Treasured

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Early in my marriage I discovered that Michael and I have very different ways of showing our love for each other.

You might call it different "love languages."

And I must admit, it took me awhile to learn to appreciate Michael's dialect.

You see, I love presents.

Getting them, giving them.

There's just something about the idyllic gift that makes me all tingly inside.

Give me a gift and I know you love me. Surprise me with something you've put a lot of thought into, that takes into consideration my likes and dislikes, something, oh, I don't know... perfect, and it will show me how much you care.

I know, it sounds shallow, but it's how I viewed expressions of love, especially back in the 1980s..

There was my first Mother's Day in 1988.

I had my precious Stephen.

I didn't, however, have a card or a gift from my darling husband.
Nothing.

Zilch.

Nada.

I felt a little abandoned and explained to Michael how important holiday acknowledgement is to me.

But despite his Ph.D., Michael has had a steep learning curve in the gift department.

There was the Christmas that he bought me a new rolling pin.

And threw away my favorite rolling pin to boot.

Did I mention that it was my grandmother's rolling pin?

An heirloom.

Now, I'm not against kitchen appliances for gifts. I'd love to get some Le Creuset cookware or a pasta attachment for my Kitchenaid Mixer. But a rolling pin?

So I tried dropping hints.

About 10 years ago, when my children were 10, 8, 5 and 1, I told Michael I would love to have an apron decorated with the kids' hand prints, drawings, etc.

I also mentioned it 9 years ago.

And 8.

Umm, 7, 6, 5...

Finally, two years ago, when my children were 18, 16, 13 and 9, I got the apron.

Complete with hand prints.

Do you have any idea how large a 6' 5" teenage boy's hands are?

So I learned, through lots of trial and too much error, that if I wanted something specific, I not only had to write it down for my darling, but I pretty much had to buy it, wrap it, and deliver it myself.

I used to get somewhat upset when the kids were little and he forgot to have them make me something for my birthday or have them write me cards for Mother's Day.

I'm ashamed to admit that I thought, at times, that if he really loved me, he'd remember the little hints I'd throw him throughout the year or come up with something on his own that was a spectacularly ideal representation of his love for me.

But you see, what I didn't take into consideration is that Michael doesn't just wait for special occasions to show me how much he loves me.

He demonstrates his love for me daily in myriad little ways.

When the kids were little, for example, he always gave them their baths, sang them goofy songs and brushed their teeth.

He almost always does the dishes, he vacuums, folds laundry, and makes a mean homemade pizza.

He's gone along with cats, dogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, gerbils, hissing cockroaches, mice and rats.

Chickens? Check.

St. Bernard puppy? Check.

He stayed with me through my mental illness; never judging and always supportive.
He cared for me - and did most of the housework - all the years I had undiagnosed hypothyroidism.
He's always willing to massage my neck and back at night and lets me warm my icy cold feet on his legs.

Michael not only loves me, he treasures me.

And I've learned that being treasured daily is far superior to the transience of a single gift.

My love gives of himself to me every single day.

I'll take that kind of gift-giving over a new sweater or a diamond watch any day.

I love you, honey.

Please excuse me...

I've been a little busy lately.

Meet Ivy Rose, 12 weeks old tomorrow.
Ivy is a rough coated St. Bernard from Peoria, Illinois.
She is sweet as sweet can be and quite calm for a puppy.
We're in the midst of house-training, and have had only 3 accidents since we brought her home Saturday night.

Ivy has already attended her first session of puppy preschool and is learning "sit," "lie down," and "come."
Michael and I have decided it's a good thing we had our last baby 11 years ago, when we were young and much more resilient (apparently). We both are a little slack-jawed and weary, unaccustomed as we are to the demands of a 3-month-old.

And so today, while you're nestled snug in your houses with your hot cocoa and fleece blankets, think of me: sitting on the cold floor with a drooling beast on my lap or frantically pulling on my boots for the umpteenth time as I hurry outside for an emergency potty stop.

I promise not to hold your good judgment and common sense against you, but you'll have to forgive me the drool (mine and the dog's) and extra dog hair...

Intersections

The best memories of my childhood are the summers spent on my grandma's farm in southeastern Iowa.

Most of those, unfortunately, don't include my grandma, who much preferred the company of my older sister to mine.

No, my memories center on the time I spent with my Uncle Clarence and my cousin Bill, who is only 18 months older than I.

I spent nearly every waking moment of every day following Uncle Clarence around the farm, riding on the tractor with him while he mowed weeds, riding on the hay wagon during baling, and picking raspberries (you begin to see my experience was more that of a "tourist" than any actual help to my uncle).

My cousin Bill, me, Uncle Clarence

We went fishing and swimming in my uncle's ponds and rock hunting for geodes and fossils. My cousin and I spent hours doing "surgery" on horse weeds with our pocket knives, building "toad halls" in the gravel pile, dueling with sticks and having pillow wars in my grandma's living room (the latter two activities were always stopped way before we were done having fun.)
I learned a lot from my uncle, who really was more like a grandfather to me. He was an authentic curmudgeon, sharing his views on politics, religion and, unfortunately, my aunt, more freely with me than any adult ever had before.

It was during these summers that I first heard about the "wackos" in Fairfield, Iowa. Apparently, one of my cousin's had attended Parson's College in Fairfield, but now, some crazy people had taken over the college. I never really understood who these people were, but I certainly knew they were weird and not to be trusted.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm at Iowa State University, falling in love with my future husband. He's from a poultry/dairy farm in north central Minnesota, working on his master's degree in agronomy. (What the heck was that? I had to look it up...)

