Fall

Deep autumn has arrived.  The air nips pleasantly.  The tops of the mountains are dusted with snow and the leaves in the valley are still a riot of color.

This is my favorite autumn poem and I just had to post it again.  

A Vagabond Song

By Bliss Carman

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood -- 
Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
And my heart is like a rhyme, 
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 
Of bugles going by. 
And my lonely spirit thrills 
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 
We must rise and follow her, 
When from every hill of flame 
She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 

Happy Autumn!

To Protect and Serve

Stuff.  I get a warped view of my stuff which comes straight from my pioneer ancestors.  Stuff is to be saved, preserved and protected.  It's usefulness should be eked out over a lifetime.

Why do I allow my favorite red shoes to collect dust in my closet?  Because I am saving them.
Why don't I use my gorgeous stoneware bowls with the blue stripe?  Because I'm saving them.
Why don't I make apple turnovers today?  Because I'm saving that for a special occasion.
Why don't I use that silky eye cream that sits on the third shelf of the mirror cabinet?
Why don't I wear that perfume?  You get the idea.

That mindset does not jive with my season of life.  I need my stuff to serve me.  I need it to protect me.  I need to use my stuff till it frays, breaks or disintegrates.  Sure it's nice to hold onto a few precious items and keep them nice ad infinitum but most stuff is meant to bring joy NOW.  How did I miss that?

Child #2 did not miss that. Take his blue sneakers for example.  They were his favorites.  I bought them three months ago and already he has worn gaping holes through the toes and managed to separate the rubber sole from the rest of the shoe.  That kid put some serious milage and memories into those shoes.

Tonight I made the most glorious apple turnovers.  I painted nails with my children.  Now I am off to use luxurious amounts of "satin hands" skin cream.  There may be hope for me yet.

Mixed Bags

The longer I live, the more I realize that everything in life is a mixed bag.  Of course some bags are more evenly mixed than others, but nothing is so very, very bad that some good cannot be found in it.  And nothing in life is so very, very good that it does not come at a price.

Children are just such a mixed bag.  My baby grins cherubically as I shower his face with kisses.  He snuggles and coos and clutches my finger.  I try to remember that as I drag myself from bed at 2:00 and again at 4:00 every night, and again when I see a chunk of the grocery budget go toward diapers that only work about 50% of the time.

When my two year old employs her excellent lungs in an hour long screaming fit and then uses marker to express her artistic side on the living room wall I have to remember her fierce little arms around my neck and the way I grin as she showers my face in kisses.

This month my wonderful hubby and I were trying to get away for the weekend.  At least, as away as you can get taking a three month old with you.  We tried making plans for our other three children, but all in vain.  I began longing for the day when we could pick up and go without arranging for sitters.  Or even just to have the children old enough to tend themselves so I could have room in the shopping cart for the groceries.  Then, as I got into bed I found a love letter from my eldest hidden under my pillow.  Then child #2 came and pressed his cheek next to mine and said "I love you mom."  How could I wish away a moment of this?

If childhood were all snuggles and smiles and songs it would be a tragedy for anyone to grow up.  But it  is also poop and screaming and whining and laundry.

Life is one great mixed bag.  So bring on the next stage and the next and the next.  It makes little sense to clinging to the past or to wish away today while yearning for the future.  I am still going to do that of course (it's the irrational, impatient, sentimentalist in me) but a mixed-bag perspective makes it so much easier to live in today and love it for what it is.

A Great Lady

This woman is amazing.  I want to be a spunky character like her when I grow up.

http://www.lolbucket.com/video/KN5K8Y4S1AMA/100-year-old-Idaho-woman-on-Jay-Leno-show

True Love

The most powerful force in the world.

I loved this.

I hope you love it too.

http://www.karmatube.org/videos.php?id=3235

Fairy Gardens

This weekend my children made fairy gardens.  Admittedly, my motivation was to buy a little quiet time during general conference, and it worked.  But what began as a desperate bid for silence became something magical.  To see my three oldest children working at the table, sharing, laughing and creating filled my soul. There were no lines to stay within.  No pattern to follow.  No pre-planned outcome.  Unbridled creativity reigned and they stayed captivated for a solid hour.  

Supplies came from yard sales and thrift stores.  They included: trays for each child to build on, colorful stones, river rocks, plastic jewels, silk flowers and leaves, flower pots, rose petals, acorns, plastic ferns, little bird houses etc.  

Using those supplies and some homemade salt dough (best salt dough ever, I'll post the recipe) they created homes, beds, gardens, pathways, fountains and forests on their trays.  They built and re-built and re-built some more.  

We will be making fairy gardens again.

Play-Dough
2 cups flour
2 cups warm water
1 cup salt
2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
1 Tablespoon cream of tartar (optional for improved elasticity)
a few drops lemon juice
1 packet Kool-Aid (we used orange) for color and scent.

Cook all ingredients together over medium-low heat.  Stir lots.  When the dough starts to pull away from the sides and form a ball stir continuously till you can touch it without it glopping onto your finger.  Then wait for it to cool a bit and KNEAD.  Kneading is the secret to great dough and it is fun to let the kids help.  Knead it till it is smooth, elastic, and not sticky.  Store in a ziploc-bag while not in use.

Handcart Days

Some days I feel like a U-Haul.  When I am mentally and physically healthy, when I have the resources I need and my support system is intact I can cover huge distances.  I move mountains.  Other days are covered wagon days; fewer resources, less distance covered, but I can still move a solid chunk.

Today is a handcart day.  I need to be very careful what I choose to put into today because there is no room for anything but essentials.

What is essential?  Not totally sure on that one.  I am pretty sure feeding the masses is on the list.  Finding out what stinks in the kitchen should definitely be considered.  Actually, this day looks like a half played game of Jenga - you know, at the point where the balance becomes a bit precarious.  I feel like if I choose the wrong block the entire tower will com crashing down.  That sounds dangerous.  But really, most Mondays are dangerous that way.  Hmmm, so if this is a dangerous adventure, does that make me James Bond?  Batman?  Nancy Drew?  I would like to be Marjorie Hinkley.  She trumps Batman any day.

But I am me - pajama clad, mussy haired, racoon eyed (no energy for make-up removal last night) me.  Maybe there is a flock of angels up in heaven made up entirely of former house-keepers and Merry-Maids.  I'm going to start praying for a visit.  And I am going to start doing child #2s homeschool.  The letter D is going into the handcart