Our Times to Keep

2011-02-25T08:40:00.000-08:00

I knew their stories--the classmates that I idolized. They weren't the cheerleaders or the Homecoming queens or the jocks. They looked and acted and lived completely normal teenage lives, but one trait fascinated me . . . they were the farmkids.

I remember being mesmerized by one friend's explanation of how her brother cleaned the cows' udders prior to milking. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon and we were eating lunch under an ancient sycamore in the school yard of old North Cache.

The ripe peach she held in her hand brought images to my mind of her family's kitchen, where her mother was probably standing at that very moment, wrapped in a vintagey apron and bottling those same fuzzy, warm, juicy fruits. I remember one friend talking about how he milked in the morning and talked to the cows about his future--mostly about his mission. I could picture the dark, moonless morning and the steam rising off the cows. I could hear their bauls and snorts, and I could smell the hot and cold and sweet and stink of the milk barn. In my adolescent mind, I determined that this was the life. . .

Well, THIS IS MY LIFE!!!
In patient moments I realize I'm living a dream. In not so patient moments I wonder what I was thinking . . . I'd never smelled the stench of afterbirth on overalls, seen the lifeless form of a newborn calf, wet and forgotten in the straw. I didn't know that my bathroom would one day resemble a bottle making, grease washing, manure laden haven of wet boots and stinky coveralls. I didn't know the dizzying monontony of harvest or baling or swathing.

Then again, I'd never known what it was to be all alone, nothing and no one for miles but the quiet drum of an occasional airplane. I hadn't seen the milky harvest moon rise heavy and bright over the Promontory wheat fields. I hadn't fought off the mosquitos and mud during the summer night irrigation turns. I didn't know the companionship of the stalwart horse, steady and sure under my saddle. I'd never walked over charred and smoky ground, watching the junipers explode into flames, nervous and safe at the same time. I'd never watched the sunset on Susie's View, or seen the million stars of the Milky Way twinkling in the icy November water troughs. Thanks to Farmboy, that world I dreamed of came true. . . Thanks also to Farmboy, we now have a couple of baby calves whose moms forgot to take care of them. This is our newest adventure!!!

Feeding the motherless calves for the first time is a little nervous . . .

But it's also pretty fun . . .

Sometimes they fight over one bottle, or try to eat each other. . . Hello Flint and Sassy

Farm kids are still my favorite!!!

What we do . . .

2010-06-30T15:37:00.001-07:00

Summertime begins with the cows, ends with the cows, and is full of cows.

While some families welcome the season of sun with pool parties, we welcome the long days with one of the longest of all . . . the day we work the cows (working cows means branding, immunizing, casterating, sweating, and tagging).

It is a long, dusty, dirty way to herald the sun . . .

Rowdy children

But summertime also means lots of time outside . . .

Popscicles

Swimming lessons

Bike riding

Late nights

Dinner on the deck

Vacations

Betty and Bego (boating and camping)

Bear lake trips, nights in Promontory

Porch sitting

Hugs and luvs and laughs--welcoming back cousins, tears when we say goodbye . . . again

The Fair

Playing--from early morning til late at night

How nice to have the summer . . .

Princess Emmy Annie

Frankie and Jocey

To add one more . . .

2010-03-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

To Add One More . . .

"Are you and your husband planning on having any more children?" the kind, well-meaning doctor asked. I blushed, as I always do. This question is one I never know how to answer. Most of the time the phrase NOYB comes to mind, but I couldn't very well use that on the good professional just trying to do his job.

I looked down at the frazzled and fluffy blonde head and sparkly blue eyes flahing back at me. She reached out a chubby two-year-old hand and through clenched teeth, "lovingly" squeezed our sweet 4-month old's soft cheeks. He gooed and smiled back at the girl who loves him by pinching his nose while covering his mouth, squeezing his tummy, and pulling his soft fingers back and forth. I thought of the two big boys in school--the six-year-old athlete who spends hidden moments talking softly and loving this newest baby. He told me after one particularly long post-partem day filled with more needs than I could meet that he wished we could always have a baby. In that instant gratitude filled my exhausted soul--gratitude that Heavenly Father's plan of families includes perfect love. I thought of the eight-year-old, in many ways mature beyond his years. More often than not, he pulls the weight of example and makes us happy and humbled at his wisdom. Thankfully, though, he's full of little boy innocence and energy and an unrivaled patience and love for his brothers and sister. I thought of the little one, just finnishing up his check-up. I remembered the holiness the sterile hospital room took on as he entered mortality and our lives. His easy-going attitude and crooked grin fit perfectly into our family. My mind turned again to the man they call D-D-Dadeo and of his sacrifices so we can be comfortable. I contemplated how the years have flown my and how full they are of happy memories.

