Delaware Grammy

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!

Today I had an inspection.  If a person is licensed with the state, and provides care for individuals under the Department of Disabilities Services, they must actually endure two yearly inspections.

But I haven’t had my heart in getting ready.  Much.  So “unmuch” so that today, Middle Daughter said to me, “Mom, am I missing something here?  We just aren’t in the usual ‘fantically getting ready’ mode that you usually are.”

I said, “I don’t know, Beebs.  I think I’m just tired of the whole thing.   I decided that they were coming to inspect our house as one of the very first ones and I decided that if I didn’t pass, I would just make them come back.”

We did do some important repair work to get ready.  Last night, Certain Man and I replaced some ceiling tiles in the ladies’ bedroom where there has been a troublesome leak.  We recently got the roof repaired, and thought the leak was (finally!) gone for good.  We think it is taken care of in the bedroom, but back in the closet, we had a wet ceiling tile last night, so there must be something still amiss.  I decided not to bring it up as long as the inspector didn’t say anything.  She didn’t, and I didn’t either, and I passed just fine, so that will give us some time to get it taken care of.

I used to spend weeks dreading the inspection, cleaning to within an inch of its life everything that I remotely thought might fall under the watchful eyes of those who came to find me out.  I remember one time that an inspector backed into the closet of a bedroom upstairs, and shone his ever present flashlight up into the corners all around in that dark place and announced, “There are cobwebs in here!” 

I was trying to stay out of his way, hovering on the stairway, and Certain Man was right behind me.  He wasn’t very happy at the pronouncement of cobwebs and he said, without any quietness to his voice at all, “Take those cobwebs and wrap them around his neck!”

I didn’t pass that inspection.  Wonder why?

But I did pass today, and that is what matters to me.  And I really didn’t do anything extra or special or frantic.  I guess they will allow me to keep my precious ladies for another period of time.  I have been a care provider for the State for over 28 years.  Sometimes I look at my life and how the dimensions have been expanded and enriched and changed and (sometimes) frustrated by the people that God has brought into our family’s life and I am so grateful for the opportunity I’ve had to be a stay at home mama even while serving in a position that is so wrapped up in service to those who are unable to help themselves.  

Back in the early years of my experience, I often found myself at odds with those in authority over me over things such as clothing lists or spending records or medications or whatever.  And I still do not approve of many of the things that are required or encouraged or expected, but somewhere along the line, I came to understand that it was in the best interest of all concerned if I would save the “digging in of the heels” for things that really mattered.  And then, as time passed, I found that there were precious few things that really were worth a fight.

They want to teach Cecilia how to handle money?  Have at it!  (And good luck with that!)

They want Nettie to go on an excursion to Salisbury Zoo?  Fine!  I’ll do all I can to make easy for them to do it.

They want Cecilia to sign her Financial Records each month?  Sure!  Just know that I hold the hand that holds the pen while she blindly scribbles around somewhere in the area of the signature line.

And on and on and on . . .

So much of it is just foolishness, I know.  But so what?  If it gets my ladies what they need, and if it keeps the powers that be from coming in and going over everything with a fine tooth comb, I’m all for it.  I just decided that I wanted to be known for my cooperation and flexibility — while still getting what my ladies need even when it isn’t exactly what I want to do.

It feels good to have this behind me for another while.  During the summer, the state bureau of Licensing will send someone out to do another inspection, and that one has its own challenges.  There is little difference between the two as far as intensity, but my license hangs on that one — my contract on this.

And now, supper is over, and it’s time for some evening chores.  I would sorta’ like to just vegetate but there are things to be done.  My heart is full of so many things tonight, but there is much cause for Grateful Praise. 

And so, I offer here the sacrifice of a thankful heart.

We come from a family of eight brothers, daughters of five of those brothers.

One of us is the Youngest Child of the Oldest Brother

One of us is the Oldest Child of the Youngest Brother

The Tallest of us is the Daughter of the Tallest Brother.

And the Two of us who are Almost Twins are the Daughters of The Twin Brothers 

.

We share so much commonality.

-Men we love who are so, well, manly.

-Our bodies are changing on us.  We have aches and pains that remind us that the years have passed while we weren’t watching.  There are troublesome joints, an ankle brace, and three new knees among us.  And we have Gloria, whose healthy, fit example reminds us that we should have done differently, that we could have done differently — if only we WOULD have.

-Kids and grandkids, nieces and nephew, in-laws and family members that we love intensely and with intentional involvement in their lives.  We want to make a difference in the lives of the little people that God has brought into our lives, and we engage with, and bless, and sacrifice for them.  Oh, Lord Jesus, how very much we love these precious gifts in each of our lives.

But the common thing that brought us together this week for two unbelievably golden days in Williamsburg, VA, was our age.  Yepper!  Our age.  All five of us turned or will turn 60 years old within less than ten months of each other.  We had to celebrate.

And memories!  Ah, the memories. 

