We are on countdown. Vacation begins today. This is a big deal.. We have been gone overnight one time in the last year and a half. For one night. We really are tied down - between animals, vegetables, and ailing in-laws, we just never manage to go far or long. This week will be the exception.
When I was a little older than Bell, maybe 10, my great aunt and uncle began an annual tradition of renting a cabin at Grand Lake of the Cherokees for them and their three grandchildren. Their granddaughters were my only girl cousins and I made the missing stair step between the the girls who were a bit younger than me and their brother who was a bit older than me; Aunt Pauline made me one of the Grand Lake gang, ensuring that I became close with these cousins I often saw only that one week a year while Uncle Bob dutifully drug us around the lake until we all learned to ski, half drowning our sunburned selves. Don't fall over in amazement, but I even learned to slolem. How, I do not know since it was without glasses or contacts. Once we were grown, it became an every other year event and then since Bell was about two, it was abandoned as Bob and Pauline's health failed and they left us forever. Last fall, their daughter organized the revival of Wilsons at Grand a Lake, quite a feat since she lives in Colorado, and now that week is here.
This year will be the first time we have gone and stayed at the lake since I was just a few weeks pregnant with Bell. Then, I had no idea I was pregnant as I skied and jumped off a roof into the lake and drank Mike's hard lemonade. Crazy me. I am past caring if I ski or not, and I would never be brave enough to jump off a roof now, but I am so excited to see my cousins. The last few times we have seen them have mostly been funerals - not the best of circumstances. I am ready to sit with Chelsea and Mo in the sun and laugh with them. I hope to hear the generation older than me tell family stories. Hopefully, my grandparents will be out one night - my grandpa is just about the last keeper of Wilson lore. I am excited for Bell to meet cousins she doesn't even know she has. I know there is one just a bit and one just a bit younger . . . The next generation connecting and finding roots.
We haven't had an auspicious beginning. Jack was supposed to work until Sunday, but because of a confusion, got sent home early Friday so the next pay day won't be pretty. We thought about heading up early to see some of the family who were there only for the weekend and leaving today, but we weren't organized enough for an early departure and there was work that his dad needed done. Saturday just at dusk, the hydrant outside just broke off and we suddenly had a major water leak. The pipe was so corroded (remember, we live in Jack's grandparents' house), he wasn't sure he could fix it. I prayed. He dug and sawed pipes and managed to get it fixed. If we had left early and that had happened while we were gone . . . Sunday was making sure the line held, dealing with the garden and the forerunners of an army bug onslaught, packing. All that pre-trip stuff.
So. Departure. Pumpkins need a last drink. The car needs packed. The kid needs to get moving. When we come home, summer will be over for us. I will have more AP stuff and school will start. But that is when we come home. For now, it will be a road trip with Broadway show tunes, fun in the sun, cousins galore, too much food, forgetting about my fitness pal, family time, vacation time.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
My Daughter Is a Hoarder
My daughter is a hoarder. That should be read in the tone of a confession, perhaps the title of one of those weird reality/expose type TV shows. I deal with this blight in various ways. For months, I ignore the symptoms, letting items pile higher in an ever building future avalanche on her desk. I pretend not to notice things oozing from drawers. The floor is clean, her clothes are in drawers and I can find her - that is enough. Until it isn't anymore.
About twice a year, sometimes more, we tackle the problem of her room head on and it is always trying for me and heartbreaking for her, inciting wailing and gnashing of teeth. This week was the week of her room. It had to be this week - it was our last chance without Jack who does not particularly enjoy the drama. Tomorrow we will leave for most of the week for a wee bit of vacation. When we come home, we will be home just a few days and then Bell and Jack will be gone for a week while I do some AP work at school and then voila! School starts. (To be read in a unhappy tone, not excited).
Last spring, we worked on getting rid of toys she had outgrown. There are still plenty in there, but they stay neatly tucked away in cupboards that never even get opened so I can ignore those for a while longer. Instead, the focus was only three fold: stuffed animals, desk contents, books.
