A Near Tragedy

Tonight, Joe came into the kitchen while I was fixing supper, toting his 'benkie', an old hospital swaddling blanket made of the softest, smoothest flannel I have ever touched. I turned to the sink for a moment, then heard a wail:
"My benkie broking!"

He had tossed it into the air, and part of it had landed on the stove, burning two holes in it.
My heart nearly stopped at the thought of his favorite blanket nearly going up in flames. Having favorite blankets for every season of my life, I know the grief associated with the need to give one up. That is a grief I hope he won't need to face for quite a while yet.

After supper, I took it downstairs, cut out the charred areas, and patched the blanket with a couple pieces of (sadly, lesser quality) green flannel. When I handed the repaired blanket back to Joe, he was ecstatic.

Uncle Rob

Last Tuesday, Chris' Great Uncle Rob passed away. He was one month away from his 93rd birthday.

Chris' favorite story about Uncle Rob: After serving in the military, Rob developed a drinking habit. At one point, a doctor told him that if he didn't stop drinking, he would soon die, and even if he did stop, the damage he had done to himself had probably shortened his life expectancy considerably. Rob quit cold turkey. He kept an unopened bottle of liquor around that he put under the Christmas tree every year as a reminder. Apparently, he was healthy enough otherwise that the years of drinking didn't have too much of a negative effect.

Uncle Rob had a hobby of sculpting things out of styrofoam. Grandma's shelves are full of characters all carefully carved and hand-painted out of the delicate material. He had to give that up in his last years, however, as his hands and eyes quit cooperating.

I have to admit that I was a little worried about taking the young ones to a funeral. I remember too vividly at the age of five, being afraid of seeing my grandfather's white-robed, dead body propped up in the funeral home's window case. Instead of facing realityand telling my mother what I was afraid of, I just told her I didn't want to go in, and waited, curled up on the floorboard of the back seat of the car. Of course, I realize that I shouldn't project my fears onto my children, and it would be good for my kids to experience death as a part of life at an early age. It was a closed casket, so the kids didn't actually get to see Uncle Rob, but Chris explained that the coffin held his body and that we would bury it in the ground. Finley wanted to bring shovels.

The funeral was small, only family attending. As some opening music played, Finley lightened the mood by tooting loudly. Twice.

Z at 4 months

I couldn't help including this photo. It makes me laugh and laugh.

Smiling.

Her most frequent expression: Bug-eyed.

Exercise

"For my money nothing is more deadly in terms of boredom than exercise for the sake of exercise and I suspect strongly that those people who lift barbells and perform on gymnastic apparatus and do push-ups in the morning and evening, do so out of some narcissistic impulse which betrays itself in the fact that so many of these people work before mirrors and are mirror worshipers."
-Louis Bromfield
From My Experience: The Pleasures and Miseries of Life on a Farm

True, true. In a narcissistic effort to tone up my post-pregnant abs, I bought a pilates DVD and have a handful of times plopped down in front of the TV in a pitiful attempt at exercise.

The funny part to me is that my pre-pregnant stomach muscles did not come from exercising in front of a DVD. They came from climbing countless trees, shovelling, raking, mowing, toting boxes and tool bags, and living a generally active life.

Today, I bundled up the baby, and the kids and I went outside where I raked and shredded several piles of leaves, dragged the leaves on a tarp to the compost bin and hefted them inside. I exercised. I had fun. And I accomplished something at the same time. Amazing.

We are at that wonderful point in autumn when half the leaves have fallen from the trees and the ground and the branches both are bright with color.

As I was walking toward the compost bin the other day, I passed under our sugar maple, and suddenly I was surrounded in a golden haze.

Family and Community

There has been something I've been chewing on for a few weeks. Whenever I try to write about something specific, however, it explodes in my head into a thousand different things. Trying to follow one strain of thought is like a fly trying to walk across a spider web. Impossibly tangled.

Back when I was contemplating the creation of the universe, I listened to a teaching on Genesis 1 by Ray Mayhew. Ray taught at a church I attended back in Omaha. The few times I have had the opportunity to sit in on one of his classes, he revealed a depth to the Bible as only one who has studied the Bible intensely for decades could. One of the things he points out, that I suppose is rather obvious, though easy to miss, is the importance of the family in scripture. The Triune Godhead is an example of family. The creation of Adam and Eve and Eve as his helpmate brought about family. The endless genealogies scream family.