I don't know what the future brings. What I do know is how happy I am to have added one more, how grateful I am to his siblings for their acceptance of him, and how even though we're exhausted and looking forward to sleeping again, how nice those little baby fingers feel as they brush my cheek, and how warm and soft his cheeks are against mine.

Oh, so Pretty!

2009-10-29T21:46:00.000-07:00

Grasshoppers bounced off the front of the Polaris Ranger as we bounded down the dusty ranch roads. We tried not too smile too much--those grasshoppers landed just about anywhere! But we were having fun. Just the five of us, a family, enjoying the coveted family moments that come by sacrifice and disappear in blinks. The summer evening cooled us, the still green hills softened the hazy landscapes of cedar and sage, and the giggles and questions from the kids made us smile. And then the Ranger died. Completely. Michael and I tried to heave it up the hill so we could coast as far as possible before we had to walk, but we try as we might, the Ranger stayed put. Nearly two miles from the house, and with night approaching, two boys started asking frantic questions and exchanging worried glances. After a couple more futile attempst, Michael turned and said, "well, boys, lets start running!"
Run they did, a long set of man legs and two sets of boy legs. They ran down the mountain towards the house. They promised to return as soon as possible, but the mosquitos started biting and Emma and I started itching. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and a rosy shadow fell like a fog. I lifted the soft baby-ish, but growing up too fast, girl onto my shoulders and we started to walk. The sky became a glowing masterpiece of summerish oranges, reds, pinks, blues, and puffy cream clouds. A chubby cheek leaned down and smooshed mine. "Hi Mom," she said. The next instant she almost leaned all the way out of my arms, pointing to a clump of Indian Paintbrush, and in ecstacy said, "Oh! So pretty!" I stopped, noticing and acknowledging her find. We continued on, my heart happy with the perfect scene unfolding. Yet, we had a couple of miles more to go, and it wasn't getting any lighter. Then, no more than two steps later, she lunged at another clump of flowers--this time Bluebells, and exclaimed the same "Oh! So pretty!" After a few more "pretty" finds, I realized the next two miles would probably take a long time. I set her down on the ground, she put her chubby hand in mine, and we continued on, one or two steps at a time, before she found the next "Oh, so pretty!" and we talked about it. The sky continued it's sunset's granduer, each moment prettier than before, and we made time to enjoy it.
Soon, a flashing light from the shop truck heralded us--our rescuers had returned. Three sweaty boys made room for us, and before we knew it, we were back home, clean and mosquito free. But we had seen so many "Oh, so pretty's" and the dust and mosquitos hadn't overwhelmed us. Still, it was nice to back with the boys.
I learned a lesson that evening. We had started out on a good family adventure--one that was worthy and righteous. And then we hit a bump--a big bump for us at that moment. We had to change our plans--our future wasn't to be what we had planned or intended it to be. More effort and different roads had to be taken. But if we hadn't hit the bump, I would haved missed all of the "oh, so pretty's". In the end, not only were we safe and happy and together, but Emma and I had experienced beauty beyond description, and my soul was sanctified. Sure, the mosquitos had bit us, my feet and pregnant body were tired, and we were covered in dust, but all was right with the world, and better than it would have been otherwise.
So, as the past few months have passed, I've remembered this lesson. More appropriatly I've realized yet another tender mercy from a Heavenly Father that knows all, loves perfectly, and desires to bless us with all He has. Sanctification doesn't come from figuring out what will make us happy and doing it our way, but from humbling our wills and trying to put them in accordance with His will. And, as we do this, our paths will be covered with bounteous moments of "Oh, so Pretty!"

2009-03-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

The stuffy, dark biology lab room sweltered in the August afternoon heat. Left over smells of last years' formaldehyde and the dust on the top shelves added to the staleness, leaving all present, including the grad TA, happy for the excuse to collect soil samples from outside. Everyone lingered under the shady Ginko tree, not hastening their return to the lab. All too soon, one by one, students filtered back in, carrying dusty vials full of campus dirt. But a tall farmboy still crouched under the tree, talking to the girl in a ponytail and tennis shoes. Their conversation soon turned from lab topics to life topics, and they became fast friends. Over the course of the semester, they worked on soil projects together, he learned she had tennis class right before lab, and she learned he loved to farm. Summer soon turned to autumn, the Ginko's golden trees danced in the cool breezes. Soon the lab's dinginess was replaced with anticipation of finals and Winter Break. The Farmboy anticipated home, farm work, and family. The Girl welcomed the calmness of home in comparison to the social madness of the life of a college co-ed.

