You're probably not curious, but I am.

I've been wondering to myself for some time, about something that I already know the answer to, mostly. It's a question about myself and why I do things the way I do. A question about where I came from, who I am, and where I am going. The question is: Why am I a redneck? More specifically, What makes me a redneck? and Why am I proud to be a redneck? So I've decided to devote a portion of my diaper changing, potty training, love-food making, self each week to answering a portion of this self proposed question. I'd like to laugh with you, at myself  while I do it. This weeks red neck moment was, if you're like me, not so silly. But if you happen to be like my husband, pretty ridiculous. Sometimes that is my mark for when I am being a redneck, whatever my husband (and my neighbors) thinks is ridiculous.

Trimming the hedge with scissors.

To start out, I might explain that I have very green heart. My brain doesn't always work perfectly in that way, because I don't really put forth the time and energy to educate myself on everything I might do better, to be green. But it is instinctual to do whatever is most natural in any given decision. I am also a process oriented person. Much of the time, this also means that I will only begrudgingly pay someone else to do something for me, that I can possibly do for myself and usually I'd rather spend an afternoon doing something by hand than use a machine to do, even if it's easier or saves a lot of time.

My poor husband, comes from a place where water falls from the sky every other day. (That's why we dream every day and night of moving back. I am addicted to rain.) But as such, he has never given a second thought to leaving water running accept to avoid the annoying sound of a drip, drip, dripping faucet or using up the entire tank of hot water before it can be reheated.  I have two pet peeves: the biggest being when people, living in a desert mind you, water their driveway or the street with their sprinklers. The other (what would talk of rednecks be without mention of one's neighbors) is when my well intentioned friend Mike, comes over with his spray can of Round-up or his huge, heavy, riding lawn mower and tries to aid me in my lawn endeavors. I can count for you the number of times that it has killed the grass seedlings I have patiently and diligently watered and watched inch by inch spring forth from the ground only to have him kill them off in five minutes. I can only imagine that more than one of my neighbors is peeved at my sometimes called grass, being always overgrown and patched with brown spots and rotating areas of weeds because I insist on three things; watering without hitting the fence, pulling the nasty buggers by hand as a opposed to spraying some chemical based fertilizer or weed killer and my favorite tool is an aluminum push mower that is badly in need of a sharpening. And this concludes the introduction portion of our blog post...las (laugh-at-self)

But what I was really getting at was this:

To solve my neighbor trying to save the day with his mower I started a little home improvement project. I dug a very small ditch in my front yard separating it into two zones one side where next year I will plant a waterwise bed of rocks and perennials etc. the other side I will plant a tree and keep green grass. The green grass has been a success for the first time in my grass growing life!

The other day my smallest little nanite gave Ariel and I a healthy nap and we used it to therapeutically get some stuff done outside that normally isn't possible. And I did what my neighbors have been waiting for all summer, I cut my grass. Yes, I used my push mower. And then afterward, I realized what most suburbanites realize on a regular basis, my edges were a bit shabby. And not having an edger? I went for the kitchen sheers.

 

With my husband scoffing at me in the background, I cut the thick grass-like stalks down to show what is my beautiful shabby redneck border, enjoying myself immensely in the therapeutic process. Seriously. And I think that this redneck business must be contagious because after that my handsome husband invented a way to use the water that drips pesteringly from our faucet to water the beets that grow near bye, using a large broken ceramic jar I made in college. And thus, a tragic end to a piece of hard earned clay turns serendipidously to save us all from wasting our precious water.

I Love stuff like this! And that, my friends, is why I am a redneck. Lest I forget, our larger, more independant nanite helped too. She is very talented in the art of gathering weeds and putting them in a pile. She does this for me every time we go out and pull weeds from the grass. She loves to make piles. Her favorite kind of pile is a pile of blankets. Here she is in the act:

Duck, Duck, Goose.

