Wisdom Gained Far from Walden's Pond

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than to be crowded unto a velvet cushion.          Thoreau

 

Above are two quotes I put up prominently in my room as a youth. Since my “Henry David Thoreau period” stretched through a long summer, into the fall and winter—and perhaps never really ended—I have gone through life with these musings permanently stuck in my brain. Only now that I have passed middle-age do I realized how significant an effect they have had on me.

Obviously (or not) mine is a cautionary tale illustrating the importance of taking care what you read every single day for a year or more. You might suppose that since I did not become an anarchist, nor even a tax-evader, my over-immersion in Thoreau at a highly impressionable age did me no lasting harm. You would be wrong. My fingernails are ragged and broken, most of my muscles ache, I have a welt on my arm where I was bitten yesterday by an angry mother duck, the sweet fragrance of spring (manure) wafts into my room as I write—and I have Henry to thank for it all!

I am finally living the life I’ve spent my whole life craving. Before moving to my “airy castle” here in rural Dewey, Arizona, I built its foundation by reading dozens (hundreds?) of books on homesteading, self-reliance, beekeeping, goat-raising, square-foot gardening, horse training, chicken farming, water reclamation, cheese-making, soil testing, heritage seeds, heritage poultry . . . the list goes on and on. (And on!) I’ve subscribed to Urban Farming, Small Farm, Mother Earth News, Mary Jane’s Farm, Countryside and Small Stock Journal, and am a member-in-good-standing of backyardchickens.com and similar sites.  If I were to lay out, side-by-side, the books and periodicals I’ve perused of a homespun variety, they would almost certainly cover our entire acre—two volumes deep. (Hmm. This gives me an idea how to decrease the weeds in the paddock this year.)

Thus, armed with way too much information and not nearly enough common sense, this aging city girl (with MS) convinced her husband to buy a farmlette where I could pass blissful days sitting on pumpkins with contented critters gamboling around me. Thus, this is me, living the dream: I have a dozen chickens who think I’m their mother; I can’t walk to the water faucet without tripping over an Americauna and/or bending down to pick up a needy Rhode Island Red. I have been bitten, kicked and bumped by a moody filly with more attitude than manners. I have retrieved goats from the laundry room, the top of my brother’s car, and the roof of the house. I have taken a goose to a perplexed veterinarian, and turkeys on walks in an attempt to decrease their weight and improve their cardiovascular function. (Yes, really.) I acquire half my food through a co-op and pick it up in a park very early every Saturday morning. (Okay, my husband does. It’s so fast and furtive in nature he feels like a desperate vegan making a score.) I live across the highway from a working farm and farmers’ market. I sell eggs. I quilt. I get my water from a well. I keep a gerbil cage set up as a nursery for abandoned hatchlings. I grow more zucchini in a season than is legal in 48 states. I sun-dry my own tomatoes. I bake my own bread, and sometimes make my own cheese. I know the name of the bird my home teacher recently ate for Sunday dinner.

Sound romantic? Then you, too, have read too much Thoreau. Much of it is fulfilling, some of it is fun, but all of it is work.  This last fact is conspicuous only in its absence from all the books, journals, and Pinterest boards I’ve consulted. Either I’m doing it all wrong, or here in the real world weeds grow better than broccoli, animals aren’t half as endearing as Disney would have us believe, and people who routinely spend all day turning goat milk into stuff they can get at Family Dollar for four or five quarters have way too much time on their hands.

Today my husband has a rare day off. Movie? Day trip to Jerome? Relaxing around the picnic table and benches we built ourselves out of old wood pallets? Nope. We’re spending a fun day making firewood from the massive tree branch that recently took out our front fence, and then clearing tumbleweeds out of the quarter-acre I have not yet put to any good use.

 

Turns out this “sitting on private a private pumpkin” thing is so much fun some days that all you really, really want is a week or two on a crowded velvet cushion.

