Little Things

"What's for supper?"

The infamous question I ask myself every day. Then I hear it.

Last night the answer was chili.

I could see the polite hesitation in my son's eyes before he inquired, "Your recipe or a new one?"

"Mine."

I was rewarded with a grin.

"I love your chili, mom!"

My turn to grin.

Later, as the chili simmered I was assured it smelled wonderful.

Full bowls were emptied quickly.

Then my junior high son told me, "Your chili is my favorite, mom." But the best part? The quick hug he gave and me, and a glimpse of that boyish twinkle in his eyes.

**********************

I worry...about many things when it comes to my kids, including repetitive meals, so I try to shake it up once in a while.

"No need to worry, mom!"

Burns Road

Dee Burns was laid to rest Monday.

Thirteen years ago we moved into his "neighborhood" in rural Montana. He lived up the hills from us. He was 72 years old then. He drove a battered orange Chevy truck. He lived on the small ranch where he was born. He served in WWII. He came home and never left again. He never married.

Genuine blue eyes were set in his weathered face. His kind, steady gaze made me feel like he was listening with his heart...and always polite.

He never came into my home instead leaning his lanky frame against his truck more comfortable in the elements of Montana. He conserved water--and like a boy I know, conserved more water than I thought necessary :)

That first Christmas in our new location he invited us to come up and cut our Christmas tree. He persisted. What he didn't know is we had never had a "real" Christmas tree. We didn't even own decorations.

But obviously, he had fond memories of Christmas because he wanted to make sure our little girls had a Christmas tree. He had a soft spot for children, as I would watch a gentleness seep into those beautiful eyes as he watched them play.

We accepted his invitation--probably more out of politeness because I didn't even know how we would decorate it.

I remember piling into the truck and driving up that old dirt road (his namesake) bouncing around--much to the delight of the girls. A skiff of snow covered the ground. Dee had already picked out a couple fine trees and instructed us where to go.

The raw beauty of the Montana landscape stirs my heart at the memory of that day. The wind nipped at our cheeks as Ron asked me, "Which one?" I remember studying the trees closely, having no idea what I really wanted, but my husband knew which one he wanted. When he was a boy he would help his mother decorate. She loved Christmas. It still is her favorite holiday.

I remember standing looking out over the landscape amidst the jutting pines and crisp white snow, listening as my husband pulled the saw back and forth. Montana can really put human significance in perspective at the top of the hill.

Then I began gathering pine cones with creative visions of potential ornaments.

After loading the tree, I was grateful to crawl back into the warmth of the truck cab. Bouncing back down the the hill, we paused at Dee's homestead where he was waiting to greet us and admire the tree. Grinning proudly, he waved as we pulled away.

That little tree filled our living room windows. The scent of fresh pine filled the house, as Ron taught me how to string the lights.

I can still visualize that first humble tree twinkling in our home and the glittering pine cones.

I don't know if Dee ever realized it was our first tree.

But...

I do know Dee loved my ham and bean soup.

I do know where Dee's mother's recipe for dandelion wine is.

I do know that Dee was kind to our family.

I do know when we decorate our Christmas tree so far away in California, we will reminisce fondly about Dee.

Wrapped in the warmth of human kindness, we embraced our first Christmas tree as a family, and for us, a family story and tradition evolved.

Pretty

Giggling.

Chattering.

Shrieking.

Three friends eventually emerged dressed and ready for the Homecoming Dance. Chayse had waited patiently on the stairs to see the "pretty" dresses.

Though they didn't leave me much time for driving, we managed to arrive with 11 minutes to spare.

A few hours later I returned, and three happy girls clamored aboard, and the excitement of the evening poured out. Ron and I smiled and teasingly interjected from time to time.

Fun memories. Pretty girls. Sweet dreams.

As I swiftly strode through the parking lot, I stepped obliviously onto the drain grate when something caught my eye. I slowed. A closer glance identified a couple leaves jutting through the grate. I stopped on the middle of the grate and looked down into the deep hole. From out of the depths of darkness, I could discern a vine with healthy pink blossoms crawling up the wall towards the sun light.

In the darkness, life was reaching for the sun.

Insight

Kiahra loves to read historical fiction. Actually, she just loves to read.

