What We Did This Summer

Amanda and Harli

Incontinence Made My Wildest Dreams Come True!

If Harli, the dog, could write an essay about her summer, I think that would be the title.  Toward spring Amanda decided (after she’d already thrown out the dog beds and gotten tired of mopping up frequent accidents on the floor) Harli was getting too old to control her bladder, or else too old to care, and solved the situation by letting Harli roam the great outdoors while she (Amanda) was at work. 

This arrangement suited Harli fine.  She spent most of her time scouring the tall grass for duck eggs I tossed out when I was unsure of how old they were; gulping down the the cat food in the garage while the cats hissed and spat from the safety of the top of the refrigerator; slurping water out of the stock tank at the windmill (I’m sure she gave the goldfish in it heart attacks); and sprawling out on the front porch, grunting at the delivery people who occasionally had to push her paws out of their way to place a box near the door.  The only time she objected was when Amanda was home and indoors, or there was a storm, in which case Harli would pace outside our living room windows and wail mournfully or bark incessantly, depending on how bad the storm was or whether or not anyone was trying to get some sleep in the house.

She did this last week, as Jim lay stretched out on the couch trying to relax.  “Why does she want in?” I asked. “It’s not stormy and Amanda’s not here.” Jim, sighing heavily, said, “Maybe she needs to use the bathroom.”

It’s been a typical summer here.   The pool got fixed and Lucy learned to swim after just two days of Jim dragging her into the pool without her floaties.  The driveway got graded and graveled; the garden got planted, neglected, and overrun with weeds; the basement flooded (cracked water spigot, and the sump pump decided not to work), walls got ripped out and replaced; carpet got ripped out and the floor got new tile.  Since it was already a mess down there, Jim replaced most of the doors downstairs.  I got to strip, prime and paint the family room and kitchen upstairs.  Thank goodness school starts soon, and we can take it easy.

The Dungeon (soon to be basement) in progress.

We get to paint!  Again!

Tiles going down.

I’m not the only one to think that.  Jack and Woody, by virtue of finally being big enough to help, also contributed.  I’ll say this for them: they learned fast.  Most importantly, they learned to offer to help before Dad had to “ask” them to help.  One day as Jim walked by him, getting ready to start, I heard Jack call, “Do you need any help, Dad?” followed in a weary yet hopeful undertone, “Please say no, please say no, please say no.”

Against their better judgment, the boys got some experience in cutting and hanging drywall, cutting and installing trim, mixing grout and mastic, and painting.   Well, sort of painting, if you don’t mind differing layers of paint thickness on walls, or patches of color on white where the rollers hit the ceiling.  Note to self: must instruct boys to apply paint to the wall with rollers more like they’re using paint rollers, and less like they’re using jack hammers. 

I didn’t realize how busy we were all the time until the day Lucy asked me to read her a book.  “O.K.,” I said. And she said, “Can you read the words?”

Jim did try to make it up to the kids, mainly by taking them out for slushies (or shave ice, or whatever they call it where you are) as many times as possible.  That’s right: most families have a slush fund.  We have a slushie fund.  If the little mom-and-pop joint was closed, they’d head over to Dairy Queen where, instead of ordering Rasberry or Wild Cherry, Jim would ask for “blue” or “red” because -- let’s face it -- slushies really do just taste like blue or red. 

Jim is his usual self.  Betsy complained of a canker sore and I told her to get something for it from Dad.  She returned a moment later.

Betsy: “He said I should put stool softener on it.”

Me: “STOOL SOFTENER?” as Jim stood behind Betsy in the doorway, nodding and grinning in delighted anticipation.

And then, from Woody behind him: “What’s ‘tool sausages’?”

On the last day of Jim's vacation this week we drove 45 minutes away to a U-Pick orchard for peaches.  Five minutes and $75 later we had 15 pounds of peaches in various stages of unripeness, all generously bruised by either a) the fact the girls pinched every peach before ripping it forcefully off the tree, or b) the boys, who carefully selected plump, promising peaches ... and tossed them into the bucket from a couple of feet away.  I don't think either one should start off with a job as a bagger at a grocery store. 

