This is hypothetical not a biblical exposition.

What does it mean when someone says “I sold my soul”. Is the Soul the same as the spirit, the personality? Are there three individual spaces in we humans for the soul, the spirit and the personality?

Do I own my own soul?

Do we all have a soul or are we simply dust to dust with nothing else in play?

How can we “sell”, or bargain with something we can’t see?

Why would anyone want to bargain with their…soul?

Evil defines itself by wanting immediate gratification. No brake peddle, only the gas. No patience or self control involved. Ravenous, gulping and swallowing life without chewing. Sounds like me a few decades ago.

The opposite of Goodness may offer me power, money and fame (some good people are famous, I know this) some of us will want this so bad we might sell our soul so to speak.

God is said to be full of patience and kindness, He is in this for the deepening and enriching of his children’s souls (so that soul must be pretty valuable) not for us to be immediately gratified. He embodies patience and asks us to be patient also. Often we suffer in order to gain a deeper soul and to become less like the world, less wanting of fame and fortune and more into loving the simplicity of life and walking with God in the cool of the morning (with a cuppa coffee).

Theoretically speaking, it may be a universal rule that a juxtapositional pull is necessary for a life to truly succeed. Trials and ease and everything in between.

It is said that words were spoken and many life forms took shape…but man, mankind was not spoken, he was created from the dust of earth by the hands of a Creator-Artist. Many intellects believe humans are extremely complicated, but they don’t want to give credit to a creator. I mean our body systems are quite something: The nervous system, skeletal, cardiovascular, muscular, immune, digestive. Insanely complex and beautiful.

The story goes, that the Breath of Life had to be breathed into man before he became more than a mud sculpture. Why does breath make man alive and the cessation of it cause his soul to vacate and his body to go back to dust? This is proven. Worth contemplating.

The sculpture below is hewn out of marble. Amazing! Yet, the artist couldn’t make her/his beautiful creation come to life. God created so much more than this and then also breathed life into it. Now that is more than amazing!!

Plants breathe, animals breathe, humans breathe and even fish breathe (extract oxygen from water). Weird, but true, but I believe only the most prized creation, angels and man, get a spirit spot to be filled with inherent selfishness, or sought after selflessness. I’ve been given the gift of choice. That is quite an honor.

There must be a desirous turning and that is a hard thing to explain. Why couldn’t I just be born into righteousness and not have to choose my way out of my state of selfishness? Why this pull to do things I really don’t want to do and yet the pull, oh that pull, it is so hard to resist. Resistance is where the spark of life is. Releasing to these pulls sucks me into some black hole I can’t seem to get myself out of.

Greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world.

There are parts of us uniquely individual. Billions of us are walking around with these parts or spaces no one can see or understand and yet, some are “selling these unseen parts to… the devil”. So interesting.

Once the spirit spot is filled with greed and a lust for power, I think that is a very hard place to come back from. Self-sufficiency is the most common form of self worship. I create my own kingdom and I depend on it to bring me comfort and happiness rather than trusting God.

Around the coffee table this morning I asked my husband and son what they thought about, Heaven and Hell, God and the Devil, Light and Darkness, Good vr Evil, soul selling and all that. Some provocative thoughts were roused…

One being that Satan is any thought or thing that is against Christ or anti Truth, light and goodness (that is a whole world right there).

Another was that there is this coming and going from the “space” God inhabits by Lucifer, the fallen Watchers, and the holy Angels. Why? Some people have seen this space. Many call it, The Hill. How strange.

I believe, of all things, humans were given choice and apparently so were the angels according to the story because some chose to side with selfishness and some with selflessness. Fascinating…human souls are highly valuable in this space, so much so that like Job, they are worth arm wrestling for. God and these other powerful fallen beings know just how valuable we are.

If we really can sell our souls to some being as one third of the watchers did; this created being has to be pretty clever and powerful to entice smart people to give up their…soul.

Historical and Cultural Roots of Soul Selling:

The Faust Legend: Rooted in a real 15th-century occultist named Johann Georg Faust, stories grew that he made a pact with the devil.

Saint Theophilus of Adana: A 6th-century Christian legend tells of a church clerk who signed a contract with the devil to gain a bishop position, making it one of the earliest written pact narratives.

The Crossroad Blues: In the 20th century, American folklore claimed blues guitarist Robert Johnson tuned his guitar at a midnight crossroads after meeting the devil to gain his legendary musical talent.

Meaning Today:

Moral Compromise: People use the phrase as a figure of speech when someone gives up their core values, honesty, or kindness just to get rich, famous, or powerful.

Is a soul created, or did it evolve through some magical goo and then just happened to have/grow intelligence?

I believe Intelligence begets intelligence, consciousness begets consciousness (which by the way, not even the most renowned scientist can explain consciousness) so the idea life just “happened” doesn’t wash for me personally. Where does intelligence and consciousness come from? Evolution? That seems pretty abstract and without scientific or intelligent backing. Scientists today are finding that the more they study the human body, animals with instincts, the cosmos, consciousness, the world, that it would seem there must have been some intelligence to all these intricate systems. These scientists like to use words like “the universe” or “an intelligent being”. Why is it so hard to say the name of God? All systems seem to have some complex mathematical component to their build that couldn’t have simply happened even with enough time. So that theory doesn’t hold water for me. I believe in creation.

I recently heard a celebrity (someone with lots of money, good looks and fame) say that they sold their soul to the devil. I wonder? Did this person really do this? It bothered me a little cause I like this person. Were they saying they “gave up their core values” like the moral description above suggests (seems more likely), or did they actually, sell their soul? I guess it is none of my business and yet…I like to think about things like that, so here I am thinking away.

It seems we humans like our notoriety, we like being godlike, being considered above our fellows and we like the power that we feel when we are noticed, or because we have an important family name, or copious amounts of money (I think…I really wouldn’t know because I’ve never had heaps of money).

It is true, everyone worships something. Every one of us. I can become one with the worlds ways (very natural) or I can push back on anything that separates me from the I AM, or to put it simpler, anything, or any behavior that opposes Love, kindness, self-control, patience, etc.

I cannot be rescued or corrupted unless I give my consent, so there is something comforting there.

I believe everyone was born with a little God given compass tucked inside of us that knows when we are off the mark of Love and Truth (it is called a conscience). We can either pay attention to where the compass is pointing, or we can disregard it and then for some design reason our conscience hardens and ceases to work. It would seem this is a fairly important piece of soul equipment. Good idea to keep it tuned up.

It’s okay to wrangle, to ask these hard questions about the soul, or anything for that matter.

There are some basic things I can ask myself:

Do I feel out of alignment with Love? If so, I need to recalibrate (this happens so often I’m embarrassed).

Am I daily actively seeking God? If not; I start again.

Is my conscious clean? If not; start again.

There is this continual spiritual temperature taking. It isn’t hard, it feels quite natural, it is the opposite that feels off. If I don’t make God a priority I begin to slide into a lukewarm zone and that is when the lies, the lusts can get a foot hold. That is why we are called to, “work” out our own salvation. It takes some effort.

Questioning, growing humility (being humiliated) and sitting in a tranquil field listening to birdsong with a cuppa something warm and comforting just being still, are all under rated and highly advised. The quiet places are where we heal and are made whole.

I do believe my most prized personhood (my soul and spirit spot) can be left languishing, offered up to the highest bidder or filled with any number of things. It is my choice.

This whole universe is a set and the Author of this brilliant life show is the One who paid for our souls, but not so He could own them, so we could own them and give them back to Him at will, or not. There it is. Love. The Greatest story ever told.

Choose this day whom you will serve.

Just some thoughts…

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Grand Wedding of the year number two…grandmother of the bride two times in one year! That basically means I am getting up there…and I’m having to deal with that, but that isn’t what this piece is about—as much as I’d like to wallow.

First off, when I got married, there wasn’t a thought of being a grandmother of the bride let alone a grandmother. Forty-six years later, it is a…well, a soft jolt if there is such a thing. But nothing could have prepared me for the riches, the gladness, the love filled heart of having four beautiful children (now grown) and their mates (and Zach, who is himself filled with enough love for all of us) then the first rate gift of my grandbabies—my six darling, perfect bundles to fill with love. They have miraculously grown to eight with the adding the new husbands. I don’t think I could love anything more on this earth. Can I just add…I have two grand children in their twenties! This, this is another kind of mind bend.

My last post was heavier and though it included elements of this day; I had wanted to give a bigger space, and to go into more detail about the radiant wedding of Savannah and Macrae (the Hope’s) we experienced on July 11th. Yes, there were some supremely hard elements outside the realm of the wedding as noted in my last post (High Mountain Tops and Low Valleys), but there lay this brilliant beauty and joy we all walked through that day and I want to share that with you all because life is short, it really is and we want to wrap it with all the goodness and light we can. Also, life, if it is anything, is a heart beat. It is the heaving ups and the hurling downs and everything in between that make a vibrant and full life. This family experienced the heave and the hurl this grand wedding weekend.

I wouldn’t think that anyone would want to live life flat lined; but for heaven’s sake, could we have a nice long spell of a slower rate, not so galloping up and down, not flat, but nearly…okay?

Little Women is Savannah’s favorite book. She got her dream of a wedding all focused around her and her little women. There was the splash of both she and her groom’s ideas sprinkled over this entire day from beginning to end, the boys in their basketball jerseys and the girls in their baby-doll pj’s throughout the wedding day shenanigans.

Savannah had saved and dried every floral bouquet Macrae had given her from first date to wedding day and that is what the flower girl dropped along her bridal path; detail upon detail)…then the fancy part, the shimmering dresses, the masculine suits, the flowers showing off as the backdrop. The green against the blue sky. The stunning arch with greenery, a few large sunflowers and a sprinkle of bright color. The party lights, the blue satin bows on the white chairs, the dark, quiet forest standing behind it all holding us in its steadfast embrace.

The music making the pink and white dance floor bounce with nearly every sweaty wedding attendee crammed onto its surface. The hand held paper fans whooshing back and forth. The light wands and sparklers moving with the beat. The dancers maneuvering in the heat like they knew what they were doing, hooting, hollering, singing, oh the celebrating on those pink and white stripes!

We were all reeling a bit, but still…good friends and family pitched in to make sure the couple had their hearts desires in their decor, the Little Women vibe, the ceremony setup, the music (I mean these people worked so hard from sun up to sun down; thank you from the bottom of our hearts; because after being up almost the entirety of the night before, we didn’t have many brain cells left). You did such a fabulous job. Every aspect held intricate detail, every detail enchanting. Pop-Pop would have loved it…we all loved it.

To honor a union is no small task. It takes a lot of hands and feet. A village in fact. The action it took to bring attention to the smallest detail was remarkable. Savannah’s coworkers and friends pulled off something spectacular and I think they deserve a standing ovation.

I can’t wait for the professional photos. Their photographer Aubrie (Instagram; lovestoriesbyaubrie) had the energy of a Ferrari and seemed to be zooming about everywhere at all times. High expectations for these heirloom photos and I don’t think I’ll be disappointed.

The weather—we’d had the down-pour of down-pours (according to a west-coaster) hours before the wedding and then the sun busted out and went to work creating an everywhere sauna. I’m not even kidding. Humidity out the wazoo.

The minute the ceremony was over, I watched the peeling off of the outer layer of clothing, the flinging of ties and the dropping of jackets and for me, the wriggling out of the tightest dress I’ve ever worn in a swelter of humidity I’d not undergone until this day (I will laugh about this visual for some time to come). I think it was 95 degrees with a humidity index of 95 percent. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced drowning before, but I’m sure this was something akin, not to get dramatic and all, but you know...

What I will cherish about this day

I watched this couple respect union and commitment

The fact that Savvy had saved all of the bouquets Macrae gave her and dried them for her wedding day (cry emoticon)

They didn’t hold back on celebrating

Watching both bride and groom shed tears of joy and gladness

They soaked in the details of their special day (even though there was a shadow cast they looked to the Son and were filled with light, happiness and life, which spread like a gentle fire warming and radiating the people and the space around them. That took some special magic.

No one held back their emotion, we all laughed, we all cried and championed this couple throughout their union day—throughout the ceremony from beginning to end, which added another elemental cloak that covered the entire evening in the luminous hue of joy and celebration.

Being invited to a wedding means something. You witness two independent humans willingly committing to another.

I think a new trend might be that those attending a ceremony might write their own vows to the couple.

It isn’t just a party, oh it is that, but it is also a sacred duty for each attendee to stand and support, from the shining faces standing before them declaring to love and honor, to the same people wearing wrinkles and gray hair. What a privilege.

For these two, the Hope’s, (my little penguin Savannah and her Macrae)…I smile and think…old souls. They are each other’s one and only.

With Creator Spirit strong and molding each one (take it from someone married for 46 years, this is key) it is miraculous, it may still hold hard pockets, thankfully, life enfolds more joy than sadness. If marriage is anything, it is full of change, mystery, splendor, challenge and adventure. We continue to commit and love through it all and quickly learn that if we push through the rough patches (in most circumstances), we are stronger for it and we grow rebar straight up through the backbone of our oneness, which gives us the strength to cling to the other in difficulty and together make it through just about anything, which generates an infinitely richer life and dare I say, an easier one too.

These two young ones are no strangers to heartache. My deepest hearts prayer is that their days and nights are so filled with joy and gladness that their capacity for love grows ten fold. That their back seat is as full of car seats as their hearts desire. That their hunger for Love will grow ravenous. I’ve watched them stand steadfast and strong in the face of difficulty and that turns out some massive soul diamonds. There really is no other way to get these glacial gems.

