Susiej

As I picked these with my boys, I felt like I was the Mom in Blueberries for Sal who lost her child, but didn’t know it, because a baby bear was behind her making noise. But no bear, and no skunk this time. (You never do really know what’s lurking around here at the lake.) I love this book, because it reminds me of simpler times, and it gives that sweet-reassuring message to the child that “everything is all right, Mommy’s here.” And it gives the same message to the Mom — Sal is alright!

But, I feel even luckier to have these. They are hard to come by this year. Many farmers explained to me that the blueberry farmers had sold their harvest to “foreign companies” who were drying them to sell. The going rate was between $24 and $27 for 10 pounds. A quart, at the farmer’s markets is $2.99. Like I said, I’m lucky to have the 8 pounds we have – safe in our freezer. They were $.55 per pound. Did I mention that I feel lucky?

I found this Blueberry Patch in a quaint Amish village — and they were selling them for $.55 per pound. And we fought the beetles and the sun and the unripe blueberries to get the ones we have.

This little guy, with the blue eyes, ate every single blueberry he picked. His bucket was

empty. Later, he said, he hated blueberries. His plan was to eat them all so there wouldn’t be any more. I have no pictures of the kids picking – I was busy picking myself, and trying to pretend to look at each blueberry that they insisted that I look at because it was SOOOO HUGE. The whole time we were picking, Aunt Joyce kept saying, “We’re going to sell this country right out from under us…” She made me nervous. Is she right?

The u-pick farms are good for your kids — especially in this, “I picked these strawberries myself at the supermarket” culture. All winter long, you pull handful after handful out of the freezer. More benefits to blueberries, here.

You can find a national link to Pick Your Own Farms here. But many of the smaller farms (that have the best bargains) do not promote themselves. Check your county extension office, or do a search by state or country for pick your own fruit and vegetables. Here are links to the UK and Canadian pick your own fruit and vegetable sites. Or just get in the car with your kids, and drive through the countryside.

Oh, and what do we do with the blueberries? It’s a tradition here at our house to have blueberry pancakes every Saturday morning. Dad makes them. Here’s the recipe for blueberry cornmeal pancakes.

More lake house posts, here.

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Ingredients

• 1 cup milk
• 1/2 cup buttermilk (Or use yogurt, or add a teaspoon of vinegar to a 1/2 cup of milk. Let it sit until it curdles — a few minutes.)
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• 1/2 cup yellow stone-ground cornmeal
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 - 1/2 cup ground flax-seed (always keep this in the freezer.)
• 1 cup blueberries

In a large bowl, combine the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, flax-seed and salt. Stir in the milks until combined. Fold in the blueberries and let the batter sit for 5 minutes.Lightly oil a skillet heat over medium heat. When hot, pour the batter into little puddles. When bubbles start to form on top, it’s time to flip.

Where to get the blueberries? Try here.

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You know them too. The kind of people that do not make much of an impression on you at first — until they begin to talk. And then, the face you saw a second ago melts away, and then a spirit within them bursts forth to reveal some kind of joy and sweetness. And you could just sit, listen and watch how they navigate through life.

Including my 4 boys, the “just perfect” Bible School we found by surprise hosted only seventeen children. Only seventeen children. These teachers thought that seventeen children to have for a week was nothing less than an honor and a privilege. The teachers’ faces were lined with wrinkles, and they had watched many parts of their lives move on to become other things, including the past. Yet, they know how to live in the present. The $47 they raised for a fund-raising project was cause for celebration.

On Sunday morning, the town hang-out, Tom’s Donuts, has more cars in its parking lot than this church does. Tom’s is a morning-on-the-lake tradition that even my husband remembers from his childhood.

This church sits right next door. So the church graciously offers its parking lot to the donut shop. In exchange, the church gets free donuts. Instead of shortbread, the boys had Tom’s Donuts for snack each day. The boys jumped out of bed every morning to get to Bible School on time. Do you think it’s the Donuts?

