Merry Crisis!

We can never plan enough or be prepared enough for the unexpected. But this month brought about some big changes around our farm; changes that demanded our immediate attention and haven’t allowed for much in the form of holiday fluff. Funny how when the extras are stripped away, and we are left with our family and faith, there is still life, hope and joy if we so choose.

The Grammy that I wrote about last month has been on a pretty steady decline since she came to live with us. We knew she was having trouble with her legs and balance. And we knew it was time to keep a closer eye on her and visit some doctors to see if they could help in some way.

We had planned long ago to have her live on our farm anyway, so last fall was as good a time as any to move her in. Having her here has been an amazing blessing and learning experience for our entire family. It's made the doctor visits more convenient, the card games more spontaneous and the ability to help her with daily living a whole lot easier.

Her diagnosis came over the summer; a degenerative brain disease of the frontal lobe. It affects movement, speech, facial expression, balance and spatial abilities. But it does not interfere with memory or the ability to understand all that is going on around you. No cure. No drugs to slow it down. No tools to make life easier; kind of like being a prisoner in your own body.

The Grammy has been a trooper though. Getting used to each new phase that comes and working with it as best she can.  The last couple weeks have ushered in a new phase of the disease and required many adjustments for our family. She's been losing her balance, losing the ability to use her hands and experiencing pain that is off-the-charts.  She’s been fighting for every step, hoping to make her hands work together, struggling to make her mouth form the words to express her needs, her feelings, her hopes and her simplest wishes.

Nothing has stayed the same for very long. Just when we think she's reached a plateau the next phase comes and steals away another ability that most of us take for granted; like buttoning a shirt or lifting a spoon to our mouth.

There is ONE THING, however.  ONE THING has remained steady for The Grammy.

This ONE THING she can do; and has done every single morning for the last 40 plus years.

She can sit in the morning hours, with her Bible open on her lap.  She can sit and have coffee with Jesus.

And now, the coffee no longer seems to matter as much. But this ONE THING sustains her. Gives her a reason to open her eyes each morning and press on; gives her something to look forward to for as long as she is here on earth; which means that in the midst of the crisis - she is merry.

Pass the platter of thankful and don't let Grammy near the fridge.

Since I last wrote, my car hasn’t moved much from the driveway and the kids have had some much-needed down-time at home.  This is always a good thing until the wiffle balls and plastic bats start putting dents in the walls and my carotid artery threatens to pop out of my neck.  Is that even possible?  That a wiffle ball can put a dent in drywall?

Thank goodness for Grandma’s old broom, which is still good for swatting kids out the door when the wood needs splitting and the football begs to be thrown.  Another reminder to never take the simple things in life for granted.

Grandma’s broom is now permanently parked beside my fridge because after much cajoling, bribing, begging and a little, no big, shove, she’s finally here to stay.  Our decision to add an apartment for her onto our existing home was born, in part, out of love and, in part, out of necessity; because it’s long past time for her to be living by herself in that big old house with all those stairs.

I know I’m fortunate. I like The Grandma (a.k.a. my Mother-in-Law). I've liked her from the start. That doesn't mean I wanted her to live with me though. If memory serves, I was sort of an uptight newlywed who had to have things "just so." Her refrigerator was way too cluttered for my comfort zone and she liked to mix all sorts of leftovers together to make casseroles (bleck). We enjoyed one another's company just fine but danced the Mother-in-Law/Daughter-in-Law dance at most family gatherings. I'd get the fridge ready before she'd come to visit and make sure all my leftovers were tossed in the garbage (and rolled out to the curb, because I'd seen some of her garage sale "treasures" and figured she might not be above dumpster-diving.) She probably said extra prayers as well that she wouldn't bump into my easily-offended little hiney or get in the way of my household sterilization routine.

But then, I had kids. Oh sure, I was still able to hold onto my Howie Mandel ways with my first-born child. His whole little world was bleached and tidy. But by the time child number three came along my fridge was crammed with enough food for a football team, plus three gallons of milk, some moldy cream cheese and an upside down pizza box.  Believe it or not, I have the pictures to prove it.

