Me: "Who has the best seat in the house, me or daddy?"

Adam: "Well, Daddy's is nice, but yours is best. Your's is squishier."

Monday, November 20, 2017

Come to my bosom!

Have you heard me talk about Jackie, before?  She was my sweet, spunky, imaginative, dear roommate back in college.  A real keeper.  She's hilarious, whether she is trying to be or not.  You would love her.  I do.

Jackie just gets me.  I told her that when I am with her, I feel like she sees all of the best parts of me, gathers them together and makes a bridge out of them that spans all of my unpleasant bits.  She knows they're down there, but she understands why, and doesn't judge me for them.  She steps over my mud, and looks up into my leaves and branches, and calls them beautiful.

Jackie and I play a game over text like we are going to see each other in a little while for lunch.  We offer up menu items and a meeting place, and count down the hours via text.  As the designated time for lunch draws close, we then politely excuse ourselves; "I had to get my horse re-shoed this morning, and he's despondent. Maybe we should postpone" or "Darn it all, I forgot today I also invited Her Royal Highness the Queen to lunch!  I simply must reschedule (said all British-y, "re-SHED-du-al). 

We have to cancel, you see; Idaho is a long way from California.

But once in a purple moon (far rarer than the blue variety), Jackie and I get to see one another.  And last month there was a gloriously purple moon.


Back up a sec... there's stuff ya gotta know at this point.  Our first month in this new-to-us house was very chilly.  We even got a jaw-dropping random snow flurry in late May.  It was perfect for tryin' our hand at warming up this big ol' place.  Well, our first power bill in June arrived with a complimentary heart attack.  $954 and change.  *CHOKE*  Yes.  I did cry.  Thanks for asking.

Fast forward through the wailing and gnashing of teeth to pinpoint the problem: space heaters.  Four of them to be exact. Luckily, by the time we got the bill, Lady Summer had sat down on us like a big ol' menopausal hot flash.  At least we had time before the next big chill to do some figurin'.

Now, hop skip and jump through "me trying to solve this problem on my own in 50 different ways" (none of which was less than $2000), and we come to Jackie, who, through all the selling-buying-packing-moving had been one of my devoted- long-distance rocks.  She would wipe my tears with her words, "Come to my bosom!", which, to me, is like Lady Liberty singing, "Give me your tired, your poor!...send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me!"  Few words comfort me the way those do from her.  She got me through the first month here with daily, sometimes hourly, contact. 

As wives do, Jackie ended up telling her hubby, John, about our heating situation.

Now, if John were a surgeon, and I had a ruptured spleen, things couldn't have been more perfect -  because John just happens to have an HVAC company, and a soft spot for people who love his cute wifey as much as I do.  He offered help, and I, having run entirely out of options, very, very gratefully accepted.  (Did I mention VERY gratefully?  I am teary now just thinking about it).  After much planning and figuring, John prepared to pack up all he would require, and make the two day round-trip journey from Idaho to help us by installing a propane heater in my dad's place.

We would first need to place a propane tank.  Easy, right?  Oh, you silly, naive child.  No.  It's not.  Because digging the required 30 foot, 18 inch deep gas line trench through rock infested soil with hand shovels was as effective as a plastic spoon on over-frozen ice cream.  It took some doing, but I tracked down a thingy called a ditch witch, and a sweet fellow in our church congregation hauled it to our place.  This monster is the power-tool equivalent of a mechanical bull with a 2 foot rock-chewing chain saw for a nose.  We were told it would eat through our bolder-laden soil like buttah', but we didn't know it would cough, sputter, kick, lurch, choke, puke, and try to attack us.  Best four hours ever.

Once the trench was done, I breathed a whopping sigh of relief.  Sure, lots more could go wrong, but my part - our part - was done.  Thankfully, the tank went in just fine, and it's always fun to have a crane in your yard. 

And then... (drumroll) ...


Now, because I know John doesn't read my blog (in fact, I quite think his testosterone levels might drop if he even used the word blog), I can say all of the nice things in the world about him without running the risk of embarrassing him.  So I will.  John is a no-nonsense, salt-of-the-earth, practical, smart, kind, slightly gruff, too-tough-for-Advil, could possibly "take down a grizzly with his bare hands" kind of guy.  Not possibly.  Just... yah.  Grrrr.  Like that.

John drove all day on a Friday, and then spent the entire next day, from morning to well after dark, in the rain (and I quote, "I'm not made of sugar"), installing the heater.  Yea, and there was much cutting and grinding and threading of pipes.  And behold, it was good.  And it was beautiful.   Is beautiful.  And it works.  The new stove is a lovely little cast iron show piece that is super warm and fabulously cost effective.  My dad can crank it up and keep his whole place toasty, and he does.

