Sweet Dreamin' Little Lady

To You From the 5 of Us

Merry Christmas!

Snip

This is where my desire for thrift and my desire for happiness end their coexistence and come careening in on each other in a miserably hairy collision.

I do not like cutting hair. No, not one bit. You'd think I'd get used to it, because I cut PTB's thick hair, Nolan's hair as he wiggles around complaining, Gerret's curly, uncontrolable hair, and my own hair, upside down. Instead of becoming accustomed or accepting, I seem to loathe the job more and more every time I perform it.

Cat on the Outside

These are pictures of the kitten, Rocket (who more closely resembles a full-grown cat these days). In these photos, you will observe him climbing the screen of my kitchen window. The photos were taken from the inside while the kitten was climbing on the outside --trying to find a way in. (And he was crying his sorry kitty-meow cries, but I did not feel any compassion in my heart.)

This is a representation of our exiled cats. When they aren't spending their days outdoors, they're spending their nights in the back room. No, I don't feel bad for them.

And this is our dog.

Our animals have been driving me crazy. Even the ones I thought perfectly incapable of doing any wrong.

Vying for a good sleep in the baby's bed, whether or not the baby happens to be inside. Jumping on the table and stealing food FROM MY BOYS' HANDS. Eating butter from the counter. Making noise at inopportune moments. And that's just the cats. Don't get me started about the dog. She's been at the bottom of my totem pole from the start.

This morning, I tossed one cat out the door while I blocked the other cat's re-entry with my foot. I looked into her sad yellow cat-eyes and stated without remorse, "You guys are outdoor cats today".

They've become more outdoor than indoor cats since the baby was born. I wish I could say the same for the dog. Any time I shove her out the door without remorse, she heads down the road to the neighbors' without remorse. Then I feel remorse for ever thinking I could handle dog ownership. It really is not for me. Except for when the chickens need to be tended in the moaning wind of a deeply dark winter night and my mind can hear the squeals of the coyotes. That's when I remember that the dog is a need, not necessarily a want.

The Santa Clauses

We saw him at Hunt's tree farm on the tenth of December. In the garage, heavily embellished with Christmas flavored enticements (for sale), where a long line of children waited to have their faces painted and a long line of adults waited for a steaming bowl of chili, Santa sat against the wall beyond tables of people bearing heavy jackets sipping hot chocolate. That Mr. Claus, he was barely apparent above the frenzy of eating, waiting, painting, sipping, purchasing, and chatter about evergreens. My boys noticed the old man and sat with him for a photo.

He brought his sleigh to the fire house where they served breakfast to the community the following Saturday. We came for the free scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, and orange juice, but Nolan exhibited sudden interest in that sleigh and the Santa perched atop.

The Pookster barely noticed. He cared more for sausage and pancakes --until after Nolan hopped on the sleigh, enumerated his desires for things like a fireman bed and a race car, and returned toting a bag of acquired goods. Upon the discovery of treats within Nolan's acquisition, Pooka eagerly approached the sleigh and sat uncomfortably in it until Santa's elf handed him a bag of his own.

We witnessed yet another appearance that night at the Branch Christmas party. Auburn, awake for the first time in the presence of a Santa Claus, humored all the old ladies clamoring for a picture of the two together, and calmly waited in his arms as old ladies clicked away. Nolan understood the drill, hopped up on Santa's lap and recited his desires without missing a beat. For doing so, he received another bag of varied prizes, which once again motivated his brother to endure another encounter with the white-bearded fellow, this one more wrinkly than the first two combined. He found, once more, that enduring Santa was well worth any associated anxiety. After all, Pooka will do most anything for treats. "When is Santa coming to our house?" he later asked his dad, despite his understanding of who Santa really is --or isn't.

The next day in church, Nolan pointed out Brother Smith as he walked through the door.

"I know he was Santa last night," he whispered to me.
"How do you know?" I whispered back.
"By the way he sounded."

There will be no schmoozing this boy into a belief of Old St. Nick.

The Adventures of Auburn Ruth

First Adventure:

2 months of sleeping here, there, everywhere, and anywhere in between

(As her proud and grateful mother, I'll add that she also sleeps in her bassinet 10-12 hours nightly... What a gal!)

