"Shut the hell UP!, the deputy roared back to her, putting her handcuffed, raging self in the squad car's backseat, as I stood there stressed out to the max, literally wringing my hands.

What had started out as another of north Georgia's incredibly lovely fall days, when it is pure T pleasure and joy to be working outside, and not sweltering while doing so, even Grandma had hiked up to the Fruit Orchard to see where I'd laid out new beds for next year's harvest.

Another blog the Ethicurian: Chew the Right Thing had a great write-up about a book I'm reading at the moment Independence Days about the literal necessity of food preservation as today's food thoughts, the way we American's have been eating for too long, just sucks with a capital S.

As I work alone and happy, my mind races, and as I dig and process recent events, I'm always grateful for a physical challenge to divert my frustration, tensions and wall-to-wall work chore list of cooking, cleaning and laundry. Bo-ring.

"Cindy, we need you at the school, Paloma's not doing well," my cell phone blurted via an understated, calm assistant principal.

I'm never sitting around looking well turned out in casual sporty clothes, flipping idly through a fashion magazine. I'm usually muddy, with very honest garden dirt encasing my hands, my hair yanked up in a clip, no make-up, and work shoes. Never any time for a quick shower when I'm beckoned so I'll look halfway middle class, and my clothes are never hardly even suitable, barely presentable, but honey, I drop it all and run when summoned.

As usual - because Paloma'd been in a fight, she didn't like the consequences and had stormed off, wild, raging and furious. Good thing was it was then time to board the buses, bad thing was, she wasn't allowed to do so. Administrators and a coach were helping the bus driver prevent her from boarding as the rest of the startled middle schoolers watched.

Sweet Miss Ellen and some other six grade teachers got my other children, Lily, CW, JoJo, and Tony into the gym as a basketball game was going to start, while Allen somehow slipped by everyone and got on the bus, as did my granddaughter Blanca.

Chuy, bless his heart had wrestled Paloma down to the pavement, as I truly fear for the coach or the administrators to ever put their hands on her. Later, after some discussion, I'm gonna rescind that thought and allow it. If she assaults one of them, it's on her. There were more than enough witnesses to prevent false allegations from her.

Very afraid she'd run in front of the school buses that were leaving, Chuy was restraining her, Dr. W had already called the deputies, and they'd come roaring across the parking lot when they'd seen a guy (Chuy) obviously appearing to fight the girl who he didn't hit, didn't shove, but merely held her to the ground for her own safety. As a birth sibling, he is the only one that we know Paloma will not ever falsely accuse.

I quickly told the deputy he was a birth brother, fortunately it was a deputy I knew, who sized up the situation as he jumped out of his car. He yanked Paloma up, who was roaring and strongly fighting, slapping her in handcuffs and putting her in the back of the car while she blindly yelled at him.

He and the other deputy, a woman I didn't know (who Paloma took that opportunity to inform this lady that her own son cusses in class). Girl, you're the problem here, I thought in amazement, not the deputy's son, and I later learned from the deputy that she'd already heard the name Paloma regarding some classroom outbursts via her son who likely is a fine young man. Paloma just likes to hate folks.

DJJ was called and I was calling the counseling team, hoping for a 10-13 referral, get this child in a psych hospital, as I'd been aiming for now for way over a year.

DJJ said, "release her to her mother's custody," causing me to squawk to the deputy, "Gimme that phone," as I was outraged at the very thought, talked for a few minutes to the calm supervisor there who informed me that without an assault charge, she could not be detained. "But she's Jose's sibling," I protested, knowing he knew the level of violence possible there, but we got disconnected and I fretted he must think I'm mad, which I wasn't, and necessity demanded I had to tend to the situation at hand.

I'd been smacked on the forearm bone by Paloma as Chuy held her, pain shooting up my arm due to my fragile bones, and my osteopathic physician's words of last year reverberated through my mind, "You're just one more fistfight from a broken hip," as the years of constant battles have exacted a huge toll on me.

But Paloma had not meant to hit me, truly she had not...at least in that exact moment, and there was no way I could honestly bring assault charges. My gut told me that, I always go with my gut feeling, knowing that's God leading me in my walk. I will not stretch the truth.

