A Winter's Day

I’m learning that winter never goes the way I think it will. In the fall I’m dizzy with romance; the sights, the smells, that certain something in the air, the knowledge of cold weather coming with its fires in the wood stove, hearty soups, warm family moments, and time to get to all those projects I’m too busy for the rest of the year.

When it snows I feel that same giddy romance. My Vermont blood, I guess. But here in Missouri it doesn’t snow much. An occasional winter will see two or three snowfalls worthy of getting out the sleds, but others we get just a dusting here and there. In the meantime, there’s school, there’s work, there’re dental appointments, the sun sets early and rises late and my energy drains like dirty, lukewarm bathwater after four of my children have emerged, squeaky clean in their turns.

I was horrified this week when I realized that at least five days had passed since I’d stepped foot outside. I’m a firm believer in getting out every single day, even just for a few minutes. Sunshine, clouds, rain, snow, hot or cold, healthy or unwell. But I’ve no goats to check on anymore, the children tend the poultry and enjoy fetching the mail from the box at the end of the drive, and there’s no end to my to-do list... it just sorta happens. There’s always something I could be working on, and usually feel like I should be working on. But priorities, Williams. Priorities. 

This morning I tackled some to-do’s, sitting in my sunny bedroom and enjoying our new bookshelves. (The light is so much better than in my office on the north side of the house.)

Denny schooled the children and I helped a bit with reading and math. After lunch I got the kids busy on chores; the weekly cleaning and bringing in firewood. It’s cold today, and the small bit of world immediately outside my home is dusted with snow, but the sun is shining. I grabbed my coat, put on my hat, and went for a short walk around our five acres.

View of the yard and garden soon after sunrise.

Snow on moss & lichen

So much color this time of year, if you've eyes to see it.

Happy little grass. I need to look this up; I've always loved it but don't know what it is!

Ice along the creek's edge

Witch hazel beginning to bloom

Tucker Creek. Heaven on earth.

A reminder to me, if not to you, to get out and enjoy the world around me at least once a day. It's a winter wonderland whether there's snow or not!

Domestic Bliss

The winter sun shines warmly on the long, polished pine dining table before me, interrupted only by the brief flickering shadows of chickadees and titmice alternately feasting and bickering at the feeder outside the window. At one end of the table my four younger children, ages four, six, eight and nine, attend quietly to various school work. Well, mostly quietly; if I remind them often. Blue and Royal are building math equations with plastic blocks designed for the purpose (we use Math-U-See curriculum), Little is copying letters and numbers in her lined primary pad, Justin has laid aside his coloring book and Tupperware box of old crayons and is now familiarizing himself with the math blocks by building walls and what he tells me are spaceships with forcefields. The older children have received their assignments for the week and are upstairs working on their daily portions of math, reading and writing. 

Little making apple pie

At my end of the table are a couple of bread pans, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, and a mound of bread dough which I’ve begun shaping into loaves. After years of baking bread for my family, I know that the smooth and soft elasticity of the dough means I combined the right measure of ingredients and kneaded it for a good length of time. It will rise well and yield tasty loaves, light and easy to slice without crumbling. I love the feel of it in my hands. I love oiling the pans, rolling the dough out, pinching and tucking, placing it in the pans, covering it with an old flour sack towel, and placing it somewhere warm to rise. Today it rises near the wood stove. Which reminds me…

I peek in the stove and see a bed of coals needing attention. I pull the damper on the stove, open the door, rake the coals over with a tool my dad made out of steel re-bar for just such a purpose when I was a young little thing and he and mom burned wood to keep our family warm during long, cold Vermont winters. The firewood is nearby, but the pile is running low. I make a mental note to have the children bring in wood after lunch. The floor is due for a sweeping, so the timing is good. I select a few smaller pieces of seasoned oak and arrange them on the coals in such a way to allow the air to flow around them. I’ll add more once they get going well. Pulling my iPod out of my pocket I set a timer for ten minutes. It wouldn’t be the first time I started the fire up only to forget about it and let it go nearly cold. Setting the timer reminds me I didn’t set one for the bread, so I pop into the kitchen and set the timer on the microwave for an hour.

As I clean up my bread-making mess I check on the wee ones. Royal has done a fine job, but needs help reading a couple of words on his last problem. We finish up, he dates his page then runs off to my office to put it with the other completed schoolwork. As for Blue, her sixes and most of her twos are backwards again, and her 21 should be a 12, but she’s managing her dyslexia better than she did when she first began writing. I gently and matter-of-factly point out her errors and she corrects them without complaint or discourage. For the millionth time, I experience a warm ache in my chest. I am so glad that this brilliant, artistic and tender girl is able to learn at home instead of lost in a crowd and teased mercilessly at public school just because written symbols dance around unpredictably on her. She’s learned to read, albeit with more work and over a longer time than her siblings, and she enjoys it. She loves to write and make up stories, too, illustrated with the most imaginative and colorful creatures. It’s a pleasure to work with her.

And so the day goes. Beautiful moments that make up the good stuff of this brief life. Warm sunshine highlighting the cold, bare trees outside the windows, complimenting the cozy fire inside. Bright, lovable children going about their schoolwork and play. The whole family gathered for a simple lunch of cheese, crackers, pickles and fruit, then back to our various activities. Some of the kids bundle up in their worn, torn and mismatched winter gear and head outside. After bringing in firewood they visit the frozen creek to enjoy its wonders. Those whose assigned day it is to wash dishes get started after I add some hot water to the sink from the pot on the wood stove. I turn on some music, do some preliminary prep on dinner, and water the houseplants while the bread bakes. When I water the plants in the back rooms Denny pauses his design work and gives me a sweet smile and a kiss.

