tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-209826322024-03-06T23:55:43.948-05:00Eliza JaneOne rung up the ladder from useless and boring, four down from hysterically entertaining, this blog is a feeble attempt to perfect mediocrity.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1408125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-25053916371524731702020-09-25T04:01:00.004-04:002020-09-25T04:01:45.920-04:00Chores<p>To some, it would be easily described as a chore. But the mere connotation of something obligatory, and worse yet, something dreaded is so far from my experience that I can only call it a chore in jest. I stop by the coop with a breakfast of oats and mealworms for the girls. It's yet too early for the automatic door to have opened, but as I talk with the girls from outside the coop, I hear them jump off the roosting bars and even peck at the door. Knowing the eager parade of feathered excitement that awaits, I happily open the door myself, and chuckle at the onslaught of chatter and energy from seven crazy chickens. The oats and mealworms are greatly appreciated and quickly devoured. I open the window on the coop from inside the run before making my departure to go around to the coop and the remaining windows. </p><p>When I step inside the coop, Della comes in from the chicken door. Abandoning the oats and mealworms is no small deal, and I know even more certainly that I have in the past few days that she is getting close to laying her first egg. She jumps up on the small step stool I have in front of the nesting boxes and begins her quiet cooing. It delights my soul in ways I cannot describe. I know it makes me sound truly crazy, but it truly feels like a sweet conversation. I give her a little pep talk and she hops up into the nesting boxes. She's done this before, but today she settles in more than previously and I know for certain today there will be an egg. There is something very serene about a hen in a nest. They are so quiet and still I often think they might be praying. I relate more than I care to admit; enjoying my own solitude and quiet whenever I can and understanding the satisfaction that comes from doing even just one thing well. </p><p>I have to leave for work before I see the results of her efforts. But I carry this little moment, this simple peace, with me throughout my day. </p><p><br /></p><p>They say God speaks to us. If only we are still enough to listen. I hear Him. His creation speaks to me. In the soft cooing reassurances of a bird, I hear Him say, "Be.Here.Now." And I stand, in the coop, with Della and my Lord as company. It is well with my soul. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-44950765276896511952020-07-18T16:24:00.000-04:002020-07-18T16:24:03.238-04:00The First EggWe've known Ruby was giving serious thought to laying her first egg a couple weeks ago. She went into the coop and cackled and fretted about. Soon, we thought. Soon.<br />
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But waiting on your first chicken to lay her first egg is a lot like the proverbial water pot. <br />
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But this morning, I went out to spend some time with the girls. I took out some oats and meal worms, a favorite breakfast of the flock. Ruby had her share but then wandered off into the coop on her own again. I heard her make some soft coo's, but then she'd come right back out. She jumped up on the bale of straw we have in the coop and started scratching around on it. I thought we might be nearer the egg-laying event than we had been, so I went over to gently discourage her from using the straw bale as nesting grounds. Ruby jumped off as I approached, but then came right up by me once I sat down. Ruby is friendly, but not usually in a sit-right-next-to-you kind of a way, especially if you don't have treats with you. <br />
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I smoothed her feathers and talked to her a bit, but when she snuck in behind my back, between me and the wall and started scratching the straw bale again, I knew she was really getting serious. I went out the chicken run and into the coop (I have to go out and around, chickies have their own little door). I called to the chickens and sure enough, the whole flock comes into the coop to see what's going on. Ruby came right to me and I gently picked her up and put her in the nesting box. She immediately took to it and started scratching around, nesting. I was elated!!<br />
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As she scratched and futzed and got herself settled, the rest of the flock took it as their cue to leave and headed back into the run. While Ruby rearranged the wood chips to her liking and settled and resettled herself, the girls took turns peeking in the chicken door to see if everything was okay. Della even "tiptoed" in and across the floor of the coop to check on Ruby! April was bold enough to get right up to the nesting box to see what was going on in there. <br />
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Ruby just sat.<br />
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Every now and then she would emit a soft cluck, but otherwise, she just sat and quietly moved wood chips with her beak to make the perfect nest.<br />
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After a half hour or so of this, she stood up and began to cluck VERY LOUDLY. I thought she was announcing to the world that she had just laid her first egg, but I'll admit, I hadn't seen anything that made me think an egg had actually been laid. Her clucking was very entertaining but what I loved most were the response clucks from the girls in the run. It was like a support group of girlfriends!! "Way to go, Ruby!" you could almost hear them saying. (Or at least that's what I heard, but I am a crazy chicken lady.) <br />
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After a few minutes of crazy clucking, Ruby hopped off the nesting box, pecked around at the floor of the coop and then went out into the run.<br />
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Only when she was out did I peek into the nesting box. <br />
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NO EGG. Nothing. Nada. <br />
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I went to the window and looked out into the run. Ruby was wandering around, stopping to peck at the pieces of asparagus the flock had abandoned from last night's snack. She got a drink of water and then, right in the middle of the run, she squatted down and popped out an egg!<br />
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I RAN out the coop, into the run and snatched up the egg just as four other chickens were descending upon it, Della ready to give it a good peck. The egg was perfect. It wasn't soft shelled, which I had been expecting for a first egg! <br />
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I guess Ruby just wanted me to GET OUT OF THE COOP so she could lay her egg in peace. I hope tomorrow, or whenever she lays again, she will stay in the nesting box for the duration of the process!! And if I happen to be out there, I promise to stay in the run and just watch from the window. Unless it's a whole 'nother chicken. I can't make promises if it's someone else's first egg!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-35838426812188409362020-07-18T15:32:00.000-04:002020-07-18T16:34:41.530-04:00Seven<div style="text-align: center;">
Harper found a new home last night. We are only slightly sad. He was funny and full of such quirky personality. But a rooster can be annoying. Not just the crowing (ALL day) but the....mating. He was pretty insistent upon mating. And the girls...well, not so much. There was a lot of squawking and flying feathers and... so...we found him a new home. </div>
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Last night's celebratory treat after Harper left. Frozen corn, asparagus and zucchini "muffins"! Always a big hit with the flock! </div>
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Today I kept an eye out for hawks while the girls got out into the yard. They RAN out of the coop and gobbled up grass as fast as the could!</div>
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While I babysat chickens, I snapped beans from the garden. Iris really wanted a WHOLE bean, not just the ends I snapped off and threw to the ground. (Look at that face. She's so serious!) </div>
She snitched one from the bowl, but then couldn't figure out how to eat it.<br />
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Millie got hot but couldn't seem to figure out how to get to her water. Even though BOTH doors to the coop and run were wide open and BOTH the coop and the run have water. I finally had to walk into the run, talking to her the whole time so she'd follow me, for her to see she could walk back IN the door she came out of and get some water. </div>
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Ah....chickens.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-68801300364331024482020-07-13T12:04:00.000-04:002020-07-13T12:10:54.781-04:00The Crazy EightChickens have been on the radar for a few years. With enough confidence that we made our farm logo and sign with chickens right on it. Pretty brave for people who change their mind a <i>lot</i>. I also carried around with me a picture of a coop that was to be the inspiration for the one we would build. When our trip to Cabo got canceled this year, we decided to take "vacation" funds and turn them into "chick mansion" funds and we got to work.<br />
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Bear drew up the plans for the coop. How he took my ramblings and "I think I want's" into an actual architectural drawing, I'll never know how, but he did! (My original "sketch" was "chicken scratch" indeed!) We had the same man who built our barn frame up the coop (we can at least recognize that measurements that matter aren't our specialty; we are more of "yup, it looks level!" kinds of folks!)<br />
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We spent quarantine time finishing the rest of the coop up, which for me meant decorating and landscaping and for Chief, it meant digging, fencing, swearing and making the place as raccoon proof as possible.<br />
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We did all this with a deadline. In order to get the breeds I wanted, I had to get my day-old chicks in early March. The bigger they grew, the more the brooder stopped being a good abode, and the faster we worked to finish off the coop. The quarantine didn't help. We had stocked up on all the materials we <i>thought</i> we needed ahead of the closures, but you know how projects go and so we had to make do in some cases or go without in others to get it done while stores were closed or limited.<br />
