Mmmmm... I Like Bad Coffee


I like the weak, mild, cheap coffee that the real coffee drinkers snub and scorn. I like Nescafe with cream and sugar. I like the stuff at the bagel shop across from Starbucks. Oh, and one more thing: It has to be decaffeinated. If it's leaded, it makes my heart race and I get anxious, nameless dread seeps into the recesses of my comfort zone. Yes, every few months I like to have a warm cup of lightly sweetened, slightly creamy, bad, unleaded coffee.

I like bad beer too. Don't waste fruity, dark ales and hopped-up lagers on me. Spare me the bold beers, the malt beers, the bitter beers, and hold off on the esters and wood aged brews. All of those beers, that the true fans of beer savor and extoll, leave me feeling just the way Bill the Cat looks... disarrayed, gagged and disheveled. The "good" stuff is wasted on my unrefined palate. On a hot day, in the company of friends, while grilling, or when enjoying salsa and chips, I'll take a cold can of Tecate, a chilled O'Douls, or a Mexican Coke, the Real Thing, for that matter.

In Fortuna, last month, when we were celebrating the Equinox at Eel River Brewing Company, I asked the waitress to please suggest a beer for someone who thought non-alcoholic beer was good enough. She looked at me and with confidence and the air of a doctor prescribing the right pill, she said, "Oh, you need a Clim@x."
Yes, well, who's going to argue with the doctor, or with a good waitress?
OKay. It was perfect. So, if a Clim@x could be considered a "good" beer, then count me in. I do like a good Clim@x.


Did you have to eat everything on your plate when you were a kid? I did not. My mom liked me try things, which was fine, but she never force fed me. She never made me stare at a plate of something that made me gag and tear just thinking of it on my tongue. I did have have the occasional run-ins with some know-it-all adults that insisted my "immature taste buds" would benefit from swallowing spoonfuls of overcooked green beans, and fatty hunks of undercooked beef. Like Scarlett O'Hara, only with less of an appetite, I made my own solemn vow. Defiantly, and with true conviction I raised my fist and pledged: "As God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over I'll never eat anything yucky again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to lie, cheat or spit into a napkin, as God is my witness I'll never eat yucky food again!"


I honor my pledge as best I can. I have sampled a great variety of foods, strange, good, bad, weird, tasty, memorable and forgettable. I appreciate vegan, raw, vegetarian and I like tofu, but it does not like me. I have had backyard chicken and wild turkey, and raw urchin that I plucked from the sea myself. And I always eat with gratitude, because food is a blessing, but I still adamantly insist that, given a choice, I will not eat yucky food and nor will any of my folk, which means I will not force my children to eat food they do not like. One taste is all I ask, and then another taste 6 months later. Tastes change, attitudes change, but I never believed those changes had anything to do with "maturity." Intuitively, I believed that adults had dead taste buds, and that it was children who knew bitter from sweet. In nature bitter = poison and is best avoided, so I presumed that children's taste was merely a biological imperative for survival. I also believe that garden fresh veggies, fruits and whole grains, lean proteins, beans and rice could make up a healthy diet that children will eat, and that eventually we can all find our way to balanced and varied diets...


But mostly I was really, really convinced that every overzealous adult that force fed me and smugly ridiculed me and my "lack of good taste" was wrong in their presumption that children are 'unsophisticated and need training.' I hated overcooked, limp, colorless veggies then, and I hate them now. Fatty, rare beef still gags me. I do not like lima beans or radishes. Too many onions is too many, thank you. My point is, I knew as a child what tasted bad to me and I know what I like now, as a mature, sophisticated adult. If I were force fed a plate full of mushrooms with bell peppers and liver, I would not like it any more than a healthy kid would. If I were really hungry, and I have been really hungry, I know that food becomes vital, and the want of food supersedes taste and emotion... otherwise, I will not eat, or ask anyone to eat, yucky food.


Do you know what is really fun? It is fun to discover that your intuitive convictions have scientific merit, in other words: I was like, totally right! Our children, clever, beautiful beings, have 10,000 alert, active taste buds. Adults have only 3,000 taste buds. We adults don't like things more or better than children because of maturity and enlightenment. We aren't detecting subtle flavors and appreciating sophisticated dishes... we are missing flavors. We are desensitized and tasteless. Adults are the ones who cannot appreciate that some things are bitter or over spiced, or simply too much. Adults who smoke have an even greater loss of taste. I have always wondered about Anthony Bourdain's sometimes questionable dining preferences... No matter. So long as we are eating to sustain ourselves, to celebrate and commune, then I will strive to serve healthful food, varied food, good food, and I will be respectful of your tastes and my own.



Geoff and I, with William, Alex, Max and Maria, went out to celebrate our anniversary at a favorite restaurant. We hadn't been there in 5 years. The green salad with goat cheese, strawberries and almonds was my favorite dish, but my favorite part of the evening was being with my husband and children, talking, laughing, sharing, walking, browsing... it was delicious!

Chickens and So Much More!

"I have to say, for a chicken blog--I don't see many chickens. But oh well; it's all good.
--Kate, The Manic Gardener"

Do I need a disclaimer? Should I tell my story, the origins of "Chickenblog," all over again? Is it time to revisit those Chicas... Chicas of the past and present?


Lady Betty Orpington. She's a big girl now.

In the olden days, before iPhones and Blue-Ray, I gave up handwriting letters and started learning how to email family and friends. Geoff had always been computer savvy. He used to read me Internet articles back in 1990, which is only recent in geological time, but not in the context of modern technology. So, Geoff was hip and cool, but I was a total newbie and using email was a gigantic tech-step.


Amelia, The Test Pilot. She's got her wings now!

Anyway, I was writing emails to Hawaii and Wisconsin and trying to keep family caught-up with our growing family. And it never occurred to me to cut and paste, to send the same letter to multiple people... that seemed like it would be impersonal, like cheating, and besides, I could never remember the keys for cutting and pasting. In 2002 Geoff thought it was time to update the whole communication system. He thought web-logging would be the most efficient and interesting way to share news and explore a medium that was just starting to take-off.


Amelia's feet are spotty and her beak has a Groucho-'stache. I think Betty could stand in for Harpo.


Not me. No, I am a resistant, foot dragging, fearful, shy, reluctant kind of being. I still pop my corn on the stove top and I am suspicious of new fangled things, like yogurt in a tube and online banking. Microwave popcorn is not right. Bank tellers should be better dressed than me and alive, because that is just what I am used to. I just know I've told this story before. I wonder if I am telling it the same, or dressing it up?


I was kicking and screaming, but Geoff dragged me into the 20th century. Then he pulled extra hard, and managed to get me into the 21st century. My first assignment was to choose a name for my blog. Having never seen any blogs, and still not understanding what the point of blogging could be, I felt unprepared and indecisive. I didn't feel like a person with an agenda or something to sell. I did not have a hobby I wanted to share or promote. There was no creative impulse to drive me, and so no inspired, literary, introspective, artistic or appropriate names came to mind. We had just adopted 4 chicks, the most happy and daring thing had done since having babies, and chickens were foremost in my thoughts. They were new and funny and a source of pleasure for our family, as we were beginning a new chapter in our lives. Our Rancho lives, living in a fixer-upper in the country, learning how to operate a tractor and battle gophers. Amused and distracted by our 4 chicas, I chose "Chickenblog" as the name of the blog.