The whole of it is that our souls yearn to be knitted into families and have a sense of belonging to a greater community.

The reason I've been thinking about this lately, is that I have been feeling a bit disconnected. The advent of a baby changes the dynamic of life. In the struggle to maintain a basic level of survival in the immediate family, it is easy to lose touch with others. And the way society is shaped these days, it makes isolation even easier.

Most of us live fairly independent lives. We can easily survive on our own. All we need is a job and a grocery store nearby. Friends and family live miles away, and common activities are few. Because of this, it takes a concentrated effort to develop meaningful relationships with others. When a relationship becomes inconvenient or unnecessary, it is easy to let the relationship fade.

I have been struggling with the role of the technology in all of this. Internet sites like facebook and myspace promise connection to others. But at the end of the day, if I get sucked into the Internet, I end up ignoring my children or realizing that email is a poor substitute to spending time face to face with another human being. (That is why I have purposefully avoided facebook and remain on myspace only so that I can be my husband's top friend.)

A couple years ago, I was addicted to Beverly Lewis novels. Most of these centered on Amish life. I was struck by the interdependence (not co-dependence) of the Amish. Instead of trying to take on huge tasks, such as building a barn, on their own, the community comes together to help. Women get together for quilting and canning bees. Frequently, when a father turns over the farm to the younger generation, he and his wife will live in an annex of the family home, lending a hands where they can.


Lately, as I wish my mother lived a stone's throw away so that we could sit down for tea, or that I could dump the baby on her for an hour so that I could rake some leaves, I keep thinking about how nice it would be to be a part of a community where it wouldn't take so much effort to connect.

It [almost] rained on our parade.

I took the kids to the Veterans Day Parade in Nashville today. I happened to hear on the radio that they were closing down Broadway for the parade, so I decided last minute that we would go see it after story time at the library. I wondered if it would be hard to find a spot on the sidewalk clear enough for the kids to see, but unfortunately, we had plenty of room.

It was cloudy, chilly, and a bit sprinkley. I was worried it might start raining, as I had neglected to bring umbrellas. Thankfully, the rain held off until we were safely back in the van.

When a big police truck came by at the head of the parade and blasted the siren, the kids weren't so sure they were going to like the parade. But then came one of the military bands, and a Humvee drove by with some one throwing candy toward the onlookers. The candy landed in the middle of the street. When I told Finley she could go get some, she stood frozen on the curb. It took her a while to realize that that I was actually encouraging her to run out into the the street. When I led Joe out into the street, he was too enamored by the passing parade to think to pick any up.

A huge propellered airplane flew overhead. A large pack of vets rode by on their Harleys, pipes rumbling, U.S. and POW/MIA flags flowing.

I was a little confused by some of the parade. The parade organizers drove by in the heated comfort of their cars, a magnet on the car door letting us know who they were. The Shriners showed up in full force, along with clowns in funny vehicles. Some of their floats cranked ear-piercing music, and my children stood, hands clamped to their ears. I don't know if the Shriners were there because they were veterans, or if they just like to crash any parade they can. I guess just being a Shriner is being a sort of veteran...

After most of the Shriners passed, I decided it was time to head back. Zivah hung limp in the baby carrier, our regular lunch hour was passing by, and there was a long walk back to the van. Next year, we'll be a little more prepared.

Now Finley is wishing a parade would go down our street. Apparently she doesn't think she has enough candy.

Thanks to all of you that have served... especially Jeff and Shane who have served in this current conflict.

A Boy and His Football

In an interview with 60 Minutes, LT confessed that he slept with his football when he was a kid.

Fall Harvest and Death

My haphazard planting of some fall veggies has paid off.

As Finley was digging a big hole 'to step in,' she noticed that one of the radishes had 'grown'. I allowed her to pluck it from its nest of soil. It was much larger than I had anticipated.