The A.P. then took me aside and suggested, "I'm jes saying..." that maybe I should allow her to take a fall via Chuy and I backing off, "Do you hear what I'm saying, Cindy?' I was pointedly asked. Yep, I do.

Very surprisingly, over the next 30 minutes, while in handcuffs, Paloma calmed herself down. She'd been yelling she was still going to an event later, Middle School Madness. I knew better than to inflame her. The man with the gun bellowed, "No you're NOT!" and got away with it.

"Cindy, drive your van around here," the deputy ordered me, "She's gonna get in and act right."

I obeyed him, even though I didn't really believe him.

I'd been standing a little bit away from the situation, letting the other administrator write up the incident report, Chuy'd then gone into the basketball game, and I went to get my kids and the van, stopping to hug Miss Ellen and ask her to pray for safety for the rest of the evening as I know, from crappy experience, that Paloma targets folks. Other parents, arriving for the game, folks I know, had seen a little bit of all this before we'd taken it around to the back of the school, Lonnie and Molly giving me reassuring hugs that I value at times like these.

I don't know what Ellen prayed, or for how long, but it was truly successful. Paloma came home and acted exhausted, taking her meds without incident, prompting me to wonder if she has brain seizures that cause these rages...or do the rages cause seizures because when she's in these furies, there is NO getting through to her.

She was charged by the school and will have yet another court date. "Will I be on probation for even longer?" she later wailed in dismay and utter surprise.

Ya think?

The counseling team does understand what they're dealing with in this child.

She did not later prevent the rest of the middle schoolers from going to their Middle School Madness which, as it turned out, resulted in two of my large macho sons later sobbing in their respective beds. What the heck? That's another story, as was a conversation with Pepe earlier this week, or a visit from Edgar's old girlfriend and Miriam. That had been my initial blogging plans, maybe later.

My evening further disintegrated and ended with JoJo crying his eyeballs out because Miriam and Vanessa grew up and abandoned him. That's how he sees it. He sobbed as if his heart had split in two over losing them, plus Edgar and Fabian who also do not live with us. The painful layers of early trauma and abandonment show their angry suppressed heads at times and I held him while he convulsed with grief, blowing rivers of snot over on my shoulder and down my back.

My last thought, at midnight, when I finally got to calm down and try to sleep, involved Ellen's colleague, Karyn, who's fighting ALS, a woman who truly needs prayer for miracles, a mom of small children who JoJo'd recently cried hard over when she went out on medical leave, no longer able to teach. I tossed and turned thinking about her, thinking about my severely emotionally damaged children, and all the other truly sad and heart-breaking aspects of life on earth.

Lord have mercy, I'm so glad we have a God to turn to, we'd all be sunk without Him, even though we all understand so little in our finite minds, all of us struggling mightily to survive here on earth.

Homeless Leaves

It's probably no surprise that I'm not caught up in the Twilight movie fever, not seeing the movies, not reading the books, not caring at all, but that shouldn't give me any kinda supercilious attitude, the cool beans for me only involves my total lack of interest in pop culture. That I awaken in the night, fretting over sacks of leaves by the curb near downtown, shows the level of dorkiness to which I've happily sunk.

"Good thing you didn't go down there before dawn," cracked a kid of mine, "As you'd have been mistaken for some homeless person digging in the trash."

That's way true, not well dressed to haul leaves, surely no style-setter, and I later explained at supper, "'Bout those beer cans in the back of my truck..." City leaves have aluminum can additives apparently.

I swear they (the leaves) smiled at me when I got there, hoping they could leave the exhaust and low crime rate of a fairly small town in favor of rotting comfortably on someone's beloved garden.

Good to know that the head therapist on Jonathan's new team is a gardener as well, as he totally understood the answer when he asked me how I coped with it all.

Well duh.

I dig away all my frustrations, Thanksgiving is less than a week away, an opportunity for grown kids to majorly stress me out, I threatened to just mix me up a pitcher of margaritas and drink my way through the holidays, which only caused some grown confidants to hoot with laughter, knowing I was all big talk and no follow through, but the very thought of a stinky dead bird(s), white dinner rolls, and all the other trappings that simply do not appeal to me at all, makes me wanna hurl. Add to the mix the various attitudes, posturing, and acting out, and it's a dang wonder I just don't cower in the corner. But I'm way stronger than that.

