Note from MN

I'm in the library in Litchfield, Minnesota right now, since at Mom and Dad's house one is cut off from the fast-paced world in almost every way--scratchy rotary-dial phone, no daily paper, no radio, no cell phone signal. And certainly no internet.

So Mom has been telling me stories, and I have been writing them down. Which is better than having Internet access.

So now I've been at the library for half an hour and know what my big kids are really up to because I read their Xanga's.

Thanks to all who prayed for my talks at the women's retreat in International Falls. My voice held up very well, I connected with lots of people, and it was a wonderful weekend. However I am realizing, after the fact, the great risk and terror of talking to 300 people at once and how easily what you say can be used against you. What if that story wasn't appropriate, and what do I do about that point I forgot to say, and what if the minister who is adamantly opposed to the retreat listens to the tapes and becomes even stronger in his position?

Ya vell. What was my topic again? Trusting God's promises? Like "thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee."

A number of women at the retreat had read my evaluations of the youth retreat in Idaho and also the BMA convention, and they said they'd be waiting for a similar overview of this weekend.

Not yet, but maybe after I'm home.

Now I get to take my mom out for lunch. Good times.

Quote of the Day:
"Dot gaet aeh nass da billy goat melga." (There he goes out to milk the billy goat.)
--what Aunt Vina said to Uncle Ervin's friend Checky (Jake) when she was a little girl, as she climbed into his buggy and showed him a picture book

Leavin' On a Jet Plane

In a couple of hours I'm heading to Portland to catch a flight to Minnesota, once again doing the drive-alone, park-way-out, catch-a-shuttle thing, then reversing it all late at night on Tuesday, which always seems like something I would enjoy if I were a diehard independent feminist, but I am not, so it's a lonely but practical expedition.

However, I don't think I'll be lonely after I get to International Falls, where I get to socialize with close to 300 women at the Borderland Ladies Retreat. I hear whiffs of news about how beautiful the decorating will be, how fun the ladies, how accommodating the accommodations. Definitely my idea of a great time.

And after the retreat I get to be with my parents at Grove City for three days.

I also get to be the main speaker for the retreat, an honor that terrifies me if I think about it and quit trusting God, which is the topic for my two talks. The speaking itself is fine, it's the idea of having something of value to say to everyone who's come expecting to hear something. I've felt a lot of what must be spiritual oppression over this whole thing, and, as I told my sister, I hate the idea of being important enough for the Enemy to bother with. And today I woke up with a sore throat, another in a long list of "little coincidental" things.

So last night we were talking about me being gone and Emily being The Mom.

Quote of the Day:
Emily: So how much can the kids be home by themselves?
Me: Not much
Ben: Oh, Mom, we'll be fine!
Me: Well, that blackberry incident set you back about six months.
Ben: When we're home by ourselves, we try harder. A large percentage of the foolish things we've done have been while you're home.

Quiz from the Girls

Quote of the Day:

Q: How is Dad like Jethro the Giraffe?

A: 1. He has big freckles all over,

2. His hair is thinner on top, and

3. He has long bristly eyebrow hairs.

--Emily and Jenny

Column

Today's Letter from Harrisburg is about our cross-country trip.

First day of school

School started last Tuesday. This year Paul is principal/full-time teacher again and our youngest four are in his room, an arrangement we all like. Here's the crew on the first day, with Hansie trying to get yellow hairs all over their new uniforms.

(left to right: Steven, Emily, Jenny, Ben)

Quote of the Day:

"If he were just a little more vegetarian, he'd be like a pig."

--Ben, on how Hansie eats

Boys and Blackberries

Wild blackberries are both a pest and a blessing in Oregon. They take over any vacant area if left uncontrolled, smothering old machinery and small buildings and anything else in their way.
But every August they produce a crop of delicious berries, nestled among millions of vicious thorns, free to anyone brave enough to pick them.

I’ve found this is a good enterprise for Ben and Steven, who like to wear jeans and rubber boots, go exploring, and attempt brave feats. So every so often I send them out and they return with an ice cream bucket or two of berries, which I have been turning into pies, cobblers, and a number of jars of pie filling. Their best picking spot is about half a mile away, across the fescue field, along the railroad tracks.

The other day I realized the berry season is about at its end and it’s going to start raining soon, so after supper I sent the boys on one last expedition, letting them out of doing dishes as a bonus.

An hour or so later they came back, but with only a third of a bucket of berries. Uh, well, you see, it’s like this. They picked a full bucket of berries, plus a third, and then they climbed the fence back into the field and headed home and Ben was like, "Hey, big wide-open field--let’s see if we can walk 200 steps with our eyes closed!"