I have no idea what the “doctrine” or belief of the church is — only that they believe that God’s children are precious little lambs. The only message I saw was one of abundance, patience and joy. And the way they handled time was soothing — they acted as if they had all the time in the world. I remember people like that.

There was an elderly couple that drove an hour each way to come in every morning to help. Someone else brought an overflowing tray of sweet cherry tomatoes from her garden to share for the picnic. I couldn’t stop eating them. She made sure that tray of tomatoes was in my car before I left that day.

At the picnic, the minister stood up and spoke, in a Santa Clause-loves-you-kind of way, “kids, these ladies thought real hard about what you would like. And they came up with some food that they thought you would all like. And, after the hot dogs, we’ve got lots of cupcakes for you too.”

His face kept popping into my head as I tried to go to sleep that night. He was the one who praised everything. So grateful, he was for the $47 in the offering plate, for the hot dogs, the sun, for the time we shared, and for the children. I couldn’t sleep — his words, the way he smiled, his kind voice, and his eternal optimism were playing out in my head. I felt ashamed for some of the petty things I complain about, and for all the things I cast aside without being grateful. Which one of his virtues do I need to cultivate? Where do I start?

Why is Bible School so important to me? When I was a little girl, my Bible School was run by sweet little old ladies, who loved all of us very much. Forty years later, I stepped foot on the grass at my Mom’s house, unable to catch my breath as I looked at her tulips blooming in the gorgeous sunshine. How could they possibly stand so tall and beautiful when the person who planted them was dead? My pain at that moment was the deepest I’ve ever felt. From there, I looked up to the top of the hill. There was a little red brick house. Inside was a sweet lady who sat me on her lap over 40 years ago and taught me songs at Bible school. She was still there. I ran up the hill, and knocked on her door, and there she was, waiting for me.

No, I really don’t expect any of my boys, as grown men, to run into the arms of their Bible School teachers. But, I do think their kindness and nurturing will stay with them, for a lifetime. And it’s good for my children to feel love from other people too.

And they did have a very unusual, and clever craft.

(No, I don’t like the doily, the Styrofoam head or the hair either – but this is how they instructed the kids to make them — it’s what they had. A plain wooden ball would be find.) My Mom would have loved this one. Most churches are filled with old hymnals, stacked up on shelves in the basement. So, here, they are being turned into angels. It requires lots of precise folding and they work on this one simple craft everyday.

The little ones are busy making butterflies, and lambs (and learning they are God’s special lambs) while the older ones are folding this little angel.

I like how the dark red cover of the hymnal serves as the back drop for the angel, set against crisp black and white pages. Pretty cool. Any ideas to update the head and glitter would be appreciated. And I will have two of them. It was so nice to find some kind people around the lake — after, well, you know, the last experience.

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Here are the step-by-step instructions on how to make this angel. I am sure I would not embellish this angel the way it is done here.  Ideas are welcome to make it look more “simplified.” I’m thinking something more natural, like maybe raffia — or perhaps just the wooden head, left unadorned.

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Sailboat ingredients:

• Styrofoam egg carton
• Stick
• Old plastic tablecloth or vinyl shower curtain
• Duct tape
• Patience

Instructions to make sailboat:

• Separate the top from the bottom of the egg carton. Use the top for the sailboat, and use the bottom – the eggcups for seats.
• Cut sail out of vinyl into a right triangle
• Cut two holes in the top and bottom to push stick through. Insert stick in holes, and reinforce lightly with duct tape.
• Cut slit in section of egg carton that is high, and will not sit in the water. Push stick through and secure lightly with duct tape.
• Use the egg holders from the other side of the egg carton to add “seats” for Batman and Robin.
• Be ready for complaints that “they don’t want it like this.”
• Hide sailboat from child when he goes to sleep to avoid more whining the next day.

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Looking for something to do? Here’s a great list to get you started.

Now, I know all of this looks too familiar, but check out this post, cousins at the lake, written by a mom of 4 boys, in the Adirondack Foothills. You can almost see the memories standing up through time for generations to come.