I know John would hate it to know I made a fuss over him.  He's humble, and fussing over him would make him need to go drive a tractor or maybe weld something.  Too bad.  Here comes the fuss... 
 I am so very, very grateful.  He gave so much of himself for our family.  True service happens when what you give is something that the person receiving could not have done for themselves.  Before John offered to help us, our prospects were to freeze or go bankrupt.  There was no solution within our means that could be reached.  John did that; he created a third, bless-ed possibility.  Of all the gifts the sacrifice of his time, energy and personal cost have given (not to mention his poor back), the greatest was the gift of utter peace it has given me.  I slept well that night for the first in ages.  

Thank you, John.

(Miss Jackie peeking through the hole in the wall where the exhaust would eventually be routed)

And, not that I really even noticed, but he happened to bring Jackie.  
(BONUS blessing!)


Next up, a day with Jackie, which was certainly not enough, but was all I got.  Therefore it is all you will get.  Don't be greedy.  There is only one of her.  You are quite fortunate I am willing to share her with you at all!

(And if you are in the Boise area, and need an amazing HVAC man, contact me.)

Friday, November 3, 2017

I'm not apologizing

 We have lived in the new house now for a skosh under 6 months.  It's been crazy and busy and new, and I have wanted to write a thousand times, but there has been no time.  I am tempted to apologize, but I just can't apologize for my inability to recreate our Rancho city life here among the trees.  So I won't.  I'll just tell it like it is.

 We had a cold first month, then four very hot ones, and now the cool weather is creeping up on us.  We are learning about country living, of course,
... like that road-kill lays there until the vultures carry it away,
and that all restaurants close by 8pm, and most by 2.
And we are figuring out how to live like country folk....mountain folk, actually.

Yep. We just bought our first chainsaw.

It’s been a hard adjustment, but there are sweet things, too.  Like that the lady at the library who already know your family, and will email you if she sees a book come in the donation box that she thinks your family might like.  Or that folks go out of their way -way out of their way- to help.    We live "Upcountry" and have thus learned that anything within a 30 minute drive is considered "a jaunt. We take a LOT of jaunts.

We have gotten ourselves somewhat settled, though I still don't know where some stuff is.  The kids started at a new charter school that we love.  They are getting to take classes again and things are starting to feel a little new-normal.

There is also the adjustment to the wildlife.  We have seen dozens of dear, and a coyote, and that is just in our driveway.  One sick little dear stumbled up to the house and spent the day resting around the yard until we called the wildlife refuge.  They suggested we bring it in, and it was found to be very sick with a fatal virus.  I was just glad it didn't pass away around the kids. We are adjusting, but we haven't gotten that far yet.

Adam got a new job at Safeway as a courtesy clerk (which is fancy talk for “bagger and cart-collector”) and is saving up for a car, which I cannot WAIT for him to get so he can drive himself the 10 miles to town.  He has decided to see how long his hair can grow, and it is now halfway between "Collar Duster" and "Get a job, ya' hippie!".  He is excited about his upcoming promotion to cashier as soon as he turns 18 this month.

Time for a list! (You know I love them!):

In 5 months here, I have learned how to:
Haul and stack loads of wood
Clean and start a pellet stove
Kill spiders with my bare hand
Recognize Bark Beetle damage
Thin a tree thicket
Fit 6 errands into one trip into town
Restart the internet (lots of practice with this one)
and (just today), to dig a trench with a beast called a Ditch Witch

The oldest is getting buffed out at his roofing job (which happens when you have the youngest back on the crew and lots of bags of 50 lb. concrete to be moved).

Ellie-girl has discovered a passion for baking, and is taking 2 classes through BYU Independent Study. Tessa loves the woods and is studying Spanish.  The Littles, well, they are learning to explore and play and have great adventures together.  It is the childhood I always wanted my kids to have.  At least the last two are getting it.

There is lots more to tell.
 I may or may not get around to telling it, 
but I will not apologize.

Monday, August 7, 2017

The New Digs (Before...)

Moving Day

So it takes me 
a REALLY long time to unpack, and even longer to write about it.  Over two months ago a large crowd of wonderful people came and helped us unload a big ol' truck.  Betty, our beloved neighbor, some of Ethan's and Adam's friends, Danielle, the Jensens and Slaughters all came to help.  When we arrived that day I was the last to pull into the driveway.  I had been told some folks from our new church congregation would be here to help, but I knew there might not be that many, being as we moved to Egypt, and the church boundaries are pretty wide.  I didn't imagine folks would want to spend a Saturday and drive all that way to help strangers.  

