When we picked up our dog, Henry, at the Humane Society, every staff member, most dog walkers, and half the other folks there to adopt animals told us the same thing: "Remember, he's a working breed. He needs a job. Without a job, he will get bored, and destructive, and depressed."
Half husky, half blue heeler. They aren't wrong. Henry's heart pumps the blood of the long-running huskies, and the fast-sprinting cattle dogs. The wolves that dot the husky side of his heritage are a bit closer to the surface than I would have guessed; he's taken to hunting rabbits on our property, with a surprising, and, honestly, slightly disturbing, level of success. I've found numerous sad, tattered rabbit skins scattered about, and once had the poor timing to walk out just as he ripped the head off a screaming rabbit. It was like having a front seat to one of the nature films I used to watch as a kid.
His instinct for herding extends even to us. He will leap along beside us, nipping at us. He doesn't often make actual contact with us, but he snaps his mouth shut in a way that makes a strange, and highly...shall we say *encouraging* popping sound. During an off-leash run with BJ, Henry darted under the fence, and started trying to herd the neighbors cattle: "He was doing a pretty good job of it too, until this really BIG cow faced him down, and wasn't having any of his nonsense." BJ told me. "The 'really BIG cow'?" I asked, "You mean, THE BULL?!" "Oh," he said, "Yeah, that makes sense."
Henry is a good dog. A little wild, but happy and friendly. That's actually why I picked him. His happy, wild energy reminded me of Sam. I've never really had a dog before, and my training attempts are a bit rudimentary. Pretty soon, Henry will start obedience training. Once he's got the basics down, we will see if he can be trained as a Search and Rescue dog. A good job for a happy, wild, energetic dog. In the meantime, he's my running buddy, he's herding Sam, and he's hunting rabbits.
The "working breed" issue got me thinking: humans are a working breed. For almost all of our history, we were, on a daily basis, expected to work for our survival. Not too long ago, if you wanted food, you grew it. Clothes, you made them. Shelter, you built it. Our world has changed immeasurably, but I'm not sure our brains changed fast enough to keep up. We sit at desks. And while sitting at those desks gains us a paycheck, which we use to buy the things we need to survive, it doesn't scratch that immediate itch. That feeling of needing to do something doesn't really go away. Some people channel that urge into arts and crafts, or various hobbies, all of which are viewed as being somehow indulgent. In these days, when "time is money" and a pair of socks costs $2 at a big box store, spending hours in a chair knitting a pair of socks from yarn that cost you $15 doesn't make much sense. It makes even less sense to raise the sheep, shear it, make yarn, and knit those socks. But we see more and more people trying to get back to "old ways" of doing things. We snicker at "trends" and "hipsters" and "Pintrest", ignoring the deeper reasons behind it all.
I see, in society, the urge to do things for ourselves. More and more. I've had delusions of "Little House on the Prairie" since I was in elementary school. I always wanted to knit, sew, quilt, garden, make bread, and raise chickens. As a kid, those things made me weird. (Ok, those weren't the only things that made me weird, but they were a big factor). Lately, however, it doesn't turn many heads. Community education classes on canning and knitting fill up quickly. The urban chicken movement is spreading quickly, with many major cities allowing coops in back yards. More and more people are challenging city officials about rules prohibiting vegetable gardens in front yards. Community gardens are so full, they have waiting lists that stretch for years. And, if my realtor friends can be trusted, we are far from the only ones who packed our bags, waved goodbye to the city, and settled down on a gravel road.
Since I worry about the flip side (bored, destructive, depressed), I'm trying to make these things a normal part of my kid's lives. Bryn is interested in sewing, having watched my mother transform chunks of fabric into clothes that she loves. Sam loves to stack firewood, and I think we will be helpful for weeding in the garden this summer...once he realizes what is and weed, and what is a carefully cultivated eggplant, of course. Astrid has a ways to go before she can do much besides choke herself with dirt clods and rocks, but she will be out there with me. Despite living on his own, Ian will be dragged out to help when the garden demands heavy lifting, or when the woodpile requires replenishment. I want them to put in effort on things that will yield direct, tangible results. You weed the garden, and we eat the squash. You chop and stack the wood, and sit by the fire's warmth. You cut and stitch the fabric, and you have something to wear.
