You Can't Go Home Again........

The title of this post comes from this song that has haunted me the last few years.

I guess I'm getting sentimental in my old age, but doesn't everybody?  Why?  Because the older you get, the more things change.  Change is good, overall, but sometimes it hurts.

Moving back to my other home, my heart fills every time I look around.  The red dirt, the bluffs, the trees, all these are familiar from my childhood and have not changed.  This makes me feel like I have indeed come home.  And yet, some things have changed, and while I know in my head that everything must, it breaks my heart.

My uncle Melvin and I recently took a trip to the cemetery to visit Nana's grave.  Once at the cemetery, we took our trip through town.  The town is Southwest City, Missouri, and Nana lived all the way through town right before the tri-state cornerstone.  She didn't live there her whole life, but that was the house all her grandchildren remember the best.  It was the house where we all came every Sunday for dinner.  It was the house where our parent's traveled to spend weekends when we were small.  I can remember waking up on the living room floor with all my cousins, where our parents had deposited us like so many burritos wrapped in our individual blankets.  

The house was down a winding road, and walking up to get the mail was a big trip for little legs to make.  I was never old enough to go, and sometimes my cousins got to ride the horse to get the mail.  I was never old enough for that either, and by the time I was old enough there wasn't a horse to ride.  Nana lived on a farm, and I can remember going with her milk the cow.  I would watch her pour off the cream, separate out the butter milk, and pour the milk over oatmeal for our breakfast.  Gathering eggs did not just mean from the chickens in the coop.  Nana had banties and guineas as well, which involved roaming the fields to find the eggs.  I wasn't old enough for that either, denied because I would step on the nests.  She had rabbits that she raised for meat, and geese that I don't know why she raised but remember as being very mean.  Nana always had bruises on her thighs from those geese, and I can remember seeing her reach out and wring their necks nonchalantly when they were headed for one of us little ones.

She sold the place years ago, and a family bought it but the house later burned.  In all these years we had looked in vain from the highway above trying to see what was left, but were always foiled by the leaves during the summer.

This time the leaves were gone, and we could see that nothing much remained.  My uncle Melvin pulled up the cattle guard at the top of the hill and asked me if I thought anyone would care if we drove down there.  I said I doubted it, but was secretly thrilled that he was going to do it, as I and my cousins had often hovered there too afraid to go on down for fear of trespassing.  We started the drive and I cannot tell you how it felt to once again travel down that winding gravel drive.  It truly did feel like coming home again. 

We drove slowly, commenting on the new barn that didn't used to be there and all the things that did used to be there but no longer were.  We were prepared for everything to be gone, but were surprised that the car port remained.

As the truck stopped right in front of the old carport, I said "How many hours have we all spent sitting right here drinking tea?" and the tears started flowing.  I got out, and through tear filled eyes, made my way across the cattle guard that I could remember being old enough to walk across for the very first time.  This was the cattle guard that my cousin Billy lost his play holster in and all us kids looked for it down there for years but never did find.  Funny the things you remember.  

We started just calling out memories.  How bad a driver Chief (Nana's second husband) was. How there used to be clothes lines strung between the posts. Nana had a dryer but did not prefer to use it.   How no one ever used the front door or porch even though it was on the front of the house.  The little wooden box with paper and pencil to leave a note and a clock to position on the front for when they had stopped by.  The spot where she butchered her chickens.  The old tractor seats welded onto posts with circular bottoms that she had instead of lawn chairs.  The hooks that had faithfully held the porch swing, still there but empty. The water tank for the horses that used to also be a home to goldfish.   The time Chief wanted to try Melvin's new motorcycle and ended up driving it straight into the trash barrel and crashing it. This turned the tears into laughter.  We have laughed about that for at least 25 years and probably will till we die.  Where the rabbit cages used to be.  We wiped tears and laughed and swore there never used to be a tree in a certain spot.  I looked at the hill where the hollyhocks used to grow and asked if it didn't used to be steeper.  Melvin said no, and I had to trust his memory more than my own.

