In All Fairness

I went to the Ottertail County Fair last night with my youngest daughter, two sisters, our parents, and an assortment of nieces and nephews. Let me just state from the start that I think fairs are a ridiculous waste of money and total sensory overload. Every time I go, I vow, "Never again." Yet, every year, like some internally-driven migratory bird, I end up there anyway.

After shelling out some cash at the gate, I parked the car and we picked our way through the muddy lot to the horse barns. I love the smell of the horses and take my time admiring the various colors and sizes of the animals. The box stalls were open in years past enabling me to assuage a lifelong yearning for a horse of my own by stroking the noses of beasts belonging to others. But the recent addition of wire mesh has successfully blocked out the probing hands of the public. Now all I can do is look, not touch. Huge let-down.

Outside the horse barns, we walked through the food vender's alley. I took note of what they had to offer relative to the cash I carried on my person, fully aware that I couldn't possibly have one of everything I wanted.

Past the aroma of deep fried starch, we entered the midway. Children instantly began pulling on my hands to go this way and that. I looked at the price of the tickets and at how many each ride required, and opted for the Unlimited Ride Wristband for my eleven year-old. I sauntered after my child and her cousins as they raced from ride to ride, observing people as I went. There were families with strollers and babies in backpacks and gaggles of middle-schoolers looking pretty darn cool without any adults to boss them around. An elderly couple strolled along, holding hands and smiling at each other. I'm sure they weren't there for the rides any more than I was. I noted there was no carousel, and that made me feel disappointed. There was a Tilt-a-Whirl--my favorite ride as a youngster, and a small herd of ponies tethered to a wheel. The ponies wore tiny saddles and a sign offered rides to children for only four dollars. For another mere six dollars, you could purchase a grainy picture of your child taken by the owner of the ponies. The proprietor didn't allow people to take pictures with their own cameras as it "cut into" his profits. I'm sure. I put a quarter in a vending machine that spit 20 alfalfa pellets into my hand and offered them to a diminutive donkey in a visor that read, "Don't Touch My Hat" in bright letters. He looked weary of people touching him and his visor. I longed to steal him away for a nice vacation in the country.

After an hour or so, I succeeded in tearing the kids away from the rides long enough to go through the animal barns. We saw Lion-headed Rabbits, fancy speckled roosters who kept announcing sunrise, pools brimming with native Minnesota fish--further reinforcement of my disdain and mistrust of lake-swimming. The last building we toured was the Children's Barn and I was immediately smitten by a rotund pygmy goat in a pen with her week-old triplets. They were the size of bunnies and just as soft. I eyed a mama llama across the aisle with wariness. She had a beautiful blond baby standing beside her with lashes that were too magnificent for words. I never can quite approach any llama without hearing my late grandpa's voice in my head, "Watch out for llamas! They spit." Though I have never witnessed that phenomenon, I didn't want to test his wisdom tonight. I talked softly to her and she laid her ears back and regarded me without blinking. I am not fluent in Llama Body Language, but in Dog, Horse, and Cat this means nothing good so I kept moving.

Next we proceeded to the fair's version of the mall food court where everyone could have whatever kind of high carb/high fat food they wanted. Victoria and I split a foot-long corn dog (Meat/Veg/Grain Group) and I thought, as I do every year, that I have never tasted anything so good. Then we split a chocolate milk shake from The Shake Shack (Dairy Group). I ate one cheese curd from a friend's table, cotton candy from my baby nephew, and two french fries from my dad's tray for dessert. That was enough of a well-balanced diet for me.

More rides. More time waiting at the temporary fences, waving at my young relatives as they whizzed past, their hair blowing wildly around their heads in a blur. I remember how much I liked rides when I was little--in the days before all that spinning did strange things to my head and stomach and where the heights didn't make the bottoms of my feet itch. I hugged a few long lost friends, chatted amiably with complete stangers, and toted around $10 stuffed animals and inflatable plastic toys that were made in China for pennies.

