Strawberry Bluff

There are no road signs to all of the best places. Merrily setting off on a birthday picnic, only the sketchiest of directions from a friend, we followed the road until it became gravel. We curved left through the stand of pines, followed by a left turn on Forest Service Road 1444, marked on the maps but not in real life. Then things became a bit confused, the road forked. Left or right? Our directions at that point only said to continue up the mountain. We chose left, bumping along, feeling quite adventurous. Arden, in the back seat, was yelling, "Death ride." Hyperbole, perhaps, but things were getting worse not better on that road clearly not designed for the family van. After a ten point turn, we headed back and took the fork to the right. Then up the mountain. We parked, "where the road gets wider." We followed a short trail, unmarked, and were out on Strawberry Bluff. We think. One can never be quite sure.

We picnicked on baguettes and Havarti and Brie, grapes and strawberries, French biscuits and lemonade. We sat in the sun, we kept the little ones far from the edge of the cliff. We admired the view and found the farm where we pick berries and apples. Then we watched the sun set, and wound our way back down the mountain.

Festive Fourth

It has been a hot and dry summer. So hot and dry that the fire danger has soared. The fun quotient of food and gunpowder was halved by state wide burn bans. The municipal fireworks show was canceled. We had friends to dinner on Tuesday. We were left to our own devices on Wednesday. We felt sorry for ourselves and joked about just watching fireworks on TV. Except, wait, we don't have TV.

Four kids, eager for some kind of holiday fun, waiting while two parents whisper, brainstorm, in the kitchen. We took them swimming. We played a board game. We ate dessert then hopped in the car.

We ordered milkshakes from Sonic and someone had the audacity to complain about having dessert twice. Is that a problem? We parked out by the soccer field, spread out our blankets and waited for it to get dark.  The kids ran around with their glow sticks, battling it out in the summer heat. We watched the stars come out.

Then...then...with the help of two planispheres and a night sky app on the phone we found the stars. We found Saturn and Mars. We found Altair, Deneb, Polaris, and more utterly foreign names glittering in and beyond the Milky Way. We traced the imaginations of ancient men: Draco, Ursa Major and Aquila. The six year old danced with joy when the moon finally appeared in the sky. The moon! The moon!

All my life I've been able to name three stars in the night sky: those three in Orion's belt. I could never even find the Big Dipper. The success has gone to our heads. We plan to go out again in two weeks when the moon wanes, though we will probably skip Sonic.

After all, the Fourth only comes around once a year.

The Swamp

I read a guest post over at Money Saving Mom 9 Ideas for Planning a Fun Summer Vacation,  accompanied by photos of the author and her kids by the Golden Gate Bridge and at the beach. Clearly playing the tourist is more exciting when you live in the San Francisco Bay Area than in Any Small Town U.S.A. Here teens hang out in the car wash parking lot and Walmart is the biggest thing going on Friday night (outside of football season, naturally). Rating local parks won't carry us far. There are two in town; one is so small it's hardly worth mentioning. We can't all live in the same place. Thankfully. Good ideas are relevant for some, not for others. Any kind of fun you can have in SFO: not relevant for me.

After so many moves, I'm learning the lesson: love where you are, not where you aren't.

Yesterday we made a trip to the airport. Four hours driving, round trip. While we were out "in the world" we stopped at a trail,  played the tourist. Except a tourist would never have found that place. Like so many interesting places in Arkansas, there were no road signs. Only an article clipped from a newspaper, lucky turns down country roads, and a 15 minute walk out into the swamp.

But it was the Cypress-tupelo swamp that lured us there. We'd never been to a swamp before, though we'd had long discussions what they might be like as we zipped by them on the highway. We were bent on discovery.

So, tongue in cheek, I'll ask: what kind of fun can you find two hours from home?

Above and below: the Bald Cypress trees

A word on the snakes: We saw three snakes on our walk. Another couple on the trail told us they were cottonmouths. Looking at their photos on the computer, I wonder if they really are. Rumor has it cottonmouths (water moccasins) have slanty, cat-like pupils. These seem to be round. As with any nature ID I attempt, I've looked at three internet sites and have no real clarity on this issue. Perhaps my brother would like to weigh in?

Zoom lens. I make it my rule in life to never, under any circumstances, come in any contact, nor invade the space of any snake no matter how harmless it may trick you into believing it may be. That way I'm safe. Snakes = NO!