Boy was I wrong.  When we got here, there were easily a dozen faces I did not recognize, and folks were hauling our stuff into the house so fast there was barely time for introductions.  Beds and dressers and pianos flew up flights of stairs (ha), and soon we were in Box-opolis.  It was pretty amazing.

Wait.  That was three months ago today.  
Wow.  We've already been here three months.


Our good buddies the Slaughters and Jensens and Danielle stayed all day that first day to try to help us make sense of the chaos.  It was a good thing, too, because if they hadn't, we would have slept on bare mattresses our first night.  Joanna brought dinner and even remembered things like napkins and dish soap, which was really good, because we didn't find that stuff in our box-ville for like, a week. 

The Studio
 (if only it still looked so, so... tidy.  But I can't make art in a tidy space.  
You'll see, I have thoroughly massacred that end of the room).

The other end of the Studio

Danielle unpacks the china
 (though most of it is from Finland, not China).

My favorite room... The dining room.  
Finally, a room big enough for our whole family to sit and eat!
 (now if only we had a table big enough for us all!  But it's okay, there is enough room for a kid table when company comes.)

The Living room
  The TV stayed in that spot for a solid week. 
 It's heavy, and we didn't have the internet yet, so why bother?

I call this the "Main Hall", but when I think of it, I think of it as the heart of the home.  
It is at the very center of the house.  It is the one spot that all other places lead to.  

Joanna and Miss Ellie, feedin' the masses some 
stylin' Cinco De Mayo cuisine.

And Kathy, tirelessly keeping me afloat.

Ellie and Tessa's Room
(yah, it still looks about this messy.  Different mess, still a mess)


Unpacking is a terrible thing, so I try to avoid it.  Only then nobody has underwear.  And so then they dig through boxes looking for undies and only find those little thingies that you stab into the ends of corn on the cob.  And popcicle molds. And  stuff that makes you wonder why you packed all this crap.

Seriously, why did I pack all this crap?

I should have been a better documentarian, but honestly, that first few weeks I was pretty checked out.  Now that I have come to an agreement with the woods (You and your wild things stay OUT THERE, and I won't burn you down), things are a bit better.  So there aren't photos of some of the rooms in their boxitory state (yes, that is a made up word, but I bet you knew right away what it meant).  But "ya' seen one room full 'o boxes, ya seen them all!" ~Twain
(no.  He did not say that.  But he thought it)

  I will post the after pix-es, though.  We have managed to hang pictures on walls and the place is starting to feel like home (though I admit, when I close my eyes and picture home, it is a place about 49.7 miles away in the little house where my babies were born).  

I know eventually this will feel more like our place.  We are getting some routine to our days, and school will start next week (say it ain't so!) .  We are making friends at church, and have felt very welcome there.  The kiddos are making some pals.  The Bigs both have jobs (more on that later). 
We are figuring things out. 

We are putting down those first, delicate, fine little roots. 
And the forest has plenty of room for them to spread out.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

How Soon is Now

Natalie's little face appeared in the studio doorway, her bottom lip pulled straight and tight, a tiny quiver in her chin.  Natalie does cry, and often, when she's being pummeled by Jonah or in protest when she's not being heard above our noisy crowd.  But when she is actually sad, she is very reserved with her tears, and the corners of her mouth, pointed downward in a classic yet unintentional frown, betray her resolve to be stoic and brave.

"What are you doing down here?  You are supposed to be in bed."

"But nobody will snuggle me." she said in a waivery voice, resolutely holding back the tears.

"Honey, mommy is working." I offered a little weakly, and then to defend myself, added, "And I snuggle you almost every night."

"But I want you to snuggle me now." she answered in an almost helpless tone.  Not whiny or annoying.  Almost matter of fact.  Her face melted then, and she bowed her little head and let herself cry.  I suddenly thought of a little 'ponder' I had earlier this week, about how little ones don't really have a concept of time, and of the future.  It doesn't matter when the last time was, or when the next time will be.  They are creatures of Now, and this moment is the only one there really is.  Especially when you are four.

I finished tapping a nail into a loose slat on a small work bench, and then said, "Okay."  Not like, I give in, but more like, You know what?  You're right.

She took my hand as I led her up stairs (and in this Now that we are in, her hand is still so small).  I didn't have to tell her to get in bed.  She laid down and I sat beside her, and leaning over her, I rested my elbows on each side of her shoulders and held her face in my hands.  She still looked worried, and I know it's because of all the nights I have had "things to do", hurrying through the goodnight routine.  She doesn't trust that I'll stay.  I kissed her face; cheeks first, then eyelids, then chin, nose and forehead.  Her tight little mouth finally relaxed and I did the rounds again.

