My thoughts on Food, Inc., about four years later than everyone else.

Finally watched Food, Inc with my boys today, as part of school.  The 91 minute movie took us more than two hours to watch, because of the little girls needing attention, and for pausing to comment on the movie itself, both by me and by the boys.

I would say that I already was aware of about 95% of it, having learned from other sources the same/similar information.  But, it’s just GOOD to have what I already know be reinforced, and to learn even that 5%.

Most of what I didn’t know had to do with the human element:  The progression of how subsidized American corn has been exported to Mexico, putting Mexican corn farmers out of business.  Then, slaughterhouses advertise in Mexico, soliciting illegal immigrant workers — often ex-corn farmers — and even BUS them to the U.S.  Then, the employers have basically slave labor because the illegal employees don’t want to get busted by ICE and deported.  So, they have zero voice, and they’re one more source that keeps the price of low-quality meat unnaturally suppressed in the American market.  I had never heard that, nor pieced it together for myself, but it makes total sense.

I told my boys at the end, “I know that you already knew much of this, but sometimes, it helps that, instead of hearing your mother harp on you –” Twelve-year-old Grant interrupted and laughed, “You can hear OTHERS harp on you!”  Ha!  He said this with good humor, as none of the boys felt “harped upon”;  they all appreciated the content and found it interesting and confirming.  They also commented that, at the end of the film, where all the suggestions are made for how to be better food consumers, “We already do all of that!”  My oldest said that, instead of our family being the health-freaks amongst our circle of friends* and being the odd man out, that, maybe by the time he’s a grown up, the weirdo will be the guy who regularly eats fast food cheeseburgers. Most touching was 10-year-old Wesley saying, “I hope you get to be in a movie like that some day.”    Not that I aspire to be an interviewee, or that I even merit that, but that’s how he sees me, which is so precious to me.

———————————-

*Not that we’re the ONLY people we know who are committed to eating healthy, but it’s still not the norm, by far.

More garden stuff, including a little seed giveaway… (plus, any takers for an online/e-mail natural birthing class??)

I promise that there is more of note going on in my life than just my garden, but since I have such a nice pic, I thought I’d post another garden update.

One other thing I wanted to mention, though (buried, here in the garden post) is that I’m thinking about making my birthing class notes available as an online/correspondence/something-like-that birth class.  Anyone interested?  I can e-mail you the PDF of the first class (of six, total) as a preview.  I would send copies of each week’s class, one at a time.  I highly suggest that you take two weeks to go through each class’s material and homework, because there is a LOT of info!  And, for full disclosure, the classes are really geared to married Christian couples, but I’m thinking about editing them to be more appropriate for other… uh… demographics.  The basic idea of them is to show the wonder and amazing, kind plan of our Creator God in the process of birth — so that the mom would birth, filled with that wonder, and eager to participate fully in His transformational intentions for her… and that there would be NO FEAR in birth.  If anyone is interested, I will take on three student couples for $40 each, and you can help me work out any communication kinks that may need fixing.  Beta test, if you will.    ANYONE can have a free copy of the first class’s notes, though.  karenjoy@onlysometimesclever.com

OK.  Back to this day’s regularly scheduled garden post:

This was yesterday’s harvest:  Red chard, green beans (I found more hiding under the red chard after the picture), two dinky tomatoes, and two Dragon carrots.

The carrots would have benefited from another week or two in the ground.  The packet says that they should mature in 70-90 days, and they’ve been in the ground more than 120 days!!  Things grow more slowly in the winter growing season here… less sunlight.  But, sheesh!  Mature already!!  They’re lovely carrots, though.

My tomatoes are thriving.  I’ve harvested a dozen or so in the last couple weeks, though it doesn’t look like any will be red and ready for Thanksgiving.    There are probably 200+ tomatoes growing on my plants, but the bad news is that they’re all about one ounce “big”.  Teeny tiny.  Bigger than cherry tomatoes, but not by much!  I bought my seeds from Native Seeds/SEARCH, which is a fabulous, to-be-esteemed organization for growing, promoting, and selling native and heirloom seeds that do well in the Arizona desert.  However, the Native Seeds’ description of my Punta Banda tomatoes neglected the mention the size, and I neglected to notice the lack of description.  Here, on another site, they’re listed as cherry tomatoes.

My basil plants just won’t die.  Not that I really want them to, but when I add basil to any dish I’m making, I must confess that I use my basil-and-olive-oil “ice cubes” from the freezer.

Fiala, my three-year-old, ran off with a packet of carrot seeds and a packet of onion seeds a few weeks ago.  It is now clear where she planted them, as there are about one hundred carrot sprouts in about a one square foot area of my garden, onions sprouting in the gravel (leading me to think about the parable of the sower), and a sprinkling of onions and carrots in other less-than-ideal spots.    Precious, rascally girl.

I hope my garlic has lovely, round, purple blooms like this!!

I have one Mexican grey squash plant that is hanging on…  Broccoli that is sprouting (not too vigorously, though, and I think the birds like the sprouts), green onions that are slowly but beautifully growing, mystery volunteer tomato plants that are starting to flower and bear new, tiny fruit…  I planted some garlic cloves, too, and they’re coming up beautifully.  I love garlic and we eat a TON, but I’m kind of planting them for their flowers.  My green beans (Yoeme Purple String Beans, to be exact) are still hanging on, though I’m only harvesting about 1/4 – 1/2 pound every week from four largeish bamboo teepees.  I have set aside 33 seeds that would be good for planting, and will give them to the first taker who mails me a self-addressed, stamped envelope, if you wanna give them a shot!  Again, e-mail if interested.

