by jphilo | Feb 7, 2011 | Family
This blog post is directed to the yahoo who buried the pig head carved from a coconut in my doll collection. Yes, it’s pathetic that I finally noticed if over a month after you “won” it in the white elephant gift exchange New Year’s weekend. In my own defense, the ploy worked when Elliot hid ET, surrounded by Drew Barrymore’s stuffed animals, in plain sight.
For your information, Hiram didn’t notice it either.
Of course, no one ever accused either of us of being particularly observant, and maybe that’s what you were counting on. How many of you were in on the subterfuge? Have you been calling each other up and sniggering about it? Did you have a betting pool going to see how long it would take us to find it? If so, whoever has February 7, 2011 at 6:00 AM is the winner. (That would be the day after the Packers won the Super Bowl, in case you’re wondering.)
Personally, I think it’s pretty pathetic that you didn’t take the gift I pawned off to your own home. After all, I sucked it up and carted home the elf fart I won last year. Not only that, I kept track of it for 12 months and rewrapped it so some other sucker could take it home for 2011.
For your information, this raises the stakes for next year’s white elephant gift exchange. You will see the coconut pig head again, along with the Bonanza Christmas CD I relocated the other day. If you win that puppy, it’ll come with headphones, and you’ll be forced to listen to it. All of it.
Start choosing your own white elephant weapons. Unless you want to appease me by forking over the squirrel underpants. Then I’ll forget the whole thing.
Otherwise,
this
is
war.
by jphilo | Feb 1, 2011 | Family
You may be surprised to see another recycled post, in light of Friday’s big news that the first draft of Different Dream Parenting is done. Really, truly, the recycled posts will end soon, but a grace period is needed until I catch up on all the things shoved into the “when the first draft is done” pile.
Perhaps this post from February 4, 2009 will put a smile on your face. The “yesterday’s worries” mentioned in the first line refer to the bitterly cold and snowy winter chronicled in the previous day’s post. Our weather’s a little better this winter (though as I write, snow is falling and a doozy of a storm is predicted for tonight), but Abby the dog remains unchanged. Her two constant, subliminal messages are “pet me, pet me” and “feed me, feed me.” She is as fickle as ever, as happy to live with my sister-in-law as ever, as demanding as ever, and a wonderful diversion in the middle of winter.
Pet Me, Pet Me
You’ll be glad to know that yesterday’s worries about driving elderly women around in the cold came to naught. By the time I picked them up, the car was toasty, and we found a perfect handicapped parking spot in the first lot we scoped out – six feet from the Applebee’s entrance. The pavement was dry, the sun was shining, and we talked the hours away.
It was the fickle dachshund we used to own that cast a pall on the afternoon. Normally, when I visit Mom, Abby tosses her hair over her shoulder, shrugs, and with her grey little nose in the air, turns away. If my sister-in-law, who is the love of Abby’s life is home, the dog doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
But yesterday, when I was working on Mom’s checkbook, a task which takes the coordinated effort of all my brain cells and absolutely no interruptions, Abby decided she loved me again. Of course, she didn’t really love me. She just wanted to use me, or at least my hand, which she decided should be petting her since she’s a whole lot cuter than Mom’s checkbook. At least that’s what she thinks, but the checkbook might have a different opinion.
Anyway, the dog hunkered down at my feet and stared at me, or rather at my hand, sending one of the two subliminal messages she knows. Pet me, pet me. In case you’re wondering, the second message is Feed me, feed me. The second subliminal message explains why Abby remained at my feet instead of on my lap. She’s gotten too fat to jump on the couch. So she stared and stared while I concentrated on recording deposits and withdrawals in the right column, something I routinely mess up in our checkbook, but not in Mom’s. I would never live it down.
Finally, the stare got to me, and I petted the dog. For a few minutes we were best friends again. She tried to make me feel like the center of her world, but I didn’t fall for the little scam. I reminded myself that the minute my sister-in-law walked through the door, the fickle, people-using dachshund would abandon me without a second thought. Having avoided a frigid lunch disaster, I wasn’t about to succumb to heartbreak at the paws of a cold-hearted canine.
I got home, heart intact, in time for supper with Hiram. I didn’t even mention our people-using ex-dog to him. Unlike me, he takes it personally.
by jphilo | Jan 31, 2011 | Family
Hiram and I ask the same question after every conversation with our kids. Can farmer genes lie dormant in one generation and then emerge full-blown in the next?
