Identity Confusion

She stared at the mud caked on the back of Jud's neck. That had to be uncomfortable; you couldn't fit more dirt in the treads of a monster truck tire. Did he plan on cleaning himself soon? Or would he have to wait until the nearest car wash opened? Had cars been invented yet? How did she find herself in this forsaken and bare dirt -- so much dirt -- place? Was this Kansas? Why was she even in the bathtub anyway? Would there be any grit-free clothing to put on when the water grew too cold around her? Was she really expected to marry mud man anyway? Could she actually be attracted to someone named Jud?
And why does everyone want to be the pretty young girl in the tub staring at the wrong side of the cowboy's neck?
Standing beside the bath, holding out a thin towel, the calico-dressed mother seems so much more knowing. She is stretched and faded with dust, but her position of experience (if it is a disappointed position) is surely better.
Maybe she was the mother, not the daughter. But if she was the mother, she would never let her daughter marry a man so unfamiliar with water. She would never allow a not-yet-groom in the bathroom with her bathing daughter, no matter how long he kept his back turned and head bowed. She would never name her daughter Callie and live on the barren prairie.
The girl grasped the high, curved side of the tub for balance and stood. She was neither the daughter or the old mother and she needed to wake up and take a shower. This dream had grown ridiculous... and she did not want to stick around for the heartbreaking wedding. The dirty cowboy was not that cute.

A Two-Hour Delay Means...

... A Super Start to the day! - Weston

... We can do anything we want! - Sammy

... I get to play what I like. - Norah

... No, mommy. - Willa

... Leave my coffee cup alone! - Honour

Can you see the fog? Can you see the excitement? Can you see that Willa hasn't lost any of her grumpiness from yesterday? Someone should tell her that a delayed school day means a better breakfast (fresh blueberry muffins and scrambled eggs) and a relaxed mommy. Delay or not, it's a spankin'-new-mercies day!

The Mice in the Attic -- Can You Believe It?

With help from Norah, age 5.

Once upon a time there was a mouse that lived in our attic toy room. His name was John-Nick. Can you believe it? He had a really big family. But they were hungry, because the only food in the attic was the plastic kind meant for the little kitchen play set. They tried to fill thier tummies with paper and crayons, because they were easier to chew. Can you believe it? Sometimes, one of the baby mice would try to eat the woolen blankets that are stored in the attic. But these really only made good food for moths, and Mrs. John-Nick told her babies that woolens are best intended as bedding for both man and beast. Can you believe that John-Nick and his family were not familiar with the living conditions of their cousins downstairs? It was probably for the best.

Leaving the Unwanted Company

Tonight, even my imagined readers have left me. For once, I do not mind. Really, I am in the mood for solitude. If I do write anything of import, I want to type my incoherent feelings unencumbered by who might see them. I want to use long run-on sentences and the backspace button at will. Writing within this battle of disgruntled and reflective thoughts is time- and energy consuming for me. It calls for a snack and a cup of coffee nearby.

This is not a good time or place to have any crumb-bequeathing edibles nearby. As long as I may be at this, I fear my typing is not loud enough to scare away the mouse that seems to have taken up residence beneath the computer desk. The tiny little scratches upon the wooden floor (or is that a miniature mouth chewing on a stack of printer paper?) are about to drive me to bed. Since I don't have a laptop of my own, and my mind and emotions are a thick mushy glop of unsortableness, I will go to bed at this ridiculously early hour with the Archbold Community Library's latest selection from Alexander McCall Smith. If anyone out there is reading my words, please stop and go find one of his books. If you're disappointed in it, please let me know so that I can straighten you out.
Maybe over that snack and cup of coffee.
In another room of this old, hole-riddled house.

Here, There and Nowhere Near

I really want to write about some recent misbehavior among my offspring, but I am afraid that others would laugh at what I find tiresome. Surely I will laugh someday about these things, but I am just not there yet.

Where am I? Well, currently I am in the throes of fall, which has suddenly remembered it is meant to be a chilly season. Cooler temperatures find me baking bread, cleaning house and eating root vegetables -- or at least thinking about how I should be doing such things. In actuality, I find myself berating each day's slippery progress through my fingers. How can 24 hours move so quickly? And why do I feel as though I were sleep-walking through most of these speeding hours? Morning:
Up.
Think about hygiene (eh. wet hair is freezing, let's pony-tail).
Tip-toe downstairs for some coffee (reheated if I never drank yesterday's second cup) and a few minutes reading and praying. By myself. Or with a very small furry and tailed, uninvited friend. Or with a small child who shouldn't be awake yet and sits shushing herself on my lap.
Suddenly it is afternoon and I can't remember what happened or where it happened, but I have not caught up to whatever and wherever it was supposed to be.

I am ready for April. Time to slough off this pregnancy brain. Because I will be sleeping so much more with a fifth child in the house, I'm sure.

How does a tidy house deteriorate so quickly into the cry-worthy mess in which I now sit?

Autumn: Spry Maturity

It is well-past dark and the fields around our yard are just now falling silent. Outside the yellowed soybeans have been harvested and our little plot feels vulnerable with the naked ground all around it. The kids and I picked up some pumpkins to ward off the colorless look. We bought them from a local farmer. I want to call him a spry old man, but he is probably my father's age and my father is not old, merely mature.
Inside, I am baking a fresh pear cake. With an abundance of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger, its baking is better than any candle. If it were to become a candle I would call it Happy-Harvest-Home and burn it through Thanksgiving. I am out of fresh pears, and my trousers do not want me to continuously bake cake until then, so the candle really is a better long-term solution.
Why a solution?
What is the problem?
Although I love the change of seasons, each and every one, Autumn, with its quick-burning blaze of colors soon becomes dead and brown to me. Maybe a scent will remind me that a year in its maturity might still be spry.