Gardens as autobiography

I've come a long way in three years. My improving gardens are evidence of my progress.

Though I had an expert gardener and professional chef at my very own fingertips in my step father while I was a teenager, I regret I did much more pulling away and distancing myself than reaching toward an incredibly gifted man for all the wisdom I greatly desire as a grown woman. The consequence remains that I must learn these things hard way, since I refused in my careless youth. And just so you know, I've since spoken with my former step dad over my regrets. He responded with grace and kindness.

Onto the garden tales.

The first year, I learned the ropes about the best locations (by water source, in full sun, etc.) and the basics of tilling and planting. Things grew into a lush jungle, making picking impossible, because I ignored spacing advice. I allowed the zuchinni grow into a mighty tasteless giants. I harvested the corn too soon, before kernels formed, and too late when the kernels became sadly shriveled. My tomatoes got some kind of blight before picking and they withered on the vine. However, we got the very best green beans ever that year. I haven't grown good tasting beans since. That year I also planted an herb garden. It flourished, but I honestly didn't know how to cook with those beautiful green delights or how preserve them like the ones in the jars at the grocery store. I learned much about what sprouts and plants look like when they spring up from the earth which has been helpful in identifying volunteers I'd like to keep. The only successful zinnias have been replanted volunteers. The first year's garden was the most labor intensive both mentally and physically.

The second year, I still didn't space plants well again. Buck expanded the size of the garden for me. I grew one ton of tomatoes, but I couldn't eat enough to keep up with them. I gave away many plump red treats to people, and threw a zillion to the grateful chickens. My sweet peppers went crazy, and I found easy ways to freeze them for future use. I put much energy into learning how to sprout things from seeds. I found myself to lack the discipline of everyday misting and later hardening seedlings slowly. I planted a few asparagus plants which I knew wouldn't produce till the following year. The second year I expanded both my garden and growing knowledge a bit.

This year, I spaced much better though the tomatoes are a bit too close together. I was able to harvest the first asparagus. I didn't pull volunteer whatevers, because I didn't have the heart, so the fung sway (how do you spell that?) is way off. For example, an unplanned sweet one hundred entirely over took my leeks. I grew many heads of fresh cabbage which exhibited a nice display of insect bites, and my previous nasty experience with the electric green worms in our perfectly matching green broccoli in our dinner did me in. Completely. The green beans I planted are somewhat hairy and not too tasty for a palate which recalls grandma's freshly snapped green beans cooked to perfection in dripping bacon grease. The plants turned out to be bush beans instead of pole beans. I bought the seeds because I was attracted to the "stringless" variety, but I'm not buying those again. Sugar snap peas were awesome. We had great zuchinni until some nasty triangle sand colored bugs consumed it.

Also, over the course of this year, I've incorporated all my spices (basil, thyme, oregano, sage, rosemary, parsley, mint) into my cooking now which has been a huge accomplishment to me. I've even bunched tidy groups spices to dry on the hanging pan rack over the island in my kitchen. Martha Stewart might be proud. However, I silently kicked myself in the grocery store today for not planting cilantro and needing to spend an entire dollar on a not-so-delightful looking sagging bunch of it for an upcoming recipe.

Though there is a blight on my tomatoes again, I have plenty to harvest. I promised myself this summer to make a plan other than having the leftover maters become chicken candy. My garden buddy, Hauna, gave me an "easy" recipe for tomato sauce. I hesitate to claim ease of it all due to the fact that one must follow a rather long journey through Oz from picking to freezer:

1. pick 12 pounds of tomatoes
2. wash them
3. weigh tomatoes, pick more if not 12 pounds
4. core and quarter tomatoes
5. wash and cut endless other fresh veggies like carrots, celery, peppers, mushrooms
6. Peel and chop 12 cloves of garlic
7. Pick, wash, and prepare 8 combined tablespoons of basil, thyme, oregano, and parsley
8. Roast everything for 45 minutes
9. Cool
10. Slightly food process eveything
11. Pour into freezer bags
12. Click heels three times

Viola! There's no place like homemade spaghetti sauce.

Buck and I have put several bags in the freezer for the winter...if the tastey stuff doesn't get eaten before frost appears.

My kitchen counter is collecting twelve more pounds for the next batch.

Next year, I will:
-expand my spice garden
-plant only tomatoes, corn, mild peppers, good tasting pole green beans, maybe some melons, zuchinni and yellow squash, cucumbers, and of course, flowers- everywhere. I know I will use all the tempting fruit of these.

I have three very successful plots of lavender planted last year but established this year. It is my favorite plant of all due to the magnificent aroma wafting from each stacked purple bloom. I pick stalks for most every flower arrangement I've made this summer to top the tables about my home. I've made a few lavender wands. Have you heard of lavender wands? They are something you may rest on your pillow which smell heavenly and are guaranteed to lead a restless soul to slumber.

Sydney Eddison says, "Gardens are a form of autobiography." In which case, I think mine might read, "A lost opportunity revisited. A few weeds and fencing imperfections, problems with bugs occasionally, though fruit bearing and lovely. Overall a fanciful and splendid place to linger and discover."

Homeschool at it's best

Instead of writing his book report on the Revolutionary War, Peace handed me the following written out on notebook paper this morning:

The Twelve Reasons I Don’t Want to do this Report

1. I don’t like the subject.
2. I think writing a report is dull.
3. I I want to do math instead.
4. I don’t want to write.
5. I think it’s tedious.
6. It has no real purpose I can see.
7. I’d rather pet my cat.
8. I want to go outside.
9. I think we should stop it.
10. It’s not fun.
11. The outdoors call to me.
12. I get writer’s cramp too easily (like now).

But I’ll do it anyway.

True Vyne School of Nature

What sort of cruel person would make her children start school in July? That would be me. With five years of home schooling under my belt, I‘ve realized the need to school earlier every year, because somewhere after mid-March standardized testing, my teaching efforts fizzle. All I want to do in April is be in my garden. Last year, my dear husband gently started school on August 1 for our children while I was in Santa Barbara. This year, I’m happy to announce True Vyne School of Nature is now underway before August.

Last week, Buck and I tore apart the home school room. No more flies, hardened play dough, or turned over potted plant dirt on the window sills, a stuffed vacuum bag of crayons and pet hair later, oodles of part-way consumed workbooks burned (why did I keep those so long?), twaddly books tucked away in a box for the used book store adds a pleasant order to a room meant to store the delicious secrets of learning.

True Vyne School of Nature has not only a fresh room, but a fresh outlook on academic endeavors from our somewhat delight directed approaches before. I chose books and activities this year which will challenge my children to go deeper than we’ve ever gone into academics. And I have only two moments of slight twinges of regret so far. First, my oldest will attend a co-op one day a week and study his materials for his courses the rest of the week. Once I opened and explored my new and excellent materials in the mail for my other boys, I wondered if I’d could have accomplished the same goals as the co-op with the same supplies I’d ordered for home. The second regret came after attending a meeting with a Charlotte Mason expert. She had an uncanny grasp on CM pedagogy like no one I’ve ever spoken with before. Somehow she imparted a holistic way to accomplish the method to include all the variables I could not figure out. My regret comes from giving in a bit to a few more textbooks than I’d like this year.

My dear home schooling friend Claire helped me tremendously in setting the day to day structure of learning. Every child has a basket with necessary materials for a few weeks. Everyone has been assigned a color; Tator bright green for all his bursting energy, Wise One blue for his placid nature, Pooh Bear pink for extremely obvious reasons, Peace purple for his majestic presence. Children’s baskets have their color of ribbon tied about for easy recognition. Books are placed inside the baskets with colored masking tape on the spine in children’s colors. Days of the week also sort pages of assignments with paper clips in books. Monday=green for a fresh start. Tuesday=blue for the long week ahead. Wednesday=purple for things looking a little more rosy and bright. Thursday= yellow because we‘re slowing down. Friday=orange because our family never really stops. The colors and systems make the education of four more manageable for me.

Friday I spent a few hours organizing Tator’s work with the paper clips. Last night I worked for three hours on Wise One’s assignments over the next two weeks. Peace has a fairly light workload until his intense courses start. He’ll be working on typing, read great books, a little math review, and join us for science and history.

What to do with Pooh Bear? If she could have her way, she’d like to be an only child for me to sit and read to and do endless workbook pages ( please, no) beside her. She quickly has become an “assignment” on each boy’s to-do list. Peace is to draw from Draw Write Now with her. Wise One is to read a story book to her. Tator will do math with her. I’m trying my fourth reading curriculum with her called Talking Letters. Last year, she begged me to teach her to read so I dragged out the tried and true methods from the boys (Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons, Sing, Spell, Read, Write, Reading Reflex). She made her way to the blending part in each curriculum and got completely stuck. I can see she just doesn’t have it all put together in her busy little girl brain to bring it all together, so before she could feel terribly frustrated, I just switched her to something new. I’d wait to do reading with her altogether until next year, if she didn’t want to try so badly. We’ll see how that all turns out after this next Talking Letters go round. Talking Letters attracted me at the home school fair this year with it’s simple beauty. The letters tell stories.

