The local shops are killing me with kindness.

It’s embarrassing to admit that, although my husband has shopped there for years, I’ve just recently discovered the Prineville Men’s Wear store.  I KNOW unforgiveable, right?  To make matters worse, I brought the kids-who-can’t-stop-talking and they went on and on about how “Mom usually shops at the BIG store for our ranch-wear but hates the prices and hard-to-find sales associates!”  The part they left out was that there’s just something about trying to shop with rambunctious kids that screams WAL-MART!  After we’d browsed every corner of our new favorite local store, we drove home talking about how nice it was to shop there.  The kids are still amazed at how calm Mommy is when her fingers aren’t pressed against her temples.  That, my dear children, is what you call “customer service!”  And when you find it, hold on for dear life because it’s a dying art.

Speaking of dying; I made a vow then and there to try and keep my Christmas shopping local, even if it kills me!  One could argue that the big-box stores are just so doggone tempting; what with their moist towelettes at the entrance and aisle upon aisle of lead-laden off-shore trinkets.  But these blue light specials just don’t compare to the free gift wrapping I’ve found at the local haunts and when Prineville Men’s Wear offered to have my boy’s jeans hemmed overnight (at no charge) I almost keeled over on the spot from the kindness of it all.

Which reminds me; some of the kindest people on the planet live right in my own backyard at Lark Gardens in Powell Butte.  I’m running low on their world-famous Peking Blend Vinegar and Lord knows Christmas won’t be complete without some of this:

Peking Ice Cream Sundaes

3 ripe pears

2 tsp. fresh ginger

2 oz butter

2 oz Peking Blend Vinegar

Vanilla Ice Cream

Brown the sliced pears in a skillet with the butter, ginger and vinegar then serve over the ice cream and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven!  Just ask my kids who are quiet as angels when they eat this stuff.

Speaking of heaven, the Life Song Christian Book Store in Prineville has a warm cup of cider waiting for you.  And if they don’t have the book you’re looking for it’ll be ordered before you finish your drink.

My mail carrier is getting a gift certificate for a smoothie at Friends Espresso (but don’t tell her, it’s a surprise).  Do people still do that?  Tip the mail carrier and the garbage hauler?  After all, one would hate for the two to get confused about their job descriptions, lest you find junk in your mailbox and Aunt Ethel’s fruit cake and aspic ends up in the landfill! Wait. What!? Sorry Aunt Ethel, I’ll find out who’s been skimping on the tips!

Sure, it might seem like I’m doing a lot of driving from store to store.  But let’s be honest here people, most of the towns in our county aren’t all that much bigger than the Costco parking lot anyhow.  Just in case I pull a hamstring though, I will absolutely be dropping by Nature’s Bounty for some of T’s Tonics Sore Muscle Soother.  That stuff is the BEST!  Then it’s on to Checkers for some biscotti to stuff in the stockings and probably a visit to a feed store or two because who says you can’t find treasures at a feed store?!

On the off chance that I don’t survive all my crazy patronizing, please tell my kids that I really was planning to make it to The Dollar Tree to replace that amazing peppermint bark.  And tell my husband that when the Giddy-Up Boutique appears on the credit card statement I had to buy hay...for the horses.

Determined to be thankful.

I watch her cross the finish line a full two hours after most runners have gone home; her body working hard for every step because her brain scrambles instructions to her uncooperative limbs. She used to run 26.2 miles in as much time as it is now taking her to walk three! With one leg straight as a board and one hand curled uselessly near her shoulder, she walks three miles, holding tight to her granddaughter; the same three miles that barely warm-up the able-bodied volunteers working the time clock and refreshments at the finish line. The same three miles that required four years of intense therapy for this Broken One after her mobility-robbing stroke.

Runners take off and come back, some burning up five miles or more like it was nothing. They pass The Broken One as they leave and again as they return, giving her a thumbs-up or an encouraging word; completely unaware that, months earlier, she ripped that advertisement for the Lord’s Acre Run from the newspaper and made her children find Powell Butte on a map. The finishers ask about her once they’ve cooled off, had a snack and are ready to head for home. They scan the horizon for her silhouette, marveling again as her story unfolds through whispers and raised eyebrows. Are they wondering like me if, faced with the cross she bears, they would have the same determination, the same strength and courage?

