Tend and Keep

Kitten and Chickens. These White Leghorn chickens are surprisingly delightful. Hello, mama goat. One of the babies. 

Proof that there is beauty here, too. In the last week or so, I have felt it... the prickle of the beginning of a yearning for spring. It varies, year-to-year, when this hits. Sometimes, I can make it all the way through to February, especially if the sun shines on sparkly snow and I regularly go out snowshoeing and I have lots of good books to read.  But, this year, so far, it has often been gray and cold and windy, and we were sick through Christmas, and I slipped on the ice this morning. So when that first seed catalog hit my mailbox, my optimistic "enjoy every season" discipline slipped, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine the summertime garden and warm sun on my shoulders. Big Mistake. Each year, regardless of when it starts, the longing slowly increases. My mind wanders to green things growing, barn swallows returning, and goats munching on weeds. I start to think of the shovel in my hands, the smell of spring dirt, the taste of snap peas. The wish for spring ...

A few weeks ago, as I was driving down country roads in beautiful golden autumn afternoon sunlight, it happened that I came up behind a school bus and followed it through several miles of its after-school route, pausing every few miles to drop off a child or two. At one stop, a big black dog waited patiently, then did a jump for joy when he caught sight of his kid getting off the bus; the child immediately dropped to one knee to give well-earned scratches behind the ears. At another, a father was working outside and waved his son over to join him in what he was doing. At the last stop, family members were in a group outside, chatting, and as soon as the bus pulled up an adult ran, open-armed, toward the returning child and they met in a big, swinging hug.   These moments were pure and simple delight to witness, a lovely and unexpected gift. The expressions of family and human connection put a big ol' stupid grin on my face that stayed there a long time, and returns anytime I h...

On Christmas Day in the Morning  by Pearl S. Buck: I have yet to read this book without crying. Maybe it's because of its beautifully simple illustrations, the heartwarming story... Whatever it is, this is the Christmas book I look most look forward to reading with my kids each year, tears aside. The Twenty-Four Days Before Christmas by Madeleine L'Engle: A wonderful, classic story that makes a great read-aloud for both younger and older kids. Although, the family in the story does a "special thing" each day of December as they wait for Christmas, which can create some high standards in the minds of children, so proceed with caution. The Biggest, most Beautiful Christmas Tree  by Amye Rosenberg: This is a delightful story featuring woodland animals that Santa forgets about until a fun, crazy Aunt sweeps in and saves the day. Kids love this story.  

In my family, like all families I'm sure, we like to laugh and remember, and one of our favorite quotes comes from my grandma. She was known for being just a teensy bit on the bossy side, and if you were to balk at one of her requests/orders, she would shut you down immediately with, "Oh, you can easy do that." Drop her off at the front door of the store and take the wheel to navigate her fancy boat of a car to a parking spot, even though you are naught but 14 years old with a brand spanking new learner's permit?  You can easy do that. Scramble up the rickety fold-down ladder to her sweltering attic and sort through items in the dark until you found the obscure gadget she needed? You can easy do that. Answer her phone while she has both hands in the giant bowl of bread dough, thereby remaining trapped in a conversation with someone who knows your grandma, your mom, and your entire life history but you have no idea who they are?  You can easy do that. These stories are...

When I first met my now-husband's family, we went for coffee at his grandparent's house.  After we enjoyed our coffee and treats which rolled right into lunch, hobbit-style, we all stood to clean up together. Opa (Dutch for "grandpa") was washing dishes and I was drying when, seemingly out of the blue, he turned to me and said in an approving tone, "I can tell that you have worked with your hands." "Oh!" I replied, somewhat startled. "Yes." And that was the end of that. The comment stuck with me, however, and once in a while it will pop into my mind as I'm doing the dishes, remembering myself standing in that kitchen with Opa. He was correct in his observation; I had had plenty of practice working with my hands, doing everything from peeling potatoes to pulling weeds to helping with assembly in my dad's metal-working shop. But, until then, it had never struck me as a particularly admirable trait, something of which one could be pr...

I recently re-read Farmer Boy  by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and it was a delight to return to the stories of farming and family life in 1866.  I read this book when I was little, but it hits a little differently now that we live on a farm of sorts and have a 10-year-old boy of our own to imagine through the story. The Laura Ingalls Wilder biography,  Prairie Fires  by Caroline Fraser,   suggests that this book was Laura's homage to Almanzo's childhood, which she idealized in many ways. The recurring themes of good food, bounty, a thriving farm, and self-sufficiency contrast sharply with Laura's childhood full of struggle, scraping by, and being forced to move several times. It was enlightening to experience  Farmer Boy through this lens, particularly noting the exhaustive and grandiose mealtime descriptions. For example, just try not to drool while reading of breakfast in the Wilder house: “There was oatmeal with plenty of thick cream and maple sugar. There wer...