The next break from the midway landed us next to a small corral where piglets were running a race to the blare of country music. Eee-haw! Afterwards, grown men mounted inflatable horses and bounced around the enclosure with all the seriousness of jockeys in the Kentucky Derby. A cowboy congratulated the winner and commenced chucking beaded Mardi Gras necklaces into the crowd. Not a big fan of bling, personally, I wanted one for my daughter. I waved at the cowboy and he flung one at my head. As I looked up, I was blinded by the sun and felt the necklace ricochet off my head and onto the grass behind me. I spun around and caught one end of it just as a little girl took hold of the other.

"It's mine," I informed her. "It bounced off my head."

"Okay," the eight year-old conceded sweetly, and returned to her place by the fence. I was instantly filled with remorse for my childish greed. I inched over and stood beside her.

"Do you already have one?" I ventured, wanting to be friends and hoping she'd forgive me.

"No, but that's okay," the child beamed up at me. The knife in my heart twisted.

"I'll help you get one," I offered, and spent the next five minutes bellowing, "HEY, COWBOY!" at the top of my lungs until he threw another necklace our way and the little girl was properly adorned.

Side Bar: When I confessed my sin to my daughter Amy this morning over the phone, she restated my misdeed for clarification, "So, you took a piece of plastic jewelry from a little kid?"

"That's right."

"Were you drinking?"

"No," I replied, annoyed that she even asked. She knows I can't stand the taste of alcohol and I'd be too cheap to buy it if I could.

"Because if you ever do, I don't want to miss it," she explained.

Ah...yes, well...it is good to know one's limits, isn't it?

Back at the Fair: Dusk had fallen and I was completely penniliess, not to mention sticky of hand and hoarse of voice. I thought we were set to go home when, suddenly, all the lights on the rides went on at once and the kids needed to do the rides "just one more time."

All of them.

I probably won't go to the fair next year...

The Great Adventure

Ever since school got out in May I've been promising something to my 11 year old daughter and 3 year old grandson--a Great Adventure. After a month of daily reminders and excuses--it was too cold, too hot, too wet--I decided that last night it was Time.

Victoria skipped around while we set up the tent in our backyard. She cheerfully helped me drag blankets and an air mattress and sleeping bags and pillows to the tent. We set up a little table in one corner and couldn't wait to show it to Cohen when he arrived, fresh from a late afternoon nap. He ran in circles around the tent, bouncing from the screened door to the mattress before rewinding and doing it all again.

I took both kids to the front yard and pulled out a small box I'd been saving. It contained five packages of caps--the kind they sell for cap guns. I peeled off a little roll for each of us and sat down on the sidewalk with a rock to show them my favorite childhood pastime. They flinched at the first snap and spark of a cap as I made contact with the stone.

"This is what the grown-ups gave us to do when they were busy shooting off real fireworks," I explained, pounding away with my rock. Cohen tossed a handful of pebbles on the ground next to me before racing off into the backyard to find something more interesting.

Victoria was more diplomatic. "This was probably fun when you were a kid, huh? You didn't have much stuff to do?"

"Nope. We didn't," I answered, slamming a bigger rock into an entire wad of caps and sliding my bare foot away from the flash of fire it produced. I love the smell of burnt gunpowder.

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, repeatedly smacking the caps with our rocks, before Victoria ventured, "Well! I think that's about it for me. Will your feelings be hurt if I'm done now?"

"No," I said, striking the rock against the red dimpled strips of paper and pausing to squint through my bifocals to see which ones I'd missed. "You can go." I stayed outside on the sidewalk by myself until the whole box was finished. Cars drove past. I didn't care if people wondered what I was doing.

Afterwards, we lit a fire in our container on the patio. It was windy and the smoke billowed after me wherever I sat. Despite the wet wood, we managed to blacken the outer layer of four hot dogs and ate them through the haze. Cohen's drink blew off the table and spilled on the pavers. Then his chips flew away along with his entire plate.

"The Adventure is over," he announced.

"No, it's just STARTING," I promised with renewed enthusiasm.

I got out the graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows. Cohen ate four marshmallows and the chocolate out of two S'mores. The three of us got into our jammies and settled into the tent to watch Milo and Otis on Cohen's handheld DVD player. (The screen is the size of a credit card so you have to sit really close to see...and hear.) Cohen stripped down to his Spiderman underwear to be really ready for sleep. He snuggled in and watched the movie until the closing credits. It was starting to get dark outside the tent and I kept dozing off.