One of my students is coloring on my bed, so perhaps I’d better attend to her while it’s quiet as the boys are all still fast asleep.

A Solution to the Middle East Crisis

I decided to see if the writing of Oscar Romero might hold a solution to the crisis in the Middle East. His country, El Salvador, was a trainwreck when he walked this earth, and pondering his activist demeanor I believed he might have had something to say about conflict resolution for nations trapped in the cycle of violence. Romero experienced pieces of heaven and hell as he labored to bring men and women of a war torn nation to peace. Lo and behold, he offered these words in a public speech published in The Violence of Love, thoughts from almost thirty years ago which I see as an applicable means of resolution between Israel and Palestine today:

"Whoever fulfills the duty of love fulfills the whole law,"
says St. Paul.
"You shall not steal,
you shall not kill, you shall do no wrong to another-
all this is contained in one phrase:
you shall love your neighbor."

If there were love of neighbor
there would be no terrorism,
no repression,
no selfishness,
none of such cruel inequalities in society,
no abductions,
no crimes.

Love sums up the law.
Not only that, it gives Christian meaning
to all human relations.
Even those who call themselves atheists,
when they are humane,
fulfill the essence of the relationship
that God wants among human beings:
Love.

Love gives plenitude to all human duties,
and without love justice is only the sword
With love, justice beomcs a brother's embrace.
Without love, laws are arduous, repressive, cruel,
mere policemen.
But when there is love-
security forces would be superfluous;
there would be no jails or tortures,
no will to beat anyone.
September 10, 1978

So I pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May Israel and Palestine find the law of love. Can you imagine the day when all arms will be laid down and beat into plowshares? No more tears or sorrow? No more death? Come quickly!

A Living Book

I positively love a good story. Up until now, you could not have convinced me to read history just for fun. However this book is fun.

The Devil in the White City does not teach history, it brings America to life. Larson brilliantly parallels the lives of two very real men, one building a fascinating white fairytale city and another exploiting residents and visitors who come to explore the wonderland of exhibits created for the 1893 Chicago World's Fair.

I am not especially interested in architecture, but Larson's writing of Daniel Burnham and associates drew me into the lives of "Whose Who" in terms of history making architects and their work. Also, it tied together contemporaries for me like Wild Bill Cody and Susan B. Anthony. Did you know they met at the fair?

The intrigue carefully woven into the story about the one of America's first serial killers, H. H. Holmes kept me page turning. And Larson did a terrific job focusing on the humanity of each of Holmes victims instead of gore.

This would become required reading if I were teaching a course on the turn of the 20th century.

What have we been up to?

The Smoky Mountain Invitational Swim Meet

All three boys swam their little hearts out. However, Pooh Bear wasn't up for such a gigantic and daunting pool. Honestly, she still can't go 25 meters without stopping yet, but I think she could save her own life if she accidently fell into a pool. I never expected her to even join swim team this year, but those Weeki Wachee mermaids from vacation dropped a sparkly seashell of love for water straight into her admiring heart.

I don't know the results for all of today's races. Tator and a friend, Charlie, could have scored some points for our itty bitty little team.

SMI doesn't invite year-round-swimmers, so ordinary children have a great chance in the races. One family I see there every year has several children who win most events.
I asked, "Why not swim year round then? You have some talented swimmers in your family."
To which the wise woman chuckled in reply, "We have too many other fun things to do than swimming. That year-round stuff just takes over your life."


Peace DQed in the IM for who knows what reason, but the other races he did his best.

It was as hot as blazes both days, and I'm perfectly salty from all the sweatin'.

We brought home two swim friends and I stopped at the store to pick up frozen pizza, chips, icecream for a celebration ( I know that's a little lame, but it's the best I can do while my dh is at work and I'm in charge of 5 boys and one princess). Only once did an employee have to snag my attention and gently point out that one of the boys was climbing up mountain stacks of soft drink cans.

While six children picked out one movie, which can be quite harrowing and take an awful long while, I spoke with the chatty clerk. He was a twentyish guy who looked like he was waiting for his break into professional soccer. It amused me terribly when he decided I must immediately borrow The Woman in the Cafe and then come back and tell me how I liked it. Didn't he notice my brood of children swarming his store? Just as he was about to dash to the shelf to hand me his one beloved copy of the DVD, he looked absolutely crushed as I stopped him, "It's on my Netflix queue, and I don't know when it's due to come to my house." He moaned, "You have to come back and talk to me about it with me though after you've watched it." Maybe I should ask him to join my book club too? Nah, I don't have a book club.

The children picked an Ernest movie. Now that's classy!

The Swimming Lesson

Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves
Reaching around my life, I moved my arms
And coughed, and in the end saw land.

Somebody, I suppose,
Remembering the medieval maxim,
Had tossed me in,
Had wanted me to learn to swim,
Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back
From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising,
Ever learned anything at all
About swimming, but only
How to put off, one by one,
Dreams and pity, love and grace,

--How to survive in any place.

Mary Oliver


My mood is melancholy today. I'm wanting to reach one of my son's heart, and I just can't seem to find it. Oh, God, it's got to be there somewhere under all those hard glares and sighs of disgust. But where? How did I lose the path?

For me, parenting seems to be like the first swim lesson, only it's as succession of new and sometimes frightening first dives and frantic rising all along the way.

How could I? I missed my very FIRST blogiversary. I hate to admit that I'm not great with dates. Ask my dearest friends if I can precisely name their birthdays- it's a shame I cannot sometimes.

As a late celebration, I'm giving myself a bouquet of Lily of the Valley, my favorite flower. It's been a gloriously documented year.

Change of career

Wise One spent the fifth year of his life being a cheetah. I can empathize, because as a child, I was a horse for an entire summer. I can't remember much about Wise One's cheetah time, because it was four years ago, but I vaguely remember him growling, prowling, crouching, stalking, pouncing after invisible foes.

And one day during that year I got a surprise.

I asked him, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

His answer puzzled me, "When I grow up, I'm going to be a raptor."

I think if he really accomplishes that worthy goal, he'll be worth millions. Don't you? I mean, look at how dinosaur movies come and go like Jurassic Park, Little Foot, and Dinosaur. Wise One could become Hollywood's brightest star!

I've been coaching my oldest son, Peace, who wants to sell vegetables by the side of the road as a career to think a little larger. Perhaps he can aspire to become a Brachiousaurous. Now that's big thinking!

Patches, our beloved no longer stray cat with one usable eye and precious few teeth, misses his dear boy, Peace. When Peace pulled out his trunk to pack for scout camp last week, Patches sat on top of the trunk in protest.

Patches and Peace became fast friends the day Mrs. P. from my church auditioned us as a possible adoptive family for the cat. She didn't want him to send him off to a house full of terrorizing boys, so we had to prove ourselves as nice cat folks. Mrs. P. stared slacked jawed when Peace had Patches rolled onto his back completely enjoying a heavenly kitty rub within a minute of their first meeting, "I've never seen Patches allow anyone that close!"

Peace is not just a chicken whisperer, he can charm the socks off most any creature.

Patches tolerates everyone else in the family, but Peace is his true best friend. And the feline is pining for his boy terribly this week. So much so, that Patches has let me pet him for a short time, a privilege he reserves strictly for his boy pal.

I particularly noticed the cat's deep longing today when I found him crawling into the front loading washer to sniff Peace's dirty clothes. I pulled his furry body out to begin the wash cycle (aren't you glad to hear that?), and he peered suspiciously at me with his one good eye as if to say, "What have you done with my buddy, woman?"

The reunion Sunday will be a beautiful thing to behold. Picture in slow motion, a gaunt 12 year old tow headed boy running arms flung wide toward the "yeoww" (would need proper fitting for kitty dentures to say "meow") visually and dentally impaired, belly draggin' old cat. Bring a tear to your sentimental eye?

A mundane summer day post

I began my day when my little girl opened my bedroom door and snuggled up next to me. She patiently waited for my eyes to focus, "Mommy, you can go back to sleep. I'll go eat some breakfast." Oh, yeah. More sleep. It never works like that, but I wish it would.

Pooh Bear ate a frozen waffle and jumped back into bed with me asking to turn pages for me during my morning devotions. I've never mastered listening prayer with a bunny girl in the curve of my arm before, so I moved on to give Pooh Bear my full attention.

I read The Lady and the Lion- a Brother's Grimm Tale retold by Laura Long to my book loving girly. The luxurious illustrations are practically edible. It made me want to break out the paints and canvas one homeschool day soon. When we finished reading, I knew Pooh Bear felt as awed by the art due to her response, "Mommy, I just wish there were more pages of the story."