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All that said, in May, the girls moved into the new home. Within the next couple weeks, they could use their run as well. And by the end of June, we realized we didn't have eight girls; one cockerel had slipped past the gender inspections at the breeder and we now have our hands on a rooster-wanna-be. Sigh.<br />
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The Crazy Eight keep me <i>very</i> entertained. I visit at least twice a day and by visit, I do mean there's usually conversation and snacks. Well, I converse; they snack. It's a good deal both ways.<br />
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<b><u>The Crazy Eight:</u></b></div>
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April (Easter Egger)</div>
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Beatrix (Jubilee Orpington)</div>
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Della (Blue Splash Birchen Maran)</div>
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Harper (Light Brahma- Rooster)</div>
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Hazel (Green Egger)</div>
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Millie (Blue Splash Red Laced Wyandotte)</div>
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Ruby (Columbian Wyandotte)</div>
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Iris (Lavender Orpington)</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-22346832011671095082020-07-13T11:17:00.001-04:002020-07-13T12:08:10.720-04:00More Than EnoughBeen awhile. Forgive me.<br />
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At my kitchen counter this morning, I hear the dryer murmuring as it tumbles sheets, warm and bleach smelling. Birds sing in the sun and shadows outside the open windows. Leaves dance in a sweet summer breeze. I can see the cows, savoring their morning siestas under the pines. Mabel, having just turned one last week, finding her own cool spot; ears flicking the flies away.<br />
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Herbs are drying in front of the dining room windows. Won't be long until the oregano is dry enough to grind. As the breeze flows in against the basil and parsley I am tempted to make a pot of sauce. Flowers on the counter, fresh cut from the garden just yesterday where I picked beans and tomatoes and a couple cucumbers. Most of the tomatoes don't make the trip to the house but are eaten while weeding; a reward for the effort.<br />
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I hear the rooster crow, proclaiming his territory to all the world. We are eager, and yet not, for him to find a new home.<br />
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A pair of orioles stop by the feeder out back. We still have enough jelly in the cabinet to keep them coming at least until the grapes are ready in the fall.<br />
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Charlotte calls from the porch. After a night of hunting, she is ready to come in for love and a comfy nap spot. A lap will do just fine for her. Trudy comes to check her out, smelling her to make sure she is the same cat that left early this morning. Trudy too, welcomes some love and would love a nap on a lap. If only she were small enough.<br />
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It is July, the month between school ending and beginning yet again. My days are filled only as I want them to be. Chores rarely feel as such; even weeding takes on a cathartic tone this time of year, giving me a quiet, calm sense of accomplishment I seldom feel in the classroom. I spend too much time with the chickens these days. My "crazy eight" make me laugh, make me marvel and make me breathe. Slowly.<br />
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To sit and shell peas or snap beans in the yard, surrounded by a flock of feathered supervisors, listening to chicken chatter is as close to heaven as July can bring. I am sure of it.<br />
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Days like today are a gift. I know that. I relish that. But every cherishable moment I have in July isn't because of the profession I chose, or the money I have saved, or the town I live in. Every thing that brings me joy, that fills these moments are because of the man I married. Our home, our farm, our creatures, our comforts, our whole life is joyful because we are together. Sitting on the porch is wonderful, but when The Mister is next to me, it is serene. It is cathartic. It is <i>healing</i>.<br />
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Yesterday, I was sitting with my "girls," taking pictures of the birds and being otherwise completely unproductive. The Mister sat with me for a while, but then went to the barn to check on this or that, stopped by the neighbors to talk about a thing and returned back to find I hadn't moved; my to-do list remained undone. He wandered off from where I was sitting and I watched him, trying to figure out what he was thinking, what item on his list he was itching to scratch off. He kicked the ground a few times, scuffing the dirt. He looked around, seemingly deep in thought. He walked past the tree line and into the leaves and scrub and looked around and eventually bent down to pick something up.<br />
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A worm. He had gone off to find a worm simply to feed to the chickens. My man. <i>My</i> man.<br />
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He wondered aloud the other day what his "legacy" might be when he leaves this earth. It was on his mind, bothering his heart and he presented it to me as a concern with heavy weight. Later, he quietly said, "Maybe, if people just wished for reincarnation, hoping they might return as one of the animals I cared for...that would be enough."<br />
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I can tell you, as someone he cares for, that is not just enough. It is everything.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-79610540379242718572019-01-31T14:15:00.000-05:002019-02-01T14:15:20.461-05:00One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Happy birthday, Trudy Bear!!</div>
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Our snow-loving...</div>
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...snow EATING...</div>
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...ball-chasing...</div>
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...door watching...</div>
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...cow checking...</div>
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...dirt digging...</div>
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...pillow stealing...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUldIaivAS30Xihj88uDVUuemoUsAjBRZwJvGTEzMMok9GBrzmaFJa7maVBwHEtGFmz8AXzMwcZz61lnckcuO0RLN5H7wwNVxjcg0e2TIqEAYlklN52oWZ5xpKzGdfv7WCp_ErEA/s1600/IMG_20190118_162139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1415" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUldIaivAS30Xihj88uDVUuemoUsAjBRZwJvGTEzMMok9GBrzmaFJa7maVBwHEtGFmz8AXzMwcZz61lnckcuO0RLN5H7wwNVxjcg0e2TIqEAYlklN52oWZ5xpKzGdfv7WCp_ErEA/s400/IMG_20190118_162139.jpg" width="353" /></a></div>
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...EVERYTHING stealing puppy!! <br />We can't believe you are already one! You have come so far in the past year!</div>
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Those nasty sharp puppy teeth are gone!</div>
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You only jump (and sometimes still piddle) when new people come to visit <br />(a very warm, wet, welcome!)</div>
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You have mastered the dog door and use it frequently to carry contraband items outside to bury!</div>
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You love to sleep on the bed - upside down, spread eagle, right down the middle!</div>
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You and Charlotte have started to forge quite a friendship! It won't be long before you two are snuggling up together to keep warm!</div>
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My favorite part about you, though, is how much you love to snuggle! </div>
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You have no idea how big you are and you truly think you are a lap dog!</div>
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We love you, Trudy!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-4800721391480492682019-01-10T13:27:00.000-05:002019-02-01T13:27:55.496-05:00Six Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGVfMfXWnEdqItPLPZ-21Wr8YY1A486OcGnMx2iVA8T4EeYK4uz1Cs3gsek-EoaoX0DZgt82xQDd4ASdMiMYLAwE8-z4SUBQ5xZOZyu6jy4FCXAE5cDpP1vYsLLid-y70feYXdQ/s1600/hero_1152x585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="1152" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGVfMfXWnEdqItPLPZ-21Wr8YY1A486OcGnMx2iVA8T4EeYK4uz1Cs3gsek-EoaoX0DZgt82xQDd4ASdMiMYLAwE8-z4SUBQ5xZOZyu6jy4FCXAE5cDpP1vYsLLid-y70feYXdQ/s640/hero_1152x585.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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o</div>
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You know how it feels, glass in hand, taste on your lips. There are probably people around, but each slow sip you take holds your attention, reminds you to savor not just the taste but the moment. Stress, worry, anxiety, to-do's, should-have-done's, all fade like pressed petals in your mom's Bible. Laughter comes easily, a flirtatious wink, a knowing smile, a familiar anecdote, you are here, you are alive and you are full of all things wonderful, powerful and passionate.</div>
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It's how you make me feel - like that glass of Jameson in your hand. There might be people around, but you narrow my focus to what's important, to what matters - to us. The day melts away like the ice in your glass and I can't even recall what worried me earlier. You make me smile, make me laugh, make me want to hear the familiar story one more time, especially the way you tell it. I am alive, I am powerful and together, we are passionate - about us.</div>