I can't wait to be with my baby brother though, he's a fun guy, and will bring out even more immaturity in me.

He'll be 51 in January, and Grandma and Grandpa are gonna have their hands full with the two of us. Ain't neither of us gonna act right, why start now?

Vanessa and her friends came by for Mayra's birthday, one of her friends being the darling youngest daughter, now 21, of my own best friend, and we ended up cutting up last night and having a good ole time. Mary's known all my kids since they were very small, the Bubbas all now towering over her, very glad to see her, and an evening of goofiness was wonderful.

By next Thursday at 4 pm, we'll be down to just a few ratty leftover not scarfed down by the wild hogs that I'm raising, I'll then start stressing about Christmas, another holiday that sends me over the ledge, but knowing it puts me that much closer to spring, and this upcoming garden season should be the best ever as I've really been working on the soil. My goal is some 10-20 truckloads of manure. Imagine the $$$$ if I were buying the homogenized, sifted, purified malarky sold at garden centers, plus paying a gym membership to work my middle aged muscles, versus the free, open-air, unadulterated sweaty workout I get from shoveling horse manure. Can you say no-brainer?

"What is an electric can opener," I've been asked before by my children.

"Something else to get broken," is my stock reply, truly believing all these labor saving devices have ruined us Americans both physically and emotionally. There's nothing to do anymore. Joel Salatin espouses that the restrictive child labor laws, once very necessary and simply designed to prevent child labor abuse, have now evolved into lazy teens who only wanna go to skate parks or play Wii, versus those who'd bag groceries to earn money for a car.

I haven't even made a grocery list for Thanksgiving yet, not gonna fret until Monday or so, Lily volunteered to work on wheat biscuits to shut me up about refined white flour, Sarah always helps, heck - she's the kitchen backbone and boss - while I'll really loose my food police status and pig out if Yolie makes her peanut butter fudge delicacies, knowing I'll have to fight Sarah's husband for them since he's crazy about 'em.

Too Yummy

Sarah, of course, chose a favorite place to eat. So incredibly delicious, we semi-decided to make it an annual event, not her birthday itself, that's a given, but the locale at which to celebrate the fact that 40 just isn't that far off for her. Again, there's not much I don't like about growing older, the freedom from anxiety-producing bullcwap is amazing, as is the dropping of nonsense from our lives.

I'm loving it.

In sharp contrast, my handsome 14 year old son Chuy has an image to protect, still navigating the waters of peer pressure and competition that truly doesn't get anyone anywhere anyway. Who needs the anxiety? Thank God for the confidence to be who I am, no style beacon certainly - heck I still have macrame plant hangers from the 70s, versus trendy sleek Italian expensive pots.

Preoccupied with some new garden ideas, I almost didn't see some 12 loaded sacks of leaves sitting forlornly by the side of the road yesterday, but dadgum we were in the van, not my truck, as we had Sarah's children with us. I bounded out of bed at 4:44 this morning, literally thinking about running back to town to get them early before the kids got up as if leaving them would be a wise idea? Not so much.

Think, however, I'll dash outta here as soon as I drop the last one off at school.

My Big Back Garden is jam-packed with permaculture garden beds, no room for anymore, until I build the chicken moat and free up the original chicken yard area which should now be very rich soil. Why shouldn't I put perennials, such as strawberry beds and other bramble fruits, up in the Fruit orchard (duh) and free up more space closer to the house for the annual vegetables. Why did it take me 17 years of living here to figure that out? Mommy brain or what?

Finally, after fits and false starts, an insurance snafu, paperwork and processes, the newest mental health team for Paloma has been put together and is underway, and I totally adored the young, pretty woman who came by yesterday to explain it all to me. I love it when folks get it, just love it.

