Perhaps we should make some bouquets

I asked the kids to help me in the yard for Mother's day gift last weekend.  We cleared out some overgrown vines, pruned roses, weedeated, raked leaves, and formed another garden bed. 

Working together with my family is one of my favorite things.  So is working outside with dirt and plants.  Dr. and Mrs. Turner, the folks who built this home loved working outdoors, too, as is evidenced by the many garden beds, dozens of roses, the fig trees and beautiful regional plants and gorgeous rocks situated about the property. 

There is nothing like the good therapy of being outdoors, surrounded by lovely things.  And have you ever noticed how something like raking and sweeping can make a person feel a lot more in control of circumstances? 

After our little time of work, I noticed the kids a lot more happy to hula hoop, swing and take a book outdoors to read.  Maybe this evening we should take our read aloud book out to the swing for tonight's chapter.  We are reading Rascal, by Sterling North.  There is a sweet story connected to that book and our family, I hope to tell you sometime.  But for now, Nora and I need to head to the library.  Better grab the bikes and go.

There will be bread

The skies are leaden, the grass is green and the air is fresh and cool.  48 degrees this morning!

Yesterday the thunder boomed and hail fell, and I filed papers and cried and cleaned house.  The release felt great and I felt like a new woman by evening.  Yesterday morning I felt like I might never bake again.  But five am came this morning and I was able to get up and go. 

Please don't underestimate the power of a good cry. 

Cloudy with a chance of rain

We had several days of rain last week.  The waters flowed, the desert smelled delicious.  We have grass growing in the yard and the cactus and desert willow are blooming like crazy.

Rain falling, thunder booming and somehow we muddled threw our third year of remembering Philip's birthday without him.  An acquaintance suggested to me that maybe if I didn't mention Philip so much, the kids might be less sad.

Maybe I should concentrate on looking forward instead of keeping our focus on what used to be.

The little aside bothered me more than I wished it would have.  It was sweet advice, offered in love.  The truth is, I don't really mention Philip that often, but when the kids bring up his memory, I elect to go there with them.  Bottled up pain and grief doesn't help anyone. 

After we got home from the Highschool Athletics banquet, where Thomas, Patrick and Maggie were all honored, I went to say goodnight to Maggie.  She was lying in bed, reading the Navy Seal Workout book.  Philip picked that book up from Goodwill or some other second hand bookstore when we were homeschooling.  He would get the kids up and outside most mornings and take all five of them through paces.  They did their calesthenics on the concrete pad he poured out by the backdoor.  Then he would take them on a cross-country run he developed on the farm, running through the pasture, over the stream across a fallen log, climbing up and over a fence.  They would complain and fuss, but you know they loved it.

I asked Maggie if looking through the book made her sad.  She seemed happy and pensive, thinking about her dad.  I never even brought him up.  The kids seem to have no problem having his memory come up, at all sorts of times. 

Do you know that the Athletics Banquet was the very first kid's school event where I didn't silently weep, embarassed by my tears, feeling the pain and loss of Philip?  I didn't even realize it until the next day, as I recounted the story to my boyfriend.  And then I cried.  Because I didn't cry the night before. 

Then I asked my dear, dear boyfriend if it bothered him when I grieved Philip in his presence.  True love is being able to share one's true feelings.  Even the sad ones.  I was sweetly reassured.

Each of the kids mourned a lot last week.  I wonder if the fact that we are surviving without Philip ever leaves them feeling confused and a bit guilty like it does me? 

One of my other little ones came to me after school on the day of Philip's birthday.  "At least I didn't cry in school today and have to be sent to the guidance counselor's office this year," she told me, tears welling up in her precious eyes.  Letting me know she really needed to cry.  But was ashamed of having to expose her weakness to someone she didn't know. 

I didn't work as much as I needed to last week.  I spent more time cuddling and bike riding with kids and hanging out with them to talk, listen, just be.  They need so much more than I can give.  We all worked outside in the yard for a few hours on Saturday.  I spent Saturday evening with grownup friends and had fun and danced and drank wine and ate good food and tried to forget for a few hours.  Instead of the hard, extra challenging exercise bike rides, I had leisurely ones with Nora, enjoying the clouds and the puddles.  Took a couple of naps.  Didn't clean the house.

