This Little Light of Mine

Auburn Ruth

14 months old and bright as ever

Of Beaches and Barf

This is Gerret who threw up in the middle of the night, wasn't bothered by it enough to wake himself or his parents up, came down gross and smelly this morning --not to mention feeling a little raunchy on the insides-- and insisted on attending school despite it all.

He especially wanted to be at school because he's been waiting a month for his parent to be the class helper and to bring his new spiderman to show-and-tell.
Today was slated to be that day. What luck.

Any other morning after nighttime vomiting and I would have kept him home, but his heart was so set on going and he was so courageously pretending to be well that I just couldn't say no. So PTB went to school with him and they made it back home without an incident, but Gerret came in the door and headed straight for the living room to recuperate.

It was five minutes of quiet from the boy before I heard something like a small voice. He was whispering demurely from his spot on the couch, I could barely make it out.

"I wish we lived next to the beach."

Tree Farm

When you go to get your Christmas tree, the rest of the town will meet you there.



Don't worry, there will be enough and to spare.  Fields will stretch in front and to the sides and in back of that and beyond a roaring creek, up the hills, and in the low spots.  And those fields are tightly packed with a tree for every kind of taste.  Tall and skinny.  Tall and fat.  Short and round or straight, like a pole.  Soft.  Solid.  Floppy.  Stiff.  Long needles.  Short ones.  Coarse.  Full.  Charlie Brown.  Blueish. Yellowish. Brownish. And of course green (all of them qualify as such).  Yep, if everyone in the town preferred a different brand of evergreen, I think they would be able to find it among the soldiers of these fields.



You and your folks will walk along muddied paths into the fields.  Searching, ever searching for the tree of your dreams.  And laughing about the funny ones --there are a lot of those.



Except everyone of your party will have a different tree in their dreams.  "This one's for Auburn!" He's going to chime so sweetly (always thinking of his sister).  (I especially love the butterballs.)

But you will allow the birthday girl to be today's dreamer.  She is, after all, the woman of the house, and as such is probably every day's dreamer, but today we designate birthday status.
"Tall and skinny," she will prefer.  "Tall and skinny," you all will repeat.
Your eyes suddenly won't see anything but.  Tall and skinny. Tall and skinny!
"Too spikey," one will shout.
"Too flimsy," she will say.
"Not tall enough."
"Ha ha!  This one has a bald spot!"
"A little wide."
 "Too tall!"
"Too tall can be remedied," he will wield his saw, eyeing the tree.  This will be the choice.  Finale.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.




You will saw and carry and bale if you want it.  You can hitch a ride if you're lucky.  A wagon ride on a warm December afternoon is every boy-heart's desire.  You will oblige.



In a garage which has undergone an amazing holiday transformation, you will find festivities and food-- chili, hot dogs, cocoa, popcorn, cookies, face painting, crafts, and Santa handing out tootsie pops.  And if you didn't see all of the town in the fields, you'll be sure to encounter the rest of them on benches at tables crowded in that converted garage.  Enjoy it and Merry Christmas!

Eleven Months and Why She Belongs

As Auburn nears her first birthday, I become more sure that she has a rich inheritance of Upstate blood.  It is coursing through her veins, directing the flow of genetic expression. 

The two most obvious indicators:

She has no teeth.

Her hair style is a combination rat-tail/mullet.

Yep, she must be from  Interlaken. Fits right in. 

Sent from my iPhone

Roots

1876 portrait depicting Lucille Kendall Mathews with her infant son, John E. Mathews, Watkins Glen, NY. John was the grandfather of Pop, my great grandfather. That's pretty much all I know so far.

Education Matters

We are putting the finishing touches on our first week of school here at our house. While I write this, Auburn naps, Gerret is away at nursery school, and Nolan is accomplishing his fifth day of first grade.

Nolan, who is a professional by now, was looking forward to first grade, despite the fact that not one of his friends from last year are in this year's class. He led us to his classroom Monday where we met his teacher, who seems like a kind one. His favorite thing each day this week has been playing with his "old friends" on the playground. Hopefully he'll be quick about making some new friends, because you know, one is silver and the other's gold.

Nolan has fully prepped his brother, who is attending his alma mater. "You'll make your own friends, Gerret! And lots of projects! And learn songs! Oh! And Gerret, there are toys!" At this point he would start listing all the toys he could remember from his days at nursery school and Gerret would pepper the list with happy exclamations. "Oh!" "Yay!" and "Yipee!" Somehow in Nolan's joyful reminiscing, he always omitted the part about his staunch four-year-old reluctance, even trepidation to actually go to nursery school. Maybe he has forgotten how he used to cry and cling to my legs when it came time for me to leave or how some days I would have to coax him into the front door when he would stop stubbornly on the threshold. Maybe he was simply dedicated to his job of pumping his brother up and purposely overlooked his own nursery school hang-ups. Whatever the case, Nolan took the role of cheerleader seriously and was dang good at it.

