Category Archives: Uncategorized

Each of the last few days have seemed to be a week in themselves, each one dawning with the uncertainty of what this day will hold.  

How do we plan?  How is Mom Yutzy doing today?  Should we plan the funeral that she has steadfastly refused to plan.  (Unless, of course, there is someone out there that knows something we don’t.  To Daniel, she has only said, “Whatever you decide, it will be alright.  Just whatever you decide.”)

At the advisement of the resident Hospice nurse, (our Deborah) the family decided against hospitalization, against I.V. hydration, asking instead for comfort measures, anything that would make things comfortable for the present situation, where death appeared to be imminent. Daniel’s sister, Rachel and her husband, Ivan, went to Ohio on Sunday.  I cannot begin to say how much that meant to us.  One of the things that made me “heavy hearted” was that it seemed like one of the family ought to be there. It was an incredible comfort to feel that Daniel could stay in Delaware, take his turn at preaching the Sunday sermon, attend to getting the chickens out on Monday, and plan a bit more rationally.  Just to have someone there!  It truly was a blessing.

Yesterday, Deborah drove a mini-van to Holmes County for Raph and Gina and their expanded family, and then went down to Cedarville, spent the night with Rachel and today, took her Hospice skills to the nursing home where Mom Yutzy makes her home.  She has conversed with social workers, nursing home personnel, nurses and the Hospice workers that have been assigned to Mom’s care.  She called with her observations and evaluations and I feel like I am less in limbo than I have been for almost a week.

Mom Yutzy is stable.  She has improved quite a bit since the urgent call telling us of her rapidly declining condition.  She is definitely deteriorating, and with the elderly, it is always an educated guess as to what is actually going on.  But Deborah said today that her vitals are stable, that she is actually “healthy” for the most part, and that since she has improved from the infection that hit her really hard, she is doing pretty well.  Deborah feels that, as is typical of patients with dementia, she could (probably WILL!) continue to decline slowly.  Very slowly.  But, as every single health care professional tells us, “No one really can predict.”

So Deborah has a ticket to fly home on Thursday, and Daniel and I are planning to hold off going for right now.  We were there a little over a month ago, and it will be okay for us to “wait and see” for now.  I feel a great sense of relief in one sense.  The only thing that troubles me is that going to see Mom Yutzy was my ticket to see my newest Grandbabies.  I can barely wait to squeeze them, and see this young couple be Daddy and Mommy to their ready-made family.  It has been so exciting to see how God equips and gives grace and turns everyday living into Glory.

And that is one story that continues to be written in all our lives. 

My heart is heavy this morning, as the woman that has been my mother in law for almost forty years appears to be preparing for her last journey.  

Sue Beachy Yutzy, how I pray that you will be comfortable, that you will experience the presence of Jesus, and that the crossing will be glorious. 

I pray that the disappointments of this life, all the many things that didn’t turn out the way you had hoped, will be swallowed up in victory, and that your eyes will, even now, be seeing that place of eternal rest, where there is no more sickness, no more sorrow, no more pain, no more parting. May this hope comfort you in these difficult hours. 

I think of The Great Cloud of Witnesses — the people waiting for you over there that must be watching — Dad Yutzy, your baby that lived but a couple hours, Joseph, beloved sisters and brothers, Doddy and Mommy Beachy, dear friends and extended family. If you are cognizant of anything, may it be of what is coming, and the Light that draws you Home.

And I know I didn’t tell you often enough.  I love you.

I get the picture (the one I can’t share on social media) on my cell phone.  It is my daughter in law, holding a little brown boy, his mop of curly black hair is mounded up against her chin.  His head, nestled against her chest.  I can see his face.

The message is short:  “And S- where he’s at the majority of the time.”

I look at Regina’s face.  Her hair is askew, her striped orange shirt rumpled, but her face is one of peace.  She’s doing what she’s wanted to do for a very long time.

I look back at the three-year old’s face, and find myself blinking back the tears.  What S- is doing is listening to her heart, his ear plastered against her chest.

What he doesn’t know, but probably understands, is that he is hearing the strong beat of a Mama’s Sweet Love.

In New York City, (Brooklyn, to be exact) on a street that is dirty, and in a neighborhood that is anything but “good”, there is a sign that marks to meeting place of the Followers of Jesus Mennonite Church. Using the same facility is a Christian Day School.  They call this school “Followers of Jesus School” and it ministers to children of inner city Christians, but also to other children whose parents, for whatever reason, have sought out an alternative to the public schools in the area.  

