"I will blog this. Yes, I will blog this," I say to myself, smiling, sun on my shoulders. Dad nearly has Claire to the edge of the lake bed, and the boys are meandering around me on their way there, too. My hands, scrubbed and warming now, still wear a bit of the mud. I carry with me the probe that found the stone that put the smile on my face. I am a funny creature. How did I get here, mud on my hands, sun on my body, boots on my feet? Back up with me and I will tell you.
Sometime in the 1800's
There is a creek that needs a bridge so a road can cross it. A stone arch bridge is built, as many are at this time. The arch, strong and time tested true in it's ability to bear great loads.
1900
A small country church is built near the bridge. My family gave the land for it. It is a Baptist church, and they use the creek for baptismal services. People arrange themselves around the bridge to witness fellow pilgrims profess their love and devotion to their Creator. The arch stands strong and firm. Perhaps the imagery of its solid stone form as a backdrop not lost on the faithful congregation.
1927
Land is condemned, claimed, and utilized. Santa Fe Lake is made. Water is needed for steam engines that power trains. Family land is partially lost. The bridge that has stood as a way to cross is no longer needed as the land around it is flooded. The creek flows under a lake so engines can cross the country, hauling what is needed. Few remember what is there, under the surface.
1980
It is a hot, hot summer. Triple digits that seem to stretch forever. The scorching summer sun bakes the prairie and no rain comes to give reprieve. The lake begins to recede. Cracks appear, borders shrink, underneath is revealed. My parents take me out to the lake bed and we see the top of the bridge. I am a four year old. I have no memory of this - apparently there are pictures. People drive their vehicles out and go over the top for the first time in years. The creek is quite silted in. As expected, the arch holds fast to its shape. Disuse and abandonment have not led it to crumble. It's memory is revived for a time.
Fall, 2010
Work on the spillway needs to be done. Water is drained. Again, borders shrink, cracks form, hidden is revealed.
"We should go see if we can find the bridge!"
We walk out. Dead mussel shells lay strewn about. Where is it? Further? Further. We walk out, further. There is the creek channel. Slightly depressed, a little more wet. We follow it with our eyes. There. A slight mound. A little more dry on top, a little more wet to the sides. Creek channel comes in, goes out. It must be there. Silted over. Sigh. Disappointment.
Now, late January 2011
No rain, minimal snow, blowing winds.
"It's going to be warm at the end of the week. We're supposed to have highs in the mid 60's."
The second day of warm weather I want to go check. I want to see if it is drier so I can probe the muck to see how far beneath the silt the stones sit. Dad doesn't really want to go, but he does since he obsesses over safety. I load Claire up in the stroller and head out. Dad follows with the boys, bringing the "probes."
Where is it? I've lost it. The creek, where's the creek? OK, I see the beginning. My eyes search, straining to follow the curves. There? Is it there? OK, yeah, it was near a log. I think I see the mound. OK, dad and the boys are coming.
"I can't see it!", I call.
"What?? Hold on, I'm coming."
"Is it that? Right there?"
"Yes, yes, that's it. That is just the right width. There is the slight mound and depressions on each side."
I am going to walk over to it and probe. In the back of my mind is the worry dad has about the bridge collapsing and creating a void that would suck me down to oblivion. Great. In the area is a branch from a tree. I walk to it and stand on it. I figure I would be in relative safety as a whole branch can't be sucked fully down into the muck. I start probing. Poke, poke, poke. Where is it? I push it down further. Was that a chink? I push it down again. I think I have hit something solid. Yes! Yes, it is stone!
"I found it! I hit stone!"
"That's it then, you found the bridge. If you've hit stone that has to be the bridge."
I probe some more, and realize that the stones nearer to where I am standing are closer to the surface than out where I was first probing. It's only a couple of feet down - I want to dig.
"I need something to dig with! Guys, find me something to dig with!"
"Charity, I think it would be better to wait till we get some colder weather again and we get a frozen crust. Then you could walk out there better."
"I know, but I want to dig a little right now. I am here and I think I can do it."
"No matter how much you dig you won't see the stone, it will always have the mud on it."
"I know, but I want to see if I can uncover part of it. I wish I had a shovel."
"I know, we didn't come prepared. I think we could do better at another time."
"I know. But I'm stubborn."
I use the stick he threw at me and start to remove the mire. Thook, glup. The mud is thick. The further down I go the thicker and stickier it gets. It isn't so easy to dig with the pieces of driftwood. Muddy boots, muddy jeans, muddy hands. I can't keep it off of me. I am getting closer. I use the probe to make sure I am digging down in the right spot. I realize I can't dig down all the way with the tools I have. Knowing I can't lay eyes on it I decide that I will at least touch it. I scoop out as much mire as I can, use the probe to pick my spot, and then plunge in my hand. I can't find it. I probe again, chink. Again my hand navigates the dark unknown. Where is it?! This time I make the probe hit home and leave it in place. I run my had down the metal to it's base - stone. My finger tips contact the hard stone and I move them over the surface. I did it. I fought the stinking mud, thick and gloopy. I touched what has been out of site for years, out of use longer, and has no real value beyond sentiment. I am giddy with my persistence. And I posses some of the sentiment for this bridge that my ancestors crossed and were baptized under and viewed with familiarity. I have no memory, but I have stood on it with tiny four year old legs. Maybe right where I just touched. Thirty-one years later and I will remember this time. Will I ever actually see it? Not without some major changes. But as I walk back towards the edge of the lake I am filled with joy. I stop near a large fallen tree where there is a patch of snow that has not melted, even after these unusually warm January days. It is more like little round pellets of ice. I scoop it up and scrub my muddy hands and arms. It scratches and burns (maybe it's exfoliating? people pay good money for that...) and OH, it's cold! But it sure does the job - I get nearly all the mud off. I walk and the sun shines on me and my hands are now so warm because they were just recently very cold. I revel in my stubbornness  that gave me this experience. I am thankful for this day and that this sort of thing makes me happy. And I blog it.

