Sleeping Beauty

Tanner's been sleeping. A lot.

For a few months now, Tan has been sleeping 18 to 20 hours a day, all hours of the day, day or night. Sleeping Beauty we're calling him. And if he's waiting on his princess in shining armor, Siri has apparently steered her in the wrong direction, because she hasn't arrived to wake him.

Sure wish she would. Because this big sleep has cost Tanner a lot.

Two weeks ago, I had the conversation I'd been dreading with Tanner's guidance counselor at school. The weeks and weeks of absences have become too long, and together with the missed credits of past semesters, there's no way he can begin to garner enough credit to finish high school this semester. We have to delay Tan's graduation until fall, with the hope that he'll have the energy to do summer school and take some additional courses online in the fall so he can graduate with a diploma.

Mike and I had worried we might be facing this eventuality so we began talking with Tanner a few months ago about the possibility of a delayed graduation, and how in the grand scheme, a few months extra of high school would eventually be just a blip on the radar. We discussed it with Tan a couple times and got him used to the idea, so if the decision came down he wouldn't be blindsided. I'm glad we took that approach because he wasn't blindsided. He was level headed and pragmatic and sought to reassure us that it was fine, it was no big deal, he understood.

I don't understand.

I don't understand why my sweet boy, who has been through so much and struggled so hard and overcome so many things, now has yet one more reminder of the cost of having chronic kidney disease. The cost of his body struggling to keep his kidneys functioning, at the expense of all other systems. Like the system, for instance, that supports consciousness.

Hyperfiltration is likely the culprit here. Tanner's docs believe he's probably been in hyperfiltration for at least a few years now. Simply put, his kidneys are sprinting, and they have been for a long time. When kidneys are diseased, sometimes they go into this overdrive state. You and I, who presumably have normally functioning kidneys, move along at a steady pace for most our lives, with our kidneys humming along at an equally steady pace that allows them to last the 80 or so years that the average American lives these days. Tan's kidneys, on the other hand, have been engaged in a breakneck sprint for a long time just to support basic functions like filtering his blood, his urine and every other substance that finds its way to these workhorse organs.

But we all know that sprinting can't be sustained for long. Think of the Olympic sprinter vs. the distance runner. Sprinters go all out for 100, 200 hundred yards then collapse; distance runners go for miles. Tan's kidneys have been sprinting for miles and miles and miles, for years.

And his body is tired.

His body is putting its energies toward keeping his kidneys functioning properly, and thankfully, they are. They're doing their job, for now. But with time, it seems, his body has gotten to the point that it's now saying, "OK, I can focus on Tan's kidneys, but that means there are other things I can't get to. Like sending energy to his limbs, keeping his blood pressure in check, and propping his eyes open. I can only do so much; and for now, his kidneys need me. Now back off and let me get back to work."

I understand this is the work his body has to do, and I'm grateful it's rallying to the degree it is. Very grateful.

But, I'm also so tired of the cost.

I'm tired of all that this disease has cost Tanner. Early on, Tanner had to let go of football and P.E. He'd just started wrestling when he had to undergo immunosuppressive treatment that wiped out his immune system, so he couldn't be in such close, sweaty contact or lose weight. When the steroid treatments caused muscle wasting, he couldn't climb stairs, let alone lift weights. In April, he was to perform at Carnegie Hall.  Carnegie Hall. Now, he won't. He has lost out on time with friends; countless family and social functions; and normal, regular, day-to-day living. For years.

We've been lucky to have so many wonderful teachers, administrators, friends and family on our side these past 8 years. People have known Tan's story and supported him and us.  It was alarming, therefore, to encounter a teacher recently who was speaking pretty flippantly and contemptuously about Tan in front of her class. Those who know me know I'm not an unreasonable person; I'm pretty even keeled. So I stayed kind and even keeled when I talked with the teacher. I tried to help her better understand Tan's condition; the fact that when he's not down for the count, he can look pretty darn healthy, so it's understandable she might be confused by looking at him to realize just how tenuous his situation can be at times.

She called into question a photo she'd seen of him with friends, because she hadn't seen him in school. I have a mother who worked for school districts for decades, so I absolutely understand and respect that such a scenario can raise eyebrows, what with all the hooky playing that goes on and whatnot.  I explained to the teacher the circumstances surrounding that photo: Tanner had gone to school on a Thursday morning, though he didn't feel well at all. He made it half a day, then he came home and went to bed, where he slept through until early Friday evening. He awoke, he ate and went back to bed until Saturday evening; ditto on Sunday. Come 5p on Sunday, he woke up, showered, went to a friend's house for an hour so he could be there when she opened a letter telling her where she would serve a volunteer mission for her church; a picture was snapped; he came home and went back to bed. And slept through till Monday evening.  The picture the teacher called out in front of the class represented one hour in a four day period that Tanner left our home.

To the degree I explained above, I get it. (I'm not too hot on the fact that she was discussing it with the whole class, but we'll just put a pin in that for now.)  She didn't know much of Tanner's back story. And, when Tan is well enough to go to school, or parties, or church, or friends' houses, he puts a great face on it. He has a fantastic attitude, doesn't talk about his situation much, and is generally, for lack of a better word, normal.  He doesn't always look like he's been hit by a truck. Thankfully, he doesn't always feel that way either. But a lot of the time he does.

Tan doesn't complain much to others, and he doesn't complain much to us. Which is why recently it broke my heart a little when he said kinda shamefacedly, "I know this might sound weird, but sometimes it sucks that I don't always look sick, because I think people who haven't known me as long kind of wonder."  And then he apologized, and said he didn't mean to sound like he was complaining.

Let me insert a note right here to say that Tanner is a real kid, and I'm a real mom, and we have plenty of real moments of typical, boneheaded behavior on both our parts. I'm not glorifying Tan; I want to flick him on the forehead plenty of times. But I'm telling you, on this count -- this huge count that has so much impact on so many facets of his life -- he is something else. He doesn't rage and he doesn't whine about his plight. I'd be fine if he did occasionally, but he doesn't.

And, normally, I don't carry on and whine about it, either. I do count my blessings. I am filled with gratitude that he's still here and in so many ways is doing so well. I do know that we have been abundantly blessed over and over again, and I continue to be sincerely grateful. I'm practical, I don't borrow trouble, I don't wallow.

But there are times when it just causes my heart to hurt. To physically, painfully, ache. Because my beautiful 18-year-old son is still sleeping while there is so much of life to be lived. And I want more for him than that. I want him to fall into bed exhausted because he stayed out way too late or played way too hard.  I want him to sleep too late on a Saturday because he's a lazy teenager, then I can get irritated because I need him to get his hiney out of bed to do chores.   I want life to tire him out, not a disease his body is fighting valiantly against.

I want him to get to be 18 -- outside, during the day, with friends, at school. I want him to not have to put on a brave face, be a great sport, reassure worried moms that he's ok.

Tomorrow I'll put my own brave face back on, and I'll put gratitude before sorrow. And instead of counting the cost, I'll again count our many, many blessings.

But for tonight, I'll brush the brow of my slumbering child, then climb into bed and again pray for a cure.

Sleep tight, Sleeping Beauty.

Dammit, Siri, get it together.

Love from the city,
Teri

Bye, E. Coli

So, E. coli happened. That was about as fun as...nothing. It was no fun at all. None.

Didn't know what hit me last Friday evening, but it hit hard and by Sunday, I managed to pull myself into the shower, and that's as far as I got. Mike dried me off, dressed me and took me off to the ER.

It took a few days of shivering and drenching in sweat and other activities that aren't fun chit chatting about, and even less fun enduring, before they figured out what had me so sick.