Do some of them feel on the inside the way she looks on the outside, I wonder? Broken, twisted, barely able to function? Do some wish they could pull the covers back over their head each morning for a myriad of despairing reasons? Are there others whose paychecks come in discouraging fits and starts or whose livelihood has been interrupted all-together?

As I serve cool water to another thirsty runner, I look up and my eyes follow another friend by the name of Rachel as she jogs by; savoring the cool morning air with her kids. Her body: waging an invisible war against some chump-of-a-breast-tumor and reeling from the chemo cocktail being dumped into her veins. But you’d never know it by the thankful radiance all over her face.

And then I remember that, in my own life, thankfulness often requires a healthy dose of determination. It’s hard to count blessings when my mind is pressed and under the impression that it’s all about ME. I need to look up and take notice of those nearby who are rising from the ashes of frustration and battle so I can follow their footprints toward hope! And once I do that, the fog clears and the determined fighters I long to emulate come into focus; high school volleyball players who defy the odds of youthful inexperience to win another state title, football players who hang up their battered helmets and head for the mat or center court with renewed vigor, the military families whose only medals are worn inside their chest, and whose very survival here at home demonstrates to the rest of the world what an invisible monument looks like when its made of strength and quiet perseverance; all these things go unseen unless I make the effort to look through a different lens.

I wish my word-lens could show you in living color what the finish line of that Lord’s Acre Run looked and felt like when The Broken One finally crossed it. Hundreds of people turned their attention from the infamous Lord’s Acre feast that was coming out of the BBQ pits; their buzz of conversation at once went eerily quiet. And when the stop watch stopped counting and our arms shot up in the air, signaling that she had crossed over, the crowd went wild; hearts exploding with joy and voices celebrating her victorious demonstration that whether broken in body or broken in spirit, we can always choose to lean into thankfulness.

Learning to run a different kind of race.

Just a few short years ago I’d lie awake and listen to the sounds of laughter pass by my window as those crazy runners lit up the pre-dawn hours with their headlamps; Mothers mostly, fellowshipping before the children wake; dragging along the occasional husband as pack leader trying to eavesdrop into the world of the woman. Those Chatty-Cathys would tease and taunt me every morning; as if knowing I wanted to come out and play hide-and-seek in the dark, but refusing to accept my lame excuse of “not being a runner.”

Perhaps it was no coincidence that my wedding ring was becoming harder and harder to remove. Heaven knows that my ever-stiffening joints certainly weren’t winning any prizes. And neither were my arteries, which I was certain were clogging by the second, as I approached the day of forty candles on my cake. Trust me, the race I was running had little to do with shoes and trails and gentle morning breezes. And a whole lot more to do with frenzied to-do lists and sprinting around a track of repetitive tasks in search of some unattainable finish line; never really sure of that which I was seeking.

But now, I’m the one who’s laughing, because grace had a different plan and it all began with an invitation. A gentle coaxing to “come and see” that meant laying down my skepticism and trying something new. So under the cover of a lonely country road in broad daylight I placed my trust in a blossoming friendship and began learning, foot fall by foot fall, to run a different kind of race. At first, I was only able to run a few paces before my head felt ready to explode. Then, another day and another; each with a little less bending over, hands to knees. Then one mile led to five followed by ten until the self-talk of the impossible was forced to flee.

And the forty candles came and went and brought with it a new understanding of what it means to step off the hamster-wheel of constantly glancing at the clock and the list and leaning toward a tape that’s not really there anyway. The new race really isn’t a race at all, but a time to reflect on what my life seeks; a tough thing to ponder if I’m always in a rush.

Running the country roads with my pasture pounding friends has helped me establish a new cadence that has changed my day-in-day-out rhythm of house and work and kids and marriage and faith. The route remains the same but, where my gaze was once downward in a fast-paced rat race of drudgery, my eyes now focus upward in slow appreciation of the narrow path that my feet no longer have to run frantically about to find. I’m becoming familiar with the slow and steady tempo of this new race as I retrace each memorized step by heart.

And wouldn’t you know it? Those same crazy running people who bless my life every day also like to break out into the song-of-the-race darn near any chance they get. Which is why you’ll see them all, the fast ones right along side the slow ones like me, at the Lord’s Acre Celebration on Saturday November 7th in Powell Butte.

Please accept my sincere invitation to come early for the 9:00 a.m. Walk/Run and join me in slowing down and knowing why you race. Then, perhaps you will find what it is you seek. And that would be an important thing to know.

Oh Yeah! Well My Mom Can Kill A Horse!

