Earliest Church Memory

     Sitting comfortably in Mom's lap I was much more entertained by watching the squirming miserable little boy who had had enough of the long church service and was trying to escape his mother's lap, than by the little toy I was holding in my hands. 
    Mom took pity on both mother and son and reached into the satchel she always carried to church filled with things for me and produced a board book and handed it to the protesting tot. 
    He settled right down as his mother helped him look at all the different barnyard scenes. Her attention drifted from her now quiet child back to the sermon.
    Meanwhile I was completely interested in the goings on next to me and watched as he started picking at the red cloth binding that was holding the wooden pages of the book together. He managed to loosen a thread and kept pulling and picking. By the time church service was over for the day there was no longer a book. Only thin pieces of wood covered in pretty barnyard scenes.
    Mom tucked them back into the satchel and told Dad about it on the way home. He was quite indignant that another child had destroyed my book, but I felt quite indifferent about it. I had never been that fond of the book anyway, much preferring the ones Mom read to me at home instead of this "special" one that was saved for church.
    

When Sharing Goes Wrong

     Stocking the pantry with all the basics after we got married took a little while, and it was a few weeks before I had everything I needed to finally be able to bake something good.
    The cake had turned out beautifully and was waiting on the countertop to be enjoyed for dessert with supper. 
    I heard the door open and the sound of LVs feet running up the stairs. I went to greet him at the kitchen door, but he was in a hurry. "Is the cake ready?" he asked.
    I had told him my plans for baking earlier as we ate lunch.
    I turned to get him a piece, when he asked if I could package some up for the guy who did our feed rations.
    I was surprised, but went ahead and wrapped some up and he hurried back outside with it.
    Later that evening we talked about it.
    He was used to sharing fresh baked goods with anyone who came up to the farm. It was something he hoped we would continue doing.
    It was all new to me. I couldn't imagine how much food we would have given out had we shared something with everyone who stopped in at our woodworking shop when I was growing up, but if this was what he wanted to do I would certainly do my part.
    Over the next years I lost track of all the things I baked that we never got to eat because someone stopped by. Bread, cookies, cake, pie, and more made their way out of the kitchen and into someone else's hands.
    And then one day LV had to go deliver a load of hay. I had just finished baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies when I looked out the window and saw a vehicle pull up to the barn. A guy got out and entered the doors to the milkhouse.
    By now I was used to making sure no one left empty handed. I quickly packed up some still warm cookies, and went outside to see what he wanted and send the cookies home with him.
    It was the milk inspector. He surveyed my offering of cookies and told me that trying to bribe him will not work.
    I was stunned, I had never thought of trying to bribe him, had never met the milk inspector before so I had no idea that was who he was until that moment. He must have seen the confusion and dismay because he ended up accepting them as I told him they weren't a bribe, but that we give everyone baked goods when they come to the farm.
    I never offered to give an inspector anything ever again, and it took a while for the uncomfortable sting of it all to diminish.
    Thankfully I can somewhat laugh at my naiveness now.

When Grandma was Hurt

     I was almost two years old when my Grandma was in an accident where a car ran into the back of her buggy. 
    I don't remember the extent of all her injuries, but I do remember that she had both of her legs broken.
    I remember going to the hospital to see her. It was all so strange. I didn't like it at all. 
    Grandma was supposed to be in her house working in her warm kitchen, baking cookies and letting me lick the spoon, or peeling potatoes and giving me a slice sprinkled with salt to enjoy. I should be sitting on her sink watching her and Mom cook. Or maybe on the living room floor playing with the little castle with the sproing-y flags on top while she and Mom quilted and talked and laughed. That was how it was supposed to be when I saw Grandma. Everything all nice, and happy, and cozy. Not like this - lying in a narrow white bed in a bright white room.
    Dad was holding me in his arms and we went to the side of her bed, He set me next to her and she smiled and talked to me, and then folded back the white blanket to show me her legs. I was horrified. There was a metal contraption on her legs and screws turned into them. It hurt my legs just seeing it. She asked if I want to touch it, but I quickly hid my hands behind my back and said "No!"
    
    That was my first introduction to an injury. I was not impressed! To this day I still don't like seeing or hearing about injuries. 

