Here a little, there a little

Oh, look! My father- and mother-in-loves' house is so very scrumptious. Just pulling in to their farm for a family reunion makes a person happy.

A close second in the world of wonderful is that pie sign at the county fair. I didn't even have to eat any to get a sense of sweet satisfaction.

While we were in the great county of Humboldt we fed the pigeons in Eureka Old Town.
This was a first for my farm children.

 

They loved it.

Little ol' Victorian Ferndale is our favorite. The Mercantile, the Meat Market, the hat and shoe stores. It's like a Hollywood movie version of a small town but for real, because everyone there knows one another and stops to chat. And to figure out which of my husband's bajillion first cousins they went to high school with.

Yes, little Ferndale is our favorite. Unless it's littler Scotia with its big history, bigger timber and tiny houses all in a row.

 

The town of Scotia, as of this writing no longer a "company town" but not yet incorporated as a city, is a storybook of swept streets and pastel bungalows. My husband grew up here when everything was owned by the legendary (some say infamous now) Pacific Lumber Company.

 

Inside the Winema Theatre at Scotia is a staggering amount of unfinished, massive redwood timber framing and trim work. We wandered around in the cool and dark for 20 minutes, feeling like time travelers. Also feeling a little like trespassers because we had merely accidentally followed a paid tour group whose guide did not lock up. Or close the doors. Oops. And hey.

Back home the sunflowers didn't miss us at all.

                                   

 

Gee it was nice to come home again.

Tomatoes and green beans are heaping up waiting their turn in the canner as I type. I've said it before and brace yourselves because I'm going to say it again:

Is there anything sweeter than coming home again?

No, nothing sweeter than coming home again when the whole valley smells like a blackberry pie and the memories you just made will carry you through a lot of days of standing over the pressure canner, a lot of days of driving to ballet, a lot of days of your oldest child starting high school (!) and your others teaching the 3-year-old to read when you're not looking so then you have to put down the green beans and cry because that's your baby.

We take the sweet with the tart now and then. We move through our own history like we know it won't always be swept streets and pastel house fronts; sometimes it's carpool and craziness but it's, as they say, all good.

If I Were August

If I were August I'd make a note.

Summer is notoriously fleeting.

I wouldn't want to miss a minute.

Calendula and yarrow, dance and baseball, sewing and sky watching.

These notes of August make summer a poem woven of dried grasses and lake days.

I'd try not to make a paragraph, even.

Because in formation of a thesis one could lose the essence,
whole and sweet like a raspberry warm from the vine.

 Rather to jot those notes on whatever paper or palm lies nearby.

If I were August I'd make a note to revisit on days of mist and cool.

That the summer, days of wine and roses, could warm that later moment too.

A time capsule of sunshine.

[Lazy?] Days of Summer

All of our hay is in the barn.

The drought reduced our yield by about a third.

This year's crew was nearly all child labor as Mr. Suite was on deadlines.

The borrowed hay elevator helped a lot.

And we paid the children in swimming parties at the river.

Since putting the hay away it has been all theatre and dance all the time.

Madeleine, Sarah and Grace were in an original
melodrama staged at our community theatre.

Sal and Laura and I have been busy while the big girls were rehearsing song and dance numbers. We've visited the library, a wading pool in Nearby College Town, the ice cream shop (three times) and the movie theatre. They are loving Mommy Camp.

Ooh! I forgot to mention that my sweet nieces
spent the better part of two weeks with us, swimming and
feeding the chickens and being the farmgirls they were born to become.

And we had a sort of big-deal weekend at the dance studio when a celebrity visitor came to town for our free community dance class in the park.

I wasn't a fan before (I'd never heard of Summer Glau) but I am now.

She was gracious, and beautiful, and kind.

And she said she has a dream to be a farmgirl.

So.

Dancer, actor, farmgirl. She must be a kindred spirit, right?

After the theatre and the dance and the swimming and some more dancing...

we are gardening.

Canning a little already.

Loving this crazybusy again.

Backup. No, back up.

 I don't write here very often or very regularly but every once in a while I remember the days -- do any of you? -- when I wrote many times a week. When my teens were small and I made a lot of doll clothes and organic purees. Thanks to the "you may also enjoy" feature that I somehow managed to add to the blog I sometimes see a baby picture of a toothless Laura, who is now 5 years old and reading, writing, running (our lives) or a paragraph or two about how Grace, now 9 and a pianist, seamstress and outdoor enthusiast, loved to play "finger family" and had named all of her digits and assigned them specific personalities and habits. Being the middle child in a family of five must make for a creative kid.

 When I blogreminisce like that I get a little frisson of panic, you know? Not just the passing of the years but the sheer volume of digital/electronic/interwebby family history I document here and notsomuch in a physical scrapbook.

For instance, Salvador,turning 3 this week, was photographed in the palm of his daddy's hand just days home from the hospital. Now he is a member of the hay crew. Well, with crayons and a hot dog in the tow vehicle. But still. (B)logged here.

 Our relationships with dear neighbors at the church-home of my heart, blogged here. Our ups and downs with barrel racing, horses, free range children, penned-up chickens, lonely ewe lambs and dearly departed Golden Retrievers. Blogged here.