Most days I think I'm fairly well equipped to parent my children. I've only had a few instances in my fifteen-plus years of motherhood where doubt crept in and I was ready to call Child Services on myself. But, I swear, I always went straight to the Customer Service counter when I heard my name over the store intercom and couldn't find Junior under the clothing racks. And eating half-a-bottle of fluoride only gave my other kid really bad gas. So, all in all, I should be able to steer clear of a visit from Super Nanny as long as she doesn’t visit the local park where the sweet sound of children’s voices is only occasionally interrupted by one of my own yelling “Oh Yeah!? Well, MY MOM can kill a horse!”

So, maybe my attempt at raising kids on a farm hasn’t been all apple orchards and sweet tea, okay? They keep sneaking out the door and running barefoot through rattle snake country! And no amount of Dr. Oz episodes will keep them from kissing the farm dogs on the lips. Seriously, have you ever SEEN what farm dogs eat in an average day? Blek, ptooey, yuck, cough!

So, yeah, I’ll admit it. There was this one time that I came dangerously close to losing the best hundred-bucks I ever spent. Her name is Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony. She's got the cutest thighs and belly you've ever seen, but if she so much as sniffs a blade of grass or alfalfa hay? It's over, people. She's down for the count; moaning and bloated and full of more gas than Uncle Festus.

Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony came to us one Easter morning a couple years ago by way of the Easter Bunny. And I have a very faint memory of some mention by the previous owners of something along the lines of something like, "don't feed the pony EVER or she'll blow up like a balloon and die!" or something like that.

So it wasn't long after we got Her Royal Fatness home before those final instructions came crashing back into the forefront of my brain; the same brain that must have Italian roots somewhere in its lineage, because I like to feed my children and my man, and every animal we own, lots of treats and good food. After all, we Italian Mamas know that food makes people happy! Oh, and we yell sometimes. But I already confessed my quota of bad-parenting habits today, so let's move on.

And anyway, I'm better now. About the food, that is. I love that pony like she’s one of my own kids and it pains me to see her lame and groaning. So when the day finally came that she presented signs of having done snuck into her boyfriend's stash of clover, it was the last straw. I rounded up the cow-pokes that live under my roof and eat my food and made them build me a fence.

So Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony is behind bars now. The tabloids will be dishing that she's in rehab and pregnant; or taping an episode of Nip Tuck. But don't you believe a word of it. She serves her time patiently, gets a pedicure and is then released early for good behavior. So she can get back to the joy of doing what God created her to do.

If you’d like to learn more about how NOT to kill your pony, come to the Central Oregon Ranch Supply’s Round-Up & Trade Show this weekend in Powell Butte. It’ll take place Friday night and all day Saturday. There’ll be live entertainment, really good food and screaming deals on farm stuff. Super Nanny is busy taping new episodes, but you can visit with plenty of other experts about your four-legged animals, to be sure.

Grateful for the things money can't buy.

DANG, you people work hard!  Having grown up a-little-bit-city, a-little-bit-country (and a-little-bit-rock-n-roll), I thought I knew a thing or two about working hard.  It appears, however, that my Crook County compadres are part Energizer Bunny or something, because the amount of blood, sweat and tears being shed on behalf of our communities has me thinking that I don’t know bupkis about hard work.

To re-cap the last few weeks in my corner of the county; there was this little thing called The County Fair where some 4-H and FFA kids pretty much knocked-one-out-of-the-park.  Some donated their livestock auction proceeds to their school or to friends in need. Then there were about 52 car washes up and down the Prine-Vegas strip.  Some football players delivered a few (thousand) sticks of firewood.  And countless cans and bottles have been sorted, hauled and recycled.  This is all in addition to the hay-hauling, horse-breaking, lawn-mowing and cattle-driving most of these tykes do from sun-up ‘til coach blows the whistle for daily-doubles to start.  Just writing about it makes me thirsty for some electrolytes!

To be perfectly honest, the whole business of this slogging economy puts me in a quandary most days. I went to high school in the 80’s; when hair was big, my Daddy’s business was growing gang-busters and the Folks made sure I had everything they never got.  Well, my hair is still big, my parents are comfortably retired and I long to bring, buy and take my kids everywhere!  I want to give them cable TV, a new car for their 16^th birthday and a fully-funded college education, complete with spending allowance.  But the only way to accomplish all that is to also pass on to them a home that’s mortgaged to the hilt when I die.  Some gift that would be, huh?

