First frost, two teens, public school defended, other shocking points of interest

This year our first frost took me by surprise. Everything in the garden turned out okay, tucked in under manure and coffee grounds and maple leaves, thanks to my amazing team (of child labor, a-hem). I do have to remember to wrap the resurrected fig tree though, before temperatures dip much lower at night.

When last year's hard winter apparently killed my fig tree I shed a wee tear (sobbed like a baby). When it sprouted anew late in the summer I rejoiced! And then when I accidentally hacked it off with the weedeater I cried again while all of my children and my husband assured me it would grow back, which it obligingly DID. That tree deserves better but it has me; it's put down roots and we've been through a lot together.

Similarly my Meyer lemon is blooming with incredible vigor. I painstakingly pollinated it via paintbrush (say that ten times fast) because although the book says "hardy to 17 degrees," the ghosts of my three prior Meyers decline to testify. The fig would live inside too if only the farmhouse weren't, you know, a pair of tiny former logging camp cabins cleverly joined with hand milled fir planks and lumberjack artistry to make a home for seven.

Despite the trials of the tropical plants, the rest of us are settling in to a routine. Three years at the "new" little farm. Three years of watching the light weave patterns through the forest, watching leaves clog the stone culverts, watching the horses figure out the zoo-worthy fencing in order to break into the pond. Three years of making hay and driving to dance. That about sums it up.

I think we just started our sixth year of having school at home. I don't write very much about "homeschool." Polarizing issues paralyze the blog writer in me. And recently I came to understand, again, how damaging any sort of label can be. Homeschooler. Gifted. Special needs. But I get ahead of myself.

We jumped into the deep end of teaching our children at home without a philosophy beyond what we knew of ourselves as parents and what we knew of our individual children's needs. For three years after Madeleine, Sarah and Grace were sitting at the kitchen table (and couch and car) with their books I still volunteered in the community school and my husband still chaired a committee dedicated to helping our tiny rural school survive. And then when we moved away from that area our love of community and our belief in the power of education didn't fade away. Of course not.

 Members of my family and so many people I deeply respect work in public education. Our nation is so lucky, fortunate, ridiculously blessed to have access to free school. I hope we, corporately, don't take that for granted. You know what else we are lucky to have? Choices.

 My children are amazing. Ask anyone. They are also beautiful, and sensitive, and gifted, and different. A couple of them might do fine or even exceptionally well in traditional brick-and-mortar school. One of them would likely spend more time in the hospital than in the classroom. Hospital, "resource room" and school nurse in rotation? Or home? Which would you choose, if you could? And then, when you were choosing, would you reflect on how privileged you were to be able to have that time with each of your little people? Watching them change and grow is one of my miracles. Being present for them is a gift to me.

And we know families whose choices to teach their children at home are as different from ours as night from day. Perhaps they have strong political or religious beliefs and are passionate about remaining separate from the world. Perhaps they have very exacting academic standards and are dedicated to high achievement. Their home might be too remote and the commute too taxing. The list goes on and it even includes those who think young people shouldn't spend time with the opposite gender outside of parental chaperoning.

We don't have school at home for any of those reasons. And our reasons have evolved as these years have passed. What started as a medical necessity and an academic convenience (one of our children was so far ahead of her grade level that the school ran out of ideas/patience/books and threw up its administrative/educational hands, leaving her to "help" in class (read: "be tortured by the bigger, tougher children from 7:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.") (and then note my double parenthetical statement and feel sorry for the twisting logical meanderings of me, again)) morphed into a lifestyle of joy in learning together.

Theatre and dance are so consuming for our older girls; having flexible school hours allows them to read and write and learn on their own schedules. The time to form ideas and act upon them is a gift. The time to take a trail ride after school and before rehearsal is a gift. Time, it passes, and the spending of it is a lesson too. Or can be.

