NaBloPoMo couldn't have meant EVERY day, right? I need to go back and edit the blog where I said it would be a piece of cake. Pride goes before ... what?
Anyway I don't feel like writing a letter today. I'm just not that clever, it seems, to find a way to do that for 30 days in a row. I just want to write in the cracks of time about whatever's on my mind.
What's on my mind today, you ask?
Negotiation. I wish I could say that it's the chicks (getting their feathers!) or the garden (going in this weekend!) or a new frog pond (still in the dreaming/pre-planning phase) or the girls' horseback riding clinic (Sunday!). But alas, it is negotation that occupies my farmgirl brain.
People skills, all the rage in the '90s. Thinking outside of the proverbial box, again, from my early career days -- I'd have to say I am pretty good at that. But my skills and my box are both stretched pretty darn thin these days. Real estate put the first stretch mark in, followed quickly by parenthood, horse people barn drama (you know who you are and what you did), neighboring Bed & Breakfast owners who ought to "move back to the state they came from" (the County planner's words, not mine, I swear).
Lately, it's Ryan's business pushing my overstuffed envelope. Note: I have a whole collection of cliches, and I may pull them all out today. I also have an unlimited supply of em dashes and parentheses, evidently.
Today I have even more negotiating to do. We are trying to trade in our failing Suburban for one with half the miles. I have to shovel it out first though. I write from my desk at the office, the one the crew uses when they come in from the field. I finished my employee relations duties and am now watching Laura sleep in her carseat while Grace plays puzzles on the other computer. Not super farmchicky at all. The big girls are at school.
Yesterday KL and I had an almost kid-free M0mmy Time Out. We did a quick Dutch Brothers run (where else?) and then followed a hot tip to find Fire King and Pyrex at a location I shall not disclose on the wide open Internet. KL found some, hurray, and I found FOUR pairs of Mary Jane shoes. Holy footwear. We planned our trip to The Farmchicks Sale in June. Caro's going too. We are saving our quarters in jars and bowls.
Then we drove like the wind back to the Grove to fetch KL's children from school.
I wish time were unlimited. I wish I could blog all day. But the knee-deep Suburban will not wait. I hope to post some new pics tomorrow of our garden spot, the chicks, the horses, Ryan's new tree, etc.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
Good Gravy
Dear Dutch Brothers,
Congratulations on your market dominance of Eugene. Just last year I had to go out of my way to get a grande four-shot mocha. It's great that your business is thriving; I can find you on any number of my errand routes AND on the way to Ryan's office.
However.
I am eating out too much. For example, on Friday night I had prime rib at the General Store. Two days last week I had fast food for lunch. And every day a sinful, who-knows-how-many-calories mocha, which is my new baby (as in: "baby weight"). In the interim I managed to stick to our family's relatively healthy, well-rounded, mostly organic diet.
So, in my considered opinion, if you weren't so consistently yummy and so stinking convenient, my waistline would be approaching non-stretchy-pant territory. Thanks for listening.
-Another Dutch Princess
Congratulations on your market dominance of Eugene. Just last year I had to go out of my way to get a grande four-shot mocha. It's great that your business is thriving; I can find you on any number of my errand routes AND on the way to Ryan's office.
However.
I am eating out too much. For example, on Friday night I had prime rib at the General Store. Two days last week I had fast food for lunch. And every day a sinful, who-knows-how-many-calories mocha, which is my new baby (as in: "baby weight"). In the interim I managed to stick to our family's relatively healthy, well-rounded, mostly organic diet.
So, in my considered opinion, if you weren't so consistently yummy and so stinking convenient, my waistline would be approaching non-stretchy-pant territory. Thanks for listening.
-Another Dutch Princess
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Dear Me
Oh, Dear ME,
Hold still.
The smallest of personally performed motion might make you throw up at any moment. You are in the vortex, I'm sure, of a storm the likes of which we'll never see again. Or possibly we'll see it every day until the children leave for college. But don't think about that now.
Three days ago our eldest daughter was in hysterics because the dog might die... in the next five years or so. "But that means he'll be gone by the time I'm 14!" she wailed. She has had tears for too many reasons to count in the ensuing days, and you know you are supposed to have some mommy wisdom for these 'tween crises: "Zoe made fun of my jump rope trick." "Mr. Robertson made the timed test harder for our group!" "I have more chores than the others!" Her highs are nearly as stressful as the lows, because her normally adorably gravelly voice goes shrill with excitement while her Mary Lou Rhetton-like body becomes a 60-pound ricochet of joy.
Today the normally sunny seven-year-old has some sort of hypochondriaical tummy ache so severe that she's walking around at a perfect 90-degree waist bend. She can't ride bikes or run down to fairyland or check on the chicks, of course, due to this tummy ache. She probably expects you to do something other than Pepto-Bismol and water and a suggestion to use the bathroom. You cuddled her, you soothed her forehead and suggested she watch a movie and let the other girls stick to the rowdy outdoor play, and all you got for your efforts was a wailing protest that they shouldn't have fun *without* her.
Couldn't you think of a way to make everyone happy? Probably your motion would fix it, but DON'T GIVE IN TO TEMPTATION.
Don't move.
Yesterday the four-year-old changed clothes not fewer than six times, with several layers of clothing each outfit, and threw the discards in Mt. Washmore for your laundry enjoyment. At this moment she is hiding in the corner of the office mumbling "I still feel angry. There's no way to stop the crankies." Over and over again. Her five-year-old playmate refused to share a Barbie something or other and she quite understandably lost her temper. You want her to take the time out somewhere out of earshot, but the chaos out there is too much for her preschool self. She, like the others, changes moods even more often than clothing.
Take a cue from this. Hide out in the office as long as you feel is appropriate. Or legal.
Thankfully the baby is sleeping peacefully. Do not be lulled into believing it's a sign of peace and order to come. Today is bound to be your undoing.
So hold very still.
Sincerely,
Speaking from Experience
Hold still.
The smallest of personally performed motion might make you throw up at any moment. You are in the vortex, I'm sure, of a storm the likes of which we'll never see again. Or possibly we'll see it every day until the children leave for college. But don't think about that now.
Three days ago our eldest daughter was in hysterics because the dog might die... in the next five years or so. "But that means he'll be gone by the time I'm 14!" she wailed. She has had tears for too many reasons to count in the ensuing days, and you know you are supposed to have some mommy wisdom for these 'tween crises: "Zoe made fun of my jump rope trick." "Mr. Robertson made the timed test harder for our group!" "I have more chores than the others!" Her highs are nearly as stressful as the lows, because her normally adorably gravelly voice goes shrill with excitement while her Mary Lou Rhetton-like body becomes a 60-pound ricochet of joy.
