From the berry patch

Strawberry season has come and gone in our little patch. We picked for 3 solid weeks, averaging 2-4 quarts every other day.

There is nothing like a fresh grown strawberry, still warm from the sun, plucked carefully from its vine, and popped directly into one's mouth.

Our across-the-alley neighbors are from Mexico. One afternoon, the husband saw my boys picking and came over to visit. It turns out, his wife is from the prime strawberry growing region in Mexico and he had questions about growing strawberries in Iowa. We plan to give him some of our plants this fall when we do some dividing.

He has 3 or 4 little boys who had never before tasted a real strawberry.

We figured, in honor of their mother, we should remedy that situation.

They had never tasted anything quite as luscious, and the looks on their faces were pure delight. One little boy exclaimed, "I never knew they tasted this good!"

Makes me think of all the other children - and adults - who have no idea what real food tastes like. If they only knew, maybe more local farmers could make a living growing seasonal crops.

I buy grocery store fruit, but I know it is but a pale substitute for the real thing.

If only everyone could experience the explosion of flavor straight from the berry patch, they'd be like those little boys, who always seemed to show up right at picking time.

Snappy

A few weeks ago the girls and I ventured to a local park. They hung out on the beach and the playground while I walked the park's 3-mile trail. It was a beautiful, sunny day spent out and about together. After a quick lunch of pop, chips, and granola bars (I know, I know), we headed out to do some house-gazing; a favorite pastime of mine which I was pleased to discover the girls enjoyed. For me, drive-by house surfing satisfies my high level of domicile envy. The girls simply enjoy watching my level of panic increase as I find myself lost (temporarily, mind you) or too near the river, or railroad tracks. Or worst yet, lost on a dirt road next to railroad tracks close to the river.

Ah, phobias, I embrace thee, if only because you so verily entertain my children!

Anyway, on our way home after this foray, we drove back past the entrance to this park, which is known for its proximity to the Raccoon River, its large lake, playgrounds, etc. A lot of construction was taking place along the road at its entrance.

As I was zooming along, content in my recently demonstrated ability to simultaneously freak out, entertain my children, and subsequently find my way home, I saw a big muddy bump in the middle of this very busy road. As we got closer, it sure looked like a turtle, but I dismissed the thought since it wasn't moving.

As we passed the bump, Sarah exclaimed, "Mom, that was a turtle in the road!"

After the obligatory argument of the "no it wasn't"/"yes it was" variety, I turned the car around and went back to the park, pulling the car off the road near the entrance.

Sarah jumped out to investigate, declaring the rectitude of her perception, "I told you it was a turtle!"

Ah, then the dilemma. How to rescue a large snapping turtle (I was sure that's what it was - we couldn't possibly have been called upon to rescue a plain, old, mild-mannered turtle) in the middle of a busy road.

Just then, I spotted a couple jogging by and told Sarah to run up and ask for their help. Mind you, my part in this rescue so far entailed sending my 17-year-old daughter out into the middle of a busy four-lane road to ask strangers to help rescue a turtle.

That, and I did turn the car around.

Not one of my proudest moments.

The couple stopped and the guy pulled up a couple of construction stakes and he and Sarah started scooting the turtle off the road. Said turtle obviously had a death wish, since he didn't offer one whit of assistance in his rescue.

I could tell, from the safety of the front seat, that he was hefty, too, by watching how they struggled to move him to safety.

How much does a snapping turtle the size of an 11 x 14 sheet paper weigh? Google wasn't particularly helpful with this.

Finally, he was safely on the side of the road, but was still way too far from the lake for comfort. What to do?

We decided to empty our cooler, scoot the turtle into it, then drive him back to the lake. By this time, Melissa and I decided to join more directly in the rescue effort. While we all stood lined up by the busy road, cars and trucks began to slow, watching what was going on.

We'd become a bona fide rubber-necking event!

One woman pulled her car over, crossed the lanes of traffic, and told us, "With the way my life's been going lately, I just had to watch this! This is great!"

