Swimmer's Ear and a Sensitive Mind

It's amazing to me how one little thing that happens in my day--indeed, a miniscule thing that occurs in my life--can set my sensitive mind into overactive mode.

My dear daughter Bard, who is fifteen and a half today, awoke yesterday morning with an ache in her ear. Since she's been swimming quite a bit lately, I began to research the ever-wonderful web for information on swimmer's ear. After reading a few sites, I determined that, no, it was definitely not swimmer's ear. Tomorrow, I said, I'll run to the health food store and pick up some garlic willow oil and we'll get rid of this painful ear infection.

"I don't like putting things in my ear," she protested.

"That's not true," I countered.

"Yes, it certainly is," she responded.

"Well, it wasn't true when you were three and you shoved that plastic pull string from the little toy phone directly into your eardrum, causing me a severe panic attack. I'm pretty sure you damaged your eardrum with that thing. You had a thing about putting things in your orafices. That was just shortly after the sponge up the nose incident."

"I didn't like doing that," Bard retorted.

"I disagree. I think you sincerely liked the idea of sticking something into your ear which is why you did it. I think you adored the idea right up until the moment of impact with your little eardrum."

She did what she normally does when I make sense. She rolled her eyes.

This morning, dear Bard awoke with more intense pain in her ear, a pain that was radiating down her jaw. And then there was the pesky problem of not being able to hear with that ear.

I called the doctor and after only five minutes of waiting for a receptionist, I was able to make an appointment. And, miracles never ceasing, I was able to score an appointment with my doc of preference for this very day. Sah-WEET!

There are days when the doctor's office gods look down on me and smile. I wish, for the sake of comedy, that I could say today was not one of them. But then again, that's a banal joke, so I'll not take that line any further.

Today, the doctor's office gods looked down on me, waved a happy little, "It's nice to see you!" wave and grinned from ear to ear. Not Bard's ear, though. That would hurt.

When I say that I found favor in the eyes of the doctor's office gods, I mean that I walked right up to the registration desk with my insurance card in hand, on time, and didn't have to sign a single thing. No paperwork, no arrival time list, nothing. And as Bard and I seated ourselves, I found a magazine that was worth reading, Kids Discover issue on bees. And as I opened the magazine, I was amazed to find that I was not able to get beyond the first page because Bard's name was called. Our nurse was friendly, commented about the fact that today was Bard's 15 1/2 day and would she be getting her temps? (Yes, that was next, I replied) and Bard was thrilled to find that she is taller than she thought she was. We were taken to our room, where Bard's complaints were actually heard, and then we were left to enjoy the rest of our magazine, which I had the forethought to carry along with me into the examination room.

But, wonder of wonders, the doctor's office gods showered their love upon me, and we were only able to read through about half of the magazine before Dr. B arrived in the room, all smiles and pleasant conversation, and diagnosed dear Bard with swimmer's ear faster than you can say, "Hi! I'm doctor B!"

"Sometimes you can clear it up without a prescription," he said, "but not this one. She has it pretty bad." Indeed, poor Bard was miserable, and I could see that the pain was increasing with every minute. "But in the future, you can use distilled white vinegar at the first sign of soreness."

"We've always used garlic oil for ear infections," I told him confidently. My children don't get ear infections often, but when they do, I've never seen an ear infection that alternating treatments of garlic oil and hydrogen peroxide won't clear up.

"Garlic oil really only works because you warm it up," he said. "Any sweet oil will make the ear feel better if you warm it up. The problem is that if there is any damage to the eardrum, you really don't want to put any oils or other substances in the ear. It could cause serious problems."

No garlic oil? Did he just say no garlic oil?

"And there are other things that people use that simply won't work for swimmer's ear or ear infections..."

While he was talking, I only half heard him because I was so focused on the fact that I'd been wrong about garlic oil all these years. How could it be? I'd used it with success! Repeatedly! They sell it in the health food stores! I've read it in my naturopathic books! I'd recommended it to others! I'd always had such wonderful success with garlic willow oil and...

"...and hydrogen peroxide. That just doesn't work, either. It's good to use to clean out the ear, but it won't kill the bacteria that causes infections..."

What? What did I just hear? Did he just say that peroxide, that wonderful cure-all that I store in my pantry by the gallons, doesn't work to fight ear infections? Peroxide works on EVERYTHING! It's a dadblammed miracle worker! Once, when we had a pony with proud flesh, I was able to conquer the infection with very strong doses of peroxide and herbal salves.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did you say that peroxide doesn't...doesn't work?"

"No, it doesn't," replied Dr. B. "It might clean out the ear, but it won't kill the bacteria. If you want to treat an ear problem before it gets out of hand, use plain white distilled vinegar, and..."

Vinegar. Okay, I learned something there. And under normal circumstances, I'd be thrilled that my doc was offering information about home remedies. But here I was, The Mother, sitting in front of my fifteen and a half year old child, realizing that I actually did not know everything there was to know about raising children. Shock! Dismay! Mental chaos ensued!

Because while Dr. B was talking about how most ear infections are viral anyway, and they'll run their course whether they're treated or not and will simply get better on their own (his reasoning for why the garlic oil worked), and while he was saying that there's no way of knowing whether an ear infection is bacterial or viral and they, unfortunately, prescribe antibiotics for all ear infections, I was still thinking about garlic oil and hydrogen peroxide.

And how I'd been wrong.

What else am I wrong about? I wondered. What else have I skipped along blissfully believing, placing my loved ones in harm's way?

What about my educational choices? And my lifestyle choices? And my disciplinary choices? What about my religious beliefs and my worldview? What about all those times I thought I'd won an argument? What about all the other paradigms, assumptions and philosophies I'd adopted?

The doctor's office gods were still smiling as I paid my twenty dollar co-pay and picked up Bard's prescription. There were people still in the waiting room who had been there when we'd arrived. I wondered what they'd done to anger the doctor's office gods. Maybe they pulled a page out of one of the waiting room magazines or tapped on the side of the aquarium or signed the registration sheet stating they'd arrived five minutes earlier than they actually had just to try to fool the doctor's office gods into believing they hadn't been three minutes late. Or something.

But that sensitive mind of mine just couldn't get out of active mode. And now, I'm left wondering; first garlic oil and hydrogen peroxide, next...what? Hershey's Kisses aren't really a nutritious part of a complete breakfast? Black really isn't my color? My husband doesn't really believe that my butt's not too big?

Maybe the doctor's office gods weren't really smiling down on me after all.

Maybe they were laughing AT me.

I hope that doesn't make them angry that I said that.

Up On Aden's Hill

Aden's Hill
by Thicket Dweller

There's a peace too big to photograph
There's a sky too blue to paint
There's a life that's greener than the fields along
That dusty lane.

There's a laugher that comes ringing
Even through the winter's chill
There's a thrill that comes from flying
'Cross the snow that once lay still
Up on Aden's hill.
Up on Aden's hill.

You can see across the pastures
Beyond the houses plain and white
You can see beyond the future
When the stars burst forth at night
You can see the red-tailed hawk fly
soaring, shrieking high and shrill
You can see as far as eyes allow or 'till you
Get your fill
Up on Aden's hill
Up on Aden's hill.

There are places that are higher
There are grasses just as green
But the view from here is the clearest
I have ever seen.

It's a love that can move mountains
And can chase away my fears
It's a passion that can calm my rage and
Wipe away my tears.
It's a love that gives me eagle's wings
And makes the hateful voices still
It's a love that I can see in everything from Aden's hill
From up on Aden's hill...

This is a poem I wrote after a visit from a friend; we had taken a walk to the top of a neighbor's hill and the view, seeing it as though through my friend's eyes, was new and beautiful and completely breathtaking. This is one of my favorite poems that I've written. I hope you enjoy it, too

The big kids grab their loot.

It's PINATA TIME!

Sweetheart looking mighty sweet.

The lovely, talented, intelligent and entertaining Miss Bard.

Sweetheart looking slightly demented.

Bo playing lovely music (funky effect courtesy of moi).

My handsome and talented husband, Bo.

Daddy and The Baby.

Monet the ham.

More water gun fight (Bard, Houdin and Cat)

Water gun fight (Bard and Houdin)

Water balloon fight.

The Beautiful Baby

Eta Sigma Alpha National Home School Honor Society

Eta Sigma Alpha National Home School Honor Society's mission is to "recognize and encourage scholarship among home school students. To achieve this purpose, Eta Sigma Alpha National Home School Honor Society shall provide opportunities for the development of leadership and service. Eta Sigma Alpha shall encourage the development of an intellectual climate that will stimulate the exchange of ideas and ideals, foster scholarship, and promote academic excellence. Eta Sigma Alpha shall also advocate homeschooling as a viable and successful educational methodology and act as a liasion for homeschooling to the general public, colleges/universities, and the media."