I see Kate's point. There aren't many chickens for a chicken blog. And, sadly, there were many years with no chickens at all. Chickenblog is about my dreams of having chickens, it's about the whimsy of chickens, it's about me feeling giddy and optimistic when I think of chickens. Chickenblog is my letter to family and friends, a family journal, a way to connect. It's about chickens of the past, like the one we bought for a dime, when we were living in Guatemala, or the ones Santa brought us when my brothers and I were really little kids. Chickenblog is about the chickens we brought home in May 2002, and the new flock we started this year. Chickenblog is about not knowing better and thinking my blog needed to call itself a blog. Chickenblog is about me and us and our stories and deep thoughts and other musings, and sometimes I think I write like a chicken... hunting and pecking at the keyboard, scratching the surface and looking for good things, crowing and noisily clucking when I feel good or scared or excited.


I am amused when I think of how reluctant and confused I felt when I started blogging... Almost like a headless chicken. Just kidding. Creepy, I know. Sorry. (lol) I could not see the big picture or where things would head. There is a lot we take for granted about blogs now, and there are almost as many blogs out there as there are themes and motivations... it's funny to me, thinking about the early days. 6 years ago was a long time ago in the world of web logging. I wonder where we will be 6 years from now...


I know where we were 19 years ago. We were catching our breathes, grinning, happily just married. Happy Anniversary Geoff. Still grinning. Still happy. It is all good.

Maíz, Leña, Agua y Memorias


I should have learned to speak Spanish. I wish I were fluent. My mother insisted it would benefit me. My tias and tios implored me to learn Spanish, and mocked me too. I absorbed enough to ache for more. I learned enough to know that I am missing entire stories and insights. I understand enough to feel a profound connection to phrases and concepts, to emotions and spiritual convictions that I am powerless to explain en español or English.

I believe I am as much a part of Mexico and my family, the piedras del campo, as I am a part of my own children, my life in a suburban home with suburban experiences, but I do not know it.. I have always wanted to write about Mexico, El Valle, about border crossings and crossing cultural borders, about tortillas de harina, Seris, Opata, iglesia, and being an outsider here and there. I never have, not significantly, because I was afraid of messing it up, getting it wrong, missing important details, overstating insignificant bits. My story might be false memory and lies. My story might not ring true, or it could be too true.

I used to dream of knowing enough Spanish to glean the truth, the whole story, and I knew my abuelo was the source I needed to visit for those stories, for the genealogy, the adventures and history of a family and region, for a time rich in intrigue and improbable truths. I used to dream of writing all of it down and knowing the stories so well, that no one could doubt that I belonged too. No border or barriers, no lack of knowledge or cultural missteps would deny me access to that elusive feeling of belonging.


When I was a very little girl I was taken to El Valle de Tacupeto, 2 or 3 times. I don't know. I remember eating oranges and my first recollection of the smell of a cut orange is standing at La Mesita, with my Mom, waiting to board a small plane. I was there for my 5th birthday and received a harmonica. What happened to my harmonica? My brother Bill was a baby, we went to church, there was a wedding and a death. The river was flooding the dirt roads that cold winter. It seems like the river has always been flooding the roads.

I went 3 more times when I was a bit older... 11, 12, then 14 years old. By this time my parents were divorced, and I was traveling with my abuelo, then my tia Magali, then my tio Elias took us. Those first times were by bus. From Tijuana we traveled through the night for 12 hours to Hermosillo. It was hard to wake-up for the check-stops. I was always fearful of the bus leaving without us. We would be alone in the Sonoran desert, which wasn't really any less familiar than that bus. In Hermosillo we would wait to board another bus. The first bus was like a tired, old Greyhound. The next bus was like a tired, old, dangerous school bus. Not yellow and swept, but blue and red and yellow, dusty, crowded. We sat on fruit crates in the back. Were there live chickens on the bus? Is that my memory or something lingering from an old movie? I think there were live chickens. There were twine wrapped boxes, which served as luggage and there were stops in the middle of nowhere, so we could pee in the bushes. There were hours of narrow dirt roads, and river crossings. The entire journey was at least 20 hours long. One trip finished in the bed of a large truck, when the bus came to one river it could not cross.

On our last visit to El Valle we drove to Nogales, Arizona, crossed and continued to Hermosillo. No more bus rides. No more Sonoran summers and Sonoran heat. We went in November. Where is the bridge, the one over the river? Is it Rebeico? Is that where we cross, where the bridge is like a passage back in time and memory?


The new roads cut the travel time down to 16 hours. It's such a luxury traveling in our own car. This long ride is one that my abuelo made by horseback. There were no roads then. There were Yaqui to hide from. On this trip to El Valle we faced nothing more daunting than cattle in the road.


My grandfather was a musician and he travelled with a band, playing from pueblo to pueblo. Music for dances. Music in the placitas, for weddings and festivals. His father had traveled too and came home with a Bible. My bisbuelo Gabriel gave his land for the church. The church that shares the backyard of my grandparent's home today. And when my abuelo Ismael gave up being a musician, he came home to herd cattle, to milk vacas and to plant the mule-plowed fields. I remember shelling peanuts for planting, eating watermelon from the field, washing potatoes, picking chiles. I remember chewing on stringy, sweet cuts of sugar cane and watching my grandmother grind corn for tortillas.


When I see cows, I see vacas and I hear a guitarra. I see the nata scooped from the top of a pail of fresh milk... fresh, sweet cream. I can taste the cheese my abuela makes. The white rounds of cheese, the salty cheese crumbled over a bowl of beans. When I see vacas I think of my abuelo walking to the family ranch, El Ojo de Agua, early in the morning, returning with a pail of milk for our breakfast. It's a song, words I cannot speak, but the tune is in my soul.


We ride through many towns to reach home. Bacanora, the town, not the drink... though they are synonymous. Sahuaripa. And Arivechi. We get closer and closer. We see the Cerro Cabezón.


After Bamori comes El Valle de Tacupeto, and abuela and abuelo. There will be hugs and kisses and welcome. It is a comfort to find a familiar door and familiar faces, the same walls and trees, the sound of coros coming from the church, the certainty of a place that comes to me in my dreams.


November 2003. Alex in his abuelo's embrace. Home in Mexico, where we will cook by fire, and sleep on burlap cots. Where the doors are unlocked and every neighbor is familia or at least knows who I am related to... hija de... nieta de... sobrina de... Everyone knows the relations and connections. Home in Tacupeto.


They were married for 70 years. They have 8 children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I have never said it, but I feel a kind of pride and specialness, because I am the first grandchild. It doesn't matter, not really, but when I was a child it gave me tremendous pleasure to think of it. I held to a secret belief, unfounded by anything but my romantic imagination, that being first entitled me to something good, to a promise and security. Maybe someday I too would have a rancho and vacas, grind, corn, keep chickens, make tortillas. The clouded line between beliefs and knowledge can be untested, and now that I think on the truth, and not my childhood fantasies, I am amused and saddened. I am not sure why.


Catre. I wasn't sure I was saying this right... catre... cot. We slept on them for weeks at a time when we were children, spending summers in Tacupeto. My brothers and I each had a burlap cot to sleep on in the open patio. I remember we would pull thin sheets over our bodies, then turn on our flashlights to see what might be crawling across the ceiling. Think of the suspense and squeals as we lit a creepy crawly scene of overhead cockroaches, mosquitos, scorpions and beetles. We'd scream and pull our sheets over our heads! I do not miss the anxiety, the fear of something falling in the dark night, but I miss catres. I miss sleeping on the porch, hearing burros bray and abuelo snore. I miss waking in the morning to the music of crowing gallos, more donkeys, cows calling to be milked, and the beautiful rhythm of my abuela's hands making tortillas. There is more love, beauty and will, in the sound of my abuela's hands clapping masa for her wonderful tortillas, than in any symphony.


