Summer Vacation 2016

Something big happened today.

For the first time since I started homeschooling (8 years ago!) I declared this week that we are going to take Summer Vacation.

In the past, I've avoided it. I hate the thought of them forgetting the last 6 months' work for the sake of 3 months off school. Instead, we've taken one or two week long vacations throughout the year, when we just felt like we needed it. It's always worked well and we've always been happy with that arrangement.

But things change. Kids get older and busier, life situations take new turns, and needs change. And right now, we NEED a break. A really, really long one. One that involves sleepovers on the trampoline, staying up late, sleeping in, and not keeping any kind of schedule. And for those of you who know me and how much I really, honestly adore schedules, you'll realize that's a pretty serious thing to say.

Once upon a time, I started this blog and named it "The Little Things" because I wanted to focus on all the wonderful, mundane things that made our lives special in my eyes. I keep losing those things. Life is a game of Tetris, trying to fit in school, farm work, house work, extra curricular activities, and whatever else needs to be done into the finite number of hours each day offers. And I'm tired. They're tired. We aren't enjoying these days like we should be.

Having "big kids" is a whole different ball game than the Two Little Girls I used to write about each day. Those Two Little Girls are now Two Little Ladies, and they have lives of their own that I'm struggling to keep up with while I'm still trying to live mine, and somehow keep them all intertwined the way I feel like they need to be.

I've spent time over the past year prioritizing and re-prioritizing, and something clicked for me this spring. Math, English, History, Science... those things are officially off the top ten list. Cora is reading now, above grade level and has (mostly) mastered her math facts. In homeschooling, that is a HUGE hump to get over. It's time for a break. We've earned it.

I have goals for this summer, though. It's not all going to be days of freedom, traipsing around the property in the sunshine. (Thought plenty of that is certainly on the to-do list.) We will focus on real life. The girls will be cooking, cleaning, practicing animal husbandry and gardening. We will spend time each day reading our Bibles and doing what we call "Character Study" - which I am convinced is even more important that finding common denominators in fractions. We will put everything we have into their 4-H projects, from art and knitting and sewing to raising poultry, training dogs, and riding horses. They will spend this summer learning how to learn, learning to follow through with difficult tasks, learning to put others before themselves, and learning how to be responsible for themselves and their actions. Those things are things schools forget about sometimes, but they are what makes life good and worthwhile.

It's also going to be a summer spent forming habits. I have a list of habits I want them to form, and a list I want to form myself. I want them to read every day, no matter what it is. I want them to help someone else each day, so that some day it becomes natural to them. I want them to start looking for what needs to be done and do it without being asked. I want the house to stay clean and the food to be cooked from scratch and the dishes to be washed. Above all else, I am raising Two Little Ladies to become excellent wives and mothers. They need skills that aren't going to be found in any curriculum, and they need attitudes that allow them to accomplish tasks with joy.

As for me, I want to teach myself to approach every task in my life with love, joy, and gratitude. I want to model those things for my girls. I want to take time each day for myself and my own hobbies, something I have been ignoring since we moved here. I want to show myself and my children the value in helping and giving to others. And I want blogging and taking daily photos to become habit again. I want to document these sweet, precious moments in their lives - in our lives. They may not be toddlers anymore, saying adorable things and just starting to experience the world. But each day of their lives should be treasured because honestly, they are flying by much faster than I am comfortable with.

So here we go - welcome to Summer Vacation 2016!

What I Learned In The Wilderness

There are so many things to learn about life, lessons that a long trail can teach you. Since I've been home, something in my attitude is changed a little bit. My outlook on life is the same, but maybe just a bit wiser.

Here are some of the things I learned on my little foray into the wilderness:

Choose your friends wisely. Pick people who make you really happy, that share your interests, and that you truly enjoy being with. Spend time with people who like to push themselves further than they've gone before. Their character will rub off on your character. Make sure they are worthy of your respect and your time. And if you're going to be hiking for a really long time in the woods, make sure you can laugh with them, talk to them for hours, and that they can keep a good attitude in what could otherwise be a miserable situation.

You'll never really get to know people if you only socialize on Facebook. There's a real life out there, folks, and real people. People that are worth getting to know on a much deeper level than social media will allow.

If you're starting to feel a little too confident, go for a hike. Mother Nature will put you right back in your place.

There is so much life to live. You aren't going to run out of amazing things to do. Don't waste your time on things that don't matter in the end. Life is short. Live it.

Take care of your body. If you do, it will take you anywhere you want to go. And don't take it for granted. You never know what will happen in the future.

Stop hating your body because it isn't perfect. Fix what you can, accept what you can't, but it's capable of incredible things. Respect it for all that it is and that it does for you.

Go NOW. Don't wait. When the opportunity comes, jump on it. It might not be a perfect time, you might have more "important" things to do. But they'll likely wait. Opportunity doesn't always wait. If it's something you want to do, go do it.

You are strong enough to do anything, if it's something you really want to do. Find your limits, acknowledge them, and push past them. Then do it again. You'll gain muscle and character.

Even the little mundane moments (of the hike or in life) are part of the journey. Appreciate them. They're getting you where you want to go.

And if you're not going where you want to go, turn around and start going there.

Don't rush. You might miss something incredible.

Never underestimate people. Never write them off because they have different ideas than you. Talk to them, listen to them, appreciate their thoughts and experiences. They have wisdom you don't. You don't have to change your beliefs, but you can learn a few things by listening.

 Choose your attitude. You can complain because the creek is cold and deep, or you can splash through it laughing and feel satisfied when you know you crossed it. Life's too short to get mad about things you're going to have to do anyway.

Don't waste your time being afraid of things you can't see. They might not even be there. Keep an eye out, stay aware, but don't let an opportunity pass you by because you're afraid of something you're probably just imagining anyway.

Don't forget how small you really are. Stand on a mountain and look around at the vastness of the world. Let it comfort you and terrify you at the same time. It'll keep you humble.

Stop and appreciate really small things. They are what add beauty and value to that immense world you a part of.

If it sounds crazy, it's probably worth doing -- and it's the doing that makes you just a little bit wiser than you were before.

The Sneffels Traverse

5 days. 32 miles. 35 pound backpacks. 

Epic.

Confidence: that feeling you get before you fully understand the situation.

We were dropped off with six other people at the top of Last Dollar Pass out of Telluride, Colorado at the Alder trailhead. We watched the SUV drive away, and there we were, with nowhere to go but down the trail. It was only  moments before we were surrounded by the San Juan wildnerness. Our groups quickly separated, some walking quickly, others stopping to enjoy the scenery a bit. In about five minutes, it was just Nicole and I. We were to walk 8.3 miles through rough terrain over unmaintained trail to arrive at a tiny wooden hut in the woods before nightfall.

The first thing we did was stop and fill up our hydration packs with mountain stream water. It really was delicious, and icy cold. It wasn't long before we realized this trail wasn't going to be like any other trails we'd hiked. Every couple hundred feet there were downed logs - big ones, sometimes waist-high. Some would not quite fall to the ground before being caught by another tree, and we'd have to decide if we'd rather go over or under. The climbing trees quickly became a huge annoyance.

Do you see a trail here? Yeah, neither did I.

Filling my hydration pack from a tiny little stream.

Best water you ever tasted, hands down.

