Beautiful First Glimpses of Morning Light

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

There seems to be no two days alike for us when Summer is here, and newly wed life is full of learning experiences. I’m still getting our own little routines in place (and admittedly, this isn’t my strong point) I , and our ” bones” schedule, though fairly helter-skelter of late, is slowly coming back into shape. No matter what the rest of the day may hold, one thing is certain about any weekday: they start early.

There’s nothing like waking up in the morning and realizing that there is a whole new day awaiting you. I love to hear the birds sing in the morning, and to see the gentle glow of a sky warmed by the sunshine that isn’t quite visible just yet. Better yet, starting the day off kneeling together to ask God’s blessing and direction is a blessing that I cherish deeply.

Today looks like it will be absolutely beautiful- and warmer. Both of those things make me happy, for while there is a definite chill to the air, and there are a few signs that Autumn is not far away, I am not quite ready for cooler days and snowy weather once again, and any warm day is welcome here!

Mornings are almost always busy, and today is no exception to that rule. Scott and Katie (our sister-in-law) both work at Quest Aircraft

Scott & I standing with one of Quest's Kodiaks post production

and their shift starts at 6, and they should be out the door between 5:30 and 5:45 each morning. It is my first responsibility to pack up their lunches while they prepare for work, and make sure that they have breakfast if they want it. I learned long ago when it was my brother’s lunches that I packed that planning ahead is quite essential, because there are few things I dislike more to start off the day than to realize that I have nothing ready to feed “my people” as I lovingly refer to the heads under this roof.

Thankfully, thanks to yesterday’s baking and cooking, lunches are no problem, and all too soon for me, Scott is out the door and headed to work.  I always stand at the door and watch and wave or blow kisses until his car disappears around the corner. Katie usually takes a little longer to get ready, but by 6, the house is almost always quiet again, and I clean up lunch fixings (Usually a sandwich or two, or some of yesterday’s dinner- which no one complains about
eating again, as a general rule!

A Morning Quiet Time

before slipping back upstairs to our room, where I settle myself down on the bed again, pillows propped behind me for some quiet time of my own with God, and to watch the sun complete its rising and to listen and be still in my heart.

Breakfast for me is a quick meal of whatever look good. Cooking for one- myself- does not tend to make me feel the very most creative, and more often than not my breakfast is either fresh fruit and bread or cereal, or something like “tea and biscuits”. Over breakfast, I plan out my day, and try to keep myself motivated to be efficient with my time.

I live an ordinary life. My day is much like hundreds of other newly-wed girls out there, and I have my struggles and my strong and weak points with the rest.

For me, getting a good start in the morning is essential. I can accomplish twice as much as usual bright and early in the morning. The new sunshine and fresh, cool air makes me feel energetic and motivated, and by afternoon, I’m winding down and switch to a more relaxed approach to housework, and admittedly, afternoons make cooking much more interesting than cleaning, especially when I know that my people will be home and (we hope) hungry.

Menus & Shopping lists

Today my “to do” list included the normal week-day adventures in conquering laundry mountains, de-wrinkling clothing, polishing the bathroom,  banning left-over-for-too-long food from the fridge, sweeping floors and racing some deadlines for writing and for my current web design job. I had hopes of baking a few dozen little cookies to toss in the freezer (as frozen cookies seem to be the favorite sweet thing for certain guys in this house. Not that certain girls don’t ever eat frozen cookies either…)

I like lists and being organized. I like a perfectly orderly and tidy house. I like planning ahead and getting things done on time. But my lists and plans don’t always turn out like I’d envisioned. Unexpected things come up. Guests drop in. Someone isn’t feeling well and needs some extra help. Work takes longer than I could have ever imagined, and some days just are nothing other than murphy days when nothing at all seems to go “right” and one can laugh or cry, but in the end just make the best out of it.