My tomatillos are fairly pointless.  I have 1/2 gallon of teeny tiny tomatillos in my fridge, waiting to see if I will make salsa out of them for Thanksgiving.  I guess I should take them out of the refrigerator and let the husks dry all the way…  I’m fairly disgusted with how much space those giant plants took up, compared to the tiny fruit.    I started pruning the bushes WAY back, in hopes that the roots and stalks would super-charge the remaining tomatillos and make them grow big, but no such luck.  After Thanksgiving, I do believe I will just pull them out, amend the soil, and plant more broccoli, and maybe some cauli and rutabagas.

Now that I have a fruitful garden, I can’t imagine even NOT having one.  I pray I will continue to learn, and that my little plot of ground will continue to produce.

And, that’s it!  For today.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers, if I get overwhelmed by cleaning and baking and cooking and don’t make it back to the blog before then. 

Garden journal…

I’m so happy with my garden right now. What a difference a few months and 20 degrees make! The searing, endless 110+ days are over, which both I and my garden barely survived. Right now, in the Phoenix area, it is sadly, frustratingly, energy-sappingly hotter than it should be — by a good 15 – 20 degrees. Highs have been in the high 90s. But, I think it’s good for the garden, and at least it’s not 115.

I’m still composting in my two giant bins. I would have a batch ready to till into the soil, but my well-meaning husband dumped a bunch of yard trimmings into both bins (I had one bin “stewing” and was almost ready and the other bin for new material), so now, neither bin is ready. I’ll have to buy some composted manure to add to the garden when it’s time to pull out the crops which are just about done for the season.

• Tomatillos (“Mt. Pima” variety): I have four giant bushes, a good 4+ feet tall each, supported by tomato cages. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of tomatillos on them, and they’re slowly ripening. However… those dumb things are marble-sized. I bought the seeds from Native Seeds/SEARCH, which is a fabulous organization, and I support them wholeheartedly. However, I need to ask better questions before I purchase seeds from them in the future. I wasn’t aware that I was getting the world’s smallest tomatillos; the seed/product description really didn’t mention their teeny-tiny size. I’m still looking forward to making some tomatillo salsa; it’ll just be like making jam, where you have to harvest and clean hundreds of berries for one small jar. The tomatillos are also so large that they’re shading the garden in a greatly unwelcome way. The days are getting shorter, and all the veggies need as much sunshine as they can get; the tomatillos are hogging the sun. I’m getting a bit impatient with the plants, and am considering yanking them out, just to give everything else more sun….
• Tomatoes (“Punta Banda” variety): I have finally controlled the winged aphids that were sapping the life out of my tomato plants. I finely grate about 2 tsp Fels-Naptha soap, dissolve the shreds in water inside a 64 oz sprayer, and spray the tomato plants every 2-4 days. In the interim, I just pinch those nearly microscopic suckers. I now have a good 100+ tomatoes growing on my 11 main plants. Again, these were from Native Seeds/SEARCH, and the tomatoes are only about golfball sized. Still. I’m happy to have an abundance of tomatoes, even if they’re smaller than I prefer. None are ripe yet, but many of them will be in another week or two. I also have about eight other smaller plants, that have come up volunteer, very likely from not being fully composted. The largest of the volunteer tomatoes are just now starting to blossom; I’m excited to find out what kind they are!!
• Green beans (“Yoeme Purple String” variety): These, too, are from Native Seeds/SEARCH. After not bearing any fruit and me barely able to keep them alive in the searing summer heat, they’re now growing wonderfully; I harvest about half a pound every three days from the four bamboo stake teepees I constructed. I think next time, I will choose a different variety; these become too fibrous too quickly… But, still, the beans are good for stewing in soups and Crockpot stuff, and eaten fresh & raw when very young. I’m happy with them.
• Zucchini-ish whatever-it-is. I purchased some seeds touted as Mexican Grey Squash, which is by far my favorite summer squash — think 7-8″ chubby, light green-grey colored zucchini, firm and sweet with tender skin and NONE of zucchini’s bitterness. The plants were dying on the vine in the midst of summer; perhaps it was too hot for them, too. They’re now producing nicely in fairly compact plants. However, they’re NOT Mexican Grey Squash. I contacted the small seed supplier, and suggested that the seeds had been cross-pollinated before they were harvested, as the squash and the plants themselves are quite confused: darker green than MGS, with skinny necks like a crookneck squash.  The supplier got really, really, really defensive, bordering on nasty.  So, I’m not linking to them.  In spite of their questionable background, the squash is tasty. I can’t decide if I will plant these again or not. Unfortuntately, I burned the growth end (or whatever it’s called) of one of the plants with some natural, homemade (and completely ineffective) bug-killer, so only one of my plants are producing.
• Hopi Pumpkin. This GIGANTIC, HUGE vine spread out a good 10′ x 10′ and produced a grand total of three squash. Only one of them are even full-sized. We’ve eaten one. Another, I accidentally harvested when trimming back the vine, and the third and largest remains on the vine. The vine is just about dead and I’m going to need to harvest it, too. I’m waiting as long as I can, because I have winter squash coming out my ears from the CSA I participated in. I’m definitely going to grow winter squash again, but not that variety. Butternut, most likely.
• Chile Negro. These slow-growing plants are finally producing, too. I have about 15 chiles growing on my five plants, none ripe enough to harvest yet. I’m planning on picking these green, too. I think. After I sample them, I’ll decide if I’m going to grow them again.
• Newer crops: I also have Red Chard growing, which is beautiful and tasty. It kind of got off to a slow and bug-eaten start, but they’re doing nicely now. We’re going to eat some tomorrow night. The first harvest of carrots (“Dragon” variety) should be in mid-November. Green onion, bulb onions, and broccoli are also sprouting, but nowhere near ready yet.