Blatant Advertising

Today's blog might be considered blatant advertising because I want to tell readers about a new book that has just been released, one that would make a great Mothers' Day gift. Hint! Hint! Remember Mother's Day is just four weeks away!  The book is titled The Art of Motherhood and contains thirty true short stories by different LDS writers, seven of whom are bloggers on this V-Formation blog and we're all also LDS fiction authors:  Jennie Hansen, Jeri Gilchrist, Betsy Brannon Green, Gale Sears, Michele Ashman Bell, Kerry Blair, and Nancy Campbell Allen.  There are also stories by many other favorites such as Traci Hunter Abramson, Anita Stansfield, Josi Kilpack, Toni Sorenson, Sarah Eden, Annette Lyon, Melanie Jacobson, Heather Moore, Julie Wright, Jeffrey Savage,  Joni Hilton and many others.  There are even stories by loved writers we haven't heard from for awhile like Kitty De Ruyter-Bons, Lucille Johnson, and Alma Yates.

 I am thoroughly impressed by this book.  I laughed at Sara Eden's story.  I wanted to hug Kerry Blair when she wrote of her soldier son. I ached for Traci Abramson and her forever daughter. I felt an urge to applaud those like Annette Lyon, Michele Bell, and Jeri Gilchrist who handled parenting's tough moments with reliance on the Spirit. And there were tears for those who remembered mothers or children who have passed away. There are also loving stories of women who were "like mothers." My own story is about my two precious miracle granddaughters and my daughter and daughter-in-law who are their mothers.

The stories are great, but so is the art work.  The lovely paintings that grace this book are by notable artists such as Greg Olsen, Mary Cassatt, Robert Duncan, Liz Lemon Swindle, and many other notable artists.

The book is in hardback and available at any store that sells LDS books, on Amazon, and at many  chain bookstores.  Though the back of the book is marked $19.99, it is discounted at some stores.

A Whole New Way of Life

I have just embarked on a new chapter in my life. I have thrown off the shackles of editors and evaluators....and what in the last months has become a nightmare of edits and cutting parts from the story that I wanted to tell. I decided I'm too old not to enjoy every remaining day of my life to the fullest, so I made the decision to turn the page on my writing career and write "The End." I am not finishing edits on Too Many Ghosts. I've withdrawn it from submission. I'm free! Free to play golf with my husband and walk on the beach anytime we feel like it. I'm free to swim and play with grandchildren at every opportunity without feeling guilty that I'm not at the computer writing. Free to go visit children in far off states. Free to spend my hours on family history and doing their temple work. Free to finish organizing my pictures and life story and write Mom's life story. I'm free to spend my hours cleaning out closets and repainting my home. In fact, just yesterday, some of our Young Women needed money to pay for camp this year so I had them come over and scrub my walls. Today, as soon as our daughter picks up our youngest grandchildren, I'm already to paint - to change colors and moods and my whole outlook on life! I'm now free to go help plan the wedding of our first granddaughter to get married. What fun we will have in South Dakota planning this Utah wedding! Free to explore venues for next year's family reunion. Free to spend extra days in Idaho next month with my three sisters on our annual retreat. Can't wait. I can't tell you how incredible this freedom feels! And I'm happy to say, I don't have even a tinge of regret that this book and the unfinished sequel will probably never see the light of day or reach the readers who have been asking when it will be available. I am sorry to disappoint my faithful followers, but not sorry enough to keep making changes to make evaluators happy. Not sorry at all that the story they wanted me to tell - instead of the story that I wanted to tell - will never be printed. Now, as soon as my grandchildren get up and have breakfast, we're off to hike the Prime Desert Woodlands Trail and just hope that four-year-old Julian doesn't give out before trail's end. Violet at his age hiked to the bottom of Bryce Canyon and back up without any assist from Grandpa who kept offering a ride on his shoulders. She's a born hiker. Julian is not. But the promise of visiting our neighbor with new baby chicks and bunnies, a llama, numerous goats, exotic chickens, and whatever else she has added to her menagerie should help him keep going! Freedom tastes SOOO sweet!