And, I’m always looking for things like this. Safe cleaning products that are also cheap.

Summer’s winding down. Need a cool book for your kids to get them through these last few weeks? Slouching Mom’s son reviewed The Dark Dreamweaver (The Remin Chronicles). And when a 9-year old says “It was really good,” I trust that. But you can read more about the book here.

I dare you to watch this and keep a straight face. I doubt that the 19,220,912 viewers this baby has had so far have been able to keep a straight face — let alone stop their own bellies from jiggling.

And, since it’s close to Christmas in July, I thought I ‘d pull this up again. I love this, and I know I’ve posted this before. So let me explain it — the boys turned on the fan, and put the elf on the fan to make him dance. His arms fly, and they say, “Give me a five!” Watch this again, and see if you can see the humor.

And, I know it’s hard to believe it — but in Australia, it’s winter. Check out Sugar High Friday. This would also make a great desert for a picnic.

And speaking of Christmas, here’s how to make a wrapping paper bow, and recycle at the same time.

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I’ll give you some links to rainy day fun — but I will admit that it did us little good. They were too antsy to want to sit and do something quiet.

The rain finally came. What a sorely needed downpour. We found two leaks in our new lake house. One leak covered the top bunk bed in water. An amazing, friendly handy-man came with the house. He can fix anything. He’ll be out today.

From inside the cottage, we could look down on the water, and watch the turtles come up for air. Soon, the rain came so hard that we couldn’t see the trees on the other side of the lake, or the other cottages. It was dark, and we don’t have much light inside the cottage, so I found some candles left behind by the previous owners. And the new library table that Aunt Fern and Uncle Jeff gave us looked really nice with the candles glowing on it.

How could I forget? I have boys. It became their challenge to see how far away they could stand and blow to make the flame go out.

The thing with rainy days is that it just makes the kids want to dance. They don’t want to snuggle in and have a quiet day. The trouble is with all of those rainy day craft projects, and snuggling and curling up to read those long chapters in our favorite books, is that children don’t always necessarily feel like sitting around doing those things when it does rain. Does the rain hit when they are the most hyper – or does the rain make them hyper? Whichever way it was — they drove me crazy. And that rainy day craft box hiding in the garage — I think I have no use for it.

As this rain came with no thunderstorm, they soon found their way outside playing in the sand and water, in the rain.

And then, they got wet, so they changed their clothes again, to get dry. And then, they went back into the rain.

And then the storm turned, and there was thunder and lightning. And we were all back together again.

We have no kitchen table to eat on, (we have a big picnic table on the deck) and the rain stayed all the way into dinnertime. So, I improvised. We only have two chairs, so I fed them in shifts, two at a time, at Aunt Fern’s library table. Uncle Jeff and Aunt Fern brought it out to us yesterday – perfect timing. It’s “tiger oak” and I couldn’t be more pleased to have it.

• So, here are some places to give you some inspiration — maybe your luck will be different than mine.
• Scribbit. Look no further. She has innovative crafts, and her kids are the perfect age to do them with pride. Great source of inspiration.
• This is a site to love. Free paper toys. If we had internet access, maybe we could have done these crafts.
• Dad Can Do has instructions on how to make Harry Potter Crafts.
• Family Fun Top Ten Rainy Day Crafts

I can’t wait to see the grass turn green. More lake house posts, here.

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I was sound asleep, in the middle of the night. The door slam brought me to my feet – the next sound was a blood-curdling scream. I put one hand on the light switch to flood the deck, and the other on the doorknob to pull it open. Looking back, I find it funny that I never thought for a second that an intruder had come into our house.These pictures are of the beautiful animals you can see around the lake house — when the sun is up.

But I’m slowly becoming aware of the huge, rather large population of night creatures that rule our deck and yard by night. At first, you don’t realize what a strong population they have here. They do such a good job of hiding themselves by day. And they have helpers: the trees and bushes, fueled by the moist air at the lake, allow them to grow bigger and fuller, and they become huge blankets for the animals to hide by day.