Overall, I feel like I’m finally past the frustrating first stages of “I HAVE SO MUCH TO LEARN AND NOTHING IS GROWING RIGHT!!” and am now able to put to use what I’ve discovered about organic desert gardening, and I look forward to an ever more-fruitful garden.

Fire Point (including my fave pic of all the vacation)

In our ten days in the vicinity of the Grand Canyon, we spent less than half the time on the grounds of the National Park, proper.  The rest of the time, we toodled around on the roads north of the park, often right up to the rim, but actually in the Kaibab National Forest.  I learned a couple of things:

• It is really helpful to have a resident with you.  Since my mother-in-law works at the Kaibab Lodge, she had a resident pass.  No $25 fee to enter the GCNP!
• Surprisingly, the National Forest system maintains its dirt roads a LOT — I mean a LOT!! — better than the National Park system.  The paved roads in the GCNP (like to the lodge itself, and the paved roads out to Cape Royal and Point Imperial, etc.) were fine.  But, the minute your vehicle’s tires touch dirt that is part of the park, it’ll be a bumpy ride.  The dirt roads of the National Forest are regularly graded, graveled, cleared of debris, etc.  I found the contrast interesting.  Seems like the National Forest and the National Park systems could come up with some sort of agreement to maintain roads together.

On Saturday, July 2nd, our last viewpoint for the day was called Fire Point.  We took the forest road 223 west, and about a half mile from the end, one actually enters the property of the Grand Canyon National Park.  So, we went from smooth sailing to a pot-holed, ill-maintained ride.  It was worth it, though.  Fire Point is supposed to be one of the best places to see a sunset.  Unlike some of the other viewpoints, Fire Point isn’t actually a peninsula jutting out like a thumb of land into the Canyon.  It’s just a west-facing point that looks out over where the Colorado River takes a curve so that it’s going from north to south.  Because the orientation of the land, it’s a great place to see the sun set as it drops over the Canyon.  Since the day was cloudless, the sunset wasn’t spectacular, but it was still very worth seeing…  It’s just that on subsequent partially cloudy evenings, when the sky was lit up in pinks, purples, and golds, I kept thinking, “This would be amazing out at Fire Point.”  Makes me wanna go back. 

 

Going...

Going...

Going...

Gone!

My fave pic. Audrey and Wesley. I love the love and comradery in this pic, with the setting sun adding a soft glow... Wes and Audrey watch the sunset together, sitting on a little ledge/outcrop by themselves. I rather had vision of all of the fam watching the sun go down, together, but the two of them were so enjoying each other's company that I couldn't call them over to where the rest of us were.

 

 

Camping at the North Rim (and NOT California)

I have so much to post about, I feel a wee bit overwhelmed.  I’m the sort who likes to do it right or not do it at all, and that, frankly, is not an entirely helpful outlook on life, because too many times, I assess a situation, big or small, and predetermine that I won’t be able to do it right or well, or excel in it, so I don’t even start.  How this affects blogging is that I know that, in the past, I’ve posted part one of what is supposed to be a fabulous series, and then it ends with part one;  I just never get back to the rest of it.  So, here I’m faced with a mass amount of information and pictures I want to share, knowing I can’t do it all in one sitting, but unsure of my ability/availability to do a proper series.

~sigh~

Thus ends the Therapy and Disclaimers Section of this blog post.

On to the real thing, which is hopefully part one of several.

We just got back from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, where we camped at the De Motte Campground on USFS land, just north of the North Rim, for nine nights.  That wasn’t quite our initial plan;  we were going to go to Limekiln State Park in the Big Sur area of California’s Central Coast, as well.  But, we had truck trouble.  It turned out to be REALLY minor, but at the time, we weren’t sure what was going on with our vehicle, and didn’t want to risk driving across the Mojave Desert with an unreliable vehicle.

On Saturday, July 2nd, we took the beautiful but arduous drive to Point Sublime — an 18 mile trip that took a full two hours to drive, due to the really rough roads.  It was gorgeous.  But, on the way back, the truck kept losing power…  With a lot of help from a Samaritan camper named Don from Kamloops, British Columbia, and a number of the employees of the Kaibab Lodge, my husband Martin narrowed the problem down to the catalytic converter.  The frustrating part with that was that we had JUST gotten that part replaced before our trip.  All the advisers suggested that Martin beat the bejeebers out of the catalytic converter with a rubber mallet in order to break up the honeycomb material inside, so that the exhaust would pass through unhindered — essentially rendering it useless as a filtering system but theoretically enabling us to drive.  Well, as he pounded, Martin heard a “ting! ting! ting!” and it turned out that a little plug, which had been spot-welded in place, had come loose.  This plug took the place of where a second sensor would be, if we had a larger vehicle.  In other words, it was a completely vestigial part of the truck.  But, because it was loose, the engine wouldn’t work.  Martin borrowed an Allen wrench (metric!  Since when are domestic vehicles using metric sizing??) and tightened up the plug.  Because of Sunday (when small towns are shut down) and Monday (the 4th of July), we had to wait until Tuesday to drive into Kanab, Utah, which was a 67-mile jaunt to the closest reliable vehicle repair shop.  They ran a diagnostic, discovered that our catalytic converter was working admirably (despite the beating it had undergone), but that, indeed, the plug needed attention.  They spent about two minutes welding it back into place, and sent us on our merry way.

Thus ends the Car Trouble Section of this post.