And by then, The Grandma and I were quickly learning how to suck the marrow out of our rich journey together. But please don’t think that by rich journey I mean nice, neat and tidy.  Our journey has become rich because of the melting together of the highs and lows, beautiful and messy, awkward and easy. My twenty plus years getting to know my Mother-in-Law have been ALL of those things. But, during those years the two of us stumbled across a few eternal truths that have become the glue in our relationship.

Together we have learned that much fruit comes from choosing to serve one another.  And then there’s the unexpected spill-over affect of my man being happy when I love on his Mama. Add to that the notion that pausing for a cup of coffee together is much more fun than cleaning the fridge anyway.

Be prepared to stop!

I need to make a public apology for the wheel ruts I’ve created on the highway between Powell Butte and Prineville over the last few months.  Our trusty highway maintenance personnel have re-paved much of my destruction as of late, and I don’t blame them one bit for shaking their fist at me as I whiz by with yet another batch of kids on my way to yet another football or soccer practice.  Even though I’m fortunate to belong to a highly-skilled and well-staffed carpooling club here in Powell Butte, I still manage to leave plenty of tread on yonder highway.  And for that I’m sorry.  But, never fear, it’ll be over soon, because the Fall-sporting-events are winding down.  After which, I plan to sequester my children in the house, by the wood stove, for some much needed rest.  Once the car has had a rest too (and some new tires installed) my wheel ruts will be headed in the opposite direction toward Mt. Bachelor.  ‘Cuz folks, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s some screamin’ deals on lift tickets this year!

The farmers in Powell Butte are also bringing in the last of their hay harvest as they eek out just one more cutting before the wheel lines freeze permanently to the ground.  My personal drive-time entertainment involves passing by the McKinnon family farm.  Mark and Casey and their two small children work hard all year long to make a living.  I often see Mama Casey running the rake while telling stories to her little ones in the cab of her tractor.  Her very clean tractor, I might add.  After all, she’s a Mom.  Which means the glass cleaner and Armour-All are always close at hand.  As I drive by, I can see blankets spilling onto the floor and little feet pressed against the glass door.  The song “She works hard for the money” wafts through my mind, making me laugh the rest of the way home. Thank you Mckinnon family for the alfalfa-scented air that passes through my open windows all summer long.  Your hard work for the harvest doesn’t go unnoticed!

Speaking of harvests!  Don’t forget to follow my wheel ruts into Powell Butte on Saturday, November 1^st for the 62^nd Annual Lord’s Acre Day.  The Powell Butte Church has been a bee-hive of activity as everyone prepares the wonderful pies and candy and cinnamon rolls, quilts and crafts and smoked sausage for your shopping pleasure.  Why not get there early and join me for the 5K/10K run or walk at 9 am?  We can follow it up with a warm, gooey cinnamon roll chaser!  Now that’s my kind of work-out!

Make it a point to stop and smell the pit barbecue and pumpkin pie at Lord’s Acre Day, because these folks know how to roll out a shindig where the food, music, homespun love and hospitality are for real.  And I know I’m not the only one whose craving a little more of what’s real these days.

Last, but not least, my wheels are happiest when parked at home in my driveway.  So, here’s an idea you might take for a spin at your house:  Make some really good soup.  Add a loaf of bread and maybe a nice bottle of wine.  Invite a few friends over and ask them to bring their voter’s pamphlet (yes, both volumes).  Then discuss each ballot measure, endorse your favorite candidate, bang your fist on the table a few times and call it a Voter Pamphlet Party!  Don’t forget to set a few ground-rules first though (like, no spitting and check your weapons at the door).  Our household is preparing to host our fifth Voter’s Pamphlet Party and I know our guests are still our friends because they always buy us a yummy pie at the Lord’s Acre pie table, right guys?...guys?...hey, what are you doing with that pie?!

