Knit One

When I first learned to knit several years ago something interesting happened.
No, I'm not referring to the dropped stitches, the cowl that somehow became a lop sided shrug, nor that first scarf that still needs the ends woven in.
This something was kind of amazing.
I found that knitting could, for me, be a meditative experience.

Thinking I had stumbled onto something amazing, I quickly googled "knitting meditation" and found oodles of books on the topic.
Like, wow, man.

Now, I'm not what you'd call a particularly spiritual person and used to scorn the very idea. So imagine my surprise as I discovered with each row I knitted I became a little more centered. I could sit down to knit for a while and find that time would sometimes just disappear. I can sit down to knit, kind of frazzled and stressed, and a half hour later, I feel calm, centered, refreshed.

This only works when I'm knitting something simple; anything too complicated still takes too much effort and concentrated thought on the project itself.

I'm in a group right now at my Unitarian Universalist church for which I am supposed to find a spiritual practice. I was delighted to discover that knitting and other arts, including cooking, baking bread, etc., were included as possible avenues for meditative reflection.

As I continue to practice my knitting meditation, I'm gradually finding the idea of myself as a spiritual being may not be quite so kooky as I always imagined.
Go figure.

Somnolent

Praying to the caffeine gods for wakefulness

Today my dogs are at day care and I have the house completely to myself.
My plan was to read, and read, and read some more.
I have chapters to read for a Thursday class, essays and articles to read for Wednesday, plus today's paper and online media, and multiple books I'm reading simply for my own edification and/or pleasure.
But gosh-darn-it I can't, try hard as I might, stay awake.
When I was a teenager I could curl up on the couch and read for hours. I remember laughing at my mom as her head nodded over a book. My dad often fell asleep in his recliner, newspaper or magazine spread open across his chest.
I never imagined I would suffer the same fate.
The day is cold and Iowa-winter gray. The fireplace is blazing and all the cats are curled in their various favorite sleeping spots, napping the day away. Conditions are perfect for an afternoon filled with books.
If I only could stay awake.
I've taken to getting up every few pages or so and walking up and down the stairs; that usually buys me a few more pages before the words begin to swim before my eyes.
Sometimes if I put a load of laundry in or empty the dishwasher I can gain as much as an hour before somnolence sets in and my chin hits my chest.
This isn't a new phenomenon for me. My kids all have stories of the funny and incongruous things I've said while falling asleep reading aloud to them when they were little.
But today I'm determined to make the most of my reading time and have decided to persevere. Armed with a large latte, a bright light, and sitting in the chilliest part of the room, I hope to stay awake long enough to finish my assignments.
Wish me luck, as I just yawned while writing this.

Silence

I am ashamed.
Today I went to an informal gathering of lovely ladies who meet to knit, chat, share treats, and enjoy each other's company.
I don't really know anyone well as I have only just started attending. Most of the talk is of children, grandchildren, vacations, and, of course, knitting.
But today the discussion veered into sensitive territory.
There is a controversy in Knoxville, a town not too far from here, over a veterans memorial that shows a kneeling soldier praying in front of a cross. Understandably, there have been complaints regarding the use of a religious symbol on public property.
This was not the sentiment I heard expressed today.
The consensus of these ladies was that it was ridiculous to complain, the cross is meaningful to people, why should it have to be removed because a few didn't like it?
I remained silent.
I could have brought up the need for separation of church and state; that the display of any religious symbol on government property is tantamount to an endorsement of that religion. I could have even asked the ladies if they would have felt the same if a symbol of Islam or Judaism was placed on government property.
But I didn't.
I ducked my head and continued to knit.

I am most ashamed, however, that I remained silent when talk turned to the Confederate flag and its symbolism. It was generally agreed in this group of white upper middle class, middle-aged women that the flag stands for "so much more than just slavery" and removing the flag from government buildings is "depriving people of their heritage."

