do it yourself

My grandpa, always known to me as "Bampa," was a hard-working, do-it-yourself sort of guy.   After growing up on a farm in the early part of the 20th century, there was little he couldn't figure out or do for himself.  As a young entreprenuer and later a very successful businessman, he knew how to work with others to get his ideas accomplished.

As I grew up, Bampa would often hire a young guy from the local high school to work with him on his farm.  By that point, Bampa was in his 70's, but slowing down wasn't his style.  The teenagers' parents talked about the great benefits of hard work on their sons.  Those boys would learn from Bampa, helping in the things that were too labor-intensive for him to take care of alone.  My older cousins had all done stints in that "intern" job, and it turns out Bampa was pretty infamous for his work ethic.  As one cousin said, "there's two ways to do a job: the wrong way, and Bampa's way."  

My mom was also a frequent laborer for Bampa.  One summer, around the time Bampa was 80 years old, he and my mom (with a little help from my brothers) laid concrete pieces along the shore of the creek and Missouri river that adjoined Bampa's land.  It was literally hundreds of yards of shore, many feet deep, and Bampa had a particular style of rip-rapping: each piece of concrete was hand laid, just so, until it fit like a giant tetris game.  

The result still stands as a wonderful feat of "DIY" engineering; the shore no longer erodes into the river, silt doesn't collect and cause flooding issues at the end of the creek, and the current property owners enjoy a view of the river without losing their lawn.

I tell all of this because I know my grandpa and my husband always got along.  I just wish Mr. Kenobi would have had more time with Bampa, because they are two peas in a pod.  Yesterday, Mr. Kenobi decided it was time to do our "project" of breaking up a long stretch of unused driveway.  We plan to plant grass and some planter beds in the new area, to increase play area and green space in our backyard. 

The concrete was 4-6 inches thick, but he rented a jackhammer and chiseled away at it.  It turns out, that was the easy part.  He then had to lift the pieces out, load them and place them on the other side of the house to form a new path along our property.  I tried to help, but he had a real system to his project.  Each piece was chosen carefully, loaded into a wheelbarrow, and placed along the path line in an intricate puzzle.  Then, loads of smaller gravel and dirt were hauled and scooped into the path, filling in the spaces until it was sturdy and stable.  Finally, the whole path was hosed down and brushed with a broom until it was clear and even.  I eventually got to help a bit (once I'd heard and seen exactly how he wanted it done).  

It is beautiful.  That path will last a very long time, just like that bank of the Missouri back at Bampa's farm.  It was also amazingly hard, labor-intensive work, and my husband is particular about how such work is done.  There is a wrong way, and a Mr. Kenobi way, to do things.  Sort of reminds me of another great man...

            

get more creative

Attention, please: Father's Day is coming up in a few short weeks.   This is a day to recognize the significance and importance of fathers.  Contrary to some beliefs, it is not a "gimme" holiday to counter-balance Mother's Day.  Not only do good fathers change their own families, they better our whole society.  So, it's good to remember that - at least once a year - and celebrate them.

However, this celebrating business can go a few ways: consumer-driven, card-infused, and cliche.  On the other hand, it can cause you & others to recognize a father who has bettered your life.  It can be a holiday dripping with stuff, but it can also be something full of good memories and genuine appreciation.  

However you celebrate that special dad, do not get him a tie.  

Oh, I know they are easy to find and send.  Yes, it's probably one of the gifts that is on sale.  Sure, a tie goes wonderfully with his interest in fly fishing or patriotism or that new blue shirt you send with it.  Of course, a tie always fits his size.  Perhaps he even wears ties, so you think it would be useful.

Just restrain yourself.  As a sincere service to all of my readers, I'm warning you: keep giving ties for holiday gifts and this is what your dad might do in his final days before retirement:

          

Obviously, the habit of giving my father a standby accessory has probably gotten a little out of hand.  I love you, Dad!  Enjoy your last week of wearing a tie to work...

don't put that there

Sometimes, I wish my job were as glamorous as I imagined stay-at-home mama life.  I pictured loads of free time, sock puppets, finger paints, cookies, and hikes.  While we definitely enjoy those things, I now know full-well that bodily functions and household maintenance are a big part of motherhood.   There are more than a few things I did not imagine when I was pregnant with my first child.

So today, while looking for a misplaced superhero cape, I was summoned upstairs to hear this:

"Mama, I have a bean in my nose."

Yes, a bean.  Remember that child in your preschool class (probably a boy) who had the habit of putting things in his nose?  Did you, like I, think he was a bit wierd?  Well then, I have a wierd child.  Glamorous or not, I just fished a smallish pinto bean out of my son's nostril.  

You see, it actually started with a bit of fun.  A while back we did a craft project.  Musical instruments were made of plastic bottles with a handful of beans inside.  When shaken, one could accompany a variety of upbeat songs.  The bottle lid was carefully taped shut, so as to avoid any beans spilling out.  It was a nice way to recycle a plastic bottle, and a fun instrument for our little band.

I guess I didn't anticipate the bottle breaking.  Which, I suppose, is a reasonable thing to expect when a shaker becomes a mallet for the drum.  I encourage freedom of expression in our music, but didn't really think through the percussion aspect of our bean shaker.  Nor did I realize that the drumming had wounded the shaker with a small hole, just right for beans to trickle out one-at-a-time.