We plan on going to Limekiln next summer, and staying longer, to make up for my disappointment.  I’m mostly OK with the deferment, but trying to explain “next summer” to a 5 year-old girl doesn’t work;  you may as well tell her she’s going to have to wait until she’s 70.  Still, everyone handled the hiccup in our plans mostly with grace.

My mother-in-law works at the Kaibab Lodge, which is in the Kaibab National Forest, directly adjacent to the De Motte Campground, so we got to spend LOTS of time with her, which was wonderful.  Plus, the kids got to stay overnight in her RV many nights, instead of our tent, which was enjoyed by grandma and grandkids alike.

Most of the places we went were off of back roads.  The North Rim, due to its remote access, has only 1/10 of the number of people who visit the South Rim.  Due to our hermit-like natures (Not really.  Well, not entirely.), we decided to hit all the dirt roads and byways…  Most spots we visited had only one or two other vehicles present, if any.  Armed with a stupid-expensive Kaibab Forest map and 4WD, in one day, we visited Parissawampitts Point, Crazy Jug Point, North Timp Point, Timp Point, Locust Point, and ended the day with a sunset over Fire Point.  All that, and we didn’t feel rushed, and didn’t feel that we had had quite enough of the Canyon.  It’s so majestic, so splendid, so… grand… that each new view affords something dynamic and beautiful in a unique way.  Each spot, except for Fire Point, requires a wee bit of hiking — from a couple of hundred feet, to a quarter mile or so.

My faves were Crazy Jug and Fire Point.

In each pic, even if it appears that my children are about to topple off of the edge, and you’re questioning my motherhood responsibility, please know that all (or almost all) of the point overlooks have multiple “layers”, so if anyone would have dropped over the edge, they would have fallen only three feet, or perhaps five.  I didn’t let anyone get too close to anything that would have led to their death.    Still, these backroads views are WAY better than the ones available off of the paved roads, with possible exception of Point Imperial.

Still, my favorite part of the whole trip was not actually at the Grand Canyon proper.  More on that later.  I hope.

Audrey, delighting in the abundance of Sego Lilies. And, since we were in the Kaibab Forest here, and not actually in Grand Canyon National Park, it was not illegal to pick them. So there. Pick away, Audrey!! Our picnic table was continually graced with Sego Lilies, Indian Paintbrush, various daisy-type flowers on unknown variety, lupines... Lovely.

 

Ethan, contemplating the vast view from Crazy Jug viewpoint.

 

Ethan, Grandma Detta, Audrey, and Grant at Crazy Jug

Fiala and me at Crazy Jug Point.

My handsome hubby and his mom, at Crazy Jug.

The view from... either Timp Point or North Timp Point. When you're there, you think you're never forget where *this* view was taken... but when one is faced with 430 pics from a camping trip, the certainty is reduced to pretty much nothing.

Sweet Fi at Timp Point

Audrey, at Locust Point (I think). You may be wishing for more scenic pics and fewer of my children. But, a) I think my kids are darling, and b) my camera isn't of such magnificent quality to catch the depth, beauty, and color of the Canyon, and c) the days were just a tad hazy, so all the long view shots are a bit disappointing.

Ethan, contemplative again, at Locust Point. It's the hat. His hat led to a lot of rear-view "Contemplative Young Man" shots.

Many of the trails at the various points were similar to this: Brushy and flower-strewn, which then opened up to a grand view. There's such a variety of flora at the North Rim -- It's high in elevation (around 8,000 feet), with a fair bit of rain, so much of it is alpine -- with aspens and fir, but some of the points are so windy and exposed, and the soil is so poor, the landscape and plants are more desert-like. Quite amazing.

This shot was Ethan's idea. Again with the hat. In shadow.

Martin, holding Audrey, looking off into the hazy beauty. We found out later that the wisp of smoke we saw to the left of us (the east) in this picture developed into a full-blown fire. Last I heard, it was "only" 12 acres... Hope they got that under control...

And that’s it, for now.  Out of time.  Hope you enjoyed.    Next up:  Sunset at Fire Point.

 

Wistful: Children’s books vs. Reality

Sometimes, I wonder what God has in mind for me, since He gave me a heart to love the things I do, which are in mighty short supply in the desert:  water, flora, and fauna.

There is life here in the Sonoran Desert.  There are animals, a few.  And there are plants, hardy and prickly though they may be.  But there sure isn’t much water.

I’ve always longed for greener pastures, literally.

But, God gave me a husband who is a native of this hot, dry, brown Valley of the Sun, and I’ve adjusted my expectations of what might be lying just around the corner, waiting for me.

Acadia National Park is not.  Nor the Oregon coast.  Not even the Mississippi bluff area of western Illinois, where my maternal grandparents had their farm, and — which I recently heard with a yelp of joy — which my Uncle Allyn is farming a bit of, again, with his recovering health.

There are days as I look out at the landscape of 100+ days of 100°+  when I am tempted to despair, and my heart just longs for cooler, greener climes.

So, I pull out a picture book and read to one of my little girls.

Today, my oldest nephew’s girlfriend and I were having a mostly-joking Facebook conversation about her moving (or the two of us taking a road trip) to Maine.  She was up for just about anywhere on the upper reaches of the northeastern United States, but I steered her to Maine.

In this Caldecott Honor book, three- or four-year-old Sal picks blueberries with her mother and gets "all mixed up" with a mother bear and cub eating blueberries of their own.