A few weeks ago, I bought this particular book online, because the public library insisted, by mail even, that we had failed to return the loaned copy before our vacation two months ago. I instructed my husband to carry the newly purchased book into the Farragut Branch with apology. Upon his return to our van, his expression and book still in hand told me things did not go as planned, "They found the book on the shelf, so we get to keep the one you bought." I was irritated then, but not today. And as a bonus, I can hold my head up proudly when I enter the library once again.

Pooh Bear joined Wise One in a game of Monopoly, so I made my morning phonecalls. Then I hit the sidewalk outside our back door with the hose to remove chicken droppings. The funny birds mill around the back door during the summer, because that's where the glorious appearing of chicken scratch comes forth each morning.

Onto the next chore. I've begun milling my wheat outside, because I do not own a costly but tidy Whisper Mill. I own a free flour spewing Grain Master which is much easier to clean up after outside. After the chickens had run for their lives because of the very noisy grinding process, I carried in large jar of fluffy brown wheat which may last two or three days. I'm on a muffin making kick. Ever tried fresh hot blueberrymuffins with lemon curd?

Today I tried zuchinni bread recipe in my bread machine which I've never done before. I'll let you know how it turns out. It's cooking now. It stunk- stuck to the bottom of the pan and recipe just didn't appeal overall.

I pulled some meat from the freezer to thaw for dinner. I have some laundry to do.

I'm waiting, tapping my watch, for the homeschool materials to arrive I ordered a few weeks ago. I'm itching to set up my plans for each child and get started now that I've decided which direction to go. Peace will be attending a once a week co-op and studying for his courses there for the rest of the week. I'm a bit nervous, because he'll be accountable to someone other than me. He's at the point where he needs to develop independent study skills, and I think this is the place for him to learn.

I'm doing something completely new for Wise One and Tator- some courses through Bill Bennett's k-12 online school. Comprehensive but very pricey. I only wish Tennessee would join other states in funding homeschool with this type of excellent curriculum, but instead homeschoolers here are fighting state support in fear of state control of the home; I personally believe fear need not rule decisions which would benefit children.

Pooh Bear begins kindergarten, and I bought yet another reading program to try- Mountainwood Talking Letters. I enjoy the premise in that each letter has a sweet story to help remember the sound. I will be a reading specialist when I successfully get this girl up and reading.

I pulled out my satellite homeschool records to finish for this year and next year. I dread filling in the 180 days and grades. It's a drag.

I hope to make plans to go pick up a free Nubian buck from my dear goat farming buddy in Nashville. We'll never have milk unless we kid again, and kidding is the best of farm life so far. Then what will I do with the stinky billy when he's done his duty? Yours truly does not wish to contend with male animals on the pretend farm. See previous posts on my nemesis rooster, Frankenbelle.

A homeschooling neighbor dropped by a while ago to give my children yet another box of Sonlight books. What a blessing! Now Tator can't say he's read every book in the house for at least a week.

Onto laundry and more phonecalls. And the children could use a little mom time. Hopefully I can still sneak in my pleasure reading a bit later- still a great book.

To run or not to run

All morning I've sponsored an ongoing dialogue in my head, "Should I run my miles today at the gym?" I may have the edge of a headache, or maybe it's just an excuse. I also feel like someone pulled the drain plug on my heel and let all the fantastic energy flow out, leaving me with just barely enough energy to lie on the couch all day and read my fabulous new book, Devil in the White City. This book is hard to put down, and I stayed up too late reading last night. Or maybe I'm all worn out from all the banana pudding, creamed corn, asian salad, snow cones, and burgers from the two consequetive holiday picnics. Yes, I should run.

Last week I mentioned preparing for a sponsored 5K race with my gym buddy, Cecily, because our gym schedules have diverged completely of late. She's a 6:00 am workout, and I've fallen into a much more sleep friendly schedule of arriving after 9:00 am or later in the afternoon. So, I really ought to run considering I've issued a training invitation.

My dear friend Helen is completely unavailable for a fitness pep talk as she's on a family vacation in Europe. She said I could call on her cell, but I bet she's sipping wine by a perfectly blue pool of water by her vine covered Italian villa. I had to work hard to suppress a green monster jealous eye roll when I typed that last sentence. My whining just might not fit her mood today.

I'm going to have to put my running shoes on my lazy feet, set my ipod on shuffle and hope for the best.

Does anyone else out there drive their husband crazy in this ever so annoying way?

Often, I take out my eye contacts rendering myself blind as a proverbial bat. Only I don't have have sonar waves to help me locate my misplaced spectacles. I run my Helen Keller hands smoothly over the bookstacked nightstand, paper covered computer desk, sink, cosmetic littered vanity, the tile side of the garden bathtub, the dusty dresser, and then affectionately yell to my sweetheart,

"Honey, can you help me find my eye glasses?"

First Class. My oldest boy took his first class rank in Boyscouts of America. Three cheers for Peace. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!

And thanks for the footlocker for camp, Greemaw.

Unnecessary questions

At the grocery store, my children enjoy helping me load the belt at check out. They also load the bulging bags back into the silver cart for the stroll to the van.

The middle-aged clerk commented, "You sure have a lot of nice helpers today."

"Yes," I beamed the proud mommy grin, "I have a the best helpers in the world."

She seemed a tad confused by the compliment. Maybe moms aren't supposed to brag on their own children, or maybe it's that we aren't even supposed to like our own children.
She furrowed her brow, "Are they yours?"

I gave the simple, "Yes" but I could feel it coming. It happens all the time.

She suspiciously eyed my brood more closely. Our family could enter the Sesame Street "one of things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong, can you guess which thing is not like the others, before we finish this song" contest. And we'd win. One boy does more than tan in the summer sun- he practically glows an unmistakable bronze. All my other children blaze a sunburned red smeared over Lilly white when sunscreen is not applied.

Anyhow, the clerk proceeded, "Are they all yours?"

"Yes, all mine." I proclaim with a gratuitous smile. But I know what she's thinking. It became obvious as she was no longer friendly to my sweet helpers or me.

With strangers there is always the painful scrutiny that I'm probably one of those loose women who has multiple baby daddies, and one man was the wrong color. Or maybe they are thinking something worse about my "poor" children. There's no comfortable way to stop the scorn. While we are proud to be adoptive parents, pointing out his birth circumstances to complete strangers wouldn't bless my son.

I wouldn't trade my life for the world, but I'd like to change the world. For the better. I just so happen to believe change begins with me, so I concluded my grocery store experience with the most sincerity I could muster, "I hope you have a great day. And thank you for your help."

Impressive blogger

I never been in a carnival before. I've just gone to one and wildly whirled around in the leg of a black octopus ride. So it's a very exciting day as I can say for the first time, I'm in the Carnival of Blogging Chicks. So what if I never found an acceptable prom date, and I didn't win homecoming queen- I'm a high tech queen of my own blog.

And Thank you Michele for the hyperlink advice. It worked!

Hauna turns 40

Birthday cake. Abundance of fresh flowers. Boatload of children. Hilarious conversation. Chinese paper lanterns. White bird house churches. Tulle. Watering cans. Ribbons. Brightly colored birthday plates, cups, napkins. Electric yellow table cloths. Oriental fans and parasols. Presents. An assortment of very yummy desserts. Mini vans galore. Smiles. Prayer.

And of course, garden quotes.


There can be no other occupation like gardening in which, if you were to creep up behind someone at their work, you would find them smiling. ~Mirabel Osler

The best place to seek God is in a garden. You can dig for him there. ~George Bernard Shaw, The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God, 1932

In gardens, beauty is a by-product. The main business is sex and death. ~Sam Llewelyn

God made rainy days so gardeners could get the housework done. ~Author Unknown

Gardens are a form of autobiography. ~Sydney Eddison, Horticulture magazine, August/September 1993

One of the most delightful things about a garden is the anticipation it provides. ~W.E. Johns, The Passing Show

Many things grow in the garden that were never sown there. ~Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia, 1732

It's all the in the timing

"One went to the door of the Beloved and knocked.
A voice asked, 'Who is there?'
He answered, 'It is I.'
The voice said, 'There is no room for Me and Thee.'
The door was shut.


After a year of solitude and deprivation he returned and knocked.

A voice from within asked, 'Who is there?'
The man said, 'It is Thee.'
The door was opened for him."

-- Jelaluddin Rumi

The poet Rumi apparently doesn't mind waiting.
For a year.
I, on the other hand, am not quite so wise.
I've been wondering why the printer hasn't come up with an estimate on my project after three weeks of waiting. I called yesterday ready to go pick up my things from them and find another company with a little more zip and an interest in the printing business.

The co-owner wife of the shop came to the phone and was all apology, "My husband, who was just putting your estimate together after going over those last details with you last week, was in a freak accident. A tree fell on him and he hasn't able to move until yesterday. I knew I should call you, but I've also needed to care for him."