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Happy sixth anniversary, Chief!</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-24079619179722637632018-12-22T13:18:00.000-05:002018-12-22T13:18:29.103-05:00The Ones that MatterIt's been over thirty years since I sat in her classroom. The class most high schoolers dreaded the most - speech class - was my favorite and I was always eager to get to Mrs. Aavang's room. Even after so much time, I can still remember vividly performing "The Jaberwocky" (I can even recite some of it by heart.) I remember parliamentary procedure, how to spell 'Shakespeare', and that I once wrote over a dozen drafts of a business letter only to miss a point because I forgot to sign my name. I also remember a speech I gave as a radio broadcast from the Garden of Eden. I remember the day we all came into class and she had a pink paper on her desk. We asked her what it was for and she said, "I told you I'd tell you when I knew." It took us most of the class period, but we finally figured out it meant she was pregnant with a girl. Most of all, however, I remember how she made me feel. I knew I was good at giving speeches because she showed me I was. I knew I had a love for it as well because she let me have fun with it and to be myself in whatever form that took for me at sixteen years old. She made me feel successful and powerful and creative and smart. I wanted to diagram more sentences, learn more poetry, write more stories and give speeches as often as she'd allow it. <br />
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A week ago, my own fourth graders held their first "Sharing Day". While this was routine in my second grade class, it took extra hours of thinking and planning to adapt this familiar practice to fourth grade curriculum and students. We decided to share our "How-To" writings, and to make it more entertaining, we invited parents and grandparents as unsuspecting guinea pigs to actually perform the "how-to's" while each student read them. We didn't get nearly the same number of parents that a second grade show brings, but we welcomed those that did come and we applauded them for enduring several demonstrations on slime, paper mache, and board games. But somewhere in the middle of the presentations, when I was standing at the back of my classroom taking pictures and laughing with my students I had a flashback to my days in Mrs. Aavang's class. She once told me, "I used to just put an A on your score sheet, sit back and watch you go, knowing you'd be great." That's what I felt like watching my kids. No, they weren't all "great", but they were all brave and creative and successful in their own right. And I was beaming with pride on their behalf. <br />
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They say students may forget what you teach them, but they will never forget how you made them feel. I know this. I know it like I know I need air to breathe. Mrs. Aavang taught me that. Even after thirty years or more, she continues to be my teaching mentor. Her example will always remind me of what excellence in teaching is. <br />
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My counter, as Christmas break begins, is full of "World's Best Teacher" trinkets and "#1 teacher" mugs. I have cards written in kid penmanship that declare me "Teacher of the Year" or the "Best Teacher Ever." But I know better. I know that I still have a lot to learn. I also know that I have had a great teacher. One who will always be "World's Best Teacher" in my book.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-4148171969786410882018-09-22T12:06:00.002-04:002018-09-22T12:06:35.404-04:00Small Town, USAI needed to go to school today. Changing grade levels means an endless to-do list. Thankfully, I am really enjoying the change and so the list feels more like "want-to's" than chores. The Mister had to work this morning so it didn't make going in on a beautiful Saturday in September quite so difficult. <br />
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Trudy loves everything about life except her crate, so I decided to take her along. She is really only a crazy dog when other people are around and the odds of anyone else being at school at 7 on a Saturday morning were very slim. She bounded through the house at the word, "ride" and did everything she could to jump into the Jeep without help. <br />
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We saw shadows of the cows in the pasture as we headed down the drive. The heron wasn't on the dock this morning, but we thought maybe we would see her when we returned.<br />
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I decided a hot caramel cider was in order this morning and swung by our local coffee shop drive-through. Trudy was super excited to hear someone's voice on the speaker and her tail went crazy when we pulled up to the window and a woman handed her a dog treat! (Trudy is more excited to see the person than to get the treat, but she still graciously accepted the gift!) The woman chatted with me while my drink was made. She asked where we were headed and shared that she has a seventh grade boy at the middle school. I didn't know him by name, but probably would have recognized him if I saw him. With only one set of schools in our town, it's pretty easy to know most everyone that attends.<br />
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As I drove to school, the sun was now fully up and the beauty of our little town caught my attention once again. The residential streets are all lined with beautiful trees: oak, maple, pine, ash, birch, elm... every yard seems to have more than one mature tree and it won't be long at all now before they will be bare. The school sits on the edge of residential streets and fields full of corn and grapevines. With woods around the backside of the building, it really is pretty in its own right. Sitting in my classroom, typing up lesson plans, I am able to look out my window at a beautiful ornamental tree, as golden leaves drip to the ground.<br />
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The Mister stopped by after work on his way to pick up hay. He finished helping a local farmer cut hay last week and was off to collect the round bales he earned in trade. We have more than enough now to last through the winter, more than we can even store properly, to be honest. He will find a way to get them covered as best he can as we are grateful for the bounty with three grazers this year.<br />
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Back at home I transplanted a perennial from a porch planter to the front bed. Trudy inadvertently dug it up shortly after I got it planted as she ran wild and crazy around the yard playing with a stick. I filled bird feeders and cleaned leaves out of the bird bath before filling it for nearly the last time. Tomorrow we have plans to clean up the remains of the garden. While it disappointed us this year, one of the joys of gardening is the eternal hope that "next year will be better". <br />
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My household list for today includes little more than a couple loads of laundry, storing boxes of heirloom dishes my dad brought last weekend and clearing the week's detritus off the counter before friends come for pizza and cards later tonight.<br />
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I'm not sure what it is today, the fall temperatures, the sun speckled through autumn leaves in the yard, the happy puppy at my feet, the smooth transition to a new grade level at school, a husband still delighted by the sight of round bales in the barn or the prospect of an evening filled with laughter that makes me feel so contented, but I'll take it with open arms. Days like these make me feel so blessed and downright lucky to live in a small town, in Midwest America.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-45379788673627737352018-08-22T16:29:00.004-04:002018-08-22T16:29:53.783-04:00Beautiful August<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGdSSm2ZZa4STRIEAs_4UquJ_sv18f8IfiuwvesbrbB4yun6ZPxWzoAl7pdxDHRMd1L38KKG1wQoe0Ccq9OwZCRPKDUOA_5BPF6HGOsw6RxjUn8EiGDSxT5mAXXwahBj02SpAww/s1600/Delilah+and+Elliott+August+22bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGdSSm2ZZa4STRIEAs_4UquJ_sv18f8IfiuwvesbrbB4yun6ZPxWzoAl7pdxDHRMd1L38KKG1wQoe0Ccq9OwZCRPKDUOA_5BPF6HGOsw6RxjUn8EiGDSxT5mAXXwahBj02SpAww/s400/Delilah+and+Elliott+August+22bw.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Delilah and Elliott</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsuFnDDj3rfGAtfNbQXXCWZ2kmPSwDTCfb9IsjrRUcPxV_8h6gO9jCU2cGfH-SDjE_dGft5OrdYeho0fP2uylZT68m0hWIqZH6O19W93csV9_vLgtgmbhL_tQsm3NiKTyvY59fg/s1600/Delilah+August+22bw2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsuFnDDj3rfGAtfNbQXXCWZ2kmPSwDTCfb9IsjrRUcPxV_8h6gO9jCU2cGfH-SDjE_dGft5OrdYeho0fP2uylZT68m0hWIqZH6O19W93csV9_vLgtgmbhL_tQsm3NiKTyvY59fg/s400/Delilah+August+22bw2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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We were noticing how thin Delilah's face is. Trust us, she is<i> not</i> going hungry!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoLKo6TYL1ai3NKU9TWXq4uk05_eScMTCTEUGemyjpGa-J0TQ0iO33q1R2YoatO_7Z3inNZ-GajK3-ybMld1D6Au1s7MQfbPumYxODGECmI2bMx7gucPdDwdpH0-4eIEr_58QOA/s1600/Delilah+August+22bw3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoLKo6TYL1ai3NKU9TWXq4uk05_eScMTCTEUGemyjpGa-J0TQ0iO33q1R2YoatO_7Z3inNZ-GajK3-ybMld1D6Au1s7MQfbPumYxODGECmI2bMx7gucPdDwdpH0-4eIEr_58QOA/s400/Delilah+August+22bw3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Beautiful Delilah</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbZfrYpJ3iL2dnzBZqQc-arlBkJfwzZ6M6eJHR1HwbT1ptFy4qFvBPpZpOM50-piSPIt2Ajue0CQ6y5dQ9zeKdxDUIKzyc4eZj00B8AGI18igGsJZW2DpN1smD2oOtCAV9CebJQ/s1600/Delilah+August+22bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbZfrYpJ3iL2dnzBZqQc-arlBkJfwzZ6M6eJHR1HwbT1ptFy4qFvBPpZpOM50-piSPIt2Ajue0CQ6y5dQ9zeKdxDUIKzyc4eZj00B8AGI18igGsJZW2DpN1smD2oOtCAV9CebJQ/s400/Delilah+August+22bw.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Delilah</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLYLfyUROKhas5WAlL42L5WzfoVHdpQ7Zsqzy8vKztr6gGJjk_UEsolLMlQfr2DDXV1CXCbsdQJk-e7fkxyhG8e_r0YY8I78f2RjD4_kjoC7sA_Qja0OLn5qYYFvmE9CYZDvkKg/s1600/Delilah+August+22d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLYLfyUROKhas5WAlL42L5WzfoVHdpQ7Zsqzy8vKztr6gGJjk_UEsolLMlQfr2DDXV1CXCbsdQJk-e7fkxyhG8e_r0YY8I78f2RjD4_kjoC7sA_Qja0OLn5qYYFvmE9CYZDvkKg/s400/Delilah+August+22d.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I loved this moment! <br />She was trying to hard to get a pear off the tree...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihqkFI_tFP189QnYh7CWKRIFv0kA7dmZ6Cxh1nlPymcHj8X5gRwz_HAMqsa0OHl81T9eYeaB8-h23YrDBXw9TkrMmOroKecgQq_PykFU4L7fTOyCyu_TzzKNYQrdoesAwqzOh3g/s1600/Delilah+August+22c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihqkFI_tFP189QnYh7CWKRIFv0kA7dmZ6Cxh1nlPymcHj8X5gRwz_HAMqsa0OHl81T9eYeaB8-h23YrDBXw9TkrMmOroKecgQq_PykFU4L7fTOyCyu_TzzKNYQrdoesAwqzOh3g/s400/Delilah+August+22c.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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...and then she just looks at me like, "What?!"</div>
