The joy of being six.

I wonder if I had that much imagination, or thrust myself this enthusiastically into life, when I was six, as our six year old does.

Every day is a new opportunity for a new enterprise.  I find random sketches of various maps and "plans" he has drawn.

One day, he was intent on opening a "Trap Store". He didn't have traps made yet. But he got his sign nailed to the tree- strategically near the chickens, since his specialty would be chicken traps. He also designs "brother traps," but this day, it was chicken traps. 

Another day, he dug a 4 inch hole out by the silo, and another 4 inch hole by the house, with plans to connect them. The tunnel map includes large rooms intended as dungeons for the brothers. This, of course, obtained the desired result of freaking out the brothers, being such a realistic threat and all.

Another day, he wrote a letter to his cousins.

He shamelessly stated, "I have a problem.  It is that I don't get mail and packages anymore." Accompanied by a picture of a sad boy with no package, and a happy boy with a package. 

One day, the enterprise of interest was designing shirts. He asked me over and over again which design he could print on a shirt.

Most days recently,  he is up before 6 am with his boots on, eager to join Papa and Daddy for chores. If he misses it, he is Big Sad.

Thank you, God, for this life-loving bundle of energy. Guide us in wisdom, as we channel his energy and ideas....

The Egg Thief

 Hi, I'm Skye. 

I view myself as kinda The Mother Hen around here, even though all five of us ladies and our two valiant defenders hatched within a few hours of each other.

Almost every day, I lay a golden nugget. Well, it's not actually golden- more pale blue. But it's more valuable than gold, to me.

Almost every day, The Egg Thief steals my golden nugget. The sneaky creature.

She plays nice.

She gives us food and water. She puts straw in our coop- which we suspiciously scratch out of the box immediately. 

Every night, she coops us up in our little sleeping quarters. Every morning, she sets us free

We let her get up close and friendly to us, and sometimes, we let her hold us and stroke our necks. Ah, if I could purr, I sure would, when she does that! 

Once or twice, a couple of us let her put a contraption she called a “harness” on us, and we went on a little walk. That pushed the limit a bit, but it was tolerable. 

But back to the golden nuggets.

Some of the ladies I live with drop their little nuggets any old where. It's like they literally don't care. Under the tractor. In the middle of the floor. Beside the car. They apparently just drop their nugget and keep right on waddling through life.

Not me- oh, no! Not me.

I spend hours scouting for The Perfect Place to hide my gold. 

Some days, the Egg Thief catches me scouting- just when I found the perfect spot, so I can't use it. 

I have found an unbelievable amount of perfect spots. 

Behind the lawn mower. Three tiers high on that metal shelf. On the shelf in the utility closet. In an old unused goat pen.

Each time, I spread the word to the other ladies, hoping some of them will tidy up their act, and there can be some decency and order among us. So far, I've managed for three or four of us to team up and leave a beautiful collective treasure.

But every time I find a new perfect spot, the nuggets just keep disappearing. 

One of the ladies seems to lay a perfectly round nugget with dents all over it. For some reason, the Egg Thief never takes that one. I guess I need to find the recipe for that, then maybe she'll leave mine as well.

One day, the Egg Thief followed me around while I was scouting. Then she caught me and cooped me up all by myself with some of her suspicious straw. As if I would THINK of depositing my gold there!

Another day, she found my nugget in my newest perfect spot. She carried both me and my nugget to the coop, and tried to show me where she thought it should be deposited. Well, I showed her what I thought of that! Each time she put it into the straw, I took my beak and rolled it out. Over and over, like some dumb little game, until I finally just grunted and strutted off. 

I'm still scouting for new perfect places. I've found a spot on top of an old refrigerator that looks pretty good. Maybe I'll use the second shelf over there sometime. 

Well, Mr. Roo is calling loudly for me, so I'd best waddle on. 

I'll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, keep an eye out for that Egg Thief, will ya? Great, thanks. Talk to you later!

Pre-Sleep Bleeps

I cannot sleep

So I'll open the windows of my brain

And let the thoughts peck their way out of the haze and fly into the open fields of opportunity.

The thoughts might rhyme

Some of the time

As they rock me to sleep

With their slow, rhythmic cadence of random and discombobulated bleep bleep bleep.

Chickens and eggs

Boards and pegs

Scissors and glue

What's false and what's true?

Arguments with auto-correct

Gaining courage to self-inspect

Worry lines

Uncertain times.

Who are my people?

Why do churches have steeples?

Constant noise

So many toys.