It's for me, you are along for the ride...

"Don't post anything again till you have something funny to say", I think to myself.
"But, I'm not in a funny mood," I reply.
The blog isn't here to be funny, it's here to be real and to be therapy and to give me a vent. Here is where I am today.
I can't get my hands hydrated. They are dry and thirsty. Dead, dry pieces around my nails snag on things. I become more frustrated with them than usual. I think my hands are so unladylike. I know God made them this way, and I know I am thankful to have them, but at times I yearn for more feminine looking hands. Gentle, beautiful hands. And now I can't even keep the skin that covers them from going scaly, blotchy white all over. I smother lotions of all kinds. If it smells good I know it probably isn't healing. The best stuff is hard to rub fully in and does leave a greasy film. I may get it healed up only to find the next day it looks as if I didn't do anything. I smother more on. I rub it in, cut off the dead skin, rub in more. Sometimes I smell good but need more. Sometimes I'm greasy but healing. Sometimes I am weary from trying and watch the skin shrivel further and I have old lady hands.
I see it. The drying up of my soul I am feeling. I have to oil it up each day. I can make it smell good and make it's texture unoffensive and I won't heal. The dried edges are snagging on trials and frustrations. It ages me.
I rub in more lotions.
I smell like Jasmine.
I get the "good" stuff and now I smell like nothing and am slimy for awhile. I heal. Texture is restored.
Everyday. The battle for solidness is everyday. It's OK for others to know I am struggling and I don't have to treat the surface for anyone.
Someday I will feel like being funny again. And I will type it. Oh how I will type it. Peppered with my beloved sarcasm it will flow.

I rub in more lotion.

