Spring"

With roses re-emerging,

Crape Myrtle all abloom,
And Butterfly Bushes waving welcoming wands
To every passing butterfly and hummingbird.

The humming and buzzing and flutter of life may catch you unaware. Take care with those hummingbirds, they buzz by pretty closely this time of year (maybe flying a bit under the influence of too much bloomin’ nectar?) and may cause a start. Yes, I speak from experience . . . regularly.

My times in the garden expand with each day of cooler temps, but I forget to take a camera when I scoop up hat, gloves, and secateurs – thus I have no pictures of dallying swallowtails and ruby-throated, emerald-bodied birds of flight. If you happened by to visit me you’d surely see it with your own eyes alleviating my need of a camera.

A neighbor of mine would know that we only swim in the late hours of a day and evening, as we do not enjoy sunburns on our delicate skin. You would also know that we have enjoyed many a pool party with our steady stream of guests. You may complain of the noise, but I have never heard a cross word from any neighbor. Not even our crowing roosters have gained any notice by our nearby folk. (Whew!)

My husband’s love of power tools rivals my love of primitive tools, so you’d hear the hum of his riding mower, the whine of his blower, and the savage whacking of his weed-stick-brush munching contraption. He keeps us fire-safe and defensible in this parched land. When the work ceases, the rumble of the waverunners may signal some playtime afoot.

Sweet music of harp or piano gently wafts from the music room windows. I’ve had delivery folk pause and rest on our doorstep after dropping off a package, savoring just a bit more of the heavenly melody before they get back out on the highway. Other drivers sit with door wide-open and listen to the fountains at play in my gardens as they process paperwork.

Here and there water gushes in spirited games with birds, butterflies, squirrels, and even playful girls.

As my neighbor you’d certainly see every form of delivery service popping through my gate, as I live in a very small town with few shopping options, no mall, and a poorly-stocked library (at least for those of us seeking something other than the “latest” read), so the internet takes up the slack. Just today my shampoo and bath gels arrived from Hawaii (the local supplier ceased carrying the necessary product for one too sensitive for drugstore offerings).

What else would a casually observing neighbor find of interest around here? Hmmmmm . . .

* My washer and dryer go every day (raising a medically-fragile child deeply ingrains some habits)

* Our house has no satellite dish, cable hookup, or old-fashioned TV antenna. While our neighbors delight in their plethora of broadcast options, we select from our home library of DVDs and videos. Of late we nightly laugh our way through the 1970s BBC series, “Good Neighbors” focusing on a suburban couple who decides to live “off the land” with hilarious results. Roosters crowing and pigs wallowing make for some funny encounters with neighbors. (Life imitates art? I hope not!)

* I have a love affair with Austin English roses,
unlike other gardeners in my town, evidenced by my inability to buy them locally (though they grow lush and full in our warm dry climes). Even professional gardeners have inquired how I manage to make my roses smell so good.

It's all in the breeding.

* I have never met a vine or flowering shrub that I couldn’t make a place for. The stucco on my cottage hides behind verdant veils of beauty with half-timbers and stonework peeking out in a very Olde English fashion.

* I enjoy a good walk through the gardens and woods in nightgown and floral wellies. (T’is true . . . I confess.)

* Willows weep for me . . . here . . . there . . . everywhere – I can’t seem to get enough of their weepiness.

The list could go on and on, I’m certain, but will end with the late evening evidence to all neighbors that we have a naughty kitty, who often resists our every call to come in from playtime and get a good night’s sleep in SAFETY. We stroll the gardens by the light of fairy lanterns, hung hither and yon in this magical place as the evening becomes inky night, calling, “Here kitty, kitty! Mr. Bingley! Bingo Boy!” On good nights we follow this song of homecoming with lots of praise and pats and scratches in just the right places,
as we sigh with relief that the last kitty has returned to the fold of safety from the dangers of the night (bears, coyotes, foxes, etc.). On goes the evensong as our household rolls up another day and tucks in with sweet dreams of tomorrow.

Most of my neighbors live quietly and separately on their own piece of land in this gentle cleft in the Sierra Mountains of California. We tend to be noisy, unique, and altogether something different from the norm, which would explain why the Lord called us away from our seaside cottage nestled on a mere ¼ acre and planted us here on 7 acres of wooded seclusion up in the mountains. He knew . . . we needed to spread out, dance freely, sing loudly, and shout for joy without disturbing the neighbors.

I wonder if KD still wants to move in.

; D

The Day of Rest . . . THAT WORE ME OUT!

I sit here in a quiet household. Some shower, some have gone to attend business, and others slumber still. I so enjoy these few moments of pin-dropping stillness wherein I read and meditate and pray. Today I read:

We always expect the Lord to come to us in joy.
Instead of that He sometimes comes to us in a big disappointment.

~~ Amy Carmichael ~~

I laugh out loud, shattering the silence. I take a sip of tea and sit back to scoop up the final spoonful of honeyed-yogurt topped with the last of the blueberries, fresh and so expensive that I savor them one by one.