Friends’ mom and her death

Treasure each breath

Never know what tomorrow brings 

But in the morning, I'll rise and sing

And all the little humans will sing with me

Making music of heart rending quality 

A joyful noise

Or noiseful joys

As the case may be

My brain is bleeping it's way to sleep.

Hopefully soon that sleep with be deep

So so long, farewell,  

I hope your next day goes well

I

Might

Soon

Sleep

Bleep

Bleep

Bad sheep

That won't line up to be counted

I guess I'll find a radio station

Like “KCII– The one to count on.”

These lines are getting increasingly dumb

So I'll end this Midwestern farewell

Abruptly.

Źzzzzzzzzzzzz…….

Pictured: our first egg from our chickens

This is our Together

Always imperfect

Sometimes impatient

Occasionally inept

But this is our Together

It's a busy life

He's got a tired wife

There are moments of strife

But this is our Together

Muddy feet

Muddy walls

Muddy tub

But this is our Together

There are no little things 

Except the ones that are woven 

Together to make our life's big picture 

This is our Together

Noisy toys

Noisy boys

Noisy joys

This is our Together

It's a crazy circus

Squabbles in surplus 

Plenty of purpose 

This is our Together

Occasionally grumbly

Sometimes gross

Always grateful

This is our Together

Thoughts on Snuggles, While Snuggling

I don’t really like it– 

I feel the window of time closing on Premium Snuggle Days.

I still snuggle my “baby” to sleep most days.

I wasn’t going to be That Mom.

I was going to be Mother Efficient.

My kids were going to go to sleep on their own, on my time, not theirs.

Except it didn’t work that way.  Not for us.

I changed my mind about snuggles. 

Snuggles are not just for feeding.

They are for security. Connection. Relationship. Happy, calming hormones- for both mother and child.

And then, OT meandered its way into our journey. 

Since Occupational Therapy days, my little kids get (mostly) unlimited snuggles. They get their arms rubbed, their legs rubbed, their feet squeezed, their hands squeezed, figure eights rubbed on their backs, and they get rubbed criss-cross side to side across midline. 

I don’t always think about what I am doing; I just do it.  I squeeze them as tight as they need, as often as they want.

  

Because all that touching and squeezing and rubbing and midline crossing aren’t just weird things that lovestruck mothers do; they are paving neural pathways in developing brains. 

I think it’s a conservative guesstimate to say that I have snuggled with a child or multiple children an average of 2 hours a day, since I became a parent.  

3,821 days x 2 hours a day = 7,642  hours of my life that I’ll never get back.

I’m so glad I invested those hours in that way.

While I expect that in the next 3,821 days, the snuggle time will fade into oblivion, I hope the connection continues to increase.  

Whatever the activity, I hope my kids always want to gather in, close to me, and Just Be Together.

Just an old church basement piano

Our church has an Upstairs Piano and a Downstairs Piano.  The Downstairs Piano perfectly fit the classic neglected church basement piano stereotype. You'd get a three for one deal-  hit one note and get three different pitches.

The paper inside the piano said it was tuned in 2001. Only God knows if it had been tuned since then, but judging from its sound, I'd guess that's correct. 

That all changed today, when Mr. Piano Tuner came and gave Downstairs Piano a new lease on life. It now sounds like a real piano, not just a twang machine. 

.........

Maybe you find yourself feeling like a classic neglected church basement piano, significantly in need of a tune up. Maybe you are the one whose accepted role is for people (especially young and untrained people) to put pressure on all your buttons, and you respond by belting out loud, repulsive sounds. 

Will you just glumly embrace that as your lot in life? Will you call for- and accept- a good tune-up, so that your life once again has the potential to produce music that will bring others joy? 

I asked Mr. Tuner if Downstairs Piano was even capable of being tuned- is it worth the effort? He said he won't know until he tries.

Neither will you.

It just might change your life.

.............

Pictured: the inside of our sanctuary,  near where Upstairs Piano resides. I love this view! (Our church moved to this historic church building in 2020.)

For your mental exhaustion....

Come, take a tour of my brain with me.

Here's the map:

Step on into the foyer of my mind; as you take off your shoes, we can discuss whether it is "foy-yay" or "foy-yer". We'll hang up that conversation with our coats,  and I'll observe whether you toss your shoes on the jumbled pile of miscellaneous footwear, or set them in a neat left-right pattern by the wall.

Enter the kitchen, where new ideas are cooked up hourly. We'll toss a bunch of word salad into the blender and- voila! We have us some Brainstorm Blend. Simmering on the stove is some stuff I've been stewing over- it ought to be good! We'll toss in some "sneezenings" (as our five year old says), and serve up some Deep Thoughts to chew on for awhile.  We'll lay a number of things on the chopping block; when our discussion gets out of hand, we'll just cut it out.