Her tortillas were never rolled out, but were formed between her soft, capable hands. My grandfather kept an ample wood supply available for cooking and baking, for heating water. And my abuela kept the fires burning so she could feed us tortillas, beans, enchiladas, gallina pinta, pozole, atole, empanadas. Food is more plentiful now, than it was in those summers when my brothers and I sustained ourselves with tortillas, beans, beans and tortillas, and either watermelon, or chiles or potatoes... whatever was being harvested at the time. And leche and leche con Nesquik. Markets and pantries are not what we are accustomed to here.


It is a strange gift to know hunger, or at least to know longing for something more. Now, when I cannot decide what to eat or what to buy, I can appreciate how ridiculous my quandary really is.

The summer that my tio Memo was growing chiles, chiles was all we heard about, saw or ate... besides the usual staples, and chiles were everywhere. We even tried our hands at picking chiles, a job whose appeal was lost very quickly. My cousin, RosaMaria and I were passing the hot, humid afternoon together, looking for places to be, for diversions. Times like these often found us down at the river, wading, or up to La Mesita just for the stroll, but on this particular day we were hungry. Having had fried chiles, roasted chiles, chiles con huevos, chiles con frijoles and every other kind of chile dish, we thought, "Why not raw? Crudos."

It was a good question, but not a good idea to execute. These chiles, mild, almost sweet when cooked, proved to be so painfully, fiercely hot when we bit into them, that we were overcome with the pain. It began on the tongue, a burning, like embers. Then we quickly realized that the sensation was moving to our throats, to our noses and up to our cheeks, so that our heads were blazing with cactus pricks, with fiery torture. Water only spread the fuel. We ran to the little store, and we stared at each another in painful sympathy when we came up to the shut doors... shut for siesta meant no chicle to cool our torment. I wonder if we told anyone. Our agony would have been a great amusement for everyone else.


My abuelos have a home in town. It is made of adobe, like all (most) buildings, and it has a walled yard. In this picture Geoff is walking toward the river, away from my tia Armida's home and towards my abuelo's home. This is the way RosaMaria and I travelled back and forth between our houses. With summer rain, the road can become a river itself, emptying out down the way, passed Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico's little house... where their little house once stood.


My great-grandparents, the ones that raised my abuela when she was orphaned as a baby, lived in a small adobe facing the church. I used to sit with Ma' Juana, in her cool, thick walled home. With a gourd she would draw cold water from a clay pot and serve it to me in a tin cup. The room where she cooked was dark from smoke, from years of fire cooking. In the corner was dry corn, and stalks of cane. I remember when she butchered a hog and was in the yard mixing soap. Soap that smelled of pork rinds and felt as greasy... eeew! I was so enchanted with her. She was small, her hair was long and still mostly black. She slept on a cot too, and had no more than 2 or 3 chairs, a small table. I promised her the moon and the stars. I wanted to bring her a prism, so she could have rainbows dancing on her bare walls. Pa' Chico was almost as small, but no less strong. He walked to his rancho too, every morning and it was further than Ojo de Agua.


In the walled garden of my abuelo's home is an orno, a clay oven, flowers, trees, and the pila where abuela used to wash clothes. I washed clothes there too. One side was filled with water and the other side had the lava rock that was there to beat the clothes upon, and water drained into the garden from the little hole at the end. Everything was hung in the sun and brought in before the monsoonal rains in the afternoon. My great-grandmother's soap was famous for getting clothes very clean, but with hunks of pork in it, one had to guard it from hungry dogs. It was poisonous of course. I like bacon, but I can honestly say I was never tempted to sample the soap.

When I was 11 years old, and my abuela did all of the washing, I loved to be by her side and watch her bale water over the sudsy clothes. It smelled good near the lemon tree, and felt cool with the water splashing. She washed and hung all of our garments and they dried quickly in the sun. They came very clean with her vigorous scrubbing on the worn stone of the pila. How many times had my dresses and p@nties been dashed and wrung by hand?

My abuelo brought us home on the 2 same busses we had ridden to El Valle, and we arrived in Tijuana so early in the morning that the sun was only beginning to show. We each had our own duffel to carry from the bus to the street, where we would await a ride from my tio. It took both hands to manage my duffel and besides this heavy load, I was really not all together awake. That may account for the fact that it took me a moment to realize that my p@nties were around my ankles, having slipped down. I hauled them up in a flash. I was confused and embarrassed, the bus terminal was mostly empty and I consoled myself that no one witnessed. And I resumed the task of dragging my bag, trying to keep up with my brothers and abuelo, and my undergarments slipped again. I caught them between my knees, shimmied them up, and shuffled carefully, keeping my legs locked together. Mine was a slow, awkward and mortifying gait, that I could not properly explain to anyone. It seems that 5 weeks of thrashing my underwe@r clean on a stone made of lava had completely undone the elastic in them.


Returning to El Valle with my own children, my husband, was one of the best times of my life. I happily found that very little had changed... some of the few changes were sad, like not being able to sit with Ma' Juana and Pa' Chico, or to chat with my tia Ventura... she and I liked to read Reader's Digest en español together. And it would have been a great privilege to visit Maria del Guero... she was one of the oldest woman I think I ever met and she sewed my clothes on a pedal machine. Her patterns for my dresses, skirts and blouses were in her head, she measured me with her fingers. I was keenly aware of the blessing that I could return to this place and still find both of my grandparents... still healthy, still smiling and eager to shower us with their prayers and affection.


I looked on this visit as a tremendous gift, for myself and for the boys. It was their second time in El Valle, and I loved that they were so receptive and enthused about all of the things and sights, the people and experiences that I held dear. We did and saw and treasured as much as we could.


We explored and hiked. We filled our pockets with flint and other pretty stones, crystals and pottery shards. Bits of our past.


We used to hike to this place, to swim. Oh my. The water was just as muddy and uncertain, but it was so hot and the walk home so far we drank this water too. It was delicious. I love how thinking about an event or place can lead to more curiosity. As much as I remember, I am aware of how little I know. How far is this place and how do I spell the name of it?


We sat together. We remembered other days, other nights, other faces and their laughter. I remembered how wonderful it is to sit together... just talking, just sharing each other's company.


I just got a call... everyone is back from Tacupeto, abuelo's funeral. There are many more memories I plan to write about, many more pictures I want to share, but right now I am going to my tia's house, where my abuela is.

Con Dios


Gracias abuelo.

Recordando días y noches en la iglesia...
Mas crecer en la gracia, y en el conocimiento de nuestro Señor y Salvador Jesucristo.
A él sea la gloria hoy, y para siempre. Amen.
2 Pedro 3:18

Recordando su voz, y su cariño. Recordando el campo, El Valle, Ojo de Agua, y su poder...
Te adoro abuelo.

Pistol River State Beach

I feel like I am posting just for Geoff today. We were all up very early yesterday, to take him to the airport for his flight to Chicago.
Sigh.
I really wish we were with him. He's gone to be with family, in remembrance of Jim "Corm," who passed away last February. It is strange and indescribable... the countless ways our lives have changed since that sad and unreal day when we first got the news. I could hardly say what happened; it was too painful, and even now, I find that there is still a great deal of disbelief and grief.