Yes, I made her get rid of books. There are still counting books on this kid's shelf, this kid who reads chapters of Magic Tree House and Boxcar Children long into the night when she can get away with it. I took every book on her shelf and dumped them into a sprawling pile on her bed. She had to make three piles: keepsake, give away, keep in the shelf. We then winnowed down the keepsake stack some more. It doesn't count as a keepsake just because some woman who met Jack once gave her a book that she has now had for two years and still hasn't read (and is, furthermore, drivel). Comics- repeat. We managed to clear off a third of her shelf. There are still some books she has outgrown, but I can live with a third. She was promised that now we can look at getting some new, more age appropriate books.
The stuffed animals were simpler. I counted the animals and told her she had to pick 20 to keep. Once again, this cleared out a third, not counting the build a bears who do mingle with the masses of common stuffed creatures in the drawer. I think she cheated because that drawer is still too full. I know. "20?" you ask. It is still too many, but these things have to be dealt with in baby steps. We will do it again or while she is gone, I may sneak a few out to the barn. If she doesn't notice their disappearance by winter, they can quietly go away.
The Desk. This is the part I hate the most. She thinks every scrap of paper she ever doodled on is a masterpiece of great import, every pencil nub missing an eraser still great in potential, every sticker from the doctor's office her favorite. Once again, we dumped every drawer on her bed. Three piles: trash, keep, mom's keepsake box. She sorted papers and beaded bracelets and art projects, I ruthlessly sorted through every art supply. I tested every marker and pen, chose the best crayons (no one child needs 4 boxes), cruelly discarded paintbrushes whose bristles were frazzled out.
Breaks had to be taken and snacks procurred. While everything was disassembled, it seemed a good time to rearrange the furniture a bit, give her a bit more room. She worried that she wouldn't ever figure out how how to organize the laundry basket of desk contents that were keep able. That was my job. Once sorting was done, I put everything away in drawers. We even had one drawer empty! Not surprising now that there are two kitchen sized trash bags of desk junk gone.
There was a lot of moaning and groaning throughout the five hour ordeal, but when she finally was admitted into her vacuumed room, with the clean sheeted bed and the tidy desk with the reading lamp that could now be seen, she gasped. I showed her which desk drawer held which treasures - the rock collection, the journal drawer, the art supplies, the play makeup, all the things she feared I had secretly thrown away when she wasn't looking. She apologized for the moaning and assured me that this was sooooo much better. "Mama, I can work at my desk again!" "Mama, I thought I had lost that journal!" "Mama, it looks so BIG in here!"
A lot of the mess came from the last week of school when she brought home all the contents of her nightmarish desk from her classroom. We normally would have dealt with it all then, but the day after school was out, she came down with a horrid a virus and by the time she rejoined the land of the living a week later, I was neck deep in the garden. I bear responsibility in this mess too. More importantly, I understand. I was a hoarder too, every bit as bad as her. My mother used to come help me clean my room like this once or twice a year becuase it would just get out of hand, as Suess says and my mother repeated, "This mess is too big and too deep and too tall." I remember cleaning my room at her age and being distraught that my makeup bag of prize locust shells had crumbled into brown dust. Disgusting, I know. When I was about ten, I went through a radical shift and became such a neat freak that it drove me nuts to have anything out of alignment, much less truly disorderly.
Maybe it will happen some day to Bella. Until then, there will be motherly interventions scheduled throughout the year.
About twice a year, sometimes more, we tackle the problem of her room head on and it is always trying for me and heartbreaking for her, inciting wailing and gnashing of teeth. This week was the week of her room. It had to be this week - it was our last chance without Jack who does not particularly enjoy the drama. Tomorrow we will leave for most of the week for a wee bit of vacation. When we come home, we will be home just a few days and then Bell and Jack will be gone for a week while I do some AP work at school and then voila! School starts. (To be read in a unhappy tone, not excited).
Last spring, we worked on getting rid of toys she had outgrown. There are still plenty in there, but they stay neatly tucked away in cupboards that never even get opened so I can ignore those for a while longer. Instead, the focus was only three fold: stuffed animals, desk contents, books.
