New Year's Eve!

My alter ego might be getting her nails done and her husband's tux from the dry cleaner this afternoon, in preparation for a black tie evening filled with champagne fountains and tasteless, mess-free hors d'oeuvres. I hope she has fun. I, myself, have just finished cleaning the hen house. This is a job that is necessary to do today, despite other pressing items to be done, because it is warm today. This means that the chicken poo is thawed, and that is the only time to successfully clean the hen house. I should be getting ready for tomorrow's annual neighborhood Cowfeathers New Year's Day Open House. But a  nice trip through the tub is necessary before any other thing can really be accomplished after cleaning the hen house. So, clean me first, then the house, and get to some baking. Huz is currently working on a carrot cake, so that means no other people allowed in the kitchen. Gives me a reprieve to weigh in here and go fix myself. Plus, I need to decide on my Resolution. This is a very grave decision. One that should probably be made with the assistance of hot water and soap. Tonight we get to go ring in 2011 at the S's. Generous hosts, fine friends with food and cards and kids... wonderful New Year's in the country.
The ponies are happily rolling in the mud of the front pasture, so after tomorrow's party, that will be the next order o' business! Uncrusting ponies!

Days of Anime and Animus

My ancient armchair has holes worn in the floral chintz fabric. This should enact my Jungian Animus sense. I should be jumping to recover it, put it on the list- however long the list may be. But, instead, I peer at it and see the wonderful shabbiness accorded by wear. I think of English drawing rooms, all buttoned up and stuffy and preserved, and their sibling, the English sitting room- where the people actually sit. To read, or puff on their pipes, surrounded by elegant-limbed lurchers and spastic, muddy pawed Springers. These rooms, the sitting ones, are so - used. The chintz is just like mine, worn clear through. There are books and soft yellow light from lamps with three threads of cloth covered wire. All this from some holes in my chair. Musing on the little things- my Anime.
On the other hand, while rounding the corner on the potholed squish of a dirt road on my way home today, I noticed a beef cow with a strange posture. A hundred yards down the road I started back in reverse as things clicked in my mind and the sense of trouble lurked. Sure enough, there at the feet of the cow is a fairly new calf in real trouble. Breathing barely, heart very slow, dying. I called the farmer on my cell phone to alert him to the distressed baby, then drove on, so as to not block the single lane path. Now, my animus is in overdrive, thinking of  possible causes and scenarios, and wondering if the calf is still amongst the bovine living. No sense in calling the farmer. If the poor mite is dead, can't do a durn thing. If it is still alive, and in my neighbor's kitchen, I've no real medicine to add. Just curiosity, and lists. The Animus.

Wordless Wednesday

Santa, oh, Santa.

How is it, with three kids home, a Huz on vacation, I can hear the ticking of our wedding clock on the shelf? What does this mean? Are both girls back in bed, reading? Most likely. But what of Youngest? When I cannot hear him I start worrying- what is he up to this time? He is rapidly running out of Christmas presents. The pocket knife didn't even make it for a full day in his possession. First strike was using the knife to cut open a plastic case, blade cutting to hand. Second strike was using the scissors to cut things that never wanted cutting. Third strike was opening knife while watching a Christmas movie and absentmindedly putting knife in mouth. Since he was warned about the first and second strike, when the third occurred, he just wordlessly handed over the knife. We'll try again in a few years. He had wanted one so badly, took his "pocketknife certification" at Boy Scouts, carried his "pocketknife permit" in his wallet....Santa gave him a chance.
Also repo'ed now are the marshmallow gun, and marshmallows. Unspeakable the things a 9 year old boy can do with a few mini marshmallows and a propellant.
Also no longer his are the "Yard of Licorice" ropes. More than a dozen licorice twists, each a yard long. Santa is delusional.
I should mention, for any other mothers of boys who might be reading, that the moment of hearing the clock are long gone, and the house is once again full of noisy participants.
Youngest is right now "loading" the dishwasher. He tried mashing it with the sport of basketball, much to the dispair of the dishes, and his mother.Also prominent in the favored "dishwasher loading" technique is leaving both top and bottom racks pulled out, then shutting the door. Quickly.  He asked me, earlier this month, when listening to "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas", "Mom, can you not wait for school to start again?" I assured him that no, I love having my children home for Christmas...........Santa might be mistaken.

The Day After

Middlest tries to straighten Youngest's glasses for a photo

Huz does the traditional "Reading of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas"

One of my favorite days of the year! The Day After. I've no shopping/wrapping/baking/cleaning urgency. I can watch my kids build Legos and play the board games we received, make up outfits with the new clothes for the girls, wash new sheets and try out the bicycle that goes no where. A wonderfully, lazy family day. Church was quiet this morning, some folks are travelling, but Huz did a wonderful job singing "Oh Come, All Ye Faithful" as a fourth in a quartet of friends. Then, he was inundated with requests to join the choir.  I was proud to see him up there singing, and was glad I had not brought my camera, as I would have had to take a photo, and that might have caused great eyerolling by the Eldest and Middlest.

Now, even on the wonderful Day After the same things that have to always happen still have to happen. On my third load of dishes today (we got a bit behind yesterday, what with the constant eating) and my third or fourth load of laundry (I got WAY behind in the days leading to Christmas. The sheep water buckets all needed a scrub today (why, oh why do you poop in your water?) the walks had to be shoveled and swept of the day's snows and horses will still have to be groomed tonight, stalls picked etc. But, really, that is such a joy to do when nothing else presses!

Middlest thrilled with "Penelope" from Aunt K. and Uncle E.

Youngest tries out his new handknit chapeau and homemade marshmallow gun from Aunt E. and Uncle D.

Youngest and Eldest poised to plow into stockings

Tucker has his eye on the prize! A stuffed dog toy peeks out of the top of his stocking, and he is intensely hoping for it to fall.

Happy Dog. Stuffed Buffalo is out of the stocking.