I find myself thinking Everyone in Chicago is going to have so much fun, and we'll be missing out on all of that family time, and then I am taken aback when I realize, again, that it's a memorial, that we have lost someone. It won't be all fun and levity, and the fact that I forget is very telling of how hard it is to believe, to really know that he is gone. I do not think that time eases pain. I believe that time is what it takes to learn how to wrap the pain and hide it from our heart and thoughts, otherwise it cannot be tolerated. When I turn off the noise of everyday tasks and chores, when I quiet the daily din of rambling thoughts and remember that Corm is gone, the pain unfolds and I am devastated all over again.


I still wish we were with Geoff. Everyone will be having fun. There will be fun and healing and wonderful memories to share, new ones in the making. And even when it is painful and sad, I wish I could be with Geoff, and Ruth and Holly, Paul, with all the people that knew Corm and loved him, because time does not ease pain... family, friends, love and sharing ease pain.


I still remember the first time I met Jim and Ruth. It was 1982. I hardly knew Geoff and came to their home as a guest of a mutual friend. I think it was my huge crush on Geoff that made me take everything in and preserve it all in so much detail. Geoff introduced me to "Mom and Corm." I shook their hands, "Hi Mom, hi Corm." Even then I was struck by the familiar and easy way I felt. They had company and were finishing a spaghetti dinner, and Geoff was really excited about his sister being home. Holly had just returned from a year in Wisconsin.

I can picture the dining table, the soft evening light of summer. I can even smell Corm's spaghetti. I can remember the relief at realizing that Holly was Geoff's sister! Geoff was so sweet and attentive, and until I was introduced to her I thought she might be his sweetheart! She lent me a swimsuit, so we could all swim at the neighbor's pool. Now we share baby clothes and holidays, and sisterly love.

And in 26 years I have had the pleasure and blessing of becoming a part of a family that feels as much my own as the mother and brothers I grew up with. I was a child when I met Corm, with a child's limited perspective, and I cannot say when this changed, but I see so much more now and it breaks my heart to realize what we are missing.


My husband, his integrity and skills, his tender devotion... I can see that Corm influenced these dear qualities.

My cooking... turkey burgers, chili and spaghetti are some of the mainstays of our favorite family dinners.

Love. I can say that Corm has been a significant teacher about love. I realized this too late to thank him.

He loved music, and he could play instruments and sing... I used to sit in Geoff's room listening to Corm sing to his parrot, Pablo, in the shower. I adore this memory, and can still recall the happy sensation of enjoying those loving (private) concerts.

He loved language and art and craftsmanship and he applied himself skillfully to all of his interests and endeavors, so that his work and his home, his cooking and conversations were all artful, intelligent, well made. I will miss walking in the house he and Ruth built, appreciating the views they chose, the quality of the construction and the beauty of their work.

He loved Ruth. He loved her in private ways. He loved her with his heart on his sleeve. And it was not about flowery declarations or material gifts... it was about sharing the workload, listening to her needs, honoring her beliefs and sharing his own. His love was about being constant and dedicated to Ruth as his partner. He went to work to provide for their goals. He came home to share in the making of their dreams, to be in her company. I never heard him speak to Ruth or about Ruth without at least a hint of reverence, a protective tenderness and affection. Especially in recent years, I would be so touched by his giddy exuberance when he told me how much he loved her, cherished her, appreciated her, and it was with unchecked candor that he shared his love of his wife, and his awareness of her love and devotion to him. I thought A person could be sustained and carried through anything with this kind of respect and affection. It's a beautiful gift that he can feel this way and share these feelings and acts. And when he died, I thought How sad it is that we cannot witness this love, this outspoken regard and tenderness any more.


I think, perhaps at the memorial, in the next few days, Corm's love and devotion, his dedication, will be witnessed once more, because he touched so many of us and we can each of us carry some part of him with us. When we tell his stories, and share the memories, we will evoke the qualities that were a part of him and that he imparted in us.



I hope Geoff will come home and share many of the details of his time in Chicago, so that we can have some idea of what we are not there to be a part of. I realize that we are missing not only Corm, but in not being at this memorial we are missing all of the people that knew and loved him and that were an influence and inspiration to who he was. Even as a memorial, how can it not be a wonderful time? Everyone there is a part of a circle of people that influenced or were influenced by a wonderful person...


I really hated to leave my Mom and Ron. More than ever, I am keenly aware of the frailty of life. Nothing is constant on this Earth. I tried not to cry as we drove away, or during any of the 1,000 miles driving home... the children have seen too much of that already. I have tried to let Corm's example move more consistently in my life, so that I share my love out loud and wear my heart on my sleeve. I love as much and as sincerely as ever, but now I consciously endeavor to say what I feel, to honor what I feel and to treasure the time I do have with the ones I love. So, as sad as I was to leave, and even with my fears and worries, I found some comfort in knowing that I love my Mommy and Ron, that I have shared my feelings and said my piece... it's not the same as having them close by, being able to drop in on them any time, but it's good to love and be loved, and share those thoughts and feelings often.

On our way home we stopped at Pistol River Beach State Park. It was an unplanned break at the start of a long and arduous trip home. There are about 42 or more places that I would have loved to stop and visit, such is the beauty and attraction of the miles between here and there, and it's hard being very pragmatic and merciless about not visiting every park, viewpoint and farm stand.


Ah, but it is so worthwhile to stop, to quiet the din of everyday chores and appreciate the beauty in the world, the humor, art and language, and the people in our company. So, we watered the chickens, and found the trail to the beach. We let time pass unaccounted and played at being treasure seekers, and pirates. We planned picnics and camp-outs and noted the size of rocks, the sound of the waves. Geoff, you would love this place. We were looking for agates and imagining having a home on the forested bluffs overlooking the ocean. As happy as we were to be there, we were even more anxious to come home to you, because we love you.

Blogging is Like Unpacking
It's true. Blogging is like unpacking. My brain is like the trunk of the mini-van... full of stuff that's just bursting and ready to come out. My thoughts are like the rooftop bag... tightly crammed with essential bits. Really, there is no point in doing much else, until I have downloaded the camera, recorded my deep thoughts and made sense of the other musings.


I made the perfunctory market visit, so that we have restocked the larder. I asked the boys to unload the dishwasher and put the groceries away too. I even made lunch, and emptied the cooler... actually I assessed the damages and let William empty the cooler. That accounts for my initial sweep through domesticity, and now I am going to faithfully record high and low points, happy and tasty moments, and stuff.

So, after my mom's accident, Geoff and I scrambled to get things in order with work, school, home, pets and our conestoga, so that we could go to her in Oregon. We put out a lot of fires that week and by Friday night we were on the road.
4 children?
check
3 chickens?
check
3 sleeping bags?
check
DVDs
CDs
socks
hats
sunblock
toothbrushes
check, check, check, check, check

That first night we made it all the way to Solvang. Incidentally, there was a recurring theme on this venture and it has to do with advance reservations. Advance reservations are a real good idea. No pictures from Solvang. We arrived late and we checked out early and Geoff and I whistled loudly when we snuck the chicas back to the car!

