So . . .

Certain Man and I set forth from Shady Acres on a trip with some intentional missions.

The seats had been removed from our van so that we could put some furniture therein for Youngest Daughter’s first real “apartment” living situation in Cedarville.  A bed.  A small bookshelf.  A lamp.  A desk. A bicycle. A wash basket, filled with sundry and diverse useful items.  FOOD.  Blankets.  

And there was a gorgeous, new dress, softly blue and neatly sewn by sister in law, Ruby, for Mom Yutzy, who makes her home in Mayfair Village, a nursing home in Columbus.

And then there was Eldest Son and his Ohio Heart Trob, living in Sugarcreek, who pulled strongly on the heartstrings of Certain Man’s Wife.

So the trip was duly planned, and what a relief it was!  CMW was needing a break from the intensity of living at Shady Acres, which has included a whole lot of heartbreak and even a State Police interview in the last week.  Enough said about that, except to say that CMW eagerly looked forward to the time when she and The Man She Loves The Most could climb into their trusty old mini-van and head for central Ohio.  Plenteous indeed were the reliable people who volunteered to cover the home base and duties there.

It has been a glorious time!  We’ve accomplished most of our missions, and even had some adventures along the way — most of them have been positive.  Others –not so much.

But yesterday morning, heading towards Cedarville, my cell phone rang, and it was Certain Man’s cousin, Alma, with the news that “Homer Lena” (Beachy) had passed away.  “Aunt Lena” to both Certain Man and I, she and Homer, (Mom Yutzy’s oldest brother) had rented a little house to us when we were a young married couple.  In their little “carpenter shop turned house” that was just across the lane from their house, CM and I were first licensed as foster parents, weathered some really rocky times in our young marriage, and learned to know and love this couple who had life experiences that were rich and diverse with practical application and wise advice.  They had married when Homer was 40 and Lena was 36, had three children in fairly short order and were in the business of raising teenagers to be responsible adults when we took up residence in their little house.

Lena sewed and cooked and cleaned and managed to work outside the home some.  Homer worked at the Ranco plant and the kids delivered newspapers worked in the garden and mowed the lawn in the summer and shoveled snow in the winter, and in general were kept busy with little excuse for idleness.  Homer helped with the newspaper routes and put up with the puppies and kept a watchful eye on his kingdom.  The whole family were indulgently involved with our foster children as substitute grandparents and young aunts and an uncle.

How very much I loved Lena!  She mothered me and gave me advice.  She helped me with sewing and gave me tips on cooking and housekeeping.  She was older than my mother by eight years, and sometimes I would look at her and wonder where all the energy came from.  We lived in their side yard for almost two years, and then purchased the home place from CM’s parents in the spring of 1977 and moved our two precious foster children, Joseph and Salena, to a bright and beautiful house on the hill with plenty of room to run and play.  It was definitely a good move for us.  But I stood in that little house of Homer and Lena’s one last time before leaving, wondered at the unexpected tears and was startled when I realized for the first time that there is always grief with dismantling a home, no matter what the situation.  I most hated leaving the family across the drive that had become like our own.

One of the pluses of moving to the larger home was that we could be licensed for more foster children.  As soon as we were settled, Salena began saying to me, “Mommy.  Tell Mimi(our caseworker).  A baby sister that can’t walk yet!”  Over and over again, she would insist that I call call and remind them.  And on Monday, April 18, 1977, her fervent wish was granted when Christina came into our home.  That is a story in it’s own right, but something happened the following Sunday that could have changed the course of the life of our family forever.

Cousins, Robert and Joseph Yoder, along with my Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys, and cousin, Naomi, were in a terrible accident in Pennsylvania.  Uncle Jesse, Aunt Gladys and Naomi were seriously injured.  Robert and Joseph were killed instantly.  Numb with shock and disbelief, we made plans to make the trip to Delaware for the funeral.  There were letters to obtain from Child Protective Services for the three foster children, and calls to be made.  

And then came the bombshell.  Because Christina was on an emergency court order, she could not go out of state.  We begged for consideration, and the state felt that we needed to go to the funeral, but they would not budge.   We could take Joseph and Salena, but we could not take Christina along.

“She hasn’t been in your home that long,” said the case worker.  “We will just put her into another foster home.  Kids are resilient, she’ll adjust.  It’s not ideal, but it will be okay.”

OKAY???  No, it wasn’t okay.  We had had an intense six days of bonding with this precious, eight month old girlie, and we were unwilling to have her taken out of our home where she had started to settle and begun to thrive.  We agonized over the possibilities, but nothing seemed satisfactory.

And then Lena called me.  She and Homer already had a strong and loving relationship with Joseph and Salena and had met our newest family member.  I remember that her voice was quiet, determined and business-like, even as her sympathy was evident.

“Mary Ann,” she said, “You and Daniel are going to go to that funeral.  Homer and I have decided that we are going to come to your house and take care of Joseph and Salena and Christina so that you and Daniel can go.  We will come right there, so that the children won’t need to move out of the familiar.  Make your plans.  We are going to do this for you.”