More than Once I've sat down to write this post because a blog about my life wouldn't be real without something important that goes on in my life. That's what it is, right? Real people connecting over distances to share a little piece of life and hopefully connect in some real way? I keep feeling like I need to get something particular out of me, like ants in my pants, only, on my brain. And this is just a start.
I consider my family to be a very odd bunch. Odd in a good way. I really don't think I'm exaggerating on this one. Most of the things that I've wanted to write about and haven't, have to do with this very odd and varied and beautiful conglomeration of people. And the things I have to say about them are at the moment far beyond my comprehension, therefore I won't try until I have a little more. But I do comprehend a little. There is one person who is slightly less odd, though no less precious, than all of the other beautiful souls in my life.  That would be the individual I am proud to call my sister, Kristin. As children I tried to convince her that pink was a very bad color and that if she liked bows, then we couldn't be friends. She responded by picking up a nasty habit for the backstreet boys, for which she was scoffed and ridiculed to no end until she tor the wretched posters from her wall. Since then, it's been mostly upward for her and I believe that the gap in our creative differences has mostly closed. In other words, I still think she's prettier with out make up.
She taught herself to play the piano. I don't know of anyone in my family who started out taking piano lessons successfully. Most taught themselves to play, but none so voraciously as Kristin. There was a (thankfully brief) period of time at the very beginning of my married life when I Lived with my new husband at the home of my parents in Helena, Montana. I vaguely remember anyone or anything alive accept for myself and my new husband from that period of time, but I remember Kristin at the Piano, moving up the scale and down the scale with not-so-smooth movements.  It seems that the sound of the piano never ceased during those months as Kristin practiced every single day for hours.

After we left Montana, I remember, upon returning, how the random pauses in the middle of verses grew fewer and less dragging and things started to flow in her music. She had so much drive to conquer that part of herself. She did the same thing with her voice, paying for lessons through working, giving piano lessons while she was in high school. As long as I can remember, Kristin has worked hard to make her way and master herself.

Every summer since high school has been spent working 16 hour days so she can pay for college. I, on the other hand, exclusively played most summers and as a result have a healthy amount of unpaid student loans and an unfinished degree. More than once, I doubted her priorities as she was never able to make it to family events because she was always busy working. As if she couldn't take a couple days off in the whole summer to spend with her family, I thought. But now, looking back I admire her dedication and sacrifice.

This summer, Kristin and I have been able to reconnect on levels emotional, and spiritual. These are the connections that I find form the strongest of bonds between two souls. Kristin has been living with my family for the last 2 1/2 months. It seems like I've had one or two of my siblings living with me at least once or twice a year since I've been married. It's actually alot less than that, but I've learned the value of one particular Spanish phrase: "Casado, Casa Quiere" which basically means to me, that a family unit ideally exists independantly, without other families in the same dwelling. Simply because we have different ideas about what the qualities of a home and family should be. The balance of having more than one strong relationship under the same roof alone is hard to strike. It's simple that having Kristin in my home, where I am trying to raise two small children and support my husband emotionally while he supports us all financially and goes to school, has been the easiest balance to strike that I have ever experienced. Kristin has been a babysitter, a dishwasher, and a friend on a daily basis. She has the ability to find  Joy in simplicity even when all of the signs of this life tell her she should be cynical and miserable. She has the grace of being able to Love when any sane person would feel only hurt. The capacity to reach out when she has been cut off from all that was once comfort and constance. I've come to realize, over the last few months, that Kristin's desire to master herself is not limited to the instrument in front of her. I've watched as she jots down notes every day in her little flip book. Questions she is actively looking for answers to about herself, her family, and the walls that place themselves before her. She takes every part of her life and puts it under a microscope, looking for a more profound perspective in becoming the person she wants to be. I hope that some day I can learn the discipline and oneness that she has in her life. She is truly a person with integrity. Being able to laugh at the oddity of our family and cry at it too, will linger in my home for a long while. I am left with the feeling that things will get better little by little and (don't tell) a big chunk of her light is being left here with me to give me strength.