At the writing of this, here on a hot day in July overlooking the Rogue Valley, I’m thinking of my grand children and future great grand babies, all of them. Being someone who appreciates reading letters written by ancestors whom I’ve never met and looking over their dogeared black and white photos and relishing my own mother’s journals, I wonder if they might want to read some words I leave for them? So just in case, like me, they enjoy family history I will record some events with thoughts from my point of view with them in mind. Social media may be a thing, but there is nothing like words on paper. I want my children, grandchildren and great grand children to have hard copies to pour over. After I post my pieces, I print them and they go into a binder I imagine my family flipping through the pages and laughing at all of my spelling errors and cheesy old lady remarks, but also getting their hearts full of familial history and having the solidity of that linkage anchor them in their present.

Three short weeks after the wedding, the newly weds have moved into their own cozy cottage. Starting a new chapter in their Little Women life filled with limitless possibilities.

Live life fully Savvy and Macrae! I love you to the moon and back a gazillion times.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

RECIPE:

I swooned over my half-inch sliver (all that was left) of this pie the day we arrived in VA and I’ve dreamed about it ever since; what really happened was that I removed the tin from the fridge to make more room for left overs, popped the one bite that was swimming in a sea of graham cracker crumbs in my mouth (in truth I’d probably have eaten 1/2 a pie had there been more). It was so good I asked my grand daughter Montanna (the baker of said deliciousness) for the recipe: confetti drop…here it is,

Montanna’s Key Lime Pie

She got the recipe off the internet, but for me, it will always be Montanna’s Key Lime Pie

Crust:

* 2 cups Graham Crackers crushed, about 1 1/2 sleeves

* 1/4 cup Brown Sugar

* 1/2 cup Melted Butter

* Pinch of Fine Sea Salt

For the Filling:

* 4 Egg Yolks save the egg whites

* 14 oz. Sweetened Condensed Milk

* 1 to 2 tbsp. Key Lime Zest; try not to get any white/yellow it will leave the pie bitter

* 1/2 cup Fresh Key Lime Juice

For the Meringue Topping:

* 4 large Egg Whites

* 1 cup Granulated Cane Sugar

* 2 tsp. Vanilla Extract

May also top with whipped cream, my favorite

instructions

For the Crust:

* Preheat oven to 350F. Grease a 9″ pie plate with softened butter.

* In a food processor, pulse the graham crackers until very fine crumb texture. Add the brown sugar and salt. Pulse to combine.

* On LOW speed, drizzle in the melted butter. The texture will be crumby, but should stick together when pressed between two fingers. If not, add up to 2-3 tablespoons more melted butter.

* Press along the bottom and sides of the prepared pie plate using the back of a spoon.

* Bake for 10 minutes. Let cool at least 10-15 minutes as you prepare the filling.

For the Filling:

* In a large bowl, combine the egg yolks and key lime zest. Beat with a whisk for 2 minutes.

* Add the sweetened condensed milk and juice to whisk vigorously for 1-2 minutes. Set aside at room temperature as the crust bakes and cools.

* Pour into the cooled graham cracker crust. Even out the surface with the back of a spoon.

* Bake for 15-18 minutes, until center is set but still jiggly.

* Let cool at room temperature for 30 minutes, then chill in the fridge 2-3 hours to overnight to set.

For the Meringue Topping:

* Combine the sugar and egg whites in a stand mixer bowl. Whisk to combine.

* Bring 2-3″ of water in a small saucepan to a boil over medium heat.

* Add the stand mixer bowl on top and continue whisking until the sugar has dissolved. To test, rub a bit between two fingers to make sure it’s smooth and not grainy.

* Transfer immediately to the stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment to beat on HIGH for 4-5 minutes, until stiff peaks. Beat in the vanilla extract for 30 seconds.

* Top the chilled key lime pie with the meringue topping, or stiffly whipped cream and a sprinkle of key lime zest.

I grew up on a cattle ranch. As a child I saw cattle die, dogs and bunnies die, but no human, no one I was close to died till I was an adult with children and then, even then, I never sat with the dying. I never saw a human without breath in them. In fact, I was afraid of seeing human death, till I sat in the sacred rooms of my dying parents when I was in my mid sixties.

After having four children naturally and experiencing that marvelous affair I realized, death is much like birth except God extracts our breath in the dying process and he infills our lungs at birth. Still the Presence is the same. Powerful. Creator is there to usher in or usher out. A hushed holiness fills the room every time and the only explanation is…God.

We pulled ourselves out of bed on July 9th at 3am and traveled to VA for our second grand daughter’s wedding. But…we couldn’t have imagined the fullness of why we were there till it all unfolded. The joy of seeing our daughter and her family was such a delight, full of unspeakable joy. Those faces. These people I love so much.

More family and friends had come in later that night after a hairy thunder storm had caused them to circle Denver almost causing them to miss their flights (as Web and I slept). Coffee and hugs at the breakfast table. Another beautiful grand daughter’s wedding. We girls clacked out the door to pick up the flowers the next morning and the boys made another trip to the airport to gather friend Shane (whose wife had arrived the night before after sprinting the length of the Denver airport nearly missing her flight) and then they went to pick up the chairs and tables for the wedding. We were off and running towards a wedding the next day.

Friday night rehearsal dinner went well enough. We visited, laughed and talked to Steven’s mother and father, who are around our age. When the festivities began to wind down; 9:30 or 10:00pm people started leaving. We were flatmates with our newly married grand daughter Montanna and her husband Coby in the apartment above Steven and Hannah’s garage. Once Steve and Lucy left we trudged up the stairs to our room exhausted from our 3am flight the morning before. Next thing we knew…

I heard cars quickly leaving the driveway, but assumed someone was going out for ice cream or to a late night workout, I closed my book, turned out the light and rolled onto my side. Our bedroom door slowly slid open (I am now hyper aware of doors opening in light of A Stranger Walks Into a House) and there stood our youngest daughter full of concern with tear flooded eyes. She began by saying “we think Big Steve (Steven’s father) may have had a heart attack. Lucy had called. Steve, Hannah and all but Savannah and Macrae have gone to help her.” Wait we just saw him. He just asked me if I wanted a glass of Rose’. We were in the dark about what was happening. I mean people recover from things everyday and if anyone could recover, it would be Steve. It all happened so fast as emergencies do, but we really don’t have that many serious situations inserted into our lives. As matriarch I got out of bed to see if I could help comfort those wading through the fearful fog of unknowns.

Trevor (Daughter Rachel’s husband) stayed with our two younger grand children while the rest of us rushed to Steve and Lucy’s in our PJ’s. We thought we might be able to help…but while in route, we were rerouted to the hospital. We arrived at the hospital at the same time as the ambulance and Steven’s sister Pricilla and her daughter Izzy. We nearly collided at the entrance. They shoved us all into a tiny waiting room with only a few chairs. Then moved us to a bigger one where the rest of the family sat going through the early process of grief. We were on the floor holding those weeping; weeping with those writhing in the pain of not knowing. An orderly gathered those with falling apart hearts and we all trudged to a different waiting room.

Once there the news coming from the doctor’s report was not what we wanted to hear. I tried to stay out of the fray, listening from a ways off to give the family space. Concern rose, but we kept hope alive. There in that cold and sterile room began the tears and groans that come from having loved profoundly. These guttural human sounds are too expansive for words. Deeply painful to listen to and yet so precious. We held and prayed for those hurting and for what the outcome may be and begged, begged for a miracle. Our tears mingling. The pastor arrived. He is like a brother to Steven and like a son to Big Steve (what we called Steven’s dad). Bigs, Big Steve, The Boss, Pop-Pop. Pastor Matt was a comfort to the family. Cause…ya know…sometimes church leaders show up cause that is in their job description and maybe they shouldn’t. Anyway, that’s another article.

Those of us in the waiting room held on for dear life waiting for good news.

…all holding our breath and praying for good news. We were here on the opposite side of the United States for a wedding…how, on the night before the big day did we end up in a hospital waiting room filled with sadness, deep grief, this solid hope coupled with these desperate pressing prayers? Was this even real?

I was so dipped into the scene, the last thing on my mind was that we had a wedding celebration to pull off the next day. The bride and groom setting in the corner on a double chair trying to rest were clearly devastated. How was this all going to play out? Pop-pop was their grandpa, goofy, solid, fun, giving, a mentor, a friend. The human brain simply isn’t able to comprehend and process this juxtaposition. I really don’t know if we are supposed to. We seem to need answers, we need to understand. We need good news so we can release, recoil from our position of protection and the fear of “what if”.

But it has been my experience, especially these past thirty plus years, that many times throughout our lives, we don’t get what we think we need and instead, we are asked to trust a higher decision above what we desperately want.

This has taken me decades to grasp and I’m not sure I have totally gotten it, but I must say, letting go and trusting this Great All Knowing Being, is a level of freedom I’ve wanted for a long time (Who’s Driving). It is complicated, because trust is attached to love. It takes more than saying “I trust God”. It has taken years of not getting what I wanted and seeing how that played out. This is my belief. Not all believe the way I do, but letting go has affected my life greatly for the better. Trust. Let go and now I can be still, exhale and know Someone much wiser than I is driving. It doesn’t need to go the way I want, it is going the way He wants and I can trust Him.

It’s not that I’m in denial about what is happening, but I trust the process and the outcome to One who knows all and can see my past and my loved ones future all the way into forever. I don’t have the full scope of things that He does. I am not all seeing, all knowing.

Trust doesn’t mean I don’t grieve, that I don’t pray for miracles, but when things begin to unfold in a certain direction and it isn’t the way I’d hoped, I am able to trust the grieving process. The whole process. The other side of the valley of death proves trust is not lost, we just have to get there by riding out the journey. Time and life are within the pilgrimage and death isn’t the end, it’s just part of being a spirit that resided in a body for a time and now transitioned. Where do we go when we leave our bodies. I’m quite sure I don’t know. I do know we are spirits given a body, not a body given a spirit. There has to be a destination somewhere.

In the waiting room, still waiting for news as we said goodbye to those that wanted to stay and headed back to the house, Nana, grabbed my shoulders and said “I want this wedding to happen”. I did not take this baton handed off lightly from my children’s paternal grandmother. I gave my best matriarchal speech the next morning to the nearly married couple, who weren’t sure they wanted to go through under the circumstances. But once they nodded with a go ahead, with a literal carload of help we did indeed pulled off a beautiful wedding. We FaceTimed Nana and PopPop so they could experience it from the hospital.

We got a few hours of sleep that night, pulled off an epic wedding filled with so much joy and beauty that grew straight up through the middle of grief and pain. Sometimes, life is more beautiful when it doesn’t make sense.

Seeing the Creator’s hand in all of this was such a gift.

• We were able to hold and assist the hurting and were it another time we wouldn’t have been there

• There was hope the day of the wedding

• So many hands coming from near and far to make the wedding a success and so perfect for Savannah and Macrae

• The food left over from the wedding fed us so we didn’t have to cook the next day

• The peace in the house and hospital felt palpable

• We watched people and relationships grow and heal before our eyes

The nights and days following are a big blur. The eve of the wedding and Sunday morning we had no bad news, we were so grateful for a minute to breathe. Morning coffee conversations were lighter, we began to pull down the wedding setting, chairs and tables, dance floor and party lights, cleaned up the patio and tried to make it look like nothing had happened, so those that had headed back to the hospital would come home to a restful space.

Sunday morning good news arrived. We held to the waiting pattern. We hoped for more good reports. More tidings like that of the night before. His heart was strong and beating. A miracle.

Sunday afternoon Hannah received a phone call from Steven. I could tell by her face and tone as she stood there in the frame of her bedroom doorway that it wasn’t the info we’d hoped for. We all needed to head back to the hospital. More shock waves. More grief. A carload of tears and me wishing I had the arms of an octopus.

The waiting began again. He hung in there for hours. We stayed in Steve’s room for a while that evening till it felt like we were intruding on a sacred family moment. Those of us not frontline family left around 9:30pm with all but one grand child who wanted to stay. We drove the thirty minutes back to Steven and Hannah’s house. On Monday Steve left this earth. We all feel his absence.

Sunday, the day before he flew, his song kept rounding my brain. A song he took lessons for and sang at his daughter’s wedding and his first grand daughter’s wedding, Fly Me To The Moon, let me dance among the stars. I’m not one to get a song stuck in their head, so this felt significant to me.

Well Steve, you are dancing among the stars now.

I do not know a lick about how death works. I don’t know what Heaven is. Can they feel us like we think we feel them; misty like the lingering aroma of a women’s perfume? Is the veil between life and death as thin as we are told it is? We read, though the body dies, the spirit lives on, regardless of belief and regardless of religion. In reading and listening to NDE’s (near death experiences from all walks of life) we hear that the spirit leaves the body and can see the husk of a body that once carried it. Some call this a psychotic moment when the brain is without oxygen, but the accounts are all the same in every instance. The spirit floats out of the body and feels a great peace as it watches from above. I call that, an eternal spirit and we all have one.

The other day I read a blog by The Loving Fungi about death. He related how he’d been to his grandmothers funeral in NY and about how inept we’ve become at experiencing and talking about death. How that cripples us as humans.

I thought I’d post an excerpt here: Real pain creates real compassion - when you know the pain of losing someone you love, you can then experience the deepest empathy and compassion for your fellow humans. We didn't come here for the facebook/instagram life, we came for the whole human experience - including pain, sorrow, sadness, grief and so on - and in fact, these more challenging depths hold gems that we cannot understand until we go through it.

Were we mere humans in charge of how life works; I’m quite certain life would hold no challenges and zero grief. All would be ease and polished fun. I think that would devastate our human journey. We are here to learn and grow not to, as Willis said, have staged Facebook/Instagram lives.

To the depths of which we allow ourselves to sit with grief, pain and suffering; allow our bodies and souls to anchor in the howling silence and despondent stillness, I believe, is the capacity in which we are able to experience a more joyful-joy, a greater giddy-gladness and all is a gateway where we might extend honest compassion and true empathy.

It is quite fascinating this thing called life-school. At sixty-nine I can say that all of life, the joy of a close family, the vacations (which are not always 100% fun), the grief and hardship and all the regular mundane days in-between that cause us to grow into stronger and more resilient beings is what it is all about. Everything in nature grows and changes. Everything.