Making the Journey

About two weeks ago I was asked to speak and provide a musical number for a Relief Society celebration in a ward in our stake. As the day approached some thoughts came to mind and I was able to polish a little ditty I had written about four years ago. Feeling I was somewhat prepared, I didn't stress over this event. Then the day in question arrived, and everything seemed to hit the fan.

I have a form of rheumatoid arthritis called ankylosing spondylitis. (Yes, that is a mouthful to say.) This lovely disease tends to attack my lower spine and hips with a fury, making life entertaining. As with most people who endure arthritis, I've noticed that barometric pressure changes inspire flare-ups. This was one of the whammys I experienced that day.

When an arthritic moment from hades tries to disrupt my life, I usually do my best to push forward. For me it helps to keep moving. As such, I went on with my day, striving to accomplish the list of errands I needed to complete.

I managed to keep up fairly well until about an hour before the speaking engagement. Then my body decided to show me who was boss yet again. My blood sugar plummeted to 54, something that often happens when I'm in a bit of pain. As a Type 1 diabetic, this is not an unusual occurrence. However, unlike most insulin reactions that I endure on a regular basis, this one didn't want to go away. Thirty minutes later, despite my attempts to bring that level back to a normal range, it refused to budge. So I brought out the big guns, since I was supposed to head to town for the Relief Society dinner in a few minutes. This time I guzzled Gatorade, which usually helps to balance things out. As my blood sugar level ricocheted the other direction, I felt ever so lovely. Ignoring the nausea, I changed clothes, grabbed my guitar, and headed out to the car to drive to town.

By the time I arrived at the church house, my blood sugar was in the high 300's and I felt like the last chapter, so to speak. I punched in a dose of insulin on my insulin pump to bring my blood sugar down to a normal level for me (I try to keep it around 120-150) and I hoped for the best.

Since that level was so high, I just sipped water while the other women ate their dinner. I sat by a good friend who happens to be in that ward and she offered sympathy over my plight. We walk together quite often and she understood why I couldn't eat the delicious looking chicken salad with a tempting raspberry sauce. A few minutes before I was supposed to provide the program, I slipped out to do a final check on my blood sugar. It was now in the low 400 range--adding to my discomfort. I punched in more insulin, offered a quick but sincere prayer for help, and returned to the Relief Society party.

As I've seen in the past, when something is important, and I've done all I can to prepare, heavenly help is provided to get me through. It was the case that night. I stood before those women, feeling quite horrible, then the quiet peace of the Spirit slipped inside my heart, and I knew I wasn't facing this challenge alone. During the time I spoke and performed the musical number, I was sustained in a heavenly fashion. I was granted strength beyond my own and was able to convey the inspired message our Father desired his daughters to hear that night.

When it was over, I was amazed by the help I had received, and I knew who it was I needed to thank for that divine intervention. The nausea, headache, and arthritic pain returned, but an inner glow softened their impact as I gathered my things and drove home.

It was a nice reminder that no matter what we're facing, we are never as alone as we sometimes think we are. And despite overwhelming odds, we can rise above the obstacles in our way to become instruments in our Father's hands. The extra help we need is provided as long as we are willing to humbly ask for it, and possess the faith to make good things happen. It isn't always easy, and I will admit that there are times when I feel like curling up in a corner, refusing to take one more step because it hurts too much. Those are the moments when I need to push the pain aside and rely on the healing power of peace that is available for anyone who desires to keep moving forward on life's journey.

Easter On My Mind

Easter is one of those occasions that marks milestones in our lives and is rich in memories and emotions. Christians (and some non-Christians too) will be celebrating Easter this weekend.  Some will make their once-a-year trip to Church.  Some will go all out for the Easter Bunny and commercialize the day as they do Christmas.  Most people I know with small children will find an egg hunt for their children, be it at the city park, some club or lodge, at a church, or in their own back yard and there will be Easter baskets Sunday morning. There are many still who will pause to think about Christ, their Savior, and the events that led up to His crucifixion and His victory over death. Most Christian denominations will hold special services Easter morning to celebrate, not His death, but the miracle of His coming forth from the tomb.