Winter semester at USU started again--cold, wind, more cold, more wind, and more cold. Snow fell and ice froze the old windows in the Ag Science building shut. Outside winter raged like only it can in Logan, but inside the humid heat of the old building, a glow started in the heart of the farmboy and girl with the ponytail. Together they laughed over Dr. Thomas' disregard of Farmboy's wealth of knowledge by experience and the girl's blatant brown-nosing. One afternoon Farmboy asked the girl for a date that night. She hurried home in a mad frenzy, eager to get something new to wear!

And that first date--so different from akward first dates of their pasts. Kindred spirits from before, perhaps long before, their conversations flowed from drills, to siblings, and a common dislike for "Mormon rock.". . .

Memories of the first moments of our relationship warm my heart to the core. I could fill volumes about those good times. How soon those first moments have become fond memories. And now, ten years later, my heart grows more every day for that tall farmboy under the Ginko tree. He became my best friend, my husband, father to the three greatest kids in the world, provider, protector, and presider of our home--a kindred spirit from all eternity and for all eternity. This post is begining to sound like a "coolest husband" contest. I don't mean it to. Because there is no contest--he is the coolest husband. Happy nine years to us!

Chicken Coops and Valentines

2009-02-20T19:12:00.001-08:00

The day that Magaw and Pops built the chicken coop dawned hot in the shade-- August mornings sometimes just start that way. They came as early as they could, armed with the tools and wood and mesh needed to create the finest coop money could buy. And then they went to work. A couple of days later and a few dozen popscicles later, the chickens found a new place to lay their heads . . . or beaks, or talons, or eggs, or whatever.

I am not a fan of chickens. They stink, roosters crow all night (at least ours does), and they lay eggs of various shapes and sizes and colors that PAAS Easter products just don't stock. Their brains (if they even have them) lack abilities of common sense. Yet, these chickens still needed a home, and thanks to my parents, they got one! My dad thinks and plans and figures better than anyone I know (rivaled only by my ever-encouraging husband) and my mom wins the sportsmanship award when it comes to these projects. This spring they will be trying bees . . .

Something of dependance happens the moment we come into the world--even before our entrance into earth, we depend upon our mothers for everything. Our fathers become our heros and providers and protectors. These people represent everything to our little bodies and minds: nourishment, safety, happiness, answers. Even now as a full grown adult with children of my own, I look to my parents for these same things. This year I asked them to please build our countertops and stairs in our new home. I didn't ask this out of ignorance or disregard for their time or talents or experiences (neither of them had ever done this before). But I needed something done that I just couldn't do myself. As a mom, I've learned that that's just what you do for your kids (even if you don't have a clue how to, you just figure it out!). And as a daughter, I guess I still rely on my parents a bit. Now every time I wipe sticky jam off the counter, or chase a basketball-shooting son down the stairs, I am grateful for their nourishment, safety, happiness, and answers that they have and always have had for me.

My Valentine's night date this year was a snowy walk out to the chicken coop. We walked hand in hand through the knee-deep drifts, under the bright winter starlight, to feed the birds, gather eggs, and balk at the rooster. He had a few things to say, as well. Once again, I was reminded that the best things in life are found in times of sacrifice and love, for our sweethearts and children, generation upon generation. Michael and I often remark how blessed our lives are, just to have been born into the homes we were. Decisions we made to bring us to the point we are now were planted in our hearts by the people that do things for us (even still) that we just don't know how to do. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Winter Dreams and Tender Mercies