This exuberant encouragement went on for weeks leading up to September. Nolan's hope for Gerret to love school as much as he (supposedly) did, spurred Gerret's courageous anticipation. The first day, Monday this past week, was all excitement. Gerret said a friendly "hi" to everyone, found his hook, and was gone into a room full of toys and books. He didn't look back.
We found him outside at the end of the school day, digging in sand with a handful of nameless friends (having friends is nice, but their names are completely unimportant when you are four). He announced that he didn't want to leave. I considered that a success.

His excitement carried him to day two of nursery school, but not entirely through the day. His teacher told me that he would go out to his hook and stand by his backpack periodically looking a little forlorn. When I asked him about it, he told me that sometimes he missed me, but that he still had fun at school. I held my breath for day three. That's today.

He came downstairs this morning and announced that he would not be attending school today. I happen to have more willpower than him, especially because we pay for him to attend this school, so he is, in fact, in attendance today. He didn't go without some struggles though. He told me numerous times on the drive to his school that he did not want to go and then presented a glib refusal to get out of the car upon arrival. He did eventually get out, but proceeded to demonstrate his disgust on our walk down the sidewalk to the entrance, at which point he stopped moving. He held a statuesque position in the threshold, just like Nolan.

I can be tough. I don't know if that's good or bad, maybe sometimes good and sometimes bad. (Actually, I think the only bad thing is my inconsistency, but sometimes I'm just too tired to enforce some rules.) Anyway, I wasn't too tired today, so I made Gerret go to school. I forced him through the threshold, down the steps, and into Miss Debbie's welcoming arms. Three days in.

Heaven help us get through this school year.

Headed Home

You know that feeling at the end of a vacation, no matter how fabulous, of relief at the prospect of returning home? You look forward to your own bed, or your familiar routine, or privacy, or recuperation from a fast-paced holiday. You miss the green of the East or the mountains of the West (whichever your case may be). You pine for a home-cooked meal. The vacation was good, but you welcome its termination.

Are you acquainted with the feeling?

As we emptied ourselves and our belongings into our car this morning and pointed our noses North, I thought to myself-- this was not one of those vacations. I could have stayed longer. Much longer. Maybe forever.

A week ago, when first we walked through the door of semi-luxury at our Williamsburg resort, Nolan absorbed the sight and excitedly announced, "This is the life!" Truly, it was.

About This Baby

She is ten months alive this week. Ten months of discovery, development, growth, and movement. Increasing movement everyday. It's amazing to watch her do all of this. It's a special moment every moment of being with her. I feel it. It blows me away.

The process of an infant's growth is a lot about mechanics and chemistry. It's a lot of biology bustling around with lab coats and clipboards, taking measurements, making computations. All of this bustling, the scenes behind the observable progress --purposeful movement across the carpet, steps along the couch, the ability to release and reach, word-like sounds sputtered here and there-- all of it is so physical and yet it's so deeply, acutely spiritual. I'm not sure I've ever felt so close to another person's spirit as when I have a little baby. It is the force behind the science. The spirit is mighty and unique and a baby's is unencumbered by worldly pursuits, so it shines. It sounds. It motivates. It is apparent and, like I said, unique.

Her uniqueness is beautiful. She is independent, quick, curious, proud, and yet so gregarious, bending, reaching for love. The combination is breathtaking. Lasting. Lovely. Her acrobatic tongue and bright, deep, blue eyes are entrancing, as well as those dimples when she smiles.
That smile. Wow. It affects me, infects me with cheer.

And Then He Was Six

Happy Birthday, to my dear little friend! It's hard to believe six years have come and gone, but I've loved each spent caring for Nolan. It is an honor to be his mom.

Nolan's Birthday Interview

favorite food: sausage
favorite sport: soccer
coolest person on the earth: my great-grandma borden
favorite color: orange
favorite song: i love to see the temple
if you could go anywhere in the world: i would go to the hot tub in florida
best friend: elijah and josh nyre
favorite snack: chocolate
favorite movie: star wars, (even though i've never even seen it)
favorite thing about camping: roasting marshmallows
book you love: hot rod hamster
food you dislike: mashed up potatoes, squash, and mexican lasagna
if you could have one wish, it would be: that my brother wouldn't bother me
three words that describe you: messy, tired, curious
favorite toy: star wars guys
when you grow up, you want to be: a farmer and a scientist
favorite fruit: orange
favorite animal: cocoa, my dog
favorite holiday: halloween
what do you sleep with: my dragon blanket and fuzzy pillow
best memory from school: playing with my friends on the playground
what makes you happy: when i win stuff

My Pedigree of Pioneers

I've been reluctant about blogging lately. I'm not sure why the desire ebbs and flows, but I have decided to go with it. Enough of doing things for the sake of doing them. I feel the need to have my heart in everything I do.

Because of my reticence to publicly post, I missed ideas and moments that I once intended to record. I'll probably let most of those slip away, but I'm left with this thought lingering, begging for release.

A thought about pioneers.

You see, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am a Mormon. This fact defines me in a lot of ways. I have allowed it to shape my life, determine my course, mold my character. And I am pleased.