It's faster, and cheaper, to go to the store. Spend a few more hours sitting at a desk, and pay for what you need or want. But that's not what we are wired for. That's not what we evolved to do. That's not what drives us. So, no matter what our culture wants to tell you, go do that indulgent, time-consuming hobby. Make toys or furniture from wood. Milk a goat and make cheese. Spend the entire day sitting at home, intermittently playing with dough, and end up with a really good loaf of bread to have with dinner. Scratch that itch. It's what we were born for.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Chasing my shadow, running from zombies.
March is a difficult month in Minnesota. Technically, spring has arrived. This year, it even feels like it, with temperatures in the 60's and 70's for the last few weeks. But, she's a fickle one, and we will be dropping back into the 40's again next week. It will feel all the more intolerable now that we have had a taste of sun and sky. Granted, it's not as bad as last year, when the cold hung on for so long that the movie Frozen was seeming more and more plausible by the day. Seriously, Elsa. Get some Prozac or something!
I spent the winter on the treadmill, face towards the bare, cinderblock wall of the basement. It got...dull...rather quickly. As my runs got longer, it got harder and harder to tolerate. When you are going to spend an hour or more there, you need to find a way to keep your brain engaged.
The basement lights cast my shadow onto that cinderblock wall. I started using that shadow. I'd watch it, monitoring my form. Head up, shoulders back, arms relaxed with a natural swing. When my hip or knee got sore, I would notice the dip in my shoulder. A clue. I was favoring one side, running the risk of injuring the other. Time to slow down, or stop. I would stare at my shadow, seeing myself winning races, setting personal records. From time to time, cheesy finish line, hands-in-the-air poses may have been tried out. Shut up: I'm going to look freaking awesome in my marathon finishing photo!
My other method for entertainment is to run from zombies. The Zombies, Run! ap tells you a story as you run, a story of you being one of a shattered handful of human survivors, trying to maintain the shreds of civilization. With fuel critically low, and technology spotty, runners are the method of carrying messages, collecting supplies, and gathering information. It's a silly, fun, engaging story. The voice actors are mostly British, which has led to some funny occasions where, while listening to the BBC in the car after a run, I found myself thinking "Are they seriously talking about Manchester United when I just spent an hour running from the walking dead?! Where are their priorities?!"
I've been enjoying this window of fine weather. I missed running my two miles of gravel. I've worked hard this winter, and "running the section", the country equivalent of going around the block (a just-over-four mile block) is no longer the outrageous proposition it used to be. That said...good lord, there are a lot of hills out here! Being at the top of the hill, which provides us with our amazing view, means that, no matter which direction I go when I leave my driveway, I will have to finish up hill. A little sting in the ass, so to speak.
The scenery more than makes up for the hills. A ten mile run, which sounds like torture on a treadmill, is sounding like an adventure on the roads. A none-too-easy adventure, lets be honest! I've never run ten miles. I've run eight, without too much trouble. But there is a mental aspect to ten miles. Two digits. A distance that 99% of us consider totally worthy of using a car. And I intend to run it. Thats a loooong way. And I'm not fast, so it's also a long time. And what if I have to go to the bathroom? What if my GPS dies? What if I end up at the farthest point from home and just can't do it?
I don't really have a choice. The Zombies are breathing down my neck. Or is that the half marathon I said I would run?
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Jam
I made strawberry jam today. Lured in by the good price, enticed by the spring-like weather, and convinced by the fact that we just pulled the final jar of last years jam out of the freezer a few days ago, I picked up ten pounds of ripe, red berries...likely the first of many such purchases I will make in the next month or so. Some of them became the strawberry shortcake that the kids and I ate way too much of (hey, it's a good dinner, as long as you don't do it all the time). More of them than you would believe went from pudgy hands to greedy mouths. But most of them are tucked away, jewel-bright, in the freezer.
Months from now, the cold will clamp down on us. The nights will be long and bitterly cold. I will wake up early, hours before the sun. Maybe a child will wake me. Maybe a nightmare; they are rare now, but they do come. They always will. Who knows. But something will get me up. Rather than fighting to fall back asleep, I will slip out from under the covers, and creep out while BJ sleeps.
Downstairs, I will get a fire going in the woodstove. I will tiptoe around, lights still out, flinching when the coffee grinder roars to life, but unwilling to wait any longer for my "fix". Seriously, are there really people who can function without coffee? Are we sure they aren't some sort of mutants sub-species?
