A post from Mary...
Step one: Make a really big ball of snow. Love on it some.
Add a second ball of snow. Get your Dad to help. It is going to be heavy.
And use coal for eyes. Add wooden buttons and a scarf. And of course a fireman's hat. Dad will help.
Stop for a photo before it melts away.
A post from Mary...
It is a rare thing for our family to take a day and just do something. Together. No laboring, no laundry, no cleaning. A trip out of town. A favorite parade that celebrates our family's heritage, and is loaded with pipes, kilts and dogs. Lunch and knock-out basketball with cousins. On the way home, a pit stop at Daddy's office and an evening stroll along the creek through the urban park to a favorite burger joint for dinner. As the craziness of the season begins to creep in, I love having days like this together. It is a gift, all its own.
This is a post from my sister, Mary, who joins me here on the blog a few times a month!
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This past weekend was a fall favorite in our little town here in the shadow of the Allegheny Mountains. It is one of those annual events that you just don't miss. The kind that stirs up all kinds of gratitude for the sweet little all-American town that you live in. Known as the Steam and Craft show, it is in its 38th year of existence. Don't let the "steam" or the "craft" really throw you. It is mostly about tractors. Tractors and more tractors. Of all ages, types, and conditions. And the people that love them, young and old.
Now there are a few of the big, ancient steam tractors, with the ear piercing whistles and their slow, steady crawl.
There are the expertly refurbished models. With a gleam and shine that indicate they will never see the field again.
And then there are the ones waiting to be refurbished. But appreciated all the same.
There are ones with faces and names.
But the "craft" portion translates into a shopping experience that can't be duplicated. As a kid, I remember saving my money to buy a baseball tshirt with a glittery Apaloosa horse decal on the front. It is a mixed bag. Pillows and purses alongside fuel filters and pitchforks. The choices of snaps and hooks was a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
Oh, and dental picks! Hemastats! At great prices!
It is a time to walk among the tractors, to study and appreciate them, to be grateful for the years of service they have given, to reminisce about the ones that used to be on the family farm. An entire weekend to talk tractor.
While the lower field is full of tractors, more activity awaits at the top of the field. Pies are being sold, apple butter is churning. The secret recipe, a local stew, is being served piping hot from a large black kettle. Homemade potato chips, kettle corn. Greasy grub off the grill being served up by the school's athletes and their families.
The culmination of the first day is the parade. It really is my favorite part. Led by the middle and high school bands and the mayor, the tractors all fire up and are driven by their owners right down Main Street. It is a chance to see them with their owners, and families. In all their glory. If the original owner is too frail to drive, they may be pulled behind on a wagon, comfortably seated on a lawn chair or even a sofa. Or if the owner is too young to drive her pink tractor, her Dad will help out, and will be manly enough to drive a pink tractor through town.
While my education and life experiences have taken me far away from my little hometown in the past, it is times like this that I am especially glad I am here. I feel like I stop and realize, just for a second, that this is my town right now. My people. And I am proud of it all.
We have two pet mice. Mice are great little pets. They don't require much. They don't cost much. They don't live very long. Abby's mouse, Stella, is a gray satin mouse with a trademark tail that is half black, half white. Her tail differentiates her from Edey's mouse, who is also gray. While Edey's mouse, Delilah, is very calm and content, Stella is a handful. So it was no huge surprise to me when Abby shouted from the living room that she had lost Stella. Simply holding her while watching tv, Stella saw her chance and Abby was distracted, and she was gone. So, for almost three weeks, yes, three weeks we would see "evidence" of her presence in our house. We had several fleeting glimpses of her, tail high in the air, in an almost rude gesture of defiance. She would dash from corner to corner, only to disapear under some piece of furniture or seemingly vanish in thin air. She took up residence in the toy basket, the blanket basket and a mudroom drawer. She consumed one entire pack of Ramen, several dog biscuits and who knows what else. Then, last weekend, we caught her. Fed up, after one recent sighting, I got boards from the barn and with many hands helping, we cornered her, thumped a plastic container over her, and plopped her back in with Delilah. Abby was thrilled. Me too, really. I mean, what mom likes to have "Catch mouse" on her list of to-do's? She nestled back in to her captive lifestyle, none worse for the wear. Then, the unbelievable.
One day later, she was gone again. This time she shimmied up the smooth plastic side of the water bottle, and chewed through the plastic lid on the cage. It was right at bed time that we noticed and I did my required search in the girls' room before turning out the light, but I was done with this game. She could be wild, or she could be terminated. No more motherly heroics this time.