Dear Lizzie...(10)

Dear Lizzie,
I found the door. The door your rushed out of to see if your tiny boy was still alive. The door Warren rushed out of ahead of you, only because he was behind you on the stair as you ascended. I almost got chills. Was it the door that sweet Allan walked into for the last time? I suppose he came in the "back way." I can trace your steps from it. I like to think God gave you a miracle that night because He lovingly didn't want you to loose two sons - especially that close. In my minds eye I can see angels catching the little 18 month old lump of love and gently placing him on the rock. No wonder he looked at you as if to say, "What? What's all the hubbub?"
These memories are for me to cherish in my heart now. I will store them with my own. It will be a sweet mixture.

Yours Truly,
Charity

"I lift my eyes to the hills...where does my help come from?"
Oh, except there are no hills here.
Some Flint a ways away...
For some this may seem as if help isn't coming. I think for me it means my eyes must stop hesitating at the point where the hills should or could be, and travel straight up to the heavens.
 Bright, warm, life giving sun during the day.
 Vast, inky speckled with dots of brilliance at night.
Too large to know.
Always there.
Not changing for anyone.
 Sustaining life.
You can build a city or a fortress on a hill. An army can dramatically arrive over the top of a hill and swoop in for the rescue.
Me? I'm pretty excited that ultimately my help, my rescue, will come thundering down from the vast expanse that only my eyes know.
Hills beneficial, but not required.

Dear Lizzie... (9)

Dear Lizzie,
Wow. The house deconstruction continues to be quite interesting.  Now trying to figure out what was done by you and Frank and what was done by Melton D. is quite the guessing game.  We have the kitchen gutted now, and it looks the most like it did for you in years. I wish I could see the kinds of things you cooked in that kitchen. So, we finished taking out that wall I was telling you about.  We could then see under the kitchen floor through a hole.  Do you know what we found?  At least three dead cats.  Maybe there are more, there are several loose bones.  Now, I could understand the dead cats under the house, but one is wrapped in either leather or canvas.  Who wrapped up the cat and left it there? There seem to be more mysteries than answers as we cut deeper into the recesses of the house.  I feel like I need to be writing things down so my kids and future generations understand the things I do.
I never realized how interesting this process would be.  I never stop thinking of all that has taken place inside those walls.
Yours truly,
Charity

I hear Julie Andrews...

It is so easy for me to get in a "funk" and feel all out of sorts. I feel discontented and restless, but a lot of times don't really have anything concrete to point to as the cause. A few days ago this exact mood was attempting to descend upon me, but I was determined to fight back a bit.  All of the sudden, I heard Julie Andrews.  Weird, yes, but I went with it.  A few of my favorite things.  Sure, I could think of those.  OH! And I don't just have favorite things, but favorite people, places, foods, and events.  I have favorite nouns.  "Thing" is such a limiting word.

Here is what I thought of, in a rambling, geyser of thought sort of style:

A sweet cup of hot chocolate right after a hot shower while wearing some comfortable sweats - with warm, fuzzy, clean socks.  When the heater in the car finally makes it just about hot on a cold day, and you can stop shivering. Standing in a pool, while you can feel the breeze around you blow like a furnace. My awesome friend, Laura, and how she has made popcorn and hot chocolate for me and my kids numerous times.  I think of her just about every time I eat popcorn - and other times too. My physically weak and broken friend, who is the strongest and most beautiful person ever in her heart and mind. How my church, friends, and community came together to care for my family when we needed it most. Hot, fresh, homemade bread. Pumpkin pie that is hot with whip cream that is cold. The little crushed pieces of chips at the bottom of the bag that I like to eat first. The ends of sausage - I like to eat those first too. The way my grandma laughs. The way my kids make me laugh. Chris' foot rubs. The cool down after and awesome work out. When someone is sarcastically funny, and when someone gets my sarcasm. Drinking something with a friend while you get to chat - without kids. Remembering that Jill and I thought it would be fun to go to the zoo with five kids, when it was 101 degrees, and we were both pregnant - then remembering we had many fun adventures together. I am glad I went to meet her. Knowing one of my heroes has survived parenting five boys.  Surely I can handle three. Seeing your child for the first time. New born head smell.  Holding tiny hands. The way my sweet little girl laughs when she sees me after I've been gone for awhile - then she crawls full speed towards me. Early summer mornings. Spring flowers. Mowing in the summer. The sound of the ocean. Going to the zoo with the kids. Going on a new adventure with the kids. A really good concert. Hiking in the woods while animal watching. An awesome, impromptu dance party in the middle of the day. How quite it gets when it snows. Loyal dogs. The fact that God loves me so much.