Today the normally sunny seven-year-old has some sort of hypochondriaical tummy ache so severe that she's walking around at a perfect 90-degree waist bend. She can't ride bikes or run down to fairyland or check on the chicks, of course, due to this tummy ache. She probably expects you to do something other than Pepto-Bismol and water and a suggestion to use the bathroom. You cuddled her, you soothed her forehead and suggested she watch a movie and let the other girls stick to the rowdy outdoor play, and all you got for your efforts was a wailing protest that they shouldn't have fun *without* her.
Couldn't you think of a way to make everyone happy? Probably your motion would fix it, but DON'T GIVE IN TO TEMPTATION.
Don't move.
Yesterday the four-year-old changed clothes not fewer than six times, with several layers of clothing each outfit, and threw the discards in Mt. Washmore for your laundry enjoyment. At this moment she is hiding in the corner of the office mumbling "I still feel angry. There's no way to stop the crankies." Over and over again. Her five-year-old playmate refused to share a Barbie something or other and she quite understandably lost her temper. You want her to take the time out somewhere out of earshot, but the chaos out there is too much for her preschool self. She, like the others, changes moods even more often than clothing.
Take a cue from this. Hide out in the office as long as you feel is appropriate. Or legal.
Thankfully the baby is sleeping peacefully. Do not be lulled into believing it's a sign of peace and order to come. Today is bound to be your undoing.
So hold very still.
Sincerely,
Speaking from Experience
Friday, April 4, 2008
Letter for yesterday
Any given date, any year
Dear God,
I'm sorry for stressing. I have heard that worry is a sin. I still worried, panicked and stressed. Of course You came through. The worry didn't make it so.
Love,
me
Dear God,
I'm sorry for stressing. I have heard that worry is a sin. I still worried, panicked and stressed. Of course You came through. The worry didn't make it so.
Love,
me
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
National Blog Posting Month April #2
Hey, 30 letters in 30 days. A snap. I am writing letters I should've written.
December 20, 2005
Dear Sir:
Please accept this resignation in the sincere manner it is intended. As much as I have enjoyed working as an independent broker at your family-run company the last four years, it is past time for me to go. In my experience, staying longer than I know I should will not serve either of us well. I have learned much from you and I appreciate your willingness to share from decades of experience.
I also recognize that you have made huge efforts to accomodate me and my quirky desire for mentorship. I appreciate the yearly goal-setting lunches. I appreciate even more the times when you were truly too busy for me but took time to hear about my deal anyway. I know once I had your attention it was your full attention, and you attacked the challenges as though they were your own.
You often asked if there was anything you could do to help me be more successful. My answer was consistent: please help me figure out a way to be with my family more. It wasn't fair of me, of course, to bring it up so repeatedly. So I can't blame you for never having an answer to that particular request. Along these lines, I ask your indulgence one last time. I am leaving, and I hope to do so gracefully. I am really leaving, and I need you and your family business to realize that I am at last recognizing that what you have done is put your family first. You did answer the question by example, and so I hope you can respect my decision as a choice you might have made.
Sincerely,
Finally Found Courage
December 20, 2005
Dear Sir:
Please accept this resignation in the sincere manner it is intended. As much as I have enjoyed working as an independent broker at your family-run company the last four years, it is past time for me to go. In my experience, staying longer than I know I should will not serve either of us well. I have learned much from you and I appreciate your willingness to share from decades of experience.
I also recognize that you have made huge efforts to accomodate me and my quirky desire for mentorship. I appreciate the yearly goal-setting lunches. I appreciate even more the times when you were truly too busy for me but took time to hear about my deal anyway. I know once I had your attention it was your full attention, and you attacked the challenges as though they were your own.
You often asked if there was anything you could do to help me be more successful. My answer was consistent: please help me figure out a way to be with my family more. It wasn't fair of me, of course, to bring it up so repeatedly. So I can't blame you for never having an answer to that particular request. Along these lines, I ask your indulgence one last time. I am leaving, and I hope to do so gracefully. I am really leaving, and I need you and your family business to realize that I am at last recognizing that what you have done is put your family first. You did answer the question by example, and so I hope you can respect my decision as a choice you might have made.
Sincerely,
Finally Found Courage
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
NaBloPoMo
I don't know what this is. I read about "NaBloPoMo" on a good blog KL sent to me (MistyWagner.blogspot.com... Rainy Day in May) and I had some fun guessing what this strange word might stand for. I could ASK, but that would be too direct. So I gather that there is a challenge to write a letter every day this month. And because I firmly believe that the art of letter writing is endangered, I am so excited. I am so *there.*
I think I will try to write a letter each day that I wish I had written during some other time in my life. Who knows if this is in the spirit of the challenge. I just wanna see if I can do it. And maybe if my kids and the dinner bell allow I will try to look up the NaBlo etc. thing later.
December 11, 1998
Dear Madeleine,
Hello.
I said that word over and over again to you during your first moments in the world, your first precious minutes breathing air. You are our first child and we will share a bevy of firsts, so let me be the first to tell you how desperately I love you already. Mommy and Daddy love you, not the least reason being because we waited so long for you. But now that you're here it's all about you. We loved the idea of you and now we're in love with you. Your ten tiny toes and your smooshed nose and your head full of hair and ideas. Thank you for making us parents.
Hello.
Love,
Mommy
I think I will try to write a letter each day that I wish I had written during some other time in my life. Who knows if this is in the spirit of the challenge. I just wanna see if I can do it. And maybe if my kids and the dinner bell allow I will try to look up the NaBlo etc. thing later.
December 11, 1998
Dear Madeleine,
Hello.
I said that word over and over again to you during your first moments in the world, your first precious minutes breathing air. You are our first child and we will share a bevy of firsts, so let me be the first to tell you how desperately I love you already. Mommy and Daddy love you, not the least reason being because we waited so long for you. But now that you're here it's all about you. We loved the idea of you and now we're in love with you. Your ten tiny toes and your smooshed nose and your head full of hair and ideas. Thank you for making us parents.
Hello.
Love,
Mommy
This morning is like the first bite out of a chilled apple. The landscape taut and defined, the views each framed by fog like a photographer's custom lens trick. On mornings like this I feel supremely blessed to walk around our farmyard acre, feeding animals and checking on plants.