This one was taken standing in the car port and looking East toward the highway.  In the summer the fence row up there is covered with honeysuckle.  The fence remains but all the gates made out of wagon wheels are all gone.  There used to be irises along the fence in front and no doubt they will bloom again this spring, perhaps unaware that they alone remain the same.  Whatever was left of the house has been cleaned up really well.  You would never know, could never fathom, the house that used to be there.  There was no cellar but there was a basement full of canned goodness from Nana's garden, shining like jewels when the sun hit them.  I could still see Chief in that field baling hay in the little square bales.  The tractor frequently broke down and how he could cuss when that happened!   It was more common to see him working on the tractor in that field than it was to see the bales rolling off like they were supposed to.  Something about twine and how you couldn't find parts anymore...........I guess that tractor was probably an antique even then.

These graduated cement blocks surrounded the outside of the shed on the back of the carport.  Rabbit cages used to line them on the yard side.  I remember being warned not to climb on them from my mother's fear that I would fall.  I did it anyway and did not fall, but never when my mother was there.  They seem much smaller now, with the lowest set being about shin high on me now.  That was the glory of Nana's.  We were often there together, us cousins, while our parents were gone or just inside and not paying attention.  I do not remember ever getting in trouble there, although we surely did.  I do remember a round picnic table, covered with contact paper, that my older cousins put me on once and spun me around until I threw up.  I was so sick I could hardly tell our parents that I had wanted them to do that to me.  It was even better than a merry-go-round!  What I remember is us getting called in to eat and myself making it as far as the screen door before I erped up everything that was in my stomach.  The adults asked what had happened and I told them but they interpreted my story as a mean trick the older boys had pulled on me.  It wasn't that way at all.  I asked for it.  I only remember my panic that my cousins would think I had sold them out and my mom almost getting me all the way into the bathroom before I could make it clear that it wasn't their fault.  That is the only time that I can remember anyone even coming close to getting in trouble at Nana's.

You can't go home again, I know.  And yet.  We were home.  We were together.  Nothing of this earth remains the same, but our memories make another kind of home.  As long as we are here together, nothing can ever take our memories.  I thank God that I have this time to be home, here, again.  With my family that I have been so far away from for so long, I will make new memories.  They will never overshadow my old ones, though.  This is hald of my foundation, my roots, and my future, all tied up together.  Nothing can ever take that away from any of us.  No fire, no rebuilding, no tornado, no storm.

Nana's legacy is us, not a house or a farm or even a carport where you might pull up only to find her in her underwear pulling clothes off the clothesline to put on.  In Lori's last days, she said to me "Let's go to Nana's", and I was surprised that she remembered.  She was a little miffed that I was surprised.  Lori said of course she remembered Nana's, because she was so welcoming and that being there was so relaxing.  All true, and I can only hope that each of us continues her tradition.  We are so very blessed to be part of this family, and need to do better to get together and remember her, and ourselves, the way we should.  We can not forget who we are, where we came from, or what is really important in life.  Nana runs through all of that, and all of us.  We will find our home in each other forever, and where ever location we might be in, a part of us will always be right there on that farm.  Sitting outside on the car port, drinking sweet tea, waiting for Nana to call us in to dinner.

The Long and Winding Road......

One of the things about getting older is learning to treasure what you have when you have it.  That day.  That hour.  That moment.

As we get older, one of the most poignant losses is being able to go home.

The places that have been our homes have been sold, moved away from, burnt down, changed beyond recognition.  They no longer contain the people who loved us or any traces of our ever having been in them.

You can't go home again.

We all know this at some point in our lives, and yet we really never get over that particular heartache.

Unless we get Alzheimer's of course, may God forbid it.  Bad as that would be, it may offer it's own comforts, should it give us the opportunity to return to our home, if only in our mind.

No?

Which brings me to the point of this post and lovely song.

I have a friend who is blessed to still have her family home that she can visit.  It is true, her parent's are no longer in residence, but to be able to sit in her mother's kitchen, to look at the books her dad was reading, is still very, very good.

She came home and I drove to see her.

I drove this road.

The farmers have already been in the fields.  Don't you just love farmers?

This road that I have driven since I was 19 years old.

This road is long and indeed winding.

I have grown to respect the potholes.

I used to drive it at 60 or 65, except up hills and around corners, for fear of farm machinery.

I am certain it used to be in better shape.

But, then ,so did I.

Now, in the last 3 years, I have noticed that I top out at about 40.  Not out of fear of anything whatsoever, but just to enjoy the memories.  The scenery isn't bad either.