This stirred a little excitement in me, so I returned to the garden after snapping the above photo to see if there were any others ready to be harvested. I couldn't find any that looked as promising but pulled four more anyway. They were a little on the small side. I think I will exercise some patience and wait a week or so to dig up the rest.

Earlier, I had been watering down some shredded leaves in a flower bed, and noticed a body of feathers behind an autumn clematis vine. I suspected that it was a dove that had lost its life somehow. As I don't especially enjoy being startled by an animal jumping up in my face, I called Chris out to confirm the status of the bird. After he assured me it was indeed deceased, I asked him to dispose of it for me. 'That's why I married you,' I said.

In the days of my youth, I wouldn't have hesitated to grab one of the dead animals that my ferocious cat had slaughtered. Then something happened to me. I think I was a little traumatized by the successive deaths of some beloved rodents. First, I was started by the cold, stiff body of my hamster, Butch, one day when I put my hand around that cute ball of fuzz to pick him up. Then, a few years later, to come home to find my rat, Ed, in a rather unnatural pose...

As my husband points out, I'll have to get used to that kind of thing again if we are to own a farm. (But again, isn't that what he's for?)

I used to...

About a year ago, we went to story time at the library like we usually do on Tuesdays. 'Library Pete' had been on vacation and said that he had been kayaking. I overheard one mother tell her toddler, 'Your mother used to go kayaking, too!' There was a little edge in her voice.

There are a lot of things I used to do, too.

I went backpacking.

I went mountain biking.

I hung out for hours at coffee shops.

I painted.

I made cards for most of my friends' birthdays.

I created random things out of random things.

I spent uninterrupted hours tending to flower and vegetable gardens.

I stayed up late.

For the past few years, I have felt a certain amount of, dare I say, resentment that I could no longer do whatever it was I wanted whenever I wanted. I have also felt a level of disappointment in myself that I don't have the ambition to continue to do some of these things while I tend to my first priority, my children.

Slowly, though, the negative feelings are fading as the revelation grows that raising and nurturing my children is the most wonderful thing I can be doing with my time.

The Season of Discontentment

Z is 3.5 months old, and I can see it in her eyes: discontentment.

As she reclines in her infant seat, her brows wrinkle, and she struggles to sit up. She kicks her legs and pummels the air with her fists, trying desperately, but getting nowhere. Other times, when sitting up, a toy inches from her face, she reaches out, snatching at the bright colors with her uncoordinated fingers. Once in a while, she manages to snag it and draw it to her mouth. Eventually, she cries in frustration.

I remember this stage with Joe, as well. The stage where they so desperately want to be doing something... anything... other than just lying there, staring into space.

I feel it, too. In spite of the comfort of a spacious house, a nice yard, and the convenience of the local grocery store, I feel the desire to move on to something else.

The Ghost of Mr. McNabb

Every once in a while, we will hear a strange noise or a door will open or slam shut all by itself. Invariably, if some one asks, 'What was that?' Chris or I will say, 'That was just Mr. McNabb.

Our house was built by Mr. and Mrs. McNabb in 1940. They raised two daughters in the house. Mr. McNabb worked in concrete, and we benefit from many of his clever creations, including a cement couch and porch swing hung from a drain pipe pillared shelter in the back yard.

Mr. McNabb was a smoker and an alcoholic. In the later years, the Mr. and Mrs. didn't get along very well. The two had separate rooms. The ceiling of his was yellowed from the cigarette smoke, and burn marks were on the hardwood floor where his cigarettes would drop when he would doze off into a drunken slumber.

The story goes that one evening, Mr. McNabb had a heart attack in the bathroom. Mrs. McNabb called the next door neighbor to come help. When the neighbor came over, Mr. McNabb was already dead and cold. Our neighbor was under the impression that Mrs. waited to be sure Mr. was dead before she called for help.

I am just thankful that it was Mr. McNabb that died in the house and not the Mrs. I have the feeling she is what drove him to drink. She must have been one of those grumpy nit-pickers. She wouldn't allow kids to play in her yard, and once called the cops on a boy who's basketball accidentally ended up in her shrub.

I am almost sad to say that every door slam we've experienced can be attributed to air pressure and every strange noise to mice or regular house settlings. I think Mr. McNabb would have liked us.