From the Workshop

Authors Bill and Kathy Peel were guest orators at a workshop at our church last night. Sponsored by The Vow, Vanguard's Couples Ministry, the event focused on the plight of busy couples - an American hallmark if ever I've seen one - and, as senior directors of said ministry, we had the pleasure of dual-serving as co-collaborators and attendees.

For a quick overview, you can check out a review at Pikes Peak Parent.com.

A few points struck me as key for my life, and I'll certainly be passing those along in future posts. But, for now, let me just share this quote Bill offered as one he first received from a mentor long ago:

"If your output exceeds your input, the upkeep will be your downfall."

Don't know who said it, but BOY...ain't that the truth.

The Grass Really Is Greener

I despise lawn in Colorado. But, then, I despise total xeriscaping even more - something about rocks and cacti seem to make the abode shout, "I'm sterile!" Lawns, however, pose a whole other set of problems; in fact, these very worriments inspire us to fuel a 40 billion (can you BELIEVE it???) dollar industry with its tantalizing promise of sod Nirvana. In American Green: The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Lawn (2006), author and historian Ted Steinberg notes that's approximately equivalent to "the gross domestic product of the entire nation of Vietnam." Say WHAT???!!!

Of course, this should be less of an "Eeek!" moment and more of a "Figures" one since Americans stand outside at least three months of the year with hose and fertilizer cart in hand poking in dismay at the barren tundra we wish was plush canopy.

What's that you say? YOU'RE one of those dismayed pokers? Well, don't be too dismal: I am, too. Or, rather, my husband is. Was. Probably will always be. But this year was different, see, because Craig is a "putt-putter" (a term of endearment generally referring to the guy who picks a bit at most everything as a form of stress-release) whose annual battle with the lawn reached epic proportions this year. Come about May, he was stalking inside more and more mumbling something about feed, seed, water..."third dimension of hell" might have been in there somewhere...and I decided this was a no-go. No more grass stress for my plot tender!

So, off to the research banks I go...and what do I find? An array of web chronicles so diverse as to be heir-apparent to the literary Canon: I mean, are you kidding me?? But I was not to be deterred and, days and many coffee cups later, I'd decided on the crown gem of products: pre-milled corn gluten. Yep, for just $27 for a 40 pound bag (pricey, yes, but WAY cheaper than a corporate buyout of Scotts and Ortho) and a few easy applications, we were fast on our way. Now, I also patched some spots with Easy Seed - yes, it really does work - and re-orchestrated watering times (thanks, Jason Bowles) but, all in all, the corn gluten was magic fairy lawn dust.

And Craig (yes, Craig) took pictures of the final product one summer evening.

Okay, so it's grass...big deal, right? Even if you factor in the joint effort it took to make it so lush and...well....green, it's still just a photosynthetic product of dirt, seed, and science, huh? Well, like most mind-bending encounters, grass may seem pedestrian at first glance. But then I got to thinking: blade for blade, that's a lot of photosynthetic product of dirt, seed, and science coming together to create a blanket as soft to the soles as it is pleasing to the eye. And it smells good. Looks good. And if, as Steinberg suggests, our lawns are extensions of our living rooms, then I want ours to stand up and shout, "Hello, gorgeous! This land is fertile and vital and all-around welcoming - come on in and sit for a spell!" Or, put another way, thanks to the co-labor of marriage and a fairy dust gluten, the grass really is greener on our side of the fence.

And we didn't even have to purchase Vietnam.

En arche en ho logos...

...is the last line of the poem "LOVE" written by Franz Wright, a Pulitzer-Prize winning American poet and son of James Arlington Wright - also a Pulitzer-Prize winning poet. (By the way, they're the only father and son to hold that honor in the same category).

Franz Wright is also the author of a poetry collection I'm currently reading entitled
God's Silence.

"LOVE" is tapered. Clean. Has good bones.
And hit me strongly.

Here's the poem, in its entirety, for your perusal...

"While they were considering whether to stone her -
and why not? - he knelt
and with his finger wrote
something in the dust. We are
as you know made from
dust, and the unknown
word
was, therefore, and is
and forever will be
written in our flesh
in gray folds of
memory's
flesh. En
arche en ho logos.