Summer Goals - When You Are Fourteen

I have noticed that days make themselves wings and fly away. Lazy summer days are an especially flighty sort. A flighty sort that calls for a certain amount of goal setting, lest we miss an open opportunity because we are too busy sitting on the couch. You've been busy in that way too, haven't you?

When I mentioned to Ally that I thought she ought to form some summer goals, she had already made a long list. I was impressed and saw no reason to ask anything more of her. Her summer goals:

• Sew her first quilt, all by hand. (Personally I consider this nothing short of torture, but these are Ally's goals.)
• Type up recipes and organize a recipe notebook.
• Compete in the Bible Bee.
• Read books. A rather extensive reading list, too long to be finished. Beginning, and ending, no doubt with Dickens.
• Fit in 300 hours of drawing.
• Mow the soccer fields with her father and earn a dollar or two.
• Use those hard earned dollars to spend one glorious week visiting old friends.

Today we were out and about in the real world, far from this sleepy, small town. We bought supplies. We stocked up on the stuff goals are made of, and here she is tonight already at work on her first quilt.

The Storymobile

Wednesday when I delivered that bowl of strawberries to my neighbor, we got to talking about the Mennonite nursery out by the swimming lake. Half of our conversations revolve around the garden, so we quickly agreed to go together.

Thursday I hurried the kids through lunch and we piled in the van with our neighbor. Out toward the mountains we drove, out toward the swimming hole. The sign for the nursery was by the road, a crowd of pansies down below. We followed the drive, curving beside perfectly mowed fields. We passed the cattle trailers, perfectly perpendicular. The cattle chutes were gleaming. The greenhouses were small, but clean, perfectly built and maintained. The plants were nodding, happy, in the April sun. Later, I had to confess to Bryan some serious envy in my heart.

The car ride to the nursery, on the prim Mennonite farm, was all stories. Long ago her great-grandfather had fought with Sam Houston in Texas. When the fighting was done, he made his way back up into this river valley and chose a farm at the foot of the mountains. When the country was up at arms, readying for the Civil War, he declared he couldn't fight against his friends. He set his two slaves free, joined a regiment from Ohio and ended running a Union commissary, where the Methodist church now stands, a ten mile wagon ride from home. A niece had lost a husband, then a boyfriend in the fighting, so with two small children, she moved out to his farm and when the war was over they married and had a whole passel of kids. Aunt Em's house used to be right here, but it's fallen now. The wainscoting was waist high. When World War I ended, and they were the only house out there with a phone, someone called on the party-line at one in the morning with the news. Everyone got out of bed, and at two her mother set out across the fields with a lantern, to tell the next farm over. She worried all the way she'd step on a snake.

That is history.

Ambling between the petunias and begonias, I whispered in Sam's ear, "Wasn't it worth it, just to hear the stories?" When we finished, we hopped back in the storymobile and drove home. And Sam reported to Bryan, "She tells great stories."

In the Civil War there was a man who didn't want to fight. He hid up in the mountains, in a cave, just up there on the cliff. When the men from town came looking for him, he couldn't be found. After the danger had gone, his wife would put out the laundry, white sheets, visible on the valley floor from the cliffs up above, and he would make his way home.

And we rattled along in the storymobile. Cliffs to the right. Nursery ahead. Storyteller beside us in the car.

Strawberries

The crew and I picked strawberries today. The ripe berries were few and far between. I feel it in my back tonight. Then we discovered all the best berries were in the area beside the mud puddle. Thankfully, Ally wore her boots.

 

Home again, we washed and sorted and cut. This afternoon we made one batch of strawberry freezer jam. I carried a bowl of berries over to share with an elderly neighbor. This evening we are having shortcake. We're calling it an End of the Math Book Party, because Ally finished Algebra I today. Or we could call it a First Sign of Summer Party. They are both appropriate.

On Monday Morn

Ally needed a day off. Just one day off math. I consider it a suitable reward. She will finish every lesson and test in her book by the end of April. She was feeling a little lonely, discouraged, and out of sorts.

I have been spending too much time lately feeling tired, grumpy, and out of sorts. I have spent entirely too much time being the kind of person I do not want to be. I blame motherhood, though if I were a mother without sin I suppose things would be different. The innumerable little things drive a mother to distraction. For example, the conversation drowning sounds of a dying chicken coming up from the back seat of the van. Followed by a gleeful pronouncement, "I'm the prince of poultry." In these situations consistent good cheer and patience are hard to maintain.