It's astonishing how quickly something can reduce a person to absolutely useless. I don't remember a lot about my four days in the hospital this week, or the two days before, but I do vividly recall while I moved from the gurney to the CT scanning bed turning to the tech to say, "I can't believe I'm out in public without a bra on."  She said, "Hey, when the patients come in with no bra and unmatched socks, we know they're the ones who actually need to be here. Don't you worry about a thing."  Somehow, her words comforted.

Did I mention we didn't even brush my hair after showering and before heading to the hospital? And that that wasn't rectified for another 2 days? Yeah, I was looking GOOD.

I recall there were some really cool, involved dreamlike states I faded in and out of during my stay. And one snazzy cat who morphed into a bowl of Honeycomb.

My Mom came to the Valley and stayed with me at the hospital, and got the kids out of the house and fed a few times; and Mike's mom was there with us, too. Sweet church ladies brought meals to my family in the evenings, so Mike could be at the hospital with me after work. I couldn't talk much, and holding my eyes open was painful. The only release was sleep and I do remember praying they would just put me out until I was well. Once the cultures grew and E. coli was confirmed, getting the right antibiotics on board brought about a quick improvement and they sent me home Wednesday to recuperate further.

I tried Facebook a time or two and managed a few minutes before realizing it just hurt too much to look at a screen for any length of time. I moved to the living room to be with my girls during the day on Friday, and finally managed to glance through some emails. I spent an hour reviewing and responding to emails and fielding a few calls and felt as though I had been at it for 15 hours. I called it a day.

Today, I realized if I have any chance of going back to work on Monday, I had to steadily increase my stints of being up and around. I have an 80-mile round trip commute to the office each day and would be in an office for hours before driving home; it was time to build up a little stamina. Time to venture out.

So, I bathed, I put on make up, a bra, pants with a zipper and pushed my hair around a little. I decided to take just a very short trip with the girls while Mike and Tanner were off at a church meeting together - a 10-minute drive to "Ladies Night" at a local bookstore, then a treat and come home. I made it about 7 minutes walking around the store before I realized I'd bit off more than I could chew. The girls were totally chill about cutting it short, Karlie let me hang on her arm as we made our way to the car, and I tried to walk straight though my eyes were mostly closed because seeing was tender and exhausting again. We decided to get a treat through Kneaders' drive through and a burger from In 'N Out, since I had no idea what to do about dinner. And I thought about how awesome it would be if we'd gotten Macy her driver permit all those months she's been asking about it.

Picture us in the drive through at In 'N Out; me, eyes closed, head hanging; the car ahead of us moves, Macy mildly says, "Mom, it's time." I lift my head, put the car in drive, inch forward 4 feet, press on the brake, wonder whether I can trust myself to hold the brake, decide I'm an iffy proposition, put it back in park; lather, rinse, repeat.

The girls weren't piqued with worry; this is just how we've been rolling lately. Tanner's years of crazy medical dramatics have made these kids pretty cool operators; illness and odd Mom behavior rolls off their backs. They were totally unflappable (for the moment); we chatted, they sang, and every so often, Macy would blurt, "Mom, it's time." And forward we'd go.

I'm glad no one was tense and worried, since my next trick on the trip home was to...well, let's just have it...how do I say it delicately?...I ....ugh...well, I barfed a bit as we drove along. Yep, just driving along. Because life is just that awesome.  And the girls reacted just as they should...totally grossed out. Not stressed, not scared. Just fully and completely grossed out. Exactly as they should have been.

Trust me when I say, I didn't think I was overdoing it. I honestly figured 3 days after being out of the hospital, it was reasonable I should try to manage a 1-hr outing; that I needed to be moving around a bit and trying to move ahead.

Turns out, maybe it's a little soon. Since I managed to have yet another incident on the driveway when I got home, it kinda confirms it.

So, keys are back in the drawer, I'm limiting my forays to the house and yard, and I'm not sure I'll attempt that commute on Monday.  Don't want to be a menace to society with my head lolling and what not.

But for the moment, at least, there's a little eyeliner still intact, I've managed to get through typing this post, and the bra's still on.

Progress.

E. coli, I believe we're beginning to see the back side of you.

Love from the couch,
Teri

What I Haven't Posted About

So, there are a few things I haven't posted about that I'll share now.

Mike's sweet Granny died this weekend. Oh, how we love Granny. She was this beautiful, smiling, engaged-in-our-lives lady who always had a gleam in her eye.

It's weird to use "was," "had," "loved."  I'm not sure I can quite say "loved" yet. We love her; we always will. She was 92 years of love. This picture of Mike and Granny was taken at her 90th birthday party. 90th!! Can you believe it? She was ageless and gracious.

 

Mike loved his Granny. He still does.

 

Tanner has pneumonia and it's caused his kidney disease to flare for the first time in a long time. We've postponed our departure for the funeral in the hope he stabilizes enough that I feel comfortable leaving him at Mom & Dad's while I accompany Mike and the other kids to Granny's service. I'm, of course, completely comfortable with the care he'd get at Mom & Dad's. I'm just not comfortable being away from him when he has so much going on.

This was Tanner without pneumonia, at one of his football games this fall, deep in remission, right where we like him.

This is Tanner rockin' a mullet during his show choir's "Rock of Ages" tribute performance. Yep, 80s music is the thing of elevator music and school choirs now. I don't feel old at all.

Adam's been here a few weeks and will be here a few weeks more before he heads to Utah to live, and begin his post-South Africa life. I'm very excited for him.

 

Here he is with cousin Megan and sister Macy at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix.

 

Here he is with Mike at the mall. (Mike is Pops to Adam, but he's Mike to me.)

 

Here he is with Karlie, giving her a kiss on her 13th birthday.

 

Here he is with Macy lurking like a creeper behind him, and Sadie our sweet dog enjoying the summer heat. (When Adam left South Africa in August it was winter there. Flying into Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport in the blistering August heat represented a bit of atmospheric shock, I'll tell ya. Thankfully, in our high desert corner of Arizona, summer is a bit less punishing.)

 

This is Adam with Mike, Tanner and Macy, fresh off the plane from South Africa. I may or may not have breached the boundary stanchions and ropes in my eagerness to hug my sweet boy after his 2 years away.

 

 Dad had cancer last year, and he got through it with just fatigue. No other horrible side effects. He's so grateful to have it behind him; so am I.

He was a little tired when Macy and I picked him up from his two weeks of radiation in Sedona. (See that red mark? That's where they aimed the radiation 10 times. The spot's gone now; so is the cancer.)

 

Soon after we got him home, he was back in his garden, and all was well.

 

One of my dear, dear friends is having a baby after a struggle with infertility -- I'm so excited to meet miss Nora when she arrives in April! (I don't have a photo for this little note, obviously. Note the not arriving until April part.)

My sister's baby, Ellie, turned 8 on Christmas Eve and was baptized in January by Mike. I can't believe the baby of our family is not a baby anymore.

Finally, I am feeling good. Better than I have felt in years and years. It's fabulous. Right up until about 2 weeks ago, it had been some tough years of illness. Each day the past couple of weeks has felt better than the last and I am so grateful.  (Even with my fantastic fall in the chicken pen last week, which I am completely over by the way. All scabs are almost gone.)

I'm a little uncertain what to do with all the energy and good moods. But, I'm accepting it all greedily and loving it. And the kids and Mike are adjusting to my goofy extra energy. Well, they'll just have to adjust. Because I don't plan on giving it up.