Relief flooded me like a tangible river.  It was perfect.  Back in those days, caregivers for foster children only needed to be trusted family friends, and the state of Ohio was more than amendable to this solution.  I remember that Certain Man and I, Miriam Jantzi, and (Robert and Joseph’s brother) Jonathan’s girlfriend, Dawn Good, and one other person packed into a car one night after Certain Man got off from work, drove all night, went to the funeral, left that evening and drove back to Ohio.  It was a flying trip, packed with emotion, sadness, a sense of irretrievable loss and grief.  But we came home to find that everything was just as calm and orderly at home as it would have been if we had been there ourselves, and a foster placement was intact and thriving that proved to be pivotal in the life of our family.

I have always felt that Lena and Homer’s gift to us that dark day was bigger than any of us will ever know.  We had no way of knowing that Christina would be our forever girlie, that the day would come when she would become a Yutzy and that would literally change the entire tenor that defines our family.  It has been God’s incredible work in incomprehensible ways to countless people, and I am humbled to realize that it could have been so different.  Except for Lena.

There are other things about this couple that are almost as unbelievable.  How many people who marry at 40 and 36 get to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary?  Five years ago, when Homer was 90, we got to join in a celebration with them for this remarkable milestone.  Last year, on December 30th, Homer turned 95.  Lena would have been 92 on her next birthday in March.  Until just a few years ago, they still baked hundreds of loaves of bread a week for a local bakery.  Homer is hard of hearing, and Lena was forgetful, but they were still living in that same house that they had when we lived across the lane, 38 years ago.  Their oldest child and only son, Kevin, has lived with them.  Yesterday morning, it was he who thought she was showing some signs of a stroke, called 911, but before they could get her to the hospital, she was gone.

Once again, this family is making it so convenient for us.  Not intentionally, I know, but we were planning to return to Delaware on Monday.  When we heard of her passing, we wanted so much to stay for the funeral, but wondered when it would be.  We decided that if it wasn’t going to be until Wednesday, we almost couldn’t stay.  Certain Man has a flood in his chicken house, and there are responsibilities and appointments calling me.  But the viewing is tomorrow, the funeral is Tuesday at 10 o’clock in the morning.  We can attend, leave as soon as it is over, and be home on Tuesday evening, Lord willing.  

Add to this the fact that things are covered at home, Middle Daughter is willing for us to come home a day later than we planned and there are friends who offered to help out in whatever way they can.  This means so much to us.  It is special gift to us.  

My heart gives grateful praise.

Tonight, around 6:20 or so, I finished reading my Favorite Book one more time.

Somewhere, as a young adult, I received the challenge to try to read through the Bible every year as a matter of course.  Just do it.

And so, years and years ago, I began to make that a given.  No one thing has been as life changing as that decision.  And most of the time, I’ve done it.  There have been a few years along the way when it didn’t get done, but I try not to get tangled up by what I didn’t get done.  It seemed important to just try again.  I’ve used various translations, various programs, but always, always, I keep an account of my progress. Usually I go into my Women’s Devotional Bible and copy off that schedule and use the empty space at the bottom of the fourth page to put my Bible promise for the year that I’ve been given in our annual Promise exchange at church. I put my reading schedule into the pages and use it for a bookmark.  And then I mark the passages as I read them, and often muse over the verse that becomes my motto for the year.

For the daily Bible readings, I use Max Lucado’s Grace for the Moment Daily Bible in the New Century Version. ( NCV just happens to be my favorite version of all.)  It has a brief devotional every day from Max Lucado’s writings, and then has readings from the Old Testament, a brief reading from Psalms, and even briefer reading from Proverbs, and then a reading from the New Testament.  It has been the best schedule for me, and I use a cheap paperback edition and I write in it and put dates in it with significant events that I’ve been inspired to think about by the passages for the day. There is a very old falling apart copy that sits by my chair and a newer one by my bed upstairs and this Word from a Holy God who has chosen to redeem this gal with feet of clay and made me a daughter of the KING, continues to be LIFE and LIGHT and HOPE to me.

2013 stretches ahead with so many exciting possibilities and dismal predictions.  This Book, God’s Word, should be our Center of reference.  

Does anyone want to join me?  

It is no secret to the family who rattles around the old farmhouse at Shady Acres that the father of the household, (“Certain Man,” or “CM,” or “Daddy” by his daughters, or “Dad” by his sons) has a penchant for hats.  Yepper!  Hats. Beaked fabric hats that are made for souveniours, for baseball players, for farmers in the fields, for bad boys to wear backwards, for almost any conceivable purpose.  Certain Man collects them.  He has for years.  He has over two hundred of the redundant looking things.  Redundant except for the identifying logos on the front of each hat.