"I'm ready to go home now, Nema," he declared, leaning his sticky face toward mine, staring with wide eyes that didn't look the slightest bit sleepy. Ten minutes later, his daddy came by and took him to his own bed. Victoria and I hunkered down again into the covers and listened to the crickets in the grass. "Thanks, Mom, for doing this with me," she whispered. I nodded. "Sometimes little kids don't appreciate all the work adults go through for them, do they?" she added with all the wisdom and perspective of a child perched on the edge of adolesense. I smiled at her in the waning light and held her hand across the tent until we both drifted off to sleep. The night may not have been much of an adventure, but it was still great.

What We Give Away

"Never reserve anything. Pour out the best you have, and always be poor. Never be diplomatic and careful about the treasure God gives. This is poverty triumphant." -Oswald Chambers

What is it that enriches our lives? Is it possessions? Is it occupation, vocation, degrees or awards? Then, shouldn't it make sense that the happiest people on earth be the lucky few with unlimited wealth, perfect health, fame or public honor? Yet, if I have all the wealth in the world, and no one to share it with, I am impoverished in the worst way imaginable.

One of the first social skills parents teach children is to share. It is a lesson we need to have drummed into our little heads for years because we are born yelling, "MINE!" My daughter recently observed two children she was babysitting as they played outside on their deck. The older child, a three year old, was eating Fruit Loops out of a bowl. His one year-old sister crawled over, pulled herself up to the bench beside him looking for a snack. The boy pulled his bowl away and told his sister, "No! This is mine!" When the baby persisted, he swept the entire bowl--cereal and all--onto the grass below, just so she couldn't have any. My daughter was shocked at this blatant display of selfishness. 30 years of parenting has tempered my response as I know this is nothing but typical toddler behavior. But what is "normal" in the development of small children looks appalling on adults: How lonely our lives are if we become stuck in this Me First mindset! Fully aware of how socially unacceptable this behavior is, I am frequently tempted to cloak my own persistent selfishness with thoughts like these, "Well, I have to take care of myself, too!" And, "We have our own bills to pay." Or, "I'm always the one who calls/gives/helps. Let someone else take a turn."

I recall a situation a few years back when one of my children didn't want to share and God allowed me a glimpse into my own heart: There was a new student coming to school and I told my characteristically generous child, "Why don't you give a little gift of some of your school supplies to the new girl? I'll take you to Target after school and buy you more." And she refused. I was stunned. Did she think that I really wouldn't follow through on my promise to replace what she gave? That she might get stuck with boring yellow #2s or lame pink rectangles instead of the glittery pencils and dolphin erasers I had bought initially? I tried another approach. I told my daughter that I was willing to buy her a dozen new pencils if she would share one--I would buy a whole package of cuter erasers than the one she didn't want to give away. I tried to paint a picture of how welcomed the new girl would feel by this simple act of kindness and wouldn't she like someone to treat her that way? Still, she resisted.

I was speechless with holy indignation. I wasn't asking the child to give something that cost her anything. I had bought every single one of the supplies in her overloaded backpack (plus the backpack itself and all her new school clothes!) I felt anger rising as color in my face. Before I reached the boiling point, I caught myself with a single thought: How do I act when I am asked to give something away? Do I remember that everything I own, every talent I possess, every breath that I take, every moment I call mine---is a gift? Am I aware that every single time I yield myself as a conduit of blessing to another, I make room in my heart for a generous God to pour in more to keep the cycle going?

It is easy for me to say, "I love you so much I would give up my life for you." Really? But would I lay down my life? Can I set aside my own desires to see someone else happy? Would I give up the last piece of chocolate cake? Would I take that call in the middle of the night? Would I rather go without the reward to see you succeed?

I believe that happiness only comes when we give what we have away.

I've heard it said, "We can't out-give God." What would life be like if we all made it our goal to die trying?

Defining Greatness

What makes a great dad? And how do you know if a man will make a good father before you marry him? In many ways, a mother is made at birth--both she and the child know their relationship is what keeps a baby alive. But I believe it takes a lifetime to make, and appreciate, a father.