Somebody is going to say we are not even a true "homeschool" family because some of our children are enrolled in public, virtual charter schools that allow us to choose and design our own curricula. Somebody is going to believe it's less-than, or selling out. I respect that opinion too but I have to say I am grateful for the option, choice, the gift of time. I'm grateful that my children will be able to choose universities, or not, and that their choices won't be limited by mine.

It's a dance and not a ballet. We all waltz this way, parents. We make the most careful choices we are able to make and we thank God for the blessings we have and can share.

*just a note: I wrote this in November and have been immersed in all of that living-spending-time-learning stuff since. I still think about polarizing issues and have cold sweats over controversy or the whiff of it. I still love you if your children are in public school or private school or hacking school from the internet. I especially love you if you read this far.

Autumn at the ocean

September is the beginning of our favorite time to visit the Oregon coast. Saltwater and sunshine and sandy feet combine in an alchemy of pure joy. The winds are slow and so is time.

This particular September we are choosing rest. Is this possible in the midst of ballet, tap, jazz, modern, Guys and Dolls, piano, voice, sewing... farm work... and schoolwork? I submit that it is possible. At least it's worth trying.

Dear Mr. Suite and I talk a lot about finding balance. He runs an engineering business and serves as a planning commissioner for our county government. He fences (and re-fences) and hauls hay and fixes the farmhouse. I teach school to five students of hugely varied learning styles and giftedness and I keep the house (mostly) and garden (sadly small this year but still) and meals and carpool schedule. I also write grants for a few non-profits and squeeze in the occasional writing and photography that fills my heart. So there's that.

Our teens are intensely involved in community and children's and public school theaters. They dance at two different studios that are 25 miles apart. One is dedicated to ballet and one loves modern and tap. One is training horses and dogs and one is showing rabbits. Our younger children have pets and piano lessons and passions of their own. The Lego budget. The book budget. The gas budget. 

And the time and energy budget. I'm just saying.

We used to have an unofficial family motto, spoken somewhat in jest: "Work hard, play hard." Most famously, my exceedingly hardworking husband once declared in a time of exhaustion, before a 9-hour-drive to see a baseball game: "We. Will. Recreate."

In a slight divergence from that I propose: "We. Will. Rest."

We will rest in the moments between tap and rehearsal. We will rest in the knowledge that a great thirst for knowledge and discovery is a much better educator than is a proficient lecturer. We will rest and realize that sometimes good enough is truly enough, that perfectionism is a pit that separates us from joy and from others. We will rest knowing that the waves come in, the waves go out. The wind calms in autumn.

And there is a season for rest.

How do you find rest? Is it a principle or a practice? Or both?

It's a coffee table book

Today I felt that need to look for beauty -- does that happen to you? --
and where better to turn than my photo files of this past month? 

(Well. I could have gone outside, but weeds are lurking there, creeping ever closer to farm domination.)

And one of my other favorite diversions is to drive over that-there bridge on my way to town and back.

Alas it is under construction until September.

September!

So photo journal it is.

 The barnyard is stomped-down packed mud, the hay field is sodden but gloriously tall and green. 

The pond is finally fenced off from horse and/or sheep invasion and just a little prettier already.

Mr. Suite planted some trees.
The skunk cabbage and cattails (such lovely names!) grow unmolested.

A grey heron rests there between fishing trips to the river. 

A pair of Mallard ducks made a nest immediately after the fence went up but are gone now.

I hope they come back.

Frogs and toads of the green and noisy variety make music we can hear all the way to the house.
The flowerbeds and garden beds are overrun with chickweed, crabgrass and clover. 

I'm going with it on the theory that nature knows what to do with itself.

We pick lettuce and peas from the beds and a little grass sneaks its way in the salad.

Most is edible.

 Fiddler on the Roof, a sold-out run. 

Maddy had "Fiddler prom" backstage with friends
while other high school friends rode in a limousine
to dance that was decidedly not Russian nor Jewish.

Sarah sang Matchmaker.
And Anatevka was weepingly beautiful.