I have displayed them around the top of my laundry room (until the dusting of them became too labor intensive).  I have bought “over the door” hat holders for them but those inventions left much to be desired.  I hammered nails into the wall of the stairway going into the basement, but it would only hold a portion of them, and when Certain Man took it upon himself to remodel that area into a space for storing his Christmas Village and accessories, he took them all down.  So we had this old upright bureau in the basement that was mostly resistant to the beasties of the basement, and we stored them there.

Most of the time, he has a favorite one that he wears “for good” meaning when he goes somewhere besides the chicken house or Southern States or Ace Hardware or Gray Burlingame’s.  Usually that one is the newest one from the chicken company that we are growing for, or from Goulds Pumps, or some other fairly readily available supplier that provides him with a hat of his liking.  The other kind are often in a sorry state of affairs.  Sometimes falling apart, almost always dusty and dirty and ordinary. He is a little picky about what kind of hat he wants to wear.  He likes breathable material in the summer, heavier in the winter.  Doesn’t like them to “stick up like a rooster” in front, but doesn’t want them to make him “look like a skinhead” by being too tight.  Hats are a real science to this man, and he has so many memories tied up in the individual hats that I couldn’t conscientiously do a purge.  There were hats that his daughters bought him from lands afar.  There were hats given to him on MDS trips with memories that make him smile.  There are hats from people he likes, from previous employers, special hats proclaiming “#1DAD” or “Campbell’s Taxidermy” or “Yutzy’s Plumbing” or “LONDON, ENGLAND” or even “#1 Plumbing Inspector.”

Then Middle Daughter, in years gone by, has begun to make blankets for her siblings that have significance.  She started with the mile-high stack of tee shirts belonging to Youngest Son.  She sorted and trimmed and counseled with him as to which ones should just go to Salvation Army, which should go to the trash and which he would like to preserve.  It was a thing of deep sentimental value, and Middle Daughter stitched love in every seam and knotted it tight with affection.

Then Youngest Daughter wanted a tee shirt blanket, and Middle Daughter got busy again and made a coverlet that caused the little ones to crow and climb around under it and make a tent and giggle with glee.  Youngest Daughter was delighted with how things turned out, and the blanket will warm her through the cold Ohio winters as she readjusts to the difference in temperatures between the equator and the latitude of 39.7442° N.

.

Carson, Charis and Nevin under Rachel’s unfinished Blanket.

And then, Middle Daughter connived to have Certain Man’s name for Christmas.  He had a blanket that I had knotted for him years and years ago, and it was getting threadbare.  (One time when I was heating it up over the wood stove so I could tuck it over him, I almost caught it on fire because I got it too close and left it too long.  So that part was really coming apart!)  He hasn’t complained much, but has voiced a desire for a new blanket of his own.  When Middle Daughter pondered upon it, she decided to try her hand at taking apart some of his hats and putting them together into a knotted comforter for him.  It didn’t take too long  for her to convince herself that it was possible, and she set to work.  

Whew!  Was this ever a job!  The material was thick on some, deteriorating on others.  There was much planning and piecing and reconstructing and agonizing, but finally she GOT IT!  She used over a hundred of his hats, didn’t repeat a single logo (there were some repeats of companies, but with different logos) and got it all done before Christmas and tucked it away in a box.  Certain Man knew of the project but was careful not to look before it was time.  I was so excited for her that I could hardly contain myself.  It was so warm and meaningful and attractively put together in a masculine sort of way.

It is really long, so that he can tuck it under his feet on the recliner and keep them toasty warm.  The whole family has looked over the different logos pictured there and we remember happy, happy times from the last long decades of time.  It was another wholly precious time on Christmas Eve when Certain Man opened his box and found this labor of love, fashioned with creativity and ingenuity.  

. . . another reason why the evening was very, very special.  Thanks, Deborie-girl!

There has been a thing of wonder, almost a Christmas Miracle that has happened at the House of Certain Man and Certain Man’s Wife.

When our family exchanged names earlier this year, our son in law, Jesse, (known as “Beloved Son in Law”) drew my name from the stash.  I was so tickled when I realized he had my name because Jesse is the best gift-giver of our family.  He just has something the rest of us don’t have.  And very, very blessed are the recipients of his gifts.  It wasn’t so much that he liked Christmas.  But even with his avowed dislike, he was still just so good at it.  I was quite sure that I was going to be happy with whatever he decided to do.

I had no idea.

In the days leading up to Christmas, I was surprised to hear him say that he was just so excited about Christmas this year.  Not just once, but over and over again. And Eldest Daughter walked about with a secretive, but extremely pleased with herself air about her.  I mused that having a little girlie who was old enough to know about Christmas and the ramifications thereof had changed Jesse into something different, and it pleased me to see Christina so pleased with his excitement.  Now and then, I thought about the fact that he had my name, and I even thought that he must have something pretty interesting up his sleeve but —

I had no idea.

On Christmas Eve, the night when our family has traditionally opened their presents, we gathered in the living room.  We had dined on the traditional Shrimp Chowder, and our children, now all adults, had each made some appetizer dish to go along with the supper.  The excitement in the room following supper was barely contained as our Granddaughter said her Bible verses, Daniel read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and then led us in prayer.  When it was my turn to open my gift, there were two carefully wrapped presents, a smaller, flat box on top of a larger, very heavy box.  