It doesn't sound so bad, but after about the twentieth log, with 35 pounds strapped to your back and throwing off your center of balance, it gets tough. At 3.3 miles we arrived at an old trapper's cabin, and our written instructions were so difficult to understand that our entire group came together to problem solve. We ended up taking what looked more like a game trail than a hiking trail based on compass readings, gps coordinates, and two maps. That game trail did, indeed, turn out to be the trail we wanted. After that point there was enough flagging tape to keep us pretty confident we were on the right track, but by mile five it started to feel like the trail would go on forever and we might never reach the hut. Climbing over those logs was using a whole new muscle group - not the walking muscles we'd worked to build up over the past several months. Every time we'd lift our legs over yet another fallen tree, our muscles would scream in agony. We were checking the GPS every few minutes, hoping we would start to see our next waypoint. At one point we realized we were averaging just about one mile an hour of hiking. On a normal hike, we are closer to 2.5 or 3 mph. Picking up the pace wasn't an option - those packs and all the trail obstacles made moving faster impossible. And to keep things interesting, there were a handful of places where the trail was destroyed by avalanche slide areas. That in itself wasn't a problem - it was easy to find the trail again. But climbing up the sides of ravines, sometimes doing what looked like gymnastics moves to get up, was a bit tricky, especially with those damn packs.

But you feel so dang accomplished 

when you do finally manage to climb them.

After what seemed like a painful eternity, we reached the four-way intersection we'd be watching for for hours. It was such a blessed sight that we stopped and celebrated with what would be the first of many, many Cliff bars and some of that delicious water. We sat, talked, laughed at how confident and in shape we'd felt just hours before, and enjoyed the complete solitude and immensity of the forest surrounding us. It was moments like these that we remembered why we were doing this.

It was a couple more hours before we found the hut. It was a ways off the trail, hidden in a clearing beyond another clearing. A tiny, brown wooden structure tucked back and away, with a view to die for. Beyond the hut was the toilet, an elevated structure with a window in the door so you could enjoy that incredible view each time you used the loo. It was after 6 pm when we arrived at the hut. Two of the folks we'd been dropped off with were already there. The four others wandered in an hour or two later, having gotten a little lost looking for the hut.

The view from outside the first hut, where we ate our meals.

Nothing beats seeing the sunrise light those mountains up.

 We heated water on the propane stove, rehydrated our Mountain House dehydrated dinners, and sat outside on stumps, staring at the gorgeous, rugged mountains, eating dinner and reveling in awe at the fact that it took Mother Nature only one day to kick our asses. We laughed and talked and sat there, completely satisfied. And also a little terrified of what Day Two would hold in store.

Day Two, as it turned out, wasn't whole lot easier than Day One, but it was a more pleasant seven miles than the first day's eight. For one thing, there were fewer trees blocking the path. Also, there were more open spaces, places we could look out see something other than dense, never-ending forest. It was also very well marked and harder to get lost. This was also the day that our trail guide started using words like "climb" and "ascend" and occasionally "steep." By the end of the day, we understood that each of those words was synonymous with "pain". At mile three we came up to a beautiful shallow creek. We donned our water shoes and frolicked in the water for awhile like children. It was so cold. We splashed around until our feet were so cold we got brain-freeze.

This moment made carrying the weight of my 

Keens totally worth it. 

 Then we had lunch and carried on. We got to the part where it said we would "climb steeply". Somewhere around mile five on that second day, we were passed by four cowboys on horseback, happily riding right up the meadow we were "climbing steeply." There may have been a moment where one of us suggested holding them up and stealing their horses. Or at the very least, begging pitifully for them to haul our packs up the hill and leave them at the top. We learned that it was less tiring if we took ten or fifteen steps and stopped to catch our breath than to try to muscle through to the top and sit there while our heart rates returned to normal.

Cocan Flats. Open meadows are like a breath of fresh air when you've been buried in deep woods for days.

At mile six we walked into Cocan Flats. This was the first really, truly awesome view. Standing there, I felt so small, so insignificant. It was one of those places that reminds you just how vast the world is, and how very small each of us is. I felt powerless and completely consumed by nature. I think every person in the world ought to feel that way at least once. It wasn't much longer to the next hut. We arrived a couple hours earlier than the night before and our group sat around eating our dehydrated dinners and visiting and starting to really get to know one another. I also drank a slightly alarming amount of whiskey, using the excuse that the more I drank, the less I had to carry the next day.

Day Three started with a slight headache and hot instant oatmeal. We'd been dreading this day. The trail guide included the word "summit", which sounded nearly insurmountable after words like "climb" and "ascend" and elicited a bit of cursing. We saw our first people on this day at the main trailhead which lead up to Wilson Summit and also out to Blue Lakes. It was a little bit strange seeing folks, and their cars. We moved on quickly. It wasn't long before we came to a creek much deeper than the others we'd previously crossed. We switched out our shoes and went for it. It was knee deep and freezing cold. We laughed and splashed along, squealing like little girls as we lost feeling in our toes. That might have been one of the highlights of the hike, it was an absolute blast. We sat on the other side, had more Cliff bars, and enjoyed our little success. Because at some point those little successes became what we lived for. There were more creek crossings (with some seriously scary bridges) before we entered what we fondly referred to as The Gates of Hell. Others, who might not be carrying all of their necessary belongings strapped to their backs, might call them "switchbacks". Up we climbed. 1,000 feet of elevation in 1 mile sounded nearly impossible. At this point we started using words like "summit" and "switchback" in place of other words. Because they really are essentially curse words at this point. Fifteen steps, stop, blow, "mothersummit sonofaswitchback", fifteen more steps. We made it. It was intense and the feeling of success was incredible. Neither of us had ever really summitted before. It was worth every minute of the struggle. The GPS waypoint was marked as "The Best View in Colorado." That might be pushing it, but it was close. The waterfall that we had been staring up and marveling at just a couple of hours before was now far below us. We sat for a long time, staring at Sneffels and Cirque and Tea Kettle mountains, looking all the way to Utah past that.

This is us, standing at the Sneffels Lookout on Wilson Summit.

Those expressions are a mix of elation, satisfaction, and exhaustion.

 It was huge and it was beautiful and it was perfect. And we'd worked so damn hard to get there, the satisfaction of being there simply could not be rivaled. We had walked just about 20 miles at that point. The hut, about a mile past the summit, was the creepiest of them all. At one point there were kamikaze mice jumping off the wall onto the girl sleeping above me. I could hear them scurry past my head and chatter and chew the way mice do. It wasn't a good night's sleep.

My bunk at the Ridgway Hut. I firmly believe they

 should rename it The Mouse House.

Day Four was practically a walk in the park compared to any of the other days. 4 miles of generally easy terrain, a wide trail that was actually a road in some places. There was only one point we really had to stop and think and not get lost. Some careful studying of our maps and GPS and we made it with no trouble. Not so for the other folks with us, who got turned around and walked a couple extra miles before realizing they were headed the wrong direction. It's a little unnerving to think how easy it really is to get lost out there. We ran across more people this day - a family in Jeeps out for a picnic, and a couple of ladies out for a little stroll. They were wearing makeup. I felt wretched. Not only had I not put on makeup in days, but I had given up brushing my hair three days earlier and couldn't remember when I'd last brushed my teeth. I was covered in grit and grime and splashes of mud and my hair was so greasy it never actually left the knot it was tied up in - even when I took the hair-tie out. And despite how wretched I felt, I didn't care. Not even a little bit. I'd walked 22 miles to get where I was, godsummit, and I'd earned every ounce of that dirt and grease. I was even just a little bit proud of how filthy I was and how awful I must have looked.