And that's a synopsis some of the events that I don't necessarily write about, but they add the color and shadows to our lives here.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Father Time

Merry almost Christmas! The kids are on winter break, we're going to wash every piece of laundry in the house today, Mama Hen and her 9 baby chicks are out of the house and happy in their own box of straw -- all is well!

Oh, I didn't mention we hatched 9 chicks in the house recently? In the living room, specifically? No? Must have been because it wasn't the highlight of my month. Broody Mama who hatched and cooed at her precious babies -- darling, yes. In my house? Boooooooo!

Still, there was a snowstorm, Mama wouldn't leave her nest, she was covered in snow under the honeysuckle bush, we couldn't let her freeze to death just because she was following her motherly instincts, so we brought her in the house. It took three days after the last chick was hatched before I was standing over Mike as he rested on the couch, and arms waving and eyes wild, begged him to let me help him build a home for the new family. Mission accomplished.


That taken care of, I could concentrate on other seasonal things: Christmas presents, baking, indulging in treats, praying for New Years when all the treats would be gone and veggies would reappear, yelling at kids about clumps of mud tracked through the house...all those things that make Christmas magical.

In the midst of it all, Tanner's relapse has been a specter lurking over my shoulder and hovering overhead. You can read about it here, and about our big hopes for Father Time.

Hope you have a Merry Christmas and mud-free days in the New Year!

Love from the farm,
Teri

Back In the Fight

We're back in the thick of it, wrestling alligators again...

After 7 blissful months of remission where Tanner got to grow, play, laugh, grow, feel like going to school, spend time with friends, grow, look great, play 8th grade football, move freely...and so much more...he has relapsed, we learned from his doctor last week.

So, after 7 months of enjoying and being grateful for every carefree moment I watched him enjoy, I'm now looking forward to learning what his doctor has in mind for getting him back into remission and onto enjoying the upcoming Christmas season.

I'm looking forward to getting him well so he can enjoy a healthy winter and be prepared for whatever he wants to do in the spring...baseball, track, weightlifting, whatever.

I'm looking forward to positive test results, dialing back awful meds that nonetheless get his kidneys back on track, and having those meds, with which we have a serious love-hate relationship, pull out a victory for us once again.

I'm looking forward to someone, somewhere finding a cure.  Please.

And, I'm looking forward to Tanner sporting a kick-butt pair of alligator-hide boots one day. Soon.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Fall = Grateful!

There's lots to catch up on as we bound into fall. Aside from the antics of some presumptious feathered farm animals who shall remain nameless,there have been some fun things happening that I want to tell you about. Like the fun we had with Mike's sweet sister and her darling girls and husband picking apples in Colorado...

Then, there was the adventure we had in the pumpkin patch with our Ellie, Grandma, aunt and cousins visiting from out of state...

And, I also want to fill you in on what's up with this guy, who's having a blast in South Africa. He's the one in the middle...see him there with the happy smile?

Then, I might do a little bragging about how cute these girls were in their school choir concert this fall....

But, all those updates and anecdotes are going to have to wait. Because, today, I think I need to just say thank you - to express my gratitude and overwhelming joy.

Because today, I realized we've passed a significant milestone with this guy.

Six months.

Six months Tanner has been in remission from his kidney disease.

Six months he's been free of pain and uncertainty and missing out on absolutely everything his friends were up to. Six months he's been free of worry and emergency rooms and IV's and steroids.

Since Tanner's kidney disease got off to a dramatic start when he was 10, this is the longest, actually twice as long as, he has ever gone without a relapse.

And I am so very grateful...

Because, where for a time he was sallow and weak with deep circles under his eyes, now he's the picture of health.

Where for a long time he was limited to only walking -- no climbing stairs, no running, no P.E. -- now he can do this...

...and this (and it's a darn good thing,because his Dad was too busy laughing to be of any help with this big boy).

(And, no, Mike hasn't taken up a new habit ... it's a lollipop.)

While for the past four years, we couldn't keep from reminding him he was sick because there were endless urine tests and blood pressure checks and blood draws and hospitalizations and talk of spilling and bleeding and heart problems...

...now he's having fun exploring his talents and expanding his comfort zones.

While he started out this year in the hospital, facing six months of chemotherapy to fight a stubborn, threatening relapse...

Now, he's here with us. Every day. Strong, adventurous, laughing, healthy, smiling and happy. We love this kid. And we're so grateful he's not only here, he's well.

All is well.

Thank you God, all is well.

How I pray we can hold on to this remission forever.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Up For A Chat?

I'm not saying that it's been far too long since I've been over in this corner of the world, I'm just saying that when I entered my username and password to sign in to my very own blog? I botched the password. It's been a long, long time.

I've missed it.

I've missed it all: the reading my farmer/foodie/hippie friend blogs (friends I've never met, mind you, but who I think I might actually love. Not in any way you need to worry about, honey. You get all the love and affection that should be directed toward a husband, every last bit, trust me.) No, just love in the sense that it feels good to peek in and see how things are going, to find out a favorite pet or grandchild came through surgery OK, to feel a twist in my stomach when I read that someone's beloved critter passed away, to gaze with bitterness and covetousness upon others' gardens when mine is struggling, straining, working to live.... OK, maybe I don't miss that part.

I've missed all of you, too. It's been a bit of a gaping hole, to tell you the truth. It's good to be looking at this silly screen again, outdated Easter art, and all.

I've been without a computer for quite some time - my laptop didn't take kindly to my dropping it, the picky thing. And, around the same time I dropped the Dell, we had a death around here that made it feel a lot less like our familiar old farm. Then Adam moved out and took his computer with him. And then I got a job. And, Karlie played softball, and I volunteered to help with the concession stands. Which means I didn't get home before 8 p.m. three or four nights a week, for something on the order of 68 years, by my count. To say the least, things have been a little off kilter.

(We still don't have a computer, but Adam's home for the weekend, which means he's nowhere near home because he's out with friends, so he agreed to let me borrow his computer.)

So here I am.

And there's so much to tell you, I don't even know where to start.

So, let me start with the hardest thing.

Miss Gertie won't be knocking on my door anymore. She hasn't banged against that hardwood door in more than a month. Oh, I miss that silly, grumpy, wonderful old goat.

I woke up Mother's Day and realized after 40 minutes of laying there with my eyes closed that there was not a soul in this house that was even beginning to stir, so any hope of breakfast in bed was fading fast. I decided to get outside and wander the farm during the quiet. I went down to the chicken yard that is presently home to the otherwise wandering dogs and Gertie. It was one of those awful moments where it takes you awhile to take it all in. I talked to the three dogs who were eager to greet me, then said, out loud, "Hey guys, where's Gert?" and I hadn't gotten her name out before I looked to my left and saw her lying there, obviously dead.

We don't know what happened. There were no visible indicators as to why she died. She was just laying there, still, and so darn quiet.

We don't know anything about Gertie's past: she was a rescue critter that came to us through a friend of my sister's, so we never knew how old she was, whether she'd been a healthy little goat, whether she'd come from a good line of old goats. She'd certainly seemed fine the day before Mother's Day. There was no warning.

It was a shocking and sad start to Mother's Day, darn it. I miss that silly old goat. No more rearing up at the dogs, dodging her way past us into the kitchen; shelling out Triscuits, scratching between horns, regretting walking behind her when she was feeling a little bloated. All that's gone now. Mike pointed out there were lots of little goats being born down the road from us and I could "get another Gertie." He meant it right, of course. But, I don't think you get two Gerties in life. I don't know that I'm a goat person, per se. Gertie just waltzed into our lives and we made a place for her, and she was part of it all. I wasn't looking for a goat for the farm, I just welcomed Miss Gertie. Will we ever have another goat? I don't know. I really just don't know. Right now, it feels like the wrong question to ask, so I'm just going to leave it be for awhile.