Realistically, I am not always a perfect house keeper and homemaker, though I desire with all my heart to be just that. Sometimes that lack of matching the mental image of perfection that I have set as my own personal goal is due to circumstances beyond my control. Then I learn to flex a little and grow a little. Sometimes it’s because I’ve gathered up onto my plate more than I can chew- and more than the priorities that God put on the plate that morning- Other times, it is simply my own lack of keeping on track, and letting myself become distracted, lax and pretty much just lazy.

Some of my ordinary days are probably mundane, but the little secret for me has always been to look for the best and the bright spots in every day- no matter how beautiful, how common, or how dark it might be. Thus my “ordinary” life  is a beautiful, happy life that I wouldn’t trade for anything, even on the rainy days!

On this ordinary day, Laundry always comes first- it can take care of its self once I start it, and I can occupy those minutes with other things. So, washer swishing and drying humming, I ran out behind the house to the garden- now a virtual jungle of weeds- and tomato plants. Digging in the garden is one of the joys of country-living that I treasure. I grew up with my hands in the dirt, and after a few years of not being able to grow, this year has been happy for

Baby Squash Plants in the Spring

me-though the garden has fared poorly. I staked up some of the bigger plants and foraged for more stakes for the rest in the woods. I know it’s not a good idea to count tomatoes before they are ripe and are in your picking basket, but in spite of the deer helping themselves to a huge portion of my garden this year, I find that I can’t help but be a little hopeful that at least a few of the beautiful green tomatoes I counted out there will both ripen and last until I can pick them, instead of the pesky creatures who love produce as much as we.

One thing is official around here: while the deer may have a fondness for practically everything from potato tops and okra flowers to ripe tomatoes and baby cucumbers, they do not seem very much interested in the summer squash beds, and nearly every day I can haul in a few squashes to supplement our dinners. Actually, with half a dozen in the fridge and half a dozen near ready to pick, it is more likely that summer squash is our dinner, rather than a type of side-dish supplement to the meal. In any case, our grocery bill has gone down and our squash consumption has gone up, and I count it a very good thing, considering that we both love steamed summer squash, and N&K, who eat dinner with us every night, at least eat it, because at this rate, if the weather holds out, by next week it’ll be more than a few a day, and we’ll be wishing we had someone to leave “gifts” of squash for before long!

I always am slightly amused though, how days differ from my “mental list” nearly

Our Kitchen

always in some ways, and while I did spend time in the garden, and did get quite a bit of laundry done, I ended up doing computer work much more than I had intended or wanted, did not get the shopping list compiled, forgot to ask Scott to pick up a water filter, and suddenly realized that it was later than I thought (Happy realization, that- for my favorite moment of the day comes sometime mid to late afternoon on most days), and in the scramble to get the biscuits ready to go in the oven and the gravy done there were a few mishaps and flour seemed to enjoy dusting my recently-washed floors and counters with a little powdery white.

I was stirring up the biscuits when I heard that sound I’ve training my ears to pick up- the quiet sound of crunching gravel and every time I hear it, my heart skips a beat and I run to the window to see just who is arriving home, as more than once I’ve nearly rushed pell-mell to to the door only to find it is Katie, who while I am always happy to see, was not who I was expecting or really wanting

Summertime Love

to see right then. This time, when that white Subaru pulls in front of the window to turn around, I know the happiest moment of the day has come and I temporarily abandon my biscuit making to rush to the door and shall spare you the details of our greeting, but I hope that my heart always skips a beat when the door opens and I see my man.

Our afternoons are definitely wind down times for all of us. Scot had a long and busy day, Katie had a stressful one, and dinner is served with bits of work-news and random conversation about the day.  This dinner was also a “remembering” dinner, as Katie and I recalled and laughed over the antics of her little brothers and memories from our Alaskan Childhood days when we never dreamed of marrying brothers.

Full Moon

More often than not, dinner come to an end, and dishes cleared up, we sit at the table and talk awhile. Today, with Nick gone for a couple days, Katie wandered off to her room to read.  Scott had some computer work to do, I had to finish folding up a comforter and some sheets, and before we know it,  early-to-bed as is our custom has slipped by a little too far, and we haven’t gone out for our
evening walk nor have I managed to store any cookies in the freezer, but the day has been happy, and beautiful and best of all, just as we began it, we close it with the One who is the first cord in our three-cord rope: thanking Him for protection, for blessings, and for the beauty that He pours upon us every new day.