Go ahead and read it again.
I'll wait.

Now would it interest you to know that "en arche en ho logos" is Greek for "In the beginning was the Word?"

His Turn

I'm living in a new land of nice called "Just One Child at Home." Each of my children prior took a turn living in this land with me. Because our children are spaced farther apart, I've been afforded the luxury to indulge in one-on-one time with them - which bears the invaluable fruit of observation, understanding, and appreciation of the finer things in life...while they're still a mere two feet tall.

One of my favorite daily times with them have been walks to school. First, it was just Grace. Then came Elijah's turn last year when, thanks to the many advantages of half-day kindergarten, I got to stroll with just him every mid-day. Now, I walk them both every morning with our last little duck straggling behind or clutching my forefinger, slapping through puddles and pointing out every bird with his customary "Tweet tweet" proclamation. Sometimes, we walk backwards. Others, on piggyback. He cries, "Ush! Ush!" when it's time to open the garage door remote and takes great joy in collecting "jetters": those "treasures" he finds streetside along the way. On this day, it was a fallen leaf and a dropped quarter discovered at the base of his favorite slide.

Yes, on the way, there are three.
But, on the way back, it's him and me.
Hand in hand.
His turn.

That's Just Who He Is

Judsen is a charming little boy: he'll woo you by
shyly flirting then reward your pursuit with fist bumps, high faves, and
(if you're really tenacious) a hug and sloppy kiss. He could
play all day (and has, now that I mention it) with his buddy, Ben, and
is grouchy as all get-out if you wake him from a deep sleep. His
favorite exclamation appears to be - currently, anyway - "Idoit!" Don't
let the spelling trick you: that's toddler squish-it-together for "I do
it"...as opposed to the mind's fix of "idiot." Still, it says the first
like he means the second, so...

And these are his favorite shoes:

Now, you may call these "flip flops" but, at our
address, that's blasphemy. For, if you've ever encountered Judd in these
shoes, you know he quickly corrects you by thrusting a forefinger
downward giggling, "Blip blops!" Yeessss, blip blops are the foot fare
of order these days. Well, all summer actually. Elijah refused to even
slip his foot into such folly, but Judsen...he's the rebel, after all.
They once had a strap attached to the back but, when one got loose and
began irritating him, he carried it to Daddy who, seeing a kindred
spirit in eradicating all the textures and teases that annoy you,
promptly cut the back ties.

And a podiatric love affair began.

Now, sandals are a "maybe" and only on Sundays while socks quickly give
rise to wailing and gnashing of teeth. After some talking, explaining,
and asserting of overall power in the house (mine, mind you, not his) we
now have an understanding: its blip blops until the weather changes
summer waves us goodbye. Then its socks as Old Man Winter moves in.

No doubt, he'll stage a coup when this time arrives. But I'll bet he's laughing while he does it.

That's just the way he is.

It's Never How You Imagined It In Your Head

I like Kevin Costner. Yes, yes - he's made some stinkers that were pretty bizarre besides (think The Postman). Yet, there are whole movies from his repertoire high on my playlist (Field of Dreams, for one -cuz I'm from Iowa and, of course, as the line goes, you can confuse us with heaven...but only when trippin', I'd add), and others which have scenes atop my charts...like one in For Love of the Game (1999).

Costner plays Billy Campbell, pro baseball player who rescues damsel in distress Jane Aubrey (Kelly Preston), an everyday, run-of-the-mill pedestrian who's romantically challenged with a big heart. To say the least, their affair is complicated, but it takes a turn toward raw honesty when Billy calls from Florida to ask New Yorker Jane to come visit him at training camp. In the interest of self-preservation, she's hesitant to commit, rendering the conversation open-ended and a bit unresolved. Still, Jane musters her courage and takes a risk by boarding a plane and arriving at his door carrying nothing but "my toothbrush and a bathing suit I bought at the airport." Billy doesn't look pleased, though; this prompts Jane to doubt herself, confessing "I'm an idiot."