Until my son had a bean in his nose.

What to do?  Head to the emergency room?  The pediatrician?  My neighbor, the nurse?

No, we gathred upstairs in the well-lit bathroom.  Holding Obi-2's head in my lap, I carefully used tweezers to pull a varigated pinto bean from his nose.  Gross, gross, gross!  I then proceeded to sternly tell both boys that nothing - nothing - ever goes up one's nose.  Not fingers, not toys, and certainly not beans!  Furthermore, I assured them, if it happened again, we might end up at the hospital, where doctors and nurses might have to cut open the boy's nose to get it out.  (I followed this lecture with a nice auto-deposit into their "future therapy" fund.)

And so, lest you think that life of a stay-at-home mama is full of bon bons and craft projects, just remember the true glamour is at the end of a pair of tweezers.

the b word

I made a mid-year resolution to eliminate the "b" word from my vocabulary.  I was dropping it all the time, and I realized the boys were starting to imitate me - I heard it more than once from Obi-1.  

You know, the "b" word.  No, not that word.  We haven't heard that word since Obi-2 figured out how to stay "stitches" correctly. I'm talking about the really dangerous "b" word.

Busy.

We used to use it all the time. People would ask how we're doing, and we'd say, "busy."   I'd answer requests with, "when I'm not so busy."  I'd pack us from appointment to another commitment, and one errand to another, all because I was "busy."  Our calendar started to look like a jigsaw puzzle.  That word was becoming an excuse or a trophy.

"I'm so busy."  Does that mean I'm productive, or accomplishing more than you?   I could probably list all of my commitments and explain my schedule, and we could compare.  But does the busiest person win?

"I'm so busy."  Does that mean that you don't matter to me?  Does it excuse forgetting to call you on your birthday or canceling our meeting?  It probably doesn't make it easier when I schedule a simple coffee date for two weeks out by claiming I'm so busy.  But does the busiest person receive the most grace?

It's said that the use of profanity indicates a lack of vocabulary.  I'm trying to see "busy" as nearly profane, a catch-all word.  What happens when it replace the words of ownership, reality, and joy of life?  It is a short jump from busy to worried, and a small step from worried to frantic.  I don't want to go there - we have too much joy and peace and fun around here to tarnish it with a word like "busy."  

moving day

We hugged her goodbye, and wished her safe travels.  Our collegiate friend is headed home for summer break.  She's spent days, nights, and many meals with us over the past several months.  Sometimes we joke I'm like her mother, encouraging "good choices" and listening with sympathy as she relays the angst of young friendships and freshman classes.  

I prefer to consider myself her big sister.  After all, I'm only 11 years older!  While hers is a different age and season than mine, we have much in common.  I love the fun and youth of our friendship.  I also enjoy the challenge of getting to know her.  She is beautiful, yet humble.  She is quiet, yet engaging.  She is strong, yet yielding.  She is wise, yet learning.  I will miss her, and look forward to the days when she returns to our dinner table and the "pink room" upstairs.

Meanwhile, however, the pink room will not go empty.  We hugged another beloved woman hello, and asked her about her most recent travels.  These two guests, part of our family by commitment and choice, actually passed one another in the hall.  One carried duffle bags and biology notebooks out, while the other carried work suits and luggage in.  

Mr. Kenobi's mother, better known as "Grandma," moved in today.  She needs a place to stay while sorting out where she and Grandpa will decide to live. Grandpa has a job he loves in California, but her job is here in the northwest.  Either one will have to relocate, or they will spend another year (or more) enduring the interstate commute to one another.  When one asks her about a timeline for her life, it's not as simple as a college term.  Only they know how long this will last.

So, today was moving day.  I prepared another meal for five, and processed the transition.  This morning, I was jokingly referred to as "Mom" by a girl who stands eye-level across the kitchen.  Now I'm the daughter in the house, standing eye-to-eye with another generation.  It's time to sort identities. I make the home, and yet am finding my place in the family; I'm a friend, and yet a child.  I love the man, she loves the son.  I parent, but she grandparents.  

Together, we'll share a space and family until the next season begins.   

going granola

I think I've successfully proven that my house is not always full of fun.  However, some moments make me smile - like making homemade granola this morning.  

The word "granola" seems hard to wrap a 3-year-old mouth around; Obi-2 (who just turned three) says, "Yay!  We're making gorilla!"  His 4-year old brother responds with a little monkey dance in the kitchen, and I join in.

In case that sounds like fun to you, I'm sharing the recipe... for the granola.  The monkey dance is strictly make-up-your-own.

Left Coast Granola

(Makes about a gallon-sized container full.)

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

In a large baking dish (like a sheet-cake pan), combine:

3 C oatmeal

1/2 C oat bran

1/2 C almond meal (or substitute more oat bran)

3/4 C sliced almonds

Bake 15 minutes.

Raise oven temperature to 350 degrees.

Stir into the mixture:

3/4 C apple juice concentrate

1/4 C packed brown sugar (yes, this is optional, if you prefer less sweetener in your life)

3 T cooking oil

Bake 25 minutes.

Remove from oven and stir, then cool a bit.   Stir in 8 oz dried cherries or cranberries.

Store cooled granola in a zip-top bag or airtight container.  

Enjoy!