Summer Rules #4--Gather and Be Gathered

As a corollary to rule #3: eat outside as often as you can, we've been eating an awful lot of food that we picked, grew or otherwise harvested ourselves. For awhile cucumbers were the abundant crop, and we had sliced cucumbers at every meal, along with cucumber juice--so refreshing on those hot days!--and even cucumber sorbet. Then we moved on to green beans--and I tell you, there is nothing like hunting for green beans from inside the teepee to turn your children into green bean fiends (unless it's the honey mustard dip served alongside). And now--it's all tomatoes, all the time. We still haven't convinced either child to actually like eating them, even when spread with mayo, which we thought would surely do the job. But fortunately that doesn't hinder their love of picking them, which is good because I've got big canning plans.

And more than once this summer, while outside harvesting, or tending, or picking off Japanese beetles, or simply trying to understand this particular plot of land and its soil and its sunshine, we've experienced another great gift of living in this place, close to both I-80 and I-90--the gift of being on the way. You see, people drive through here. And when people are driving, they need food. And beds. It hasn't always been convenient, and we sometimes had to shuffle things a bit, but this is when we become so thankful for our daughter's (middle) namesake, Ruth, and what she taught us about hospitality and generosity and remembering what is important. It's a great gift, to be on the way, even when we're not the ones going anywhere. We don't always get it right, and sometimes I may grumble a bit that I had plans, plans to do something important. But lucky for us, the people come anyway, and there is food and laughter and stories and as we gather, we are gathered. We are gathered into the great heart of God, a heart that is ever-loving, ever-serving, ever-open. "He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." Colossians 1:17.

Summer Rules #1: Seek the Water

Well, once again, here's my annual end-of-summer "Gosh I didn't post much" and "I hope I remember my log in" blog post. (See here, here, and here). And it really does feel like the end of summer, though there are still eight days of August left, and ten days until Labor Day. Ten days--that's plenty of time to soak up a bit more summer goodness before turning our hearts towards all the glories of fall. So here's the deal. There are some principles we followed this summer that made our travels and adventures particularly good, and I'm hoping to keep those principles alive even while settling into normal routines here at home. I'll post them sporadically over the next few days, hopefully finishing before Labor Day. Deal? Deal.

Summer Rules #1--Seek the Water.
Water--in any and all forms possible: watering pitchers, hoses, sprinklers, swimming pools, and lakes. Our close-to-home, affectionately-named Mud Lake, the pounding and cold Lake Erie, the even more pounding and cold Lake Superior, the quiet, suburban Prior Lake and back-roads-Wisconsin Lake Prinel. In a summer where much of the country experienced drought, we felt lucky to have so much water in our lives, and lucky that our kids love it so much. It was wonderful to watch a non-swimmer become comfortable going under, jumping in, diving down, gliding and almost--almost!--floating. And it was scary to watch a much younger non-swimmer attempt to do everything her brother did, notwithstanding the size differences between them!
Water-life--such a natural part of summer--and as such, a daily reminder of our calling to live "wet": to live as one who is baptized, one who has been "plunged into the entire Biblical story" of God's gracious love and redemption (Daniel Erlander, Let the Children Come). Let us seek the water.

for the littles

I have to admit that one of the fun things about having a girl is dressing her. Is that sexist of me? It was pretty fun to dress Finn too, actually, though I didn't talk about it as much. But even better than the actual dressing is the making ... baby clothes are just so darn satisfying! Really now, if you have even an inkling of a desire to sew or knit but are intimidated by the whole thing, find yourself a baby who needs something. Simply by virtue of being small, baby clothes are quick and don't take too much material ... which is good, seeing as how they only fit such a short time.

Anyway, I always feel a little shy about showing the things I make here, mainly because it just feels like I'm showing off and who else really cares what over-the-top cuteness I'm sewing for my kids anyway? But since this is as much a record for me of our family's life as it is anything else, I will be shy no longer.
That dress up there, frivolous and unnecessary as it may be for a baby girl who has more clothes than I do (the virtue of having older girl cousins), feels particularly frugal to me since both fabrics came from the stash, as did the piping. The piping actually came from my mom's stash. How frugal is that? Of course, I conveniently ignore the fact that even though the fabrics came from the stash, they were still purchased initially ... although both were from Hong Kong, where fabric is cheap and the time to buy something you like is always now, whether you have a pattern or use in mind or not.

