Letter Writing on Thursday

Last weekend the kids and I drove to Southern Utah to spend a couple of days at a friend's parents' ranch.

Can I just say how much I love that wide open, rugged landscape? I felt so happy and light as we drove along. 

I've got the West in my blood and bones.
(I also heart this picture of Mia.)

And every time I travel with these peeps, I'm amazed at how easy they are.

They read, sometimes we listen to audio books, we talk, listen to music, and sometimes we dance.
They are the best travelers.

While there, we rode 4-wheelers,

the kids got to help feed the cows,

and despite the fact that Lisa's mom has cancer and her hair just started falling out, she loved on all these kids and taught mine how to ride the 4-wheelers on their own.

Coop shot a little bird when the boys were out on the 4-wheeler by themselves. He and Benj pulled off the wings and feathers, cut it open, salvaged the meat, grilled it up, and ate it.

 (Claire wanted to try it too.)

I want the kids to write thank you notes to send to Lisa's parents, so after Claire and I ate breakfast this morning, we worked together on hers. (I write the letters on one paper, and she copies them on her own.)

I've said this before, but 

I'm not sure there's anything I love more than learning-to-write-your-letters handwriting.

(See this post and this post and this post, for example.) 

I love her little tongue poking out in concentration, and the amaryllis on the table (see that little green spear just beginning to emerge from one of them!).

 After the note was done, we did her first reading lesson.

(I've taught all my people how to read, and I'm not about to miss out with this one--even if she does decide to do public school for kindergarten this year.)

Then we listened to some tunes, danced the "Boot Scoot N' Boogy" together in the front room, and I cleaned up the kitchen.

She's watching The Nutcracker now (her request--we have a DVD of it by the San Francisco Ballet), I'm sitting beside her on my bed about to plug in to work, and I've got meat thawing on the counter for meatloaf and baked potatoes for dinner.

I love these simple, quiet, ordinary moments of day-to-day life.

They are special.

Have I told you how much I love being a mom and how I wouldn't miss it for the world?

#truth

So far, this Thursday is giving me alllllllllll the good vibes.

Happy Thursday to you too--whoever you are, and wherever you are.

xoxo

Morning Work

Yesterday morning I went outside and unwound the hose in the front to water the hydrangea, geraniums, the hanging basket and pots by the door, my daisies (remember You've Got Mail: "Don't you think daisies are the friendliest flower?"), and our bed of happy petunias. 

Then to the backyard, watering pots of geraniums, a hanging basket with purple flowers, and the herb planter with basil, rosemary, and lemon thyme. 

I went to put the sprinkler in the garden, and pretty soon all four kids were out there with me. We were talking about this and that as we pulled some weeds.

  

There were bell peppers, 

baby jalapeños (we talked about making salsa!),

spaghetti squash, 

happy onions, 

zucchini (we picked a big one!), 

rhubarb,

cucumbers (this is one that was picked last week), 

tomatoes (turn red!), 

beans and beets and carrots,

corn as tall as me, 

and bees in the squash flowers. 

Those minutes made my whole morning.

I love time with my people,

and this green space is going to give us lots of yummy food. 

Sharing a Joke

See this son of mine?

He and I shared a moment recently that I just love.

Rewind to a week and a half ago when I went to my friend's farm to shovel chicken manure into buckets. 

The flies were plentiful. 

The smell was pungent.

The horses and goats gathered round.

Alisa was kind enough to load those 4 buckets of manure into the farm truck and bring them back to my house.

So, there I was, and Isaiah came home right about this point.

He walked out to the garden with me where I grabbed a garden rake and shed my shoes.

Then I proceeded to dump the buckets across the garden. Most of it was either dry or like a dry mud consistency, but there was one wet bucket. Isaiah stood there watching me, and when I dumped that one, a big wet clump came out at the end. Splat.

It stunk.

So there we were, and I'm raking, trying to spread a few places out. I'm also noticing the flies that showed up immediately once the poop was on the dirt. 