It's true, Julie! I don't feel so bad. Counting blessings, your favorite nouns, is never a waste of time.

Dear Lizzie... (8)

Dear Lizzie,
Well, we are tearing out a wall Frank put in this week.  We need to alter the kitchen he put in for you.  It is fascinating to read in your diary about when he went to purchase the lumber for your kitchen - the lumber we are now partially removing.  On the back of some of the boards are tattered pieces of newspaper.  It doesn't cover all the boards, why is it there?  Did you put it there, or did Frank?  One piece says it is from LaSalle and is dated 1871.  I wish the pieces weren't in such bad condition. I would love to read what they say.  One has an article about the Kansas legislature.  I like to surmise that perhaps you put them there just for fun, for such a day as this. Maybe you knew some day someone would be working with that wall and would find what was in it.  Did you know that your grandson Allan's wife hid something in another wall of the kitchen?  When I was three months old they walled off the spot where the window in the south wall of the living room had been.  Grandma placed a note it there.
Because it is fun, I am going to pretend the papers are there for that very reason - to be discovered.  I am thrilled I was the one to discover them.  I would love to think there are more hidden "treasures" to be discovered.
Sorry about the destruction in the kitchen.  We need to update it a bit.  I am sure it was fantastic for you when it was built.  It needs a little love now.  And boy, we totally need to make space for the dishwasher.  I won't even tell you what that is.  I would hate to do that to you.
Yours Truly,
Charity

How I Spent My New Year's Day

Last year on New Year's Day I went with my family to Hutchinson, Kansas.  We went to the Cosmosphere, and then the Underground Salt Museum.  The salt museum is 650 feet down.  While down there you could taste the salt with each breath.  I was so crazy thirsty when we got back up top.  I could picture my lungs absorbing all the salt and being all dry and wrinkly.  Weird.  So this New Year's we were at the farm house doing more demolition and construction - and filling our lungs with other foreign debris.
 By now there are two camps of folks.  Those who think what we are doing is cool and a great opportunity.  Then there are those that think we are kinda loony and see the job as overwhelming.  While I wish they could muster a tad bit more support, I also see that it is something they would not be comfortable with taking on themselves, and that is just fine.  I too get a bit paralyzed at times at the amount of work, but that is a good sign for me that I need to refocus and remember priorities.  This job before us does not depress me, it energizes me.  I know it is a job from God - that makes me attack it with glee.  Chris and I took out the second chimney yesterday (New Year's Day).  While not part of the original house, it is easily near 100 years old.  It was  pretty short compared to the other one. It hasn't been used for around 50 years or so.  The part from the level of the roof on up had been removed years ago.  We only had about four feet to take out.   Whoever built this one was most likely not a brick mason.  However what this person lacked in masonry skills, they made up for in reinforcement techniques.  It was a bit of a bear at times to bust out. It was full of ash and soot, which we could not avoid breathing.  By the end of it Chris' face was black and we both had black spit and boogers.  That is marital bonding for you, folks.  Also, we were doing this right above the gas stove that is now heating the house.  I was so thankful that Chris felt the need to speak aloud his thoughts about all the ash floating around near the flame and gas.  I then got to wonder if we would be blown to kingdom come at any second.  Thanks, hon.
  It was fun for me though.  There was a little door in the side of the original part and a "secret" cavity that once housed valuables.  I just love the history of things.  Most people don't have the living, breathing history of their family like I do.  I am just the sort of weirdo that loves to do stuff like that with her spouse.  It is almost more fun than dinner and a movie for me.  It is active and cooperative; and not the boring old hum-drum.  I think it was a good start to the new year.