 Pinocchio, a sold-out run.

Grace was the prettiest puppet I have ever seen. Or sewn.

Sarah wore blue hair and a beautiful gown to convince Pinocchio

becoming a real boy takes bravery and honesty.

 On top of the hill, a neighbor's barn less used than ours, with a view to Blue Mountain.

I would let you think I hiked up there but it is very, very high. So I drove.

 Salvador got his hair cut after Easter.
The barber was smoking a cigarette so we went to the salon.

I explained the haircut preferences:
scissor cut, whitewall around the ears, side part, 

you know, LEAVE THE CURLS.

And the stylist pulled out her clippers and buzzed his hair right off faster than I could gasp.

"This is better," she declared.

Okay.

 The forest wants to take over my back yard. See those weeds of which I speak?
When we bought this place I loved the back yard's "shabby" fence
and asked Mr. Suite to leave it a while.

Its time has probably come.

The creek flows through the trees back there
and it is good to have a little barrier
so we don't worry about Charlie swimming away.

 Fencing off the pond was a family affair.

Mr. Suite has been engineering a lot of hours.

The development and building trade is picking back up.

We are catching up.

 Madeleine was given a lovely vintage dotted swiss dress.

Great-grandma remarked "it looks just like a dress from the 1940s."

It is!

The lawnmower was broken. 

Too many trips to the river pulling inner tubes and children in its trailer perhaps.

We replaced it but not before the horses had lawn duty.

 What can a girl say about columbines? They self sow and are a favorite.

 I only took a dozen pictures at Easter and each one is a testament to ...

something about the difficulty of herding cats.

And every time I see one of these posed sillinesses

I hear the Beatles singing "All Together Now"
and that makes me giggle.

If I were not the parent of teens now I'd say
I'm just grateful no one is picking his or her nose.

You can, however, see a bit of Salvador's hair pre-buzz-cut.

So there's that.

I feel better after that chatty update. 

Is it just me or do you too sometimes need to
focus on your beauty to press a reset button on gratitude?

I'm also participating in #100happydays. Don't let the hashtag stop you.

I don't understand hashtags either!

But I do understand happy.

Blessings from farmsuite.
I hope you are surrounded and lifted up by joy.

Next.

If ever I thought I'd arrived, I was wrong.

 Did you, ever?

Hike and climb and fix your eyes on that highest point
--sometimes it seemed to move further away--

to flop down on nearest apex boulder
or raise your hands in amazement
of the crisp
clean air

up there.

 The bear went over the mountain
to see what he could see.

Me?

The view an enticement, surely, but the promise of rest

...

that idea of repose kept me moving
eyes on the prize
picnic in sight.

The light is clear enough to see the next mountain.

Merry and bright...

 When the light twinkles just so.

 And the performances are all done.
(Nutcracker and It's a Wonderful Life, two icons of Christmas, checked off our list.)

 Time for silly cousins to have some fun.

 Remembering the reason we love, the reason we live.

 It's quiet at the farm.
For two weeks (minus a day or two) we had no drama, no dance, no classes.

Just scrumptious board games and naps and archery practice in our little woods.

Oh! And I read several books that have been on my list including
Morton's "Forgotten Garden" -- lovely; and Smiley's "Barn Blind" -- an author who amazed me again.

 We, like many of you, opened some gifts.

That girl does not like her bear. She loves it.
And her nightgown, sewn with love by her grandma and passed down by her sister.

 It's been a deliciously slow end to another fast-paced wonderful year.

I am not making resolutions but I do like to reflect and redirect at this time of year.

How about you?
I wish you a beautiful 2014.

Pictures of a (legendary?) fall

I bought a little secondhand espresso machine over the weekend.

I'm going to save money. It's been bad for the budget, Dutch Bros. moving to town, and the girls' dance classes six days a week and the lack of sleep and all.

I grit my teeth and choose contentment, sticking fingers in ears to deny a negative word. La la la I can't hear you. Because I'm mature like that.

