Today has been one of those magically lazy days.
The girls went out to play in the new-fallen snow while Pa pushed the snow off the driveway and sidewalk. Later, the girls and I made pinecone bird feeders and I fixed chicken soup with rice. Lately, I've been getting a lot of good recipes from the Pioneer Woman and modified her Simple Chicken Soup into my own. This time I tripled the vegetables, next time I might get brave and use brown rice in place of white. It does take some convincing but the girls will eat it.
Now the girls are in bed and Pa is watching the Bears-Vikings game. I finally finished stitching the baby quilt I've been working on since May, just need Mom's help to finish the edge. We have taken our turns watching the snow fall, played games and put together jigzaw puzzles.
Overall, a pleasant day at home - and tonight we get to play Tooth Fairy, Katie lost her second front tooth. If only all she wanted for Christmas was her two front teeth...
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving!
So many things to be thankful for this year --here are a couple of them. Wishing you all a wonderful holiday.
Playing air-guitar to Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Playing air-guitar to Red Hot Chili Peppers.
The little one in her 'indian hat' that she made at preschool/daycare. On the inside of the hat band she has been practicing her Gs.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Hayloft
Not long ago the girls and our nephew were climbing, jumping and running through the hay bales. I stood on the ground, hot and dusty, brushing loose hay off my clothes trying to think back to why this was so much fun. Then, on a whim, I climbed to the top and sat down on a bale. There it was; the calm heavy air, full of the heady sweetness of fresh mown hay.
No dust stirring, a kind of closed-off top of the world. Look out the barn door and you can see so much further than just across the yard; across the acres of corn and beans, up the hill that was likely the origin of the hay, to the distant houses in the east.
As children, all summer long we would spend every possible moment in the hay loft of the old corn-crib. It’s long gone, replaced in purpose by a steel shed. Getting up into the hay loft was an adventure in itself. A ladder with at least one missing rung, dust and tiny pieces of hay swirling down as you climbed up—squint your eyes just-so to keep it all out and still see where you’re going.
We’d occasionally find a couple of eggs left by one of our escapee laying hens. Then it was a challenge to see which of us was brave enough to lean out the wide window and throw it the farthest onto the long, red farrowing shed. If you were really good, you could fling the egg up and over so that it landed on the steep sloped shingles of the hay loft. Victory could not be declared until we called it a day and went to inspect the roof.
The heavy August air did not deter us; we’d sit on the sill of the window, one leg out, shredding pieces of hay with our grubby fingernails declaring territories in the hayloft. I usually settled for something comfortable about halfway up the enormous stack while my siblings were more adventurous and would climb all the way to the top.
I fondly remember lying there – lazy in the heat of the afternoon, bare feet up a bale, kitten sleepily purring next to me, my fingers dancing in the sparkly dust lit up by the sunlight streaming through the roof cracks, arriving straight from heaven, surrounded by the calm, heady sweetness of fresh mown hay.
No dust stirring, a kind of closed-off top of the world. Look out the barn door and you can see so much further than just across the yard; across the acres of corn and beans, up the hill that was likely the origin of the hay, to the distant houses in the east.
As children, all summer long we would spend every possible moment in the hay loft of the old corn-crib. It’s long gone, replaced in purpose by a steel shed. Getting up into the hay loft was an adventure in itself. A ladder with at least one missing rung, dust and tiny pieces of hay swirling down as you climbed up—squint your eyes just-so to keep it all out and still see where you’re going.
We’d occasionally find a couple of eggs left by one of our escapee laying hens. Then it was a challenge to see which of us was brave enough to lean out the wide window and throw it the farthest onto the long, red farrowing shed. If you were really good, you could fling the egg up and over so that it landed on the steep sloped shingles of the hay loft. Victory could not be declared until we called it a day and went to inspect the roof.
The heavy August air did not deter us; we’d sit on the sill of the window, one leg out, shredding pieces of hay with our grubby fingernails declaring territories in the hayloft. I usually settled for something comfortable about halfway up the enormous stack while my siblings were more adventurous and would climb all the way to the top.
I fondly remember lying there – lazy in the heat of the afternoon, bare feet up a bale, kitten sleepily purring next to me, my fingers dancing in the sparkly dust lit up by the sunlight streaming through the roof cracks, arriving straight from heaven, surrounded by the calm, heady sweetness of fresh mown hay.
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