Over the past several years I have learned so much about systemic racism in the United States. I have read and studied "The New Jim Crow," by Michelle Alexander, and learned that my state, Iowa, is among the top three states for disproportionate incarceration of blacks.
I've learned that black people are harassed, profiled, and arrested at much higher rates than white people in this country; and shockingly, black men (and women) have been victims of police murder seemingly on a weekly, if not daily basis.
I've been reading "Dear White Christians," by Jennifer Harvey, a book that has forced me to recognize that while I did not create our system of white privilege, I certainly have benefited from it, and therefore bear responsibility for its continued existence.
I am involved in a developing social justice outreach through my church, First Unitarian of Des Moines, and will continue learning by studying and discussing the book"Witnessing Whiteness; The Need to Talk about Race and How to do it," by Shelley Tochluk, this fall.

I knew better.
But I stayed silent.
How could I have sat in this group and not presented the other side?
I could have delicately reminded the group that the Confederate flag is a symbol of slavery. Period. The South fought the Civil War not for some noble cause, but to continue the institution of slavery. Flying the Confederate flag on government buildings - a government that is supposed to guarantee freedom to all people regardless of color - is simply wrong.

I am ashamed that I sat there, numb and unable to speak.
No, I was unwilling to speak.
And that was so very wrong.
Today I am ashamed that I said nothing.
I hope another time I won't be so afraid to speak up.

Bzzzz

Gus without a swollen nose

Today when I went to the dog park I got more than just exercise.
I was hit with an adrenaline rush from which I'm only now - two hours later - crashing.
At first everything seemed just fine.
Bertie was running, barking, sniffing.
Gus was socializing, more with the people than the other dogs.
But when I rounded the next corner I noticed Gus across the park, heaving.
I came up to him to find him vomiting. It was full of grass, so I thought it was no big deal.
I cleaned it up as best I could and went on my way.
But then I noticed him rubbing and rubbing his snout on the ground.
I came back to him and took a closer look; was his nose a little swollen?
Nah, he's just enjoying a really interesting scent.
I went a little further, keeping an eye on him, and he didn't stop rubbing and rubbing his nose on the ground.
Concerned, I quickly walked over to him and saw that his whole muzzle was indeed swollen.
I gathered both dogs and we quickly got to the car.
By this time I knew what had happened.
Gussie had been stung by something - bee, wasp, yellow jacket?
Who knows.
I rushed him to the vet, about 10 minutes away.
All the while my poor baby was whimpering, his nose was swelling, and he couldn't stop pawing and rubbing his snout.
By the time we got to the vet, his blood pressure was a little high, his gums were scarlet, and he was so swollen he looked more like a Shar pei than a basset hound.
The vet gave him an injection of diphenhydramine (benadryl) and a steroid to guard against breathing issues.
Gus was stung in August of last year, only by the time we realized something was wrong my husband had to carry him to the car. I was grateful that he could walk this time, though I'm sure one of the men at the dog park would have carried him for me.
The vet sent us home with a few more doses of benadryl and some extra to keep on hand in case this happens again; he didn't seem to think an epi pen was necessary.
In fact, I think he stifled a laugh when I asked.
Poor Gus.
He's really tired now, of course, and maybe, just maybe, the swelling has gone down a tiny bit. It makes me nervous to think of taking him back to the dog park in a couple of days, but the vet said he could just as easily get stung in the back yard.
And despite my son's suggestion, I'm not going to take a photo of his swollen snout.
Whew.
Never a dull moment.

Gingerbread

Gingerbread with spiced vanilla icing

Today was nearly perfect.
A cool breeze, high of 70 degrees, low humidity, and generally overcast.
It made me think of my daughter, Melissa; all that was missing for her perfect weather was rain!
I turned off the air conditioning, threw open the windows, and put on a sweatshirt.
It even got a little chilly in the house.
A few bushes in my yard are even stepping into their fall finery, lending a bright burst of red among the hostas.
Even though it's still summer, I can't wait for fall.
My September mood hinted at the promise of pumpkins, spiced cider, and gingerbread.

By afternoon I had logged enough steps to satisfy my step-counter.
I had made the crust for zucchini crusted pizza for dinner tonight and read a good deal of a novel.
Bassets had been let in, and out, and in, and out too many times to count.
Cats were attended to; laps, petting, admiring.
And I was pooped.
But I couldn't stop thinking about gingerbread.

I looked online for a recipe, yearning for the bite of ginger in a truly dark, dense gingerbread.
I found several that looked promising, but was too tired to face all the multiple steps - boiling this with that, adding stout which would necessitate yet another trip to the basement larder, and so on.