So, that was the sad part.

But there have been lots of good parts since last we spoke. For instance, we have lots of new feathered friends on the farm. We have some chickens who are getting pretty close to full grown who are frankly a little skittish. Right now, the kiddos are in charge of feeding and watering them, but soon we'll be moving the dogs out of the chicken yard and moving the chickens in there, and then they'll be my chickens. I'll take over feeding and watering and spending time in the yard with them, making sure they know who I am. It's right that the kids are taking care of them right now for a few reasons, but I can't wait to make them mine. Don't ask me to explain it further, that's all I have for right now. I can say that I'm eager to sit with them awhile so I can figure out their names. These chickens will have names and will live long enough to learn them, by golly.

We also have a batch of younger chicks who are currently on the front porch, and who we've taken to letting out to peck and scratch and wallow in the dirt. These 8 chicks are loving and tame, and not very skittish (unless I use the power washer a little too close to their brooder, that is.)

Why, you ask, would I be using the power washer near their brooder? Well, to blast away the goose poop, of course. Because I'm learning that geese like to poop about as much as turkeys and ducks do, and by golly, that's a lot. And, they like to poop while standing at the front door looking in at us. Even so, these geese are awesome. As is their pal, Doris the Duck. (So named for her pillbox hat, which of course evokes Doris Day. It evokes Jackie O, too, but somehow Jackie the Duck didn't have the same ring to it.) The photos will be coming. These guys and gals are beautiful. (I don't actually know their sexes, I've just made some assumptions that I will verify or disprove as soon as I get a new computer.)

So you'll feel like you know them when you meet them, I'll tell you now: the grey goose is Bruno, Alvin is the big white fella, and as I mentioned, the duck is Doris.

I'm big into naming these critters these days. I think it's because I'm really hoping we can keep all these animals alive to see next summer, and somehow, if they all have names, they'll be permanent fixtures - indispensable characters in the story we're unfolding here. Maybe if we pile all this guilt on them about being important to us, not just nameless little feathered things, the universe will see fit to let them keep us a little longer. (I'm not just putting my faith in the universe for critter longevity - we've also made strides with our coyote/dog-proofing, that I hope will pay off.)

OK, so photos of fowl are forthcoming.

Other news: Tanner's doing fantastic. He looks healthy and strong. He feels good. Except for some silly white blood cell action, his labs are great and his kidneys are doing their job. We couldn't be happier or more grateful. It's a beautiful thing.

Adam is enjoying his pool boy job, and is preparing to head to South Africa at the end of August. He's going in for immunizations next week, we just received his FBI clearance in the mail, and I just picked up a letter of good conduct from our local police department (these are a few of the things South Africa requires before letting young foreign men come hang out in their country for a couple of years.) We're excited at the prospect of all that he's going to experience during this big adventure. What an amazing opportunity for a 19-year-old kid.

The girls are doing great: Miss Macy went to a week-long dance clinic and loved it - she'll be starting dance in the fall. She just returned from her first girls' camp - it was relocated and cut short because of the wildfires raging in the area where our beautiful regular girls' camp is located, but she still had a wonderful time. More on that later. This summer, Macy's learned the joy of earning cold hard cash through babysitting, and is getting goofier and more beautiful every day. Karlie Q is holding her own this summer. She just finished her first season of softball and her coaches were impressed with her focus and budding skills. It was wonderful to watch her out there doing something new and working hard at it. She's off to volleyball camp on Monday and basketball camp after that. I'm ignoring the fact that she looks more like a teenager than any 10-year-old has any business doing. I'm just choosing to avoid it. Nobody need feel compelled to tell me otherwise.

My sweet sister beat her cancer. She's coming back to us after a long, exhausting process of diagnosis, surgery, treatment, and the beginnings - very beginnings - of recovery. She's been amazing through what has been a really lousy couple of years, and she's shown fortitude that she may not realize was shining through, even when she was drooping in a big chair for weeks and weeks. She's quit shedding radiation, so we can all hug her freely now. There was no end to the GlowWorm and radiation jokes - I'm not sure we've exhausted them yet. The doctors think they have the cancer licked and don't think any more treatment is on the horizon. We are so, so grateful. She's been through so much and I'm glad she's getting to the other side of it all. I just hope she will begin to feel like herself soon. She's missed herself, and so have we. I can't express what it means that she had such a fightable form of cancer and we didn't have to live in that netherworld of fear and uncertainty. Now, I just want her to feel good. Slow and easy.

Did I mention I'm working? I am. Just part time, as a -- you'll love this -- reporter. I'm not kidding. I am actually writing for a living again for our little, hometown newspaper. I'm having so much fun. These are such neat, neat people who are running a paper with the thinking that if a child decides to pick up an issue, they won't be harmed or upset by what they read there. It's idealistic to be sure, and I am pleased as punch. Let the big state newspaper tackle all the "if it bleeds, it leads" stuff. We'll stick with community newspapering, thank you very much. It's been an adjustment to not be keyed up all the time, intent and hyper-alert and always worried about the message, like I was during my umpty-ump years as a PR person. Until I stumbled back into the working world and began attending meetings again, I didn't realize how much time I spent analyzing every situation, worried about the outcome, really wanting to help people better get their message across. In my early forays back in the professional realm, I found myself wanting to script the participants, to whisper in someone's ear how they could make a more powerful argument, or slip a note to someone to coach them on their approach to a tricky conversation. Oh, the bliss, when it dawned on me during a particularly contentious meeting: I don't have to fix this situation, I just have to report on it. I just have to tell what happens, not shape what happens. If you haven't been there, this might all be a big yawner. If you've ever been there, you'll know how delicious this awakening was.

It struck me the other day, though, that I may have left it a bit too long getting back into an office environment. My moment of realization came while talking to my editor and another reporter: I noticed that my editor was craning her neck a little bit to look down past my knees. Wondering what she was looking at, I glanced down and saw what she saw: without skipping a beat in our conversation, I had pulled out a bottle of foot powder from my bag and was shaking it right into my shoes. Yep, right there in the front of a real live office, in front of real live witnesses, I was taking care to avoid foot odor.

I'm going to try harder, swear.

Hopefully, I'll have a new computer soon. I miss being here.  Regardless, I'll be back soon.

Hope all is well at your end.

Love from the farm,
Teri

In the City

We're in the Valley this week - that's short for Valley of the Sun or Phoenix Metropolitan Area for those who don't know the lingo.

It's a busy week of doctor appointments: Tanner's kidney check up; my sister Lynda's thyroid surgery follow up ("So, where's this pill that's gonna make me glow for 3 days?"); her "how-do-I-function-without-a-thyroid?" appointment; a little school on the road; and a bit of recreation.

My sweet husband is home on the farm all alone while we take care of all this business. Before we left, he, Adam and I had an onion planting sprint - I'd say marathon, but the whole point is that it didn't take us all that long. We were on a deadline so we had to hustle. It was an impressive sight, I tell you.

Mike ripped up the onion bed with the as-yet-unnamed tractor. I got my first ride on the tractor. I hadn't been on one since I was a kid. It was awesome. I forgot how great it is to just dangle your legs as you rumble back and forth, back and forth. I already got it that Mike loves his little tractor. Now I really get it. Seeing my little chicken boots hanging off the side of the...whatever part they were hanging off...not thinking of anything, just along for the ride. Bliss.

But back to the sprint.