I was going to keep all this stuff to myself, but then I thought about the conversation a friend and I had about our kids and their grief struggles.  There are several young people I know who are having serious battles, and in each case, counselors suggest that unresolved grief is a root cause.  Some kids come away from the loss of a parent seemingly unscathed, but then there are the others, who try to assuage the deep loss and ache with drugs, alcohol, unhealthy, damaging relationships and other things. 

Grief counselors suggest that being allowed to remember, to tell the story, to feel the waves of pain is part of the path toward healing and healthy adjustment.  Finding the right people to listen and bear and share is important.  Maybe the reason I don't feel like writing anymore is that I am tired of having to admit that grief still affects us most weeks.  And that it is still hard.  In fact, being a single mom just gets harder and harder.  I imagine that a few readers of this blog can understand what I am talking about but the others out there who have yet to experience deep loss must be getting a bit tired of this. 

Life is a tangled up mess sometimes.  In the middle of the pain and loss, we have great joys and successes.  The bakery is thriving.  Who would have thought I could have brought that equipment here to our new town in the middle of nowhere and be able to generate an income?  A small income, but sufficient for the most part. 

The kids are finding their way in this town.  Yesterday Rose and Maggie went off on their own for a 2 1/2 mile run around the loop.  And then up to the top of the mountain behind the University campus up the street.  I regularly hear the sound of girls playing the piano.  Thomas is often chopping up something in the kitchen or coming back from a big bike ride.  Patrick is off working or running or doing some kind of community service if he isn't at a robotics conference or history fair. 

We have a church family and friends.  I have some Bible study ladies and you know how I love those bible study ladies.  The brisk, 50 degree mornings and lack of humidity invigorate me.  The smell of creosote and view of the mountains inspire me.  Because of work and school I don't get to see my parents as often as I would like, but I know I could if need be.

I suppose  I am writing because I wish others who are grieving to be reassured that we are all in this together, and from what others who are further along in the journey tell me, this is normal.  Please, when you are feeling a wave of pain, find someone who loves you enough to listen.  Not everyone can handle our grief.  There might be people in your life who have their own struggles and simply can't bear another drop of pain.  I believe we can ask God to show us who might be a safe friend who can share our burdens with us.  Sometimes a journal might be the safest friend.  Just like a splinter that festers and burns when left in the foot or the finger, so is grief and painful memory shoved to the side. 

I thank God daily for the faithful friends who have been willing to walk alongside us on this journey. 

PS thank you for the kind comments.  They mean so much to me.  I am behind in letter writing, email returning and comment responding.  Just because I don't respond doesn't mean I wasn't deeply touched by your encouragement. 

Evolution

This morning Thomas and I drove to Odessa.  He had an evaluation.  I had an eye doctor visit.  I also had a list for Sam's a mile long.  And a motor that wasn't quite perfect that had to be returned. 

A few years ago, I walked out of Sam's Club in Roanoke and swore I would never cross that threshold again.  I was disgusted by the box store.  At the time we were raising our meat, our dairy, our fruits and veggies, milling grain and baking breads, and bartering for soap and wine and coffee. 

I felt privileged and lucky to throw away my Sam's card.  I felt a bit superior.  Special.  As if I were a part of the REAL club. 

Well.  Just like the rabbit in Winnie the Pooh, I am a bit humbled.  A bit put in my place.

I got a new Sam's Club card a few months ago.  It has my picture on it. 

I typically drive the two and a half hour drive to Midland/Odessa once a month, whether I wish to or not.  A combined population of over 200,000 people, with all the stuff that tiny towns like Alpine do not have, like specialty doctors and specialty equipment.

And when I do, I grab the card, the great big cart, and go shop.

True confession:  last month the girls and I were on a mission to buy parts for the broken down mill.  We ran into Sam's to get the laundry detergent, dish detergent, dog food and yeast.  We had to pass by the electronics section to get to the good stuff.  As we passed by the tv's, I thought about the Christmas gift from Judith and Ned.  We used part of it to buy needed clothing for kids, and a pair of shiny red high-heeled shoes for me.  But the other part was being held aside for us to go horseback riding at Big Bend Ranch State Park.  However, everytime I called the park to schedule our ride, we were unable to sign up.  The drought means that the price of hay is exhorbitant, so the horses are out to pasture (well, out to desert) and are not being saddled up for tours.