We needed a break. We sat down together on Monday morning. We did our nails. The dumpy nail polish that I put on before Christmas came off. It is flip-flop time. We reviewed our memory verses. I listened to her recite what she knows of First John. She listened to me hobble through Colossians 1. We discussed goal setting for the long quiet, easily wasted, summer. Of course, Ally already had goals planned, but I got to hear them.

Just a couple hours off. A couple hours of quiet. Precious time with my girl that left me quiet at heart for the rest of the day. I may be a mama out of sorts, but things are not all bad. They're rather good. Rather good indeed. Very good indeed.

What To Do With Two

I could have packed him up and sent him off with the others. I had planned to have the day all to myself. I had planned hours of peace and quiet and a reading and an activity schedule. But sometimes in the hustle and bustle it's easy to miss this littlest one. Even more than I needed a day to myself, he needed a day for just two. Muttering a quiet complaint, I did what I knew was right. We waved goodbye to the family, walked back inside and had the very best of days.

We did some chores. This always in motion boy a cheerful worker under mom's approving eyes.

We played Teddy Mix and Match counting out our bears by two's.

We nestled together on the sunny spot and read all the library books. We read How to Dig a Hole to the Other Side of the World two times. It's twice as good and oh-so funny when you're six.

We ate lunch at the quiet table, side by side. We made two malted chocolate milkshakes for dessert. Two straws.

He biked and I huffed along behind him, vainly trying to catch up. We stopped to watch the muskrat in the water. We craned our necks to see the hawks overhead. He stopped to pick a boquet, grape hyacinth and common weeds growing beside the trail. A gift for the love of his life, and it's still me.

We had the very best of days, we two.

The Last of the Daffodils

The last daffodils are dying on my kitchen window sill. Harbingers of cheer and hope, now spent and brown.

Inspired by afternoons at the college field, the kids play baseball in the backyard sun. The crack of the bat rings spring.

We wear our tees. Our noontime walk feels sticky warm as we pick our way over the carpet of fallen magnolia blossoms. Spring peepers sing their frog song.

Planets shine bright in an ink sky and we delight to stand in awe on such a perfect night.

I turned on the air conditioner in the van today.

And it's only March.

Love Note on the Wall

We're having internet issues at home. For a week or two I am packing up the computer and working in my husband's office. It is remarkable how my days change when suddenly I can't just pop on and off the internet whenever I feel like it. I think it is good for me. But I hate to admit it.

Here, beside his desk, Bryan has taped up a note from Kara. I am encouraged. She has learned at least one fact in school this year. All of our hours of work and I can claim one success. Here, in unedited glory, is her love note to Daddy:

dad I love you cant wait to see you at Lunch I miss you have a good morning your dear daugter kara

karadrotar

 (Just like Jhon hancock nice and big)

I may not have managed to drill into her head the right use of capital letters. Punctuation seems unknown. Spelling skills, in this student I consider my best speller, have been set aside. I could be tempted to despair.

If nothing else, she has at least learned that John Hancock signed his name with a large hand. And so does she. She signs her name with a big hand. She lives her life the same way.

Hearts at Home

Friday was our Valentine crafting day. Just as I thought, Arden was a mad potato stamper. He completed ten pages of hearts and stars lined up in row, after row, after row. He has a logical mind, everything in order, that one. The rest of us made tissue paper hearts. Some out of obedience (Sam). Some genuinely enjoying it. Some enjoying the process then giving up in disgust half way through (me). And, of course, my plans to get the Valentines in the mail Friday afternoon were way too optimistic. I ought to have factored in the drying time of a quarter inch of glitter glue. Which is a long time. Silly me.

Yesterday we baked our brownies and the little ones frosted them. I stayed home in the afternoon with the sick one. I made soup and bread. She cut out hearts to hang from the chandelier in the dining room. I hurried dinner preparations. The bread almost had enough time to rise. I rushed around picking up the living room, which had been the sick room all night Monday night. I quickly decorated the table. But the little exclamations of pleasure when the kids walked in the door from soccer practice made it all worth while. They love a little surprise.

When we sat down to eat I had a moment to look at myself. Unshowered. Cruddy jeans. Frosting spilled on the front of my shirt. Water spots. I blushed. Women who advise you to change clothes and put on make-up before your husband comes in from work could have had a hey-day with me. Bryan just laughed and said, "Good thing it's not our first date." Then he ate another piece of bread.

Sometimes an old, comfortable love is the best love of all.