Finally I settled on what I thought would be a quick, easy version of gingerbread. A simple recipe from the 1930s that I could adjust here and there - brown sugar for white, using part whole wheat flour, and adding much more ginger than called for.

My mind made up and recipe chosen I forged ahead through the fog of fatigue, knowing that I could whip this up in 10 minutes, bake for 30, and being lying down in 35.
The problem with fog, however, is that it kind of muddles up one's thinking.
As the batter was almost ready to pour in the pan, I realized I had added twice as much salt as needed.
Crap.
The only thing I could do was double the recipe.
More eggs needed to be retrieved from aforementioned larder.
Down in the basement.
Stepped over dogs.
Ran out of flour.
Refilled container from bin in basement.
Greased another pan.
Stepped over dogs.
Not enough ginger.
Search spice drawer.
Still not enough ginger.
Found another smidge.
Measured more molasses.
Etc.

Finally, after nearly 20 minutes the gingerbread was in the oven.
The dogs were finally asleep.
And my house was filling delightfully with the spicy aroma of gingerbread.
I'm not yet lying down, though I still have high hopes for a bit of a rest.

Did I mention that of the five people living in my house, I'm pretty much the only one who really loves gingerbread?
Looks like my craving will be satisfied.
And then some.

Yarn Bomber

A selection of items Floyd brought to Melissa over two weeks this summer.

Two of my cats are mighty hunters.
Despite being totally indoor animals they've actually managed to catch two mice, countless spiders, some flies, and (horror) house centipedes.
But their crowning achievement as hunters extraordinaire?
Making sure we have enough catnip toys to survive.
Floyd, also known as Floydicus Rex, Mr. Fluffernutter, and Captain Crusty (don't ask), bravely hunts, captures and kills a variety of catnip toys, dog toys, and the occasional pair of socks, multiple times throughout the day.
He doesn't just bring them to us or leave them quietly at our feet.
No, Floyd wants the appropriate level of appreciation for his prowess.
He routinely catches a toy upstairs, then cries and cries, until we come to him and sing his praises. At night he'll often drag large dog toys up the stairs, crying his triumph all the way.
He is not content without accolades befitting his stature, though at night he often brings my daughters important catches for them to find in the morning.

Henry, our other hunter, doesn't like nick names.
We think he's the one who caught the above mentioned mice.
He's also been known to bring my daughter miniature pumpkins, tomatoes, and once, believe it or not, an avocado.
Henry doesn't care for fawning or insincere exclamations of amazement.
He just quietly brings his catches to his favorite person, Melissa, content in knowing he is keeping her well-fed.
But this summer, Henry started hunting something new.
Henry discovered yarn.
Not that finding yarn is difficult in my house, ahem.
But most of it is kept in one of four or so cabinets/cupboards dedicated to my stash.

Bag full of yarn dragged into and emptied in my daughter's room

Henry, however, has discovered our project bags.
At any one time I have 5 or 6 different projects going - everything from a knitted blanket, to hats, scarves, etc. My youngest daughter had several project bags of her own. We never felt the need to keep these bags under lock and key, or even in a closet.
Until this summer.
Suddenly we would awaken to find the beginnings of a scarf, needles and all, dragged from out of the project bag, up the stairs and deposited in my daughter's room. Henry dragged a half-finished sweater, extra skeins of yarn, and amazingly an entire blanket-in-progress, out of their bags and up the stairs.
We thought we had learned our lesson.
Now the downstairs closet holds all works-in-progress.
We aren't sure how well Henry will adjust to my youngest daughter being away at college. She is his most special person.
But this morning, my older daughter awoke to find an entire garbage bag full of yarn deposited and emptied in her room.
We have no idea where Henry found the bag. Maybe it was somewhere upstairs since my daughter sorted some yarn to take with her to college.
We may never know where he found it, but one thing I do know for sure.
We'll never suffer a lack of entertainment with these two around.

Passages

I can feel the emotion roiling just below the surface. With each passing day, the clock seems to tick a little bit faster.
Soon, sooner than either of us would like, and yet at just the perfect time, my youngest child, my baby, will be heading off to college.
Today I teared up in the book aisle of Target. Actually, it started when I saw the children’s videos, then moved on into the preschool books, then early readers. It was like an emotional walk down memory lane. How could 18 years have passed so quickly?