In my possession, since before any of my children could read, have been three hardcovers, each of which I have loved since my own childhood.  Blueberries for Sal, One Morning in Maine, and Time of Wonder, each written and illustrated by Robert McCloskey.  I freely admit that I can never refuse a sturdy two-year-old toddling with binky inserted, trailing her blankie, barely grasping a picture book, half her size, who pipes up with the hopeful query, “Mowneen i’ Maine??”

For those of you unfamiliar, please check out the books from your local library, or buy them.  Now.  Please.

Also a Caldecott Honor. In which 6yo Sal wishes upon a feather (instead of her first lost tooth, which fell into the muddy pebbles, digging clams with her father) and travels to quaint Buck's Harbor for groceries and the wish-fulfilling cone with her 2yo sister, Jane, and their father.

The books show the progression of the author’s family in the 1950s (when they were written) which spent summers in Maine.  They have beautiful illustrations and apt prose, which shows exactly how adept McCloskey was at thinking with a child’s mind, and seeing with a child’s eyes.

After the Facebook conversation, I read Time of Wonder to Fiala, before her nap.  Looked at the pictures, more than actually read, as Time of Wonder, the Caldecott Medal winner for 1957,  is told in second person, and has a more “grown up” prose than the first two books about Sal and Jane.  It shows both girls, aged about 12 and 8, “manning” their own rowboat and small sailboat (sans life jackets), jumping from rocks along the cove with a bevvy of other children, and weathering a hurricane with their parents, partly by sing-shouting The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

The book mentions several specific place names, which — as I have done on several other occasions — I Googled, to find their location on a map, and pictures as lovely as the illustrations in the book.  And — yet again — I longed for a visit to Acadia National Park, which is in the same exact area as the setting for the trio of McCloskey books.  This time, I found myself especially taken with the sites at Duck Harbor Campground on the minuscule Isle au Hait, described as rugged, remote, inaccessible to automobiles, primitive…  combined with 18 miles of hiking trails, it seems like my kind of place, exactly.  McCloskey’s, too. 

Out of curiosity, as I read

…through the fog you hear Harry Smith over at Blastow’s Cove start the engine of his lobster boat and go out to pull his traps.

I wondered if Harry Smith was a real man.  He was.  I found myself sad to read that one Harry Smith, of Little Deer Island, Maine, was buried in the Blastow’s Cove Cemetery in 1957.  It must have been not long after Time of Wonder was published.

Otter Cliff, Acadia NP

I found myself also remembering the incomparable Calico Bush, whose author, Rachel Field, often wrote poetry, apparent in her Newbery Honor prose.  Calico Bush is set off of the coast of Mount Desert Island, which is home to most of Acadia National Park.

Wait.

Suddenly, this sounds very familiar.

[I do a little search on my own blog and come up with THIS POST from February of 2010.]

Sigh.

My memory is short, but at least I’m consistent, eh?

Dorr Mountain Trail, Acadia NP

I guess my point of this point — similar to the last one on the very same subject — is how I just don’t know how to sort all of these thoughts.  I mean, I know that allowing myself to indulge in discontentment is dangerous.  Letting it sit and percolate in my mind is unwise;  I can easily become really unhappy about just about anything, any situation, and anyone in my life if I allow myself to go there.  So, I don’t.  I don’t live in Maine, and can’t conceive of anything that would lead us to Maine, and I think it would 100% be a fruitless and frustrating endeavor to try to figure out how we could or why we don’t have a summer house on a private island in Maine, like McCloskey’s family did.

Precipice Trail, Acadia NP

But, on the other hand… my Father God created me with a love for that particular kind of beauty, and a wistful longing for that sort of slowed-down, simple life, living in community, surrounded with an achingly beautiful piece of His creation.  Did He do that for nothing?  I mean, did He make my heart to love that so, for no purpose, or just to teach me the Godly discipline of not allowing myself to become frustrated and discontented?  Possibly, but I don’t think so.  I hope not.

Last year about this time, I was dreaming of taking a trip there, someday soon, paid for by the thousands of dollars I’d make, writing.  I have made some, but, golly!  In order to MAKE money writing, you have to have the TIME to devote to it, and fit into someone else’s agenda.  That part was less successful.  I’ve had a few other offers for employment in writing, but it’s just not fair to any perspective client to hire me, then to have me perpetually be unavailable, even if that makes any Maine trip tarry.

My hubby works with a guy, though, who has a house in Maine…  Hmm…  Maybe I should find out where, exactly, that house is…  Thinking, thinking…  I don’t think my hubby would consider that appropriate.  I’m sure he’s right.

One way, though, or another…  but it has to be the right way, in the right time.  I *KNOW* that;  it’s just hard to adjust my thoughts on the matter, especially as these visions dance in my head.

Sigh.

Summer panic… and peace

Right about this time every year, there gets to be a tight feeling in my chest, which I have to fight for… oh, about five months.  It’s a bit like claustrophobia, but it’s more along the lines of heat-o-phobia.  Truly, I despise summer in the desert.  Some people really love the heat and thrive in it.  That, however, is not me.  I have worked hard to find things to appreciate about the place I live so that I’m not living with a crappy attitude and wishing to be elsewhere, half of my life.  My husband is a native, his dad is a native (which is REALLY rare;  the Phoenix area is a valley of transients)…  My mom and stepdad are here, my sister and brother-in-law are here, my niece is here… plus, we truly have the most amazing church where we both serve and are fed.  Not to mention my husband’s fabulous job that he’s been at for 19 years.  It’s highly unlikely that we’ll be leaving any time soon.  I have come to value the benefits to living here, apart from the weather, which, any time I really let myself think about it, I could pretty easily conjure up some tears.  I mean, I really despise summer in the desert.