When I hear leaves rustling — it doesn’t sound like a squirrel — it sounds as if large workmen are climbing the trees. The animals are large, and they live in large numbers. Instead of 1 opossum, you might see a herd. I counted eight groundhogs scurrying across the road.

The deer are the toughest to see. You would think, because of their size, they would stand out easily. But their soft beige fur merely appears as a faint glistening cloud in the moonlight. You notice those piercing eyes first. They stand so still and stare at you. It’s as if it’s Babmi’s Mom herself saying “Run to the thicket.”

So, when I heard the door slam, I knew it could only mean one thing, at 2 a.m. One of my children was outside on the deck — alone with the animals. The flood light revealed my five year old, holding a cup of water (we keep the water jug outside so they aren’t running in the house all day). He screams, “there’s a skunk!” I look down, and standing between my son and me is a furry skunk. His tail is up, but he’s far enough from my son for me to know he has not been bit. And by, now, the skunk, startled by the scream, and the sudden flash of light, is starting to run away. It isn’t until the next morning that I start to realize, and be grateful, for the fact that he wasn’t sprayed.

During the next day, my 5-year-old’s story becomes something much bigger than we actually experienced. He tells his big brothers that he saw “nocturnal animals” – 7 of them. And they were all lined up on our deck, having school. Owl was their teacher. We keep the water jug inside at night, from now on.

The animals have waited all day for their chance to roam freely on this deck. We are outnumbered by them – and at night, as I hear the rustling noises in the trees; they make it clear that the night is theirs.

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The very large deck at our lake house connects the house, the garage, and guest house, and sits about two stories off the ground. From that platform, there is another set of steps to take you higher, for a large, expansive view of the lake. The deck is built around a Red Oak, and two White Oak trees, with a cut out in the deck for one of the oaks.

I can’t remember the square footage – but it took us 10 gallons of sealant to cover the entire deck. The leaves of the oaks create a shelter of shade, that give you the impression, as you look out onto the water, that you are sitting in a giant sized Mark Twain tree house. But, like everything else about this lake house, it has been sorely neglected. It took us 5 days of work to restore it to its natural beauty. First – my husband spent 3 days power washing the wood. Here’s a before and after.

And then, comes the sealant. Of course the kids help. Just like the garage.

We even got some help from my brother for this project.

Did you happen to notice all those rails?

They go for what seems like forever. Each and every slat must be covered in protectant.

This must be the definition of tedious.

This project didn’t hold the attention of the little ones for very long. They were soon out in the water. Then, the second oldest disappeared. And all that was left was the oldest, Mom and Dad and my brother.

I was surprised that my oldest son was able to stick with it for the three hours we worked that day – on some of the most tedious work of the lake house yet. When it was over, I complemented my son on his great work. The son left the project to swim, said, “Yep, I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

And thank goodness I had the foresight to cover some ribs in BBQ sauce and stick them in the oven, along with some baked potatoes.

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This really is a very funny story. It belongs in Shelly’s This Blows my Dress Up Contest. When I “tell” the story, people laugh - including me. But, when I write this story, it shifts into something quite different.

We will not be attedning Bible School this summer. It’s not because I didn’t try. Maybe it’s because my 9-year old had a conversation with the minister about sinful substances he may or may not take as an adult. Or maybe it was the wild dust-bowl fest of sand in the eyes. But I’m done.

I am the creative, unstructured type. But there is something about the structure of Bible School – or should I say, it’s rhythm, that I love. The songs, the crafts, the stories, and all of the love that gets poured out of the little country church basements into the hearts of children. Oh – and the Kool-aid and shortbread snacks taste so refreshing on those hot summer mornings.