I lower my lashes and admit that I attach such significance to my daily joy; I seek to find the moments of joy knowing God will be there . . . and yet on some days I find him, as Miss Carmichael notes so aptly, in a BIG disappointment. Take this past weekend, for example – I established that Sunday would be an ultimate day of REST. I set apart my schedule to include the lazy reading and finishing of Some Lovely Islands, a slim and delightful volume of travel days that I wanted so to devour and savor without the nagging thought of chores. Next to that I placed a book newly arrived from a dealer, entitled French Island Elegance.

(Doesn't this cover just speak volumes
of the delightful vacation resting between those covers?)

So I set about a flurry of Saturday chores and baking (the most scrumptious sourdough-rye-seeded bread to accompany a big pot of chili – where was my camera?) and all manner of gardening tasks, like watering my parched lands in this oh-so-heat-filled month of August. (Truly August ranks as my least favorite gardening month.) I ended the day with tired body but smiling face . . . tomorrow I rest.

Sunday dawned with roosters crowing and after rising from my sleepy hollow I took a bowlful of goodies out for the feathered folk to share. I lingered and laughed as they strutted and scuttled around to inspect the mélange of tea leaves, avocado fragments, wilted tomatoes and cucumbers, and a smattering of tired berries laced with feathered greens of all sorts. A feast to linger over on this restful Sunday.

I wandered the gardens a bit, feeling the dampness left behind by the early morning sprinklers, and walked in peace. Today there would be no hurried showers or bustling off to church; with the flu spreading and school newly begun, we have chosen to stay behind our garden walls until the truth of the threat bears out. Worship can and will happen here as vibrantly as in our pew-filled congregation. I thank the Lord for the freedom we cling to that allows us to worship as we choose.

I returned to my cozy kitchen, brewed a pot of tea, and settled down to read. A little excitement bubbled up when Gary and Rachel came to report that while slipping out to run an errand they witnessed an apartment fire downtown. I immediately inquired of some friends’ safety, as they live quite near the fire. No danger for them, so I set about praying for those roused from bed by a chilling cry of “Fire!”

All too soon my quiet morning evaporated when Gary hobbled in with a severely damaged ankle from a mishap at the treehouse – a building in progress. A bleeding, bruising, swelling appendage caused me to swoon (literally, I must confess) as I ran for supplies. I bathed and treated the wound and found it to look awful, but it appeared unbroken and remarkably free of much pain for Gary. He hobbled around demonstrating that he felt pretty good. I swooned again. It pains me to bind up the wounds of my children, but really frightens me to see my husband – The Rock – bleeding. I made him comfortable and returned to my tea and book . . . and then put the book down. Some dvd entertainment filled the balance of the afternoon, as I cooked and did some laundry and tidied a bit here and there.

The cool Fall-like weather we eagerly anticipated did not materialize as predicted by meteorologists. The temps soared and we began to hear fire trucks and sirens of all manner screaming down the nearby highway. Hmmmmmm . . . All too soon I smelled smoke, saw ash floating in the air, and ran outside to see the blue sky filling with ambered waves of smoke. I ran to the internet and searched to find info . . . a tidbit would suffice to calm my concerns. All up-to-the-minute local sources supplied LOTS of fire information (apparently this area had hosted a few more fires after the early morning blaze downtown), but nothing about the latest smoke-filled event. The gusty winds of the day continued to blow, earlier having destroyed our metal/canvass cabana at the poolside. Without any information, I merely prayed a blanket prayer for those that may be affected, including my own family.

I tried to return to reading, but found myself merely gazing out the window at the fleeting butterflies and hummingbirds that dance so merrily this time of year. From blossom to fountain and back again goes the merry dance. (Where is that camera when you need it most?) A woodpecker crashes the party now and again. A goldfinch drops in unexpectedly, has a hurried bath, and then flits away to play with her flock of friends all a-twitter in the majestic oaks. I began to smell thicker smoke odors and see the wafts of grey pass by my window. Should we get ready for a quick exit? Could Gary drive with that ankle? And then my mind fell to the very lowest of points and I began to think of the silly things, like bemoaning the fact that our dinner invite to a friend’s place may be cancelled. I know myself all too well . . . when fear begins to grip its tentacles around my mind I retreat to the least painful thoughts like the loss of a good meal in a time of emergency.

I grabbed the computer and looked again. No update. I glanced outside and noticed a lessening of the smoke. Wishful thinking? I asked Gary to confirm. Yes, but he noted that a wind shift may be the cause. He then informed me he felt good enough to dress for our dinner date. I couldn’t think of leaving the kids with an unknown fire raging somewhere. I balked. He changed clothes. I scanned the horizon and waited. I applied mascara and lip gloss with one eye on the lace panels, and detected bluer skies for certain. I returned to the computer and finally found an update. The fire raged through a neighboring town (25 miles away) and continued to destroy homes and businesses in its path. (Today I read that 60 structures have been lost, many of them homes. At this moment it is merely 50% contained. I continue to pray . . .)