Yes, I made her get rid of books. There are still counting books on this kid's shelf, this kid who reads chapters of Magic Tree House and Boxcar Children long into the night when she can get away with it. I took every book on her shelf and dumped them into a sprawling pile on her bed. She had to make three piles: keepsake, give away, keep in the shelf. We then winnowed down the keepsake stack some more. It doesn't count as a keepsake just because some woman who met Jack once gave her a book that she has now had for two years and still hasn't read (and is, furthermore, drivel). Comics- repeat. We managed to clear off a third of her shelf. There are still some books she has outgrown, but I can live with a third. She was promised that now we can look at getting some new, more age appropriate books.
The stuffed animals were simpler. I counted the animals and told her she had to pick 20 to keep. Once again, this cleared out a third, not counting the build a bears who do mingle with the masses of common stuffed creatures in the drawer. I think she cheated because that drawer is still too full. I know. "20?" you ask. It is still too many, but these things have to be dealt with in baby steps. We will do it again or while she is gone, I may sneak a few out to the barn. If she doesn't notice their disappearance by winter, they can quietly go away.
The Desk. This is the part I hate the most. She thinks every scrap of paper she ever doodled on is a masterpiece of great import, every pencil nub missing an eraser still great in potential, every sticker from the doctor's office her favorite. Once again, we dumped every drawer on her bed. Three piles: trash, keep, mom's keepsake box. She sorted papers and beaded bracelets and art projects, I ruthlessly sorted through every art supply. I tested every marker and pen, chose the best crayons (no one child needs 4 boxes), cruelly discarded paintbrushes whose bristles were frazzled out.
Breaks had to be taken and snacks procurred. While everything was disassembled, it seemed a good time to rearrange the furniture a bit, give her a bit more room. She worried that she wouldn't ever figure out how how to organize the laundry basket of desk contents that were keep able. That was my job. Once sorting was done, I put everything away in drawers. We even had one drawer empty! Not surprising now that there are two kitchen sized trash bags of desk junk gone.
There was a lot of moaning and groaning throughout the five hour ordeal, but when she finally was admitted into her vacuumed room, with the clean sheeted bed and the tidy desk with the reading lamp that could now be seen, she gasped. I showed her which desk drawer held which treasures - the rock collection, the journal drawer, the art supplies, the play makeup, all the things she feared I had secretly thrown away when she wasn't looking. She apologized for the moaning and assured me that this was sooooo much better. "Mama, I can work at my desk again!" "Mama, I thought I had lost that journal!" "Mama, it looks so BIG in here!"
A lot of the mess came from the last week of school when she brought home all the contents of her nightmarish desk from her classroom. We normally would have dealt with it all then, but the day after school was out, she came down with a horrid a virus and by the time she rejoined the land of the living a week later, I was neck deep in the garden. I bear responsibility in this mess too. More importantly, I understand. I was a hoarder too, every bit as bad as her. My mother used to come help me clean my room like this once or twice a year becuase it would just get out of hand, as Suess says and my mother repeated, "This mess is too big and too deep and too tall." I remember cleaning my room at her age and being distraught that my makeup bag of prize locust shells had crumbled into brown dust. Disgusting, I know. When I was about ten, I went through a radical shift and became such a neat freak that it drove me nuts to have anything out of alignment, much less truly disorderly.
Maybe it will happen some day to Bella. Until then, there will be motherly interventions scheduled throughout the year.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Bless Me. Bless you.
Our church often stays on the same subject for several weeks at a time. For several Sundays this summer, Reggie preached about doing good, not just believing. I have really been thinking about that. What fruit am I bearing? Is it evident to others? Is my life a blessing to those around me, or I am merely there, or even worse, do I become a stumbling block for someone?
The whole AP conference last week and the week leading up to it was such a mixed bag of frustration and blessing. The week before AP, we discovered that Katrina ( my fellow English teacher and supposed roommate) had no room. This greatly upset me because that meant I was rooming with a stranger. I may come across to my kids as confident and in control, but really having a conversation with someone I don't know terrifies me. The first day at Elgin, I almost threw up in the bathroom - not over the job, but over having to walk into a teachers' meeting without knowing anyone. I couldn't imagine having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. Anyway, we got the room sorted out. Sort of. And then Hyatt accidentally canceled my room and I had none at all. Driving in the city also terrifies me. There is no way I could have stayed somewhere else and driven myself to UT everyday. Once again, it got straightened out. These were things I really prayed about. I prayed that God either put me in a room with Katrina or give me the strength to handle the situation. He fixed it.