And can you believe the design on that label? What piping would have such design today? The dress pattern is just a copy from a dress she has, and it's a little big, but the idea is that she can wear it as a sundress this summer.

Of course, another reason why I don't post these things very often is that getting a good picture of clothing on children is nigh impossible. I don't feel like my kids are particularly active, but boy, they never do stop moving. Anyway, Finn, not having older boy cousins, isn't nearly as flush with clothing as his sister is, and actually needed some new pants. These were also a trace, made with some lovely bright green flannel that I bought to line his Christmas robe but ended up not using. And I made them extra-long, hoping they might even last until next year. Is that crazy?

And lastly, the handknits ... those striped legwarmers and pixie hat have been worn nearly every day this winter. It's cold down on that floor ... and though she's not crawling very much any more, those little legs still have needed some extra warmth. The pattern is here, and I knit them up in Knitpick's felici sport self-striping yarn. It was a rush, I remember, just barely making it into the stocking at Christmas. But as I said earlier, baby clothes are good like that. Though I have to admit I could very much go for a matching pair for myself, which would take quite a bit longer, I presume. And that adorable pixie hat is my new favorite--essentially just a rectangle, folded and sewn up the back, but oh-so-cute and functional, keeping those ears toasty warm (I used Cascade 128 chunky.)

Making something by hand always feels good, whether it's a halloween costume or a batch of cookies or even fresh orange juice, Finn's feel good accomplishment of the day: "It's my first time making orange juice. I've never done this before!" And while I, of course, have an inclination towards food as my way of loving this little family of mine, there is something about clothing that runs deep as well. Maybe it's all the clothes my mom made for me, all the Easter dresses and Christmas dresses and trips to the fabric store to pick out patterns. Or maybe it's just the dailiness of it, the utter practicality and need of warmth, of coverage. In that way, I suppose, feeding and dressing aren't so far apart--absolutely necessary, both of them. And easy to meet in the simplest of ways (pancakes for supper anyone? At least for Shrove Tuesday we could consider it traditional, not lazy!) but so, so satisfying to add just a little extra: to applique an "F" on a hand-me-down t-shirt, to make a surprise dessert, to add some piping to a simple dress, to put flowers on the table. It's not essential, but it gladdens hearts all the way around. And that, my friends, is worth it.

a confession

At the beginning of fall, my sweet son and I were looking to order some rain pants for this wet wet climate we seem to have moved to. I asked him what color he wanted, reading off the colors on the screen: yellow, red, blue or black. He, however, was actually looking at the screen and saw the one color I had neglected to mention: pink. "Pink!" he said. "I want pink!"
So I did what any well-meaning, modern, liberal mama would do, and gently steered him away.
"Pink, huh?" (keeping my voice very neutral) "Hmmm. You know, if you got yellow, it would match your raincoat."
"Ok, yellow. Let's get yellow!"
Phew. "Yellow, yellow is great!"
We got yellow.

The yellow is bright and cheerful, and it does match his raincoat, but I have felt a little guilty ever since that I steered him away from his first choice. Why not pink? Of course we know why not, we know the risk he runs in getting teased, we can imagine the raised eyebrows from even other adults. There's a group of kids who wait for the bus on our street, and though they aren't particularly mean, they loudly comment on anything Finn is doing/wearing/riding as we pass on our way to preschool. I know they would have plenty to say about pink rain pants.

Not too long after this little exchange, I read an article in an old Mothering magazine about another little boy who loved pink. His parents let him love it, his dad even dressed in pink in support, and he eventually grew to love other colors, though the fondness for pink remained. This article even claimed that once upon a time, pink was the color for boys (a gentle form of red, considered very manly) and blue was for girls (in honor of the Virgin Mary.) In any case, it's clear that the whole pink/blue thing is quite arbitrary, and I was inspired by these parents' willingness to just let their boy be himself.

So I was a little more prepared when he decided he wanted a tutu. A green tutu. He has some long john-style pajamas, complete with feet, that make him feel like a dancer. The very first moment he put them on, he danced around the room, then asked for "one of those things that dancers wear. That stick out?" "A tutu?" "Yes. A tutu. A green tutu!"