My Journey with Weight

     "Skinny mini fishy tail. Skinny mini fishy tail," the gleeful chant of the schoolboys sounded in the air as I cowered in the corner of the schoolroom. I looked desperately for an escape route but my last bit of fleeing had led me to this corner where I was now trapped.
    "Skinny mini fishy tail, Skinny mini fishy tail" the chant continued.
    "Boys! Leave her alone!" the blessed voice of my teacher commanded. 
    They dispersed and I went to the book shelves to find a book to read the rest of the recess. The chant still echoing in my head.
    I hated being skinny. Not just skinny, but painfully skinny. As a nine year old, I started praying that God would make me fat. That prayer continued for several years.
    Skinny was replaced by slender in my teenage years, but over the years that changed. I'm not blaming God for answering the silly little prayer of a young girl and making me fat, but with more years came more and more weight.
    For the past fifteen years I tried a lot of different diets and things to try to change that. I would lose a few pounds, but then they'd come roaring back bringing some friends with them.
    I tried the grapefruit diet, the cabbage soup diet, you name it I tried it. All with similar results. And the numbers on the scales kept creeping upward.
    I tried intermittent fasting. I gave myself a month where I ate only one meal a day, and that meal I only ate the same amount I would have eaten for that meal had I been eating three meals a day. At the end of the month I stepped on the scale and was horrified to see not only had I not lost anything, but I had actually gained over ten pounds. In what universe is that fair?
    No longer was anyone chanting skinny mini fishy tail at me, but now I would get the occasional message on Facebook from someone selling Plexus, ItWorks, and some other things that  they thought I should take to try to lose weight. It made me feel the same way I did all those years ago being bullied for the way I looked in school.
    I tried Trim Healthy Mama, I actually did lose some weight on it, but it messed up some other areas of my health so I had to quit.
    But then last year I happened to discover a book at the library.
    

    I read it, looked at the recipes, and decided to give it a go. It has changed my life! It's finally something that actually works for my body.
    The plan was to restart my metabolism by following her food recommendations for four weeks, and then every three months after that do a tune up for a week or two.
    I faithfully followed her recommendations on what foods to eat, and when. It was the most undiet-like diet I have ever tried. I never felt deprived or as if I was missing out on good food. The recipes I tried were delicious, and I made my own as well by simply using the accepted ingredient list for the day.
    Even during the time I'm not on this food plan my reset metabolism keeps the weight steadily trending downward, while I eat absolutely anything and everything.
    I'm doing a tune up again this week. 
    My breakfast this morning consisted of spicy rice patties and an apple. To make the rice patties I cooked one cup of brown rice in four cups of chicken broth yesterday and tucked it in the fridge. This morning I used one cup of the precooked rice, added two egg whites, several tablespoons of minced onion and almost a teaspoon of red pepper flakes and then fried them (without butter or oil) until golden brown. I happen to really like these. Tomorrow morning I'll have them again. Wednesday and Thursday I have a different breakfast that includes smoked salmon which is always a treat for me, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings I'll have a sandwich with toasted bread, four strips of turkey bacon, a fried egg, an avocado, and if I'm in the mood some sliced tomato. All three breakfast menus are completely delicious! They don't even feel like a diet.
    I have lost over fifty pounds so far, and am feeling great! I'm not at my goal weight yet, but it no longer looks impossible. I'm so happy I finally found something that works for me, and plan to continue doing the tune up weeks until I reach my goal. and very likely even beyond. I enjoy living with a metabolism that actually works.

    Edit to add: A friend on Facebook shared that those with ulcerative colitis or a gastro type condition may not want to follow the plan in this book. 

My Parents

    We are knocking on the one year anniversary of when our family changed forever.
    As most of you know, I have many fond memories of growing up Amish.
    There's one thing though that I wish I could change about it all, and that is photos.
    I would love to have stacks of photos to see, instead of only the slightly out of focus images in my head. Somehow, I can't bring them to full clarity in my mind. Even as I relive memories, time has fogged up the faces and I can no longer see them clearly.
    I am thankful for the few photos I do have.
    The best one I have of my parents from three years ago, taken on the morning of my "baby" brother's wedding.