I believe he fixed it because he knew I needed the encouragement that rooming with Katrina would bless me with. We are supposed to lift up those around us and her life does just that. Her faith is so strong. Her commitment doesn't mean that her life is easy or without challenge, but it means that she is given the strength and ability to meet those challenges with grace instead of those difficulties just disappearing. There are things that she is waiting for answers on, but she waits in The Lord, waits for his direction and his guidance. Sometimes that means waiting a long time. I was encouraged by so many of the things she said, though she may have thought they were just casual conversations.
Our other Elgin AP goer was one I didn't know quite as well. Ruth isn't an English teacher and her kids are grown, so we just don't have as much in common, but once again, I see a woman who blesses. She gives of her heart, of her time, of her resources so greatly. She handles issues calmly, with grace and wisdom and kindness evident in her speech and demeanor. I loved getting to hear about all the children that have become part of their family through the years. Once again, these stories echoed that our Faith does not mean problems are erased, but that we will be able to deal with the problems as they arise. He never promises ease.
I could go on and on. So many of the women I have have become friends with encourage me on a daily basis as I see their walk evident in the way they love their husbands and children, as they deal with the outside world, as they choose life when they speak, even in the simple and not so simple kindnesses they do for each other. I have always been blessed by the lives of the women in our church, watching their steadfastness as they serve their families and the church body. This is doing. This is fruit.
The past few months have shown me certain things I need to be dilligent in putting off and removing from my life, things that will distract and open doors that I don't want open if I am to be any good for my family and those around me. I have been given help in these things, but I am also quite sure that I will be tempted to pick them up again. I also know I must do a better job teaching Bell about this life we choose. I need to be dilligent in these matters if I am to bless you as so many in my life bless me.
The whole AP conference last week and the week leading up to it was such a mixed bag of frustration and blessing. The week before AP, we discovered that Katrina ( my fellow English teacher and supposed roommate) had no room. This greatly upset me because that meant I was rooming with a stranger. I may come across to my kids as confident and in control, but really having a conversation with someone I don't know terrifies me. The first day at Elgin, I almost threw up in the bathroom - not over the job, but over having to walk into a teachers' meeting without knowing anyone. I couldn't imagine having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. Anyway, we got the room sorted out. Sort of. And then Hyatt accidentally canceled my room and I had none at all. Driving in the city also terrifies me. There is no way I could have stayed somewhere else and driven myself to UT everyday. Once again, it got straightened out. These were things I really prayed about. I prayed that God either put me in a room with Katrina or give me the strength to handle the situation. He fixed it.
I believe he fixed it because he knew I needed the encouragement that rooming with Katrina would bless me with. We are supposed to lift up those around us and her life does just that. Her faith is so strong. Her commitment doesn't mean that her life is easy or without challenge, but it means that she is given the strength and ability to meet those challenges with grace instead of those difficulties just disappearing. There are things that she is waiting for answers on, but she waits in The Lord, waits for his direction and his guidance. Sometimes that means waiting a long time. I was encouraged by so many of the things she said, though she may have thought they were just casual conversations.
Our other Elgin AP goer was one I didn't know quite as well. Ruth isn't an English teacher and her kids are grown, so we just don't have as much in common, but once again, I see a woman who blesses. She gives of her heart, of her time, of her resources so greatly. She handles issues calmly, with grace and wisdom and kindness evident in her speech and demeanor. I loved getting to hear about all the children that have become part of their family through the years. Once again, these stories echoed that our Faith does not mean problems are erased, but that we will be able to deal with the problems as they arise. He never promises ease.
I could go on and on. So many of the women I have have become friends with encourage me on a daily basis as I see their walk evident in the way they love their husbands and children, as they deal with the outside world, as they choose life when they speak, even in the simple and not so simple kindnesses they do for each other. I have always been blessed by the lives of the women in our church, watching their steadfastness as they serve their families and the church body. This is doing. This is fruit.