And somehow it hasn't gotten in the way of me living my life. I feel comfortable to be my stinky, sloppy self at all hours of the day and night. Accept for the need to wear more clothing than usual, I think that the whole family feels the same way. For the first time I haven't felt like I couldn't tell her to turn the bathroom light off or please close the front door, or even when I tell her she's wearing too much makeup, she takes it like a champion. And though we have very differing personalities, we are able to share ideas and disagree without discord. I know, this sounds like it should be simple for two mature adults. But I've found that this quality is a fleeting and rare one. Kristin will be leaving again for school next week. Even with all that I see of good and strength, I am a little surprised. Suprised to find that after so long, we are still able to be honest in the nitty gritty of things. And I am grateful that Kristin and I have had the opportunity to seal our relationship after a long pause of distance. For the first time ever, having family live with me, we are parting with a sense of peace between us and an understanding that every needful thing will be taken care of in time, things temporal, emotional and spiritual. This post is mostly to Thank her for the experience and affirmation that most people are real people just trying to live life and stay afloat and find happiness in their own way. I wish her peace as she goes and my Love for her will only continue to grow as I watch the ways in which she continues her very real happiness.

From Doggedly to Dogless part II

Before I bore any of you to tears, I have to say that there is a purpose in this tale. I did not sit down to ramble on and on aimlessly about my dog. It might possibly be nothing more than a therapy session for myself, but if it helps then it is purpose enough for me. The second half of my tale is a little more personal.
I didn't always know that I wanted to be a Mother. I wasn't born understanding how to entertain children or even how to take care of them. I was not a babysitting prodigy as seems expected where I come from. But when I finally did, I became all too familiar with what is commonly termed "baby hungry". Most women have felt that thumping in their uterus. I have heard it described as a turning over of your bowels and after going through the labor and delivery process I think that's probably pretty close to what it is. But this blog post has less to do with having babies than it does losing them. Ariel and I tried to have a baby for three long years. I won't go into all the details because that's too personal even for me. But I have never known jealousy like I did during those three years. I've never doubted myself so much. I struggled every time I saw a young girl with that pronounced bump or a young couple with three or four younglings scrambling at their feet. We took temperatures and timed things and took pills and were poked and prodded by acupuncturists. But nothing worked and no one could tell us why we weren't able to have babies. And so finally after 2 1/2 years of 'trying', we stopped. But the idea of not 'trying' to conceive didn't ease the pain of not conceiving. I still felt that thumping in my belly. It still pained me to see a small child. I felt it on a daily basis. I needed something to nurture, other than my adorable and adoring husband. And thus, we come to the subject of our epic tale. I searched for him for weeks. Many afternoons I'd take an hour before I went to pick Ariel up from work and go to the Humane Society. People are never so lucky as to pick and choose through potential offspring as I did my first child. Ariel wanted something not too big and I wanted something that wasn't too hyper. I found a handsome sheepdog, but he would probably shed. There was a well mannered pit bull, cringe if you will, but she was adorable; and it turned out that our landlord wouldn't give the OK.  Then after a few weeks I wandered into the puppy room and there he was, a fat pawed, mask faced, black and tan long haired pup, quivering in his kennel. I grabbed a leash from the person at the front desk and opened his kennel door. He took my heart right out of my chest. He snuggle his long bearded snout into the crook of my arm and it stayed there as we went outside and I tried playing with him on the lawn, unsuccessfully. He just wanted to be close to a warm body. He didn't seem scared, he was just a baby pup who needed a mama. On the ride home and for weeks, he wouldn't sit anywhere but in my lap. Try driving on the freeway with a puppy head in the way when you want to shift into 5th. Obnoxious, but endearing.

And here Jaime(Hi-may) came into our family. For the first year or so, he went EVERYWHERE with us. He Loved to be with people. I had to be careful with my 80 year old grandmother, but otherwise he was gentle enough and obedient. Our favorite thing to do was go walking. For the first few months he would follow us wherever we went. He had no interest in what was going on around us as we walked through the Avenues to Memory Grove, a leash free park, in downtown Salt Lake. He just stayed with us, without even the need for a leash. Of course later he learned a bit more independence and was a healthy curious sniffer. We Loved our daily walk to Memorial Grove. As other dog walkers and runners passed us he sniffed around and made friends but as soon as I got 5 feet away he clued into the signal that we were leaving and followed.