Christmas Eve

It's a bit like hearing "READY OR NOT HERE I COME!" in a game of hide and seek- that moment of indecision that meant you had no place to hide and time was up.
It's Christmas, ready or not. And, I'm not feeling unprepared with any of the material things. We have bagels and lox for breakfast, homemade bear claws, our wonderful eggs and the harvest of potatoes. I have plenty of gifts to nestle under the tree, packed stockings,even for some of the critters. Tucker will have new doggie toys, the ponies have a few excellent treats, the barn cats have tins of 9 Lives. Santa will certainly come and bring something special for the children. The pajama elves came while we were at evening church clutching candles and singing "Silent Night" and the kids are attired in new and snuggly peace signs, rubber ducks and soccer ball motifs. We are "ready" for Christmas morning.
But here is where I am stuck out in the open, having squandered my time trying to decide between ducking between the grandfather clock and the wall, or going under the dollhouse table; I haven't had enough contemplative time. I love Christmas, and the promise of it all, and the baby that was, and the wowza of a story about a young mother riding a donkey and a star and a barn- things with which I can identify. The angel of the Lord, and the travelling Magi are out of my experience, but add such mystique. I love to think about this time of year. It is so cold, and yet, each day begins with such urgency and plans, it isn't a crippling cold- yet. I love the music of the holidays. Particularly the old carols- The Boar's Head, and old recorded versions of Ave Maria. Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker and anything sung by Bing Crosby or Andy Williams- or the Ray Coniff Singers! That brings back childhood magic as much as Rudolph and Frosty.  I love the tree in all it's color and business, and the tree in my sunroom for its simplicity. I love the nesting and the visiting and the contact. And when Christmas goes, the carols do too, the tree starts looking like a pain in the livingroom, and the cold is-cold. The celebration of the birth of the baby, moves past too. A new year will be here, full of unimagined delights and potential darkness. I crave to hold on to the delight of Christmas Eve, that moment, just before the top of the roller coaster- when in anticipation,  you have sensed, but not experienced. But, I'm not in control of this anymore than I am the roller coaster. You're just strapped in for the ride. Lifting my arms.......................

The Christmas Musicale!



Eldest starts us off with "O Holy Night" on her flute.



Seems as if it needs an exclamation point, or maybe an AED.Is it enough to put out a mess of cookies, some cheeses, mull some cider and slap a bottle of Captain Morgan on the counter next to the eggnog? Shouldn't I at least try to straighten the mess on my desk? Do I need to be an enthusiastic puppy bouncing from room to room making sure everyone has something to drink and someone to talk to? Hand out caroling books and demand my children plonk out "Jingle Bells" on the piano?  I have read somewhere that if the hostess has a good time at a party, it is a fine indication that the guests, also had fun. Maybe for some hostesses, but I think I'm a poor mark, as I tend to have a wonderful time, even at my own parties, regardless. The Musicale is no exception, ( I had a terrific time!)  except as a party premise it might be a bit weak. I want to give an opportunity for the children who work so hard at piano lessons, violin, flute, clarinet, recorder, etc. a chance to play holiday music for an easily appreciative audience. If I am in a more energetic mood, I also get the group singing Christmas carols, and push the kids to play and perform. This year, after a busy day at work I was more enthused about getting some hot cider, spiked nog etc. and spending a bit of time with my friends! So, upon reflection, no one sung carols. The music was sporadic from the children, and some never even got their instruments out of cases. On the other hand, they did gather in groups and play some holiday music. Eldest got out her flute and did a beautiful job with "First Noel" and "O Holy Night". Middlest worked the saxophone, got the middle school set set up blasting away at trumpet, trombone and flute and also presented a fine piano rendition of "Carol of the Bells", and Youngest got the elementary kids and their candy colored recorders playing "Jolly Old St. Nicholas" and "Amazing  Grace". And, the adults chatted and ate and enjoyed one another.

Middle School set gets prepped for their "jam session".

Normally a clarinet player, Emma gives the sax a go.

We had a wonderful smattering of local families, one of Middlest's sweet friends showed up, fudge in hand, and we had a surprise joy in our friends from the north of "the big city" tromping up our icy, snow covered walk (if I hadn't worked, I might have gotten around to clearing that up a bit better, Youngest gave it a go with the shovel)  and carrying "The Tart". The Tart is a tart perfection of cranberries, toasted slivered almonds and chunks of dark chocolate settled into a handmade thick caramel all nestled in a cookie-type tart crust. Yes, it is my favorite tart and a fine cook and dear friend managed to bake it and lug it south to give each one of my tastebuds a present. Other guests arrived with tasty homemade cookies- even homemade dog treats for Tucker!,  baked brie en croute, and amazingly,  a bottle of wine whose label just happens to be my name! Who knew? But the best thing they brought was themselves and a house full of kids and cacophony. The invite said "Make a Joyful Noise Unto the Lord" and, if he was listening, I think he would have clapped a bit.

Youngest gets the recorder troops rallied to get out there and "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas"

I love that my friends know to come to the front door. Back door arrivals are fine in a mid morning "just stoppin' by" kind of way, but I like to use my front door. My friends are important! Front door worthy. And I love that they still come when I send out an invite. Certainly, it is so much easier to just stay home. But, thanks to you, my friends, we are makin' mem'ries. And yes, I realize that if you are important enough for me to want you to come to my front door, perhaps I should get the snow and ice off the walk in preparation for your arrival. And clean off my desk.

Cowfeathers Caroling

Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, certainly. But the way we celebrate this is heavy with traditions and, if you're lucky,  visiting. Some of my favorite Christmas memories involve gatherings of folks, repeated yearly, giving tentacles to the memory. In my family, I am Youngest, with two elder sisters. At some point, in their high school years, one of them, Middlest? decided she wanted to carol with some friends. This would probably be, 1979, or 1980. So, on Christmas Eve, a few of her friends arrived and we tromped out into the woods to neighbor's houses to sing to them. Especially in the beginning, we would sometimes find no one home, but as the years went by, folks started planning their Christmas Eve celebrations around the hopes that our troupe would show up at the door. I felt a little smug and special when we would drag a family away from their meal in front of the television- like we had won. How can you watch TV on Christmas Eve? Look at each other! Or, come open the door to the cold and hear our enthusiastic, if not tuneful renditions of "Jingle Bells" and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!" We evolved into a routine of songs, that varied little. We began with "Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh" and ended with "We wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!".