I remember her birth like it was yesterday (except for the pain - that always fades a la continuation of the species). My beautiful baby girl who needed to be held all the time. I remember a particular photo I took of me holding her and looking at ourselves in the mirror. I thought, at the time, remember this moment. And I did. And I always will.
How to condense a mother’s love for her child into words? It’s nearly impossible. I have spent more one-on-one time with Melissa than with any of my other children - she has been my near-constant companion, critic, ally, and friend for 18 years.
Yesterday in the fabric store she laughed at a thought I had expressed. What’s so funny? I asked. We are the same person, she said with a smile.
The twining of sadness with excitement, the longing for just one more day colliding with anticipation for her future and my own, the knowledge that our relationship will never be the same swirling with eagerness for what is to come as our relationship evolves as adult child and mother - all this has been burbling beneath the surface for months now.

She is so ready for this chapter of her life to begin! She has grown into a beautiful young woman, filled with poise and brimming with intelligence. I know I don’t need to worry about her off on her own as she embodies level-headedness and maturity.

 I have carefully filled my fall schedule to minimize that sure-to-materialize empty-nest syndrome, though I know no matter how many activities or classes I take I will still miss her.
Terribly.
A chapter of my life closes as a new one begins for her.
All is as it should be.
I will cry when we say goodbye.
I know I will miss her terribly.
Then we will both get on with the business of living.
We’ll just be doing it a little farther apart.

Glamour Puss

If a cat is beautiful

 but there are no admirers

to acknowledge it

 

Is he still radiant?

Did you really need to ask? 

Wet feet, dirty tummies

Bertie, ears flying, crashes through the scrub

It was a perfectly gorgeous day at the dog park.
After last night's torrential rains (more than 7 inches!), the park was a little soggy, but the air was cool with a nice breeze; sunny without being hot.
I think I love going to the dog park almost as much as my dogs. I'm able to walk the perimeter, about 1/2 mile around, while they get to romp and run. We all come home tired and well-exercised.
With today's perfect weather I was able to walk 3.5 miles while they happily cavorted with each other and other dogs.

Gus and Bertie, noses to the ground, as they track a scent

Having access to the dog park has been great for my highly social dogs, encompassing some of their favorite things: interacting with other dogs, running, chasing, sniffing, and getting attention from people other than just family.
There's a small group of "regulars" - we know each other by our dogs, as in "Silas' Mom" or "Barney's Mom" and "Doug's Dad." The park is quite clean with poop disposal bags, jugs for water, and even a port-a-potty for the people.

Look closely and you'll see two happy bassets

Run, Gussie, run. Bertie is hot on your heels

So today while I tried, unsuccessfully, to tip-toe around the wet spots, my dogs joyously frolicked in the the tall grass, splashed through the puddles, and got way more exercise than I could ever give them on leash. And when you're a low-to-the-ground hound that means your tummy gets really dirty, really fast.
Thank goodness for garden hoses and daughters who are willing to give those tummies a quick scrub!

Thirty years with my love

Thirty years.
I can hardly believe so much time has passed so quickly.
Today is our thirtieth wedding anniversary and I am more in love with my husband today than the day we married.
I had a bit of a scare last night when we couldn’t find our wedding album. We’ve had a lot of upheaval in our house this summer - emptying the attic to make room for son #2 to live (I get his old bedroom as a sitting room) and packing up the entire house to refinish the floors in our 110 year old four square - and the album was not where it always has been.
My husband remembered having packed it - he just didn’t remember exactly where he’d put the box. Remarkably, I maintained my cool and prepared to be worried for a long time when suddenly my daughter found it.
Whew.


I look at the photos of that day and remember the joy we shared in making our lives together. It amazes me that we still feel that joy in each other and our relationship every day.
We’ve been through a lot in our 30 years - mental illness in myself and three of our four children; diagnosis of a genetic disorder and its consequent medical issues in myself and three of our children as well. It hasn’t been easy and it hasn’t always been unicorns and rainbows.

But through it all we have loved and supported each other, honestly sharing our hopes and fears. When life and circumstances seemed almost more than we could bear, we held onto each other and worked on our relationship.
Together.
Now we’re at a point in our lives when our youngest will head off to college in a few weeks. 