Now that we've ingested things that will take a bit of time to digest, we'll sneak in, quiet as a mouse, to the Book Gallery. What's outstanding about this library is that it contains only books that will be written; none that actually have been.  There's the binder of my Dad's stories that I plan to edit and print. There's a kids' book about people who live in all 50 states. There's a book with all the songs I've written and the stories behind them. There's a book titled "Through My Dirty Window." There are random papers flitting around with unfinished profound thoughts, observations, acronyms,  and lists- lots and lots of lists. The walls are plastered with crayon art, train doodles, and amateur watercolor paintings.

Although the Book Gallery is intended to be a place of blessed quietness, where one can settle in for a silent night, the halls are suddenly decked with balls and hollering. A young lass clickety-clacks past in her tap shoes,  back and forth, back and forth, up and down the halls.  Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. A rubber bouncy ball bounds from one end of the hall to the other. Hot Wheels vroom down the racetrack. The piano drums out Charlie Brown and Snoopy from the music room. 

The music room! Come- now is the time to worship! There's actually quite an assortment of instruments. Most of them were short term enchantments of mine, but I'm pretty sure I'll pick them up again- someday when my arthritic fingers will need something to keep them agile. A violin that you can fiddle with-after we replace a couple strings. My dad's harmonica. A guitar. Another guitar. A couple recorders. A piano. A piano keyboard. A clarinet. A tambourine. A ukulele. 

After we make some joyful noise, let's step it up a bit, and visit the gym. My expertise is mental gymnastics, but there is a stationary bike for going in circles, and a treadmill on which I tread lightly. There's quite an assortment of bands and light weights. There are balance boards and a step platform. Most of these wonderful plans have come to a standstill.  I really do need to step it up a bit.

That's really only a tour of the ground level, but since the elevator doesn't quite make it to the top, that's where we'll have to end for today.  

Good Day!

In a Jam

 Once upon a day in the universe, there lived a young lady who worked very hard. Well, she wasn't so young. She may have been 40-something. 

She spent her days as a "stay at home mom" (SAHM) running hither and thither, and being made busy by innumerable responsibilities that, really, she began to wonder what exactly the "SAH" part of "SAHM" means. 

One day, this young lady was enjoying the rare luxury of a day spent MOSTLY at home, and was thoroughly enjoying the coziness of her jammies.  

There was a grocery order that needed to be picked up. "You know," said the young lady, with an air of conspiracy. "I can quick-comb my hair and go in my jammies! No one will ever even know!!"  

And she did. 

She quick-combed her hair and strapped in some children, and off they scurried to the supermarket,  where the grocery order was luxuriously loaded right into the vehicle for them.

It was working!

And no one was even going to know!

Then she called her friend with the new house, and asked if she could stop in to look.  Yes, that would work. No, the friend wouldn't care that she was in her jammies. 

So she did. The friend's mom stopped in also. No worries. 

Alrighty then. They headed for home.

Just before they got to their last turn before home, things took a bit of a turn. A pickup was stopped, flashers on. 

The lady slowed to a stop. The neighbor in the pickup came back to explain that a truck had roared by and startled the horse into the ditch. They had detached horse from buggy. The horse was out on the road, the buggy was still in the ditch. 

There was only one decently human thing to do. The young lady hopped out of her vehicle,  jammies and all, and helped the neighbor and the Amish man push his buggy along and out of the ditch. 

The End.

Where are my words?

Where are my words?

In hibernation?

On vacation?

I do not know-

They didn't ask to go.

They just went.  Poof. Gone.

Perhaps they are on sick leave 

FMLA

No time to grieve

They just went away.

I often write while I snuggle 

But when I struggle 

To fit words together in a sensible way

I find mindless games to play

Hoping perhaps that making little bubble explosions 

On the screen will keep my brain from implosion 

And that swiping words on the screen 

Will make my words return, pristine and clean 

Through the fog

Maybe soon there will be some sense and order to this rambling rabbit race

And there will be the words, keeping up their tortoise pace 

Slow and steady

But present and ready

And I'll be waiting, pen in hand 

To craft words into stories again.

Meanwhile, Little Miss Snuggles drifted to sleep,

And I've some promises to keep-

A turkey to carve for Thanksgiving Day

And bushels of things to go put away

So long and take care

I'll be back when my words are.

Joy Mast Miller 

Thanksgiving Eve 2024

Pictured: a sign at a thrift store that I did not buy, but considered....