Progression of a Placenta in the Letter F

From
Fetus
To freezer
To fertilizer
For
a fruit tree

(cherry)

Snapshot

Nolan Kenneth: 5.3 years. Top bunk sleeper. Collects dogs (the stuffed animal variety for which his mother is grateful). Scared of the dark, being alone, and the Halloween dog from Spooky Buddies. Loves cold cereal with milk. Lives for weekends and holidays.

Gerret Delano: Almost 4 years. Answers to any derivitive of Pooka (Pook, PookMan, Pookadilly, Pookalicious, Pookarino... You get the idea). Passionate about treats, superheroes, and movies. Wants to know "how long until Christmas??".

Auburn Ruth: 57 days. Pudgy, squishy, cute. Spends days sleeping, eating, and excreting. Feels adversely about car rides and pacifiers. Working on hand-eye coordination and head support.

S'mamish

I am fascinated by Amish people. PTB laughs at this and playfully slows the car when we pass by their houses so I can peep in their windows and stare at them in their fields. It's really embarrassing when he does that because they stare right back and I'm sure they find me just as peculiar as I find them. Nonetheless, I am still very interested in Amish people. I really always have been.

I grew up just south of many Amish settlements. Trips to places such as Canadaigua, Palmyra, and Rochester often allowed for a glimpse of a horse-drawn buggy, or a long line of plain clothes drying between a home and a far off post, or even sometimes, if I was really lucky, some real, live Amish people.

When I was young, my family took a vacation in Lancaster Co., PA. There I followed my mom, weaving in and out of shops filled with pies and breads, quilts, handmade furniture, jars of jam and vegetables. We climbed into a tall, black carriage. We saw real Amish running their shops. The trip left me evermore curious about these curious people.

My National Geographic collecting husband had an issue featuring an article about the Amish in PA. When i discovered it, I gobbled up the information like it was a great feast and I'd never had a true meal. So many questions found answers, yet new information only prompted more questions. I was as fascinated as ever.

And then we moved to the country, right north of where I grew up, right in the middle of the Amish. I think my curiosity is finally satisfied, but I still find them quite fascinating. I really like them.
"Why?" PTB asked once as I expressed my admiration for the plain folk.
"Maybe because they're quiet and hardworking."
"You mean, because they're like you."
I laughed at him, but maybe I like them not because they are like me, but because I want to be like them. They live simply, care for their families, have a strong sense of community, are self sufficient, usually have a handful of children playing in their front yards, aren't interested in the enticements of the world, spend a lot of time outdoors, take life season by season. And yeah, they're quiet -- except for Sundays when their carts rumble down our road, one after another-- then those Amish sound like thunder.

Phone Photos

Good Glory Gory Story

This is the long, rambling story of a woodchuck. If the reader of this story has a large imagination and a small stomach, then perhaps he should reconsider being a reader today. In this story things happen to the woodchuck; bad things; gory things. If the reader is short on time or attention span, this may not be the story for him either as it is rumored to be "long and rambling". So, readers beware, you are now aware.

This is the story of the demise of a woodchuck, but said woodchuck began as any other woodchuck, lumbering around country folks' yards, trying to break through the fences of their luscious gardens. We'll begin with the demisable woodchuck, undemised at the edge of a fenced garden.

Sorry is the country folk who forgets a fence, for woodchucks are quick to take note of forgotten fences and glutton themselves on hard earned crops. Thankfully, in the case of the country folk in this story, namely the Muritchells, a fence was in place guarding their then sparse, but hopefully someday, luscious garden.

So the woodchuck, well aware of the would-be luscious garden, and also aware of the fence surrounding it, (having run at full-trot, face-first into it on numerous occasions and also having no luck with attempted digs under that doggone fence,) he decided to wait. Wait for the garden to grow out of its sparseness. Wait for a breach in garden security. Wait for a good meal. He chose for his waiting place the two enormously heavy propane tanks seated across the Muritchell's yard with a perfect view of the garden of his dreams. He did not wait next to the tanks, or between them, or behind them, or on top of them. Needing his whereabouts to be concealed from the Muritchells and their fierce canine, he dug a hole under the two tanks and hoped to high heaven that the ground would not give way to the enormously heavy tanks above him.