The story isn't over, folks. Stella, the wild child, was discovered in the bath tub one day later. My husband blearily staggers in for a morning shower and there she is. Stuck in the tub. So, she is back. This time we gave her an exercise wheel. A bit of exercise is good for the soul. She seems more content now. Like maybe she has had her wild fling. She seems to be in remarkably good shape, more rotund then I remember to be before. I hope there wasn't more to her "fling" than we thought, otherwise our mouse population may be growing.
A post from Mary...
I think every mom feels like they wear many different hats throughout the day. Thursdays, for me, is the day I take off my parenting hat, pass it to my wonderful husband for the day, and get to put on my farmer's hat. Farmer's market hat, that is. And no, I am not the mother strolling through the market, basket on arm, admiring the assortment of fresh produce. I get to be the farmer, marketing the goods to the "city folk".
I rise early, rolling out of bed when the clock reads 3 something, dress and grab my super-sized water bottle and pick up mi amigo for the day. Oscar is a 20 something Honduran fellow, who works for our boss, my friend. He is an incredible worker, speaking about 15% english, which means our entire day is spoken in Spanish, which tends to stretch my Spanish vocabulary to its limits. He is working in the States, and sending his earnings home to put two younger brothers through medical school. We are a good pair. Our boss is my friend, and he and his wife run an ever-evolving, cutting edge, Facebook-using fruit and vegetable farm that grows the heirloom varieties that your grandmother grew.
Oscar and I load the truck, a nice little 16000 pound, fourteen foot box truck, in the dark with multiple pallets of fresh produce, and all the necessities including table cloths. We roll into the gas station for necessary hard tack...a jumbo sized cup of joe for me, mango juice for Oscar. It is always amusing to pull into the local gas station at 4 in the morning when all the construction type workers are filling up for the day. There is always an element of surprise I enjoy when this pony-tailed momma jumps out of her truck. I've never had the door held open for me with quite the same flair as I do at that early hour.
Down the road we go, to the "city" and set up our canopies, tables and displays of fresh and good eats. The cow bell tolls and we sell, sell, sell. It is a mental exercise for me. Half my brain is recalling from memory my prices x pounds of fruit, adding up the total, counting back change, while the second half of my brain simultaneously regurgitates a wonderful italian prune plum crumble recipe. The clientele are predominantly older folks at this particular market, and for the most part are very jovial and kind, although from time to time I have to cast a winning smile someone's way to try to dissipate some brewing tension about who was in line first. Or just let them duel it out with their canes and reusable market bags. I have my regulars, too, and the day would not be complete without some small talk with Fran, a slobbery kiss on the cheek from Pete, and the latest health report from John.
After four hours of selling, we tear down and pack it all back up on the truck, grab my weekly dose of fast and greasy food and head back down the road. Back home, I drop the truck off at the farm, and jet the one mile back to my house. I arrive within minutes of the bus that brings my youngest student home, and quickly swap out my hats, again. And I will do it all over again in one week.
A post from Mary...
As usual, the summer is flying by. We are down to the final few weeks before we will be forced back to somewhat of a routine. And the kitchen re-do? It has kind of been at a stand-still this summer. It will get done. In time.
We survived a full eight day county fair, and actually, we are still recovering. Our fair overlapped with Molly's fair, and we probably found ourselves watching this kind of action at the same time.
And Caleb, polishing Buckley to a winning shine for the show ring.
But also the lows, as the market animals were paraded one last time in the ring, for sale to the highest bidder.
A post from Mary:
Little known fact about me: I used to have an elaborate dead animal collection. Mostly birds. It was part of my dowry, and the frozen brown paper bag traveled from the homestead to the rental home when we married. I had collected it over the years, often finding perfectly intact specimens on the bridge at the end of our farm lane, most likely traveling the freeway of the stream and getting hit by cars as they flew over the bridge. I would identify them and tag them with the date and where and how I came to have them in my possession. Then in the freezer, in the brown sack they'd go. A budding naturalist. Maybe a slightly unusual collectible. But, when we moved to our home, I decided to toss them. Some of them were pushing a decade of age. It was time.
I give you that background information about me so you are not shocked when you read ahead...
It is a nice day. I go for a jog. I find a perfectly wonderful dead bat on the road. I must bring it home. I am only about one mile from home. My hands are sweaty, but I can carry it. The kids just must see this fellow.
Bats tend to evoke scary thoughts and images. But have you ever really seen one? They are incredibly intricate, beautifully made little flying teddy bears. I don't think I know a softer fur. Tiny little faces with little snouts and pricked ears. Silky, but super tough wings.
So we got out the field guide. I knew what kind it was, but I wanted my gang to go through the steps and figure it out. We examined, measured, mapped. A male Red Bat. Lasiurus borealis.
And when we were done, guess where he ended up? Bagged, and in the freezer. Maybe the beginnings of the next generation of dead animal collections.