Then it gets really interesting.

Billy: No, I'm an idiot. Jane, listen to me. No matter what happens in the next five minutes, I want you to know that when I opened this door I was so happy to see you that my heart leapt. It leapt in my chest.

Then the gal in her underwear (saw her coming from a mile away, right?) comes skipping down the stairs and, of course, Jane makes a speedy exit. When Billy chases her down, they have a heated exchange that ends with him telling Jane he "doesn't even want that girl."

Jane: Then why is she here?
Billy: Well. I like her. She's my massage therapist.
Jane: It's never how you imagined it in your head.

And that's what strikes me.

It never is how you play it out: not the proposal or the breakup, or the birth or the death, or the good or the bad, or any of the in-between. Life still leaves me baffled, standing on the street after witnessing what I didn't see coming noting, "It's never how you imagined it in your head."

Since you clearly can't predict nearly any of it, seems to me it's the coping that counts - the standing in delivery or hanging the hat in defeat; the riding high in bliss or bending low in grief. It's the knowing what's good for you and grabbing hold or, like Jane does, getting in the car and driving off.

But no matter how you look at it, any way you cope with it...well, it never really is how you imagined it in your head.

I Only Had a Day...

...to find childcare for three small children.

Two were only one day into the start of a new school year. One needed care requiring meals, snacks, a nap, and the ability to forebear a toddler. Ideally, we wanted to keep them in their environments since school's a block away, and Judsen does better sleeping in his own room.

Yep.

Peace talks might require less organization than that. And I had a mere day to do it.

The resulting "plan" brings this Scripture to mind:

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17

And this sentiment, too:

"My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. They tell me those who were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him."
- Emily Dickinson

So I placed four calls.

Then I was done.

In a detailed but expertly-greased hub of cogs and levers, all three children were balanced, loved, distracted, and tended. A friend, neighbor, and fellow mom from school took Grace and Elijah home from school on Friday and Monday until Craig's mom got off from work. Mom then took over for the weekend until Bee stepped in. Now she had a tough job: she spent Sunday and Monday night, feeding them, tucking them in, waking them, and shuttling them to school and Zee's house - who added Judsen to her flock of five...yes, 5!...for 2 days whole.

Upon our arrival in Iowa, my stepdad asked, "Who's taking care of the kids?" After giving him the skinny, he replied, "Wow. Now that's some kind of friends, isn't it?"

Indeed.

Thank you, Ashley, Mom, Zee, Bee, and all your families who went into the deep end to help keep our family afloat: you demonstrated true friendship, and I am full of thanks.

I can count on you and know you are more than empty words.
You came to the rescue

...when I only had a day.

4th and 1st

Grace and Elijah returned to school on August 4th.This year, we're living in the land called 4th and 1st (grades, that is) - which makes Mama particularly happy since there's no more half-day, three (sometimes four) trips-back-and-forth-to-school chaos five days a week. Now, everybody treks the block to school (yes, block. Still love that) - and Judsen insists on walking the whole way. I believe this is solely for the purpose of enjoying the monstrous splashes he loves to make in the biggest puddles he can find.

Boys.

Grace has long lived in the "I pick my own clothes" world, and she does a great job. I like that she wears outfits I might never put together because we see her style. Her flare. She even does her own hair - complete with braids and coordinating earrings. Here she is in this year's 1st Day of School ensemble.

And it was her year to select a new backpack (they get new ones every other year). This canvas bag is her pick - I think it's cool, but Craig is a little stymied by the flower power effect. Wink.
Elijah seems most excited about, of course, going all day. And eating lunch at school - especially on his hot lunch days. He and Grace poured over the lunch menu, highlighting their allotted once per week meal choices with blue and yellow highlighters, respectively. On school nights, they hit the kitchen at about 7:30 and pack their "sides" for cold lunches. With Craig's and Jessi's input (many thanks), this is how I opted to ease my morning load while building responsibility as they mature. They know to pick at least one dairy, fruit, protein, and whole grain offering along with a snack for mid-morning. Then I only need to make their "main" when I pack Craig's lunch.
I love rhythm.
It makes me smile.