I even woke up at a farmer's hour this morning. Ryan was up at 5, the baby and I shortly after. Madeleine and Sarah dutifully up at 6:15. Ryan asked Madeleine whether she slept in her clothes, so quickly did she get dressed. That girl was born organized. She always chooses her outfit the night before. Sarah is more of a mini me (read: *not* born organized) and spends her dressing time holding the baby, drinking her cocoa, finishing a puzzle. When it's time to go she will exclaim that she has no socks. Usually that is the least of her problems at that point.
Grace didn't wake up until 7:30, just as the girls were leaving for school. She is engrossed in Clifford, eating her circle toast (English muffin) and drinking her cocoa. Today she is going to "gramma 'nita's" while Laura and I go to work with Ryan.
Things at the office are weird. I don't know if that word is right. Actually, I know that word is wrong, but I can't put my brain on the right one. We are facing our second round of payroll, figuring out the cash flow, trying to stay positive as we wait for the busier season to roll around. The phone has started to ring quite a bit and we implemented a system for the estimates to get back out in a timely manner. Ryan is rolling right along with his city contract and trying to find time to do other billable work and get the office going. We have this last payroll check to pay for the sellers' vacation time, then the first payment on the note. We have to talk to them about employment going forward. The first couple of weeks of the new business Ryan was still at his old job and I wondered often whether I have the stomach for running a company. Well, that's a moot question, really. We just do it, to quote Nike.
So my second cup of coffee is almost gone, I'm still in my PJs/barn clothes (this is when I roll out of bed in my sweats and throw one of Ryan's shirts over the whole outfit, slip on my rubber garden shoes and call it good) and I am supposed to deliver Grace to the neighbor's house in 20 minutes. Better go clean up and put on office attire.
I even woke up at a farmer's hour this morning. Ryan was up at 5, the baby and I shortly after. Madeleine and Sarah dutifully up at 6:15. Ryan asked Madeleine whether she slept in her clothes, so quickly did she get dressed. That girl was born organized. She always chooses her outfit the night before. Sarah is more of a mini me (read: *not* born organized) and spends her dressing time holding the baby, drinking her cocoa, finishing a puzzle. When it's time to go she will exclaim that she has no socks. Usually that is the least of her problems at that point.
Grace didn't wake up until 7:30, just as the girls were leaving for school. She is engrossed in Clifford, eating her circle toast (English muffin) and drinking her cocoa. Today she is going to "gramma 'nita's" while Laura and I go to work with Ryan.
Things at the office are weird. I don't know if that word is right. Actually, I know that word is wrong, but I can't put my brain on the right one. We are facing our second round of payroll, figuring out the cash flow, trying to stay positive as we wait for the busier season to roll around. The phone has started to ring quite a bit and we implemented a system for the estimates to get back out in a timely manner. Ryan is rolling right along with his city contract and trying to find time to do other billable work and get the office going. We have this last payroll check to pay for the sellers' vacation time, then the first payment on the note. We have to talk to them about employment going forward. The first couple of weeks of the new business Ryan was still at his old job and I wondered often whether I have the stomach for running a company. Well, that's a moot question, really. We just do it, to quote Nike.
So my second cup of coffee is almost gone, I'm still in my PJs/barn clothes (this is when I roll out of bed in my sweats and throw one of Ryan's shirts over the whole outfit, slip on my rubber garden shoes and call it good) and I am supposed to deliver Grace to the neighbor's house in 20 minutes. Better go clean up and put on office attire.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Foiled Again
So I write three posts over the weekend. Saturday I had dropped M&S off at the twins' house, plugged in a movie for Grace and put Laura down for a nap. Ryan was off helping my mom move to Lorane and the house was quiet and clean. Who needs Calgon?
So many of the wild ideas I'd been herding were roped and penned and put away for the night. I made lists of topics. I compared/contrasted blogging and journaling and contemplated the concept of thought police. I detailed my crazy moms' night out of Friday with KL. I even apologized (to whom we don't know, since the only folks who read this are Ryan and KL) for my bad attitude toward the B&B neighbors. After writing that most thoughtful and well-conceived blog, I turned to Grace, who had tiptoed up to my elbow to request peanut butter crackers. She absent-mindedly hit a few random and deadly keys. The screen went blank and the blog was not to be revived. I gave up until Sunday after church, when the big girls were back from their sleepover and entertaining Grace and the baby. Ryan, again, moving my mom. I typed an abbreviated version. The "post" key was missing from my screen. I logged off and logged back on and then wrote "argh" and still, no post key.
This morning all is well computer-wise. Maybe I wasn't supposed to apologize for my previous B&B rants. You think?
Spring Break is over. We had such huge and vicious hailstorms yesterday that all my ranunculus (which Ryan told me not to put out yet) are knocked down. The daffodils survived okay, those that the girls hadn't picked. We don't have as many daffodils as KL's lushly covered acre, but ours are thick and naturalized throughout the secret garden and surrounding the "brick house," which is really an old foundation under a grandfather big-leaf maple that the girls use to play house in. I dug out all the bulbs in the new upper horse paddock because I didn't want them hoof -smashed and then Shelly told me they're poisonous to livestock.
So Ryan went back to work today and the big girls are back to school. I haven't fed the horses yet this morning so I will have to catch up on the blogging later. So glad to be able to post again.
So many of the wild ideas I'd been herding were roped and penned and put away for the night. I made lists of topics. I compared/contrasted blogging and journaling and contemplated the concept of thought police. I detailed my crazy moms' night out of Friday with KL. I even apologized (to whom we don't know, since the only folks who read this are Ryan and KL) for my bad attitude toward the B&B neighbors. After writing that most thoughtful and well-conceived blog, I turned to Grace, who had tiptoed up to my elbow to request peanut butter crackers. She absent-mindedly hit a few random and deadly keys. The screen went blank and the blog was not to be revived. I gave up until Sunday after church, when the big girls were back from their sleepover and entertaining Grace and the baby. Ryan, again, moving my mom. I typed an abbreviated version. The "post" key was missing from my screen. I logged off and logged back on and then wrote "argh" and still, no post key.
This morning all is well computer-wise. Maybe I wasn't supposed to apologize for my previous B&B rants. You think?