 

 

Dying hard boiled eggs has always been a part of my Easter tradition.  I've never been too sure what the connection is between fancy eggs and the serious events of the resurrection though I've heard a number of theories.  As one of eight children the procedure often got a bit messy around the kitchen table as we competed to produce the most beautiful or most original masterpieces.  A few years ago some of my daughters brought their children to my house to color eggs together.  That resulted in one of my chairs receiving a dye job too, but it also became a cherished memory.

One Easter we were in Washington DC visiting our son-in-law who was a patient at Walter Reed Army Hospital when a veterans organization held an egg hunt for the children of the wounded soldiers.  Our two-year-old grandson quickly figured out the object of the game and had a grand time racing all over the huge lawn collecting eggs filled with toys or candy. The event was well organized and included refreshments for the soldiers and their families and stuffed plush animals for all of the children.  There was something particularly poignant about watching men and women in wheel chairs, leaning on crutches, or wearing thick casts cheering on their children, laughing, and enjoying this family oriented outing.

 

As a farm child I always equated Easter with the arrival of boxes of new chicks, new goslings waddling after their mamas, a new colt in the pasture, and a wobbly calf in the barn.  Frequently a new litter of kittens took up residence in the loft of the barn.  The Easter Bunny didn't play a part in my childhood.  Mama didn't believe in mixing this commercial gimmick with what she considered the most important religious holiday of the year.  We had Easter baskets which we knew came from our parents and often my sisters and I had new dresses which we watched Mama sew for us. She told us the new life on the farm was a reminder of Christ's new life and the gifts of Easter baskets and new Sunday best clothes were a reminder that she and Daddy loved us just as God loved His Son and each of us. 

This Sunday I'll attend church and hear the story of the terrible events leading up to the resurrection of our Lord. I'll listen to the music that celebrates the hope given to all the inhabitants of the earth of eternal life.  I'll be particularly cognizant of new life all around me in the green of grass, flowers long hidden by mounds of snow, and the happy giggles of small children.  My family will enjoy ham and all of the trimmings along with the love and pleasure just being together brings.  There will be a special egg hunt for my grandchildren with eggs filled with a year's accumulation of coins.  As I always do I will reflect on a long ago Easter morning when with a group of other young people I climbed a small hill to watch the sun rise over the mountains.  I'll remember the testimony of His divinity that filled my heart with assurance that morning that Christ lives.  And I will rejoice because He is risen.

 

Books to Movies

I'm sure we all have bucket lists--things we'd like to accomplish before we mosey on to the next phase of existence. One of my bucket list items was to write a book. Check. And, to get it published. Check. Those two items are grand accomplishments, and to have them checked off my list fills me with amazement and gratitude. Never is my fantasy filled brain did I think one of my books would be made into a movie. That dream was so far beyond considering, that it wasn't even on my bucket list. Well, it's happened. Over the past month, they have been turning the characters and story of my book, Christmas for a Dollar, into a movie.

 
I've been on the set a couple of times, and the experience is surreal; especially since the story is based on my dad and his brothers and sisters as kids growing up during the Great Depression.

I'm going to post a couple of the pictures I've taken while on set. The screenwriter has posted on facebook if you'd like to see more. Just go to Christmas for a Dollar and "like" the site. You'll get an update on the daily shots.

I was just shy of 50 when published books, book signings, book clubs, and movies became part of my life. It's never too late. Keep dreaming. Keep believing.

When the muse disappears

What happens to a writer when the inspiration and excitement of creation vanishes? How do you recover the desire to fill the page with all the wonderful things that used to come so easily to your mind? How do you dispel the wonderful feeling of freedom that comes when that forbidden thought sneaks into your mind: "I don't have to do this anymore!" Is there a time that it is finally okay to say "Enough"? Does a serious writer ever really get to that point? Or is it just a temporary lull in good judgment, or a time of exhaustion of mind and body that brings it on? So many questions. Does anyone have any answers?