I think I can wait some more. And be thankful for all the moving I've been able to do for the past seven days. Walking through the kitchen. Racing my children at swim team. Running in the park. Shopping for groceries. Strolling through my garden picking flowers and fruit.

My impatience does not become me. Everyday is a gift.

Did you like this book?

I didn't like it from the start, but I finished reading it anyhow.


I felt the simpleton country talk was too contrived and unbelievable.

I have to believe a woman who develops a love for Jane Austin and Charles Dickens would never settle for a life of a Trim 'N Tidy dry cleaning job, bowling league, and a husband with nasty teeth.

What did you think of the book?

No, please, not Father's Day

Father's Day conflicts me. Every. Single.
Year.

I'm not whining and would despise pity when I say I don't know my dad. I simply don't know him. And it's not that I'm not welcome in his home. I could make the four hour drive; I know the way. He and his wife, Lou, would politely invite me into their split level living room to sit on the comfy couch, offer me a coke, and Lou would talk about the weather and the latest news on television. She might even mention my half brother and sister whom I wouldn't recognize standing behind me in the Kroger buying United Dairy Farmers icecream. I think I held my brother as a newborn, but he's probably changed- a whole lot since infancy.

The last time I visited my dad's house was in the sixth grade, long before I could drive. Is it just that I'm out of the habit of dropping by?

The whole painful F.D. ordeal begins for me early in the week the moment I stand in Target to make my Father's Day card selections. It's a cake walk to pick a card for Uncle Laughter, my mother's husband, my father-in-law, and my husband. I enjoy friendship with these charming men. On the other hand, I can never find the right card for my dad, so I never buy one. Does that make me a horrible person? How could I possibly buy a dad card for someone I don't have a clue about? When I sit near him in my sister's kitchen or at a funeral every five years or so, he's silent and sullen. Tips from Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People don't work with him.

Why is that I can hang with my quiet cousin Nadine in a constant vegetative state more easily than my dad? One difference is that I can tenderly touch Nadine.


Before Buck and I had children, I avoided Father's Day altogether. When the sun rose, I'd pull the covers over my head. After getting out of bed, I'd keep busy all day to escape nagging thoughts. Oh, and I'd make an appointment with my therapist on the following Monday well in advance.

On the other hand, my husband has the most intimate of daddy relationships with our children. Buck plays and works with the boys. He spoils his daughter endlessly. His great admiration for his little people is evident in the visible sparkle in his eyes. His life centers and winds around his children and myself like lush green ivy on a professor's brick house. How could I be so lucky? So blessed?

And I see that same twinkle in Buck's father's eyes for his son, our children, and even me.

Most importantly, my heavenly Father's eyes shines brightly over me. I have all I need. In fact, I have need to celebrate this holiday.

However, even with all I need, Father's Day haunts me like an Dicken's apparition reminding me of something mournfully unresolved. There's still time, but without a starting point beyond prayer, I'm at a loss. I wonder how much longer?

Charitable Assumption

Here’s where I run into trouble. I fall down. I blow it.

The charitable assumption- thinking the best of someone when motives are unknown.

If I got it right, I wouldn’t blog about it every other week.

Even our American justice system operates on "innocent unless proven guilty". But not me.
My thoughts are sometimes a horror to me. When I disagree with someone, I think a sarcastic “Right” or a condescending “You’re certainly not perfect. Look at the way you deal with…” Or worse, “I, the perfect one, would never do that.”

The good news is that I have learned to keep my critical thoughts to myself mostly, unless you ask my husband who actually hears far too many. It is one of my deepest sorrows that one the I love most gets my worst.

During my morning reading I came across these profound words:

“But refuse foolish and ignorant speculations, knowing that they produce quarrels. The Lord’s bond-servant must not be quarrelsome, but be kind to all, able to teach, patient when wronged.”

The sentences were sweet balm to my guilty soul, because they gave me fresh strength, fresh like biting into an crimson apple plucked straight from an orchard in September, to fight my uncharitable thoughts. I don’t want quarrels; I am much more interested in kindness. I want more than most anything to be an excellent teacher, and absolutely nothing is wrong with patience.

Most everyday I get a visual demonstration of quarrels due to untrained hearts in my children- “He ALWAYS…” “He NEVER…” “She’s such a bother!”
My children are full of foolish speculation shared out loud for all to hear. Maybe your children do not quarrel, but mine have their fair share of arguments. I do not know a human on earth who naturally gives the benefit of the doubt, so I believe it is a learned skill wrapped up in forgiveness and the hard work of setting things right. Am I wrong about this?

With inspiration from these words, I just may give pause to my negative thoughts. I’m more aware of consequences. If given a foothold, harshness would only lead to a hard heart. A hard heart would drive me to internal quarrel discounting the words of the person I disdained. In turn, I’d become the very person I scorn.

My prayer again for today is for sensitivity to the humanity within my fellow man and woman- that I may make the charitable assumption.

Guessing game

Wise One came into my room a few minutes ago wearing gigantic grin and oversized snow pants over his legs with the bib rolled over his belly button. Folks, it's June and 90 degrees outside here in TN. "Mom, what do I look like?" he inquired.

Inside my brain I thought, " A Goober" but managed to keep the comment to myself.

"Are you supposed to be a character?" I smiled a bit disingenuously.

"Yep. Guess who I am." He proceeded to stiffen his arms and legs and walk about my room like Frankenstein. He added"Zurrp, Zurrp" to each step for sound effects while pushing invisible buttons on his tummy.

I nodded and answered in my very best British accent, "Must be the wrong trousers, buddy."

"YES! You're a good guesser, mom."

After four years of my boys on swim team, I'm becoming a stroke and turn judge. While it's all very interesting to put into practice all I've learned over the fours years, I figured out something not taught at the stroke and turn clinics- During close scoring meets, judges are unfairly scrutinized, criticized, and are subject to ugly comments.

Tonight I worried a disgruntled coach lay in waiting to jump out at me and claw my eyes out in the parking lot after our team suprisingly pulled off a slim victory after getting out tail kicked to Australia and back last year by the same team.

Next week, I think I'll bring a change of clothing, a wig, and dark sunglasses to wear to my car on the way home in the unlikely event of another win.

Good grief!

One of the best days of my life

Blogger Friend (possibly imaginary): What did you do yesterday, True?

True: I had the amazing and awesome privilege of watching a beautiful baby be born into this world.

Blogger Friend: Are you some kind of nurse?

True: The medical profession doesn't allow people with such pea brains to be responsible for the lives of others.

Blogger Friend: How is it that you attended a birth?

True: Svetlana, my lab partner from seventh grade IPS class invited me though I insisted I had no known skills to offer whatsoever in the area of birthing.

Blogger Friend: How did it go?

True: Though she claims she'll never have another child, she's really good at it. A natural. Honestly, she made it look relatively easy.

Blogger Friend: Tell us about the baby.

True: She is possibly the most beautiful newborn on the planet at this time. Perfect head, nose, toes, fingers. She weighs 7 pounds and 3 ounces. She favors her big sister, Anna. Her real name is incredibly lovely, but for the purposes of the blog, we'll call her Lienna. I haven't had the opportunity to stare deeply into her eyes to get some answers to the secret of life yet, because she's sensitive light just and had to squint after emerging from her dark and peaceful womb home.

Blogger Friend: What precaution did Svetlana take to ensure the hospital staff treated her with dignity?

True: Svetlana cleverly covered her embarrasing thigh tattoo with bandaids, and when the nurse kept asking about what could it could possibly be, Svet, Barysnikov and I shook our heads in silent solidarity.

Blogger Friend: Even in labor did Svet bring you to your knees crying in laughter?

True: Of course. She cracked jokes like a whip in between labor agony. I especially liked how she kept returning to a conversation about ants in her shed as a distraction from suffering.

Blogger Friend: What did Svet want as a celebration dinner after two days of excruciating labor?

True: What else? Spicy HOT beef chinese dinner. Isn't that what every woman wants?

Blogger Friend: How did her husband hold up through it all?

True: Barysnikov is truly a good man through and through, so the answer is obvious. He could not have possibly been a better support or more tender with his wife.

Blogger Friend: True, do you have any final words?

True: Thank you Svet and Bary for the unearned honor sharing this matchless moment with you. And thank you to Lienna for the years of joy to come as I watch you grow.

Blogging Chicks Blogroll

stronger than death

My mind is set on you today. It's not that I need you; it's that I miss you terribly, fiercely. If you sat on your flower covered porch feeding the squirrels from your dappled hands this evening, I swear I'd get in my car and drive to you; just to hear you say, "We-ell" followed by a sweet "ha, cu, cu, cu" laugh. And that smile; it just doesn't leave your face unless you stare off in the distance toward the bark of a strange dog.