Pictures are random ones taken over the summer- I didn’t manage to take any on the day that I wrote about.

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

It stopped raining around 11:30.  My sisters and I rushed to the garden to pick the small amount of produce we’ve been able to grow so far this summer.  I really hadn’t planned to go — how embarassing to show up with four heads of lettuce! — but closer examination revealed that we also had spinach, onions, chives, mint, sage, parsley, and eggs, along with the baked goods.  Of course, everything outside was soaking wet and mud-splattered, so it had to be washed and drained before bagging.

I ran to the basement to make sure the eggs were ready to go.  Experience has taught me not to assume anything — like “each carton contains a dozen eggs” or “all the eggs were washed when they came in from the barn.”  No, to be on the safe side, I now not only open each carton, but I pick up and inspect each egg.  Dirty ones are cleaned, cracked ones are for the dog.  There were five dozen “market ready” eggs when I was finished.

Meanwhile, Betsy was making labels for her baked goods on the computer.  They looked both cute and professional.  Presentation is such a big part of a sucessful farmer’s market, and we try to make our table and goods as attractive as possible.  To those of you who shop at farmer’s markets, remember that none of this just happens.  It takes time to find the right basket to display the onions, to make the cute signs, and to price everything.

Ah, yes, pricing. Can you hear me groan from where you are?  Try pricing things that you haven’t bought for months (or in some cases, years!).  Make sure it’s a fair price, because you don’t want to overcharge your customers.  At the same time, you have to make sure you’re making a profit.  And don’t undercut the other growers, because they are your friends even if they are your competitors.  Oh, and do you sell things by the unit or by the pound? What if you don’t have a scale and have to weigh your produce on another vendor’s scale? Needless to say, the pricing is the worst part for me.

Finally everything was ready to go.  I ate a quick lunch, helped with the dishes, then began loading everything into the trusty (and rusty) minivan.  It’s actually a pretty long process.  “Did you get the spinach from the crisper drawer?” “Do you have a basket for the baked goods?” Slam, slam (that’s the screen door as I run in and out of the house with loads of stuff!). “Here’s the table cloth.” “Do you have the calculator and the price sheet?”  And then, just as I’m ready to go,  “Do you have change?” Change — how could I forget!? A quick scramble through everyone’s purses and the “change box” which was unfortunately just emptied and taken to the bank, but we did eventually find enough change.

So the next time you go to a farmer’s market, think about all the work that is represented there.  It’s even more than growing the produce! And be patient if the farmer has forgotten bags, or can’t find twisties for the bread, or has to borrow the next vendor’s scale.  But if the eggs are dirty, point it out.  And if you don’t know what to do with parsley, ask!  We love to talk to our customers.  And we love providing you with fresh, healthy produce.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I love Summer. It promises happy times–barefoot days, watermelon feasts and picnics, and it is the season to stock up on Fresh, for winter is coming.

One of my favorite things about summer, besides the clothesline, watermelon, sandals and picnics, is going to Farmer’s Markets. Twice, now, I’ve had the thrill of catching a glimpse of a small sign that told the time and gathering place for one of the most amazing opportunities of the season–the chance to support and to encourage the art of Farming.

Really, Farms and Farmer’s Markets had intrigued me from the time I was a child, and to see those wistful vision of  a tent-like village of stands and stands of a myriad of beautiful things made me giddy and feel as excited as a little girl again.

I love the produce stands. The colors and variety of fresh produce is tantalizing, from the freshly picked corn, to the bunches of basil, baskets of tomatoes and new potatoes and the Rocky Ford melons  and Palisade Peaches of Colorado. It really is a  paradise of color, texture and flavor, and I love to wander through the aisles, cloth bags in hand, and collect the week’s produce, fresh from the farm.