I didn't steer him away this time, though I admit I did procrastinate a bit, hoping it would simply fade away. Matt and I talked a lot in the meantime, about what were our fears, why the hesitation. Could we protect him from getting made fun of? Should we, even if we could? If he had one, could he wear it outside? Wear it to the dining hall? To school? Matt discussed it with his students, and it was one of them, finally, who got our attention. She was a dancer herself, and was so adamant about the importance of supporting kids' interests that we knew she was right. After all, we wouldn't in a million years tell Willa she couldn't do something or couldn't pretend to do something or couldn't, for gosh sakes, wear something just because she was a girl ... so how could we do that to Finn? Sometimes you just have to let the boy be the boy.

And the desire didn't fade away, so lo and behold, one Sunday night found me googling "handmade tutus" (these are the instructions we followed--so easy!) and then Monday morning found us at JoAnn's buying green tulle, (did you know it's headquartered here in Hudson?) and the next morning when Finn woke up, there was a tutu by his bed. Alas, he wasn't wearing his dancing pajamas, so he immediately changed into them, and then put on the tutu, and danced all morning. It was great fun to watch him ... so much fun, in fact, that I only paused momentarily when he asked to wear it to town, riding his bike to the library (and pulling the wagon behind.)

And now? He still has the tutu, still puts it on occasionally (mostly when he's wearing the pajamas) and I still love to see his eyes light up when he dances. I also still fear his getting hurt, fear his getting made fun of. He comes home from preschool talking about girl toys and boy toys--an idea he had never encountered before. And I'm sad about this, sad to see him entering, somewhat reluctantly and confusedly, a boy world that involves bad men and batman, hitting and competition, all things I wish we could just hold off a little longer (or a lot longer.)

But today? Today he admired--for the zillionth time--Willa's tights. "Pants with feet" he calls them. And so when we went to the thrift store this afternoon, I picked up some brown tights, size 3. They'll be perfect for wearing under his pants this winter, or for playing Robin Hood, or even for wearing under that tutu.

All Souls' Day

The day dawned bright and clear, the sunshine welcome after many days of rain, though I know it is hardly bright or clear for so very many. Today is All Souls' Day, a day traditionally set apart to commemorate the "faithful departed," the dead. A day to remember and grieve, a day to place them, again, safely into the hands of God.

All day today, I watched my two children, both ill but still vital, still alive, and thought about our faithful departed, the people, now gone, who have shaped our lives. It's a strange thing, and not entirely comfortable, to think about death while watching young children play. The contrasts are stark--and yet it is a contrast that is entirely within the realm of life.

I wanted somehow to observe the day, to mark its passing, as I've wanted to on other feast days. The liturgies and rituals of the church for me hold within them the mystery and otherness of God, and while many people see them as dead and irrelevant, they open me up to awe and wonder and love. Far from doing this out of any sense of obligation or duty, I feel a deep desire to suffuse our home with that same awe and wonder and love, and I'm searching for simple ways to do that.

This year, we took a walk in the next door graveyard. We looked at graves, talked a little about the day and the people we know who have died. I told Finn about his great-grandmother, who died just 6 weeks before his birth, but with whom he shares a birthday, and whose presence was felt at his birth. I told him also about Ruth Ives, from whom Willa got her middle name, a woman who taught us so much about hospitality and great love.

This day also I thought of our friends, observing their first All Souls' Day since their baby boy's death last December. I thought of the pain, still so raw, and I wonder if a day like this offers any comfort. The tragedy for them is that so many of their memories are terrible, filled with pain. There wasn't time to make the joyful memories they wanted, though of course they savor each moment they had.

And it seems to me that if the church and her traditions and rituals can offer anything, what's needed here is to remember forward, a phrase often used by author and radio host Krista Tippet, in reference to Lewis Carroll's white queen: "It's a poor sort of memory," she says, "that only works backwards."

To remember forward, is, I suppose, a kind of faith, an imaginative and creative faith that trusts that God is bigger than and outside of our linear notions of time. A faith that trusts that "in Christ all things hold together."