We’ll both have some sadness at the passing of this phase of our lives, but we also have time with each other to look forward to; more time to spend together than we’ve had for 27 years!
And we’re excited.
I can’t wait to start the next 30 years with my love.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 40 - Creepy

I think my animals are messing with me.
My husband has been out of the country these past two weeks leaving me here to hold down the fort.
And history has shown that bad things always happen when he's gone.

I thought this trip's "bad thing" was going to be sick dogs, but while they had to miss a few days of daycare, they avoided catching what was going around.
Whew.
Bullet dodged.

Yeah, it's never that easy.
It started one evening last week when Floyd's attention was riveted to the baseboard under the TV cupboard. He not only stared, but paced back and forth as if moving along with something. Then Henry joined him, staring and pacing.

We had some mice in the house last fall and were able to eliminate them without too much trouble.
Or so I thought.
My daughter heard rustlings and gnawing sounds in the closet ceiling off the upstairs bathroom a couple of months ago, but no more mice showed up and I figured it was a fluke; either that or another bat infestation.
Either way, there wasn't anything we could really do about it unless the suspects appeared, which they hadn't.

Now my baseboard-staring cats were creeping me out.
Henry moved to the next room, his icy gaze focused on a different wall.
Then Bertie, our ferocious hunting basset hound, with baby birds, bunnies, and almost a squirrel to her credit, leaped to attention. Her nose instantly to the floor, she made her way over to the same area, staring and whining.

We couldn't hear anything in the walls nor did we find any outward signs of mice.
All we could do was, like the cats, wait and watch.
My creeped-out factor rising, I knew better than to ignore this hunting behavior.

You see, Henry and Floyd have a hunting conquest of their own.
Late one summer night last year, also when my husband was traveling by the way, I heard what sounded like a really big bug buzzing in my room. But it was dark and I didn't want to wake up the dogs so I pulled the covers over my head and fell back to sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning the next day my daughter woke me up. "Mom, there's a bat in my room."
Henry and Floyd had cornered what was likely a little brown bat - which, believe me, doesn't seem so little when it's trapped behind your bedroom door. I value bats and think they are fascinating creatures, but I would just as soon avoid any up-close-and-personal encounters.
I was ready to tell my daughter to open her window screen, grab the cats, shut her bedroom door, and climb in bed with me, when my son, who happened to still be awake and was in a good mood, offered to catch and release. Turns out, my daughter had heard a weird buzzing, too. That little bat had apparently spent more than a day in the house, likely roosting in her curtains.

So you see, my paranoia is not totally unfounded.
Then last night, Fern, our mighty indoor huntress, with chipmunks and large spiders, and unfortunately a gerbil or two to her credit, jumped down off the bed and started chattering. You know, the kind of chattering a cat will do when stalking a bird, or a mouse, or pretty much any prey. She was poised in crouch position staring under my bed.
Gulp.

I have learned not to ignore Fern's hunting signs.
Years ago I lay in bed in the early morning listening to Fern race back and forth under the bed. I didn't think much of it, though she sure kept running back and forth, back and forth, for a really long time. I assumed she was probably just playing with a toy or something on the floor.
Did I say it was early in the morning?

Then I got up.
Lying in a bedraggled heap by the door was tiny little Jasmine, my youngest daughter's gerbil. Fern had apparently run the poor thing to death underneath my bed while I lay above listening to the slaughter.

So it didn't take me long to put two and two together this time - she had something trapped under my bed! I frantically called my daughter, who indulgently shone a flashlight under the bed to reveal... nothing.
Nothing we could see, that is.

So today I'm trying really hard not to read too much into my animals' suspicious behavior. The dogs are at daycare and I'm home alone. Just me and the cats.
At least, I hope so.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Days 36, 37, 38, 39

Day 36 

Fern and I are just going to snuggle under the blankets and weather the storm .

 Day 37 

Unlike Templeton Rye, Henry really was made in Iowa.

Day 38

I have this crazy cactus that blooms multiple times a year - as in 4 or even 5 different times. I must give it just the right about of neglect!

Day 39

Knitting under a sweater blanket (made by my daughter Sarah) and my big, goofy lap dog.