We didn't see elk and salmon jerky until we were far north of San Francisco. Winding our way ever north we saw bear carvings, ferns, meadows, rhododendrons, barns and tractors, cows and sloughs, pear trees, strawberry fields and hundreds of places that looked too enticing to skip, but of course we did skip them, this time. Next time, I want to stop in Eureka and eat at the place with the sign out front: Carnivore, Herbivore... We Have What You're Looking For!


And all along the way I would see things I wanted to remember, to photograph and write about, to share. We stopped every 2 or 3 hours, and that's when we would beg Maria to use her potty or try to sanitize some public restroom for her. My apologies to the planet for a dependence on disposable princess panties.

I would give the chicas a nice cool drink and replenish their scratch. Geoff was hilarious, slowing extra much in the curves and apologizing to the chicas for severe bumps in the road, and the rest of us rolled our eyes and laughed, because we accuse him of not being as courteous with us!

We slept in Fortuna, which is easily becoming one of my new favorite places to imagine living in. From Fortuna we finished the journey and made it to Delia and Ron's in the late afternoon. What a delightful experience it was to enjoy the long days, which grew longer with each passing day and the further north we were. It made it hard to realize it was dinner time, then bedtime. Still, I really enjoy allowing the rising and setting sun decide the start and end of day.


Look at our Pippy. It's those feathers in his tail, the ones that taper and curl... those are the ones that have me concerned. Until he is bigger, I will not be able to find him a home. And if he lays an egg, then all my fears will evaporate, but I am not too hopeful. Or we could find a home of our own before he crows, but for that I am even less hopeful. Sigh.


What about Amelia? She stands guard, always flying to the highest point and playing a cock-fight kind of posturing game with Pip. Oh dear. Why would we have to get 2 roosters? Why?


When Pip and Amelio are acting cocky, Lady Betty Orpington retreats to a quieter corner. She is shy and reserved, and when the light begins to fade she will sit on my arm and snuggle in.


Though it was colder than we were used to, the days were still lovely and Mom and Ron have such a wonderful corner of the world to call their own. We enjoyed the garden flowers, the wild flowers, a quail sighting and the wind in the trees. The chicks enjoyed the grass and seeds and new variety of stuff in the ground... things to scratch and enjoy. We made an improvised chicken run for the sunny days and they stayed in a small room in the garage at night.


Sitting together in the big yard, walking to the feed store, collecting seeds for the chicas, napping outdoors... such sweet pleasures. In the evening we would help Delia down the stairs and share her walk. I think I counted 5 different kinds of pine trees growing along their quiet street. We always turned around before we got to the schnauzer house. Hilarious little dogs bark incessantly, then get their little toys in a wicked choke hold and demonstrate their vicious skills. It's funny once or twice, but not conducive to relaxation and inner peace. I guess this means their quiet street is only that way when the schnauzers aren't disturbed.


I'm glad we found warm clothes for Maria... a bit large, but when I bring them out again in November they will be fine. We've come home to a heat wave. It's so strange to travel; to be in a completely new place one day and then another the next day. I still don't know how to cope with the distance between here and Delia and Ron's, or the ocean between here and Ruth, the deserts, mountains and prairies that separate us from Nancy and our Midwest family, the border and miles that keep us from my abuelos. Such blessings, such longing. We are fortunate to have the desire to be with family, and we have been blessed with many wonderful opportunities to visit and travel, to connect. I just want more. Such insatiable longings.




Geoff drove north with us, then flew home first thing Monday morning, so he missed many of our adventures and encounters. When I drove the children and chickens home, I was filled such gratitude for my wonderful vehicle; it's safe and comfortable, so reliable. And I thought about how lucky we are to be seeing redwoods and rivers, to be able to go to family and hold them and be glad for the good stuff. Driving home I thought about how much I was missing Geoff, and how happy we would all be when we were together again. Somehow, some way... there has to be a way for us all to be neighbors, to live close enough to hold each other every time we need it, want it... this would be very good.

High Speed Internet, How do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways...

In anticipation of being parted from my dear computer and all the fancy trimmings, I must make a long, long post.


To begin with I am filled and fortified... your kind comments and even phone calls have been so heartening. It's hard not being immediately by my mother's side and besides regular calls to her and talking to my brothers, it's been the thoughtfulness of friends and family, and the blogging community that have helped me remain calm, feel supported and keep things in perspective.

And I think the prayers and healing thoughts are doing a great deal of good. Delia's been taken out of ICU, and they are commencing physical therapy today. She has been fitted for a custom neck brace, and her husband is going through some lessons on how to help her. When I talked to her last night she was in good spirits. She had so many visitors! Bill (happy birthday bro!) Alison and Dominic, Hans, Becky, Dan and Grandmother... they were all there to visit and care for her. I think perhaps Ron got to have a bit of break too and that's good. Hans snapped a cell phone picture of himself and her... gee, it's been 37 years since the 2 of them were in a hospital together on a June 10th. They are smiling. I am relieved to know that she is recovering, but I feel such a lot of sadness knowing that there are going to be many hard days ahead. Healing is not always easy, and her injuries are significant. My poor mommy.


Who thinks Betty looks like she just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl? She is so loopy and goofy looking.



Uh-oh. I think she heard me. Don't get your feathers ruffled Betty. We love you.

Meeting our obligations and getting everything in order is going fairly well, and I think the plan to be available for my mom on a longer term basis is a good one. Geoff has helped me finalize travel details and with a few more errands, meetings and adjustments, I should be traveling north very soon. My infamous tooth is messed up, but my dentist and I agree the cure can wait, so that is good news. Of course seeing the cost estimate for the next appointment did little to ease the pain. Insert nervous laughter here.


Gracious!
Amelia is a much better flyer than what we saw last week! She's a little too good. A little too cocky. The suspense is making me nuts. Do we have pullets?


Or do we have cockerels? Anyone? I've read dozens of articles online. Vent checks. Feather checks. What about spurs? Do hens have spurs? There are several accounts of hens that have spurs and even hens that will crow!


Are these spurs? Those 2 pale spots on her ankles...
I keep imagining all 3 of them are roosters for one reason or another, but there is no conclusive evidence.


Now this is conclusive. One of our tadpoles is a frog. A teeny, tiny hopper.


The journey began April 13th and we now have one tadpole turned frog success. The rest of the tadpoles are in varying stages of development. This has been such a fun experience. And educational too... for the children, of course. The frog swims to Max's hand and sits there. Must be love.


She said it was coming! She dropped hints and left clues!


Can anyone really be prepared for a gift from Calamity Kim? Her heart overflows, onto fabric, onto paper and right in to our home. We were flying high just anticipating the arrival of this latest chicky-apron. Leave it to Kim to send so much more. All of the little touches and sweet messages were the nicest boost to our morale. Honestly we all sat together enjoying the unveiling of each token of Kim's talent and imagination.


That's Pip, Lola and Lady Betty Oprpington sitting amongst the daisies. And the chicken wire panels are pockets. Maria found a message from Kim in 1 pocket. It fits beautifully. It looks delightful. Thank you Kim. You really do make the world a better place.

Well, all these links, the swiftness of the server, my iPhoto and the ease of Googling and searching... what bliss! These diversions and reflections are keeping me sane... lol! Computer and server, I love thee a Googolplex! I may just have time to post once more before we head north, and after that it could get sketchy. Thank you again for keeping us in your prayers, for generosity beyond compare. We are blessed in a Googolplexian ways.

