Story of a Wee Lad in a Corn Maze

Here is a story about the 12 acre corn maze in the shape of Washington. When our son Wilder was 4ish and I was still with their pop, we all went up to the corn maze. As we entered, with stalks way over even my 6' head, clear very clear instructions were given to both kids : Don't go out of sight of us. Don't go around a corner without us. This is huge, and there are many many routes and areas to get lost in.
The second we had finished those instructions, Wilder trotted a bit ahead and WHOOSH, gone. Like turned a corner, we were telling him to wait for his ol' parents to catch up, and ... gone.
When we reached the end of the narrow path, it split, and no son. We ran to the end of both paths and looked down them, no son. We freaked, but within reason. When you are in a GIANT corn maze it is not like freaking out and running around is going to help. Since you already don't know where you are (read :maze) you don't want to lose everyone in your group. We hollered his name. We asked people if they had seen a "little boy in a red vest" --he was gone about 10 minutes. Dennis and I split up, and looked down different paths. I had visions of him in tears huddled in some tiny ball between corn rows... bereft and missing his parents. Or some psycho had grabbed him (he was really really cute), or I would need to rent a plane to fly over and find him, or rent a boom truck to elevate me section by section over the corn, or.... (this is where my art degree comes in -- prone to elevating simple situations to creative global emergency levels)
Then all of a sudden, when we would ask about the red vest boy... people walking by would say "you mean Wilder? yeah, he was down there" or " I saw Wilder around this path"
We were getting reports of a self contained little kid, who was greeting everyone with pleasantries and introducing himself. As we were hollering his name, all of a sudden a voice came back through the stalks "Wilder's parents?"
Turns out, Wilder had calmly been walking around, and when he came upon a family, he put his 4 year old body facing them, legs akimbo, put his hands up and said : Stop, my name is Wilder and my family is lost.
Well, we found him. The rest of the day people of all ages would say "Hi Wilder" when we passed and he would greet them back by name. And every year we visit the maze since then Wilder has to endure this story over and over and over.............

Washington State Corn Maze

Photo: Corn maze photo courtesy : The Farm at Trail's End, Snohomish.
Photo : Wilder four years ago in the maze. Why I can never live in Kettle Falls. Oh the humiliation.



It is time for the family/friends trip up to the 12 acre Washington State corn maze outside of Everett. As you navigate the maze, there are hand-made sights and sites of landmarks throughout the state. The Olympia capitol building (looks like a giant birdhouse), Seattle's Space Needle, Peace Arch from Blaine.
When you get around Hanford, where our nuclear reactor is, they paint the corn stalks neon.

Jobs

I quit mine. Have been told it is somewhat insane to quit a job without having another. I will let you know when I am working at McDonald's. Last day of work : November 1st. Yes, I am looking for a new position closer to home, at least, not a ferry ride away. Or if it is a ferry ride away, one that pays so well that I can hire a house cleaner and a manure scooper. And someone to brush the dog and rebuild my bathroom. And one not afraid of ladders, like me, so my gutters are always clean. And, someone who can build fences. I am sure there is more I need done, but that is my short list.

Photo: Pumpkin carvin' at the house a couple years ago.

Busy Girl Week

Photo: horse and son munching apples. I couldn't find a pic of the pears, so you get apples. Oh, and I kept calling these apples "Clears" until a kind lady corrected me. They are called "Transparents." Always learnin' out here in Poulsbo.

Or, busy lady week. Busy woman week. Busy feisty mom week.
This is my third year of making applesauce with the overabundance of apples off our trees.
This was my first year of canning pears. If I was going to sell these, they would be $22 A JAR.
If I figure my labor and supplies. And using all the free pears on the property. I can't wait to taste them.
I thought for sure I was getting sick on Wednesday. You ever kick into overdrive right before you get sick? Wednesday was my overdrive. I went to work on Thursday and told everyone "I am sure I am getting sick, yesterday I made bread, canned applesauce, made banana bread muffins, was down on the ground scrubbing my kitchen floor, and then cleaned out the garage. Suffice it to say, that is not normal behavior for me. I do all that, but not on the same flipping day. Maybe loosely over the course of a week, a two or three.
Wilder was sick last week, then Rose got it this week. I figured I was next.
Saturday night report : Not sick. And canned pears. Four lovely jars for two hours of labor. NOT WORTH IT. But I will do it again, too many pears laying about the property. And not complain in the winter when I buy canned pears for $2.50 at the store.
Thank you blog http://www.paulnoll.com/
I have no idea what they are about but loved their canning instructions. Other than the red food coloring for holiday cheer. That may be a generational thing, but I don't remember red or green pears at xmas. It is also nifty that they help each other can pears.