From my petri-dish to yours.

"Welcome to the neighborhood!  Would you like some horseradish?"  I knew we'd moved to the right little country town when the tender-hearted young man, whose house we’d just purchased, took the time to invite the neighbors over and facilitate our introduction.  These were his best friends.  And he was giving them away to us.

When Teresa offered me some fresh horseradish from her garden, I knew then and there we would be fast friends too.  I had no earthly idea what to do with the horseradish.  But I knew we would be friends, just the same.

Since then, we’ve spent several years sharing healthy tips and advice with each other over the barbed-wire fence.  Some are age-old recipes we learned from Great Grandma.  Some are products we've discovered that can't be beat.  Some tips are down-right weird and some might just save our lives someday, or at least give us a good laugh, which as we all know, is often the best medicine anyway.

So the Welcome Wagon Committee’s horseradish bestowal came with an invitation; tea-time in Teresa’s warm, cozy kitchen for a cooking lesson of sorts.  She called it "Supertonic" and told me it would cure (or kill) anything that might ail me.  "Sign me up!"  I said.  I'd had my share of runny noses and sore throats over the last year.  I was ready for some serious immune-boosting, germ-killing, blood-pumping magic.  And I'd already ruled out whiskey.

This recipe changed my life!  Well, not really, but it sure has helped my family avoid many un-necessary doses of cold medicine and antibiotics.  The basic formula of supertonic dates back to the plagues in medieval Europe.  It has been reported to increase blood circulation and act as a broad spectrum antibiotic to destroy bacteria.  In addition the ingredients serve as a potent anti-viral and anti-fungal formula.

SUPERTONIC

In a blender:

1 ginger root (peeled) (yes, the whole thing!)
1-2 horseradish roots (scrubbed) (or 2-3 TBSP if using from the jar)
6-10 garlic cloves (peeled)
2 red or yellow chili peppers (not bell peppers)
1 onion (peeled)
cover with apple cider vinegar & blend

Adjust all ingredients for potency.

Store in a glass jar in the fridge all winter long!  And DO NOT confuse with the applesauce. 

Take 1 TBSP per day with food during cold season (more if you feel a cold coming on).  You can also mix with sour cream for the kids as a chip dip, or use in soups or as a meat marinade.

If the thought of getting out the blender for anything other than a milk-shake or margarita frightens you, then visit the website that inspired our recipe: www.herbdoc.com.  You can order a bottle or ten of supertonic that comes complete with dosage instructions and your very own eye-dropper!

As is true with many recipes, fresh is best!  So don’t be afraid to try your hand at making your own fresh batch and experimenting on your family.  They’ll think you’re weird but better to be healthy and weird than just plain weird.  My kids like to take it straight and compete with Dad to see who can keep from squishing and screwing up their face like they've just sucked on a lemon.  Laughter usually ensues and the sniffles haven't visited our home in a long, long time.

I know.  Most women get together and eat spoonfuls of cookie dough or sip wine.  But this little coffee klatch in Teresa’s kitchen was so much fun we've continued it in various forms ever since.

Here's to your health, from my neighborhood petri-dish to yours!

It's good to be home - part 3

For the tens of you still tuning-in for the riveting story of how my whole-herd-of-a-family came to live in Central Oregon, I applaud you.  You’re sticktoitiveness is stellar and this is the last installment on the issue, I promise.  Then I’ll move on to more interesting stories; like the time I sent my husband shopping for a rust-colored burn barrel that would match our cedar-colored house.  Wow, the humiliation? It was palpable.

But, on with my story about a family who decides to go-for-it and ditch their big-city lives to return to the country-style living of their youth.  My little Brother found his Powell Butte farm first; which stands to reason because HE’S got all the brains and I got the head-full of hair which of course, the punk says makes me part Alpaca.  So I got out the map and found Powell Butte.  Turns out I’d spent a bit of time here back in my FFA days and had rather fond memories of this little community known as “The Home of Good Stock, Good Crops and Good Neighbors.”  And how cute is a town with only one Church, a general store, and a post office?  Madly cute, I say, as long as Costco, Checkers Coffee Shop and Meadow Lakes Golf Course are just a hop, skip and a jump down the road.  Otherwise, when you’re coming off the high of big city living? Not so cute.