Edgar also came by, eating some leftovers, carelessly dousing them with my latest batch of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce, for some reason more potent than ever. Edgar has a notorious ability to withstand blazingly searing peppers, but this dose earned me a "12 thumbs up" of approval from him, a "you're more Mexican than any of us kids" and a text later that simply said, "Burning" as the aftertaste is physically impressive.

My parting shot to him, "Yeah, boy. You're gonna be screaming for Mama in the morning," leaving the rest of the bathroom details to his vivid imagination.

It is very good nuclear stuff, I just use it more sparingly than he did.

Last night of the Youth Led Revival Service and Martin, Sabrina and CW were all asking to attend, while I also got the rest of the kids to our church for Wednesday night services, evoking a big ole, "thanks Mom for making that happen," as CW said it'd been an amazing service.

I'd made a big restaurant serving stainless steel dish of lasagna, commercial weight, industrial size that barely fit into the oven. "Mom please don't put stuff in it,"JoJo had whined, wanting only the flat brown wide pasta I suppose? I'd added spinach, hot pepper and ricotta cheese, mushrooms galore and garlic-laden tomato sauce. I could hardly eat supper, still full from lunch, plus I'd had a delicious freshly baked from scratch raspberry chocolate cake while at The Grit.

Too yummy for words.

Claudia once mentioned that her site meter plummets during the good times, I'd checked and mine has too, by a couple hundred readers or site visits. I'm guessing that simply folks are not checking back for updates? My dream is to become totally boring, no live events, no play by play recounts of fights or deputy interventions - just long drawn out accounts of soil quality and produce weights - just me reasoning aloud here the mundane boringness of a past middle age woman's farming ventures where the ole bat rarely leaves the land, if the kids wanna see me, they gotta wander around the acres hollering, "Mama?" until they find me up with my sweet hens, in the second meadow, on my knees, digging in my beloved dirt.

Look At ME Having Fun

Social butterfly that I'm not, I'm rarely invited to parties, even more unusual is the chance to attend, as getting a babysitter for a rather rambunctious lot of kids who've been known to grab a knife in a fight, is no glossy minimum wage job opportunity.

Not that I could even pay anyone anything.

My teenagers were insistent upon attending a Youth Led Revival hosted at a Baptist church this week and I'd literally been too tired to take them the first two nights after manure hauling several tons or so. Last night I dropped ten of them off, taking Jonathan and Scotty to town for their soccer championship party at a pizza place where I absolutely had a blast with some of the parents. It was really fun and this isn't just coming from a virtual shut-in who got to stay out past dark last night.

Lily had her final knitting class, she and Sarah'd been taking lessons as I can crochet, but not knit, so asking Grandma to babysit the remaining three young, good kids wasn't a very big deal. I DVR Grandma's favorite show, Dancing With the Stars, to entertain and entice her over to our side of the house.

I literally had to drag myself away from the party, Jonathan wanting to nut up because I wouldn't let him drink chemical laden poison (sodas), yet allowed him unlimited pizza. This after I'd already cooked supper for everyone at home earlier. Jonathan got a grip and very surprisingly offered to go get me a piece of cheese pizza from the buffet, so I could sit with the folks I was apparently having fun with.

One bite of the cheese pizza that I'd graciously thanked him for, made me wonder if it had been sitting near the meat ones, as something appeared off to me. Oh well, it was the gentlemanly gesture from Jonathan that had been remarkable, and I really wasn't hungry anyway.

Paloma had truly bonked out earlier, making us all late for our eventual destinations. Angry over me making her shovel out the piles of crap in her room, she unreasonably and viciously berated Mayra for nothing. We tried ignoring Paloma who only upped her crazy inner ante, threatening to tear up the house and hit Mayra. We all walked away, her birth brother Chuy was very, very pissed off, and I got the other children to just calm down.

Within 15 or so minutes, we got a slight apology from Paloma and our evening resumed...after I counter-offered with a non-negotiable point. Take your bedtime meds early, knowing it'd make her just drowsy enough to either choose to go with me, or the meds would make her behave more subdued at the other church. Mission accomplished, disaster averted.

The biggest surprise of the evening, besides all of us staying out fairly late on a school night (nine p.m.), was the fact that JoJo went up for the altar call at the revival, crying his eyeballs out over his own conscience, knowing how terribly aggressive, violent and disruptive he's been for several years.