The past few months have shown me certain things I need to be dilligent in putting off and removing from my life, things that will distract and open doors that I don't want open if I am to be any good for my family and those around me. I have been given help in these things, but I am also quite sure that I will be tempted to pick them up again. I also know I must do a better job teaching Bell about this life we choose. I need to be dilligent in these matters if I am to bless you as so many in my life bless me.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Summer Camp or the APSI
When we are kids, we go away to summer camp - perhaps it is scout, nerd, or church camp, but we go and come back with our heads and hearts stretched to the bursting point with new knowledge and dreams.
And then some of us get old, become teachers, and go away to this camp like beast called Advanced Placement Summer Institute. I say it is camp like because we have roommates - if you are lucky, it is someone you choose, but many end up sleeping five feet away from a total stranger. It is camp like in that meals are served from a buffet line with a mess hall type atmosphere. Mostly, however, it is camp like in that we are supposed to come home inspired and with the skills to transform our students into these amazing thinking machines who will pass the AP exam in ten months. It is a beast because at the end of each day, you need a stiff drink before you can think about processing all you learned and heard that day.
Last year, I came home frustrated, thinking I got little from my class, believing too much time had been spent on anecdotes rather than the meat of AP. After day one this year, I realized I had misjudged last years's instructor. Yes, there was little to no strategy, but he gave me a general idea of what to teach and several pre-made units on major literature. In the long run, that was what I needed. I can muddle through a lot of stuff as long as I know what it is I am supposed to be muddling through. This year, in sharp contrast, I walked away with no pre-made units on literature, instead bringing home several units of strategy for teaching each section of the AP lang and comp exam. This lady was fabulous, and these are such good, basic building blocks for beginning my kids on these essays and then working them into upper-half papers.
I came home inspired that I could get more kids to really get it, to really dig in and write deeply and meaningfully. I also came home feeling guilty. Some of this stuff was common sense or was in books I possess. Why did I not teach it? I just didn't know which strategies out of which books to teach - it was my first year and there was just so much I didn't know, but if I had known then what I know now . . . How many more kids would have passed the exam?
Overall, I am pleased. I feared that I would have no one pass. I began the year with twenty eight kids and ended the year with twenty one. Eleven tested and five scored high enough to get college credit at most major universities. I had one perfect score, but she was one of those amazing kids whom I simply guided a little, rather than really taught. There were a handful of others who should have taken the test, but didn't because of a conflict with the test date or lack of money. I think all but two kids walked away substantially more prepared to tackle a real college class.
I will say this. I think I did give them the first tastes many had of the same gift Sarah Webb and Ann Frankland gave to me: the right and power to form one's own opinion and to have a dream and work toward that bliss. It is so hard for kids to learn to have opinions instead of relying on me to say " this character was wrong because . . ." It is harder to start taking ownership for what they really want as opposed to what they think they are supposed to want. If I had to choose between them having learned about thinking and writing or passing the test, I am glad I went with thinking. They are young and still have a stretch of road to cover before they are ready to jump into life on their own, but they aren't too young to start thinking about what they want and counting the costs of those dreams.
And then some of us get old, become teachers, and go away to this camp like beast called Advanced Placement Summer Institute. I say it is camp like because we have roommates - if you are lucky, it is someone you choose, but many end up sleeping five feet away from a total stranger. It is camp like in that meals are served from a buffet line with a mess hall type atmosphere. Mostly, however, it is camp like in that we are supposed to come home inspired and with the skills to transform our students into these amazing thinking machines who will pass the AP exam in ten months. It is a beast because at the end of each day, you need a stiff drink before you can think about processing all you learned and heard that day.
Last year, I came home frustrated, thinking I got little from my class, believing too much time had been spent on anecdotes rather than the meat of AP. After day one this year, I realized I had misjudged last years's instructor. Yes, there was little to no strategy, but he gave me a general idea of what to teach and several pre-made units on major literature. In the long run, that was what I needed. I can muddle through a lot of stuff as long as I know what it is I am supposed to be muddling through. This year, in sharp contrast, I walked away with no pre-made units on literature, instead bringing home several units of strategy for teaching each section of the AP lang and comp exam. This lady was fabulous, and these are such good, basic building blocks for beginning my kids on these essays and then working them into upper-half papers.