Domestic: adjective      of or relating to the running of a home or to family relations.
      (of a person) fond of family life and running a home

Bliss: noun      perfect happiness; great joy. 

I can’t remember ever being unsatisfied with my role as a homemaker. Frustrated sometimes? You bet. It can be overwhelming, yeah, and demanding, but I have never desired another occupation. In my late teens I held a very pleasant and suitable-to-me job on a landscape crew at a local golf course. That lasted about a year and a half before I had to quit due to my unplanned pregnancy. My boyfriend and I moved into a 5th-wheel camper in my parents’ yard, renting for $100 a month. I stayed home, cooked, cleaned, crafted, managed the finances, and planned while he worked construction five days a week. We married and, with the help of a midwife, we welcomed our firstborn in those cramped quarters. Shortly before my twentieth birthday we put a down-payment on our first house; very small, but roomy after seven months in a camper.

Soon we were welcoming another child. And another. I had plenty to do at home. If my husband and I ever talked about whether I would stay home and raise our children, I don’t remember it. He wasn’t the communicative type. In the last years of our marriage I think he resented me staying home. He seemed jealous of my freedom to manage my own time and enjoy the children, but he didn’t see half of what I did around the house and his own time at home was spent much differently. A sad and classic story, I’m afraid.

When I was growing up my mom had mostly stayed at home and seemed to find much satisfaction in it, and Dad, a carpenter by trade, seemed to appreciate what she did there, so I guess I just assumed that since I’d started a family, I’d stay home and manage things the way Mom did. 

I’d gotten a head start, but soon my friends were settling down and having children too. They weren’t all enjoying it as much as I was. “I’m stuck in Baby Jail,” one friend was fond of saying. “I’d love to go back to work and feel like I’m contributing. I miss it.” Interestingly, she'd spent two or three years working in a nursing home taking care of the elderly before coming home to start a family, caring for equally unappreciative droolers in diapers. I reckon the difference was that at “work” she earned a paycheck, had time off, worked alongside other adults, and was patted on the back often because she was truly good at what she did. It can be a little daunting, being alone with babies and toddlers all day, with no end in sight, especially if no one appreciates what you do.

I understand more of this now that I’m older. Not everyone is cut out for parenting and homemaking or enjoys the same rewards for their efforts. For the most part, that’s okay. Most families manage. There are extremes, however, and I feel more strongly than ever that people who don’t enjoy or find some satisfaction in raising children shouldn’t be bringing children into this world, but that’s a rant for another day.

I don’t know whether anyone in particular appreciated or cared at all about what I did—if my husband did he never expressed it and to expect children to is a burden I don’t believe they should bear—but I felt good about it. What I did and what I continue to do at home satisfies me.

Investing in my children with time, kindness, patience, firmness when needed, and thoughtfulness has resulted in a house full of interesting people whom I enjoy tremendously. Is it easy? Nope. I’ve shed more than a few tears, wondering if I was doing the right things, occasionally cracking under the constant demand. Let’s face it, some days are just demanding and we’re not always up to the tasks, are we?  But I pull myself together and put the children first. As the days go by and I watch these amazing individuals grow, I know I’ve done something right, something worthwhile. Maybe it has something to do with my belief that relationships are the most significant factor in enjoying a full, rich life. This is a huge part of my domestic bliss. Deeper, secure, fulfilling relationships for all of us is one of the reasons I am raising my own children instead of sending them away five days a week.

My home isn’t always clean. I like to clean, I just don’t do a lot of it because there are other things I enjoy more. I like things tidy, but I’m not fussy. Dust doesn't bother me. With seven children and various pets there’s little in the way of home furnishings that don’t take something of a beating, and there’s a constant barrage of clutter that must be dealt with, but generally it’s cozy and inviting, warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and so forth. No one who steps foot in the door questions which we love more, each other or the material things, and if you’ve ever been in such a home there’s something lovely about it. There’s usually good food on our table and the place buzzes with life and vivacity. There are interesting things going on everywhere, always a project or two in progress; the natural outflow of nine creative people who love each other, love life, and love being at home.

In the past year I’ve experienced an occasional spell of frustration, realizing how much of my life I’ve lived in a bubble, shutting out the sinful world, ignorant of world affairs, of societal issues, ignorant of my part, just focused on the goings-on within my four walls and engaging with a few families besides, leaving the world in God’s hands and washing my own of such responsibilities. I studied the Bible and prayed instead. Granted, I had my hands full with a bunch of young 'uns, trying to make meager ends meet. But I have moments of regret, hating how caught up I was in my own things and knowing I missed out on a decade and a half of learning, understanding, being involved. I’m ashamed of my ignorance, but I’m learning to deal with it. And slowly to remedy it.

When I’m having one of those days I try to focus on accomplishments that I'm proud of. I think about domesticity. I realize I’m good at it. Damned good. I can turn out delicious, nutritious food three times a day, balance my bank account, juggle bills, wash clothes, milk goats, build fences, garden, build shelves, make soap, sew up a storm, teach children these things as well as to read, write and do arithmetic, while fine-tuning their attitudes, having a good laugh, and so on... and it’s all in a day’s work. Fifteen years of this; I do it well, I enjoy it, it gives me a deep sense of satisfaction. It takes the sting off that feeling that I wasted my life on God when I could have been doing something meaningful.

Yeah, I guess what I’m saying is that when I get down about my religious past, I fold laundry, bake bread, tend plants, teach my children about evolution, and remember not to regret the past because I love who I am today. And tomorrow's possibilities are limitless.

