the honey home

late september

The morning was greyer than any I had seen in a while. Even the misty August mornings showed the suggestion of a sunrise, glowing in all that fog, bringing a warmth to the eerie. That warmth would turn into oppressive heat once it dried out the day. But this morning there wasn’t even a hint of such a thing, only grey, grey, grey; grey and deep green, and the gold of the soybean fields gathering itself for the harvest just peeking through.

I got up in that grey thinking that it must be cold, and so I put on a sweater before bringing Elvie Kay with me into the main rooms of the house. She played on a quilt on the floor and I prepared the coffee. But when I went outside to dump the coffee grinds I learned that the day wasn’t cold in the slightest–it was every bit a muggy leftover from summer–and upon coming back inside, I took the sweater off.

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Mornings are quiet here, Elvie Kay’s lilting squeals notwithstanding, and I had my coffee and eggs and toast and then moved her from the floor to the johnny-jump-up while I read. First a Bible study, then a chapter of another book I am reading which is sort of depressing in a way that I’ll have to explain at another time. Elvie’s songs turned sour as she became tired, and I cuddled her before putting her in her crib, where she snuffled into her blanket a bit before finding her thumb and closing her eyes. [Read more…]

The King of Pickles

“Mama…” Ephraim says quietly as he bends towards me.

We’re eating lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, goldfish crackers, cherry tomatoes picked from our hanging baskets, and sweet pickles.

Ephraim’s just brought three or four of the latter from their bowl to his plate when he leans in the direction of my chair and whispers solemnly, seriously. “Mama,” he begins again. “Would you call me…The King of Pickles?”

It’s the strangest thing I’ve been asked all day.

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the grove

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I made this little map of Janderhil a few weeks ago. If you’ll notice the crinkle in the lower right corner, you’ll see where Clive left his mark while perusing the map. It’s not too big of a deal, since things have changed on the property and I have to make a new map, anyway. I have to add Fairweather Pond (or the place where Fairweather Pond appears after rainstorms), I have to move the blueberry bushes (they’re not in that trough anymore), and I have to add the trees we’ve planted.

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fairweather pond

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It had rained all evening and then all night; the next morning was overcast but no water continued to fall. The ground was saturated, the hammock chairs which hadn’t been brought out of the path of the storm still hung, soaked and dejected, from the tree in the backyard. All the dirt from the construction around the Ham House had turned to a mass of mud that looked firm but would slip out from under you the moment you tried to step onto it.

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the toddler who walked by himself

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(with apologies to Kipling)

Long ago, O Mostly Liked, or maybe last weekend, there was a mother who lived on a hill called Janderhil. And she had four little children that she called her own: Ephraim Eldest, Clive Contrary, the pretty baby Elvie Kate, who smiled and sang but didn’t say much, and Anselm. And all morning and all evening the children played out-of-doors, except of course the pretty baby Elvie Kate, who smiled and sang but didn’t say much, as she couldn’t get around on her own just yet. She stayed in-of-doors with her Mother, but the other three played and frolicked out-of-doors until the sun set and the fireflies came out.

And it was one day after dinner, which was scrumptious and nutritious, that the Mother went out-of-doors herself, because Elvie Kate (who smiled and sang but didn’t say much) was already asleep for the night, and because she had some work to do in the flower-beds. And she called Ephraim Eldest to herself, and said:

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the lure of slow living, part three: on routine

When I first read about slow living–or began seriously overthinking it, truthfully–there was one aspect of the lifestyle that I couldn’t reconcile with my life as a full-time homemaker and mother-of-four. It was the question of where routines and schedules fit in with the concept. In eschewing “busyness”, was slow living attempting to throw off living by a clock? How so? And how much? And was that really possible?

If you have small children at home, you know how quickly things can devolve into disorder if there is not something–or someone–uniting all things in a common purpose and steering everyone’s attention toward that end. Without that anchor, my children (or, really, the three that can move independently) are like ships tossed on the waves of whatever their whims are at the moment, and I am reduced to herding and chasing and nagging and then yelling to get everyone back together. And it always takes longer in the gathering than the scattering.

It has to be said that there really are times that they should be able to pursue their own interests and let their feet run off to wherever their minds will–that’s what our copious amount of time for outdoor play is for, really. But times when it’s time to eat, or sleep, or brush teeth, or whatever things have to be done because they must be done? What then?

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the new (old) house, part two

Last week I shared some pictures of the outside of the new house and property surrounding. Today I’m sharing the inside of the house. It’s kind of hard to do because it’s currently packed with two households’ worth of stuff, but that makes for better before pictures, right? Right?

I mentioned before that the house is about 1350 sq. ft. Right now one whole front room is taken up with boxes and things, so we’re living in what’s more like, oh, 1000 sq ft? 1100? Plus there’s one bedroom we don’t really use so it’s more like 900 sq ft., I guess. I am being completely frank when I say I am loving it. We won’t be able to unpack until my parents can move out, which will probably be mid-summer. I am looking forward to forgetting what’s in all those boxes so I can learn to live without most of it and then get rid of it when I am able to unpack. Right now I’m just enjoying having half the space to take care of, even if it is a little crowded!

The outside, in case you forgot:

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the new (old) house

In just a few months will be the thirtieth anniversary of when I moved into this house for the first time. I was the same age that Anselm is now–just a couple of months past the second birthday.

It’s kind of funny how things work out, isn’t it? Actually, it’s really not. We’ve prayed for years for the opportunity to move. We’re so thankful for our answer.

I took a few pictures today to have some “befores” on hand, as well as to be able to show this place we’ve been pining over for so long. I feel like I should add a disclaimer, though: it needs work. No worries, because work is what we’re planning on putting into it. A lot. Of work.

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life lately [april 2016 edition]

One of the very hardest things for me right now is writing. Whether it’s finding the time, or finding the desire when I have the time, or finding the words once I have the desire and the time…you get the picture. I’ll lay most of the blame at Elvie Kate’s [tiny, adorable, pink] feet, though I’ll blame myself a bit too, and other life circumstances, and then I’ll throw my hands in the air (full of confetti, of course) because no one’s to blame, and I why do I keep trying to find reasons to place blame upon?

We’re moving in less than a month, and I’ve packed one box. It’s of Elvie Kate’s things–decor from her nursery and clothes she can’t wear yet–I have no idea where to start, but I do know that I can work with a much clearer mind when I’m right up on a deadline, so I’m not rushing quite yet to push through the muddled fog that are my mental processes at the moment. I’m just trying to get caught up on the laundry first.

In the meantime I am dreaming of forgetting things in various rooms but not having to climb stairs to go get them (new house is a ranch style) and not driving down our street to find the neighbors have parked three cars deep in the cup-de-sac again. Also trying to grab every moment left with our friends here, and saying yes often, while we still can.

We’re overdue for an update, So here’s life lately.

life lately post [Read more…]

the lure of slow living

On Christmas morning, we broke my parents’ microwave.

It was a Christmas brunch, and there was a whole lot of bacon to cook. So we did it in the microwave–batch after batch after batch, cycle after cycle, until suddenly there was a horrible smell of burning plastic and a swirl of smoke and the machine was quickly ejected from the festivities to sit forlornly on the carport, where we watched warily to see if it would burst into flames or not. (It didn’t.)

It was an old microwave–I can say this because appliances age much more quickly these days than they used to–and no one was really surprised or deterred by its sudden demise. And we had done without a microwave for years when I was growing up, so no one was in a hurry to replace it, either. So we left it outside and moved our bacon-making to the stovetop.

motley crew [Read more…]

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