I look like I'm driving somewhere on purpose but really I'm many years away.

I'm remembering when we used to drive it in our little hatch back cheapy cars, remembered chiefly for what color they were instead of what model.  We could push those cars by ourselves for quite a ways when we ran out of gas.  We were tan and our hair was mercilessly whipped around and snarled from having the windows down.  Our sunglasses were actually picked out then, and we were willing to pay more than $1 for them.  Our hair was big and permed.

  The best times are always when you are the only car on the road.

Between 3 and 4 in the morning is the best time for this to happen.

Some things never change, thank God.  Just sayin'.

There are family cemeteries.  One is on the left here.

So many trips have I made down this road.  Trips as a teenager, in the wee small hours of the morning, to be met by my friend's mother, and harangued for coming in (staying out?) so late (early?).  It is a testament to your age when you can look back lovingly at being yelled at by any mother, whether your own or someone else's, with fondness.

May you be so lucky, and live so long.

Trips as a mother with my babies, because any mother who cares enough to harangue you for being out and about "at all hours of the day and night, smelling like cigarettes and alcohol!  I know what you girls have been doing.  I wasn't born yesterday, you know!!"  will not rest until you bring your babies for her inspection.

So I drove this road then too.

And then, once I was considered an adult, (notice I did not say "once I was grown up") I basked in the glow of the pride she took in me.  (Then.  After I had straightened up). And her smile is still there, in her house, for me.

Over the years there have been additional trips.  Trips for weddings on nights with huge, full moons.  Trips for funerals, with brazen, sunlit fields standing sentinel in the afternoons.

I know these roads like I grew up on them.

In some ways, I did.

 I rarely go past a certain point on this road, because this home is the one that has always held the people I love.  I have never had any reason but that house to drive this long and winding road at all.

In the last few years I have been haunted by the thought that the day will come when this house will no longer by my destination.

Either I will drive past this house or I will not drive down this road ever again.  I don't think I will want to see the changes that will come, as changes always must.  I think I might want to keep it the same in my memory.

I am old enough to know that this is just a natural part of life.  It comes to us all if we live very long at all.  We do not have to like it, but we do have to accept it.  In this, we have no choice.

I am extremely aware of the privilege and the pleasure that driving this road has always been for me, and remains to be still.

 I am treasuring every moment of it, right there in the moment.  I am trying to fix in my mind how good that feeling is, that going home feeling, while I still can.  I have learned not to take things for granted, to mindfully be grateful for having them.

My friend's mother is in heaven now, but I know she is with me in that car, in my memories and in the anticipation of being around things that are the same.

The forks are still in the same drawer, and I can get a glass of water without looking at the cabinets before opening them.  Nothing has changed much, and how wonderful that is to me.

I still see my friend's mother in her kitchen, laughing.  I hear the echo of that laugh in every single one of her daughters.

I still see her father, sitting in the driveway, sipping on his own beer and looking at the place where the "other house" sat.  That spot has been empty for years, but not to him.

That house was his home once, for many years, and while I never saw it standing, I listened to every story he told me about it and

I see it too.  In it, he was young.  They had their babies in that house.

So if you see a lady driving slowly along and you notice her wiping tears away, don't be sad.

Because she is not.

She is just lucky enough to have known them.

She is so very grateful, and even joyful, to be there, to be driving that road, and to be headed to that house, and to her friend who waits for her there.

   Always, and through everything in her life, right up to this point, including the haranguing.

Still.

"That's where the old house was, right over there......."

Uncle John Leaves Browning........

The time has come for my Uncle John to have a sale.  The past few years have turned out to be the last that he will live in the house that he has occupied for the last 40 years or so.  He and my Aunt Linda raised two children here, 1 block away from my grandparent's house, across one of the two paved roads that runs through that sweet little one horse town.

This used to be the biggest joke in the world, as there was no law in Browning.....officially. ;)

Increasingly, he has needed help.  This has resulted in many trips back to what is left of my home town.  I have followed that familiar path to the lone remaining house that I have traveled to throughout my life that remains "the same" for me.  Gone is the house I grew up in, burned to the ground several years back.  Main street is virtually unrecognizable now from what it used to be.  I have made myself see it, stare at it, drive down it, make my mind accept it, but it always feels like a movie.  My eyes see what exists now but my mind and heart overshadow all that with what used to be, ghosts around every corner, cheerfully waving and welcoming me back. Coming home has changed in many ways, and yet there is still comfort and peace in it.  