So, we ripped up the ground, worked in some bags of good potting dirt, wet the soil **guffaw laugh, chuckle, snort, grab side, guffaw laugh more, snort, hiccup, choke**. Oh, sorry, it's just that there's no way that sandy, terra cotta-colored substance is soil. It's not. It's going to take a few years. But we're in the gardening corner and we have to talk the talk, so we'll call it "soil" and I'll just try not to blow snot bubbles while I hold it all in.

Anyway.

We ripped the ground, worked in the dirt, wet the soil, marked a little grid and planted 300 onions, all in a little less than 3 hours flat. I kid you not. I have the sunburn across my lower back and throbbing fingernail beds to prove it. We were flying. We had to get those onions in the ground because there was no way they would have lasted until we get home this Saturday, and I wasn't going to ask Mike to plant them all on his own while we were gone.

Getting the first crop of the season into the ground is always monumental for me. Can you be gleefully serene? Because I was so excited every step of the way - seriously, even walking from the house to the garden was jubilant that morning - but then as I sat back on my heels (for which my thigh muscles and knees still haven't forgiven me) and saw those little green blades poking hopefully up out of the dirt, I was just so darn happy and, well, serene. I can't help it.There's something about the smell of the earth and digging and mounding dirt around young stems and watching the water darken the soil *heheheh, really I can't take it*, that gets my granola on.

So, anyway. Onions are in. I'll let you know how they do. Admittedly, plopping veggies down in "soil" that freshly dug isn't the ideal way to go. I had a little bed all ready for them that I'd filled with lots of good crunchy leaves and grass clippings and manure and bags of soil last year then left to simmer all fall and winter till now, only to realize there was not nearly enough room in that bed for all the onions, hence the big bed we dug the other day. So, I have my toes crossed that most of the 300 will survive. And, I'll find another purpose for that little patch of wonder dirt just aching to nourish...something.

If this were a gardening blog, I'd load you down with the names of all the onions I ordered, but since I don't know what the heck kind of blog this is, I'll just wait till I open a gardening tab on here somewhere to get that detailed. Suffice it to say we have red, sweet, big and good keepers.

Moving on.

Tan's doctor appointment went pretty darn good. His kidneys are doing great these days. Homeschooling during the horrendous cold and flu season seems to have paid big dividends. No general illnesses provoking a kidney response means we're not contemplating chemotherapy, which means Mama's a happy girl.

Now, we did find out that these little fellas aren't producing the way they should, so we're keeping an eye on that for awhile. The immunosuppresant meds Tan is on can cause his white blood cell counts and bone marrow to go awry, so we're testing his blood again in a couple of weeks to see if his numbers go back up. Hopefully, we'll find the dip is an anomaly rather than a trend and we won't have to change anything up. When things are going this good for his kidneys we hate to rock the boat, but we need to avoid causing other threatening issues while we're fighting the good fight for his kidney beans. I don't have that clenched fist in my stomach, so I'm thinking this will either end up being a non-issue or a manageable one, so we're going to enjoy the rest of our visit, by golly.

By the way, have you met Tanner?

Here he is.

And this is Tanner.

Awww...and this is Tanner. And Mike. And our old friend Whitney, who we sure miss.

I suppose meeting Adam, Macy & Karlie is in order, too. We'll do that later.

OK, so now that we've decided that we're not going to borrow trouble about Tan's white blood cells, we're going to get on with our time in the Valley.

After Lyn gets back from the doctor this morning, we're heading here:

To the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. My kids love this place. We'll be having lunch at this big restaurant where they come rolling up to your table with a dim sum cart, and it's really easy to go crazy ordering all those little side dishes.

The restaurant opens out to this little gazebo and pond. And the waiters and waitresses smile placatingly but are very impatient for you to know what you want right away, be ready to order when they get to your table, and enjoy the nice atmosphere, but don't linger too long after you're done. We have tables to turn after all. Somehow, the impatience adds to the charm of the experience. I'm sure they'd love to hear that condescending little statement.

After lunch, we'll be going to the oh-so-Asian sounding, authentic Chinese grocery store:

Here, my kids buy all manner of weird treats and sweets. Adam goes in for some truly disgusting, exotic stuff all in the name of culture. Blech. I'm all for culture, I love culture, but I'll take good tasting, no-offensive-textured culture, thank you very much. This from the kid who doesn't like fresh tomatoes or mushrooms because of their texture. I don't get it.

I'm looking forward to our Ranch Market trip because if you haven't heard the secret yet, I'm about to give it away right here, right now: Asian markets have seriously fantastic prices. I've been wanting to get down here to stock up on cooking oils and coconut milk and other items that you'll find dirt cheap here and nowhere else. Seriously, you can't beat Asian market prices. And that is a statement that is backed up by strict scientific research. Well, not really, but it is true that a lot of people agree with me that anything you can get an Asian market, you should, because it is less expensive there. Swear.

Well, that's a lengthy rundown of what we're up to. Just think, if I were on Twitter, you could have gotten the bite-size version:

"Onions growing. Kidneys good. Lyn to doc. Off to Chinese market. No beef tongue, Adam, NO!"

Oh, and remember those two seemingly unconnected photos I showed you the other day? Well, here's one more.

But, I don't have time to tell you about it now, so we'll get to that later.

Love from the farm, if the farm were in Scottsdale,
Teri

Good Morning!

Just a few quick thoughts before I start my Saturday chores:

Remember a few days ago when I mentioned checking into a raw milk source for butter and yogurt making and hubby pleasing? Well, the source said yes so I had a moment of great excitement. Then suddenly, I heard knocking on the inside of my skull and a little voice said, "Uhh, excuse me, Einstein, but isn't your son immunesuppressed, making him vulnerable to any stray little bacteria or virus that the rest of the family's strong immune systems might otherwise scoff at?" So, I figured I better check into whether Tan can have unpasteurized anything (including the goat's milk). Our online kidney guru pulled up a report stating that unpasteurized or raw is on that advisory council's no-no list, and my initial Google search pulled up the same. I'm going to check with Tanner's kidney doctor, who I trust implicitly, and will consider hers the final word. While it would be lovely to bring fresh milk into our home, I'm certainly not willing to take an unnecessary risk with Tan. If we have to wait until he's off the immune-suppressing meds, really, that's no big deal. We'll wait. I'll let you know what we learn.

Gertie let me scratch her behind the horns yesterday. It was fabulous. Then she stomped on my foot. One step forward....

Mike has pink eye. I've been grateful the past few mornings to be able to pop open my baby blues without degooping first. Fingers crossed these clear-eyed mornings will continue.

Adam's missionary application is sitting in front of Church leaders who are deciding where in the world he'll go. Will we be buying pea coats for England or short-sleeved white shirts for Central America? Or a banjo for him to do some front-porch pickin' in Kentucky? We'll know soon!

My friend Debbie said we can go scoop poop from their horse barn. Yee haw!

One of the pigs bit me yesterday. That was a first in two years of having pigs. I was dumping a can of kitchen scraps into their pen and one of the big fellas was ever so excited so he tried to take the can from me and chomped down on my thumb and hand. It was a blunt-edged chomp and broke the skin from the tugging motion, not from any razor-sharp teeth. But the throbbing, fevered, bleeding thumb didn't bug me nearly as much as the gobs of slimy goo he left all over my hand. Let's just say he was primed to properly masticate whatever food entered his strong jaws. Before you think I made some comment like, "Yeah, you'll get yours, buddy!" just know that I didn't. While I'm grateful for the food these pigs are going to be providing us soon, I'm not lighthearted about killing them. I thought being a farm girl now I'd take the butchering in stride, and to a degree I do in terms of not brooding over it, but mostly I just feel grateful for these animals' lives, not entitled to them.