I first met Ron when he was a junior in high school. We started dating that year and, though he was quiet and shy, I took note of how he treated others. He was respectful of his mother and sisters. He was kind to his little brother and brought him along on many of our dates. He was a student aid on the playground for elementary children and they loved him. He was sweet to his little nieces and nephews and talked about them with fondness. But the first baby he ever held was ours: Kimberly was born almost one year to the day of our first wedding anniversary. Ron became a daddy just before his 22nd birthday.

I remember how awkward we both were with Kimmie, but it was especially noticeable on Ron. His great big, farmer boy mitts were clumsy with all the flannel trappings of a newborn. He looked at me with tear-filled eyes. I think we were both wondering the same thing. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Somehow, our daughter survived and, less than two years later, we had our second child, Amy. Things were less complicated now that we knew how to put diapers on frontwards and didn't feel so compelled to lay awake nights making sure this baby kept breathing. These were very busy years for a young man of 23 who still didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, who had to work hard to get along with his tired, hormonal wife and keep his growing family fed and clothed.

Over the next five years we moved five times between three states and Ron changed jobs about as often. He took Bible classes in Florida. He did some dairy farming, a little carpentry, worked as a youth pastor at our church. He started his own business. We added two more children after that; our son Michael, and daughter Stephanie. Ron developed a reputation for being the parent you didn't want to mess with and frequently got to fulfill the dreaded promise, "Wait until your father gets home!" That must have been fun for him---to come home tired from a long day at work and see who needed a spanking! But he supported his wife 100% and if she said the little cherub sitting on the steps polishing his halo needed to be punished for some earlier misdeed--he believed her and delivered what was necessary. The kids learned early on that mom and dad worked as a team and could not be easily divided.

It was also Dad who taught the kids to work. He showed them how a toilet should be cleaned and posted handwritten, step-by-step instructions inside the bathroom cabinet for them to refer to. There was a right way and a wrong way to load the dishwasher so as to get as many dishes in each load as possible. He didn't allow lengthy showers that wasted water or lights to be left on when no one was in the room. If he said "Be home by midnight," and you weren't--heaven help you deal with the boredom of being "grounded for a week," his standard length of confinement for missed curfew. One of our teenagers commented on his icicly direct eye-contact when he was angry telling him, "You have such evil blue eyes!"

Ron commanded respect and had no tolerance for a "smart mouth" toward himself but especially directed at his wife. He taught the children to respect their mother and to thank her for every meal and clear away their own dishes. He showed his son how a man should treat his wife and his daughters how they should expect to be treated by their future husbands.

He played with his kids. There were endless games of cards, chess, and CandyLand and the watching of countless Disney movies. He willingly took part in their Make Believe and became everything from the Big Bad Wolf to Joseph, husband of Mary. He sat passively and allowed his hair to be fixed in barettes and curlers. But the kids' favorite games were the ones he made up: "Airplane"--where he would lie on the floor on his back with his feet in the air and take turns "flying" them around on his feet while he held their hands. He also played The Tickle Game where "Stop means go and go means stop" and everything they said meant "tickle me more." There was always lots of screaming and laughing and he usually did this at bedtime to get them all nice and riled up.

The more children we had, the more Ron warmed to his role. I have always told people he is, and has always been, the kinder parent. It was Daddy who got up with a sick child during the night. They always went to his side of the bed and woke him first. He'd change the sheets on their beds without complaint, clean up the puke or pee, get them into new jammies. Even when I had a nursing baby, Ron would hear the crying first and bring me a freshly diapered baby who was ready to eat--allowing me to get enough rest for a shift that lasted all the next day.

Our last child, Victoria, was born when we had two teenagers in the house and both of us were perched on the edge of 40. We were more tired than we had been with our first four children with all the sports and music and work schedules of so many children to keep up with. We told everyone, "Tori is our practice grandchild." She slept in our bed until she was six. She doesn't remember being spanked. She hasn't got a clue how to clean a toilet much less replace the paper on the holder. We have enjoyed her completely and her daddy is tightly wrapped around her little finger.