I picture your jet black hair unrolled in waves all coming together in a hidden barrette close to the nape of your pale white neck. I can't understand why, but I don't smell the stale odor of cigarettes on you, but more a somewhat mossy body smell overshadowed by Jergens hand lotion. You pat my knee now and then describing the terrible storm which blew your bird feeder clear out of the tree. You make a dinner, so simple and delicious from white flour, salt , pepper, eggs, chicken, broth, and meaty scarlet tomatoes. You serve it on the same Formica plates with wheat stalks and flowers painted under the plastic. Chocolate pie for dessert.

You say to me as you cradle Peace in gently in your arms, "This baby smells so good. So clean. Not sour. You take such good care of your child." Later you dispense advice involving beer as a cure all for breastfeeding problems.

I miss sitting and watching the artistry of your simple and plain days. Observing while you work, wash dishes, cook, sit, scrub, sew, fold laundry, smoke, fix your hair, apply your makeup. Call me nuts, but I as a child, I was always intrigued when you pulled out hairs from your chin with tweezers in that magnified mirror in the early morning hours.

What's that soap opera you had to see everyday which you referred to as your "stories"?

When I wake up to the house and my bed quaking and the train whistle, you say, "Well, sleepyhead. It's nearly 8:00am. I wondered if you'd stay in bed all day."

And I so miss the way your bird feeder connected to a string from your kitchen windowsill to shake off "fat old bluejays" and squirrels so the little birds would have a chance at breakfast.

How can I love you more than ever when you've been gone for so long? You wouldn't be on your porch glider watching cars go by if I made my way to Berea now; I could only visit your gravestone. And that is not what I want to think of.

So I listen to the lyrics of the song over and over again which have brought you so close to me this moment.

At the wide open vista
A the wide open sweet someday
Climbing over the ridge top
To finally see the view
That none of us ever have known
Crossing over to home
In the vista
Home
David Wilcox

I don't wish for death, but I want to be near you. I want to be home with you again. Not to do anything, but just to be for a time. I feel impatient for us all to be Home together. I want you to know my children. I want them to make pictures for you and have you coo over what fine people they are. I want my mother to be able to ask those questions she never got to ask of you. I want to hear about your covered wagon ride to Florida too. I'd like to cook one meal for you, because I never got to. I'd like to ride the chair lift next to you to the top of the Great Smoky Mountains and have our picture made together.

So, what can I do except keep listening to that song considering your wide open vista? You gave me a love stronger than death. Do you see?

I, Cinderella

Please, if you have any inclination to come visit me, now is the time to do so.

My.
House.
Is.
Clean.

As I mentioned before Buck has invited two complete strangers (should be just fine as he met on them on internet) to stay with us,for the weekend, and I found myself compulsively scrubbing today. You can actually walk across our kitchen floor without sticking to it. The refrigerator is mostly white again. I even put new towels, throw rugs, and shower curtain in the bathroom.

I'm fairly certain that tommorrow, despite all the scouring and swabbing I accomplished in the four-boy-one-man bathroom today- the not so pleasant hint of urine will be back again by 8:00am in the morning. No way around it as those males marking their territory willy nilly with all those willies.

And I decided it is not mopping I hate; mopping is simple. It's all the scrubbing next to the nasty baseboards beforehand.

The sad part of all this cleaning, is that there is no ball for me tonight- just a morning swim practice evening swim meet for the children.

Where is my handsome prince?

Oh, yeah. He's headed to his songwriter's conference while I keep the children. Don't tell Buck, but the kids and I are going to have FUN without him somehow. I'll just sigh alot on the phone when he calls to check in, so he thinks we are all terribly bored without him.

Truevyne, how does your garden grow?

So glad you asked. My gardens of flowers and vegetables have never been so well loved and well used as this summer. Since this is my third year of gardening, I know more of what I'm doing than ever before.

In my former suburban and city life, I may have planted spices, never cared for them, and certainly didn't know how to cook with them. This summer, since I've learned to grow and care for them, I've begun to choose recipes which require the herbs I've grown. I even bundled a few up and hung them from the pot rack today to dry for future use.

My tall zinnias are just about to open with first blooms, but I picked six of adorable dwarf zinnas today and put them in a tiny bottle on the stove. At this moment, the Snowball bushes produces the best flowers growing to place on my kitchen table and around the house. I learned last summer that bouquets always look best with three sprigs rosemary or cat mint poking out the sides. I picked three pink roses and deadhead the rose bush for the first time this year.

I picked two baby zucchini squashes and a few lettuce leaves for late lunch/ early supper. All four children swim on a swim team in the evening, so I try to feed them mid afternoon and a snack after practice at 8:30 or 9:00.

I've fallen back in love with my wheat grinder and am baking bread, muffins, sweet rolls alongside the early veggies from my garden. Sometimes, when I hate my wheat grinder for all its mess, it sits under my sink sulking and weeping for company to come over so I'll make bread again.

Already the children have asked when the sugar snap peas which keep appearing on their plates will be finished growing. Today I noticed no buds on the sugar snap vines, so very soon they'll be moaning over too much zucchini.

This afternoon Peace and I made from artichoke hearts and fresh basil (from my plants) red sauce over pasta. When I'm not homeschooling, suddenly I'm the kind of mother I want to be. When a slightly annoyed Peace asked me"Exactly how long is dinner going to take?" My good mommy reply? In a steady, kind voice "Sooner if you help me. Grab the mushrooms and chop them." When I'm homeschooling or busy otherwise, I find myself snapping onery replies like, "Dinner will be done when it's done. If I had any help around here...blah, blah, blah." Summer can feel so relaxing. There are times I wish was a relaxed homeschooler, but academics concern me too much.

My husband has invited overnight guests from CSO (Buck's Christian Songwriter's Organization) whom we've never met will appear Thursday, so I should get to work less outside farm and more on neglected inside of my home.

While at the gym this morning, I noticed the crazy eye thing. The eye thing where everything I looked at I could see the jagged curve of a star superimposed over muscle men, the door to the tanning bed, tread mills, leg press, leg extension machine, etc.

I knew what was comin', so being the praying kind, I threw emergency flares up to God. God I'm an not good at this, so if You wouldn't mind, like the last two times, could you please fix me before it all starts?

I finished up my workout quickly and drove home. There's always a window between the lightning eye and agony. I decided against whining to Buck prematurely which I later regretted.
He drove off to get Wise One a desperately needed haircut leaving me with the other three children while I prepared a fantastic enchiladas recipe Svetlana had given me. I was so very hungry until it came time to fill the tortillas. A wave of nausea poured over me like gravy on warm mashed potatoes- guess it was coming afterall. I showed Tator how to wet and warm the tortillas, fill them, and lay them in the tray hoping I could keep down the breakfast waffle and the three pounds of water I'd sucked in at the gym. "Can. You. Finish. Tator? I've got to call Daddy." I grabbed the phone, and instead of hearing my beloved's voice, I heard his ring tone in another room. Rats. He'd left his phone on the bathroom counter. That's precisely when I felt a lead ball behind my left eye pounding about inside my brain like a pinball machine popping and flashing. "Tator. I. Am. So. Sick. I have to lay down right now. Listen for the timer, and please take the enchiladas out when you hear it go off. And most of all. Be. Quiet."

This was the first day ever the neighbors let their cows into the field next to our house. Their nervous "where am I?" moos sounded as if the cows were in the bed with their wet noses right up to my ear amplified on setting 11. The security "beep, beep" of the door opening and closing, a noise I rarely notice, sounded like I was on top of a blaring foghorn in Wuthering Heights just before daybreak. I threw some tylenol down my throat and laid down on my bed. I pulled covers over me as chill bumps formed on my newly freezing body. The migraine consumed me. All I could do, was pray for sleep. Mercifully, Buck drove up and I begged him to stop all the noise in the universe, so the pounding in my head wouldn't be so pronounced.

I'm not sure how long it took for sleep to come, because one minute of the agony seemed like a thousand, so it was true mercy when disconnected dreams finally carried me away from the thunder strikes behind my left eye. I woke up to a severely drooled on pillow for a moment, enough time to know it wasn't over yet, and entered that Alice in Wonderland dreamworld again. The second time I woke up, the severity had significantly reduced to a dull ache. I still have the dull ache tonight, but I'm grateful that's all it is.

I believe I've had four other migraines before' that's why I anticipated the unforgettable event. My first was in college during an exam- I noticed the words on the page kept jumping around while I studied and then the nausea and brain squashing hit just as I filled in test answers.

Another time I remember a migraine when Tator was an infant and Peace was a toddler. Sleep depravity played a role then and today. My sleep patterns were disrupted by my recent vacation and then bronchitis which made slumber seem unachievable last week.

So it's off to bed. Apparently I have some catching up to do.

And next time, I going to hire a stunt double to do my next migraine for me.

Killing me softly with his songs.
Singing my life with his words.