September and the Livin' is Livin'

I remember when I was startled toward divorce in my (what I thought was a) lifetime marriage ... on a subsequent doctor's visit about something else I asked her " Where is the book that explains how to navigate this? Is there a website to visit? " I had a similar reaction when the first wee baby Rose came to be... I went looking for a book, something like "Every Minute of Your Specific Baby's Existence" (couldn't find that title.) So in some educational assessment it would probably say I learn by the written word, not verbally, not by doing. You gotta give me something in text.
I have pulled out all my house books -- just to finish a flippin' chicken house roof. This is where perfectionism gets in the way of doing. We pulled off half of it, well half of half since alot is the nasty asbestos tile and I thought we could cover it.
On a similar vein. My chicken area fence is a comedic blunder of chicken wire and wood.
My house I would gently say is : in a shambles.
The horse fence is : dangerous.
I very much appreciate the housing blogs that tackle this stuff on their own. But I also realize they got someone in the background cooking, cleaning and if applicable, raising kids and taking care of animals that we don't know about. Or they don't sleep.
I have been canning applesauce, baking bread, getting educational stuff rolling for the kids, doctors, dentists, dump runs, hay hauling, garden mauling, chicken burials (don't even go there about eating them...), keeping the sheets changed and bathtub clean. Oh, and yesterday I cleaned the laundry room floor. Which means I can see it again.
I am tired right at the moment. Problem is I can't find the book that tells me if it is : female aging problems, weather related (it has turned cold and rainy here in the Pacific NW), or just that I have too much on my plate.
My solution is to hire someone to fix these things which is not at the moment feasible.

Image courtesy www.biggirlsruntoo.blogspot.com

School started

Photo: This wierd little building is in the middle of the horse field. No idea what it was, probably some sort of playhouse.

No, we are not in such a rural area that this is related to their schooling... for some reason this is just the picture I chose for today. Probably because it is another project for me to tackle. Sigh.

The kids are off to school. Wilder in middle school, Rose now a Sophomore. She calls herself an upperclassman with attitude. I guess it is not fun being a freshman? Who knew. I don't remember that sort of thing. The kids recently visited their great aunt and uncle who purchased them some snazzy school duds. Wilder has been wearing his new clothes with flair.

I have been trying to clean out their closets of unused, too-small clothing. I miss our former neighbors with the kids who were staggered ages so we would just hand off clothing to each other. Rose's too smalls went to Emily, Wilder was on the receiving end of Nick's.

That worked out so well I didn't buy a shirt for Wilder for two years! I have to work on my neighboring skills here. I have lost my steam and am in my own little world.

Hey! have tackled a new project, the chicken coop roof! I will share pics soon. I will also just note that nothing NOTHING I tackle is as easy as I think it will be.

Farewell to Sougan Cat

The kids dad took Sougan our eldest addled creaky cat in to be euthanized last week. I could not take her in, since Rose and I are still recovering from putting our aged dog, Sophie down six months ago. I am also not sure the vet has recovered from our sobbing.

This is why birds are good pets. They live for flipping ever.

Sougan tired and yawning from her strenuous days spent sleeping in happier, healthier days. She was a bit of a cat food overimbiber in her younger years.

Cursed book is done

Waving fans happy I finished my book... or a pic of the crowds listening to music at Bumbershoot, your choice.
I don't think I need to say more than that. But I will. This book that has taken over my life at intervals since January is finally fully off to the publisher. The proofs have been read, red-lined, corrected, the photos fixed and it all went out by fedex for $47 at 2:30 in the morn. And then I missed all the ferries home so drove around Puget Sound. So arrived when my paperboy was dropping off the morning paper just after 4 am. I didn't care, the Book is Done!!
What is funny, is I bet the neighbors think I am some sort of a party girl. Little do they know everytime I get home after midnight is due to work. I don't know whether I should really be happy about that.....

