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I have cabin fever. I feel my body shifting into hibernating mode. It has been years since I've experienced this phenomenon. At one point my family lived in Wisconsin and winters were serious business there. I remember the year that the sun did not shine for 100 days. I learned what cabin fever really was that winter as I awaited the birth of my fifth child and my first four little sons did there best to make me crazy. But this winter I am reminded of those long dark days. We live in what is considered the south now. Winters in the past few years have been mild and fairly brief - just long enough for me to enjoy the cold crisp winds and to admire the snow for a day or two. This year the drifts along the curbs have been there long enough to get gray and grungy. I'm ready for spring!
I keep getting seed catalogs in the mail and I get carried away thinking of all the flowers I would like to plant when it is warm - I know that in reality I 'm happiest with flowers that grow without feeding or weeding! But I like to dream about a garden full of gorgeous blooms and fragrances. It's a good way to get through January!
I'm also dealing with the post-New Years resolution slump - you know where you realize that you must have been high on candy canes or something when you made that ridiculous list of plans for the New Year that now in the cold light of day seem presumptuous and preposterous. (What was I thinking? - who needs to fit into size 6 jeans, I don't like jeans anyway!) But I am very resilient. I will warm up with a big mug of hot chocolate, generously topped with whipped cream and I will pull out one of my favorite books, it's been at least six months since I read Little Women and I will make a list of flowers that I am likely to grow in the spring - like nasturtiums,
that don't need much in the way of attention other than admiring once in bloom. Then I will sing the song about Popcorn on the Apricot Tree, and In the Leafy Tree Tops and Give Said the Little Stream. And before I know it I will be suffering from the heat and the humidity of a southern summer and I will be singing Once There Was a Snowman and dreaming of winter.
Christmas is coming and I'm getting fat. Why do my children have to be such good and generous cooks?
I know I shouldn't complain. For the first Christmas in several years I have all eight of my children home for the holidays. We celebrate by laughing together, making a joyful noise - which is sometimes even harmonious - by reading our favorite Christmas stories and by eating delicious food. I have some very good cooks in the house. My recently returned missionary is going to make Danishes in a couple of days. I want to be careful of my calorie intake so that I can indulge when he does, but my daughter made Black Forest Brownies for Home Evening treats and she tells me that she's making cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Someone else was talking about chicken enchiladas and I need to start the traditional Christmas baking including: candy cane cookies, sugar cookies, fudge, divinity, rocky road candy, and my husband's favorite, romance cookies. The only thing that can save me is that because of the sheer number of mouths we feed around here, there is little chance that I will get much more than a nibble of any of these scrumptious treats. But I do have a bizarre metabolism - I gain weight just thinking about food. Too bad I can't lose weight by thinking about exercising, but who wants to think about that?
It's raining, it's pouring! No one is doing much snoring around here today. I have a house full of kids recovering from the flu. We have a coughing chorus, it sounds awful but we aren't contagious anymore.
We got the long awaited mission call: Stephen has been called to the Utah, Salt Lake City Mission. (Yes that's really a mission and that's where he's going on February 3rd.) We are all thrilled and delighted.
David will be coming home on Tuesday afternoon. We plan to have a joyful Thanksgiving. I'm not sure how to act - it has been years since I've had all my children home for the holidays. It's raining, it's pouring blessings - my cup overflows.
The wind woke me up last night. I like wind and thunder and lightening. A good storm finds me and my off-spring on our porch savoring the storm. It must be my Scot blood. The sound of wind at night usually comforts me. I feel so safe in my house. In the summer my windchimes accompany the sighing song of the skies, but last night the wind was mournful. The windchimes have been retired for winter, because after Labor Day they tend to chatter and clatter like my teeth when I'm out too long in the cold. Last night the wind wasn't unaccompanied though. The unmelodious sound of garbage cans rolling around on gravel was the counterpoint to the moaning of the wind and the splattering of rain. I tossed and turned for awhile, frustrated that I was losing sleep. Then a long suppressed memory tickled my fancy. It didn't have to do with wind but with trash cans. I'd gone to a high school dance with a young man - not the young man of my dreams, but a "nice" boy who I couldn't think of any reason to turn down other than I really didn't want to go with him. I tried to be kind without leading him on. I sensed I'd failed as he followed me to the doorstep to say goodnight. I was desperately trying to decide how to get in the house without embarrassing either of us when some stray cats started fighting in our old metal trashcans. Their hissing, snarling, yowling was music to my ears. The clatter of the trashcan lid, the sudden flash of lights from inside the neighbors house, and the panic I saw in my date's darting eyes delighted me. I was safe. I remember joyously laughing out loud and smiling as I safely let myself in and locked the door behind me leaving that poor boy alone on my doorstep cursing cats. Since then I've always had a soft spot for alley cats. I wonder if I should bait our trash cans when my daughter starts dating?