-Of fathers who loved us.  Daddies and a Papa who loved Jesus and their families and the church with unfailing loyalty and life commitments and service that spoke LIFE to not only their own lives, but ours, as well.  Their example has made the way HOME so plain to us.

-Of happy Childhood memories that make us laugh and make us cry and cause us to sit quiet with faraway looks in our eyes as we realize, humbly and gratefully, with pensive wonder, how very much we’ve been blessed.

We are five cousins.  We’ve rediscovered our friendship, our common life experiences, our ROOTS. 

We looked at the shirts of our fathers, and the other beloved uncles, touched the fabric that once touched our father’s skin.  I smelled long and deeply to see if the smell of my Daddy was there, but it was freshly laundered and there was no remnants of the smell that once spoke Mark Yoder to me.

But the fabric!  Woven fabric, worn thin, with a hint of the pastel green he so often wore.  I tore out the stitches and laid it flat, and it laid flat upon my heart, and I wanted to use it to wipe my tears.

Because of the eight brothers, my Daddy was THE BEST.

When Mr. Yutzy pulled into the driveway on Tuesday evening, I don’t think home ever looked so good.  

It’s getting a little old, though.  I’ve been here ever since.  I’m inclined to think it is getting a little old for Mr. Yutzy, too. When he kissed me good-bye this morning, I said, “Hopefully only a few more days and I’ll be all better.”

“Well, hopefully,” he said without a shred of hope in that hopeful word.

I laughed at him, and said, “Well, that sounds confident!”

He looked a bit uncomfortable and muttered something about it being “five days that you’ve been sick!”

It has been a rough go round, and I’ve had days (and particularly, nights) when I wondered if I would get better.  In fact, Wednesday night, I was feeling so strange that I almost woke him up to tell him to “put me down cheap,” but then decided that it was the old Yoder Drama working overtime and thought better of it.  I can’t use up all my credibility over something as simple as a norovirus.

Which is what Middle Daughter, Hospice nurse, is sure this is.  I read the description in the newspaper and am inclined to agree.  So I’ve been trying the old tried and true remedies, and trying to stay hydrated, and getting lots of rest and making sure that the bathroom isn’t too far away at any given time.  I know, I know, TMI.

Sitting here in my beloved chair, sometimes skyping with my grandbaby (whom I miss passionately!) and trying to stay out of everybody’s way, I am comforted by an addition to our family room that has been a long time coming.  Those of you who visit often are very acquainted with our old wingback chairs that sit opposite the recliners in the family room.  We bought the two of them probably 20 years ago when Charlie Moore and Gertrude Finnegan were a part of our family.  Purchased through The Country Rest Home, they were supposed to be special geriatric chairs with waterproof, (albeit attractive) upholstery.  Charlie and Gertie were pleased as punch!  But Gertrude was a quiet “picker” and Charlie only knew one way to get into a chair, and that was to lunge and plop.  So, while we tried to discourage such behaviors, it wasn’t long until the fabric was very threadbare on the arms and the springs were in terrible shape.  Then Charlie passed away, and after some years had passed, we decided to reupholster both chairs in a different fabric.  I found an Amish upholsterer who had the perfect color (blue) in the nicest fabric, and he agreed to reupholster both chairs and fix the springs.  And only charge me $400.00 a piece.  For the life of me, I cannot understand why I EVER agreed to this.  I could have purchased new chairs for less than that.  Maybe I was tired of looking, or felt a need for Gertrude to have her “own chair” but whatever the reason, it was the route we took, and the chairs were beautiful.  Gertrude loved sitting in hers by the fire, and it could be said that the enjoyment she got out of her chair may have made it worth it.  

But we had another problem.  Some time after the chairs were reupholstered, a little cat came into our lives and it took only a few times of her slashing her paws over the front of our chairs for the fabric to be ruined.  (And for us to decide that if she was going to be a house cat, she would need to be declawed!)  It wasn’t too bad at first, but as the years passed, the holes got bigger and bigger.  And uglier and uglier.  Gertrude died in 2005, but she loved her chair to the end.  I felt an attachment to the chairs because she loved them so much, and one day, Middle Daughter took it upon herself to mend those chairs.  It turned out surprisingly well. After about a year or so, the first one she did came apart, but she got busy and fixed that and I thought we were set.

But more and more I found them to be uncomfortable and a few weeks ago, I looked over and saw a spring hanging out of the bottom.  “H-m-m-m-m-m,” I thought.  “This might be a problem that Oldest Son, the furniture man, could help me with.”  I mentioned it to him when he was home, and he said, “Just let me know.”  So I suddenly remembered last Friday and I texted him and asked him if there might be a set of chairs in Troyer’s Bargain Basement that would fill the bill.

“I don’t know, but I will look,” he said, “and let you know!”

He called me on Saturday evening with that lilt in his voice that always makes my heart sing!  He had found something!

“I don’t know, Momma, if this something you’ll like or not, but I found two small recliners, blue, in the bargain basement.  I think it would work . . .”

