Tending Gardens

We all tend gardens. The question is what kind and how well?

I thought about that this morning as I walked past my flower tub on my way up the driveway with the can for the garbage man.

From a distance, I admired the pink geraniums and red petunias.

Upon a closer look, I was shocked to see blooms at all – considering the tub's dry, weedy soil.

I looked across the road at my neighbor's vegetable garden. Every day I see her out working the soil, weeding and watering. Her plants thrive because that's where she spends her time.

So... where do I spend mine?

Lately – in my bedroom office, sorting through old photos of my husband's ancestors.

Soon I will lead his dad's cousins back to Norway to their grandmother's birthplace to meet their cousins in her homeland. We plan to present the family with a booklet of their American relatives. I'm offering the ladies options.

And so, I weed through pictures, looking for good quality ones representative of family life.

Just as garden plants sprout, bud, bloom and produce fruit, so do families.

The evidence is obvious in the youthful appearance of newlyweds, portraits of their small children and candids of the group as they all age.

Photos show the progression of the young ready to step out and bear their own fruit; And of the aging couples with their physical signs linked to wisdom.

I choose a few, scan them onto my computer and then layout pages – as a gardener lays out her produce.

Whereas she might preserve her work in canned or frozen batches, I produce my results on the printer – one page at a time.

Yes, we all Tend Gardens – whether of plants, children or otherwise.

And as a wise, old neighbor used to say: I'm just grateful they thrive in spite of me.

Wisdom

Oh Lord,
grant
me
an
under-
standing
mind
so
that
I
might
serve
you.

Drawn In

I was drawn out on a trivial errand tonight.



Why?



So that upon my return,
I might be
Drawn In.

Sights Anew

Sometimes
the sun
catches
my eye as
its rays
glisten
along
familiar
paths.








And
then,
I
awaken
to
sights
anew.

Angels Among Us

A rock wedged in the tread of our car's rear wheel tonight as I parked in the lot for Noah's last "away" baseball game. I didn't know it at the time.

Ignorance was bliss. I watched Noah play his best game yet. To cure his "I-don't-wanna-go" attitude, I'd promised him ice cream if he got a hit and scored. It worked. His first time up, Noah slugged the ball and ran to first base. His teammates helped him cinch the deal with their hits. As Noah jogged over home plate, he looked at me sitting up in the stands. I gave him a "thumbs up." Positive energy flowed. In the outfield, Noah threw in a ball hit to him. Later, he put on the catcher's equipment for his first try in that position. During the last inning, Noah hit and scored again.

"What about my ice cream?" Noah asked as we walked to the parking lot. I said, "Don't worry. We'll get it."

I popped the car locks, opened the door and stopped as an elderly woman approached me. She said, "My husband noticed you've got a flat rear tire. Would you like help pumping it up?"

I walked around for a look at the damage and nodded, "You've got a portable pumper?"

"We've had trouble with a leaky tire," she explained. As air filled our flat tire, we noticed the wedged rock and heard air escaping.

The man suggested driving on the tire to push in the rock and seal in the air. I was skeptical. The couple offered to follow us to the Fleet Farm. We arrived safely. They waited for us in the parking lot while we went inside for service.

The time was 8:59 p.m. – a minute before store closing. I hoped the auto service department would keep my car overnight for work first thing in the morning and allow me use of their phone to call my husband to pick us up. Instead, the technician offered to fix the tire on the spot, even though that meant staying after hours.

All these people went above and beyond the call of duty to help us – for which I graciously thanked each one verbally. In an hour's time, we'd noticed the flat tire, received help to get service and were back on the road to get a cotton-candy ice cream cone for Noah before driving home.

On the way, I reflected, "God provided little angels to help us tonight."

"Not little angels, old angels," Noah corrected.

"Young or old – they were 'our angels'," I said. "Angels living Among Us."


For he orders his angels to protect you wherever you go. Psalm 91:11

Mischievous Ditties

Some people collect spoons. Others do stamps, rocks, bells or music.

I love books – not just any book, but ones of special interest. Certain authors and various illustrators or photographers often catch my eye. Classic children's books offer opportunities to share with little ones stories heard by their parents, grandparents and even their great-grands. And then, there's my special weakness for those in the Scandinavian realm.