Thank Goodness For Gardens, Water and Light


My mommy was going to be here today, for my brothers' and son's birthdays and for a promotion, for hugs and catching up, before she had to go back to Oregon to start a new job. Sunday night we got a call/s... it's a blur. Geoff told me she'd been in an accident, "She's okay." That's what we have to hear to save us from collapsing: She's okay. He's okay. It's okay. And considering what happened it is a miracle she is okay, though she is a long way from all better. My dad drove through the night to be with her, and my brother flew the next day. My other brother (happy birthday bro!) is going to be with her today.


Your prayers and healing thoughts would be much appreciated. For her, for me.


It's amazing how many times my mom has made the 20 hour drive, to come and see us, to help with babies, to visit and celebrate, to connect, and I always worry about those winding roads, the logging trucks, the long days... I think of how much love she has for us that she does this so regularly to see me and the kids and my brothers, their families, her mom and sister. We always wish for an opportunity to find some place where we can all be neighbors. We think it would be so wonderful to find each other in the same town or neighborhood, just around the corner, a short walk away.


It's a tremendous comfort to me that her husband is with her and caring for her. And I was glad Bill could fly up for a quick visit, to hold her hand. If she didn't have their company I would not hesitate to abandon everything and be with her. Instead I am trying to get my ducks chicks (thanks Pam!) in a row.

Fortunately we do not have to move. Garybob, the landlord, was appeased with an increase in the rent. We are still trying to make our trailer on land deal happen. It manages to get more complicated by the day. I say "I am detached," but of course that is a lie. In truth, my heart is saying Please, please, please let us make this our home. It's a mess, but we can fix it in time. Please. Please... I dunno.

So, let's see... I got the car serviced, which was a bit overdue, so that's good. Today I go to get my tooth serviced... somehow I don't think this will be as fast and easy as the oil change and tune-up. My visits with my crappy dentist of 4 years ago are haunting me again... have I ever shared the story of how he drilled through to my sinuses? He didn't say a thing and only stopped when Alex asked, "Why is my mommy bleeding so much?" Yeah, that's a good story!

There is an overwhelming amount of cannot be postponed school paper work that has to be turned in, checked-off, stamped and triple signed.

Alex's birthday is Thursday. He already knows his modest party is going to be postponed. He didn't complain at all, but I saw that look... the one that a mom always wants to turn into a smile. I can tell he's bummed.

My best friend didn't wait to be asked. She'll watch the cats, the 2 birds, the rabbit. I'll take care of the chicks. Don't ask. Seriously. I have some hard decisions to make.

I will not be driving to Chicago. For months I have been drawing up itineraries and deciding on routes, and I have also been thinking, Am I nuts?! Yes, a lot of waffling, but with strong leanings toward being with everyone in Chicago and then Wisconsin. Geoff is going and he'll be gone for a week. The children and I will be missing Geoff and a Midwest family memorial for Jim, Corm.

And in Mexico, my abuelos will have family, except for us, gathering to celebrate their 70th wedding anniversary. S e v e n t y! !Setenta años¡ Felicidades abuelos.


I hope I can get those chicks in a row, tie up loose ends and be ready to leave to Santa Rosa, then Oregon, by Friday. I think my screaming tooth might be the biggest obstacle. The children are such good travelers, so helpful and easy. We'll pack the bare minimum and be prepared to go with the flow, hopefully making things easier for my mom by cooking and cleaning and renting lots of movies, adjusting pillows, pulling slugs out of her garden!


Lola's Garden is looking so beautiful. Did you know that cosmos are drought tolerant, that they even thrive in bad soil? It's comforting, somehow, to know that good things are possible, even in less than ideal times and places.

Home School's Science Fair: Alex's Tank-Bot

Yesterday was a full one, and we did make it to the science fair. It was the home school science fair, for students enrolled in homeschooling in our county. The woman who coordinates these events, seminars, classes and activities is wonderful. She is one of those dear people that extends herself and with sincere warmth and kindness she makes everyone feel special. I might ask for her number, so I can call her over summer and get good advice, affirmations and encouragement... for the children... of course, for the children.


Alex has been reading "Robot Builder's Bonanza," a technical and, for him, inspiring book all about designing and constructing robots. Not light reading. My favorite part about this book may be the suggestions to visit thrift shops and look for parts that can be rescued and salvaged for making robots. No need to flog the wallet on specialty kits and fancy sets. Alex decided to give robot thrifting a go and we headed to our favorite thrift store for supplies.

Here are some excerpts from Alex's report and presentation:

Hypothesis:
My objective was to make a robot from found parts and broken toys. I wanted to see if I could find a remote controlled device that was not working, repair it and possibly make it better than it was before. I hoped to make the toy operational again and was interested to see whether I could give it more power, greater range of motion and to add an arm to it.

Method:
I went to the thrift store and searched in the toy section, the home appliances section, and the electronics section. I was looking for remote controlled toys that were broken, that also looked salvageable. I found a 6-volt Radio Shack replica tank that had been discarded. It was missing a custom manufactured rechargeable battery pack, and its charger. In the other departments I did not find anything to help my experiment.


Process and Results:
The first thing I did to make repairs to the tank was to find a new battery pack. I bought 2 battery packs, to hold a total of 8 AA batteries. To prevent the total voltage from exceeding 6 volts, I had to parallel wire them. “Parallel wiring” is when you attach 2 positive wires, of the same color (usually red,) to a load. The “load” is whatever you are powering. I also had to attach 2 negative wires, of the same color (usually black) to the load. It is important for it to not exceed 6 volts to prevent the motors overheating. If the motors overheat they can melt the protective coating of the wires, and short circuit the motor; this can start a fire.


The antenna was glued to the turret and I had to pull it out. I measured the black wire that served as an antenna and cut a new antenna of equal length. I soldered the new piece to the section that had been cut. Instead of reattaching it to the turret, I raised it above the chassis by slipping it through 2 soda straws that were taped together. The new antenna stood vertical out of the center of the vehicle.

With the improved antenna, and the new battery pack, I am able to control the robot vehicle from over 100’ feet away. The vehicle’s base and drive system is extremely powerful and can carry 3 pounds, and possibly 4.

Next I decided to build a remote controlled arm to add to the vehicle. Inspired by suggestions from the book “Robot Builder’s Bonanza” by Gordon Mc Comb and Myke Predko, I designed a cable-operated grabber. It works by winding a string around a part of the gearbox that was intended to rotate the turret of the tank. Modified like this, the gearbox now opens and closes 2 arms or “fingers” that extend from the front of the vehicle. I built the arms from pre-cut steel brackets, 2 rubber bands, tooth-lock washers, and locking nuts, and I added a second antenna to link with the controller for the new arm. The arm needed a separate power supply, so I equipped it with its own 6-volt battery pack.



Conclusion:
I hoped to build a robot from broken toys and electronic parts, to make it better and equip it with an arm. I wanted it to have greater remote range, be more powerful, and I wanted it to have additional features. The tank I found was not functional, but I was able to repair it. By adapting the antenna I increased its range, so I can control it from greater distances. The arm I designed and built allows me to retrieve objects, so that the robot can manipulate its environment.

I learned how to solder wire using a hand held electric soldering gun. I learned how to use a digital multi-meter; it tests voltage, it tests to see if circuits are complete, resistance and amperage. I practiced patience and diligence, reading the “Robot Builder’s Bonanza” for guidance, and I was able to successfully achieve my goals. In the future I hope to attach a video transmitter, so I can see the vehicle’s path from a remote location.