Each summer I give this gift to my children. I’m too old for the classrooms myself, so I volunteer. I always try to get a “floating” job so that each of my kids can see me there. They love that. So, here at the lake, I’m looking for a new Bible School. There are lots and lots of cute little country churches around. So, I combed the back country roads in this tri-state area trying to find that VBS banner with the dates July 16-July 20. No such luck. The banners I see advertise weeks that we won’t be here. Next, I pulled out the phone book, and I made one last phone call to a little church. Yes – it starts Sunday, in the evening. At the city park.

I was ecstatic.

We arrive at the “city park” and there are few people there setting up for the kick-off cookout event. I try to make conversation with people. They are nice enough. But maybe they’re just too shy. The only people that will talk to me are the men – the few husbands that are there with their wives. And they want to talk about fishing. I try to keep this banter up as long as I can – but it’s a struggle. I overhear lots of talk among the women about “love gushing out” during the morning special.

Finally the minister comes over to sit with me to talk. He looks like Barney Fife. He appears to be on a mission to “convert the sinners.” He takes his job too seriously – and he has an un-genuine nervous smile. As he sits down and smiles at me across the picnic table, I feel as if I’ve been caught by a fox. I look for an empty holster on his belt. Surprised – there isn’t one.

We chat about where I’m from, the weather, etc. My 9 year old walks up to listen. We’re talking about the years I’ve lived in my hometown – twenty-two? The minister makes a smart comment to my 9-year old – like “You don’t look like you’re 22.” My son, completely out of the blue says, “If I was 22, then I could drink beer.” I am mortified. I try to think of why he’s saying this – buying the Lake House in a new state has introduced us to new laws. Different ages to drive Jet Skis, fishing licenses, driving a boat – the list goes on. Underage drinking just happened to be one of the things we covered in our list. And it’s on the billboards around here – with policemen and handcuffs.

But I don’t bother to explain this to the minister. I continue on chatting about the church camp my 11 year old will soon be visiting and pretend my 9-year old isn’t there. But this is a futile attempt. The minister proceeds to gently, but firmly, explain to my son why he doesn’t drink – even though he is old enough to do so.

If only I had a job to do. I could get busy. They tell me they’ve got it all covered. I wait. I watch the women – I can’t stop looking at their shoes. I wonder if these are the feet of women who read my blog. I wonder if I read their blogs. I doubt it.

I ask, “Will we meet at the Church after tonight?” Oh no – our church building doesn’t really look like a church. We just meet here in the park every night.” What if it rains? “Last year we had torrential downpours, and we just huddled under the shelter.”

The hot afternoon sun is beating down on my children as they climb the playground. The dry weather has created a dust bowl at the bottom of the slide, and the kids kick their feet up to create light airy clouds of dust. One of the kids from the church realizes it will be cool to pick up handfuls and throw them on kids as they come down the slide. I am the only parent who steps up to stop them.

I am tired of getting stared at. It’s been an hour now, and I am tired of waiting for the whole thing to start. I’ve had enough. I want the structure of the crafts, the music, and the stories. Where are the classrooms?

I ponder leaving. Is it appropriate? But, then I remember, this is my only chance at Bible School for the summer. And then, what kind of scene would I make if I did leave? What excuse would I give if they stopped me?

I sit alone in an almost meditative state watching absolutely nothing remotely similar to any Bible School experience I have encountered. I realize that maybe my quest for the ultimate Bible School experience is not worth this. This is worse than sitting in prickly heat. I check with my 11-year old to make sure I’m reading this right. “Are you having fun?” He shrugs. But his eyes say, “Are you really giving us an option to leave?” I realize that my children want to know that their thoughts are just as important as my own need for Bible School.

How much is my tradition worth? I realize it will be another year before Bible School comes around again. This year is lost. My heart breaks a bit as I ponder this. I mourn this as I sit, watching – hoping the whole event to shift the other way.

Finally the minister picks up a microphone and he begins to talk. All the kids from the playground move toward the shelter house to listen. I gather my kids and direct them to our van. We are leaving. I wonder if their eyes are still watching me.

I’m sure that minister is praying for our souls.

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