Many members of my church inherit their membership from a long line of ancestors-- pioneers who joined a new religion, left homes, nations, continents, friends, belongings, family members, crossed oceans, plains, mountains, rivers, endured the sun's scorching glare, the winter's harsh cold, overcame sickness, grieved death, repaired broken wagons and broken spirits-- all so they could perpetuate a faith, preserved for coming generations. I admire those pioneers, the ancestors belonging to others. I am grateful for their faith and sacrifices, because they didn't create a legacy for their descendants alone, but for every member of the Church in succeeding generations. I owe a great deal to them. All blessings I enjoy because of the Gospel, I have received at their hands and offering.

As for my own ancestors, I have only one Mormon pioneer in my lineage and she is my mother. She did not pull a handcart, but she did pave a path for me. My mom grew up in Upstate, New York, just as her parents, grand-parents, and great-grand-parents had-- very close to places significant to the establishment of the LDS church (often referred to as the "Cradle of the Restoration"). She was near this sacred ground, still never knew, was never aware of Mormons or restoration, visions or visitations. She hadn't heard of Joseph Smith, yet she was like him. Sober as a child, aware of things spiritual, aching for truth. She began a search for a religion that could support her spiritual yearnings. She attended meetings of different sects, questioned ministers, studied scriptures, doctrines, creeds, and by high school, gave up. The search was fruitless.

Thankfully, the story doesn't end there. A few years later, there was a man living on the other coast, in California. He was a successful businessman with a home, a wife, and a handful of children. They were a happy Mormon family with no need or desire for something different, but one day the man had the feeling that they needed a change. Following his impression, he left the business world and moved his family across the country to work a dairy farm in Upstate, New York. Perhaps the original intention was to teach his children about hard work, or living off the land. Maybe he wanted them to learn the lessons of life-- mortality, morbidity, birth, health and nutrition; some lessons which are best learned on a farm. Maybe life in California was becoming too fast-paced and he knew that his family could benefit from an unhurried lifestyle. Maybe he wanted to live in the so-called Cradle of the Restoration. Whatever the original intent, this family became the instrument for introducing many, many people to their unique religion.

My mom, now halfway through high school, dated one of their sons. The relationship was short-lived, but with an invitation from his older brother, she attended a Mormon service for the first time. There, the memory of all her searching and questions and spiritual impressions resurfaced as young children stood at the front of the congregation, singing and bearing testimony of things they knew as truth-- things my mom had yearned to know years before but had not been able to find. At last, she found what she had diligently searched for. It was as if water were finally quenching her dry ground and she was ready to jump in, but her parents were less sure. They asked that she wait to be baptized, but allowed her to continue her participation while she waited. She stood firm in her newfound faith and eventually passed it to her children.

As her child, I was taught the doctrines of Christianity with special Mormon overtones, learned to pray, loved scripture, felt spiritually alive. My mom took my brother and I to church meetings. She encouraged us to seek out our own faith so we could stand independently. So, at thirteen, I started my own search, privately, quietly, intently. I needed to believe for myself, in my own heart. In school, in my family, and even at church somewhat, I often felt alone in my beliefs. Standing alone was not something I was willing to continue without a pure and simple, strong and sweet witness of my own. I knew that having one would largely determine the course of my life and the way I would live it.

And so I searched, just as my mom had years before, but with more resources at my disposal. I embarked with a fundamental belief in God as a caring father who knew my deepest desires, heard my questioning heart, and would answer me liberally. I relied on this belief and the things my mom had taught me about spiritual promptings as I read and read and prayed and prayed for a period of time. I don't remember how long exactly. Maybe a month, maybe six, but during that time I had experiences that gave me hope and witnessed to my heart and my spirit. It was a sacred time of solitude. I came out of it an immovable believer, grateful for my pioneer mother and that California family of pioneers and every Mormon pioneer standing firmly behind me.

Amish Go Swimming

I had heard that Amish people aren't opposed to cooling off in a body of water; along with that I was told that they hop right in fully clothed. I had yet to verify the information myself, until this week. Patrick, his dad, and I were strolling along a rocky beach on Seneca's shore when who should approach the shore near us, but a group of young adult Amish. The girls hung together and waded right in to their waists, bonnets and aprons still in place. A handful of young men followed suit, while a few hung back on the shore. They laughed together and conversed in their unique dialect. Patrick stealthily pointed his camera in their direction, so here is our documentation of the encounter.

We've lived here for almost two years and experience something Amish every single day, but they are still as curious as ever, and I am still interested as ever.

How to Get Things Done

One Method:

Baby Ruth: Nine Months Old

She is on the go. Always moving. Constantly exploring. Every object gravitates to her mouth. She can crawl. Pulls herself to a stand. Wants to ascend the stairs (I tell her "No Way!"). Loves to eat. Pounds a mean tune on the piano. Takes to water like a genuine fish. Loves and is loved by her brothers. Resembles significantly the Pookman.

Left Handers Club

For Nolan, this Spring was the first time his left-handedness was brought to his attention as a unique trait. Baseball will do that for a kid with lefty leanings. They bat on the other side of the plate, wear specialty gloves, throw the pitchers for a loop sometimes.