The wind has calmed today, most of our autumn leaves have fallen and blown away. I usually don't like this time it seems so bleak, but today there's something very brave about the few scarlet leaves that are clinging to the tree in front of my window. They cheer me with their holding on.
It seems like I've spent much of my life waiting..waiting for Christmas, waiting for summer vacation,.waiting to grow up and be swept off my feet by Prince Charming. Waiting to be a mother. Waiting for a daughter. Waiting for my little cottage with a porch and picket fence. Waiting for missionary sons to get their calls, waiting for them to come home. Waiting for the bread to rise, for the baby to learn to say "Mama" or to sleep through the night or to walk. I remember hearing a talk once about "The Blue Bird of Happiness" and not waiting for an event in life to be happy. But waiting is still part of life. This week we are still waiting for a mission call. There were some delays that I'm certain I will be calling a blessings later. We are also counting the days (14) and waiting for David to come home. I'm also watching and waiting for my older sons to take the steps that will take them away from the home I've created for them as they begin to create homes of their own. And I'm always waiting for my husband to come home. I didn't wait for him while he served his mission - but I've been waiting ever since.
Sometimes I'm better at waiting than others, the instinct to prepare kicks in and I am filled with energy and drive to accomplish lots of good things. Today I think my body is shifting into hibernation mode and as I wait I am contemplating the changes that are coming and the joys that I've been blessed with in the past. Waiting is part of enduring to the end and sometimes we need to just Be Still and Know that God Is and sometimes we need to
cheerfully run the race before us. I'm grateful that Heavenly Father has blessed us with more than one way to wait. And I'm sure I will feel even better about it in a couple of weeks when some of this waiting will just be waiting to be recorded in my journal!
Being the mother I am, I decided to do something traditional and memorable for Halloween. I decided we would make popcorn balls-real, old fashioned, homemade popcorn balls. No microwave popcorn, no air popped popcorn, we would use real pan popped popcorn. Sorry - I don't have a wood burning stove or an open fire to do it truly the traditional way. But...I pulled out an old saucepan with a slightly wobbly handle and a secure lid. I also grabbed my trusty screwdriver. I tightened up the handle and rallied my forces, William and Rebekah. We heated our oil, patiently waited until the single kernel popped then we went wild shaking and popping our corn. We'd almost filled my biggest bowl . We were on our last batch of popcorn when calamity struck. Rebekah was at the helm. She'd perfected her technique and she was looking fine when she let out a small shriek. I was busy putting together the ingredients for the syrup but I looked over to see the handle from the pan lid in her hand the lid still on the pan. The popcorn was just beginning to pop like crazy. I grabbed a hot pad rushed in to save the day. I slapped the hot pad on top of the lid and grasp the pan handle only to have it come completely off in my hand. I let out a shriek. By then the popcorn was pushing the lid off the pan! Fortunately another hot pad was handy and I pulled the pan and popping corn off the heat where it continued to push the lid up and popcorn began to hop out onto the stove top and counter. William, Rebekah, and I looked at each other and started to laugh. We laughed until our sides hurt and everyone else in the house had come running to see what was going on. After all the excitement we decided to just pour the hot syrup over the popcorn in a cookie sheet - we will have popcorn bars instead of balls! But William and Bekah will always remember our popping experience. Happy Halloween!
Here are my missionaries. Three returned. One ready to go... and look out world...