Saturday

 I woke up at 5 a.m. and went downstairs,  thinking I'd rest a bit on the couch before I get up at 6:00 to work. "Oh, hi Dad!" pronounced a too-perky five year old voice. "Oh it's you. I thought it was Dad's Getting Up Time. Did you know it's still dark outside? We're the only ones up. That means we get to have Private Snuggles.  We've NEVER had Private Snuggles before." Kid, seriously.  It's Very Early. Sure, I'll snuggle. 

After a bit, it was market time. Our last market of the season.  It's bittersweet,  because we love our customers.  But we work hard and we are tired. We didn't really want to be at market. But because we were at market,  we know that A is moving and B is traveling to Hawaii soon, and C has an ulcer and D rented a golf cart to give the grandkids a ride and E is going to a funeral and F was at a funeral. 

G ordered a wrap with no steak because she's having trouble with her teeth. "Brush those teeth every day!" she instructed our 7 year old son, who was working the cash box like a pro. Then she wandered over to watch the jazz guitarist and listen to the saxophone, because she hasn't heard jazz since she's in Iowa. She lost herself in the music,  so we just delivered her wrap to her. She came back for napkins, then went to the bench next to the musicians and sat there the entire morning,  soaking in the music.

H was super impressed with his half dollar, and plans to use it as a ball marker in golf. I, on the other hand, wasn't a customer at all, but a boy with curly hair, about nine years old, who brought a bag with five potatoes from his Grandma's booth. "HEY, CAN I SELL YOU THESE POTATOES? THEY'RE $1.50-- unless you want to give me a tip." Sure, I'll buy potatoes from a cute kid. I gave him a dollar bill and a fifty cent piece. "What kind of fifty cents is this??" He eyed it skeptically.  "Can I just have two quarters?" I didn't give him a tip, but I wish I had.  He was an ambitious little salesman.

J bought three sandwiches to take back to the shop, where he and his brothers were going through a semi that was recently purchased,  making sure it is road worthy.

K told how he had a surprise visitor from Red Lake. L bought a $6 sandwich and left a $5 tip. 

M was another vendor, who had a "Pupcake" food truck, where people bought treats for their dogs. At least one dog even posed for a pic in her truck's serving window! She educated us on all the steps she has to take to take to legally sell dog treats in Iowa. 

N is recovering from a hand injury from an incident on the farm. "At least I get to drive the combine now!" 

Customers O-Z never showed up, because they were watching the football game.

We left market at 2:04. We stopped at Yotty's for a thank you treat for our son for his willing help. 

On the way home, Craig said, "Shall we go to Leon tonight instead of tomorrow?" We calculated that if we could leave by 4:30, we could be at visitation before 8, and hopefully see the people we wanted to connect with, rather than waiting until tomorrow and sitting through the funeral but not having a chance to talk to people. 

We got home at 2:32. We got out of the trailer the things that need to be gotten out. Craig fed the 33 baby calves their milk and got his things and himself ready. I ran a load of dishes and a load of laundry. T packed bedding and clothes for himself and all his siblings. Grandma returned the other kids at 4:00. I made sure everyone had shoes.

We left at 4:35. We ordered pizza and a salad to pick up at Casey's halfway there. We got the whole crew out and traipsed into the store for a potty break. We were a motley crew, really, with outfits ranging from t shirt and jeans to red plaid jammies with green chore boots. 

We arrived at the church for the visitation at 7:37. Uncle Mikie and Aunt Brenda brought Mom's vehicle and traded for ours, still full of children. 

We were those annoying people who came right before visitation closes, and stayed for an hour, right when the family Really Wants To Go Home. 

Barbara, the 96 year old whose life was being remembered, feels to me like the last person from the Leon church who has been "old" my entire life. Maybe it's because she became a widow the year I was born.

I don't feel like I actually knew her well myself. I remember her quilts, and her hospitality, and her reacting rewardingly when her grandsons teased her. But there are a lot of people whom we care about deeply, who are related to Barbara, so we wanted to go.

I heard some stories about Oklahoma days, where Amos was one of the exceptional people who believed in my dad, in spite of Dad's physical challenges, and trusted Dad with his farm equipment.  Joni said that he would stay at my Grandpa Joas's when his parents,  Amos and Barbara,  would go on trips. Now I want to hear more!

We left the visitation and finally made it to my mom's,  where we said hello to Uncle Jake and Aunt Anna Mary, and got all the kids, now on their third wind, settled down.

Then, we slept. 

It was a good, full day.

And I- well, I've enjoyed the interactions with all the people,  but it might take me a week to recover, so please pardon me, while I crawl into a hole and refuel for a bit.