It was his first experience feeling apart from the norm. When he expressed some concern one morning, I told him about my grandpa who was the Babe Ruth of high school baseball and -get this- left handed. I told him that it's super awesome to be a lefty. And then I expanded.

By golly, dear boy! Be proud of who you are! Left is part of it, so love the left! It's a special club! A secret society! High brow, talented, slightly superior people belong to this club! Don't you ever feel lesser! Don't ever think that standing apart is something to fear or resent. Don't ever doubt the way you were engineered. The engineering was perfect and so is the result. And so on and so forth.

He took my lecture to heart. So much so that I caught him telling his right-handed brother that lefties were all around better. Which called for another lecture. I'm a mom. I'm good at those. In any case, we now have a very proud left hander, thanks in part to baseball.

A Soccer Team

Nolan supervises as I change Auburn's diaper on the carpet of her bedroom. It's a wrestling match. The girl is always on the move. I need four arms. The only things I could give her that would occupy her attention for a full five seconds are things she shouldn't have. Like paper, hair clips, car keys. She has a penchant for germs and danger and if you're unwilling to hand them to her she wiggles across the floor looking for it herself.

Nolan is observing the wrestling match as he dreams aloud of the upcoming soccer season. He suddenly stops the soccer talk and asks, "Will you have another baby? You know, you and Dada? Will you have more babies?"

"I don't know," I say. "Do you want more siblings?"

"Yeah. I want enough brothers and sisters to have a soccer team."

This is where I would spurt milk and some would come dripping out my nose, but I'm not drinking milk. I'm trying to velcro the clean diaper closed before the little one squirms away. I lose some ground; she makes a little headway.

"Do you know how many people are on a soccer team, Nolan?"

"No."

"Eleven!" I try sounding as emphatic as I can. I'm imagining the chaos and wrestling of my life amplified an additional eight times. This calls for emphasis and alarm!

He is unphased.

"Yeah, you can have eleven." He is calm and genuine.

I pick up Auburn. Nolan follows us out of the room, contemplating his homegrown team.

"Except... I don't know if you can have them before soccer season starts."

Yeah. I just don't know.

On the Third Day of Summer

Lindsay and Ronelle. June 2002.

It was graduation in the Burg. We knew a few of the graduates, one of whom was my cousin. We attended a party in her honor. All that blue and gold and talk of dorms and universities made me feel a bit reminiscent.

That was me ten years ago (10! I can't believe it!), looking into a foreign future, walking out of Charles O. Dickerson for the last time, preparing to leave not just my parents' home, but the state, this side of the country, a culture, and everything that had ever been familiar. When they handed me a diploma, I was already poised to leap.

Leap I did.

5 years in Utah. 5 years in NY. 2,000 miles from East to West and West to East, 6 times. 4 roommates. Lots of great new friends. 1 Dear John. Married at 20. Changed major 3 times. 4 semesters of Russian. Interned teaching 1 term at BYU's English Language Center. 1 BA in Linguistics. 4 years serving as YW president. Moved 8 times. 1 garage sale. 5 cars. Bought 1 house. Said goodbye to 2 grandpas. Saw 1 brother married. Had 3 kids. 4 cats. 1 dog. 12 chickens.

It's been ten years worth every minute. I have such good memories of where I've been and what I've experienced. I love where I am now and who I am with. It has been a very full and rewarding journey, not without a hitch or two, not without some unexpected turns, but also not without something more to appreciate as a result.

On the Second Day of Summer

I made good on the many promises I've made over the past month that we would go camping when school was out. They had been waiting for this since our last campout when I was heavy with a baby and the summer was bending to the insistence of cool autumn nights.

Not only was this first campout of the season a fulfillment of my word, it was also an experiment. We needed to know how the baby would fare and what kind of adjustments would need to be made for future outdoor overnight excursions. PTB and I both surmised that it would be a long night of tending to a confused and anxious baby.

Two eager brothers and I assembled poles and pushed them through sleeves, gathered wood and bought the fixings for fire food, unrolled sleep sacks and secured a playpen for the baby.

We were only venturing into our backyard. With the howl of coyotes and flash of fireflies surrounding our property, we don't need to go far to feel a part of nature, in fact I feel quite rugged upstairs in my comfy bed so long as the window is open.

PTB built the fire after work. We roasted s'mores and hot dogs and had some garden vegetables on the side. Songs, prayers, and the setting sun followed and the boys, baby, and I climbed into the tent for what I expected to be a long night. PTB stayed up to watch the flames turn to embers and to catch fireflies with which to fill the tent.

It was chilly through the night and I spent most of it hovering just over sleep, but never falling deeply into it. The dog had taken full advantage of her invitation to our campout and had sloppily perched across my lower legs. It wasn't comfortable. Every time I had an itch, I imagined fleas bouncing all over my skin. Worry over the baby never abated, but little Ruth was quiet all through the night until the sun began to light the horizon. I was more than grateful to take her into the house at 5 am, feed her, tuck her into her own warm crib, shower the smoke from my skin and hair, and drop into my own bed for some genuine rest before the boys emerged from the tent. They were apparently well rested. They say they liked camping and are ready to go again.