See, both our dads loved farming, but had to give up on their dreams – my dad due to multiple sclerosis and Hiram’s dad due to Alaska’s climate allowing farmers to grow more debt than crops. Still, Hiram grew up on the farm-turned-airstrip with the barn-turned-airplane hanger, so he knew enough about farming to know it wasn’t for him. And I grew up spending part of each summer with my cousins at their parents farms, enough to learn the following lessons:
- The back of a horse is too far from the ground. (Notice the girl wedged in front of her sister, reaching around her brother to get a death grip on the saddle. That’s me.)
- Gathering eggs is fun until the hens peck at you.
- Climbing a manure spreader makes you stinky.
- Falling down while climbing the machine that carries hay bales into the barn loft can result in nasty skinned knees.
- Hay is itchy.
- Barn kittens are cute until their claws dig into your shoulder.
- Farm animals smell.
- Weeds grow faster than crops.
The list could be longer, but suffice it to say that over the years, I’ve come to love the idea of farming more than the practice.
But our kids are a different matter. This weekend, Allen completed the fourth week of his ten week farrier school. After the first week, he was so tired he could barely talk. The second week was a little better. By the third week, he was pretty sure he’d made the right decision, and this past weekend he was positive. In the short term, it’s the training he needs to increase his income. in the short long term, its the next step in gaining skills required for life on an organic farm that uses work horses rather than motorized machinery. Of course, even his grandparents didn’t do that kind of farming. The horse-drawn farming gene goes back at least one more generation, maybe two.
But Allen isn’t the only one to inherit the farmer gene. His sister, Anne, who loves to sew and design clothes, is hoping to launch an internet sewing business soon. Her long term dream is to have a small farm where she can raise sheep and other critters, then spin her own yarn for weaving, knitting and who knows what.
So I ask you, how long can the farmer gene lie dormant? Can it mutate? How much is nature? How much is nurture? So many questions remain to be answered. But I can tell you this, watching dreams unfold is fascinating entertainment. And watching our kids evolve into adults who can attain them is an undeserved blessing for which we are grateful. When their dreams become reality, I will have only one request for the farmers.
Please, don’t make me ride a horse.
Cause the old gray mare’s back is still what she used to be.
Way too far off the ground.
by jphilo | Jan 25, 2011 | Family
This week’s recycled post comes from two years ago. The manuscript for A Different Dream for My Child had recently been sent to the publisher. Allen was job hunting in the midst of the worst recession since the early 1980s. Mom had decided to sell her house and permanently move in with my brother’s family. Looking back on that busy winter, I’m grateful for this quieter January with enough time in it to complete my new book. Much has changed in the past two years, but one thing remains true. God’s timing is always perfect.
Neither Easy or Quick – Recycled
What with digging out from frequent snowfalls, figuring out Mom’s finances, helping our son get back on his feet, and meeting church obligations, very little has been easy or quick this month. Every week, I’ve sandwiched in a little writing time here and there, but much of it has been shoved to the side.
Last week, my calendar for the following week looked relatively free, so I though things would turn around when it arrived. But then Allen called. “I start a new job on Wednesday, so I’m driving down Monday to pick up some things I’ll need and spend the night.” Then my cousin Gail called. “I’ll be in Ames Monday. Can I stop by to visit?” Suddenly Monday was booked, but after Allen left early Tuesday I would have all morning to write before spending the afternoon with Mom.
Monday night Allen asked, “Do you want to go to the bakery for a quick breakfast?” Every cell in my body wanted to shout, “No, I want to write,” but I held those pesky words in check. We had gone seven long years without the small delight of breakfast at the bakery, I reminded myself. So Tuesday morning we braved the frigid dawn and spent an hour talking over pastries and coffee.
The cold swirled around my ankles as we drove home. “I think I’ll walk indoors instead of bundling up and going outside,” I told Allen.
“But Mom,” he said. “it’s not windy. And the sun’s shining. Do you want to miss that?”
The sun warmed my back as I walked. The snow drifts sculpted by last week’s ground blizzards flaunted their ridges and curves with every step I took. The walk was what I needed. I thought about the momentary, fleeting gifts I’d already received that morning – confidences shared at breakfast and the parade of stark winter beauty lining my gravel road. Neither easy or quick, yet happiness sank deep into my heart.
by jphilo | Jan 14, 2011 | Family, Recipes
All right, food groupies, it’s time for round two of the New Year’s Pizza Bake Off. Last week, you received the recipe from the southern Minnesota contingent of the family. This week’s offering is from the northwest Iowa branch, a recipe they’ve perfected since their wedding in July. Theirs features a yummy whole wheat pizza crust, homemade sauce, and steamed broccoli as one of their toppings. Without any further ado, here’s recipe #2.