I was truly shocked when he later told me all this, my usual bristling guard involved, "Son you've lived with me for ten years and now you wanna get it together?" I asked incredulously and suspiciously, as I've been done this long road many times.

"I'm sorry mom," he blubbered. "Can you get saved more than once?"

"It's called recommitment stupid," my insensitive but intelligent Chuy blurted, ready for bed, forgetting to set the mouse traps.

Knowing how hard life is, how many battles we will all fight and how many we'll lose, only to get up again and keep on keeping on, I gave JoJo the very short version of my usual lecture about needing God within us. He knows it, he's sat in Sunday School, church and youth group for most of his impressionable young years. We both know he'll mess up, straighten up, falter, balk, fall down, jump up and go on.

"Just keep your heart right JoJo," I hugged him, we all went to bed and I could hear him and Allen talking in their room way past bedtime. Their older birth sister, Vanessa, had just called and even in her own young adult rebellion, she was happy for JoJo, glad that's he's making an effort to act better overall.

Yep. he does look like Edgar. "Call him up and tell him, Mom"

I Feel It Coming On

The good thing about all these birthdays this week is that I generally take kids to lunch and clothes shopping (new clothes like at Rugged Wearhouse), knowing gratefully that they share clothes with each other, and that 90% of their wardrobe came from donated bags, Goodwill, or yard sales.

Almost everyone in the house right now, including Big Mama, is in the 115-130 pound weight range. Everyone, but Tabby, Nando and Jack. Weird, huh? 13 of us are nearly the same size.

JoJo invented a song this morning about living on beans, flatulence, taking a dump, stinking up the house, and happiness. He belted it out at the top of his lungs. Thank you Lexapro. Just 5 mg. did the trick with that child of mine. Oh, you're so very welcome that I did not take a picture of his bathroom antics.

Today I'm taking Mayra and Chuy out together and they get to choose where to eat, after they get credit for a half day at school. They want the China buffet which I don't like, all cheap oil, MSG, and nasty smells of greasy dead chickens. I'd so much prefer Agua Linda, Las Brisas or La Parilla, but it's not my day.

Tomorrow I'll take Sarah out who really knows how to eat right.

Talking with my 20 year old yesterday, she's a pretty young lady with ten tons of mental and emotional disabilities, it's really heartbreaking, and her adolescence just about did me in, but nowadays we've worked out our relationship. She lives in Atlanta, but calls often. I sent her some money, but also want to scoot over to the icky big city and take her out to eat soon.

Theresa blogged about kids like ours moving out correctly, if they ever can do so, and The Adoption Counselor covered the sadness of FASD in the work force. If nothing else, my judgemental attitude has been reshaped after 20 plus years of frustrations, I've learned some empathy, but overall the hopelessness is just so simply sad, and there's some very tough years ahead for children who've been so damaged.

Dreading today's shopping trip, Chuy'll be easy, this isn't his idea of fun either, Mayra's gonna girl stress me out, this I already know.

The owner of the used game store laughed at my total inability to dawdle, "You sure know what you want," he cracked, "I hardly have time to get you rung up before you're busting out the door."

Well duh, I don't browse, I don't give a flip about what all there is to buy, just lemme get what the boys sent me in there for...I didn't say. I just smiled and said, "Well, thank you, honey."

I read seed catalogs cover to cover. I immediately recycle any other dumb catalogs that still have the nerve to show their tree-wasting face in my mailbox, calling the companies, begging them to stop sending me crap, if I wanna order something I could look on-line, which I'm not gonna do anyway, but I need these folks to STOP so I throw 'em a bone.

I have to get my U12 boys to a soccer celebration tonight, and my middle schoolers and high schoolers have asked to go to a Youth Revival at a nearby Baptist Church that they know is a big social event. I just hope I can stay up til 9 to go pick 'em back up.

When life is this good, as it's been lately, I sleep hard, making up for the previous years of insomnia.

I think I can be bold and speak up here. I'm expecting our family tide to turn for the better. We've endured some very tough years, and life is made up of peaks and valleys...time for an upswing and I feel it coming.