Valentines

Holidays always catch me off guard. Not Christmas, a holiday so massive in our culture it overwhelms three months of the year. Even more if you listen to budgeting gurus who have you save cash toward Christmas expenses all year (it's a good idea, but is the final proof that Christmas has become too much). But other holidays, to which we give a token nod, sneak up on me. I usually think about Valentines on the 13th, which is too late to put a little card in the mail. Or rather, too late to put a card in the mail and have it arrive on time.

This week I've looked ahead, and have planned some time in our school day tomorrow to make some Valentines and put them in the mail. A timely enterprise. I won't bore you with detailed how-to's. Either these are so simple you don't need them or you can Google it. Here are the crafts I'm planning:

• Potato stamping. Easy and fun for the six year old.
• Torn tissue paper hearts added to a card. Trace heart shapes on stiff paper. Tear tissue paper in bits. Mix half glue and half water. Paint glue mixture over hearts, and add tissue paper. Then paint glue mixture over tissue paper hearts. Allow to dry and cut out hearts. I'm thinking, for the detail oriented among us, a bouquet of flowers made this way might be really pretty.
• Paper cones for Valentine's candy. All the candy my kids need will fit in these. I'm thinking they would be cute in a mason jar on the table as our centerpiece.
• Brownies or Rice Crispie treats cut in heart shapes with a cookie cutter, with sprinkles. Sprinkles seem to make everything taste better. We'll actually make these on Valentine's Day.

I only have to buy the candy and some sprinkles. Simple and cheap. Next I'll think of a family favorite for dinner and a little something special for my husband, a little something free but thoughtful. He and I go for a Valentine's date after Valentine's Day. We hate the crowds of star-struck lovers in the restaurants.

So it is here. We hate pricey-trashy gifts. We hate crowds of people. We hate the notion that love can only be expressed monetarily. Time, thoughtfulness, and kindness are nourishing soils in which love grows.

These Quiet School Days

 Bryan is out of town. We are waking up each day and doing what we know we must: school work. Sometimes when he leaves we play, proclaim the day a Make and Do Day. Make and Do Days are perfectly valid, but not quite so soon after Christmas break. Now we are quietly doing our duty. A little work here and a little work there yields big results over time.

A board game break after math? Absolutely. Skippity is Arden's new game. I like it more than he does. It's fun! Kind of like Checkers, but you fill the entire colorful board and jump pieces, trying to complete sets with pieces of each color. Then we get back to work. Time for my second cup of coffee and our history read aloud George Washington's World. I always claim the sunny corner of the couch. When we finish Sam looks aghast that I would ask him to write a paper. Two in one week?! He's shocked. We told him that's what we expect. I guess it is the enforcement of it that actually comes as a surprise.

Poor Ally. The rigors of high school require her to miss all the fun. But I can't feel too sorry for a girl who comes down for lunch each day genuinely excited about all she is learning.

Then this afternoon in their free time the three little kids made these animal tree (Styrofoam cup) forts. They're rather clever, but I would have appreciated them more if a fight over the animals didn't immediately follow the completion of the fort. Yup, I am counting down the hours until Bryan is home again.

Not a Cake Decorator

"I want a New York City cake."

I guardedly ask what he means. He's somewhat unclear. Vanilla. New York City. Buildings rising toward the sky. We discuss the birthday cake all day.

"I can't do that," I reply. "I can make it flat, like a picture." Because I am no cake decorator.

I mix up The Pioneer Woman's Best Chocolate Sheet Cake. Ever.

"Chocolate?" He asks, disappointed. Yes.

It was a delicious cake. I had it baked and frosted,with my dishes washed in 30 minutes. Easiest cake. Ever.

He peers through the oven window. "Will it puff up?"

"No, it will be flat like a picture."

"Oh, COME ON." Huh...he's passionate about that New York City cake. Helpful siblings plot elaborate schemes for propping up that flat-as-Texas-sheet cake. I remain steadfast. I am no cake decorator.

Later Kara and I were looking for a photo of the New York City skyline (as you'll soon see, it made little difference to the final cake). We came across CakeFiction and watched the slide show of hundreds of perfect cakes, even, yes,  a New York City cake. I feel like a terrible mom. But I can't help it, I am no cake decorator.

As a conciliatory measure I let him exercise his discretion over the sprinkles. And he smiled in the end.

Today at Hobby Lobby I glanced at the sign up sheet for the Wilton Cake Decorating classes. Just a glance. I'm no cake decorator, and I don't want to be one either.