This life change hits hard, but it isn’t my first hit. As I have written before, time waits for no one, not dignitary, nor pauper. It will march on whether we feel we are ready or not. It is best to walk through because we move through time regardless. It is the how that makes the difference. We don’t have to be strong as a statue. We can rail and scream, God can take our emotions. I don’t know about “the other side of grief” because I haven’t arrived. I don’t believe anyone gets there. The mourning may quiet, but not the grief. We may grow and have experiences that expand us and the sorrow may seem smaller, but it doesn’t shrink, life just grows bigger around it. Grief is the precious and valuable stone and a life lived in the wake of it is the sterling setting.

Keep dancing Steve. We miss you.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

We (the Staunton’s and the Newton’s) rented a fifteen passenger van, drove from Medford to LA (in one long day), where we met up with daughter Rachel and two grand kids along with Josh, Jaclyn and two dogs.

This was a planned trip to LA back in the fall of 2017 for our beloved, Shane and Rachel’s wedding. While we were there of course we added a quick day in the land of Disney (crazy). On that trip we visited Malibu Farm in Malibu CA. I drank in every magical ounce of the Passantino wedding, the charm and chaos in Disney, the moist salty air of Malibu, the sand between my toes and organic healthy food from this praiseworthy restaurant. Malibu felt like home. This trip holds some enthralling and some funny moments for our family treasury. The grand kids were small and bursting with life.

Their bright countenances inside Disney…so enraptured; delightful and soul-filling to watch. Vacations, celebrations and weddings can be that. I mean, they can be impacting experiences where beloved faces in those festive spaces stay in your memory making holder forever. They are, in my opinion, as I sit here re-membering, sacred, enchanting occasions to be treasured.

That a crazy life like mine can hold so many celebratory occasions is amazing and so incredibly wonderful. I could sit in my creaky wooden rocker for years smiling as I ponder my life and the lovely experiences it has held. At sixty-nine I have a large library full. I don’t have a passport full of stamps, but I do know that traveling to different places can inspire. But I also know we will hold on to special days no matter where they occur be that at home or in a distant land.

I am not usually on the go these days with working and all that, however in a few days we will board an airplane and fly back to Virginia for our second wedding of the year. Our precious Savannah Ruth is marrying her childhood sweetheart, Macrae on July 11th.

We are designed to enjoy beauty wherever it occurs. Create beauty. Explore. Love. Sing. Dance. It is good for me to remember to create and enjoy, to find pleasure in my work. To make life count. To...

• create a dish that is just mine. Adding till it tastes just right to my taste buds. Salt to my saltiness. Pepper to my pepperiness.

• write in a style that sounds personal to me. Truthful, a little whimsical and honest.

• bang around in places I want to go to even if it is only an hour away from home.

• paint a picture using a favorite photo even if it looks like a five year old created it.

• rearrange a room till it balances. Make it extra cozy.

• sing like I mean it regardless of talent level.

• dance even if I didn’t get that gene (I didn’t).

Our favorite places are not far. First off, home, our forty year hilltop sanctuary. Three hours to our mountain cabin, or one hour to our shared family ranch. These places are our spots. We’ve already made buckets of memories in all of them. Faraway destinations are fun too, but not necessary for lasting and impacting memories to be made. New places teach us new things and open our eyes to how others live. That is a gift. But, I guess I was thrown into making home into a vacation spot when seizures entered our lives and our kids were young and needed to have fun even if life was hard. Gosh, that was over thirty years ago! I still find that I am in that frame of mind even though, for short periods of time we may go…I often chose home over travel. That is just the way I roll.

Occasions are easily made. It may be a delight to be spontaneous; pack up a picnic lunch and head out into nature, or stay in for Movie Night, “Pick Dinner” (otherwise known as charcuterie) on the floor (or couch if you can’t get off the floor easily). It can take the stress right out of, whats for lunch or dinner and there will be fun involved, always a good thing. When the kids were smaller, I’d spread a favorite blanket on the floor, in the sand or in the grass and we’d sprawl like there were no tomorrow, while the kids rolled from one end to the other. If outside, we’d cloud watch as the breeze washed over us. That is enough. Today I meander through the cow pasture with nowhere else to be. I let those peaceful bovine know I appreciate them along with the clucking and crowing chickens. These simple things take my stress level way down into the blue zone. I need this. I love feeling relaxed and full at the same time. Full of life and all it offers. Cleansed by the sunshine and fresh air. Nature itself can be a destination.

When cabin fever bites, which isn’t very often for this introvert. I have an old basket I fill with freshly made dips and crackers, salami and a nice nutty raw cheese. La Gruyere is our favorite. Some grapes, or a watermelon. A bottle of rich buttery Chardonnay, or a complex Cabernet, a crusty baguette of sourdough french bread and we have ourselves a romantic spread. All we have to do is haul this basket out the front door and set up a picnic on the front patio. Memory made.

If you have a good deli close by, lucky you. Make it a family affair and have everyone pick out one thing they want to add to your favorite picnic basket. I love shopping with my grand kids and allowing them to throw anything they want in my grocery basket (within reason). Go wild and throw in all the amazing cuts of deli meats and cheeses, creamy Castel Vatrano olives and some fun bottled drinks for the kids. Find a spot, a park, a river, or even home (God bless home!) and make a memory.

My inspiration for this post came on a rather warm day when I hadn’t wanted to heat up the house. I pulled some cream cheese from the fridge and set it on the island, grabbed a favorite can of tuna from the pantry, a few spices from the cupboard, tripped out the side door and snipped some fresh oregano from the herb garden and mixed up a simple dip. I topped each tuna bite with fresh pungent oregano flowers and leaves. I’d thought it would make the bites too strong, when actually, it was perfect. This is how recipes are invented. Try and taste. It was so good and so simple I wanted to write it down so I wouldn’t forget (I forget things these days) and now I get to share it with you. I didn’t spread a blanket, but maybe I should have. Rather I did what I usually do after a day of working eight hours; I hunch over the kitchen island and scooped like a beggar.

Quick favorite memory making dips:

Creamy Tuna Dip: (may sub smoked salmon)

2 cans solid white tuna, drained

16 oz grass fed cream cheese

2 TBL Grillo’s dill pickle juice (deli or fridge section of your grocer) and 1/3 cup diced dill pickles (dill relish works)

the juice of 1/2 lemon

add a few drops of hot sauce, or some sliced jalapeno peppers if you like it hot

salt to your saltiness and pepper to your pepperiness

Dump the above into a medium sized glass bowl. You may choose to mix in a food processor (another dish to wash), or use a fork to break up the drained tuna and fold it into the cream cheese till the combination is creamy with visible chunks of tuna.

garnish with fresh dill and fresh oregano leaves with flowers

Serve with crusty hunks of ripped sourdough or rye crisps

Stores in the fridge for up to a week

Onion Dip:

16oz organic grass fed sour cream

1TBL Clean Monday Meals beef bullion

1 TBL Clean Monday Meals onion soup mix

2 TBL diced sweet onion

Mix well and let sit for an hour

taste before salting. I like to add a little extra salt to mine

serve with crackers or thick kettle chips (chips are the best)

Farm Chickpea Hummus:

Hummus lovers you can thank Malibu Farm for this one

Serve with your favorite chilled veg slices. i.e. Red bell pepper seeded and cut into scoops, carrot sticks, cucumber rounds, celery sticks, or for fun add fresh spring turnip strips, etc.

I love this dip so much I make it almost weekly this time of the year.

Happy Memory Making This Summer!

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

We were happily out together, Web and I, we’d gone to the local Growers Market and then to our local Co-op grocery store.

Everything looked the way we left it as we walked through the very sliding door this intruder entered our home through. We hauled our groceries into the kitchen and began to put them away. I’m sure we were mumbling to each other as married couples do about what goes where and such….all the while a stranger sat on his little tuffet without curds and whey listening to us go about our day.

While Web schlepped Zach’s extra large box of organic goodies down to his apartment I continued to unpack our bags feeling safe and secure. All seemed normal. I had no idea a strange man was sitting in my living room quiet as a mouse. No throat clearing. No scuffles. Absolute quiet. Just the thought gives me the willies. A number of different, not good, scenarios could have happened. I think the angels were working overtime at this point.

You’d think that when the home owners return, a person who’d breached said privet abode would run quickly in the other direction. Instead, he sat quietly for about 15 minutes, while I put things in cupboards and the fridge and got ready to make lunch (which I quickly lost my appetite for).

I walked toward the living room to hang my purse up on the hooks by the front door. As I crossed the dining room, I saw a medium sized man wearing a ball cap, his back was to me. He seemed well dressed (outdoor hiking gear). He was standing stone still in front of a photo of my grand babies. This is where the mind begins to play games. Is this real? Do you know this person? It couldn’t be stranger-could it?

In those few seconds my mind kept recalculating and recalculating. I should have left as quietly as Jack had been sitting and gone to find Web. I knew Zach and Josh were safely outside in the yard…

Rather, I calmly said, “hello”. Dumb move.

To which he said “hi” monotone. Alarm rising.

I said “What are you doing here?”

He replied rather smugly “I’m looking at these goons” (referring to my six grand children) and then he turned giving me a side view of his face. I did not know this middle aged man’s weather worn face.

This was a bad scene. You read about stuff like this in the local news paper. I did not know this person, this MAN. “What is your name” I asked (probably sounding quite shaken at this point), to which he replied;

“I could be anybody”, and then he went off about a real name he’d been given; my five alarmed brain can’t remember… “but they call me Jack” (not the name he gave me, but we will call him that for privacy’s sake), at this point all the fright bells were starting to go off…loudly. I became jumpy, but I continued to question— “how’d you get in”. I’m sure sounding more alarmed as the conversation continued.

“Through that door”, he pointed to the sliding glass door (and sounding, if I do say so, as if I were the idiot in this conversation and maybe I was/am we never lock our doors during the day; only at night). In forty years no stranger has ever just opened a door (we have 5 entrances) and walked into our home and sat there quietly without announcing themselves, or for that matter, announcing themselves. Never. Not once.

“How did you get here? Did you walk, or drive?” There were no strange cars in our driveway.

I learned later that Josh’s dogs that bark at everything didn’t make a peep. This guy was stealthy.

He commented, “A little of both I suppose”. Vague answers sending my adrenalin and cortisol to an all time high.

He started to go off about being on a quest, “we are all on a quest and I’m just here to tell you everything is going to be okay.” Seriously! You breached my home to tell me everything is going to be okay?!! Well that was nice of him to say under the circumstances. I’ve seen mental illness before and I wondered if he was having some sort of mental episode, or I thought maybe he was on drugs (in retrospect he may have taken drugs to go on a quest)? Maybe he was like Zach and special and got lost? I mean, how was I to know? When you live with someone who is vulnerable, you tend to lean into thinking, or giving the benefit of the doubt. I would hate it if anyone threw my special needs child into a cold prison cell. I’m not sure I should have thought these thoughts, but...

I looked out our front door and saw Web sitting outside with Josh and Zach. My heart sank. They were chatting, all cozy, their hair blowing in the breeze as they sat on the chase lounges in the shade of the yard. I slide danced to our front door, opened it and said loudly, “Hey Web, could you come in here for a sec?” Then I commenced interacting with “Jack” which I wasn’t sure was his real name, or if he was even a real person. Discombobulation happens. Maybe I was imagining? Maybe I was having a mental breakdown? Web would know.

I am wired by nature, I mean, I get stuff done. I rarely sit still. I am however, or I’ve been told I come across as together, confident (so not the case). Though as I age, I do feel that joy and serenity more often than I used to.

This was not one of those situations. I was anything but serene and calm…though I continued to act calm and courteous offering comfort when he’d cry and then I offered a cold drink. I mean…whatever.

I am somewhat uncomfortable with confrontation; maybe that is why I was trying to keep the peace, maybe that explains the uncanny and unwarranted calmness I presented, because inside…you know. Why was I carrying on a conversation with someone who broke into my dang home????

I have carried this internal explosion throughout my whole week with heart palpitations, gasps and starts whenever anyone comes through a door unannounced. I won’t call it PTST as that is reserved for more severe situations, but I definitely felt the violation of someone unwelcome’ingly entering my safe place, my sanctuary and assaulting the peace and safety of my home.

Should I have used my tall finger and ordered him out, out, out? Should I have yelled and run about? Should I have dialed 911 on the spot and told him he had another thing coming! At this point, when all is well (except for Jack maybe) I am only to assess what happened and hope I make wiser and safer choices in the future.

I ended up giving Web a silent signal that I was going downstairs to call 911. In the meantime Jack left (basically had to be told to leave) and hoofed it back to his car, which was parked on the neighbors property, we assume, broke down or out of gas. The police came and arrested Jack (he resisted, which was not wise, as it seems his only other record was a speeding ticket). I am not sure what happened to him after that, but I pray he is getting the care he needs (and never comes back here).

Firstly I am grateful I have a very Powerful Protector and I am ever so thankful we are all safe. I won’t live in fear and trembling even if my choices were less than stellar. I will trust my Powerful Father…till the end. I know this doesn’t mean bad things won’t happen because we live inside of hard things, but I do know when something happens and you know there are either angels, or Jesus himself hovering and diverting and directing—you appreciate…wildly and sincerely. Truly.

Secondly, for sure, my home and property will become a locked fortress. Count on it. Gates and cameras are going up, codes will be needed for entrance. And all doors remain locked except for one with a key pad that only those in our home will know the secret code to. Signs will go up, SMILE YOU ARE ON CAMERA, NO TRESPASSING and BEWARE OF DOGS.

In some ways this makes me feel we are being overreactive. Is it really necessary and all that. On the other hand when one is protecting people who can’t protect themselves, I’d say there probably isn’t such a thing as overboard. Zach’s and his caregiver’s safeguarding, in as much as it is in my/our control, is ours to implement. Perhaps this is one reason this happened.