But, I will not dwell on the endless 110°+ days;  I will, instead, continue to look for things that make the desert tolerable or even pleasant, and fight the heat-o-phobia and its accompanying tears which threaten to steal my peace.

Several things have made the transition into summer easier for me this year:

1. There have only been a handful of 100° days so far.  Today, as I write, we have been the beneficiary of some low-pressure front, or something like that, and the temps are supposed to top out in the 70s.  Yesterday’s high was 80°.  I know that God doesn’t allow these sort of days solely for me, but I like to think of them as Him giving me a bit of hope and reprieve, letting me know that I can make it, and that it’s not ALL oven-like misery.
2. I have been waking earlier.  Much earlier.  A couple of weeks ago, I started hiking a mountain — hill, more like it — that is nearby.  I wake at 5:30 a.m., am on the trail by 6:00, and home by about 7:15 just in time to help my hubby gather his lunch for the day, his to-go mug of coffee, and to kiss him goodbye.  The first day I did the early-morning hike, Martin said, “You could do that every day and it would be OK with me.”  Other than a spunky 2yo who sometimes wakes way too early and won’t stay in bed, and has the power to open the fridge and take out everything she can’t eat and have a surreptitious binge whilst Daddy is in the shower and Mommy is not yet home, it works really well.  And, I have the great feeling of becoming fit and healthier, as well as breathing in the cool, early morning air and being there to (almost) greet the sunrise.  I do a balloon-shaped trail that is about 3.6 miles, savoring the temperatures that are in the 60s or 70s…  It has been wonderful.  And, somehow, it’s SO MUCH EASIER for this night owl to roll out of bed at 5:30 for a hike, instead of, say, the stationary bike.
3. 

   I think ours is taller than this, and it's in bloom.

   Our backyard is now over five years old, and the pathetic little saplings have matured and grown into a lush (for the desert) green oasis.  This may not seem like much, but when I’m surrounded by hot, brown, and dry, it’s such a blessing to be able to walk into my back yard and breathe in a little bit o’ GREEN.  The trees are now climbable, and one of them even has a little rope swing attached.  We have two medium (but lovely) fruitless pistachio trees and two large tipu trees.  Wonderful.

4. My garden.  Again, it’s only May, and I got it in a good month later than I should have, so who knows how fruitful it will actually be.  But for now, it’s medicine to my soul to push the dirt around and coax and nurture little plants into being.  Usually once a day (at least), I pull out my kneeling pad and just sit on it, looking at the garden.  Even when there’s nothing to do in it, I feel good looking at it either up close, or just glancing out the window while working in the kitchen.  Over the weekend, my hubby installed soaker tube for the irrigation and put up a little wire fence to keep our dog (and small children) from romping through the tender growth.  He proclaimed, “Now it looks like a real garden.”  I concur.

It has sprung, in the Sonoran Desert.

This last week, the acacias started blooming.  For me, that’s always the mark of springtime.

Here in the Sonoran Desert, the three major flowering trees are the sweet acacia, the palo verde, and the ironwood.  They bloom in that order:  sweet acacias in late February or early March, palo verdes in March-April or so, and ironwoods in late April or early May, usually.  Acacia blooms are dark orangey-yellow little ½” puffballs, and have a very distinct, cloying, powerful scent.  Palo verde blooms are usually (depending on the variety) bright, bright yellow, blanketing the entire tree with delicate flowers.  Ironwoods are more subtle, a very light lavender color, among the grey-green leaves.  Neither palo verdes nor ironwoods have much scent.

acacia farnesiana

acacia farnesiana, seed pod and bloom

I cannot stand the scent of the acacia.  Ugh.  When I was a kid, my mom took my sibs and I, weekly, to the Phoenix Library.  Each branch of the library is named after a native plant.  We usually went to the Acacia Library.  In the springtime, I remember taking a giant gulp of air while still in the car, then sprinting up the acacia-lined path to the entrance while holding my breath, to avoid smelling the nearly unavoidable fragrance.

The palo verdes to be found around the Phoenix area are typically either the Blue Palo Verde, parkinsonia florida (which is NOT native to Florida), or the Mexican Palo Verde, parkinsonia aculeata.

parkinsonia florida bloom, close-up (beautiful!)

parkinsonia florida

I didn’t know until now that the palo verde is an invasive species in many places, worldwide, especially Australia.  I was about to post something preachy about landscaping with only native species, but remembered that, while my front yard has only native plants, my backyard has several non-natives, including the Australian tipu tree.

Anyway.

My fave desert tree is, by far, the desert ironwood, olneya tesota.  Part of it is just because I like purple;  so many native plants around here bloom yellow and only yellow.  Part of its appeal is just because I like the shape of the tree.  And, I think it’s cool that the wood is so beautiful, often burled and two-toned,  not that I think one should go around chopping down ironwood trees.  The wood is so dense that it will sink in water.

A couple of years ago, I looked into visiting the Ironwood Forest National Monument, established by Clinton only days before he left office.  There wasn’t much info on it, especially on the hiking trails I sought, so I called the Tucson field office of the BLM, which administers it.  Well, it turns out that the Ironwood National Monument is a MAJOR illegal immigration corridor, and I was vehemently advised to stay away, especially as I had small children.  Golly.  The field officer blamed the situation Clinton, who had established the monument, but had given no funds for its development or protection.  Hm.  I still want to go, but maybe we’ll wait a few years.