Here's Elijah's chosen getup for the first day - yep, he picked his, too.
I surmise he thought this pic-taking was a bit lame.

Judsen just thought all this business was silly.

If I could seal this with love glue and have them always be this close - this depth of buddies - I would. I pray they become teenagers, "collegians", spouses, parents, and old people - always living out this picture and all it represents.

We really like their teachers - Elijah has Mrs. Minette, who was Grace's Kindergarten teacher...she's so gentle and kind and funny. Elijah will thrive. Grace's teacher, Mrs. Granaas, has experience with gifted and talented kids, so she'll be much appreciated. Her disposition, too, is soft and patient - a perfect match for Grace.

And she's uber-organized - a perfect match for me.

It was a good day had by all, including Judd who now gets his turn having one-on-one time with Mommy, just like his siblings did before him. We'll have grand adventures at home while his brother and sister have them at school. And, when 3:30 rolls around, we'll all come together again for snack and homework, chores then dinner...and Daddy's return home.

This is family.
This is the good life.

I'll See Ya Later

On August 5th, 2010, my dad died.
He was a believer.
He went to heaven.
He was 84.
It wasn't sudden or fully unexpected.
It is painful.
It is strange.
Like living in a foreign land.
It will take a lifetime of adjusting.
He was a good father.
He was my daddy.
I loved him beyond words.

I spoke at his funeral.
This is what I said.

As you might imagine, we’ve been considering farewells a lot these past
few days. Marking “I stay here” and “you go there” in
the road of life, farewells often leave me wishing I could instead just say,
“See ya later.” In Dad’s case, it is good to know his
“there” is where I will actually see him later for He rests
in the presence of his perfect Creator and Redeemer...whom he knew well.

Of course, what we knew well of my father varies a bit in this room. He may
have been your buddy, soldier, coworker, or neighbor. Or husband. Or a
lifelong friend. Perhaps some of you didn’t have the pleasure of knowing
him long at all. To my brothers and me, he was a father. And to my children, he
was a grand-father.

But then, most everything about my dad was grand...on a scale bigger than most.
His laugh was contagious, filling any room to capacity with his zest for life.
His jokes were always hearty and, yes, sometimes a bit dirty. Rather than read
a book here and there, he kept bedside stacks, pouring over everything from
Louis L’Amour to Gray’s Anatomy. He smoked all things tobacco and
taught me to pack his pipe...along with how to fish, spit, and mow an even
lawn. He dressed down at home and up when out, and before even I knew Craig was
my husband, my dad did - and told me so. He believed in prayer and what he
termed “living right” and never met a soldier he didn’t like.

My father was most certainly not perfect nor did I see him so. But, to me, he
will always be grand. Big. But never too big to braid my pigtails
or spray me with the hose or instruct me on the finer ways to grab a snake.
Never too grand to tell me I was pretty. Or funny. Or smart - even when
I felt none of those things were true.

These are just some of my memories, only a few of those I’ll tell our
children. They comfort me. Make me happy.

Your memories of Dad are entirely your own. For you, I hope the good takes
firmest root and laughter accompanies each recollection. I hope your tapestry
of history with him comforts you and, if you didn’t know him well, I hope
you now know him better.

But, ultimately - and above all - I hope that today is less about the sorrow of
“I’m here” and “you’re there” for, if it’s
so, then today becomes a bit more peaceful...perhaps even less of a
“farewell”

...and more of an....

“I’ll see ya later.”

There Is a Precipice

In January of this year, I wrote a post titled "A Project Worth Mentioning." In it, I spotlighted a writing collection sponsored by National Public Radio with the mission statement "A public dialogue about belief - one essay at a time." The details of my discovering it are a bit sketchy - but I do believe a friend mentioned it to me and thought I should take a look. I did. And then, by extension, you did, too.