Ten year old grief

I didn't know David Wilcox's intensity, crazy mad laugh, and profound poetry set to gifted guitar strumming would set me on a rather dark path I'd not journeyed for ten years. After all, I've never listened to any of his tunes before this evening; I'd only read some thoughtful lyrics over at Thicket Dweller's blog http://todayslesson.blogspot.com some time ago. Of course and as far as I know, David nor I had any idea that Bluebird would also attend his concert, and that the combination of his piercing musical questions and her presence would turn my mind toward unvisited deep shadows.

Bluebird is an utterly lovely woman I with whom I used to share friendship. Nita, another dear friend from that time, Bluebird and I chased three wild toddler boys together in a closely knit community. I remember Bluebird cracking me up with her quick wit explaining, "You have my completely DIVIDED attention" once when we were trying to speak in a hallway as her son dashed precariously toward a set of stairs.

Bluebird adopted her first son and encouraged us in our own adoption process. We waited with great joy and anticipation for her second son, a long awaited birth son to come after ten long years of infertility. Nita, our toddler sons and I visited Bluebird and her pink, healthy, beautiful bouncing baby boy, Michael, at the hospital a day or so after he was born. Buck and I may have taken a meal to their home in the busy weeks that followed as they settled into a new life with a toddler and an infant.

A few weeks later, Nita called me to let me know Bluebird had taken a tiny sick Michael to Children's Hospital. RSV. Nita and I didn't want risk adding further germs by visiting the hospital, and like all mothers who feel helpless and desperate to "do something", Nita and I asked permission to clean Bluebird's house. We madly scrubbed kitchen floors and cleaned toilets deeply concerned for the new boy's life. My heart ached terribly when I ran across a storehouse of milk I knew he wasn't able to take in. The day we cleaned, things had turned very serious for the newborn. In fact, we did end up going to the hospital, but not to visit; Nita and I proceeded to quietly pray in the waiting room. While we were there, sorrow of all sorrow, almost unspeakable so I'll whisper it to you now- Michael died in his mother's arms.

Bluebird had been told Nita and I were in the waiting room, and she asked to see us one at a time. I've never openly talked about this before, but now I somehow feel it important to share my journey after ten years of silence. When I entered the room with Bluebird and Michael, I didn't speak as I had no words. I carefully held back tears so as not to have Bluebird focus on my needs. I don't remember all her words, but she asked me to hold Michael one last time. She explained, the nurses had put a heating pad in his swaddling blanket, so we wouldn't notice as he lost his body temperature. My heart breaks, no explodes again at this moment thinking of taking that lifeless precious treasure in my arms and stroking his perfect little sweet pea face. "He's so beautiful, Bluebird. He's just so beautiful" I remember thinking, perhaps even aloud.

A few days later, Nita and I clung to each other during his funeral services where both Bluebird and her husband spoke, yes eloquently about their faith and the One guiding them through the valley of the shadow of death while my eyes stared at the swaddling blanket inconspicuously draped over Bluebird's empty arms beside a tiny coffin.

Unthinkable. Remarkable. Sacred. Breathing Saints.

A month or so later, Buck and I received the wide chocolate eyed newborn boy, Tator, who would become our adopted son after a few years of foster care in our home.

As David Wilcox wove song tales this evening, I revisited the circumstances of these two births. Michael, welcomed into this world, arms flung wide open by family and friends; Tator born without notice to a drug using runaway fourteen year old girl in foster care, Hannah. Baby daddy was nowhere. Hannah's birthmother and man rejected biracial origins from the word "go". Hannah's foster care worker mentioned something along the lines of"I've never seen a more emotional disconnected mother in my life." ( I'd like to also mention here that this changed drastically to deep bonds and intertwined hearts with lots of unconditional love poured into this dear girl from Tator, Buck, and myself over the next two years.)

I questioned God ten years ago and again tonight.

Why?
Why?
Why?

Why take Michael? Why allow Tator to be born under such difficult circumstances? Why did I get the opportunity to raise a child of the same age while Bluebird mourns? I didn't want to be the one given new life, if Bluebird lost hers. It didn't seem fair for me to be handed such incredible blessing, while Bluebird's blessing faded from natural sight. God WHO are you, and what are You up to exactly?

Why did I get to drag around a car seat and proudly display a gorgeous baby? Why did I get to watch his second first steps (Buck beat me to viewing his first steps at a birthday party across the street)? Why was I allowed to push a perfectly healthy boy in a swing? Why did I get to unlock the secrets of reading with a curious boy? What was so special about me that I get to watch him fall more in love with his guitar everyday? What on earth am I doing raising a fine ten year old boy whose sixth tooth fell out tonight?

Where is Michael now? Is he ten there? Does he carry a slingshot? Does he conceal a live turtle hidden in the folds of his summer shorts? Could he also somehow be with us tonight? Who watches over him where You are? Or are You really enough?

When Tator met Bluebird for the first time in his memory tonight, he had no way of knowing these thoughts and questions swirled like a tornado in my head. Bluebird had graciously bowed out of our friendship when Tator was a baby, because it was simply and obviously too painful for her. I wondered how she felt this evening looking over at my bright handsome guy , Tator, seated beside Buck and I. Did Michael find his way into most every David Wilcox song for her the same as he had for me? Did Bluebird silently let tears slip unnoticed down her cheeks as I did grieving for her boy again? Surely she did when David crooned something like "I feel you here with me though I don't see you. You are right here with me. You have always been with me. I hear you calling." In my mind's eye, I pictured a towheaded boy, arms sticking straight out from his sides making airplane wings, joyously and noiselessly weaving behind Bluebird on sea shore while she strolled toward the blazing sun unaware. At the concert, Bluebird sat at the table right next to mine, but I dared not look for pain in her eyes. She's faced an awful lot of that already, and I couldn't bear to see more.

Buck, Tator and I got back in the van to make our way home, after a painful yet lovely evening. I finally let it all go.

I cried. Out loud.

Tator and Buck sweetly comforted me after inquiries.

I don't know if I'll ever understand God's ways, and I certainly cannot explain why, but I still deeply know God is good.

boy wonder

I asked 12 year old Peace to tackle his very cluttered room today. Believe it or not, he really does appreciate it when I take the time to go in and help in sort trash and treasure. Together we end up with garbage bags of trash and suddenly all his treasures fit in their respective storage spaces instead of spread all over the already limited walking space on the floor. I'll try and make time for his room in the next week or so.

Today, in his efforts to clean, Peace came up with an idea. He made a plan for his zillion little origami figures (please no disparaging my tween boy for such a geeky hobby). Peace would like to remind everyone that Samauri's wore origami in battle. While I was burning paper trash (and now please do not disparage me for such country bumpkin ways) when he invited me to look at his solution. On the way to his room from the burn barrel, I prayed the old "God, no matter how dumb or junky this looks, please don't let me be a nagging critical mother about it this time." This time I hadn't really needed that particular prayer, because I enjoyed this creative endeavor. Peace had hung the delicate paper creatures on string from his ceiling making his room an even more magical place. A few years ago, when Peace was tramping about 4-H camp, Buck and I did an extreme makeover on his room and made a tree house (loft) with vines winding about, bird houses and pretend feathered birds (which the cats like to gnaw on occasionally) posted here and there, lush trees painted on the walls, a desk with pegboard lined with hooks beside from which to hang his boyhood pocket knives, axes, Indian scalps, puppydog tails, lanterns, etc. Now his paper sculptures create magic of their own above. Fortunately I didn't manage stomp the wonder out of my boy today yet.

I observed the thin and awkward 12 year old boy dressed in all black a while. His T-shirt had something full of bad attitude written on it. His hair obscured his eyes in hip wisps. He sauntered to the baseball field flipping the back of other's heads with his glove. He taunted players who weren’t performing with major league talent. He ignored his mother when she asked a question and then wouldn’t look her in the eye when she demanded a response. In fact, I don’t think I saw him look in anyone’s eyes. His overall demeanor of hunched shoulders and angry face screamed “Unpleasant!” to me. The arrogant and judging part of me thought, “I sure hope my boys avoid him like the plague.” And I confess I didn’t make any charitable assumptions about his mom either.

Fast forward another year. I ran into this family again, and I wondered if anything had changed for this young man. I thought about his mother and how difficult seeking relationships with other moms in the sometimes stuffy and perfectionist home school world would be with a difficult son.

The first I saw of him on this new day, he was gently redirecting his toddler sister away from her mother who was busy in another room. He talked softly and kindly guided the little one by the hand.

My hard heart toward this boy completely and profoundly turned on a dime with this simple action.

I watched a little longer and saw him smiling and genuinely playing, not taunting, with my children and other boys. I looked back over my first impression of him, and I felt grief. I decided then and there to find an opportunity to speak with his mother, “I noticed a change in your son. He was so tender with his little sister a while ago. He saw that you were occupied and took time to take care of her needs. He seems more connected these days.”