When we do go again ...
the dog needs her own bed.
I'll remember that summer nights in NY are rarely warm and bring a hat and sweater to bed.
we need not be nervous about the baby; she's a born camper.

8 Months and Forward Momentum

What is an eight month old Auburn capable of?

She is a steady sitter and is trying to figure out how to move out of the sitting position gracefully. So far it's typically a meaningful, but awkward face-plant as she bends all the way forward, stretching until her legs pop out the back and her nose smacks the floor.

She's capable of rolling everywhere, but senses the inaccuracy and inefficiency of sidewards movement. Hence, her fascination the past few days in forward motions. She moves something like a lunatic inch worm. This method of transport also causes her nose to become well acquainted with the floor and not very gently. So far, no nose bleeds, but sometimes I'm quite surprised by this.

Her legs are able to bear her own weight now and she loves to stand holding onto things. She cannot pull herself into a standing position, however, so she is dependent on us to help her.

Auburn eats a lot. Once we moved beyond rice cereal, she became a voracious consumer. Her favorites seem to be sweet potatoes, yellow squash, and bananas.

She is becoming more adept at napping through her brothers' noise. Two naps are standard with a third, short rest in the evening. She sleeps consistently at night between 8pm and 7am.

Articulations these days include single syllables using every variety of consonant combined mostly with "ahh". Mamamama and bababababa are her favorites. She understands and responds to her name and "no". She becomes quite articulate when music is playing or when she hears other people conversing.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She rules the roost, this Babyruth. She has her brothers groveling at her feet and her dad wrapped around her tiny fingers. I'm completely, head-over-heels, in love, love, love. She is a dream. Happy. Gregarious. Charming. Funny. Curious. Bright-eyed. Smiley. Warm. Contemplative. Cuddly. She has the effect of glue in our family, binding us closer together. It's amazing how one spirit in a tiny body can do this and in just a handful of months.

On the First Day of Summer

The first day of summer was also the last day of school-- a half day designed solely for free ice cream, cleaning cubbies, meeting next year's teachers, and enjoying friends one last time. Once dismissed at noon, we hurried our graduated kindergartener home to dress in swim suits and slather in sunscreen. The van was loaded with a ginormous stroller, umbrella, towels, drinks, and kids. Lots of kids. Three of my own and two borrowed. I ignited the engine and the eleven year olds simultaneously started a never-ending round of Kumbaya My Lord. Thirty minutes of northward driving and cacophonous harmonies followed.

Our destination: Geneva State Park of the northern shore of Seneca Lake.

The purpose: relieve our heat traumatized bodies in the cool water of the sprinkler park.

Evidence that the trip was a success:

• We stayed for 4 hours.
• Gerret overcame his obstinacy and actually played in the water (a big change from last year's sideline watching).
• There were no injuries.
• Nobody suffered serious sunburn (I did get some pink on my shoulders... but nothing to complain about).
• The baby was very content to be in the water.
• The boys refrained from quarreling.
• There was almost no whining (a miracle).
• And the eleven year olds gleefully sang Kumbaya the entire trip back.

The Mysterious Itch and Two Weeks of Misery

Raised red spots appeared at the base of my neck. Just a couple, but they provided enough discomfort that I knew it wasn't your ordinary mosquito bite. Next, a sprinkling of equally itchy bumps made themselves known on my right forearm. At this point, I thought I must have run into poison ivy on one of our excursions to the field across the road. I haven't had prior experience with any plant of the sort, so I googled poison ivy rash and compared. Seemed to be my misfortune, so I washed and waited. As the days progressed, so did the spots, up my neck, under my chin, then down my chest, shoulder, both arms, stomach... you get the idea.

There follows two weeks of itching and very little of my body that hasn't been touched and I'm not so sure it was poison ivy... or oak... or sumac. This I do know: it's not contagious (as only I have been affected), it seems to be influenced by heat, the spreading has not slowed yet, we don't have bed bugs, probably not chicken pox, and it is the itchiest thing I have ever encountered.

No joke. No exaggeration. The itchiest.

This Man

I love to be the mother alongside his fathering. It is our greatest adventure yet. It is a lot of trial and error and sometimes chaos, but more of laughing and hugs. Sometimes as parents, I think we get some things right. The wonderful thing is that even though we mostly do trials and errors, we're willing to keep trying. We're in it for good, he and I. We're a team. I couldn't have asked for a better eternal teammate in this eternal game of parenting. He is ever the consistent, attentive, caring dad. In a constant onward motion, he keeps on loving, teaching, caring, fixing, protecting, playing; better and better every time. Our three children love him, revel in his attention, and seek to share many moments with him. I admire so many things about PTB. The list is always growing. Very near the top though is the dad he is and is becoming. Right next to that is the way he inspires me and encourages me as a mom. .

Back on the Charts

The lady baby was measured and weighed at the pediatrician's today for assurance that she is growing. And she is.... shrimpy.... but growing. Here are the stats:

14 lbs. 6 oz. (3rd percentile, weight for age)

26 1/4 in. (25th percentile, height for age)

By the way, 3rd percentile may not seem too impressive, but six weeks ago she was a negative percentile (if those exist). She gained a pound and a half in a month and a half. Does a mama proud.