"Close your eyes," I said, thinking she was so tired she might drift into sleep in just moments.  She shut them, but immediately one hand reached up and held my neck, the other grabbing my earlobe.  I watched her strain the way little ones do as they try to keep their eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering and pinching tight.  I stayed.  She rubbed her thumb on my earlobe over and over, even once her eyelids had relaxed and her face slackened a little.  I whispered I love you, and those little eyes popped back open and she held my ear with just a little more fervor.

So I stayed.

Not long.  In another two minutes I whispered, "Goodnight", and she let go of my ear and rolled over, tucking her hands under her chin.  That was that.

I have kind of lost my organizing momentum now, and the studio will wait a few days more.  Not everything needs to be done right Now.

 But some things do.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Me and Will Smith

When folks ask  about what it's like here in the woods, they usually wonder, "Is it just so quiet at night?"

Ummmm.... heh heh heh, nnnnoooo.  No, it's not.

Have you ever seen the movie I Am Legend? That freaky good Will Smith zombie movie? There is that scene after Will Smith locks down the apartment for the night, where he climbs into the tub with his dog as darkness descends (see it here).  Soon, the night sounds of the zombie horde begin to penetrate the metal window shutters which are the only things keeping our hero from becoming a midnight snack.  We cringe as the zombie cries reach a terrifying fever-pitch, while Will and his poor pooch cling to each other, waiting for the blessed relief of daylight.

It's like that!!!  Okay, maybe not a zombie apocalypse, but it was a little, at first, back when I was all worked up about mountain lions.  And fires.  And bears (Lions and fires and bears, OH MY!).  But it can still be a little spooky.

To lend some contrast, understand that from our old house in Rancho, at night we could hear the traffic on Folsom Blvd., mostly the back-up beep-beep-beep of the vendor trucks at the market 2 blocks down, and the hum of cars.  There were the random honks here and there, dogs barking, and the drunk party-ers across the street.  Oh, and guns sometimes (okay, so Rancho is it's own brand of scary).  And amorous cats,  those were my favorites.

But when you hear the same night noises for years, it becomes... quiet (except for the dang cats. You never get used to that.)

Here, the mountain-yin to that city-yang starts soon after dusk (just like in the movie!).  I mean, there is the ever present burble and chatter of the creek, of course.  But I don't usually notice it during the day, so at night it's like someone turned up the volume on it.  Next, as the last rays of daylight fade to grey, the crickets start gettin' all worked up, and then the faint chirp of a frog floats through the air. With the darkness there is another, and then another, until soon it sounds like a touch down at Frog-State University's football game.  Go listen to that in your head for a minute.  I'll wait.

Loud, isn't it?

Time for a public service announcement...

If a pond full of frogs is screaming their slimy little lungs out, and you are over it, if you yell 
"Shut Up!"... they will!  (Yes, I yell at frogs.  Don't judge).

Please explain to me... if frogs chirp to find a mate, and there are, like, 26 of them in a 5 foot pond, are they all deaf, blind, and possibly brain dead?  Honestly.  Sign up for a dating site, already.  The pond thing ain't workin'.  You're going to be single forever.

Something sets off the two chihuahuas up the hill at our nearest neighbor's.  They go on for a while till a man's voice barks back a few colorful phrases.  They scare the frogs into silence, a door slam echos through the woods, and in about 6 seconds, as though cued by an amphibious conductor's tiny wand, the frogs start up again in earnest.

Now, as I've mentioned, it's been quite warm here.  The house heats up nicely during the day, so we fling wide the windows in the evening to welcome the breezes, and climb into bed under the window as the cool evening floats in.  Guy is asleep before I'm done flossing (to be fair, I floss for days).  I finally settle into my pillow.

CRUNCH. Step, step, crackle, TWIG SNAP, drag-scrape!

I bolt up in bed and grab my phone, tip-toe running to the bathroom where I can look out the window without waking Guy.  The window is open, but the dim glow of the Little's night-light bounces off the screen and I can't see out.  I rip the light out of the outlet and am plunged into the blackest black. No stars, no moon, certainly no street lights or headlights.  I aim my phone's flashlight out the window.  Something glowing moves among the trees on the steep-but close hill across from the window, and then freezes.  Just eyes.  Daaarknesssssss and eeeeeeyes.  Darn phone doesn't shine brightly enough to reveal the owner!  I mean, could be raccoon, could be land shark, right?

I put the light down, and in a moment the crunching resumes.  We do the dance, Land Shark and I, me with my flashlight, him with his creepy-green glowing eyes.  Eventually, deciding that the Land Shark can only possibly bore me to death, I get tired and go to bed.  Step, crunch, scrape, scrape.  I put my arm over my ear aaaaaand... fall asleep.