See their website for more details and to locate a chapter in your state.

A funny for your day

While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."

"No problem, just let me in," says the man.

"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."

"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven," says the senator.

"I'm sorry but we have our rules."

And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.

Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at expense of the people. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne. Also present is the devil, which really is a very friendly guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises...

The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

"Now it's time to visit heaven."

So, 24 hours pass with the head of state joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

"Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity."

The senator reflects for a minute, then the senator answers: "Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell."

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage.

He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. "I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now all there is a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.

What happened?"

The devil looks at him, smiles and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted."

Monarch Photos!

The monarch butterflies emerged from their chrysalis. We didn't see them actually come out of the chrysalis, but I caught a few shots soon aftewards. They emerged on Thursday, and today their mating. In a few days, the female will lay her eggs on the milkweed we have in our butterfly habitat and then those will become caterpillars. Then the whole thing will start again!

Enjoy the photos. I definitely enjoyed taking them!

The monarchs emerge! They came out of their chrysalis between 6:30 and 8:30 a.m.

This is the female. You can tell because the third stripe from the bottom of her thorax is straight with no thick spots.

The Baby observes a new butterfly.

A picture is worth a thousand words!

Holding a fluttering butterfly.

This is the male. Can you see the thick spot on the third line from the bottom? About halfway through the line?

One tickled toddler!

The Baby holding the male monarch. The third line from the bottom of the wing has a thick spot on it which the female doesn't have.

You can see both thick spots clearly here, close to the thorax.

Male and female on a purple coneflower.

This is the female. No thick spot.

Male and female monarchs on a purple coneflower.

Here is the female with her wings spread. See how different she looks from the male?

Sweetheart with the male again.

Sweetheart with the male.

The Unborn

A friend sent me this poem after reading my post Someone Out There. It brought such tears to my eyes. It describes precisely how I feel...

The Unborn

By Sharon Olds

Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,

like gnats around a streetlight in summer,

the children we could have,

the glimmer of them.



Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing

in some antechamber – servants, half-

listening for the bell.



Sometimes I see them lying like love letters

in the Dead Letter Office.



And sometimes, like tonight, by some black

second sight I can feel just one of them

standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea

in the dark, stretching its arms out

desperately to me.

Someone Out There

We had to run to Wal*Mart tonight. It's a pretty common occurrence. It's really just about the only gig in town, and if you need something on a Sunday night, you've got a choice between Wal*Mart and the convenience store that charges $7.75 for a Reese's Cup that's been sitting on the shelf so long it has collected enough dust to make new topsoil in my front yard. So, it's usually Wal*Mart, unless I need cheap topsoil.

I know people who despise Wal*Mart. I can understand why, but I need it too much to truly despise it. I try to do the majority of my shopping at Sam's Club, buy my boxed single items at Wal*Mart, my meat from one of the local groceries, my nuts and grains from a bulk foods store, and my produce from either the local IGA or the farm stand down the road. He probably gets most of his stuff from the same supplier as Wal*Mart. But I give him my business anyway. Besides, I love his cinnamon rolls and his fry pies.

But one thing that I enjoy about Wal*Mart is the fact that, if you go often enough, you can see just about everyone from the community. This week, I stood in the parking lot and talked to the woman who took our family photo last fall, the one with the dogs and the pumpkins you see in this shot. She's a wonderful woman, and we seem to get into deep conversations right away. As we were ending our conversation, I told her that it was good to see her, and I repeated a line my children have heard often; "Some of my deepest, most meaningful conversations are held in the Wal*Mart parking lot!"

Tonight, while I was in the checkout line, I turned to see a woman behind me that I know socially. We're not friends, but we know each other on a first-name basis. She's unmarried, probably in her early thirties, beautiful and very vivacious. She owns her own shop in the historic part of town, a kind of shabby chic meets primtive place where she sells an eclectic mix of furniture and accessories, both vintage and new. She also dedicates a lot of time to trying to bolster downtown's well-being. It's a tough battle, especially since downtown just got its first tatoo parlor and will soon have its first casino in a shop that was supposed to be an art gallery. Her shop, I often tell people who come to town to visit, is the shop I'd love to have, dream of having, but now I don't need to have it because she has it for me. I can enjoy it and promote it, but I don't have the headache of owning it.

But, the thing is, for all of her vivaciousness, when I notice her and she doesn't know anyone sees her, she looks tired and...almost...I don't know--sad, I guess. Maybe I'm projecting something onto her that isn't there, but it's the impression I get.

We struck up a bit of a conversation in the check-out line at Wal*Mart, and she asked me if we were moved into our house. Oh, yeah, I said. And I told her about the thirteen foot high swingset we constructed today. She put on a show of being impressed, but I don't know if she really was or was just being polite. And then she asked me what else was new. "Have any more kids?" she asked, as if it were something that just kinda happens every few weeks and I forget to tell people about it. As if it's something she just kind of expects from someone"like me."

"Nope. No more kids," I said. "Just the ones you already knew about." I felt vulnerable. Out of place somehow.

"Is five it? You do have five, right? Are you done?"

She didn't say it with any malice or expectations. Just a question. Yet I didn't know what to say. I mean, here I was buying brownie mix at 9:30 at night, standing in the Wal*mart line with my daughter who was wearing winter boots with a yellow sundress spotted with Wendy's chili, and a son who was begging for a rubber chicken.

But this woman--she's suave. She's hip. She's so...independent. So free-spirited. I didn't want her to think I was weird, in the off chance that it wasn't too late. I looked at my kids. I looked back at her.

You know how about a million thoughts and memories can go through your mind in the few seconds it takes to form a sentence and speak it? That's what was happening to me. I thought about my little girl, Sweetheart, the chili-spotted daughter standing at my side. I remembered that I had decided after having Monet that I was done. Three was enough for me. I had gained too much weight, had too little time to myself and not enough house to fit everyone into. Motherhood was doggone hard work. No more pregnancies, I insisted. And then, when I discovered that I was pregnant with Sweetheart, I cried. I honestly and truly did NOT want to be pregnant.

But then Sweetheart was born, and I wanted to keep her a baby forever. She was my miracle with rosebud lips, and I spent days and days in awe of her, wondering how I could ever have rejected the possibility of this beautiful child. What had been wrong with me?

Still, when I found out three years later that I was pregnant with The Baby, I literally prayed that there was some mistake, that I wouldn't be pregnant. I didn't tell anyone but Bo for months because I felt too ashamed to admit I'd been so irresponsible. I know that's horrible, and I'm very sorry that I have to tell you that, but it's an indicator of the kind of pressure I was under at the time, the desperation that I felt in my situation of having four kids, living on one income in a tiny cabin with my pain-in-the-butt father, and having a new baby on the way. Bo was a tower of strength. I was a quivering mass of hormones.

But I look at The Baby daily and wonder how I could ever imagine life without her. She adds such joy. She has this incredible smile and a wonderful sense of humor. She's so smart and so intense and so adorably cute.

And now I wonder what the Lord has in store for me. Does he have another Sweetheart ready for my life? Does he have another Baby to bless us with? Is there another person in our future, another miracle with rosebud lips? Another cuddlebug, dancer, magician, artist or musician?

These are the thoughts and memories that went through my head as I stood in the line at Wal*Mart next to my two children, blinking dazedly as this young, independent, hip woman awaited my answer with polite interest. How could I sum up all of those thoughts and memories? Was it even necessary? Did she even want an answer?

"I don't know," I said. "I just wonder sometimes if...if there's someone else, you know..," I gestured around the air, "...out there for us, for our family. Ya know what I mean?"

Whether she did or she didn't, I'm sure I'll never know. She simply smiled and nodded, and then piped up with what seemed mock surprise that it was time for me to pay for my brownie mix and ice cream.

"It was nice seeing you," she said. And I couldn't help feeling like I had just been tested or judged or something. I hope I passed.

Now I'm sitting here evaluating my answer, wondering if I said the "right thing," and beating myself up for living my life in an attempt to please other people. What will people like The Hip Independent Woman think if I have more kids? Will they think I'm nuts? Does it keep them from being my friend? Why do I care? Am I a good enough mother to deserve these miracles? Do I "want" more? Does that matter? Can I handle another, and another, and another?

I don't know. I honestly don't.