It's painful to write about the wonderful things about Jaime. It isn't like Hatchu where I wasn't living there at the time and I know there was a happy end to the story. Jaime was a good, good dog. It was impossible to stay away from him when you came by our home or met us on the street. He just wanted so badly to be loved and feel secure. But the reason that I am writing this out is quite simply because we had to let that dear little dog go yesterday.

I am not writing this to share a sob story. I have too many sob stories and reserve this week alone in the year to let them all out. However, I am writing this to share the things that I have learned about being a pet owner. As may be apparent we did eventually conceive a child. but before we did, we had two long glorious and therapeutic years with Jaime. We brought him home in February of 2006 He slept at the foot of our bed until long past when we brought our daughter home in February of 2008. In those two years he was my handkerchief when I lost my brother, he was my companion through long walks and thunderstorms. He was a safe place that knew no wrong. Some dogs have a sixth sense for people who mean harm. Jaime knows nothing but Love. He doesn't understand that some people or some dogs aren't safe. he wants your love and he wants to give you his. He Loves to swim and chase birds and cats. He loves to eat vegetables. But most of all, he Loves ME. he listens to ME. He wanted nothing more than to be mine.

When our daughter was born, we were very careful to acclimate Jaime to her. and her to him, we didn't want her to be allergic and gave them each healthy doses of each other daily. He never slept a night outside. He never missed his bed even for a night. And when he finally slept out in the hall instead at the foot of our bed it was completely natural for him. But I can't say that he didn't suffer. I never would have thought that I would have a limited supply of affection. But suddenly when Ada was born, I was annoyed at his hair. I was annoyed at his eyes watching me everywhere I went. I just wanted him to be a dog, and just a dog. Someone I could give affection to when I felt like it. Someone I could feed when I felt like it. He was always around and I thought that if I just gave him attention or threw the ball for him when I went outside or when I passed him going up the stairs, it would be enough. He handled it well, but he demanded more when other people came to visit. Which also bothered me. I know, you're thinking I'm a horrible person. I am dammit. I want to scratch his belly and take him on the same long walks we use to go on. But I just don't have enough in me to go around that far. It took a long time for me to understand myself and stop feeling guilty. Today all of those feelings are very much present. But I don't know honestly if my reaction to having a child could have been avoided. I feel it was hormonal, primal, a part of me so deeply ingrained that I couldn't control it. In order to help Jaime deal better with the changes I tried to think of him more like a pack animal, as I realize now I should have all along. Really, that's what he is. But in a pack there is ranking. Jaime had a happy and free life before our daughter came around. And I don't think, no matter what memories are like for dogs, whether they are smells or colors or images, I don't think he would ever forget that he was first. That was our first mistake. I brought Jaime home for a selfish need of my own. To fulfill my innate need to nurture. I didn't think enough about what would happen if and when I had a child. I couldn't have known, but I didn't consider it either.

When my daughter was a little over one year old Jaime was still a happy dog. With less attention, less affection. But he still got exercise and food and Love and freedom. He was never put on a chain or in a kennel unless we had to leave him (which was not very often) or someone was around that his strong swishy tail might knock over. Our daughter was learning how to love him too. Though her way of loving him was by poking his eyes or pulling on his ears. She lay on him and leaned on him and though he's always been a weak and sensitive dog, he always took it like a champ. One day though, we found his breaking point. It wasn't with Ada pestering him but in a plate of food. He had already eaten that morning. And I, cleaning out the fridge with Ada crawling on the floor, gave him a tupperware of macaroni and cheese. Another Red Neck trait: I can't stand to see anything go to waste. I had barely turned my back when I heard a snarl and a low bark. I turned to see Jaime jumping away from Ada. My protective Mother-Bear instinct of the moment made sure that Jaime was down the stairs and locked in my room before I looked at Ada to see what had happened. When I came back up, she was balled up on the floor covering her face. She didn't even start crying until I pulled her hands away from her face and picked her up. Which is when I saw blood and started to panic. He had scathed her sweet, round, perfect little nose. With Jaime crying in my bedroom and Ada crying in my arms I didn't know what to do. Ariel was in class and not being able to think straight about what to do, I put a band aid over Ada's nose and put her in the car to go in search of Papa. We startled him as he was leaving his class and he was smart enough (my sexy smart nurse) to realize that we needed to take her to the hospital. 12 hours, two emergency rooms and a very drugged little girl later we were home from plastic surgery at Primary Children's Hospital.
After that it was a different story with Jaime. I realized, after the initial shock wore off, that he had not intended to hurt her, actually he had been very careful, but alas he is an animal. He's a big dog, with a big mouth. If it hadn't been on her sweet little nose, we wouldn't have even taken her to the hospital or called animal control (by law). Looking back it just wasn't a very big deal.