Spring Break is over. We had such huge and vicious hailstorms yesterday that all my ranunculus (which Ryan told me not to put out yet) are knocked down. The daffodils survived okay, those that the girls hadn't picked. We don't have as many daffodils as KL's lushly covered acre, but ours are thick and naturalized throughout the secret garden and surrounding the "brick house," which is really an old foundation under a grandfather big-leaf maple that the girls use to play house in. I dug out all the bulbs in the new upper horse paddock because I didn't want them hoof -smashed and then Shelly told me they're poisonous to livestock.
So Ryan went back to work today and the big girls are back to school. I haven't fed the horses yet this morning so I will have to catch up on the blogging later. So glad to be able to post again.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Stop snowing already
Snowing again. It's really coming down, as they say, and it's really annoying. Yesterday we pretended it was warm and went down to the general store for ice cream. KL and the gang joined us from south of here ... you should really check out my friend KL's farm girl blog at katiescalamities.blogspot.com ...
To hedge our bets, we had French Dip sandwiches (hey, Lorena had prime rib left over) and the kids had chicken noodle soup before the ice cream. Yum and yummier. Then we drove the one-tenth-mile to my house and the kids played outside. The boys kept losing their shoes. The girls made an elaborate tent and convinced us that Nicole should stay over. The dog dug in my flowerbeds and now we can't find him (just kidding).
There are no photos of our pocket of springtime, however, because I can't find any of the memory cards from my camera, because, like the genius I am, I put them in a pocket to make prints at Wal-Mart. The good news is that I DID make the prints at Wal-Mart. They were sort of important since the subject matter was Ryan's grandma's surprise fiesta for her 80th birthday.
So this morning it's snowing and Madeleine, Sarah and Nicole are sleeping off the nonsleep-over. Grace is watching Clifford and Laura is napping on the couch, wrapped up in a shirt Ryan pulled out of the dryer with a huge hole in the back. If we cannot stop the dog from loving on the laundry that way he may really go missing. Of course the girls don't think it's funny when I threaten the disappearance of Jake. I must stop. And I will.
On the agenda today: a trip to town to see "Enchanted" at the $1 theater, to take Laura to her two-month well-baby checkup, to talk to the doctor about anxiety, and to most importantly PAY my BOARD OF REALTORS dues. Holy Toledo. I am the problem child of real estate. Of course the market's been booming so ... the reason it's three days before the heavy duty consequences (three months after the initial due date) and I still haven't paid has *nothing* to do with a lack of finances to do so. Nor with an underlying ambivalence about remaining licensed.
To hedge our bets, we had French Dip sandwiches (hey, Lorena had prime rib left over) and the kids had chicken noodle soup before the ice cream. Yum and yummier. Then we drove the one-tenth-mile to my house and the kids played outside. The boys kept losing their shoes. The girls made an elaborate tent and convinced us that Nicole should stay over. The dog dug in my flowerbeds and now we can't find him (just kidding).
There are no photos of our pocket of springtime, however, because I can't find any of the memory cards from my camera, because, like the genius I am, I put them in a pocket to make prints at Wal-Mart. The good news is that I DID make the prints at Wal-Mart. They were sort of important since the subject matter was Ryan's grandma's surprise fiesta for her 80th birthday.
So this morning it's snowing and Madeleine, Sarah and Nicole are sleeping off the nonsleep-over. Grace is watching Clifford and Laura is napping on the couch, wrapped up in a shirt Ryan pulled out of the dryer with a huge hole in the back. If we cannot stop the dog from loving on the laundry that way he may really go missing. Of course the girls don't think it's funny when I threaten the disappearance of Jake. I must stop. And I will.
On the agenda today: a trip to town to see "Enchanted" at the $1 theater, to take Laura to her two-month well-baby checkup, to talk to the doctor about anxiety, and to most importantly PAY my BOARD OF REALTORS dues. Holy Toledo. I am the problem child of real estate. Of course the market's been booming so ... the reason it's three days before the heavy duty consequences (three months after the initial due date) and I still haven't paid has *nothing* to do with a lack of finances to do so. Nor with an underlying ambivalence about remaining licensed.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
oh! and... later that day...
The sun is out! The girls took their bikes up to the schoolyard to re-discover a bird's nest Madeleine left on the ground there on our last sunny day. I braved the bitter cold and fed the horses... rabbit... cats... that's it. Our menagerie is a little down in the numbers this year. We are down from 4.5 horses to 2.5! Hurray! Remaining are my QH mare, coal black and barn-named "Seven," the Arabian gentleman barn-named "Two Spot," and the family's -- read: Sarah's -- Shetland named "Dolly." So Seven, Two and Dolly lived happily ever after. Well, not quite yet. Two lives on-site while Dolly and Seven are grazing short-term rented pasture adjacent to the schoolyard.
tomorrow's all figured out
Madeleine used the Paint program to draw this picture for me. Since I am looking out the window at snow(!) on the neighbor's roof, and furthermore since it's Spring Break and the kids are stuck inside getting over the flu, it's nice to be reminded that Spring will spring, any day now.
I haven't fed the horses yet today. The sun is peeking through the clouds and my third cup of coffee is on the desk. Laura finally went down for her morning nap and the big girls are in various states of relaxing in the den and my office.
Our chicks are due to come in to the feed store in four days. We already hunted Easter Eggs and attended sunrise service at the winery... shouldn't I be out working in the garden by now? The girls have started flats of peas, lettuce, cabbage, broc, etc. The daffodils are all open. We groomed half the fur off the horses. But it's still frozen water troughs each morning and slippery drives to town for Ryan.
I have a new springtime resolution: to blog a little every day instead of volumes every few weeks or months. So I should stop now. We'll see how this goes.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
These People
Long, long ago, in a town just 12 miles from here, I was a newbie intern with fresh white clips from the campus paper. The internship offers were many and various, by which I mean two; I chose the smaller weekly paper and infuriated (this is not my ego talking, it really happened that way) the editor at the rejected paper. He told me I'd never work in publishing in that town, which shall remain named Springfield. I am yet to be stung by that. The paper I did choose: Cottage Grove's weekly Sentinel, at that time an award-winning community newspaper. My editor was young and hip, or whatever we should call cool/phat(?)/awesome. She handed out interesting assignments and listened extraordinarily well. The newsroom atmosphere was lively. I learned to shoot pictures as well, since the only photographer was usually busy with local sports. She attended my wedding and gave me an apron.