When we wished to watch a family movie, we would huddle on the futon, (thanks, Terri!) and crowd around, kids on laps, elbows in ribs, to try to watch a dvd on my tiny laptop.  Great for family togetherness.  Sort of.  But when I suggested the kids invite friends over to watch a dvd, they would decline, saying it was just too crowded. 

Seeing those tvs drew me in like a magnet.  With all the other problems that were unfixable, they seemed like a beacon.  One thing I could offer. 

We conferred in the aisle and agreed upon a 32 inch Vizio.  Who knows how it rates in the Consumer Digest.  All I know is that when we set it up in the library, I think the kids realized I might have flipped my lid.  The boys were speechless.  And that next night, as we hooked it up and watched a movie together, we thanked God for Judith and Ned and their Christmas gift, and trusted that the horseback riding would happen eventually, but probably the corporate movie watching would offer longer lasting joy. 

So, tonight, after a very long day and over five hours of driving, Thomas unloaded the car and I prepared a nice meal.  With food purchased from my old nemesis.  And I had to chuckle to think about evolution and adaption and dealing with the life we have to lead under different circumstances.  We appreciate our farm-raised pork and freshly milled grains and creamy, raw milk.  But we are having to compromise in a lot of areas these days and I trust that as we do, the kids are learning lessons of gratitude and grace. 

Legalism is not so nice, is it?  And adjustment comes in many different flavors. 

PS We still don't have the tv hooked up to real tv.  Netflix and dvds are bad enough.  But who knows?  One of these days I might break down and get cable.  But I doubt it.  The kids would really know I had lost it if I were to stoop so low!  (HAHA)  We will enjoy it when we go visit our other dear friends and be thankful for their cable tv. 

Friday Night

Yesterday was a long day in the bakery.  I finally got around to developing a recipe for healthy, delicious gingersnaps, made with freshly milled hard white wheat, yummy, local farm eggs, organic coconut oil, sucanat, sorghum, and double the spices.

Not only did they smell heavenly, they tasted great too!

My customers have led me to believe that man cannot live on bread alone, but needs a few goodies on the side, like cookies, chocolate cupcakes and baby spelt pound cakes.  Even though I do not have a sweet tooth, I am happy to accomodate these wonderful folks with my healthy version.  Which pleases my children to no end.

By the time the bakery products were packaged, the counters washed and dried, the floor swept, it was quite late and I was quite warm.  A cool breeze outside drew me to the glider in the backyard. 

Have you ever felt that magic moment where the air feels delicious?  I wanted to drink in the breeze as I rocked in exhaustion.  Stars twinkled.  Tree leaves rustled.  Nightime town noises murmured. 

It was kind of weird.  All of a sudden I felt so connected to God and the universe, sitting there in the glider in the backyard in the dark in our little town.  I prayed for my children, then so many faces came into my mind and as I prayed for them, a deep love flowed through my heart.  I prayed for them to know how much they are loved.  For each of my children and the dozens of other folks, friends, family, acquaintances, randomly appearing on my mind, to be able to be who they were created to be. 

I wish I could somehow express how magical it felt to be surrounded by sweet breezes, starry sky, fresh, healing air, loving dear ones all around the world, through tender prayers.  But I am running late and need to head to the Farmer's Market.  I figured if I jotted down a few notes it would help trigger the memory for me in the future when I need something to savor.

Milk and Honey

I know you guys must get sick and tired of me writing about how much I love my customers, but the truth is, every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday I end my day tired, but thankful. Thankful for local economy. Thankful that enough people come to buy bread and cookies and grain and granola to get my basic bills covered.

Do you remember the Bible story about the widow and the oil? When I am tired and sad, worried about things that are beyond my ability to change, I fear that I will run out of strength or that I will run out of ingredients or that I will run out of customers. But every time, there is just enough. Just enough strength. Just enough ingredients. Just enough customers. Just enough money to pay the bills and get more ingredients.

I bet that biblical widow lady must have felt a similar wonder as she, exhausted, stressed, worried, kept on filling up those oil bottles, jars and vessels, and managed to keep her son fed.