I play a game with myself to see which song will play when I roll into town, my trusty box of Kleenex always standing by.  I cry a lot, but I don't worry about that here.  Here, anyone who see me either knows me, and understands exactly what is going on, or has no idea who I am and probably doesn't care what is going on.  The best time was to the accompaniment of The Bitch Is Back, ala Sir Elton, and it was the one time I laughed instead of cried.  Stone cold sober, as a matter of fact.  I see things that are no longer visible.  I drive by a tree that is no longer there and see a determined man patiently waiting out a rebellious child who has tried and failed to escape in the top of that tree.  He will have to come down some time.  The house across the street from it is gone now too, but once housed their family.  Later that house withstood a thunderstorm with a slightly crazy lady (when she didn't take her meds, at least) on the peak of the gable on the roof.  What she was shouting as the lightening flashed and the rain poured down no one could make out, but the fact that anybody heard her at all is testament to how loud she was, and I am here to testify that no one who saw that scene ever forgot it.   You would know none of this as you drive by now unless you were there.  Now it's just an empty corner, giving none of it's secrets away.

The last day I made that trip it was to meet my cousin and pack up a U-haul with what Uncle John would be taking to KC with him.  She had spent the last couple of days packing and tossing the (carefully packed and stored) accumulation of several lives "like a boss", as the marines would say, and assured me that "everything was under control".  Because she is my cousin, I understood this to mean that she had the determination and will to get through this heartbreaking and soul sucking process, as long as she didn't have to stop to think or God forbid reflect on any of it.  Which basically meant we were to get there pronto and keep moving and soon it would be over and we could all collapse.  Uncle John described it thus: "My God, she went through this house like a tornado.  I've never seen anything like it".  It was one of only a few times I failed to think he was exaggerating in my entire life.  I could see that was the God's honest truth with my own eyes.

Indeed, when we arrived the front lawn was already full of everything she and her 11 year old daughter could carry out, which was quite a lot.  We have 3 sixteen year old sons between the two of us, and they got the show right on the road.  Uncle John sat in his recliner throughout the morning as boys disassembled and carried out beds and furniture.  Any break in the carrying would find all the kids sprawled out in the living room floor, watching either a ballgame or a race with Uncle John.

It was actually exactly like it had always been in that house.

My cousin and I steadily worked our way through bedrooms and closets.  She pretended not to notice when I cried and I pretended that it was easy to finally get rid of the clothes that have hung in those closets, undisturbed, for almost 20 years.  I held those clothes to my face and inhaled, and then put them in bags for Goodwill.  May they be worn again by a good looking guy who will plays a guitar and can identify cars coming down the road at 50 yards.  I know the next guy will not be as sweet as the last person they belonged to, but men that sweet don't happen very often.  

We remembered the times that we girls would lock the boys out of the house as children but never remember to lock the windows, and how the boys would scare us when they snuck back in.  I don't think any of our parents EVER knew about that.

We crawled again into the "cubby holes" in the attic that we had played in as children (which seemed MUCH smaller now), discovering childhood treasures and what must surely now be "genuine antiques".  We sealed the house up for winter.  I took down all the sun catchers from the kitchen window where we always ate as kids.  That same window looked right down the road to our grandparent's house when we were little, and my cousin Jon and I used to get out the binoculars to watch each other when I was staying at Big Grandma's.  Between us was the paved road that separated Big Grandma's from Aunt Linda and Uncle John's houses, and the tree that we used to climb endlessly.  That road got oiled every summer, and Big Grandma made us put bread sacks over our feet to cross it, so we wouldn't track up either house with tar.  That tree's shade was where we learned to walk on stilts and shoot bb guns, our first target practice.

Standing in the driveway under that tree, while some of the other's searched the top of the garage for God only knew what, we found the trap shooter.  Is that even what they are called?  The things that sling the blue rocks into the sky so you can shoot them?  See?  THAT is how good Uncle John was as an uncle.  I don't even know what they are called for sure, but I can run one and I will have you know I can hit anything slung from them a very good percentage of the time.