Not long after, not so very much later, forced smiles relax into reality. I see the beauty directly in front of me.

 Oh, Jane. Your portrait does not do you justice.

 The man whose sign proclaims irrigation automation. His name is Greene. And that makes me smile bigger.

We stomp down the leaves after they've fallen. Our grass is so green here! Even in a drought year we didn't use the irrigation system in the front lawn at all. (Apologies to Mr. Greene.) Then the leaves head for the compost mountain.

 Sal and Laura and I get a lot of time to appreciate the bajillion of covered bridges around here while the big girls are at dance. I (used to) carry a Dutch Bros. mocha while we played. Covered Bridge Capitol they say. There's a plaque and a sign and everything.

The hens don't venture out until the mist leaves the hillside. See that little, itty bitty hop vine there? So much for covering the henhouse in one season. I also planted lavender. But Jane thinks lavender and geraniums are for her. Breakfast lunch and dinner. Baaaaad sheep.

Shades of grey. Rated G.

 (Have not read those books. I just think I'm funny. Don't mind me; acting ridiculous cheers me up when I have to make my own mochas.)

 I have a soft spot for pumpkins on ladders. Funnily enough some of my ladders I pulled out of burn piles and trash heaps. Repeatedly. A-hem. Then the cucumbers climb them all summer before the autumn squash take up residence. We also use old dry-rotted wooden ladders for roosting rungs in the chicken yard and henhouse. I have seen some clever people make rustic - shabby? farmchic? steampunk? what is this steampunk? - bookcases. I can never. never. never have enough bookcases. But I also like to stay married so the wooden ladders stay outside.

 We are building a library, which will decidedly NOT have rustic ladder shelving, up in the attic. Got a little sidetracked by plumbing disasters between the pump and the house. And again between the pump and the barn. Then most recently by some cottage-style built-in beds for the teen girls. Oh and we can't forget the stair rail, the upstairs bath reno, the tiny back yard studio remodel. Multitasking makes for a lot of projects nearly there. And the library is the furthest from "there."

 We never have enough photos of Madeleine and Sarah anymore.

And I thought I might bore you with sunflower pictures this summer -- I took hundreds! We cut down dozens and dozens to dry but left a few for the birds, who flit around and weigh the blossoms down while they have an October snack. I walk as quietly as I can but they don't stay for a portrait. Sort of like my teenagers.

Can you tell I'm overcaffeinated? The unintended side effect of frugality, my friends.

Filters

 Things these weeks have seemed a little fuzzy and out of focus.

But then I decided my "forgettyhead" self (5-year-old Laura's word for me, thankyouverymuch), otherwise known as scatterbrained and/or distracted easily by the light through a forgotten red chard plant, can also be described as creative and spontaneous.

 Madeleine went to her first school dance and looked ah-mazing. Her group of friends is a blessing and I know this word is somewhat overused but I really, truly mean it: each of those girls and guys makes me giddy with gratitude that we get to know them and watch them move through their own teen years. Because really, it's healing to know that friendship and loyalty survive the texting-crazed generation.

I rewrote a bit of my own biography in my head, watching my daughter walk confidently in heels and a little black dress. Where do they get these pieces of themselves so apparently foreign to nature or nurture? The confidence, I'm telling you, it kills me.

 You know what else slays me?

Foggy October mornings. Six dentist appointments in one week. Being out of loose tea. Sudden urges to tear up carpet during history class at the home school table.

You know, the unexamined life would probably benefit me a little.

 Is that out of focus or just dreamy? Still deciding. Which reminds me, this week brings three doctor appointments and a new optometrist appointment in addition to the twelve dance classes, two singing lessons (rescheduled and I can't remember why), one flute and one piano lesson. Last week was the dentist. I'm pretty sure. You can't overestimate my forgettyhead.



In theory I love this time of year.

The true New Year of academics, this autumn time. Also not the time to be out of soothing herbal tea.