A post from Mary:
It's my birthday today. And like my father, I have never really wanted a big she-bang every year. This year was one of those more significant milestones, and my husband was so kind to ask me if I wanted to do it up in big party fashion. I wasn't interested. I like the created by the kids type celebrations. The breakfasts in bed, where you hardly get a bite before everyone is all over your tray.
But there was one routine event on each birthday, that I grew accustomed to and now sorely miss. It was that call from my grandmother. It's no secret how special she was to me, my sister, and many others. Never forgetting your day, her sing songy rendition of Happy Birthday, a call packed with love and praises for who I was and how special I was to her. It has been something I have greatly missed the past few birthdays.
Last year, for my birthday, my sister gave me a cutting from my grandmother's beautiful Gardenia. The huge potted plant-tree, was put out on the patio all summer and then brought inside for the cold months. It was a regular fixture at her house. Even in the dispersal of her estate, it was claimed by an uncle and lives in his home now. I was thrilled to receive a cutting from it. I have it in my bedroom window. It has grown some, but I was worried it wasn't thriving. A few weeks ago, i was happy to see some new buds on it.
And today, on the morning of my birthday, I parted the curtains to let some of the sun in and saw one single fresh bloom, newly opened.
A birthday message from above. Just for me.
{A Post from Mary}:
I live with a four year old fireman. Having raised three children through different stages of obsessions.....horses, kittens, bulldozers....I am not unfamiliar with the pattern. So far, in my experience, the interests shift and change over time. And I usually do my best to be interested in their current love. We check out library books, usually cleaning out an entire shelf on one topic while the librarian raises her eyebrows. Gifts are given at birthdays. Special trips. The usual. But my youngest, Aiden, is stuck. Stuck with a love for firemen.
I enrolled him in a nursery school. Right next to the fire station.
There was the super realistic fireman outfit given by a sister in law---worn every day, no matter how hot it got. Seeing his face reddened and sweat beading up on his brow, but him being still determined to sport his getup like a real fireman would.
Fireman boots.
Fireman movies.
Fireman apps.
Playing at the playgrounds with, you guessed it, the tall fireman poles. We are beyond the typical "Stop, Drop and Roll! " He knows all about guages, detectors, extinguishers and hoses. Rolls and rolls of toilet paper unrolled and carried through the house as his "hose".
Making him an "air tank" out of a 2 liter bottle, some ribbon, foil and leftover nebulizer tubing.
Receiving a real fireman mask from a friend. And hoping he will only sleep with it and not put it on in the middle of the night. Knowing which public restrooms have the sprinkler systems or other smoke detectors to see. And faking the need to use the bathroom just to go see them. And talking about it. Talking about anything fire. My mom has one story from when a heat lamp in the barn caused a near fire, but the whole fire fighting crew came out. She has told and retold that story.
Seeing him get up on the stage at our latest 4-H meeting, in front of 50 people and without any hesitation, and do his own impromptu talk on firefighters without a shred of insecurity.
So last night, when I hastily finished the dinner dishes to go stand guard as he climbed up and down a ladder,
in only his briefs,
I tried to remember the days before the obsession with firemen. It has almost been a year, I think. And as much as I have learned about firefighting as we both have been through this journey, I am wondering if this is just going to be his thing. He wants to be a firefighter.
And you know what?
I am good with that. He will be a good one.
You know how sometimes you get on a culinary "kick" and you make one recipe part of your list of usuals....and then sometimes you forget about them.....for a long time?
And then when you suddenly recall them or crave them, or find the recipe card all scrunched down in your recipe box and have that....Oh yeah.....these were good! moment.....Am I the only one who does that?
Here is one such recipe. I first started making these before we even had kids. The fact that the batter kept for 6 weeks was vital. Now,with many more mouths, they don't need to last 6 weeks. But it is so convenient. Make up the batter. Put it in the fridge. Scoop out some, bake it and have warm fresh muffins whenever. They are super moist and I would like to think all that bran gives them a push towards healthy. Give 'em a try. I don't think they will disappoint.
Six Week Bran Muffins
5 c. flour
5 t. baking soda
2t. salt
2 t. cinnamon
1 t. nutmeg
15 oz. box of Raisin Bran cereal (8 c.)
3 c. sugar
4 eggs
1 c. oil
1 quart buttermilk
2 t. vanilla
Beat eggs, oil, buttermilk and vanilla. Add dry ingredients and stir well. Add cereal last, mixing in well. Transfer to large plastic container with tight fitting lid. Store in refrigerator until ready to use. When ready to bake, don't stir batter. Dip batter out and fill paper lined or greased cups. Bake 20 minutes at 375 degrees. Batter keeps for up to six weeks in fridge.