Jesse said, “Mom, you are to open the small one first!”

It was then that I noticed that all the family had left their places and were gathered around, cameras ready and eyes so eager I could almost feel the electricity.  I felt the weight of the package and wondered again what in the world could possibly be so exciting.

I had no idea!!!

I cut the ribbon, and pulled the pretty paper back and it was a book.  A BOOK???

The book was a hardback, with a glossy, paper cover, and it was MINE!!!

I held that book in my hands and wept.  I just couldn’t believe it.  I’m weeping now as I write this.  It felt like the dreams of forty plus years had miraculously taken flesh and bone before my unbelieving eyes.  I looked at my Beloved Son in Law and couldn’t speak.

And then our children, these adults that I can still hardly believe are ours, began to talk.  They said things about marketing and moving forward and how they wanted to help and how they thought that these stories would sell, and how important they felt it was to not just sit on something that people would really like to read.

I opened the cover and looked at the stories, and thought about a thousand things.  I thought about how I have friends and family who write so much better than I do.  They write about Growing Up Mennonite In Knoxville, about being the head nurse of an Emergency Room in Florida, about growing flowers and raising grandsons, and tending aged parents, and death, and about being a Mommy to three rambunctious and beautiful kids while struggling with depression, about being a grandma with stories that won’t be quiet in a grieving heart, about our family history and our family nemeses and quirks and strengths and victories — about so many things that are so interesting and well written!  I looked at the earnest faces of our children, and the trickles of hope began to seep into the fear of “not being good enough” and I began to almost believe that it could be so.  Maybe.

In the second package were five more books.  One for each of our children.  One for Beloved Son in Law and Eldest Daughter. One for Middle Daughter.  One for Eldest Son and Ohio Heart Throb.  One for Youngest Son and Girl With a Beautiful Heart.  One for Youngest Daughter.  Jesse asked that I sign one for each of them. 

There are so many things to think about.  Jesse has done an incredible amount of research, work and — yes, investment.  I know that he worked hard, and had some help from Jessica (Girl with the Beautiful Heart) in editing.  Judging from the reactions and words, I think he has had lots of encouragement from his brothers and sisters in law, too, but my mind is still overwhelmed at the immensity of this gift.  I’m still processing, still thinking, still almost unable to believe it.  

I had no idea.

But I surely am one grateful gal.

Oh, and don’t order one yet.  He only got six printed, and as I was looking through, I saw some editing that I would like to do before we do anything on a grand scale.  I feel so very uninformed about this sort of thing, but I think I would like to learn.  

It looks like there just might be an adventure ahead.   

*Remembering a Quarter of a Century * Christmas * 2012 *
Shady Acres * 7484 Shawnee Road * Milford, DE * 19963