This school is largely the result of a vision of my Beloved Daddy, Mark Yoder, Sr., who was overseer of the Followers of Jesus Church for many, many years.   He felt that a Christian Day School would serve as a tool for evangelism and “equipping of the saints” in the work of the church in Brooklyn.  And (I say this with a great deal of admiration and respect) he was right.

The school relies heavily on outside support to supplement the tuition.  Teachers work for a great deal less than they could probably make somewhere else.  There are times when the work is discouraging but there are rewards, and most of them are in it for the long haul.

I say all that to say that this school is having a fundraiser at

On Friday, March 8th at 6:30pm.

The event notification on Facebook can be found by copying and pasting this web address:

http://www.facebook.com/events/402714806471255/

There, the description of the event reads as follows”

“Do the headlines depress you? Do you wonder what is the future for urban youth and education? Come hear what happens when a few young people and a few adults dedicate their lives to building a Godly future in the middle of one of New York’s worst neighborhoods. Believe me, there are plenty of reasons to celebrate.”

 There will be a program, and music and information given — and (of course!) SUPPER!!!

I believe all the tables have been funded, which means that interested people just need to let someone know they are coming and then show up.  Between our Sweet Mama, (Alene Yoder) and Certain Man’s Crew, there is room for quite a number of guests, and some of our church is planning to attend.  However, we do not begin to have enough people to fill the tables.  So if you would like to go, would you please let me know — either by leaving a comment here or messaging me privately?  No matter where you may be, if you can make it to East Earl, PA on the evening of March 8th and would like to take this in, please, just let me know.  And we should have your answer by this Sunday evening, February 17th, if possible.

Consider yourself personally invited!

While writing yesterday’s blog, I dug out some of the old records that I kept from Foster Care.  It was so interesting to me.  And frankly, I wish that there would be a child out there that would see their name here (even though it is only a first name) and recognize themselves and contact me.

The thing that was hardest for me about moving to Delaware was that I had to give up one of my dearest, secret dreams.  You see, I always dreamed that I would open the door of that little house on the hill someday and there would be one of our kids — that finally found their way back home.  

The house has been sold, more than once.  I don’t know the owners, and would never expect anyone to try to respond positively to a stranger on the front steps . . . or that they would make any effort to help.  So, as I processed leaving Plain City, Ohio, and life as we had known it ever since our marriage, I grieved the loss of many, many things, but the thing that tugged the most was giving up that dream and believing that God’s eyes saw where mine could not, His hands would reach where ours could not, and He would watching over the little ones.  

“I still believe, Lord Jesus!  I still believe!”

Joseph:  Born on April 3, 1975.  Placed with us on December 19, 1975.  Left our home on August 29, 1977  Adopted.  Last heard from him when he was 11.  He was doing well then.  We do not know where he is.  I think of him so often, and wonder whether he has found his way.  When we heard from him when he was 11, his adoptive mother told me over the phone, “Joey is just different.  He went to camp this year, and he says he gave himself to God.  He’s just different!”  She couldn’t see me, but I was pumping my fist in the air and quietly shouting in my heart, “YES, Lord Jesus, YES!!!”

Callena:  Born on July 23, 1973.  Placed with us on May 12, 1976.  Left our home on February 27, 1978.  Adopted.  Disastrous life.  Last heard from her about five years ago.  We do not know where she is.

Shon:  Born on January 13, 1975.  Placed with us on August 9, 1977.  Left our home on August 1, 1978, for another, more specialized foster home.  Eventually, Shonnie ended up in residential care.  We don’t know where he is.  Today, we realize that Shonnie was autistic.  Back then, we didn’t know what to do, how to cope with or how to handle the screaming, meltdowns, and impulsive behaviors.  Ah, Shonnie.  I wonder where you are today.  I still wish that we could have helped you. 

Regina:  Born on April 8, 1973, she was placed with our family on March 1, 1978, when her foster family, that desperately wanted to adopt her, had to move out of state to find work for the father in the family.  She was with us until August 18, 1978, when her foster family was established enough for her to be returned to them, and Certain Man and I were permitted to take her to her new life.  We don’t know what happened to this beautiful little girl.