#100HAPPY DAYS - Day 35 - Danseur

Gus is very proud of his French heritage.
After all, "basset" is derived from the French "bas," meaning low to the ground.
Among his many talents, Gus is most proud of his status as a danseur.
His long, lean body exemplifies the male ballet dancer's physique with its need for strength and agility.
Here Gus demonstrates perfect form in first position.

You're welcome.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 30 - Winter Weary

Gus doesn't know about anybody else but he's tired of winter.
If it were up to him these frigid winter days would be spent lounging by a warm fire, only occasionally turning over to toast the other side.
Gus would be all in favor of spending the winter in hibernation, as long as there was a nice warm bed and a goodly supply of milk bones.
But alas, the life of a house dog comes with its obligations.
Despite his assurances to the contrary, he cannot wait until Spring to piddle.
Since he was a tiny puppy Gus has hated cold weather; and he strives to make it clear how much he resents our insistence on taking him into a deep freeze to piddle.
To this end, Gus has perfected the art of false piddling.
He will unwillingly trudge outside only to go through the piddle protocol;  a slight bending of the back legs along with the lifting of one heel. Then he'll dash to the door and certain warmth.
Only it was just a ruse.
This means he can't just be let outside to go potty like a normal dog.
No, Gus must be closely monitored to ensure he actually goes.
Of course his tendency to false piddle makes pottying take twice as long, forcing not only Gus but his people to suffer in below zero wind chills.
I guess this reasoning is a little too nuanced for the basset brain.
Or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 29 - Cozy

Cozy throw knitted from hand spun wool

With temperatures right around 0 degrees and wind chills as low as -20, today was the perfect day to cozy up under a wool throw.
I knitted this throw last year from wool yarn spun by Maggie Howe of Girl With a Sword Productions. Over the years I think I have bought enough of her hand spun to reconstruct an entire flock of sheep - maybe two.
Apparently I'm working on building my own herd of afghans instead.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 28 Bookish

My cousin is paring down her possessions and sent me this wonderful old book, full of sage advice on health and home, with topics such as keeping one's figure, home remedies for worms(!) and contagious diseases, social etiquette, and how to clean lace.
I can't help but ponder the many hands that have turned these pages and the thoughts and actions this book may have inspired.
It must have been precious to many people to have survived more than 100 years.
Without intention, I found my niche as a "homemaker," though when my youngest heads off to college in the fall I think I'm going to call myself a retired educational facilitator instead.
I shouldn't be embarrassed or discomfited by my love for things domestic, yet society still tends to devalue the import of homemaking.
It sounds kind of silly to admit how much satisfaction I find in making my own bread, putting together a delicious meal, or surveying the jars of homemade pasta sauces on my shelves.
Today I'll peruse this old, timeworn book and feel a kinship with other women from long ago; and be thankful that I don't need to know how to treat diphtheria or destroy lice on cattle.
Though I may take a look at how to remove wrinkles...

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 27 - Soothing

I ordered a knitting kit a few weeks ago - project number 5,203 - and when I opened it today this nifty little can of bag balm was included as a "soothing" gift.
And it arrived just in time.

I'm not a glamorous (snort) woman. I rarely wear makeup, don't "do" my nails, and am most comfortable in jeans and a baggy sweater. When my kids were little I would often notice other women's perfectly coiffed hair and neatly manicured nails and think, "Someday I'll have the time to do that, too."
I guess I now have that time, but just am not interested.
I do "style" my short hair and decided a couple years ago to cover the gray, but makeup and manicures apparently just aren't my thing.
It's not that I don't spend time on myself - I exercise regularly, eat well much of the time, and practice mindfulness (almost) daily.
I just don't want to mess with eye liner and mascara, and nail polish never would stick to my nails.

It seems I'm always cooking or outside with the dogs or just coming in from running errands - and therefore washing my hands a lot. I'm kind of a sticker about hand washing and it tends to be the first thing I do when I walk in the door.
As the saying goes, too much of a good thing... leads to dry, chapped skin... or something like that.

A friend once told me the first thing he noticed when meeting his future wife was her soft hands. I was thinking about this while slathering on the bag balm today, which meant I was thinking about it for a really long time; apparently lanolin takes forever to fully absorb.
If my husband weren't in Chile I'd ask him what he first noticed about me.
I'd bet you my bag balm it wasn't soft hands.