    With Mom no longer here with us, I cherish this picture, even if I can't see her face.
    

Cooking as a Newlywed

     The day after our wedding as LV and I were packing up our wedding gifts to move into our home we came across a pretty glass casserole dish with a divider down the center.
    LV picked it up and said, "Oh! I'm already looking forward to eating the casseroles you'll make in this dish."
    I tucked that bit of information away as we finished packing everything up.
    Fresh meats and vegetables weren't an option for us the majority of the time back then. We grew all our own food, but it was canned. Recipe books were used for desserts not main course.
    Several evenings after setting up our house I was trying to come up with a plan for supper. I decided to make that casserole LV had been looking forward to.
    I filled the one half with mashed potatoes. I drained a can of green beans and dumped them in the other half, poured a beef gravy over both, and popped it in the oven.
    I served it with a smile, and he ate it without a single word of complaint.
    I still laugh when I think of it.

Winter Days

     There's something about winter days when it's cold and snowy outside, but cozy and fun inside that gives me all the nostalgic feels.
    Our winter this year has been a little colder than they had been the for the past few years, but we've been keeping the furnace humming, and pulling out various fun projects to fill our days. Games are also getting a lot more use during this season.
    We didn't have board games in my early childhood, but we still played games. A favorite was called, "Ding-dong Dingly".
    One person was blindfolded and would say a little rhyme in German, each of the other players would take turns responding, at which point the blindfolded person would give them a number telling them how many steps they were allowed to take. And then the game began.
    At five and six years old it was exhilarating trying to save some of your allotted steps in order to evade the blindfolded person who was trying to find you. 
    One evening it was Mom's turn to be blind folded and she found my brothers and me without a problem, but had a harder time finding Dad, who had chosen to take his allotted steps up the wall at the end of the hallway and was propped up as high as he could while Mom searched.
    We children were having such a hard time containing our giggles. When she finally gave up, removed her blindfold, and saw where he was the entire house rang with laughter.
    That was the end of that game that evening, and it was time for bedtime stories and being tucked in.
    Given the option of weeding the garden after supper during summer months, or playing games and having bedtime stories during the winter, it really is no surprise that winter was my favorite season as long as I can remember.

    

Enough Blue

 "Genug fa en Deitcha mann sei hussa flicka."

(Enough to mend an Amish man's pants.)

I think of that quote, and hear my Mom saying it every time I see a small patch of blue in an overcast sky.

The last time I remember hearing her say it was back when I was a teen. We were building a house for my grandparents and were planning to have a frolic. The sky was quite overcast and my Uncle John Henry expressed his concern that it might rain.

Mom pointed out a tiny patch of blue peeking through the clouds and said, "Genug fa en Deitcha mann sei hussa flicka."

I was embarrassed ... silly me. But now I quote it too, much to the chagrin of our children.

Homemade Christmas Memories

     The fall housecleaning has been taking extra long this year for some reason, but I'm nearing the end. Today as I was going through the things in the storage room I happened upon this.

    It transported me back to Christmas the year I was seventeen. Our family always included homemade gifts in our celebrations. That year Mahlon gave me a songbook. He loved helping me sing and chose four of his and my favorite songs and asked Mom to help him make a songbook to give to me.

    I never used it, but tucked it away ... just because. Seeing it today made me so thankful that we did homemade gifts, and that I was enough of a hoarder to actually keep it.  What a treasure of memories this unlocked. 
    I sat cross-legged on the storage room floor and had myself a good cry, even though the memories were sweet.
    I still can't believe that Mom and Mahlon are both gone.
    I will treasure this little songbook always, and am so glad they made and gifted it to me that Christmas.

W ~ Water Witching

     School work was laid aside for a while as the teacher allowed all of us to gather at the window and watch the man who was walking around the schoolyard carrying a forked stick.
    He held the ends of the forks in his hands and walked with slow measured steps back and forth across the schoolyard. Finally about ten feet from the west side of the schoolhouse the stick started turning in his hands. He stopped and counted the revolutions until it became still again.
    Taking a stake he had tucked in the side pocket of his pants, he pounded it into the ground. Water would be found at around 300 feet he said.
    The next week well drillers moved in and started drilling. The teacher wasn't nearly as excited about it as we were and pulled the blinds to keep us from being distracted from our work.
    Strangely enough water was struck at the depth the water witcher had said it would be found. 
    I don't understand how it worked, and haven't really delved into trying to understand either. I do have some opinions about the whole thing, but I'll save them for another day.