The quite lovely (as my mother would say) gentlemen from the cabinet shop came to put in the kitchen cabinets.
Our kitchen was completely stripped of the old cabinets in preparation for their visit. For as long as we have been thinking about this and putting it together (in our minds, at least) it felt surprising that they could come and put in all the cabinets in just one day's work.
My children took a little artistic license with the bare walls and tried to express their gratitude. (I'm not sure what the reference is to the knife. I typically don't let my kids play with them.....at least the big ones.)
And so, quietly and diligently, the men came. They hefted. They assembled. They meticulously leveled and measured. And measured and leveled again--a requirement in any 100 year old lop-sided house.
And as they attached the last knob, and used their little soft brushes to clean everything up, I was missing those men already.
Like little quiet elves, they came, did their job, and left wonder in the form of cabinetry behind them.
And they were in. So fresh. So blisteringly new. So smelly of newness when I opened the doors.
And shut the doors.
And open and shut the doors again.
Just to try out that "soft close" special latch system. I bellied up to them and pretended to wash dishes and appreciated their custom extra tallness, a back saver for this slightly taller than average mom.
But it really is just the beginning. There is still a lot to do. The countertops are a huge question mark right now. I'm praying the new dishwasher I bought for next to nothing and then stored away for years will still work. Then there's the sink. The backsplash...
More to come, folks, more to come.
I am a patient woman.
And it really does take a great dose of this virtue when living in an old farm house.
My sister and I both grew up in one. We both live in one now.
We’ve been in ours for almost 14 years. And when my husband and I walked through the newly purchased house in our young, married, no-kids-yet phase, we dreamed of how it would look when it was complete.
New exterior, some much needed landscaping, paint that paneling, pull up those stained shag carpets, we can do this!
And the kitchen was at the top of that list....fourteen years ago.
Little by little, we saved, as with all our projects. When a bit of money or tax return came our way, I tucked it away and secretly whispered “kitchen!” But then other things came along. Other expenses.
The luxury of being able to have a healthy flush from our toilets came from a new septic field.
Feeling the winter wind through our rotten sills and old windows resulted in new windows.
The kitchen, where I spend the most of my time, was always put on hold.
So, when my husband told me this winter he was ready to do the kitchen, I didn’t really think much. We’d been in this position before. But later when he said: Get going! Figure out what you want to do! I’m ready! I knew it was really going to happen this time.
So I immediately started a pinterest page (that’s normal, isn’t it?) and pinned pictures left and right of things I loved. It helped me get a feel for what really was going to work. That color might get old after a while. That gorgeous farm house sink? Out of budget.
Slowly I pieced together, in my mind, what it would look like. Nothing fancy. Practical. Affordable. Fitting with our old farmhouse.
And so it begins.
The perfect week to begin happened to be the time I was to be away at Outdoor School with my daughter’s class. My husband, along with his trusty four year old helper (who lives in destructo mode 24/7) removed the old cupboards. I can’t really say I will miss their peeling paint, swollen particle board selves.
I won’t miss that drawer that closes, then very slowly, ever so quietly rolls back out when my back is turned so that a quick spin around to stir something on the stove and I get wacked in the hip.
Those faux butcher block countertops, that I have almost intentionally tried to damage with hot pots just to accelerate the process, gone. It will be nice to have something new, with the old. And while new is not something I am used to around here, I think I will adjust. I know it will be a long process, as most of our re-do’s are.
And I look forward to sharing with you our progress on this “little” project.
The last goat kidded this week. I know that sounds like a really big goat farm, but we only have two breeding age goats. The second, and last goat, LuLu, went into labor like clock work. I read somewhere that goats tend to kid at the same time of day each year. Remembering that she had birthed in the evening last year, I wasn't surprised to see the tell-tale signs start at about 6 pm. We were all excited to see what she would have. LuLu is what they call a "paint" Nubian. Like the horse, she has a lot of white. And last year she had triplets. This year, she had gotten really big, but then seemed to shrink a bit towards the end, but was still obviously pregnant.
We gave her some privacy as labored progressed, but hustled to the barn when we heard the sounds of her really pushing, sounds just like one might hear in the halls of the hospital maternity ward. Out popped one small little girl, and we were in business.
It was the last day of spring break and we were up for something. The Easter break had had it's usual fun. Family picnic---the pigs were a hit. Church. Family time. The weather was cool, but we decided to check out a new spot. Little did I know that our county owned a 30-acre wetland area complete with one mile of boardwalk to protect the delicate happenings there.
Red-winged Blackbirds were calling everywhere. Even globs of salamander eggs. No one else was there. But raccoons had been the night before.
The perfect end to a great spring break.
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