But after that, every time I saw he and Ada together I panicked. Crazy images would float through my brain, of Jaime growling and lunging. I only thought about what he could have done to her and what I was afraid at any moment would happen to her. I was expecting our second child at that point and felt very nervous at the thought of having Jaime alone with my child. Now, please understand, I must have had some crazy nesting hormones in me, because Jaime is the most docile dog you've ever seen. My daughter is bitten on a daily basis by a chihuahua because of her constant badgering. And it doesn't bother me, I know that she deserves it and the chihuahua can't do anything to really hurt her. But Jaime is a dog that, were it not for his sad pouty expression would demand respect by his simple size. For the last year and a half I have felt nervous every minute that I know that they might be alone. I never allow them to be alone for more than a couple minutes at a time, even if they aren't even playing together. I've thought for some reason that if I were there, Jaime wouldn't really do anything to hurt her. Over the last year and a half, Jaime and I have learned a dance. One where I watch everything he does and he watches me to see if I am watching him. It has shown me two things. First, that the leader of the pack is always the leader of the pack. As hard as I've tried to introduce Ada as a pack leader by reinforcing good behavior in response to her and allowing her to feed him or take him on 'walks' where it appeared that she was leading him and not me (for the record, he never believed it for a second), he will always respond to me more than to her. And he will never accept that she, who he has seen grow from non-existent to obnoxious little girl, is alpha over him. Then yesterday morning, I was given another little shock of what the nature of the beast could do to my daughter. We were all outside getting ready to drink some much needed mate' with breakfast. Jaime and Ada were on the grass and I don't know what either was doing. I do know that he had been irritable the day before, but I'm not sure why. Suddenly I heard that dreaded sound, a swift growl to a low bark. We turned to see Jaime in Ada's face and retreating. I ran to her and this time checked her before the dog. She was fine. No skin broken and I don't really know what happened accept that Ada was covering her face and scared. Ariel swiftly sent Jaime to his kennel, to which he went obediently. But I knew immediately that this time was the last. I had been thinking for a few days, as I often did for short spells, about how I hated feeling anxious all the time and acting and treating him out of fear for what he could do, not necessarily for something he had done. But ultimately, I didn't know how to retrain myself. From the very beginning of our relationship with that beautiful animal we had made some crucial mistakes. The first was getting a dog without knowing what our future circumstances were. This proved to be the most unforeseeable dilemma as I was trying very hard not to rely on the idea of having children in the future. Second, we included him in every part of our lives. He didn't eat at the table with us, but he ate right next to us and though we tried not to, we weren't diligent enough in not giving him table scraps. I'm not a dog trainer, but I understand that this taught him that he was our equal. I was forced yesterday to decide definitively that the safety of my offspring is a balance that is much more important and delicate than that of a my beautiful sweet and docile dog. I am first and foremost a mother of human children. I have had to remind myself of this hourly for the last two days, because every time I think of Jaime in that small dogrun all day long, just waiting for me to come and take him home, it makes me cry. It is all too easy for us to toss animals around like they are just an element of entertainment but those sad eyes taught me alot about the nature of animal emotions. I know that the very best thing to do would have been to find a suitable owner for him myself through the classifieds, but that last growl instilled in me a feeling of urgency. We were obviously already familiar with the Humane Society and after reading that they have a 100% adoption rate in the last year for all adoptable dogs, we were convinced that it would be a better place for Jaime than at our home right now. I was assured that Jaime is 100% adoptable by the woman who helped us to receive him into the shelter. But to give Jaime a better chance of finding a suitable family I'll be posting a link to this blog post on KSL and Craigslist. I checked online about an hour ago to see if I could see his profile. I don't know why I did it. His name is now Himay, this is to help whoever wants him, like one mans junk, to pronounce his Spanish name correctly. This is what his photo-free description says:

My name is HIMAY. I am a neutered male, black and tan Irish Wolfhound mix. I am about 4 years old. I am available for adoption.

 
It should also say:

Do Not Adopt me if you have small children, but if otherwise, please know that I am the best $60 you will ever pay to a non-profit organization in turn for a lifetime of servitude and worship-fullness from a beautiful animal.

If you know of anyone who could use a dog like Jaime (Hi-may), you know where to send them. His ID # is A035065. He's located at the West Jordan Kennel. Call (801) 261-2919 for more information.

From Doggedly to Dogless part I

In the true spirit of being Red Necks, our family frequently checks the "free" section of our local classifieds, looking for what random things are one man's junk, being another man's treasure (ours). As we peruse the ever growing, ever changing list, we come across, on every page, something which bothers us. Family members being pawned, no thrown, away to the first taker who has a "good home". Ariel in particular is bothered by this, as the number of family members he has fed and cleaned up after and trained who could potentially have ended up on this list far outnumbers my own. All of them lived with the family from whenever they came into the family, be it wandering and found on the street or from sucking pup, until the time they died.
I remember being asked as a child, along with all of my siblings, what we'd like to do for a fun family activity. Whenever I could remember it I always suggested the same thing. Why don't we go down to the Humane Society and look at the dogs! What a novel idea! Ok. so I had a pretty warped idea of what fun was even as a child. I thought of all those potential slobbery friends just waiting for me to take them out and play with them. I just knew that if my parents saw the right pair of those huge brown eyes, they would definitely give in to their more puppy loving sides and let me bring one of them home. Obviously my parents knew this truth about themselves as well, because we never actually went to the Humane Society. Now I realize that I probably only knew what it was because of the occasional lost pet.

 

 We had plenty of pets. All of them, if I could help it, had some sort of fantastical name. There were the cats, Princess, my confidant; Lancelot, my blue eyed prince, and Titania, Queen of Faeries. There were the dachsund; Romeo, Gretal and not to be forgotten, Bentley Titus Thorndike the 3rd (I always imagined it was a good name for a prince, definitely not a good prince though, and on a random note he particularly disliked thin men with dark hair wearing navy blue ie. mail carriers) Of my own animals, two of them had more claim to my heart than others. The first was a Great Pyrenees, one of two inseparable Pyrenees in our families memory, though they never met. The first was Yeti, we had him only three days because his former owners missed him and asked for him back. The second was Caesar, he was my protector. My rebellious headstrong thirteen year old self would take him walking with me at three in the morning on a summer night. I always knew that he would protect me from whatever foe. He was my stalwart stallion, always awaiting to aid me in my escape from being grounded by taking him on a walk, convenient when you are thirteen and your friends live just a few blocks away. But then there was Hatchu. ok, so he is the definite exception to the fantastical names, but to give us credit, we didn't name him. He was as energetic as a Border Collie can be. A year old when we first brought him home, my sister and I spent many an afternoon at puppy training classes and at the park trying to form him into a calm and obedient dog. But he was always as border collies are. One of my favorite things to do was take him running to one of my sacred places, now overrun by development. He was a flash of black and white on a distant horizon, disappearing over one hill, reappearing at the top of the next; his long narrow head moving up and down, from front to back with the smooth movements of his run. But every few minutes he would stop where he was and wait for me with his tail wagging excitedly (as if I could possibly catch up to him) just long enough for me to see where he was and yell some variety of "good dog" and then he was off again like lightning. A random kind stranger once said to me "you really need a whole valley to have enough space for a border collie to run.". I concur. I did not have a whole valley at my disposal all of the time. I went off to college and didn't take him with me and when I came back , whatever training he may have had at one point was ruined. He lived chained up in the middle of our unfenced yard. What grass grew in that circle was immediately worn off where Hatchu's chain rain over the ground. One sad day his happy tail got caught in the chain afterward it never stood up wagging excitedly again. To me, it was a miserable existence.