Liturgically and seasonally, this makes sense. When all around us is brown and dying, we remember forward to spring. In a few weeks' time we will celebrate "Christ the King Sunday," (also called Eternity Sunday), a day that helps us remember, both forward and backward, the eternity of God's kingdom. And then after that will come Advent, when we prepare for the incarnation: "eternity shut in a span." Liturgically, it works, and it satisfies me. But practically?

There is no neat and tidy solution here, and I'm tempted to not even post this, as unfinished as it is. But for as long as life endures, grief will be unfinished, with nothing tidy about it. I worship a God who holds past, present and future all together, in a way I can't understand but nevertheless take comfort in.

How small our span of life, O God, our years from birth till death:
a single beat within the heart, the catching of a breath,
a drop within the ocean's deep, a grain upon the shore, 
a flash of light before we sleep to see the sun no more.
And yet our speck of light is spanned by your infinity;
our tick of time on earth is caught in your eternity.
While suns and stars spin endlessly through depths of cosmic space,
while aeons roll and ages pass, you hold us in your grace.
O Christ you left eternity to plunge in time's swift stream, 
to share the shortness of our span, our mortal lives redeem.
You filled the cross-closed years with love, you loved us to the end
 and touch us with your risen life that ours may time transcend.
--Herman G. Stuempfle Jr.

one

 

Last week, we celebrated one year with our little Willa, one trip around the sun. She had several low-key--though hardly quiet--celebrations, filled with good seasonal fun. Autumn is a such a great season for parties, isn't it?

In one party, we pressed apples into cider, grilled our dinner, celebrated several birthdays and kept the kids from climbing into the campfire. On our family day, we hunted pumpkins, got lost in a corn maze and opened presents, with lots of brotherly help. Twice we enjoyed pumpkin cake, yummy despite its lack of dairy. There were some handmades, though I don't have pictures of them yet. I made her a sweet little gnome doll (following instructions here and here) which is beginning to get some loving (which, in her world, means chewing. Mouth time. Serious mouth time.)  We all collaborated on some tree branch blocks, which are thus far played with more by Finn, until Willa becomes--as Finn calls her--the destroyer. It is at this point that we have to remind Finn that they are, in deed, her blocks.

She took it all in, eager and happy to be with people. And we were oh so happy to be with her, our miss girl.

Update: I decided that this would be as good a place as any to record the pumpkin cake recipe we used and all really enjoyed, so that I can find it again next year, or next time the pumpkin cake urge strikes. The one problem with so many cookbooks around here (so, so many. For years I justified it as part of my job, and then just as I was leaving King Arthur they were cleaning out their library, and how could I turn down free wonderful cookbooks?) As I was saying, the problem is that I don't always remember which pumpkin cake is the one I like. Not that I generally restrain myself to following just one recipe, anyway. You can see why I might need a system. 

So this is what we did, an amalgamation of several recipes, made dairy free for Willa and nut free for Matt (no allergy, just a preference. I think some walnuts would be the perfect thing to break up all the sameness of the texture. Maybe if it was black walnuts from our yard he would let me do it, just in the interest of, you know, local food and all. I'll have to work on this.) It couldn't have been simpler, made "muffin-style": mix the wet, mix the dry, stir together, bake. Still plenty sweet, but less so than many cakes. Just right for all-day nibbling.  

Willa's Birthday Pumpkin Cake 

4 eggs 

1 cup liquid coconut oil (ours stays solid at room temp these days, so I have to warm it slightly to get it liquid. I also make sure to use room temp eggs instead of ones straight from the fridge.)

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 1/2 cups sugar

2 cups (1 can) pumpkin puree

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ginger

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350, and grease a bundt pan. Beat the eggs, oil, sugar and pumpkin until well combined. In a separate bowl, mix all the dry ingredients, then stir them together, just until mixed. Pour into the pan and bake for 50-60 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack and let cool completely. Keeps very well, if you can keep your hands away from it! 

bliss

The sun today, finally shining, inspired me to great acts of hubris (of the running variety) for which I am sure I will pay tomorrow. But oh, to pull on my shoes, tie those laces, and then set off alone .... bliss. Even if I couldn't get "the ants go marching" out of my head.