We tried to snatch up some land across the canal from Brother’s new farm but the owner was experiencing what can only be described as a short circuit in his GPS because his asking price was even more than those jaw-dropping views we saw in last episode’s tour of Tumalo.  Or perhaps he caught wind that a Brother and Sister wanted to own property next to each other and considered it his patriotic duty to protect Powell Butte from Rajneesh Puram: The Sequel.  We may never know why our efforts to end every evening with a “g’night Jim Bob” over the fence were thwarted.  But we kept on looking anyway for that spittin-distance piece of property that wouldn’t blow our budget.  If we could just find a home close enough to family for barn raisings, bon fires and impromptu suppers together, we’d be pleased as punch.

The good news is we finally put our stake in the ground up the road a piece from my Brother’s family. The bad news is that it’s not exactly spittin-distance like we’d dreamed about.  But the even better news is that we’re not spitting ON each other as we learn to daily-navigate the relational dynamics of practicing brotherly and sisterly love, while trying not to overwhelm my parents; who are still amazed, I think, that we actually accepted their kind invitation to bring our herd over the mountains in the first place.

So, there you have it; the cliff-hangar conclusion of one family’s quest to return to the farm living they remember from their youth; via some big city off-ramps.  And five years later, I’m still learning and re-learning how NOT to kill a pony with alfalfa hay, that it’s no use painting the burn barrel to match the color of my house and that the guy behind the counter at the feed store usually knows what he’s talking about.

Most of all, I’ve learned that the old saying “you can’t choose your family” is a battle cry for reconciliation; not an excuse for disengagement.  And the added effort it takes to be about the business of staying friends with my family brings with it some sweet rewards that far outweigh the challenges.

An excerpt from Rodney Clapp’s book entitled A Peculiar People sums up my most recent lessons learned out yonder:

True friendship is revolutionary in our managerial, bureaucratic, ledger-keeping society.  Friends are people who really take the time to know each other.  And genuine friendship is not a matter of managing or controlling others, but of accepting their different-ness and standing open to surprises – surprises that, whether joyful or demanding, extend our powers to achieve greater excellence in the practice of friendship.

It's good to be home - part 2

To hear someone say “I’ve lived here all my life,” is a rare thing these days.  And those few who can say so, are often embarrassed by the fact that they forgot to travel the world and live in a flat in Paris or hike across the Sahara.

But I have a deep respect for folks who stay put, see the value in living close to family members, and can recite, with great accuracy, the exact year that the drive-in theater was paved over to become a strip mall or the football stadium got an electronic score board.

If you asked me, do I wish I still lived in the farm town of my growing up years?  I’d probably say no. But when I found myself living in the big city with small children who threatened to venture beyond the man-hole in the middle of our busy Northeast Portland neighborhood, I began longing for the days when I smelled like horse manure and mosquito repellant at the end of a long trail ride.

I mentioned this little day-dream of mine to my Brother and his wife one day while we vacationed together at a former-commune-turned-youth-camp outside of Antelope.  Now, keep in mind that my brother also grew up on a small farm.  And his wife grew up in Kansas, which is just flat-out stunning and rural in all parts, I think.  My husband and his, Gilliam County childhood memories, were also in on the conversation.  We found ourselves sharing bits and pieces of the small-town living we had almost forgotten.  Things like, the one-screen movie house with romantic loge seating in the back row, learning to drive the pick-up truck in a wide-open field.  And, my personal favorite, catching the six a.m. bus during summer vacation to pick strawberries all day.  I’ll never forget the coconut-sized berry my brother stuffed into the pocket of his Toughskins™ jeans to bring home to Mama.