We did enjoy dinner with our friends, the children remained safe and sound at Wisteria Cottage, and Gary’s ankle allowed him significant mobility without any crutches. A bit of hobbling and his comfy blue clog slippers allowed him to slip in and out of restaurant without notice as a wounded man. Amazing! Today he awoke with much less swelling, fully-scabbed wounds, minimal bruising, and a looooooong list of To Do’s for the day. He remarked how refreshed he felt from a good long night’s sleep. (Elizabeth set her alarm to release the chicken folk at 6 am – she went back to bed and slept late.)

I, on the other hand, dragged myself out of bed with a little less-than-normal vigor, the victim of my own worrisome ways. I brewed my tea, fixed my breakfast, and grabbed my stack of morning reads like every ordinary day. And then it hit me . . . this day feels ordinary. Praise God! After the hub-bub of yesterday’s Un-restful day, I happily face this day in the ordinary way. We do not reside in a shelter awaiting news of the charring or not of our home and all worldly goods. I do not need to pass through the automatic doors of a hospital to visit my husband, as he has but a mere wobble in his walk and no more. Despite the many blips on the radar screen of yesterday, life remains typical and around here that always feels GOOD!

I shall finish my tea, gently remind Rachel to be mindful of her time as piano lessons will be at noon, and carry on with the vacuuming, laundering, cooking, and all other activity in the keeping of my home on an ordinary Monday. I will pause often to pray for those who have a new routine today, one they did not hope for, and I will remember Amy Carmichael’s words and rejoice that the disappointments of yesterday truly did yield joy when I let go of the mental gymnastics of a worrier.

And maybe, just maybe, I may finish off that book of island touring in England and hop on over to The Caribbean and her neighbors for a glance at that new book of beauty. For now, I gratefully swallow my last sip of tea and set off to find what today holds. I know joy can be found, I may just need to blow away some smoke to see it.

Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Photo Taken by Rachel

Taking another day of respite . . .
and maybe another . . .

* * * * *

Such bliss to don garden gloves and escape to the gardens for some peace and respite amongst the blooming roses and budding autumn clematis. What’s this?!?!? Roses gone rogue? Shoots shooting to and fro, barring safe passage down the walkways? When did these canes sprout in medusa-like proportions?

And so the gentle stroll took on the likes of a deadly task, until . . . a few snips and the tossing of wiggly thorn-encrusted tentacles onto the stone pathway and then a child happened by and joined the task, hauling away the dangerous detritus. Said child enlisted aid of another child wandering the path and the laboring one found herself with four more hands to hoist the prickly product. A passing husband added another set of aiding appendages. The task became a lark filled with laughter and bursts of cautionary warnings as the REALLY BIG STUFF came down swiftly.

Soon the task of pruning ended and the long-awaited assessment of sprinkler problems happened. A swift trip to B&C Hardware solved the nagging problem of toting watering cans to fill in where broken sprinkler heads failed to reach. As that project spun away in success, an empty flower bed caught my eye and a vision of herbs in a “patchwork” pattern, much in the spirit of Disneyland’s Storybook gardens, captured my fancy. The plans spilled out amongst the gathered gardening ones. Then a call for a retaining wall and a fresh load of soil floated about with nodding heads seeing another new garden plot in dreams for even greater produce next year. Tasks and toil melted into dreams and ideas and led to a time of counting our blessings.

August traditionally depletes this gardener with its heat and relentless dryness. This year the heat persists, but hovers considerably lower than in past summers. Rain forecasts predict October droplets . . . maybe. No one puts spade to ground for new garden beds this time of year, but it serves as a wonderful time to stroll the gardens, assess the progress made in the past year, notice failures, and dream for the coming season. Our single apple-on-the-branch continues to ripen and entice us to dream of the tomorrows in the garden when we will be toting heavy-laden baskets to the kitchen for baking and canning and eating with abandon. This solitary apple serves as an appetizer to hope.

Photo Taken by Rachel

In between the gardening tasks and gardening dreams I managed to write a bit, read a bit, cook a bit, and laugh a lot. Gary and I even managed a convertible ride through the mountains, straying so far to capture the beauty of view and verdant landscapes that the moon beat us home. We drove down the lane to our cottage with darkness falling and Gary decided to turn off the headlamps and test all the turn signals on this vehicle we use infrequently. I laughed at the blessing of a man who keeps things checked and running, and I laughed even harder at his truly unique methodology. “Normal” cannot be counted on around here. : D

My day of respite and rest included NO BLOOD PRESSURE READINGS. I have appreciated all the comments, emails, and encouraging ideas regarding my medical mishaps. I agree that my “normal” may be a bit higher than the statistics would indicate, just as my heart rate has always exceeded the “typical.” I feel great and my immune system seems to be standing at sentry because we had a close encounter with “the dreaded contagion” in the flu world and not a one of us succumbed. We have decided to prudently keep our community events to a minimum during this time of heightened fears of infection, but truthfully we celebrate these simple days of tethering to the hearth.

Speaking of hearth . . . the herbed chicken stew with sourdough (whole wheat) dumplings received rave reviews at dinner last night.


Even my dumpling-disliking daughter Elizabeth found the solid lumps to be tasty and enjoyable. I cannot rave enough about my cast iron dutch oven. Once the cool days set in and the woodstove hums merrily all the day, I will attempt to cook atop it. My last woodstove did not have the cooking plate so the top proved an unsatisfactory stove. But, enough of wintry talk, fall has yet to show up to the ball and I have many tasks at hand (most pleasurable) before I can dance in the turning leaves, let alone the falling snowflakes.