TapTapTapTap.    Tap.  Tap. Tap.

There is what would appear-by-ear to be a leprechaun out in the woods making itty-bitty shoes with a teeny, tiny hammer.  I huff and shut the window, then listen to the only slightly muffled shoe making.  Nocturnal wood pecker, perhaps?  Is that even a thing?!

At about 4 am my bladder wakes me up. That's not part of the moon-lit cacophony, that's just the nightly drill, but it's super convenient, 'cuz it gets me all ready for BIRD-A-PALOOZA!!!

You may have heard some nonsense about early birds getting up with the morning light. Yah, what a load of crap.  Birds don't get up early.  They get up BEFOOOOORE early.  WAY. All of them.
It sounds like someone took 412 parrots, stuffed them into a box, threw in a few cats, and shook it really hard.

Oh, and I'm in the box, too.

I bury my head and drift off to slee... a pterodactyl flies by cawing frantically.  The pterodactyl and several of his friends circle the house 47 times. The chihuahuas protest.  I fade off again at around lap 34, but I can hear them caw in my dreams.

Just about 20 minutes later, number-one son gets up for work, and the very strangely placed vent in our upstairs bedroom that leads directly to the family room below, allows me to enjoy all of his happy, nay, spunky! getting-ready-for-work sounds.  As the garage door slams, rattling the house like a 6.2 quake, and Son's truck roars to life and then crunches up the gravel driveway too fast, I hear Guy begin to stir for work.  But he's a ninja.  I sleep right through, and then snooze a little longer after our prayer and kiss goodbye.  The birds begin to settle.  The chihuahuas are at rest. The frogs ate all the crickets, I guess, because I hear neither (may they all get heartburn). There are no more monsters in the forest.  It's finally quiet enough to sleep-
when my alarm goes off.

Yep.  Me and Will Smith, and the blessed (?) relief of daylight.


But, alas, as I write this, it's







Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Beating the Heat(ers)

It's hot.  
 It's been over 100 all week, and finally cooled off a bit today (whew!).
And our A/C doesn't work.
We've been hitting low 90's in the house.

But when we first got here it was cold.  We were trying to figure out this house and all it's quirks (like the millions of light switches to who-knows-what.  I am convinced that somewhere in the neighborhood there is a homeowner who keeps wondering why their porch light keeps turning on and off).  In that process, and because we were cold, we tried the heater, pellet stove, wood stove and a few space heaters to warm the joint up.

Did I say few?  I meant 4.

Getting our first electric bill was beyond shocking! 
 It was more than the cost of:
My first semester tuition in college
My wedding band
The birth of our first child

Yah, so I got home to see "a look" on my husband's face that frightened me.  He showed me the bill, we freaked out together, and, yada yada yada plus a day later, we figured out about the cause of it.  Space heaters and a very inefficient water heater adding to the electric strain.  

We knew it would be something, though.  
You don't buy a 45 year old house and not have a few surprises.  So after we had our jaws surgically re-attached to our faces, we set about making plans to solve the problem(s).  I'm not sure yet what we will be doing to fix the house heat, but we have ideas in the works, and a few months to figure it out.  God took care of it for now by sending volcanic heat to the area, eliminating our need for plug-in solutions.  And a new water heater is DEFINITELY on the docket.

A day or so after the PG&E shock-by-mail, as I sat at the computer learning about energy-star rated heat-pumps, cute hubby walks through the room with our large laundry bucket (small tangent: Marcy and Kindel Morris, if you are reading this, the bucket was part of your wedding present to us, and it will likely still be here in another 22 years!  Great choice!).  A few minutes later he returns with a call out that everyone needs to meet him in the driveway.

I was... reluctant? no, reserved? Nah, I'll admit, I was grumpy.  Water heaters and heat pumps are not my favorite things AT ALL.  If I made a list of things I like, water heaters wouldn't even make the top one thousand (I can say that now, because it's been over 100 degrees all week).  And now he was interrupting my grump-fest, and I HAD to join what ever craz-o-rama he had planned cuz' apparently, when I gave birth half a dozen times, I signed up for this whole support-ma'-hubby thing, grump or no grump.

So, we all made our way out the front door.....


Water gun to the face!

One thing I love about Guy (I love more than one thing.  Like at least four...)
is that he can sometimes shake off the blues and just cut loose.  But it is random, so you don't see it coming (I usually can't do that so well, cuz I am a crabby-cake.  Though I am working on it.  Just last night I turned a "They're-all-fussy-and-no-body-is-listening" Family Night into a Mouths-only marshmallow-catching contest.  It was Mallow-geddon up in here) 

  (what was I saying?  Oh, yah, water gun...)
TO THE FACE!   Bam!  (well, not bam. Splat?)