When I first visited the project, our community was in a holding pattern as we awaited word of our beloved friend, David Hames, who was in Port-au-Prince during the Haiti earthquake. Also around that time, I wrote another post titled "The Precipice." As often happens with the organic nature of writing, that post morphed into a submission for the This I Believe campaign. I doubt it was coincidental that I found one and wrote the other mere days apart and that the two fit so elegantly together - project and penning, you might say. In any event, I rewrote the post to fit the editors' specifications and, what do you know...the day before my father's funeral, NPR and the campaign's editors contacted me to say my essay was chosen for publication.

 
You can find essay number 76610 entitled "This I Believe" here.

I want to say two things about this publication. First, whether faith in God - or any higher power, for that matter - is your cup of tea, I'd like to be so bold as to ask you to consider the metaphor anyway. The older I grow, the more I realize the fragility of existence in the face of an ever-revolving door of coming and going, staying and leaving...in matters more everyday than death or life. We're all making choices, coming to terms with the realities of life - but how are we doing that? What's our method? And is it working? Because, in the end, we've all got to stare at the precipice, deciding with the power of free will just what we'll do in response to it.

Second, it is not happenstance I received this news the day before laying my father to rest. I reread this piece - for the first time in six months - and see that, not surprisingly, the metaphor applies today...albeit in the face of a different grief under altered circumstances. Nevertheless, I'll go to the precipice again and again in this life, considering issues of should I stay or can I go, whether I should drive away or pitch a tent to stay awhile. At the very least, I am even more fully aware that there is, indeed, a precipice.

And it's hard.
It's a choice.
It's faith unabridged.

This I Believe.

Little Red Jars

Several years ago, my beloved friend, Amy, and I were saying goodbyes and corraling kiddos after hanging out at her house for the morning. As I gathered the last of the goods, Amy threw up her hands shouting, "Oh, oh, oh! I almost forgot your jam!"

My what!?!?

When I was a little girl, our family kept a modest orchard on our acreage. Perhaps this calls to mind pictures of Norman-Rockwellian, midwest-farming grandeur. You might imagine cider presses and red-checked tablecloths spread under the shade as we nibble on the harvest under a gently setting sun, a hard day's work the cause for celebration.

Well, scratch that record: no midwesterner actually has those pictures.

Try hot kitchens with fans set up everywhere because air conditioning - like the patch of shade you've falsely conjured - is non-existent. The best you can do is try to sweat less in the hopes that dehydration might claim your consciousness so you can finally rest your numbing feet and arms. Canning anything is sticky, humid, exhausting work...that reaps great harvest fare, to be sure.

No, I surely did not like the process, but I most certainly relished the fruits of it (pun intended). I hold great memories of working in that sweaty kitchen with my mom or hearing my dad shout just days before, "Hey Bug! Climb that tree and shake it 'til you break it!" And those pickles, jellies, jams, and fruits never tasted better - that's for sure!

So, when Amy came around that corner, little red jar in hand, a part of my heart leaped at the memory - and the promise of the delectable confection it spied. "How'd you do this?" I asked for, as determined and saavy and no-nonsense she is, Amy is not that into sweating over a jar she could spend two bucks picking up at Krogers, know what I mean? She shrugged and confessed, "It was really easy, actually. All you have to do is..."

No-Cook Strawberry Jam

Ball (or another brand) Fruit Jell Freezer Jam Pectin
1 1/2 c. sugar
4 c. crushed fruit of your choosing (works well w/ blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and peaches, in particular)
5 8 oz. jelly jars (can buy at Walmart or grocery store; usually come with rings)
1 package 8 oz standard lids

Clean, de-stem (if needed), cut, and crush fruit. Measure 1 1/2 c. sugar into bowl and add a pouch of pectin. Add fruit and stir, nonstop for 3 minutes. Ladle jam into jars; leave 1/2" headspace, apply lids, and tighten rings.

Most brands have their instructions on the box or pouch, so don't sweat it (and I meant that literally). In the summer months, just as when I was a kid, the jars never stay on the shelf long.

So make a few memories, why don't you, while you make some yummy jam?

You start with this...

          move on to this...

get to smile all day because of this...

(our little chef, ya know)
and end up with this!!!

By the way, Amy...I miss ya, lady - especially when I make jam.