Through the last nearly 30 years of parenting, it has been Ron's special privilege to tuck the kids in and pray with them at bedtime. As they've gotten older, he never tires of involved discussions with them on baptism and divine election or philosophies of life, work, politics, and relationships. He has demonstrated to our children how important it is to know God and to yield to his control in their lives. Our grown children call him when they need advice about work, remodeling, conflicts with professors, funny sounds the cars are making, or doing their taxes. They know their father's love language is to serve them and he does it with joy.

Ron has upheld tradition in our family. The kids know that they go out with Dad for breakfast on their birthdays. They get to pick the restaurant and order whatever they want off the menu and even the adult kids love this time with him. Both of our married daughters chose husbands with many similarities to their dad. Both men asked for Ron's blessing prior to proposing to his daughters and he was greatly honored--thinking this was a dead tradition. It was an extremely emotional moment for him to walk each of his daughters down the aisle at their weddings and he struggled throughout for control. If you think I am a sentimental person, you have never truly known my husband.

Ron has survived two decades of teenagers and the malignment and lack of appreciation and sleep that goes along with those days. Now he is enjoying the sweet reward of seeing his children parent. "Bumpa" loves Cohen, Sawyer, and Paisley completely. He is the first to scoop them up when they come to visit and he loves to take them for rides around the yard on the lawn mower. I look at this man with the thinning gray hair and remember a headful of unruly blond curls. His sky blue eyes have not lost their sparkle but have mellowed and require glasses to read small print. His hands are softer, instead of calloused and bandaged from hard physical labor, and he uses them to confidently embrace his grandchildren. How did I ever get so blessed? How could I have ever known, at 18, what I was getting when I said "I do," to this man?

Happy Father's Day, Sweet Heart of My Heart! This holiday was made for you. The world would be a better place if there were more men like you...

The Stuff Nobody Wants

Okay, I am back again for a sequel to yesterday's, "The Things We Keep" to talk about the things NOBODY should keep. Or try to sell.

I just got done reading my daughter Amy's blog. And I must say that I feel her pain. She is lamenting the fact that people have NO IDEA what to charge for their own junk because of their misguided perception of what said junk is worth. How we over-estimate the value of our beloved belongings!

From the seller's perspective, I understand. There is nothing quite as humbling as taking two full weeks to debate whether or not to put your favorite shirt (of the past 4 years) on the garage sale heap only to discover that there is not a soul alive who will pay 25 cents for it. Seriously? I see it hanging there, all forlorn and unloved in my garage. I think I will just snatch it back into the comfort of my own closet again even if it doesn't fit...

Between customers today, I calculated the value of the clothes off my back, based on current garage sale rates:

-khaki shorts (worn three times counting today) $0.50
-white polo (worn twice, including today) $0.50
-leather flip flops (worn to a frazzle) $0.00
-underwear (you don't want to know) $0.00

This means that everything I have on my body is worth about a dollar--IF I can find a buyer, never mind that some of it was brand-new last month. According to how other sales went today, I'd guess the novel I am presently reading is worth 50 cents because it's hardcover and brand-new. The picture frames holding our family photos would bring about a dime apiece. The comforter on my bed--maybe a dollar--two if I could find the zipper case it came in and throw in the bedskirt, blanket, pillow shams and sheets. Our stereo could fetch $3 if I can prove it works perfectly. Each of our favorite DVDs are worth roughly $2. I might expect a dollar for my lightly-used blender, a dime for my trusty toaster, a quarter for my George Foreman. My good towels? Nothing.

On the other hand, someone was happy to haul away our monstrously heavy, 32-inch TV for free, along with our old dining room rug with gum in one corner--also free. This Saturday, we will put everything on the curb that did not sell the previous two days with a sign stating, "Help Yourself," and it will be humorous to watch. When we did this a couple years ago, some folks backed up to the curb, opened their trunk, and took EVERYTHING. Stuff that wouldn't sell for 5 cents was snapped up in a heartbeat when it was free.

I can't think of anything that will bring you back to reality faster and do more for your perspective on the value of material things than to price them and liquidate them from your garage. You will come quickly to the realization that the best of all you have...is WORTHLESS. Isn't that a cheery bit of information?