If left to my own devices I’d spoil my children into sweet oblivion because I’m a Mother and it’s what I do.  I could also protect them right into becoming 30-year-olds who live in my basement, but that’s another topic for another time.  Instead, it is entirely possible that the state of my checking account just might save me from myself and teach me to be grateful for the things that money CAN’T buy.

‘Tis the season when Moms like me are worried that their kid will get nothing more than a swirly in the locker room from the varsity players.  Instead, the coaches, parents, and upperclassmen are mentoring him with a heavy dose of the knowledge that the helping hand he needs is at the end of his own arm.  They send him home dirty, sweaty and unafraid to work hard again the next day.  The side effects of this work-before-play regiment are camaraderie, teamwork and a trickle-down to the younger siblings back at home (the work-ethic that is, not the swirly).

Ask almost any parent and they’ll tell you they wish they could cut a check for the whole enchilada.  Ask any of the hard-working kids and they’ll tell you about the impromptu motivational speaker they just delivered that last load of firewood to.  You know the guy no one would think to invite to speak in an auditorium, but who can describe the winning season of ’84 play-by-play, then, tell your kid how much he believes his Alma Mater can do it again!  No amount of money can buy that kind of mojo my friends.  Because the only place that success ever comes before work is in the dictionary.

Open spaces and happy faces at the Crook County Fair.

 Hey everybody it’s County Fair time! So don’t even bother cooking in your hot kitchen August 5^th through the 8^th because who wants to cook when you can eat elephant ears and Pepsi for breakfast, lunch and dinner?  This year our family has been working extra hard to get our prize-winning pigs ready for show, and if you’ve ever been a 4-H or FFA member you know exactly what I’m talking about.  So, in the spirit of good sportsmanship I thought you might enjoy a glimpse of my latest Showmanship Training Tutorial.  I know that every good showman likes to use what works best for them, but feel free to use the following for your 4-H or FFA instructional purposes as well.

The goal when entering the show ring with your hog at the County Fair, see is to basically be superhuman. First and foremost, SMILE! Then, keep your eyes on the judge at all times, even though the sweat and dust are making you feel like you’ve just been sprayed at point-blank-range with mace.  Also, keep your pig under control, don't let your pig fight with the other pigs, and please SMILE.  Then steer your pig with a tiny stick (even though you'd rather use a lead pipe).  At all times keep SMILING, answer the judge's questions like you've owned a feed store all your life, then SMILE some more.  Follow your pig calmly (even when it’s doing pirouettes across the show ring), smack your pig with the show cane only when the judge ‘aint lookin', and move your pig fast if the pig next to you starts to poo.  Last, but not least, try to avoid eye contact with Mom because she'll try and communicate with you in some ridiculous sign language that only Mothers understand and, above all, SMILE dang-it! Grandma's in the bleachers!

Once you’ve made it through the harrowing experience of showing the animals, it’s time to move on to the highlight of the County Fair!  For my kids, that would be the Livestock Auction. It takes place August 8^th at 3:30 pm and it’s when those hard-working youngsters get to stuff their pockets (and college savings accounts?) full of money in exchange for (gulp) wrapping prize-winning hog in white butcher paper. I love watching the confused looks on the faces of my friends from the big city during this celebratory event.  Sick, aren’t I?

The bidding starts out modestly enough but quickly escalates to generous "donations" being made by all the local businesses that my kids “invite” to flirt with bankruptcy on auction day. Of course, these are usually the same local heroes the kids have already shelled out large sums of (my) money to for items such as feed and brushes, fencing and shampoo, water troughs and, let’s not forget, new tires for Mom's poor tread-less car.  Not to mention bottled water, more bottled water and a few tubs of red vines for sustenance.  Which reminds me, I seriously hope someone invited Costco to place a few bids at the Auction this year. They owe me big!

The Livestock Auction is also the evening BEFORE the-great-day-of-weeping-and-gnashing-of-teeth, also known as the day Wilbur gets hauled off in a butcher's truck. I've been around this block a time or two though, which is why my Peeps will be gorging themselves at Dairy Queen at approximately the same time the truck arrives.  And that’s when I will probably bring up the small matter of my fee.

It's not the Fourth of July without apple pie.