We were first to arrive at that hut and had it to ourselves for a couple hours, owing to the fact that the other folks had gotten lost and were now hiking in the rain. It was lunch time when we arrived. We unlocked, situated our bunks, and had a good lunch (if you can call a packet of tuna and a tortilla a good lunch. I thought it was.) There was a lot of sitting around that day. To fill the time, we ate as much as we could, trying to lighten our packs. I was worried when we left that I'd be starving and hadn't packed enough food. As it turned out, I hardly ate half of what I'd taken. Also, I will never eat another Cliff bar or Lara bar as long as I live. But I do still love peanut M&M's. Nicole and I pored over our map, talking about which hikes we want to do next. I think that's when I realized we really must be a little bit insane. We were exhausted, our bodies had found their limits and been pushed past them, and all we could think about was what adventure we wanted to go on next, how next to torture ourselves to the point of satisfaction and accomplishment. There's no doubt about it - we are hooked. We are officially backpackers.

I finally slept that night for more than two hours at a time. It rained much of the night, and the world outside was so clean and fresh... and wet and muddy. The last four and a half miles were in front of us. We packed up fast and ate Cliff bars as we walked. We reached Moonshine Park, a beautiful steep meadow, and virtually mud-skied down the side of it. The path was only six or eight inches wide and was lined by skunk cabbage taller than we were on both sides. Thanks to the rain, the skunk cabbage held little puddles of water that dumped all over us as we walked. It wasn't long before our shoes were full of water. We were soaking wet and every so often another little puddle of water would be dumped down our backs. The path - which had been overgrown for much of the hike - was even harder to find at times on this day.

Instead of invisible rocky paths, we now had overgrown

plants to contend with. It felt like walking through a jungle

for miles at a time.

Often when we did find it, it was so muddy and slick that it was easier and safer just to hike right through the brush. We didn't stop for breaks that last day. We were just ready to get to the Jeep and back to civilization. We pressed on past the overgrown meadows, into the forest, and out onto beautiful, rugged red sandstone cliffs. And there, far below us, was Ouray. Houses. Electric lines. Cars driving down the highway. I was happy to see it, to know we'd reached our goal, but I realized at that moment that I wasn't really sure I was ready to be done. Two miles of steep downgrade worked yet a new muscle group. My knees wanted to give out with every step. More switchbacks, this time going down. That last mile might have been the longest mile I've ever walked in my life. And then... there we were. The parking lot. The Jeep. People and cars, right there with us.

It was an odd feeling, I'm not sure how to describe it. I was elated that we were in Ouray, that we'd made it. I was also not ready to leave the mountains. We walked through the town, busy during tourist season with people milling all about, but we didn't feel like one of them. We'd just done something epic. We'd finished one of the greatest adventures of our lives just minutes before, and there we were, acting perfectly normal. It felt weird.

But we soon learned how nice showers are. And chairs. And ohmygod beds with pillows. We soaked in the hot springs, ate food that had not been dehydrated and rehydrated. We drank really cold beer. We visited with people, with each other. We laughed a lot and rode the high that can only come after such an accomplishment.

We did it. We pushed ourselves to our limits, we fulfilled our spirits, we saw things that not many other people ever will, We learned a lot about each other and ourselves. We met some amazing people, faced some fears, and built a ton of character.

I feel like none of the words I've written can even come close to describing it. Pictures don't do it justice. It wasn't the views. It wasn't the Point A to Point B. It was the journey. And it was one hell of a journey.

Trying New Things: Cross-country Skiing

There are some things that are just unacceptable. Like the fact that I've lived in Colorado for nineteen years, and had not been on skis until yesterday. (And no, I don't snowboard, either.) In fact, I can count the number of times I've been sledding on one hand. Honestly, my favorite thing to do when it is snowing is drink coffee and sit by the fire. I'm a sissy.

But alas, it was time. And so we decided to rent some skis and take the girls cross-country skiing. Fact of the matter is, I married a man who actually enjoys this sort of self-inflicted pain in frigid temperatures. And he wanted to share that, um, pleasure, with our daughters. And me.

To be fair, it wasn't as bad as I expected. And happily, I can still walk today which I thought was a nice bonus. And I wasn't actually cold the whole time, despite the fact that it was 25 degrees outside. Probably because cross-country skiing is an incredible amount of work, and using muscles I didn't know I had makes me sweat.

The best part was watching the girls though. Giving them new experiences is so much fun. And unlike me, they really, really love anything to do with snow.
 
The Oldest was a natural. She was ahead of the rest of us the whole time, going up ahead, then coming back to see where we were, then off she went again. She's apparently fearless, going down downhill slopes without a second thought, never afraid of falling. It was good fun watching her. I just hope she doesn't think this is something we'll do regularly now...

 
Littlest One wasn't quite as adept. The good news though, is that she thought falling down was all kinds of fun. Good, because that's mostly what she did. Over, and over again. But at least she didn't get upset.


Eventually we traded in her skis for snowshoes, mostly so The Daddy could actually ski instead of just holding her up by the back of her coat. Then The Daddy and The Oldest could go up ahead, while Littlest One stayed back on her snowshoes to make sure I was doing okay. She was concerned about how slow I was going, I think.
 
All in all, though, it was a good day. Life is about trying new things, which is something I'm really not good at, especially when it involves something I'm guaranteed not to be good at. Or when it involves snow. I want my girls to try new things fearlessly, and this is the kind of thing we have to do to give them that confidence.

Also, it made them sleep really well. 

Farm Life's Hardest Lesson

If you read any "What I Wish I Would Have Known" articles written by modern homesteader types, one of the first items on their list is always going to be this:

You don't have to do it all at once.

Take it slow, they say. Give yourself grace, they say. Just a little bit at a time and don't overwhelm yourself.

I've read dozens of those articles. And I've always nodded in agreement, as though I've always known perfectly well that that one little bit of advice is absolutely correct.

Except that I didn't.

My best friend and I used to joke that whichever one of us ended up moving to a farm first was going to end up sitting in the middle of her pasture, crying the ugly cry, absolutely overwhelmed by what she had taken on and that the other friend was going to have to listen and comfort and try not to say "I told you so."

Turns out, I was the first one to move to a farm. And that prediction wasn't as far off as I'd like for you think it is. Except that it's snowy outside, so I was sobbing in my bedroom, while staring at my pasture. Which really isn't any better.

I haven't blogged regularly in almost a year. There's a reason for it though.

The past year has been seriously rough. My husband has been working out of town - sometimes out of state - for the past year. He's gone two weeks and then home for a week. That means that two thirds of the time, every responsibility of this property falls on my shoulders. In the past year I have raised a rather large garden, milked two goats and kept another 50 or so animals alive, homeschooled a first and fifth grader, kept a 4600 square foot house clean, raised 700 bales of hay on a 25 acre pasture using nothing but a shovel and some tarps. I've raised and butchered enough chickens to last a year, canned a year's worth of fruits and vegetables and dried or frozen what wasn't canned, cooked dinner every night,  run my kids around to their extra curricular activities, driven an hour each direction every time I needed groceries, hauled horses to 9 gymkhanas and rodeos, and hauled chickens to the county fair. And almost all of this with very little help from The Man of My Dreams, except for the weeks he was able to spend at home.