20 Years a Mormon

My baptism took place on a Tuesday evening after school and after my Little Mermaid birthday party. It was the exact day I turned eight. I remember distinctly that party, attended by a handful of girlfriends. We played some homemade games in the backyard, after which I sat in the velvety armchair surrounded by gift-giving friends as my brother's new kitten bounced between them with unending energy. She was the life of the party and I was grateful, because my mind drifted far beyond the room, the chaos, the toys, paper and bows, birthday wishes, and Ariel. I was just hours away from an event so meaningful that it transcended any eight year old reverie. My anticipation was thick, approaching tangible.

I don't claim to know a lot now, so I definitely knew even less as an eight year old girl, but I did understand this: I was doing something important. I did know that my decision to be baptized could have a lasting effect on my life.

It has.

My heart is so full when I consider how richly I have experienced the past 20 years because of that decision. Every blessing received and every joy experienced can be linked to my baptism and commitment to live by the covenant made then. I am so grateful.

A Callous Instinct to Incubate

Before I had my own chickens, I believed hens were only broody with a rooster around. I thought they could distinguish a fertilized egg.

This is not the case.

Two facts:

1. The instinct to brood seems to dawn arbitrarily. Rooster or no.

2. Broody hens are not choosy. They just want to sit on eggs. Any eggs will do.

A lady in our hen house became violently broody last month. Literally violent. She was so insistent on sitting on a large clutch of eggs that she would attack if you approached. Her beak made a fearsome weapon, drawing blood, leaving no question of her stance.

Her stance was strict and crouched in a nesting box over the eggs of all her sisters; strict to the extent that we never saw her leave the spot unless manually forced (leather gloved and cautious). We began to wonder if she ever hungered or thirsted because she didn't seem to be doing anything to satiate her needs. Maybe she would rot over the eggs, waiting hopelessly for a hatchling.

The violence was taken too far when she drew Gerret's blood one afternoon. Something had to be done. My idea was to eat her. Or get a rooster. PTB researched other ideas. The internet supplied some viable options. As a first attempt, he separated Broody from the other chickens and their eggs for a few days. It cured her. Until next time.

Tragedy and The Garbage Man

Day one of our four day weekend started with markers, paper, a box, and a boy. With a day stretched before him, free of obligation, Nolan set out creatively. He designed and cut, taped and colored; worked meticulously until at last, with artwork complete, it was time to make a sign and prepare for the exchange of funds. Carefully, he stenciled, DO YOU KNOW MY PROJECT SALE IS TODAY on printer paper which he then taped to the trash can at the end of our driveway. His stash of coinage was emptied from an old plastic holder into the new blue piggy bank his dad had recently brought home from work. All projects and money were placed in a box which he had likewise meticulously prepared using markers, scissors, paper, and tape. The box was taken to the end of the driveway somewhere near the advertising garbage can, but unfortunately out of my sight and mind.

Following lunch, we spent some hours working on removing sod from what will be a new flower bed at the pinnacle of our driveway's hill. Both boys were helping me shake dirt from the roots and throw the sod into a pile. Tiny droplets of salty water formed on each of our hairlines. We kept working. Gerret tired and climbed the nearby mountain of dirt-less sod, proclaiming himself king. An hour turned to two and stretched beyond two. We kept working. Gerret de-throned himself and embarked on a grand worm hunt.

Sometime soon after, I heard the rumble of a large vehicle traveling our way and remembered just as the brakes squealed before our house that it was garbage day. Both boys turned to watch with interest and maybe a bit of fantasizing about driving something so large and pulling magnificent levers to lift and crunch. And then the garbage man picked up a box that I hadn't put out with the garbage the night before. Realization struck. An alarmed boy started to run down the hill to stop him, but only made it a few steps before it was gone. All of his money, all of his drawings, all of his morning's intent. Gone. I watched the man finish dumping the last can and stop to read a careful child's handwriting. I don't know if he understood. I don't know if he connected the words on that paper to the content of the box he had just disposed of. I'm fairly certain he was too far from us to make out the aghast expressions on all three of our faces, because I couldn't quite decipher what I'm sure was a slightly bewildered look on his. Time stood still as he read the sign and paused a moment to consider it. I wondered if he could somehow retrieve the box, but my hopes followed him around the back to the driver's side and then rumbled down the road and out of view.

Nolan just melted. His face contorted with disappointment. Pain came pouring from his eyes. My heart broke for him. I scooped him in my arms and tried my best to assure him. There's always more money and more projects to be made and I'm so sorry.

I felt helpless, but Gerret stepped up and really redeemed the situation. He seemed more distressed over it than Nolan. Compassion seeped from his heart; I could see it in his eyes. He couldn't stop hugging Nolan and expressing his condolences and inquiring Nolan's condition. Gerret followed him into the kitchen, offering his own new blue piggy bank (though empty). Even thirty minutes later, Gerret continued to be extraordinarily clingy. Time passed and healed; Nolan was onto the next thing, but Gerret was still inquiring and caring. He was truly worried.