Dear Family and Friends:  
            The Farmhouse at Shady Acres is looking a lot like Christmas these days.  The Manger scenes are in their nooks and corners and shelves and Daniel’s Christmas Village is one of the best he has ever put together.  There have been some Christmas gatherings and lots of activity to keep the old folks at this house moving (sometimes “exhausted” would be more like it!) but nothing can dampen the excitement as this family prepares for a more normal Christmas than we have had for a number of years.  Lord willing, the children will all be home for Christmas on Christmas Eve for the first time in a very long time.  This makes the Mama at this house very glad!
            It was 25 years ago that we wrote our first Christmas letter.  Christmas, 1987, I sat down and wrote it in long hand, got my friend and next door neighbor, Esther (Sclipon) Clark, to type it out on her sophisticated typewriter that would make the margins all the same, and we sent it out with a Christmas card to our friends and family.  The year after Rachel was born we sent our first picture, and since then, we’ve only missed one year of sending a picture of our tribe.  It seems significant that on this 25^th anniversary of the letter, the picture is of just Daniel and I, on a happy excursion to Boldt Castle, one of the places we first toured on our honeymoon almost forty years ago.  It’s hard for me to not include everyone, but we just don’t have a current one available.
            *I looked back tonight to that first letter, and Christina was eleven, had just been baptized, took high honors in the Fine Arts Contest at school, and we were looking forward with some trepidation to the “years ahead.”  We’ve been so incredibly blessed to watch her grow into beautiful womanhood, become a wife and a mommy, and we’ve been privileged to enjoy a relationship with her and Jesse and our precious grandchild, Charis, that is rewarding and pleasant and mutually respectful.  We are so grateful to God for this little family that brightens many a day with the precocious comments of three-year-old Charis, as well as lightens many burdens by the willing assistance of Jesse and Christina when extra hands are needed around the grounds and house at the old home place.  Jesse still works for Burris Logistics in Information Technology, and Christina is a homemaker, babysitting two days a week for the same little Kate-girl that she has had for almost two years.
            *Deborah had just turned eight in 1987, and the words “sensitivity” and “perfectionist” and “energy” were used to describe her.  We also talked about the fact that she almost always had some sort of project going and that she talked a lot.  Fancy that!  That is still our girl!  She has her fingers in so many things, always has some sort of project going, and still likes to talk.  The biggest project for this year was remodeling her room and library, with amazing results.  She traveled to the Holy Lands with a tour group in late March and had a wonderful time.  She has been employed by Delaware Hospice for over two years and continues to be very busy with this organization.  She loves her friends and their children dearly, and almost always has some sort of plans in her head for blessing the young moms as well as their children.  She is currently taking horseback riding lessons with the hope of someday riding trail somewhere on a hiking expedition. She teaches the Young Women’s class at church and studies and plans and ponders ways to make the lessons practical and interesting for these gals.  
            *Raphael was five. He loved the farm where his daddy worked, was most comfortable in jeans and boots and loved music.  He had a sensitive spirit and was concerned about relationships.  He was quick to apologize and had a loving, gentle heart.  My heart caught at the description of Raph as a five year old that is so apt these 25 years later.  He and Regina have had an eventful year, and there are many things that are worthy of praise.  They bought their first house this year in Sugarcreek, Ohio, and seem to be thoroughly settled.  Gina, with the help of her mom, planted a garden, and that was exciting to see.  She raised some astounding greenbeans.  The summer was hot and dry, and discouraging, but hopefully next year will provide even better results for her labors.  She recently became a full time homemaker while Raph continues his job at Troyer Furniture.  They are active in the youth ministry at their church, Grace Mennonite, and Raph still plays drums for the worship team.  We are eagerly anticipating having them home for about a week over Christmas.  We never get to see them enough.
            *Lem was 20 months old when I wrote that first letter.  He enjoyed books, animals (!) and loved to play with the older children, but was especially fond of his brother.  I wrote something about an “easy-going temperament” that was decidedly off base, but other than that and the animal business, things are pretty much the same for our Lemuel.  His love of learning has him studying for his PhD in Social Work at Bryn Mawr.  He continues to work part time as a counselor in a Mental Health facility in Philadelphia, but looks forward to having better situation in the near future.  Jessica graduated with her Masters in May and has done very exceedingly well at her job with the Veterans Administration. They are still living in the same apartment they rented over three years ago  in King of Prussia, PA.  Their jobs, educational pursuits, friends and church keep them very occupied, and we don’t see enough of them, either.  They will also spend some time with us over Christmas.  Another reason for joy!
            *Rachel was not even mentioned in that long ago letter.  We didn’t know there would be a “Rachel” (though we hoped for at least one more child!).  She finished out her sophomore year at Cedarville University in Ohio, and then came home for the summer, working two jobs and taking college courses at the same time.  She worked at her old job as a gardener for Joe Warnell on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  Then, on Tuesday and Thursday, she babysat for Carson, Nevin and Kate.  The summer went like a fast moving train, as we prepared for yet another departure.  She is, even now, on her way home from Uganda, AFRICA, by way of Paris.  She did a semester abroad for her junior year internship, and served with Compassion, International as a social worker, while racking up a whole lot of cultural exposure and study.  Daniel and I go to La Guardia to pick her up on Dec. 15^th, and it will be good to have her safely home again.  But what is “safe” if it isn’t to do what we feel God has called us to do?  For Rachel, that is going when and where she is called.  For me, it means to be quietly trustful at home when I am so tempted to worry about – well everything, actually.  Malaria, revolution, parasites, food poisoning, Ebola virus outbreak, violence and even about what impact the atrocities of that region would have upon the heart of our youngest offspring.   I had plenty of lessons, and we are never too old for lessons in the school of trust.
            *Never too old.  Well, there are some things that make me feel pretty old.  (Like writing a Christmas letter for 25 years when you didn’t even start until you had been married over 14 years.) Daniel and I both will celebrate our 60^th birthday next year if we live and the LORD tarries. Twenty-five years ago, Daniel was still working full time on Jerrel Heatwole’s dairy farm, but thinking seriously of starting his own plumbing business.  We certainly had no idea of where that endeavor would lead us, but the journey has been exciting.  Daniel continues with his job at the state as a plumbing inspector, and the chicken houses, farm and garden tasks and church/deacon responsibilities take up a good bit of his time as well.  He is scheduled for a knee replacement in May.  It certainly is time! He has endured enough pain and inconvenience.  We hope for a cancellation that will get him in earlier but this will happen in God’s timing.  Last year, I said that his favorite “job” was being a grandpa, and that’s still true.  Just this week, Charis “helped” her Grandpa set up chicken house on a cold, dark evening, and loved every minute because she was with her beloved Grandpa.
            *And that leaves me.  25 years ago, we were caring for two handicapped ladies.  We still are.  Cecilia has been here 13 years, Nettie for six.  And my 1986 paragraph? “The gift of health and strength and optimism is not a thing to take for granted. I’m daily grateful for the way HE not only enables, but causes me to enjoy the constant rounds of washing, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and nurturing.  I’m never quite all done, but have a real sense of purpose and intent that keeps it all from being mundane.”  I’m not doing much sewing these days, but the rest is still pretty much the same.  Twenty-five years later, this life that I share with the people I love best is anything but mundane, and for that, I give Grateful Praise.