Betsy

It's really a lot hotter than it looks.

Woody might need some clarification ...

"What? I can't eat them yet?"

Lucy

Almost full!

My sorting system: it's crude, but concise.

I guess that’s about it for now.  The following pictures are leftovers from our Colorado trip.  We found the best little diner at the base of Pike's Peak: the saving grace of the day since we couldn't actually drive all the way to the top (too much snow) and it felt like a letdown since we didn't see the peak or Big Foot.  We highly recommend Mildred's Cafe for its meatball subs, roast beef sandwiches, homemade (REALLY home made) cherry pie, and milk shakes.  Just in case you're driving through!

It just might be ...

No wait! That's him!

Say "cheese" for one more picture!

YAY! We're leaving Pike National Forest!

Mildred's Cafe at the base of the mountains.  

We recommend EVERYTHING here.

Getting ready for our family portrait to give Dad on Father's Day.

Now he can always remember us this way.

In the Spring a Man's Fancy Turns to Heavy-Duty Construction

Ah, Spring!

Spring is my second-most favorite time of the year.

It’s when the bright yellow-green leaves unfurl from gnarled and thorny hedgerow trees, making them look less menacing.  We know this is a lie; they are just as spiteful beneath their foliage, a fact we learned by painful experience, having perforated our hands while gathering firewood in past years.  But from a safe distance they are beautiful, and as full of summer promise as the timidly budding fruit trees and redbuds.

Now the breezes that spin the windmill blades are no longer bitingly cold, and the soft, heavy mud that clings to worn-out barn boots smells grittily clean.  This is when baby calves (yes, I know that’s redundant, but it’s true: ask any four-year old) head butt and crow hop across lumpy fields while mothers and aunties stand ankle-deep in clover and placidly eye their antics.

My most favorite time of year is the fall, when we close the swimming pool.

Running out to the pond.

What to do when the pool isn't fixed yet: swim in the stock tank.

Well, Jim got out his garden, although it took supreme effort for him not to start it in February.  This year he optimistically planted sweet corn, tomatoes, pumpkins, squashes, cantaloupe and watermelon.  Then he set out some fruit trees, which are only bent over slightly from that last line of thunderstorms.  He also tilled and had the boys plant new grass in the back, which thrilled the ducks, who waddled doggedly behind the sowers, gobbling up the seeds almost before they could settle in the soil.

Coming back from the pond.

We decided sometime last year that 14-year old Jack probably needed his own space.  In March we had windows cut out into the two basement bedrooms so we could turn one of those into Jack’s new room.  But of course, it’s never that simple.  One room was a guest room, which we still need as a guest room, and one room housed all Jim’s weight equipment so we had to find a place to put that.  Naturally, the only viable option was a small “shed” Jim planned to build on the other side of the pool (which is being redone since it’s cheaper than filling it in).  And if he was going to build it, it might as well be done right, with a concrete floor, and we know better than to try to pour our own concrete. 

It started out like this.

So we found a contractor who poured not just the floor of the shed, but also a pad for a basketball goal next to it.  By now, Jim had discovered it was just as cost effective to build a roof using trusses, as opposed to stick building, and our contractor started calling it a “pool house”.  And while we were at it, we decided we were done with weeding and got a bid to pour a concrete patio off the back of the house.   

Mess.

Basement windows.

Of course, all of this is in various stages of partial completeness, and the entire back of the house is a muddy disaster right now.  Once the “pool house” is done, and the weight equipment moved out there, we still have to drywall and finish the closets in the bedrooms downstairs, as well as tile the floors before we can move Jack in.  Meanwhile, the kitchen is still in shambles.  The good news is, I’ve discovered I can make do with a fraction of the dishes, pots, pans, utensils, and appliances I packed away last October, and I don’t care if I never open those boxes again.  There’s something to be said for moving every four years …

Best use of a Kubota tractor ever: hanging the basket ball net.