There, in the early morning quiet, trying not to make too much noise, I will pull out some ingredients. The same recipe for baking powder biscuits that my mom always made. The same recipe that was the first thing I ever baked in my life, at age 6. In the oven for less than ten minutes, the baking is still the longest part of the whole process. At this point, the recipe card is more habit than need; I can make them by memory if needs be.
Just about the time they come out of the oven, someone, most likely Sam, will wake up. I will fix him a biscuit, slathered in butter and strawberry jam. The same strawberry jam I made today. The taste of it will take me back to today. To spring. To warmth.
BJ will come downstairs, carrying Astrid, our little alarm clock. He will join us for breakfast at the kitchen island. Astrid will be a sticky, red, crumb-encrusted mess, necessitating a bath before we can get on with the day. I will catch Sam eating a spoonful of jam, scold him, turn around, and catch BJ doing the exact same thing.
Bryn, being a teenager, will have her biscuits for lunch. She will pout and ask why we didn't get her up when they were fresh from the oven, and act offended at our expressions of shock at the very idea that she would voluntarily get up before the sun. She will roll her eyes and huff off to her room, while I call after her that if she drops crumbs in her room she's "going to get mice!" She won't listen, and she will get mice.
For now, though, it's getting warmer, they days are getting longer, and all the fruits of the year are ahead of us. We are creeping closer to the asparagus, the peas. The peaches and raspberries. The beans and corn and tomatoes. The new potatoes, the carrots, the summer squash. The garden season, the canning season...it's on the horizon.
Months from now, the cold will clamp down on us. The nights will be long and bitterly cold. I will wake up early, hours before the sun. Maybe a child will wake me. Maybe a nightmare; they are rare now, but they do come. They always will. Who knows. But something will get me up. Rather than fighting to fall back asleep, I will slip out from under the covers, and creep out while BJ sleeps.
Downstairs, I will get a fire going in the woodstove. I will tiptoe around, lights still out, flinching when the coffee grinder roars to life, but unwilling to wait any longer for my "fix". Seriously, are there really people who can function without coffee? Are we sure they aren't some sort of mutants sub-species?
There, in the early morning quiet, trying not to make too much noise, I will pull out some ingredients. The same recipe for baking powder biscuits that my mom always made. The same recipe that was the first thing I ever baked in my life, at age 6. In the oven for less than ten minutes, the baking is still the longest part of the whole process. At this point, the recipe card is more habit than need; I can make them by memory if needs be.
Just about the time they come out of the oven, someone, most likely Sam, will wake up. I will fix him a biscuit, slathered in butter and strawberry jam. The same strawberry jam I made today. The taste of it will take me back to today. To spring. To warmth.
BJ will come downstairs, carrying Astrid, our little alarm clock. He will join us for breakfast at the kitchen island. Astrid will be a sticky, red, crumb-encrusted mess, necessitating a bath before we can get on with the day. I will catch Sam eating a spoonful of jam, scold him, turn around, and catch BJ doing the exact same thing.
Bryn, being a teenager, will have her biscuits for lunch. She will pout and ask why we didn't get her up when they were fresh from the oven, and act offended at our expressions of shock at the very idea that she would voluntarily get up before the sun. She will roll her eyes and huff off to her room, while I call after her that if she drops crumbs in her room she's "going to get mice!" She won't listen, and she will get mice.
For now, though, it's getting warmer, they days are getting longer, and all the fruits of the year are ahead of us. We are creeping closer to the asparagus, the peas. The peaches and raspberries. The beans and corn and tomatoes. The new potatoes, the carrots, the summer squash. The garden season, the canning season...it's on the horizon.
Adventures of the Mundane
I haven't posted in a terribly long time, and for that, I apologize. I have gotten bogged down in my day to day routine, unable to think up something to write. My life, to be honest, is pretty mundane. Its not the sort of crazed ride that makes for gloriously entertaining stories. For the most part, it sticks to a rather dull routine: kids, diapers, dishes, laundry, cleaning, cooking, etc. Housewife stuff.