I'm trying to keep my head screwed on tight regarding the upcoming holidays that I don't care about anyway. When my kids are grown, I'm a gonna just breeze on through December, choosing to take a disappearing trip that time of the year for the rest of my life, and I sure cannot wait to do so. See ya. Wouldn't wanna be ya, I've so done my time.

Money & Clutter

I truly do check here each Monday, loving the fact that a nearby county publishes it's Leaf & Limb pick-up, telling gardeners where they can go find already bagged leaves to tote home for leaf mold, compost, mulch and/or earthworm vittles. I found dozens of bags today, filled up my truck, got coffee grounds, and 100 mismatched bricks from a brick company. I'm expanding the garden beds, willing to pay almost-sticker price for bricks, knowing they'll outlast the house. I still have all my original bricks that've moved twice before I bought this house in 1993.

I only go leaf-hunting in nearby neighborhoods, I'm not gonna waste gas or my time traipsing around.

My antique roses are still blooming and I sure wish I'd had time, years ago, to remember the names of those I'd planted. One today was heart-stoppingly fragrant. It really doesn't take much to make me happy.

I stood up there like a dork, planning next year's garden beds, never remembering which crops shouldn't follow each other, hardly remembering what I'd planted where this year, really just dilly dallying in the very warm sunshine, thankful I'm retired, glad that all my kids go to school, freeing me up each day.

This week is full of birthdays, Alex is 20 now, Mayra 16, Chuy 14, Tabby 7 and Sarah turns 36 this week alone. Y'all want Krispy Kreme? I'll barf if I have to see another sheet cake.

My mind today thinking hard about two blogs I adore, one of them reviewing a book the other one wrote. These statements in particular resonated, "I link to Unclutterer frequently because I believe there is a strong connection between clutter and financial problems, since clutter represents having more physical possessions than you can manage and all of those possessions cost money. Plus, dealing with clutter requires a time investment and in our busy lives, time has a very high value.

Amen.

The next fifty years for me will be all about food. Producing and preserving, gardening and simplicity... equals joy and happiness.

Bring it on.

No Better Subject More Deserving

As much as I blab away here, in real life, I generally keep my emotions in check, really hating to ever cry in public, but yesterday's church service 'bout tore me up. It was a water baptism event, and folks give their testimonies. One couple told their story together, in which the wife's parents, who were both clergy, had committed suicide together on an Easter Sunday after church some 12 years ago, how the husband had overcome a painkiller addiction, and that their marriage had finally survived all this, all contributed to an intense time. The congregation, including my group of teenagers, was glued to the speakers.

I talked to my kids later, who are just like me in that we simply think our family is off the charts in terms of issues and challenges, yet we have absolutely no clue regarding the sufferings and problems of others, so wrapped up are we in our own continuing drama.

Surprisingly both Paloma and JoJo, who rarely even have a civil conversation with each other, teamed up with me and we worked all afternoon, only getting three more mongo truckloads of manure, hardly making a dent in our needs, but making me happy as a pig in a poke.

JoJo, our resident family clown, who feels it's his personal responsibility to entertain a Type A choleric workhorse like me, flung himself down on the ground between the barns at the horse farm, flopping like a beached whale too far from an ocean, where other horsey-type folks were grooming their beautiful horses, in contrast to this raggedy ole woman who was way more interested in their horse's by-products. Mmmmm, mixed with wood shavings, hay and straw, I was one happy fall gardener.

Paloma and I wisely ignored JoJo, we just kept shoveling, and he rejoined us, later shedding his shirt in his 12 year old, seventh grade attempt at hotness, or so he claimed, prancing, clowning and acting the fool as he's wont to do on all occasions. Truly I don't mind. It beats the tarnation out of his previous attempts at violence. He's taking Depakote, which has curbed much of his aggressiveness, allowing the funny side of him to take over.

"Mom, these folks must think you've hired Mexicans to work for you," he hollered loudly for all to hear.

I stopped shoveling, since I was working the hardest. "Right, and you're calling me mom while I'm doing all the work. Guess I got a raw deal in your imaginary transaction." Plus I'd just got sucked in to his silliness.