I asked him all about them, and got more and more pleased all the time.  They were the right color, swivel rocker recliners, a matching pair, something they rarely have in the bargain basement.  Of course, there was that important question, “How much–??”

“Well,” he said, and I could almost hear the delight in his voice, “we just ran a sale on recliners, and with my employee discount I can pretty much get you two for the price of one.  They are really good chairs!”

I was so excited.  He took us into the shop after we ate supper than night and I got a look at them.  I was tickled pink!!!  Yes, I did want them.  Very much so! 

Later that evening, I was telling Eldest Daughter, Sweet Mama, (or somebody!) about them and mentioned that they weren’t La-Z-boy.   

“What are they?” Queried the interested listener.

“Southern Comfort,” I said.  “It’s the kind they sell at Troyer’s –“

“Southern MOTION, Mom!”  Interrupted my amused Eldest Son from across the living room.  “Southern Comfort is whiskey, and I promise you aren’t getting that from me!”

“Oh,” I said, into the phone, properly chastised.  “Southern MOTION.”  And then across the room, “And I’m not wanting any whiskey from you!”

We brought them home, set them up, gave the others away to the first person who came and got them (Friend Emma did!) and I am just so happy with these.

 I look forward to lots of great conversations with friends around the fire in days to come.  Just give me a few more days.  I hope to be all better soon!

If you read my post from this afternoon, you know that we were out of electricity this morning.  Just to refresh your memory, here is what I wrote:

Around ten this morning, I heard a “pop” and the electric went off.  Our trusty farm generator started and I figured City of Milford would be along shortly.  At noon, I realized that the generator was still running, so I tried to call, and got all sorts of run around with “please leave a message and we will dispatch a vehicle immediately” sorts of things.  When I told Daniel about it, he wasn’t too pleased, especially after it was an hour later and I still hadn’t heard anything.  I tried again to call and got the same message.  I didn’t leave a message this time.  About 15 minutes later a very apologetic gal called saying that their phones had been all messed up and messages hadn’t been going to the right places, and she was going to send someone right out.  She did, and the electric was back on about 15 minutes later.  I don’t know what the problem was, maybe a transformer or something.  No one else was out in the neighborhood as far as I know.

The thing was, the truck was here an amazingly short time before the lights flickered, signaling that the electric was back on and the generator had entered its cooling down period.  I listened and heard the generator was still running, but in due time, it stopped, and Daniel said that was normal.  That the noise would continue about eight minutes following the return of power.  I was grateful that they fixed it so quickly, but I never did find out where they worked or what they did.

Daniel worked late tonight, but when he did get home and went out to do his chores, it was dark.  I was feeding supper when he came back in and stood in front of me with his hands in his parka pockets and that half grin on his face that tells me something interesting has happened on the farm we both enjoy so much.

“What’s up? I ask, interest piqued in spite of the rumblings in my tummy and my shaky limbs.

“Nobody said anything at all about why our electric was out.”  His sentence was more of a statement than a question.

“No, not a word.  The didn’t come in or leave an order or anything.  Why?”

“Because I found out why the electric was out and why it was just ours!”  His half grin and jutted jaw betrayed his enjoyment of dragging this out.

“What was it?”  I query, always playing into his game.

“It was a turkey buzzard!  Musta’ landed just right on the pole and fried himself.  It’s laying out there on the ground!”

“Honestly???”

“Yep!  Old turkey buzzard.  I can’t figure it out.  I don’t think I ever saw one sitting on that pole, but this one had to just put both feet at the right place and it was all over.”

“How did that make the electric go out?”

“Oh, it blew a breaker or a fuse or something.  As long as things shorted out up there, it would have done something.”

He went back outside to finish chores and got to thinking about that turkey buzzard lying out there on the ground when he got in for the night, I said, “Did you compost that turkey buzzard yet?”

“Nope.  Still laying out there.  Why?

“Well, I think it’s a good story.  I’d like to get a picture of it.”  He was game for that, so I found my camera, he grabbed his flashlight, and off we went.  

It’s a short distance to the generator shed, and sure enough, there was a black bump lying on the ground at the foot of the electric pole.  Daniel turned him over and suddenly said, “This isn’t a Turkey Buzzard!  It’s a Black Vulture!  Our Turkey Buzzards have a red head, but this one is solid black.  I’ve heard that they are moving into this area, but the closest that I thought I saw one was up near Hartly.”

Sure enough, we came in, got the trusty bird book out and it IS (or WAS) a black vulture.  They aren’t as big as Turkey Buzzards, and actually, not as ugly.  But buzzard or vulture, this one was very dead!

“That sure should be a lesson to him,” said Daniel with a glint in his eye.

“I’m sure you are right,” I agree.  “I really don’t think he will ever try that again!”

And up the pole, there is a new, white, big fuse on the side of the transformer.  I guess it wouldn’t have taken long to change it.

I’m so glad it’s all fixed and working.  They also came and repaired the pellet stove today, so that is working and is comforting and it seems a lot more home-like.

Did I mention that I am just so glad to be home?