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.

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?!