The mother’s face lit up like a firefly on a warm summer night, “Thank you for saying that!” In the same moment, she visibly opened herself to me. She sat more erect and spoke with confidence I hadn’t noticed before.

I’m sorry I do not look for the good in all people, people who might get under my skin for one unimportant reason or another, when I realize the good’s amazing power. It’s downright transforming what acknowledging the best in people can do.

What if I lived a more inspired life where every person is just as valuable as another? What if I stopped looking at faults and intentionally sought after positive qualities in others? What if I was forgiving like that? I‘d be the person I want to become.

My to-do list has me in a bad mood. I thought I could get one thing done a day, but it hasn't turned out that way.

So far today:

1. Buck and I emptied all three freezers, scraped out ice from the chest freezer walls and floor, inventoried all food items. I think we have at least one if not five of everything from the frozen section at Wal-mart, but it's all been so mysteriously buried under pizza rolls and multiple bags of ice. Buck thinks one should fill an unstuffed freezer with bags of ice to keep it efficient. All it's done for me is make me buy things from the store we already had.

2. I mowed the front acre. Buck mowed 2 more.

3. I went through the zillions of papers on my desk to separate four really important projects I need to keep on top of.

4. One of those projects has been pulling together the games for Reading Reflex to begin reading therapy with one boy and start Pooh Bear on something new. She so wants to read, but doesn't have the auditory memory or sequencing in place. The games involve copying a hundred, okay maybe forty pages from the book, cutting the pages into nauseating itty bitty pieces and labeling envelopes for each game. Tedious. I think I'll scream if I have to cut out the words Fat Cat Sat one more time. If there is a treacherous fire in my house tonight, I'm rescuing those envelopes before my beloved children, because I never want to cut anything out again. Ever.

5. Watered my lovely garden and flower beds. Finally dug out the organic bug killer from under the sink, so maybe I'll enjoy one bite of the cabbage and broccoli I'm growing. Slugs and catepillars have been well fed, gluttonous in fact, in my garden. We'll have sugar snap peas with dinner tonight, because slugs and catepillars are too gorged to bother my vines.

6. Called a bunch of Hauna's friends to invite them to a fortieth birthday party in a few weeks. Gave directions to my house a thousand and one times.

7. I'm sick of working on the ceiling repairs. I have a feeling all the sheet rock mud I put on is NOT going to look well done. I rounded up hammers, buckets, plastic floor cover, nails, putty knives, cordless screw driver drill and Buck put them up for a time I won't mind fiddling with fussy things.

8. I read over some documents I'm working on. I toyed with giving them my undivided attention and thought better of it considering my mood.

9. Made an animal chore list for Buck as he begins to train the children to take over the chores. Peace will be able to take over for Buck a few days of the week soon.

10. I rounded up materials to make a meal menu on my bed. Soon I'll snuggle up and take on that chore.

I smell something wonderful happening in the kitchen, because Buck is making Swiss Steak as we found oodles of cubed steak in the freezer.

They're Back

Wise One and Tator have safely returned from a week at Grandpa's.

Now that they are home there is/are more:

1. noise
2. laundry
3. sibling rivalry
4. frustrated parenting
5. messes
6. meal preparation
7. towels left on the floor
8. confusion
9. schedule shuffling
10. work
11. activity
12. questions
13. bad breath
14. stubborness
15. play
16. laughter
17. hugs
18. jokes
19. joy
20. helpers
21. stories
22. and most of all LOVE

Found!

As Buck and I were drifting off to sleep after a rousing Sudoku race (he won as usual), when a loud scuffle outside our door ripped us out of rest back to conciousness. Buck rose to his feet as I murmured, "Could be the cats after Zippo the gerbil."

Yep. Our two cats often aid in Zippo's capture in this noisy way. Honestly, the cats know this guy is our pet; though they give great chase and carry him in their mouths, fortunately they never eat him. Buck joined Patches and Janet on the hunt and caught the little furry creature in the laundry room. Touching a rodent is never an option for me, so I am grateful Buck was home to do the job.

Buck woke up Peace up to share the good news. So neighbors, rejoice with us, we have found our gerbil which was lost.

The State of True Vyne Farm's Union

Hauna did a fantastic job of tending the little farm in our absence. She left a bouquet of bright fresh flowers from my beds on the kitchen counter to greet us. Thoughtful.

Zippo, the gerbil, went missing the day we left and Peace asks prayers we'll find his buddy soon.

While one hen died, brand new chicks were born to a mother hen in the goat barn and followed her peeping until Peace discovered a dead chick, probably stomped by a clumsy goat. Peace placed the chicks in the cozy brooder to ensure their safety. All I can say is, better not get attached to these fluff balls if they happen to grow into onery roosters. The other chicks born around Easter look like awkward and gawky teenagers now.

My garden continues to grow well. However, some melons still haven't sprouted. I need to sow again. The corn, cabbage, and broccoli tender shoots are all nibbled to nubs by something. Could be chickens but I put out slug away, because I see signs of a slug invasion.

Sugar snap peas are in and some cherries burst with red. Peace has been picking and eating right from the tree these last two days. He's also completed a leaf identification project from scouts using a guide all on his own.

I've spent some time weeding and transplanting zinnia sprouts from the walking paths in the garden.

Did I mention we left two boys behind with Grandpa M in South Carolina? Tator, the-boy-who-must-make-loud-noises-at-all-times, is creating mayhem a six hour drive away, so it's very quiet around here with the exception of creature twitters and the occasional little girl sharing treasures she's busily making.

Since energy boy is away, Buck and I have taken on mammoth projects. We're replacing the living room sheet rock on the ceiling damaged by a roof leak thus far unsuccessfully repaired. We're also repairing a ceiling hole made by Buck's knee in our bedroom. Nothing like a project to create a wreck in the house; a fine layer of dry wall dust coats everything below, including me, and there are large rectangles cut from the ceilings above.

Back to work. My to-do list calls.

I fight the same old knot in my stomach each time, though I promised myself many times I will not fret the results. But I always do. Upon resturning from vacation, I spied the envelope among the huge stack of mail. I forced myself to sift through the pile sorting junk, bills, graduation announcements, magazines into piles before I'd allow myself to scrutinize the contents of the dreaded envelope.

Buck casually inquired, "Anything interesting in the mail?"

I gulped and mustered a casual tone, "Homeschool test scores are in."

He nodded, "Well?"

"I haven't the guts to open it yet. You want to?" as I fished the envelope from the bottom of mess of papers spread over my bed.

I steadied my nerves which crashed as his first reaction came forth, "Wow!"

"Wow, good, or Wow, bad?" I clenched my jaw to absorb my tension.

Hesitant pause.

"Buck, good or bad?" I impatiently asked again drumming my fingers on the new Family Fun magazine on my lap.

"A little of both. I don't know what happened with X* science scores, but they are awful. However his reading scores are terrific."

What?! Science of all things? These boys live and breathe science. How the heck could he mess up science?

Buck continued, "We probably need to hold X* back next year and let him catch up overall."

No surprise there, but still a disappointment. Every year I think he's going to make a leap to grade level and beyond, but not this year. Steady gains, but no jump.

X* has made significant progress in some rocky areas like SPELLING. He's at least somewhere near grade level now.

Just so you know, I am the only homeschooler on earth with average (and-gasp-some below average on some subjects) children. Everyone else on the planet earth who homeschools has children who test at college levels in kindergarten.

I think of test scores are my report card for the year. Did we choose the right curriculum? Did our approaches pay off or blow? What about next year? Do I need to work with anyone in particular over the summer?

Do your children's test scores undo you for a bit like they do me? I know many who do not test, but I like to know gains/losses for sure and tests show me whether I like results or not.


*names withheld to protect the innocent

Greemaw and Pooh

Guess where we visited yesterday?

I'm conflicted about the whole Disney thing. On one hand, it's amazing fairy tales and images children love the world over. On the other, well, gag me with a princess crown.

A long time ago, I snuck all the Disney and other twaddle books off the shelves at home to the used bookseller, because I hated to read about a cartoon rather than an excellent story. There's no longer a contest between Blueberries for Sal and Ariel's Vacation with Snow White.

Since Greemaw doesn't live too far, we visited the Magic Kingdom yesterday though every part of me knew the children would love Sea World a million times more. However, I felt it best to let give them the contrast, and also eliminate the therapy session when they become adults, "My parents never did take me to Disney".

By the Teacups

Pooh Bear and Buck waited in the very long line only to have Pooh Bear exclaim her horrendous fear of the ride when they were about to enter a teacup.

Pooh Bear's "Thotful" Spot

Tator Conquers Sword in the Stone

Cinderella Moment

Forgot to mention that I've been begging my mom since visiting the springs to send me to Mermaid Camp held at Weeki Wachee in the spring and summer, since I totally missed the opportunity while growing up.

I'm guessing they might not make tails in my size though.