This sort of nostalgia can lead a person down many paths.  In our case we began to brainstorm out loud and it went something like this:

“We could do a lot of things if we had money.”

“How about we all go out and try to make a million dollars, and when we do, we buy a BIG farm together!”

We all agreed on this very well-thought-out and plausible plan of action.  Then we went back home to our tidy postage-stamp yards with properly disconnected down-spouts and daily visits from door-to-door magazine salesmen.

Less than a year later, our families were (how shall I say…) in a temporary state of self-employment, also known as door-to-door magazine sales.  But OH, how I kid (sort of).

And then Ed McMahon paid us a visit!

Oh, how I kid, AGAIN, because our blessings had turned toward something even better than Publishers Clearinghouse.  Dad and Mom happened to ask if we’d ever considered moving toward their retirement haven in Central Oregon and, while we were at it, why not bring the grandkids too!  Well, it wasn’t a million bucks, but how many parents ask their kids and grandkids to come live with them?  We considered this nifty idea, for about a half-a-millisecond and then quickly placed our homes on the market and began submitting resumes and job applications through-out Central Oregon.  Turns out the parents didn’t actually mean LIVE WITH them, so we did what every other person moving from an over-inflated housing market does; we contacted a realtor and inquired about a quaint farm with room for chickens and a horse…in Tumalo.

After we recovered from the sticker-shock of THAT little field trip, we began making our way ever-closer to our future homes.  Town by town we tried to find listings with two homes on one property, or one piece of property that could be divided into two tax lots, or 57,000 acres outside of Burns.  But we soon came to the realization that the zoning laws in Oregon are not exactly pro-commune.  Well of course!  Hadn’t we first hatched this crazy plan at, of all places, a former commune? (…to be continued.)

It's good to be home - part 1

I’ve always been the sort that gets a little homesick when I’m on the road.  I take a big breath when my car bursts out of the trees after sailing over Mt. Hood from Portland and beyond.  And as I draw closer to Powell Butte and the friendly communities that surround us, my heart rate slows and I delight in remembering how I ended up here in the first place.

Growing up in Newberg, Oregon, I spent hours with my horse, tried to raise rabbits (that refused to mate) and paraded my FFA pig around the show ring a few times.  I dreamed of becoming a veterinarian, so my high school community service project entailed working at a local clinic.  Where, I quickly learned that I enjoyed the operating room way more than walking dogs or cleaning kennels.  Problem was I didn’t much care for science classes, so there ended my brief veterinary career.  Instead, I was the sort who’d rather make sure all the birds in the county had enough seed to last all winter.  Ask my parents!  They used to call me “the bird lady.”  And even though they both grew up in the cement jungle, also known as California, they somehow planted a seed, or twenty, into my bones that would germinate into an all-out passion for country living.

Speaking of passion, it wouldn’t be long until I would meet my husband; at where else but, an agricultural college?  He grew up in Condon, Oregon; working wheat and hay fields back when a kid could play three sports a year with still enough time for hunting with Dad and Saturday morning cartoons.  (Man, I miss the 80’s.)

The year was 1986 and I’d just finished a 365-day stint traveling all over Oregon as the State FFA President.  As embarrassing as it is to admit, until that year, I truly behaved as if the state ended just west of the Cascade Mountain range.  It was humbling and eye-opening to learn just how wrong I was!  Not only did I have the privilege of staying with families all over the state, but the hours upon hours of driving to every nook and cranny of Oregon was an education that no amount of college would ever give me.

And then to realize, my first actual week of college, that the amazingly broad-shouldered man, who would one day become my husband, was also corn-fed to near perfection on the wrong side of the mountains?  It was almost too much for my State-of-Portland frame of mind to handle.

But handle it I did.  Because nothing ever felt more right than dreaming with him about how we’d one day like to raise our children in the sticks where people in passing cars wave a friendly hello and the mail is still delivered to an un-locked box at the end of the gravel driveway.