It was always Uncle John that took us places.  He was definitely an adult to us kids, but he was the adult that also frequently got "in trouble" with our mothers, sometimes right along with us kids.  It was Uncle John that taught us to shoot, to bat, to fish, to ski, to drive, to canoe, to be brave when you got hurt bad, and to take your punishment when you made bad choices and everybody found out what you had done.  Of course, everybody would find out what you had done.  That was a fact of life for us.  Uncle John was the go-to guy when you wanted to go get ice cream for no reason at all.  He was always game.  The trick was to get him talked into going before either of our moms realized where we were going.  We were always going somewhere, and often they were so glad he was taking all of us that they didn't question us closely.  From our perspective, we knew there was always plenty of time to take our punishment when we got home around suppertime and got in trouble for him ruining our appetites.  That's the kind of uncle he always was, and remains so as far as his health will allow.

When I would bring him groceries or do his laundry these last few years, Uncle John was extremely grateful.  He always thanked me profusely, more than once.  And that bothered me.  How could  he not know how much I owed him?  

When I was 13 and had knee surgery for the first time, I got all whiny about not liking the food in the hospital.  He asked what sounded good when he called me on the phone from our hometown, an hour away.  I said Pizza Hut pizza sounded good, pepperoni.  I thought he was just being nice and talking me out of my bad mood.  An hour later he showed up at the hospital with Pizza Hut pizza. Pepperoni.   He made me feel like I mattered, and that he would go to the ends of the earth to make me happy, if it was within his power.

Exactly 10 years and a few months after that, I had my first baby.  Everyone came to the hospital, including Uncle John.  He asked me what sounded good after I got back to my room and with no hesitation whatsoever I ordered french fries and a hot fudge brownie sundae.  As always, he delivered within about 20 minutes.  I dread ever going through any big event without his funny, derring -do spirit.

Once when I was in my early 20's and alone in my parent's house when they were on vacation, someone tried to break in.  Well, they seemed to be trying to break in, crazy as that is in a small town.  They snuck all around the house and tried every door.  My legs were shaking I was so scared, because this just DID NOT happen in my town.  I got the gun that I was not even sure was loaded and guess who I called before I was going to (possibly) shoot someone?  Uncle John!!  He answered the phone, we made a plan, and he was there in about 3 minutes.  Up he pulled into the driveway, out the front door I came, and with our guns, stepping gingerly, investigated all the way around the house.  Twice!  Uncle John was just starting to accuse me of being crazy when we finally found a guy from the next town over peacefully passed out in his truck, snoring away.  He was not happy to be woken up by me sticking a rifle in his stomach and I do admit I did get a little carried away with the forcefulness of my wrath, but nobody died and he never made that particular mistake again as far as me or Uncle John ever heard.  I think he may have taken to drinking at home after that, which was probably for the best anyway.  To the best of my knowledge he didn't even come to my town again for many years. Apparently I told him not to, although I don't have a clear memory of anything I say or do when I get into such a state.  People were watching for him, believe me.  :D  It all worked out in the end.  We were that kind of town.

I looked around the front yard of that house, old memories laid over what my eyes were seeing now.  The curving sidewalk that seemed so long when I drove down it on a tricycle.  

Across the road to the left here is the field that the Montgomery boys used to cross when I babysat them (which was against the rules, not that they cared), calling me and laughing hysterically at their "escape", so they could play with Jon and Kristen, from Uncle John's house.  Good times.  Good times.

 Seriously I wouldn't have missed it for the world

The spot I was standing in the night my finger got knocked out of joint playing kickball.  Uncle John driving me and my mother to a Dr's (that might have been a vet, there was an argument and it was never determined what the truth of the situation was) where I was given many shots, wouldn't stop crying, and finally just buried my face in Uncle John's shoulder while he tried to straighten it out.  It was not straightened out, but has worked just fine, ever since.

How many times was Uncle John Mayor of this town?  How many cars did he sell or work on?  How many teams did he play ball on?

The pitcher's mound my cousin spent hours practicing on, pitching to Uncle John....how many hours?  How many years?  How could we leave that there????  Everything we did that seemed.....wrong, but was right.  It was the right thing to do.  We kept reassuring ourselves and each other about this.

I still think this should go with Kristen.