Jim asked if he should close the windows when the last storm came through.

Jack and Woody graduated from dodge ball to baseball.  It was disappointing to them, going to an organized sport from one that was so disorganized.  First of all, in baseball, not everybody can be running at once, and second of all, you have to throw the ball to someone rather than at them.  Jim took the boys to the first day, which was dedicated to player safety, a necessary session since the majority of the players were fresh off dodge ball.  Coach Dave offered helpful insights like, “Remember, the baseball is a weapon,” and then clarified for the elated players that this was a bad thing.  Next up: knowing the signs another player was ready to catch the ball (i.e. making eye contact, glove up, as opposed to facing away from you, which in dodge ball is like having a target painted on your back).  

Jim got to help out once the kids had moved on to throwing and catching.  “I think you found the holes in their defense,” Jim informed the coach when he realized he was chasing down all the overthrown balls the catchers missed as this would have required the players move anything more than the hand with the glove on it.

The much more aggressive shouts of “I got you!” and “Yeah!” in dodge ball changed to the more relaxed conversations like the following: 

Kid #1: “Throw me a pop fly!”

Kid #2: “Did you say pot pie?”

Kid #1: “I like chicken pot pie.”

Kid #2: “Me too!”

And this is why you will never have a competitive home school baseball league. 

The girls are excited just to be out of school, even Lucy, who isn’t in school, but finds it negatively affects her plans.  “Is Betsy done yet?” she’ll sigh as I’m wrapping up math flashcards with her too-slow big sister.  This is followed by “HOORAY!” whenever Betsy does finish.  It’s very similar to her reaction at the end of church, when her excited cheers erupt even before the last “Amen” is said: “Hooray! We’re done!” she’ll holler in her outside voice as she bolts from her seat. 

Jim had an anesthesia conference in Colorado Springs so we all came, because this is where Sendo, Sally and I were all born and I wanted to show the kids something of it, but also because misery loves company, and eight hours in a car through the heart of Kansas is an all-new level of wretchedness for us. 

Our first day we visited Garden of the Gods, which is smaller than I remember Mom and Dad describing it, and also more crowded.  The hiking level of difficulty was not high: we were passed by numerous leashed dogs too jaded by nature’s beauty to bark at the even-more jaded deer who glared at us from the scrub trees.  We also were passed by several elderly pedestrians and a toddler in a motorized, kiddie-size jeep.  Jim was most taken with a fire hydrant located just off the path.  “How often do you think the rock formations catch fire?” he mused, before concluding it must have just been put there for the dogs. 

At the Garden of the Gods.

Hiking with Dad.  This looks familiar.

From there we stopped at Manitou Springs where every store sells ice cream, fudge, and most likely, marijuana, but hopefully not in the ice cream or fudge we bought.  It was the kids' favorite stop, because they discovered The Penny Arcade and spent the better part of an hour pouring quarters down the toilet.  I mean into the games.  

At The Penny Arcade.

Coin Rides: you're never too old ...

The always disturbing Monkey Organ ... on the left.

Spoooooky!

What else?  Betsy got her ears pierced and is no longer in a booster seat in the car.  Next up: the car keys.  

Woody suffered a mishap on the trampoline and bit clear through his tongue a few weeks ago.  He was inconsolable until I assured him he hadn’t bitten it completely in half, and he wasn’t going to end up maimed for life.   Although I did kind of appreciate the ensuing peace and quiet during the next two days.  He's completely recovered and recently I overheard him accusing Jack of being “the mother of all lies,” which made me smile. 

Jack grew another inch over the last year (you must realize I suffer terrible anxiety knowing I contributed all the “short” genes to the kids), but thankfully, his feet haven’t grown any more in the past couple of months (again, I contributed the disproportionately big-feet-to-short-stature gene) – he and Jim wear the same size now. 