DIY Well Pump Replacement

January 20, 2015

Home ownership is not for the faint of heart.

Here’s what Denny and I were doing Monday morning:

Gorgeous, sunny, spring-like day. Missouri winters are my kind of winters, sometimes bringing the snow I love, but also offering stretches of beautiful mild days. Den and I had decided it was a good day to salvage some old cedar fencing and repurpose it into shelving inside the house. We’d just finished stage one and were inside taking measurements when my seven year old announced that no water was coming out of the tap when he turned it on. While Denny checked the other faucets, my brain went into troubleshooting mode:

Pipes frozen? No way. It is January, but like 60°F outside.

Power out? Glance over at the fish aquarium, see the light still on. Not a power outage.

One of the kids messing with the main shut-off located in the bathroom? Doubt it. Even the kids are wary of the area behind the toilet.

Fuse in the box in the well-house? Let’s find out, shall we? A moment later we’re walking down the hill to the well pump house, a dark, dank, cobwebby place with a configuration of electricity and plumbing that I have, for the most part, managed to avoid familiarizing myself with for the eight years I’ve lived here. I was only partially sure I knew which was the pressure tank and which the pump itself…

We opened the door and were immediately met with a burnt smell, recognizable as something mechanical gone horribly wrong. After knocking down some cobwebs, with Denny rigging up a light, I checked the ancient fuse box. All was well. Hmm. I turned an ignorant eye to the plumbing. What next?

Call Mom and Dad. Duh.

I’m thirty-four years old and still call on my parents in times of need because, frankly, they are the most experienced and knowledgeable people I know when it comes to practical things around the house, farm, or automobile. They live half an hour away and Dad often comes over to give us a hand with such things. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to come over this time because he and Mom are halfway to Florida on vacation. Damn the luck.

Oh well, maybe they can help over the phone. I leave a message.

Meanwhile, back in the house… 

Yeah, this was the pile of dishes awaiting washing at our sink. We generally let breakfast and lunch dishes pile up and the kids take turns washing them after lunch. Of course, it would be a heavy dish day.

Denny is starting to stress a bit. For some reason, I don’t stress over these situations. I might even like them. Sick, right? I know. I mean, knowing it’s going to cost us gobs of money that we don’t have bothers me as much as it bothers Denny, but worrying about it doesn't change that. It is what it is and I often sort of shine in emergency, make-it-do sort of situations. Not that I have a pocketful of DIY skills or any such thing. I’ve patience and perseverance and I like to think I exude a calmness that helps everyone else stay calm; that makes me feel good. (I save my stress for daily, run-of-the mill things.) But you know what I think it really is? I'm able to focus for a change.

All day, every day, so many things clamor for my attention. I juggle them all, sometimes more efficiently than other times, but it’s often difficult to know where to focus my attention. The kids' schoolwork? Writing? Book promotion? Building friendships? Cleaning? Can I relax now? Nope, meals need preparing. You get the idea. But then something like this happens and bam! There’s one thing and it needs doing now. Everything else has to wait and I don’t have to feel guilty about that. I’m not sure I’m ever quite as happy as when I’m elbows deep in a project that takes my entire focus. It’s like a bloody vacation for me. (I inherited this particular illness from my parents.)

All that said, Denny did very well at not freaking out. We ended up calling a professional and arranging for him to come out the next morning because, as much as I like to do whatever I can myself, I thought I’d be in way over my head here and Denny is a self-professing whatever-is-opposite-of-a-handyman and abhors mechanical sorts of issues. (Lucky for him he’s good-looking and genius at everything else.)

My parents got back with me a short while later. My Dad walked me through some basic troubleshooting. He’s so patient. I eventually figured out what the pressure switch was and how it worked. Would you believe my nerdy mother even had, on her laptop, with her in a Winnebago at a rest stop in Louisiana, a photograph of my well house, pump and all? Believe it. Dad was able to look at that and guide me accurately.

Unplug the pump. File the points with an emery board. Plug it back in. Nada. The motor housing was hot to the touch and I don’t know much about pumps, but I was beginning to see there’s not that much to this system, not much that can go wrong. It’s likely frozen up. But the idea of trying to pull it myself and replace it… nah. And what if it’s something else? I’m still a little daunted and like the idea of having a pro evaluate it and do the work. Later Mom sent me a link to an inexpensive pump on Amazon that should do the trick and maybe I could have someone help install it? But I’m drawing a blank; I can't think of anyone right off who is familiar enough with plumbing. We decide to wait on the professional.

Now, about water. Just for such an occasion, I have a five-gallon container of drinking water stored in the back of the pantry. Water is one area it really pays to be prepared. That should last us two to three days, depending upon how much we use for cooking. Also, there’s two gallons of clean water in a pot on the wood stove. Fortunately and unfortunately, it’s been warm enough to go without a fire, so the water isn’t hot (which reminds us to go up and turn off the water heater, just because). A quick search turned up three empty five-gallon mud buckets. Denny and I head to the creek.

I admit, I found the situation somewhat romantic. I wouldn’t want to have to do it all the time, but there’s something I find deeply satisfying about taking care of our basic needs in a rather primitive fashion. Thank the Invisible Pink Unicorn that the weather was forecast to be mild for the next few days. It’s nice to be out. Especially when you have this to look at:

Tucker Creek Shut-Ins

Who’s complaining?

(Note the three children climbing around in shorts and t-shirts.)