My mother, amazing with her foresight, came up with a dirty box from the outbuilding storage, full of old yellow painted metal lanterns with glass sides that held a candle and hung from a rope. She had about a dozen, and each year, before our caroling compatriots arrived someone would dig them out and clean them up a bit, put bigger candle stubs inside and we would light them as we set off into the dark woods. If there was snow, you could see a bit better, but not even a full moon did much to illuminate the woods floor. We mostly stuck to driveways, but a few places were more easily reached overland. The lanterns would give a soft glow to the ground just in front of your feet. I cannot remember calling off caroling for any reason. Any weather- the worst was cold rain, but we would often have snow, and sometimes beautiful, cold and dry, still we would go. To the Smith's first. They were forgiving, and we tested our pipes out on their doorstep. Then, the Barrett's, Charnoks,Whiteheads, then the house deep in the woods whose inhabitants we only met once a year. On this night. They were TV watchers. Then, up the hill, through the woods, as far as the Cradle of Methodism ( a 1600's house built by the folks who brought  Methodism to the colonies)- once or twice fueled by cookies and jolly folly, even farther! Usually we tromped to 16 houses or so. If we were near the road, we would swing our lanterns so any travelling vehicles would slow and creep past the group as we'd yell "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" One year we also went down the hill, across Little River to the Roland Farm. Helen, the elderly wife of the house, was deep into her cups (as usual) and opened the door with flourish. Upon seeing us perched on her doorstep, she slurred at  my Dad, in her high pitched voice "Rev'rend! You broghst the orphansh!" We were giggling so hard, I doubt we sang more than two of our standards before heading back over the river and up the hill to more coherent audience.
My Dad, one of the most enthusiastic people I know, was always on board for caroling. Maybe he is the reason we never demurred due to weather. He was ready. Tall, with a deep voice, a ready infectious grin, colossally long legs spanning the fallen trees and stone walls- who wouldn't want to stomp around in dark woods singing "JOY TO THE WORLD, THE LORD HAS COME!" with my Dad? Certainly not me! We caroled every year, right through my high school, and college years until my parents moved from Connecticut. We would return to Puckihuddle ( my childhood farm) frozen through, red cheeked and snow covered. Stomping feet off on the brick floors of the mudroom and kitchen we would gather as closely as possible to the old Valiant woodstove, until our clothes started steaming and pain crept through our fingers and toes as they warmed. Noses ran, and hands finding horrible nerve endings clamped around hot mugs of cider and chocolate, served by Mom. Mom stayed home with Mimi and Grandpa while we caroled. I didn't think about that much. I never analyzed whether she stayed home because she wanted to miss the joy of singing with the misery of Connecticut Christmas cold, or just didn't want to abandon her parents on Christmas Eve. I sort of hope it was the former, as I would have a hard time not bundling up and heading out myself. Of course, if my parents were visiting us  for Christmas, and we went caroling, I would be surprised if my Dad didn't want to suit up. My childhood was a succession of activities that brought joy with hardship. Might not want to analyze that either!
So, this year, Eldest said she'd like to invite some friends to go caroling. Huz, raised in Florida, not caroling, looked askance at the thought- but we can sway him. Unfortunately, I don't think Eldest actually invited anyone- maybe next year we'll begin the Cowfeathers Caroling tradition.

At the Smiths, 1982. I've got a rainbow scarf, standing with my friend Jodi. You can tell this is early in the caroling tradition, as some folks are holding sheet music. Obviously one of the warmer Christmases! No hats?!

1984. Dad is in the back, holding his lantern high like a 19th century London Caroler. My sisters are behind me- hitting the high notes. Mike, Eldest sister's friend is behind her. He loved our wacky family. Middlest sister's friend, Chalane (sp?) was a early years caroling regular. She's on the right, behind the wreath sprigs. Did I have any friends?

Hmm. This is later. Maybe 1987or 1988? A rainy Christmas Eve. Brian Rowe is on the right, he was an exchange student from New Zealand, but came back to visit his US friends. holding the green and white umbrella is my friend, T. I'm on the far left, always have liked the drama of a cape.  Dad behind me. My friends, Eric and Tommy are next to Dad, Eddie is behind T. and Brian. My sisters are sporting dapper caps for the rain.



Christmas Monday

So, can I get away with a "wordless Monday", when what I would like to do is settle down and tell you about the joy of  Christmas week? Very little doubt about having a White Christmas this year. What is in doubt, grave doubt, at this point is the creation of the other 52 kinds of Christmas cookies that are a "tradition"(according to Eldest). Also at major risk is having a remotely tidy- let alone clean house for the Christmas Musicale. Christmas Eve bran mashes for the horses are looking shaky at this point.
 Not at risk are the following- gifts. Everybody has at least one. (I bought myself something and wrapped it, just to be sure.)
Trees- up and decorated.
 Frozen pipes. Thanks to Shawn, that is one thing off my "to do" list.
 Riding with the jingle bells and sleigh bells. Tried this yesterday, for the first time with the big guy. He was rather suspicious of the jingle bells- they made him snort and prance a bit, but the sleighbells were not nearly as alarming. Consequently, I gave the jingle bells to Kendra to ride with on Peaches. Am I a good friend? Hmm.
So, with much to do in my last two days before the family is home for the holiday, I will appease myself with a few pictures.

The Glamour of it all!



Oslo, Peach and the bus in the snow.