Have you noticed how much of life is a miracle? And how many miracles require a significant amount of work? Okay. I will try to get back to blogging about other things. Besides my sweet customers, who buy their daily bread and freely give out hugs. Thanks for bearing with me and the sentimentality. I really can't help it. I am very grateful, and there are days when I realize the ability to be grateful is a pretty big miracle. At least for a grouchy old mama like me.

If you were living here in the Chihuahuan Desert, you would be enjoying lots of flowers. The claret cup cactus is one of my favorites. Desert willow is blooming down south and should be opening up here in Alpine in a few days. The temperatures are brisk in the morning. 47 degrees when I took the kids to school. 80 by the time they headed back home.

Occasionally the wind blows violently, but today she was calm. Trees are glossy green with leaves and they make my eyes feel better.

Vinegar. You Have to Taste it to Believe it.

I began to write a post about our Seder, but then had to go take care of kids and got distracted and the post never got finished.

It is a worthwhile post, so I hope to eventually get to it.

But tonight it is all about the vinegar.

Which is actually a pretty good metaphor, considering that many associate bitterness with vinegar, but in my experience, in a rather holy and mystical way, somehow the bitter times are always tinged with a sweetness that make it possible for me to keep on getting up to mill grain into flour, bake bread and greet the world.

My dear friend, Stewart, you know, the one with the husband who used to help me butcher chickens and stitch up our wounds at the kitchen table?

She knows me. The other day we got a care package in the mail, filled with goodies that are attached to other stories. Precious goodies. But the one featured in tonight's blog is the slim bottle of elixir. Date Balsam Creme Vinegar- she discovered in a shop, Oil and Vinegar on Barracks Rd in Charlottesville, VA.

Having enough emotional resources to cook up a Sunday dinner is a pretty good indicator that things are beginning to look a little brighter around here. Not perfect, but better.

Before leaving for church, I put on a pork shoulder roast to braise. This is a roast from the hog I purchased from our milk suppliers, Z-Bar Ranch a few weeks ago and Daddy helped me butcher. Pan-seared it, then put in a dish with onions, carrots, celery, garlic, lots of thyme, sea salt, a few juniper berries, a bay leaf, some red wine and water, covered, stowed it in a hot oven (500 degrees) for 15 minutes, turned the temp down to 350 while I showered and dressed, then to 275 when we headed out the door to St. James.

Is there anything that makes a person feel more loved than the smell of an herby roast in the oven when coming home?

I roasted up some sweet potatoes, sauteed green beans, then remembered the bag of greens. The one given me by a lady who wished to barter for bread at the farmer's market. I pulled it out of the fridge and discovered fresh parsley, celery,a bunch of chocolate mint, kale and swiss chard. The parsley and celery went into the meat juices with a slug of vermouth to make a nice au jus, boiled down until thick. The chocolate mint was rinsed and placed in a jar. I poured boiling water over it to make a nice iced tea for our dinner. The rinsed greens went into the wok with loads of garlic and a bit of oil. A great big pinch of sea salt.

I pulled out cream and cheese, thinking about the children. You know their preferred way to eat greens is smothered in cream and cheese. Which is pretty darned good.

But a little niggly voice on the inside reminded me about Stewart's gift of vinegar. Hmm. Thick, earthy, just enough twang to remind me of its origen, but sweet and rich, right for Sunday dinner. I then remembered the bartered pecans from the fellow at the market who really likes my Almond Raisin Granola.

Oh yeah.

So, while the greens simmered in their juices for a couple of minutes, I threw a handful of chopped up pecans in another skillet to toast. When they were done, I placed the greens in a serving dish, generously drizzled them with the Date Balsam Cream Vinegar, then dumped the pecans unceremoniously out of the skillet, right on top.

Raymond even ironed the tablecloth and napkins, which was a unique treat at our table, as most of my friends know, I don't iron. We haphazardly gathered, guests helped set the table and fill up the glasses and carry the food. Maggie grabbed the toast out of the oven. We prayed and gave thanks and food made its way to the plates.

I cooked up a huge bunch of the kale and swiss chard and can you believe? Not a bite leftover. When everyone else left the table, I grabbed the serving bowl and slurped up some of the remaining vinegar, but don't tell anybody, because then they will know the truth that I am an uncultured slob. But I bet there are a couple of you out there who would have done the same thing. At least if no one was looking.