Lucy stated several times, and is still convinced, that we are visiting “Avocado” rather than Colorado. 

And I guess that’s it for now.  Here are some random photos from our Spring.  Hope yours has been beautiful!

Taking a breather at the Red Barn Antique Market, Benton, Kansas.

Betsy and Lucy with home-made soap from the Red Barn Antique Market.

A quick visit from Uncle Sendo.  At the Sedgwick County Zoo.

Our very own sea serpent.

January 2015 - Random Happenings, Accidental Fires and Bothersome Wildlife

Warning! None of the included photos have anything to do with any of this post!

We started 2015 off with our second visit in as many years from the Benton Volunteer Fire Department.  It was my fault – hot embers plus dry, windy day equals roaring fire in the back yard.  We were home that evening and it was Betsy who opened the curtains and saw the out-of-control blaze heading directly for our propane tank.  You know, what they say about owners resembling their pets is true: we all started running around frantically, like chickens when a fox gets in the hen house – I assume.  We’ve never had a fox in the hen house, but more on what we have had later. 

“Get out of the house!” Jim bellowed as he ran out to move the cars.  After I dialed 9-1-1 and got transferred by the Butler County Emergency Department to the Benton Fire Department where they painstakingly verified my phone number and asked grueling questions like, “How big is the fire?” (Me: “Uh, as big as the pool?”), the older kids and I leapt into the SUV and raced to the front of the property to flag down the fire truck when it arrived.  Unbeknownst to me, Jim left Amanda with the truck, whose gearshift is one of those new-fangled knobs on the dashboard, rather than a stick on the steering column.  In the ensuing panic, Amanda couldn’t figure out how to get the truck in gear.  So, as the flames blazed up the maple tree and devoured the pool filter, Amanda fiddled frantically with buttons and knobs, and four-year-old Lucy helpfully showed her how to turn the interior lights on and off.  Meanwhile, Jim raced back to turn the hose onto the flames.  Of course, the hose came up just a tad bit short.

The cavalry arrived, led by our neighbor, Rex, who snowplows our driveway every winter.  Once at the scene, he cheerfully hailed me with, “That sure was good candy!” referring to the plate of Christmas sweets I’d left with his family the week before.  It was my first indication the fire was under control.  When I apologized, Rex said, “Heck! This is what we get paid for!  And we get a free tee shirt every year!”   So Amanda and the kids returned (she did finally get the truck into drive) and from the back windows, we watched the fire fighters clean up in the dark.

Somehow the flames missed the two trampolines, the decrepit play fort, and the pergola.  The fire fighters saved our wood pile, which is the first thing they spray down, and my good friend Carly wisely suggested I begin hiding all valuables in the wood pile.

In the end, only the pool was damaged.  We decided not to report the loss to our home insurance.  Can you imagine how much premiums would increase if they discovered we can’t even keep our pool from catching on fire?

I heard later that the fire fighters had been impressed, maybe not favorably, by the number, depth, and randomness with which Jack had been digging fox holes all around the back.  These hindered their attempts to drive around putting out all the little fires. I was mortified but Rex just offered us a green click pen with 9-1-1 printed on the side.  “For repeat customers,” he said as he left.  God bless farmers/volunteer firefighters.

Halloween 2014
Woody - Superhero; Lucy - Fairy; Betsy - Princess; Jack - Himself

Let’s see.  What else has happened?  I’ve concluded Holiday cooking is wasted on the kids.  All they want is the canned cranberry jelly, canned fruit salad, and sparkling apple cider.  They’d never even notice if we didn’t have turkey.  I would be satisfied with just pie: apple pie, sweet potato pie, german chocolate pecan pie … I don’t ask much. But Amanda would revolt if we tried to leave out the homemade rolls or stuffing. And Jim would cry if he couldn’t roast a turkey with an entire stick of butter tucked under each breast skin (it does make for a juicy, if somewhat less than heart-healthy, bird).