Friends and family understand. As a result, I have a Nordic book nook filled with travel logs, cookbooks, history accounts, holiday traditions, linguistics, baby names, poems, plays and more.

Recently, a friend contacted me: "Are you coming to town in the next few days? I found something for you."

To my surprise, she presented me with a children's songbook written in Norwegian and copyrighted 1951.

The title "Mischievous Ditties" and animated lithographies reflect the four songs, each with several verses, contained within the 10 heavy pages.

"I saw this at a used book sale and thought of you," my friend said. She explained how she put it down wondering whether to get it.

She knows I'm soon traveling to Norway; summer activities with my boys keep me busy; and any free time, as of late, I spend working on final details for the trip. (Click Norway Bound for those.) And, as a regular reader of this blog, she's noticed bigger gaps between posts.

She bought me the book. I'm glad she did. My collection grows – not only in books, but also in trinkets of friendship, blog post ideas and, yes, Mischievous Ditties.

Å Huttetuttetei!

Tusen takk (A thousand thanks), Jodi!

Race to the Finish

"Go Noah! Go!" I shouted as my 7-year-old son pulled a 100-pound load behind a pedal tractor at our local fairgrounds this evening. "To the trees!"

In the end, Noah covered a 23-foot distance. His finish was better than two preceding competitors, but shorter than the race's starter – his school chum, Cole, who pedaled 26 feet.

I chatted with Cole before the race. "Are you gonna take first again this year?" I asked. He said,"I'm gonna try. Then I'll have five in a row!"

"Wow! That makes you the undefeated defending champ!" I said. Cole explained his strategy: "I'm gonna try to make it to the end of the cement."

"Well, I'm gonna go for the trees!" Noah piped up with hope of topping the second-place trophy he took home last year. After his 23-foot run, Noah received his can of Dr. Pepper for participating and returned to the picnic table. He looked at Cole and said, "Well, I'm still in second place."

Two more 7-year-olds pulled for distances well under 20 feet.Then the announcer called forward the last entrant – the boys' classmate, Ella!

She mounted the tractor and began working the pedals in her flip-flops. When she stopped, the judge called out: "29-feet!"

He then handed out trophies: third place to Noah, second place to Cole and...

First Place to Ella.

Ella's mom prompted her toward the boys to shake hands with her competitors. I held up my hand for a high-five: "Way to beat the boys, Ella!"

"She's been riding bike all summer – on the grass," her mom explained. "I was listening to the radio and heard the Kiddie Tractor Pull started at 5:00. I got off work at 4:30, picked up the girls and we made here at 5:05 and they let us enter."

A Race to the Finish in more ways than one. And a new local champ for youngsters in this age bracket.


In consolation, Noah said,"Well, I still got my pop, my Nachos (a treat from Mom) and my trophy!

"That makes two trophies – a third place and a second place.

"And that's more than Isaac or Aaron ever got!"

Yes, yes! Always a Race To the Finish.

Wildest Dreams

Years ago when Dan and I began our search for a place to call home, we made a list of desires. Our bottom line was a roomy house with potential, located in the country with acreage for our active, little sons to safely run.

I hoped for a place with "drama" – a special view and cozy feel. As we dreamed, I pushed away all barriers and said, "I'd like a place where I can walk out the back door and pick wild blueberries – just like I did with my host family in Norway."

Dan rolled his eyes: "This is central Minnesota, Wendy."

I laughed, "I know. But we're dreaming, remember?"

After nine months of searching, we found our country home, presented an offer to the sellers and had a signed purchase agreement on Christmas Eve 1997. We took possession and moved in February 1998.

That spring when the snow melted on the forested hill behind the house, I noticed bushy, low-growing plants and began to wonder: Could it be... this far south?

Once the plants sprouted leaves and formed tiny bell-shaped flowers, I realized my wildest dream come true... And a prayer answered.

More than a year earlier while attending my last Bible study at our Twin Cities church, a woman offered this verse to comfort me as my family left our home to wander where – we were not sure.

"See I am sending an angel before you to lead you along the way and bring you to the place I have prepared for you." Exodus 23:20

I thought about those past moments today – one decade later – as I walked out our back door with a bucket in hand to harvest wild blueberries from the plants we've since helped cultivate by burning off the hill as do commercial producers in Maine. Our plants have spread to cover a wider range. And in spite of the cold, wet spring, they have produced more berries than ever.

