Raised Wild.

It rained all day, so the momentary break in the storm was a lovely after-dinner gift. 

“A nice, quiet walk” was what my father wanted. “A nice, quiet walk down to the beaver pond.” 

My father and I sauntered down the road while my six year-old son ran circles around us, whooping, hollering, and singing. “It’s a good thing we have a peaceful valley here,” my father mused. “The kids can fill it to the brim with noise.” 

Deer eating in the meadow perked and scampered away from the oncoming cacophony. The bushes shuddered and released a bevyl of quail as my son loudly brandished his trusty stick. He wailed in delight as he ran up a dirt hill and slid down again.  

“This is where we raise wild children,” I rationalized. 

My father smiled at me. “Wild children end up turning out all right.” 

I was raised wild. 

“You were fearless when you were a child,” my father reminisced. “You’d just go and not worry about anything. You’d come home dirty and dinged up, but you were happy.”  

My son bellowed at the beaver pond, sending idle ducks packing. I told him to run down to a tree about a hundred yards off--a challenge that had him racing down the road in a warrior’s charge. 

“I used to have you run down to the tree, too,” my father noted. “But I always had you run  right back.” 

We looked to my noisy storm of a son who was attempting to thwart his leafy foe with his twig sword. 

“I've learned you can get a few more moments of softer din if you leave that last part out for a while," I said. 

The break in the clouds let the sun breathe down on the valley. My son’s noise was a near-off rumble. 

“I’m at a point in my life where it’s not about quiet,” I shrugged. “It’s about quieter.” 

My father smiled at me. “He is wild, but wild is a good thing. And it takes a lot of courage to raise wild kids.” 

I smiled back and called my son as we headed home. My father put his arm around my shoulders. “Still fearless.” 

 

"B" is for "boy." "T" is for "tractor" and "turd."

"So how much an hour would it take to get you full time?" 

That was the question asked of me a few weeks ago. My bosses, they like me I think. 

So after a 40 hour work week (along with the three other part-time gigs I roll on), I had my first real weekend of the spring in the Methow. 

It was glorious. 

The weather was warm and invited us out to perambulate the fields and plot our next project: The chicken coop. 

The squids and I hacked and fought our way through long-neglected lilacs and opened up the new chicken coop room on the homestead house. The homestead was built over a hundred years ago and is about 20x20 with a door into every room. One will be the chicken coop room. It's a beautiful building and embodies all that is the wabi-sabi (old shit can still be pretty mentality). It housed three generations and about a dozen children grew up within its now crumbling womb. 

Mid-toil, I spotted my father sauntering over from his property. 

Over the next few hours there was pain, tears, whining, and grossness. 

I shall sum it up in a text. 

Yeah. Like that. The good son stole a key, lost it, was sent to his room, climbed out the window, took a shit in the front yard, then climbed back IN to his room. 

Then he crept out of his room to ask that if I was going to make him dinner would I please make pancakes so I could just slide them under the door. "Oh, and by the way, I went poop. But don't worry, I pooped outside." 

I can't really describe the contortion my face  made at that moment. Somewhere between total repugnance and rage, I'd imagine. I couldn't even speak. Fortunately for me, the twitch below my right eye started sending Morse code swears about the house. The sight of the twitch had my little public pooper walking slowly back to his room, maintaining fearful eye contact all the while. 

The worst of this whole debacle was that he was completely remorseless. Dear god, I thought, my child is one step away from being a sociopath. A million scenarios ripped through my imagination. Will I find that he's skinning adorable animals next? Or maybe he'll begin an underground crime ring next to the teeter-totter at school! He may even start hacking into the Federal Somethingerother's internet databases!! 

"JAIL!" I screamed. My son jumped four feet in the air. He had back-stepped all the way to his bedroom door and was frantically pawing for the doorknob when I broke the silence. 

I ran to him, falling on my knees, pleading to my only son. "Is that what you truly want? A lifetime in prison?! Don't you know that thievery and lyery are the cornerstones to childhood corruption? And pooping in the yard is the gateway to crime! Is that what you want? Do you want to have a rap sheet for public nudity by the time you're eight?!" 

I could hardly keep myself up. I wanted to swoon, but thought it'd be a bit too antiquated for him to grasp the subtlety. 

I gathered what was left of my integrity and looked into his eyes. "I love you. You're being really weird today, but I still love you. So you can stop being weird and stop shitting in the yard and stealing keys, okay?" 

Mouth agape, he shook his head, but it may have just been trembling. He finally found the doorknob to his room and raced into his sanctuary.

I fed the therapy jar. 

What is it with these little boys and poop? Haven't we moved on from random acts of fecal matter? That's a primate thing, right? 

Will he ever learn? Will I ever learn? These boys, they are all farts and penis and butt and poop and pee and nothing like little girls. Maybe that's a good thing, though. Maybe all of these things that make him excessively male help not only define him, but help me understand these boys' psyches. Until then, I am at a loss. 