Looking forward to seeing what the heck this "super moon" will look like tonight. It's been really bright around the farm the last few nights, and last night's moon was freaky, because it had a wide red ring around it. Creepy! But really, really cool. Wish the kids had been here to see it. They were in the Valley with family, where you don't see the stars, you see the soft glow of street lamps.

My kiddos are coming home today from their cousins' and my mother-in-law will be bringing them here, so soon our home will be filled again with some of my favorite people in the whole wide world. Guess that means I better go take a shower and get on my chores.

Love from the farm,
Teri

When It All Stops

I was cleaning out my Inbox tonight because every time I opened it, it screamed that it was full to bursting. I stumbled upon this email to and from a friend, and realized I'd forgotten all about it.

Sort of. Because the stuff I wrote in that old email is etched into my sinews and scratched into my bones, so even if it's not on my mind, it's in me.

Everything is so good with our youngest son Tanner right now. He's holding his own with his kidney disease. And I love living in the moment of well being. That's why, right now, when I'm feeling safe and happy and full of hope, might be the best time to share this.

Since this was written (and settle in, it's a long read....) we've dodged chemo, blessedly turned around a long relapse, and have brought all Tan's important readings into the "normal" range. I love normal. It's a lovely juxtaposition against the alternative.

You think you're OK...and in the thick of the bad times, we really are lifted up so we can be OK...but sometimes everything stops and things we didn't even know were there come spilling out. I actually drafted the below a couple of years ago, but only shared it with my friend last Spring, at a time when I had ground to a halt and couldn't function, though I was trying to keep that to myself, as well. As I said to her in my email, "I think of nothing for hours. I feel bereft of spirit....In short, I'm not myself. And the me that's left behind is no one I know."

Referring to the post below, I said, "Finding out that when I think I'm thinking of one thing, but I'm really filled to the brim with stuff like this, it's no wonder that everything is getting stymied and that I'm just not able to connect anywhere."

Here's the post that was never posted.... (Remember, all is good and happy now. Sometimes, having a chronically ill child just gets rough.)

NO TV? Not a Problem (draft)

When I sat down to write this little ditty the other day, I wrote the headline first. Because that's what this post was supposed to be about. I was going to write - humorously, I hoped - about how when we got home from a hospital stay with Tanner, after a long month of running around the state trying to figure out what was wrong with him, we found the cable had been disconnected because I forgot to pay the bill.

That was August 2008 and we decided, hey, let's try not having TV awhile. It's been OK; we haven't missed it TOO often. Then, I turned on Fox 10 News this morning at my Mom's while trying to write for a client, and after hearing the anchors (both male and female) tease a segment on the proper way to pluck your eyebrows no less than 6 times in the hour prior to the segment actually running, I decided that I really didn't miss TV. So, I tuned the TV to a music station and sat back down to my writing assignment.

That was it. That is what I intended to write about, dressed up with all sorts of witticisms and no-TV kid anecdotes, of course.

So, I wrote my headline and started writing what I thought would be that post. This is what came out instead. I guess this must have been waiting around back there in the nooks and crannies of my mind, waiting to be heard. As it unfolded, and I realized there was no way to bring this back around to my intended topic, I decided to just give in. So here it goes. While you read this, know that all is really well. Tanner's doing great. I even ran into his teacher the other day at lunchtime and she told me he'd had 3 points taken away so far that day for chit-chatting. We were both delighted, then I was obliged to tell her to tell him that his mom said to quit talking. She laughed and said she would, then we both agreed again that it felt good to have him feeling good enough to misbehave in class.

So, he's fine. I'm fine. But stuff like this is still sunk into the fibre of my being, as I'm sure it is in Tanner's. And Mike's. And Adam's. And my Mom's and Dad's. And my sister's. And the girls'. And Mike's mom. And all who love Tan and us. Memories are a tricky thing. They can hijack your heart for a little while. I've learned to let them roll over me rather than fighting them, and then move on. Letting a remembrance wash over me unencumbered by trying to stifle it somehow allows the joy to edge back in a little sooner.

All that said, here's how I approached writing about not missing TV. Imagine my surprise:

After we'd spent a month going from doctor to doctor, putting Tanner through test after test; watched him wasting away before our eyes, too weak to sit up or hold his head up, or even talk much of the time, we spent 10 days in the hospital in Flagstaff. Specialists in the Valley were consulted; a pediatric gastroenterologist from Phoenix Children's Hospital visited, tested, probed painfully, and pronounced that the tests on Tanner's internal systems showed he had endured an unidentified traumatic illness, but there was evidence of initial healing in his colon. Finally, after he'd been on IV nutrition for 7 days, and had been able to hold down liquid without throwing up or being thrown into prolonged bouts of desperately clenched, fetal-position agony, we were allowed to take him home. He was skeletal. He'd been one month without a meal.

The last few days in the hospital, they finally allowed us to let him try Saltine crackers. He couldn't tolerate them at first. The above-described, so-hard-to-watch agony would ensue. As the days went on, however, he could finally nibble a half a cracker without pain. Then, the day before he went home, he WANTED the crackers. And, after coaxing and pleading with him to try to eat during the past month, I had to hold back.

We were allowed to feed him one cracker, wait for 45 minutes to see if he reacted, then give him another one. It was horribly ironic that after all this time, watching him grow weaker and sicker and quieter, when he couldn't tolerate food or drink, that now I had to firmly deny him when he would beg me for another cracker during the waiting period; pleading because he was so hungry. And I had to deny him. After about 6 hours of this, when it was evident that he actually was finally able to tolerate food in his digestive system, we were allowed to let him eat the crackers as he wanted them. He was in heaven.

It was a hard 6 hours. It was a hard month. It had been a hard summer, and it became a hard fall. We returned from the Flagstaff hospital sometime in August, but Tanner was never quite well. Then November came and we finally got a diagnosis after a tense ambulance ride to the Valley from Flagstaff, when Tanner showed symptoms of an often fatal condition. While the ride was taut with the strain of the unknown, there had been a blessing given in the examination room of the pediatrician's office that promised peace and calm, and the promise was granted; so Tan and I were no longer fearful, just intent. Part of the strain for me came from Tan and I being engaged in something so big and dangerous, and Mike being home asleep after a long night's work, completely unaware of the dramatic scene unfolding with our youngest son. I felt somehow guilty that he, who is so in love with his kids, should be oblivious to the severity of the situation. Knowing Mike sleeps like a log, and wouldn't be roused by the phone, I called a friend who lives down the road and asked her to please go to the house, to go into our bedroom and wake Mike and tell him what was going on. I knew that was an awkward thing to ask someone to do, but I couldn't stand him not knowing. It wasn't fair that he might wake hours later to find he'd missed something so important.

Not long after that request of my friend, I got the groggy, confused call from Mike as he struggled to climb out of the deep furrows of sleep and comprehend the gravity of what I was sharing with him. How do you get pulled from sleep to hear the words, "They told us that the fact that Tanner is still with us is a very good sign. Usually, if someone is going to die from this, it will happen in the first 24 to 48 hours of onset."

Onset. A word that would come to figure boldly in our lives.

While Tan didn't have the dire disease they initially thought, he was experiencing a pretty severe relapse of another kidney disease that had gone undiagnosed. It turns our that the onset of this condition that would turn all of our lives, but especially Tanner's, on edge, was a key to how he would fare in the long run. The onset, though we didn't know it at the time, had been a scary, sudden bout of crippling arthritis just a few weeks after school let out for summer. The severe arthritis landed him on crutches for a week, then went away.