2008-12-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

Emma's hands tapped cold against my neck as she blew wet raspberries into my hair. An occassional peak behind me at the cute rosy cheeks and bundled baby in the backpack met me with baby girl giggles. In front of us, crunching through the snow, trecked Michael, Pops and Hyrum, lugging our freshly cut Christmas trees down the path. And way up in front, hurrying to get into the warm truck, Magaw and Jared walked--hand in hand, talking about snow, basketball, Santa's sleigh, and Little Mikey in Norway on his mission.
I looked up into the snowy white canyon, closed my eyes, listened to the rush of the river against its icy banks, and felt the tender mercies of the Lord all around me. Words--even the best words written in sweet poetic prose--fall short of describing the scene or my heart. Perhaps my yearning for time to stop for a while leads me to try to write it down. At least then I can visit the memory and savor it again and again.
I love this season--the anticipation of everything homey and exciting and yummy. I love the quiet times of twinkling lights and twilight, I love the loud times of excited little boys, I love the memories of childhood Christmases--full of dreams come true, I love the memories of growing- up Christmases--still full of magic with an added sweetness of testimony, I love the memories of a new love and promise of eternity at this season, I love the music, the lights, the events, the traditions. And especially I love my Savior--I am thankful for his humble birth which we now celebrate in grandeur and glory. Merry Christmas!

First Snow!

2008-12-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

We awoke this morning to a world of white! Every day for a week now I've answered the question "When will it snow? Will we have a white Christmas? It NEEDS to snow, will it?" And today it did! The morning's snow skiff heightened our home's volume in every aspect--we giggled louder, ate louder, and turned up the Christmas music. Although it's not yet noon, and the lacy flakes dulled to a foggy slush, the magic remains. Come April, these skiffs won't bring the same flip of the tummy and quickened heart beat. But in early December, amidst the magic of the season, snow only adds to the glow. I'm glad that this morning the winter snow dreams came true!

2008-12-01T18:27:00.000-08:00

Just a little update, right now it is time to eat and here I sit watching my husband work so hard getting food for my family while I blog, Oh it is a good life.

PERFECT MOMENTS

2008-11-12T21:44:00.000-08:00

Shafts of crisp autumnal morning light twinkled through the park's golden hued trees. We owned the place--just us. Jared and Emma laughed and giggled as I pushed them around and around the merry-go-round. Their rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes almost burst my heart. Fall smells of crunchy leaves and moist dirt filled the air and my soul. And their sweaters--they even had sweaters on-just added to the perfectness of the moment. If I were an editor for some elite urbanized country magazine, this scene would have graced the cover. But, as usual, I didn't have my camera. And if I had, the batteries would have been dead or the memory card full. Ah, well.

A wise man once said (on more than one occassion) that he just took pictures with his heart. The sacred recesses of our hearts are the best places for perfect moments--moments of eternity-- like the way your new husband's scrubbed hands look on the alter of the temple or the quite hush of hospital rooms with a brand new baby.

Fancy magazines--you can keep your perfectly created moments for your covers, and I'll keep those special ones that just happen--safe in my heart.

Our County Fair

2008-09-03T20:19:00.000-07:00

Fair food bits and grimy dust stuck to my tired kids faces as they leaned against Mawgs and Pops--trying to get comfortable on the metal bleachers. Emma kept reaching for more slushy and sloshing it all over her tummy and my hands. The wind blew just enough to carry the happy sounds from the 4-H Pavilions and Farm Bureau hamburger stand into the grandstand where 3 oldish men sang in sweet harmony. The ranchers from Yost sat quietly in the heat with their cokes, hiding under their unshaved beards, and left me wondering how old they really were. A couple of dusty kids jumped down to dance on the stage, and old women in stretched-out knit t-shirts sang along with the hazily familiar songs. The afternoon sun softened the dust and almost made it misty. Shouts and songs from the carnival mixed in with the music and I almost cried those silly nostalgic tears that add a sweet tenderness to life.
Fair time is good time--the best of times. Summer's sweetness lingers through those last weeks of August. School, though just days away, might as well never come. Who cares about routine and lessons when all that's perfect is at our fingertips--
The perfect loaf of bread, the perfect pumpkin, the perfect quilt, the perfect bottle of peaches, the perfect painting, the perfect fowl, steer, lamb, or hog. Yes, fair time brings out the best of our lives. Blue ribbons attest to our hard work and somehow that little piece of fabric allows us to take a relieved breath.
In the wholesome daylight, our fair is a great county fair. As I walk through the pavilions, reaquainting with friends and neighbors, I again think how lucky I am to live here. Tomatoes and peaches, cowboyed-up county commissioners, FFA jackets, 4-H clovers, and two dirty little boy hands and a sticky, kissable baby face make me a pretty happy woman!

And It Was Summer, Warm, Beautiful, Summer.

2008-08-13T16:44:00.000-07:00

(Help!)

Summer in San Diego...One of the happiest places on earth.