But when I look into Sweetheart's amazing brown eyes as she cuddles up to me, tells me I'm the best mom in the world, plants a big fat kiss on my cheek with her perfect rosebud lips, I can't believe that I could possibly say no to another blessing like her. Or, more accurately, another blessing so very unlike her, another individual human being with thoughts and feelings and gifts and talents. A unique person.

I just feel like there's someone else, you know, "out there" for us. Ya know what I mean?

Why Do We Homeschool?

Another witty homeschooler chants his mantra. I hope you enjoy Christopher Smith's editorial from The Leaf Chronicle, which I'll pass along here, even though I think he's wrong about the square dancing thing:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This month, homeschooling parents all over Tennessee have to pay homage to big Mother Government and justify their decision to educate their own children. I guess I don't mind homeschooler registration. It probably keeps a few loonies from hiring out their kids as window washers instead of educating them.

And this sort of thing just comes with the territory. Any time you step outside the norm you have to accept that you've got some explaining to do — to your family, your friends, your co-workers and that clerk at the grocery store who has an opinion on everything except the price of tea on Aisle 5.

But we're not just outside the public school norm. We're also outside the homeschool norm. Most homeschoolers around here homeschool for religious reasons — they're flat out tired of arguing with government bureaucracies about their faith.

That's not us either. Yeah, we're Christians, but that's not primarily why we homeschool.

So why do we homeschool? I'll give you 20 reasons.

1.No one, and I mean no one, has the right to teach my son how to square dance.

2.Summer vacation can begin in January and end in March.

3.While I agree with the ACLU that religion has no place in public education, I don't think you can teach "character education" without it. I don't think you should teach sex education without it. And anyone who thinks you can give a child a complete education in science without discussing God doesn't know enough about the history of science. But I also believe God invented evolution, so my ideas aren't real popular among most homeschoolers either.

4.Waffle Stix, despite their standing on school lunch menus, are not food.

5.Public schools won't teach Latin to second-graders.

6.No Child Left Behind.

7.I believe history is linear.

8.I believe spelling, grammar and math have rules.

9.We know a lot of teachers, and long before we had kids we heard several earfuls about the wretched state of public education. It seems every attempt to spark a child's love of learning is beaten down by bureaucratic nonsense and disciplinary nightmares. Most teachers are saints, and it's a tragedy more parents don't acknowledge that.

10.No Child Left Behind.

11.Not every teacher is a saint. One told my niece many years ago that if a gay man sneezes on you, you die of AIDS. How's that for sex education?

12.I get to go on the field trips.

13.The public refuses to adequately support public schools. Kids should go to school to learn, not to hawk candy bars so they can buy textbooks.

14.A better student-teacher ratio.

15.No Child Left Behind. And how exactly does learning to take a test contribute to my child's education?

16.We have religious objections to waking up before dawn.

17.We can slow down and spend as much time as The Boy needs working on double-digit subtraction.

18.We can speed up and rip through spelling as fast as The Boy wants.

19.We can't afford back-to-school clothes.

20.To be ready for first grade, you have to excel at kindergarten. To be ready for kindergarten, you have to go to a good preschool. To be ready for preschool, you have to go to day care. At what point do we teach a fetus to square dance?

21.Socialization is overrated. If the socialization you get in public schools is so gosh-awful important, how did modern humanity survive its first 4,850 years without it?

22.Our complete K-12 Star Wars Curriculum. Did you know that the rise of Octavian to Augustus Caesar, Rome's first emperor, is actually based on "Star Wars," wherein Senator Palpatine twisted the Galactic Republic into an empire? Et tu, Darth Vader?

23.Watching the light bulb go on in your child's eyes when he figures out the concept of division.

24.It's not necessary to have sheriff's deputies roaming the hallways of my home.

25.Learning never ends — not at 3 p.m., not after homework is done, not on weekends and not on vacation.

I don't think homeschooling is for everyone. Heck, lots of parents welcome that 9 to 3 break from their kids. And many parents are so devoted and involved, they make public schools better for everybody, and I admire that.

But I'm not that patient.

No, until our society can stop the violence, pay teachers what they deserve, fund superior classroom technology, get past the arguments about religion, tailor education to individual children, abolish the bureaucracy and define "Waffle Stix," I'd just as soon do this myself.

Besides, we enjoy teaching our children. And that's reason enough.


Christopher Smithis news editor of The Leaf-Chronicle and can be reached at (931) 245-0288 or at chrissmith@theleafchronicle.com. His book, "Tales from the Front Seat, Vol. 1," is available at Borders in the mall, at Hodgepodge, 317 Franklin St., or on his Web site at www.daddyonboard.com.

Originally published July 31, 2005

Art Renewal Center

If you don't have the time, the energy, or the angelic children you think you should have to make regular visits to art galleries, I have a solution for you! I've found an amazing online art gallery where we have been ogling over the amazing, beautiful paintings of William Bouguereau , arguably the best human body painter of all time. His paintings of young girls and mothers admiring their children are so touching. I want to own them all! What I love about this site is that you can download high resolution .jpgs of the paintings which would be wonderful to print out for children's art studies. I'd like to buy a box of canvas printer paper and rotate prints in a few frames around our home, changing them out on a regular basis.

Enjoy your trip to the online art gallery. Make sure you tell me which ones are your favorites!

A Quaint, Old-Fashioned Home

I like to see a modern home
In keeping with our time,
But none I find so charming
As the quaint, old-fashioned kind.

A home that has a lived-in look
With porch that's big and wide
Where hickory rockers, like old friends,
Are sitting side by side.

Where flowers bloom in time-worn crocks
To make each day more fair--
Not plants you need to pamper,
Just the simple garden fare.

A welcome mat placed at the door,
One of a home-spun style
With words of friendly greeting
Sure to bring the heart a smile.

Modern homes are nice to view
With their up-to-date design;
Still, it always warms my heart to see
The quaint, old-fashioned kind.

~Kay Hoffman

The Ballad of the New Guineas

I don't have good luck with guineas. I want to own them, because I hear they eat fleas, ticks and other nasties from your yard. But, for some reason, they don't want to eat the fleas, ticks and other nasties in my yard. The first batch I brought home were placed straight into the chicken coop, kept there for two weeks, fed and watered and spoken to daily so that would know where "home" was. The day I decided to let them out to roam and do their flea and tick eating thing, our then-tiny toy fox/jack russell terrier, Jack, chased them into a tree, where they stayed all night making obnoxious noises, and then promptly disappeared. I imagine they flew back home.

Yesterday, I traded an Amish hauling job for four guineas. Actually, I paid an extra seven dollars, because the driving job was only worth thirteen. I took the frightened little things home and tried to plop them into the chick ark.

Man, I just realized that you city people probably have no idea what a guinea, or Amish hauling, or a chick ark even is. Huh.

Anyway, so I open up the crate containing the young guineas. Immediately and without hesitation, there's a mass of flapping wings and panicking birds, and a flash of white overtakes me as the guineas fly up OVER the crate, out of the opening of the ark and over my head. Then, just to be helpful, my big dumb black lab comes to my rescue and chases them in three very different directions. Onto the roof one way, up into a tree another way, and a third way out into the tall prairie grasses. ARGH!

Oh! But wait! One of the guineas is still hunkered in the back of the crate, afraid of the big black dog and the big scary woman! I grab it, unceremoniously throw it into the ark with the chicks and slam the door.

There's no way to catch the fugitive guineas. I chase after the one on the ground for a few minutes in my bare feet, hopping across patches of clover and thistle whle watching for bees and snakes, until the guinea is clear out of sight.

So I stomp in the house and there's my sweet little two-year-old girl, The Baby, looking up at me with questions in her eyes.

"What's your problem, Mama?" she asks me. Her darling face lifts my spirits, and I make a pretend angry scowl.

"I'm really mad!" I growl. She lifts her hands and I pick her up.

"Don't be really mad, Mama!" She says in a sing-song voice.

"Don't be mad?" I ask in mock confusion. "What should I be?"

"Be...be HAPPY!" she says.

It's such wonderful, simple advice that I decide to follow it.

And the guineas came back this morning. Early. Making obnoxious noises and eluding the dogs.

I'm happy.

The True Vyne: Loss and...

The True Vyne, a very gifted blogger, wrote a beautiful post about rituals, about bonding together as women. Her post so very much makes me long for women like her friend Tara has who can carry each other through in times of loss. With friends like that, God's job of making all things beautiful must be so much easier.

Hymn to a Good Wife

I read this passage this morning, and it was so thought-provoking and inspiring. I think I want to write it out in a beautiful script, create a lovely poster out of it, and hang it on my bedroom wall to remind me of what kind of woman I want to be.