I came home inspired that I could get more kids to really get it, to really dig in and write deeply and meaningfully. I also came home feeling guilty. Some of this stuff was common sense or was in books I possess. Why did I not teach it? I just didn't know which strategies out of which books to teach - it was my first year and there was just so much I didn't know, but if I had known then what I know now . . . How many more kids would have passed the exam?
Overall, I am pleased. I feared that I would have no one pass. I began the year with twenty eight kids and ended the year with twenty one. Eleven tested and five scored high enough to get college credit at most major universities. I had one perfect score, but she was one of those amazing kids whom I simply guided a little, rather than really taught. There were a handful of others who should have taken the test, but didn't because of a conflict with the test date or lack of money. I think all but two kids walked away substantially more prepared to tackle a real college class.
I will say this. I think I did give them the first tastes many had of the same gift Sarah Webb and Ann Frankland gave to me: the right and power to form one's own opinion and to have a dream and work toward that bliss. It is so hard for kids to learn to have opinions instead of relying on me to say " this character was wrong because . . ." It is harder to start taking ownership for what they really want as opposed to what they think they are supposed to want. If I had to choose between them having learned about thinking and writing or passing the test, I am glad I went with thinking. They are young and still have a stretch of road to cover before they are ready to jump into life on their own, but they aren't too young to start thinking about what they want and counting the costs of those dreams.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Farm Girl Skills
I mostly grew up in town, albeit so on the edge of town that there was nothing but pastures behind our house. There were a few brief years we had a 365 acre farm way, way out in the country, there was every summer and holiday on my grandparents' farm, and my dad was an Ag teacher. As much as I would love to convince you that I have always been a farm girl, there were, in reality, afternoons spent playing cops and robbers with the kids down the street and riding my bicycle to the local pool in the summer. I think, though, that I have always been a farm girl at heart. My best memories were always in the country.
The past few weeks, my mother-in law has remarked more than once that I am a farm girl or that she was glad I was country girl. I suppose that is partly because I do things she approves of like canning and gardening and trekking down to the water for wild blackberries or rummaging in the wild plum patch next to her house. Rubilee, who is always spotless, approves of my willingness to get dirty.
The past few weeks, I have been getting better at farm girl skills. The last time Jack Dear was gone to work, I had an irrigation line coupling that kept coming loose, causing me to wake up to a very wet patch in the peach trees and very dry blackberries down the hill. In a moment of infinite patience, Jack walked me through the process of taking apart an old coupling on a spare line and putting it on this one. There were plugs to be stripped out and put in, rings to put on in the right order . . . Sorry, no technical terms allowed. Then a few days later, I got to learn how to operate the battery charger on Harold's cantankerous mower and work the lawn sweeper (also via phone). The battery charger should have been straight forward, but there are electrical issues with the mower and cutoff switches that added to my non-mechanically inclined frustrations.
Saturday, I decided that it was again time to mow, but this time, I was ready to manage the charger and everything. I walked up to the big house and after a chat with Rubilee, went out to the barn. As soon as I opened the door, the stench of something long dead hit me. I first uspected a rat. If only it had been. Remember my Facebook rant about the orange tom cat who kept visiting us in the night, causing trouble? He is no more. I will spare you the gory details. It suffices to point out that it is July and at least a few days had passed since his demise. I will also point out that although at 2 AM three nights running, I did wish a coyote would eat this cat, I was in no way responsible for his end. A shovel was procured, a rather large (but as it turns out, not quite large enough) hole dug, and cat scraped up and buried. I ended up having to put cement blocks over the dirt to keep the dogs from digging - not sure how deep that hole should have been, but a few feet was not enough. The cement barn floor got to be hosed down and bleached, all while Rubilee fretted that I had to do it. Her only comment was "I am so glad Jack married a country girl. Some other girl would have been upset, but you just got the hole dug."