If not for the extremely tragic circumstance, it was a very sweet experience to watch one son offer so genuinely all of his support and love to his brother and have that brother so humbly accept.

Of Weighty Concern

When her brothers were in their infancy, they were long and thin. The doctors inevitably took issue with their weight, but with little repercussion as they were developing normally and were healthy, happy babies.

Baby Ruth turned out lanky like her brothers a fact attributed to genetics; a fact of little concern until March when she suffered illness. The illness sapped her of energy and appetite. For a couple days, she reverted to a newborn regimen of sleep. Just sleep. I would wake her to feed and even then have to tickle her toes and pat her back to keep her from drifting away.

Recovery came and so did her appetite, but the sick week had taken a toll and my concern for her would not abate. She weighed in at her six month well-visit at a whopping 12.12 lbs, a net loss of a few ounces since February. With the balancing of the scale, my suspicion of her unusual slimness was confirmed and my anxiety was exacerbated. It is a woman's nature to worry and even more so a mother's. And so I worried. A lot. I worried about milk supply, sucking inadequacies, digestive issues. I increased the frequency and number of daily feedings and immediately ventured solid introductions.

After three weeks of careful observation and deliberate catering, I think we're back on track with weight gain and overall wellness (aside from her little cold this week (thanks again, kindergarten)). She is a content, energetic, curious, rolling, little baby. She may be small, but the mother heart in me says not to fret.

Family Night on Seneca's Shore

Tuesday night is Family Night at our house. The agenda includes singing, a prayer, some spiritual instruction, a treat, and an activity.

Tonight:

PTB chose our song, which started strong with three of us singing in unison, one mouthing the words on the off beat, and the fifth watching intently. It finished with just PTB and I carrying on, as per usual. The other three were otherwise engaged.

Nolan prayed for us and included in his prayer a reference to the baby trying to eat my phone, which in fact she was at that very moment. Intuitive boy, I know.

We moved seamlessly into the lesson which Gerret taught using upside-down scriptures, largely depending on his memory, and requesting a little aide from his dad. The lesson was about the life of Jesus, particularly the end of it. Gerret's teaching style is matter-of-fact and slightly comical, always.

We then drove to the Big M in Ovid (which is not big in the slightest) for a treat of fresh donuts (I'm sure at one time they were fresh), which we enjoyed on the way to Lodi Point.

Right there on the edge of Seneca we spent the remainder of the evening watching the sun set behind the opposite shore, skipping shale over the water's surface, collecting smoothed glass, interesting rocks, and delicate shells, rollicking on the playground, and just savoring time spent together.

The Chicken You Eat

I dont have much to say, but I do have this to share. Time to raise meat birds? Be vegetarian?

This Week Has Been Sick

Today, I did not write what you'll read below. I wrote in a yesterday. I couldn't publish it that day, because I realized it was quite alarming. And I didn't want to alarm you with what may be seen as theatrics. Melodramatic or not, I wasn't exaggerating the description of my feelings. I was actually feeling alarmed, as a mother is wont to feel when her small infant succumbs to whatever germs have been brought home from kindergarten. The baby's doing better today, sunshine smile and all, so I'll go ahead and post this.

Here you are-- melodrama from the thick of our sick week:

My baby is more ill today than she was yesterday

or anyday in her life.

Her sunshine smile is hiding

behind glassy eyes.

She sleeps more, eats less, moans quietly, startles easily.

Her lethargy is killing me.

And my heart,

it is irregularly beating and constantly weakening.

My soul ails in its very depth,

wavers between nagging worry and exhaustive paranoia.

I have never entreated heaven like I did today,

never wanted anything more while feeling so

entirely powerless.

She, draped over my shoulder, paces with me

and I sniff her feathery head.

I think she is the sweetest thing I've ever smelled,

the softest to ever brush my cheek.

My imagination is holding her here

against my shoulder on a happier day

when giggles replace these soft cries.

We'll come out on the other side

just fine.

I believe it.

We'll be a little stronger,

with some more wisdom

and faith.

Advanced Evaporation

My racquetball playing dad, knows another racquetball playing man who also produces his own syrup annually. My dad, in passing, mentioned to the man that his daughter and son-in-law were attempting to tap and process their own sap and the man in turn offered an evaporating contraption that he no longer used.

So we inherited this enclosed fireplace with a deep cast-iron bowl which sets on the top. It allowed us to boil a much larger volume of sap at once, so we increased our tapping to seven spiles and used our new outdoor oven twice before the end of syrup season. On our last day of boiling, we lit the fire at 8 in the morning, boiled down a total of thirty gallons of sap, finished up at midnight with a bit more than a half gallon of quite fluid, but pleasingly sweet syrup.

The season is over already. With the warm winter, we should have begun tapping a few weeks earlier, but we didn't know. We jumped in with very little preparation or understanding and just learned and acquired needed materials as we went.

Annual Obligatory Record of Crocuses

An obligation to myself. See here…

Lindsay's Rulebook for Life
Section Four, Article 178:

Every year when the sun shines again after months without, a photo of the first bloom must be captured in commemoration.