I fall short of this mark in so many ways. Up before dawn preparing breakfast? Rarely before dawn! And when I do get up, I'm not preparing breakfast! Checking e-mail, maybe. Organizing my day? If you count trying to figure out which rooms really need to be cleaned and which ones can wait until later. Or grabbing an old envelope and jotting down my grocery list: Life Cereal, tortilla chips, flea shampoo.

And then there are things in this passage that encourage me, give me permission to be who I am and what I want to be. Gardening, for example, is not just a hobby; it's a loving provision for my darlings. Knitting and sewing are not idle hobbies; they are admirable tasks that provide warmth for my family, not just for their ears, but for their spirits as well.

I think my favorite part of this paraphrase of the verse is "Her husband trusts her without reserve and never has reason to regret it." For me, it dispells the common implication that the husband is the only one who's allowed to have brains in a Christian household; a wife can actually be trusted to make a decision on her own and her husband never has any reason to be sorry that he has a wife who can actually think!

There were so many things about this passage that spoke to me. I hope, after you make breakfast, organize your day, buy a field and plant a garden*, that you can Take the time and allow them to speak to you, too.

*Remember, this is the work of a lifetime, not the work of one day!


Proverbs 31: Hymn to a Good Wife

A good woman is hard to find,
and worth far more than diamonds.

Her husband trusts her without reserve,

and never has reason to regret it.

Never spiteful, she treats him generously

all her life long.

She shops around for the best yarns and cottons,

and enjoys knitting and sewing.

She's like a trading ship that sails to faraway places

and brings back exotic surprises.

She's up before dawn, preparing breakfast

for her family and organizing her day.

She looks over a field and buys it,

then, with money she's put aside, plants a garden.

First thing in the morning, she dresses for work,

rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started.

She senses the worth of her work,

is in no hurry to call it quits for the day.

She's skilled in the crafts of home and hearth,

diligent in homemaking.

She's quick to assist anyone in need,

reaches out to help the poor.

She doesn't worry about her family when it snows;

their winter clothes are all mended and ready to wear.

She makes her own clothing,

and dresses in colorful linens and silks.

Her husband is greatly respected

when he deliberates with the city fathers.

She designs gowns and sells them,

brings the sweaters she knits to the dress shops.

Her clothes are well-made and elegant,

and she always faces tomorrow with a smile.

When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say,

and she always says it kindly.

She keeps an eye on everyone in her household,

and keeps them all busy and productive.

Her children respect and bless her;

her husband joins in with words of praise:

"Many women have done wonderful things,

but you've outclassed them all!"

Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades.

The woman to be admired and praised

is the woman who lives in the Fear-of-GOD.

Give her everything she deserves!

Festoon her life with praises!


Art by Carl Larsson, Mary Cassatt and Tasha Tudor. The artist of the top drawing of the woman knitting is a mystery to me! If you know, please tell me.

Wonderful Monarch Links

These sites have great photos and information regarding the metamorphosis of the Monarch butterfly. Check 'em out!

Monarch Butterfly USA

Monarch Watch

Monarch Butterfly Metamorphosis

Journey North

MONARCH Danaus plexippus

Creationist Fellowship's page on Monarch Butterflies. This is a fascinating series of articles with amazing photos of every stage of a Monarch's growth told from a wonderful Creationist point of view. Be sure to click on the links in each description to see the photos and read more details about each stage. This site really offers the next best thing to seeing the growth in person.

Monarch Miracles

Have you ever witnessed a miracle? I've witnessed a few myself. The birth of a child, the growth of a plant from a seed, a man literally walk away alive, without a scratch, from a semi-truck accident when I was certain there would be no survivors, a piece of art move a grown person to tears.

Last Monday, during The Sprouted Acorn Cottage School's art class, one of the art mothers was telling us about another miracle that they had witnessed--watching the development of Monarch butterflies. I'd heard of this before, people raising caterpillars into butterflies, but had never taken the time to investigate. I knew that Monarchs liked milkweed, but I didn't know what time of the year to look or what kind of caterpillar we were seeking. Furthermore, I didn't want to take a precious being out of its natural environment, stick it in a jar, forget about it, and then feel personally responsible for the murder of a miracle. I listened to this mother's story and tried to live vicariously through her daughters' passion, watching with interest their animated hand movements and wide-eyed descriptions of the stages of Monarch metamorphosis and the magic of releasing the beautiful creature into the big, blue sky.

After the class was over, after I'd said goodbye to the last person (and about fifteen minutes before my father would attempt to leave for his daily bike ride, instead running over our beloved bassett hound), Loreen returned to our house with her three daughters, bursting with excitement and holding stalks of milkweed in their hands, fragile black, white and yellow caterpillars barely visible on their leaves. They told us how there was a whole gob of milkweed growing along the side of our road and that they discovered more Monarch caterpillars than they'd ever found before. Enough to give caterpillars to each of the art families! After a few minutes of instruction on how to keep the teeny tiny, barely visible, extremely fragile caterpillars alive, we gushed our thanks and waved goodbye.

The rest of the day didn't go so well. After the turmoil, I'd all but forgotten about the caterpillars. We have various and sundry creatures in our care right now: a female praying mantis who has made time with and a quick meal of her mate; a female one-eyed chameleon who needs a fresh supply of mealworms each day; a dresser drawer full of mealworms for said chameleon; three Ohio water turtles, red-eared, I think, who were given to us by a Freecycler; three dogs (where once there were four); a half-dozen cats; a one-horned Saanen goat; 25 chicks in various colors; a white finch and a blue parakeet. Luckily for me and for them, the caterpillars knew how to care for themselves. After only a few days, they had doubled in size and had chewed through 1/3 of their milkweed supply.

In less than a week, before the next art class, those barely visible caterpillars had devoured all of their milkweed and made short work of the second batch we'd provided. They were no longer barely visible, but were now the size of my pinky finger! I watched for the tell-tale signs Loreen had given me; they'll stop eating and start circling the jar looking for a place to hang out for a while.

One week after we'd first acquired the little critters, at the next art class, the largest of the bunch began pacing back and forth on the underside of the jar lid, leaving a thin layer of silky threads behind. By afternoon, it had attached itself to the underside of the lid and was hanging in the shape of a "J." A bit of research told me that it was going into its prepupal state.

And then this morning, Sweetheart noticed that there was a crack in the skin near the head of the upside-down caterpillar revealing a bright green goo. A quick search on the good ol' internet told me that it would be mere minutes before the caterpillar would wriggle out of its skin for the last time and become a chrysalis.

Sweetheart and I gathered the kids around, except for Houdin who is at Space Camp today. We watched that caterpillar wriggle and squirm, watched his skin split more and more, and watched, completely amazed and fighting for front-row seats, as he scootched that skin to the top of the jar, which would be his bottom, hooked his cremaster into the silk pad above it, and shed its caterpillar skin one last time.

And there, hanging before us, was a jade-green miracle. We all saw it. I called Loreen excitedly and told her about our amazing experience.

This is what I love about our new venture, The Sprouted Acorn. I've come away with so much knowledge already, learned so much about other people and their passions. I've discovered oh-so-much more than art in our art classes. There have been lessons in patience, compassion, stewardship, empathy, and, yes, I've even witnessed miracles. Not just the miracle of a caterpillar turning into a chrysalis, but the incredible event of a child walking in as a student and emerging as an artist, a man resisting the call to be a teacher and blossoming as a mentor, and families who have the common interest of learning together making the move to become friends.

As the first chrysalis hardens, another caterpillar circles the jar, looking for a place to hang out for a while.

The miracles never end.

Sonic Booms

One Saturday night a couple of weeks ago, while I was sitting in my room staring at the computer screen, I heard a series of booms to the East. I pushed back the cupboard door that was obscuring my view and saw them--fireworks. Across the valley, a small festival was taking place and it had culminated in a fireworks display that I could see from my bedroom window.

Three years ago, when we were in the very beginning stages of planning our home, we sat on the hill where our front porch now stands, and watched the fireworks display. It was so encouraging to us to think about the day when we would be able to sit on our porch and see those bursts in the sky.

I'm finding that, in my life, there are lights and there are booms. Sometimes the booms are so loud that they're the things that capture my attention the most, and I don't always notice the lights in my life.

Recently, I was in the very uncomfortable position of being tested, but I didn't know I was being tested until after I'd failed. Someone I know only as the daughter of a friend began posting to my blog under a pseudonym, baiting me to see if I could handle "debate and discourse" (her explanation). She had intended to "test me for depth" and hoped to get in and out of my life anonymously and thought that testing me in a public venue, my blog, was the best way to accomplish her mission.