He had the wedding bucket full of water and a variety of squirty-thingies, loaded and ready.  We ran around blasting each other for a good half hour.  It was awesome. 

Natalie thought it was hilarious to shoot people in the "booty", eye level.  Jonah stayed out of range.  Adam got cold before we had even soaked him all that well (no meat on 'dem bones).  Tessa and Ellie were ruthless, and I was arbitrarily making up rules to avoid getting drenched.  No one listened.

Guy was a rock-star-cowboy, water guns blazing.

Soon a truce was called and weapons were stowed.  As I walked up the front steps, my gaze followed my feet as they squished on each stair, clean, wet toes sprinkled with driveway sand and itty-bitty pebbles.  I thought how just half a sunset ago I was all Oscar the Grouch.  I know that in life I am not supposed to let the situation dictate my mood, that I am the captain of my own ship and all that happy-crap, but this time it was a very good thing that I let Guy take the rudder.  Dis' here boat was beached on a sand bar, and it took a little water to shake it loose. 

Fun things we have learned about the house/area
 (because it ain't all bad):

The acoustics in the living room are AWESOME, 
making Sunday night piano-sing-alongs better than ever.
Baby deer make a cute squeeky sound, like a dog toy.
Sometimes I forget there is a creek outside, and I think someone left the water running.  When I realize it's the creek, it makes me smile.
If enough bugs get in the house, at a certain point you just decide to co-exsist.
There is something empowering about being able to pee WHENEVER you feel like it, 
and to have three toilets to choose from, no waiting.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

You are here. Deal.

Well, we moved.

I had thought I'd be able to write about it along the way, starting with the light switch covers and ending here, today.  But it was a tornado inside a tsunami inside a hurricane (kind of like a Turduken; that turkey-duck-chicken monstrosity), and it's hard to type in a Tor-nami-cane.

Fast forward a few months.

We are sort of unpacked.  As in, "I found the Christmas ornaments and briquettes, but I have no idea where my bra is".  The kids are pretty well settled.  Guy loves it here.  I... um... I am adjusting.  This change has been huge, and, well...


I could pretend I am doing super great, for the sake if this post.  But that would be silly and unrealistic.  I'm doing better.  Better than I was the first week, when I cried most mornings asking "what have we done?", and the second, when my stomach was one giant knot.  Sometime in the third week (after I came home from the church in tears from listening to wild local tales of bears, mountain lions and forest fires), my hubby firmly counseled, "We live here now.  You need to deal with it."

So I'm trying to "deal".  But this has been a very different move for me.  It's hard to explain this place, but I'll try.

First, understand that we moved from a series of 5 apartments to our little house in Rancho Cordova, where we could hear our neighbors cough and flush their toilets (and they, ours... Hi Betty and Denise!).  The sky was wide and usually blue, the land flat and cluttered with the residue of humanity.  The streets were busy; the people, too.  It was the only house most of our kiddos could remember, three of them having been born since we lived there, and two of them born right in it.

It was a habit.  It was our routine.  It was... familiar.

The drive to our new house winds through rolling, golden hills dappled with oak trees and dairy cows, traced here and there by unhurried streams. Soon the terrain becomes steeper, the road windier, the trees closer together.  Our little town of 2,310... make that 2,319, has a post office, a burger joint, two vet clinics, two yarn shops, and an actual video rental store (yes, 1987 called.  It wants me to rent Sixteen Candles).  Our little town does NOT, however, have a stop light.

As the highway bends through town, it climbs uphill, and just on the outer edge of town, there is a street that leads to a road that leads to a lane that turns down a gravel drive.  That drive plunges down through the trees that arch over it in a shadowy tunnel, and spills you out into a small clearing.  And there it is, a towering chalet-like house framed by what I call "the big, green cage"- sky-scraping pines, broad-armed oaks and shimmery, broad-leafed trees that I can't identify.

 The house, a split level complete with 3 stories, an attic and mysterious storage areas that have already been named "The Dungeon", "The Chokey" and "Chokey Junior", sits in a cleft; a shady ravine along side a chattering creek.

A stone's throw from the house there on the 1.3 acre property is a cabin warmed by a wood stove, and a trail behind the house marked by a handmade wooden sign that points the way to Mt. Zion State Park.  The woods.

We bought a house in the woods.

My brain vibrates again with the refrain, what were we thinking?

This house, this place, has a certain magic about it.  It is a place that makes you catch your breath and whisper "wow" in a sort of reverent, if not slightly overcome way.  It's big and green and beautiful.  It's also a place that plunges into darkness as the sun disappears behind the ridge, and that comes alive in the dark with the calls of unseen critters. 