The neighbors are moving.  They mentioned something about greener pastures; for their horses.  I’ll miss their friendly hellos over the fence and, my gelding-who-thinks-he’s-a-stud, is totally gonna miss those mares.  I really liked the new neighbors too, and wish I’d taken the time to bake them a pie when they moved in just a few short months ago.

I don’t have much of an excuse really.  Every new neighbor deserves a pie or a bag of Oreo’s or something.  My excuses get even weaker when you take into account that I live in one of those hobby farm developments where, even though I can’t shoot a varmint, I get to shovel manure and wake up to a rooster’s crow like the big boys (the “big boys” being the cattle and hay ranchers that surround us but don’t seem to mind our rabbit hutches all that much).  After all, they can count on my goats and two horses to generate a steady one-and-a-half ton hay sale each year! Cha-Ching!

My country neighborhood even has an Annual Meeting where folks can connect and discuss important things like barking dogs and yard art.  And for those of us who don’t own forty or a hundred or a thousand acres, this is important stuff!  My favorite part of the meetings, however, is getting to know the new people; well that, and the platter of brownies.

Now more than ever seems like a really good time to actually know ones neighbors don’t you think?  People are hurting and worried and some are unemployed.  But any setback has the potential of turning into a comeback and kindheartedness from a neighbor can make all the difference in the world. The naysayers would have you believe that the gesture of a pie means you have to take on another person’s problems but don’t you believe it!  Because a hand-shake over the fence or an offer to help unload a car-full of Costco is how communities form.  And when someone feels like they’re part of a community they tend to want to stay; even when times are tough.

In her new book “I Love A Man In Uniform,” Lilly Burana says…”what intimidates us also instructs us and shows us, in part, who we’d like to be…”  So call me old-fashioned.  Call me a total nerd if you want to and I won’t deny it.  I wore that blue and gold FFA jacket in high school with confidence and pride my friends.  I lived through the teasing to reap the benefits of travel and speech writing, scholarships, trade missions and a Future Farmer husband too. Because I believe in another great saying; “rejecting things because they are old-fashioned would rule out the sun and the moon – and a mother’s love.”

So, yeah, the neighbors are moving and I hope they find what they’re looking for.  But, as for me; I’m resolving to take a pie to whoever moves into the neighborhood next.

Parenting 101: He who holds the keys also holds my heart.

I've been a Mother for 15 years. Actually, if you count all the bossing and mothering I did of my little brother, that number is more like 20 years. I had so much practice on him that by the time my own three children came along it felt as natural as anything.

Well, the bossing part anyway.

The administrative arm of parenting isn’t that hard for me.  It’s like following a recipe of sorts; start with a good calendar, add a pinch of prayer, a dash of Grandma’s advice to clean one thing every single day and a healthy application of duct tape over my sometimes critical mouth.  Those are the ingredients that help keep the gears of my household from grinding to a halt. The rogue element that continues to threaten my well-maintained stiff upper lip, however, is the fact that there are three little pairs of legs running around in the world with my heart firmly attached to them.

Don't get me wrong. I love that twerp-of-a-brother I used to boss around as much as the next sister. But "birthing-a-child" and "bossing-a-sibling" are on two different emotional playing fields, my friends. The first can take your breath away with a love so deep for your man and the child you created with him that you can be soaring to the highest heights one minute and worrying yourself into a pit of despair the next. The second is just plain entertainment; where the latest earth-shattering conflict can usually be solved with a hearty game of rock-paper-scissors.

Somehow the sum total of all my training works together for good, making me pseudo-confident (on most days) that my four-hundred-plus years of mad-mothering-skills should make me an expert by now. And, if not an "expert" then, at least not surprised anymore by all the crazy emotions, right?  RIGHT?!?

So, last week when I celebrated my 15th Anniversary of answering to the name of "Hey Mom," I considered it a mighty milestone in a career that manages to present me with a new emotional fact scenario almost daily. But, interestingly, the tables had turned ever-so-slightly on this particular day of celebration.

Fifteen years ago I was giddy and high-fiving everyone in the hospital room. I was eating popsicles and had butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited for what lay ahead that I could hardly stand the waiting any longer.

Twelve hours of hard work in the birthing suite, one little trip to the emergency room, a few years shaved off my husband's life and out came the present I'd been waiting to hold my whole life!

He was perfect! He was soft!  He was cuddly and he was all-mine to hug and hold forever!  Or so I thought.