 Might I take a side road, just a minor detour, to introduce to you Harold and Linda, our neighbors at the new FarmSuite homestead? He is 86 and still making hay. She is "in her 70s" and still riding along. (Blogworthy.)

My girls' theatrical and dance escapades, all chronicled in photos and a minimum of whining about the price of gas and the late hours of rehearsal.

                                      
When considering the massive volume of valuable-to-me farmy and not-so-farmy Suite family history I today undertook the BLOG BACKUP. Dun-dun-dunnnnnn.

It was a three-click procedure that didn't preserve the photos within the posts. But still. Have you backed up your blog lately? I bet your children and your vegetables and your life -- all growing. And if any of y'all or your tech-savvy friends know how to back up the blog without losing the photos, would you be so kind as to share that information with me?

Because I blogged here about backing up a horse trailer and I might need to refer to that one day.

In non-technical news, the garden is ENORMOUS. We are eating salads every day, twice a day, and watching the corn and beans grow before our eyes. I am excited about the coming tomato harvest (almost afraid to say it, just a little superstitious) and have set up a canning kitchen on the back patio since our new cooktop is glass. The hay is in and it was a somewhat disappointing bale count compared to last year. We are very grateful to be able to make our own hay but it does look like we'll be buying some to supplement this year as a springtime drought kept the grass from growing.

Feels like being a farmer.

Madeleine and Sarah are halfway through a three-week break from ballet and they walk around the house on demi-pointe all day to keep their, what, feet flexible? balance intact? I dunno. We are looking forward to a drama camp and some dance camps and a lot of swimming in the river this summer. Also a lot of garden produce.

I hope your June is blessed and, backing up a bit, that you make time to back up your blog.

In the weeds, 2013 edition

So this year my vegetable garden is enormous. Sixty feet of green beans, thirty feet of carrots. Cabbages and tomatoes and corn oh my. Basil for year-round pesto, if I get my way.

In my heart I think I am a raised-bed-square-foot gardener but as of last year we became (spectacularly badly) farmers. With gorgeous, enormous beds-o-weeds. Because chemicals, not so much. (And don't get me started on genetically modified anything. We cannot afford that rant.)

So anywhat this year my father-in-law has very diplomatically put himself in charge of weed control. And because of that there is probably some hope for our row crops.
Let's just say that after last year, the expression "hard row to hoe" means a lot to me. I am demoted to the care of my gorgeous raised beds, which I filled with the herbs and tomatoes and peppers after I shoveled on the compost. Mah-self.
Oh and I am also responsible for the two-hundred-square-foot (or so) perennial garden which is packed with heirloom peonies, daylilies, roses and irises and of course weeds. On that front my history is repeating itself to the extent that a neighbor girl stopped and offered to weed it for me.

I think she might've wanted to be paid.

And since my own teenagers and pre-teens are much cheaper labor (they work for popsicles) I thanked her kindly but declined, whereupon she proceeded to join my children on the redneck slip-n-slide they made out of a tarp on the hill behind the house. While I went in to put some more juice and yogurt in the popsicle molds just in time for them to freeze for the end of the sprinkler festival.

So I still have weeds.

Which brings me to the metaphorical point of this post.

When a girl, say someone I know well, takes on too much (dance lesson delivery six days a week for four girls; the care and toilet training of one toddler boy; voice, flute, sewing and piano one per customer per week; equestrian and farm animal insanity daily; academics at the table and on the run; "side jobs" of a onetime, long-neglected, true love: writing and editing; occassional clerical and administrative details of her husband's engineering business) and won't admit it that it is too much, or can't edit it down to manageable levels of crazy, when this happens to the extent that she doesn't even care about massive overuse of the comma, well, then, this girl may have cause to understand the phrase "in the weeds."

Some days I can't see the flowers of my life for the weeds. I'm just sayin'. At those times I know I must sharpen my focus and choose to see only the beauty amongst the chaos. Because the need for a floor-length black gown for a vocal recital shouldn't reduce one to tears. And showing up on the wrong day for a doctor appointment shouldn't cause a panic attack.

So. Focus on the beauty and let the rest recede into blurry background. Easier said than done, you say? And you'd be correct.

I started researching panic disorders and adrenal failure and in general regretted having access to the internet before I remembered that when cleaning out a flowerbed, just as in cleaning out a closet, or a schedule, it is best to start with what you want to keep.

What brings me joy, what can I not do without, what is worthy of my time and the space in my life? These are the questions I have asked myself periodically to regain a sense of margin and peace about our schedules and our lives. NOT "who expects me to continue this" and "what will happen if I don't do that."

Then, after identifying the keepers, the perennials that bloom, attack it with a sharp hoe. And mulch it all around so the weeds can't creep back in too quickly. Don't forget to ask for help if you need it. Don't let it go for so long that the taproots of busy-ness are impossible to dig.

Notes to myself on gardening and life.

If I were a gardener

 If I were a gardener I'd probably wait until the last frost date to plant those tomatoes.