What I learned is that I really can do it all. I'm working from 5:30 in the morning until 9:30 at night, every single hour of the day, but I can get it all done. Until something goes wrong. As soon as the slightest little thing happens to upset my very rigid schedule, I lose it. I get so overwhelmed that I can't function and all I want to do is give up. Or cry.

The bad part of that, though, is that in this life, something happens to change your plans Every. Single. Day. Nothing ever goes the way you expect it to, or plan for it to. An animal gets sick. A kid misbehaves. A neighbor needs help. A fence needs fixed or a goat gets out or a deer dies in your front yard or your dog gets skunked or the well runs dry (again) and you have to spend an hour hauling water. The list of Things That Can Go Wrong is infinite. And each one of those things is guaranteed to happen when you least expect it. That is reality.

And with a schedule as packed as mine has been this year, and a brain so overwhelmed by constant mental to-do lists, there just isn't time to stop and enjoy all those little things that are supposed to bring me joy. I don't have time to watch my kids play with animals or build a fort or raise a puppy. I don't have time to relax with my husband and just sit and watch the sun go down. I've spent every waking moment just keeping up, keeping my head above water, that I've lost touch with every reason we moved up here in the first place. And that makes my heart hurt.

It's a lesson no one can just tell you and expect you to understand: You don't have to do it all at once.

You have to learn it, first hand. And it's painful. And it involves a lot of frustration and even more tears. But eventually, you take a step back, and you realize what you're doing to yourself, and you decide things have to change. Priorities have to be considered. You have to give yourself room to bend, and time to relax. You have to remember that there are so many years ahead of you to figure this all out and get it all done. And there will never be one single year when you actually accomplish everything you feel like you should. Living this life isn't something to mark off the to-do list. It's a process - a life long process - and it will never actually be finished.

And so, at a time when so many of my friends are moving out to the country and starting their homesteading lives, here is my advice:

You don't have to do it all at once.

Take it slow.

 Give yourself grace.

Just a little bit at a time.

Don't overwhelm yourself.

And when you are sobbing in the middle of your pasture, don't hesitate to give me a call. 

The Little Things - The Important Things

Ah, what a nice break it's been from blogging! With so much to do, and so little time, writing our little stories has been pushed to the back burner.

If there's one lesson I'm learning from this crazy new life we're living, it's how to prioritize. Children must be taught and fed. Animals must be fed and tended to. The hay pasture must be irrigated and the garden must be planted and tended. Sadly, things like blogging, or knitting, or any of the other little creative bits I used to have time for seem to have been replaced with other activities, at least for now.

Not that I'm complaining. So much satisfaction can be found in the work that makes up every moment of every day. I enjoy it all immensely, and so does our family. What is actually work often feels more like play. I've learned to find incredible enjoyment in my animals, in walking through the sloshy pasture twice a day, and in making cheese and yogurt. Peaceful moments come in the form of enjoying a cold beer on the deck at sunset, listening to the birds singing their goodnights; listening to Two Little Girls making clothespin fairy dolls talk as they adventure through the garden fairy village; watching goats and horses graze contentedly along the edges of the yard.

Not that it's all picture perfect. The never-endingness of it all is constantly overwhelming, and I'm still learning to accept that I'm simply not ever going to have it all done. It goes back to those priorities. Some days school takes priority, and we do a week's worth of math and English to make up for the days we've missed. Other days I realize I haven't shoveled manure in a week, or that the weeds are climbing the pea trellis faster than the peas are. Whatever seems most pressing gets accomplished, everything else is left for another day. I'm learning to remember that it will still be there tomorrow. And some days, play and relaxing and laughing take priority. If they didn't, I'd be a crazy person. And we all know if I'm crazy, my family is too.

So along we trudge, delighting in all The Little Things we do, appreciating the sweet details that tend to fog over the messier big picture. And for now, that's just about perfect.

As life seems to be evening out again, I'm hoping to get back to writing the little stories that make up our little lives... the stories I want to remember, that I want my children to remember, the stories that I hope make a few folks smile once in awhile.

Meeting the March Family

I realize that not every mother has a deep love of literature. But for those of us that do, there is no greater joy than sharing our beloved books with our children. The characters that were our dear friends now become the friends and even playmates of our children; the lands and the times we knew so well come to life again as our children experience them. It's a lovely gift to share.

Our literature studies are my very favorite in our day. It doesn't ever feel like school. Long after the work books are put away, after dinner and dishes and chores, when Two Little Girls are snug and clean in fresh jammies, we settle down into the living room for our literature studies... which simply means relaxing while Mom reads out loud. It's a bed time story in their eyes, not school, and so they love it all the more.

As our study of history courses through the developments of America, we have come up to the Civil War. And so, after much anticipation, we began Little Women last night. To read, "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," out loud to my daughters gave me a thrill that only other Lovers of Books could understand.

And as the characters are 'sketched' for the reader, as Jo is described as the tomboy with thick, beautiful hair always pulled back, who has a pension for writing stories, I saw the glimmer in The Oldest's eye as she related herself to this most-beloved character. Littlest One was coloring in the living room as I read, but stopped and looked up at the description of Amy, the baby of the family, with her blue eyes and blonde hair.

As the girls in the book confess their 'bundles', complaining of the housework they don't enjoy and of how hard it is to be good, both of my own girls by this time were fairly riveted. How beautiful for them to realize that they can related to young girls growing up during the Civil War, a hundred and fifty years ago. The struggles of young girls haven't changed much, in some ways. And when the characters in the book vow to stop complaining and try harder to do a better job, I could see the consideration wrinkle it's way across The Oldest's forehead as she thought about how she could apply that to her own life.

===

With forty three chapters of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy to come, I look forward to the cooler fall nights as we snuggle down and share their stories together. And I daydream of all the wonderful books to come. When we are done visiting with the March family, we'll meet Anne Shirley, and Sara Crewe. If I am blessed enough that they will still let me read aloud to them when they are in their teens, I will happily introduce them to Heathcliff and Catherine, Jane Eyre, and Mr. Darcy. So many beautiful, wonderful books are out there for us to enjoy together. My only concern is that there may not be enough time for all of them!

Why I Saved that Fancy Dress

I remember going through my closet when we were packing to move to this house. As I got to the stash of formals and semi-formals pushed to the very back, I considered e-Baying them. After all, I'm a mom. Mothers have no reason to own a handful of different fancy dresses. Most of them haven't been worn since before The Oldest was born.

And then today, I received an invitation, written in pencil on construction paper, as I was fixing dinner. "Dance, dance, dance!" it read. "You are invited to Chloe and Cora's ball and feast. Please wear a fancy dress and dress shoes. Tickets are two dollars."

You should have seen their faces when I showed up in the play room wearing a shimmery, strappy semi-formal and sparkly silver heels. "Mom! You look.... um, you actually look.... pretty." Sigh. All that effort, and that was the best she could do for a compliment? But hey, a compliment's a compliment. I'll take it.