After graduation and getting married, I moved to eastern Oregon and worked there for a much more serious daily, covering a military air base and police beats. My editor at the "real" job was as different from the first as could be. I understand now, from this hardly unique position of older and wiser, that he was probably burned out and marking time. He and his wife were empty nesters. He spent his days in deep thought or a semi-comatose state, it's hard to tell. I actually came in late one night to rotate my desk out of his line of stare. We all worked in a bullpen newsroom, listening to the scanner for breaking news and entering copy on dinosaur computers with no "Windows" software. Pagination, as it was called, was newborn and screaming. The Internet too was in infancy. We discussed whether there'd ever be a way to make money on it, whether it would live forever in geekdom, whether it was worth it to have an electronic front page.
I know my memories are beginning to sound like the eulogies of publishing past. I have more to write on this subject, but as usual, today takes over with urgency.
We have a brand new baby since my last post (talk about burying the lead)! Laura Abigail was born January 15 and weighed a whopping 7 pounds 12 ounces. Tons of dark brown hair. Ryan's grandma's nose. Really, really beautiful and a good baby to boot. The sleepless nights have been minimal. So has the farmwork. We moved the mares to short-term leased pasture up above the schoolyard. We moved Two Spot home and he has been packing on the (much needed) pounds. We moved Nestor to the Keenes and then sold him and moved him to the Oregon Horse Center, where he's spoiled rotten and has no pasture mates to pick on.
A cougar or fox or racoon got the last of our chickens. It was grisly and gruesome -- they waited until we were gone to the hospital to deliver Laura. Ryan came home to a mess and had to whisk it away so as not to upset the girls more than necessary. He is currently building a chicken tractor (more on this later too?) and we have eight chicks on order through Deiss Feed & Seed.
We have to move this year's garden because (1) we expanded the horse paddocks and (2) one of the huge maples split in two and fell on the old garden spot. We bought lumber to build raised beds and are hoping to do them lasagna style any weekend now. It is Spring Break, but the forecast is a very unseasonable "snow down to 500 feet."
Our neighbors with the overpriced B&B still have their place on the market. They did drop the price $90,000, but still no lookers. The deli is open on Sundays and serving Friday-Saturday night prime rib again! Life in Lorane goes on.
After graduation and getting married, I moved to eastern Oregon and worked there for a much more serious daily, covering a military air base and police beats. My editor at the "real" job was as different from the first as could be. I understand now, from this hardly unique position of older and wiser, that he was probably burned out and marking time. He and his wife were empty nesters. He spent his days in deep thought or a semi-comatose state, it's hard to tell. I actually came in late one night to rotate my desk out of his line of stare. We all worked in a bullpen newsroom, listening to the scanner for breaking news and entering copy on dinosaur computers with no "Windows" software. Pagination, as it was called, was newborn and screaming. The Internet too was in infancy. We discussed whether there'd ever be a way to make money on it, whether it would live forever in geekdom, whether it was worth it to have an electronic front page.
I know my memories are beginning to sound like the eulogies of publishing past. I have more to write on this subject, but as usual, today takes over with urgency.
We have a brand new baby since my last post (talk about burying the lead)! Laura Abigail was born January 15 and weighed a whopping 7 pounds 12 ounces. Tons of dark brown hair. Ryan's grandma's nose. Really, really beautiful and a good baby to boot. The sleepless nights have been minimal. So has the farmwork. We moved the mares to short-term leased pasture up above the schoolyard. We moved Two Spot home and he has been packing on the (much needed) pounds. We moved Nestor to the Keenes and then sold him and moved him to the Oregon Horse Center, where he's spoiled rotten and has no pasture mates to pick on.
A cougar or fox or racoon got the last of our chickens. It was grisly and gruesome -- they waited until we were gone to the hospital to deliver Laura. Ryan came home to a mess and had to whisk it away so as not to upset the girls more than necessary. He is currently building a chicken tractor (more on this later too?) and we have eight chicks on order through Deiss Feed & Seed.
We have to move this year's garden because (1) we expanded the horse paddocks and (2) one of the huge maples split in two and fell on the old garden spot. We bought lumber to build raised beds and are hoping to do them lasagna style any weekend now. It is Spring Break, but the forecast is a very unseasonable "snow down to 500 feet."
Our neighbors with the overpriced B&B still have their place on the market. They did drop the price $90,000, but still no lookers. The deli is open on Sundays and serving Friday-Saturday night prime rib again! Life in Lorane goes on.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
the millionaire next door
In the middle of nowhere, in an unincorporated town consisting of a deli, general store, Church of Christ, grange hall and elementary school, in the absolute boondocks of hobby farmville, we have evidently struck gold.
Or maybe fools' gold.
When I was a little girl, my dad owned a tree planting business. This took us out of Oregon several summers in a row, to the great sky country of Montana. While Dad and the crews reforested, Mom took my brother and me on day trips to ghost towns and butterfly hatchings, canyons and rivers and amazing natural features. But the thing that I remember best is the fool's gold. We brought huge chunks of it back to our rented cabin and were so excited to show it to my dad, who of course turned it into a history and geology lesson.
Anyway, here in Oregon, in our 1887 church-turned-farmhouse, we live smack next door to a quaint B&B resplendent in cedar ciding, custom cabinetry, and deep front and rear covered porches. It's a small bed and breakfast, with just two guest rooms, but very charming and wine-country-chic.
Today it went on the market for $650,000. I received a couple of calls from fellow Realtors wondering what could make the tiny collection of buildings on two acres worth nearly twice their own personal estimates. I was stumped. In fact I told both real estate agents that it must be one of the mini-wineries on the hill just down our road. 3000-plus square feet each, with private vineyards covering acres of hillsides. This made much more sense. But then this afternoon, while sewing new curtains for the den, I received a third call, this time from a friend's husband who works on the county road crew.
"I'm out pulling signs from the right-of-way," he said.
"Do I have something in the county truck?" I replied. Signs cost money and I'd rather mine didn't linger in the county boneyard for the crime of misplacement. No, he just wanted me to know about the Re/MAX sign next door and the fact that my dog was digging up the grange's side yard.
After hauling the dog home with an unidentified bone, and incidentally herding our free-range chickens off of the B&B front porch (I have NEVER seen them leave our property before), I confirmed the Realtor rumors for my own self.
I hope it sells for a quarter million more than it appraised one year ago. But I hope we don't get any neighbors who want the rest of us to start living like the millionaire next door.
Or maybe fools' gold.