 But two weeks of 80 degree days and 50 degree nights and I. just. could. not. wait.

The garden is bigger this year than last. We (the famous "royal we")
tore out the fence between the Hill at Bag End (anyone?)

and the garden in order to expand into the sunniest areas.

For reference, the fence used to be on the left side of this photo.

The fence you still see separates the horse paddock from the garden.

At least until some equine with a long neck and
a lot of determination needs a snack of corn.

There is really no way to move our garden to another area on the property
(at least without a good deal of expense and
also shuffling the chicken yard or children's play yard)
but we could and did capture a little more sunny footage for the corn and beans.

A new fence may or may not go up on the west end. I kind of like that open feeling. The deer may like it too.

 The original homesteaders here cleared (read: clear cut) the steep hillside to the back of the garden and horse paddocks. They operated a sawmill on our creek and some of the stumps are so huge (and ugly) that they have not rotted in all those decades. We are slowly replanting that hillside on the "back yard/garden" side but we have not decided what to do about the hill on the "horse" side.

Stay tuned because a good idea is bound to emerge.

Between other projects. And dance lessons. A-hem.

Composted manure enriches our raised beds and traditional tilled gardens. Amazing stuff, and free. Last year we had to purchase soil to fill the newly built raised beds because we weren't ready to use the previous owner's compost. I would not like to have to pay money again for what seemed to be mostly wood fiber.

 A very old grapevine that we discovered in the mown lawn is flourishing on its one-year-old arbor. Last year we even harvested grapes! That was a blessing to me because I was loathe to leave behind our gorgeous grape arbor at the old farmhouse. Similarly here we uncovered a 40-foot row of raspberries that were choked with grass just beyond the beautiful existing strawberry bed.

It is a happy report that the raspberries are looking great this spring as are three young blueberry plants that the sweet sellers planted not too long before we moved in.
To that berry garden we added three additional blueberry plants,
a gift from friends with a nursery, and two currant bushes.

My lavender at the front door is huge! Last year it was root-bound in a four-inch pot; this year it is competing with the already-in-residence purple columbines. Soon both will fade and be replaced by the squeal-worthy peony show.
A girl's gotta have flowers. And the odd Grecian statuette.

Are you gardening this year?

Aiming to please

 Are you a people pleaser?

I think I am, most of the time, striving to please until I am finally, really, truly not. (That would be the moment when my inner toddler throws her tantrum that sounds something like "you can't maaaaaa-aaake me.")

Do you want to make the people you love comfortable and the people you know happy and to be perfectly honest, do you want to make the people you've never met like you? And then is there a line that can be crossed when you realize it's all impossible, anyway, and so goodnessgraciousme what to do?

 It's okay if it's only me.

 Just wondering.

When I am my most vulnerable I am also my most teachable, so there's the silver lining.

Whether or not folks like me, whether or not I can please all the people any of the time, I am learning to like myself a little better when I find myself worthy of consideration in the equation of happiness.

We could be talking about what to make for dinner or where to live or how to invest your time/money/knowledge: to be pleasing is not nearly as important as to be after the right priorities. Saying "yes" to every request will lead me to certain failure on multiple fronts. It's harder at the beginning but ever so much easier as you go.

I have been saying my "yeses" at home to: gardening, pony pursuits, school and dance schedules, meeting our neighbors. I have been answering "no" to joining new (church, non-profit, writing critique) groups, and "no" to writing for new (but worthy!) causes.

I'm pretty pleased with myself.

What do you say "no" to? Or do you?

All together now, Easter edition

In which you cannot see the barn I risked life and limb to photograph

Hello. My name is Miriam and I take pictures of barn signs.

Even when there happens to be a line of porta-potties and a blackberry hedge obscuring the barn.

Or large dogs patrolling the perimeter.

It's a problem no cropping can solve.

 Last weekend was so gorgeous here on the rainy side of Oregon that you know I felt nothing but guilt for the rest of the country's stuck-in-winter blues.

 Madeleine had dance class, Sarah was recovering from pneumonia,
Grace went to work with Dad.

Serial commas be darned;
the camera languished in its bag and so the babies and I went for a drive.

Just Salvador and Laura and me.
It was a beautiful start to Holy Week and just the quiet called for.

(Except, now that I think of it, for the noise of the 5- and 2-year-old children.)

There may be big changes for our little family this coming year.

Oh, who am I kidding.

There are always big changes.

After years of happy (mostly independent) homeschooling we are considering a homeschool charter school. Madeleine is age-wise entering her high school years and it's possible she will want to participate in theater and music at the local high school.

Mr. Suite has made huge changes in his engineering business
and we are adjusting to his new location and way of working.
I can embrace change, I can.

I'm thinking (again!) about graduate school since
sweet Salvador sidetracked that plan a couple of years ago.

The garden will be just as big or bigger. The farmhouse remodeling will continue.
(Post about the fabulous cheap-to-free bathroom remodel, promised!)

And of course I'll continue to cruise the back roads in search
for decrepit barns and country churches. That much will stay the same.

Linking up with Like Mother, Like Daughter for pretty, happy, funny, real because it is pretty much all of those around here.