Tasks . . . a never-ending call to time-management, self-control, and simplification. I look around at the empty teapot. Today I indulged in orchid oolong – my favorite tea in the whole wide world. Such a sweet perfume and delicate flavor, but due to its extreme cost I employ pioneer common sense and sprinkle a few of the precious leaves into a tea infuser filled with silver needle tea. The silver needle serves a mild hostess to the fragrant orchid leaves and the whole pot bows to the orchid’s reign. Thus I sip a frugal cup of luxury and sit here praising God for another wide-open day of beauty found right under my fingertips. I shall not leave the home again today, except maybe to take a drive or dine at our favorite Mexican casa (it is date night, after all) – maybe luxury will rain upon me further and I will receive both dinner AND a drive. Ah the thought of such bounty makes me smile.

Today I entitled my journal entry: Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Having known poverty and wealth, having known hunger and surfeit, having known bondage and freedom, having lost loved ones and gained new ones, I count my life RICH for what I find in the simply joy of a day’s worth of blessing blossoming with abandon all around me. There once was a time when I discounted what I had and set my sights on riches out of hand. The frustration of that endless journey caused exhaustion and collapse that forced me to sit. Having lost the drive I gathered what lay within arm’s reach and found it satisfied. Sadly, once refreshed and invigorated I stood up and caught sight of the far horizon and once again my ingrained human habits jerked at the reigns. Each day requires me to decide. Today I choose to live in this moment and it feels so good.

Wisdom grows with age, but my restless human spirit weaves tethers of shiny gold distractions across my path. Care must be taken with each step . . . but I so often run with abandon, tripping, falling, skinning my knees, and bruising my self-esteem. Fortunately I heal and set out again. I will never “get it” completely but I have found a good many folks that will reach out a hand or offer a kind word of encouragement when needed. You have all been a blessing to me. I thank you.

And now I must away from this box and don an apron for some breadmaking and then add a straw bonnet for garden tending and then . . .

Respite Wednesday

Hello Sweet Friends,

I sit quietly before this computer with a kitty-cat grin on my face (you know the one your kitty gets when he settles next to you after he's just had a nibble of food and you absentmindedly stroke him as you read through the afternoon with nothing in particular pressing on your time. That, my friends, shall describe this day for me (at least I hope it will). After a week's worth of gatherings, meetings, marketing, traveling (to Costco for a pantry replenishing trip), and such, I have set aside this day for respite.

I found myself rising later than usual -- sweet delight -- feeling well rested. I stepped upon the scale and found to my delight I have returned to my normal readings. Recently, I embarked on a trial with an herbal from India designed to reduce blood pressure with NO side effects (or so they claimed). I ordered the reasonably-priced packet, downed the AWFUL smelling tablets with plenty of water, and then waited. The results came in swiftly, as my regular evening blood pressure readings dropped noticeably over the course of the trial treatment. Hitting 122/78 felt like a dream after readings of 141/90 (which prompted the whole medication route with the doctor some years ago).

I continued with the foul-odored pills and plenty of water for flushing of toxins and rejuvenating of my system, finding my BP readings comfortably worth the twice-a-day regime.

Periodically I inquired whether anyone found my ankles puffy or my eyes swollen. Nope, everyone thought I looked beautiful. (Silly ones, I fished not for a compliment, but truly felt swollen . . . and so sluggish.) I dragged through the day, allowing vacuuming to wait a day and dinner to become more of stuff-and-nonsense and less of feasting-and-rejoicing. Still no complaints from my family, so I surmised that I had just depleted my energies with so much entertaining over the early summer days and must pay the price now.

Stepping on the scale began to bother me . . . another pound? And so I cut my dinner portions and eliminated my simple snacks in the evening. I felt hungry, tired, but happy to have lowered my BP readings.

Then the scale registered another pound gained after a day of near fasting and lots of water! In addition my bodily functions seemed to have screeched to a halt. Still I pressed on believing I was just "adjusting" . . . until I saw the pictures from our spinning date with my friend Adele -- I screeched out when I saw the pictures of this dumpling woman at the wheel, all moon-faced and pudgy of ankles. "That can't be ME!!" I gasped. Still the scale cried out, "One more pound for the day!" My common sense kicked in and I stopped the ayervedic approach. Abruptly. I collapsed in prayer and asked the Lord WHY? To which I distinctly felt a twinge of guilt . . . if I trusted God to manage my bigger life issues, and even enlisted my friends as prayer partners. then why grab onto the stinky-pills and swallow for comfort I could touch? I didn't beat myself up emotionally, but I did cry on Gary's shoulder, though the loss of water-weight from that activity registered little improvement. My BP shot back up to 144/88 and I felt so low.

The next day I drank tea, paced my schedule, and prayed for relief. Despite running errands and replenishing the pantry, just in case the predicted epidemic hits, I managed to make it through the day, flopping into bed to find my BP slightly lowered. Hmmmmm . . .