The picnic table we ate on every summer of our lives, where the boys figured out how to take the wings off flies and no one could help but laugh, even our mothers, when the flies would keep hopping up but never fly away.  Using the magnifying glass to burn ants on the front sidewalk..........and figuring out that we could start fires all by ourselves.

Aunt Linda joined an "album of the month" club and we listened to an eclectic mix of Meatloaf, Helen Reddy and Barry Manilow until we knew every song on every album by heart the summer I was 12. The other 3 would have been 8 or 9.  This never really served any of us very well, I might add, but does that matter now?  No!  THAT is how memories are made!

Finally everything was loaded.  The freezers were defrosted, the house was winterized, the thermostat turned down, everything locked.  It felt like the house was mourning, but it could have just been us.  It felt like we were abandoning a baby, or an old person, someone who thought they could trust you. Someone who should be able to trust you.  It felt like we were untrustworthy.  But we're not.  It's hard to explain, and I hope you never have to go through it.  However, the only way to avoid going through it would be not to get attached to a place, and that would hardly be any way to live at all.

As I loaded my car to leave I noticed that my cousin's kids had found the magnifying glass and were burning ants on the front sidewalk.  My poor cousin still had a 3 hour trip to make and all that stuff to unpack and arrange and was determined to do it that evening.  I knew it was time to leave so she could keep going.  Stopping now was not an option, not if she wanted to get through it without a nervous breakdown.  I left them burning the ants with the magnifying glass.  The song playing in my head was Twilight Time.  I have no explanation for that, and I blamed Big Grandma's influence as I smiled.  I frequently picture my grandparents and all their peers in heaven now, looking down and lending us strength.  

By 10 that evening I got a picture from my cousin.  Uncle John was settled in his new place.  It was over, except for the sale.  She could now collapse.  It was done.  She had made it.  I knew she would.  She comes from a long line of strength.

Uncle John in his new place.

The Dark Side of Home Maintenance......

For a while now, I have heard the sound of wings in my dryer vent. This told me that I had a bird building a nest in my dryer vent, because I'm quick like that.

I pounded on the wall, turned the dryer on and looked out the window. It was a wren, which is one of my favorite little birds.  I have several birdhouses just for them hanging around the yard, and you would think any one of them with a brain would build their nest there.  Apparently we had a very desperate or possibly brain damaged wren this year.

Yesterday I kept finding Shadow sitting in the laundry room in front of the dryer, stock still, staring at the dryer with her head and ears cocked.  I could hear the bird wings at work in the dryer vent.  Occasionally she would go into a point, with her nose stuck between the dryer and the wall,  All day she kept her vigile, and I knew that it was time to kick the desperate or possibly brain damaged wren out.

I hate is when stuff like this happens.  Last year a brain damaged rabbit dug an nest in the yard and had a bunch of babies.  The dogs, being dogs, found them almost immediately.  We protected them as much as we could, but one by one the picked off the baby rabbits. In desperation, when there were just a few left, we drug their little bodies to the fence and pushed them on the other side and then put the dogs inside.  Our hope was that the mother would follow the smell.  Our mistake was in thinking any mother rabbit who could smell would miss the BIG DOG! TWO OF THEM! smell that has to be all over every inch of our backyard.  It was just my luck to run across Jack with the last baby rabbit in his mouth.  It was struggling valiantly and he refused to give it up.  But he did look very ashamed as he ate the last baby rabbit.  His eyes seemed to say "What?  I'm a dog.  Sorry, but I am a dog.  This is what dogs do, lady/"  It did help a little when I saw him do the same thing to a mouse later in the year, when it was getting cold and all the mice were heading inside for the winter.

So today my Oldest Baby and I drug out the ladder and he climbed up to the dryer vent.  The bird(s) never bothered us, which was strange, but a big relief to me.  It's hard enough to have your child on a ladder, even if he is taller than you, and have to worry about not only trashing a sweet little nest, but also your baby getting dived by angry birds.

Patiently he drug out lint, feathers, and soft grasses.  Presently he announced, "I've got an egg", and gently handed down a copper speckled egg into my palm.  It was much warmer than my body temperature, due to being in a dryer vent, and I worried that we had been baking the brain damaged wren's babies in their shells. Out came another egg, just as warm as the first.  While I was cupping them in my palm and wondering what in the world I was going to to with them, another dropped down, breaking on the ladder and revealing liquid yolk and white, with no beginnings of any baby that I could see.  I figured that either they were too warm to have ever gotten started or maybe (please God) they still had a chance.