Jack and Nando, wanting to step up to the plate like the big boys, shoveled from the truck to my wheelbarrow. I'm so particular about where each load goes, how deep, how it should be spread, that the kids wander off, leaving me to do some right heavy lifting all alone, which I so don't mind, knowing within five years or so I'll finally be all alone, to get it all done by myself which in no way daunts me at all.

We took the third load of the day to Grandma's gardens, which are large and productive, especially when you factor in her age. She was thrilled at the load, but she's also gonna need a lot more this winter to be hauled for her.

We caught yet another mouse, bathed a big elderly yard dog, I fried up individual corn tortillas to wrap around black beans and brown rice with grated hot pepper cheese, guacamole, sour cream, and topped with Fire Hot Pepper Sauce. Chuy ate THIRTEEN. Pure shock as they're huge servings and he's not that big of a fourteen year old. Three can fill me up and I'm a pretty big eater. Chuy sat at the counter, as I fried for over an hour in my huge black cast iron skillet, prompting the Bubbas applause and respect. I know that boy must've had to sleep on his back lat night what with that bulging tummy.

All that wheelbarrow hauling and shoveling knocked me out by 9:30 last night, my whole house was blessedly quiet.

"Mom, why do you work on the Sabbath?" CW asked me.

"Honey, this ain't work," I smiled back at him, while busting my butt. "This is fun!" And there's been no better subject more deserving of an exclamation mark than when one is involved in gardening/farming.

So Tempting

The temptation to miss church, to just skip one day, is looming over me. Another 75 degree day is seductively dawning and beckoning me to just haul manure. Is it self-discipline or habit that makes me go do what I should do? I dunno. I'm going to church, and lunch will be fast sandwiches, as I'm fired up about getting the manure hauled, knowing even several truckloads will barely make a dent in what all I need.

For years and years I either had babies, toddlers, or those whose bizarre, anti-social, disruptive behaviors demanded diligence and vigilance so much so that I rarely ate or even absorbed enough oxygen. Nowadays I feel totally free in comparison. The second aspect of my freedom involves the simple fact that I've not added any new kids in five years nor do I ever plan to do so. Never ever underestimate what adopting new children will do to the already shaky dynamics in an adoptive family.

JoJo hiding in the corner, behind his blanket, actually chose to vacuum at 6:30 yesterday morning, all around where they wallow and play computer games, surprising me tremendously, and later every single kid wanting to help outside was particularly rewarding.

Grandpa has a very small trailer attachment that can hook up to the lawn tractor, speeding up the manure hauling, and Martin woke up early this morning begging to be the driver of that contraption after church today. I contrarily prefer the wheelbarrow for several reasons, not wanting to burn fuel other than my own, knowing if I don't use it I'll lose it, and certain I'll sleep so much better after expending energy all day outside.

I'd told Chuck on his 30th birthday, after the next 30 years passed, I'll be 85 and he'll have to keep watching out his windows to make sure I don't wander off, as his house is situated down by my gates. 30 years flies, this I already know as Sarah will be 36 this coming Saturday. 36 years ago I had no kids and weighed 152 pregnant pounds before I delivered this only child I'd ever birth. I was then waddling along and fussing about being so ungainly, not having a clue this would, by far, be my easiest child to raise, although Daniel ended up being a very close second.

The kids were in school Friday so Grandpa, Grandma and I sat in the yard after working all day in the gardens. Even Grandpa with his Pulmonary Fibrosis had been wielding tools and cutting back the Brugmansia. For a few minutes there it was like it had been back in 1954 when there were only the three of us, after I'd been born in Atlanta, then a small, backwards Southern town, my brother soon to join us as we're just 16 months apart in age.

So yeah, what parent doesn't realize that time flies?

I can't take my gardens to Heaven, but I'm sure trying to take my kids with me, time to go get everyone dressed for church.

Every time I pick peppers, I'm sure it's the last time as I keep expecting a frost. Every quart of Fire Hot Pepper Sauce I freeze, I expect it to be the last. Jack with orange stamps all over himself, toted in yesterday's batch.