Note from soon to be divorced woman to women who are not

Just because my marriage failed.... does not mean I hate men. It does not mean I am coveting your husband or boyfriend or girlfriend. It does not mean anything but that My Marriage Failed. It has nothing to do with anyone but my (former) husband and myself. It is not about you. I don't hate marriage. I don't hate commitment. Just because my marriage failed does not mean that you only tell me about when your marriage or partnership is having hard times - as if I am so much more receptive to hearing that sort of stuff or it brings me joy. Because I am getting a divorce does not mean that to commiserate with me you share "how you have considered divorce" or how unhappy you are with your chosen partner or "how you just can't stand your partner but can't leave for (insert reason here)." Take it up with a therapist.

Added Note: It seems this is a bit harsh. The base point I am trying to make is in a life, people are together, people fall apart, people pull apart. Yes, I am getting a divorce. But I was also part of a couple, (I thought happily) for 20 years. I was hitting a streak of people only telling me their crap stories about their (purported) loved ones. You all gotta deal with that. I understand being trapped, feeling powerless, getting stuck. But at some point you need to make a move, whether that be counseling with your partner, by yourself, or whatever. I can listen, but don't only pull negative stuff out of the air to think that will bond us. I actually like hearing the good stuff.

Off in the wild blue yonder

Just placed the two wonder kids on a flight to their great aunt and uncle. Not that I want to sound tragic or anything... but it was very difficult letting them fly off on the silver 'tube of sky death' without me. While the ticket was purchased I was fine. While they were packing I was fine. While we went over our manners and how to lock the airplane bathroom door I was fine. When I was hugging them and wishing them a good time and blah blah blah I was fine.
When the plane was pushed away from the gate, when the plane sat on the tarmac running through its systems, when the plane began rolling toward the runway I was not fine.
However, since you did not hear or see reports of a crazed mother breaking through security checkpoints and running after a departing plane down the runway yelling stop you can assume I dealt with it.
Crap. This growing up thing is going to be so hard on me.

Blessed neighborly neighborliness

Photo: Wilder pointing out the one true path to God Wilder has been invited to born-again christian camp by our neighbor. She stopped by today, and told me she had been praying for my mother and her brand new hip and invited Wilder to god training... I mean summer camp. In the context of a 2-D page of writing it does not come across that I actually like my neighbors. I do. People believe what they believe for reasons that are allover the map. I am always curious how they get where they get in the spiritual world... but really, as long as it is not the hate-spewing, fearandcrap-mongering religions I could give a rip what people believe. If it makes it easier for one to navigate an unsteady or uncomfortable world... go for it. My neighbors are gentle and open people, who will help me or the kids in a lickity split. We will never probably talk god or politics... that is why I have my Jehovah Witness, Poppy(!) but they are next to me and somewhat less judgemental than other various pyschotic passive aggressive NW neighbors I may or could have. Even with the god quotient. Plus, a bonus for me, I LOVE being told I am being prayed for, or God Bless Me, or whatever little religious bon mot (how do you spell that??) comes out of her mouth. I can handle her religion, because it is seamless with her life.
Re: Wilder... I am giving him the option for camp. His sister is flippin' out. She has had bad experiences with the more wicked (stupid) side of religious zealotry on her schoolbus, and now is anti-religion, as only a teenager can be. This too shall pass.
Re: Grandma. Two hips down, two knees to go. Everyone reading this: take care of your ankles, knees, hips. It is not FUN to do this surgery or recovery. On a lighter note, we are going to start calling her Grandma Bionic for all her metal and mechanisms at her joints. Wilder will probably call her Grandma Bionicle... gotta have boys to get that one....

