Inside Scoop

Fatigue. Is that something you want the air traffic controller or pilots to be experiencing while you fly?

So did fatigue play any role in the plane crash in Lexington, Ky. last week? You bet it did.
The pilots flew on the turn around shift after little sleep. Normal? Oh, yes. The air traffic controller had a grand total of two hours sleep in 24 hours. A common occurance? Absolutely.

Anyone out there wonder why there was only one air traffic controller on duty in Lexington that morning? The FAA is cutting costs and corners all over the place including in refusing to staff two controllers during the quiet hours of midnight to six a.m. The controller in that tower was forced to consolidate his tower and radar duties as noone else was scheduled to help. It happens everyday across this nation. Do you think him checking the radar or on some other plane after confirming the correct runway with the pilots of that flight puts him at fault? Marian Blakely, head of the FAA, is either blatantly lying or does not have the slightest understanding of how air traffic controlling works when she proclaimed something along the lines of, "Whether or not another person had been there, the crash in Lexington would have happened anyway." That unfortunate controller could have visually followed that wayward plane if he had not had other duties, like radar, for which another controller could have been responsible.

This summer, 36% of congress failed to vote for further negotiations between the FAA and the National Air Traffic Controllers Association (NATCA) specifically on the issues of safety and fatigue imposed by the FAA cost cutting measures. The FAA painted air traffic controllers as whiney, greedy and lazy, and for some unknown reason, 36% of congress agreed. Maybe, just maybe congress will wake from its slumber to re-evaluate. The FAA is becoming an enemy of the people rather than the government servant it is intended to be.

A personal reflection
My sweet husband leaves the house a little after 5 a.m. on Monday to be at work by 6 a.m. He arrives home around 3 p.m. He rarely tries to nap as it's the middle of the day and because we'll have a family dinner, soccer for Wise One, Scouts for Peace, dance for Pooh Bear, and soccer in another town for Tater in the few hours between his next shift. He'll leave the same Monday evening for work around 10 p.m. and return after 7 a.m. on Tuesday. Though study after study indicates a nap produces better work, the FAA has completely ruled out napping on breaks. And of course, no breaks are allowed when the last controller leaves my husband at midnight in the tower alone until the next shift workers appear at 6 a.m. Yes, you read that correctly. NO breaks, not even for the potty or a drink from midnight to 6 a.m. in the event no other controller is scheduled or one gets sick. My buddies Helen and Clay tell me they'd be sued to kingdom come if they didn't provide appropriate breaks for their private business employees. However, my husband's employee IS the government and the FAA makes the rules.


Why so much fatigue in air traffic controllers besides the crazy hours?

There is a national shortage of air traffic controllers.
Philadelphia is 40 controllers short. No to worry, Albaquerque Center lacks 100 necessary employees. Even little old Knoxville will be short very soon as many retire under harsh FAA treatment. And the FAA has the nerve to insist NATCA consider their unwanted measures to be some sort of contract without any kind of vote. Believe me, the FAA would not get a favorable vote from NATCA members at this point.

And the strategy of the FAA to overcome the shortage?

Pay new people off the street less than miniumum wage to train and offer the top salary of $31,000 per year after whether they work at O'Hare or Knoxville. And how safe does it sound to hire people off the street to work at the busiest airport in the nation anyway?

AND

Mandatory overtime for controllers, 10 hour shifts, 6 days a week.

I am not joking.

No guaranteed vacation. If a family plans a trip, air traffic controllers can be called back to work smack dab in the middle.

Breaks, which formerly were scheduled every two hours for safety reasons, are no longer neccesary at all according to the FAA.

Sick days can be denied. Wouldn't a nice case of diaherria coupled with no breaks equal disaster?

FAA policy: Work ones who hold thousands of lives in their hands harder and longer.

If you think this is a bad idea, you might just want to drop a note saying so to your congressman. Ours apparently finds my husband and all others in his professsion to be whiney, lazy, and greedy.