It's a place that wakes well before dawn, every bird in the forest gathering almost on my windowsill in a bellowing clamor to see if they can out-chirp each other before the first light of day.  The mosquitoes are plentiful and ravenous, the neighbors quiet and hidden away in the trees.  The sky, most mornings, is a little angry and grey.  Though technically "up", the sun doesn't peek over the eastern hillside until about 9:30 in the morning.  And that brooding sky isn't kidding either.  Since moving here a month ago there have been several rainy days, and just this past Saturday, in early June, it rained, thundered, lightning-ed, hailed and then... snowed.  Briefly.  But still!!!

We left our home of 14 years.
Our charter school, our friends, our church family.
Our yard.
Our sky.
Our trees.

Change is hard.

And I'm a bit of a wimp.

But I'm "adjusting".

And I have to because

We Are Here.

Monday, February 20, 2017

The Moment the Light Switched On

I walked down the hall 
and stopped like I'd hit the wall. 
 I have been boxing things and painting things and fixing things, but the sight of a new switch plate cover stopped me in my paint-spattered, barefooted tracks.  

When Guy and I bought this house, we had a new-home-buyer's nightmare on our hands.  The previous owner had actively and deceptively hidden severe "pet damage" (meaning she would leave her dog and cat in the house all weekend while she went away for days, turning it into a 1600 square-foot litter box, and then covered every obvious trace of the damage with paint, carpet-fresh and air-freshener plug-ins).  Once we were moved into the house, and the intense cinnamon smell aired out, the vile and musky reality of our new situation began wafting out of the carpet and drywall.  We were the proud owners of a kennel.

A real estate lawyer reviewed or claim and told us that the risk of losing our case was 50-50, and recommended that we invest our money, time and energy into fixing our house, and not fighting a very-possibly losing battle.  He said he would go to bat for us on principal, but that principals could get expensive, and that ultimately a person who would do this to a family would not learn any sort of lesson, even if she lost.  "Don't worry though," he assured us, "She'll eventually get what she deserves, because people like her always do.  It doesn't have to be at the cost of your peace."  

He refused the $250 consultation fee.  
"You kids go home and use that money to fix up your house.  It's going to be okay."

We spent months, years really, repairing the damage, in some places removing drywall and even treating saturated studs.  We ripped out every thread of carpet, and scrubbed and sanitized and painted.  Every dime we had went to making the place livable.  We certainly wanted to put our own touches on things, and did here and there when we could afford to, but the two things I remember actually indulging in were a good wool rug for the living room 
and light switch covers.

Copper light switch covers.

I love copper.  It reminds me of my sweetie's hair, back when it was more red than grey.  It has warmth and light and depth, and a certain dignity to it.  
Again, like my sweetie.
And let's face it, it's not plastic.  
Indulgent, unnecessary. 
 It was our own little stamp on the house that made it ours.

So when I walked down the hall last week and saw Guy placing the last screw in a plain off-white plastic switch cover, my heart dropped.  Up until that moment everything I was doing was really just following through with repairs and updates I had always planned on making.  We were already planing to repaint the kid's rooms new colors.  We knew the bathroom floor needed repairs.  A new front door has been long overdue.

But this was the first change to our little house that was not something we would have done for ourselves.  Of course, I could have left copper plates here, but they are coming with me to my new house, 
a house that I've never seen before,
 on walls that I cannot picture.

"We're really moving, aren't we?"  I asked Guy, tears pooling.
Yes we are.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Don't Box Me In...

New Year's Resolution,
Curve Ball.

I did say I would write here more, and then Life said,
 "Silly girl, wait till you see what I have in store for you!"  

We've known for a long time we needed to move.  
There are eight people using one bathroom in this house.  That means DMV-quality lines on a regular basis, with attitudes to match.  There have been times when I have had BOTH of The Littles "using" the backyard trees because a Big was parked it the bathroom, and their little bladders, simultaneously, couldn't wait.  That would be fine in an emergency, but it's become a way of life.  
That ain't right.

Build a bathroom, you say?  Yes, everyone who loves us and wants us to stay keeps suggesting that. And what do I do about the tiny kitchen that won't fit my whole family around the table? or the boys sleeping in the enclosed patio?  

No, it was already time to move a looong time ago.  
But a new motivation has set things in motion.  
Dad is coming to live with us! 
 Um, oh yah, one bathroom, 9 people...

Time to move.

Like, now.