L ~ Lamps

     Saturdays used to be the day to take care of all our lamps.
    I'd gather them from every room in the house and set them on the kitchen counter, remove the chimneys, and then take the bowls to the basement to top them off with kerosene.
    Once they were filled, I returned them to the kitchen and wash the outside with hot soapy water and trim the wicks. The chimneys were washed and dried until they gleamed and then they were returned to their proper places.
    I could always tell who stayed up the latest by the amount of kerosene that had been used that week.
    My lamp used to be up there at the top spot of kerosene use. 
    Even though the light from those lamps was dim I read many books, wrote countless letters, and jotted my days' events and thoughts in my journals by the cozy light my lamp provided.
    I wouldn't say I miss taking care of oil lamps every week, and I certainly don't miss the dim light, but I always enjoyed the weekly task of caring for the lamps.

I ~ Ink Holes

     Sitting in my desk for the first time in a new school room filled with children I didn't know, I tried to busy myself to avoid meeting the curious stares.
    The new books were interesting, but what really caught my attention was the little hole in the top right hand corner of my desk.
    I decided it must have been designed as a clever way to dispose of my paper scraps and pencil shavings. I carefully designed a little basket out of construction paper and situated it beneath the hole to hold any trash I dropped through the hole.
    It wasn't until the following year when I lamented the fact that my new desk didn't come with the same trash hole feature that my desk in my previous grade had, that I found out they weren't designed for trash, but to hold little ink wells.
    I couldn't quite wrap my mind around having to use an ink well to write, and was glad I got to use it as a hole to pass my trash through instead of a hole to hold my ink.

F ~ Forty Years

     We had traveled several hundred miles to the little Amish community where my paternal grandparents lived. Usually it was a joyous occasion when we went to see them, but this time was different. Everyone was gathered to say our final good-byes to Grandpa.
    The morning of the funeral arrived. There was a more somber air at the farm. All the fun the big group of us cousins had the day before was pushed aside as we focused on what this day held. Mom had woke us up early, and while she was getting my brothers ready for the day I slipped outside to use the "facilities" (This particular community did not allow indoor bathrooms)
    As I was ready to return to the house Grandma met me on the little path. "You're up early," she said.
    I agreed. The dew was still heavy on the grass and the first signs of a sunrise were just peaking over the eastern horizon.
    We stood side by side and watched the sunrise quietly. I wished with all my little ten year old self I would know what to say to her now that she no longer had Grandpa. But I didn't, so I simply stood there next to her in silence watching a new day dawn.
    Once the sun was up Grandma said, "Forty years."
    I looked at her, confused.
    She must have read the confusion on my face. "We were married for forty years," she clarified.
    "Oh," was my brilliant response.
    We parted then, and I went back into the house to get ready for the funeral.

    It may not be a lot, but it is now a memory I treasure.

C ~ Chickens

     Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs used to be one of my favorite things to do as a child.
    Mom would save stale bread and choice food scraps for us to feed them, but my favorite of all was feeding them wild grapes from the vines that twisted their way up the trees behind the barn. They were much too tangy for us to eat, but the chickens viewed them as the best treat.                                
    I would hold the corners of my apron while John and David would scramble up the tree to retrieve those tiny grapes and drop them down to me. Once we had what we deemed as a sufficient amount we'd run to the chicken pen and stand outside the fence. One by one we would throw the grapes in and watch the chickens race to get to it.
    Mom didn't want us to feed them too many in one day, so after we fed them everything we had harvested we'd find something else to do and leave the chickens to their regular food.
    I often wondered why we couldn't feed them as much as we wanted to, but then one year the neighbors cows got into a lot of ramps (spring onions/garlic) and it made their milk taste garlicky. They couldn't sell garlic flavored milk and asked us if we want it. We took a lot of it. Mom saved the cream and we fed the rest to our pigs and our calf.
    Once the butter was made we tried eating it, but the over powering garlic flavor proved to be too much. John and I were sent to feed it to the pigs, but we detoured and fed it to the chickens instead. They seemed super excited and pecked away at it until they had it cleaned up.
    We didn't tell Mom we opted to feed the chickens instead of the pigs, but then several days later the breakfast eggs tasted oddly of garlic. Mom was mystified until we told her we had fed the chickens all that garlicky butter.
    After that I understood why Mom didn't want us to feed an abundance of those tangy wild grapes to the chickens at one time.