Finally, turtle-in-cooler, the joggers took off, the traffic began to move again, and the girls and I lugged our unwilling rescue-ee toward the back of the Prius.

Once he was heaved in, we drove toward the boat ramp, getting as close to the edge of the river as possible. A quick dump and a little prompting with a stick, and Snappy took off into the water, ready to wreak havoc again someday, no doubt.

We left, buoyed by our altruism and ingenuity, ready for the next perilous rescue to come our way.

Thankfully, my darling husband washed out the cooler.

Fishy memories

Last month the girls and I went to our little local zoo. I think it had been a couple of years since we last were there and it was fun to go back.

As always, one of their favorite places was the koi feeding area. I came prepared with change to buy the fish food and we enjoyed the ensuing feeding frenzy almost as much as the koi.

Two things came to mind while there.

First, I wish I had been more willing to say "yes" back when the kids were all little - they got to feed the fish, but each child only got one handful of food. I've learned a lot about parenting over the course of the past 15 years or so. Thankfully, my oldest two tend to be forgiving!

Secondly, watching the fish go berserk, roiling and tumbling over each other in a veritable orgy of greed, I was transported back to my uncle's ponds nearly 30 or more years ago.

I spent only 6 summers of my youth on my grandmother's farm, but the bulk of my happy memories were formed during those few months each year.

My grandma and I didn't really get along very well and she focused on and openly favored my older sister. Searching for escape, I went outside and discovered the man who probably had the greatest influence on my character and reasoning, along with my dad of course; my Uncle Clarence.

Uncle Clarence was, I think, 14 years older than my dad, making him well into his 60s in the early 1970s. In many ways he was like a grandfather to me. I remember following him around the farm, from tool shed to tractor and pick-up truck to cattle lot. I was so quiet and followed so closely that he often would turn and run into me.

Uncle Clarence was the first adult to treat me as an equal. Although he didn't hesitate to pronounce his own opinions, he opened my mind to question religion, politics, and human behavior. No matter what, Uncle Clarence was on my side.

I remember one year, as my parents prepared to take me back home to New York, I started sobbing and couldn't stop, throwing myself in Uncle Clarence's arms. It was always so very hard to leave!

Uncle Clarence had several man-made ponds that he stocked with fish. I vaguely remember that he ran a fishing business on the side. In the smaller ponds were the starter fish. I presume they stayed there until they were big enough to release into some of the bigger ponds.

Funny, I never asked about that.

And as I write this, I realize how tenuous many of the "facts" of my childhood are in my mind.

The starter fish were given feed on a regular basis and grew to know the sound of my Uncle's footsteps on land as he approached. I'm not sure whether they were crappies, bullheads, walleyes, or what; maybe a mixture of them all.

As he approached, the fish would begin to swim toward the side of the pond until the whole surface was wall-to-wall fish. And mouths.

As cool as this was, it was also kind of creepy to look out on a sea of slimy, writhing fish mouths.

My uncle and my cousin were consummate fishermen, but thankfully they tolerated my squeamishness about the whole business. I did learn to cast (though there was one unfortunate instance when I let go at the wrong moment, sending my cousin's prized new rod straight into the pond) but have never baited a hook or cleaned my catch. Heck, I never even actually touched any of the fish I caught.

Yes, they were mighty tolerant.

I got to participate in farm life as a visitor, savoring the good parts and never quite having to participate in the gross or uncomfortable. But I think the exposure I had to some of the necessities of growing and harvesting food enriched my life. Like watching Uncle Clarence shock a fish, then hang it from it's lower lip (okay, I mean the skin underneath the lower jaw), and skin it. I get the shivers just thinking about it. But I sure did enjoy my Aunt Ruthie's fried catfish.

Boy, it's been years since I've had that catfish.
Years since Uncle Clarence died.

Decades since my childhood summers on the farm.

But the memories of watching my uncle feeding those fish will be with me forever.

Sweetie

My mommy doesn't say much...

but I know she loves me.

What about socialization?

Mea culpa.
Mea culpa.

Mea maxima... you get the idea.