Thanks a lot, Stewart. Thanks to you, we are now addicted to a specialty treat that can't be found here in Alpine, Texas. Unless you send us more. Or we figure out how to make some ourselves. Which is a pretty good idea, because I am thinking that there are a few folks out here who might be happy to add that to their weekly bread order! For those of you who are in the Charlottesville area, I highly recommend you rush over to Oil and Vinegar in the Barracks area. You might need to drizzle that magical substance over fresh strawberries. Or peaches in season. Or use it on all those greens you keep getting in your CSA and don't know what to do with them.

I am so very thankful for Sunday dinners. For that hungry feeling you get in church, knowing there is something good waiting at home. For the smell of roast that takes me back to childhood. For lots of food at our table, maybe not all grown by us, but brought here directly from other peoples' hands, via friends of the farmer's market. Leaving our Va. farm meant leaving a lot of things behind. It is a comfort and joy to see that with some effort, we are able to keep the important things. Sunday's dinner was a helpful reminder.

Pressed Down, but not Crushed, Troubled but not quite in Despair. At least not yet!

I hope to be back soon.

I miss blogging and sharing community here in blogworld.

The last few weeks have been veiled over with gray and dark for me. Which is ironic, seeing as the leaves are bursting forth, the blossoms have been blooming and the days are growing longer.

I have enough energy to barely run the bakery, tend to business and kids. But not another ounce for anything else. I can't remember when I went so long without writing anything. I am pressed down, wrung out, and terribly concerned about some matters dealing with a child.

It is shocking how many of you check in on me. You are dear to me, and I appreciate you.

Yesterday I reminded myself that the Lenten season is a good time to feel one's weakened state. To feel needy.

So, as we near the end of this season of hunger, I pray we would all be filled. That as we witness the resurrection in the world around us, birthing life and color and green, we would be restored, refreshed and renewed. (I'm guessing there must be at least one other soul out there feeling like I do!)

My Customers-I love them!!!

Today one of my customers brought me some of her raw, seedy crackers, filled with flax and other good stuff.

YUM!

On Valentine's Day, some other customers brought me roses and a bottle of wine.

Other customers freely share hugs when I need them. One customer brought me a great big bag of pecans from her family in Mississippi. Oh, my, goodness. They were so good, I ate the entire bag all by myself, one handful at a time.

Some customers left me the name of their favorite poet today as I shared with them mine (Donald Hall). We share recipes, grief stories, joys of new grandbabies, smiles, tears, and more often than not, prayers, and a few gripes as well.

I have a hard job, that requires very long hours standing on my feet, lugging around big bags of grain and tubs of dough. I use a big oven and have the scars to prove it. Sometimes at the end of an eighteen hour long day I want to cry. And sometimes I do.

But then I think about the many lives of folks who have entered my life because of freshly milled whole wheat and spelt and I give thanks for my job. It seems like a miracle that I am able to get the bills paid by milling and baking bread. I can genuinely say that I am one very blessed gal, with a terrific job.

Happy Valentine's Day, Friends

I get up bright and early to bake.

Dark equals coffee. I walk, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen, fill the kettle and set it on the stove, wash hands and move towards the bakery to begin milling the hard white wheat. After getting the first load running, I return to the kitchen, grind the beans and pour the boiling water into the french press. Pull out the mixer bowl and hot water and yeast and start the Italian peasant bread dough. Grab milk from the fridge to warm for milk and honey bread. Realize that I ran out of the Robert's cream and have to drink black coffee again for the third day in a row. Oh well. Won't kill me.

About the time three-fourths of the bread dough is rising for the second time, it is time to wake the kids for school. I set out strawberries and yogurt and toast for them and basically ignore them as they get ready and I work.

Three cups of coffee later, I drive them to school. Except for Patrick and Thomas who are still biking, even in the 30 degree mornings.

Valentine's Day.

Rachel and I talked on the phone as I kneaded loaves, as we do almost every single morning, except on the weekends. I work. She nurses Marlena. Thank goodness our tradition continues, even though we are hundreds and hundreds of miles apart. The biggest difference is that on those bad afternoons, when nothing will work to make kids happy, I would, in the past say, "Load them up and come over and let them play outside while we have a cup of tea or a glass of wine(depending on before or after 5)."