I composed myself with a few cleansing breaths and the Morse code eye twitch subsided. I opened his door and caught him reading. Good kid. 

I walked back out into the chicken coop area. The way I have it set up, I'll be able to have them poop in the garden.....it's good for soil, yanno?

"Shut up, and let me entertain you."

The day was less than productive but better than boring. A clean house is a spiritual house, at least that is what the drunk woman at a bar once told me. I’m not exactly sure what the woman’s soap-boxing has to do with today, but nevertheless I cleaned. 

The squids, however, had other ideas--ideas that left me cleaning and re-cleaning for a large portion of the day. 

The morning was blissful. The squids played quietly, talking themselves through fantastic adventures. It was kind of like Dungeons and Dragons without the D20 die.

As the day lingered into night, I was feeling one-with-the home. I sighed, peacefully, then realized that the house was entirely too quiet. 

“Where’s your brother?” I asked my daughter. 

“I don’t know.” Magnolia sighed, not looking up from her computer. “We parted ways after the incident in the bathroom.”

The bathroom had exploded with toilet paper, both wet and dry, and tampons. Argh. My son is an intelligent creature--intelligent enough to avoid the consequences of the "bathroom incident" and put himelf to bed. 

The phone rang, and it was for my daughter. With deft spying skills, I listened in to her side of the conversation. "Hey. Yeah, I've got Mockingjay. Yeah, I'll bring it to you. What have I been up to? Oh, you know, just being my awesome self."

Magnolia victoriously played one too many games of solitaire today, and I thought it was necessary to discuss life goals. “What do you expect to do with your life when you get old, Magnolia?” 

“I won’t get old, Mom. If I live with you and never go to college then I’ll never grow up. 

“Oh dear god,” I said, avoiding the desire to hurl. I’ve heard of manchild syndrome but never womanchild syndrome. I’ve feared that one of them would experience some failure to thrive, and Magnolia feeds on those fears voraciously. 

“I know, right?” Her little smile peeks over the computer. “Could you pass me some Doritos? I can’t reach. I’m too busy awesomming.” 

This is the song she proceeded to sing: 

“I’m gonna be forever young, I’m gonna be forever young. I’ll live in your basement forever, forever, forever.” 

I grabbed the computer and challenged her completion time with electric speed. Or something like that. Magnolia sat behind me and breathed heavily. “Gosh, Mom, if it weren’t for me, you’d lose. It’s a good thing I’m here to give you hints. It’s like I’m your hintometer.”

I groaned and she continued. “You’re doing it wrong!” She reprimanded. 

“Oh no.” 

“What?” 

“I’m sounding....like...like my mother.” 

“And how do we feel?” I asked, feeling smug. 

“Oddly, depressed.” 

The smugness subsiding, I did what any mother ought to do in this moment: The trump card. "Bed." 

The little whiner rag-dolled herself down the hall, then turned and said, "I still love you. Even if you're old and bad at solitaire." 

"Love you, too, stinker." 

She giggled fiendishly as she walked away. Maybe it wouldn't be bad to have her around all the time.....

Going Nuclear: The Ration Book

The house is not big, but spacious in all of the parts that count when one entertains. This is a home for socialites. So what am I doing here? Oh, that’s right. I used to be social. I will get there again sometime soon. Just not right now.

Anyhow, as I was dusting the china cabinet in the formal dining room (yes, a real dining room as opposed to the informal one) I found these in one of the cabinet drawers. I didn’t think much of the tattered fold until I looked inside.

What I found was names. Three names. Delbert H. Stephens, age 26, six feet tall, 187 pounds, male Caucasian; Maxine L. Stephens, age 22, five feet nothing, 111 pounds, Caucasian female; Douglas Arthur Stephens, thirty-two inches tall, 16 pounds--a six month old male. What I found was evidence of a small family living in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. These ration stamps were nothing exotic or overly interesting, nothing worth an article, a book, or an epic movie. But this family experienced a life and a time that I can honestly say that I have never, or will never, experience.

The instructions on the back of the Ration stamp books were for the most part about how to appropriately use the ration stamps. But the few sentences that concluded on the back of the books changed my outlook on my life in comparison to the Stephens family. 

The paragraph started with, “Rationing is a vital part of your country’s war effort. Any attempt to violate the rules an effort to deny someone his share and will create hardship and help the enemy.”  These two, small sentences had quite an impact on me, but in completely different ways.  The first made me feel almost patriotic. When I read it I felt the tug at my red, white, and blue heart-strings.  My country. Mine.

The second made me feel like I was in first grade, arguing about stealing someone’s glue. But it also made me question my own consumption and my place in the world. To “deny someone his share” is a sentiment that has been lost over the last few years. We have forgotten that “ration” doesn’t necessarily mean that we will not have enough, but that we must ensure that everyone will have enough.