When I was a little girl, my dad owned a tree planting business. This took us out of Oregon several summers in a row, to the great sky country of Montana. While Dad and the crews reforested, Mom took my brother and me on day trips to ghost towns and butterfly hatchings, canyons and rivers and amazing natural features. But the thing that I remember best is the fool's gold. We brought huge chunks of it back to our rented cabin and were so excited to show it to my dad, who of course turned it into a history and geology lesson.
Anyway, here in Oregon, in our 1887 church-turned-farmhouse, we live smack next door to a quaint B&B resplendent in cedar ciding, custom cabinetry, and deep front and rear covered porches. It's a small bed and breakfast, with just two guest rooms, but very charming and wine-country-chic.
Today it went on the market for $650,000. I received a couple of calls from fellow Realtors wondering what could make the tiny collection of buildings on two acres worth nearly twice their own personal estimates. I was stumped. In fact I told both real estate agents that it must be one of the mini-wineries on the hill just down our road. 3000-plus square feet each, with private vineyards covering acres of hillsides. This made much more sense. But then this afternoon, while sewing new curtains for the den, I received a third call, this time from a friend's husband who works on the county road crew.
"I'm out pulling signs from the right-of-way," he said.
"Do I have something in the county truck?" I replied. Signs cost money and I'd rather mine didn't linger in the county boneyard for the crime of misplacement. No, he just wanted me to know about the Re/MAX sign next door and the fact that my dog was digging up the grange's side yard.
After hauling the dog home with an unidentified bone, and incidentally herding our free-range chickens off of the B&B front porch (I have NEVER seen them leave our property before), I confirmed the Realtor rumors for my own self.
I hope it sells for a quarter million more than it appraised one year ago. But I hope we don't get any neighbors who want the rest of us to start living like the millionaire next door.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
ruralite
Having something to say is more important than being able to express it perfectly. An ad on craigslist the other day begged help for writer's block. I stared at the post and contemplated a reply but couldn't think of what to say.
My girls are home from school, the oldest frantically recreating her last two weeks' menus for a nutrition journal. I personally would go for creative writing on that one, but she is very literal. The teacher may not appreciate my menu planning, but he ought to give her an A for her memory. Each bowl of squash soup and each plate of butter noodles is carefully recorded, albeit with a procrastinatory streak she got from me.
An author's note at the beginning of a book I'm reading thanks her family for eating "pretty much whatever" when the writer is on deadline.
Tomorrow I leave for a three-day writing retreat and today I have no words.
Okay, so that's never literally true for me. I have no worthy words. We have spent all of my words these past weeks on lawyers and title officers and accountants and I am more likely to use my retreat in a monklike silence than in finishing a manuscript.
The leaves outside have begun to turn. We had our first frost and the garden withered into the black mushy stuff that is hard to believe ever was edible, even to our ravenous deer population. The chickens, so briefly laying after a fall molt, are now rebelling again. The horses are muddy and furry and my mother-in-law retrieved her clippers so their manes are looking decidedly mohawkish.
The grass hasn't yet begun to green, even though the rainstorms have filled all the leftover summer toys in the yard with rust-colored water. My pantlegs are soaked with dew after each morning's chores. I pulled six dried cornstalks and cut armloads of rosehips and decorated the front porch. I trimmed (almost all of) the lavender hedge and filled three grocery bags with the makings of sachets and eye pillows and Christmas bazaar sales. This all feels pretty rural-lite because nearly every day I have put on citified clothes, or my most citified maternity clothes, and visited a professional to help us wade through the IRS and business-buying and property-selling issues that populate my non-rural, non-mom world.
We did attend the Rural Art Center's movie premiere of the season. Each fall and winter, the RAC lures us from fireside evenings once a month to watch a movie and eat popcorn and socialize in the grange hall. We haven't attended before, but this offering was family-friendly. A screening of the 1927 silent film "The General," filmed in Cottage Grove, along with shorts by local teens and professional filmmakers about Oregon wildlife. I now know quite a bit about nutria. I wish I could say that's what drove me to spend so much time in the city of late.
More after my trip to the coast.
My girls are home from school, the oldest frantically recreating her last two weeks' menus for a nutrition journal. I personally would go for creative writing on that one, but she is very literal. The teacher may not appreciate my menu planning, but he ought to give her an A for her memory. Each bowl of squash soup and each plate of butter noodles is carefully recorded, albeit with a procrastinatory streak she got from me.
An author's note at the beginning of a book I'm reading thanks her family for eating "pretty much whatever" when the writer is on deadline.
Tomorrow I leave for a three-day writing retreat and today I have no words.
Okay, so that's never literally true for me. I have no worthy words. We have spent all of my words these past weeks on lawyers and title officers and accountants and I am more likely to use my retreat in a monklike silence than in finishing a manuscript.
The leaves outside have begun to turn. We had our first frost and the garden withered into the black mushy stuff that is hard to believe ever was edible, even to our ravenous deer population. The chickens, so briefly laying after a fall molt, are now rebelling again. The horses are muddy and furry and my mother-in-law retrieved her clippers so their manes are looking decidedly mohawkish.
The grass hasn't yet begun to green, even though the rainstorms have filled all the leftover summer toys in the yard with rust-colored water. My pantlegs are soaked with dew after each morning's chores. I pulled six dried cornstalks and cut armloads of rosehips and decorated the front porch. I trimmed (almost all of) the lavender hedge and filled three grocery bags with the makings of sachets and eye pillows and Christmas bazaar sales. This all feels pretty rural-lite because nearly every day I have put on citified clothes, or my most citified maternity clothes, and visited a professional to help us wade through the IRS and business-buying and property-selling issues that populate my non-rural, non-mom world.
We did attend the Rural Art Center's movie premiere of the season. Each fall and winter, the RAC lures us from fireside evenings once a month to watch a movie and eat popcorn and socialize in the grange hall. We haven't attended before, but this offering was family-friendly. A screening of the 1927 silent film "The General," filmed in Cottage Grove, along with shorts by local teens and professional filmmakers about Oregon wildlife. I now know quite a bit about nutria. I wish I could say that's what drove me to spend so much time in the city of late.
More after my trip to the coast.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Fall
There's Grace eating marshmallows and quesadillas in the great outdoors. Summer went too quickly, as usual. The deer ate everything from our garden except the cornstalks. The girls ate every possible meal outside. The hornets and wasps ate chunks of me. And now...