 Unexpected  "days off" just before Christmas- snowy mornings with 2 hour delays, afternoons of snow with early dismissal- an exercise in riding around on a school bus in the snow. We even got a call from the school district yesterday, late morning, to assure us that all the buses actually made it to school! What I should be doing is sending the packages off to the 7 close-relative destinations. To Florida and Arkansas, Chicago and Connecticut, Virginia and Maryland- post office here we come! But, with the roads a mess, that will wait. So as the grey light came up to reveal the slowly falling snow, I headed out to the barn to do morning chores. Notably, there is almost no wind! Perfect day to walk the horses out to the front pasture for a day of poking around in the drifts freezing their muzzles in a hopeful attempt to find greenstuff. As I walked out of the barn to put a halter on Peaches I was horrified by the sight of her south end! Diarrhea had completely frozen her tail to her bottom and legs, attached the blanket straps to her with a 3 inch casing of frozen poo water. Guessing my morning agenda had changed, I then had to figure out how to melt my horse. It was 4 degrees. Hot water, obviously. But, the barn does not have hot running water- the cold water pump was my birthday present to myself a few years back, and I am still not carrying heavy buckets, especially up slippery slopes of snow. So, I decided to take the horse to water. I am blessed with a mudroom. Just inside the mudroom door, we wisely built a "dogwash", boot area with hot and cold water, a sink for hand washing, and my solution to melting Peaches' mess. So, with bare hands and hot water, I worked at getting the tail unstuck and the poopsicles removed. Unfortunately, at 4 degrees all water freezes on contact with the ground, so my ministrations were forming a nice little brown ice rink right outside the back door. Periodically new additions to the party would issue forth, causing me to slip while I moved out of the way. With my right sleeve soaked to the armpit with fragrant horse digestives, I finished my clean up and gingerly walked the horse away from the ice. She seemed to have rather enjoyed getting a clean up, and was cooperative and still for the whole procedure. Considerate, as there is no safe place to tie a pony on the patio. She trotted out into the field to join Oslo, looking like she felt just fine. My good fortune that a ram with a tendency towards rumen acidosis caused me to stock up on Pepto Bismol. Peaches, you're gonna love the pink stuff! A check of the Veterinary Drug Manual told me her dose came to about 45 ounces, three times daily. Each large bottle of pepto is 16 oz. Three bottles, thrice daily. Great! Add pink stuff flying through the air to a diarrhea soaked armpit. As I say regularly "This is a glamorous job".
Two days of poop washing and pepto later, one large tube of dewormer- just in case (normally I would do a fecal egg count before dosing, but this was an emergency!) later, seeing some solid. So, we went riding. Hey, there has to be an "Up" side...



Our barn is the red thing in the back.



Time out for Christmas!

Read yesterday's blog. Again!

A real gift.

As they say, the best gifts are you ones you give. Some gifts are so wonderful to receive, that needs be you give them on. Today, I am giving you a real gift. It was given to me last month by my father-in-law. Thank you, Opa, for letting me share. I have treasured it,  held it and decided to give it to you now. Why now? Well, Youngest informs me that there are 10 days until Christmas Eve. I suspect that many of you are scrambling to get "everything done". That you feel the need to head to Target looming large in your schedule. For any of you who are not relishing every moment of this Christmas Season, feeling stressed, pushed. Treasure this.
It is perspective. Love. Generosity. Fear. Hope and faith holding fast in the cold belly of hunger and despair. It is a letter written after Christmas from one brother to another during the long winter of 1945 Holland. In 4 months World War II will be "over". Of course, they don't know that.  The author of the letter is my husband's Grandfather, a Pastor, father of 7, husband to Jeanne, our Oma. I am no scholar of WWII, and so fortunate to have been born well after, but I believe the V2 rockets he writes of were particularly feared because they were long range ballistic missiles that appeared out of nowhere at close to 1800mph. Without being dropped from planes, they had little or no warning before hitting and devastating their target. Read it more than once, you will reap the rewards. And, get a tissue.
"First all the lights have to go out before the eyes open up for the big light."
We live in the big light.

WWII letter from Vader Drost [Henry Jacobus Drost, 1902-1960]

            Written on ~5 January 1945 [~ 4 months before the end of the war, 05 May 1945] to one of his brothers.

Dear Willem and Annie

            Time is past due to write you and thank you very, very much for the excellent major service you have provided us by sending us wheat, beans, and peas. Frankly, let me write you how much it touched me and how the concept “brother” took on a much deeper meaning and a wonderfully warm perspective. You have really spoiled us and done us a world of good. Things are becoming increasingly uncertain and hunger grips us so severely that you sometimes do not know how or what to do. Now we can supplement a little here and there, and thus keep our family going. You don’t know what it is to live in a city that suffers from famine and cold. From sun up to sun down people come to your door, like a string of appointments, and then there is the misery of the V2 rockets above us and around us. On New Year’s Eve a section of my parish was destroyed by such a monster.

            I thank God that again and again he gives me strength and sufficient optimism and gratitude, and I thank him for Jeanne who remains so valiantly at my side. Sometimes I cannot make any sense out of it. For instance, today I already had my 7^th funeral of the New Year. But let me come to order, and wish you and Annie’s parents a good – that is in God’s eyes – new year. Psalm 118: 5, 6 was the text for New Year’s Eve, and the New Year started with Psalm 46: A mighty fortress is our God. We live by the day but even that holds in a big blessing. And brother Kees, who was here on the 4^th of January, said – correctly in my opinion – “I would not want to miss the spiritual value of this time of emergency.”

            Your packet arrived late, the evening before Christmas. Those poor gentlemen, including Mr Sibiakus, had gone out to forage for themselves, and look, they did not bring hardly anything home for themselves, yet they became willing carriers. But those men had bad luck, a terrible trip via Amsterdam where one bicycle almost broke down which landed them in Oegsgeest where they just put the luggage down, they were exhausted. Later they went to pick it up and they delivered everything here in good shape. I let them share in the gifts to which they objected, but I insisted, those poor guys already had so little themselves, so they accepted.

            On January 4^th the second “brotherly” surprise arrived. Not only Kees, but also brother-in-law Gert from Halle came to the door. Can you imagine, he came on Nel’s bicycle with a basketful of most welcome surprises: eggs, fat, bacon, and flour, Jeanne could not control her emotions anymore. We were just in the midst of the distress of the V2 rocket explosion in the parish. That man really had to bike hard with one solid rear bicycle tire, but how successful God made his trip. He who himself had been under the threat of death was now compelled to save what was salvageable. He thought we looked skinny, but oh what does that mean, seeing him was invigorating, and with those gifts, along with those of from you, we can live. In this we see the hand of a faithful God, and that day our prayers sounded loud and clear.

            A third surprise reached us from the congregation in Kolderveen this week, in the form of a large packet, delivered by none other than Dr Hornstra who lost the entire contents of his house in Arnhem and now has found refuge in Wannerperveen. How does God open the hearts of precisely those who were smitten? He went to the farms around Kolderveen and probably said “that old minister of yours is starving to death” and that brought out the gifts. What a supplement for our almost empty plates. We cannot believe our eyes and we don’t know what’s happening. I am also so happy about all this because so much is physically demanded of me with the Feed the Children Committee, Place the Children Committee, and so it goes day in day out. Now I am able to stay on my feet. Aalten also thought of us with a packet. This way we are catching up.