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(Of course The Mister crawled under the fence and shook the tree for them.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6XIYaEOEd9hqBqfMpz933RazpTzDojP4U7A78EWjth6nOmpwUhilsiiNFo7FQYQ0KZsA29lYsN_dAw4PGKMEvBg2Ut6vcBP7Dkc59nhbfg5K9Oo3bWqPvNZbusOg0s3mPaEVvg/s1600/Delilah+August+22g+bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6XIYaEOEd9hqBqfMpz933RazpTzDojP4U7A78EWjth6nOmpwUhilsiiNFo7FQYQ0KZsA29lYsN_dAw4PGKMEvBg2Ut6vcBP7Dkc59nhbfg5K9Oo3bWqPvNZbusOg0s3mPaEVvg/s400/Delilah+August+22g+bw.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Delilah</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLBgZpHUXeWOy2Co54TDG9PylG75s0jZrj8Yo5f32NKrOp52iq2IIIeNCrfbwzKJ7w896xH_hI6OX_7G050l1mDjEYcE1evAiKcb9HDOmH0-PRs5Bo9W_add1V0yzK2Y3Lh6ndg/s1600/Elliott+August+22b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLBgZpHUXeWOy2Co54TDG9PylG75s0jZrj8Yo5f32NKrOp52iq2IIIeNCrfbwzKJ7w896xH_hI6OX_7G050l1mDjEYcE1evAiKcb9HDOmH0-PRs5Bo9W_add1V0yzK2Y3Lh6ndg/s400/Elliott+August+22b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Elliott (2 1/2 months old)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2oH0hUzsxB9R4vP9gE_DxW_SBw-xOW629sYA3BAxjSv1EjSK5mKZXozzkcbJubeGvgkF401jCjblbm6Zg3n4ZiHCLFDArKXVto_YT59Ol1sehjFLk4UjAgmtiznx9VyT6ADwHw/s1600/Elliott+August+22c+bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2oH0hUzsxB9R4vP9gE_DxW_SBw-xOW629sYA3BAxjSv1EjSK5mKZXozzkcbJubeGvgkF401jCjblbm6Zg3n4ZiHCLFDArKXVto_YT59Ol1sehjFLk4UjAgmtiznx9VyT6ADwHw/s400/Elliott+August+22c+bw.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Cutie pie Elliott</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Zvu6wyZyQbtNguGWHQ4F2M7WtVUhKfpkDdlbGzf09jH2tW60rLH6-LkYfPWenKF2xA9UbbqeqrHNYirxtTjYp0n0PqzhgsinPqPrRBH6Jn8mSJ6S-1HlfCu3zOYDzAwSRJb4rQ/s1600/Herd+August+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Zvu6wyZyQbtNguGWHQ4F2M7WtVUhKfpkDdlbGzf09jH2tW60rLH6-LkYfPWenKF2xA9UbbqeqrHNYirxtTjYp0n0PqzhgsinPqPrRBH6Jn8mSJ6S-1HlfCu3zOYDzAwSRJb4rQ/s400/Herd+August+22.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The whole herd. </div>
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I love the color variations!</div>
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Samson and Delilah (She was eating a pear.)</div>
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Samson and Delilah</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiwUFkw91tadtqT70D6TGr9i5GgO2VT26GXcgR5nAeh-R9UtyDGJlyfYjmX-lQmJmDXyFzfaM6-mJpMSKJRJeGGvkWjDAUUD7-OhypxwuY9c9IzAj4J8lEALOzM7i9yTrfLHaYQ/s1600/Samson+August+22b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiwUFkw91tadtqT70D6TGr9i5GgO2VT26GXcgR5nAeh-R9UtyDGJlyfYjmX-lQmJmDXyFzfaM6-mJpMSKJRJeGGvkWjDAUUD7-OhypxwuY9c9IzAj4J8lEALOzM7i9yTrfLHaYQ/s400/Samson+August+22b.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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I realize the hind end of a cow isn't a pleasant place to be, but I love pictures like this!<br />You can really see how blonde Samson's fur can be!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmquCejBp7ZFq7Y7AMerTLLLFxnAQWOsMs8BwU8fKr859v19xSJKoA5VjzgH7UKgZw6zoE-cZSyDLanacL2elRICbJ8nXQs40pEYiEIcNsJaaLTiWWeJ8IQSXMTaXDJs_vaeGFg/s1600/Trudy+August+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmquCejBp7ZFq7Y7AMerTLLLFxnAQWOsMs8BwU8fKr859v19xSJKoA5VjzgH7UKgZw6zoE-cZSyDLanacL2elRICbJ8nXQs40pEYiEIcNsJaaLTiWWeJ8IQSXMTaXDJs_vaeGFg/s400/Trudy+August+22.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Trudy, of course.</div>
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What a pretty girl!!</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-34325248913014355642018-08-02T09:26:00.001-04:002018-08-02T09:26:23.464-04:00Loss for WordsLately, I find myself at a loss for words. I stumbled through my answer the first few times I was asked but even now, I'm not quite sure how to answer the question.<br />
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When asked about my son, I've always been able to answer so very proudly, "He is in fourth grade, he's playing the trumpet in band. He still loves reading!" or, "He's in middle school. He's actually taking high school level classes!" or "He's a junior at Central. He also attends the math and science high school as well" or even, "He's a senior at State, majoring in Computer Science Engineering. He already has a great job lined up for after graduation!" Every time, I was able to speak to the amazing potential in this boy. Even when he was struggling through Calculus in high school, he was still taking classes at a more difficult level. Now, when asked about my amazing boy, any answer I respond with seems less than accurate, diminishing almost. "He is living and working near Lansing" or "He is working for a software company near State." Nothing that I come up with conveys the same potential, the same accomplishment, the same level of work he is putting into life. <br />
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I expect this is true of most parents and this stage of life with their grown children, but I'm at a loss for an answer. While I understand that having a job upon graduation is still a blessing that most will recognize, my pride in his accomplishments is far greater than just that he is employed. The fact of the matter is, I want to brag on his behalf, I want to express how wonderful it is for his hard work, especially in college, to pay off handsomely at this point in his young adult life! To make matters worse, I expect this is the same answer I will be giving for a number of years now. So soon, the accomplishment of a job upon graduation will wear off and at best he will come off as a twenty-something living and working in his field. Yip.Dee. <br />
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When I think about my own life, and what my dad must say when people ask about his kids, "Oh, Amy? She's still teaching. She and her husband have a small hobby farm. They are doing well." Yip.Dee. indeed.<br />
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Perhaps it's because when asked, the expected answer is based in accomplishments. As we age, those "accomplishments" often include having a career that pays the bills and raising a family. But in truth, people doing both of those things could be vastly different in terms of happiness. Isn't it happiness that we really want to use as a measure of "success"? <br />
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So how awkward will it be when someone asks about Jacob and I go on and on, gushing about how happy he is? Won't people assume I'm hiding something? Or that his accomplishments don't add up to squat, so I'm rambling on about how grounded, and level-headed and responsible he is instead? Probably. Or there might still be the follow-up questions that imply I avoided the question, "Yes, but what is he <i>doing</i>?" or "How is his job going?" Not that those aren't valid questions, but again, I think his success is measured by far more than the programming he does for a software company. At least it does in my book.<br />
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So, if you want to know how Jacob is doing nowadays, just ask. You'll likely get an earful as I boast about what an amazing man he has turned into. But if you want to know about his job, well, you might just have to ask him yourself.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-17607131093241311012018-07-22T13:12:00.002-04:002018-07-22T13:12:43.449-04:00Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRG-r8QbRw5CwhjWNkMapEw_SBoXYp45F06FmL0CEGhGd6Jd047-NY98iLDxpbN2TnBfTvPu5ZtFYfHKid7ivI8czxnCIMjgqxrKhfsksqaWWrMG8ZJ4X-FPpvhiKuqDbejIL-w/s1600/Delilah+and+Elliott+July+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRG-r8QbRw5CwhjWNkMapEw_SBoXYp45F06FmL0CEGhGd6Jd047-NY98iLDxpbN2TnBfTvPu5ZtFYfHKid7ivI8czxnCIMjgqxrKhfsksqaWWrMG8ZJ4X-FPpvhiKuqDbejIL-w/s320/Delilah+and+Elliott+July+22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Delilah was NOT going to share her corn stalk today, even with Elliott!</div>
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The Mister had to explain there are only so many stalks of corn in the garden that we've already picked corn from. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbmyzNb_T4qklqVRnMnWfEEAsYACatYjOkxS-ijumiQ2wTZDANZentNZTIkK_UfljiY6mHJIoxXMDxQiboRJRoWzwdKSoCkSZhJyqHKqGQ4Bt6BmVp5VPY5JZnSOsHuI_7JQPpw/s1600/Samson+July+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbmyzNb_T4qklqVRnMnWfEEAsYACatYjOkxS-ijumiQ2wTZDANZentNZTIkK_UfljiY6mHJIoxXMDxQiboRJRoWzwdKSoCkSZhJyqHKqGQ4Bt6BmVp5VPY5JZnSOsHuI_7JQPpw/s320/Samson+July+22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Samson loves when we come to play with Elliott as it means he gets a bowl of grain all to himself!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6B9FQMCQJS6tLWQkwnKX5x2gF14r3jOE7CmL2slsUCjlkeoUP2lyCIui9XhPDiz8WnodXeZug25x6cG5KSH0pS2Q3wivQIeTcbJxFWAVPzcaq6TxTDPhYWnVWLcZiZCwVUJu8A/s1600/IMG_20180722_114633410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6B9FQMCQJS6tLWQkwnKX5x2gF14r3jOE7CmL2slsUCjlkeoUP2lyCIui9XhPDiz8WnodXeZug25x6cG5KSH0pS2Q3wivQIeTcbJxFWAVPzcaq6TxTDPhYWnVWLcZiZCwVUJu8A/s320/IMG_20180722_114633410.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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And then there's cutey pie Elliott!!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_eTAdit8GR-zJ8jwyfeYlZyOc3j3PPCgPI62PM0N7Wyb84yJ6Hjaas-oHJ1HLA5QHY_htOn8N7vCEnAInO57uEBnUSLSdv_w6aTD7YqXl5F45KY2uViex-4GuthSx7QwcfoUoQ/s1600/Elliott+July+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_eTAdit8GR-zJ8jwyfeYlZyOc3j3PPCgPI62PM0N7Wyb84yJ6Hjaas-oHJ1HLA5QHY_htOn8N7vCEnAInO57uEBnUSLSdv_w6aTD7YqXl5F45KY2uViex-4GuthSx7QwcfoUoQ/s320/Elliott+July+22.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Not quite two months old but too cute for words. </div>