The "Fig" Plant

     We didn't have a lot of houseplants while I was growing up. The ones we had been gifted died after a few months, except for the Christmas cactus. It didn't require the care that other plants did, and we managed to remember to water it just often enough that it remained alive, It bloomed beautifully every year.
    One day some old friends stopped by to visit. The lady presented Mom with a plant. "It's just a little "fig" plant," she said.
    Mom was thrilled at the prospect to someday have our own figs. For once a houseplant was doted upon. It was watered regularly. We were pleased with how nice it stayed. No blight or sickness was affecting it. We wondered how long it would need to grow before it would start producing figs. We thought it might take years since it certainly grew slowly enough.
    Then one day as Mom was watering it again she looked at it more carefully and discovered it was a fake plant, not a "fig" plant.
    After laughing about it heartily, we sadly threw our precious "fig" plant away. Our community didn't allow artificial flowers or plants, so it had to go.
    We never did try growing our own figs, but seeing fake plants always makes me think about them.

The "Pride" of Sharing

    One of the best things about our new home in Pennsylvania was that behind the house was a little playhouse. It was absolutely perfect to little eight year old me. It had three windows, shelves on the walls, and a darling little table in the center of the room. 
    Mom let me have the floral shower curtain that the previous owners had left in the house. A little folding and smoothing and it turned into the prettiest table cloth. The sand box beside the playhouse worked well when ever I needed something to whip up "food" in my house.
    It became even more special after the attic was cleaned, and Mom let me have piles of old pots and pans, a wide variety of utensils, and best of all, two lovely old china plates with sprays of pink roses on them. They were so old they were lined with hundreds of little cracks in the glaze, but that didn't bother me. They were so beautiful. I carefully displayed them on one of my shelves and only rarely got them down to play with.
    That fall when school started again someone came up with the idea that we would be playing pioneers at recess.
    The girls had their little cabin among the trees at the edge of the playground. We had a lot of fun, but we were missing any dishes. 
    I got the brilliant idea to pack up my dishes from my playhouse to take along. I knew everyone would have a lot of fun with them.
    That evening I carefully packed everything into two paper grocery bags, and the next morning I got John to help me get them in my arms. 
    We set off to school. John carried both of our lunch boxes while I struggled under my burden. That mile walk to school took a particularly long time that morning. My arms grew ridiculously tired and I could barely see where I was walking. The thought of all the fun we would have kept me going and we finally arrived at school. I deposited my load in the "cabin" and ran to the school house managing to slip into my desk just in time.
    When recess came we had every bit as much fun as I thought we would. Several days later the teacher even came out to see what we were playing.
    But then she paid a visit to my parents. I was excited when I saw her drive in. I loved her, and having her stop by was beyond special. She and Mom went into another room to talk. I crept next to the door to listen to what they were saying.
    My stomach sank as I heard what she had to say. "I think Mary Ann should take the dishes home. Not every little girl has things like that to play with, especially not old Sunday dishes. No good can come of having them at school. It will only spark jealousy in the other girls and pride in Mary Ann."
    I heard enough, and ran upstairs to my room to cry. I had only wanted to share. I never meant to sin. I felt awful as I lay sobbing on my bed.
    The next morning Mom told me it was kind of me to want to share my things with the other girls, but I should probably bring them back home now. She didn't mention jealousy or pride, but I knew that's why she wanted me to bring them home.
    When first recess rolled around teacher told us girls to pack everything up. We did so sadly. Everyone had enjoyed playing with the dishes. As the pretty plates were tucked into the bag, the bag fell over and they broke.
    I was sad and wished I had ever brought them to school.
    Pride had never been an issue with those dishes, but the whole ordeal made me rethink sharing my things with anyone. 