Make it a memorable Christmas!
As always, Daniel and Mary Ann Yutzy

Recipe for a Christmasopherous amount of Party Mix

One box Honey Nut Chex

1/2 box Wheat Chex (about 4 cups)

1/2 box Rice Chex (about 6 cups)

!/2 Box Corn Chex (about 5 cups)

6 Cups Cheerios

1 pound bag of the thinnest pretzel sticks you can find

1 lb. box cheese crackers (like Goldfish — but I prefer Stauffer’s Whales)

1 large bag regular Bugles

4 smaller bags Caramel Bugles

1 or 2 boxes Ritz original flavor Munchables Buttery Thins 

1/2 large can (like Sam’s Club size) Cashew pieces

1/2 large can spanish peanuts

3 lbs. Pecans (large pieces)

Mix all these together in a very large container.  (Needs to hold 7-8 gallons)

I toss these together until it looks like party mix.

Dressing

5 cups vegetable oil

6 Tbs. Worcestershire Sauce

6 Tbs.  Seasoned Salt (like Lawry’s)

4 Tbs. Garlic Powder

Using a wire whisk, mix together very thoroughly.  Then drizzle several cups over the already mixed ingredients and toss together well.  Continue doing this until the liquid is all gone.  I whisk the mixture very well just before drizzling each time, otherwise the spices will sink to the bottom and stay there.  When all the liquid is gone, I toss the mix a while longer, just to be sure I have maximum coverage.

Once you are satisfied that it is pretty evenly distributed, put into four large foil pans.  
(The really big ones that are the size of a large cookie sheet and have deep sides.) 
I believe they are the size of the large pans in a steam table.

About now, you should preheat oven to 250 degrees   (If you have access to two ovens, use both.  It will cut the baking time in half)  Space the racks enough apart that you can slip a four inch pan on the bottom rack and still have room to have a large pan on the top rack.   Like so:

You are going to bake this mixture for two hours at 250 degrees, stirring every 15 minutes.  One of the secrets to having really good Party Mix is to be very attentive while you are baking it.  I use a timer, set EVERY SINGLE TME.  I also set a second timer for 2 hours.  Otherwise I loose track of when I am actually done.  I’m pretty OCD about making Party Mix correctly.  It is expensive, and can be such a disappointment if I don’t pay attention.  And I don’t “stir” my Party Mix.  I use the fifth foil pan, and gently dump the top rack’s pan into that empty pan, then take the bottom rack’s pan out and dump it into the now empty pan from the top shelf.  I put the mix that had been on the bottom rack on the top rack, and the one that had been on the top on the bottom, and that helps to keep things more even.  (At least it works that way for me, in my head, in my practical application.)  🙂 

When it is all done, I pour it onto a counter or table that has been covered with brown paper

and let it cool.  

Then, I put it back into the original container (carefully washed and thoroughly dried) to use as desired.  There is no reason why you couldn’t pack it into pretty Christmas bags or containers, although I try to put it into a plastic bag when I put it into a container, just so it will stay fresh.  

And then you are ready to give it away.  If you have a husband or offspringin’s that look at that big container of Party Mix and think there is “plenty” there, and give it away to strangers that happen to stop at the house to deliver something, or take big bags to work so people can eat it all in one day,
IT WILL NOT LAST LONG!!!

Believe me, dear friends.  I know!
But I am so happy that it is so popular.  
And if you have questions, just ask.
I will try hard to answer.

Yesterday, the mom of some of our kids asked for money to pay the electric bill.

“Can u help us with elec till the 3rd will pay bck” she texted.  “i will sighn that i will pay bck. Please.”

There has been two years of paying bills for this family.  Some out of our church’s Benevolence fund, some personal.  Certain Man has asked me not to give her any more money, church or personal.  I’ve been telling her this for at least three months.  She keeps asking.  There are always extenuating circumstances.  But there are also things that trouble me exceedingly — several new tattoos, expensive “lie” magazines in the grocery bags that she borrowed money to pay for with the promise of paying back — but she never did.  That “signing” bit was something I decided to do the last time when I loaned her $100.00 from the church and $70 of my own.  She signed to return the churches money and paid it back.  She never pretended that she was going to pay back the $70.

Next month is Christmas.  She is already trying to borrow money for last month’s electric bill.  I know she won’t have the money for next month’s bill.  And Christmas is coming up.  The chances of her paying back anything she borrows is zilch.  I know.  I’ve been there. 

And so, I prayed and thought, talked to Certain Man and prayed some more.  I felt strongly that God wanted me to be a woman of my word.  I had told her there would be no more money.  It was time for me to be steadfast here and honor my word.  I sent back a text, tried to word things gently, but said “no.”