Another reason could be that Jack, whether he wanted to or not, heard about the unconditional love of, and overwhelming peace of Jesus. Regardless…

Let the fortress building commence!

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Recipe:

Lock your doors!

I have no excuses except that I forgot I wrote readers that I’d follow with an update on how Zach responded to the practical protocol of less fluids, more balanced minerals and topical progesterone until someone read and liked the article recently.

When the note came up in my email that someone had responded to the article written over a year ago, I briefly read back through said article and was a little embarrassed when I tripped over the word “followup”.

As most of my readers know, we have been treating drug resistant seizures for 30 years. We’ve had the help of doctors in those early frantic years, but now, mostly we are on our own. These days, we are grateful for nature, herbs and gentle things that help. Are they the cure? No, I don’t believe there is a cure apart from a miracle, but these things are safe and they offer help.

So here goes. Honestly, I could write…”not much has changed” and we’d be done…but I feel I need to say a little more about the process…

And really the natural helps cupboard in this house is quite large and complicated.

“Not much change” is almost always the outcome. I am so used to things working for a while and then not that I don’t give it a second thought when things fizzle out. I forget that others may be along and interested in the drug-resistant-seizure ride and all the things we use and try. For those of you who know, it is quite fascinating…and complicated isn’t it?

As per usual we had a nice honeymoon period with the Ray Peat protocol. It was such a welcome respite. And, as per usual…again, the seizures return as the wild Tasmanian devil they are and wreck weekly havoc, but we are resilient up here on the hill. We’ve tried many different things over the past thirty years. This last twelve months was par for the course. Some new protocols work for a while, as with the progesterone trial, while others are just more and we don’t need more. But…trying things and getting that honeymoon period seems to be a wise compromise under the circumstances. Truthfully, it is all we have.

My MO when something is off the normal trail, or Zach has a few more seizures than normal; I automatically go into trouble shooting by opening my large apothecary and my laptop. We may try cutting this and that, add some new herbs, or try a more fiber rich diet, maybe a supplement and see if the trial helps. You know what…sometimes it does help…(|. always) for a while. Welcome to the world of drug resistant seizures. A mom just can’t let it get her down. We keep our eyes and ears open for the next try, but unlike the early days when my energy would skyrocket around these events, today I’d say I’m rather placid; the thing will do or not do.

Shift and see is our motto.

This is our story. We try things and I can’t imagine us not playing around with natural components. Maybe that is the magic in our world. When we try things we almost always get at least a little response in the positive, sometimes not, but mostly. We are over thirty years in. We know how to appraise the situation, how to build up and how to let what doesn’t help fall away. It is the air we breathe up here. Something in, something else out.

Transitioning off of natural things that grow from the earth isn’t as scary as stopping synthetic drugs made in a laboratory. Plus, herbs are easy on our constitutions and we really don’t need a scripted protocol to stop plant based medicine because there are only a few outcomes and none of them are severe. I’d say the more “potent” herbs like CBD, Valerian, passion flower and Rue work lightly or moderately. There are no rigorous rules in administering these gifts like some synthetic drugs (many of which are miracles). We give these green things when we feel it will benefit. Herbs seem to work better when they are not administered every single day for years on end, so we mix it up.

We’ve had some doctors prescribe drugs that were scheduled to give in the middle of the night. We’d hoped this would work. All those years ago, fumbling around with a syringe in the middle of the night I felt in my bones that it was just more and it turns out, I was right. We were already exhausted. There were no caregivers in those days. We were his daytime and nighttime care. I don’t recommend giving a medication in the middle of the night when daily life is already fraught with hard things unless it is a life or death situation.

Most herbs go to work calmly and lightly with a build up (not unlike some drugs, but with a much softer on and off ramp). Mostly we stop because the new thing doesn’t seem to be helping enough to continue and it starts to feel like stress and more in a world that is already tumultuous. So mostly, we keep it simple. I digress…back to

The progesterone trial; we transitioned him off of that a few months back over a period of a few weeks. I don’t think we needed to transition off, but we did just to be safe. The positive of trying it was we think he slept better. Maybe. I’m not sure if it continued to help in the long run though because almost always the symptom of seizure activity in the brain can be that of not sleeping, or sleeping a lot. Symptoms come and they go. The seizures are apt to cause any number of maladies in their wake. Sleep cycles are the least of our worries. We will never make friends with seizures, but we’ve come to expect them at our door at all hours of the night, or day…anytime he falls asleep; anywhere.

Is the progesterone something we continue? I really don’t know. We may try it again. It didn’t harm. Sometimes if we stop something for a while and try it later it works better (but only for a while). Still, safe things that work even a little are worth stuffing into the tool belt.

This past week, we had four days and four nights seizure free and the night before last we had a seizure, and then another last night.

He slept all day yesterday on my shift and awoke at 3:45pm (15 minutes before my shift ended) while today he was awake all day.

When he’s had a hard night, and doesn’t sleep all day (sleep is good medicine) I tend to want him to get outside for more sunshine and fresh air. More family time. Seems like really good medicine, but sleep is so important and that is one of the many things we try to improve for Zach as well as nutrition, calming herbs and foods, healthy bowels and positive moods.

He’d slept so hard all day yesterday that I walked on pins and needles anticipating another seizure. I love it when they do not come and when he gets a nice rest; when he opens his eyes to family, or a loved caregiver and has a coherent smile on his face, gives a long stretch, a yawn and now we have a sweet memory to store. I have come to treasure and appreciate days like yesterday. Seeing those eyes and that smile never ceases to fill my heart with a gazillion acres of joy.

We still use many of the herbs I’ve mentioned in past posts. Many herb teas that calm and restore like chamomile, lavender, skullcap, Valerian root, passion flower, nettle, peppermint, holy basil, alfalfa leaf, etc. These are highly nutritious, gentle helpers. We don’t necessarily need more or stronger, just intuition in administration.

We are trying to cut back on OTC supplements due to the simple fact that they are expensive and may not be helping. The only way to know if they are working is to stop giving them one by one. So far this summer we have cut a large number of these and so far, I note zero effect in the negative. Large amounts of money down a rat hole. Are we dumping more powders in that are just that…powder? I hesitate to add more of something that is really…nothing.

Organic herbs are fairly straight forward and we purchase from the local farm I linked above. I trust them. We know the owners and they are passionate about what they grow. I’m fairly confident in using medicinal herbs and food; that is where I’m most comfortable.

So in a nutshell:

• The progesterone may help with sleep, but so does melatonin, CBD, Magnesium + glycine and theanine (we make a nighttime cocktail of the above minus the progesterone).
  

• Seizures did not decrease.
  

• Less water…, probably not a good idea for Zach. He already struggles with recurring UTI’s so we need to hit at least his minimum H2O for the day.
  

• Sups I feel may help in the long run: Basic B Complex, Magnesium, BodyBio Phospholipid Complex (though we may stop this soon due to cost), Theanine.

Here’s the thing, I’ve been at this for over thirty years. All of Zach’s doctors cheer us on for trying our best where the medical profession has thrown its hands in the air. I just can’t have too high of expectations for the things we try and I also must remember that in thirty years, simple (lots of love, clean food and water) are and have been the heavy hitters and the peace carriers. Drug resistant seizures are not just drug resistant, they are obstinate toward most if not all substances. Stubborn and stiff necked. They are not going to bend for anything. If a certain study shows positive results I have no problem giving it a try, but first I have to see if peace is in the mix. Seems trying natural things is in my bones. It is how I’m wired, it is how my ancestors were wired. So far as I can tell, we haven’t done any harm and most medical professionals that tend Zach say we have helped him…quite a bit. I’ll take that.

Take a deep breath and move forward with more love, clean food and simplifying!

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Simple Saturday Afternoon Chicken Salad:

De-bone and cube an entire roasted chicken (store bought rotisserie chicken is just fine. This step may be done the night before). Place chicken in a large glass bowl. If you’ve done this step the night before make sure to cover the chicken with broth. It keeps the chicken moist and flavorful. Strain before adding to the salad.

Add to chicken:

1 small/med sweet red onion diced

1/2 apple finely diced

2 ribs of celery diced

3/4 cup pecan pieces (rough cut)

3/4 cup whole unsalted cashews (pine nuts are a great substitute)

3/4 cup dried cranberries

1 cup mayo (Make your own, or Woodstock organic is my go to)

salt and pepper to taste (I like salt)

Mix well and let sit for an hour before serving

• serve with rye crackers. Wrap in lettuce. Scoop onto a hamburger bun.

I could put this on repeat every weak throughout the summer months and be happy as a clam.

Grandpa and Grandma, Daddy and Mama taught their children how to get things done, simply by working hard. We watched and ascertained that if our parents didn’t labor the family didn’t have much to eat (mama in the vegetable garden and daddy with the cattle otherwise known as beef for dinner). That is a good lesson to absorb early in life.

Another life lesson we learned is, if possible, repair and use what you have on hand. What we have on the R.W. Ekstrom Ranch are lots of antiques. Antique equipment that is in need of mechanical minds, elbow grease and ingenuity to get it into working order. Also we have older human bodies that may need a tiny bit of coaxing, but I have to say, this clan is not soft.

Above, Orval, my younger brother is using grandpa’s cute little blue tractor and daddy’s old John Deere baler to whip the windrows of barley into solid rectangles. Both (the baler and the tractor) have had a hand or two put to their mechanical parts. The duo ran like they were…almost new…almost.

Yesterday, eleven of us arrived on the Ranch early in the day and stood before a field of windrows. A few hours later a field of heavy hay bales lay before us. Rain was forecast on Monday. Hay bales do not like rain. They do not have legs. They need human energy to be schlepped under a shelter. We weren’t sure we could, but we learned we are still strong enough to line and buck a bale or two, or quite a few. Never in a million years could I have imagined a world where I’d be hauling hay in my late sixty’s on grandpa’s ranch with eleven family members. But yesterday, we elders, two frolicking dogs and two youngsters (who were paid in ice cream), got over one hundred and forty bales into grandpa Roland’s barn before dark. That isn’t a lot by most ranch hay counts, but this piece of earth has sat dormant for some time, it was the first hay haul it has seen in many decades. The young’ens were all smiles and thought it loads of fun (pun intended). Four loads of fun to be exact. We didn’t have fancy hay hauling equipment. Just a humble trailer and a truck. You know what? It was enough. Use what you have.

Actually, we all had loads of fun, but I must say it was quite the workout. At the end of a job well done, we all felt the day. I felt like sleeping all the way home, but that wouldn’t have been prudent. I have to help my husband drive the hour back to Medford. You know that brake on the passenger side of the vehicle? I use that a lot, so I have to stay alert and vigilant or he could end up driving us off a cliff (tongue in cheek). Needless to say, a soft bed felt might fine Saturday evening.

My three sisters and I are not “girly-girls”. We are rancher’s daughters. We were elbow to elbow with the boys who can throw a bale onto a high heap. We can’t do that, but we aren’t afraid to do what our bodies will allow. When we were teenagers, we’d put on our bikinis, grab some hay hooks along with a gallon (Clorox bleach bottles cleaned out) of cold well water and hightail it out into Daddy’s hay fields, not to buck bales, Daddy never asked his girls to do that, but we were asked to line bales (not even a thing today with modern equipment). Mama, or one of us girls would drive the faded red 1948 hay truck and daddy would buck using the help of his bale elevator he designed and welded together using odd parts from a scrap yard (pictured below). There are some metal things (IDK), parts and metal fence posts that have been bent into submission and welded to that dinosaur. It worked for decades and you know what, it just might work again one day. Way back then, over fifty years ago, in the sweltering summer sun, we were paid with impressive biceps and one red cent per bale. Different times.

We are still mostly able and somewhat strong. Hey, I mean, we drag and lift, seventy (not very high) pound bales. There was no penny per bale at the end of this day. Nope, just the satisfaction of finishing a hard job. That is nothing to sneeze about. We can’t lift the bale very high these days mind you, but we can lift and if I do say so, at the risk of sounding prideful, I’m rather pleased with our older bodies and how they, like the antique equipment, still work. They may be slower, but when we put our minds and muscle together the job gets done. We use what we have in equipment and muscle. It took us longer than it would have taken a young buck, but we elders (two kids and two dogs) did it.

I know we are aging, I’m not in denial, I just don’t want to welcome it before I have to. Working hard won’t always be a given, but for now we can push back against time by working side by side. That feeling of finishing a laborious job is solid. Daddy and mama would be proud of their tribe. They’d be standing on the sidelines coffee in hand, their smiles would be a day wide while enjoying the scene of their offspring working as a team in the hay field. I can see them now, daddy in his white tee shirt, wranglers and leather boots and mama in her home sewn jeans, practical flowered top and tennis shoes.

This was one of those days that won’t be forgotten. A family work day that may need to grow into a tradition. When we are too old to lift a bale, we can cook and haul water for the crew who is still able. I’m a sap for family traditions. This one grew out of need as many customs do. In a handful or two of years we will be watching our grand kids do the heavy lifting and we will clap loudly from the side lines and haul hearty hot vittles onto a long wooden table, adorned with flowers from our garden propped in grandma’s antique pitchers. We too will be wearing smiles as wide as the day. Who needs a fleeting penny a bale when you have been handed a lasting memory on grandpa and grandma’s ranch.

Filled with familial love and pride in a job well done…this was a fun day I will never forget.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Hearty Honey Whole Wheat Sandwich Bread:

700g room temp water

1000g W/w flour (preferably freshly ground)

1 TBL Saf-Instant yeast

3/4 cup raw honey

20 g sea salt

Mix all in a stand mixer till dough forms a ball.

Divide dough into 2 equal parts, lightly grease two glass bread pans, form tight loaves and place into pans. Let rise for about an hour.

Bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes.

Now go make an epic hearty sandwich!

I am in charge of myself, my soul, my body and my brain. Everyone is unless you have an illness like my son where seizures have captured his ability to ambulate, articulate and express his will (perhaps he is able to focus on what really matters without all the noise and confusion. It remains a mystery).