Winter's Fog

 The fog is heavy today, freezing onto every available surface. I'm assuming the barn is still somewhere behind that tree, but you can't tell due to the choking density of the fog. 

    It reminds me of a little scene that played out countless times during my growing up years.

    "Freezing fog will kill a dog," Mom would say as she looked out the window on foggy winter days.

    Dad would laugh and correct her. "The saying is, 'winter's fog will freeze a dog.'"

    They would both laugh as Mom shook her head, "I thought for sure I said it right this time," she'd say.

    But always, always, she'd get it wrong. 

Awakening Memories

     As I was reorganizing the store room yesterday, I came across some of my old notebooks. One of them had been filled with songs I enjoyed singing during my teenage years. Songs I didn't want to forget. 
    I paged through it, most of the songs I haven't thought about in years, but seeing them I was pleased to remember how to sing them. 
    I kept paging through and found one of my all time favorites from those years, and it brought back a memory.

~~~~~

    We were sitting in church listening to the new bishop preach. In his sermon he was telling us how once we die our entire life will play back for us and we will be able to see and hear every little thing we ever did or said.
    I assume he wanted to stress the importance of making good choices and not doing or saying things we would regret, but that wasn't what I was pondering.
    I tuned the rest of the sermon out as I thrilled at the prospect of being able to someday watch my life be replayed. I knew what I was going to do. At every chance I had I would sing my favorite songs. I would make my end of life play back filled with my favorite things to be enjoyed one last time.
    And so I sang, and sang, and sang some more. Every day got at least several run throughs of my favorite song and then what ever other songs I felt like singing.
    I might not have been allowed to listen to music, but I was determined to have my playback filled with songs.

Tires / Clocks

    Having interesting requests from customers was nothing unusual in our little woodworking business. We used to try to do our best to make the visions they had for special pieces of furniture come true.

    One day several men stopped in. They unloaded a tire from the back of their pickup truck and rolled it into the shop. 

    They proceeded to tell us how this was a special tire. One that had been used on a car at one of the Nascar races and that they would like to have us make a clock with it.

    They explained how they envisioned it and told us what they would be willing to pay for it. 

    The tire they brought along was only the first of what they hoped would be hundreds of clocks we would make for them.

    The opportunity sounded great, but before my parents would commit to this they wanted to think it over.

    The guys agreed, and left, leaving the tire there until they would come back to get their answer.

    I was excited about the prospect. I could see myself helping with this project, and the possibility of making hundreds if not thousands of clocks … well, the math was good.

    Dad and Mom weren’t that excited about it though. Race car tires! What if that would cause their children to become interested in sports or even worse, cars! No amount of money was worth that they decided and told the guys that we would not be making the clocks. 

    I’ve often wondered if they ever did find someone to make clocks for them, and if it was a successful venture.

    Sadly for my parents, turning down that opportunity did not keep their children Amish. Though I do not regret leaving, I do feel bad for the heartache I know they have carried because of our decision.

Childhood Games

     The first game I remember playing is checkers, but the 'pig in the pen' version instead of the normal rules.
    Daddy was sitting on his favorite chair, and pulled my little table in front of him to teach me how to play. It was great fun trying to trap his 'pig' with all of my 'fence' pieces, but I don't recall ever being successful even as we played game after game.
    The next game we had was a homemade one. For months Mom would save any empty cracker boxes and carefully cut out two inch squares from them. She kept adding them to a container on top of the refrigerator, until finally one day she had enough. She sat down and using crayons she wrote a big number on each card. John and I watched with interest, and were excited when she said she would teach us a new game on Sunday.
    Sunday rolled around and we all headed to their bedroom and sat cross legged on their bed. She dealt the cards and we played a thrilling version of 'Slap' 
    I have no idea why we always sat on their bed to play this game, but it added to the fun.
    As the years passed the 'Slap'game was retired and gradually a few more games were added to our meager collection, and we loved them all: Memory, Sorry, Uno, Scrabble, Probe, and Monopoly. 
    Nothing ever came close though to the thrill of playing 'Slap'