Fishing with Dad

Speaking of birds, we’ve had a possum problem this past fall; they got into the chicken coop one night and killed a rooster.  After I went out (on the coldest day, of course) and furiously nailed more chicken wire across all the gaps, they turned their attention to the ducks, whose coop is less reinforced.  

Several times Amanda stepped out her door to see one or two possums inside the coop, doggedly pursuing the ducks, who lumbered slowly in circles, quacking almost as an afterthought.  I’m not certain they were aware of their peril, but Amanda got mad enough to chase the possums off with a hoe.  After the rooster was murdered, we realized we’d have to get more vigilant and decided to set live traps for them.  “What will we use for bait?” I asked Jim, because the only thing I knew for certain that tempted the possums (besides chickens) was trash from our trashcans.  “Ducks,” grinned Jim.

But we ended up catching one in the coop with the ducks again, and Jim brought the .22 rifle and killed one as the other scurried sullenly off into the darkness.  “I hope that was his best friend,” Jim said grimly, as he tossed the carcass out, and the ducks blinked benignly from their Dogloo.  I guess the other possums got the message, because sightings have been fewer and farther between.  I can’t help but feel like a part of some kind of farm co-op mafia: ordering hits on friends of the perpetrators.  Anyway, all we catch in the live traps is our garage cats …

The boys started a PE class in dodge ball last week.  Jim’s favorite part of the whole thing was the less than enthusiastic look on the boys’ faces when I told them they’d be playing dodge ball.  The class is for homeschoolers, and not surprisingly, is all boys.  There’s the usual 14-year-old with a burgeoning moustache, and all the rest are gawky, gangly teenagers, some with too long, greasy hair; most with scrawny arms; all with enormous adams apples.  But, to my knowledge, none were drinking beer or running an undercover betting ring on the side, so we’re going to let it ride.  Woody is one of the youngest and smallest.  He spends most of the time with his back to the game, chatting with other players.  Jack learned his technique from the ducks, which is to say, he confounds the enemy with his slow, predictable progress across the floor, never juking or dodging, never panicked, even when facing certain elimination.

Betsy Baking

 

Lucy Baking

In other news, we no longer have a mouse problem.  These were eradicated by the snakes I now catch in the basement utility room, which is open to the underside of the house.  They’re all bull snakes (non venomous) but three to four feet long.  I keep a walking cane nearby, which is good for hooking them around the neck, and the pruning shears, which are good for carrying them outside and lopping off their heads.  I appreciate the mouse population control, but I’d prefer the snakes do that outside, before the mice get inside.

The other animals are fine.  Amanda said she thinks she needs to have her eyes checked since she was under the impression, glancing out her window, that Max was a cow.  But I assured her since Max has been eating freely from the enormous round hay bales dotting our property, he actually is as big as a cow, and this time, it’s not bloat. 

I asked Jack the other day if he wanted animals when he gets his own place and he promptly said, “NO!”  Then, “Well, maybe a cat; you don’t have to take care of them.”  I told Jim this later and he said, defensively, “I still think it’s been a good experience for them.”  Then, after a pause, “It’s been TERRIBLE for the donkeys, but it’s been good for the boys.”

What else?  Lucy asked me the other day, “Mom, did you always want a little girl who loved you?” I said, “Yes!” and Jim, who was walking by, said, “Maybe some day we’ll get one,” which offended Lucy deeply. 

Everyone is fine.  School is school is school, except for right now, since we’re on our way to, let’s say it together: “Disney World!!!” (excited exclamation marks added for Jim’s benefit).   I texted our next-door neighbor, just to let her know we’d be out, and therefore, they’d all be safer since we wouldn’t be there to set any fires.  I think she was relieved.  

That’s it for now.  Hope you all have a mild winter!

Hugs and Kisses