this magical bowl
Col: (climbing in bed) Mama, come see my new convention!
Col: No, no. My con….traption.
Rose: (whispering): Remember about the shoes?
Col: No, my in…vention!
Rose: Your fancy ones? Remember you said I could wear them in the morning?
Rose is clomping ecstatically around in my “fancy shoes,” the ones that possibly accentuate my weird feet because so much of them is showing. Col is zooming his 6-wheeled lego speedster across the tile floor. I am making out with my coffee and resetting my noise-tolerance to, on a scale of 1-10: eleven, and wondering how I got so lucky to live with the funniest people in the world.
Col’s lego contraption/invention crashes against a wall and tiny colored pieces bumper-car across the room. “Take a picture of that,” Col says, “and put it on your blog.”
I’ve been writing this blog 3 years this September.
Remember this blog header photo from fall 2010? We ate that chicken in Col’s arms last month. Yikes!
Recently, I was searching for something in my blog archives (had I already called fermenting the unschooling of the kitchen world? Why yes, yes I did, right here). And there I was in my usual spot in the library completely caught up in my own archives for an hour, an hour of precious work time, laughing over our quirky lives, immensely grateful I wrote our stories, and wondering how Rosie went, in 3 years, from muppety chipmunk to long legged doe-girl.
Rose, 2012. Sigh.
I love this little blog space, how it’s this magical bowl, catching all the stories that I think will be indelible in my mind, but then get bumped over to make room for the next, mundane to-do list (clip chickens’ wings and promote upcoming Edible Weeds class; okay, not so mundane). It’s reassuring to have a place to put these stories. Like this one:
Rose, outside watching the chickens, informs me that Dandelion pushed Penelope out of the way.
“Oh. What did Penelope do?”
“Nothing. She’s like Col. Because he never hits me back.” Rose says.
Later, I try to tell Col this story and he says, a little burdened from his own good-naturedness, “Rosie already told me about saying that.”
“Oh okay. What did you think about her noticing you never hit her back?”
“Well, I guess that’s what’s good about me,” he says, returning to his shark drawing.
“Yup Col. It is.” His sister concurs. (And kudos to Rose for recognizing how things are and being magnanimous enough to promote and publicize Col’s pacifism).
Col, 2008. Double sigh.
Col with praying mantis friend, 2012
2012, note: tube socks tied around knees to protect Col’s legs from our friend’s dog who likes to jump up and greet kids.
There’s nothing like inviting people to shine their tiny public spotlight on your life, how it encourages noticing the details of your own, unique life. Everything becomes illuminated, including how Rose keeps checking her broken cell phone “to see if Nana called.” Or how, in reading Voyage of the Dawn Treader to the kids, I’ve been the one childishly snickering when I read the words “poop deck,” while the kids are like, “okaaaay mom, can you keep reading?”
There’s something about sharing the details of my days that unburdens me from them. So that even the skunk that lives under our chicken coop, and the raccoon that poops in my greenhouse every night are partly villainous but also simply part of the larger story of growing food and a family at 6512 feet.
What’s happening here? Caption needed. Photo by Katie Burford.
And then there’s the deliciousness of you guys. Your e-mails and comments and gifts and recipes and friendships. Thank you for reading 6512 and growing. Some of you have been here since Day 1; some of you generously share this blog with your communities; some of you sponsor this blog and put cash in my pocket; some of you gently correct my grammar; some of you are quiet and anonymous, yet steady followers (though it’d be lovely to hear from you today. Wink wink).
Thank you for being here.