My heart swells.
Pardon me for a moment while I breath deeply and reflect on the joy I have thinking of my children. William helped carry in Alex's equipment. Max was on hand to keep an eye on everything. Maria took a nap, and was very cooperative and helpful when she woke. Alex was reluctant to enter the science fair, because of uncertainty, shyness and such, but William encouraged him, pushed him... I'm just trying to express how happy it makes me that these children look out for each other, they offer support and concern and they make me very proud. I cannot think of a better indication of success than having children that are creative, nice, inquisitive and a pleasure to be with.

This Morning:

Max: The dishes in the dishwasher look dirty. Can I use a fancy plate?

Me: Sure.

Max: I didn't know we could use these plates.

Me: You can only use them today and never again.

Max: Oh.

Me: Just yolking.

Max: Yolking?

Me: Joking. Yolking. Egg yolk.

Max: Why do people assume everything can be funny? Some things are just weird.


Last Night, Driving Home From Mom's Night Out:

Maria: I love dat pardee. And all the ladies are so booful.

Me: I loved the party too. Maria, you were a lady too, so good.

Maria: No. I'm not a lady. I'm jus' M'ia. And what dos ladies called?

Me: Linda.

Maria: Oh, yes, Leenda.

Me: Anne.

Maria: Anne. I like Anne. She's booful.

Me: Vera

Maria: Veela

Me: Jola

Maria: JoLA

Me: Janice

Maria: Janice

Me: Yanina

Maria: Fun-sheena

Me: Belinda

Maria: Buhlinda

Me: Josie

Maria: Joseee

Me: And Gigi

Maria: And Gigi, and the chockie fountain. And it was a pardee, and Lucas showed me the chockie fountain. I like Lucas. So fun.

It Was a Short Break

Some break, huh? It would seem I am a compulsive writer. I never meant to quit Chickenblog or to stop posting for more than a week or 2. Posting is time consuming and I know I should be applying a whole lot of energy, mental and physical, to figuring out what the heck we are going to do next. My hand is unaccustomed to writing with pen and paper, so I come to the computer, to the familiar glow of the monitor and the friendly tap-tap of my keyboard and I pour my feelings and thoughts out, sort them. I think meditation and journaling would be good for me, and maybe Chickenblog is my meditation and journal. Certainly I look more productive typing at a desk, than if I would, if sat in the lotus position, eyes closed, burning incense. Even this is something I may just keep in a file, and then Geoff says, "Chickenblog is the good and the bad. Don't stop posting."

Last night I realized that our barely 1 week new chick was failing to thrive. She was so listless and small. She always was petite, but last night she looked fragile and faint. She wouldn't eat. I could barely coax her to sip water from my finger tip. Her only interest was in sitting in the palm of my hand. Pip and Betty scratched and ate, they explored their enclosure and took long drinks of water, tilting their heads back, the way they do. And Lola could not even hold her wings up; they hung by her sides, her eyes were mostly closed. She dropped her beak on my hand. I slept and woke, tossed and turned all night, lying on the ground beside their cage. I woke every time they moved. They stirred every time I moved. And every time I looked, I would see Lola, standing apart. A few times she was at the feeder, even taking little bites and it made me hopeful. Her sisters slept together sprawled like sunbathers beneath the heat lamp. The last time I saw Lola she was looking at me, and then she was gone. Geoff woke me around 5 in the morning to say that she had died. I knew she was going to die. I even wondered if I should have helped her with that.

Do you know what this feels like? To lose this sweet little chick, my symbol of daring and making our own destiny? It is a sad, sad blow to my hope, to my faith. This is an unhappy blogiversary. I am glad I chose to take a break. What could I write about today? 'Our chick died... ?' 'I finally unpacked our bedroom and moved in, and now the landlord wants us to get ready to move out... ?' Do I believe in signs? Yes, I guess I do look for indicators of my fortune, good or bad, of our destiny. It does not look good. It has not looked good for some time. That's not all together grateful. I love my husband and my children. We are not destitute. We enjoy many blessings. It's just that there has been a steady stream of setbacks, delays, wrenching events, health challenges and stresses that gnaw away at my morale. Poor Lola. Sweet, Lola. I held her up to my children as a sign that we were moving forward, that life is good.

We buried Lola in the second barrel. The first wine barrel already has some carrots and a tomato plant growing in it. I haven't planted the other one, so now we will buy flowers to plant in it. Geoff took out a wood burner and engraved the side of the barrel. Lola's Garden. I couldn't bury her in the yard here, at Garage Mahal. The yard is too full of prickly plants, and it would mean leaving her behind. I cannot bear to leave anything behind any more. The barrel looks so pretty with her name on it. I hope we can keep flowers growing in it, looking pert and bright like she did. Maria keeps asking when we can bring Lola back out of the garden, when she will be well enough to come out. We tell her Lola couldn't be a chicken any more and has decided to grow as a flower. Are there chickens in heaven?

Nameless Dread, Aimless Wandering, and Looking for A New View


I doubt it can be a secret to anyone that reads this blog that I want a home of my own. What might be less obvious is how miserable I have made myself waiting for the day to come. My thoughts are stuck in an endless cycle of planning, waiting, hoping, delaying, postponing, planning, waiting, hoping, delaying, postponing, and more of the same. I cannot resolve 1 problem until we resolve another. I cannot adopt a rabbit without permission from my landlord. I cannot park our RV without permission from the city. I cannot plant a garden, paint walls, pull-up carpet, tear off wall paper... And then I pause and reflect and give thanks for the good things, and I resolve to make do with what I have, until my husband shows me houses and lots, dreamscapes and open spaces, then I feel small and unworthy again, because those dreamscapes are not for me, not yet.


It's a pity party, I know, but knowing right from wrong is no defense against sadness. Sadness comes and stays, even when we love, and believe in positive thinking, even when we hear the kind concern of caring people.


I don't want sympathy. I don't want to be exceptional or different. I want to settle into a space where I feel at home, where I know where the stapler and the staples are. I want to put my things away, without apology, without permission. I want to unpack and move-in, and even to begin to believe that I won't have to start over again in 2, or 3 or 4 years.


Isn't there some study to confirm that my symptoms, my issues, are a result of the stress of moving? Ask me where the fuse box is, and my mind pictures the fuse box in the garage of the Circle Park House, then the living room of Neptune, the pantry of El Rancho, the back of the Tree House, and I don't know where the fuse box is in this place. I am confused and muddled. I feel uncertain.


So many problems I have seem to lead back to, or stem from, moving.... or anticipating the next move. Every move means upheaval and chaos, and starting over. I want to believe that with 4 children, hobbies, pets, projects, tools, paperwork and life's accessories it helps very much to adapt a system of organization that keeps things in order... it must help, I imagine, to have a familiar path, with familiar surroundings. It must help, when facing the usual disasters and setbacks, to not have to compound life's challenges by putting every single possession into boxes for the 24th 25th time and take all of it to a new residence. In the grand scheme of things, it seems like everything would be easier if I weren't still in recovery form the last move, worrying about where we are going next, and dreading the process.


So, I give myself some sympathy, compassion, and I reason that of course things are hard right now, because after all, these are hard times. But. But, I have begun to fear that I set too much store in home. What if home sweet home is a myth? What if I have only been making excuses, making messes I don't want to clean, because I can't do it in some idealized fashion, in some idealized space? What if I am no better in a place of our own, and find that I am simply a poor homemaker, a lazy mother? Maybe chickens and gardens are just a lot of work, mortgages distressful? What if our own clogged toilets are no better than rental toilets?