After much charging and fighting with the mower and using the push mower while the big mower thought about working, the yard did get mowed and swept. There were hiccups of course. Jack thought I could probably manage to mow over the irrigation line without pulling it up. I did . . But only for five passes around the yard. Then I snagged the line and spent the next twenty minutes untangling it from the mower's undersides. Good thing I now know which parts to pick up at the farm store and how to splice my line back together with those couplings, right? At one point the mower quit and had to be charged again, of course as far from the house as possible but still just in reach of all Jack's extension cords put together (Minus the taped together one that I am afraid of).
It is Monday. I woke up at five. A responsible me would have gotten in her workout early. The real me has sat with her coffee for 2 hours and window shopped for new luggage and seeds for next year's garden. Today I will see if the weed eater and I are on speaking terms. I will dig through the jungle of tomatoes - no canning today, but I want to replenish our stock of dried tomatoes for salads, pizza, bread, and pasta. It is also the week of deep, before the insanity-of-back-to-school, no-husband-around, vacation-is-next-week house cleaning.
That is a thing that requires no farm girl skills, but on the whole, I must say that I like being able to deal with things. It was very satisfying to walk into that farm store and get my part on my own and then sit on my overturned bucket putting my line back together. I felt accomplished.
The past few weeks, my mother-in law has remarked more than once that I am a farm girl or that she was glad I was country girl. I suppose that is partly because I do things she approves of like canning and gardening and trekking down to the water for wild blackberries or rummaging in the wild plum patch next to her house. Rubilee, who is always spotless, approves of my willingness to get dirty.
The past few weeks, I have been getting better at farm girl skills. The last time Jack Dear was gone to work, I had an irrigation line coupling that kept coming loose, causing me to wake up to a very wet patch in the peach trees and very dry blackberries down the hill. In a moment of infinite patience, Jack walked me through the process of taking apart an old coupling on a spare line and putting it on this one. There were plugs to be stripped out and put in, rings to put on in the right order . . . Sorry, no technical terms allowed. Then a few days later, I got to learn how to operate the battery charger on Harold's cantankerous mower and work the lawn sweeper (also via phone). The battery charger should have been straight forward, but there are electrical issues with the mower and cutoff switches that added to my non-mechanically inclined frustrations.
Saturday, I decided that it was again time to mow, but this time, I was ready to manage the charger and everything. I walked up to the big house and after a chat with Rubilee, went out to the barn. As soon as I opened the door, the stench of something long dead hit me. I first uspected a rat. If only it had been. Remember my Facebook rant about the orange tom cat who kept visiting us in the night, causing trouble? He is no more. I will spare you the gory details. It suffices to point out that it is July and at least a few days had passed since his demise. I will also point out that although at 2 AM three nights running, I did wish a coyote would eat this cat, I was in no way responsible for his end. A shovel was procured, a rather large (but as it turns out, not quite large enough) hole dug, and cat scraped up and buried. I ended up having to put cement blocks over the dirt to keep the dogs from digging - not sure how deep that hole should have been, but a few feet was not enough. The cement barn floor got to be hosed down and bleached, all while Rubilee fretted that I had to do it. Her only comment was "I am so glad Jack married a country girl. Some other girl would have been upset, but you just got the hole dug."
After much charging and fighting with the mower and using the push mower while the big mower thought about working, the yard did get mowed and swept. There were hiccups of course. Jack thought I could probably manage to mow over the irrigation line without pulling it up. I did . . But only for five passes around the yard. Then I snagged the line and spent the next twenty minutes untangling it from the mower's undersides. Good thing I now know which parts to pick up at the farm store and how to splice my line back together with those couplings, right? At one point the mower quit and had to be charged again, of course as far from the house as possible but still just in reach of all Jack's extension cords put together (Minus the taped together one that I am afraid of).
It is Monday. I woke up at five. A responsible me would have gotten in her workout early. The real me has sat with her coffee for 2 hours and window shopped for new luggage and seeds for next year's garden. Today I will see if the weed eater and I are on speaking terms. I will dig through the jungle of tomatoes - no canning today, but I want to replenish our stock of dried tomatoes for salads, pizza, bread, and pasta. It is also the week of deep, before the insanity-of-back-to-school, no-husband-around, vacation-is-next-week house cleaning.