            From the Potter family we frequently hear news about Oma Snoep who apparently had a stroke, hence gives reason for major concern. It is sad when the light in some sympathetic people begins to dim. I always thought of her as such a true minister’s wife, matured by such a variety of suffering and bad luck around her, and who was always comforting and supportive whenever you encountered her.

            From the unoccupied part of the country we have received neither word nor sign, neither from Breda nor from Nijmwegen. From you only we learned about an evacuation to Belgium. Where are the brothers and how are they doing? Looking at the battle field you do not see a solution in the coming weeks or months. And you always wish for a miracle and you cling to God’s promises. We have to go through the depths and Dr Hornstra correctly wrote: first all the lights have to go out before the eyes open up for the big light. Not a smidgen remains of that self-sufficient, self-serving, well-eating, Netherlands, and now it descends from one humiliation into the next.

            I have heard nothing of the 300 guilders in mission funds sent to the address of Zwier, presumably the Nassau Bank. I also sent money to brother Blok for uncle Adri for the months of Sep, Oct, Nov. Brother Blok wrote that this uncle is going down hill. He suffers from dizziness again and is fading. I suspect that his rations are messing him up too. It is a blessing that he has such good nursing care. You wonder sometimes why these poor old guys live such long lives. At any rate we know that he is a gift of God and that each time He wants to lead us to mercy and pity. The latter is for me easier to accept for Adri than for aunt Pietje who can be very irritating.

            I completely forgot [to acknowledge] your kind offer to take in one of our boys. We cannot come to an agreement about that. Jan Willem [14] would like to get out, and he would be an excellent worker, a boy who loves to help, and in many areas is able to help. But just in times of need like now you would like to keep these little guys together. And when we look at the children, they can make it. Some are certainly undernourished, but now that they are getting some good calories again, things are going well again.  So we will wait a while. Transportation is also a problem and I am not able to bring them. However, should we be unable to manage it any longer here, I think I will risk it and will send you one or two boys.

            Enough, I’ll stop talking. Again thank you very much. Greetings to all of you from all of us.

God dedicated,

"slauth"

This, spells the word "sleigh" on Tuesday. Spelling is a challenge for Youngest. He gets his spelling words on Monday. And then, repetition, writing, verbal repeating, rhymes, little things to jog his memory ; "when you "broil" don't forget the "oil". Everyday. On Friday, the big test. Wednesday he may get closer to "sleigh". By Thursday afternoon, he needs to have that down, along with "reindeer" (currently "rainder"), "Rudolph" (currently "Rudph") and "laughter" (currently "lafer"). I don't worry too much about this difference between us. Spelling was always natural to me, perhaps moved along by my love of books. But I know some really spanking smart folks who have a hard time with spelling. I even have a sister, who reads famously, and struggles with spelling! So, I see it as just another thing you have to deal with, work around and get through- a lesson in life.
Eldest, who is working on a professional reading career spells quite well, and lately has demonstrated the limitations of that medium for use of new words. She will use words correctly in a sentence, but mispronounces them. When you read, no one is governing the way you pronounce the word in your head. Just as Huz thought "Hermione" from the Harry Potter series was pronounced "Her-me-own". I have corrected the pronunciation of Eldest's words from time to time, even teased her a bit to help her remember and praised her for increasing her vocabulary. Refreshing to hear a teen say her teacher "donned a wig", even if it is pronounced "d-Own-ed". And, for Youngest, thank God for spell check!

Eldest the Snoman

Because we are at the high temp for today. Which is 15*, windchill of -3*. BUT, miracle of all things, as the acapella choir on the radio sings The First Noel, is the sun has come out! A-shinin' on the snow. It almost looks inviting out there. Inviting enough for Youngest, who bundled up and set out in the early grey light to drench himself in snow and cold. Periodically I would step outside and holler for him, just making sure he hadn't frozen to the ground. There was a school delay this morning, due to icy roads and the subzero temperatures. Eldest and Middlest tromped off to the end of the lane to wait for the bus. I made tea, started cleaning the kitchen (Monday morning's task to repair the damage from the weekend). Took the trash out, and there they are, still at the end of the lane! Yikes. So, I got keys and drove the car down to the end of the drive for a windbreak/ warm up. The back doors on Denty are frozen shut, so all pile into the front seat, at which point I realize Eldest is not wearing a coat. Logically, if she doesn't think a coat is necessary, she certainly doesn't need me to be there in the car. Ridiculous. And, if she isn't wearing a coat because she is too "cool" to need a coat, kind of sad.
So, no longer shall I feel guilty about her being freezing waiting for the bus to creep along the country road. Her own design.
On the other hand, the other, wiser kids, who wear hats, gloves, coats and boots might get a ride.
And, those two- my outdoorsy ones- made a wonderful snowman yesterday. He sits in the barn pasture with his jaunty buttons and carrot nose, whipped by the blowing snow, and as unaffected as Eldest by the cold.

A Sunday

Enough snow for a snowman! Carrot nose, cranberry eyeballs.
Morning rain turned to snow, flakes so large you could drown.
Wind, cold. Numbers like "9", "40", units like "degrees" and "mph".
Fires going, steady burn a close circle of heat.
Fingers, nose chill away.
Settle to Christmas. Puzzles, food, warmth, laughter of my kids.
Clean out the fridge, present to chickens; pie, potato, eggplant.
"Merry Christmas Yoko, Merry Christmas John." repeat.
Nests in the sunroom tree.
Quilts on the couch.
Let's be.

Esther- my idol, nearer to thee!

"You look like Esther." says Huz. I take this as an enormous compliment. This is taken with an assumption. I assume he means Esther before she died in July '08 at age 86. Now, some gals might take their husband comparing them to an 86 year old woman unfavorably. But Esther is who I want to be when I grow up, so I'm tickled! The comment was made in the dark of the evening as I walked to the barn in front of Huz.