She never responded with a single word.

It’s cold in Delaware this morning.  The kind of damp that goes right through you.  Drizzle is making things seem even more dismal.  

Yesterday was the day for turning off electricity.  

I wonder if “my kids” are okay this morning.  

I wonder if it is dark and cold at their house.  

I wonder if they wonder why Ms. Mary Ann and Mr. Daniel didn’t come through for them.  

I wonder if I did the right thing.

“Oh, Lord Jesus.  When I’ve done the best I know, and it still feels so wrong, could you please bring good into the lives of this family that will be for eternal gain?  Soften hearts, bring responsibility and discipline into the lives of these parents before it is forever too late.  May Jesus be given His place in this family, yes, but especially in the hearts of those who love you and seek to be Jesus to this situation.  How desperately I need wisdom!  How small my boat, how large and turbulent the sea!  Speak peace to these waves that drench my soul with sadness.  And please, protect the children.  May your presence be a guiding light in the darkness with which they are forced to live.”

“Oh, Lord Jesus.  The children!”

Entry # 14 — From sep1:

Tea and trouble brewing….
I know I could relate……
If my name is not the one chosen,
for the copy of the book,
I shall search the local library,
(hopefully finding the book!?)
then nestle in a nook, 
and then all cozied up….with my tea,
I shall enjoy my “date”.

This gal happens to be my second cousin, (though we’ve not done much connecting from that connection ).
 My grandma, Savilla Bender Yoder, (1889 – 1968)
was Val and Caroline(Gingerich) Bender’s oldest child.  
Sherry’s grandma, Pauline Bender Beachy (1909-1969)
was their youngest biological child that lived.  
The picture shows Sherry and her husband, Shawn,
at my nephew’s wedding
(when Tim Yoder married Diana Geiser–HAPPY DAY!!!).

Congratulations, Sherry!  
I’m sure that you will enjoy the read!   

And for this, the 26th day of November,
I sure am thankful for an Oregon Mama who has written a book that inspires and comforts us and has provided this fun, fun way of connecting with so many people!  This is a thank you to Dorcas Smucker and her blog tour for an exciting four-day adventure.

And to the rest of you — Better luck next time!

 – Because I liked this giveaway.  I just might do it again.

It was back in the late 1970’s when a group of young women were meeting for a weekly Bible study/support group that I first got the inkling that there was a whole lot more to tea than meets the tongue. Marilyn Showalter put a battered old teapot in the middle of the kitchen table and slapped a yellow, strange, sleeve-looking thing down over it.  At my questioning look she said, “That’s a tea ‘cozy.’  It helps to keep the tea warm.  Everybody in Red Lake uses them.”  That teapot with its cozy became very familiar to the little group as we slugged through the challenges of marriage, motherhood, and life as it was for young Mennonite women in Central Ohio in those days.

Dorcas Smucker had her own education about cozies and teapots and methods while living as a young married woman among the Native Americans in Canada.  She traces the history of her love affair with the “perfect” cup of tea in the pages of her latest book, Tea and Trouble Brewing.

Dorcas Smucker.  This is the fourth book that she has written, and it is another well written, delightfully honest, and captivating collection of stories from the farmhouse in Rural Oregon where a Mennonite Mama seeks to maintain her sanity while she raises six intelligent, energetic, diverse and impulsively creative offspring.  She is never silent about the steadying role that her husband plays in this ongoing drama of life’s commonality — love, work, education, humor (and trouble — let’s not forget Trouble!) and the team that is “Paul and Dorcas” gives me hope and courage because of how candidly Dorcas relates the tales of family living.

When I was telling a friend that I was going to review this book as part of a “Blog Tour” she encouraged me to not read any of the other entries before writing my own.  “That way,” she said wisely, “you won’t be influenced by what other people say!”  That sounded like solid advice, and I would have followed it — if I could have.  And I did hold out until last night, then I frantically went to every site to see what other people had written.  It helped me so much from a number of stand points.

For one thing, it showed the diversity of appeal that Dorcas has.  I’m a Mennonite Mama — I’ve LIVED these stories in many forms over almost four decades of marriage.  I laughed and cried and sat quiet in my chair with memories falling all around my heart in both shining and broken pieces while I read Dorcas’ stories.  But reading the reviews reminded me that it isn’t the “Mennonite” or the “Mama” that makes this book so interesting to me.  It’s the transparency that Dorcas offers us, inviting us to walk with her through the everyday unexpected and the unwanted bumps in the road; the less than perfect responses and the relentless call to something better; the exquisite joys and equally cutting disappointments of relationships and family living and pets and finances.

I also realized that there is only so many ways on a blog to do a giveaway.  So we will make this simple.  If you want to win a copy of Dorcas’ book, Tea and Trouble Brewing, leave me a comment, and on Monday, I will pick someone (probably by a totally unbiased method) and send that particular person a SIGNED copy of the same.

(I also found out something else:  SUE BEACHY KAUFFMAN, www.xanga.com/suzyquekau  don’t even THINK I’m going to give you a book if you win.  You already won one.  So there!)