I was not designed to be a selfish meatball. I know this and yet, am I at times? Oh yes! I bend that way far too easily. I want what I want. We are all allotted a certain amount of time here on this planet to perfect, or work out our own salvation, not everyone else’s, ours. I have a desire to fall deeper in love with my exceedingly brilliant Creator, but there are so many distractions. My prayers are changing.

We are advised to take our thoughts captive, we read that we are to think good and pure thoughts, we are told that death and life are in the tongue, that our bodies are a temple. Romans 12:2 says we are to be transformed by the renewing of our minds. Sounds like we are to actively take charge here.

Many, including yours truly, don’t like being told that they are, in fact, in control of their spoken, or unspoken thoughts, their body autonomy and to some extent in a person with a fairly normally functioning brain, the ability to arrest, or guide the health of their soul or personality.

But today I want to focus on thoughts and spoken words, because this is where my thinking has been. These opinions of mine, or understandings be they through something I dreamed, saw, read or experienced are not always grounded in truth or reality, but they are mine and mine alone to bring into alignment with the moral high ground of exercising the gift of love, kindness, self-control, being peaceable, having patience, etc.

Knowledge without a reasonable life application, or a link to wisdom can be a deadly force. A wild fire, a tornado, a flood. It may be, in most cases either void of meaning, very destructive, or at times confusing. On the other hand, words spoken in the right spirit, soaked in love, truth and rightness are, more often than not a cool refreshing river flowing gently over those who hear.

We are meant to think bigger than just about our one little self, our one little instrument tooting along with the worlds symphony. Our one little puzzle piece of the full puzzle. Imagine fussing, as we do over our singular part in the music piece when there are billions of instruments being played that make up the beauty put forth, or our one shard of a multi-billion piece puzzle? We are all part of the bigger picture, but we are needed to play our one part. To be pushed into all the correct slots surrounding us, not every piece, just those that our small crazy-cut-hunk fits easily into, completing our fragment of the picture, playing our assigned notes in this magnificent orchestra called life. Our one legacy is a much bigger story of something so grand, so connected on multiple levels we can’t even imagine anything so multifaceted, perplexing or beautiful. Nevertheless I am only in charge of myself (coming from a type A this is hard to learn).

I am a doer and sometimes, most times, I need to slow way down. I need to be still, breathe and just be (one of my biggest challenges in life). I have, at times chosen to let my cerebral wild hares run amuck. They can get the best of me. To make myself feel better I will say (in my head), that I imagine we all have done this from time to time. These flying hares are not that hard to control it just takes a little slowing down. I have a picture in my mind, or the thought of an option where I guide these fierce things into a holding pen somewhere in the soul or the brain (I’m not actually certain how this works, or where this place is) where they stand before little old me and the Holy that lives within, in great need of authentic judgement. There is need to question even interrogate, not just the words, but the motive behind as I hold back just for a moment (gosh I wish I did this in front of every thought that exits my mouth). It is my responsibility to judge if they are, wise, helpful, loving enough to open the gate and let them exit. A moment of silence in a conversation is always okay. I think of it as a moment to teach myself something valuable. It tells me that I am not just reacting.

Some say, a man of few words is rarely accused of being an idiot.

We are human, but we are also here to learn and not keep making the same damn mistakes. Words may be a soothing salve, but in a heated moment they may just as easily carry damaging arrows. They may also come waltzing back like unwelcome guests at all hours of the morning as my conscious ruminates a possible miss-speak. Perhaps it would be wise if I took a vow of silence from time to time.

You know that floppy pink muscle hiding behind your teeth that can whistle, form words, etc, it doesn’t know that words are not just words. It has to be guided by something stronger and wiser. Words mean things and those word may not form the same thought in another person’s brain.

I have a close family that can nearly read my mind. I am grateful for these Kinfolk of mine that I can let my words fly around without worrying too much about what they will think, or if they will still like me if I’ve said something I shouldn’t. They are my safe place. They know me well. This is how it is with G_d. I can let fly. He knows me well. In fact, if I’m not being brutally honest with my Creator I should start today. But others, those others who may not know me as well as my family does, I need to consider that they may think differently than I do.

I am aware I have an entire herd of wild thoughts hanging out in that cerebral place. I rarely hear or think about them. Occasionally I can feel them romping back there. What will eventually happen to them? Maybe they will get tamed, but maybe they provide a certain energy as they prance about on that safe plain without hurting. Wild thoughts may run silently in the background and remind us that we reigned them in, now they stand as good teachers. I say go ahead, run fast.

I am an autonomous being. I’m grateful for that gift. Taking thoughts captive is a big part of self-control. That is how transformation happens. That is how we transcend. It is how we grow; how we take down the negative-egocentric side of self and live as wild and wildly loved, redeemed ones. Selfless, compassionate, loving others, peaceful, self-controlled, humble and kind etc. Freedom exists here on this plain.

I heard a prominent pod-caster talking about his prayers taking on a deeper tone lately. More of a wordless, gut wrenching plea for a deeper work to be done. This is valuable insight. These prayers that go deeper than feelings and experiences are what I’m wanting these days. I want to go on a soul mining expedition where dung is replaced with gold. Where I allow full access to my dark places. Where I want G_d to plunge his pureness dagger deeper. To burn out the impurity. Where I sit with the concept that is bottomless, intricately twined within, more than I can even articulate, but I sit with the prayer anyway asking for the impossible and feeling that belly gripping link that this wordless prayer holds weight on a soul healing level. Whether I feel it or not, this is where belief comes in, where an Unseen Force is working on my behalf and nothing need be said. Sit as long as you need to sit. Allow the work. Stay silent as long as you need to.

This is a theory of mine these days:

G_d the Father is the purest form of light and truth, so brilliant, to immense for us. It is said that if we saw Him we’d die, holy script says that Moses asked to see G_d, but was only allowed to see His back side as He passed by, why, because he’d die if he saw all of Him. Enter a new dispensation where G_d comes as a human babe the Sacrificial Lamb. Jesus said there is no way to the Father except through Him. Why?

I think I understand (not that understanding is necessary).

We may all pray one of those prayers that calls in the One that died to release His amazing Holy Spirit into our being, the only way for His Holiness’s creation to be filled with a new form of the Father’s very own magnificence. Unimaginable. Unthinkable and yet here we are with the ability to let this transforming Holiness in if we choose because of Jesus’ sacrifice, so He could release this intermingling version of His Father-the Holy Spirit. A Being so Brilliant, so magnificent, he thought this process through. A Creator so in love with His creation, he chose a certain dispensation, broke himself into small enough pieces to amalgamate with it (He didn’t become smaller, He became a different form. I think the, ice, water, steam analogy is too small). This melding is too brilliant for me to comprehend. I’m sure there are so many more aspects of this than I’m able to imagine, but perhaps one of you has something to add.

I reckon without Jesus’ death we wouldn’t have this composition of He and the Father known as The Holy Spirit. This Spirit is the new form, a comforter, a teacher that can fuse and trans-form the soul of a human. Amazing! He said, before he ascended into Heaven that because He was going we’d get something better in return (paraphrased). That what had been in the former dispensation (the old testament G_d), the Holy Spirit a graduated, more interactive (for lack of a better word) form of the Father and His Son.

All of creation is begging for renewal. G_d’s most brilliant creation should be doing the same shouldn’t we? This is the only way. Not to compare, but ever take a supplement that wasn’t in a form your body could digest? Me too. Yeah, we can’t break down the Father. He’s too macrobiotic, to big. Think better than ultra microscopic. Man! I’m glad I was born in this dispensation. I’m more than grateful for the Holy Spirit, the ability to allow G_d’s transformative power inside of me. I need it so desperately.

I’m not sure of this as an absolute truth, but it is something I’ve been thinking about. I will know for sure when I get to Heaven. I encourage you to do some research and come to your own conclusion.

Coming from someone who knows how wicked their heart can be and to now, at sixty-eight, see a slightly amended (so much further to go) draft of myself. I know transformation is so much more than me being a good human and working on “myself”. Yes, we can become better by learning about human psychology and people in general and if we are kind and humble, regardless of our brand of faith, we can grow into better versions of ourselves, but I’m talking about a deeper and a lasting transformation. A work so powerful you can feel it swirling in your deep places and you know all you did was surrender. You stopped fighting for “your way”. I hunger and thirst for more of this.

What a great day when the self improvement stops and I find myself immersed in a severe and holy love, absolute acceptance and an monstrous cloud of peace. A day where the Light goes on inside of me and I am now in an active state of, being. A peaceful state where I can be who I was created to be. I know this kind of unconditional love, this level of acceptance and adoration is worth fighting for. This day usually comes when I reach the end of my pursuits, the end of wrestling for my self-governing. When the business fails, when the health is shaky, when I put my trust in a political leader or party and it crumbles (they all will). We are told we are not of this world. Then we must need some assistance from the dimension we came from. I welcome this aid.

The Three in One is where the true gold lies. That is where true and absolute fulfillment comes to fruition. This unrepentant Love is what I was created to move and live and have my being in. This Spirit says He is in us and we are in Him. That sounds like embodiment, amalgamation.

Scripture says, ask Creator for things that are in line with His character and He will give to us. Some see this as loosing themselves. It is the best way to actually be yourself. For sure and for certain, if I ask for my eyes to be open and for my soul to be filled, not half full, not three fourths full, but full to the brim, then He will pour in on my behalf. One hundred percent.

G_d absolutely likes me and you, desires to know us and that we get to know Him. He appreciates us; loves, adores us beyond a love this world can give and wants to fill us with His spirit of love, joy, peace, forbearance (patience), kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. This deep and abiding love is actually more than all the riches in the world, more than heaps of gold, I just can’t find another way to describe it. It is everything.

I shut my iPhone off a week ago and it was so freeing and these past few weeks I have taken Instagram and Facebook off of my phone so it is harder to get to (I’ve never had Twitter) and I have unsubscribed from many apps and emails. I have had more time to do what really matters to me, I’ve had more fun and I have also had less triggers, less anxiety and more peace. Figures. This is not for everyone, but for me, the addiction was very real and needed/needs to be wrangled. I am training myself to use it and not to let it use me.

I like this serene space of less outer influence, less internal noise. Less distraction and less blather. More wandering and staring out windows. More reading and working with my hands. I’m honestly thinking quite seriously of getting a dumb phone and ridding myself of the constant barrage of information and availability. Man oh man, that sounds like it might be hard!

In the end…I am in charge of my own thoughts, my words, my body and bringing them into alignment. I like being in charge of something, why not myself? I happily let others choose their own path as I choose mine.

Till Next Time

Peace, joy, love, self-control, humility, selflessness, compassion….

Marmie Karen

Though soup season may be driving out the back side of winter, I still love a good soup, a crusty end of sourdough with butter and a salad any old day. So here is one of my favorites-

Karen’s White Minestrone:

In a dutch oven, brown

1lb ground turkey breast

1 Tbl olive oil

1 Tbl ghee

4 fresh sage leaves

ADD:

2 md carrots thinly sliced or diced

1 sweet onion chopped

2 cloves fresh garlic minced

Turn burner on medium: cook and stir all of the above in a dutch oven till veg is transparent

Add spices:

1 Tbl Italian seasoning

2 tsp sea salt

1/2 tsp fennel seed

1/2 tsp ground pepper

Stir and Add:

2 quarts homemade chicken stock, or 2 boxes store bought

Drain and add:

1 13oz jar small white beans

1 jar butter beans

1 jar borlotti beans

1 jar cut green beans

1 jar garbanzo beans

1 jar, or can Italian stewed tomatoes

Add 12 oz sourdough fusilli pasta

Simmer all for 1 hr (till carrots and pasta are al detente).

*Sprinkle 2 tbl Parmesan over each bowl before serving

*Serve with hot crusty sourdough and a simple green salad

I thought we’d be out walking in the sunshine by now. I sit staring at him nestled in his recliner. He is surrounded in softness and covered in natural fibers. I feel good about that. The post seizure activity after two seizures is relentless. His arms won’t relax and he twists hard to the left. I don’t feel good about that. But it is okay. We’ve been walking down this hard packed dusty dirt road for over thirty years and you know what…it is always okay. We hold on to hope like we are five years old and it is our very favorite stuffy.

The seizures seem to be at his throat keeping him from swallowing easily so I lay a soft organic latex pillow at the back of his head, his wrists are wrapped and I support his body making him as comfortable as possible as I mutter to myself and dig into my brain files-wondering what to do next.

Can I just say this out loud. As a…well, mostly kind person, and a mama bear, if I could kill something, it would be seizures. Yep. I’d shoot ‘em dead as a door-nail. There I said it. Sometimes, this holy violence swooshes in and scares me a little. I don’t like feeling angry or powerless against their stupid relentlessness. If I feel G_d through this, I am sensing that He seems calm and confident in the midst of this whirlwind, not pressed or angry, aromatic and standing beautifully like these flowers above me, so I guess I can be too. One day, He says it will all make sense. We will see trials as He sees them.

Love and support seem so minimal and unproductive in the seizure wake and yet I know they are not. I would like to impact the effect of his seizures, but I don’t feel I’ve been able to do that on a highly noticeable level. His overall health, that is another thing, I do feel I have had great impact there and I feel great about that. But what really matters. That we serve with a smile and love unconditionally.

He will need much care today. That is why I am here for him. To give that care laced with a mother’s love. It is a powerful feeling this nugget of motherhood placed within my being.

I run through a litany of what his care will be today. Tube feedings may not be an option as his digestive system seems to be off. I think I know. It is hard to tell, but when he is moaning, which makes me a little sad (not looking for sympathy, just saying). I’m thinking as I’m writing and watching over him… That could mean a number of things (please give me wisdom Jesus), seizure activity in the throat causing his vocal cords to strum, there could be discomfort, etc. So I take precautions. Some white willow, some peppermint, some other mild herbs and chicken stock. When the seizures affect his digestive tract this vibration can happen in his throat and it isn’t necessarily discomfort, but I can’t be sure, so with my non-verbal guy, I don’t want to take liberty and cause more discomfort. In retrospect a few hours later, the protocol I have devised seemed to help.