The Google Ad

Have you seen this?
I'll let it speak for itself.
It's called Parisian Love.

Bringing the Tradition to Life

We like big breakfasts. I usually make them on Saturdays but, when I teach, we don't get the chance too often since I'm in the classroom from 8:30 to noon. So, summer is the season of big breakfasts.

This time, we had Nana over for staycation's breakfast.

I don't know why I thought to take a picture, but when I look at it now, I see a reminder that the best part of any family tradition is rarely the details of the tradition itself.

It's more about the ones who help you bring the tradition to life.

That's a good reminder, right?

Three Times Over

Ever since I was a kid, I've loved miniature golfing. Now our kids love it, too. So, first night of staycation, off we went for free ice cream at Baskin Robbins courtesy of the library's summer reading program.

(Each June we head over to our local branch and sign up for the theme that year. As the kids (all 3 this year) read, read, read for 2 months, they earn goodies including coupons for freebies like an ice cream cone or kids meals. Fellow Springsians...check it out next summer!)

Then we headed over to Craig's old neighborhood to play a round at the course still standing from his childhood - a Springs locals' fave called Hitz - where, for a paltry two bucks, you can stroke out 18 holes.

Here are some of the night's highlights....

                                          Gracie lining up her par 2.

I know, I know: weird picture, right? But I took it because I liked the
idea that we were all looking at the same picture, that we were sharing
the same moment as a family.

 
Judd was shooting pool, not putting golf.

At the giraffe...with a too short neck and a too long body, as Grace pointed out. Still, it's a landmark, ya know?

There was an ox on the course!!!!

Daddy kept score and tallied us up...

                                          and Grace took this shot while we waited.                               

Not bad for a couple of thirty-somethings still madly in love, right?

And without that love and this guy, this shot would never be possible.

Nor would this one.

Or this one.

Or this one...our rock star's reaction to his hole-in-one. 

For the mere cost of $12.92, these were the memories we made of a simple night spent together. Yet, it was about more than mini-golf or ice cream: it was about being reminded that I live what I love. And that kind of love breeds legacy.

And legacy is a beautiful, beautiful, thing - three times over.

Yep, we're still "Staycationing"

If you read us regularly, you know the Covak fam is committed to staycation. A few years ago, a friend of mine from college posted she and her clan were "basking in staycation."

"What's this??" I thought. I'd certainly never heard of this mindset, so what was it about? At my query, she filled me in. And I swear I heard music from the heavens.

This was it! I was sure of it! The tri-perfecta of gettin'-away success by marrying bursts of budget with optimal peace of mind and memory-making bliss. No phones, no computers, no outside world. Nothing but fun as we saw fit: pajamas all day or day trips away or outings with good friends ended with fine meals and the luxuries they lend.

A tradition was born.

In fact, just last night, Craig and I were re-evaluating the practicality and reward of our usually tri-annual soiree and found we still prefer it to an annual vacation blowout. Not that we're against more traditional vacations. But, for us, there's something about forgoing massive hotel bills or all-inclusive resort fees - not to mention monstrous airfare travels that limit us to a comb and underwear for luggage while we haul 3 less-than exuberant children through security checkpoints and airport bathrooms - that makes us say, "Ahhh....now THIS is relaxing!" Usually at Spring Break, Fall Break, and once in the summer, we take 3-5 days and just escape from the whirlwind to retreat as a family (with limited funds spent)...and never once is it a regret.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: consider staycationing with the fam. It's far easier than you might think and definitely affordable: but remember you control the purse strings, the agenda, and the degree of difficulty.

It's vacation at its finest.
It could be two days of pjs and movies, popcorn and pizza.
Or it could be a 4-hour drive to a "nearby" city you've never been.
You could become a tourist in your own city, picking some stops you've never made to partake in local treasures you haven't unearthed.
You could spend $100 or less. Or more.
You can use coupons or go crazy.
Clean or don't.
Cook or order-out.
Dress up or tone it down.

It's entirely up to you.

But, if you try, I think you'll find...adventure after adventure...you'll find yourself telling others, "Yep, we're still staycationing."