One bucket goes in the bathroom for flushing the toilet. The rest goes in the kitchen for dishes. Den and I quickly figure out a system for washing the dishes, with water heated on our gas cook stove, a few drops of bleach added for bacteria, and so decide to excuse the children for the day and take the chore upon ourselves. Something about listening to tunes and washing dishes with this man really turns me on…

Ahem.

The following morning we kindled a fire in the wood stove and set on a pot of water to warm for dish washing. We had a bumpy start talking about finances, I confess--we're as human as the rest of you-- and I was a little out of sorts when the plumber arrived. He was an odd man, quickly deciding the pump was bound up and told us he wouldn't be able to get to it for a few days. Said he'd check on a pump. We asked how much the pump would cost and were shocked to discover it’s almost twice the cost of the one my mom had found online. Yeah, you often get what you pay for, but the reviews on the online pump were decent and this guy has no reason to shop around for a better deal than whatever he usually buys. He doesn’t even give us an estimate on the labor before he’s in his truck and pulling away, saying he'll call us.

Back on the phone with Mom and Dad, trying to decide if we should get the cheaper pump and find someone to help with it. I return to the well house and take a closer look at what I would have to do to get the old pump out. Now that it’s been confirmed what the trouble is, I’m a little more confident. That, and I’m getting used to this space. A little cleaning and some paint and it could be my new office. Not.

Now I see where I would have to disconnect the pump—different from my impression the day before—and there were only hose clamps holding the black ABS pipe pieces onto the fittings. Well heck, that shouldn’t be too hard. And it had to come off anyway, so it’s not going to hurt to try it. I had Mom order the pump for me. (She has Amazon Prime and can have it overnighted. She’s fancy like that.)

Back to the house. I was starting to feel pretty good. My grit was kicking in. No, not my grits, my grit; my determination, my courage, my resolve. I admit to being partially driven by the fiscal meeting that morning and was thinking; if I can save my family a few hundred dollars, it’s almost the same as earning it, right? By gum, I’m going to do it!

In the bedroom I changed into work clothes and put my hair back. I felt like I was getting my armor on, heading into battle. I thought about war paint, but decided to forgo it this time. There may or may not have been Rocky theme music playing.

(Sorry, OCD people, for not fixing my collar.)

I grabbed a couple of tools and told Denny what I was going to attempt. I watched his face light up. I rather lit up myself when he turned to one of the kids he was helping with schoolwork and said with pride and awe in his voice, “Your mom is awesome."

I mustn’t fail. They are counting on me.

My dad’s last bit of advice was to use a hair dryer on the ABS to soften it. The man’s a genius, I tell you.  Every homeowner, homesteader, and handy-person should have a hair dryer. I always end up using my hair dryer for these sorts of things and I can count on two hands the times in my life I have actually used it on my hair. Oddly, I still keep it in the bathroom drawer instead of with the other tools.

softening the ABS with hair dryer

When I'd loosened the hose clamps I'd realized there was still a good bit of water in the lines, so I'd grabbed two clean pots from the house and set them up to catch the water. Waste not, want not. 

Had to wait about ten minutes for that to drain out of the spigot on the outside of the well house. The hair dryer worked a charm on the first pipe. More water. More waiting. Finally, I got busy on the other two pipes that needed disconnecting. I wrestled with that forty pound pump for about fifteen minutes, pulling and twisting and prying, my fiery resolve cooling considerably as I met with no progress whatsoever. 

Reminded me of this play on a famous poem:

They said it couldn’t be done  

But she with a grin replied

She’d never be one to say it couldn’t be done 

Leastwise, not ’til she’d tried. 

So, she jumped right in 

With the trace of a grin 

She tackled the thing that couldn’t be done! 

And she couldn’t do it.

 So what? I shed a few tears of frustration, tasting the salty sting of failure. Give me a break, I’m not Wonder Woman.

At that point, my back, something of a mess generally, beginning to groan and complain. I realized I would need some help. Now that the situation had gone from “scary and complicated” to “simple and stubborn," I thought of a friend who is both smart and strong and would likely be willing and available to help. I took a break and told Denny my mind. He was unwilling to call in a friend until he had given it a go himself. I was disappointed at first, but after some thought and further discussion I understood. He was not happy about it, but he put on his big boy pants and, wielding a large rusty wrench that I’m surprised we even owned, he tackled the fittings. 

When he lived at the lake, he and his brother-in-law had some similar plumbing issues and he remembered they used a wrench this way. This man o’ mine twisted and twisted and kept on twisting the ABS (after a minute with the hair dryer) until it worked loose. He did the next and final fitting, all in ten minutes or so. I can’t believe it. I’m so happy and so proud of him, all the more because I know how he hated doing it. Alas, he doesn’t share my sense of satisfaction in completing this sort of job. (Later I fished around and thought of an area of life in which I similarly despise having to participate and that made us both feel better. Not everyone is cut out for everything, you know.)

We fetched some more water from the creek before returning to the house where we popped popcorn for lunch, and washed it down with some much deserved Redd’s Strawberry ale (you know, to conserve water). We make a fine team, if I do say so myself. 

And that was only half the day. Denny did school with the kids, and some design work. I took a nap, worked on some book promotion stuff, posted and sold some items on Craigslist, cooked and ate dinner, helped with dishes, checked with kids about their schoolwork, tucked kids in to bed, and wrote this here blog post. I’m tired, but satisfied.  The new pump should arrive tomorrow. We’ll take a look, run to town for any necessary fittings (as well as pick up groceries, and we’ll probably haul some trash in, too), and then we’ll see what happens. 

Tomorrow morning we’ll have the kids fetch water from the creek to drive home the lesson about water conservation. Yeah, we homeschool.