Nolan Ponders the Amish

Mama is my name. Answering is my game. But sometimes he answers his own questions and the answers he gives are far more insightful than mine would have been. Leave it to the five year old.

"Mama, we see a lot of Amish people."

We pass a horse drawn buggy as we drive down County Rd 129 on our way to Waterloo.

"yeah, that's because a lot of them live around here."

"why?"

"because they like to farm so they live in the country where there's land."

Amish owned fields extend in three directions beyond a small crop of buildings. The first structure, a large home, sits near the road to my right. Amish, for sure. A clothesline neatly lined in plain but vibrantly colored clothing stretches between a metal-roofed barn and the gray, shutterless house. Amish don't shutter their windows, I've noticed.

The buggy is a dot in my rearview mirror by now.

"why don't they use a car?"

"because... Hmph" I stammer.

Do you know the answer? I only have a conjecture, so I throw it out there.

"because they believe Jesus wants them to live simply and cars are not simple."

"Do you think we shouldn't use cars?"

"I think if we can have something, even cars, we should use it to do good. What do you think?"

"I think Jesus wants everyone to be kind and reverent."

How Long Can an Introvert Stay In?

The answer, at least for an introvert I know quite well, is a very, very long time. Like years. "Staying at home" can truly be isolating, but isolation is sometimes a comfortable prospect for an introvert. Being social is exhausting, causes heartburn, headaches, and high blood pressure. The weekly excursion to church requires the following six days for recovery.

So the introvert has a internal battle (ranging over years) between loneliness and risk. Loneliness is more comfortable to the introvert than the risk of putting herself out there, especially when she sees herself as somewhat awkward. Ridiculous? Yes, of course, but to the introvert, loneliness isn't so bad. It's tabula rasa for the creative mind. It's an opportunity to explore. Introverts know what they are at their core (not just awkward) and have giant integral webs of ideas which they work in and out of over a lifetime of cognizant meanderings.

Eventually though, fuel for exploration runs low and the introvert knows that the battle has been won. It is time to leave loneliness and comfort. And what? Join a book club? Take a dance class? Get a job?

* * * * *

Now consider for a moment the introvert whose home is the country --far from civilization; the closest town so small it shouldn't be called a village, but an out-post. In the wilderness, people are fairly hard to come by. The paucity of population becomes an aide to the introvert's tendency to hover at home. Thus, overcoming hermitdom is not a seamless task. It takes considerable effort, planning, and travel.

* * * * *

So this introvert I know, she had expended her years of staying in, being a hermit, if you will. She was finally ready to leave comfort and wander out into the world beyond her rural existence. She even had a plan, a date, a place, a time, an activity, and a ready-made group of strangers who were likely to welcome her, however quiet or awkward. She thought about it on the weekend, told her husband and mom, worked at gumption and courage, repeated plans and mantras. This would be two hours of a big deal! --Thursday morning, kids in tow.

And then it was Wednesday and she was talking herself beyond excuse after excuse. She was convincing herself through the morning, through lunchtime, as she waited for the afternoon bus. This was a worthwhile endeavor. At least, that's what she had to tell herself every few minutes. Being social racks the nerves of an introvert, so her cloudy dizziness and fluttery stomach were to be expected, or that's another phrase she had to repeat to herself, "This is to be expected". There are certainly physiological symptoms caused by incorporeal maladies, as any introvert knows. However, it seems in retrospect, that the physiological distresses of her day should have been attributed more to the stomach bug, which had plagued her husband just days prior, than just to nerves.

By early evening, the undulations and vertigo turned to outright flu-like symptoms and all of her days of self-convincing, promoting, encouraging, and arranging were literally flushed down the drain. Repeatedly. All through the night and into Thursday morning. Instead of awkwardly meeting new people, she awkwardly wrapped her arms around the toilet as her face became well acquainted with the insides of the bowl. Poor little introvert. She looked at the clock Thursday morning, sweaty and miserable from a night of ravaging revulsions, and realized that it was exactly the time she should have been out and taking the first step to overcoming hermitdom. So she asked herself in exasperation, "How long can an introvert stay in?"

The answer, my friends, is a little bit longer.

Back in the Burg

I haven't written about Trumansburg since we moved away from it, but if you love the Burg like I do, you know that it's hard to stay away. Every so often, PTB and I leave our children in the care of my parents and indulge in a walk around the Burg. It really is a sweet little town, boasting of... well, not a whole lot. That's what makes it little. Although limited in size and franchise, most every space is wielded useful and crisply appealing.

This is my favorite shop, not just in this small village, but of every equivalent shop in every place I've been. It's called Sundrees. Its smallness mimics its hometown, but it is likewise packed with beauty and color. In it, they sell things useful, whimsical, plain, ornate, for children and adults of both male and female variety. The best part? Sundrees largely draws on the community for its wares. In an age of outsourcing and Chinese products, what ordinary American doesn't appreciate the words handmade and local in the same sentence?

You can find Sundrees downtown on Main Street, next door to NY Pizza and across from NAPA Autoparts.

Oldies

Here are some photos of Auburn (approximately 2 weeks old). She used to sleep through anything! And she had so much hair...