Women and Menopause Talk

I am 45. As in, my body according to my birth certificate is 45. My brain acts like it is somewhere around late crazy puberty -- say 19 -- and in my minds-eye I think I look 25. I just had my dental hygienist tell me all about her menopausal excitements and physical ailments, etc etc. I truly love that women can just blather on about menopause. I am fairly sure that many women in the past silently suffered through it, or grabbed guns and committed crimes (oh wait, probably not that) how about Felt Like grabbing guns or sharp implements or even pinching people at random. They had no outlet to express why or how or have understanding friends around to say "I know what you mean, I too wanted to pinch so-and-so."
I am thankful many women around me are experiencing this. I used to think it was boring to be a man, same ol' hormones, day in, day out. No mad rush of estrogen, no wild ride of hormones, no small furies that fill the sky above your head with sparkly dangerous lightning. As I fall deeper into this magical menopause land, I am thinking the ability to "put a cork in it" when I am doing one of my insane sounding grump fests might be nice. Especially when I am doing it to a newspaper reporter. Sometimes my "off" button is misplaced on my mouth. And that is not normal for me. I know I am going to be one of those in-your-face 70 year old women that everyone rolls their eyes at. At least I am getting used to it since I have a teenage girl.
Image courtesy http://www.flickr.com/photos/the_dugghouse/2443605131/

Chicken Update

The golden-laced wyandottes that we ordered this spring are almost grown up. They are past the awkward teenage chicken years. Now they are pullets but sound like baby chicks. I had a friend take care of them when I was in Michigan, and she said she kept looking around for baby chicks and then realized these big pullets were 'cheeping.' We have five. One bit the dust when we first brought them home.

Our one year old welsummers are but two. The red-tailed hawks swooped on a couple, and a neighbor dog got the other. They are more cautious and smart about running loose, but obviously no match for birds of prey and out-of-control dogs. One welsummer has decided she needs to sit on her nest and hatch unfertile eggs. We can all feel somewhat motherly and withdrawn at times, so I am going to let her work through her broodiness. My neighbor told me to surround her with a cage including food and water, and after about a week she will want OUT. I am just going to let her do her chicken thing. Her former partner-in-crime hen has been hanging around the front door. I frequently pick her up and carry her around when I do my outside jobs, since she is alone due to her broody friend. She seems to like the company. I had no idea chickens were 'breedists'... they definitely hang with their own kind. I try to get them to integrate and be compatriots with all their chicken brethen, but some things are just not to be messed with. I do notice similar temperament breed chickens hang together happily. Such as the buff orpingtons and the wyandottes. Those slow round easy-going types. Should I be offended that the welsummer hangs with me? Omigod. Am I a pea-brained colorful feathered loud sqaukin' spotty-egg layin' chicken type? Dang.

Story of a Mouse Part III : The End

Not cute, huh?

I called my daughter, who was at her dad's. She was not available so I told Dennis "Tell her there are baby mice in my room." The mousecatcher Bella is her cat, that has taken over my bed, so I needed to share the responsibility with her.
When Rose and her brother were dropped off later that day, they all ran in the house. I was listening to a story by phone from my soon-to-be-bride buddy about a get together she was at... and all the intrigue present. Rose, then Wilder, then Dennis came in and out of the room asking "where are they?" "that wasn't true, right?" while I was trying to listen on the phone. They could not believe I had rodents, babies, in my room. Dennis actually bet the kids that I was pulling their leg.
HA. On them. They thought they were cute, once they found 'em. In case you have not experienced baby mice, and I had not before this moment, they are not so cute. Rather alien like in their nuditity (yeah, i know that is not a word) and lack of eyes, hair and recognizable mouse features.
Rose is a softie. A softie with a heart of a teenager, which means cute boy aware, attitudinally challenging, lousy-mannered, but who sobs when a motherless naked mouse dies and hugs her mother when her mom is grumpy. It is a cool juxtaposition.
Regardless. We googled. We sent their dad off for baby formula and hydration materials. The kids used one of my GOOD silk scarves ("but it was in the ragbin...") for a bed in a frisbee for the newborns. The heat lamp was retrieved from the chicken coop. ALL FOR RODENTS. I am telling you, we are an embarrassment to country livin'. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
The end: we found mom, Wilder caught her, we put her in with her babies, then set them all outside the next day. She left her babies. They died. Good thing those mice breed like rats! Have I learned anything from this? 1. Mice are cute 2. Baby mice are helpless. 3. I have good kids.
Image Courtesy:
www.natepaine.com/plog/images/48.jpg

Story of a Mouse Part II

Part II:
In the middle of the night, I heard scrabbling around. And around. I would move in bed and the noise would stop. I figured that mouse was still in the house, and under my bed. All night. The next morning, after a biiiiig cup of coffee, I began moving my bed out from the wall in search of this elusive little creature. I cursed CURSED when I moved a newspaper and saw a cat "gift" that must have been left by our aged infirm feline. Except this moved. And I did a double-take. I was extremely freaked out when I realized I was looking at newborn mice.
To recap:
Cat catches mouse.
Alive mouse is carried in house by cat.
Mouse runs loose in my bedroom.
Mouse gives birth.
Human finds baby mice.
Human does not find mouse mom.
Baby mice are not cute.