However, when I was teaching her to hand sew she commented, "Now I understand why needle work was portrayed as drudgery for so many girls in books."

Evidently, the rap that needle work gets historically really isn't that ancient. Youth has little patience for stitching.

Into the darkness

My view into the Empire Mine shaft...



as I sat on the man skip. Aaaaahhhhhh...into the darkness at 600 feet per minute.

Finally, Fred and I had the opportunity to visit Empire Mine together. The place where he spent his childhood...and then the place that made him a miner at 19 years of age.

My imagination swirled the entire day. It was delightful.

On the way home, we paused in Old Sacramento to visit the Delta King. The refurbished riverboat that ran up and down the Sacramento river to San Francisco from 1927 to 1940.

The boat would chug into the night as the gamblers gathered around and the music played late into the night. But in 1928, a 12 year old boy stood on the deck wondering what life in Chinatown would be like. He didn't have memory of his life there with his family in his early years.

The reflection of the moon rippled on the water as he gazed into the night. His aunt had booked passage on the riverboat--a special treat for a little lady that lived next to the roaring stamp mill.

Perhaps the boat drifting down the river was balm for the changes they would both embrace as they parted ways.



Fred and I paused on the deck of the Delta King together at sunset. We dined on calamari and crab appetizers. I suspect he did not dine so extravagantly on his first trip so many years ago.

I hope I can make the history I experienced in my heart yesterday come alive in my story.

The first two chords hit the radio, and immediately I turned up the volume.

"I like my chicken fried...a pair of jeans that fit just right and the radio up."

As the lyrics blared across the speakers, I could just see my little boy jammin' to his favorite song a few years ago. He was several inches shorter then. His boyish face was fuller, eyes twinkling, as he boomed out the lyrics straight from the heart, grinning from ear to ear.

The Zac Brown Band had a faithful follower, and he always turned the radio up for them.

I wish I could tell that little boy to turn down the radio...just one more time.

Haha-ha

"The more you laugh, the longer you live," Kade proclaimed at the dinner table.

We pondered this in conversation.

"Can I make him cry then?" questioned Kiahra.

Old Mission

On a hill in San Juan Bautista, the old mission overlooks the valley. The 15th mission was established in 1797 along the El Camino Real (The Royal Road). Twenty one missions were established along the route from San Diego to Sonoma.



The sprawling grounds enticed me. I want to return for a full tour.



The chickens wandered the mission, the streets and sidewalks with the rooster strutting behind.



How did we stumble upon the mission? Kiahra and Kade participated in the Make It Yourself With Wool contest.

My Little Girl

She was the star of the classroom this week.

On Monday night, as she filled out her star poster I watched.

When_________________________grows up ______________wants to be a _______________________.

As she inserted her name and pronoun without hesitation, I waited.

Then I asked, "What do you want to be?"

I was worried, as she was already writing. Her big eyes looked up at me, her head tilted, and with a confident shrug, she answered, "A mom just like you."

My heart melted...completely.

Then I tried to talk her into choosing an occupation. I was worried that our culture would look down on her choice, as one can be a mother...and__________________________.

I know I said this, but it has been nagging me because I am not sure I did the right thing.

I hope I didn't damage her sweet perspective. I hope that she survives my good intentions, as I really did not want her to be taunted at school. I hope she is a mom who stays home just like me...if she wants to be.

I hope one of these days I too can say with confidence, "I am a stay-at-home mother." No explanations. No justification. And know that it works for our family...with the same pride my little girl has in me.

Aftermath

The morning after Halloween usually means sifting through the candy bowl for breakfast...and maybe in even toss in a few freshly roasted pumpkin seeds for good measure.

Then with a cup of tea, I pause to reflect.

Pumpkin carving has been a long tradition at our house. Like so many things in my world, it too has evolved with the age of our children.



Kade scopes out the situation, as the little sister in the background reluctantly pulls the slimy seeds from her pumpkin--feigning distaste that is difficult to believe from a little girl who plays with bugs.



Notice the power tool. Boys lack patience on occasion and have this crazy theory that a tool will make it better.



The results were genuinely "Goofy."



A traditional hand carved greeting suits this perfect pumpkin!



Minnie Mouse emerges to delight little girls!



Then on to the grim reaper--meticulously designed and carved all by herself!



May we rest in peace...until next year!