Now what? I offer a few spoonfuls of honey…that was a messy treat…ment, but we got it in. It should help his throat and work it’s magic other places also. I feel good about that too. He needs some sugars/some replenishing of his glucose. These little things, they are powerful. Honey is a strong healer and a perfect food. We start there and move on to weak herbal teas and broth.

He’s had mostly good days this week on my shift so I shouldn’t be surprised when two seizures come waltzing in like clueless visitors feeling they are welcome here after a three day break. Nope.

It is so heartbreaking and yet somehow feels…if not okay, peaceful and calm at the same time. Trials, they say, are meant to build character; to make us stronger. I know we all have tribulations and yet, I for one am not prone to like hard things especially when it involves one of my children. I’d like the mindset of wishing for ease and comfort in this life to move along, vamoose as I don’t think wanting to take our ease day in and day out builds good character, alas I am a weak human. I don’t have to like this hard thing, but I do need to accept and attend (do the best I can).

This day took a different turn than how I’d imagined it, but then I’m used to this particular turn (it has been the same bent for over thirty years). This was a scheduled shower day, so he and I, we powered through that duck-lab. He leaned heavily to one side, so we modified and I had to dig for the big muscles when washing, shaving and transferring. We got it done. Goodness! The entire bathroom was awash, I really don’t know how we got water to the other side of the room, but we surely did.

I felt warm water pouring over his body, may feel good when his muscles are so tight. Even though it was a challenge, it may offer comfort, hence the push through and the very drippy mop up and sweat rolling off of me afterward.

We usually get outside for some fresh air at some point in our day, fresh air and sunshine are potent healers and I like using their free medicinal powers. But upon my assessment of Zach as he lay in his chair seemingly comfortable, that stir up would not be good for him on this particular day. Bummer.

This is where having a guide…I mean a real Guide, is priceless. I write, I listen for direction, that I’d be in tune on a deeper level than perhaps, I’ve been before so I can serve in a more profound way this day. I’m a can do girl, but today and perhaps everyday hereafter; I need to slow down and be extra attentive for that peaceful guidance. We are here to learn. Learning from the Best requires attention and diligence. At sixty-eight it feels like I’m learning at a heightened level. Not many years left on the end of that number for training. I better get with the program.

These days I try not to automatically rely on my go to remedies. Things I usually rely upon when he is having a tough go. It seems they can be just more (not the high nutrition and herbs, but still, all the additives just feels extra lately). I utter the one word prayer, “help”, but not in a frantic voice with jittery nerves behind it, instead a more calm, assertive “help” and I mean it (now I sound like my mother).

My directions comes from One infinitely wiser, emotionally and intellectually more brilliant than any artificial intelligence or the most educated person on the planet. I can trust that implicitly.

How do I know I’m hearing higher thoughts than my own? Trust? Belief? You know what? I just do.

This trust and belief take some listening, takes some quiet sitting. I like to do this sitting in the morning. Waiting in stillness. This feels like I’d hoped. Peaceful, non hurried and like work is being done on my whole-self’s behalf, but I’m simply sitting expectantly on my little couch in my living room in The Presence. This Guide is gentle as a dove and also, direct. Creator is patiently waiting to be asked (not like we ask Santa clause for stuff), for inner changes that align with His plan for our transformation. Positive intervention and lifted attitudes in hard situations are like being thrown a lifeline. That is enough. I expect outreach regardless, we need a hand. I had to wrestle a bit as per usual…not that I’m good at wrestling, but I just tend to grab hold of the thing, tug and run around a little before I let go, it’s just a thing I do.

On another note, as I sit here…There is a power swirling. I can feel it just under the surface and I don’t know how or even IF I’m to tap into it? It is rumbling, shaking, waiting it is there, real and authentic. I’m presently inquisitive of this powerful presence and wondering why it is thundering now. It isn’t G_d per se, but it is of Him and requires deep parts of me to look with eyes that see. If I’m honest I’m not quite sure what it is. I guess I’ll just ask. “What is this and why now?” Maybe it is that massive earthquake we’ve all been waiting for here on the west coast, but whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it is coming and it will do a powerful and eternal work…as all things, even disasters working together do.

I must admit, it feels something like freedom. It feels like something valuable and solid that isn’t going anywhere. It feels peaceful, intense and almost magical. It feels like things are about to get real. Like the gates of Heaven are swinging open and we have access to important data we haven’t had till now. Like a wrecking ball doing demolition before a rebuild. Scarily exciting. Devastating, for what was, but excitement comes for what will be. Bring it on…I think.

It is as it should be and all will be well in the end. It always is. So why sweat the little stuff? Why? We have a lying media and almost 100% of our government is bought (democracy is all but dead), the extra five pounds, the tight budget, the worry about next year. I guess because we are told to occupy till He comes, we do so holding lightly, but with anticipation that this isn’t home, this isn’t our final destination. Father is coming.

I believe this dispensation called time is almost coming to a close. Not many years left before there is a short stint of peace and safety and then… destruction will come as prophesied. The door is opening and Jesus is on the other side; our coming King.

This, as the Bible states, will sound silly to those who feel they are intellectually superior and above such thinking, “well educated” but trust me…when we see the things Revelation talks about with our own eyes, we will know.

All my worry and wondering if I’m doing all I can for my beloved son, the hatred of seizures will be swept away in an instant.

Creation groans for His return. These pink Peonies will fade in a few days, but they were here to bring a smile and some beauty to us on some hard days. G_d’s beauty is always so complex and peaceable. These flowers started as small shoots buried under dark damp soil some months ago, they grew and struggled through some frosty mornings and fought to bloom and here they are providing beauty, just for us on this particular day. I am grateful. Thank you sweet smelling flowers for your light and beauty.

Till Next Time

Marmie Karen

P.S. I promise more recipes are coming soon!

We were told, in the beginning, that it was impossible to inherit land as a clan, to hold on to it collectively and steward it as a family while keeping love in the center. That verbiage stirred not a little unrest in me. First off, I love and treasure my family and I will fight for cohesive resilient relationships. I also love the RW Ekstrom Ranch, the meaning and the memories it holds. We are all fighting for what matters. Love. Memories aren’t nothing either. They hold meaning and can give direction, cohesion and purpose and can be a kind of glue that holds together, because tearing a family apart for money and greed seems such a shame.

Leave it to us Ekstroms to be stubborn and contrary. We are transcending those negative words. We are determinedly working together and we are getting along! Connecting. Learning. Growing in Grace and love as we build, restore, plant and tend.

As we’ve applied many loving hands, begun to clean and organize the RW Ekstrom Ranch this past year I have had a renewed appreciation for connected family, for old things, for things that need repair, attention and love. Not just any old thing, but our things, us, and things that our precious family touched and used. Big hearts full of love and heavy things made out of hardwood and thick steel like the old stone blade sharpener grandpa used to sit behind, pictured below. That thing isn’t going anywhere soon and neither are we.

We have a lot in common with this place and it is more than shared grandparents. Talk about contrary (in a good way); sassy brittle buildings that refuse to fall down no matter how hard they lean, built by grandpa Roland and great grandpa John that hold family secrets, a few cuss words (I’m sure) and that can-do Ekstrom history in their walls. Tough. Pieces that should be in a land fill offer themselves up to us, like the horse drawn implements just sitting in the field…waiting. A banged up white and black enamel pitcher found inside of a rusty potbelly stove filled with sawdust and familial value that has seen better days. I’m certain my grandpa and grandma’s hands touched it daily. An ancient manure spreader used by grandpa. These are treasures. Could these pieces fit into our lifestyle today? I sure think they could, but they also fit into the Ekstrom museum. Who knows whether they will be needed in future generations or not. We are the current stewards and it is up to us to use our wisdom and knowledge as to what to keep and what to get rid of. I can see future generations looking over the same interesting pieces and wondering as we are; will these be useful one day?

I’ve learned a considerable amount over this past year about how quickly economic tides turn, about ranching and farming, about grandpa and uncle Ray’s farm equipment, hydraulics and engines, as I sip coffee and watch from the truck bed, my brothers and husband restore and repair discs, seeders and tractors.

I’ve learned more about herbs and plants of all kinds. Growing a useful garden, harnessing the power of this rich earth and the sacredness of a particular plot of land. These are all things our grandparents valued and it is starting to rub off the longer we walk this century old soil. They valued hard work and being self sufficient. They loved the out of doors, wildlife, holistic healing and a quiet lifestyle.

I’m learning to appreciate their values, the aroma of this living soil when it is stirred up, strong bodies, nutritious food grown by family hands and these colorful sturdy bovine of ours, a herd started by our grandfather and propagating still today. Rescue dogs that provide comfort and keep the critters away from our prized-gardens. And now half-grown chirping chickens, mooing cows and a wide variety of newly planted fruit trees (transplanted in honor of those that have gone on) swaying, waving above the barley field in the expanded orchard. All healthy, beneficial improvements.

Last year, sitting amongst piles of trash choking on the dust we’d converse about having picnics, chickens (our family loved their chickens), canning outside and having the outbuildings cleaned out so we could use them as grandpa intended and here we are a year later… after having ingested buckets of familial dust, adding chickens to a coop that was filled to the rafters with old (I mean old) aluminum cans and an entire library of burned nature encyclopedias (wish we could’a saved those) along with eons of accumulated dirt and dust that had to be shoveled and swept out the door.

Star thistle covered fields were run over with the disc, grandpa’s antiquated buck rake and planted using Uncle Ray’s repaired tractor and Grandpa’s simple seeder. Today, florescent greens are ripening and rippling in the spring breezes (no fertilizer used, just healthy soil). Beardless Barley just hanging out and being beautiful. The land is relieved I think. Feeling frisky, vital perhaps as we use it for that which our ancestors intended. To show the simple strength and beauty of healthy soil as it grows cultivated things after being left alone, wild for decades. We will gladly harvest our clean crop in due time. Grandpa’s growing herd will be so grateful for tasty healthy cud in the cold winter months.

We’ve enjoyed bending over grandpa’s rusty farm and garden implements. We wonder how old they are and imagine grandpa wrangling the beasts using brute strength and draft horses. They have moving parts these rusty metal things, but not nearly as many as the new equipment these days. There are no computers on grandpa’s ol Johnny Popper. We pull levers and push knobs trying to figure out what they were used for over seven decades ago. It’s like being nine again and crawling under and over daddy’s heavy equipment. I am pretty sure these ancient rusty dragons can be repaired as well as used as intended.

Tools and farm equipment that don’t rely on a computer, or even fuel, well…the kind you buy in a gas station anyway, hold value as do those minds and hands that hold the knowledge to make them work again (we have those people in our family). It may require some sort of energy be it human or animal, but that is a prize these days. Can we use things that don’t require a computer? I think we can. It is so fun digging these pieces out of the soil and seeing all the moving parts that are not electronically animated. Amazing designs these heavy beasts of equipment that tilled, spread and made farming easier than it was for my grandparents parents who traveled from Sweden and Norway to find a better life here in the United States. Most of these hand foraged pieces are quite steadfast. They may be showing the hand of time, but they still move and with a little repair, I think they can be used.

Chicken coops, both large and small await some repair. It is all so interesting to investigate and to wonder if these sheds were part of great grandpa’s design written about earlier in Hand Me Downs and Rust? I think they all may have his prints on them. This ranch, the RW Ekstrom ranch, is a family museum to quote my brother-in-law, Brad.

This is a century old living mausoleum to our ancestors and as we clear out the cobwebs and dust, unearth household and farm implements and equipment parts we are all a little unsure about what we should keep and what we should toss. It all seems a little sacred and to have served our family at some point. Just to hold and touch them imparts something of time and family history.

Grandpa, like his son, our Daddy had many dreams concerning horticulture, agriculture and husbandry. Perhaps these pieces may come in handy in the years to come as we dream a little ourselves. Who knows where this old world is headed. I’d welcome a simpler time. I really would. Less distraction, more connection to land and folks. I’m grateful for these ancient relics that sat silent all these decades waiting to perchance serve once again the same bloodline they once toiled for all those years ago. If our grandfather could use them, so can we.

We had such fun pulling the old manure spreader out of a wood pile the other day. The heavy metal wheels turned easily as though this antique had been waiting, begging for someone to move it, they turned as though rolling newly off the lot, but we know they’ve been still as a mouse for at least a handful of decades. Obviously it needs some repair, but we are excited to start that process and we may use this piece to spread fertilizer over our fields. Not the kind you purchase in bags, no, not that kind, but rather the kind that drops out of the backside of a cow. With shortages and the price of manufactured fertilizers these days that seems like a pretty smart move to me. The cows make it naturally and all we have to do is scoop it up and use it. Cost; manual labor.

We are working to become stronger in our seventy’s so we can continue improving Grandpa and Grandma’s prized place for generations to come. No gym, no equipment needed; work hard, pushups, pull-ups, sit-ups, long walks and stretching…it is never too late.

We push forward to bring our visions to fruition; grandma and grandpa’s dream, that the ranch stay in the family, is coming true and we will do our best to make them proud. Will the old house get some kind of face lift? I think they would not only like that, I think they would love that. Will the barn be used as it was intended, as a barn instead of an owl house (this will be a huge undertaking)?

I can’t wait to write about this coming year and all the fun, work and improvements. Especially when we seventy year olds harvest our beardless barley, bale it, buck it and stack it into the barn (this could be a comedy).

We will tenderly move the old battle worn equipment to a more permanent place awaiting its turn to be repaired.

Tear down tired fences and construct new.

Dismantle and rebuke a gazillion decaying boards lying in disorderly wood piles between the chicken shed and the barn.