At least to me, four cups in one picking seems huge, considering it takes 500 berries to fill each measuring cup.

During my two-hour escapade, I dreamed of filling my 10-cup bucket – like I did nearly two decades ago when I lived near the Canadian border. There my co-worker and I trounced off into the woods, slathered ourselves in Skin-So-Soft, donned jeans, long sleeved shirts and kerchiefs to fight the bugs and laughed as we gathered with our winter stash.

Today, I missed my friend, Rosmairi.

But not for long!

A new picking partner wiggled his way into my work:

crouching
in the
berries...

and
leaping

at my

legs,

arms

and

camera.

"You STINKER!" I laughed.




And this time, I remem-
bered Rosmairi's recipe.





Wild Blueberry Muffins

2 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
2-1/2 cups blueberries
1 tsp lemon juice
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, room temperature
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Line 18 muffin-pan cups with paper liners. Combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in a bowl. In another bowl toss 2 tbsp of the flour mixture with the berries. In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter with 1 cup sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in one egg at a time. Add remaining flour mixture alternately with the milk and vanilla. Crush 1/2 cup berries with lemon juice and stir into batter. Fold in remaining berries. Spoon into prepared muffin cups and sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake 25 to 30 minutes, until toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Serve hot. Taste. And believe – in your Wildest Dreams!


Until we meet again, dear friend. I hold you in my heart.

Whose Egg?

While walking Moose, Isaac stopped Dan's hunting dog from destroying this last egg – one of three – in a nest that had fallen from a limb in our evergreen tree line. Isaac said the nest was made of twigs and had a downy lining. The blue-grayish-green egg measured one-inch long and had few special markings.


After review in our bird encyclopedia, we only guess at its parentage.


And we still wonder:


Whose Egg is this?

Boating Day

The

Landing












The

Fisherman












The

Bait









The

Captain










The

Passenger














The

Shallows










The

Cook









The

Swimmers










The

Grins









The

Spray




All on a Boating Day

Sly One

Early this morning Noah went out to check on the two-day-old babies.

He came back into the kitchen and said, "Mom, guess what!" I shrugged, "What?"

Noah continued, "I looked at Tickles and the kitties in the basket and said, 'Good Morning, Tickles! Thanks for having SIX babies!' And she blinked one eye at me."

"You mean, Tickles "winked" at you?" I asked. Noah nodded, "Yep!"

Yes-s-s... a Sly One – and notice just a hint of fox in this photo.

Sextuplets

Eight weeks ago (almost to the day) Tickles disappeared for 14 hours leaving her one-month-old slug of kitten to turn into a noisy, hungry monster.

Why would a mama do that? No one knew. However, the evidence today is quite plain: Tickles is nursing SIX marmalade newborns. (Her largest litter ever.)

Now we know what secret Tickles had lurking in her eyes when (in May) I snapped her picture with the kitten formula (that Dan bought hours before she showed up to settle her baby) in the post called
Meow-therhood.

Early yesterday Tickles met me at the door meowing and attempting to enter the house. Her swollen belly hung low. I knew Tickles needed a nursery. I enlisted the boys' help vacuuming the screen porch, opening the windows for ventilation, setting up a laundry basket with towels, placing it in a corner and making a lean-to tent to cover the works. When we were done, Tickles jumped in her quarters immediately. She napped there during the morning.

After lunch, we left for the beach to cool off during the hottest day of the summer so far. (88ºF/31ºC) Tickles was resting outside on the deck. When we returned about 4:30 PM, Aaron checked on his mama cat in the porch. He announced, "She's got three kittens!"

Within a couple hours, two more babies appeared. By the time we returned from baseball practice at 8:30 PM, six marmalade babies lay in the laundry basket.

This morning Aaron began thinking of names. Before he got too far, I went out to sort them. I had a special mission.

This litter was born on July 1st, my Norwegian host mom's birthday. I'd spent the day thinking about Annie because I couldn't send her a birthday card. She died last year on July 30th. (See The Lord Works...)

Among five males, I found one female. I knew exactly what to do!

I held her out and said, "This little gal is Annie – in honor of Granny Annie – born to Tickles, one of her Sextuplets.