Fast forward fifteen years and he's still pretty doggone perfect. Muscles, sweat and the scent of fresh cut firewood have replaced the softness and baby blue pajamas that used to smell like Dreft laundry soap. I have to pay him a dollar for almost every hug, his high pitched "Mommies" have turned into deep, smooth "Moms" and I'm slowly learning to share more of his time and amazing gifts with a world that is crying-out for hope, leadership and a few manners.

On this special day he's the one with butterflies and high-fives. I have the privilege of watching from the sidelines as the hours of studying pay off in the form of a driver's permit and the car keys he's been waiting to hold in his hands his whole life!

“Oh child,” I want to say. “You have no idea how many wonderful things you will wait your whole life to hold in your hands.”

Each FIRST time will seem like it took forever to get here and you'll want to hold on so tight. Then, one day, you'll discover that the measure of a man (and a Mom) is in the letting go.

Many roads can lead you home but some might make you car sick.

I’ve driven to my Man’s home-town of Condon on many different occasions and via an assortment of roads during our 22 years of marriage.  I could probably even get away with saying I grew up there; but for the fact that the town is so small people might think I’m married to my cousin.  Last month’s trip was different from previous trips on many levels.  For one, it was the end of an era for our family as my Husband became a member of the fraternity that most people don’t look forward to joining; having lost the second of both parents.  The long and winding trek back home to Condon for my Mother-in-Law's Memorial Service was also sweet as hundreds gathered to testify about her life, her loving spirit and her tendency to over-fill the pantry with way too many cans of tuna fish that were “best before 1999.”

I was reminded over and over again of my Mother-in-Law’s steadfast focus on the one thing that overshadowed all other matters in her life; sitting at the feet of Jesus.   I was also reminded by friends and family that there truly isn’t any nice, neat way to get to Condon, Oregon.  You can come at it from all manner of directions on the map but none are very straight or easy.  On this trip home, however, I may have found my favorite path.

We arrived in Condon via the Madras-to-Antelope-to-Fossil route which can only be described as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride meets The Matterhorn!  The kids’ faces were green for two hours after our arrival but, thankfully, they slept it off because the Dramamine had finally kicked in.

And since I try to live my life by the “don’t-be-stupid-twice” principle we made our way back to Powell Butte a few days later via the Fossil-to-Mitchell-to-Prineville turnpike, which is much more like It’s a Small World.  The Route 26 Expresso shop in Mitchell serves up a soothing Mexican Mocha and even the farmers seemed to be queued-up by an invisible conductor to gently plow under the rich earth just as I drove by.

Every time we visit my Man's quaint home-town I'm struck by how much it reaches into my soul and stirs up all my Laura Ingalls Wilder blood. I see his childhood roots with fresh eyes and fall in love all over again with the small town that raised him. And I do mean small. So tiny, in fact, that Main Street is just four blocks long, which requires the annual Fourth of July parade to turn around and make another pass each year, just so the on-lookers can justify making the long drive from their respective ranches.

The weekend of The Memorial was no different. From the moment our truck crested that last hill, and left the hours of never-ending fields and ranches behind, I was captivated again; drawn in by the sudden explosion of green trees and grain silos that jump up and appear - seemingly out of no where; like a mirage in this desert of barren, dormant earth. Soon though, the whole landscape will turn a vibrant green, as the young wheat grass pushes forth for miles around. But it won't last long because, as spring gives way to summer, the golden heads of wheat will mature and dry, leaving the town to stand alone again as a lush, green oasis.

His family home sits just above Main Street. A two-story, modest and perfectly square box, built by the hands of his Father and chock-full of almost forty years-worth of precious family treasures. But treasure-hunting wasn't the main reason for our pilgrimage home this weekend. No, this trip was meant for remembering my Mother-in-Law, Patricia McLane.  Her burial was simple and sweet; conducted by Prineville’s Father Rob Greiner who also grew up in Condon. Her chicks and grand-chicks circled-up and gave thanks for her life, then prayed for their own and embraced the challenge to go forth and step into a legacy that would make her proud.

It was during this trip that I realized there will always be many pressing things to capture my time and attention.  But oh how much I can learn from one precious Mother-in-Law, in one very small town, who chose to live as if the only thing that counted is faith expressing itself through love.

There are many roads that lead back to my second home, Condon, Oregon.  And while that town may take up a small amount of space on the map, it has grown to fill up a gigantic amount of space in my heart.

This little golf course has a big heart for kids.