Over the course of the next several days I dropped a pound a day and my body returned to all of its normal functioning. Today I beamed at the scale to see my normal weight register . . . and then I promptly wondered if I should try to ride this wave for a bit longer in hopes of stripping off another five or so pounds. Hmmmmmmm . . . ; D

Have I reached the happily ever after page yet? Hardly -- BUT . . . my BP read 122/77 last night. Now that's something to celebrate!!!

I hesitated to blog about this because it is so indicting to me and may possibly hurt another who struggles with their own road including medications, ayervedics, and all manner of other treatments. Please do not see this as a brag or a suggestion or even a warning . . . it is merely a confession of a woman who called her friends into prayer and then ran off down her own path. When she met with scary things she didn't come and share that with her friends, she hid in shame or worse . . . fear that they would judge her a fool. Sadly, I thought I had conquered this foible of self long ago, but clearly I still care what people think of me in an unhealthy way (and fear the worst). In reading some of your blogs of late I see pages and pages of personal outpourings filled with prayer needs, fears, medical trials, family frayings, and so much more. The honesty stings my eyes at times. Tears fall for people I have never met, nor may EVER meet. This bloggy thing still amazes me! I want to be a part of this ever-changing, honest, deep, light, silly, serious community of honest folks walking their own path without apology or shame.

And so I have set aside this Respite Wednesday for sipping tea, reading a new/old book on traveling the islands surrounding Britain (something I am most interested in doing some day), and stroking my kitty. Dinner will be a chicken stewed in my new Lodge dutch oven with potatoes, carrots, fragrant herbs, and a topper of sourdough dumplings ( a new creation based on the biscuit recipe from Mrs. Boast). I have had such fun playing with sourdough. I have few recipes but plenty of kitchen chemistry tucked under my belt and am thus inventing new twists on old themes and running with some of those pioneer women who once upon a time shaped a new California cuisine out of necessity and need.

I recently received a very old starter portion from my spinning/weaving friend Adele, and it is most delicious. It dates back many, many years passed from one to another of the locals in these parts. I recently read that a sourdough starter takes its flavor from the surrounding wild yeast. Thus a starter began in San Francisco, with a most pungent sourness, will lose that flavor when transported to say Vermont, where the wild yeasts have a much milder flavor. Fascinating! Unfortunately I neglected my whole wheat starter with the entrance of the new "girl" on the block who arrived in the midst of a medical flummox for me. Sadly I dumped it, but will try again another day. I love my culinary lab!

As for today . . . Respite Wednesday . . . I shall relax, rejuvenate, and revel in the joys found in the start of a string of days with not a single appointment inked in until next mid-week. Such luxury.

Now where's that book? I hear the kettle singing. It promises to be a very good day around here. I wish the same for you.

Relaxed

What a wonderful weekend filled to the brim with TIME.

We took time to R-E-L-A-X and read and

wander through the gardens with butterfly nets

(or just a friendly finger),

Play in the kitchen with sourdough starter,

And so much more.

Who knew that a smattering of days without an appointment on the calendar could yield such bliss?

This Monday morning found me smiling and eager to play some more. Sure we have music lessons and marketing to be done, along with vacuuming and laundering and all the other cottage duties . . . but somehow I could not let the weekend feeling go without one more walk in the gardens before the week truly begins.

I found dew upon the fresh garden faces, which brought a smile to mine.

I sought vibrant color yet to be washed away by the heat of the day.


And I saw the promise of more to come.


The quickly-changing landscape always surprises me. Here sits a shy sweet bud of Anne Boleyn rising to bloom just a day or two ago.


Today she looks thus.


Tomorrow . . . hmmmm, as always, I pause a bit before “deadheading” this beauty when all her petals have fallen. I wonder, as many have through the ages, what really happened to bring about Miss Boleyn’s untimely demise. Evil on her part? Or another’s? I clip ever so swiftly and gently when the need arises. But for today, I shall merely enjoy the beauty of this delicate English rose.


Pondering has been my lot this past weekend.

Pondering why Blogger labeled me “Malicious” and blocked me from blogging for hours on end.

Pondering the similarities/differences found in our Sundays here at Wisteria Cottage and those of a turn-of-the-20th-century Sunday afternoon in France (in the country just outside Paris) as so beautifully filmed in Un Dimanche a la Compagne/A Sunday in the Country – a French film I adore and watched again this past weekend.

Ponderings continued as I finished up a tepid biography of Earl Hamner Jr (Walton’s creator – another fave of mine) and dove right into Where the Lilies Bloom. How did I ever miss this latter gem while growing up? Mary Call’s spunky nature holds her family together through wildcrafting (gathering of herbs and plants for medicine) in her Appalachian homelands. The trials of this 14-year-old who becomes head of household, tethered by poverty and a raft of untenable promises from an insistent parent, tugged at my heart and dredged memories of my own. Sadly the book ends abruptly and without satisfaction. I felt cheated when the storyline cut off sharply with a tidy summary as if the authors (Bill and Vera Cleaver) simply dusted off their hands and moved on to the next item on their writing list. I felt cheated . . . I wanted more time with this rag-tag family . . . I demand a sequel.