All was well for our woodchuck hiding under propane tanks, until one warm afternoon, a shiny black nose came sniffing down his hole. Now, woodchucks are not keen on disturbances when their grumbling stomachs are waiting for a fine meal. This particular woodchuck could only endure little more than an hour of constant sniffing before he climbed out of his hole to challenge that wet, sniffing nose. Much to his chagrin, the nose was attached to a much larger dog, which was not just any dog, but the fierce one belonging to the Muritchells. Having come face to face with her nose and then her long, sharp teeth, the woodchuck panicked and instead of backing down into his hole, which may have been the safest idea, he took off running.

It didn't take many strides before he realized that one half-hearted dog stride was comparable to no fewer than ten of his most well meaning strides, which meant that the canine would soon outrun him. Once again, he panicked and dodged under the nearest thing ready to be dodged under.

The underbelly of the Muritchell's mobile was only slightly more secure than the wide open air, or so it seemed to the frightened, confused woodchuck. Although that dog was, so far, unable to flatten herself enough to slither under the mobile to him, the woodchuck figured it was only a matter of time. The dog tried twisting and forming her body into shapes unthinkable for a dog of her size, all the while producing every dog sound thinkable at the helplessly bewildered woodchuck who was then resorting to prayer. He needed a miracle, teleportation, a guardian angel, Superman, something, anything, that would rescue him from the growling, the barking, the whining, the contorting, and the eventuality of the fierce canine's success and the praying varmint's demise.

But then, when hope was running low and the incessant dog sounds were alarming the neighbors, our wood chuck saw a light above his head. The heavens had heard! Hallelujah! The woodchuck followed this heavenly sign up, up, and through a hole not any bigger than himself. Once in amongst the engine parts, he could not get comfortable between this wire and that battery and this tube and that valve, but his discomfort was of little concern, for the woodchuck was free from the sight of the dog, who promptly stopped sounding and plopped herself in a heap of defeat by the rear wheel. Relieved and exhausted, the woodchuck fell asleep under the hood, tangled in wires, rather uncomfortable, but safe at last.

This is where the story turns to the Muritchells. The Mr. was away working, having left the Lady Muritchell at home with their two fine sons and that fierce dog whose whines and moans we've already become acquainted with. Not only was the dog alerting the neighbors, but the attention of the Lady was got, and soon enough, she came storming out of the house, muttering breathy mutters.

"...stupid, annoying..."
"... SPCA..."
"... such an embarrassment..."
"...ridiculous..."
"Ummm, what are you carrying about, anyway?"

At this point, she bent over next to her stupid, annoying (but quite fierce) canine to have a look for herself. With the way that dog used every word in the dog language, the Lady Muritchell was certain there had to be something there and was a wee bit nervous over what she might find under her car, but upon investigation she saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. This finding prompted more grumbling. And the defeated mutt sulked into the house behind the disgruntled Lady.

The Muritchells had planned an evening grocery trip to Wegmans just as soon as Mr. Muritchell returned home. For country folk like the Muritchells, grocery shopping was a journey of epoch proportion. Dutifully, they drove thirty miles to spend hours in Wegmans whenever the need arose to fill their pantry and fridge. The need had arisen that evening.

The four Muritchells loaded into the Lady's car-- yes, the one where slept a woodchuck amongst the engine parts, but this was not known to the Muritchells. The Lady had grumbled some more to her husband, motioning at the underside of their mobile and cursing her dog for the eighty third time that day. The Mr. had also bent over to inspect, finding the exact same nothing that she had. And so they shrugged their shoulders and dutifully drove those thirty miles to Wegmans where they would spend two hours eating their evening meal and gathering the food they would need for the following weeks.