Dusty, sweaty and setting down for lunch ideas and designs begin to fly from nine brains if we are all together. Each personality offering insight and wisdom. It is sort of like feeling whole when your siblings and their spouses come together regularly and all our brains are firing. We think similarly. I couldn’t have imagined anything so wonderful as what we are experiencing with this land we’ve been gifted that pulls us together nearly every week with a bagged lunch and smiles that reach all the way to the top of our ancient walnut tree. There are so many happy dreams surfacing from our company. There is so much camaraderie, working together and healthy compromise going on and contrary to predictions, relationships are being built.

Excitement rises as we collectively design what will be our outdoor kitchen using mama’s old wood fired cook stove that is standing in the chicken shed decorated with an assortment of Ekstrom museum pieces; wooden duck decoys and grandmas spice tins. Once we get her cleaned off and set up again, we can put our produce up outside like mom and grandma.

We have a long table and an outdoor sink to go with our cook stove. This long table built of reclaimed lumber will be used for drawn out al fresco meals; conversation filled with meaning and lots of laughter. This simple build and usage of outdoor space is a point of connection, not just for the living, but we feel our cloud of witnesses that have gone on before cheering us on to return to simplicity, resoluteness and an appreciation for this particular land. These connections to our parents and our grandparents, each other and our uncles will, I think, live on forever. All we are doing is for our family, those coming after us and those that have gone before.

The Dream…that our children and theirs will stand on this rich soil our grandfather tilled, worked and raised a family on. That they will feel the gladness and the laughter, the good and the hard growing under their feet just as we have as we’ve tamed the wild, worked the soil, planted and rebuilt something lasting for them to carry on, dreaming all the while that they will all work together one day just as we are. That they will learn that love takes presidents. That they too will be contrary and stubborn and will work hard to keep love in the view finder and kick negativity off the property. That our families will sit down for long al fresco meals in the evening light and reminisce about their childhoods; that their laughter, tears and dreams will be planted in this ancient soil and rise over the Home Place just as ours do.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Rooted in tradition (the good kind) and yet blown by the wind.

If you’ve ever tasted a wild berry compared to a cultivated one…you know, wild has more flavor and is sweeter. I believe we are bordering on over cultivation to the point some elements in our society are loosing more than flavor. To my palate…nature made, or wild is worth the hunt.

Over the top can be enjoyable, but it can also be…just larger without the zest or verve of wild. Nothing against over-the-top. I’ve just always had a bent to go against trends, against the grain of what’s expected and it was so like these two to make their special day, uniquely their own.

I’m not adverse to fancy things, but I will say making a memorable wedding day doesn’t necessarily need a high dollar amount attached. It was so great to see something so beautiful, brought on by a collective effort, sweat and hard work. Family and friends with a Jersey Mike’s sub in one hand and a fizzy water in the other, working together to bring the Bride and Groom’s vision to fruition. And we (I played a very small part) presented, if I do say so; a sparkly small wildly fun wedding.

This enthusiastic event was filled with natural beauty, tennis shoes, no shoes, fancy shoes, shiny things, rustic pieces, flowers, grass, outdoor lights, music, humans, dogs, food and libation. The perfect celebration of joining Montanna and Coby. Collective and wild. These kids are wild in a good way. I mean, I did hide out in the house a few time when the loud-crazy meter dipped into insanity, but then I’d emerge again to experience the sheer joy of the semi-controlled chaos. I think we’d all like to experience it again; it was that good and that full.

Two nights of wildness. So much singing and dancing. So much laughter and happiness my soul couldn’t process or contain all the goodness that was being splashed about. The perfection was in the mingling of formality, with informality: Within the epic beautiful chaos of big family, impromptu moments, nature tied to some structure and that thrown into a heap of excitement—there was a wild amalgamation. It was magnificent in love and filled with thoughtfulness. That is how I prefer life.

These events are to be enjoyed, cherished and then photos tangibly placed into family albums for future generations to flip through. Remembering is a part of our now. It grounds us and gives purpose. I love looking at my parents and grand parents, great grand parents wedding photos. A wedding dress, a suit, smiles (where I see familial resemblances), a bouquet of flowers and at least a two tiered wedding cake. Simple beauty. The remembering of our own wedding, then the connection to the fact that we are related to these folks smiling at us in the dogeared black and white photos. These were real people living real experiences (in a different time) saved in a snapshot. Grand children, children and extended family will flip through these new photos and look over the wedding of two great (wild) people feeling the connection and inspiration just as we do when we look back at our ancestral history. Many will have made memories with these two. Times have changed, but really, people haven’t. It’s simple, we want to marry our best friend, wear a pretty dress or handsome suit, smile, eat cake, celebrate, carry a bouquet of dazzling flowers and then…create a wild and adventurous life together and (often times) build a close and loving family. These are worthy intentions.

Montanna’s Maternal Line…

Every one of the marriages represented below have had their share of trials and yet…every union remains, or remained till the end.

A wedding is such a public commitment. A sacred event we share with family and friends. All who attended this wedding now stand beside Coby and Montanna in their union.

I wasn’t able to be totally present at my own wedding, but this grand wedding…It was different.

I felt this joyous coupling. The wild display of fun and festivities. I will never forget this day.

My little Monkey is a married woman. I love her so much and her choice for a mate…you got a good one Montanna Grace and so did Coby!

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

SUPER EASY RECIPE:

Vegan Creamy Mushroom Soup

2 cups filtered water

2 Portobello Mushrooms (diced)

1/2 Large Avocado

1 oz Lemon Juice

1 tsp sea salt

1 tsp coconut amino

2/3 C Raw Cashews

Blend all ingredients on high in blender for 1 minute. May heat further on stove top over low heat, or with a steam wand.

Garnish-cashew cream sauce & diced raw mushrooms

Cashew Cream Sauce:

1 Cup Cashews

7oz filtered water

1 oz olive oil

2 tsp Lemon Juice

1/4 tsp sea salt, or to taste

Place all ingredients into high speed blender. Blend till smooth. Pour into squeeze bottle.

It started after one look at the photo on my phone of my son at home.

The tightening in my midsection, then I began to feel moisture hit my eyes, my throat tightened, shortly after, a sob emerged and I was caught off guard in a big way. Where was this coming from?

I was across the United States at the time attending the wedding of my first grand child. I often request photos of Zach when I’m away. The caregiver had sent a photo of him that day. He didn’t look well-at all. My reaction wasn’t common. I see him almost every day and I’ve seen him looking the same, or even worse, but this hit differently. Harder.

Wanting to be a mama, and being a mama have been a part of me since I was a little girl. It is in every fiber of my being. Now, as a mama and a grandma, that deep part of me often goes without fanfare for months and months. It’s just part of who I am. That mama part of me is wrapped up in my DNA showing up for my grown children, grand children as well as my special needs son. It stands so tall I cannot see over it. It will forever be a holy part of me that is welcome to waltz in with head held high, or tears a streamin’. Welcome!

My youngest daughter caught me up as I began to crumble, then my eldest came over and we group hugged and I wept like I haven’t in a long long time. Again, what in the heck was going on? Was I overly tired after flying across the US and helping make an epic wedding happen? Yes. Was this grief waiting unnoticed in the wings for something (tiredness, walls down…) to carry it through the valley of emotion and expose it to the light on the other side? Yes. This latter one takes some processing. Reason’s for feelings are like stones, they are not always there to be picked through like some bin of relics, but, in this eruption of tears there was something to be looked at. It has taken me days. Coming home, caring for Zach to realize why I was given that moment.

Something parted inside of me right there in the middle of my daughters kitchen and within the loving arms of my two girls; in the midst of and within the support of those who know me best; I walked out the other side of…I’m not sure what, but something too important to name. If I could put my finger on it, or put it to words I would, but all I know is something substantial cleared and I walked through to the other side. This may not be the why, but all I can put to it is feelings; I feel stronger and more grounded. I feel more in my own skin and less fractured. I feel more whole. Feelings change, so maybe a better phrase is “I am” stronger, more grounded more in my own skin, less fractured.

I realize now, I have not been living with at least one eye on the other side of life. The phrase “no one gets out of here alive” needs to be planted within and nurtured. Not focused upon in a morbid kind of way, but rather a factual way. We are here on earth temporarily. All of us. What then?

It is sometimes more of a struggle than I’d like it to be to actually live out my faith, or stand in a warrior position day in and day out fighting for the health of my son and that of my own soul as well as for those souls that I love. To live with the goal of the beautiful Sacrificial Lamb before me as the prize. The One who made eternity possible. The Way. It is easier when I simply let my hands hang down and live a regular ol’ life, but one day I will be glad I took up arms against the enemy. That I fought for the sliver of a prayer life I have and that my faith stood strong here in the valley. There will be eternal fruit. We, my son and I, all of us are forever beings. This life is short and temporal. A vapor as the apostle Paul wrote. Can I live with that perspective? Can I even celebrate that view?

In the photo that sent me reeling, which I will not post, there was a look of someone on the edge of life and death. It was not a great photo of my son, though he wasn’t having a good day the day of the photo, we have those days here on the hill and then he will rally, but I guess what I was processing is how long will he rally? How much longer can he endure? When will his seizure racked body say enough?

I desperately want to be here for him at that time, solid and strong.

I think the hard hitting grief was more from the latter comment than from the sight of him not doing well. That part of me, that deep wave strewn ocean needed some calming and asked for a touch from G_d before it even splashed to the surface exposing a light fissure; the only One who knows my soul’s every deep and wide crevice and the only One who has the ability to heal the deep with one gentle touch. The almost unheard whisper, it will all be okay.

I know as the one who carried Zach and birthed him, I can not prepare for any kind of a final event and yet, I also know I need to look death in the face and say, death has been conquered and my son will live on in some form just as you and I will. What that form will be is not for me to figure out. Just that it is so and I know this from the depths of my being. As my dear mama used to say. I know, that I know.

So here’s to deepened feelings that catch us off guard. We are always learning; always being changed from light to brighter. Always growing into more than our humanness tied to our earthly experience. There is more to us than meets the eye. So much more.

We know we can only take our DNA with us. That’s it. That strand of light and energy filled with G_d and all manner of person-hood; individuality and those collective strands that reach back generations, and then eons to our creator who wrote His name in our DNA before time began. That part lives on and on…I can celebrate that!

It isn’t that I’ve not contemplated the passing of my son before. We have a fragile situation here on Staunton Hill. I have many times and it is never a pleasant experience. It is that this photo showed the inevitability of that event, short of a miracle. Though I have realized this I really haven’t properly processed the thoughts for fear they will come true. I have always counted on that miracle, or hoped in it. I have held to the prophecies we received of his healing some thirty years ago. I still do. But what do all the well meant words from folks and my own thoughts really mean? I will hold fast to prayer and hope for the most positive outcome. It is a mothers and a fathers strong desire that they go before their children because enduring that loss seems utterly inconceivable. But now I realize escaping death isn’t really possible or even important. What is of infinite value here…

That one day we will all be together in some form in a place where there won’t be seizures or sickness, no sadness or weeping. No wrenching hearts. When one enters there late sixty’s we realize, time here is short. What and how we’ve evolved and been transformed is of the highest import. The apostle Paul’s words about life vanishing quickly… Indeed he is not wrong.

So what of a mother coming to terms with the possibility of a child’s death? How do I as the carrier of my child’s precious life even do that? I’m not sure that is possible. I do know the only way out is through. I can live one day at a time and that is all.

Today is an okay day as I sit next to Zach watching him sleep. His mouth open like an old man, snores come and go. He seems comfortable. I was able to shower him even after two seizures. He is shaved, his hair is combed, he has deodorant on and is dressed to match. He is refusing food orally, but I am able to give him homemade stock and smoothies via his tube and what a gift that has been for days like today when swallowing is difficult. We march through the valley…we can do this…we are strong, but then in those moments, in our weakness…He is strong.

When one is raised to not show much emotion or, “you’d be given something to cry about” I am growing more comfortable with my tears knowing that I do have something(s) to cry about and I don’t need a secondary walloping to make it okay. Deep and difficult situations will arise and learning that my prayer life, my inner terrain is sacred, growing lighter and brighter and yields much fruit in the here and now and perhaps may put some jingle in my pocket in the hereafter.

In a nutshell, I wasn’t looking for resolve or solutions to things I didn’t even know resided within and the shock of loosing it at my daughters house surrounded by family and some extended family brought up some interesting perceptions. A little nudge that it is okay to let emotions bubble up (preferably in private) and then allow the healing light to do its work and light an even bigger fire in your spirit spot, wrapping another strand around your cord attached to Forever.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

But this brotherhood would take a turn.

Here we are decades later, Josh is forty, Zach thirty-four. Almost thirty-one years into a neurological illness Josh’s little brother wasn’t born with but began to manifest at the age of three and a half years.

After all these years of Josh going off to college, traveling across the pond and working at Trader Joe’s, it is through happy tear-blurred eyes, I teach Zach’s elder brother the delicate in’s and out’s of caring for his younger sibling, his believed for baby brother. They’ve been in each other’s lives all along. But hands on caring requires another gear.

Though this may not have turned out to be the buddy buddy kind of brotherhood Josh and Zach dreamed of as small children, it is still a close bond for both of them and in some ways, so much deeper.

Zach’s care is beginning to require lifting, transferring and with that need for upper body bulk, comes the equal need for a calm gentleness and intuition. Traits not usually found in the vessel of a certain gender.

Josh is strong and well…younger. I don’t consider myself a weakling, but I can’t lift like most men, but please allow me to brag a little; I can heft more than some. Still, for Zach, we will add strength to the team.

There is a certain kind of heart and a level of intention required when we care for Zach. Being non-verbal with almost constant seizure activity and being physically fragile we need all of our super powers. It takes a special person to carry this load. Josh’s heart is big enough to engage this kind of trial and to make it beautiful. I love seeing my boys together even though one of them is totally dependent upon the other’s care to go for a walk outside, or to eat a meal, get a shower or be put to bed at night. One hundred percent of ones heart is required. My brown eyed boys are rare gems.