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He's not to thrilled to see us when we first arrive in the pasture, but he does okay once he's stuck in a pen with us!</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-64327742559864875882018-06-06T18:36:00.001-04:002018-06-06T18:36:30.012-04:00When People Ask...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaWg1mRCmevTt0SBXBawzDaTMfg7GMGnHjvfgEWrcBUSQE5dFazL2S2klVGQlRN-tZ65ThL-sIr3stnRInFtl_sxtYceilt6LUuUnyyKjMKynFGDETT1lklgNJMCvpZ_gu4ZukQ/s1600/Elliott+John+June+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaWg1mRCmevTt0SBXBawzDaTMfg7GMGnHjvfgEWrcBUSQE5dFazL2S2klVGQlRN-tZ65ThL-sIr3stnRInFtl_sxtYceilt6LUuUnyyKjMKynFGDETT1lklgNJMCvpZ_gu4ZukQ/s640/Elliott+John+June+6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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..."When will you sell him?" or worse..."How old will he need to be to butcher him?" I just want to scream LOOK AT THIS CALF!!!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSrpkuaI1a1un45Kl7Ca8mKn0hqumbbNiHQCdUGzGTOsFENcg5nfaC1n1DCCNg2V2-BcMHqnsbLwKt6TJY1Rg6gZREu4oG9H1ahnmllPLihtwqJ1k59z9Tw4grBLo8zcylU9HLA/s1600/Elliott+John+June+6%2528b%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSrpkuaI1a1un45Kl7Ca8mKn0hqumbbNiHQCdUGzGTOsFENcg5nfaC1n1DCCNg2V2-BcMHqnsbLwKt6TJY1Rg6gZREu4oG9H1ahnmllPLihtwqJ1k59z9Tw4grBLo8zcylU9HLA/s640/Elliott+John+June+6%2528b%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I mean, I LOVE my steak (and my burgers and my tacos and my...) but if I had to kill this little guy in order to eat any of those, I'd become a vegetarian in a heartbeat!</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-11259737691873629152018-06-01T18:41:00.000-04:002018-06-01T18:41:01.458-04:00The Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsl1hUDhsdug8EeRtzZ9k9XlT949KvbN6-wTbzz4eKL9NxgGLRfF7CxMtWiCegMz87XoLOgxVucV1b8sMf3V_xtDxO5a7TdJDgiJr13Zk4O83MiQ-RcQjWtaxzYqgQ-zI2kpa6Q/s1600/Calf+and+Delilah+June+1%2528b%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsl1hUDhsdug8EeRtzZ9k9XlT949KvbN6-wTbzz4eKL9NxgGLRfF7CxMtWiCegMz87XoLOgxVucV1b8sMf3V_xtDxO5a7TdJDgiJr13Zk4O83MiQ-RcQjWtaxzYqgQ-zI2kpa6Q/s400/Calf+and+Delilah+June+1%2528b%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Delilah and her new son</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCORj-U9yO6QghTwx5bVyG2TmNcx6HZp0Nre8wM3OBsn-3VmphT2nrMJuYKoJspX8eBE6jmmcX_tir0RFzpAld9at6Q7NUMr1CuSJyXT82O1FhX-G7sMugNW7bImvUSoIko9U0A/s1600/Calf+and+Delilah+June+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1600" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCORj-U9yO6QghTwx5bVyG2TmNcx6HZp0Nre8wM3OBsn-3VmphT2nrMJuYKoJspX8eBE6jmmcX_tir0RFzpAld9at6Q7NUMr1CuSJyXT82O1FhX-G7sMugNW7bImvUSoIko9U0A/s400/Calf+and+Delilah+June+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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About two hours old</div>
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Samson and the Calf</div>
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Family</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-88332185252799661052018-05-27T11:43:00.002-04:002018-05-27T11:43:57.369-04:00GratefulWhy I'm grateful a large branch fell on our roof at 8:00 pm on Friday night:<br />
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1. It didn't fall on our roof at 3am on Friday morning. Dealing with this in the middle of the night would have been tremendously worse. Obviously darkness would have made things much more difficult, but it was also raining later that evening and there's always my biggest concern: bats.<br />
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2. It didn't happen at 9am Friday morning, either. We were home at 8pm. Any other time and we might have been at work, or out for the evening and come home to this mess, or even gone for the weekend, but we were home when it happened.<br />
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3. We had the whole weekend to deal with it. We didn't have the added stress of going to work and trying to make phone calls and arrangements with the insurance company.<br />
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4. It wasn't raining yet. The sun was still shining while the holes got covered and tarped.<br />
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5. We didn't have a houseful of company this weekend. We did not that long ago and we will soon, but this weekend it was just us.<br />
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6. Rob and Julie were home. Not only was an extra set of hands helpful, but someone not emotionally affected by several holes in the roof was also a plus. The best part? I didn't have to go on the roof!<br />
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7. We now know what it's like. Maybe that sounds irrelevant, but when you live in the woods and your home is surrounded by trees, this is bound to happen. We thought it would have happened with the dead ash we had taken down last month, but in any case, we now know that while the event itself is rather frightening, we have awesome insurance (with extra coverage for trees!) and a great agent who made the whole process simple and relatively painless. <br />
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The one thing I am NOT grateful for:<br />
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Why couldn't it have damaged the deck that so badly needs replacing!??!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-4176693287558030452018-05-06T18:00:00.000-04:002018-08-02T09:51:58.371-04:00The Graduate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsEgP-0sr2CQDpowmRvjGhez9bqWV3FtwqMtcXfRHWRROYum0h8JsQDcUZ8N2ivUGUdzwcWsQltpg7RM-oAYQ-S_Lwmou3lc2h1_9CYBCns2rpnj6hmc45ItjS68T6EEgbR4gIQ/s1600/Jacob+in+front+of+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsEgP-0sr2CQDpowmRvjGhez9bqWV3FtwqMtcXfRHWRROYum0h8JsQDcUZ8N2ivUGUdzwcWsQltpg7RM-oAYQ-S_Lwmou3lc2h1_9CYBCns2rpnj6hmc45ItjS68T6EEgbR4gIQ/s400/Jacob+in+front+of+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jacob, May 6, 2018</div>
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"The Gang"</div>
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Riley, TJ and Jacob</div>
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Carissa and Jacob</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A96lL-aRe3VnF4HkdCJKGytFezqPDzek_LCEQQ3GHJQoZboImuV43cu7JGU7FMJw0dUl0QQTpzCLKQZPmeYv58g1EVnadug8MQIhaatbdrSELMkCYFvyV5djL36xMtuUqC4WZQ/s1600/J+and+C+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A96lL-aRe3VnF4HkdCJKGytFezqPDzek_LCEQQ3GHJQoZboImuV43cu7JGU7FMJw0dUl0QQTpzCLKQZPmeYv58g1EVnadug8MQIhaatbdrSELMkCYFvyV5djL36xMtuUqC4WZQ/s400/J+and+C+kiss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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May you always be this happy!!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-52263583445435795462018-03-26T15:01:00.004-04:002018-03-26T15:01:24.674-04:00Trudy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Meet Trudy, our seven week old bernedoodle puppy.</div>
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She has quickly charmed her way into our hearts (despite the piddle on the floor)<br />and has reminded us in many, many ways of our beloved Eli.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdq3ZDuP_niN-uxLcKHs7jIv1kxhLCK3wCR6TA99_-ccBEf9BJydoLkomsjhXHXa4D1r6qZDUD5FDv4OJSf3MydtsI-CK6Dv7o23goqIyRPNhCabGnTlOpg9-_x-58rTUcEHOMag/s1600/March+26%252C+2018+Running%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1138" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdq3ZDuP_niN-uxLcKHs7jIv1kxhLCK3wCR6TA99_-ccBEf9BJydoLkomsjhXHXa4D1r6qZDUD5FDv4OJSf3MydtsI-CK6Dv7o23goqIyRPNhCabGnTlOpg9-_x-58rTUcEHOMag/s400/March+26%252C+2018+Running%25282%2529.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
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She is always excited to see you!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIZjNQsJ_NXu1Rl5x_XmGJklvYMtsxx6lbSHXT3ABaYcu7zo8uFjwHQWczoneDoVJKi-kO5_IRjrmXGkndUqA3QZGThRYerFMC5pVRniBlROAIOJbph4JmZdekc84GguAHLcWOg/s1600/March+26%252C+2018%2528c%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="1600" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIZjNQsJ_NXu1Rl5x_XmGJklvYMtsxx6lbSHXT3ABaYcu7zo8uFjwHQWczoneDoVJKi-kO5_IRjrmXGkndUqA3QZGThRYerFMC5pVRniBlROAIOJbph4JmZdekc84GguAHLcWOg/s400/March+26%252C+2018%2528c%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And is as happy as can be with just a stick to play with!</div>
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Of course, sticks are more fun to chew on when you sit on someone's lap!</div>
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(And Mom might get frustrated when you constantly sit on her lap when she is trying to take your picture!)</div>
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So, a puppy selfie with a stick will have to do!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-19903228894541493262018-02-13T18:06:00.000-05:002018-02-13T18:06:17.081-05:00Snow Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Delilah </div>
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Delilah and Samson</div>
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Samson (left) and Delilah</div>
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Samson and Delilah</div>
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Samson</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-22876544910347502342018-02-03T10:24:00.003-05:002018-02-03T10:24:47.945-05:00HerdLast spring we had high hopes that Samson and Delilah would, well, to put it the Dixie Chicks way, "do a little mattress dancing". By fall, we called the vet thinking she must surely be pregnant as we hadn't seen any signs of her being in heat all summer. The vet, however, delivered the bad news. No calf was on its way. He did assure us that Delilah was in great health and he found no reason for concern. He gave her a vitamin shot, told us to "keep doing what you're doing" and that was that. <br />
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This week we had the vet back out. We still had no signs of her being in heat and we knew there was a shot he could give that would help jump start the process. Anticipating a fall birth, we thought this was a great time to try to get that ball rolling.<br />
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Samson wasn't too thrilled about being moved to the other pasture ahead of the vet's arrival. Sure, an extra bowl of grain is always welcome but then he seemed anxious to be back with Delilah. For her part, Delilah really didn't seem to care about being in the pen as long as there was grain to be had. The Mister has to adjust his system every time the vet comes as her horns get longer and make the confining mechanism a little more complicated. He always gets it worked out, however, and Delilah was all set and ready for the vet. And boy, do they know the vet. The moment he pulls up, she stands stock still. She watches him like the proverbial hawk. After the last visit, however, I learned that she hates shots far worse than the "check-up" even when the "check-up" puts the vet shoulder deep in her, well, you get the idea. <br />
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In any case, the vet wanted to check her out before giving her the shot and we welcomed the chance to ensure nothing was wrong again. James was just re-entering the pasture from checking on Samson when the vet calmly declared, "she's pregnant". WHAT?!?!? I turned and looked at James to make sure he heard it, too. "I'd say five or six months along," the vet confirmed. Apparently when he reached in, he was able to put his hand right on the calf's head.<br />