A friend of mine is teaching Good Shepherd work in Uganda for one month. This was something she sent from her journal today:

Peace is the source of life. (Kenya)
If you cannot resolve your problems in peace, you cannot solve war. (Somalia)
The weak long for revenge but the strong seek justice. (South Africa)
Those who refuse to forgive break a bridge on which they must pass. (Cameroon)
Peace is like a treasure that shall never part from you. (Kenya)
Never break the pot that keeps you together. (Kenya)
Peace is the mother of friendship. (Sierra Leon)
To agree together is to make progress. (Tanzania)
A united family eats from the same plate. (Uganda)
If there is love there is peace. (Swahili)
If you offend, ask pardon; if offended, forgive. (Ethiopia)
The happiness of a single [wo]man causes peace to all. (Ethiopia)

Claire thinks I need some serious sensitivity training. She agreed to rehabilitate two abandoned newborn squirrels, and finds my objections to be profoundly sad. Rehabilitation means feeding the varmints formula every three hours by a syringe and doing what their mother would normally do to get them to eliminate afterwards, cleaning their cage, regulating their temperature, clearing up their diarrhea, and other endless tasks I can't fathom doing for a creature that looks just like a nasty rat. Claire insisted I drop by and see how very cute and cuddly they were. Call me crazy, but I have no interest in baby squirrels unless it's to watch them do what squirrels do in the wild. On rare occasions, I find the creatures to be amusing to observe. I certainly don't want to ever touch one. It gives me the hebee jebees just thinking about it.
Apparently the squirrels have opened their eyes, and are becoming much more active this last week. All the more reason for me to stay clear. Imagine one escaping and madly racing about the house.
Claire has a grandma who has passed on, and Claire thinks when I meet her grandma in the afterlife, (she was another bright woman who also did not dig squirrels either) we'll walk together down a glistening heavenly path to a squirrel refuge to snuggle and care for baby winged angel squirrels who departed earth too soon. Claire believes the scales of squirrel prejudice will melt away from my heart when I set foot through the pearly gates. She thinks I lack squirrel compassion.
Personally, I think Grandma and I will slap our knees, hoot and holler over the fact that God will not allow squirrels upstairs, because they simply aren't as cute, let's say, as goats. Now there is an animal in which to dedicate one's time.

The more I think about it, the funnier it gets.

Picture this in your mind's eye. My sista's biker husband, Harley, most likely wearing black leather, enters the airport the very first day of the "liquid scare" holding my bouncing baby niece dressed head to toe in pink. Noone knows why, but suddenly all liquids are banned from carry on bags. Harley immediately becomes uncomfortable realizing he's carrying a very important yet odd liquid which must pass through security. He asks a security guard who assures him the liquid may NOT board the plane, but Harley knows hell will pay if this particular substance is left behind. Harley is directed to a posted listing of possible exceptions. He wipes his brow in relief, kisses baby Kelby on her tiny dainty nose, and proceeds to the security checkpoint when he finds his cargo listed as not banned. He reaches the security persons busily checking bags, takes in a deep breath, and opens his carry on.

Security Person: "Sir, all liquids are banned. You may not take these items on the plane as they contain liquid."
Harley: "I checked the list, and this is an exception."
Security Person: "What exactly is this?"
Harley coughs and mutters into his leather jacket's arm: "Brmlk."
Security Person: "Please, speak up sir."
Harley looking around and sighing: "It's my wife's breastmilk."

In England, he would have had to take a sip to prove it harmless. So, did Harley raise his fist in the air and proclaim, "God bless America?"

My Tator turned eleven yesterday. Buck wondered out loud if his birthmom may have been thinking of him. I paused to bless her again for the gift he is to our family.

Tator invited a whole slew of boys to the Cove, a lovely park with a nice swimmin' hole. Then the crowd came home with us for an overnight.

The boys stayed up late and got up early as any group of friends might to pack the most fun into a day. When I sleepily made my way to the kitchen this morning some were playing board games quietly and some were sharing comics on the couches, "Do you like this- when Calvin pretends to be rabid by foaming his mouth up with toothpaste?" and "My move. Spy disarms your bomb." I am amazed at the maturity of these young men. They all used to run around like screaming madman day and night, inside and out, but those times have faded and made way for a more civilized troop. They self limit their riots to the outdoors now.

Buck dug up a hilarious video from Tator's birthday seven years ago which only one of the bunch hadn't attended. Everyone laughed until we cried. The little ones have turned into mighty awesome young men. And talk about polite! How many boys between ten and fifteen nowadays speak in complete sentences let alone remember to include "Please" and "Thanks" to boot?