More often than not, you can get the best produce for prices you’d never find in the stores. And I can pretty much guarantee that it tastes so much better, that even if it wasn’t cheaper, it’s fresher, it is better for you–it would still be worth every penny.

Buying locally isn’t just about the fresh and the environment–it keeps the family farms going, and enables those who have the talent and ability to pass on to another generation the legacy of growing and sharing.

I can’t have a farm of my own right now, and I may not have the ability to make a difference in large ways, but I count it my little part–to support a cause I wholeheartedly believe is worth more of our attention.

America was a farming country, and it kept us strong. The hard work didn’t kill anyone. I rather think it saved more than one young person from evil that comes with idle hands and too much ease. We’re starting to lose that vision, and with more and more of our food being brought in from other countries, with sprays and poisons being more and more questionable, it’s time to go back to our roots, to growing our own food, and buying our own products once again. And it’s something I’m thrilled to have my chance to be a part of.

Of course, there’s a whole lot more than just farm products, and I have to say–that Pecan Brittle that the Woodland Park Colorado Farmer’s Market sold last summer was really one of the best sweet treats I’ve had, and that fresh baked European bread with pasta couldn’t be beat.

Not all of us are blessed with Farmer’s Markets, and not every Farmer’s Market has very much to offer. I wonder, though, if more of us didn’t make it a point to support and be a part of Farmer’s Markets across the country, if that wouldn’t change. And just maybe, if you look around, you’ll find your own little paradise in the  your town!

Check your local newspaper, ask around town, take a look at Local Harvest, an excellent farmer’s market resource, and see if there happens to be a u-pick farm or local market near you. And then, go and enjoy it. Remember, it’s first come, first get. Supplies are limited to what the Farmer brought in his truck and those who arrive early get the pick of the crop, so best to get there before the sun gets hot.

You might even want to take that “In Season Only” challenge, and create a seasonal menu using only ingredients found on your trip to the market. You could even take it a step further, and also choose only what’s produced within 100 miles of your front door, but that’s a challenge not to take lightly if you live in the Colorado Rockies, at least.

And if you’ve never really explored the world of freshly grown produce, and have pretty much stuck to the what’s familiar, take a little step out of comfort zone and try something new if you can find it, and if you don’t know what to do with it, ask the Farmers! They may be able to give you a few tips and you may discover you’ve got a new favorite. That’s how I discovered that I should have been a melon farmer.

So, this summer, you’ll find me at my local Farmer’s Market, reveling in the beauty of fresh, beautiful fruits and veggies, stocking up on local produce–and trying not to find any more peanut brittle–thanking God that we still can buy locally grown, locally made. It’s the best way.

Photo of Craig Harding, Summer 2003, after a stop to our very first “real” roadside produce stand on the edge of a farm in North Carolina. That first farm fresh watermelon and the cantelopes and onions we bought didn’t last long at all.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

by Gretchen Acheson

Chick Day.  Our local feed store has three “Chick Days” each spring.  Everyone from moderate-scale chicken farmers to backyard poultry keepers place their orders weeks in advance.  The hatcheries make sure to have just the right number of eggs ready to hatch out the day before chick day.  And when the little fluffy guys and gals show their pretty little heads outside the eggs, they are boxed up and mailed overnight to our feed store.  The nutrition that was in their egg yolk keeps their tummies from growling until the time we pick them up, take them home, dip their beaks in water, and give them all the food they will eat.  It’s a pretty amazing process.  But we have a pretty amazing Creator Who designed the baby chicks!

This year we had the feed store save us eighteen Barred Rock Pullets (pullets are hens-or female chicks).  Last year we bought mostly Red Sexlink Pullets (”sexlink” means they are bred so that the boys are one color, the girls another, for easy gender identification of baby chicks).  We plan to cycle through our favorite breeds every few years, buying a different breed each year, so we know which birds are older and need to be culled out without having to band them (put a “bracelet” on one of their legs) or guess at their age.