Thompson:  Born on December 10, 1968.  Placed with our family in the middle of the night on April 29, 1978.  He was a runaway, a troubled little boy, and had seen far too much for his nine years..  He lived with us until March 23, 1979, when he returned to his mother in a bad neighborhood in downtown Columbus.  The last I heard, he was in a correctional facility for youth.  We have no idea where he is today.

Raynard: Born on March 21, 1978, he was placed with our family on May 31, of the same year, when he was only 11 weeks old.  We had Raynie until his second birthday, when he was placed for adoption.  We don’t know where he is.  We have honestly never heard anything directly from him since the day he left.  Our baby.  Sometimes I still weep.

Kimmy:  Born on August 26, 1976, placed with us on September 1, 1978.  Moved to another foster home on March 31, 1979, when when we were surprised by a pregnancy (that was Deborah).  We had five foster children at the time, and three of them were under three.  The agency we worked for decided to downsize our home.  Kimmy went to another wonderful foster home.  About that time, Tommy was ready to go home, and on April 4, 1979, we adopted Christina.  In less than a month we went from five foster children to having two foster and one of our own.  And, no, we don’t know where Kimmy is or what happened to her.

Anna:  Born on May 29, 1969, she was placed with our family on September 22, 1978.  Anna was actually Kimmy’s aunt, one of a family of sixteen.  She was with us until February 1, 1980, when she was placed for adoption with a brother who was close to her age.  She wanted to change her name, something her new family was amenable to, and we don’t know where she is or what has happened to her.

Blandon:  Born February 10, 1976.  (I just realized that he turned 37 yesterday!)  He was placed with our family on April 18, 1980, and was with us until May 17, 1981.  When he came to us, they told us that he had been abused by his mother and one time she pulled his hair out in chunks.  There were days when I had great sympathy for her.  Not that I would have torn his hair out in chunks, but I was certainly tempted to pull out MINE!  Blandon had a father that was pretty involved with him, and I cannot remember if he went to his Daddy, or if he went to another foster home.  We were closing our foster home when Blandon left, and some of those things are fuzzy in my mind.

David:  Born February 18, 1979, he was placed with our family on July 22, 1980.  His young mother, also a foster child, loved her little boy fiercely, and worked hard to establish herself so that she could take him when she turned 18, and was emancipated.  She was never anything but a good mother, relating kindly and consistently with her little guy, and I had high hopes for her.  What niggled at the back of my comfort level were the ugly scars that she carried from being beaten with an extension cord before being taken from her natural home as a young child.  She was able to gain custody of David on June 22, 1981, and we have never seen or heard from him since.  

Zion: (or Ziggy, as we affectionately called him) was born on August 26, 1972.  He was placed with our family on August 29, 1980 and only spend three and a half months with us.  As I recall, he was returned to his mother on December 12, 1980, but I understand it was short-lived.  He was placed for adoption in the same home as Regina, but I think the adoption failed.  We don’t know what happened after that, and we don’t know where he is today.

Of the “long-termers” there were four (beside Christina) that we actively pursued adopting.  The reasons for “no” were varied and sometimes complicated.  Sometimes it became our decision, sometimes it was Franklin County Children’s Services decision.  In one of the more memorable cases (Raynard), we agonized and prayed and plead with God, and then finally decided that it was in his best interest to be adopted into another family.  The case manager came out to find out our decision, and I remember her sitting on the couch, while Certain Man, home from work, sat on one recliner, and I sat on the armchair.  She sat there, almost defensively, as I remember, her books on her lap, her long legs crossed, her face a guarded study.  I had asked Daniel to stay home that day, because I thought that I could not say that our decision had been to give Raynard up.  Daniel was as sad as I was, but at least he wasn’t sitting there sobbing.  “We’ve thought and thought,” he said softly and deliberately, “and we love Raynie so much.  And because we love him so much, we really do want what is best for him.”  His voice faltered, and I remember him looking down at his hands, miserable and struggling to keep control.  And then, I remember him saying, almost so softly that I couldn’t hear him, “and we’ve decided to let him go.”  

I remember sobbing and sobbing, just almost unable to accept that this beautiful little boy, almost two, whom we had loved since he was eleven weeks old, was going to leave us.  We had made long, long lists with pros and cons, and I remember telling someone, “Everything is on the side that we should let him go except the “We love him so much’ and when we really think about it, that goes on the side that says we should probably let him go!”   I still thought that my heart was going to break, and I wondered how this classy, black casemanager would respond.  What would she think of us?  What would she say?  