And as I'm standing there with Isaiah watching me (and he was kind of grossed out at the smell), for some reason my dad came to mind. He was a farm boy and spent much of his childhood gathering eggs from the chickens (trying to avoid the bull snakes -- my dad hates! snakes), milking cows, tending gardens, hauling hay. All that stuff.

 (My boys planting tomatoes with my dad in his garden 8 years ago.)

Standing there, I could just imagine my dad walking in the back gate at that moment and coming over to see what was going on. I could see him standing there at the edge of the garden, taking in my bare feet, the manure, Isaiah's somewhat grossed out expression. And then I could see amusement on his face and I heard these words in my mind, in a voice that he used to use when he was being goofy:

"There's nothing quite like fresh chicken shit, Liz!"

I thought it so much that I looked over at Isaiah, referenced my dad, and then said it, exactly in that voice, commenting on how amused my dad would be.

And WE LAUGHED out loud.

I can still see Isaiah's face as it dropped in laughter.

He agreed that it was something Poppi would totally say.

(Isaiah and Poppi planting geraniums.)

Dad may as well have been standing there sharing the joke.
He is still with us, and that moment warmed my heart.

(P.S. I've gone by Elizabeth for years, and it's what I prefer. But my dad called me Liz, and this is EXACTLY how my dad would have said this and it's endearing. And makes me laugh.)

Every Girl Can Dream

Every girl can have a dream, right?

And whether or not that dream will ever be a reality is another thing. Mine may never come true, but I still think about it and it takes me to a happy, peaceful place.

I suppose mine started, unbeknownst to me, as a little girl when I spent lots of time working the dirt. My father taught me how to plant beans and tomatoes, squash and cucumbers. We planted flowers together, and no spring was complete without going to the greenhouse. 

Something happened there that I'm not sure I fully appreciated at the time, but I developed a love for good food and the satisfaction of getting your feet and hands dirty---breathing in fresh air and really smelling it. 

There's just something about it.  

I also developed a love of work. 

I LOVE to work. 

But then. 

I read a book, a memoir, maybe five? years ago, and I fell in love with the concept of land and farming in a way I never had before. And I'm 100% positive it's a bit romanticized (owning it!), but it resonated so deeply with me: land, work, simplicity, and the beauty inherent in that connectedness. 

I absolutely love art and culture and literature and music and learning; I was raised to appreciate those things, but I also think I have a personal bent toward them. I'm frequently in my head, spinning ideas around, and I love books and being enlightened by chewing on other people's thoughts. I knew I had a love affair with words and writing and expression by the time I was in high school. 

I expect that will never change. 

But, at the heart, I think I'm a bit of a country girl. I've never been trendy or much of a shopper. Consumerism and materialism don't satisfy me. I don't need a lot of THINGS to make me happy. Besides...the shoe kinda fits. I mean, I DID choose to homeschool (though that may be coming to a close), and I AM passionate about natural childbirth. I love canning and making food from scratch and lighting fires and I have fond memories of chopping firewood in the woods with my dad and sisters.

When I go to my dream place, I imagine having a piece of land. Maybe a wrap-around porch to watch the sun set. Maybe a horse or two. I imagine country runs and morning quiet. A farm dog, maybe, and chickens. I imagine my family there; my children and grandchildren, and I think about cooking big meals for all of these people that I love and coming together. I imagine a warm home where the porch light calls you in and there's peace there. 

But. Let's just rein in that thought for a sec, peeps. 

That isn't my reality today. 

My current equivalent will make you laugh but I'll share it anyway.

I've never been hunting in my life, but for quite a while now, I've wanted to go. I've wanted to experience that with a man I love, and I've wanted to be more connected to that process because I take it for granted every day. But one day I'd love to go on the hunt and participate in a harvest and do it; like really DO IT. And I want my children in on it, too. I want to get my hands dirty with it. And then know what it is to package it up and store it away and feel gratitude for that animal sustaining me and my family. Just today, on an 8-mile run, I found myself thinking about my shocking indifference, because I don't ever really think about the fact that some animal's life was ended to sustain mine. I mean, sure, I think about it; but how often do I stop and feel gratitude and respect for that animal, for its life?