Unfortunately for them, and probably for me as well, I was able to see her I.P. address in my comments program. From that, I knew who the commenter was--kind of. My friend's adult daughter was posting from both her house and my friend's house, so I assumed (yeah, I know) that it was both the friend and the daughter ganging up on me, partly because the friend had used similar language and actions on my blog the last time she disagreed with me on a subject.

Anyway, I immediately put up a wall, became defensive, felt as if I were being harassed and spied upon here, in my public yet very private space.

Plus, this person had put me in the position of having to either pretend I didn't know who she was or confront her. I didn't pretend, but I didn't exactly confront her, either. Until it became clear that she was being nasty, spiteful, deliberately deceitful and self-serving. I finally confronted my friend via e-mail and found, to both my relief and dismay, that she'd known nothing about this interaction. To my relief, because this person has meant so very much to me, but to my dismay, because my letter really should have been sent to her daughter, and my words were distressing to my friend.

The result was an e-mail from the daughter, telling me that she had been testing the waters for depth and found none, that my blog is "hokey," implying that I "lay [my] problems out to the world at large" and accusing me of being "provincial enough to not realize that in this century, distances aren't a barrier to families who live in different states? "

I'd already spent a week and a half frustrated over how to handle this deceit and hubris, and when this letter came, I was devastated. Further more, this person, who insisted that I can't enter into sane debate and that I must have the last word (though I never blocked her ability to comment anonymously on my blog and always responded to her comments) blocked my e-mail so that I wouldn't be able to respond to her accusations and insults. Of course there are ways around this. I could have e-mailed her from other addresses or made up a new e-mail address and identity, like she did, but I just don't operate that way.

Besides, I didn't see the point of it. I'd failed her little "test" of friendship, but she'd long-before failed mine, the minute I saw that she wasn't brave enough to enter into a relationship using her real name, her real face. She hid behind the mask of deceit and expected me to be sincere. What made her think I'd have wanted a friend like that?

For two days, I seethed. How dare someone walk into my personal writing space and harrass me that way? How dare she put my friendship with her mother on the line with her petty games? How dare she pass judgement on me based on my stream-of-consciousness thought and personal feelings, publicly taking me to task for those feelings, snarling and growling and then dodging out with her tail between her legs? How dare she snipe at me and then deprive me of the one thing that I feel I truly need in order to work out my feelings, the opportunity to write and communicate?

Isn't it amazing how this works? How someone can choose to step into your life, someone who means absolutely nothing to you, and can tear your self-worth down to the ground with no intention of coming to an agreement, of admitting wrongness, of understanding one another? I kept asking myself, why should I care what this person thinks? She's obviously someone I'd never want as a friend. Her values are so very different from mine! Her actions are unthinkable in my opinion! I know people like this, who charge through relationships leaving a path of destruction in their wake. I've been on the receiving end of their hurricanes, have found that they're impossible to deal with because they simply dislike themselves too much to truly care about someone else, and I want no more to do with them

Yet it did bother me. It did tear me down.

I sat down to my computer to write. I wasn't sure where that writing would go, because I was pretty convinced that I was going to discontinue blogging, take the whole blog down and forget about it. Yeah, it's hokey. I know that. But hokey is what I do, so I do it. I've read Anne Lamot and Julia Cameron and I've fought off those little demons on my shoulders, those sadistic critics who say that there are only certain things worth writing, only certain valid feelings worth putting down on paper, only certain acceptable ways to write them. Someone even told me once about their own personal demon, their mother's voice saying, "Don't write down anything you don't want anyone to read when you're dead," and another who burned all of her childhood writings after someone she barely knew told her that all fiction is wrong, a lie, that God disapproves of writing such lies. Each time I hear a story like this, I recognize it for what it is: someone lashing out at another based on their own fear and judgement.

But here I was, sitting at my computer, my writing space, my therapy, and someone I didn't even know, someone I was fairly certain I would never even like who had completely burned the bridge to our friendship, was keeping me from writing.

If you're visiting my blog for the first time, or if you've come here looking for something, testing me for my depth or probing me for friendship-worthiness, or you're looking for someone to judge so that you can feel better about yourself, let me tell you something: I'm not writing this to please or impress you.

I know this may come as a shock, but I write for me and for my family. I write so that we can remember the day we went geocaching, or made bread, or constructed bluebird boxes, so that my kids can read the stories of my childhood, can read the stories of their lives, can find another line of communication with me aside from the daily discussions we have.

And, yes, when I write about my problems, I'm doing it so that I don't have to pay a therapist, and I suppose that somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm hoping that it will help someone else save some money, too.

But I don't write this stuff for you.

I thought about all of this when I sat down to write, but I just couldn't force my thoughts out of my head and onto the keyboard. Too angry, I guess. So I opened my e-mail instead, albeit cautiously, because I expected another e-mail from the sniper, and I really didn't want to come under attack again.

Instead, what I read was this from a young mother I knew when she was just a young girl:*

"I hope this is your e-mail, I did a search for your name and found this e-mail address.
I was thinking about you because I've been discussing birth options with a pregant friend.

As you might remember, I had homebirths with my babies (the last one a beautiful water birth!). I've had to defend my choice for the last 3 years to various people who just don't understand 'Why you would want a natural birth when you could have a pain-free one?'

I suppose you think I'm strange for writing you, but I have thought of you over the past couple of years. When you had one of your babies I remember you were at my parents' church and had your less than week-old with you and heard that you'd had her at home. At the time, I thought it was by accident, or something odd. I had no idea I'd be the "odd" one just a mere 3 years later!

I wish we'd been closer in age, and maybe we could have been great friends. It would be nice to know that someone in my "previous" life didn't think I was nuts.

Wishing for like-minded friends..."

I sat back, amazed. Here was someone who was looking for me, sought me out, was very clear and sincere about her intentions. She wanted like-minded friends. No hiding behind a mask of fear or judgment, just issuing an honest appeal. How refreshing.

And then, BOOM! I heard the sound of the fireworks in the distance. I pulled back the cupboard door and it was only then that I saw the light. I suppose that's what it takes sometimes to get my attention.

And yet, it saddens me to admit that the light of this appeal for friendship was dimmed by the boom of my sniper's sharp blows. Friendships? Who needs 'em! Why would I take my tender, fragile spirit and venture into that dangerous territory of friendship exploration? I've been misunderstood too many times, rejected and dismissed before I was even given a chance. People are just too ready to slap a label on another person, write them off as someone with whom they wouldn't be able to relate. I remember a friend saying to me one time that she had been approached by a young woman looking for a friend and she just had to tell the young woman that she was at a stage in her life where she simply didn't need any more friends. I remember thinking how unwise, how calloused, that sounded.

But here I was feeling just that way.

I left the monitor and sat on my front porch, watching the colorful sky show with my family. My sniper had criticized my home; I'd had the audacity to build my imposing house on the spot where she once lay watching clouds above her head. She'd rejected me before she'd even known me, and here I was feeling rejected, the joy stolen from me, not even able to appreciate these lights in the sky that we'd looked forward to in the early stages of our house planning.

I won't wrap this up neatly, like a half-hour long sitcom or a country song with a nice hook. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, and I certainly haven't healed. I'm keeping people at an arm's length. It's only by the grace of God, the grief that overwhelmed me and the phone call from my mother-in-law admonishing me to write that I'm here at this keyboard now, writing in a blog that came dangerously close to being completely deleted.

So, I'll just reiterate. Sometimes the booms are so loud that they distract me, and others, from the light.

Have you ever been a sonic boom in someone's life? Have you any idea how loud that boom can be? How it can drown out their peace? Have you been so intent on being heard that your light is secondary or even barely visible? That it even overpowers the light of others?

And if anyone has ever boomed into your life, have you allowed their noise to destroy you, or have you let it be the kind of thing that draws your attention to the bright and lovely lights of your life?

Lord, may I tread lightly today. May I learn from my pain and hold each tender, vulnerable spirit as if it were my own. And may I forgive those who haven't learned how damaging their boomng words can be and instead look toward Your perfect Light.


*I've edited her note for clarity and to protect her privacy.

We've Got It

You know when you go to a Super Wal*Mart and you see those big red letters announcing that they're open for 24 hours, and you stand there in front of that mammoth store and snigger at the insanity of such a place being open all night, and you wonder what kind of loser would be loopy enough to shop there in the middle of the night?

That would be me.

At midnight tonight, my kids and I were happily perusing the aisles of our local Wal*Mart Supercenter. Don't laugh. It was a very important mission.

See, it had been a hectic day in which I was fairly certain that my mothering position was in jeopardy. I wasn't very popular today. I think I may have been fairly close to getting voted off the island, and some of my kids were fairly close to getting the boot, as well. After we'd all had a chance to cool off and some of us had the chance to redeem ourselves, I suggested we go out on a special expedition.