Just another week at Make-It-Do Farm.

(You know, after today’s work, I’d really like to take a hot bath. Doh.)


The following day....

Things pretty much went according to plan. I only had to call my parents three or four times, with minor questions. I'm also right grateful to FloTec for writing decent installation instructions-- with diagrams and photographs. Our first set-up leaked a bit, but we tightened up our work and by mid afternoon when we had a properly functioning system and water to the house again. And slightly improved water pressure, to boot! 

I don't think we'll go into the plumbing trade, but we are feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

New Year, Old Year

Yesterday found the Williams Henke family settling down into a typical evening. Eat dinner, wash dishes, chat with the kids, retire to our respective spaces to unwind before bed. No staying up until midnight, no New Year’s champagne or kisses. I've spent most of my life on the outside of American holiday traditions, so I don’t usually pay them much mind. Though vehemently opposed to religious holidays when I was religious (yeah, you read that correctly. Funny thing about religion, any other than your very own can twist your knickers), these days I could take or leave most of them. I don’t always have the umph required to celebrate the arbitrarily assigned holidays, but friends change things. Good friends are always a reason to celebrate. A holiday is just an excuse to spend time with the ones you love.

A sweet three minute holiday greeting in video form from our friends across the pond got me into the spirit of this new year/old year business last night. There they were, champagne in hand, sitting on the hearth with a warm fire behind them, telling us how much they have enjoyed getting to know us over the last several months, saying a little something for each of the nine of us by name, looking forward to the new year with us in their lives, and making me melt into a puddle of tears. Afterward we chatted online and counted down to the new year with them, six hours in advance of our own. We celebrated by snacking on some of the British biscuits they’d sent us a couple weeks before. Today we gathered and recorded our own greeting in response. A bit longer, as there were more of us to cover, though it was like pulling teeth to get the kids to say anything at all. Little beasts. Denny, clever man that he is, added cricket noises over the kids’ silent shrugging. Perfect.

It’s all got me reflecting on the year past and feeling right hopeful about the year to come. Here’s where I get teary-eyed.

Two years ago today I gratefully took a seat at my dining table with family and friends (one of which was Denny—who’d have thunk he’d be moving in almost eight months later?), fresh bread and hot tea, and a cozy fire in the stove. I’d spent most of the previous month in bed with a back injury and, just for fun, a kidney infection. I was happy to be recovering, to have friends over again, to bake bread again. I was feeling vivid and alive with my new freedom and my new friends. It felt like a splendid way to bring in the new year and I considered making a tradition of it. It didn’t happen this year, in part because some of the kids have a touch of a cold, but no matter. In the past several days we’ve spent all kinds of time connecting with our dearest friends, the people that make our lives worthwhile. Some on the phone, some in person, some online. So what if it didn’t all happen today?

If that were all, I’d feel right rich and content, but there’s more. This year I’ve matured and developed deeper character while exploring what it means to be me, to be free. I love who I am today. I feel like I have my very own identity for the first time in my life. And I love all the changes and challenges and people that helped shape me; Denny, my children, my parents, my friends, my readers, my reviewers.

Thanks to Denny, last year I was inspired to dig within and scrounge up the gumption to complete and publish my first book, the first of many. I did it for him, I did it for the children, I did it for myself. What I didn’t anticipate was the floodgate of responses. I’ve been completely humbled by the kindness and warmth with which my words have been received. Because of the autobiographical nature of my book people feel they are directly connecting with me when they read it and many have reached out; some to encourage, some out of curiosity, some even for help. I have wonderful friendships at the turn of this new year that I didn’t have at the turn of the last, simply because of the writing and publishing experience. It was unexpected and is very rewarding. There’s no feeling quite like it.

Last year I explored new aspects of motherhood at the side of Denny, who has been embracing and exploring fatherhood. I’ve heard “you’re such a good mom” more times and more sincerely than I’ve heard the whole time I’ve been a mom. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed having a partner who cares about the children as much as I do, and cares about me while we’re doing this parenting thing. As a family we are learning to navigate the teenage years, transitioning these young people into adulthood with as much grace as possible, while giving the younger ones a good foundation and happy childhood. Perfectly? Heck no. But we communicate, we love, we strive for understanding. I’ve thought a lot about my past and my mistakes, but I wouldn’t undo a moment of it because wow, these kids are astounding.

Our home school has cranked up a few notches in quality. The older children are writing up a storm in the form of reports as well as creative projects. Instead of a narrow history of the earth starting six thousand years ago and involving a worldwide flood, the children are learning about the history of the universe, evolution, our place among the stars and the animals. Social studies happen regularly as we discuss events current and past. The children are inundated with some form of science study nearly every day and all seem hungry for it. Algebra has found its way to the table. We are also learning gobs about Britain, thanks to our friends over there who love to share their knowledge and experiences. We’re very much looking forward to traveling to the UK as soon as we can afford it, probably within a few years. (Donations accepted!)

Together we have worked and sacrificed to pay off debt and, aside from a moderate mortgage and a small dental bill, we’ve done it. Not only that, but we’ve managed to get my and the children’s health up to snuff with dental visits and vaccinations. (Without a dime of support from my ex. Just sayin’.) We’ve improved our home with some orginzation, lots of shelves, a bit of paint, and sundry other things. Our property saw the addition of a duck pond, two cedar arbors and some trellises, hugelkulture garden beds, and many perennial herbs and flowers. In a bittersweet vein, we parted with our goats to free up time and energy to pursue other things. But we still make and sell soap.