And so we turned on Vivaldi, and I twirled around the playroom in my fancy high heels, doing my best to look graceful while dancing with a four foot long stuffed dragon. Both girls (and several stuffed animals) gave speeches, we feasted on crocheted play food, and we danced some more. (The second time, I had the pleasure of dancing with Grover. He's a much better dancer than Dragon.) And then the timer rang saying dinner was done, so I bid them adieu, curtsied, and thanked them for the lovely time.

===

Did I have time for a ball just then? Of course not. If I'm to get all of the "important" stuff done around here, I'll never have time for such things.

Except that, at that very moment, that ball was the most important thing I could have done. I could tell because of the looks on their sweet faces - eyes wide and enormous grins, giggles and curtsies and faux-British accents that are saved for only the most special of moments.

I hope I remember more often to take care of those Very Important Things before anything else.  Too often it seems that laundry, dishes, dirty floors and dusty furniture take precedence. How many times have I been invited to a play, or a puppet show, or a ballet recital, or a picnic, and couldn't find the time to attend? I'm not sure the number, but I'd be ashamed to admit it even if I did.

It won't be long before there are no more invitations, no more balls, no more stuffed animals, play food, and dress-up clothes. And those things are the ones that matter most of all.

The Urgency of Fall

I don't whine very often. Or, well, I try not to. I love having a blog filled with cheerfulness and stories of happy and satisfying things. Because really, my life is filled with happiness and satisfying things. And I know I don't have a right to complain. But once in awhile...

Honestly, I don't think it's complaining. It's just stress! There is SO much to do, and so much I want to be doing, and I don't know which way to turn, I don't know which way is forward or which way is backward.

I think feeling the fall in the air is making me feel like I'm under pressure to get everything done. The land around me is sending out it's warning, "You only have a month left to prepare yourself before the ground is frozen solid and it's too cold to go outside!" I hate how gleeful it is in this threat - all those bright, beautiful leaves of flaming red and golden amber, happily announcing that winter is, in fact, just around the corner.

Don't get me wrong, I love fall. I love that the sweltering heat of summer is finally gone, that the air is crisp and we can play outside without risking heat exhaustion. I think my problem is that I love fall so much that I just want to sit outside and enjoy it, instead of all this work I'm doing inside.

I'm to the point where I don't care if I see another ripe tomato as long as I live. Or at least until next July. Pints and quarts of salsa, soup, dried tomatoes, diced tomatoes, pizza sauce, spaghetti sauce... it's all in there, stored up to keep us nourished this winter. And I still have one more box to go. A month ago all I wanted was to be eating raw, sliced tomatoes with a bit of salt and pepper. Well, I'm over that.

School is (somehow) back in full swing. We manage about four hours a day on a good day... which means more like two hours a day on average days. Somehow, getting tomatoes in jars before they rot seems a lot more pressing than learning why Franklin Pierce was a fairly worthless president. Aw, who am I kidding? Even riding the horses or chasing the goats seems more important than Pierce.

The garden is nearing it's end, and I'm encouraging it by failing to water it - ever - and hoping it'll just hurry up and die off. It's done its job, we have veggies in the freezer. Now, I would like a break from weeds and aphids and squash and hungry grasshoppers. I think I'll dig the carrots today. Because nothing is more fun than digging carrots out of compacted clay soil. Really, you should try it.

The house hasn't been properly cleaned since, um... we moved in back in February. Spring came so quickly that by the time we were unpacked, we were suddenly drowning in The To-Do List that comes with trying to learn how to care for a 40 acre ranch. Animals and outdoor work and outdoor play take precedence over house cleaning. I wash laundry, and dishes, and occasionally (if it rains) I manage to dust or vacuum. But this darn beautiful fall air is making feel like I need to be deep cleaning... which is, of course, impossible when one's entire kitchen is brimful of vegetables and fruits that the fruit flies are dangerously close to consuming in their entirety.

It's nothing that doesn't happen every single year about this time. An urgent need to get everything done coupled with an urgent need to sit in my wooden chair on the deck and bask in the beauty of fall.

I think the best remedy for it is to go pour a glass of wine and sit and watch the leaves change colors.

After I finish canning these tomatoes.

A Walk Through the Garden

 I haven't done much blogging or photographing of the garden this year. This is mostly because I'm disappointed in myself for not having as pretty of a garden as I've had in the past. It looks... well, it looks like a first year garden in a new climate. You know, because it is a first year garden in a new climate.


It's about 30 ft by 70 ft. I wanted it bigger, but tilling turned out to be quite a chore, and this was the most The Man of My Dreams could muster the time and energy to do. And now I'm grateful for that, since it's proving plenty big enough for my first year up here.

This picture is of weeds. Yep - that's how bad it is. I pull a wheelbarrow full of weeds each morning and night, but the bindweed and the goat-heads are just awful. Hopefully a few years of diligent weeding will prove successful. Apparently all the tilling The Man of My Dreams did for me ended up spreading the weeds, making them even worse.

Next year, no tilling.


I've also been disappointed because nothing seems to be growing. But what I've come to realize is that everything is definitely growing, it just all ripens about six weeks later that it did when we lived in The Big City. Six weeks is a very long time for a girl who has been waiting all year for fresh green beans and tomatoes. But we're getting there. 

Next year, patience.

 If there's one thing I can say about living here, it's that pollination isn't a problem. Every flower gets pollinated - bees and wasps abound, and they are doing their work diligently. In The Big City, many tomato blossoms would drop before they were pollinated, between the heat and the lack of bees. Not here though - cooler temperatures and an abundance of buzzing insects means plenty of pollination.

 I'm amused at how things that I couldn't grow for the life of me in The Big City are doing so well here. Broccoli never got a chance to develop a head before, because it would get so hot so fast. On nine broccoli plants this year, the heads weighed out at fifteen pounds, and we're still harvesting from the side shoots nearly every other day. I finally pulled out all the spinach - I put by thirty bags of frozen spinach before it bolted. In The Big City, cucumbers would wilt and shrivel in the dry heat if they weren't watered in the middle of the afternoon, and the fruits would be bitter. Here, the vines are clamboring up my pitiful trellis, and baby cukes are everywhere, shaded in the lush plants. The onions are growing nice big bulbs, thanks to less heat up here. They're big enough to be using, and will hopefully store well this fall, as I've got about 120 of them planted.

Next year, more broccoli.


 
The beans are growing, finally starting to flower just in the past couple of days. They quickly outgrew and pulled down the bamboo teepees and stuck out there. The ground is so rocky here that it's hard to get any stakes in deep enough to be sturdy.

Next year, stronger trellises and stakes. 

Littlest One planted corn this year. The only year I tried growing corn at the other house, it was a miserable, earwig-infested failure. I'm not sure this attempt will be any better, but it's fun to see her when she goes out and checks on it. It grows quickly, so she sees the changes often.

 Much of what we planted this year is experimenting - trying out new varieties, and growing vegetables we hadn't tried before. Potatoes and cabbage are both new to us, things we didn't have the space for in the past. The cabbage worms are grateful that we've planted so many varieties of brassicas for them to consume. The cabbage heads are big enough now to harvest, though I'm nervous that there are little wormies living inside there that are going to make us not want to eat it.

Next year, row covers.