With their meal consumed and their goods gotten, the Muritchells returned to the mobile for the long journey back to the middle of nowhere. The Lady was behind the wheel, the Mr. manning the passenger seat, the fine boys doing fine boy things in the back. The Lady nonchalantly backed out of their parking spot, turned the wheel, shifted into gear, and released the break. She moved her foot to the gas pedal and the car slid forward then immediately jolted over a speed bump. But wait, was there a speed bump there before? The Lady and her Mr. simultaneously glanced up at the rear view mirror. There in the middle of the Wegmans parking lot was a dark, compact lump, the size of a two foot speed bump.
"What is it?" One whispered.
"It looks like a black garbage bag."
"Did we drop something?"
"I don't know."
"Drive back around."

By this time, other patrons had taken notice of the mysterious black lump and were making their way over for close examination. The Muritchells circled the lot in order that they too might examine closely the speed bump that had mysteriously appeared behind their parking spot. Lady Muritchell, having a foreboding in her gut, made sure to pull up to the left of the lump so that Mr. Muritchell could be the one to examine.
"What is it?" She prodded. He was awfully silent.
"I think it's a woodchuck."
"Is it alive?"
"No, it's definitely not."
"What should I do?"
"Keep driving."
And that's what they did, leaving behind their own brand of roadkill in the Wegmans parking lot.

•images from google

Smile!

Lovely, Lovely, Little Baby

This here is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. No exaggeration. Not a brag. Just the honest truth. I spend a lot of time admiring her, sniffing her feathery hair, kissing those soft cheeks. She is just so lovely to me.

1300 square feet of old

This was going to be a grand tour in photos, but then I felt the urgency to clean, declutter, organize and hang any pictures that were still waiting to be hung before any photos were taken. Thus, I only have three to show here. Maybe at our two year anniversary of darling house living I'll have more rooms adequately cleaned, organized, and decorated. Until then, I'll just describe the house a bit.

First of all, PTB had one comment about the previous post, "You didn't say how old it is". I wasn't sure if that was necessary or really how to fit it in there, but since my boy noticed its absence, I'll go ahead and say our house is older than his hometown. PTB hails from Spokane, which was settled in 1871 and incorporated as a city in 1881. This lovely little dwelling was built in 1838.

It's not huge, but it fits us well enough. Actually, now that we're sleeping in the living room for an undefined span of time, we have an extra bedroom upstairs. Like the title explains, our house includes 1300 square feet of living space. There is also an attic in which we store all sorts of boxes and extras. And then we have the "back room", a large, unfinished space in the back of our house with very uneven floors, which we do not heat in the winter. Someday soon we plan to fix the floors and walls and use the space as more living space, but not today.

Today on the first level we have a bathroom, kitchen, living room, boys' room, nursery, and pantry. Upstairs is the bedroom of PTB and his lady, the office-closet of the Mr., and a small craft room for the lady. The stairwell is narrow and steep with a cold, metal railing to steady the climbers. The dining room table is in the kitchen, which has very few cupboards and an interesting old sink. The pantry mostly makes up for the lack of cupboards, but not for the lack of countertop. The nursery was a laundry room until two days before the birth of Auburn. Now the laundry is in the back of the bathroom which used to be spacious and is now quite a bit less spacious, but still spacious enough to birth a baby in. In order to move the laundry, a lot of plumbing and electrical work had to be done inside the wall between the would-be nursery and the bathroom, requiring that the wall be torn apart and then put back together. Painting and carpeting in the nursery were not finished until Auburn was well into her second week. Until it was finished, she was sleeping in her bassinet wherever was most quiet at the time (sometimes the boys' room, other times the living room).

Hmmm. What else? The living room once had a door to the outside. These days the door is still in the living room, but it opens to the wall. It is rendered unusable by the siding on the outside. Can you identify the door in the living room picture? The entry we now use is in the kitchen. The room Patrick uses as an office is actually simultaneously used as a closet. When I say it's small, I'm not kidding, but it does have a nice window overlooking the chicken grove and it's big enough to house his nature collections and a desk. The craft room is slightly bigger than the office-closet. It is on the stairs landing and has two windows also overlooking the chicken grove. Our bedroom is one of the largest rooms in the house, but it doesn't have a closet (we use the office-closet). One problem with old houses is that they did not have closets in 1838 because closets were taxed as rooms. I think they had a lot less stuff back then too. I like less stuff, so I don't mind old houses. And I love our darling one, but that's all I will say about her here this year. End.