Of course, if you are like me, and almost never win anything in giveaways such as this and you want to circumvent chance, you can purchase the book directly from Dorcas by mailing her a check for $15 per book, which includes postage.  The address is:

31148 Substation Drive
Harrisburg, OR 97446

Or, if you prefer, on Amazon by credit card on the following link:

http://www.amazon.com/Tea-Trouble-Brewing-Dorcas-Smucker/dp/0988332906/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352144181&sr=8-1&keywords=tea+and+trouble+brewing

Dorcas’ other three books; Ordinary Days, Upstairs the Peasants are Revolting; and Downstairs the Queen is Knitting, are also available for some great entertainment with your perfect cup of tea. Read all about it in this particular blog of Dorcas’.

http://www.dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2012/10/new-book.html

For November 17th —     a great group of young people who fairly demolished that 29 pound turkey, ate mashed potatoes, gravy, lima beans, corn, tossed salad, peanut butter pie, vanilla crumb pie, ice cream, homemade bread, butter and jam with gusto and much complimenting.  Ah, me.  Is there anything as wonderful as appreciative guest around a big old table, eating like they enjoy every minute.

And that turkey!  Oh, that turkey.  It proved good on its reputation and turned out rather nicely, if I do say so myself.  The only problem is.  I happen to like traditional tasting turkey and this just wasn’t quite that way — more like a smoked turkey, and it WAS really good.  Just not traditional.  And for an old stick in the mud like me, that matters!

Anyhow, here are some pictures from the carving, and these are the only pictures I have from the day:

How good it was!

Since Daniel does the carving at this house, (and does it well!!!) the following poem is not one that really applies.  However, Sweet Mama’s youngest brother, Lloyd Wert, would regal us with this poem when we were youngsters and we LOVED it.  I have wanted a copy for years, and finally found it tonight.  It is priceless.  Hope you all enjoy it as much as we did all those many years ago.

When Father Carved the Turk

Ma always did the carving in the old days on the farm
When roasted bird at meals occurred she’d slice it to a charm;
But last Thanksgiving Father said, when Ma was carving ducks,
Her cooking, though ’twas passable, she couldn’t carve for shucks.
Dad said agen, he noticed when a chicken came on deck,
Though all the rest got legs or breast, he always got the neck;
Henceforth he’d wield the knife himself, and now I’ll go to work,
Events I’ll trace, tell what took place when Father carved the “turk.”

Christmas mighty soon rolled round, and Dick and me and Sue
Had fixed a little game on Pop, and Ma was in it, too – 
We had a turkey on the farm, I’d heard Dad oft remark
He’d pledge his word that very bird came out of Noah’s ark.
We chloroformed the gobbler, and though for hours we tried,
No ax or gun (we tried a ton) would penetrate his hide. 
When in the oven birdie went Mom whispered, with a smirk,
There’ll be some fun for every one when Father carves the “turk.”

‘Twas Christmas day, the table gay with fixings for the feast,
And ev’ry guest dressed in his best, a score of them at least; 
A hungry horde sat round the board as Dad took up his knife,
All sharpened like a razor, for the battle of his life. 
Hushed was the din as Ma brought in the gobbler, brown and slick-
Mom winked at me, I winked at Sue and Sue she winked at Dick;
All bowed their heads as grace was said by Reverend Joseph Burke,
Then still as death we held our breath while Father carved the “turk.”

Dad shed his coat and bared his throat, and then he butted in,
The gobbler’s hide to cut he tried, but couldn’t pierce the skin ;
Its breast he jabbed, its neck he stabbed, and gave it such a slap
It went right swish clean off the dish and flopped in Sal Smith’s lap.
‘Twas soon put back, again Dad hacked; oh, things were going some!
When Dad’s knife slipped and off it whipped the top of Father’s thumb;
Dad stomped the floor, and strange oaths swore, while Reverend Mr. Burke
Begged Heaven, in prayer, our lives to spare while Father carved the “turk.”

We fixed the old man’s damaged thumb, then Dad, sad to relate,
Upon the table knelt and chased the turkey round the plate;
One knee was on the gobbler’s breast, the other in the pie,
While gravy flew on me and Sue and hit the ceiling high,
We ducked beneath the table, ’twas the safest place to go,
While Pop was wrestling up on deck we breathed a prayer below;
Then came a crash, an awful smash; in my brain long ’twill lurk;
That deafening roar, when on the floor, went Father and the “turk.”

We scrambled out and picked Dad up; you should have seen him prance –
The carving knife lodged in his shoe, the fork stuck in his pants,
His face was smeared with grease, his beard and whiskers full of pie,
Ere he could see Ma dug out three potatoes from his eye.
Then old “Doc” Jupp patched father up, and said ’twas very plain
He’d turkeyitis of the pants and gravy on the brain-
Another gobbler soon was cooked and each one went to work,
And ate, you bet, but don’t forget ’twas Mother carved the “turk.”