What is the ultimate failure of any homeschooling parent?

A child who doesn't know the times tables?
Nope.

Delayed reading?

Nah.

Inability to find latitude and longitude on a map?

Nuh-uh.

The correct answer here is "socialization."

As in, failure to properly do so.

It's difficult to admit this, being a long-time, somewhat eclectic, a little bit unschoolerish, periodically panicky homeschooler.

And in all honesty, most of my charges do quite well in the social skills department.

Except for one.

And it's all my fault.

Despite her tender years, my littlest girl doesn't get along well with others. She's too excitable, doesn't listen well to the social cues of her playmates, doesn't understand when someone else just doesn't want to play anymore.

Oh, and she doesn't obey her mother very well, either.

A good friend even told me her littlest was uncomfortable around my baby and that her actions are a little "unbalanced."

Wow, was that ever hard to hear.

Granted, she's still just a toddler...

in human years.

But my sweet little Ivy Rose is a bit of a maniac.

We recently dog sat for good friends of ours. Gil, their 9-year-old Welsh Corgi, played with Ivy a lot. But she just didn't seem to understand when he'd had enough, which led to nipping and general grumpiness.

It's hard to pull a 113-pound just-nipped St. Bernard off a guy who stands about 4 inches high at the shoulder. She was angry and hurt, he was fed-up, and I was sweating.

"Please, Mrs. Lauer, make her stop!"

When said friends dog-sat her, Ivy put to use a skill she mastered last fall: fence jumping. Apparently, she took off over the fence and ran straight toward the neighbor's dog, a sweet labrador retriever. A seeing-eye dog, no less.

I think she likely just wanted to play, but a huge dog barreling at full-speed is a little scary. Believe me, I know. I've been hit by flying St. Bernard a time or two myself.

As my mom recently reminded me, nobody likes the hyper, misbehaving kid. So I've firmed up my resolve and deepened my voice, insisting that Ivy obey me. And there's been a huge improvement.

We have much less barking, and when she does, I can get her to listen to me and stop fairly quickly. We've discovered she's afraid of people, so we've been working on those social skills as well.

Beware, those who enter my abode! You will promptly be handed dog treats and asked to greet my baby, quite a slobberful undertaking.

Our next step will be meeting more dogs and working on intra-species social skills.

But the true test will come later this month when my mom comes to visit.

Will I be able to keep Ivy from knocking Grandma over? Slobbering all over her? Basically, loving her to death?

Will my mom ever visit us again after meeting Ivy for the first time?

I'm keeping my fingers crossed and my pockets full of dog treats.

Couch potato

So I'm seeing my therapist again.
Seems as if I should be saying this while sipping a martini in some chic little out-of-the-way cafe. Instead, I'm sweating in my family room, complete with white socks and over-sized t-shirt.
Me, that is, not my family room.
Besides, I don't like martinis.
When I was a teenager there must have been a spate of movies-of-the-week (remember those?) featuring women committed to insane asylums, er psychiatric facilities, against their will. Man, did those creep me out. It became a niggling, unspoken fear of mine. One of those fears that rears its ugly phobic head only in dreams.
Paranoid much?
Anyway, I think it's kind of ironic that I've spent my entire adult life battling depression and anxiety. Fortunately, it's become a lot harder to commit someone.
That, and crazy as this may sound, my husband likes to have me around.
And they say he's the sane one!
There's been a lot going on here the last year or so, and I've noticed my fatigue increasing along with a general inability to get much of anything done.
I mean, a greater-than-usual inability to accomplish much.
So, I guess it's time for a tune-up.
Again.
Sigh.
See you in the looney bin.

In a row

So, I haven't blogged in... forever.

Blogging is kind of like falling off a horse (which I almost did once, by the way) in that if you falter and don't get right back on-line, you just may never get back in the saddle again.

Or something like that.

Anyway, we're all still here, our various maladies variously treated and diagnosed, and I'm ready to re-enter the blogosphere.

We'll see if I manage to hang on this time.

Oh, in case you were wondering, we never caught the mouse.