I retaliated by moving on down my own list of waiting-to-be-read. While glancing through the pile o’ books stacked to the stars, as my dear husband groans in pursuit of a spider on the ceiling whom he cannot access due to the rolling waves of books piled in plunderous plops next to the bedside, my eye catches the cover of Sue Hubbell’s A Country Year: Living the questions.


I snap it up and carry it downstairs for a re-read. I read this many years ago as an evaluative tool to decide whether bee-keeping held the key to our financial future. I loved the book, though we determined the path to financial freedom held no bee skeps for us. I think this week’s forecast of temps up in the 90s holds the very promise of lazy days of reading. Sue will be a fine companion once again.

Thus, I wandered in and out of the weekend duties as if in a fog of freedom – and it felt WONDERFUL!

This morning I carried my books and breakfast out into the coolness before the heat and breathed in the joy of another week virtually free of appointments.


I smile when I recall the blood pressure numbers recorded each evening – now in normal ranges . . . without medication. I put fork to food and enjoy a yummy omelet filled with sprouts and cheese, and YES there lies a chocolate treat upon the very same plate!


Elizabeth found a most scrumptious recipe for fudge pie in a coconut crust in the Whole Foods for the Whole Family cookbook by La Leche League. Delicious!!! (Whole foods can be fun and sassy when called upon to be a decadent dessert.)

SO in an attempt to carry over a bit more of the relaxed pace of the past weekend, I dove in and enjoyed every morsel of this chocolate goodness.


I intend to keep it up all week long.

Now forgive me if I cannot get to your blog to leave a comment or two, but Blogger has proven to be in a snit with me. (Have I landed on some “enemies list” due to expressing Free Speech? Quite possibly so!) Has any one else found the pathway to blogs blocked? Rather than fume about Big Brother and all the rest of the incendiary politics filling up the American Way of life, I choose to wander on out to visit the chickens. My how they have grown???


The cock-a-doodle-doos bring smiles to our faces each morning we rise in this country life. (No neighbors have grumbled – hooray . . . the joy of country acres between back porches.)

I sip the last of my tea, enjoy the morning, stroke my kitty friends, chat with my children, think about my husband hard at work on a new project, and embark upon another week of living in the country way.

And so I ramble on and away to who-knows-what along the way in the coming week . . .

Happy Monday!

: D

Summertime, Teatime, Storytime

The heat has arrived and spread its wide mantle of HOT on every outdoor surface. Yesterday we swam and snacked in the afternoon, finding ourselves sapped of all energy throughout the rest of the day and evening, sleeping long and deep through to the next morn as the exertion took its toll. Today we rest indoors whilst the heat passes over, entertaining notions of a twilight supper and nighttime swim. Each season offers a delicious delight we eagerly anticipate throughout the year. The first snowfall causes celebration equal to the first late night swim and marshmallow roast. The time for daily swimming has arrived a bit late this year, but we welcome it warmly, nonetheless.

Our early summertime delight of spending afternoons out in the gardens has given way to siestas and reading nooks kept cool by the aid of shade and machinery most welcome. Late night playtimes curtail early morning tasks to only those most necessary (like watering the gardens and tending the animals) as we have traded “early to rise” for “late we must play.” Each summer we make this trade and live richer for the bargain.

Not surprisingly, our schoolwork hours continue without hiccup, and actually yield a greater pace than that of the early summer days when we ran afield without thought to regular bookishness. Music practice and mathematical tasks find ample space in a warm afternoon laced with greater access to lazy hours spent in cool pursuit with book in hand or journal for record of just this very life we live. Likewise, our storytelling from the family tree keeps pace with fairytales in books fed upon freely in this season of free time found in a hot summer’s afternoon pocket.

Each morning, regardless of the season, we gather round the teapot after chores have been tended and tummies growl for attention. Not given over to the tradition of big country breakfasts, each girl (or guy) finds a plateful or bowlful to suit their tastes. One may choose oatmeal topped with warm just-picked berries, while another crafts a half-moon omelet filled with cheese and sprouts nestled on a plateful of fresh and crunchy garden treats (that one would be me). The toaster pops, the teakettle bubbles, and the fridge swings to and fro in this mid-morning dance toward storytelling time.

The relaxed cadence of our life shines brightly around the tea table. Favorite cups find matching saucers, heaped plates or dainty nibbles serve to satisfy, and the madcap array of overstuffed furnishings beckon for one to sit and sip and share from the heart. Some days we share tears and teary paths that we have been called to; other times the hilarity of a morning’s foible at chores entertains one and all – easily found around this cottage filled with chickens, cats, kids, and the occasional skunk (whom we fear likes us enough to endure the rodent repeller recently introduced into his nesting spot). The reading of Scripture, the telling of a devotional thought, and the muffling of laughter or tears in a hug most sincere grace our daily gathering for tea. Quite often the conversation sparks a memory and the family tree blossoms with something to tell.