I had passed Faler Feed on the way home from The Big City and picked up 300 lbs of grain. It rested in the back of Denty, waiting. Since I quit carrying heavy stuff in October, the grain has had to wait for Huz. Often asssisted by Middlest, and once shoved out of the back of Denty onto the barn hill by Youngest. But, moved by someone else- not me. Well, I feel like I have perhaps overstayed my welcome on that one. So, I decided I would move grain too, without picking it up, without holding it, without it being on my shoulders and potentially affecting my neck. So, zipping my Carhartt against the 22* darkness, ( but loving it outside because NO WIND!) out to Denty I go. Off the top of the stack, the first sack of feed, carried by me, goes to the barn. And there I am, a younger version of Esther.

See, Esther in her 80's was a formidable gal. She lived down the road, about 2 1/2 miles on the corner, in a little white farmhouse surrounded by little and big farm buildings, a tumble down silo and a huge maple in the back yard. She had a garden. Not just any garden, but an immaculate and varied garden, right on the road- causing drive-by-envy. Her rhubarb was ancient and hardy. Her corn towered and her beans, peas and tomatoes were prolific. She push-mowed the field edges and would stand out in a downpour clearing drainage pipes so fields wouldn't flood.  When driving past Esther's I would always slow, look for her and toot the horn, wave. Sometimes I would stop in for a chat, for she was never too busy for company. Often, I was not the first to think of that, and passed by, as she was already entertaining. She came up to about my chest, with short cropped white hair, wonderful wrinkles, sparking blue eyes and a little half smile that would break into the real deal at the least provocation. She always looked up at you above her glasses, not just because or her height, but because she was a bit bent in the shoulders. Her legs bowed out precariously and her gait was darn swift if not straight. She was most often found with her hoe in the spring summer and fall, and her cardinal red International Tractor coat in the winter.

Stories of Esther are like Grimm's Fairy Tales. My favorite is of the time a neighbor passed her and her husband moving in the hay. The family plow horse was out of commish, and there sat her husband, up on the buckboard of the wagon, smoking a cigar, while Esther herself pulled the wagon. Crooked even then, ( she was trampled by a team of horses and a full manure spreader in her early adulthood), she always got the job done. Paint the barn roof? Yep. Climb to the top of the windmill to fix the TV antenna and improve reception for the Buckeye Game? Yep. Decide you want to ride motorcycles at age 75? Well, just stop the next motor club that passes through and join. They would roar up, put Esther on the back of a Harley, and zoom off.

 She kept chickens, much more practical about them and less sentimental than I. We once had a rooster, nasty little bit of work, named Reveille. I spent all early spring catching the bugger up and stuffing him in my overalls, as this was the punishment for attacking humans. He would sit in there for hours, horrified to be held, and periodically popping out and crowing. Scared a few unsuspecting folks. Well, months after showing his pretty self at the County Fair, he had gotten so mean the kids wouldn't leave the house. So, I caught him up, put the kids in the car, and we took him to Esther. Despite their fear of Reveille, there were tears from Eldest that his fate was sealed. Esther promised not to dispatch him until we were gone. She then showed us her method of quick-killing birds, good information for farm kids. She then plied them with cookies. Feeling much better we went home to our attack-chicken-free farm. Several weeks later, another neighbor called me and declared she had seen Reveille dashing across the road in front of Esther's. Curious, I stopped to chat with her, and found that she liked his crow so well, she had not put him in the freezer. His crow went like this "ER-ER ER-ER ERRRRR-ARGHH)-She said they had a deal, and he knew that if he took after her, he was a dead-bird. Months later, as the sun set and we chatted in the middle of the road, she told me some friends had taken him "south". These folks were so impressed with his protective abilities, they wanted to know if we had any others that mean. Oh, Lordy. I hope he wasn't fighting.

I know I have a long way to go before I achieve Estherness, but each day gets me closer to resemblance.

Last year's sugar cookies



The traditional Dalecarlian Horse on the right came from my husband's side of the family. He remembers it on his shelf as a small boy. The Dala Horse on the left is our sugar cookie rendition from last year. The kids are looking forward to decorating cookies again...I don't suppose they'd settle for slice and bake dough with the bell in the middle?  



December project?

I have been a bit stumped on what to do for my December addition of New Year's Resolution 2010. It seems overly nuts to start the saws and get to my last bits of trim in the kitchen. It is not only 15 degrees outside, it is nearly Christmas, and interior wood projects mean releasing great havoc. So, I have been waiting for the muse to hit me. What shall this month's project be??? Well, I think it found me.

Yesterday I spent a productive late morning into the afternoon - what? It is hard to determine the adjective. Was I "helping", "attacking", "creating", "motivating", I'm just not sure. I am sure I was having fun. Now, let me also point out I was invited. Maybe never again, but this first time, maybe she didn't know what she was in for! You see, my dear friend wanted to organize her dining room. Make it a haven and a quiet sanctuary. They are a wonderful, busy family of achievers, and life had overtaken the room as a storage area. Well, my friend had done a lot of work already in organizing and moving the stored stuff. She had uncovered a wonderful 60" round table, with some stains of use- easy to fix and clean lines in the legs and top. With the table are 6 antique Heppelwhite "O" back mahogany dining room chairs. The chairs are solid, just needing to be recovered, although a good banging out in the wind got rid of the dust of unuse (is that a word?). And these treasures are just a bit of the cream, for the real pudding is the room itself. Such bones! 9.5' ceilings top the triangular lintels above the two windows, two doors and two enormous built ins flanking the fireplace. The windows are glorious! they are from mid thigh to 8.5' high and wide with only 2 above 2! The wood floors are a deep golden color, original and wide, square nails, super tight. The other pieces in the room are a Duncan Phyfe Federal Style mahogany bow front china cabinet, and an adorable oak curio sized glass front piece that can go anywhere. The biggest piece in the room is a butter soft, off white leather sectional in 3 parts. Well, with all this bounty, how can we go wrong! We also uncovered a gorgeous little green enamel Jotul woodstove in the firebox, unfortunately the firebox was repaired in the last century and not made readily useable for a woodstove. No worries, woodstoves are wonderful, but messy, and we can make the look without the mess. We made some good headway yesterday, achieving a sanctuary in half the room, and now to just keep advancing across the room until every inch is reclaimed and displaying its beauty. To give the room light I pulled off dark curtains and cleaned the inside of the windows- which weren't really dirty atall, just lacked shine. and then I went collecting. Scattered around the house are the most fabulous collections! A group of handmade artisan vases in greys and black-soft like soapstone, silver Paul Revere style bowls- trophies awarded to the daughters, early 20th century pressed green glass, deep blue-purple pearlized Nippon china, handsome, richly warm handhewn wooden bowls made by the man of the house- I was just amazed at the beautiful things. An enormous high glazed navy and rich burgundy pottery bowl was filled with electric green hedge apples, sprigs of white pine tipped with cones and arching branches of a red berry-drenched Sargenti crab. Placed on the round table, it gave a blast of nature to the room. A quick trip to Lowe's traded the pretty, but useless Jotul for an electric stove that resembles so closely a real wood burning stove, one of the daughters cried out in alarm when the other daughter opened the door and reached inside! White pillar candles on the hearth add more than their physical warmth. Now, keep going! The simply done gorgeous woodwork wants oil, and then beeswax to give it depth and luster. The room is going to be so delicious and lovely. I just can't wait for my friend to have her happy sanctuary. A place to read, or write, or craft. To bask in the low light of an Ohio winter. To sit with her daughters after school as they do homework and learn about their day. To draw her family away from the television and do a Christmas puzzle.
It makes me want to get tidying Cowfeathers! Now, warning my friend to lock her doors, lest I come bumping down the country roads in the middle of the night to organize her china cabinet like the Shoemaker's Elves.