Story of a Mouse Part I

When we moved out of the city, where rats are large and scary, to the suburbanish country, where mice are small and cute, our relationship changed.

Part I. I was coming down the blue farmhouse stairs and looked over the field. There is a window halfway down that you can look out over the garden, wetland, and front field. I saw Bella, our cat, traipsing across the grass toward the house with intent. She had something swinging from her clamped jaws and I thought : Good Bell, getting another rodent out of circulation. I went downstairs to let the horses back in their field, and Bella set down her conquest on the driveway. She sat over it. Then I noticed its tail move. I know cats do this. I know they have predator instincts and play with their food. All normal behavior. I just can’t see it done if the victim is still alive. She needed to kill her prey quick and then play with it, or let it go. (I seem to have all these rules of conduct for our animals—just to be clear – they don’t follow any of my suggestions)
Anyway, so she is beginning to “play” with her live captive and I told her NO. The wee mouse looked too much like our pet hamster, Chuck. I was tired, and not going to watch torture on the very small scale 12 inches from my foot. So told Bella no, and then Amanda, our dog was interested, and also mooshed the mouse with her nose. I told her no too, and Bella dove in to grab her mouse again. She looked at me with that dilated pupil crazy stinkeye, looked at our open front door… and ran toward it as I screamed NOT IN MY HOUSE! She ran to her hang-out room, which is my bedroom. Running after her, I slammed the bedroom door locking her and the mouse in my room. I was wanting her to finish the deed and get it out of my room. I was no longer in the saving frame of mind. I don’t want mice in the house. Noooooo way. I opened the door 10 minutes later, and both cats, BOTH cats are lounging on the bed falling asleep. There is no snippet of rodentia anywhere. Not a wisp, nor a whisker. I looked under the bed. (And found my missing books and two mismatched socks) I looked under the dresser. Dust bunnies. Looked under the other dresser. Found the case for my drill and reciprocating saw --why is that in my room?? No idea. First result, I should clean out under my furniture more often. Second result, no mouse.
I did what any normal person would do who had an exhausting work day and was pooped. I threw the cats out, closed the door, and went to bed.
Image Courtesy Hammielover123 http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3267/2553654823_9605524547.jpg%3Fv%3D0&imgrefurl=http://dailyhamster.com/2008/06/12/cutest-mouse-ever/&usg=__Ki30yNSbgV072EUyuQpgcyK4qLE=&h=353&w=500&sz=104&hl=en&start=1&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=KLMRtFKWbYoHGM:&tbnh=92&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dcute%2Bmouse%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26tbs%3Disch:1

Bein' a Bride

So I got to rub shoulders with the soon-to-be bride --this is her beaming with her god-daughter this past weekend. Regardless of any drugged up delirium I may have had that day, I learned a few things.
1. It is not easy being from a large family. Rose and I were talking about it and she likened it to being in a high school clique, although one that stays with you your WHOLE LIFE. The role you were assigned at a young age is the mantle you wear for the rest of your life. Ah yes, you may accomplish things, you may get married or not, you may be whatever version of success or failure they deem is success or failure, but in the end... it is easier for families to operate if you stay loosely in the role that everyone sees you in. Be that : the smart one, the pretty one, the stubborn one, the clumsy one... ever wonder why some children move as far as possible away from family? Or why the NW of the US is so dang independent? Ask people where they are from. Where their family is. We have a lot of escapees here.
2. Family is a comfort. The good side. They know your sadnesses, the reason for your happies, they know your life. There can be comfort in not always having to explain yourself, who you are, how you came to be.
3. Family can make you crazy. Innocuous simple words such as "Can you pick up that piece of cookie on the floor?" " What did you get from Aunt Mabel?" can send a daughter into fits of apoplexy that only the oh so special mother-daughter relationship can explain.