Michael and me, circa 1983
Could my glasses have been any larger?

Michael is 9 years older than I am, so definitely had more life experiences under his belt when we met in 1983. He told me of his "crappy" jobs - hauling carcasses in a meat locker, working on a roofing crew, and more, all of which led him back to college and then on to his master's. Sometime after high school, he'd studied transcendental meditation, even learning to teach, and still meditated twice daily. Meditation was an important component of his daily life. I benefited from the massage classes he had taken at the same time, so I didn't think much about it.

I'm not sure when it began to dawn on me.

It might have been while working at the campus daily newspaper as managing editor. I received and sorted all kinds of press releases in that job, deciding which merited follow-up as possible stories and which ones were just wacky.

Almost weekly I received press releases from Maharishi International University, about meditating for world peace and showcasing their meditators who could "fly." Definitely weird stuff destined for the trash can.

But then one day I made the connection.

Maharishi International University.

In Fairfield, Iowa.

These were the flakes my uncle had talked about when I was a kid!
And where was it my betrothed had learned TM?

Umm, at Maharishi International University.

In Fairfield, Iowa.

Wow.

While I had been out haying and playing with the farm cats, my future husband had been just 30-some miles away studying with the crazies!

It all worked out in the end. I found the whole thing hilarious in a kind of weird way and my uncle liked Michael from the moment he met him.

I guess it just goes to show how small the world really is.

Frankly, I still think my uncle was right about most of what goes on at Maharishi International.

A little barmy with a side of wacko.

But they sure grow great organic veggies...

Dark Days Eat Local - Week 3

This week's local meal was a simple hamburger and fries.
The beef is from a small, local producer and has a flavor that's out of this world.
Michael and I always used to use a package of Lipton Onion Soup mix to flavor our hamburgers, but we've discovered that adding onion and garlic powder, salt and pepper, makes the burgers even more flavorful than the mix.
We sliced up our local onions and homemade dill pickles to top the burgers. The buns were from a local bakery.


We used our CSA potatoes to make oven fries: just a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper and 20 or so minutes in a 425 degrees and they're done. There's just no comparison with prefrozen, prepackaged fries. Plus, have you ever read the ingredients? Ugh!

Dessert was leftover pie.
I forgot to take pictures, but the apples and butter in the apple pie were local, as was the flour for the crust. The pumpkin pie featured our own home-grown squash.
A simple meal, but oh, so satisfying!

Remember to Floss!

The other day Sarah dropped her toothbrush.
Yep, that's it right there, after the fall.
She dropped it in the bathroom.

Lest you think too badly of me and my housekeeping, the brush did fall back behind the bathroom vanity. You see, when we moved into this 1904 house, we did a lot of remodeling.


Phew. Excuse me. I just had a flashback to the contractor from hell.


Anyway, we - I guess I should say I - wanted to make the remodeled bathroom look as period-appropriate as possible. This involved purchasing a clawfoot bathtub, really cool circular free-standing shower, and a vanity that really is a separate piece of furniture.
All this explanation is to let you know that there is a partial gap between the vanity and the wall that is nearly impossible to clean. In fact, I didn't even realize it was there needing to be cleaned until the toothbrush-dropping incident.

From my experience, it seems old houses have many more such nooks and crannies to clean than newer, modern houses. Just yesterday I vacuumed the ledges above the doorways in my upstairs hall. Not a pretty sight.

The grooves and edges of the wainscoting in the bathroom and the intricate notches of the woodwork throughout the house are also fur and dust collectors.

Then there's the window ledges, the stained glass windows and the radiators.

All dust/dirt collectors.

For Christmas I'm buying myself this book Knitting With Dog Hair: Better A Sweater From A Dog You Know and Love Than From A Sheep You'll Never Meet. My plan is to learn to adapt the spinning techniques I learn from the book to turn my dust bunnies and fur tumbleweeds into yarn.

At least then I can watch the accumulating crud with the satisfaction of a shepherd.

No, Mom, I don't need to vacuum.

I'm just growing my flock...

Snow Dog

Wally went out with Melissa to play in the snow.

He ran around a little.

But it was cold.

Really, really cold.

And that snow stuff?

Did you know it's wet and sticks to your fur?

Let me in!

Ahh, now this is more like it!

Frowsy

In our efforts to cut costs, we've been working on actually using items we've purchased.
I know that sounds strange, but we tend to accumulate products we fully intend to use, then fail to assemble, install or otherwise put them into use.

Recently, I've been searching out these products and either returning them to the store of purchase or actually using them. Last week I asked Michael (for the umpteenth time) to either put together a laundry organizer for the basement we bought nearly a year ago or return it (probably for merchandise credit).
He finally put it together and told me to go take a look in the morning.

This is what I found:


Yep, you're seeing exactly what greeted me first thing that day.
A lovely laundry organizer.
And a mountain of laundry lying next to it on the floor.


I failed to take into consideration my family's tendency toward entropy.
That, and how hard it is to form new habits.

Despite owning more than 8 laundry baskets of various shapes and sizes, the dirty clothes have always been dumped in a heap in front of the washing machine.
And you know what? I'm finding that it's a real pain to pull the dirty laundry out of that organizer.

And. apparently, so is everyone else.