But then something happened the reminded me once again that God never overlooks our pain, that He leads in ways to prepare our hearts for His will for us.

Rhonda, the adoption casemanager, suddenly sat up and snapped her big notebook shut with an unreadable look on her face.  She looked at us, compassionately, but also almost with disbelief, and then she said, “You two cannot imagine how glad I am that you came to this decision on your own.  We had a meeting yesterday and we decided that we would not allow you to adopt Raynard.”  

I can almost hear the general indignant outcry here, but there were rules at FCCS at that time that we had agreed to when we came into the Foster Care Program.  We had signed papers saying that we agreed to follow/support these rules and that we could not circumvent the authority of the agency, particularly when it came to the placement and removal of a foster child.  One of the more strictly adhered to policies said that, while we could request adoption of a child that had been in our care, the agency could rule (and usually did rule!) that foster parents were not given first priority on any child that was under two (no matter how long the child had been in the home).  And while they would consider foster parent adoption for children over two, it was unusual for a foster home to be allowed to adopt unless there were extenuating circumstances.  (i.e. the child had medical problems, was developmentally delayed, was of African descent and there were no families on file who were requesting that particular age/gender/race child, or the child was emotionally unstable.) And if the child was considered healthy and mostly perfect, if the child that was over two hadn’t resided in the home for at least eighteen months, it was fairly unusual for the foster family to be the family of choice.  Someday, I just might document the series of miracles that took place when we were allowed to adopt Christina through Franklin County Children’s Services. Oh, Glory!

*****************

In addition to the “long termers” there were ten other children:  sisters; Tina and Christina, a baby; Dione, Anna’s brother; Roger, Mexican siblings; Bernaden and Joseph, brothers; Boyd and Brian, and brothers; Shawn and Timothy — all coming and staying from as short a time as overnight to over seven weeks.  Most were returned to their natural families, but some went to “more permanent” faster situations.

Last week, Certain Man and I became the “faraway Grandpa and Grammy” to three little boys.  G. (3), K. (2), and L. (1).

They came to Eldest Son and his Ohio Heart Throb on a chilly February evening, wide-eyed and wild haired.  They were all bewildered.  L. was sick.

I look at the pictures that have come across the marvels of my cell phone and I have this tightness in my throat.  I am wildly happy for our son and his wife.  They’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.  They’ve traversed the rocky road of foster parent education, with inspections and questionnaires and reference forms and physicals and classes with courage and commitment, finishing up in late November or early December and thinking ever since that this day would come any time.  Their agreement was that they would be willing to take siblings, ages 3 and under.  Siblings.  As in two.  (I thought it was stretching it a bit to think that there would be two in a sibling group that would come intact into the Foster to Adopt program.)  But instead, here they were.  Three beautiful little boys.

I said that I am wildly happy.  I am also guardedly fearful.  Because I know.  Certain Man and I were foster parents for over five years back in the late seventies.  Things have changed a whole lot since then.  Except for some very basic things.  Children who are in foster care are not there without brokenness.  And there is no guarantee that they are home to stay.  All the new regulations, all the advances in understanding kids in transition, and all the best intentions cannot displace this “ax in the ceiling” with which foster parents live.  

When we moved to Delaware from Ohio, we came with three children; Christina, Deborah, and Raphael.  It was interesting to be defined as a family just in the contest of those three children.  Because, the truth be told, there were 21 other children who had passed through our home in various contexts, that were so much a part of who Certain Man and I were that it felt strange to me to live as if those children had never existed, and as if those years had never happened.  

We had lived on a little hill in Ohio, a smallish grey house at the corner of Plain City-Georgesville and M.V. High Road.  There was an orchard and a stream, and Certain Man had planted Buckeye trees along the bank.  The many children would swing in the big maple tree, ride the little cart behind the mower while Certain Man mowed, and followed the man that they loved as their Daddy, hanging on to his fingers and riding on his strong shoulders.  They sang and prayed and played and sometimes fought and bit and scratched and argued.  

And the day came for every one of them, except one, when they went away.

Each story was different.  There were a few times when the stay had been extremely short and we knew that the child/children would likely be returned to their natural family, that it wasn’t really too hard.