We are blessed to have these families in our lives. Blessed to call them friends.

Why? Why on earth did critics pan it? Did they feel fooled by the poor marketing strategy into thinking it would be a horror film of some kind? Is that what disappointed them? Did they fall asleep watching? Though I can’t see how? Was it the plain title? Buck had a very funny explanation, but it gives away a tiny secret in the movie, and I couldn't do that to anyone. My guess it that these movie critics went in spiritually deadened or dull. They did not have ears to hear or eyes to hear the incredibly powerful message of hope and destiny in parable form.

I went into Lady in the Water hoping it might just speak to Buck’s heart for his forty second birthday. We both walked out after the movie choked up, unable to speak for a while. Then once we began to unravel the parable together, we couldn’t stop. I was caught up for a while in the character of Story and her unfolding meanings- the poor, the vulnerable, sacred history, the church , the innocent, those who cannot speak for themselves but impact our world with their very presence. Buck was undone by the respected man who exclaimed, “We want all it to be true!” Yes, we do, sir.

I wouldn’t dare ruin anything for you with details. Every inch tells us the best and only way it will all work out is to discover for ourselves in community.

One caution for sensitive viewers- the lurking enemy in the story is terribly frightening, much like our very real enemies. I for one, did not think this to be overdone or just for effect. There seemed to be purpose and meaning in every particular of film; where there was evil, special provision was given to overcome it.

I do not enjoy watching movies a second time, but when this one comes out on DVD, I’d like to buy it- and I have never once bought a single movie for myself before. Then I intend to share it with two or three particular groups of dear friends and asking the following questions,

“What is it that we going to do as a community?”

and

"What are the gifts we've laid down and refused to use because they've became to painful?"

What questions did the movie bring up for you?

techincal blues

Why haven't I blogged lately?

I haven't had time. I've spent every last free moment performing multiple tasks to enable my computer to continue service with the rather unhelpful and unmoveable online-school-who-shall-remain-nameless-for-the-moment. Last weekend, the nameless-and-obviously unconcerned-online-school updated their security which left "a handful" of unimportant and insignificant dial-up homeschoolers coughing in the dust!

Have I mentioned before how very much I'd like to have DSL in my home, but Charter, the only company who would actually came out and survey the prospect, considers my home to be in an inaccesable location? I'm thinking of sticking my three boys in overalls, forcing shovels into their grubby little hands, equipping the trio with a strand of cable a half mile long, handing the rascals a cellphone with the number for Charter on speed dial, then barring the door until I can casually sit at my desk and access the internet through a cable in less than the twinkle of an eye. Don't worry, the working children can drink all they want from the green garden hose, there are plenty of tomatoes in the garden to eat, and they can kill a chicken and cook it over a fire if they develop a need for a protein source while digging to China and back.

OR maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to commit my boys to a chain gang if the unmentioned-and-currently-extremly- irrtitating-online-school could come up with a simple way for me to log in again. Like, for example, the simple way that existed before their updates last weekend?

As it stands now, I must dial up AOL and then disable the accelerator. To tell the honest truth, before Thursday I didn't know what or where the accelerator was located, but with some quality time spent with a chipper technical help assistant, I got an education. The techie, however, did not inform me that if I disable the accelerator before I log on to AOL, AOL would pitch a hissy fit and toss me offline every five seconds and subsequently would desperately try to reconnect in some vicious circle which lasted as long as the contestant played. (I competed more times than I'd ever like to admit.) Now after the accelerator is disabled, I cruise right onto the online school's website. No problem. The page boast on the best of education, great service, easy access blah, blah, blah. Next I click ols (online school) which may or may not lead me to a log in page. My husband says, "If you stick out your tongue and lift your right foot while pressing the keyboard key, it most likely will work." If the computer gods are with me and in a good mood, I might be able to cheerfully type in my username and password. But here's the major hitch, mostly the page loads, and loads, and loads, and loads, until well, it doesn't really load. Carefully and constantly repeat these steps for between one half to one full hour and maybe my account eventually pops up. Buck thinks pointing at the screen, winking, and yelling at the top of his lungs, "That's what I'm talking about!" enhances the process. I suppose he's right, because it definately gets a giggle from me.