We had ice on the horses' water this morning. The hose was slow; the water came out like a slushy. It's September on the hobby farm and we are cold. Last weekend Ryan and a neighbor trenched from our lower well to the barn to bury water and electricity. Hurray! No more hoses and extension cords. Well, as soon as the pipes and conduit are connected we will realize the benefit of this convenience dream.
I'm not sure I'm ready for the the change of seasons. Or maybe I subconsciously am. It seems about this time every year the watering of the garden and flowerbeds gets to be too much ... and getting out of bed gets harder. The chickens and rabbits noticed my tardiness this morning. The horses were stomping and calling for me, blowing their steamy horse breath around the paddock with impatience. I wore one of Ryan's big denim shirts and tread the fine line between hurrying and not slipping on frosty grass.
I'm not sure I'm ready for the the change of seasons. Or maybe I subconsciously am. It seems about this time every year the watering of the garden and flowerbeds gets to be too much ... and getting out of bed gets harder. The chickens and rabbits noticed my tardiness this morning. The horses were stomping and calling for me, blowing their steamy horse breath around the paddock with impatience. I wore one of Ryan's big denim shirts and tread the fine line between hurrying and not slipping on frosty grass.
We have been worried about money again. The first stall isn't closed in and the second stall isn't started. The hay is in the barn but not paid for in full. My freezer isn't full either, thanks to the aforementioned deer. It costs money to build a deer fence too. For some reason I thought they wouldn't bother my tomatoes, peppers, beans. So they did and I will visit a farm stand to do my canning and freezing. The chickens are bothered by molting or the hot days and cold nights or something and anyway we are buying eggs. The school wants $10 per child for classroom incidentals and I am waiting for the FedEx everyday, hoping for the check that is 58 days past due, walking to the post office with Grace and stopping at the general store for the paper to read and do the crossword and wait for the girls to come home. Climbing mount washmore and greatly missing the days of the paid housekeeper.
Applying for jobs. Six months pregnant and hoping for an editing job when I haven't edited -- other than second-checking homework -- in years. I was so excited the other day when a distantly known editor called me out of the blue. So sure that he represented one of the blind ads I'd answered, I gushed my enthusiasm. He was calling to look at houses and I hadn't the guts to tell him about my wished-for transition back into publishing.
Now that I think of it, I am ready for the change of seasons.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ouch
So today's pictures (did I mention how astonished I am that I am able to upload pictures without tech support?) actually relate to the subject matter.
Madeleine, our oldest and most horse-obsessed daughter, has two broken arms. Two casts. Twice the bragging rights, as our EMT neighbor put it. This is not exactly a comforting thought for a parent, but it has cheered up the 8-year-old. My dad asked if M was "milking it," and I have to say, no, she's a complete pill. Her first question of the doctor was how "they" take casts off. The doctor thought she was showing interest in medical procedure, but of course it's been too long since he was parenting a wily daredevil. I think, so far, she's afraid to consider sawing or cutting. But she has been talking a lot about atrophy, and whether she can shrink her arms enough to simply slip the casts off like gloves.
At school they are making paper mache puppets. M had to wear unwieldy plastic gloves and her perfectionist nature was not pleased with the results or the process. She swindled the PE teacher into letting her play and of course, off-balance, bloodied her elbow and knee on the first day back to school. Bathing (a daily necessity for even the smallest and stinkiest members of our mini farm) requires extreme flexibility and strength of Biblical proportions, as she has to hold both her arms above her head for the nearly the entire process. Wardrobe is a consideration, as well. We are all learning patience, or trying to.
So today I am thinking about the price of passion. Do we get back on the horse? And I know it could have been a bike, or a tree, or gymnastics, or any number of household mishaps. Another mom at school told of how her child broke an arm falling off the kitchen counter.
I may not have detailed here the fact that I myself have been horse crazy most of my life. I never sustained any injuries as a child, however; I was very cautious. Even in jumping I didn't take risks, didn't push myself or the horse. But this last spring I was trail riding with friends when I got dumped twice in 15 minutes (bad stirrup leathers: never take a new-to-you saddle on Man From Snowy River ride). The first fall ended in concussion. The second ended in a broken tailbone and a 4x4 ambulance ride.
So now it's my baby hurting and hurt. Ryan would like to discuss whether we need to have horses. I would like to consider whether we need to have risks, need to leave the house at all. Gracie (the baby) was wounded by the neighbor's banty rooster just two weeks ago. Sarah loses her glasses or her balance just about every day while cruising the property. Our friends' son was hit by a car while leaving middle school football practice. It took him months to recover, to get back to playing sports, and just last week he broke another boy's collarbone in a legitimate tackle. This parenting/protecting thing turns out to be pretty complicated.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tesser Well
There's Sarah at an end-of-season minor league baseball game. The girls went with Ryan. I don't think the Ems won, but the victory was still there.
I am thinking a lot this week about Madeleine L'Engle. The wrinkly time between my ninth birthday and now, nearly three decades later, when that great lady is now no longer on earth. I have wished to write to her for more than 20 years, for more time than I thought of myself as a writer. I have held out the letter-writing dream as some sort of icon of communication, of mentorship possibility. Every dog-eared book of hers I've collected through Powell's Bookstore and Ebay and hole-in-the-wall vacation spots, I've read with the undercurrent that her words expressed some inexplicable, some circle of quiet I sought and couldn't reach. Now that I know I can't correspond with my hero I am sobered to realize that the passing of the generations is real. Somewhere I read that she had been accused, gently, of too often appearing to be about to burst forth with greatness only to state the obvious. Oh, I wish I could state the obvious so sublimely, in such a way that others would be glad it had been said.
My oldest daughter is named after her; a little presumptious, possibly, but there are other great Madeleines too. I even gained parenting insight through another meditation of Ms. L'Engle's. She wrote at length and brilliantly about the appropriate use of icons. I came to see that my little Madeleine's much-loved teddy bear was nothing short of an icon for the stability of her world. That the bear represented all being right, Mommy and Daddy in the room, warmth and love and more. Who, then, could take away or wean a child from such an icon?