When my first child was born I distinctly remember saying that I would let him play any sport except football.  I also remember having some ridiculous idea in my head about not allowing him to have plastic weapons.  Now he’s a fifteen-year-old football fanatic who can talk your ear off about optimal bow tension, drawing tags and the politics behind the now, back-ordered, AR-15.  And this Mama has learned the fine art of shutting her trap, opening her Bible and getting a hobby or two.

During his toddler years I was so focused on my grand agenda of training first-born what NOT to do that I clearly missed the fact that Grampy was sneaking through the back-door with an agenda all his own.  And this one involved putters, drivers and tees.  Grampy’s scheme didn’t register with me because I was fairly certain that, although Nanny and Grampy live on a “fayn-cee” golf course, my manure-caked muck boots would probably never grace one.  In fact, I’m still shocked every time the nice man at their neighborhood entrance allows my car through the gate without first making me turn around and head straight for the nearest car wash.  The ridiculous distance I have to travel to even get to a golf course, combined with my child’s overall aversion to collared shirts, lulled me into thinking that his indoctrination into all things Tiger Woods would never actually stick.

Perhaps now you’re beginning to understand why my kids aren’t really lying when they say, “Mom, you live in a world of unicorns where everyone eats rainbows and poops butterflies.”  And I truly have no defense, other than the fact that we Mothers sometimes live in a parallel universe.  It’s called survival.

So, while I’m frantically knitting socks in an effort to cope with my fear of blunt-head-trauma on the grid-iron, Grampy is chipping away at my eldest’s character development and planting seeds of a much more productive nature on the putting green; proof positive that parents still know best…sometimes.

That’s when I stumbled upon this little known gem-of-a-golf-course called Meadow Lakes.  Right here in my own backyard!  And I holler at my husband, with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, “Why, oh why, didn’t you teach our kids to play golf!?!”  After which, I receive a blank stare followed by a very long pause.

Okay, that whole weeping-and-gnashing-of-teeth thing never really happened, but it helps drive home my point about how I sometimes live one life for and through my kids while another, even better one, is unfolding right before my eyes, despite my phobias, biases and unicorns.  And THAT, my friends, is the power of prayer.

So, this little golf course with a big heart for kids just up and topples every stuffy judgment I’ve ever held about golf courses.  Everyone, from staff to instructors, encourages, trains and smacks my kid up-side the head when necessary.  Kind-hearted Lori mans her post behind the pro-shop counter like the Woman-In-Charge that she is and her trusty binoculars let her know when it’s time for some well-placed instruction over the loud speaker, telling my boy to “Ease up on your grip and quit trying to kill the ball!”  Rude manners are corrected, hard work is the standard and the free entertainment is listening to the twin brothers bicker on the next green about who’s ball went in the water and why it’s the other one’s fault!

Every now and then I get a glimpse of what life might be like one day when the kids are grown and I no longer have to worry about them.  Finally, I’ll be able to trade my knitting needles for a set of irons and leave all my unicorns behind......

Bringing charity home.

After last month’s article about my obsessive-compulsive-wood-stacking-routine, my neighbor, Bill Brewer, told me he has a passel of cut wood on his property that is awaiting my direct attention.  “Sorry Bill,” I said, “I’m still working on finding that perfect spot for each piece of my own firewood.  So, you’re on your own buddy.”

But then I realized how nice it is to feel needed in these times of dire predictions and rampant uncertainty.  A community becomes true community when the people who have something to GIVE help the people who have something they NEED.  I’ve been witnessing this gentle phenomenon more and more in my own little corner of the world and it’s truly inspiring.

Most would agree that it’s not easy being on the receiving end of charity.  Our culture has re-wired and desensitized us to the point of gross independence and pride.  But I would venture to say that the givers among us could stand to loosen up just as much as the receivers.  Neither of us is terribly confident in our circumstances anyway, so why not combine efforts and be strong together!  My can-do attitude might say “I've got it covered” but my heart is healthier when I let others in to help carry the load.

Bringing charity to the home-front is no doubt awkward for some.  We’ve been conditioned to assume that the real problems are far away on another shore and that somehow we are insulated from certain horrors because we can drive into a garage and shut out the world with the press of an automated button.

And sure, I’ve done my share of sticking a check in an envelope and mailing it off to a mission field far away; only to receive another form letter announcing further catastrophic news and begging for more funds.  If I were in charge of these faithful servants abroad I would speak into their high tech, Jack-Bauer-esque ear-pieces and say “I’m bringing you in!”  Just as if I was the Director of the CIA.  I’d tell them, “you’re needed back at home-base; where the burdens are many, the workers are few and the nuts are a whole lot tougher to crack.”