Did I mention that last week, before the online school made updates, the process was quite mundane? Painless even?

I have left a message for a technical supervisor to call me back. I'm quite certain this will have absolutely no effect, but when I mention my highly public blog disclosing the name of his company, that'll get some action, boy howdy!

School woes

My oldest son Peace is wrestling with the whole "school is boring" thing. And it's not because he has a huge load of work. His co-op doesn't start till next week, so I've given him a little writing, dictation, a few problems of math, a simple assignment to help his sister, and a science or history diddy due every day until he begins his courses.

I do not remember ever even thinking, "Why do I have to do schoolwork?" or "Algebra and writing are useless." I just went to school and did the best I could in every single subject. Everyday.

So what do I do with an apathetic seventh grader? We attended orientation at the co-op last night, and I watched in horror as the teachers went over their expectations while he played with the lead in his mechanical pencil. Good night! Not a great start.

This is my child who attended a public magnet school in kindergarten and first grade. He intimately knows the tedium of school and begged me to never send him back- Peace wanted to be outside in the spring, not stuck at a desk, same as me. So a one day a week co-op with four days of assignments to follow seems like a good compromise for this year. I spent the last few years stalking him during homeschool to keep him on task which made me feel like some kind of academic ogre. Now I've enlisted the help of four other monsters to take over torturing the boy.

I worry I won't find the fine balance between supporting him and doing for him in order that he'll make the grade. Grades for him have been in my hands for the last five years, and I simply had him do his work until it was correct. Now I have other teachers in the mix who'll evaluate.

I suppose transition is always an unfamiliar and therefore a somewhat uncomfortable place. I'm in that awkward place as a mom and feel the chaffing rub. God help me get things right with this son.

Write Away From Singapore

I'm adding a dear friend, new to the blogging world, to my blogroll.

Write Away From Singapore

Heather and I met a zillion years ago- yes, dinosaurs walked the earth. She volunteered for me in an inner city afterschool program I administrated, my former job in a faraway life before I became entirely consumed by motherhood.

Heather and I became friends as a result of our work together. The kind of friend who'll dash over in the middle of the night to take care sleeping babies, so my husband could rush me to the hospital for a medical emergency.

Now Heather is raising her own babies in Singapore with the dearest of husbands. And blogging about it.

The Shepherd's Call

I took a little child’s hand in mine. We were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child only of the Father. I pointed to the sternness of His face were the child to displease Him. I spoke of the child’s goodness as something that would appease the Father’s wrath. We walked under the tall trees. I said the Father had the power to bring them crashing down with His thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine. I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning, blazing. Sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He wound not take the Father’s hand. I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious, so serious.

I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with a multiplicity of things I had to teach him. We did not ramble. We hastened from spot to spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of different trees. The next moment we were examining a bird’s nest. While the child questioned me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I wakened him, lest he miss something I wished him to see. We spoke of the Father. Oh, yes, often and rapidly, I poured into his little ear all the stories I thought he ought to know. But we were often interrupted by the wind blowing, of which we must trace its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen directions. The Father stretched out His hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned in his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.

I took a little child’s hand to lead him to the Father. My heart full of gratitude for the privilege. We walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short ones of the child. We spoke of many things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors….Sometimes we watched one of the Father’s birds. We watched it build its nest and lay its eggs. We wondered, elated a the care it gave its young….Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them again to me. We told them, the child and I over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father’s trees and letting His cool breeze cool our brows, never speaking. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly into the Father’s face. He put his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.

Journals of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd 1984-1997, page 16

These words sum up my passion. Sometimes, this is what I eat, drink, and sleep for days at a time. I know many might find my work to be one great big yawn or even offensive. And I can't explain "the why" behind how children's spiritual formation interests me so, except to say, it's way down deep inside me.

Though I have many irons in the fire, my calling lately is concentrated on The Shepherd's Call, a project to invite Protestant Evangelicals like myself to reflective ways of working with children in ministry. When my dear friend and Shepherd's Call partner and I launch our website, I'll let you know.

I have a confession to make. Hopefully, we can still be friends even though I've openly disclosed a severe character flaw.