But we never can stick with just one breed.  Our customers like green eggs, so we bought four Araucana Pullets this year (our Ameraucanas didn’t winter too well, so we thought we’d try the other green egg layers).   And those Silver Laced Wynadottes were just too cute.  Four of those pullets came home with us as well.  Which made for an even two bakers’ dozens of baby chickens!  At least we got out of the feed store without the rabbit Ruth Ann was squealing in delight over.  She was excited enough about the chicks themselves to scare the poor things half to death.

Our little babies have spent the last week in a feed bin, protected by chicken wire, warmed by a heat lamp, with a blanket over the top for extra insulation against our cold nights.  We’re still working on ideas for a brooder we can use year after year.  At least now we have a shed where their temporary home can reside!  Last spring it was so cold our baby chicks hung out in the middle of my kitchen for their first week of life.  Between the hungry, peeping chicks and the hungry, crying baby girl I didn’t get any sleep!

Yes, a brooder house is going to be a project for another spring-the shed area we park our cars has been ample protection for the chicks this spring.  Meanwhile Merritt has been making all sorts of modifications to our “Chick Inn“-the latest is slanting the bottom of the laying boxes so that the eggs roll down into a covered area where we can retrieve them but the chickens can’t.  Not only does this help with the egg eating problems that rear their ugly heads once in a while when the hens get too bored, but the best part is that in our muddy springs and autumns the eggs still stay relatively clean-because as soon as they are laid, they slide away into safety!

And the chicks aren’t the only signs of spring activity here on the farm.  The chives in my herb garden are already several inches tall-or were, before the hens got to them.  The rhubarb is poking up its curly head.  And I could nearly use the parsley if I wanted to!  My amazing, hard-working husband is building me a pretty little fence around my herb garden this spring, too-now that it is at its permanent location next to our new shed.  The wire is smaller at the bottom so the hens won’t get to my herbs-yet tall enough to keep out the deer who have already trimmed my Sweet Williams and Primroses!

Today when we replaced the wood shavings in the bottom of the chicks’ tub, Ru took turns kissing each of the baby chicks (though sometimes it looked more like she was just smelling them-what did my grown-up nose miss?!).  After she petted the soft feathers on one of our week-old chicks she reached up and patted her own fuzzy head.  We never cease to be amazed at all the correlations she makes at just 16 months old.  I s’pose next year she’ll be able to take care of the baby chicks all by herself, just from helping Daddy this year.

But right now, my farmer is out harrowing our field, and Ru was promised a ride before bedtime.  So off we go to meet Daddy for Ruth’s first tractor ride…

by Lanier Ivester

I’ll never forget the first brood of chicks we brought home. Never ones to waste time becoming experts before we jump in with both feet, Philip and I went to the local feed and seed on a whim one Monday morning and brought home the last ten Rhode Island Reds they had. I had no idea how adorable they would be, or how my maternal instincts would kick in at the sound of all that helpless peeping coming from the cardboard box in which they spent their first 24 hours in our household on top of the washing machine. The cramped quarters and the prowling cats below called for immediate action, however, and the next night saw us constructing a wooden frame brooder, encased with poultry netting, that we could keep in the basement. This brooder has served us well over the eight years that we have kept hens—although, like Gretchen, I’ve sometimes lost sleep over all the restless little happy noises coming from right below my bed!

A new brood of chicks is one of the sweetest signs of spring to me, and though most of my motherly neurosis has been calmed with time and experience, there is always such a sense of responsibility and awe that these lovely, vulnerable creatures are entirely dependent on me for their lives and safety. I will never forget the night, several Aprils ago, when one of our famously-violent spring storms ripped through, sending us to an inner closet with Caspian and the cats until the tornado sirens had wailed their last. Then, creeping out in the eerie stillness after wind and hail, groping around in the darkness for matches and candles and flashlights and counting cats and moaning over storm-rent flowers, I suddenly caught the sound of a faint peeping, timid at first, then rising to a shrill note of distress. We ran down to the basement to find all the babies huddled in a heap, limp and listless from the rapid temperature change and the loss of heat from the lamps they depended upon for warmth. Scooping them all into an old portable wooden brooder, we carted them upstairs and placed them on the hearth in our bedroom. Philip built a fire and I tended it all night, waking every time the chirping complaint started up again to stoke up the coals and add another log. In the morning they were all comfortably asleep, with their little heads all stretched out between the slats of the brooder towards the waning warmth of the fire. Fortunately our power came back on, for we were completely out of firewood!