We’ve had a lot of laughs, shed a few tears because we’re really just big softies, and enjoyed the year thoroughly. Thanks to all who have been a part of it. I can’t begin to imagine what next year will bring to my door, but I greet it with open arms.

Writng Projects

Ooh, starting to feel a bit nippy out there, isn’t it? I heard rumor there might be a snowflake or ten this weekend. Not sure I’m quite ready for snow, but I do love it when it arrives. We’ll see. In the meantime, the fire’s glowing in the wood stove, the children and Denny are doing school, the sky is overcast and I’ve got the day to write to my heart’s content.

My writing space

So, what is Williams writing these days, anyway? Well, for starters, I’m aiming to get at least one blog post up a week. So much to write about, so little time—you know how it is. I’ve been learning to use Twitter and trying to remember to Tweet a couple times a day on there as well as engaging a bit. I may or may not be getting the hang of it. Ha.

But the projects… oh, the projects! It’s delicious to have projects. I’ve mentioned before that I’m working on something akin to a sequel to Free to Be, but done in a fictional style. Autobiographical fiction, they call it. Though I’ve long been daunted by writing fiction, a good friend and fellow author has given me a push and a whole heap of encouragement to try my hand at it (and, as always and of course, I have Denny’s full support and enthusiasm). It’s a different sort of bird altogether, I tell you what. I find it much more difficult than the writing I’ve done over the last two decades, but I do so love to learn and I’m learning a good deal. The tricky thing is not putting too much pressure on myself. Naturally, I’m my own worst enemy. Aren’t we all? 


Along the way my friend had the idea to write something together, something light, fun, and rather absurd, an ebook we can write quickly and sell cheaply. So, we spun off a ridiculous romantic parody and are having an absolute blast with it. I’ve set my other project aside for the time being, realizing that by collaborating with an experienced, talented, and, thankfully, very patient writer, I have the opportunity to learn in ways I couldn’t on my own. There are many tricks he’s learned over the years and he’s throwing them all at me. He’s figured out my learning style and sort of gotten into my head, able to guide me through any rough spots. He, his lovely lady, and my Denny are thoroughly enjoying watching me spread my wings and grow in confidence. I feel quite blessed (all praise to his Noodly Highness [wink]). Other people pay good money for half such mentorship. Man, I gots good peeps.

Carving out the time to write, that’s one of the difficult parts. Denny is taking over much of the children’s schooling as well as the cooking and such, attempting to free me to write (have I mentioned that before? I think I mentioned that). But writing has often been my…hmm... dessert. Something I got to do when all my work and other things were done. Like a quiet moment with a warm brownie and a glass of milk when the wee ones go down for a nap. Since Denny entered the picture and saw the potential in my writing, we’ve gradually made the shift to prioritizing it. Seeing the success of Free to Be was a good kick in the behind. But in the beginning we had to sort out some of my other projects to see what might be able to help support us. We still make and sell goat milk soap and I still do a bit of sewing and crafting (all available locally and from our website), but honestly, for a while there I was getting a little stressed trying to make it all successful. Success takes time and energy. With a large family and a small farm, I was spread thin. Partly I was still trying to do most of it myself, as I’ve always done, and not leaning much on Denny, somewhat to his frustration. I’ve learned a lot about partnership in the last year and a half, that’s for sure! Denny’s been so patient. He’s just… mmm. He’s an incredible man.

Well, one day this spring Denny was consoling me through a bit of stress. We talked about where my focus should be; soap, sewing, writing, or whatever. He held my hand, wiped at my tears, and tenderly asked me a question I won’t soon forget.

“Sweets, what do you want to do?"

Dang, I still tear up thinking about it. S’cuse me a moment.

Okay. Better.

See, Denny and I have an understanding: we have one life to live, we want to live it to the fullest. We will sacrifice the standard American luxuries—new cars, big houses, fancy toys, etc.—to live a truly rich life enjoying each other, working together, spending time with and enjoying the children, having equally meaningful friendships, getting our hands dirty tending a bit of land and making it beautiful. Earning money to cover the necessities must be done from home if at all possible if we want to see this happen. Earning money in a way we enjoy—even better. And with a minimalist lifestyle, we figure we can make it happen. We just need the focus.

So, what do I want to do? I want to write. Hands down, no hesitation, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if I can help keep a roof over our heads with something that brings me deep satisfaction, then absolutely yes it would be writing.

And it’s still so moving that Denny wants to see me happy. That he cares. That he cares enough to ask and cares enough to help make it happen. He trusts me and my writing. I want to say he has faith in me, but he’d scoff at that. He trusts.

Aaaagggghhh! It’s overwhelming. Loving this damned life.

Now, back to work. 

Casual Thoughts On The Sweetness of My Life

Disclaimer: If you cannot stomach hearing about how happy I am, and some random, rambling thoughts, better skip this one.

Man, I love my life. I really, really love my life. I used to say, about three years ago, that I was living the very life I would choose if given the choice. I knew then that that was only about 88% true. The country living, my location, my children, homeschooling, all the activities which occupied our days, even our economic situation was not entirely antithetical to the lifestyle I enjoyed. Simple, frugal living is what I would choose if I had to choose between it and luxury, but it’s far easier to accomplish when you haven’t the choice. For many of us, it’s a conscious sacrifice; we’d rather have the time to enjoy simple pleasures at home than throw greenbacks at a fancy shopping mall in what little time we left after chasing the same greenbacks around a workplace.

If you’ve followed me for any length of time you know, of course, that the other 12% of my life, the unsatisfactory bit, was my marriage. No matter how I tried, that relationship wouldn't jell. 

Little took this pic of me & Den a few nights ago.