All in all, we had a pretty good day as sellers. We made $200 on stuff we aren't using that someone else [apparently] could. And we still have tomorrow (Fri), a prime garage-saling day with Free Saturday to look forward to as a grand finale. Whoo-hoo! My junk is your junk!! See you at the sale and...I'll see you at your garage next weekend!

The Things We Keep

We are currently smack dab in the middle of Garage/Yard Sale Season in Minnesota. Every intersection in town is peppered with homemade signs in obnoxious colors and large print designed to catch the attention of passing motorists. If, when driving along, you happen upon random sprawling clusters of cars, you'd better prepare to brake for women pushing strollers and children darting out from between parked vehicles as they race toward these advertised destinations. I have personally not gone to many sales this spring for one reason: I am preparing for my own. It is counter-productive to load up on someone else's junk [treasure] when you are endeavoring to unload your own. So I stay in my cluttered garage, sorting and pricing--assigning monetary value to things I no longer need. Space becomes a premium when I realize all of life is a trade-off: In order to make room for the things I want, I must get rid of the things I can live without.

A few years back I embarked on a mission to purge myself of Excess Stuff I had spent nearly four decades amassing. I began with the obvious traps that tend to attract unused articles--the backs of closets and the bottom dresser drawers. Finally, I moved on to my most sacred shrine of nostalgic keepsakes--my hope chest. I lifted the lid with great heaviness of heart. Stuff was so tightly jammed inside I knew this journey must lead to the expulsion of trinkets I held dear to make room for future must-haves and I hardly knew where to begin.

Straight away, I set aside my plastic-veiled wedding dress as something I must hold onto--though it will never fit me again nor will I have occasion to wear it. The dress has yellowed over the years and absorbed the lovely [and probably permanent] smell of cedar. Next I extracted several impossibly tiny dresses of various colors, trimmed in lace--one for each of our four newborn daughters--and a tiny velvet tuxedo worn by our son when he was a year old. There was a collection of baby shoes and a sticky, wadded up mess that made me smile: It was a pale blue, jersey-knit outfit adorned with appliques. That wasn't the only unusual ornamentation. On the first day our three year-old wore it, she happened upon a stray bottle of red nail polish and busied herself painting--not only the nails and skin of her bare little feet and hands--but her clothing as well. Some messes must be kept to be believed.

The deeper I dug toward the bottom of the chest, the farther down Memory Lane I traveled. There were ribbons and newspaper clippings from my high school track days and old yearbooks. I found typed reports and stories I'd written for English class. At the very bottom, I pulled out a small blue box with a hinged lid that had my name painted on it. Here were the treasures I had kept from my childhood. Eager to rediscover what a ten-year old deems important enough to save, I sat down to give this my full attention.

Just inside the cover, resting on dark blue velvet, was a faded leather dog collar. I thought about the pet who had worn it. She was a collie/shepherd mix we named Ginger. I loved this dog with all my heart and imagined her to be just like the movie star, Lassie. We had to keep Ginger tied in the backyard because of her single vice: She chased cars. One summer day, I saw her languishing out by her doghouse all alone and took pity on her. Against explicit parental instructions, I unhooked the chain from this collar--vowing to myself that I would keep her in the yard. Almost immediately, Ginger bolted across the street after some kids on bikes and was hit by a car while I stood helplessly watching from the curb. I was nine years old and responsible for the death of my beloved dog. I was inconsolable.

Three marbles rolled to the edge of the box when I tilted it slightly. I smiled when I remembered how important these tiny globes had been to me. I loved the way the colors swirled through the glass when I held them to the light and the heavy density they imposed in my hand. I remembed how I had painstakingly collected marbles all year until I had enough to fill an entire coffee can. But one day, I saw something I was willing to exchange my earthly wealth for--something of infinite value: A genuine coonskin cap. I had long been a fan of Davy Crockett* and Daniel Boone and I watched my neighbor, Brian, wear his cap every day consumed with envy. I finally convinced him to trade his cap for my can of marbles. Following our transaction, Brian promptly marched to the nearest storm drain and poured the marbles into it. They rolled straight down to Pelican Lake where they lay submerged to this day. When Brian found me parading about like the "bar-killer"* I always imagined myself to be he demanded his cap back. I clenched the scrap of fur tightly to my hair, stroking the ringed tail along my hot cheek. "No! I gave you my marbles! It was a fair deal!" I protested in vain. My mother made me give the cap back. These few marbles were all I had left of that brief moment of glory.