So, Bard, Houdin, Sweetheart and I drove into the Big City (read=has a Wal*Mart, a McD's and a Wendy's) and bought--in addition to three bags of lemons, three bags of bagels, two potted mums, a clearance-rack Tinkerbell cake and two 1.75 quarts of Breyers* Neapolitan ice cream--Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

We'd gone to the Harry Potter Extravaganza in a Cleveland suburb, but it started storming before we could get our copy and I didn't think it was wise to wait on the sidewalk under the streetlamps with lightning filling the skies. I'm funny that way. The next day, I'd checked two different Wal*Marts twice and they'd been sold out. I checked the local library, and there were over 400 people in line for just one of the library's copies.

But I have it now. It's in my clutches. [insert maniacal laughter]

I'm only a few pages through the first chapter, and I'm going to have to fight Bard for it because , when it comes to reading, I'm the toroise and she's the hare, but she has plenty of reading material to keep her busy. Besides, my goal is to read it aloud to all of the kids. Bard says that will take a year. She says I never finish any of our read aloud books. She's a brat. But that's only because she's partially right.

But she's going to be wrong about this one. This one, my friends, will be a priority. We'll read in the morning, at breakfast, at second breakfast, at teatime, at lunch, before naps, after naps, at dinner time, and before bed.

I WILL FINISH READING THIS BOOK ALOUD TO MY KIDS.

If you give me any spoilers, I'll poke you in the eye with a dirty diaper.


*They left out the apostrophe, not I.

Of Bassett Hounds and Hollyhocks

Summer is my season for planting. For me, that means digging a lot of holes. Into those holes, I've dropped coriander seeds, placed tomato and tomatilla seedlings, transplanted coreopsis and chives, shimmied hens and chicks into the ground. We've started a modest, scraggly-looking cottage garden in the front of the house; I know I planted everything too close together and will be redigging and relocating things next summer, but they were inexpensive, they're in the ground, and that's what counts. I'm not familiar with perennials outside of what I know about herbs. Herbs, really are my true gardening love.

But there are a few perennial flowers that catch my eyes, that I can identify by name. Among them are rubekia, bee balm, foxglove, meadow sage (which really is an herb, but I see it more often as an ornamental), shasta daisies, echinacea and, best of all, hollyhocks.

Many years ago, when Bard was very young, she and I strolled through the kitchen garden of a local historical society. It was there that I first recognized the difference between a teacher and a mentor. While most of the presenters at the operating historical farm were short-tempered and hurried children along, the keeper of the kitchen garden was gentle, kind and informative. I can still remember watching her pull a flower and a bud off of a hollyhock stalk that towered high above Bard's little brown head, and strip the leaves from the bud to expose two tiny "eyes." She turned the flower upside down, inserted the stem into the base of the bud, and presented Bard with a magical little hollyhock maiden. Bard and I became hooked then and there on cottage gardens in general, and hollyhocks in particular.

A couple of weeks ago, Bard, Monet, Sweetheart and I entered the dangerous territory of the local greenhouse during a clearance sale. It was with much serious contemplation that we selected a wagonful of perennials, a few annuals, and bunches of herbs to fill our cottage garden. There were little root-bound plastic pots of chives, sage, chocolate mint and bronze fennel. There were thirty-nine cent packs of johnny-jump-ups and eager-faced pansies. Monet chose a miniature rose while Sweetheart selected a bright pink hydrangea. Bard selected balloon flowers and daylilies. I, of course, kept my eye out for a good deal on hollyhocks. In the end, I found one stalk, not on sale, and it was a double strain. I know that I could most likely plant them from seed very easily, but I didn't want to wait. I'm an impatient gardener.

While that double-strain hollyhock is growing nicely and is lovely to look at, it's not the old-fashioned, make-a-hollyhock-doll flower I had wanted in my garden. Later, I thought, I'll try to grow some from seeds. I even have a seed packet just waiting for the right time and place.

*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*

Snoopy the beagle-bassett came to us on a rainy day in early winter. She didn't want to come; it was clear by the way she sat in the middle of the gravel footpath and refused to move. No amount of encouraging, pulling, tempting or prodding would convince her to take the walk to her new home. Eventually, Bo had to lift the wet 60-pound dog up in his arms and carry her into the cabin.

She'd been the spoiled lap dog of one of Bo's coworkers. They were looking for a new home for her and had asked me if I knew of anyone who would like to take her. It wasn't that they didn't want her. It was just that she was living in a small yard in the city when she really wanted to run around chasing rabbits in the country. We had two dogs. I didn't want any more. But I agreed to babysit her for a weekend and shop her around to some neighbors to help find her a new place to stay.

It continued to rain, but Snoopy sat near the door begging to go outside. I knew that she really wanted to go, because she'd only ventured from her hiding place under the kitchen table once before. So I let her out, and that was the last I saw of her for the rest of the day. By evening, the kids and I were placing posters all over town looking for a lost bassett. By nightfall, she arrived back on the porch, soaked and muddy, but seemed resigned that she had a new home. She warmed up to each of the kids in turn and reestablished herself as the lap dog she'd been for her former owners.

We decided to keep her.

Our dogs are very important to us. For some people, dogs are merely another accessory or an animal they tie to a doghouse and feed once a day. Our dogs, however, live along with us. They go with us on walks, on vacations, and accompany the kids on every excursion. We talk to them and cuddle with them, teach them tricks and include them in our family photos. They're welcome inside, and the comfort that my kids get from having their little dog curled up on their feet under the covers is a comfort that will be remembered long into their adulthoods. Our dogs are treated well, fed well, never hit nor mistreated in any way, and are loved with a love more uninhibited than some people love human beings.

Snoopy quickly became a friend to our family. Visitors have often commented on her big jowls and her long, velvety ears. My mother-in-law has said she's the perfect porch dog, lying with her legs sticking out behind her. And those ears! Hanging off the edge of the porch! She has always been around for a cuddle, whimpering and nudging her nose under your hand if you fail to give her the attention she feels she deserves.

Yesterday didn't start out very well. After I wrote my long post about welcoming people into my home, I began to prepare for yesterday's portrait class. In less than two hours, we would welcome five other families into our home for several hours of visiting and art instruction, but I couldn't get my kids to cooperate. One child had a bad attitude. One child couldn't get motivated. One child simply wanted to play on the computer while the rest of us did work. It was this last child who played the role of the proverbial straw. I was the camel. You get the picture.

I felt badly for losing my temper, but I also felt very frustrated by my children's behaviors. I was fearing the judgment of the families who'd be coming to our home, and I was looking to my kids to do their chores without complaint or fuss. Why, oh why do I fall into this trap? Preparing for visits is one of my biggest stress points, aside from dealing with my dad and getting to appointments on time.

After the class, my dad, who lives with us, made preparations to leave for the library and take a bicycle ride. When he's readying to leave, it's a stress point for me. He needs a cell phone. He needs money. He needs his keys. Do I have library books to take back? Is there gas in the car? Where's my coffee? Where's my water bottle? It's like having a very disorganized kid who has no patience and can't see that you're in the middle of something that doesn't put him in the center of your universe.

Five minutes after the last person left art class, my dad came running into the house, yelling my name repeatedly.

"I think I killed Snoopy!"

I lost my patience immediately. This wasn't something I was even remotely prepared to handle.
"What do you mean, you think you killed Snoopy? What happened?"

"I never even seen her! She was in front of the van, and I think I ran over her chest! Come out here and see."

The last thing I wanted to see was my beautiful dog lying lifeless in the drive.

"I can't," I said, knowing that I was in avoidance. But I was serious I couldn't. I couldn't even bring myself to pick my feet up and force them toward the door. "I can't go out there. You go. You go and tell me if she's really dead." Monet and Sweetheart were drawn to the door, but I insisted that they stay back. I didn't know how much blood there was, how badly she was damaged, and I didn't want them to remember her that way. My dad returned to the door.

"She seems like she's okay. Me and Houdin can get her in the van and you can take her to the vet. She mighta broke her leg. I don't know. Jeez. I never even seen her..." he trailed off.

You weren't even looking, I thought. You were in too much of a hurry, doing your own thing. My resentment was running deep. I decided to put my energy into calling the vet instead of hating my father. While I was explaining the accident to Connie, our veterinarian, my dad returned again, calling my name continually like an annoying child.

"I'm on the phone with the vet!" My impatience was dangerous.