The 1st relapse, we now learned, had been the long month of desperate pain described above. The copious amounts of bleeding and protein spilling (another phrase that now plays a leading role in our lives) that put Tanner in the ambulance was another flare. The relapses in a relatively short period of time with such a dramatic onset of severe symptoms put Tanner outside of the group of patients with his condition that experience a relatively benign (albeit painful) and limited duration of the disease. Tanner's brand of onset means lifelong care under a kidney specialist.

His onset means he will likely have continued relapses, times when his kidneys are at great risk of failing. Days when we'll diligently monitor his blood pressure, his protein output, the amount of blood in his urine, whether he's swelling, whether he's nauseated or vomiting. If 5 days go by and the tricky symptoms abate, then we can go back to normal. If he goes longer than 5 days, then it's increased treatments with toxic meds and perhaps more serious medical interventions.

Those toxic meds. They keep kidney patients off dialysis, which most would agree is a pretty unpleasant life condition. So, we're grateful for these risky meds. Still, it's a little bit anxiety producing each month when we have his blood drawn to check his kidney function, yes; but also to check how his bone marrow is faring. See, the immunosuppressive drugs he's on include anti-rejection medication - the same that people who have already had an organ or bone marrow transplant take. Only Tan takes it at about 6 times the dosage of many transplant patients. And one of the more serious risks involved with this medication is that it can cause bone marrow to fail. So, monthly, we check those all-important platelet counts and other markers to make sure the treatment for his kidneys isn't the trigger of other threatening illnesses.

We wish Tanner's disease had been milder - both to have spared him many harrowing experiences and because it might have pointed to an easier future path for Tan. But, we've had lots of blessings along the way. With such a severe onset, his kidney doctor expected to find signs of great damage to important systems in Tanner's kidneys; a biopsy revealed surprisingly little damage. Also, in spite of tough relapses in the past year, Tan's kidneys right themselves and don't show signs of additional scarring or loss of function. That's a tremendous and unexpected blessing. And, during our last visit, the doctor spoke of real reason to hope that we might not have to go down that path to dialysis and transplant that his onset could have otherwise set him up for. That's a tremendous blessing, too.

And speaking of blessings, there have been literal blessings given to Tanner in critical moments by holders of the priesthood, which promised peace. And one blessing even said the time would come that Tanner would put this behind him.

Can your heart gasp? It feels, every time I think of those words, that my heart actually gasps as I wonder, "Did that mean that the acute illness he was experiencing at that moment would be put behind him?" (It was.) Or, "Does it mean that ALL of this will be left behind at some point?"

I don't know the answer to that. I know what I hope. I feel like I don't dare utter the words or some pinched little creature will take my hope and rip it and stomp on it and grind it into dust. But, oh, what I hope.

Do these musings belabour me every day? Absolutely not. I'm getting good at living in the moment, at least in this regard, and appreciating - even expecting - every good day. Am I surprised when these musings tumble forth in the most unexpected moments - when I'm pondering the ridiculousness of a news segment about eyebrow plucking, for instance?

Yes, sometimes the intensity of memories and wonderings shock me. But, I have learned that while we are not lifted out of these trials - as much as we might wish to be - we are never left alone as we work our way through them. And that is a gift.

I don't know what the rest of this journey will be like. I don't know what Tanner or we will be called to endure. I don't know if one day it will be a memory of the trial before the blessing of healing, or a lifetime of appreciating every blessing that guides us through the difficulties. I know the experiences have changed us in ways we may not yet understand. I pray that someday Tanner will look back on a long, healthy, strong life and use this experience to bless others. To give hope to others who may need it. To say, "I overcame this. So can you."

I hope. I pray. And, then I get back to work. Which, now that all of that has tumbled out and quit taking up space, maybe I can do.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Keeping It Fresh & Frugal

I find we're living closer and closer to the earth and the community the more we aim to keep it simple, healthy, fresh and frugal around here.

Last week, Mom and I decided to sign up with a produce co-op that delivers boxes of fruit and veggies to a neighboring town every two weeks. $15 a box. Even if I need to get 2 boxes to keep up with our family of 6, that's still quite a bit less than what I'm paying at our national brand grocery store for produce runs. You don't know what you're going to get in advance with the co-op, but the people I've talked to say they've been completely satisfied with the quality and freshness of the produce, with one gal telling me her lettuce kept nearly two weeks. As much as I want to support local businesses - and I do, in as many ways as I can - I have been increasingly disappointed in the quality of some of the produce available at our local grocery store.

In the gap between now and when our garden is producing, I hope the co-op will be a good alternative. My aim is to build a small greenhouse or hoop houses so I can begin growing produce year-round for our family and not be faced with this quandary in years to come.

Today, I sent a message to a family that has a milk cow to see if they're selling milk. I'd love to begin making our butter and yogurt, and Mike would like a little more milk fat in his glass. I hope to learn that 1) they are selling, and 2) that they're raising the cow without hormones and on feed that is all natural and organic.

I also sent a message to my friend who owns the local flower shop with her Mom, to see if she's still selling eggs. Since I'll be picking up new chicks that won't be laying until late summer, I'm back to buying eggs. Again, I'd rather buy from a local source, and thankfully, we have a few from which to choose. (Oh, how I just wanted to say, "to choose from," but I know it's poor grammar. Problem is, the correct way just sounds so darn formal. As much as I love words, at times I loathe grammar. It makes me nervous. At other times, I love grammar. I'm a bit perplexing.)

Anyway.

I'm also going to ask a neighbor if she has extra goat milk to spare that she'd be interested in selling. I've heard from far too many folks about how easy it is to make goat cheeses, and I think it's time to learn. After hearing from a produce worker at Safeway that they were told to expect 50% increases in grocery prices, the more I can make from scratch, the better. Plus, we love feta and goat cheese, so why not make it ourselves? It's bound to be amazing, as homemade usually is. (For those who are wondering, Gertie isn't a milk goat. We'd have to breed her, let her have the babies, let her nurse the babies, and fight the babies for the milk. Even if we didn't have to fight the babies for the milk, we'd have to convince Gertie to let us milk her. As quickly as ring-side seats might sell for that event, I simply don't have the constitution to take her on.)

As we finalize plans to butcher our pigs, I'm looking forward to filling our freezers, our larder and our parents' freezers with hormone-free, antibiotic-free pork. Good, clean food. With our son Tanner's kidney disease, I've become keenly aware of what we're asking our bodies to filter from our systems, and I just want everything that we're taking in to be as clean as possible.

With that in mind, today I fished out the last of the pre-packaged pasta and rice dishes that have been hanging around in the pantry to mix up and give to the dogs because we're out of dog food and I won't make it to the feed store until tomorrow. Not that I think the dogs deserve preservatives, because I don't, but it was nice to see that there is nothing left in the larder that is packed full of mystery ingredients. Plus, the dogs will likely love this rare, warm treat. They get the same old food, day in and day out. I've read with interest lately about how these folks are making home made food for their dogs and I wonder if there isn't some wisdom to that. Since I'm buying quality but not top-of-the-line dog food, I'm not at all convinced they're getting the best of nutrition, which I'm not comfortable with ("...with which I am not comfortable," she said regally, while gesturing to the butler, Jeeves, to refill her wine glass.)

Seriously though, we have stewardship over these creatures in our care, and I want to treat them well.