It's Beginning to look a lot like

Winter. And, Christmas. Although, I haven't gotten the second done because the first makes it difficult. It is cold, very windy, and the snow blows sideways "stings your nose and bites your toes"! I would like to get the enormous wreath put up on the barn, but the thing is really heavy, and I've done it alone in the past, but am hesitant to try alone this year because of the silly disc thing. If I let go of the wreath, it will fall one story to the paddock below, getting covered in icy horse slop and frightening the ponies so badly, they may never venture into their stalls again!
Huz got the straw bales positioned around the west wall of the house and barn this weekend- Yeah for Huz!
But, although it is necessary for winter, does not attain "Christmas Spirit". And, the front of the house still needs adornment, the candles aren't in the window, and we have no spinet. But, the piano is getting a "Holly Jolly"workout from Eldest, "Carol of the Bells" from Middlest and ....a smattering  of sometimes indistinguishable carols from Youngest. We did get the tree decorated last night. Eldest demurred. Too cool? Too irritable? Who knows. But we put on each one of the trillion ornaments, including the popsicle stick and construction paper ones, the ones featuring a small child with a shaving cream "beard" and the yarn pasted on plastic bits, proudly bearing the early broken signatures of little ones. They join the beautiful fragile ornaments, the collection of 16 years of marriage added to the several years of bachelorettehood, and the box of sports ornaments that inexplicably showed up in my collection in 1992. No idea whose they were. But, they're on our tree. So, person out there wondering where the collection of tennis/fishing/soccer/baseball/hunting ornaments were lost in the early 90's? I've got 'em. And, we're taking fine care. There are crocheted snowflakes made by my Gram, many made by me, and a wonderful clay rendition of our first house, "Oklahome", made by sister in law, Yvonne. There is a miniature sled, made at the beach house in New Jersey, 1974?  by my mother and her friend Betsey. They made a hundred that summer for a craft fair? I eventually snagged one with little holly leaves and berries painted around the edges.  At the top is our angel. She is one of our more precious ornaments. She came to us on our wedding day. We were married on the beach, and a passerby, who realized the great group of folks building an enormous sandcastle were actually at a wedding reception, found me and Huz, announced she had something for us, and dashed home. Soon, she was back, bearing a home made angel, made with materials found on that beach. Our angel is precious to me, a gift given freely from a stranger and holding pieces of where we began. The tree is grounded by a skirt knit by my Gram that matches the stockings also from her hand. Family treasures.

Cold tootsies

I did something exceedingly stupid today- and got away with it! I went on a trail ride.
Now, riding, in itself is inherently fraught with potential danger. It is not necessarily wise to say "Self, get on that large, fast, furry beast who may have different plans, and does have the feet." But, that is not what made me exceedingly stupid today. Riding my 1500 pound monster is just regular stupid. And, the trail is not in itself remarkable, aside from the potential problems of riding around in the falling snow, across bridges, muddy creeks and slippery hills. Plus, encountering startled wildlife- which in turn startle the wild one you're relying on to get you back home. In fact, we (I sucked my friend Carly into being exceedingly stupid with me) did our best not to startle any wildlife by being super loud, obnoxious and very, very visible. What we stupidly accomplished was a ride in a Metro Park on an early December morning during hunting season. Now, "no hunting allowed" is much like "no passing" lines on a China road- merely suggestion. So, I wore my orange vest, and we were extremely vocal. We saw nary a soul- save for a pair of deer in a field who we admonished to stay in the park. But, as we returned to the trailer, sure enough, one very loud gunshot, not far enough away sent us scrambling  in the magic, falling snow back to the relative safety of the trailer, and a hasty retreat. Likely, it was someone hunting the periphery of the park- I tell myself. So, stupid? Indeed. Lucky? For sure. Happy I went? Absolutely.

Framed Friday

Need Sherlock's Number, or perhaps Ms. Drew

I love a good mystery. At least the kind you can read about at your own leisure. I 'm not as fond of a mystery in my own day. Today I have a mystery. Timeline presentation:

Wednesday
4:30pm - sheep galloping all over kingdom come, breaking boxwoods, need to go back to barn.
              Middlest puts in sheep while I take other two to piano.
5:30pm-take Middlest to piano, pick up other two
6:00pm-eat quick dinner of meatloaf (made by youngest) and a sweet potato for me
6:30pm- two eldest to town for a 4-H training session
9:00pm- return home. While I was gone with two eldest, Huz and Youngest had reportedly done the chores in the barn, fed, watered all animals and collected eggs.
9:30pm- I go to bed, not checking the barn....