I like Woody Allen movies. Not all of them, but many. Yes, he's a morally depraved individual, but he makes me laugh. Hard. And I like to laugh, even if the jokes are written and spoken by a man who has sex with his adopted daughter.

Here's a blurb from a scene in Scoop which made me guffaw at the theater with Buck on Sunday.

Woody: "What persuasion are you?"
Upper Class English Woman at a fancy party: "Persuasion? Do you mean religion?"
Woody: "Yes."
Woman: "Christian. And you?"
Woody: "I used to be of the Hebrew persuasion, but I've since converted. Now I'm a narcissist."

Yes, he is. And he even jokes about it on screen in front of millions of people. I think he may have written the entire movie on the off chance that he could get some action on the side with his co-star Scarlet Johanson.

Though Manhatten Murder Mystery and Bullets over Broadway (don't you just love John Cusack?) are my all time favorite Woody Allen films, I enjoyed Scoop, another quirky whodunnit.


So, can we still be friends? I promise never to invite Woody over for dinner while children are present.

Fall is upon us

In examining my fall schedule, I find myself filled with angst. Maybe I feel this way every year, but I can’t remember exactly. Finally after three years, we’ve decided to do local AYSO soccer instead of driving into Knoxville for our old soccer league. This means I and my children won’t see our dearest of friends every Saturday game day. Pooh Bear is finally old enough and interested, so we’ll have four completely different AYSO teams to keep up with. Is that even possible? Especially since one child has a three day a week practice schedule for a competitive team. What are the chances I could ask one or more of my children to stop loving soccer? Or stop being a boy full of energy to burn? Include Scouts, a one day co-op for Peace, my Shepherd’s Call work, and ballet and I’ve got my hands completely full.

What. Am. I. Thinking?

School is kicking my tail already. I mentioned how we’ve moved to an academically challenging plan, and I am definitely on task of teaching four or more hours a day. The semi-unschooling approach I used last year, worked but not well. This year I’m hoping my children make leaps instead of steps. I suppose we’re off to a great start seeing the work they’ve put in so far.

The final piece to the madness is that Buck’s schedule has changed to the very unrelaxing days of Wednesday and Thursdays off. We must get all our family business done during school days which is completely unsettling for me. We like to work and play together and then kick back, but this set of days off won’t permit. (Buck tells me in October he’ll start working mandatory overtime, because the FAA has once again ignored the air traffic control union’s warning to plan ahead for a shortage of personnel. Don’t worry, air traffic controllers are in short supply everywhere now, and it’s only going to get much worse as those who are eligible retire to free themselves from the new unreasonable FAA stipulations. How could it matter that the people who keep our skies safe are dreadfully tired from overwork? Some facilities are literally lack a hundred workers with no promise of more to come. Buck and I voted against our congressman yesterday in the elections, because he did not take the time to understand the situation when it was put before congress last month, but he somehow managed to win anyway without our votes.)

One thing I’ve introduced to my family this week is savingdinner.com. The company provides a menu and organized shopping list for six dinners and sides a week. Takes the thinking out of “what’s for dinner?” for a woman who hates to figure dinner every. Single. Afternoon. It’s helping keep my family well fed in the chaos.

I know I get snippy with my husband’s shift change every year, and I today I promise my family to do better than the last few grumpy days. Hopefully I’ll find grace and peace again in the midst of such busyness.

To the clerk at Movie Gallery

I greedily tore open the thin red package from Netflix with great anticipation. After my all my squirrels fell asleep tucked away in their little beds, I popped the DVD into the player and nestled under my own blankets. I pressed "play" with a tickle of excitement in my belly. The cafe scene was quaint and dear- stuffy educated old man joins gorgeous and simple young lady for coffee. Good start. A groggy Buck joined me when gentleman Lawrence invited his new glamorous friend to attend the G-8 summit in Iceland as his guest. Alrighty. When simple yet stunning girl began to spout unsolicited and well-rehearsed facts about international poverty to heads of states, I became disillusioned with the charm of the movie. The story line seemed quite plausible up until that moment. My curiousity waned.

While The Girl in the Cafe captured my attention, I wasn't riveted. My apologies to the chatty clerk at Movie Gallery for not falling in love with this movie. I know it totally rocked your world; it just ever so slightly nudged mine.

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.