While we embark on this new adventure (that's what I'm calling it.  "Adventure".  It's not original, I know, but it's better than "Panic Attack" or "Massive Eye Twitch"), I'll jot notes here... rough and probably not well edited, to keep my commitment to myself to write our family history here.  It will be brief, but the ten people who actually read this will be glad for that.

This week we have gone to see 3 properties.  Well, two.  One would have required a sherpa and three alpacas to get to, and a tow truck and a winch to get us out.  We made it down the brambly, pothole-laden dirt road that Google Maps assured us should take 10 minutes (ha! try 25) to within a half-mile of the house, then sat in the van, perched on the precipice of a slope that certainly was the inspiration for every roller-coaster drop every made, and turned to look at each other.  

"Nope." Guy said.
"We may make it down, but I don't think we'll get back out."

"If you don't feel right about it, let's turn around."  I agreed.

I was sad after an hour of driving to have gotten that far and not even have seen the cute house we had admired in the MLS listing, but we had decided a few miles back that this was not a drive we could make every day.  No wonder the house has been listed so long. That driveway was like the bridge troll in a Monty Python film.  "None shall pass!"

Another house taunted me with it's cute, moss-covered retaining walls and acre lot with a creek running through it, but the interior was, um, somewhat dismal.  At one point I think I may have uttered the words,"I see dead people."

The last house we saw is a Maybe.  It meets many criteria that we have to fill, though we haven't been in it yet.  Our agent had a dental emergency, so we decided to just see if it was even reachable without a biplane before we dragged her out there.  This particular Maybe would be a lot of work, and it's a little funky, as most houses on the outskirts of towns are, but it's on a couple of acres and is in a beautiful area. And you get to drive through a hilarious little ram-shackle gold mining town that looks like a movie set to get there, so bonus points for quirky charm.


Back here on the home-front we are packing, painting, and trying to get this old girl gussied up.  She is somewhat reluctant to put on the girdle I'm trying to squeeze her into.  We won't have time to do a lot of what I would wish to do to get it ready, and I am having to dial down the perfectionism in my repairs.  It's probably not necessary for me to get a porcelain smooth finish on window frames for 60 year old aluminum windows that someone will likely yank a week after they sign on the dotted line. 

 Yah, probably not.

Now, on to that pile of empty boxes.

(to be continued...) 

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Go, Snail, Go!

The months of October through December have collectively become what we here in the Holman house call, "THE SALE".  All energy goes to THE SALE.  Our calendar, clock, menu and bowel movements are set by THE SALE.  Each year has brought growth, and we have gone from packing up just the studio/school room, to now packing two more rooms as well.  It's like moving 1/3 of our house once a year.  Somewhere between Vomiting Kids and Flooded Kitchen on the Annoying Scale.

This year I wanted to really begin to focus my art more on things I enjoyed making and less on "something for your granny"; to ditch scarves or generic earrings - gifts that would appeal to the masses- in favor of bigger pottery pieces and jewelry items I really like (and will wear if they don't sell).  The risk paid off, and my own personal sales shot up by about 50% over last year.  It felt good.  No, wait,

But to make that happen, I had to spend 4 hours a night, usually 6 nights a week, for about 8 months, in the studio.  In the final weeks before THE SALE, I was in the studio up to 15 hours a day.  I got three things out of this schedule:

* A studio-load of pottery and jewelry, of which I am very proud.

* A repetitive stress injury to my neck from having my head hanging over my lap for 40+ hours a week.

* A sadly neglected blog.

Which wouldn't bother me so much... if it didn't BOTHER me so much!!!  This is (sadly) my journal.  It is our family history.  It is where I catalog the memories that my rusty lobes refuse to record! Without my blog, I seriously can only remember general events, like "went to Southern California", and no details.  It's like looking at a blurry photo.  It makes me sad.

So, my fellow Resolution Makers, this is mine:
 I'm back.

 (and now that I've said it I actually have to do it... some call it accountability, I call it how embarrassing if I don't!!!)


A note about the piece of pottery above: I made eight items in this style; my take on Sgraffito, a process where black liquid-clay is painted over white clay, and then carved into to reveal the white clay beneath.  It's a very sexy process.  I sold most of them before they were even completed, and had a few folks jockeying for the same pieces.  It was so exciting!  Well, exciting like really polite snail races, if you're really into snail races, and if your snail is going to be bringing in a shell full of cash at the end (I'm picturing a little smiling snail with a wreath of flowers around his neck, like at the Kentucky Derby).

This particular little pretty (the pot, not the snail) went to live with my hubby's co-worker, who, upon seeing a photo, declared it to be hers!  I LOVE letting my pottery babies go to live with people who love them that much!

And on a second note, one of the pieces took me 32 hours to carve, so GO, SNAIL, GO!!!!