Thursday
5:45am-Middlest goes to barn to do first round of chores
Between 6:15-6:45am- Eldest and Middlest come say goodbye and leave for school
8:10am- I go to barn to do last morning chores. I enter the barn, letting out ducks and the gander. Upon opening the grain bin, and the horse grain can, I discover the grain scoop, which I fill for Olso.
I go call Oslo, who stops to water the paddock on his way to his stall. I note that there is about 1/4 of his hay left on the ground. He enters the stall, greets me, and then sniffs his feed, nibbling a bit. I notice this, and take the feed away, now suspicious that something is up as a horse who isn't hungry is potentially a very sick animal. I now note that Peaches also has unfinished hay. Now more observant I look around and note a large Oslo horse poop in the middle of the barn floor, outside the stall. Also, the bale of hay that had been tossed down from the loft last night is in a disarray, spread around and mostly eaten. Uh-oh, Oslo has definitely been out of his stall. I return the grain to the bin, looking for clues. I go through the door from the main barn into the poultry barn, the location of the grain bins. Ah-HAH! Another clue, there are several smooshed piles of horse poop in the area of the hose reel, including a bomb right on the bottom curl of the hose. Now, the mystery has turned dangerous- could the horses have gotten out of stalls, through the door to the poultry barn, opened the grain bin, taken the lid of the cans and been in the grain? I look inside the bins. All lids are in place. No bins are empty, but they are not full either, and I'm not sure exactly where the levels were yesterday. Back to the horses to check them. They are seemingly bright, alert and non painful. Peaches is nosing around in her hay. Gut sounds are audible in all four quadrants of the abdomen on both horses, hooves are not hot. I need to leave for work. I double check stall doors and go.
8:30am- phone Huz at work. He states that Youngest fed the horses last night, but Huz did not check to see if stall doors were latched before leaving the barn for the night. Also, he was the one that put the hose on the reel, so the poop on the reeled hose happened after he closed up the barn for the night.
Since Middlest did not mention the horses even being out of their stalls, I  am worried that I don't know if they were in the grain.
8:35am-call middleschool to talk to Middlest. She states that the horses were not out when she went to the barn. That they were in their stalls, and the doors were latched when she arrived at the barn in the morning.
8:45am- call neighbor and ask him to walk over to the barn and have a look. Could there be an open door into the barn from the pasture other than stalls? There are 3 other doors that would give access to the main barn.
9:15am- neighbor says all is normal, no visible way for horses to get into the barn at this time. Both horses in paddock, both standing.
So.................bumbadadah..........mystery.
They still seem to feel fine, although they have worked hard all morning grinding mud into their coats from yesterday's  thawed snowfall.

Upon cross examination, Middlest now thinks that perhaps Peaches stall was closed but not latched this morning..... I don't need Sherlock H. Drew, I need truth serum.

December 1-Don'cha snow?

I crawled out from between my toasty covers, left behind my sleeping hat (Mama sleeps in a kerchief- or a polartech hat. It is cold in here...maybe that's a subject for another blog) and in the grey morning light started my ablutions. Upon further inspection of the view out of the window, I could see a flake or two in the air, framed against the darkness of the cedar tree behind the kitchen garden. After dressing, I knocked on the kid's bathroom door to tell Youngest "It's snowing!" That brought him barreling downstairs ready to go to school- in a short sleeve polo and bare feet. Let me point out that it has climbed up to 61 degrees in the warmest room in the house. And, despite our country ways, we do encourage the wearing of shoes to school. Eventually, he had managed to pack his lunch, find shoes, and maybe even socks? and a sweatshirt! I tackled him by the back door to push him into a coat, gloves, and twine a scarf around his neck- "Darn." was his assessment of my motherly equipping. Kiss on the forehead, so smooth and soft, almost like he's still my baby, and off to wait for the bus. Waiting for the bus here can be not at all- running down the lane watching it drive away, or 30 minutes hunkered up with your backpack to the wind. At this point, there is enough snow for him to create a small snowball from the accumulation on the barbeque grill. Thrown for the dog, for great amusement as the dog can never find a thrown snowball. Blending, ya' know. I went back to the house to drink tea in the front door alcove and watch him. I could tell he was cold, because there was no jumping in the snow, lying down and rolling, trying to climb the maple, or even face upturned to catch a snowflake. Poor little mite, just tucked up against the biting wind and flying snow. I yelled to him a few times, but my voice was pulled away to the creek. So, off to the mudroom to bundle myself up for barn chores and to grab my camera.

There's the little guy, watching hopefully for the bus to appear across the cornfield.

The wind is indeed nasty! A walk to the barn left my face stinging and my eyes burned. But, Henri (it is getting to be breeding season, when "Henry" changes to his alter ego "Henri" pronounced in the french way, like "Onry" because he gets really ornery) and the ducks are wanting out.

Pepper looks suspiciously at the coldness her feet are about to suffer. The baling twine across the picture is Middlest's solution to keeping the door closed when we are in the barn and the wind is coming from the east. Usually unnecessary, as the gales mostly come from the west- but early winter is fickle. And the poultry barn can turn into a wind tunnel with the door open.

As I wait for the ducks to all troop out, the bus arrives and I yell a "Have a great day!" into the wind. All in the barn are happy to see me, as more food will be in the offing. The cats are impressively furred, gorgeous, deep thick coats that make them look round and soft. Their feeding beam is covered by a fine layer of snow. As I look about I realize the snow is reaching about 3 feet into the barn. Time to place bales along the interior west walls.

Inside the poultry barn, the floor is dusted with snow along the west wall.

The horses come into the stalls when they hear my voice in the barn, Oslo nickering  the whole way. He gets so excited to see me. Is that why I love him so? He's like Tucker.  His deep blackness is dusted with unmelted flakes.

Unfortunately, he is in Peaches stall, and Peach is in his stall.. So when I go to give Oslo his breakfast, a turmoil ensues in his stall with both equine butts facing me and a kick battle in the making. My vocal remonstrance (Shrieking "NONONONONO!!!!) convinces them both to leave the stall hastily. And I can arrange them properly in their stalls for another flake of hay (it's cold!) and Oslo breakfast.

After all have full water and a scratching, I am ready to go back to my own tea.

The snow is now enough that I will leave footprints that will disappear quickly. Sure would love to ride in the snow! But, with the rain yesterday, the ground will be very slick. And a few strides out into the full force of the wind convince me that the ground is probably WAY too slippery (a.k.a. I am too much of a wimp) for riding today.

Henri is by his mate (Denty, the minivan) protecting her from the elements. Not doing a very good job as her back window is covered in snow. And Tucker is waiting for me in the snow, ready to find his bed again. Hmmm. Can I do that too????