I Come Bearing Gifts

This week, Tanner and I went to Phoenix for his clinic appointment at Phoenix Children's Hospital. After his appointment, I dropped him off at his cousins' for 24 hours of fun with the girls, who are on fall break. After leaving him, I went to the funeral for my friend's mom, and spent some time with her and her family. Precious time.

The appointment went well (for those interested in receiving notifications on Tanner's progress, shoot me an email and I'll send you the website registration information). As happens sometimes when I've been anticipating an event with a little bit of stress, I promptly sprouted a migraine as soon as it was apparent all was well. You'll hear more about what happened while I was waiting for the migraine to pass in my next post. I'm mentioning it now, because I'm falling victim to a weird compulsion to share every detail related to the trip. I may go back and delete this whole part before this post is through. You never know. It's all fluid until I hit "Publish Post".

Anyway.

After I slept off the migraine on Tuesday morning, Mike's sister and I took the kiddos out for a late lunch, then Tanner and I took our leave to head home. But first we stopped at Cabela's to browse. You should know that Tanner's sisters think it's patently unfair that he gets to have all this fun on his Phoenix Children's trips. Those who keep up with his medical reports have heard a little about this consternation. It's not a big, noisy deal but it's there, simmering under the surface. And, as time goes on and it's apparent Tan's doing pretty well, the grumbling gets a little louder, because let's face it, he's spending a few hours with doctors and then is just having a good time. Restaurants, Cabela's, movies, Bass Pro Shop, cousin time, whatever.

So, after nearly a year of these monthly/bi-monthly sojourns, it dawned on me that maybe I should take a little something home to the other kids from these trips. Maybe I should make it a habit to just bring them a little something. And so I picked up a few things.

Here's what I shared with my loving family members, waiting at the homestead for our return from the Valley:

• a pair of wool socks for Mike for the coming winter
• a small pocket knife for Adam
• chunks of fudge wrapped in parchment paper and made with real cream and butter for Adam, Macy and Karlie
• sour candy drops for the girls, that actually came out of a barrel.

Umm, does this gift list sound familiar to anyone? Anyone? After pulling the last gift out of the bag, it hit me. I really am stuck in an endless episode of "Little House on the Prairie."

Only I'm not "Half-Pint," as my sister (affectionately?) calls me. Oh no, it couldn't be that simple. I'm bringing rustic little gifts back to the family after leaving them behind for a trip to the big city. Let's face it.

I'm Pa.

I'm not sure what to do with that.

Love from the farm,

Teri

For the Love of a Duck

For the past few days and nights, we've had major coyote activity on the farm. Mike walked out to find a coyote not 20 feet from the front door in broad daylight, so he ran towards the wild dog, waving and yelling. Oh, I wish I'd been here to see it.

At night, we can hear packs of them yipping and yowling. Our dogs, Sadie and Mia, have spent the nights running the property, chasing away the wily predators that have us surrounded. We hear Mia and Sadie barks coming from every angle, round and round the house, down by the barn, up by the road. They work hard protecting our critters. They don't stop. It isn't until around 3:30 or 4 a.m. that the battle wanes, and then it starts again around 5:30a.m. Those dogs work hard for us; they're vigilant protectors. They collapse, weary and wasted when daylight comes.

I want to kill them.

Oh, we've been so tired. No one's sleeping well. The incessant, important barking has us up all night. It isn't fair to direct ire at the canines who live to serve, but when you're sleep deprived, you lose rationality.

At the crux of the issue has been the duck. The duck has always been skittish. She takes off when you come near her, squawks as if she's been violated in some way when you turn your attention toward her, constantly averts her eyes then casts furtive glances our way. It's hard to herd a reluctant duck, so she's been staying out at night. So she won't be lonely, we've occasionally let Gertie the Goat stay out with her; hence the need for guard dog duty.

Bless my little lion tamer's heart, somehow Tanner has begun exerting a calming influence over the duck in recent days. I don't know why, but night before last, she let Tanner stand nearby as she followed the turkeys into their pen. Last night, I decided to take advantage of this change in dynamics on the farm. I had Tanner pen up the duck with the turkeys and the girls pen up Gertie, and the dogs stayed in the house.