A few years later my parents moved to Helena, Montana and Hatchu escaped from their small but fenced yard, probably chasing after a dear or a rabbit. We never went looking for him. We only hoped that he had been picked up by the humane society and one of the many ranchers in the area had taken him in. However, months later, we were at an outdoor market in Helena and saw a small family with a beautiful well trained border collie who looked just like Hatchu. Accept for this border Collie had a fluffy, happy, wagging tail. When we asked the family where they got their dog, they said they had gotten it from the Humane Society just a few months earlier. Happy Endings come to Dogs as well. And this brings me to the end of this portion of my doggy tails. Happy tails to all and to all a good dog.

What I Love About Summer...

I am going to try this again, for the second time in the same week. Thus, we're doing well with this whole "believing a word we say may have any relevance" thing. But really I just Love a lot of things about Life right now, as it is summer, and I have two very creative and refreshing personalities for children. It also helps that I finally figured out how to post photos. Warning, if you don't feel comfortable with nudity, refrain from moving forward with the post. You may be alarmed at the amount of 100% breastfed flesh on this baby.

What I'm Growing: 

Children

In the summer heat our chacha can't deny her thirst for...

pool water. Oh, and the tutu I'm a sucker for a anyone in a tutu.

Nano demonstrates the dangers of growing faster than Mama can calculate the effects of crawling. 

Movement + Gravity = Nasty Bruise. 

Am I the only person who has a love/hate relationship with those serendipidous accidents? Luckily this one didn't leave a scar.

This just makes me feel LOVED.
She
is a really good KISSER.

And a really good CLIMBER too.

And Vegetables

This is our heirloom zapallito. I can't believe how this has produced! Thanks to Liz for the seedlings from last years fruit. Product of Uruguay.

Summer is not summer without
fresh Basil
Genovese.











And this is just the beginning! Happy Growing!

A Toast to Mediocrity

I am seeing a pattern. It's one that I've learned and have been living off and on for a long time. I see most of the people I call family doing it. And here is a cup of ice cold water on this warm July eve, in a toast, to stopping it.
It's like guilt. It begins like a small seed, in theory it's harmless...because, well, it doesn't touch us, not me at least. But it grows malignant and keeps us from seeing inside of ourselves. Worse, it keeps us from doing anything that is insecure, anything that is imaginative or exploratory or experimental in the name of preserving greatness, or worse, preserving ourselves for greatness; whenever it decides to show up and ring the bell. We will never find what might be worth dragging out of our insides. We see even less of what is out in that great blue/grey something that is Life.
To be a little less ambiguous, I'm talking about the reason I haven't been blogging. Other than the template designer that I just can't get figured out and the fact that I am constantly following around what seems like a heard of wild elephants to make sure they don't trample each other or fall down the stairs or get bitten by a dog. OK, so really the only things my kids keep me from is answering the phone and having any personal private time with my big hunk of a hot latin lover husband. But, the template, that keeps me from actually writing. Oh, and I can't figure out how to post photos. I am slightly technologically defunct, but I will be resurrected, hear ye me. I am not going to give any more excuses to myself for not blogging. I want to. Isn't that enough? But...what if I write something and it isn't really brilliant and what if I make a joke that somebody most people don't really get. And what if I spend a whole evening writing, baking, sewing, loving something that is, here it comes, here's the big dirty word, are you ready?...Mediocre. What if? Well, I guess I'll just have to find out, and a little more often. I have a list written on my calandar of 5 truly inspired things that I just feel aching to share with the world. So let's everybody get a big glass of ice water, though you'll never have one as perfect as mine, because I have the little popcorn ice, like you get in the hospital... But hey, you get your glass of water, and I'll get mine and we'll have a toast; a toast to writing, singing, gardening, painting things that are simply and beautifully, mediocre. And afterward we'll pull out our journals and tell each other all of the things we once dreamed up but never did and never told anyone because we got too old to do them or think we ruined our chances or any other stupid reason we have for not doing, not dreaming up another thing and not sharing it because we were afraid that one day we might just not do that thing or we do it and it doesn't work out or someone else already did something kind of the same, sort of; and then we people will find out that we are not truly great/cool/unique. Yes, I propose a toast for throwing caution to the wind, to creating a blog post without having the image I conjured up in my mind to go with it. And yes, being sometimes mediocre in order to find out what it is we want out of blogging, school, Life. Cheers.