#HAPPYDAYS - DAY 26 - For my valentine

Gleaning apples in Washington

My husband left for a two-week business trip yesterday.
He'll be in the summer cornfields of Chile, while I remain in the frozen wastes of Iowa.
And yes, he left on Valentine's Day.

But you know what?
I'm not bothered at all.
He's missed my birthday most years, along with our anniversary, and Valentine's Day.
Name a traditional "lovers'" holiday and he's likely missed it.

I've not always been so sanguine about his travel.
Mostly this was due to the difficulty of managing the heavy load of child-rearing alone, though I did carry a nice little backpack full of personal resentment for a number of years.

It was maybe 10 years ago or so that I realized those "special" days are not important, not really. It's the day-to-day living of a life together, the give and take, the appreciation and love, that is shown through daily actions that really matters.
Sometimes during a lull in my day I'll suddenly feel overwhelmed by how much I am cherished by this incredible man. He's seen me through depression and anxiety, never faltered as a father to children with severe mental illnesses, and is always willing to do the dishes.

He's put up with a menagerie of pets through the years; not because he wanted rats, cats, mice, guinea pigs, or dogs, in the house, but because he knew how vital pets are to myself and our children. He helps me can and freeze more food than we could possibly eat in a season just because he knows I'll worry if we don't, and despite the fact that I'll worry about how we will ever eat it all when we do.
He'll vacuum and clean, make the coffee every morning, glean fruit from public trees, brush snarling cats, and pay exorbitantly for doggie daycare; all because of and for me.
Well, he'd probably make the coffee anyway, but you know what I mean.

Now, I'm not knocking flowers or chocolates or even celebrating special events. It's always nice to show someone he or she is loved with a gift.
But I believe true love is found in the small things; the sharing of a laugh, the holding of a hand, the give and take of a life spent together.
It's in these daily gestures of caring that true love resides.

Hurry home, honey.
I miss you.

#100HAPPYDAYS - DAYS 23, 24, and 25

At the Barry Manilow Concert

Happy for flights of beer and flights of fancy with my love

Having a daughter who makes and decorates sugar cookies for every holiday makes me happy!

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 22 - Barry Manilow

Barry Manilow was my first true love.
I did have a brief flirtation with Frankie Valli, thanks to my sister's Four Seasons albums. Frankie even has the distinction of having been my first concert.
But I was too young at 11 to fully appreciate the meaning of "true love."
By 13, however, Mandy hit the air waves and I was smitten.
I spent my teen years in thrall to Barry's ballads, playing records over and over until I knew all the words to every song.
With a bent toward the melancholy even then, Barry spoke to the desperate sadness in my heart.
And he was cute, regardless of what my dad said about his nose. I could even pretend that, just maybe, he was tall enough.
Sigh.
True confession: I pretended to be sick to skip a high school band concert so I could stay home and watch one of his TV specials. 
Sorry, Mom.
My freshman year of college I camped out over Labor Day weekend to buy tickets to see him live for the first time. For me to go camping willingly, with people I hardly even knew, in the rain, no less, shows how deeply I loved him.
Time went on and I must admit the flames abated. Oh, I still loved Barry, but I didn't love Barry any more.
But Barry still held a special place in my heart. I took a very dubious boyfriend (now husband) to a Barry Manilow concert and even he, who tended to favor Bob Dillan and Bonnie Raitt, was favorably impressed.
Years passed for both of us, Barry and I; he continued to make music while I focused, apparently, on making children.
The last time I saw Barry in person was at the Iowa State Fair in 1993. It was a great show, as always, though I realized my feelings for Barry would never again be quite the same.
Now, Barry is 70 and I am 51.
Where did all those years go?
This may be his last concert and I have to be there.
I'll always love Barry's music, but now I tend to see him, and us, through the lens of nostalgia.
Barry, you were my first love.
Thank you for all the music that spoke to my heart.
I can't wait to see you One Last Time.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 21 Pasta

I've been focusing on making my life easier.
I don't have to make absolutely everything we eat from scratch, but I enjoy doing so as much as possible.
I am one of those people who lives to eat; deprivation and elimination are not in my cooking lexicon.

Lately I've been cooking to suit my husband and myself,  with less worry over what or whether the kids who are still at home will eat. Let's face it, the youngest is 17, and if she doesn't want what's for dinner, she's fully capable of making herself a sandwich.