The last sentence really summed it up for me: “If you don’t need it, DON’T BUY IT.”

Ah! There it is! If I don’t need it, I WON’T BUY IT. After moving and getting rid of everything, I have been just itching to buy again. But after looking in the dreaded basement, I’m thinking that I have everything I need. It just needs a little cleaning, a little love, and some TLC. Who knows how many more treasures I’ll be able to find.

Going Nuclear: Day Four. My first real domestic FAIL

A couple of days ago there was a knock on my door. I was sitting writing about being domestic and peeling through Arden Farms Co. Cookbook, circa 1952. The knock shook me out of my trance in which I attempted to fathom the flavor of cheese pudding. 

I went to the door where a young fella, younger than I, stood in the door. He was a bit scraggly, wearing a business tie and a pair of Nikes. I thought he was selling magazine subscriptions, and was already preparing my “No thank yous” when he told me that he wanted to clean my carpets. 

“You wouldn’t believe it to see them, but I just attacked them with the carpet cleaner yesterday,” I said. 

“All the better!” the fella chimed. “I can show you how to get a REAL clean carpet.” It was obvious that he was an old hat with the old lines. Nevertheless, I kept denying. 

“I really have to be going in a minute to pick my daughter up from school in a moment.”

“It will only take a moment.” 

“I’m allergic to cleaning products?” I tried, feebly. 

“This is made from oranges, though!” he insisted. 

“I’m broke.” 

“Have a nice day.”

In a pinch, honesty works. 

After an hour or so, I realized that I had just made my first big retro-active FAIL.  Would June have shooed that poor boy away? Never! She would have made him coffee and a sandwich and then bought three cans of every product available. 

This “Going Nuclear” thing is becoming harder than I thought. No matter. 

Going Nuclear: Day Two. Context.

Before I get too far into this endeavor, I'll give you a rundown of the new place. After leaving our lives in Florida, we pulled into Spokane without a clue of what we were going to do. While I went to see family, Eric found us a home. It's big and beautiful, albeit a little dated, and we loved everything about it. But there is this one catch.
A father-in-law.
Yup, I'm not too proud to say that we moved into my father-in-laws home for a while. It's a 4 bedroom, 3.5 bath on 5 acres. It's a lovely place, with hidden piles of history everywhere.

My FIL inherited the house from his late wife, who had inherited the house from her parents in the 90s. That's about all that I knew when we arrived, but the deeper we tucked ourselves in to the new home, the more acquainted I became with the past occupants, as well as their history. After finding pile after pile of pictures, tintypes, letters, and newpaper clippings I have cultivated a relationship with the family.

This is a rather inconspicuous flour bag, but it's full of letters, kind regards, Merry Christmases, Happy Saint Patricks Days, Mother's Days, birthdays, and condolences. Then I realized that what I found has more value than any thing an estate buyer could have wanted.

I have been given an opportunity to witness lives through paper--the last piece of materiality that these people have. There is no memory of the stories within the letters I read, but I can see the faces in the pictures and imagine them living the experiences told. I'm getting to learn lives through a 3,000 square foot puzzle.

I'm happy to say that the pieces are coming together, and I'll share them with you.

It all started with an old War Ration book....

GOING NUCLEAR: Day one. Damage report.

Day one of the retro-active lifestyle is chaotic. I'm coming to the conclusion that this process will be one of growth and learning, and after my own little Beaver Cleaver doused the cat with toothpaste last night, I figured that for every three steps I make, I will be cleaning up thrity-five. C'est la vie.

So today I have done just a basic inventory of the chaos.
Let's start with the magical basement. Six years ago, a pack of hungry estate buyers ravaged the house. What was left was deemed "junk."
So it seems.

But after looking throught the piles of mouse-poop and dust (this is really a filthy labor of love) I say, "YOU WERE WRONG, ESTATE SCAVENGERS!"

There are plenty of great things in the basement. Like this lovely toilet-lid-shaped clock! What were they thinking leaving this monument to masculine culture down there? Finders kepers, my adversaries, finders keepers.

Now, we move onto the wet bar. Not much to look at. The water isn't running to the sink, but I think I can rework it. The biggest problem with the bar is that it is only full of silly things like 1950's radios and not full of the important things like booze. My picture was horrifying. You'll just have to wait.
No matter.

And finally, for the day, me. This picture was taken in my favorite, yet non-functional bathroom. There is a lot of work that needs to be done...to both the bathroom and the dame in the mirror.

What'd I tell ya? June Cleaver would be crying into her martini if she saw what half-a-century had done to domestic culture.
I'm considering myself as the ultimate work-in-progress. That's it for today. So many wonders, yet not enough time between kids, gym, laundry, etc.