In hindsight, with its reputation for perfect vision and all that, I look back today and kinda chuckle at my percentage split. I guessed, but nonetheless underestimated, the significance of the impact that a mutually loving, respectful, joyful partnership could have on every aspect of one’s life. I continue to be overwhelmed every day by what Denny and I share. It enriches everything.

I had so many insecurities when Denny and I hooked up. The merest bump in our peace and harmony would find fear winding its icy hands around my throat. I wasn’t good enough for my first husband, how could I possibly be good enough for an amazing man like Denny? But Denny understood my fears and was patient with me. He reassured me. He knew me then and knows me know and has a knack for saying just the right thing. In the beginning I shared with him what I suspect is not an uncommon fear for people entering a new relationship after a failed one.

“I couldn’t make it work with my ex,” I said through tears. “It seems like too much to hope that you and I build something lasting."

“Oh, but I see it so differently,” he said, taking my hand. “I don’t see failure, I see your success. If you can make it work for fourteen years with the likes of your ex, and come through with flying colors, which you did, there’s every reason to believe you and I together can do a whole lot better."

You can’t argue with this man’s logic.

And so here we are, thriving. My insecurities fade daily, overwhelmed by love, patience, kindness, recognition, appreciation, respect, admiration, and the occasional round of tickling. Things aren’t just good, they are great. And they just keep getting better. It’s a remarkable thing when you get the right two people together, how they both can grow into even better people.

Once upon a time, I believed that any relationship could succeed if you just work at it hard enough. I must have learned this watching my parents work out their issues, preserving, overcoming. I guess that’s why I didn’t think much about it when I married the first time. I was pregnant, this was the father of my child, and so naturally he would be my husband and we would make it work.

Whoops.

Two people, agreeing on those terms, could possibly create something lasting and, at least, tolerable, if not decent. If you can’t even agree on that, well...

But oh, do not overlook compatibility! Personality, life experiences (including upbringing), interests. Probably in that order. The more different, the more tricky. Two incompatible people could work at a relationship and still barely achieve what two ernest, compatible people might consider a bad spell in their relationship.

What I find interesting is that at nineteen, when I first married, I was less than half the person I am now. At thirty-four I obviously have more personality, more life experience, and more interests. And Denny has his share under his belt. We might have clicked 15 years ago, but nothing like we do at this time in our lives. We are compatible on so many levels it’s pretty much ridiculous.

I wonder then, do the relationships of the young automatically suffer a deficit because the youth aren’t as developed? Maybe they don’t know who they are yet and have a higher chance of getting together because this or that 'feels good,’ but then tend to grow apart? Maybe they just don’t know what they want yet? How many young loves truly blossom? Our genetic instinct doesn’t seem to be toward long-lasting, fulfilling relationships so much as rushing us to reproduce.

But if it’s true that most young loves ultimately fail, maybe mid-life relationships are more satisfying. But then, there are plenty of middle-aged people bouncing from relationship to relationship, lost and unsatisfied. Not everyone has the knack for knowing what they want and the ability and/or luck to find it.

Whatever. Just babbling. I just consider myself very fortunate to have found my way into a fulfilling relationship. And sometimes I give myself a little pat on the back because it wasn’t all by chance. I attracted Denny and Denny attracted me because of who we are.

All that to say what? The rich things in my life have become richer because I have a partner with whom to share them. Parenting is more of a pleasure than ever. My new worldview, that of a humanist rather than an God-fearing authoritarian, has changed the way I relate to my children. Denny continues to watch me with fascination. He hugs me and affirms me with deep sincerity. He also holds me when I cry, tormented by fear of screwing up my children. And he loves me all the more because I care so much. We talk over all the issues regarding the children, the attitudes and the education and the future. When the children are being particularly adorable we catch each other’s eyes and share the moment. If we’ve been doing our own things during the day, we catch up with each other and he never fails to gush about something sweet he overheard or saw. He is full of ideas and enthusiasm and energy. The children accept and love him, but I hope that someday they will truly appreciate how fortunate we are to have him with us.

Denny has settled quite well into Make-It-Do Farm. I’m always eager to hear his ideas regarding the property and he, mine. How about some fruit trees on the hill? And some more blueberries next year, maybe two dozen in all? And if we mulch these flowerbeds heavily with leaves this fall we could plant purple coneflowers and rudbeckias in the spring, maybe some chamomile. Yeah, we’ll have to build a little fence of twigs to keep the chickens and dogs out of it. If we cleaned that over there up it would look nicer, and we could build a doghouse there before it gets very cold. In 5 years time what would you like to see? Me too. We should write it down and make a list to accomplish each year.
A garden geek after my own heart.

And don’t get me started on finances. You know, I don’t think we earn much more than my family did before, but it’s managed carefully and gets us so much farther. It was at least a year before I stopped getting soggy-eyed with gladness when he would invite me to go over the finances with him and he’d wrap it up, saying, “So, we’re good for this month and next.” Money isn’t His and Hers, nor does it fall to one of us while the other remains “blissfully” ignorant. Together. Partners.

Some practical things have changed that I never saw coming. I sold the goats. I don’t sew as much. Denny is doing most of the schooling. Most of that is to free me up to write and do writing-related things. Identifying myself as a writer, an author… Yeah. Wow. It wouldn’t have happened in my old life. I love it. It’s different, something of an adjustment, but I love it. And Denny loves watching it happen. 

I feel like a new woman. But when I tell Denny that he points out the parts of me that were always there, the parts that are just getting some air now. Strength, confidence, talent. He’s right, of course. That man and his logic.