For example, the other day, I awoke to small fingers prying open my eyelids. Once Sam had managed that, he perched himself on my chest, grabbed my face in two icy hands, and, my rapt attention now assured, demonstrated a remarkable ability to blow snot bubbles from his nose. Two inches from my face. The fact that I muttered "Yes, very nice", and seriously attempted to go back to sleep should tell you all you need to know about what having four children does to a person.
From there, the day evolves into a continuous attempt to keep Astrid alive. I was fortunate, most of my parenting life: my previous three children were not particularly bad about putting things in their mouthes. I mean, like all babies, they did it. It's a normal developmental stage, after all. But Astrid has taken this to an utterly ridiculous level. I vacuum multiple times a day. I scan the room like I'm back in Iraq, looking for roadside bombs. I have an uncanny ability to predict when she is going to find something. And I have utilized the "Clear Obstructed Airway; Infant" part of my training far more than anyone should. This child will chew bark, toy dinosaurs, rocks, yarn, clumps of dog hair, legos, hair clips, ear buds, puzzle pieces, electrical cords, baby wipes...you name it, I've probably fished it out of her mouth. The only thing she doesn't want to put in her mouth? Any type of food that doesn't come out of a boob. Oh, and did I mention? She bites.
While I'm in the living room, performing the Heimlich maneuver for the 10th time that day, Samuel might decide that his toy helicopters need to stage a dramatic rescue of his toy trains. My darling Sam certainly has a flair for this sort of thing: a dramatic rescue needs a dramatic location. What could be more dramatic than a beautiful waterfall and a treacherous cliff? It turns out that the Costco-sized container of blue dish soap, poured out onto the granite countertops in the kitchen, will cascade to the floor, producing a beautiful pond that is just perfect for this. And, as a bonus, after two solid hours of work, mom will have the cleanest floors in Rock County.
Just about the time the floor gets finished, Sam will pop back in to see what I'm up to, and..."Sam. Where are your clothes?" "Idda know", he says with an adorable shrug, and runs off. This is a frequent situation around here. My beloved husband was concerned that Sam didn't know how to dress himself, and so began an attempt to teach this (admittedly, very important) life-skill. Somehow, while he hasn't managed to actually get himself dressed yet, Sam turned out to have a remarkable aptitude for the reverse. Even more remarkable, there are at least two entire outfits that have vanished without a trace. I have moved furniture, emptied dressers and closets, climbed into every corner of the house, and they are nowhere to be found.
The nudity doesn't bother me, on it's own. It's the other implications. Sam knows how to use the potty, but his relationship with it is...complicated. Asking if he needs to go will likely prompt a shrieking tantrum. And yet, more than once I have walked into the bathroom to discover that he has, without saying a word and with no help at all, gone in and used the potty. If I ask him about it, cheer for him, attempt to reward him for his AMAZING ABILITY TO USE THE POTTY!!, he will run away, hide behind the couch, and insist that it wasn't him. More problematic still is when he appears, stark naked, and his legs are wet. If I'm really lucky (ha!), I will find a little puddle on the wood floors. More likely, I will have to strip off my socks and walk around the carpet, trying to find the wet spots (Yes, it's gross. Parenting is gross. Kids are gross. Nature of the beast, my friends). If I'm really unlucky, he will have peed down the heating duct on the floor.
If you think that the peeing and random shedding of clothing leads to a lot of laundry, well, you are right (and you probably have children). The kids love to help with laundry. Bryn helps by keeping all her dirty laundry in her room until she has been reduced to spandex gym shorts and a tanktop....and it's -40 degrees. Astrid helps by her knack for flipping over baskets of clean, folded clothes. It's amazing, since the baskets easily weigh more than she does, or are placed on top of things, where she cannot possibly reach. And yet, somehow, she does it. Sam, when he's not stripping off his clothes and hiding them, likes to empty his dresser into the laundry hamper, prompting the always-entertaining "sniff test".
At least the laundry room is calm. Quiet. A comfortable 95 degrees with a warm, ruddy glow....wait, your laundry room isn't like that? Oh. Oh yes. Well, it isn't *always* like that. Just right now. Hear that peeping noise? Yeah, there are eight baby chickens in a rubbermaid tub under a heat lamp over in the corner. Why are you looking at me like that? You don't have chickens in your laundry room? Well, good heavens! Where on earth do you keep them?!
