Trick or Treat

Noah knows the trick to
scoring Halloween treats.

Drive the Country Block.

Visit eight rural neighbors' houses.

Collect as much as - or more than - his townee friends in a fraction of the time they spend on Labor spooking their Neighbors.

Trick or Treat.


"You're our first and only trick-or-treater. Take two handfuls!"

Put to Rest

Aaron came home from school Wednesday with a finger injury.

I gasped at the swelling in the lower part of his index finger and the distortion as he opened his hand. "Can you move it?" I asked. "It looks broken."

Aaron demonstrated movement in the middle joint but noted pain in the joint to the hand. Then he explained how the he was putting a spiral on the football during gym class to send the ball down field when another student put up his arm to block the pass.

Aaron's finger tip, hit the boy's arm and hyper-extended the digit at the joint to his hand. After class ended at 11:30 AM, he went to the nurse's office. She treated Aaron's finger with ice, tape and a promise to call home before swooshing him out of her office which was swamped with the students falling victim to the flu.

By the time Aaron reach home, the swelling had doubled and his finger tip was bruised. The phone rang. The nurse apologized for her tardy call due to the unusual number of sick students sent to her office and then home. I thanked her and said we'd follow up with an x-ray at the clinic.

Our local doctor had no late-afternoon openings and referred us to UrgentCare in the nearby city. Given the current flu epidemic, I hesitated before putting through the call. Fortunately, the receptionist was able to put us in as the evening's last appointment at 7:30 PM.

That meant Aaron could attend his confirmation class from 5:30-7:00 PM and still get medical attention. We checked in at the clinic desk and stood in the vacant waiting area to avoid further exposure to H1N1 and other germs.

A nurse promptly called Aaron and brought us into an ordinary exam room. She apologized for the heavy disinfectant odor. I thanked her for doing the job noting, "THIS is the LAST place we want to be - in a clinic full of flu patients." She offered further advice for our return home. "Strip off all your clothes, WASH everything including your jackets and shower! The doctor will be with you momentarily."

As she left, I noticed a can of hand-sanitizing foam mounted on the wall for patients to use upon departure. Aaron saw it too. "Give me some of that!"

Less than two minutes later, the doctor knocked, entered and began listening to Aaron's injury story. He examined Aaron's finger, ordered an x-ray, reviewed the results and returned with a referral to the orthopedic surgeon.

"There's a suspicious spot in the joint," he said qualifying the need for a specialist. "We'll leave a message for them tonight. They'll call you first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, use Ibuprofin for pain or swelling and buddy tape your fingers. The nurse will come in to show you how."

Before 8 PM, Aaron and I were walking out the door with a roll of tape from the nurse and followed by the doctor who was dressed to leave for the night.

Aaron went to school Thursday morning to take a couple tests.

The orthopedic receptionist

gave us a mid-afternoon appointment.

That appointment also cruised by from reception to billing to the doctor. He swiftly examined Aaron's finger and decided to "Put it to Rest" for a couple weeks. "We'll put it in a splint. Treat it like a cast. Make an appointment. And come back in two weeks. Then we'll x-ray it to see if there's any calcification to indicate a fracture."

Today Aaron came home from school wishing he'd made a sign to hang from his arm. "I should've drawn a picture of my finger tip hitting an arm," he said, "Everyone's asking: Aaron! What happened?"

I nodded, "And another drawing with a doctor pointing: Put To Rest."

No Flute Playing at Monday's concert. And quite possibly,
No Deer Hunting on the Opener.

Unexpected

We all teach.

Family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, customers, even the person next-in-line at the checkout learn from us - by virtue of how we interact with others.

Am I kind, patient, helpful? Do I get your goat, touch your heart, make you laugh or frown?

Quite often I wonder what our three boys are picking up from me. Are they grasping the REALLY important stuff? Last night I glimpsed hope while reading aloud to Noah at bedtime.

We were working on Laura Ingalls Wilder's seventh book called "Little Town on the Prairie" and had reached the last chapter called "Unexpected in December."

It was Christmas Eve of 1882 in DeSmet - a newly established town in Dakota Territory. Pa was in town while Ma and the three girls were busy with preparations, but missing Mary, the oldest Ingalls daughter who had been away in Iowa for months studying at the College for the Blind. Money was tight. The family managed tuition costs, but couldn't afford to bring Mary home for the holidays.

Laura ached for her sister and wished aloud that Mary had never gone away. Ma said Laura mustn't feel that way because Mary was doing so well in her studies, music and artwork. Yet Ma wondered aloud how they would afford summer clothes, a little spending money and an expensive Braille slate for Mary.