Everything is not alright with my world. I would love to have an icon of comfort and peace to remind me of God's goodness and grace. Of course there are many symbols of goodness, but I could really use something to hold on to.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
School
I may have mentioned that we live in a tiny village -- maybe 200 people in an 8-mile radius, but I'm not a statistician nor census amateur -- and that we live in the exact epicenter of this tiny village. A picture postcard, really, with the white Grange and white church and red schoolhouse and red fire station. Oh, and a three-story IOOF lodge, slightly ridiculous, mysterious in its size. And all of it visible from my front room window. Our home was built in 1887, which is ancient in the West, and from our porch we can watch the mini metropolis action. My girls walk to school, so this view from the porch is important. I stand on the porch when it's raining or at the picket fence out front when it's clear. They turn and wave when they reach the building. If I have prematurely turned to go inside, I hear about it at 2:10 when they come home.
Today was the first day of school and the first time that they were not new. It takes a lot longer than a year to overcome the "new" label for adults, of course, but today the kids greeted my children not as outsiders but as old and best friends. Last year was hard; we took a lot of personal days, explaining to the part-time school administrator that the constant rough country hazing required frequent safety zone retreats. So any little excuse had us hideaway hermiting for the day: new chicks to watch, a barn going up, grandpa passing through from the neighboring town, too tired, too shy, too fed up. These were hard decisions, each day we kept them home. How to become a member of the whole when absence is much more comfortable? Their teacher, also new to our community, conceded that they certainly learned more while at home.
But this year is starting on a completely different note. We feel the tiniest bit part of the community, where it takes a village possibly, but that village has to want you.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Back from vacation
Back from vacation. The real estate market is apparently in crisis. Sellers, excited by prices of the past two years and ever-hopeful here for that "california buyer," are allowing their overpriced, market-worn homes to wither on the vine. Buyers, ignoring the past six months of phenomenal interest rates and hesitant to jump in now lest they pay too much, are now for the most part out of luck with the implosion of the subprime mortgage market. In fact, many contracts have suffered terminations at the hands of bankrupt banks. So hey this means I don't have to make any hard decisions about what to do with my spendy and time-consuming career du jour.
Ryan and I took the girls camping in our 1953 canned ham this month. It poured and blew gale force winds. We were grateful for the shelter of the trailer and bravely tried to roast mallows in the spitting precip. A family of Barbie and Ken models from Germany camped next to us in their rented Winebago, eating organic yogurt at their dinette set and unabashedly staring while I cooked spaghetti and the girls went swimming in the KOA pool in the rain. All-American fun, I tell you. I casually mentioned on the way home that we might trade the canned ham in for a larger, bathroom-equipped RV. Sarah was incensed. "Then no one would point and smile at us anymore, Mom."
While we were gone, the neighbors watered (not like I do, of course, and the hanging petunias will never be the same) and fed the horses, chickens, rabbits and cats. The dog went with us. My mother snuck in and cleaned our house. It was 85 degrees and sunny the entire week at home. Our vegetable garden was invaded by deer. Ryan and I each bought books at a roadside used book store. Our optimism was laudable. Mostly we played dominoes and went on scavenger hunts and constructed rain gutters out of duct tape and washed sandy clothes in the KOA "clubhouse." We paid too much for ice cream and pancakes. We made memories and came home and were glad to do so.
One week later, we dropped the girls at Grandpa and Grandma's and returned to the coast. No kids and no dog and no travel trailer.
This was an entirely different sort of trip of course. Sylvia Beach and the phoneless, televisionless oceanview library. The Tables of Content restaurant and plently of time to read, sleep in, eat seafood. 70 degrees and sunny and incredibly wind-free walks on the beach. We have been married 15 years. We have three little girls and a baby on the way. We have three and a half horses and our children can discuss literature (well, Dr. Suess and E.B. White) and help in the garden. It's good to be back.
Ryan and I took the girls camping in our 1953 canned ham this month. It poured and blew gale force winds. We were grateful for the shelter of the trailer and bravely tried to roast mallows in the spitting precip. A family of Barbie and Ken models from Germany camped next to us in their rented Winebago, eating organic yogurt at their dinette set and unabashedly staring while I cooked spaghetti and the girls went swimming in the KOA pool in the rain. All-American fun, I tell you. I casually mentioned on the way home that we might trade the canned ham in for a larger, bathroom-equipped RV. Sarah was incensed. "Then no one would point and smile at us anymore, Mom."
While we were gone, the neighbors watered (not like I do, of course, and the hanging petunias will never be the same) and fed the horses, chickens, rabbits and cats. The dog went with us. My mother snuck in and cleaned our house. It was 85 degrees and sunny the entire week at home. Our vegetable garden was invaded by deer. Ryan and I each bought books at a roadside used book store. Our optimism was laudable. Mostly we played dominoes and went on scavenger hunts and constructed rain gutters out of duct tape and washed sandy clothes in the KOA "clubhouse." We paid too much for ice cream and pancakes. We made memories and came home and were glad to do so.
One week later, we dropped the girls at Grandpa and Grandma's and returned to the coast. No kids and no dog and no travel trailer.
This was an entirely different sort of trip of course. Sylvia Beach and the phoneless, televisionless oceanview library. The Tables of Content restaurant and plently of time to read, sleep in, eat seafood. 70 degrees and sunny and incredibly wind-free walks on the beach. We have been married 15 years. We have three little girls and a baby on the way. We have three and a half horses and our children can discuss literature (well, Dr. Suess and E.B. White) and help in the garden. It's good to be back.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Much farmier now
Mulch mulch farmier. Anyhow in two or three months we've managed to "put in" a garden (carrots, radishes, brussel sprouts, of course tomatoes, basil, garlic, onions, cauliflower, more), expand the horse paddocks, burn a mountain of slash, convert one-third of the rabbit hutch to a chicken house, trade a mini Rex rabbit who drowned repeated litters in her own urine for three laying hens (!)... I'm sure there's more but the typing along has caused me to cross the exhaustion line.
Our local deli has changed hands. It is housed in a 100+-year-old general store and still has that dusty aroma of the Old West. The New Owners, however, are not so much loving the traditions. And we are not so in love with the improved menu, staff, antiseptic and etc.
Although it's been so long since I posted, let me say that Grace and I are heading out the door to grab some bacon at the aforementioned deli. The big girls are at school -- only six more days -- and the baby and I will not have many more dates before the Fall.
Our local deli has changed hands. It is housed in a 100+-year-old general store and still has that dusty aroma of the Old West. The New Owners, however, are not so much loving the traditions. And we are not so in love with the improved menu, staff, antiseptic and etc.
Although it's been so long since I posted, let me say that Grace and I are heading out the door to grab some bacon at the aforementioned deli. The big girls are at school -- only six more days -- and the baby and I will not have many more dates before the Fall.
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