Perhaps you thought I was making up the camp...
http://mermaid.weekiwachee.com/index.php?module=pagemaster&PAGE_user_op=view_page&PAGE_id=9&MMN_position=8:8

Tator Stares down a mermaid

Wise One

Greemaw and Pooh

Wise One at Sunset

Peace and Pooh Bear at Greemaw's back door

Pooh Bear and Tator

Weeki Wachee

Greemaw actually lives near real mermaids at Weeki Wachee Springs, so we just had to go see them for Pooh Bear's sake. Like all five-year-old girls, Pooh Bear is fascinated with all that swirling hair, glamour (one must be a natural beauty to apply for mermaid training), and flashy scales. In fact, at age two one night while swimming in the bath tub, she begged me to turn her feet into fins.

Weeki Wachee Springs opened in 1947 with an underwater theater to the springs, the only one of its kind, and has had it's share of fame and celebrity visitors like who else? Esther Williams. Don Knotts. Elvis. I was amazed that the theater is a window to the natural wonder of the springs instead of some kind of tank. Fish and turtles swam all around the performers.

The mermaids train for up to a year and their star can hold her breath for over four minutes. Good grief! When this young lady dove to the depths of the spring, the audience was invited to try and hold our breath too. I made it less than a minute.

The mermaids take occasional breaths from air hoses, breathein to go up, blow out to go down, and keep their lungs filled somewhere in the middle to suspend themselves just so for viewing of the water ballet. They performed to prerecorded music and audio tracks, miming the words. Tator declared the whole idea "CHEEZY" after the first show, and spent the rest of the day swimming and tubing in the spring, and rushing down water slides with his brothers.

Little Mermaid twice and Fish Tales were the mermaid show offerings of the day. Pooh Bear didn't want to miss anything except the seawitch the second time around in Little Mermaid. The seawitch actually snuck up to the surface and suddenly poked her manical head out of a little window very near us, and nearly scared Pooh Bear out of her skin. Buck had to sleep next to our little girl for a while when we put her to bed. "Since the seawitch lives so near Greemaw, does she know the way to Greemaw's house?" she inquired.

Thinking over my latest blog entries, I'm thinking I should subtitle my blog something like

The Chicken Diaries, Gardening, and Sundry Book Recommendations

Today's entry will be no different. We borrowed Messenger by Lois Lowry on tape for the family's ride to and from Nashville, and the boys and I loved it. However, a very worn out five year old Pooh Bear couldn't get into the beautiful metaphorical tale, so she fell asleep.

It's a story about a healing place called Village next to Forest. The main character, Maddie, fled there as a neglected and surly street child and was taken in by Seer, a blind man. Seer and Village loved the boy into his true being as a boy, not perfect, but with a special beautiful gift.

Two conflicts add intrigue to the story- trading and whether or not to close Village. Trading is a meeting Seer refuses to attend where villagers ask for something and secretly trade for it. Maddie's friend, Ramone and his family traded for a gaming machine which Maddie envies. Mentor, the town's teacher keeps trading for something and is mysteriously changing. The villagers involved in trading are seeking Leader to close Village's border from welcoming new folks fleeing from death.

My mind went a thousand different directions while listening. What do I secretly trade for? Do I trade computer time for a reading a story book with my daughter? Do I trade community for privacy? Do people of America somehow trade something of beauty on the inside for cosmetic surgery? Do I walk away from rough people, because they are too damaged? What about immigration to the U.S.? What are illegals fleeing?

The last two days I've spent with a dear friend near Nashville hammering out a project of intertwined calling and purpose while our seven children played games, legos, pinball, dolls, swam in the swampy pond, and romped with the goats and dogs. It's an incredible gift to have found such a kindred family and friend. We did not finish, but I have a feeling we'll have to proceed and call the thing a process rather than done anyhow.

My family and I are headed out of town for more than a week to visit grandparents, and I'll be showing Hauna the ropes of the farm chores. Thank God for Hauna! I'm nervous to share with her that the second rooster in command after the Frankenbelle's departure named Mohawk (for obvious reasons) has taken to stalking and attacking those involved in farm chores or backyard frolics. I've begun stomping in Buck's huge black farm boots, flapping my arms wildly, and running right at Mohawk to show him exactly who's rooster boss around here, but it's tiresome. Bet Hauna, didn't factor in having to strut when she agreed to take care of our pretend farm.

Done for the WHOLE day

I heard the sound of rain falling on my tin roof this morning when the alarm rang. Rain always makes me want to fall back asleep and not wake up again until it's yellow blazing sunny enough to pry open my heavy eyelids for me. At least I found something to be thankful about, "I won't need to water the garden; God's taking care of that for me today."

I showered, dressed, checked the muffins Buck had stuck in the oven, and washed a pot that's been "soaking" since Friday. After tackling the pot, I immediately felt done for the day. However, the clock glared 7:03 am back at me for having this thought. After three tries, I roused my worn out children up and ready for church; we got home rather late our derby festivites last night. The whole way through morning routines, Pooh Bear kept grumping over things like, "I don't want to see Daddy. I don't like him. I don't like church. I don't want to go. I won't do what my teachers say. (I'm her teacher). I don't want to wear that. I don't like any clothes. I don't like my hair like that. I want a pony tail." After dealing with my crabby girly, I rolled my eyes that the sassy clock shot me a "It's only 7:49" look.

Buck helped me teach my class of 3, 4, and 5 year olds. One child impressed me with her 5 year old wisdom after making her dough by saying, "Teachor, I think the kingdom of heaven is wike the yeast because the kingdom keeps growing biggor- like the dough gets biggor with the yeast in it."This kind of deep thinking is precisely what makes love hanging out with preschoolers. I have to admit that after the class, I once again felt done for the day, but it was only 10:30.

After my class, I enjoyed church service with the fam. Then I rushed off to the gym hoping to work off some derby pie and mint julips off my hips. Without breaking any records, I ran my miles and did a few weight machines. Can you guess how I felt on the drive home? Yes, wiped- done for the day.

I'm supposed to go through the children's clothes this afternoon to access our beach wardrobe for our vacation next week, and I have a writing project on queue I keep postponing. However, I think I'll kick back, do some Sudukos and watch some Netflix while my children listen to the books on tape Greemaw sent them for Easter.

Anyone want to send a motivational speaker over to help me out of my rut?

Derby Day

Ladies, have you made your final elegant hat selections?

Gentlemen, are your neckties laid our and ready for this evening?

Bourbon and mint set aside for mint juleps?

Post time for the Kentucky Derby is 6:04 pm.

Svetlana, Helen, and I grew up in Kentucky and in the tradition of the Derby Day. Svet has planned a gala for us all to enjoy. Last year, the children's horses won, thus dominating all the fabulous prizes. Wise One's horse took first place for which he acquired a vibrating neck massager. Can't wait to see what gems from the thrift store or Svet's garage appear as prizes this year.

Farm Trick

Yesterday a lovely person I'd just met a few hours earlier announced she was able to hypnotize chickens. Intriguing.

My automatic reply to her claim? Of course, "Will you teach my sons? They'd love to learn."

Little did I know that I couldn't get those boys to bed last night or focused on their homeschool today since she taught them her trick. ALL my sons want to do is lead a hen into a dazed state of being.

Wanna know the secret so all you chicken bloggers out there can try it for yourself?

Find a white piece of printer paper and a pen. Place the squawking bird on it's side, holding it's head down with your left hand on the sideways paper so it looks like you are going to trace it's profile on the left edge. Use your right hand to peck the paper with the pen (maybe twenty times) by the chicken's head to get it's attention. Once its eyes focus on the pen pecking, draw a horizontal line across the paper. The chickens eyes may cross a little. Voila!

The chicken is tranced. It may lay completely still or stand looking stoned for the next little while.

Apparently you can do this using chalk or just your finger as well.

How's that for terribly goofy and not very useful, but amuzing none-the-less?

Wisdom from The Secret Life of Bees

How come if your favorite color is blue, you painted your house so pink?”

She laughed. “That was May’s (the speaker’s sister) doing. She was with me the day I went to the paint store to pick out the color. I had a nice tan color in mind, but May latched on to this sample called Caribbean Pink. She said it made her feel like dancing a Spanish flamenco. I thought, ‘Well, this is the tackiest color I’ve ever seen, and we’ll have half the town talking about us, but if it can lift May’s heart like that, I guess she ought to live inside it.’”

“All this time I just figured you liked pink,” I said.

She laughed again. “You know, some things don’t matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person’s heart- now that matters. The whole problem with people is-”

“They don’t know what matters and what doesn’t,” I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so.

“I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don’t choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose Caribbean pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.”

Have you ever given into another person on a big issue? Was it the right thing to do, or did it harm you in some way?

What do you know that is true in the deepest part of your soul?

What really matters?

Is it really the hardest thing on earth to choose what matters?

Does your own will get in the way of relationships?