Sigh. I sure do love my life. Thanks for letting me carry on about it for a bit.  =)

Semi-Charmed Slice of Life

August 1st.  Only one light, short-lived rain in the last few weeks.  It hasn’t been hot; actually it’s been deliciously cool

and I think we only turned the air conditioning on once in July.  Hot enough to enjoy swimming during the day, if we make it to the river down the road or fill up the big stock tank for the kids (our creek has dried to a trickle), but cool enough at night to want a jacket if you’re going to be out.  But the dryness is beginning to show.  I walked up to the hill to the shut-ins this afternoon and the grass and wildflowers crunched under my feet.  Crispy, brown.  The sun beat down on me, on the ground, on everything, crossing that fine line between deliciously warm and frighteningly intense.  Yep, August ground.  Can’t complain, that line is usually crossed in June.

I have a troublesome young goat who has been jumping out of the goat yard.  She’s not the sweet kid she was and not the sweet momma and milk provider she will one day be.  Rebellious teenage goat.  I’ve tried the tricks I’ve learned over my seven years of goat-ownership, but she still gets out.  We’re trying to sell her, but no one is interested at the moment.  It’s not just that she’s troublesome; I realized I just don’t need a third goat to milk.  We get just the right amount for our family and a  bit besides to sell; perfect.  She’ll make someone a great milker next year, but in the meantime I have to tie her out in the yard.  The corkscrew tether that I use won’t go in the ground; ground’s too hard, too dry.  I tie her to trees and she gets herself completely tangled, with only inches of slack, within two hours.  She knocks over her water bucket so we have to refill it when we untangle her.  I like my goats, but this is too much.  There are other things I’d rather be doing with my time.  (I only advertise the “good milk goat” part.  You understand.)

The few vegetables I have growing in my garden this year, the beans and cucumbers, the tomatoes, peppers and tomatoes, are all heavily mulched so, combined with decent rainfall through spring and early summer, they haven’t needed me to water them up until now.  Today I soaked everything well.  It’s pleasant to be out in the late morning sunshine, before the heat sets in, playing in the water, relaxing while performing the very simple job of tending plants.  Water, pull a few weeds, cut off the “suckers” on the tomatoes (prune), look for hornworms to feed to the chickens.

This morning was even better because my oldest child, Farra, joined me.  She generally doesn’t like to be out in the heat because she’s allergic to it (took us two years to figure out why she was breaking out in hives), so the fact that she was following me around in the dreaded sunshine, just to visit with me, was sweet indeed.  We had a wonderful chat.  Unlike my rebellious teenage goat, Farra is a pleasure.  So far our relationship flies in the face of the many people who looked at my sweet wee ones and said, “Just wait until they’re teenagers,” taking some obscene delight in the idea that all the fun I seemed to be having parenting would turn to misery as my children balked and fought their way to adulthood and freedom.  Not counting chicks here, just sayin’ so far, so good.

We talked about the fun company we’d had over the evening before and about writing.  At nearly fifteen, Farra is coming into her own; her own interests, her own hobbies, her own desires, her own ideas.  I’m interested, but do not pry.  I’m pleased when she shares with me and try to respect her privacy.  She spent the month of July involved with an online writer’s group, encouraging and being encouraged by other young people writing stories, poems and screenplays.  She noticed that only three or four of the dozen people in her group actively engaged, that the encouragement was limited and there was little constructive criticism. I couldn’t help but smile as she told me how she is observing and learning to communicate and connect with people, to encourage and help people.  Thinking carefully about the stories that she read, she was able to offer insight, explain what she thought the author and story’s strong points were, offer the smallest bits of advice, and encourage the author to take it to the next level.  It sounds like she was very kind and sincere, thoughtful.

This girl is bloody amazing.  I am beyond privileged to be a part of her life.

I spent a couple hours this afternoon chatting online with a dear friend while sitting out on the porch with humming birds humming angrily above my head, fighting each other for a turn at the nearby feeder.  My friend and I told stories, practiced our wit, and encouraged and inspired each other as writers and human beings.  It floors me that it’s possible to connect so completely, though oceans may separate us.  What a marvel.  What a joy.

Probably because I watered the garden this morning, late this afternoon the sky darkened with clouds.  Thunder rumbled to the northwest.  Murphy, our old Pyrenees dog, trembled and wagged his tail pathetically, begging to be let onto the deck and away from danger.  Determined sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated portions of the yard as the first raindrops began to fall.  I didn’t spot a rainbow, but it was worth looking.  I stood on the deck and watched the rain fall heavier, pounding on the metal roof above my head, the wetness darkening the green of the yard and garden and forest.  There’s little more I love than a gentle summer storm after weeks of dryness.  

The children helped me open the windows of the house, closed all day to keep the previous night’s coolness in.  We listened to the rain as we rolled out pizza dough and cut up the basketful of heirloom tomatoes we’d brought in from the garden.  We took our time making our Friday night pizza.  When you’re handling garden fresh produce, surrounded by your children, enjoying the sound and smell of a summer rain, you take your time.  This is one of those moments.  Justin helped Atira peel and crush the garlic, mixing it with a little olive oil and spreading it on the crust.  Royal and Little helped me spread out the sliced tomatoes and sprinkle them with chopped basil and oregano, salt, pepper and cheese.  Into the oven for fourteen minutes then topped with a little parmesan; hands down the absolute best pizza ever.  

The fresh tomato bit is seasonal, the pizza is on Fridays, but the semi-charmed life is pretty much an every day occurrence.  If you ever, for any odd reason, find yourself in or near Fredericktown, Missouri we’d love to share a slice of life with you, whoever you are.