A silver dollar caught my eye next. It was dull and worn on the edges and dated 1906. My grandpa worked with the Credit Union in town and was privy to all sorts of banking information. One day he called my sister and me to him and handed us each a dollar bill. "Take this to the bank," he told us. "Exchange it for a silver dollar. Next year, the government will start plating silver dollars with nickel instead of real silver and these will be worth a lot of money." So we did. Over the years I have taken the dollar out every so often and turned it over and over in my hands. I have never even checked to see how much it is worth. But whenever I hold it, I think of my grandpa, who wanted us to wisely plan ahead, and so it is valuable to me.

Further down inside the box I found a curious glass vial holding a vague black substance. Words printed on the label read, "Black Liquid Gold." We had taken a trip in 1972 out to Mountain Home, Idaho to attend my cousin's wedding. All along the way we saw oil rigs bobbing up and down on the plains like giant black ants. At one gas station, I bought this souvenir, believing I was purchasing something truly valuable for a mere two dollars. After all, the word "gold" was mentioned right on the label! On this same trip, I stealthily pocketed a piece of petrified wood from a National Petrified Forest we visited. These tokens remind me of a very long drive I took with my family in a very hot car, fighting with my sister the entire way. Here is where the phrase, "Are we there yet?" was first made famous.

I find it interesting to reflect on why it is we keep the things we do. Some people are Packrats, others are Throwers. I believe I fall mostly into the second category as I always feel a certain sense of relief when I get rid of excess stuff that clutters my habitat. Unfortunately, it has taken me longer to realize, I can drag around excess mental baggage that clogs my soul. This is harder for me to address because I am unbelievably sentimental. But I know that this unbridled emotion can be my undoing--marring perspective and keeping me from moving forward. So I find it is very necessary to periodically take stock of the storehouses of my heart and do a thorough cleaning.

Sometimes I am tempted to hold onto things only I think are valuable--like the vial of oil. These could be words spoken to me that, though inaccurate, I can't quite dismiss from my head and embrace as though they are truth and they grow in weight and importance through the years. Then there are sad memories--the accusing voices, like the dog collar, that keep me awake at night telling me I can never do enough, never do it right. Or, like the silver dollar, there are good things I am unwilling to let go of but keep hidden in the safety of my own heart. And don't forget the precious marbles I cling to for fear you will take what is dear and dump it down a storm drain, leaving me with nothing!

And so I plug away, back in my garage, sorting and pricing and piling my excess belongings on benches and tables. In recent days my daughters have added things of their own to sell, further hampering my progress as I feel compelled to go through what it is they [think they] can part with. At the end of a long day, I walk away with a single item I cannot/will not permit to be sold: a tiny pair of socks printed with owl faces that my grandson Cohen wore every day as a baby because they were the only things that would stay on his little feet. These I must keep. These unimpressive scraps of cotton I will make room for even if it means something else has to go. They don't take up much room...right?

"Since we are surrounded by so many examples [of faith], we must get rid of everything that slows us down, especially sin that distracts us. We must run the race that lies ahead of us and never give up." Heb 12:1



*The Ballad of Davy Crockett
by Tom Blackburn & George Bruns
Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee,
Greenest state in the land of the free,
Raised in the woods so's he knew every tree,
Killed him a bar (bear) when he was only three.
Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.

Second Childhood

Children are constantly looking forward to when they are grown up and can "do anything they want," only to discover that, as adults, what they want most is to recapture those same pleasant experiences from simpler days.

I have always loved summer. To me it was a blank canvas stretching out with endless possibilities. As a child, I rose with the sun to perch outside on our back steps. The grass was cold and heavy with dew under my bare feet. The shadows were long and cool, covering the whole lawn in shade. Rabbits nibbled on grass under the fragrant lilac bushes that sagged from their profusion of blooms, squirrels chased each other in circles--nails clattering against the bark of a tree, the birds were unbelievably loud with no competition from the human world. I would sit, hugging my knees to my chest, chin on my arms and all was well in my world.