Fast forward a couple years, and you might have asked, is there something wrong with this picture?  Sure, we got married and all, but we spent the first 15 years of marital bliss living the fast life as city-slickers with a capital “C.”  Law School for him, Business and Marketing for me and before we knew it we were living latte’ and light-rail lives far from our country roots.  His tan shoulders slaved away in a suit at the Oregon Supreme Court followed by the biggest law firm in the state.  And my days were spent organizing Vera Katz’ insanely busy schedule followed by a stint at hawking Oregon film locations to movie-makers from (gulp) Hollywood, of all places.

What were we thinking?  Apparently, we weren’t because once those children we’d dreamed of came along, the wheels of change began to turn.  And the wide open spaces began to call us back home. (…to be continued.)

What to wear, what to wear.

Have you ever asked yourself, "What does one wear to a pig sale?"

Didn't think so. But, since I have a tiny bit of city blood running through my country girl veins, I actually have to make conscious decisions about such things. It’s who I am.  And I have to squeeze such grave and important decisions into the middle of laundry, grocery shopping, rinsing and crushing milk jugs for the recycling man.

But I LOVE it!

Today, most assuredly, wasn't the sort of day for wearing my new spring high heels. For my Husband it was a combat-boot sort of day at the Air Base. For my parents it was a walking-shoe kind of day at The Masters. However, for this Mom? Muck-boots were in order. And not the pretty-polka-dot ones either. Those I save for cutting flowers or skipping through meadows of wild daisies (which I never do).

This was our day to go shopping for County Fair pigs. And, can I just say? It was AWESOME! Better than Nordstrom’s, people. We wait for it ALL YEAR. We PLAN for it, even.

First, we make sure the pig pen is ready.

So I tell the kids, "go get the pig pen ready!" And they're all, "WHAT did she just say?" Because they're used to hearing me say "Go clean your flippin' pig pen er, uh, room!"

Getting a pig pen ready is technical work, my friends. There’s fresh straw to be laid in the shelter, heat lamps to be turned on, because, although today is 80 degrees, tonight will be twenty. A watering device to be hooked up and leaks repaired. Last year's pig poop shoveled out, because pigs are clean-freaks. (Betch-ya didn't know THAT). They like their pen neat and tidy; with the latrine as far away from the kitchen and feather bed as possible. Unlike our goats, chickens and horses; who are TRULY, PIGS of the highest order.

So, I donned my whistle and handed out duties. Then, I sat in the house and ate chocolate covered bananas from Trader Joes while the kids did all the work. 'Cuz, I've got priorities. And my own, rather large, pig pen to keep clean thankyouverymuch. Besides, I had to spit-shine my muck boots for the big shopping trip!

Then we waited for THE PHONE CALL; because, this year we're buying pigs from a DUDE in Idaho who will bring them to us on a truck. Well, us, and about a hundred other crazy 4-H families. The DUDE must have stopped at a lot of Starbucks and 7-Eleven's along the way because we didn't get THE PHONE CALL until it was almost dark.

How fun! Shopping for pigs in the dark! But, how will anyone be able to see my tricked-out muck boots?

The congregation of horse trailers, dog carriers and pick-up-trucks in the parking lot of the Prineville High School must have looked all "official" to the ordinary passers-by; like a meeting of the Pure Bred Dog and Thoroughbred Cutting Horse Association, or something. Sorry to disappoint, but we were just a bunch of red-necks drawing straws, comparing hams, girths, gaits and jowls, then wrangling the little squeelers into the trunk er, um trailer for a short ride home and four months of pig-slop heaven. After which the circle of life comes to an exciting end at the much-anticipated, gritty, sweat-fest also known as, The Crook County Fair.

If you’re the Fair-going type, get these important dates on your calendar:

Pre-fair weigh-in for Swine, goats & sheep is June 7^th at the Crook County Fairgrounds from 7-10 a.m.

2008 Crook County Fair August 6-9.

Oh, and if you come, I don't recommend wearing sandals.