I come from a long line of storytellers. Having had the joy of knowing many of my great-grandparents, coupled with the gift of a writer’s ear and storage bank discovered very early on (yes, I truly do remember residing in a crib and being coaxed to use a potty, among other early memories most do not recall), I sat enraptured as elders shared the family treasure with me, generally the youngest in attendance. Without knowing it, I became one of the guardians of the family story rife with adventure, determination, disaster, and triumph all rolled into the memories of those who knew or did or remembered those who knew or did or remembered.

My Great-Grandma Ruth (affectionately known a “Mammy” to me) held a vault of memories that she shared freely as she poured out the tea. We took tea with breakfast, paused for tea midday, and always, ALWAYS had a cuppa tea and a little something before turning in for the night . . . at midnight. (I come by my night-owl roots honestly, you see.) A nibble of cheddar, a spiced cookie, and Lipton’s tea out of a china teacup and saucer always got the conversation flowing. I nibbled or sipped ever so quietly, eagerly anticipating the beginning of the stories . . .

Stories of Uncle Yancy, who lost his nose while battling a bear, always sent shivers down my spine; and yet the giggles would erupt as Mammy would go on to tell how that poor man wrestled more with that false nose than he ever did with that shaggy bear. The doctor fashioned a false nose with a sort of modified eye-glass frame that spread ‘cross his cheeks. She then rifled in the top drawer of the bureau in the game room pulling out a sepia-toned photo clearly showing that phony nose and the brave pioneer grimacing at the camera.

“Why,” she laughed till she gasped for air, “He looked a sight in that thing! He struggled with it, tugging and adjusting for vanity’s sake, generally tossing it aside despite the odd looks. He was something . . .” she would say as her voice trailed off with a choke of emotion and pride.

I would flop back in my chair positively spellbound at the tale of this man’s bravery on multiple fronts. I chafed at wearing glasses and found the taunting miserable – how much worse to be sporting that nose? *Sigh* I would smile with an inner strength that comes from knowing your family has seen worse and survived to triumph.

Later, when I rushed to share this fantastic tale at school I reaped more jeers than cheers from the skeptical ones and found that the lack of the picture proof left me with little other than the knowledge that I knew it to be true. And so I stored up the tales but shared them with few; unlike Uncle Yancy I chose to avoid the public scrutiny.

Throughout the years I continued to sit at the feet of the storytellers in my family on both sides and absorb the beauty of our unique history. I heard the tales over and over again, never tiring of the details. Other family members would interrupt and add a new tidbit, and on occasion the bold few would contradict a memory, but generally I found the tales to pass from generation to generation without much change.

Sadly, the family has splintered and the tale tellers have passed away. I once overheard a great uncle snort in disdain at the “silly nonsense” about life on the prairie. He had moved away from the old-fashioned to the modern and had no time to look back. Even though I had enjoyed far fewer years of the tale telling, I knew them to be something special, if only to me. And so I carried as many as I could. Some became material for fictional stories that would go on to win acclaim for originality or ingenuity, while others earned tears of laughter or sorrow, but always I kept the veracity of the tales hidden. I spun the stories as fiction and enjoyed popularity without need to defend.

One day I tired of the world of fiction and began to reweave the true names and places in my family’s journey. Across oceans I met those who had been left behind in the “Old Country.” Through old letters and weighty tomes of historical compilations I learned the names of places that I had/would visit. Every time I visited my Grandpa Rudy (Mammy’s son) he would heed the pleading and pile us all in the Travel-all for a trip off the beaten path to places like Possum Trot and Moskee and all sorts of other magical little spots with little left standing save a rotting blacksmith’s shed, wherein I dug around and found lingering souvenirs of my Great-Grandpa Hans’ workmanship to treasure. Though my Grandpa Rudy laughed aloud with ribbing, wondering why I needed to grab garbage for souvenirs, I knew underneath that rough exterior his heart swelled with pride that I cared to remember that his father swung a hammer in a forge and kept an industry’s horsepower in shoes during the heyday of the Homestake mine in The Black Hills of South Dakota, that my other Great-Grandpa earned his nicknames “Bozy” for being the best bulldozer driver in The Hills, and that “Choppy” got his title from chopping trees with famous strength. Threads of this memory and that one fell freely in conversation as my Grandfather chauffeured this scrawny kid through the forests of his childhood.

These days all those storytellers have “Passed Over” as the family saying goes. I cannot clarify this detail or that, I can merely pass along what I know from years of absorbing teatime chatter or ramblings on a pathway through the old family lands lost long ago for lack of a successful homestead venture. As a storyteller, I lovingly remember the effort of those attempting to make a go of the pioneer dreams through nourishing the adventurous spirit that still courses through the veins of this limb of that family tree. Those self-same lands lay barren and empty to this day, but an arrowhead found or a rattler spotted fuels the pride I feel standing and staring at an expanse that once housed a soddy fashioned by the very hands of my Great-Grandfather. Herein he grasped the American dream with both Norwegian-born hands, managing to find time to woo and marry my “Mammy” and ensure that she would have stories to pass down to children taking tea with her . . . and grandchildren . . . and great grand children . . . and even have the opportunity to know she had great-great grandchildren (my boys) who arrived 5-1/2 months before she passed over into the presence of our Lord. She left the storytelling to those who saw fit to gather the stories she shared . . . she left a great legacy to me.