So. 

A few weeks ago I was thinking about this again: doing the work of getting meat and storing it away. Dinner was done and I still had a mountain to do that night, miles to go before sleep. I put the boys on kitchen cleanup and headed outside to the deck to tackle 40 pounds of chicken under the lights. 

Butcher knife. (Check.)

Cutting board. (Check.)

Get my game on. (Check.)

And as I sat there handling COLD fresh chicken that had never been frozen, cutting off the extra bits and getting the jelly off of it, Mia held the bags open for me and we enjoyed listening to the Weepies.

And I felt righteously industrious. 

(I hope you're laughing now, but it's totes true.)

I LOVE the satisfaction of getting it done and filling my freezer with meat. And, ridiculous though it may sound, invoking my pioneer spirit of taking care of my family and working together on our "piece of land."

Okay, I know. 

(Hardy-har-har and guffaw. Go ahead. Keep laughing.)

It's just my simple two-bum kitchen, my four people and me, my little house, and my yard. And we live in a very non-country neighborhood, although we do have wide streets that I love. 

But. 

My grandparents farmed. 

They worked the land and had respect for it. 

(My dad (left) with his brother Rick and Laddie)

My dad roamed the hills of western Montana on horseback. 

He combed that land with his dog, Laddie. He drove a tractor at 3, and by the time he was 6, he was helping his grandfather with haying and lots of other chores when he spent weeks on their ranch in the summer. 

(Dad in his duds as a little guy)

It all resonates with me, and it has for a long time. 

I find myself yearning for that life without throwing away some of today's modern conveniences. (I love the computer and camera and notepad that is my iPhone, for example, and I heart the crazy access to information that is Google and the internet and modern technology. I certainly appreciate plumbing and electricity and refrigeration and a furnace. Love me a hot shower and some perfume. Yup. Sure do. Super grateful.)

But really. 

Maybe it's why I feel happy when my feet are in the mud, and maybe it's also why I am always running toward quiet: I love country roads and fields, places where my mind can wander and roam, places where I feel free and open and at peace. 

I can find myself there. 

In those quiet places, my life becomes organized again: I can hear my own thoughts, identify what's truly important in my heart, and I come home ready to live my life again. 

Because it's a beautiful life. 

Sometimes Miracles Happen

I have wanted something for years, and it just happened.

Sometimes miracles happen.

At the beginning of April, a friend (who is really my brother) and I tackled the last corner of my yard that has been an eyesore forever.

We turned over the ground (with Mia and Benji, too) so it could be the new home of the garden.

We (that's the royal we, cuz it was Brian) dug out the slate pavers that ran along the back side of the what-was-currently (then) the main section of lawn and replaced them as a border along the side of the new garden plot.

Then began the process of rebuilding the new lattice (Brian again), and we began leveling the old garden space to make way for sod.

Last week we spent three evenings doing prep work: getting out all the spring weeds, digging back a whole section of crabgrass and shaking as much of the dirt out as we could, and then raking.  We relocated the rhubarb plant, and my was that an experience.  I had never seen the underside of a well-established rhubarb plant before, and in a disturbing way it kind of reminded me of an octopus.  The root system that plant had was incredible, and in just six short seasons since I planted it, its rich roots were thick like huge, spongy, orangish-red carrots.  

It was a bit freakish.

Then, last Saturday, we finished the prep work of raking and leveling, and then put the new sod down.

And I haven't been able to stop staring at it whenever I've been in the yard since.

It seems surreal and somewhat miraculous that I no longer have a big, weedy patch of earth in my backyard that totally overwhelmed me.

And the real thing of things?

I've decided that miracles are the hands and hearts of those who love you.

They give, when there was no way it would have happened if you'd tried alone.

They offer without expecting a thing in return.

They ease the burden.

They make you laugh.

They help you create something beautiful.

They are the miracle.

The baffling, beautiful, surprising miracle.

And I feel completely undeserving, along with a whole heap of gratitude in my heart every time I look at that little piece of green out there.

And also, rhubarb makes a yummy pie.

Just sayin.