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At this point, I might have screamed. I might have shouted at an unreasonably excited level. I might have jumped up and down and repeatedly said, "Good girl, Delilah!! Way to go!!" A calf?!? Due in May?!? Could this be more perfect?!? The vet, who resembles Barney Fife, walked back to his truck as though a crazy woman jumping around a pasture was an every day experience for him. We threw about a hundred questions at him rapid-fire, "What do we do now?" (Nothing.) "Do we need to separate Samson when the time gets close?" (Not unless he seems to be a problem with the calf.) "How will we know when it's time?" (It will be udderly obvious. Okay, the vet didn't say that exactly, but it's my version of the story.) <br />
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We wrote the vet a check. Somehow $33.50 just doesn't seem nearly enough in my book for being shoulder-deep in a cow's arse, but it's his business, I'm not going to tell him how to run it. <br />
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I then continued to run around, jumping up and down shouting to Samson, "You did it!! Good job, Samson!!" and to Delilah, "I'm so proud of you, girl!! Way to go!! A BABY!!" Even The Mister thought I was a little over the top. We released Samson back into the regular pasture with Delilah and he went a running and bucking to see her. Maybe he was excited about the news as well, maybe it was just that she had another bit of grain from The Mister and he wanted some of that golden goodness, but either way he seemed glad to be together again. For me, I may have continued saying, "A calf!! Can you believe it?!" well into the evening, giggling all the while.<br />
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Somehow the calf to me just represents pure joy. We love Samson and Delilah to smithereens, but this calf came about on our farm, and will be ours from Day One. There are few things in this world cuter than a highland calf and we're going to have one within just a few months. Running around like a crazy woman and shouting was the least I could do with all the excitement I felt.<br />
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When we were originally talking with farmers about getting highlands of our own, several people reminded us of the importance of having more than one. "One is lonely. Two is a pair. Three makes a herd," several people told us. Samson and Delilah are creating their own little herd. Out in our beautiful pasture. I could not be more thrilled, nor feel more blessed. These magnificent beasts bring us such joy it is beyond measure (and well worth the cost of hay). <br />
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Way to go, Samson and Delilah! This is bound to be such an amazing experience for all of us. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-22588064225338232092018-01-31T10:33:00.000-05:002018-02-03T10:34:12.703-05:00PuppyLet me start by saying there is no creature in this world that could ever replace Eli. We both still tear up at any reminder of our beloved dog. An empty jar of peanut butter. Being outside working in the yard. Sometimes just walking in the door. Even Charlotte lying in a certain place on the carpet.<br />
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But our hearts need another dog. We are animal people and this farm just isn't complete without one. I've had my heart set on a Bernedoodle for many many years, but they were financially out of reach. For a long while, the only breeder I could even find of these adorable dogs was in Canada. Not that I ruled that out as an option but having to get a passport just to get a puppy does seem a bit extreme. Recently, however, I have found more and more breeders of Bernedoodles and the idea started to become slightly more realistic.<br />
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Last year friends of ours who have bred Bernese for years decided to breed Bernedoodles. We were overjoyed until we heard the price tag. Still out of reasonable reach for us. But then I found a breeder, new to the scene who has the same quality of dog, but since she's just starting out, they aren't quite as costly. With encouragement from my dear friend we sent off a deposit to hold our place in line for the next litter. We also visited her when she had a litter last fall and got to see the pups and meet the parents. <br />
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We got the news today that the puppies have been born. We have yet to see pictures, but being second in line for picking rights, there is hope that we will get the color combination we were hoping for but we aren't yet certain if we will get a male or female (which just means I'm in a naming crisis!) While my heart will always ache for our amazing Eli (and I'm sure the challenges of training a puppy will make me miss how easy Eli always was), it's time for us to put another four paws in this house. Sometime around mid-March our pup will come home. We are excited beyond words!<br />
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I'll post pictures as soon as they are available!! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-77159950717782445932018-01-03T10:02:00.001-05:002018-01-03T10:02:35.770-05:00PunnyMy tooth has been hurting off and on over the past week. I called the dentist to set up an appointment and then texted James to let him know I'd be going in at "tooth-hurty" today. He didn't appreciate the pun. But my appointment really is at 2:30. Can you beat that?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-84672467886587058432018-01-03T10:01:00.000-05:002018-01-03T10:01:16.367-05:00AdultingThe last two holiday seasons have been different around here. We've always been accustomed to sharing Jacob with his dad's side of the family and most of our family lives quite a distance, so generally speaking, our holidays have always been pretty quiet and low-key. The last two seasons haven't been different in that regard, but they've taken on a new feel. While Jacob's girlfriend has been part of our celebrations for several years, it's only the last two years that she has stayed here for the entire time Jacob is here. I admit, I underestimated the effect that would have on our family dynamics. It's not that we don't like his girlfriend, don't get me wrong, but there's a different feel to our interactions and she brings a new set of expectations, habits and attitudes to a pre-existing family dynamic.<br />
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I spoke with my dad about it recently. It might be stereotypical to say he's the wise one in our family, but he is one of the most rational, reasonable, level-headed people I know. He reminded me that the "kids" as I call them, are "adulting". "They are learning how to be adults," he reminded me. The conversation has stuck with me for the past several days. I realized today that my dad, in all his wisdom, let me vent and discuss and never once did he remind me that I had to practice "adulting" way back then, too. (I dare say I am still "adulting" on a regular basis even now!) While he didn't say it, I'm sure my dad could come up with all kinds of examples of ways I disrupted our "pre-existing family dynamics" once I became a 20-something, especially after I was married and had Jacob. <br />
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I realize I probably owe my out-laws (former in-laws) a huge apology for upsetting their family dynamics when I dated and then married their son. I did not fit their mold and sarcasm was a cuss word in their house so I have no doubt whatsoever that I upset the proverbial apple cart often and sometimes perhaps with force. I certainly didn't mean to. I was "adulting" as my dad says, and it took me a long time to learn how to do that well (again, still not so good at it at times). <br />
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I also realized how much adjusting Jacob had to do when James came into our lives. While I welcomed him emphatically with open arms, I'm sure there were times when our family dynamics shifted and Jacob probably felt the shift more than we did. <br />
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I guess in all of this, what I am learning is that perhaps we are all "adulting" and learning to embrace the new ideas, experiences and expectations of someone new to our family is part of that process - and a good part. If it's any consolation, James' mother thinks I hung the moon, so perhaps I did learn a thing or two along the way about how to adjust to pre-existing family dynamics and not to rock the boat so much. In any case, as The Mister and I adjust our holiday expectations and learn all the nuances of being empty-nesters, I hope we continue to remind ourselves of how new we once were to the adult world and we help our kids navigate those waters with as few ripples as possible. After all, that's part of being an adult, right?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-78680087546829581532017-12-16T10:20:00.001-05:002017-12-16T10:20:09.625-05:00All BecauseAs I open the laptop to write today, a beautiful red cardinal sits perched on the hemlock out front. Hello, Mom. <br />
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While I am always grateful for these little feathered reminders of you, I wish you were here today in person to tell me what turned your eye from the practical jokester Jerry to his best friend, Roger. I wish you were here to tell me about the dance you two went to in the snowstorm where you were crowned queen. I wish you were here to tell me about his proposal on New Year's Eve, one you must have seen coming and yet one that surely made your heart leap just the same. <br />
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I wish you were here to tell me what it was like to start your life together so far from your homes, where you didn't know a soul, in the middle of a war, making plans for a life with so much uncertain around you. I wish you were here to tell me what went through your mind, when despite being a teacher, your husband still got drafted and the least of your worries was whether he'd get his job back, or moving everything to North Carolina and then to Louisiana. I wish you could tell me what it was like for you, living with your parents with a baby, waiting out basic training knowing the next step was Viet Nam. I wish you could tell me the relief you felt when he was chosen instead, for an office position stateside, and eventually when he was able to leave the Army behind ahead of schedule and resume your life with two young children.<br />