At one point Rose put her head on my shoulder and said "I am glad you are the type of mom you are... thank you."

I will try to remember these light and appreciative moments when my now 15 year old tries my patience, pushes my buttons, and rolls into her own special teenagerland in the next couple years.

House - Painted stairs

Yes, this could be considered a rather bold color... and yes, I did really like the white that the owners had the stairs painted, it was very "original" but with KIDS and their FEET and DOGS and their MUD and CATS and WHATEVER IT IS CATS DO my white house interior does not stay very white.

Some parts of it are even a dingy sorta dirtish color.

Birthday story of long ago

Well, birthday story of three years ago. It is the season of birthdays in our house, Wilder on the 28th of May, Rose on the 5th of June. That makes for action packed weekends around our place. I lived through Wilder's party of boys, and one girl... plus his sister. Lots of yelling and sugar rushing.
This weekend will be at least a dozen fifteen year-olds whooping it up around the house. Yikes. But girls are easier? Or at least there are less fart and burp jokes.
I was wondering if they were all going to go out after hours to the gravel pit and get all dirty sliding around on their rears... and was reminded when we lived in Seattle next to a large park and beach. For Rose's birthday we thought we would go the park in the dark to the beach... such excitement for a bunch of 12 year-olds. My next door neighbor was walking down with us also. 12 year old girls being naturally squeally we thought they could get their hollering out of their system at the beach and through the forest before I was trapped in a house with them overnight. So halfway down the trail said friend disappears ahead of us down a trail. We head down the main road toward the beach, me and a dozen girls. It is dark. Evergreen trees leaning over the road. The gals are clustered around me as we hike down the hill to the beach. A truck drives by us heading uphill toward the exit. Then, a few minutes later, the truck is back... directly behind us a few yards. With their lights off. And shaded windows that I could not see in to who was driving. Once the girls noticed we were being followed, they began to freak out. Who out there is familiar with group psychology of girls? Not pretty, and we were about 1/2 mile from home. With no one around. And my neighbor somewhere down the trail and not able to hear me when I was calling her. Here we were out having an exciting evening of night beach visits and we are being shadowed by a truck of creepers. My inclination was to tear those truck boys a new somethingerather, I was that pissed that they thought that would be funny.
The main thing I have thought of since this is what sort of people in the truck thought it was funny to intimidate a gaggle of prepubescent girls like a scene out of a bad horror flick? They must have felt very powerless within their own lives to get a charge outta that.
The boring end of story is : called home and Dennis came and got the kids in the minivan, called neighbor on trail to go home, and I did not get to kick anyone's truck butt.
Wish me luck for this weekend. I think we will "do nails."

Seattle story - "Getting in Touch with Nature"

Every day that I work, (all of three days a week) I go to Metropolitan Market in West Seattle to pickup lunch, dinner, or goodies for our volunteers.
I usually walk around in my own little bubble, as Seattlelites are prone to do, but today I stepped out of my bubble to poke at someone elses bubble.
While waiting in the coffee line for tea and to purchase a lovely tomato plant (one can never grow too many tomatoes it seems in May and June, UNTIL those tomatoes start ripening, and then I wonder what the heck I was thinkin' and start pawning them off on strangers...)
anyway, on topic....waiting in line. The fellow in front of me was talking to coffee gal, and saying he had been communing with nature. That he was getting in touch with nature by going to Green Lake and walking.
Let's visit Green Lake, shall we?
When he was saying how good he felt being out of doors in nature, I could not help but let out one of those nostril blows that is somewhat snortish. He turned around, and said, "you don't like green lake?" I told him I did not really think Green Lake was nature. (man-made lake, giant paved trail around it, that is packed on weekends, surrounded by a busy road on three sides and a highway on the other, and fringed with houses) As is usual when I blurt out these blunt-ish statements, he got a bit ruffled. If he would have been HONEST and said " I went to Green Lake to check out the babes" or some such, I would not have snorted. So sad that Seattle residents are beginning to think a paved trail and lawn is nature. You plant housing and condos like trees, and look what happens. People lose touch with greenspace. Used to be a goal of Seattle... now it is just "build-me-up-baby...make-mine-multi-use-housing-please"
I guess that is what balconies and lanais are for. Plants.