 In the foreground of this picture are potatoes. I dug a trench as deep as I could go with all the rocks and boulders underground - about 18". I've since filled that back in and hilled up the potatoes another two feet or so, and they're just going crazy. Not sure if there's anything actually growing in there, but they sure are happy plants.

 Next year, potato crates.

And also growing quite well are the turkeys. I'm still fascinated by what neat birds they are. I'm also fascinated by how much they eat. We keep them penned up and feed them commercial game bird feed, and they go through more than I ever thought possible. I'm afraid to let them free range because I've heard it can be hard to get them to come back.
 
Next year, a moveable turkey pen. 


I have a feeling every year will come with a list of things to do "next year". It's all a learning experience. I'm realizing I need to give up my dreams of perfection in these early years while we figure things out. Nothing is ever going to be perfect, of course - this is farming after all. It will get better though, as experience is gained and routines fall into place. Until then, I will try to embrace the imperfection and learn graciously from the lessons this land has to teach me.

The Best Kind of Confident

I realize I'm her mother, and so it is my job to feel this way, but seriously - I love my kid. Sometimes her attitude and her personality just amaze me. Most days, I wish I could learn to be a little more like her. I'm pretty sure she teaches me more than I'll ever teach her, though she might not ever know it.

Watching her at the 4-H horse show and gymkhana this weekend, I was so thrilled with the way she took it all in, never gave in to pressure, was incredibly sportsmanlike, and just had an overall wonderful attitude.

I attribute her awesomeness, at least in part, to the fact that she's homeschooled.  She has no concept of competition. There is no need, in our home, to compete for first place. There has never been a need for her to consider what others might think of her, and so she has this confidence in herself that most kids never experience. My husband was homeschooled, and is exactly the same, and he totally gets her. Me, on the other hand... I find it all quite baffling. Endearing, to be sure, but utterly confusing. A life without comparing yourself to others? Without worrying about whether you're the best? I don't think I'd ever imagined such a thing until I started seeing the person she's turning out to be... and I love it.

My Oldest Girl, on her amazingly sweet and ever-so-patient old horse, had not the slightest chance of winning any events this weekend. But that didn't matter, she wasn't there to win. She was there just to do it, to get some experience and see what it was like and learn some things. When the other kids showed up dressed to the nines in rhinestone chaps, it never occurred to her that her attire was only average. When the other kids had fancy horses, it never crossed her mind that her 22 year old draft/pony cross wasn't up to par. When the other kids raced through the poles and barrels as fast as they could, she never felt like she had to do that. She happily walked her horse through each pattern, doing exactly what she felt comfortable doing. She might have been laughed at for being the slowest, or people might have felt sorry for her, but if they did, she never noticed.

When she was handed her first sixth place ribbon, she was tickled. She'd won something! In her mind, she walked away a winner. She was given a ribbon, and that meant she had been recognized for doing what she was doing. Blue or pink, it didn't matter. There were girls there crying, stomping, yelling at their parents, angry with their horses, because they hadn't gotten the first place ribbon. My kiddo couldn't understand that. She just patted Bandit's neck, told him he is the best horse in the whole world, and cheerfully tied that pink ribbon to her saddle.

The next day, she went on to win four fifth place ribbons, and even a fourth place ribbon. (This was because other girls were disqualified because their horses went too fast for the novice division.) By the end of the two days, she had a whole stack of ribbons. The color didn't matter. Now she has something to hang on her wall next to a picture of her and Bandit together, showing that they went out and did their best together - a cautious little girl and her ever-so-slow pony - working together, enjoying just being out around all those other people in that big arena.

She says next year she'd like to maybe try to win a third place ribbon. There it is again, that homeschool mentality. When you're schooled at home, and competition doesn't exist, the only person you have to compete with is yourself. Her goal for the next year is simply to improve her skills and do a little better next time. In her mind, that will mean she's won.

The highlight of the event came at the banquet, when it was announced that she had gotten first place in her division on the written horse test. A blue ribbon! She won a blue ribbon!  She studied hard for that test, but also spent a lot of time reading her horse books just because she found them so interesting. And she was rewarded for it with a beautiful blue ribbon. I think we were all a little shocked... little Chloe, coming in almost last in nearly every event, walking away with the best score on the test. I told her what she lacks in speed, she makes up for in knowledge.

But at the end of the day, it wasn't that blue ribbon that mattered. The whole stack of different colored ribbons was nice and she's mighty proud of them, but what she kept talking about was how she wanted to go ride some more and practice some of the things she'd learned while she was there. She's sure Bandit can do it, and she can too, with a little bit of practice.

I want that innocence. I want her attitude. I want her confidence. That little girl inspires me, I tell ya.

Thrifty Style: "Must Haves"

Have you noticed the new "being thrifty" books on the market lately?

Back when I was a young, first time mom, I learned to be thrifty out of necessity. (Tightwad Gazette, anyone?) Back then, "thrifty" meant clipping coupons for cereal, pairing them with sales, and coming home with eight boxes of Lucky Charms for seventy five cents each. It meant stockpiling Aquafresh when I could get it for pennies, and learning to buy Wal-Mart clothes when they were on the $1 clearance.

Times have changed since then. Financial circumstances aren't so dire, and I've learned a whole lot about how managing health goes a long way toward living frugally. It would appear that most of the "frugal" book writers are in the same place, trading out how-to's on price books for chapters on the basics of gardening, and notes about coupon-clipping for recipes for homemade whole wheat bread. I'm loving that these new books include recipes for homemade cleaners with vinegar and castile soap, instructions for canning tomatoes, and some even have basic patterns for skirts and pants, or beginning knitting instructions. Times are a-changing, I tell you, and it excites me.

But one book I was reading today offered a chapter on "the frugal style" and it about made me snort the coffee I was sipping. There was a list of the Style Must-Haves, things every "frugal" woman ought to have in her closet. Amusingly it was on the same page as an article about finding a great deal on a black and white Chanel suit. (Because we all need one of those, don't we?) The list included things like a 'little black dress'; brightly colored flats; a white button-down shirt; black slacks; a trench coat; and a leather handbag.

Now, we have to realize the ladies that wrote this book must live in some city other than The Big City that we live near. If I showed up to do my monthly shopping at Wal Mart wearing a trench coat, bright red flats, and a leather handbag, I'd have folks gawking openly at me as I perused the dairy section. Reality here - whether it be in our Tiny Little Town or even in our Big City, is that no one needs stuff like that.

So I thought a little bit about my "must-haves". Here are some of the things I can't live without:

*A big, full skirt in a color that goes with anything. Bonus points if it's made from scrap fabric patched together, or a recycled tablecloth or curtains.
*A cozy, homemade cardigan, preferably in some fiber that can be tossed in the wash.
*Comfy rope sandals. I wrote a whole blog in ode to my Gurkees once. They're that awesome.
*Tank tops in every shade I can find on clearance.
*Rubber chore boots that can be hosed off after wading through poo and mud. (I've come to realize the rubber chore boots, often times still laden with said poo and mud, are a regular fashion statement at the market here in the Tiny Little Town.)
*Wool socks, tights, and/or leg warmers. Flannel pantaloons aren't uncalled for.
*A giant bag (mine is hand-knit out of 16 shades of scrap yarn - I like to think it matches everything... or maybe that's nothing?) that will hold the normal purse things as well as snacks, books, a small knitting project, miscellaneous rocks and pine cones, a couple bottles of water, and anything else that Two Little Girls might want to stick in there.
*A floppy-brimmed hat for days when brushing my hair didn't make it on the priority list, or when I want the sun kept out of my face.