Braces, blogging about teen children, writing, reading, worship, and the Arizona “beach”

• My oldest, Ethan, just had a lunch that consisted of refried beans with cheese melted on them, and a glass of milk.  What the rest of us were eating (which included, among other things, baby carrots) didn’t work.  Duh.  I’ll have to get used to considering the Sore Mouth Factor when figuring out meals for him/us.  He got bands placed between his molars this morning, in preparation for the first of his braces, which will be put on in about two weeks.
• Speaking of Ethan…  A few years ago, I was wondering why I wasn’t getting more great parenting stories, ideas, and tips from those of my bloggy friends who have children a few years older than mine.  “Why isn’t anyone writing about those tumultuous teen years??“  Well, I figured it out.  At nearly 14, my son is now a… sentient being.  The smaller a child is, the more freely you can talk about personal issues:  An 18 month old isn’t going to get her feelings hurt that you divulged mothering struggles to your friends.  (Or strangers, as the case may be, in a blog.)  Your 13 year old?  Definitely.  So, I’ve learned that I can say virtually nothing about my son online, because I want to honor his privacy.  He’s wonderful, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. 
• And, where have I been the last month or so?  Working hard on ghostwriting.  More info on that, coming soon. 
• In my head, I keep composing a post on how vastly different I look with makeup vs. without it, and various thoughts on painting the barn when it needs painting.  Maybe I’ll get around to it some day…
• I’ve been reading a lot!  Lately, I’ve been working through Laurie R. King’s Mary Russell series, which is a curious mixture of historical fiction, literary mystery, Biblical scholarship, and feminism.  Very interesting.  When reading any series, I simply must go chronologically, so I’m on the 5th book in the series currently, O Jerusalem.
• I have a job!  I mean, I’m re-employed!  Or, something…  I’m happy that, this week, I start leading small group worship again.  There was some shifting in small groups, and I was out of a “job” for about six or seven weeks.  It felt like a long time, but it was good to go to a small group and “just” be a participant.
• Homeschooling 101:  You can take trips on a school day to just about anywhere and call it a field trip.    I took my kids last Friday to the Santa Maria River.  My mother-in-law came with, which was great;  she’s a perfect road-trip partner.  The kids did so well for the eight hours we were gone, other than the first three miles of the trip.  After listening to about five minutes of continuous bickering, I risked my MIL’s esteem by pulling over to the side of the road to chew everyone out.  Chewing out the kids, that is.  Not her.  On the way out*, we took a scenic route, partially by (well-maintained) dirt road, which is probably my favorite or second-favorite Arizona drive**.  On the way back, we took all blacktops, which took two hours and saved us 30 minutes, even though, mileage-wise, it was slightly longer.  The river is NW of Wickenburg, and when there’s adequate water, it’s about as close as we get to the beach, here in Arizona.  The water does not run all the time, so I get USGS alerts for when the water is 10 cubic feet per second or greater.  The pics below were when the water was at about 60 cfps.  We played in an area just where the AZ 96 (my fave road in all of AZ) crosses the river, about 15 miles SE of Bagdad.  The temps were in the high 70s, with a strong sun and cool breezes.  It was perfect.

I have some better pics, too, but everything I post here needs to be 100% modest and fully-clad, so those are a no-go for the blogosphere. 

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*The route we took OUT was Carefree Hwy (AZ 74) west to US 60.  US 60 northwest for only six miles to the point where it meets up with the US 93.  US 93 NW to AZ 89.  AZ 89 north-ish to Date Creek Road, which is 20+ miles of scenic and hilly dirt road.  Then, AZ 96 west to the point where it crosses the Santa Maria.  The route we took BACK was AZ 96 about 10 miles further west (bypassing, incidentally, my beloved Santa Maria River road, another extremely scenic dirt drive, because I was outvoted by my children).  Then, traveled SW sixteen miles on two-lane hilly, beautiful, remote blacktop of the AZ 97.  Then, SE on the US 93, which meets back up with the US 60, then back home.

**My all-time favorite Arizona drive is likely the long, ∩-shaped drive to get to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, which follows the high desert and Navajo Reservation along the US 89 and US 89A (at the point north of where it intersects with the US 160), along the stunning Echo Cliffs and Vermilion Cliffs, then climbs rapidly up to the Kaibab Plateau and the AZ 69, which goes south along verdant, alpine meadow lush with wildlife (deer and bison).  Unparalleled, and remote enough to be sparsely populated, which is just how I like it.

Where do you get the time to…?

I’ve heard it said that you will find the time for the things you value.  I semi-agree.

Someone asked me, “Where do you find the time to read all those books?” after my recent post on reading.  The answer is a little complicated, and I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of days.

First, I have value for a WHOLE LOT of things that I cannot “find” time for, in part because my time is not wholly my own.  I have a family to attend to, and I’d be abhorrently irresponsible, remiss in my duties if I simply set about my life seeking “me time” (I hate that term, by the way).  I can’t just set off on a stroll through the woods, alongside a meandering creek, binoculars around my neck, and my Sibley guide in hand, just because I want to.  I could find the time, but if I did that, who would watch the kids?  Who would teach them?  Who would do their laundry?  Or make dinner?  Would my husband still be happy in our marriage?  Would I still be able to serve the Body of Christ, and my particular church body, with leading worship in small group?  For the children’s church?  Would I be able to say, “Yes!” to the various church-related printed matter that gets sent my way for editing?  Would I be able to contribute a wee bit to our family’s finances — by writing — if I was always pursuing the things that make only me happy?

So, sometimes, it’s a matter of priorities.  There are many things I value and would adore to spend more time doing, but other responsibilities trump them.  And, there are some things that I absolutely adore, but if I do them, the activity devoted to them precludes my availability to do something else.  You can’t always get what you want, even if what you want is a good thing.