Mike and I were relishing the thought of a night without barking or bloody carnage. I was snuggled deep in slumber under my down comforter.

Until 11:30 p.m. when the black kitten came scrambling THROUGH THE SWAMP COOLER into our bedroom and jumped up on the bed, frantically rubbing against me.

Because she had been sprayed by a skunk.

I'm going to go get a soda or two to see if it will help clear the grit from my eyes.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Raw Silk

Last night, my heart broke when I read a text that had come in a few hours earlier from a dear friend, letting me know her mother had passed away in Tucson where she had been fighting, and I mean fighting, cancer. I gasped that immediate, tear-invoking "Oh, no!" that we all do when we've just found out that in spite of our earnest prayers, someone we care about - or someone loved fiercely by someone we care about - didn't get to be one of the 20%'ers after all; rather, they had to join the ranks of the 80% who fought valiantly and with spirit, but whose bodies were just too tired after relentless battle.

I had just had the chance to sit down with this friend last week, for the first time in probably 9 months, and we had talked about her mom and my Tan. We were able to laugh, roll our eyes and make what others would probably have thought of as horrifically shocking statements and jokes; unless, of course, those eavesdroppers had dealt with a loved one's critical illness completely standing their lives on end and rearranging every facet of what they had once thought of as "normal." We laughed one minute, railed the next and fought tears a time or two before we laughed again. And, I was so impressed by the strength, courage and perspective I heard coming from this amazing woman.

Today, I was waiting to pick up lunch for Mike, Tanner the Boy On House Arrest, and me, and I was wondering what I could send my friend to let her know I'm thinking of her. My mind settled on a raw silk handkerchief. I could envision giving her this soft, dove grey handkerchief that she could use to dab her eyes during the funeral and feel close to her mom. And I thought that it was ironic that it would have been at an elegant little boutique like the one her mom had once owned in Scottsdale where I could have found the perfect hankie.

Her mom owned a shop called "Valerianne's," and it proffered the finest, most luxuriant linens. There were other beautiful things there, but the linens were what defined the experience. They were exquisite, sometimes fragile in their beauty and of only the finest materials. There was no question they were of highest quality. From the few times I met her, it struck me as entirely appropriate that my friend's mother would spend her time among such beautiful things. She was a beautiful woman. She was one of those rare beauties who are timeless; I would say she reeked of refinement, but there is no way the word "reek" should have been used in a sentence describing her. She simply was refined and gracious. I know from anecdotes my friend would share of family get togethers that she wasn't a shrinking violet, but I'm sure even in repose or at play, or even in a quarrel, she didn't quite shake that indefinable quality that she had.

I thought of raw silk today because in our conversation the other night my friend remarked that here was this woman who had always taken such good care of herself, liked things just so and took great care in her appearance, yet she had long since lost her carefully styled hair, had ports and tubes attached, and wasn't even fully aware of the marring scars from recent surgery. But, this friend told me, "In some ways she isn't the same person right now, but she's still my mom. She's still beautiful."

Silk can certainly be treated to smooth out the wrinkles and imperfections, allowing it to shine and exude its highest levels of refinement. But when it's raw, it has texture and there is beauty in its very being, and in the way the light catches its slightly uneven facets. While finished silk is uniform and smooth, the raw silk reveals nuances and shades in its unvarnished state that cause you to examine it a little more closely and appreciate its complexities.

My friend's mother's name is Gloria. She was beautiful - both when she was able to present herself exactly as she wanted to, and as her life and her appearance became more complex and raw. There was a certain fragility to her beauty that might have obscured her hidden strength from those who didn't know her well; but to those who fought alongside her all these many months, it was the innate beauty of her raw strength that left them in awe.

I don't know if I'll find that raw silk hankie in time for the funeral. But I'm not sure I'll see one again without thinking of my dear friend and her beloved mom.

Love from the farm,
Teri