"I don't know if she even needs to go," he answered. "I think she's okay." But I don't trust my dad's judgment, so I told Connie I'd see her in fifteen minutes, and we loaded a panting, pain-filled dog into the back of my van, Houdin and Sweetheart in tow.

The X-rays showed no real damage to her bones. "She may have a broken pelvis, but I don't know," Connie explained as she gave Snoopy a shot for pain. "It looks like she has some damage to her right leg, but it might just be torn ligaments. Her pain response is not great, but it's there, so her spinal cord is intact. Her color return is good and her tongue looks normal, so I don't think there's any internal bleeding. I'll keep her overnight and watch her and let you know how she's doing." Connie can do that, because her office is in her house. She made Snoopy as comfortable as she could, but as we stood there visiting, I could tell that she was still in a lot of pain. Still, I thought, I've heard her howl for minutes over a cat paw's swap to her nose. It was getting late, the kids were getting hungry, and Connie's husband was getting her dinner on the table. We headed out to the van.

When I got home, there was a call on my voicemail from Connie. I called her back and she told me that Snoopy was gone. She'd had a pneumothorax, a collection of air between the outside surface of the lung and the inside surface of the chest wall. The surface of her lung had ruptured, allowing air to exit from the lung into the pleural space. Connie had tried to evacuate the air, but she said she just couldn't keep up. Did I want her to put Snoopy in the freezer, or did I want to pick her up tonight?

After comforting Sweetheart ("She was our only girl dog! I played with her on the porch every day!") and Monet, who put his head on my chest and cried silently, Bo and I took one of my favorite chenille blankets and drove to Connie's house, where Bo and Connie wrapped our canine friend in the softness of the blanket. Bo and I stroked her silky ears, told her we were sorry, and carried her to the car. All along Connie's house and into her yard and parking area grew tall heirloom hollyhocks, bursting with red, purple, pink, and yellow flowers. "You don't want to dig up a few of these to take home, do ya?" She'd felt badly about having to hand me a $239 bill in exchange for a dead dog. I think the hollyhocks were her way of expressing sympathy.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I would like that. "

*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*...*`~`-oOo-`~`*

Our neighbor's big backhoe pulled a plug of earth from the ground below the three large silver maples that have been growing there for over twenty years. Sweetheart and Monet said their goodbyes, scratching Snoopy's ears just like I had. They cried openly. I hid behind the leaves of the silver maple, somehow ashamed to let my tears be seen by the man operating the backhoe. As Bo oversaw Snoopy's burial, Sweetheart, Bard and the Baby watched as I plunged my fingers into the fertile dirt of my garden that runs along the porch, formed deep, round holes, and planted four blooming hollyhock stalks.

This is a season for planting. For me, that means digging holes. Into those holes, I've dropped nasturtium seeds, placed basil and parsley seedlings, transplanted mints and fennel, shimmied begonias and marigolds into the ground. And now, I've planted the body of a good friend at the foot of three large maples and marked the day with brightly colored hollyhock flowers.

Rest in peace, sweet Snoopy. We loved you deeply. Our porch will never be the same without you.

Gathering Together

I have often heard the statement that we, as believers, are to gather together with other believers, to not forsake that gathering together. I do believe this to be true.

The question, though, is how such gathering is to be done.

I did a search of the word "gather" on Bible Gateway. I see that believers gathered by rivers, by lakes, on roadsides, and, most often, in houses. There are references to gathering crops, gathering crowds and vultures gathering around a carcass. While I haven't done a deep, thorough study, I don't see a place that dictates that we must meet once weekly in an established building for which we use our tithes to pay the water bill and that we must volunteer in the nursery once a month.

I think there's a problem--a lot of problems--with the way we gather as believers in this culture, and probably many other cultures. I've felt this way for a long time, but it's almost heresy to say so. But here I am, saying so. Lord, watch my words. I invite You here, to this conversation, and I ask you to do with it what brings You glory.

See, here's the thing: gathering together as believers in Christ doesn't mean that we all go to one aseptic building on Sunday morning wearing our hip Hollister outfits and talking to each other in God-speak. Gathering together is about the daily stuff, the dirty stuff, too.

Recently, a friend of mine came for a planned gathering to my house. Before the visit, we had a nice little phone conversation about church and life. As we were wrapping up the conversation, he asked me how I was feeling about our gathering, which would bring several families into my home whom I'd never met.

"I'll be really honest. I'm very nervous."

Why on earth would I be nervous? I asked myself. This is a group of believers in Christ! This is a group of women who are like-minded in regard to schooling! Shouldn't I be overjoyed and excited?

But I wasn't. I was fearful. Yes, I already know that the kind of fear I was experiencing doesn't come from the Lord. But it was there, and I shared it with my friend.

"What are you nervous about?" he asked. With more than a little embarrassment, I told him that I was afraid of judgment, the judgment that comes when you invite people into your home. I worried about the cleanliness of my house, the dust. Good Lord, what if someone were to look in my fridge? Or under the stove? Or find those Fig Newtons that The Baby wedged between my Freecycled couch cushions? And speaking of furniture--what if they all have better furniture than I do? What if they come here and look at my stuff and think, "She has horrible taste in decorating?" What if they hate my kitchen, or see the unhealthy food in my pantry, or wander into my laundry room where my clothes are gathering mold in this hot, humid Ohio weather?

What if they just don't like me?

My friend assured me that it didn't matter. What mattered was that I was opening my home and sharing my gifts. He corrected me for striving to please man instead of God.

"Just clean your toilets. Everyone's toilets get gross. Forget about the rest of it."

"Everyone's toilet does not get gross," I countered. "My aunt's toilet is so clean, you could serve punch out of it."

"Everyone is not your aunt. On most days, if you would just stop into someone's house unannounced, it would be a mess."

"But the common person would never know that," I said, "because people don't stop into other people's houses unannounced anymore. If we did that on a regular basis, if we could all see how other people really lived, if we could get caught with dirty toilets and wedged Fig Newtons every few days, we'd be inoculated against this poisonous idea that everything must be mondo-clean every time someone steps over your threshold. I mean, it's one thing to like to have fresh-baked bread coming out of the oven when someone comes to visit and to plan it accordingly, but it's something else entirely just to live! To LIVE and let other people accept that life you lead!"

The Amish in my community hold church in their homes. Every other week, everyone from their district, and sometimes a few visitors from other districts, gather in a church member's house and hear the bishop's teaching. I think they have it a lot closer to the early church, living among each other, not wasting money on heating and cooling and lighting a building in order to use it for a few hours each week. But they still obsess about cleaning their houses before their church meeting. They scrub cupboards, paint porches and pressure-wash their houses. A cupboard that's not scrubbed spic-and-span is declared "filthy."

Where does all of this judgment come from? Where? Is this a natural part of our genetic makeup, to want everything just right? Or is it toxic conditioning that comes from being exposed to picture-perfect better homes and gardens, country homes with well appointed rooms, but not a person living in them?

I contend that it comes from too much compartmentalized living. We run about here and there trying to find our meaning, our worth, within boxes of life. We each have our own lawnmowers and our own cars. We go to other places to work, take our babies to daycare and our children to a place of learning. We exercise in gyms, eat in restaurants, get our clothing from department stores and go to movie theaters for entertainment. Our groceries come from stores where they come from trucks that come from who-knows-where and cost thousands of dollars in fossil-fuels to put them on our local grocer's shelf, which we avoid because we want to drive to the neighboring county to shop at the "better" stores, passing farm markets and neighbors' gardens along the way. We pay someone else to entertain us, to clean for us, to care for our children. We are born in hospitals and die in nursing homes. And, if we can stand it, we gather together on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights in a place of worship, choosing either the early or the late service, depending on how tired we are from watching our TiVo'd prime-time shows the night before.

So what purpose does our home serve? To hide? So no one can see who we really are, regardless of the face we put on outside of our houses? Or to sleep? Will there come a day when homes are simply rooms lined up in long hallways where we recharge our batteries before heading out again?

What purpose does a home serve?

What purpose does my home serve?

I think my problem is that I know, on a very deep level, that my home is a reflection of who I am. In a very complicated way, I want my house to be perfect. Yes, I want you to feel comfortable and enjoy your stay, but I also want to avoid your judgment. It's a virtually impossible task.

How do I know you judge me? Because I judge you. I do it to make myself feel better, to have some validation in my life. If I can find fault with you, then maybe I can forget about my own problems for a while, shift the spotlight somewhere else, build up a wall of defense that says, "I'm paying attention. If you ever have a nasty thing to say about me, I'm armed and ready to be on the offense before I ever need to be on the defense."