But there were way too many times when a child left that our hearts were wrenched with unbelievable pain.  It just was so wrong.  Even when a child was going to an adoptive home, there never was a time when it felt “right.”  I remember being warned that we couldn’t love “those children” too much, because we needed to remember that they would probably need to be given up.  

I remember saying, “It is a child’s right to be loved in a way that feels like you could NEVER give them up.”  And so we invested over and over again.  And our families did as well.  I remember coming into my parents’ house at Christmas, 1975, carrying Joseph, our first foster baby.  We had traveled late into the night, but Daddy and Mama, Sarah and Alma were waiting up for us.  We brought him into the house, unwrapped his chunky little eight month old body from the blankets in front of the fireplace, and he blinked in the light and warmth of this new place where he had never been before, and suddenly, as four pairs of eyes were excitedly taking in every feature of this little guy, he broke into the most heartwarming grin.  That was it. He pretty much had their hearts from then on.  A few days later, Daddy and Mama bought Joseph an expensive pair of baby shoes that he desperately needed, but we were too poor to afford.  Back then, the agency wouldn’t allocate money for such things — even if they were a necessity, so foster parents did the best they could.  For us, there was the blessing of a grandpa and grandma who lovingly stepped in and helped out.

I would like if we could be the kind of grandparents they were.  They had to have some feelings about black and bi-racial children calling them “Grandma” and “Grandpa.”  Back in the mid seventies, things just weren’t as acceptable as they are now.  But they didn’t let that hold them back.  In fact, I remember keenly the time that Mama came to visit shortly after Joseph had gone for adoption.  She took a load of laundry to the wash line for me, and when she didn’t come back, I went to find her.  She was standing between the lines of clothes at the wash line, weeping.  “I just can’t stand it,” she said between sobs.  “I just think I have to see him, to hear him call me ‘gammaw’ and to hold him.”  

As the “far away Grammy” now, I want so much to see these little boys with my own eyes.  To talk to them, to hold them, to read to them, to learn to know their personalities, and to just be grammy.  They have a grandma and grandpa there, and they are GOOD.  There is extended family there, and they couldn’t be better.  So the boys won’t suffer for extended family contact.  

But I feel like I am missing out a little with each day that goes by, and that is a heavy on my heart.  

Because I really don’t know how much time there will be.

Remember my pretty flower?  
It is so top heavy, and wants to lean over on its side.

The strangest thing is happening.

Yesterday I saw a second flower appearing.  
Does anyone know if this is normal?

I can’t figure it out!  

I wonder how this will end up!

Today was the “in between” communion at our little country church.  On these days, we share the bread and wine (well, home canned grape juice, for real!).  I have been experimenting with gluten free communion bread recipes, both composition and method, for a number of years, and I truly believe that I have one that I will be using for some time.  And since I have been asked recently for the recipe, I decided to post it.

1 cup Gluten-free All Purpose Baking Flour  (I use Bob’s Red Mill brand)

2 Tbsp. Sugar

1/4 tsp. Salt

1/3 cup soft Butter

3 Tbsp. evaporated milk

I mix the dry ingredients, cut in the soft butter until crumbly, then sprinkle and mix in the milk (like for a pie crust) and then press it into a ball.

Now here is something I just learned this morning that made things MUCH easier.  I put the ball of dough into a Ziploc quart size freezer bag, zipped it shut and used my rolling pin to fill it completely and to a uniform thickness.  It made this perfect rectangle of the exact right thickness.  Then I carefully opened and cut away the one side of the plastic bag and put the dough onto a flat, thin cookie sheet.  Then, just a carefully, I removed the rest of the plastic bag and then cut the square into narrow strips and fork pierced the strips where I wanted the elders to break it.  I usually have a small strip all the way around that is discard (Or eaten by house members as soon as it is cool enough to handle) and then the rest of the strips are a generous inch wide.  I put the fork pricks this morning every inch, and that looked nice, but I believe that it would be better to have the fork pricks closer together — maybe more like a half an inch apart because it is easier to chew if the piece isn’t quite so large.  If you make it with the ziploc bag, you have five strips one way (with a little strip on either side) and can easily get about ten bite size pieces per strip. There are always people waiting in line to eat the left overs after the service, so I try to be sure to have extra, but if you have 40 or less congregants, I would think one batch would be almost enough

Bake at 375 for about 12 minutes if you are using a shiny, flat pan.  Be especially watchful of the bottom of the bread.  It browns really quickly, and for some reason, I am just not very enthused about burnt (or even overly brown) communion bread.