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I wish you were here, Mom, to talk about what was hard in marriage and what made you laugh out loud. What memories would you have from the early years that would still be with you now, as treasured as gold? What hard times have turned themselves into blessed experiences that forever strengthened your bond with each other?<br />
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I wish you were here, Mom, to know the babies you held, the children you read to, the teenagers you counseled have turned into parents themselves. I wish you could know your amazing grandchildren! I wish you could see Jacob's curls - straight from you! I wish you could hear Emily giggle or see Robby's dimples, or the golden hair on Adalene or the mischievous grin on Little Garrett - they are all like you in so many ways. Every one of your grandchildren has a heart of gold, an amazing sense of humor and a caring spirit for others that all come from a grandmother they never met. <br />
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I wish I could take you to my classroom. I wish you could be there for Fairy Tale Friday, or the day we hatch chickens. I wish you were here to remind me some days of all the reasons you always believed I'd be a writer, to help me overcome the fear. I wish you were here to remind me sometimes that God is good (all the time) or that prayer matters, or even that this is just the beginning. I wish you were here to tell me what to do when my child breaks my heart, or when I miss him more than I can stand. I wish you were here so I could apologize for ever breaking yours, or for not knowing how to handle my emerging adult life with the ending of your yours.<br />
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I wish you were here to meet James. Oh how you would love this man. Not just because he loves Dallas, or old county music, or even because for his big soft heart. You'd love him for how he loves your daughter; for how he makes me laugh and how he comforts me when I cries. You'd love him for his shameless sense of humor, his deep-rooted love for farming and the way he indulges your daughter with my crazy plans.<br />
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While I might wish every day that you were here, I will forever be grateful for all the days you were. I will forever give thanks that you spent my whole life being the best mom I could ever wish for or dream of. I might wish for more conversations, more time to know you, more years together, but I am so very grateful for all that you and Dad gave to us kids, even when it seemed like you had very little at all. We were and are a family that loves each other deeply, has faith in all that is good and we are a family who still laughs far more often than we cry. We are a family who still believes in the power of family, who still believe that God is good (all the time) and who truly understand how precious and short life really is.<br />
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We are a family. All because two people fell in love (thankfully) too young to know how hard the road would get. We are a family, a very blessed, very successful, very loving family all because fifty years ago today, those two people who fell in such amazing love together got married.<br />
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I wish you were here today, Mom. I wish we were having a huge family dinner, I wish we were raising a glass and I was wiping away these tears as I led a toast. I'm sure I would have agonized over finding the perfect gift for the occasion, even though I know that having your whole family around would have been the only gift you ever wanted.<br />
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Happy Fiftieth Anniversary, Mom (and Dad). I love you both so very much and I will forever work to make my marriage, my life, my legacy as amazing as the ones you forged together. All because you people fell in love.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-31883679207581584092017-11-05T09:07:00.000-05:002017-12-23T16:05:22.500-05:00I can vividly remember a conversation I had with The Mister, even though it was nearly seven years ago when it happened. I remember talking about his new house and the renovations he had in mind for it. I remember talking about baseball, first dates and how I never let a guy buy me drinks. I remember it so clearly because I was so focused on this man, his words, his body language. Despite a crowded room, noisy televisions and conversations all around us, he had my complete and undivided attention that night and many, many days and nights since.<br />
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I do not remember well all the things he said, however, when he proposed. I know we talked about his family while we walked through the park that night, but beyond that I don't recall much of anything. It wasn't that he didn't have my attention that night, it was that my attention and energy was on trying to make him feel less nervous, to make the stroll seem more ordinary, to make him feel less vulnerable, to make the moment feel less life-changing than it was. I don't like people to feel uncomfortable and that night, my energy was focused solely on getting to the other side of the proposal, getting to the part where The Mister was his fun, lovable self instead of the nervous, vulnerable man before me. My concern for him was so great, in fact, that I even said, "No!" when he started to get down on one knee, as it was more than my heart could bear to have this man, this amazing, strong man kneeling before me. No isn't what you're supposed to say, however when a man is kneeling in front of you with a gorgeous ring, but my heart was in the right place, I swear.<br />
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In both cases, I was listening to the love of my life. He had my heart and soul's attention but in very different ways. I dare say I was a better listener the night he proposed despite not being able to recall any of his rehearsed romantic lines.<br />
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The Mister and I have both noticed, more and more as the years go by, how much we enjoy just sitting with family or friends, talking and listening. Our frustrations with social events seem to always be about how it was hard to hear, or difficult to talk with everyone or even how children are dismissed from conversations when we'd love to see them included. I've also noticed and The Mister has endured many <i>many</i> after school conversations about how bad my students are at listening. They are completely unaware that they are interrupting a conversation and they are eager to talk but have no interest in what the other person has to say. It's actually a skill I try to teach, explicitly, in my classroom. A few years ago, I had a student in my classroom with special needs that moved part way through the year. On his last day with my class, we sat in a circle and each student chose to share a compliment about this student as a little send-off. A fellow student said, "He is a great listener. He even looks at you when you are talking!" It was completely and utterly true. But it saddened me that it was so rare that it stood out so much from this one amazing student.<br />
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Just a few years ago when I was working on my Master's degree, I was shadowing my principal when I asked her how she dealt with difficult parents, a key component to that position. She said, "Most of the time, I just listen. People just want to be heard. Once they are heard, their anger often subsides and we can work together on a solution, but from the start, I just let them talk and I show them that they have my full attention and concern." I wondered then as I continue to wonder now, could listening be the solution to most of the problems we face?<br />
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Maybe that's a pretty large jump to make, but it bears consideration. There's nothing unique in this idea, certainly. I have books dedicated to the topic that I use with my students .A simple Google or Amazon search would reveal thousands more, I'm sure. If, at my next social gathering I asked if people think that listening is a lost art, I'm sure most would emphatically agree. But we continue to move in a direction that puts being understood above understanding. Social media is about putting out into the world all the things I want to express. Not only do we engage in fewer face-to-face conversations anymore (even phone calls were a back and forth proposition but how often now do we text instead of talk?) we now routinely engage in one-sided dialogues about life. What we express is the point, not what people express back. Facebook doesn't have a button that says, "I found your point interesting and I'd really like to discuss it further." Even as I type, I'm aware that I'm writing a blog post, a very one-sided expression of ideas that starts and stops with the ideas from my mind alone.<br />
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It seems more and more we are caught up in all the things we are trying to accomplish. It has stopped being about connecting and started being all about what have we done. Just wait until next month when the Christmas cards roll around. Isn't every letter a list of accomplishments? It's not hard for me to recognize that connecting with people is just part of my personality. Given a genie in a bottle, I'd wish for the opportunity to talk with my mom again, or my grandma. There's so much about them that I don't know, that I want to understand as an adult, so much I didn't think to ask before. Even as I write "talk with my mom", the truth is, I'd really just like to sit and listen. For as along as I possibly could. I was so busy talking when she was here, but never listening.<br />
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It's worth considering as well, that not everyone cares what other people have to say. The narcissists of the world are not small in number, I fear. Is this trait taught? Is it taught unintentionally? Is it necessary? I could as easily, perhaps make an argument that focusing on ourselves and our needs is important, too. While that might help us solve our own problems and satisfy our own needs, will it solve the world's?<br />