That is a thing that requires no farm girl skills, but on the whole, I must say that I like being able to deal with things. It was very satisfying to walk into that farm store and get my part on my own and then sit on my overturned bucket putting my line back together. I felt accomplished.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Bounty
I fully realize it has been over a month since I have written anything here, but well, it is summer and my brain has ceased to function properly. It as if there was only so much power in my brain and the end of the school year sucked up what was there, leaving me with only enough to make Isabella behave and the house and garden to function. There was simply no space for written word.
Usually, I have a summer's worth of projects planned. This year the only project was painting my classroom, which didn't and won't get done. Jack just hasn't had time and our artsy plan of superhero bodies with famous author heads is just too much for my poor abilities. It seems that my yard and garden has become my only project.
When we moved here, the grass was mostly stickers, but we have treated with corn gluten and have been faithful to water and fertilize. Between the grass we planted last year and what I have planted and babied along this summer, we are starting to get a real yard. At least we are in the back, but I so rarely spend time in the front that I have trouble getting worked up about it. The stickers are still there, but at least there is more grass than stickers now.Two weeks ago, the burn ban was actually lifted on a week that Jack was home, so we managed to get four huge brush piles burned. There are probably ten more piles worth of downed limbs (thanks to the ice this winter) in the woods behind the garden, but at least we knocked out the ones in the yard. We also moved the fence farther out to encompass my hundred plus pumpkin patch; I know the deer still get in, but at least the horses can't.
Jack put the garden and orchard on an irrigation line with auto on and offs, leaving me about an hour every other day in the things that weren't irrigated, but that is doable. In the meantime, canning season has hit for me. This week has yielded six half pints of apple butter, fourteen half pints of tart plum jam, and fifteen pints of salsa. A quart of roasted and peeled peppers and three quarts of blackberries went to the freezer. Not shabby for a a few afternoons' worth of work.
Sunday I leave for AP conference in Tulsa, so I am callng a halt to the garden work. I picked a bucket of tomatoes that will have to find a new home and I need to hoe out the asparagus patch in the morning, but other than that, I leave my garden on its own for a week. It's just too hot, outside and in my kitchen both. Jack will make sure things are watered. I am sure my jungle of tomatoes will be more riotous, but it will be there when I come home with my brain once again full of school stuff.
Usually, I have a summer's worth of projects planned. This year the only project was painting my classroom, which didn't and won't get done. Jack just hasn't had time and our artsy plan of superhero bodies with famous author heads is just too much for my poor abilities. It seems that my yard and garden has become my only project.
When we moved here, the grass was mostly stickers, but we have treated with corn gluten and have been faithful to water and fertilize. Between the grass we planted last year and what I have planted and babied along this summer, we are starting to get a real yard. At least we are in the back, but I so rarely spend time in the front that I have trouble getting worked up about it. The stickers are still there, but at least there is more grass than stickers now.Two weeks ago, the burn ban was actually lifted on a week that Jack was home, so we managed to get four huge brush piles burned. There are probably ten more piles worth of downed limbs (thanks to the ice this winter) in the woods behind the garden, but at least we knocked out the ones in the yard. We also moved the fence farther out to encompass my hundred plus pumpkin patch; I know the deer still get in, but at least the horses can't.
Jack put the garden and orchard on an irrigation line with auto on and offs, leaving me about an hour every other day in the things that weren't irrigated, but that is doable. In the meantime, canning season has hit for me. This week has yielded six half pints of apple butter, fourteen half pints of tart plum jam, and fifteen pints of salsa. A quart of roasted and peeled peppers and three quarts of blackberries went to the freezer. Not shabby for a a few afternoons' worth of work.
Sunday I leave for AP conference in Tulsa, so I am callng a halt to the garden work. I picked a bucket of tomatoes that will have to find a new home and I need to hoe out the asparagus patch in the morning, but other than that, I leave my garden on its own for a week. It's just too hot, outside and in my kitchen both. Jack will make sure things are watered. I am sure my jungle of tomatoes will be more riotous, but it will be there when I come home with my brain once again full of school stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)