Laura suggested she would soon be 16 years old and then be able to test for a teaching certificate. With a teacher's salary, she could help provide for Mary's needs. Ma knew Laura had been studying very hard towards that goal and had given a great show of her knowledge the night before at the School Exhibition.

Just then, a knock at their door produced an opportunity for Laura to teach at a school 12 miles away. The school board chairman had seen Laura perform at the School Exhibition and was willing to wave the age requirement if she was willing to take a certification test on the spot and work with five pupils grades 4 and under.

Laura agreed and passed the test with ease. She was hired to start the following Monday to work for two months and earn $40 - more than enough money to provide for her sister's needs as well as a train ticket to bring Mary home for the coming summer!

As we closed the book, Noah pulled up his quilts and said, "I know who made all that happen."

"Who?" I asked. And Noah smiled, "God!"

"You're right," I replied marveling at the wisdom my third grader drew from a story that happened long ago.

"That's an AWESOME connection!"

Yes, we all teach... Yet this lesson learned was Unexpected.

Signs of the Times

What could it be that brought mild temperatures to keep our north-central Minnesota foliage green through late October this year?

Usually trees turn color in late September and lose their leaves by October's first week. This year was markedly different.

Take a look out our picture window via this afternoon's video. The snowfall was one of many this month as our weather moved from eternal spring to hint at winter's return.

Happy Hunter

I'm behind in blog posts - but here's family news worth noting from Friday, October 16th.

A whirring sound caught Aaron's attention on the wooded trail. A bird flew up. He fired once, followed it 180° and fired again bringing down what he believed to be his first grouse.

Upon retrieval, he found his first bird bagged was a woodcock.

Though the woodcock is much smaller than the ruffed grouse, both birds' wings create a similar takeoff sound. And fortunately, both birds were "in season" when Aaron, Dan and Moose flushed numerous birds and brought home two for this year's Wild Game Stew. Happy Hunter!

(Photos courtesy of Paka Pict's)

Finding Center

After writing the last therapeutic post, I searched for inner peace.



I

found

it






while


editing


photos







taken


Sunday


afternoon










c
a
n
o
e
i
n
g






and

r
e
l
a
x
i
n
g







at our

Pond

Place.

Weekend Episode

"CLANG CLANG CLANG went the trol-LEY!

“RING RING RING
went the BELL!

“ZING ZING ZING
went my heart STRIn-"

GUT PUNCH!

"Uuu-uh!"



The weekend episode re-played through my head this morning as Noah belted out that chorus before school. He'd sung it earlier at the end of the long, active weekend. As a result, he annoyed his brothers and 12-year-old cousin, Drew, who'd spent seven of the past 10 days reveling in our male household.

"YOU are a family of quotes and inside jokes," Drew observed Sunday during his last lunch with us. "If you don't watch the shows they do -"

"Everything goes over your head," I said swishing my hand over mine. "Yeah!" Drew chortled.

During their past two weekends together, the four boys had done well together.

They'd sawed up a fallen pine tree and built a fort; bussed tables and washed dishes at our church's fall supper; helped teach Sunday School; tickled Tickles' kittens; played football;


shot pool and darts; walked the dog; tackled their homework;

loaded, hauled, stacked and helped split three loads of winter wood with Dan;

battled each other in numerous video games;

and kept me cooking to fuel their adolescent-to-man appetites.

To relax, they held – what Isaac dubbed – “A Simpson Marathon,” by watching 22 animated episodes of the Springfield, Illinois family. Dear Daddy-o had deemed "The Complete Fifth Season” among “must-haves” in our family DVD collection.

As usual, mealtime conversation consisted of wacky, quote-after-quote bantering between the guys, followed by my long sighs of female incomprehension, until Drew spewed forth his psycho-analysis.

Its full truth hit home this morning as I helped Noah with his third-grade spelling list. I read, “Number 13, Annoy.”

“You mean like I ANNOY Aaron?” Noah asked and launched into a complete rendition of “CLANG CLANG CLANG went the trol-LEY!"

“WHERE did you learn that song – in music class?” I asked. Noah replied, “Nope. The Simpsons.”

Noah explained the episode: Homer’s (rich, aging, bachelor) boss – Mr. Burns – almost dies and begins looking for an heir. He holds auditions among the Springfield children. One obnoxious boy sings: “CLANG CLANG CLANG went the trol-LEY, etc.” Another boy gets up during the song, punches him in the gut, and stops the noise. Mr. Burns thanks the bully, turns to (his sidekick) Mr. Smithers and says, “Give the boy an extra point.”