Steven traversed his 200 steps safely and opened his eyes to see that Ben had veered off north toward Substation Drive and a fence. He yelled, but Ben just figured Steven had tripped or something, and shortly after at step 181 Ben crashed into the fence and spilled his entire bucket of berries irretrievably into the dirt and straw. Yeah.

When I heard this doleful tale I opened my mouth to say something, then shut it, then opened it again, then shut it again.

The boys saved their hides at this point by quickly saying all the proper things such as, "We know it was really stupid, we're sorry, we’ll never try that again, we’ll pick more berries tomorrow."

Then Paul did not improve matters by saying in his wise-father voice, "See, what you have to do is look around and make sure there’s no fence within 200 steps in any direction before you try that."

My silent tongue was loosed at this point in a shrill, "What??? That’s not the POINT!!! The point is that you THINK ABOUT THE CARGO IN YOUR HANDS BEFORE YOU DO SOMETHING THAT STUPID AND YOU DON’T WALK WITH YOUR EYES SHUT WITH A BUCKET OF BLACKBERRIES IN YOUR HANDS, FENCE OR NO FENCE!!!!!!""

The guys all looked at me like, "Poor Mom, off on one of her rants again."

I called my friend Arlene for comfort. She was soothing and wonderful. My boys are nice, she said, and smart, and they really are going to grow up. Then she told me some comforting stories about her own children, and said,

Quote of the Day:
"I’m so sick of worryin’ about my kids!"
(Me too)

And Paul also had this wisdom for me:
2nd Quote of the Day:
"Well, that’s one of the disadvantages of having creative kids."

Hillarious

My 17-year-old niece Hillary has a way of getting herself into the most bizarre situations. The other day I called her mom's cell phone and Hillary answered, her voice sounding echoey and far away. "Um, actually, I'm volunteering where my mom works, and I'm stuck in the elevator," she said.
"Stuck in the elevator??"
"Yeah, it won't go up or down, and the doors won't open."
"Is there an emergency button you can push?"
"Well, yeah, there's these alarm buttons, but I'm afraid if I push them it'll make this alarm go off all over the building."
While I was writing down the name of the facility to try to call the front desk, Hillary found another button to push, and I heard a loud dial tone and then a number dialing.
"Hillary? Is that a phone? Can you call out and ask for help?"
"No, it's just this speaker thing in the wall."
I talked to her a little more and then the dialing was repeated. I heard Hillary say, tentatively, "Um, this is Hillary, and I'm stuck in the elevator." And a woman's voice said, "Ok, I'll come get you right away."
Soon Hillary said, "Ok, the doors are open," and we hung up.
So glad that ended well.

This episode was also bizarre but not as scary.

Quote of the Day:
"If I ever get a girlfriend back East, I'd probably plan my trips back there around the Ducks' bye week."
--Ben, who we hope changes his priorities before he starts dating

Questions on my Mind

Scene 1:
Yesterday we went down to Winston, an hour and a half south when Paul is driving, to see the Schnupp family. Back when we first went to Canada, Clair was the mission director and the five daughters were still single. Now they are all married with families, and they gathered at Duane and Judy’s house and had something of an open house on Sunday so people like us could spend time with them again.

I very much enjoyed seeing them again but I realized something I had kind of forgotten and that is that when I am around people like Clair and Clara I go all navel-gazing.

They gave this wonderful talk about how sin came into the world and forever destroyed our selves and relationships in a way that can only be restored through Jesus.

All of which is fine, but they also talked about the fact that we tend to be icebergs, with 7/8 of us down below, and the eighth that people see often isn’t the "real" us. And we have all these strange ways of coping with pain that we have never dealt with. And we play roles that we aren't even aware of. And so on.

All of which is fine, but that sort of talk always makes me go all analytical, digging for rotten turnips in the root cellars of my soul. And in Paul’s. (Maybe he actually has feelings and just doesn't know how to show them! And it's all my fault!) And in our marriage’s.

So. Does someone like me actually need a talk like that or is it directed toward the Oblivious People out there who probably won’t 'get it' anyway? And when is enough enough? When do you leave well enough alone and go on with life and hang the jeans on the line and make that dentist appointment?

Scene 2:
I have two medium-sized boys that I love dearly who are 14 and 12, big and loud and rough, with huge feet and dirty shirts. I have one little girl, 8, with long red hair and sparkly eyes and Princess flip-flops and a few freckles across her dainty nose. She likes to spend time with her brothers, although I’m not sure why. They are generally not unkind, but they just treat her like a boy. Like today they were cleaning out the van and she wanted to be there with them. "Beat it, Puff!" said one. "Get out of here, Powderpuff!" said the other. Henk henk henk.