For me, I have struggled long and hard with not being such an idealist.  Being an “idealist” may sound lovely, but if you’re an idealist of my tendencies, it’s not so great.  I spend too much effort pining for “If only…” and “I remember when…” and that’s truly not helpful.  In years past, and to some extent, even now, I can easily become immobilized by my idealism.  I know the best way, the right way;  I remember when the situation for “x” pursuit was much more ideal;  I see, way too easily, the roadblocks that present themselves, rendering a situation much less-than-ideal.  I wish for things to be much better than they are, rather than attacking what’s on my plate right now.   Thus, I do nothing, rather than doing it halfway.

And, that brings up another point.  I love my mother so dearly, but something that has long frustrated me about her outlook on life, is that she looks at her plate, and with a resigned sigh, remarks, in the Christian way of how she’s fated to eat everything on it, “Well, I guess that’s just what God has given to me, and I need to be thankful for this, and deal with it.”  That can be GREAT, in some instances:  She always makes the best out of what she has.  But, on the other hand, I’ve seen her eat things on her plate that really should be relegated to the garbage bin.  Metaphorically, of course.  Well, not even metaphorically!  I grew up thinking mothers liked burnt toast.

I don’t know if this is tracking, but what I’m trying to do is find the balance between taking everything in life as it presents itself –the good and the bad — and the idealism that can envision a much, much, much better present, as well as future.

Idealism can also lead me to a dark place of discontentment.  Instead of “self help” or “inspirational” books (or people) inspiring me, they almost invariably seem to bring to me to a painful realization of how not great something is in my life, how not great I am, how less-than-ideal I am.  And, rather than that bringing my thoughts to a loftier place of aiming for what’s better, it discourages me about where I currently am.

Though, sometimes, discouraged or not, I know I have to pull up my boots with those proverbial bootstraps and change.  But, that’s another topic.  Sort of.

Into all of the semi-confusion above enters my love of books, though the same could be said for MANY pursuits I have enjoyed (and continue to enjoy, at a now-modified pace):  playing guitar; hiking (or just walking); writing; birding; spending time with friends — especially conversing, one on one, in the dim corner of a small coffee shop; listening to music (recorded or live); having devotional time with my Savior, et al.

When I was a child, I was a voracious reader.  VORACIOUS.  I read just about everything I could get my hands on, which was usually at least a book per day.  My mom took us to the library weekly, and our limit, per child, per trip, was six books.  I always finished mine, almost always before the date arrived for our next trip, and usually helped myself to my older brother’s stack…  That stuck with me through my college years, and into the time before I was married.

After marriage — though this sounds ridiculous — one of the toughest things I had to adjust to was my new lack of time for reading.  I was used to curling up, virtually every evening, with my current novel.  My hubby watched TV in the evening.  I was aghast.

Add that to my new responsibilities of keeping house and treading the tumultuous waters of a new marriage, so books went out the window.  When I was pregnant with my firstborn, and not working, I read more books during that time than I had in the previous two years of my marriage.  After that, babies took over.

It wasn’t really until about four years ago when I started reading again, in earnest.  In other words, I spent a good eight nor nine years saying to myself, “Well, I guess I just can’t read.”  Because of my habit and preference, in my mind, I had to have chunks of uninterrupted time during which I could devote all of my attention to the tome in my hands. I didn’t have multiple hours of spare “me” time.  Thus, I read very little during that era.  Any reading I was able to accomplish was done with a chip on my shoulder, about how much I “couldn’t” read.  I satisfied myself with the many delightful children’s and young adult books I read to and with my children, whilst homeschooling.  There have been MANY good books we’ve discovered as read-alouds, but I almost never read books of my own choosing, for my own pleasure or benefit.

The book that started my reintroduction to reading

It wasn’t until my dear friend Kathy invited me to attend a book club hosted by a friend of hers, way across the Valley, whose “assignment” was Alexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.  I so enjoyed that book, my time with Kathy during our drive, the book club itself (though that was my lone foray into that particular group), the rediscovery of reading…  Well, that experience generated a new pursuit:  figuring out how I could squeeze the rest of McCall Smith’s books into my brain, by hook or by crook.  Well, not by any means.  But, I was delighted to discover that, while I still could not plop myself down into a comfy spot for hours on end, delving deeply into the novel, abandoning all else, what I could do was:

• Pick up a book while nursing my baby, instead of flicking on the TV.
• Read a chapter or two after everyone else had gone to bed.
• Bring a book to a doctor appointment, rather than planning on reading the magazines on hand.
• Bring a book to a child’s sports practice.
• Bring a book to read while my children were at the park.
• Read a bit while sitting on the closed toilet, keeping my youngest company while s/he bathed.
• Reward myself with a short time of reading when the to-do list had been successfully tackled, in those few minutes remaining before I started dinner.
• Even bring a book into the bathroom (something I had NEVER done, previously).

In other words, rather than just say, “I’ll never get two, three, four hours straight in order to really read,” I discovered that could say, “Well, here’s ten or twenty minutes into which I can squeeze a chapter.”

So, rather than consuming a book in a day or two, I now savor it a sip or two at a time, taking usually between one and three weeks to complete a book.  In that manner, I am able to get 25-ish books completed, yearly, that would previously have gone unread, because of my “inability” — my lack of time — to read.

I’ve always had a value for reading, but I had to toss out the ideal — my experience, habit, and preference — in order to find a new way to accommodate a book or twenty-five.

And that is how a woman, wife to her husband of 17 years, and a homeschooling mother of five, who makes dinner from scratch nearly every night of the year, whose home is tolerably clean, and who has multiple responsibilities at church, and some dear friends, finds time to read.