The grown-up version goes like this: I rise every morning at 5:30 AM. I sit with my husband and the cat on our back porch, sipping coffee from our favorite mugs. The wicker rocker is cozy, the Sunset Begonia on the glass-topped table dazzles with its display of lavish color. I am fond of it, treating it more like a pet than a plant, greeting it with affection every morning. The sun warms my back from the east, shadows lay across the entire yard. Green is greener at this time of day, without the sun to dilute the color, and the poppies in their bed are more orange. Two squirrels chatter as they chase each other around a nearby tree trunk and the cat watches them with tense interest. I hear a cardinal calling from the neighboring pasture. Above our heads in the hanging fern a mother finch sits nervously on her four tiny eggs, not realizing my nest-robbing days are long past. Every day I water the fern with great care so that I don't betray her tentative trust and all is well in my world.

One staple of every summer of my childhood was water. Not a big fan of actual swimming, (see photo evidence above) I was content with other more predictable water sources such as the hose and the sprinkler. The most thrilling aquatic experience of all was when the city custodians came around and flushed out the fire hydrant on the corner of our street. Gallons of water gushed out of this little red lawn ornament and we were awed at such a display of latent potential. Water shot halfway across the street and ran in torrents alongside the curb all the way down to the storm drain at the Standard Station. We braced our skinny legs in the water, marveling at the force with which it rushed over our feet and ankles. We danced, we splashed, we made boats of sticks and raced them down the street. Water meant play.

Now that I am grown, I can turn on the hose whenever I want. I can waste water if I am so inclined. In Minnesota, water comes out of the hose at temperatures just above freezing all summer long. I love the smell of water and the smooth way it feels. I collect gadgets that make water exit the hose in various forms--soak, stream, and shower. I like to switch them up, streaming the patio clear of ant hills that sprout up overnight, showering the day lilies, misting the ferns. Sometimes, I just stand in the middle of the yard and spray water at the grass and watch the rainbows I can manipulate. Water still means play.

The highlight of every summer was when our neighbors got their annual delivery of sand. At one point, I think there was an actual sandBOX that was supposed to contain the sand. But years of redistribution by a dozen children in the neighborhood had blurred the boundaries and the sand mostly spilled where it wanted and became known as The Sand Pile. After the dump truck left, we were giddy with excitement. We took turns burying each other in sand up to our necks. We built entire cities of sand using a brick to make roads for our Matchbox cars and lining up marbles and twigs for borders. Some days, we were literally in the sand from sun up to sundown, only stopping to eat and go to the bathroom. Every night, Mom would run us a hot bath and scrub the sand out of our hair and the orange rust stains from our knees and hands. We felt pleased with the beautiful cities we fashioned with our sweat and creativity.

I haven't had a replacement for my childhood love of digging and construction until more recent years when I have discovered an amazing fact about myself: I am a gardener. I never thought I was. I didn't know how much I loved flowers and making habitats for them to grow and flourish, making borders with stones and blankets of shredded cypress. My first act of every day is to walk around and inspect what is growing. Sand piles have been replaced by piles of mulch--twigs and marbles by stones, trellises, and planter hooks. Every time I see a perennial planted in previous years peeking through the mulch, I am delighted as though greeting an unexpected guest. Every day there are weeds to pull, new things to observe. I feel pleased with the beautiful garden we have fashioned with our sweat and creativity.

I feel sorry for those whose summer has become just one more season of frenzied dashing from one activity to another. Sometimes it's a good thing to step back and apply the brakes. This year, we have no vacation plans. We have one summer sport on the docket that is done mid-July. The rest of the season I intend to putter around---planting, watering, weeding--perhaps some scraping and painting which are continual projects on a hundred year-old house. I'll hang clothes on the line and give the dryer a rest, fire up the grill at odd hours of the day, drink gallons of iced tea, lay on the porch and read while I listen to the finches feed their noisy babies above me. Some evenings, we'll light a fire in the pit and make S'mores. I'll pitch the tent and sleep out with my daughter and grandson right in our own yard. That's enough excitement for me. Maybe I'm getting old?

Or maybe I'm getting younger...