I told her that boys that age are kind of uncivilized creatures who like to punch each other, physically and verbally. One brother telling another, "Cut it out, Fatso!" is not like me saying the same thing to my friend Rita. I suggested she find ways to punch back, verbally, since that’s the language they speak.* And I told them that telling her to "beat it" is not acceptable. But to be honest I'm not sure where to go:
--teach her to play their game, as mentioned?
--tell her to stay out of their way?
--tell them they have to have her around?
--let them fight it out?
--find some sort of compromise about time together?
--harangue them about being nice?
--go all agonized about the sin and depravity of their souls and try to get them to see their selfishness?
--teach them to be civilized gentlemen who say, "Come, Little Sister, and join us in a game of Uno at the kitchen table."? ( Henk henk henk.)

*edited to add: I don't mean she should be nasty, but if she could have some snappy, confident, humorous comeback I think they'd more easily accept her presence.

Quote of the Day:
Emily: Why are you meddling with things that aren't yours to meddle with?
Steven: Part of it was plastic.
--an all-too-typical conversation at our house

Menu

Next month is the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association convention in the Seattle area, at which I am to be one of 20 authors talking about our books to convention-goers at a dinner event. Actually, we are to be dinner entertainment, going from table to table in 20-minute rotations, talking about why they should feature our books in their stores.

Yes, I am dreading this. But it's a great opportunity I'd be silly to pass up just because I'm still too Amish to brag up my own stuff. My friend Rachel is coaching me so I don't say, "You don't really want to get this book, do you?"

Anyway. Before that we get to eat dinner. Tomorrow I need to fax them and let them know which of the following entrees I prefer:

--Sage Roasted Pork Belly & roasted pear tomato sauce on toasted jumbo couscous with braised escarole & roasted shallots
--Herb Roasted Chicken Breast with a rosemary sauce, & mashed potatoes, roasted onions, carrots & seasonal squash
--Vegetarian Pear & Gorgonzola Ravioli with yellow beets, pears, grapes, gorgonzola & pine nuts

You know, sometimes I forget that there's actually a parallel universe out there where people eat like this. We, on the other hand, had this for supper:

--boiled new potatoes from the garden with butter and parsley, cooked green beans (also from the garden), and meatballs with a ketchupy oniony sauce.

And here I thought I was getting all gourmet by sprinkling parsley on the potatoes.

Quote of the Day:
"Yum yum."
--Steven, when I read the above choices to the kids

Selly Yeddah (Those Yoders)

Recently in my blog wanderings I ran across a couple of posts I found fascinating because of my background. My maiden name was Yoder, that solid Amish name, pronounced Yeddah in Pa. Dutch.

This post talked about a distinctive "Yettah lach," (Yoder laugh) at family reunions. And this one told of a malady known as "Yeddah grivvel" (Yoder irritable-restlessness).

Despite being a Yoder, I had never heard of either of these. Mom had restless leg syndrome, which she always called "nervousy bay," (nervous legs) but she was not a Yoder by birth and we never heard of the syndrome on Dad's side of the family.


What we did hear about was the Yeddah Schwachy Mauah, or Yoder weak digestive system. Dad and a few of his siblings were plagued with vague stomach ailments and sensitivities and pains. Dad couldn't eat fibrous or seedy things like berries, among lots of other things. I don't even know what his exact symptoms were; I just know that every so often he refused to eat something at the table because it would be too hard on his schwachy mauah.

Dad passed the ailment on to my brother Phil, who had schwachy mauah to begin with and then completely trashed his digestive system by being on pennicillin for five years after he had rheumatic fever, although of course at the time we didn't realize that.

So Phil lives on pureed cooked squash and just a few other foods.

In the next generation, Becky's Jason and our Emily have the Yeddah mauah, and one of Phil's as well, though not as bad. I think it might be Hillary. (Which would mean that the three 17-year-olds all have it....hmmmm....odd. Anyway...)

The Yeddah mauah are only one of Emily's many health issues, which I often research on the internet, hoping for clues and cures, while she rolls her eyes at yet another printout. Yesterday I got to thinking that she might have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, so today I went hunting. Yeah, the symptoms fit her, kind of. And the recommended diet lists said--my ears pricked up--cooked squash is recommended and berries are forbidden. How about that!

Wouldn't that be something if the Yeddah Schwachy Mauah actually turned out to be a real disorder with a real name, like maybe "Irritable Bowel Syndrome"??

Quote of the Day:
"Nah, Amos, du vaysht du setsht net aspirin nemma! Sis zu hot uch dei mauah!"
(Now Amos, you know you shouldn't take aspirin. It's too hard on your digestion."
--my grandma, back when I was a child listening from the living room as she shook her finger in my dad's face out in the kitchen and he humbly listened

(Ok, someone is going to wonder why I don't take Emily to a doctor. Nothing personal to my SIL Barb or anyone else, but the medical profession is marvelous with broken bones and mediocre at best with anything vague and chronic. And Emily at this point would rather suffer ferociously than submit to the inevitable invasive tests and questions.)