And so, I believe a regular inoculation of reality is in order. Come to my house when it's messy! See the real me! Smell my litter box! See my dirty dishes! Step over my piles of laundry, toys, library books and children! See me without my shoes, my bra, my makeup! And then judge me as you like.

But just remember-- I'm coming to your house next.

Maybe after a few months of this real life, we'll stop eating crow, stop serving ourselves humble pie. Criticisms, either silent or spoken, will turn into compassion and empathy. I'll do your dishes. You'll wash my laundry. We'll stand together in my unmown yard and watch the goldfinches eat thistle seeds from the untamed meadow. We'll let the dandelions grow. We'll get past the pretense of performance and we'll really learn to love one another without fear of judgment, either of ourselves or of each other.

I'm a believer. My door is open. It may be messy, but we'll wade through it together. Come gather with me.

"And since we have [such] a great and wonderful and noble Priest [Who rules] over the house of God, let us all come forward and draw near with true (honest and sincere) hearts in unqualified assurance and absolute conviction engendered by faith (by [b]that leaning of the entire human personality on God in absolute trust and confidence in His power, wisdom, and goodness), having our hearts sprinkled and purified from a guilty (evil) conscience and our bodies cleansed with pure water. So let us seize and hold fast and retain without wavering the [c]hope we cherish and confess and our acknowledgement of it, for He Who promised is reliable (sure) and faithful to His word. And let us consider and give [d]attentive, continuous care to watching over one another, studying how we may stir up (stimulate and incite) to love and helpful deeds and noble activities, not forsaking or neglecting to assemble together [as believers], as is the habit of some people, but admonishing (warning, urging, and encouraging) one another, and all the more faithfully as you see the day approaching."

Hebrews 10:21-25, Amplified Bible

No Home Church

Kathy from Our Life said she'd like to know more about my choice to stay home from church every Sunday morning. I touched on this a bit in this post.

Being without a home church is quite lonely. I was reading a short story today about a woman who was in a terrible car accident, and about how much outpouring of love she got from her church family. I worry about who would take care of my family if something awful happened to me, and I know that my support system is very fragile. I feel that I should have a home church, a network of believers on whom I can depend.

But so far, I haven't found such a thing. Since I'm close to forty than not, I daresay I never will find such a thing.

This is one of the reasons I hope so strongly to raise up an extended family, yet I know this is a very dangerous hope. I know that siblings get into irreconcilable disagreements, and that children move far from home, but I just keep hoping that they'll stay nearby so that we can all benefit from the support system that extended family can provide. Because I have no siblings and no mother, I often feel very alone and feel that I have no one to turn to when I truly need a friend or just someone to keep me company when I clean the house.

So I cling to the hope that I'm raising friends, that I'm creating a support system for myself and my children by bringing up a family. That's why it's especially devastating when, like tonight, my kids fight with each other, or I make dinner alone, or I look around the table and I'm just too tired to even speak.

I suppose that, in some ways, it would be easier to have a home church than to try to grow a support system for my family by raising my family, but I've been touched by toxic churches before, so I'd have to say that if it is easier, it's not by much.

...and the Award for Snarkiest Letter of the Year goes to...

From Ramblings, Rants & Remedies, Natalie publishes a highly sarcastic letter from homeschooling father Dominick Cancilla to Dave Arnold, the author of the NEA article against homeschooling.

What's even more entertaining, though very sad in a terribly ironic way, was Mr. Arnold's response to Cancilla's letter.

Thanks for two great big belly laughs in one post, Natalie.

Home Schools Run By Well-Meaning Amateurs

Custodian Dave Arnold has many opinions about education in his article on the National Education Association website: "Don't most parents have a tough enough job teaching their children social, disciplinary and behavioral skills? They would be wise to help their children and themselves by leaving the responsibility of teaching math, science, art, writing, history, geography and other subjects to those who are knowledgeable, trained and motivated to do the best job possible."

While Mr. Arnold seems to have assured himself that parents are capable of homeschooling a child who is "severely handicapped" or "bedridden with a serious disease," he doesn't believe that we're capable of inspiring a love of learning in our own healthy, curious children. Such children, he maintains, should be given over to professionals who have been teaching for "10, 20 or 30 years," not directed by gullible amateurs like us silly, well-meaning parents.

Apparently Dave Arnold doesn't know the etymology for "amateur" is French, derived from the Latin "amator," which means "lover," and from "amore," which means "to love." All things being equal, does Mr. Arnold believe that "professional" teachers would care for our children if their paychecks were suddenly eliminated? Any student who has attended public school during a teachers' strike can answer that question. Does he believe that professionals love teaching so passionately, so selflessly, that they would forsake their salaries to educate my child, who they have not known for 10, 20 or 30 years but who I have known intimately from the moment I became aware of his very existence? A child whose holistic education I make my sole profession, my magnum opus?

I have forsaken a salary--and much more--in order to commit myself to my child's upbringing, and I passionately love learning along with my children. I don't prefer to "leave" the "responsibility" of teaching to anyone else, partly because, ultimately, I'm the person completely and totally responsible not just for my child's academic education, but for his whole education--academic, social (yes, some people still worry about a home learner's social life. They need only look at a homelearning family's calendar to reassure themselves), relational, emotional and spiritual. I very firmly believe, after fifteen years (that's 48 man-years between my five children) of teaching my own, that this is the very best holistic education my child could ever receive. Academic circles are increasingly finding this to be true. Ask any teacher which students are most successful and s/he will point to the ones whose parents are most involved in their child's education and activities. Autodidacts are filling college campuses, sought out by employers for their eagerness to learn and their self-motivation in addition to their excellent educational foundations. Most often, a customized home-directed education is superior to a teach-to-the-test, mass-produced one. This alone, a superior education, is reason enough for me to give my child the freedom to learn at home.

But the bigger reason I choose to provide my child with a diverse learning environment in the safety and security of his own home is because I do passionately love what I do, as passionately as I love the very child.

"Leave" that "responsibility" to someone else? No thank you. I prefer to embrace that privilege for myself.

I don't want to miss a moment of it.

For the Poetess

Do you have a home church?

How, then, should I answer?
The truth misleads, regardless of my reply.

This morning, the adirondack rocker is my pew.
I sit before a stack of firewood, the fat orange cat
perched atop his altar;
the congregation, the dogs at my feet, alternately snip at one another
and lie contentedly.
The Northern Flicker is my preacher, laughing his sermon against the masterworks of the mourning doves;
the smooth stones between the dill and the basil are my object lesson.
There were five. The other four had a purpose, too.
My communion is the peach I pull to my lips, reluctantly sharing
with the infernal internal curculio.

And her chapbook is my devotional, her vulnerable words
sinking to the gut of me
demanding introspection,
forcing my head back until all I see
is an endless, even blue,
And the Spirit spills from the corners of my eyes,
through my hair,
drips from my earlobes, distilling to the earth beside the
bassett's heavy jowls.

Regardless of my answer, the truth misleads.

The True Vyne

While I haven't been blogging lately, that doesn't mean I haven't been thinking a lot about blogging. I have a whole lot on my mind I'd like to share, but I just can't get the gumption up to share it. I guess my wonder has been squashed a bit by a critic who made me question whether anything in my life is really worth publishing in writing. In the meantime, read The True Vyne, a new blogger who seems to be full of wisdom. Read her Education to Wonder post. I could really identify with it, especially today.

More as I get the gumption...

Maybe I would have passed chemistry...

...if they would have had experiments like this.

Dan Williams, amateur pyrotechnician, shares what looks like a fairly simple way to make a super sparkler. I'm sure this isn't for kids, but if you're an adventurous family, you can check out this page and make your own Super Sparklers with some basic tooling and common chemical compounds. There is a warning that the metal from this sparkler can drip and, of course, burn right through skin. I suppose that suffices as a warning?

I'm sure I would have been interested in the kind of experiments you'll find here, though most of the tutorials are under construction. I plan to check back on this one and appeal to the natural pyromaniac in my 14-year-old son and 38 year-old husband.

If you're more interested in reading about fireworks than you are comfortable with actually making any, you can check this thorough explanation of how fireworks work, which includes a short fireworks display video. Read it now so you'll be prepared for those questions from inquisitive ever-learning minds on Monday. Best of all, I bet you'll learn something yourself!

jonathan safran foer

If you're a writer, or if you're interested in the things that drive writers--what they think about, what motivates them or how they formulate a book--read this interview with young novelist, jonathan safran foer, author of Everything is Illuminated. It touches on so many things that interest me that I don't want to list them all, but I will say that, to me, it shows the importance of an encouraging mentor, discusses the foibles of writing for a living, and validates the opinion that you don't have to know what you want to do with your life at any given moment.