For example, the other day, I awoke to small fingers prying open my eyelids. Once Sam had managed that, he perched himself on my chest, grabbed my face in two icy hands, and, my rapt attention now assured, demonstrated a remarkable ability to blow snot bubbles from his nose. Two inches from my face. The fact that I muttered "Yes, very nice", and seriously attempted to go back to sleep should tell you all you need to know about what having four children does to a person.
From there, the day evolves into a continuous attempt to keep Astrid alive. I was fortunate, most of my parenting life: my previous three children were not particularly bad about putting things in their mouthes. I mean, like all babies, they did it. It's a normal developmental stage, after all. But Astrid has taken this to an utterly ridiculous level. I vacuum multiple times a day. I scan the room like I'm back in Iraq, looking for roadside bombs. I have an uncanny ability to predict when she is going to find something. And I have utilized the "Clear Obstructed Airway; Infant" part of my training far more than anyone should. This child will chew bark, toy dinosaurs, rocks, yarn, clumps of dog hair, legos, hair clips, ear buds, puzzle pieces, electrical cords, baby wipes...you name it, I've probably fished it out of her mouth. The only thing she doesn't want to put in her mouth? Any type of food that doesn't come out of a boob. Oh, and did I mention? She bites.
While I'm in the living room, performing the Heimlich maneuver for the 10th time that day, Samuel might decide that his toy helicopters need to stage a dramatic rescue of his toy trains. My darling Sam certainly has a flair for this sort of thing: a dramatic rescue needs a dramatic location. What could be more dramatic than a beautiful waterfall and a treacherous cliff? It turns out that the Costco-sized container of blue dish soap, poured out onto the granite countertops in the kitchen, will cascade to the floor, producing a beautiful pond that is just perfect for this. And, as a bonus, after two solid hours of work, mom will have the cleanest floors in Rock County.
Just about the time the floor gets finished, Sam will pop back in to see what I'm up to, and..."Sam. Where are your clothes?" "Idda know", he says with an adorable shrug, and runs off. This is a frequent situation around here. My beloved husband was concerned that Sam didn't know how to dress himself, and so began an attempt to teach this (admittedly, very important) life-skill. Somehow, while he hasn't managed to actually get himself dressed yet, Sam turned out to have a remarkable aptitude for the reverse. Even more remarkable, there are at least two entire outfits that have vanished without a trace. I have moved furniture, emptied dressers and closets, climbed into every corner of the house, and they are nowhere to be found.
The nudity doesn't bother me, on it's own. It's the other implications. Sam knows how to use the potty, but his relationship with it is...complicated. Asking if he needs to go will likely prompt a shrieking tantrum. And yet, more than once I have walked into the bathroom to discover that he has, without saying a word and with no help at all, gone in and used the potty. If I ask him about it, cheer for him, attempt to reward him for his AMAZING ABILITY TO USE THE POTTY!!, he will run away, hide behind the couch, and insist that it wasn't him. More problematic still is when he appears, stark naked, and his legs are wet. If I'm really lucky (ha!), I will find a little puddle on the wood floors. More likely, I will have to strip off my socks and walk around the carpet, trying to find the wet spots (Yes, it's gross. Parenting is gross. Kids are gross. Nature of the beast, my friends). If I'm really unlucky, he will have peed down the heating duct on the floor.
If you think that the peeing and random shedding of clothing leads to a lot of laundry, well, you are right (and you probably have children). The kids love to help with laundry. Bryn helps by keeping all her dirty laundry in her room until she has been reduced to spandex gym shorts and a tanktop....and it's -40 degrees. Astrid helps by her knack for flipping over baskets of clean, folded clothes. It's amazing, since the baskets easily weigh more than she does, or are placed on top of things, where she cannot possibly reach. And yet, somehow, she does it. Sam, when he's not stripping off his clothes and hiding them, likes to empty his dresser into the laundry hamper, prompting the always-entertaining "sniff test".
At least the laundry room is calm. Quiet. A comfortable 95 degrees with a warm, ruddy glow....wait, your laundry room isn't like that? Oh. Oh yes. Well, it isn't *always* like that. Just right now. Hear that peeping noise? Yeah, there are eight baby chickens in a rubbermaid tub under a heat lamp over in the corner. Why are you looking at me like that? You don't have chickens in your laundry room? Well, good heavens! Where on earth do you keep them?!
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