But even when I am sure the bread is a dismal failure, I have always been extended grace by my brothers and sisters who worship at the church at the corner of Carpenter Bridge and Canterbury Roads.  They eat it gladly in the spirit of being a part of The Family.

And I give grateful praise that I can be one of those parts.

It’s a cold Saturday morning at Shady Acres.  The warmth of the house wraps itself around me and reminds me once again of how good I have it.  If anyone has been keeping track of things, you maybe have noticed that I haven’t mentioned “our kids from Argos Corner” for a few weeks.  That is because they have been taken out of our lives abruptly and completely.  Long story.  But on cold, cold mornings like this I think of Mya, L.J., Muffie and Little Seneca and pray that they are warm and safe.

“Lord Jesus, keep your hand on the children of our world!” 

He cares for the birds.  He cares for the Squirrels, and I know He cares for us all.

Sometime in December, I received a package in the mail from National Arbor Day Foundation.  In response to our yearly membership donation, they sent me two Hyacinth bulbs with instructions as to how to make them grow.  I put the first one into the provided vase and put it into the pump room.  I actually neglected it to the point that I thought it would never grow.  But it did!  

Today the flower is probably about at its peak, and the smell reminds me that Easter is coming.  There is hope for this old world.  That God, who has caused the seasons to follow each other for as long as the earth has stood, promised that the seasons would continue to do just that until the end of time.  So Spring will come again, reminding us of the fact that Jesus conquered death and that we can have the same hope.  I smell the faint smell of Hyacinth as I sit in my computer room, two rooms and a wall from where my brave little flower sits on the dining room table.  It makes me just a little crazy with hope — not just for spring, but for the situations that I cannot change, and cannot effect and cannot reasonably expect a good outcome.  “Lord Jesus, may the Hope of Heaven hold me steady in these days when the unknowns are so completely beyond my reach and understanding.”

This morning, I scrubbed off my jars of canned chicken, and cleaned up the dungeon where we store thing like that.  We had such a time with those terrible crickets earlier this summer, so Certain Man had put a “cricket bomb” down there to lower the unpopular population.  This resulted in rather impressive cricket carnage that lay upon the floor, resulting in less that usual cooperation when seeking help to either retrieve food from the old basement, or taking things down there to stock the shelves.

Which is what I needed this morning, because the canned chicken was ready to go to storage.

I did 28 quarts of meat, had a nice pan full of meat for “picking” and sold 20 pounds.  It certainly is a satisfied feeling to have this meat in the dungeon, waiting on the shelf for when it is needed.  I had one quart that did not seal, so I will use that for either chicken salad, or for a casserole for lunch tomorrow.

And so, this Saturday has passed.  I can barely believe that it is after 5pm.  I need to think about lunch tomorrow, and finish straightening some things before bedtime.  

This has been such a happy day.                                 

My heart gives grateful praise.

I wish that I was sleeping.  But I got a late start on a couple of canners of chicken, and it’s gonna be a while before I get there.  I don’t especially like to can meat, but it is so handy to have on hand, and it is a good and quick dinner when there is unexpected company, or when time runs short to make something for the family.

I have always canned straight white meat — boneless, skinless tenders, straight from the processing plant.  I like using that for chicken salad or even casseroles.  But I married a man who likes dark meat, so I’m trying something different with this chicken.  I am filling my quart jars half full of white meat, and then finishing it off with dark, as in boneless, skinless thighs.  I wonder if it won’t make the meat more moist, and if the flavor won’t be better for quick soups or casseroles.  Maybe even better chicken salad.

I got 40 pounds of dark meat, and 40 pounds of white.  I am selling a ten pound bag out of each case, which leaves me with 60 pounds of meat.  If my calculations hold true, that will give me around 28 quarts of canned chicken.  I think that will last this family for a while.  And I won’t have to worry about a freezer going out.  That is a good feeling, too.

So now, one canner is finished, and the other is in its cooling down stage and 14 quarts are finished for tonight.  A few minutes ago, Certain Man betook himself to his bed, but I have a short wait before I can go.  Hopefully I can get the others done tomorrow.  All is quiet in the old farmhouse at Shady Acres.  I think I am going to go enjoy the solitude for a few more minutes.

Blessings, Dear Friends.  May you all sleep well!