Speaking of cooking dog food, there was a funny moment today while I prepared the pups' food. I decided to add a couple of eggs to the noodles and rice to give the pups some protein. I found that, for some reason, the eggs had frozen in the fridge. I cracked them, pinched the slushy frozen oval masses from the shells and they plopped into the pot, egg shape intact. When I went back to stir a little later, I was surprised to find the eggs bobbing around the pot, now appearing to be nothing more than peeled, boiled eggs. I thought for sure those eggs would warm up and lose their shape before cooking through. It was an amusing little occurrence. Little white Weebles wobbling across the pot.

OK, I'm obviously just chatting here, so I better wrap it up. Suffice it to say, I'm enjoying choosing local, clean, quality and from scratch. It's good for our health, our community and our pocket book. When I get to start working in my garden, it'll be even better for the soul.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Southern Voice

I awoke at 5 a.m. the other day for no good reason, being winter and all and no garden yet to get out to early. I plopped down on the computer for a bit, read a little bit, wrote a little bit, then decided I couldn't stand it anymore and got moving.

I decided to make breakfast for the family before we headed to the White Mountains for a day of errands, hoping full tummies upon leaving would stave off the inevitable requests for drive-thru "dining," if you can call it that.

Upon entering the kitchen, it became fast apparent that breakfast would be a challenge - we were out of milk and eggs. And bread. And bacon. I was at a loss. Then I figured, "Well, what the heck? Who says breakfast has to be breakfast food?"

So, I set about making herb fried chicken and fried potatoes and onions. (In case you didn't know, if the chicken is fried but not breaded, it's not actually worthy of the label "fried chicken." Especially if it's "fried" in olive oil. How about we just think of this as "breakfast chicken," and go on, so as not to offend my Southern readers. Or family.) I resisted the urge to make spinach, too, because as much as I wanted to redeem my good mother badge by rounding out that greasy meal with something green, I didn't know if anyone would be up for morning spinach that wasn't baked in a quiche or folded in an omelet.

Anyway.

While the chicken was frying, at circa 7 a.m., my Dad gave me a call. I don't get many calls from Dad because he lives in town and I see him pretty often and Mom is usually the communications manager for that duo. So, I was treated to a rare call from Dad. He asked, so I told him what I was doing, and he immediately was smitten with the idea of morning fried chicken. He started talking about fried chicken and potatoes and pan gravy (which I did not attempt) and somehow that led to a story about his childhood in Kentucky with his 11 brothers and sisters. When I walked into the kitchen with the phone to my ear to turn the chicken in the pan, he stopped his story and said, "Ahh, I can hear it. Man, that sounds good," then picked right back up on his thread, and went on to talk with me about the book he's been wanting to put together for Mom for years, full of his songs and snapshots from their 44+ years together.

I tried to talk as little as possible during our call because this was one of those rare occasions when I could hear Dad's heritage in his voice. I don't always pick up his soft, Southern drawl because, well, he's my Dad and I don't think we often notice our parents' accents. Sometimes, though, especially when I'm hearing his disembodied voice through a phone line, I hear it. He doesn't have a heavy accent - we're not talking West Virginia or Georgia here (which are some great accents, I'll tell you what.) No, his roots are in the gentle wooded hills of Kentucky, and his voice is low and gentle, too.

I love when I can hear the echoes of his childhood in his voice. At these moments, I'm reminded that he's part of this big, good family full of men and women who speak with the same gentle accent. Who treat each other kindly, but still rib each other and grin in triumph when they bring up some long ago moment that the other person would gladly forget. His Southern voice reminds me of my Aunt Doris and Uncle Hay, who still live down on Grandpa's farm in Kentucky, where the creek runs through the front yard and the expanse of natural lawn (you don't water grass in this part of Kentucky) runs right up to the wooded hills that we know will mean a "check for ticks" if we venture into them.

It was down in Kentucky where I sat on the porch with Grandpa as a little girl and swatted flies; where the attic has that dusty old smell; where Lynda and I would move the crawfish upstream when we feared the creek was too low to keep them alive; where Aunt Doris would serve "dinner" in the middle of the day, complete with real fried chicken, corn on the cob, fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy and blackberry pie. Where the floors creaked and Aunt Doris, with her never-cut, salt & pepper hair piled high on her head, would tell stories of "Mommy," my Grandma who died while Dad was still a teenager; where I'd see my Dad play basketball for the first time with his brothers, using the old hoop nailed to the side of the barn; and where, in the evenings, Mom and Uncle Hay would challenge each other to some serious crossword puzzle competitions.

All this I hear in those moments when something as simple as frying breakfast chicken gets Dad to remembering that even out here in the high desert of Arizona, he is a Kentucky boy, through and through. These rare occasions are precious to me.

Dad's that guy who commands more attention the quieter he speaks. He's the one who let's you know he's worried about you by calling up, talking first about general, safe subjects, then finding just the right pause in conversation to give you that one, succinct piece of advice that you realize was the whole purpose of his phone call.

On September 11, after I had phoned my Mom a few times, frantic with the news of the towers, and the Pentagon and the still unaccounted for plane that eventually crashed in Pennsylvania, I got a call from Dad. We spoke about things for a few minutes, then he said, "Honey, you need to turn off the TV for awhile and just go take care of those kids." I replied, "Daddy, I'm scared." And he simply said, real low, "I know." And with those two words I knew he really did know how frightened I was, how I hated that Adam was a whole mile away from me at his elementary school and that Mike was across the Valley working, and that I have always been afraid of war, and that I felt helpless and vulnerable. He really knew.

When we'd had a particularly uncertain patch with Tanner and tensions had been high and I'd been talking to Mom a lot, and could tell she was worried about whether I was as OK as I tried to pretend to be, I got that phone call from Dad. We talked about nonsense stuff for a few minutes, then he gracefully segued into a place in the conversation where he said, "Now, you know you've got to take care of you, too." He didn't say it, but I knew this was short for, "Your Mom's told me all the things you're contending with Tanner, the uncertainty and fear, the garden, the dang animals, the other 3 kids, financial concerns, Mike working so hard, and the fact that you're not feeling good either, but you aren't saying so to anyone. I know you have a lot on your plate and we're worried about you, and we don't want you to get lost in all this. You need to take care of you and pay attention to your health because there are a lot of people depending on you, but also because we think you're pretty important." I knew that all of that was woven into his 11 words.

These brief little one line directives are always followed by another unrelated comment or anecdote that inevitably elicits a chuckle, then he reaffirms his advice with a simple, "I mean it, now," which I know without him saying refers back to the directive or advice, to which I respond, "I will, Dad, I promise. I love you." And real low he responds, "Love you," and then we're done.

These conversations last about 5 minutes on average, and we don't do a lot of talking in between, even when we're in the same room. But, somehow, there is a whole lot left unspoken that we still hear and it's enough for us.

Dad understands me in ways we've never, ever discussed. I don't talk much about him and Mom, or my sister Lynda, because they are so much of me, and I don't know where to start or stop. But, I cherish them beyond anything I can express. I talk with Mom and Lyn all the time and derive such joy and strength and grounding from them. But it's hearing that low, slow Kentucky drawl over the phone line that will keep me going for weeks.

Dad and I talked the other morning, over chicken, about getting together and writing some silly, over-the-top skits and considering making the kids perform them, like Lyn and I did when we were girls. We promised we'd carve out some time in March, maybe go somewhere pretty to just sit and work out a plan. And get going on Mom's book. And I told him that I'd like to record some oral histories of his life growing up with his family, who are good people, every one of them. What I really want, though, is just to have recordings of that amazing voice that I can play back whenever we go too long between one of our talks.

There really is something about a Southern voice.

Love from the farm,
Teri