This spring we moved the brooder to the barn, into the stall Philip has fitted out as a hen house. (Fort Poulet, the legendary domain of Ivester hens has been decommissioned as of last fall.) And there the babies reside with the big girls and Margot the rooster all clucking disinterestedly about them. Truthfully, the sheep have been much more curious than anyone else, owing to the fact, perhaps, that the chicks are their new next-door neighbors. For the first day they all stood in their stall and stared—as only sheep can—at these strange little interlopers. It’s given even more life to our old barn, to have the sweet noises of baby chicks blending with all the baa-ing and bleating and hay-munching and crowing. And only one incident thus far: it’s been a long time since I’ve raised chicks with outside cats, and, stupid me, I completely misinterpreted Maudie’s fascination as the general interest everyone showed when I brought the chicks into the barn with a regular parade of sheep and dogs and goats in tow. I hadn’t stepped out of the stall for a moment—with the lid to the brooder safely closed—when I heard one of my Buff Orpingtons peeping in alarm. Dropping the waterer I was filling, I raced back to find that Maudie, with a lightning-flash dart of her sleek black paw through the poultry netting, had snagged one of them. I was so horrified that I didn’t know what to do at first, just standing there in the stall with the tiny, frightened creature in my hands. She was definitely in shock, and so with one of those desperate prayers for help and wisdom, I performed a little chick first aid. I set her up on the kitchen counter in the box I’d brought her home in, with a heat lamp clipped to the cabinet overhead and a little food and water. Thankfully, after a few hours she was perfectly fine, preening and pecking and scratching in that funny little imitation of the big hens that chicks have, so I was able to take her back to the barn to join her sisters again.

We were only going to get eight this year. Don’t ask me how we walked out with thirteen. But those little Buff Orpingtons were so sweet, and, of course, I had to have four each of the Rhode Island Reds and the Araucanas! (The former for old time’s sake and the latter because I have become so enamored with those blue and green eggs I just don’t think I could do without them.) And what’s a brood without a few Barred Rocks, those docile, dependable layers? That makes twenty-six in all—so many that my livestock guardian dogs Juno and Diana have started to look askance at me, as much as to say, “Um, how many charges are written into our contracts?”

In other spring news, it’s garden season again! Our spring comes on earlier than Gretchen’s, but I did manage to reign in my excitement at mid-seventy degree weather a few weeks ago and wait until the prescribed middle of April to put out my summer vegetables. Squash, eggplant, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers and pole beans (my favorite!) all made it into the manure-rich (compliments of Puck and Pansy) soil this Saturday, and my tomatoes will go out later this week. It’s a season of industry and excitement around here—and a never-ending to-do list. But lest the everyday miracles of budding roses and blooming irises and a flower garden waking up from a long winter’s nap go unnoticed in all the flurry, my husband is good to take my hand and slow me down for a bit with a little ramble through the woods to admire the bluebells we planted last fall or the almost mystical reappearance of the mayapples under the oak trees.

Oh, and why, you might ask, is my rooster named Margot? Well, both the hatchery and the feed store from which we get out chicks each spring have an unwritten guarantee that all the chicks are female. Margot wasn’t.

And for the record, Gret, Ruth’s on to something. The chicks do smell very sweet and feathery. There’s nothing quite like a nose-full of warm, peeping down for happiness!

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

This should have been part one, but I accidentally mixed them up! Enjoy all the same…- Natalie

How many kinds of wildflowers grow,
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know,
Those we miss, you’ll surely pardon!
Daffodils, heart’s ease and phlox,
Meadowsweet and lady smocks,
Gentian, lupine and hollyhocks,
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, and forget-me-nots,
In an English country garden!

- English Folk Song

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.