With no other option at hand, I strolled over to one of the wren houses and plopped the first egg into the hole.  Nothing happened, all was quiet. So I plopped the other one in, adding a few possibly baked eggs to what I hoped would be several brothers and sisters in their own cozy shells with an attentive mother.  The mother, who I had either awakened or scared to death, took that chance to fly out without a word. This is odd for a wren.  They are very talkative little fellows and this one must have been frightened about to death! While they always seem to be on guard for enemies coming in to steal their eggs, I doubt it ever occurs to them to be on guard for MORE EGGS  to come through the door!  Isn't it cuckoo birds that hide their eggs in other nests?  Well, whatever will be, will be, I guess.

Back inside we scooted out the dryer, removed the........stuff that the vent is made from (silver duct of some kind, made out of a strong aluminum foil type of material) and cleaned out the rest of the lint and grasses out of the dryer vent.  We were very relieved that the wren had not remained in the ......stuff...to protect her babies.  That is one nightmare farther than I care to go with 2 dogs in the house.  All we need is a bird flying around!!  That is about the time that the mother was back, trying to get in the now shut vent door flappy thing.  She was pretty determined, and at this time it was just a hole in the wall, so I taped over it.

Tomorrow we will figure out how to put it together again, but it's been quite a day and I'm caught up on laundry.  One thing stands out clearly in my mind, whether those eggs make any baby wrens or not, my dryer  will most assuredly run much better now. If I might make a suggestion, cleaning out your dryer vent should probably be done periodically. Like, at least every year or so. I won't tell you how many years it has been since I have attended to this, mostly because I don't think I ever really have before.  Many years ago, when this first happened, I had to teeter on the top most ladder rung in order to use a clothes pin to attach a little mitten, the size that would fit a 3 year old child, to it so the birds would smell human and steer clear. It worked for enough years that by the time we took it down today, one of those 3 year old children didn't even have to get on the top 3 rungs of that ladder and could reach in easily.  I keep forgetting how big these boys have gotten, even when I look at them and stand next to them every single day.

I have checked a few times under the wren house. There are no broken shells under it.  So far. My hope is that the mother wren with sense enough to make her nest in the house provided will have a few more babies than she originally thought.  If she does, and if she gets really tired trying to feed all those babies, perhaps there will be another wren willing to help with that. That is probably just a fantasy, I freely admit it, but I can dream, can't I?  It's a much better story than the where the brain damaged mother searches and searches until she becomes so depressed that she flies down to play with some cats and it's all over just like that.

Sigh........home maintenance can be dark sometimes.  

Next time I'm heading outside as soon as I hear bird wings in the vent or Shadow started stalking the dryer again, whichever comes first.

Being Home.....

There is no time sweeter to me than Christmas these days, simply because that's the only time all my kids are ever home at the same time anymore.  

I never thought much about it when they were all home and I felt like I was drowning in kids all those years, and the quiet is welcome, but every once in a while, this old house takes on the rhythmic routine of days gone by. It's like being able to go into the past, only everybody is older now.  There is none of the anxiety that hounded me for so long.  For decades I was stressed over things not being "good enough".  Now I find comfort in the fact that nothing can hurt this house.  We have seen it all, from bees in the walls to fountains of water pouring out of the wall in the shower. I am telling the truth when I say that it would take a doozy to throw us off now.  We have practically been through basic training with this house.   I like it much better this way.

 For the past few days I have:

     - spent the majority of time in my pajama's or an apron, or both.

     - met one or the other of my older "children" coming in at 4 am, and not been upset with them for missing a curfew.

     - visited with my pretend daughter and noticed that of all the people in the house, no one said a word or remarked in any way when my pretend grand baby serenaded us with her version of a song on the piano.  Not too loudly and not for too long.  I was so proud nobody told her to stop.  We are a mellow crew at my house, I am inordinately proud of this.

      - felt the boys trying to gauge how awake their sister is, trying to make the choice between sleeping a little later or getting in the shower before their sister, as there is a long wait for hot water after girlfriend gets done.