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A couple months ago, I was out with a friend for lunch. We talk often, but rarely do we talk deeply about topics outside of our shared profession. Even on this occasion, her comments were superficial at best about other things going on, but I could tell more was on her mind than she was saying. I kept my response on the surface as well, saying only, "It sounds to me like..." but in that one sentence, something unlocked. She knew I had heard what she was really saying and she felt safe enough to start talking about the bigger issue. Later, she wrote me a note and even bought us a small gift in appreciation. Feigned as gratitude for looking after their animals while they were gone, she later confided it was for listening and giving her a voice for her concerns. The problem found a solution shortly after our conversation and her entire demeanor changed. She had been heard. And that was all she needed.<br />
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The Mister continues to be my favorite listener. Whether I ramble for an hour (or two) about school, nudge in my not-so-subtle ways about an idea I have, or whether I say nothing at all, he knows what I mean. He gets me. He hears not only the words, but the lack thereof sometimes. He hears not only my tone but my pain, or my joy that I'm trying to disguise. Maybe that's why I married that man who spoke about sports and home remodeling from the bar stool next to mine. Maybe it's because when I said that night that my idea of a perfect first date was a minor league baseball game and he said, "So I have to wait until Spring to ask?" I knew, right then and there, in a crowded bar on a Saturday night, that this man had heard everything I was saying. Right from my heart to his. I wonder, I worry, I pray that I am half the listener he is.<br />
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Maybe, just maybe that's as simple and yet as complicated as it gets. We just need to listen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20982632.post-4150605389730156492017-11-01T02:05:00.000-04:002017-11-01T02:05:59.980-04:00The PushSleep and I don't get along. I have, over the years, attributed my insomnia to many things. Usually stress. September and October tend to be my worst months, so it only makes sense to blame the pressures of a new school year on my lack of quality sleep. The truth is, it isn't stress. Or perhaps more honestly, it isn't only stress that keeps me awake at night. It's words. <br />
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I write in my head all the time. I compose, recompose, edit, alter and rewrite emails I'll never send, conversations long since over, scenes I wish had come out differently. I work each one through, creating the perfect comeback, retort, explanation or expression for my feelings, often taking hours of sleep away just to find satisfaction in what I should have said, might have written or could have expressed better.<br />
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Tonight is no different. <br />
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Years ago, I felt God pushing me. I was unsettled, searching and uncertain about my direction in life. I was single, a parent, a homeowner, gainfully employed, but I was lost. It took me nearly three years to finally make a major move - sold my house, uprooted my child and moved - to rediscover a calling I had been ignoring. I found myself back in the classroom, teaching in a state I had never lived in. God knew where I needed to be, I just had to be willing to follow.<br />
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I've been feeling it again. I've been complaining and whining and stressing but it wasn't until a few recent conversations that I've finally been able to articulate what's really going on. I feel a push. I don't think a cross-country move, or the selling of my home, or uprooting my family is necessarily in order this time (you can breathe a sigh of relief now, Chief), but a change is coming. All things considered, my own mother could have predicted this change and she's been gone quite a long time now. I recently spoke with my dad about my frustrations with my career and my need to do something that brings passion back into my livelihood. When he, in his calm, wise, paternally protecting manner suggest I do more writing, I wondered how he had enough restraint in him to not just say, "DUH, Amy. WRITE." Anyone who knows me knows I love to write. Obviously, just looking at how long I've been blogging, writing isn't a new idea at all. I might just be the last one to admit the truth of the direction God is pushing me.<br />
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Just this week, at school, we recognized our students of the month. I teach second grade, so the "ceremony" was little more than a pizza lunch with parents, a short, redundant paragraph read by each teacher and a colorful, clip-art filled certificate for each recipient. And yet, I couldn't leave it at that. I saved my "speech" for last of all my colleagues, knowing they wouldn't be happy if I went first and they read their trite statements after, but I expounded on the need to celebrate more than just the child in front of us, but all the people who shaped, educated, raised and loved this child. While I may have quoted Hilary and her over-used "it takes a village" concept, in a few short sentences, I painted a broader picture of the importance of working together to create life-long learners and genuinely true democratic citizens of our global world. I'll admit, it was probably a bit too philosophical for my pizza-and-coloring-page audience, but it was my 30 second stage and I took advantage of it. Several people commented later, each and every one saying something along the lines of, "you always write the perfect thing". Writing isn't new to me. Sometimes it isn't even hard.<br />
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And yet it is. But it feels like I'm turning a corner. I've always loved to write, I've always kept a journal, a notebook, jotted stories, written speeches, notes on my phone, ideas for school...it's just who I am. But just saying that makes me realize it's bigger than that, it's who I <i>am</i>. On one such note, I have a quote that I picked up along the way by my favorite author, Barbara Kingsolver. It says, "The very least you can do with your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance, live right inside it, under its roof." I need to stop saying I like to write and start believing I am an author. Live inside it, Amy.<br />
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And that's where it gets scary. When my dad suggested I write, the unspoken suggestion was that I write with perhaps more intention and frequency. "Without concern to content" is a free pass to creativity, but living under the roof of my hope to truly be an author means I need to write with intention, purpose and <i>craft</i>. Maybe not right away, but the kind of writing I've always dabbled in has allowed me to be as lazy, imperfect and uncompromising as I want to be. To move into the next phase is to actually put appropriate effort, time and care into it. I likened it to why my dad doesn't golf anymore - the time it takes to really be good at it, has to match the desire. <br />
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But I suspect sometime in me has the desire to really be good at it. Not just along the "I've impressed a group of elementary parents" good, but truly good. Good like my name is on the cover of a children's book, or good like I've been asked to present at a conference good. A new level of good. But good takes work. It takes time. It take a vulnerability that scares the shit out of me. It isn't hard for me to impress my own class of eight year olds with a story I wrote. But can I impress adults? <br />
Could I ever impress a publisher?<br />
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Live inside it, Amy.<br />
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So, lying awake at midnight on a Tuesday night, I feel the lyrics of Anna Nalick running through my head, "Two a.m. and I'm still awake writing this song, if I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to." This push I feel, is a need to find my passion once again. God has used multiple people in many different ways lately to say the same words - "Write, Amy". And so I shall. I have no idea what that writing will look like, be about or even the structure it might take on. But I am going to write.<br />
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For five years, I participated in NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - in November. The goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days, something I accomplished all five times (I even have a poster). I haven't done it in years, but this seemed like a good impetus. Years ago, I wrote a novel - one half during one year's NaNoWriMo, and the other half during the next year. I printed it out months later, with the idea that I would go back, edit it and make it actually worth reading. I was eating dinner out alone while Jacob was at youth group at church, and a person saw me marking up pages in a binder and said, 'Is that a novel? Did you write it?" It was one of my favorite moments in all my life. Being able to answer yes to both was somehow so gratifying, even though I knew then (and even more so now) that the novel was absolute crap. It was a bucket-list accomplishment for me. I never opened that binder again. <br />
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It's time to add a new bucket-list item. Get published. Somewhere, somehow, some day, get my name in print. <br />
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Bear with me over the next thirty days as I write with abandon. No clear direction, no pre-defined topic or structure, but just writing. Maybe somewhere along the way I will find a spark, or nugget of something that will turn into something more. Maybe I will know the direction I am headed once I get moving on this journey (or maybe I'll just rule out a few directions!) All I know, is when I hear my dad say something to me that sounds so very much like the exact words my mom would have said ("She'll either be a teacher, a lawyer or an author!") I think it's time to sit up and pay attention.<br />
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Thanks, Dad (and Mom) for the nudge. Having given me this talent some forty-odd years ago, it's completely within your rights to suggest I finally get off my duff and get around to putting it to use! The Mister is just going to have to get used to my side of the bed being empty at times (probably an improvement from the tossing and turning he's grown accustomed to sleeping with me!) As Dad said, "What have you got to lose?"<br />
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Live inside it, Amy. Live inside it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0