So what are your necessities? Do you live in a place where wearing a Chanel suit would make you feel right at home, or would it make you the laughing stock of the local discount store? What is one clothing item you absolutely couldn't live without?

Asking for Help: A Lesson in Humility

I'm not good at asking for help.

If there's anything I can do to help someone else, I'll do it in a heartbeat. Our homesteading life puts us in a place where we can often help and give to others, and I love that.

But moving up here to this new property is proving to be a lesson is asking for help, and learning to accept it graciously. From having a neighbor pull my van back up a hill, to having to ask others more experienced with this property how to irrigate it, or having to ask neighbors we just met to help us figure out how to haul water because the well wasn't pumping water. It's all things we'll figure out eventually - or mostly, anyway - but things we're going to need to learn. And the best way for us to learn is from someone who's got the experience.

But I hate having to depend on someone else for help! That's what community is about, right? But I like being the one helping, not the one asking. A lesson in humility, to be certain. We knew coming in that this new life was going to be one big Character Development lesson for all of us, and it's already starting. I look forward to being more established and experienced at this place, to be back in the place where we can offer our assistance, instead of the other way around.

Slowing Down

One of the reasons I was looking forward to living so far out of the city was for the slower pace that country life brings. Of course, the first two weeks up here were a whirlwind of moving, finding and unpacking the necessities, and fixing up the old house.

But yesterday, finally, I experienced slow. We woke up, did our chores, and had school. There was no where to be going, so school was not rushed. We had quiet time (read: Mom's nap time) for the first time in two weeks, there was time for baking cookies together in the afternoon, unpacking a few boxes, and plenty of free time for Two Little Girls to enjoy playing dress-up and to parachute stuffed animals off the upstairs banister, plenty of time for building a fire and reading aloud a long chapter from a book after chores were finished.

I wasn't racing home to fix dinner, I wasn't rushing through housework or getting impatient when math took longer than it should. And I wasn't completely exhausted at the end of the day.

Life in the city is tiring. There's constantly something we have to do, or want to do, or feel like we ought to be doing. And everywhere we have to go sucks up a huge part of our day. Up here, it's different. There's nowhere to go - no errands, no shopping, no field trips. Granted, there is plenty that needs to be done, but it will still be there tomorrow. As long as the wood is chopped, the animals are fed, and the children are cared for reasonably well, I'm good.

It's comforting up here, this lack of rushing around and always going. Yesterday was the first time in... well, years, that I felt like 24 hours was just the right number of hours in one day.

Of course, that will all change when I have to spend an hour each way driving into the city when there are things we need. But for right now, I'm just going to appreciate the quiet, peaceful solitude that our new country life affords.

An Attitude Adjustment

I've been cleaning for three days. I knew coming in that I would want to do some of my own cleaning, but I supremely underestimated the amount of scrubbing I would have to do. Understandably, the sweet older folks that lived here before us had a hard time keeping up with general house cleaning, and by the looks of things, I'm guessing it's been a lot of years since certain things were done - things like baseboards and door jambs, windows, banisters and railings. The kitchen was my first priority: it took three hours to clean the refrigerator alone, and the rest of the day and part of the next to get all the cupboards and drawers wiped out. Granted, it's fun to clean a house when it's new to you... to a point. But by the end of today,I'm ashamed to admit, I was starting to get frustrated, feeling like I'm making very little progress for all the work I'm putting in.

But then, just as the frustration set in a little more than it should have, I walked by the dining room window, and saw this:



There is no better attitude adjustment than a gorgeous sunset, especially when you get to look at it from across your own snow-covered hay meadow.



Yes, it's a lot of work to clean this place. And this is only the beginning of a whole lot more work. But as long as there are sunsets like that one to stop and take in, I'm pretty sure I can handle anything.

I don't want it to sound like I'm whining. I know I am blessed beyond measure, and I'm so grateful for so many wonderful things. It's just been a long three days!

Harsh Realities - a bit of farm history

Usually, when buying a home, you never see or speak with the seller of the property until you meet at the closing table. Our experience in buying this farm was quite different from that, in that the man and woman who owned the property before us were in extremely poor health, and leaving was difficult for them. Each time we went up they were there, and over the course of the four or five visits we made to their home, we began to get to know them a little bit.

In the brief encounters we had the pleasure of sharing with them, it was evident that there never have been more wonderful people. They were kind and generous, gracious and hospitable, and their faith was so apparent in all they said and did. And I think that - knowing what truly good people they are - is the reason there is just a bit of bittersweet in this purchase we've made.

These aren't just "the people that owned the property before us." They're the ones that dreamed it, the ones that built it into what it is. Every nook and cranny of every building, every fence post, every little detail is the work of their own creativity and their own hands.

Eleven years ago, they moved to our beautiful side of the mountains and began seeking the "perfect property". It was his wife that set her mind on it, and she knew exactly what she was doing. I'm not sure any piece of property could be more perfect when one is seeking to live this kind of life. From there, they designed the home together, and lived in the guest house on the property so that they could oversee every aspect of the building of the main home. It was built exactly to their specifications. They had worked hard all their lives, lived frugally and raised their children, and came to Colorado to build their dream - and that's exactly what this is. It may be our "dream come true", but it was theirs first. And in talking with him, it's easy to see what brought them so far. Certainly a great deal of wisdom, a willingness to work hard and a willingness to learn; but above that, it's their unconditional love for one another and their immense, unfaltering faith.

Throughout our visits with him, he shared stories with us that really brought us to understand the heart of this place. He talked about how he and his wife would haul downed cedar trees from the hill together, dig the holes and use them as the fence posts. He told us how he dragged a toboggan across the snowy hay meadow when a calf was born early, and his wife would ride on the toboggan holding the calf while he dragged them up to the barn, where they would care tenderly for the calf, wiping it down and warming it up - only for three days, mind you, or it would get too warm and would catch cold.

And as we were leaving the closing table yesterday, he told us how he carried a wooden picnic table up to the top of the hill on his back, setting it just so, where his wife could sit at it and look out and see all the land around her. Up there at the top of the hill, she arranged rocks and stones in such a way as to create her own perfect space, where she then went for her Bible studies. That table, he told us, is still up there. In his condition now, he can no longer carry it back down.

In fact, he can no longer lift more than five pounds.

I can imagine them, eleven years ago, working side by side at really hard work, successfully running this small ranch and enjoying this dream life they'd waited so long to create. But it didn't last nearly long enough. He now suffers from advanced kidney failure, and she has a disease similar to Alzheimer's. He can't do any hard work at all anymore, and it would appear that she doesn't quite remember how. And I can't tell you how much it hurts my heart to see it.

They didn't want to have to sell this place. In fact, he told us yesterday after the papers were signed, "We sure hate to let this place go." They'd built it with the intention of living out their lives there, I'm sure. But things don't always go as planned, and they needed to be closer to medical services and closer to help as her condition progresses. And just when their health begins to fail, the housing market plummets, and what was once their million-dollar dream property was now worth only a fraction of that. The price we got it for makes me feel like we're practically stealing from them. What really, really just gets to me is that they don't deserve this. Not that anyone deserves this. But these two, they aren't like most folks. They're extraordinary, it's plain to see. And this isn't the kind of situation they should have ended up in. They should have had so many more years to enjoy this dream they worked so hard and for so long to achieve.