Safe Haven

This morning I woke up before dawn to take two of my four younger siblings to the airport. It was about 6:30 when I got home and, having turned my brain on for the day, I couldn't go back to bed like I normally would. It was such a fresh, crisp morning and something about having been woken from sleep and thrown into the day gave me a heightened sense of memory as it often does. I don't really know where this came from because I haven't written anything like poetry in ages. But it felt good, and I hope that at least a few people can relate to this abstract conglomeration of memories. It is for my grandmother Helen.

Safe Haven

Midway is a rolling swell in the space between two mountains.
It is a half way point between two places, a hiding place to seek shelter in between.
It is a place you go when you need to remember things you’ve forgotten,
Like how water sounds rushing over rocks and moss, and how it feels
to walk through stickered grass to get there.
Midway is a sunrise waking you up; a cold dawn, and a dear friend.
It is horses roaming unbridled and with out shoe through a grove of russian olives.
It is wind, hail, thunder and lightning, glaring at you through tall black windows and a powerless night.
Midway is gnome houses and prophet neighbors; long bike rides and longer walks.
It is skinny dipping, hot and cold and making a pancake breakfasts with Great Grandmother Lilly’s griddle.
Midway is a relic, a sanctuary, a pilgrimage.
Midway is my childhood and my adulthood as one.

An Exploratory Art

So...I think…it is time…for me to blog. I think I'll call it...therapy. A way to clear my head of the random of things that constantly run in and out and around and through it. The constant updating of my facebook status has been getting… little out of hand. What I really want is not to make a quick mention of life and what it is at a given and usually random moment, but to tell a story of life. Not necessarily of my life, but simply my view of it with some documentation and commentary on the things I find myself doing and enjoying. And maybe, possibly, selfishly, through sharing stories, find that the world is not quite as insane and isolated as it usually feels with my self in it from behind this metal and plastic box in front of me. If you should choose to indulge me in this experiment, be forewarned. I have a firm and clear belief that what comes out of one's mind onto a page should be the most honest extension of themselves. I am incapable of telling a lie in written words. I have a hard time even watering things down a bit, which has on occasion gotten me in some trouble. Often I am overly emotional in writing as well as in life, and I usually find that irrationality is one of the most enjoyable parts of being human. I do not always know who I am at a given moment. Writing for me is nothing more or less than the exploratory art of figuring that out. It's a matter of putting some words on a page, mixing them up a bit, changing a few words, and then standing back to see if it feels true. I make no excuses for being who I am. I won't be doing this for an audience. This is an experiment in being myself and in believing that being who I am is okay. The End.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, it is also the first day I am experimenting with blogging. We'll see how it goes. We'll start out with the weekend of Sunday May 4th. Ada's Dada and a circle of close friends held Ada's in thier arms and gave her a name and a blessing. We were at the San Marcos Branch so hopefully everyone had thier headphones on to hear the translation. Grandmas and Grandpas and Aunts and uncles were there. 4 generations of Higbees with an Agüin right at the end. Kristen and Janessa met Ada for the first time. Then after the meeting lots of people came over for a little food. Ailee, who is 11, was the official photographer. And it's nice to let pictures tell their own stories. If it weren't for her we probably wouldn't have many pictures of everything because Mama and Papa were running around like chickens....you know how it goes.