But that’s just my over-active brain at work; trying to imagine ways to shore-up the hopelessness and loneliness I see on our own soil.  I know. Knitting or yoga might be a better use of my time.

Even closer to home, when our local budget woes whisper of limited sporting events to gather around, and our churches are cutting staff and turning down the heat, it’s easy to lose touch with how a person might find support and a sense of community.

Might I suggest Bingo Night at the Powell Butte Community Center?  The party is on over there every first Tuesday of the month at 6:30 pm and kids are welcome too.  Or you might consider hosting your neighbors for a potluck and a game of cards.  The local Checkers Coffee Shop has a warm sense of comfort brewing in their cozy dining room; complete with board games for your lounging pleasure.  And last Sunday the pews at my church were overflowing!  So now might be as good a time as any to blend in with the church crowd and drink from the well that never runs dry.

Community is out there my friends.  But not in the ways you might be accustomed to or comfortable with.  Go for it anyway, because if necessity is the mother of invention then perhaps we can avoid ever going back to the heart-numbing pursuit of wealth and status over genuine friendship and a community that is strong from the inside out.

Author’s note to Bill Brewer:  Fire up that splitting maul Bill, the family and I are coming over!

Bringing some order to my chaotic corner of the world.

The Grammy is back on our farm after being sprung from the hospital!  She’s getting comfy in her apartment again and adjusting to the steady stream of caregivers that are now a permanent fixture in her life.  And I am thanking God for these angels who work in the elder-care industry, thus allowing me to catch my breath and ponder my dirty house and unkempt farm.

Whoa! Where did the month of December go?  Where is all the clean, white snow?  Who are these kids with mud on their shoes, and why are they all calling me Mom?!

This is how I've felt lately; In between training the caregivers, filling prescriptions, shopping for the best deals on elder care supplies that Medicare conveniently chooses not to cover, and facing the inevitable “what’s for dinner” question at the end of each very long day.

I believe the applicable word here would be discombobulated.

Nevertheless, all the unpredictability of life lately has made me want to run and hide in The Grammy's apartment and watch movies all day while playing with her hair.

But...Alas! The Husband and kids need me to keep this place in ship-shape. So THEY can sit in The Grammy's apartment and watch movies all day.  But, not so fast troops! I'm onto your game. Work before play keeps the spankings away and a little sweat-therapy is good for the soul; or something like that.

To re-cap the last month, we made it through the first blizzard of the season, Grammy’s trip to the hospital, the blur of Christmas and New Years and now we have a respite of warm weather which gives us time to cut and stack more firewood before the next thirty-two rounds of chilly arrive. And since most of our house is warmed by a big black wood stove it seems to work better if we have wood-at-the-ready because that keeps us from having to burn stuffed animals and empty toilet paper rolls for heat.

First up: that big old five-cord-pile-o-wood waiting since last summer to be split and stacked.  Up until now, it's been an eye-sore and good-for-nothing; except maybe for practicing new snow boarding techniques during the aforementioned blizzard.
On wood-cutting day all hands were on deck and ready to bring order to the chaos; which just happens to be one of my favorite past-times, believe it or not.  It often drives The Husband nuts! But I can't help it. It's just who I am.

So, I staked-my-claim and manned my post as being Head-Crazy-Person-And-Stacker-Of-The-Wood.
I assigned the other important jobs to everybody else, like lining up the big rounds for the splitter and then moving them out of the way and trying not to lose a finger in the process.
And after much sweating and grunting and reminding-of-the-kids to keep away from my obsessive-compulsive-paranoid-wood-stacking-routine, I learned a little something. Wanna know what it was? I learned that, if given enough time (and mixed berry smoothies from Checkers Coffee Shop), there really is THE. PERFECT. SPOT for each and every single piece of firewood!
I KNOW! Astonishing, isn't it?!  Order from chaos; it's what I do.
So, I got to thinking. The next time we have another month-of-crazy like December? I'll round up the whole family and tackle the next twenty-cord-mountain-o-logs The Husband just bought for me via the Blue and Gold Wrestling Auction.  After 21 years of marriage he sure knows how to make his woman happy!

And as someone once said...when the Queen is happy, the Subjects are happy too.