It's like climbing and struggling to a summit, maybe people are watching, and all along I think how nice it will be to sled down the other side, how there will be fresh water and rest on the other side, flowers and birds singing... so much anticipation, such a build-up. What if I fail? What if it's no easier when I reach that place I have been hoping for, and what if I have been my own hinderance and obstacle the whole time?


It has become a regular habit of ours to say that we will know what to do, or where to go, in 6 months. Jobs, projects, deadlines, market forecasts, opportunities... all of these have taken turns in delaying our decision, and if friends and family think we are crazy and dull, imagine how we feel. We have been waiting for 6 months for 5 years. I am sorry to say, projecting my happiness and success as a mother, wife, artist, writer, person on the future and on a place just out of reach, has kept me from living in the present. I have not failed utterly, but I have not done my best. I have not been as much of a success as I ought to be. I am bitter about lost and wasted time and things I cannot change, and I am fearful of the future, and I am missing too much of the here and now.


Someday, maybe in 6 months! we will be in our own home, making our own repairs and managing our own gardens, and I know it will be good and bad, fun and frustrating. It will not be the end of disappointment or strife, it will not be an idyllic rose petal cottage, where rainbows end and spills never happen. But I hope it can be the end of questing and waiting, the end of wondering, and feeling small and adrift. I hope I find that I can make order, most days, welcome guests often, and feel a sigh of relief... a sense of belonging, with the opportunity to find I am proficient and capable.


I think looking at the same issue over and over and over again, and never finding a resolution can be very taxing. It can undo the mind and spirit. I am ready for a new point of view.


I don't think I need to explain this, to say that it was time to head home and she did not want to go...
We stayed a little longer. William and Alex walked and talked, and Max climbed and then he encouraged Maria to try the slide. She found it was a very fast slide with a great big bump in the middle, and then she learned what it is to land without the benefit of diaper padding. She patted her bottom, with tears brimming her eyes, and said, "I wear panties now. That was a big bump!"


I have love and faith, and one viola that bloomed from the seeds I planted last year. I have 4 children and my one true love, and favorite colors, and my bed is extremely comfortable. The children are healthy and make good jokes, and they sing together. My one true love sends me on adventures then calls me home to him, he reaches for my hand in the dark. I must remember that the view from this home is in my heart.

Some Mothering

Mom, I'm in Love.
And he takes very good care of me.


He laughs at my jokes. He reads me poetry, or housing sale ads.
His hands are capable, his heart is true and he makes the bed with me.


He fills my tank, he backs up my blog and updates my software. He changes all of the light bulbs.


I'm in love. Since 1982, when he first kissed me. Since the beginning, when we both knew we wanted to
love forever.

A Polka Dot Tennis Skirt, A Cookie and A Horse


When Maria was about 3 weeks old, so tiny and new, Geoff called me from his perch in the kitchen, where he used to read his laptop: "What size is Maria?"

In my postpartum haze, his question was fuzzy. He never asked about sizes and measurements, unless we were in a lumberyard. At first I thought he was concerned about her petite height and her less than average weight. He worried about things like this, and I replied, "She's fine sweetheart. She's just a lot smaller than her brothers were."

"No." He answered, still talking to me through the walls. "I mean what size clothes does she wear. Would she be a 2?"

I was nursing Maria, stuck in that tired old chair we stuck between our bed and the crib, otherwise I would have gone to him, to see his face, to discern if what I was hearing was possible. Could Geoff actually be thinking about clothing, about fashion and sizes, and what people wear? It seemed improbable. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Shopping." He does not elaborate, not willingly.
"Shopping for what?"
"Shopping for Maria." He does not elaborate, not willingly.
"What are you doing?" I try not to wake the dozing baby.


Geoff appears in our bedroom, and says, "I'm on Ebay trying to get Maria a tennis outfit. Is she a size 2?" He looks excited and agitated. The clock must be ticking on an auction. The bidding must be fast and furious. I cannot believe what I am hearing, the giddy look in his eyes. He has never bought a stitch of clothing, voluntarily, ever. Not for me or for William, not for Alex and not for Max. He buys his shorts 3 at a time every 4 years and his T-shirts are from conferences. He looks at me impatiently, "Would a 2 be big enough?"

"A size 2 or 2T is for toddlers. You need to look for sizes by month, like 3 months or 6 months." And he's already gone, back to the kitchen and the auction. For about half an hour he asked me about sizes and ages, and he ran stuff by me, about styles and colors. I was laughing. He was determined to get this child a tennis outfit before she was big enough to rollover or hold her head up. He was so preciously obsessed with his mission, that it was endearing and sweet and I will never forget the happy realization of his love for his daughter. It's not that there was any doubt, or that shopping is an indicator of love. It was his willingness to venture forth into uncharted territory, to envision the future, when she would be big enough to play tennis, to run and jump and catch. He saw all of the possibilities and he wanted to embrace them, to make way for them, and that is a very dear sign of love.


A week later the skirt arrived. A size 3T.


She wore it for the first time last summer, and it kept sliding down her slender waist. Our tennis pro. Our girl, healthy and happy, and loved.


This morning she went into our shared closet and shut the door, first turning to me saying, "Please, go away. I am getting dressed." Honestly, I can't say where she learned this. I don't have the sense to expect privacy, and never bother asking for it.


She came out in her apple shirt and tennis skirt, which still slips a bit.


She skinned her knee a few days ago. She walks with a limp and insists on a fresh band-aid every morning. Her friend Jack lives behind the suitcase. The suitcase is sometimes Jack's shop, and sometimes a horse.


Today the horse is taking to her Grandma's house, and she is bringing her "homework."

By the way, in yesterday's post, the photograph was of a very small section of a property Geoff had been hoping to buy. I was less certain about its potential, and I regret to say its too late anyway. Someone else made the first move. Geoff is very sad about the missed opportunity. As we look for a home we keep reminding each other that we must remain detached. We cannot let our emotions get the best of us, and yet... it's when we let our hearts decide, when we feel inspired... when we see all of the possibilities and embrace them, then we make way for good things to happen. So, perhaps we should allow ourselves to become attached and emotional, to be hopeful. We must venture forth with knowledge, and optimism and love.

Suddenly It Is Spring


William initiated this Spring cleaning weeks ago and they are still at it. They are methodically, diligently sorting and organizing Lego bricks, components, characters and gears.
I tried to get a picture that included the cats; the cats like to tiptoe through the maze and find a spot to roll in, but they came to me when I showed up with my camera. This is Alex's room. This is the first time the boys have had their own rooms. In the "TreeHouse" their beds were in the dining room/kitchen/living room. In our "Rancho" they slept in one room and played in another. At "Neptune" they shared a room in the little house we had. Maria shares our room. I think the boys would just as soon share a room as not, or at least they agree that they enjoy sharing a playroom, er a "Lego Room."

They love Lego bricks. Love. Don't talk to me about the expense or the waste or the volume... I have a thoughtful and tested response to every negative comment I have ever heard against Legos. Even Maria uses Lego bricks to make things and she brightens when her brothers invite her into their world. She is very helpful with sorting and finding heads. I imagine she will be an engineer, like her brothers, able to comprehend the function of gears and pistons, and how to increase the speed of vehicles. Maybe she will have Alex's design skills, or some of William's creative