I think of my Mammy often as I sit down to tea with my children all around. I share the stories long held in the safety of my heart and it feels good. Though I once dreamed of being an author of wide acclaim, I have found that the telling of my stories to the next generation – my sweet children – will ensure that my family will not be forgotten, nor will we forget the precious gift of a few moments spent together over a relaxing beverage sipped within this bond we call family. Though my childhood erupted, sending fragments of family far and away, I have safeguarded those baskets of debris gathered in the aftermath of the storm, ensuring that my children would not be cheated of a family tree full of characters of all sorts and sizes. The legacy rests safely here at Wisteria Cottage.

Recently the girls and I sat chatting over tea about this memory and that, whiling away the time in joyful recollection. The morning faded and afternoon took its place.

I glanced at the clock and noted the time, remarking,
“I think we need to get going and doing, don’t you?”

To which Lydia sagely replied,
“We are doing something – we’re talking and that’s important.”

I think I have found the next storyteller.

Another Blustery Day

The skies continue to sport clouds and the breezes pick up into bona fide winds now and again, sending the chimes into a chorus of song. This may not be the "summery" weather than Mother Nature graced us with last week, but I for one enjoy the changeability. (Soon enough it will be HOT for days on end.)

And so I set about the business of brewing tea and selecting something new to read for my lazy-day pleasure. (Shouldn't every day be a Lazy Friday?) I have selected Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' Cross Creek for a reread as I await delivery of her collected short stories and a cookbook she authored full of recipes for the regional dishes mentioned in this glimpse into the Florida life of the 20's and 30's. You may be familiar with Rawlings' most famous work, The Yearling. Cross Creek chronicles her move to Florida and her surprise at meeting the people and the customs that would later inhabit her best works. As a writer, I am fascinated with writers' lives and their inspiration -- generally found right around them. If you can catch the film version starring Mary Steenburgen, I highly recommend it. The magnificent beauty of the Florida swamps will amaze you. God sure did build a variety of beauty into this world.

(Note of caution: these people lead a hard life in a harsh land -- may not be suitable for the delicate or young. Nothing vulgar or brutal . . . simply too hard for some, I fear.)

Speaking of variety, I have put aside our salad and berry bowls for the moment and reached back for some chilly weather food. Ah yes, chili and cornbread really hits the spot on a nippy, drippy day. That delightful invention, the pressure cooker, allowed me to whip this chili up on a whim within an hour.

Tonight I will be experimenting with a BBQ Beef Stew in the cooker. A basket of biscuits alongside will satisfy all and keep me in my "country cookin'" motif that goes along with my current literary feast.

On a different note . . . as for those adorable chicks that surely need to be moving OUT of the house soon and into the special fortress being erected in the spacious woodland pen . . . well, that hasn't happened yet. And these stinky cuties have moved up in the world. Having outgrown the two previous accommodations, they now reside in a wardrobe box purchased from the local moving depot. This custom designed townhouse features water and food (naturally), and a specially-designed perch to hold six (though only two really vie for superiority). The lavish window treatments and air purification system (I insisted!) complete the decor. And yet . . .


. . . these chicks yearn for more. They seek a rooftop garden (not included in this indoor lease) and fly up and out at every chance they get. Whoever chronicled their NON-flying habit had never met these young ladies. They fly . . . oh and do they squawk when intercepted.

Though we intended to refrain from naming the fluffy little balls of down that captured our hearts just a few short weeks ago . . . we caved. Okay, I caved right after Rachel named her favorite "Freckles." Freckles and Miss BB (Bossy Britches) vied for leadership and Miss BB named herself the winner. She regularly bosses Miss Priss (a beauty who looks encased all in mink), my personal favorite who has proven to be beautiful and nothing more. She may stand tall with perfect chick-posture, but she's still sporting down where others have feathers and her tailfeathers still look like a powderpuff -- no feathers. She's "immature" as Rachel kindly states and a wee bit slow -- as in "Duh!" But pretty is as pretty does; she's nice to be around.

Now Violet is the shy little one who is obviously younger than all the rest. Her diminutive little frame is just beginning to sport real feathers, but she can still be found backing into a corner to avoid the onslaught of chick banter so casually flung around the brooder. Lastly we have Sharon and Susan (named for the twins in The Parent Trap since we can't tell them apart). So who are these cuties poking their head out for a closer look? Freckles is above and Miss BB below, though they each take a look whenever they find a free window. Oh how I wish the weather hadn't turned chill. I am SO READY for these gals to move into their country home.

Despite all the wind and rain (and lightening and thunder which reduced this writer to tears as she buried her head in Gary's big strong arms as we attempted to watch an episode of The Waltons and think on simpler times and ways), I have managed to enjoy the steady display of the garden beauties. This pretty rose (name escapes me, though her pic in the catalog suggested a demure pink ruffled gown and she is anything BUT demure in this loud and gorgeous "Copacabana" costume) shakes up the pastel format and makes me smile every time I glance out my kitchen window.

"Notice me!" she cries gleefully.

And I always do, with a smile.

: D