So you see, this isn't just "a farm". It's not just a great piece of property. It's so much more than that, and hearing those stories he told us was such a blessing. It makes me see the whole place in such a different way than if it was just an empty house waiting to be sold. Knowing all this history, hearing it firsthand from the man who lived it, adds such a huge feeling of added responsibility to this undertaking of ours. We have some really big shoes to fill.

On our way out of the office yesterday, he gave us what I think is probably the wisest piece of advice any elderly couple could ever give to a younger couple. He shook our hands, told us it's a lot of hard work, and then he told us, "And make sure you work together."

I know some of my readers are praying folks, and I ask those of you that are - please pray for these two sweet, amazing people. They'll be leaving Colorado next week to start a new chapter of their lives in Nebraska, near family, and I can't even imagine the heartache as they leave this home behind. What a struggle it will be for his wife, as she tries to understand all of these changes that are happening. Pray for their peace, and well being, their continued love and their continued faith. I know they'll appreciate it.

Their story has affected me deeply, and I wish I had the opportunity to tell them. But since I can't, thanks for letting me share it with all of you.

It's Official.

On a drive out in the country one day, I sighed aloud and said, "I want to be a farmer."
And Chloe sighed and replied, "I want to be a farmer's daughter."

I wish I could tell you all the time we've spent driving around in the country, daydreaming about owning our own farm. It's a dream we all hold dearly.

And, as Jiminy Cricket once said, "If you don't have a dream, how can you have a dream come true?"

Our dream come true:

It's more than we'd dreamed of, honestly. A lot more.

Complete with a barn - and a red one, at that.
This picture is out the window above the front door - not a bad view, eh?
I only wish there were words to describe how excited I am as we venture into this new chapter in our lives. Thrilled, humbled, ecstatic, anxious. But none of them can completely describe the feeling.

It's official: we're farmers now.

The Reality is Sinking In (And the first publicly posted picture of the farm!)

I keep sitting down to try to write a blog - it's been a week now - and I keep failing. I tried to write about using dehydrated onions in the winter. I tried to write about using recycled boxes and canisters as toys. I even tried to write about having our entire yard and driveway dug up to have the sewer line replaced, and nothing is coming out.

There is a good reason for this, of course. It's because we are one week away from signing papers to buy a farm. A farm! A real life, honest-to-goodness farm. And it looks like we may be moving in sooner than originally anticipated.

It's been a month now since we first found it, and it's been an interesting process.

Phase One: the Giddy Phase. "We're buying a farm we're buying a farm we're buying a farm!" Along with a lot of jumping up and down, squealing, and maybe even a bit of spontaneous tap dancing in the hallway. So much excitement, I couldn't sleep.

Phase Two: the Dreamy Phase. Pinterest every spare minute, picturing all the great decorating ideas being put to good use in this lovely new home. Ordering seeds for the garden-to-be that will be four times the size of the one I have now. Daydreaming about having a school room, and a craft studio, and a kitchen without peach cupboards. So much imagining that I couldn't sleep.

Phase Three: the Logical Phase. Researching meat chicken breeds and milk goats, packing everything we own into McDonald's fry boxes, creating a to-do list a mile long of things that must be done to this home before we can rent it out. Organizing and planning galore, making sure no detail was left unaddressed. Laying awake at night thinking about everything that needed to be done... and not sleeping.

We're entering Phase Four now, and honestly, I'm getting tired.

It would appear that Phase Four is the Reality Phase. We got a call from the realtor this evening, tying up loose ends, covering last details, as we prepare to sign the contract on the farm early next week. Somehow this all just now became real to me. We are packing up our small children and everything we own to go live an hour away from our closest friends and family, on a piece of land where our only neighbors will be deer, elk, and an occasional bear. Omgoodness we're buying a farm.

This qualifies as one of The Biggest Things In Our Lives. It's a seriously big deal, not something to be tap dancing or daydreaming about.

There are a million reasons to freak out right now. I was laying in bed running through the list of them in my head - and not sleeping - when I decided to sit up and write.

This is an amazingly huge, not-to-be-taken-lightly financial decision. It's not just a sweet little house in town, it's the house we will live in for the rest of our lives, the house we want to leave to our daughters some day. It means a new budget - a tighter one - and new financial responsibilities. We have to rent this house out, meaning we'll have two mortgages to pay if a renter bails on us. We have to be prepared for things like fertilizing a hay pasture, shoeing horses, and the gas to go back and forth to town.

We have to learn so much! I don't know how to irrigate. My mother's stories of irrigating are enough to scare anyone away from it, and our farm will be far more complicated than what she deals with (though hopefully the neighbors are nicer.) I have to learn to garden in a climate with six weeks less frost-free time, where I'll be expected to produce (and store) enough food to feed my family for a year. We may never eat another ripe tomato as long as we live. We'll have to learn to cut and stack wood for warmth in the winter, and when to cut hay so it doesn't mold in the summer. I'll have to learn to milk goats and butcher chickens.

We're going to be virtually alone. We don't know anyone up there. No one cares if we're okay, if we're surviving. It might be days at a time before I have any adult conversation, especially if my husband works out of town. I dream about that now - 'getting away from it all' - but will I love it once it's reality? I'll have to work three times as hard to get my children any social interaction at all, for fear they'll turn into the stereotypical unsocialized homeschoolers everyone always whispers about.

The workload of a real farm is incredibly daunting. Here on our little homestead-in-the-city, the amount of work required is manageable enough that I go to bed most nights with the to-do list checked off. The reality of living a real farm life is that the to-do list will never be complete. I'm going to have to come to terms with going to bed at night with tasks unfinished. And farming goes entirely against my control-freak nature. When one is relying so much on nature, one has no control. I'm going to have to accept it, and adjust, and that may not be easy.

Homesteading here in our little city house is easy stuff. I keep the garden, I can some food, we butcher some game, we're set. It's a whole new ball game up there, and all I keep thinking is "we have no idea what's even coming."

But that's not true. Obviously, there will be some surprises, though I like to think of them as "adventures". We've spent the last six years of our marriage building skills to take with us up to this place to help us be successful. We embrace simplicity - we can handle living on a budget. We can butcher an elk - I'm sure we can handle a few dozen chickens. We go camping for a week at a time, with no one but each other for company, and we do that on purpose. I can handle solitude. We do all we can to shelter our children from everything they see on a daily basis in the city - living in the country is only going to make that easier.

Our parents raised two intelligent, capable kids who are now going to take all those skills and experiences we've gained and put them to the best use possible, in an effort to live our dream, follow our hearts, raise great kids, and live by the ethical standards we believe in.

If I can keep telling myself that, I just might survive the overwhelmed state of panic and anxiety that's creeping in. Our "Farm Dream" is about to become our "Farm Reality."

All that said, it would appear that Stage Four affords no more sleep than any of the previous stages did.

===
For those who have been asking for pictures, here you go:
This pictures shows most of the 37 acres, with the meadow, the buildings, and the little hillock my children will spend their days exploring. :-)