I
laughed
"horribly"

(noted Noah)

as I
grasped
the reason
behind


Sunday afternoon’s outrageous episode driving to our pond place.
For 20 minutes, and in spite of verbal warnings from his five fellow travelers, Noah repeated that awful song until Aaron finished it with the GUT PUNCH.

At the time, I was furious with my 13-year-old son. Worse yet, the episode repeated itself on the drive home. As I prepared supper, I called in Aaron and took him to task: “I know Noah can be annoying. But, how old are you: Two? Use your words. Not your actions!”

“You just don’t GET it,” Aaron had said then. Now Noah lit the light.

I understood: Aaron was right. So was Drew. And Noah – as were all the men in this household. They speak a foreign language of quotes and inside jokes, and like the characters on the shows they watch, they push each other to the limit.

“Just what do you expect singing THAT song?” I asked.

Noah smirked and headed down the stairs, to the door and out to the bus. I slid open the window and hollered, “Which DVD was that one on?”

“Disc 4, Episode 1, Burns' Heir.” Noah laughed, “Why? Do you want to watch it?”


I
closed
the
window
and
sighed:

Who wrote
this
Weekend Episode?

Oh, how I long for the days of Little Bear and Kipper.

Portraits

Every year when the boys bring home their school portraits, I take down the frames in our stairwell to put in the newest editions.


I savor that annual moment, pulling out the collection stored in each frame and lining them up to witness the growth marked year by year in each photograph.


Those moments examining and remembering never fail to moisten my eyes. This year I called my husband over for the occasion. I thought I saw his eyes moistened too.


I said, "For me, it's the treasure captured."
He said, "For me, it the treasure spent."

"What are you going to do with all those Portraits?"

Autumn Rainbows

R
e
d





O
r
a
n
g
e






Y
e
l
l
o
w







G
r
e
e
n








B
l
u
e





V
i
o
l
e
t





Seeking out
a Rainbow
of Color

Along Life's Road.

Surprise - Babies!

Is there anything better than babies?

We've got our own again - and much to our surprise!

Aaron discovered his mama cat's deposit in our three-season porch Saturday - nine days after their birth.

On Thursday, September 24th I was busy applying a strong-smelling sealant to the cement laid outdoors under the porch and on the hill behind our house. Moose was kenneled and our cats usually hunted. I was relieved not to see Tickles or Blizzard until late afternoon.

When Tickles appeared on the deck, I noticed she was thin. "You've had your babies," I cooed to her as I hurried to offer food and water by the front door away from the project and its fumes. "You'll have to bring them 'round later when this clears up."

Tickles came regularly for food and water. She hunted grasshoppers behind the house. Aaron tried to follow her back into the woods to find her nest. She alluded him. I checked the nursery basket daily to see whether Tickles had moved her bundle home. More than a week passed.

Frost set in and then days of damp, wet rain. One blustery night, Tickles met me behind the house where I was fine tuning the new drainage system. She was drenched, hungry and thirsty. I was certain no babies could have survived these elements. I hollered, "Aaron! If you value your mama cat, you'd better get a towel and rub her down. She's soaked!"

We kept her locked in the porch out of the cold overnight. On my mental checklist, I noted: "Clean porch. Remove cat basket. Wash towels." But other tasks prevailed.

Three days later, Aaron was searching for Blizzard in the porch. The 18-month-old FlopCat often nestled down in his old nursery basket for the night. Instead of Blizzard, Aaron discovered seven fur balls.

"Mom! Tickles brought the kittens! There's SEVEN of them: four orange and three calico," he reported. "But two are dead. They're frozen."

That's when we discussed the phenomenon of rigor mortis. Aaron asked, "But why would she keep them?"

I ventured, "Maybe to show us. She's never had SEVEN kittens before."

(Usually Tickles' litters number five. Once she had a litter of six and another time just one kitten - Blizzard, who was born in my bedroom closet during an April snowstorm.)

"I still can't believe she had seven kittens," I said. "She didn't seem THAT big."

Dan told Aaron to bury the dead kittens. Aaron flinched. I said, "It's better for the survivors. Just keep Tickles shut in the porch. She'll get over it." While Aaron got a shovel, Noah carried the two calico bodies out to the burial site. Upon their return, Noah moaned, "I'm so sad about those two kitties."

"It is sad that they died. But until today, we thought all of Tickles' kitties were dead," I encouraged. "She still has five furry babies. Have you held them yet?"

"Yeah!" Aaron said. "They're already opening their eyes.
I'm gonna name one Lucky. And another Survivor.
And another-"

"Survivor?" I grimaced and Noah laughed, "How about Surprise!"


Sharing the Joy
Along Life's Road.