Whole Wheat Pizza Dough
1 teaspoon honey
1 1/2 cup warm water
1 tablespoon active dry yeast
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
3 1/2 cups King Arthur’s whole wheat flour
Dissolve yeast in water. Add honey and oil. Add salt to flour. Combine wet and dry ingredients. Mix with a spoon until you must knead it. Knead dough 100 times per cup of flour, 50 times per half cup. Let rise for 45 minutes in a clean, moist, covered container. Push dough down and let it rise for 45 minutes again. Punch down and roll into a circle. Place on a pizza stone. (You can divide the dough in two for thin crust pizzas.)
Pizza Sauce
1 small can crushed tomatoes (use diced tomatoes if you prefer chunky sauce)
1 small can tomato paste
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 large garlic clove, crushed
Italian spices (basil, thyme, marjoram, oregano, anise, fennel) to taste
1/4 chopped sweet red pepper
Saute onions and pepper in olive oil. When soft, add tomatoes and tomato paste. (You may want to mash diced tomatoes with a potato masher to reach desired consistency.) Add garlic, vinegar and other spices. Let simmer 15 minutes to saturate flavors.
Spread sauce on top of dough. Add toppings (this couple likes steamed broccoli florets, onion, olives, mushrooms) or anything else you like. Sprinkle with 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese. Bake at 450 degrees for about 20 minutes or until cheese starts to brown.
by jphilo | Jan 11, 2011 | Family
One look at this entry from December 31, 2009, and I knew it had to be the recycled post of the week. A little over a year ago, Anne and her fiance were on the road in a snowstorm, while I lay warm in my bed. This year, Anne and her fiance are snug and warm while I’m braving winter weather. Though the tables have been turned from then to now, one thing remains true. None of us, even in the midst of snowstorms and uncertainty, have reason to waste God’s wonderful grace.
Don’t Waste His Grace
Last week’s winter storm made the Wednesday evening before Christmas a rather trying one at our house. Anne and her fiancee thought they could outrun the storm bearing down on northwest Iowa by leaving for Wisconsin early in the afternoon. For the first few hours, they made good progress. But as darkness fell and traffic slowed the storm caught up with them.
Anne called around 6:30 PM to say they had pulled into a rest stop on I-90, not far from Rochester, Minnesota. “We’ll spend the night in the car,” she said. “The visibility’s so bad we can’t even get to the next town.” After reassuring me they had plenty of blankets, food, water and gasoline, she hung up.
If the call had come two or three years ago, the thought of my daughter marooned at a rest stop in a blizzard would have kept me awake most of the night. But in the last few years, I have seen God so powerfully at work in our lives, I was able to fall asleep, confident that He would watch over my daughter and the man she’s going to marry.
The same night Anne slept in the car, the cold woke Hiram and I woke in the middle of the night. An ice storm had knocked out our electricity, but instead of fretting about when it would come on and how our daughter was faring, I piled extra blankets on the bed and thought about something I’d recently read in John Piper’s Don’t Waste Your Life.
“We simply take life and breath and health and friends and everything for granted. We think it is ours by right. But the fact is that it is not ours by right.” Piper goes on to remind us that we are sinful, we’re the ones who rebelled against our Creator. “Therefore, every breath we take, every time our heart beats, every day that the sun rises, every moment we see with our eyes or hear with our ears or speak with our mouths or walk with our legs is, for now,a free and undeserved gift to sinners who deserve only judgement…for those who see the merciful hand of God in every breath they take and give credit where it is due, Jesus Christ will be seen and savored…Every heartbeat will be received as a gift from his hand.”
I lay, waiting for the extra blankets to warm us, and thought about my daughter’s life in a new way. The years we’ve had with her are an undeserved gift. So is electricity and a warm house and Christmas and a husband who loves me. If I accept these good gifts from God, then I can trust him, even when what he gives is not what I think I need. Then, I fell asleep asking him to prepare me for whatever news came in the morning.
When we woke, the electricity was on. The house was warm. An hour or two later, Anne called to say the snow had stopped, and they were on their way. By noon she called to say they had arrived. Once again, God’s grace was poured out upon our family. I thanked him for the undeserved gift of our travelers’ safety. I asked him to make me mindful of his grace.
Please God, I pray again whenever I feel my heart beat, continue to make me grateful. Don’t let me waste your grace.