     - heard the voice inside my head ask "are you really listening to your brother and your son have a seemingly casual conversation about AR's, which I am pretty dang sure are assault rifles, and both of them sound pretty knowledgeable?" and answered the voice inside my head "Yes......yes, yes I am."  and then smiled.  We are a family who can protect ourselves and those we love or are prepared to die trying.  I am most definitely proud of that.

       - divided up left over ham while my sons bring a table into the house by way of taking off the back door, and then the weather stripping, until they achieved success and kept me from having to turn around and sell a great table and benches that I bought second hand.  Without measuring my doors or the top of the solid tabletop, just in case that was not self explanatory. ;)  I have raised men who rise to a challenge, not to mention perform miracles with nothing more than a pipe fitter's wrench, a tape measure, and 7 flat head screwdrivers of varying lengths.  What a relief.

      - watched while wringing my hands as my sons tried and failed to get the old table down the stairs, as the "new" table would not possibly fit down the basement stairs.  This did not deter them either.  We just switched out the sets and now I can do puzzles on the table in the basement while my youngest baby plays video games with his friends and asks me to "please do not be a part of this conversation, Mom".  Something tells me this could be a game changer.  The basement has been forsaken by me for several years, for reasons having to do with testosterone and dog hair.  No more.  Muahahahahahahahahahaha.

    - watched one of my mother's dearest friends see the Rock Star's tattoo, (which is his grandmother's name right over his heart), tear up, hug him and say "I am so proud of you", which is pretty much the same thing that I did when he showed me, and the LAST thing I ever could imagine saying when presented with any of my children's first tattoo............of which I had adamantly insisted there would never be any "as long as I live".........  I can eat crow like nobody's business, having had quite a lot of practice over the years.  I think I have learned that you just never know what a day will bring, but that it will probably be all right, whatever that is.  I needed that.

       - comforted and reassured my sister in law that it really wasn't a problem that my nephew left the door open and the dog ran in with big muddy paw prints all over the kitchen, because a) This happens all the time!  Really! and b) I bought a carpet cleaner for this exact reason!  You know those commercials where the kids make a terrible mess and the mom just smiles and says "that's OK" in a sing songy voice?  Well, I am now that mom.  It took 22 years and a Bissell but baby, I am finally there and I have to say, it feels good!  It really is OK!!

      **It should be said that if you want to be "that mom", (and you do!!  Trust me, you do!!)  you should be very careful not to replace your carpet or fix anything that happens to your walls for a couple of decades.  This process will erode the part of you that cares about your house looking "good".  This is crucial, not to mention freeing.    At the end of the 20 years, you will not give one single flying flip about another stain on the carpet, OR another hole in the wall, for that matter.  I didn't say it would be easy, I said it would be WORTH IT.  In other words, give up now, give up and relax and just enjoy those kids while they are still there.  The other stuff you can fix or remodel later, or not........ 

I hope you had a great Christmas and some down time to just "be home".  It isn't easy to accomplish in today's world.  You have to really make your priorities count.  And if you are one of those people who are still caught up in getting everything perfect?  Give it up, now, while there is still time.  If you can't drop everything and have a child, at least borrow one for a while, or get a dog.  There is still time to save yourself.  I have often said of children, "they save us".  They really do, not in ways you would recognize as "saving" at the time.  It's in the looking back that you see how the hardest  things were the best things, in the end, and marvel that you wouldn't trade them for anything.

It's nice to be reminded of that once in a while, even at 4 am.

To my kids, you did a really good job with me.  Thanks!  

    

It is snowing again.  I think we have at least another 5 inches and it's still coming down. 
Very beautiful this morning.  The only thing to hear is the wind, no one has stirred yet.  PERFECT.
I have a barn and cows across the way from me, and this morning the little calves are running around kicking up their heels.  Their poor mothers, from this distance, look to be up to their knees in snow.  Every time one of the calves frisks by the cows look at them as if thinking "Crazy kid.  I remember when I could kick up  my heels.....".  Then one of the calves will nurse for awhile.  The cows just stand there.  I guess they could if they wanted to....the snow isn't THAT deep yet. 
I love, love, LOVE days like this when you don't have to get out and have everything you could ever want right here at home.
I am going to try a white chili enchilada casserole today.
Hope you take the time to BE HOME while you can.  Sometimes God makes it impossible not to. :)