It is dreadful to be so far away that they can't all pile in and come over for hundreds of slices of milk and honey bread and games with the kids and chasing after Patrick. But thank God for Alexander Graham Bell!

So the bread happened, the bakery opened. A dozen roses arrived from my dear one. Made me thankful to have such sweetness in the middle of moments of raw.

I purchased the ingredients to make the tradition continue.

Fourteen years ago, we had Jersey Momma staying with us in our rambling house on 1418 Elizabeth Blvd in Fort Worth. I had little Thomas and toddler Patrick and infant Maggie. Jersey Momma had a broken arm, hence the long visit. Valentine's Day came along, and I wondered how we could celebrate, our little extended family?

Knowing my mother-in-law's continental tastes, I opted for French Bistro, remembering a recipe in a Belgiun Cookbook for Pommes Frites, and you probably already know how much I love red meat and fried potatoes and a really good excuse for a glass of red wine.

True Pommes Frites are hard to beat. I remember in Europe, at night, we would walk around and there would be trucks set up, here and there, offering cones of crispy, golden, salted deliciousness for mere euros, and I was in heaven. For years I would try to make french fries, and the limp, greasy sticks of potatoes were okay, but not really great. Well, not really good. But then I read that great cookbook, EVERYTHING TASTES BETTER IN BELGIUM (btw, who has that book? I loaned it out to somebody and wish I had it back...) and never looked back.

And the rest is history.

The secret is in twice frying the potatoes in a good, hot, clean oil, preferably peanut, since it is suited to high heats and high heat is necessary.

Well, we loved that meal so much that I have made it every single Valentine's Day since. For 14 years.

After baking in the bakery all day long, I didn't feel like making a gourmet French bistro meal for a bunch of kids, but all these years past, the special part of Valentine's Day is setting the table with all the pretty dishes, the tablecloth, the napkins. Putting out candles and flowers and candy hearts to let the kids know that they are worthy of fancy dinner party. Without grownup company.

For a part of the day I hurt, grieving different things I guess. But at some point, I took the time to read in my devotional, which reminded me to consider each day a new adventure, to reach out to experience it. And while that seems like a very trivial thing, it completely turned my attitude around, and I decided to rejoice.

All of a sudden, it was a privilege to bake fancy Queen of Sheba cakes, one for us and one for Raymond to take home since he couldn't stay for dinner. It was a joy to cut up potatoes and to heat the oil, anticipating the salty crunch of fattening carbs that would bring joy to our family.

Serving customers in the afternoon made me happy and thankful and as we sat around the table, remembering many things this evening, I was made glad.

We couldn't remember last Valentine's day at all. I think the boys were gone. I remember shopping for trinkets for the girls, but can't even remember sitting at the table with them. Isn't that weird? So maybe grief pain isn't quite as raw this year as last. We spent some time at the table, after the dinner, before the Queen of Sheba, praying for our dear ones. For friends with babies. For friends with illness. For blended families to knit together. For us to love each other. Then dessert.

We asked God to tell Philip hello for us and to tell him we are thankful for him and how he showed love to us. Then we thanked God for the dear new friends who have entered our life.

In grief support group we would talk about traditions and what we felt like we ought to keep.

Today I wondered about this tradition. I don't know what next year will bring. Thomas is about to turn 19 and hopes to graduate from Alpine Highschool and go to a program for special needs kids in Roswell, NM. He might not be with us next year. Things are changing around me every minute. Who knows if we will all be able to sit around the candles and the roses and the sweetheart candies next year, enjoying our steaks, done rare-medium rare, with creamed spinach and pommes frites, me with a glass of red wine, they with sparkly fruity stuff?

But tonight, I rejoiced in the moment.

So thankful for my family. For the kids around the table. And for tradition, ever-evolving, yet tasting the same.

Happy Valentine's Day. I pray that you will each know how much you are loved, just as I pray the same for me and my children.

PS please try to make some homemade frites sometime. A lot of work, but worth it. And remind me to share the recipe for Queen of Sheba cake, the healthy version. I think I posted it last year. It is still every bit as good. Yumm. And the freshly milled whole wheat, no white sugar version is decadent and worthy of Valentine's Day.