I enjoy making my own pasta, but find the work involved aggravates the painful joints in my hands.
The solution was this nifty pasta machine.

We made our first batch of fettuccine a couple nights ago and it was out-of-this-world fantastic! I'm not a gadget person, but am so happy to be able to make pasta without pain.

Michael made this incredible
mushroom, tarragon and goat cheese sauce for our homemade fettuccine; paired with freshly baked bread and roasted garlic, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, we ate like kings!
 
I can't wait to try some of the more adventurous flavors and different shapes. I'm just waiting for my 25 pound bag of semolina flour to arrive!
I can't wait to try some of the more adventurous flavors and different shapes. I'm just waiting for my 25 pound bag of semolina flour to arrive!

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 20 - Tulips

When I first started seeing a therapist for depression many years ago, he naively suggested I do a few things to brighten my day, one of which was to buy myself a flower.
Yeah.
No.
At the time I was knee-deep in small children with mental illnesses of their own, a traveling husband, a new puppy, and a limited budget; buying myself a flower was pretty low on the list of "things that would brighten my day."
I remember asking him if this suggestion, along with several others he had made, including "taking a nice long bath," was something he learned to say to depressed women patients in "therapy school."
I may have been a somewhat challenging patient.
In one session, several years into our therapist/patient relationship, he mentioned that on his way home the week before he just didn't feel like himself. He was, in fact, a little down. Then he remembered that he had seen me that day and it all made sense!
I'd say we had a great therapist/patient relationship.
Thankfully, depression is now just a part of my past.
I have even discovered that sometimes buying myself flowers can be a cheering experience; though last week when struggling to arrange these gorgeous yellow tulips I may have muttered something under my breath about the @$#*%! flowers.
But right now, today, these flowers do indeed make me smile.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 19 - Basset antics

Bertha Mae

Bertha Mae, our little basset hound, is a fearless climber.
She will leap onto a chair, then decide she'd rather be on the couch.
A quick perch on the armrest and she's flying to her new destination.
Often we'll look out the window to see her perched high atop the woodpile or standing on a patio table.

Last summer we had raised beds of tomatoes in our backyard.
Bertie discovered she could easily climb amongst the produce and have a nice snack.
So we added chicken wire about 3 feet high around the tops of the beds.
That should keep the little dog out.
Nope.

The cats are right; this is a great view!

We're not quite sure how she got inside the fencing, but apparently ripe tomatoes were enough of an incentive to fly into the beds.

So far she hasn't fallen or managed to injure herself.
And we grown accustomed to keeping a close eye on her until she decides whose lap she wants; from experience I can tell you that a 35-pound projectile can pack quite a wallop.

So if you're ever visiting and someone yells, "Incoming," out of the blue, be prepared to catch 35 pounds of goofy hound.

Bertie, on back of couch; Gus on couch

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 18 Bread

Spent grain bread

My husband is a home brewer who makes fabulous beer.
Though I'm not especially fond of IPAs in general, I love most of the other beers he makes.
But having a steady supply of home brew isn't the only benefit from his hobby; he also makes the most incredible whole wheat bread using his spent grains.

Spent grains are what is left and after the mash has extracted most of the sugars, proteins, and nutrients, from the grains. Breweries often sell their spent grains as animal feed, though their nutrient content is severely reduced.
Though no longer high in nutritive value, spent grains give whole wheat bread a delicious nutty flavor and a nice chewy texture.

Every time he brews, my husband uses the spent grains to make 3-4 loaves of this great tasting bread we refer to as "beer bread." He never uses a recipe, so it's a little different each time, but always delicious.
I'm looking forward to breakfast tomorrow morning when we'll turn a loaf or two of his latest beer bread into French toast.
Yum.

#100HAPPYDAYS- Day 17 - Drip, drip, drip

Drip, drip, drip

Oddly, we haven't had enough winter weather for me to be tired of it yet. 

Usually by February we've had so much bone-chilling cold, snowy-slippery driving, and gloomy-gray skies that a sunshiny day is a rare surprise.

But this year we've only had spurts of real cold, a few scattered snowstorms, and more sunny days than typical.

I'll take the sunshine and blue skies any time.

But in February?

It's a real gift.