Of course I’d rather they were throwing the football, watching Marvel movies, rock climbing or surfing. But would I really rather? Because sometimes things are not what they seem. You know. I do not know what life would be like any other way except the way it is. I can imagine, but that is not real, what we live day to day is reality. I trust our lives are as they should be.

This is our lot. We have a greatly treasured person in our family that has required twenty-four hour a day care for the past thirty-one years and as per our decision long ago to keep family intimately involved in his care, at least one of us has been tending from the beginning. I’m so glad we’ve been able to serve Zach here at home where he is comfortable and safe.

There is a pay out from Zach though; a level of love that is held and released by him that is not easy to articulate. This love isn’t attached to performance or expectations. Having lived in this love field, it is like a smooth lovely-love arena with no human finagling attached. There is no doubt that it is pure and undefiled. I’m not sure if it is at will, or if it is just him being who he is. It seems that the chaotic-level-of-chaos brought into our lives by the seizures, is met with an equal, if not a considerably greater amount of tranquility. This kind of love has to be lived because he houses a peaceful magnetic field we who care for him get to reside in. It causes me to want to hobnob and hang with my youngest. Rub elbows as they say. He has a charisma few hold.

For about nine years now we’ve had twenty-four hour a day care for Zach.

When those hours and the caregivers entered, Web and I stepped off the Zach care train and I must admit, after seventeen years, it felt very carefree just to climb into a car with nothing but a fanny-pack and drive, or go grocery shopping without pushing a wheelchair. But I also must admit, I missed the daily give and take with Zach. So now, as stated in my post, Once Again We Carry we’ve stepped back into caring for our youngest son. We welcome Josh to team Zach as a fill-in caregiver and hope he will soon be on the schedule permanently. Zach’s needs require us to grow in caregiver numbers. What a great group of people. We not only care for Zach, we love and care for one another as well.

February, as per typical flu season, has been a month of many call outs from our care team. Usually we have other caregivers that fill in. This year, it’s us, Zach’s family. We are the fill in now when someone calls out for one reason or the other.

It takes some adjustment attitude’illy (I love making up words) to be jolted from recovering from a line of shifts to being called back into work. We climb the stairs with visions of relaxation and a few days off in our heads and just as your skin hits the sheets you get the text that you are needed to fill the schedule the next day. My sixty-eight-year old brain has a hard time shifting gears. They grind a bit.

It is a chore to have to pull my work pants back on after just having dropped them for pajama pants. I rally because that is what is necessary and that is also what a team does. Soon enough, the sun will come out and the viruses will slither back into their dark slimy caves. February and March are high flu months that’s all.

I teetered back and forth before I reached out to Josh and asked him if he’d be interested in caring for his brother. We needed someone. I wondered if he, being of the male gender would be detailed enough? If Zach’s level of care would be too intense for him. It’s a lot. We can’t tell if a person has the right stuff of caring for Zach until we give them a chance to dig in and do the daily tending. With a new hire there are weeks of training before they are able to learn the basics and months, like months and months of teaching before I consider them knowledgeable enough to serve Zach at the level I know he needs (and we don’t typically hire men except for family members). With Josh having Zach’s DNA this has been a much easier training time than most. Josh also has a good sense of intuition. Much needed in the care giving industry. I think he is a good fit.

Both of my boys, I’m proud to say are really so very sweet. Kind and gentle souls that leak peace. If we are going to leak something, please let it be peace and contentment. So now Zach has a number of family members caring for him and this just makes me smile.

Last Sunday, for the first time since Zach was tiny, and before seizures affected, the boys; Josh, Zach and their dad were watching the Olympics together. I took a photo to try and capture for my girls, both living a distance from home. I just love it. Memories are being made. I’m glad that we’ve taken care of Zach all of these enriching years. It has become a part of who we are as a family.

This trial hovers just above the abyss and yet, higher up there are clouds of good and in these clouds are, love, kindness and joy along with genuine people whom we’ve come to love. The beauty of having a care team is…our family has grown to include many lovely adoptees.

Care giving, done G_d’s way requires the constant need to pull one out of ones selfish me-me-me mode. I would want this lesson for anyone, but I especially want it for myself and my family members.

I note I am expanded into another realm when I let go of my very loud desire to do as I please and that, whenever I want. That right there is a tough bronc to break. This quieting of the screeching-self is, well…hard to do, but best let-go-of rather than wrestled (but we all wrestle don’t we). Being needed to care give causes the noisy preoccupation to perform, or the desire to be noticed, to downshift. The unregenerate self should no longer run on high octane fuel and certainly not full throttle. A slower moving, steady-she-goes calmer non-performance self must emerge if I am to be happy here in this space; a more stable, content and more joy filled self. One that knows he or she is not the center of their own universe, but here on earth to grow and become more than the lowly self. One that knows what is of higher import and what is not (for the most part). A realm that I feel is mandatory for my own growth as a human, and for Zach’s stability and healing. I am certain, that he feels all the human energy we drag into his world. I pray it is mostly positive.

• His brother is calming addition (and I want this for them both).

• They share the same DNA (that counts for a lot)

• I think Zach would say thank you to his brother the same way he talks to me at times, but not through words, instead he uses his special powers; his magnetic love and those big brown eyes.

I love you my brown eyed boys!!

Till Next Time

Marmie Karen

His letter speaks of the armistice and the expected signing. Soldiers with fingers and toes crossed. Home felt so close, but those serving had been let down many times before.

Why, when most everything had been lost in the 1981 house fire were these highly flammable items untouched? And that, from a fire hot enough to melt metal? Some have burns on the outer edges, but most are readable if you know cursive. You will have more than a little trouble decoding these letters if you didn’t learn cursive in grade school as we boomers did. Go Boomers!

*Challenge: try to read them even if you didn’t learn cursive.

I can hear Glenn Miller’s orchestra playing “Chattanooga Choo Choo” as I read these letters…

These boxes of letters smelling strongly of mildew and diesel came from the warm-blood-pumping-hearts of real men sitting in cold callus war zones. Their words and drawings (and some black and white photos) have been doing what letters do, stay folded inside of their stained red and blue trimmed airmail envelopes till discovered again some seventy-five years later (now that is patience). Which when come upon, stains and all, are like slipping into time travel. Intrigue engages as we reach in through the clean cut letter opener slits, drag out folded pages and read each line our loved ones penned, Daddy writes one cold morning from Germany to his family at home thousands of miles away, “please drain the water out of the radiator in my truck as I remember it has water in it and it doesn’t have any antifreeze in it”. Knowing my dad and the way he felt about his vehicles, I imagine he was hoping his letter would arrive before his beloved truck radiator became a block of ice.

The greeting, “Dear Folks” begins every letter signaling the strong blood bond. The informal, yet endearing familial meaning not lost on those at home pouring over each word, perhaps around the dinner table, nor is it lost on their family reading the same words huddled together in the chicken co-op seventy-five years later.

The missing of home evident on every page…wishing to be home for dove season, haying or duck season penned by a loved one must have caused their readers hearts to squeeze a little. We feel their genuine longing to be home where no bullets fly except to shoot a bird for dinner. Where you walk through your front door to family; home, not a mess hall full of soldiers or a cold tent with a cot. Home; the meaning written in the third letter posted below in a torn off piece of a note my father wrote to his brother, Don while they were both away in war zones. Bless these loved ones for serving. We now know a little about how these wars affected through their personal accounts. It is a priceless heritage saved in a chicken shed. When I go to the Home Place, and we start cleaning out a building I always look for an intact envelope hoping to find information about our family written on the pages. The letter below from daddy, though having some water stains, was found in the chicken coop in the middle of a pack rats nest. I’m so glad it is still readable.

These windows from various family members, come through time written in hard-to-read cursive by our kin, by our dad, our uncles and cousins, by grandpa’s long lost siblings as they reconnected in the mid thirty’s after being apart for quite some time. Sharing excitement through words on paper about seeing one another soon, or the sheer exhilaration of having found a long lost son, brother or sister. These are things I can’t relate to, but love to read about. Providence has favored me in that I have had all of my siblings and most of my family around me my whole life.

These penned endearments cause me to wonder how much we take for granted today. Loved ones all around us and only going off to war if they choose to. Food a plenty that generally requires no effort from us other than to lift our fork to our mouth. No rations (unless you want to purchase two, half-dozen duck eggs from our local Co-op, then only *One per customer). No curfews. For sure, we do not live in a perfect world, but I could compile a list a mile long of things I am grateful for. Just to name a few, we have instant access to loved ones letters, via texts and email. News comes to us immediately upon occurrence (sometimes not a blessing). Music is instant (something we didn’t have as teens growing up in the 70’s). Photos of loved ones come flying to us in seconds on the wings of something called The Internet. An invention my father didn’t trust up to his dying day and I think maybe he was on to something. I’m now wondering if I too should drop off the face of the internet and live with my head on my shoulders rather than in the “cloud” and walk quietly with feet grounded in the mundane. Or perhaps I’ll just stick my head in the sand.

However Daddy, if you can hear this, there are some positives about this new way of communicating. I am grateful I am able to stay connected to my loved ones, though not away at war across a whole deep wet ocean, they do live clear across the United States. There are many reasons I am thankful I live in these modern times. There are just as many reasons I wish I lived a hundred years ago.

These letters are so much more than paper and ink to us. They are insight into the hearts and minds of these shy and reclusive relatives of ours. They give us eyes into their actual relationships with each other. They were tight. They were reluctant travelers and poets. The loved home just like we do. Most of us, their kin are also somewhat reclusive, or I rather prefer the word introverted. Introverts often have a hard time sharing their feelings except on paper. I know I do. I sure see this in their letters; apt to share feelings on paper, but mostly closed books and people of few words in person. I don’t consider myself a closed book, but I wonder if others see me that way. Time and paper are a boon (or a keyboard and internet). The tangible of seeing my words in front of me often untangle my wild brain waves and allow some reflection and taming as I edit myself before I speak blather. Sometimes.

Anyway, I just wanted to share a few of these treasures with you, my sweet readers in hopes it will enlighten and give first hand insight into how some shy farm boys felt as they served in the military.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

Recipe:

Drink Beer whenever you can. You never know when you will need a “ration to drink a little beer”.

I want to rebuild and hand things down; restore items and tend this precious land that means something to me. Give my children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews interesting relics that their great grandparents touched. This dirt, these antiques will carry meaning into the next generations because we are many, and all linked here through grandparents, great grand parents and great great grand parents.

I also want to be remembered as someone who carried their purpose well. A person who, in their latter years wasn’t afraid to get their clothes dirty engaged in a hard days work, or wear a blister on my thumb from hammering and ripping. Someone that wasn’t afraid to drag their own shadows into the light; sit quietly with my internal landscape (unashamedly), then assess what to build up or perhaps where internal oxidization needs a little steel wool. No stuck’ness, just recognizing the work I am able to do, or letting go to Someone who is able and then move on to being a better human. A human who has much to learn, who wants to grow.

We tear down, or let go what can’t be build up and we toss into the burn pile what will burn that won’t cause toxicity in our pristine soil. Even the ashes will be used. There are vines and there are branches. There is wheat and there are tares. We notice beautiful hardwoods that we look forward to sanding and some wood that has seen better days worn and eaten by years of laying in the weather, uncovered that will need to be burned. Some things naturally decompose, while others need red hot heat to incinerate so they can be taken back to their basics elements. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. We can spread the dust, we can apply the ashes.

We scrub and shine, repair and repurpose. The dual meaning behind what is happening on The Home Place and what is going on in our hearts at the same time is quite the allegory and you know…I love me some hidden meaning. It is everywhere, in nature, in our bodies and behind words on a page.

Our forefathers bought and built this Home Place from the ground up (mostly; but the house and barn were here). We are now throwing our strength into restoring their dream, which is becoming ours as well. Their utopia needs some repair and representation. We hold out hope it will be better than ever as we chip away at what has been unattended, heaped in piles and things kept that perchance should have been burned long ago, like a mostly charred library of nature books stored in a small chicken coop. I mean it is a big library, but y’all, these books are are a sad commentary of the house fire back in 1981. I don’t understand why they purposefully stored them. I see little we can do to restore this once treasured stash. It will have to go. There are just as many treasures we will shine and keep.

We see our kinfolk’s rudimentary business plan in every chicken coop, in every egg grader, cream separator, and plethora of pressure caners, every tree planted, barn built and every fence constructed. In every seeder, hay baler and tractor. They were determined to create a family; provide for themselves, build a modest business, to steward the land and keep a home that might be handed down to generations they’d never meet. The house burned, but the rest of the ideas brought to fruition stand quivering, begging for help. There is still hope. I think this land knew the high purpose those caring for her had for the future. Now we feel it every time we step upon the rich soil. It seeps into our bones and runs in our blood. It pulls on our hearts.

We may feel rusty and in need of some oiling up ourselves, but:

• We are digging deep for innovation

• Grasping for our younger self sufficiency

• Bolstering the Viking can-do spirit

• Time to roll up our sleeves and get in there with that same determination that built a place with nothing but Norwegian and Swedish brawn, a little jingle and the hope of the American dream.

We carry that gett’er’done DNA in our differing bodies. Viking blood runs in our veins.

We paw through rust filled drawers for tools to get a job done and come across artifacts. Pieces that look similar to what we are used to, but made of hard wood and foraged steel. Made to last a lifetime, beefy and hefty. Heavy. These pieces require some biceps. We are getting the job done with a mixture of yesteryear saws and chisels and today’s power driven instruments. It is as it should be…grandpa would want us using his garage, shop and the antiques there in. This monstrous, yet pleasant task will take muscle, a few of the old tools as well as some new ones.

Modernism has created a throw away culture; not a fix it tribe. One day a week, if we are able we get back to a slower pace, we hammer, we saw, clip and fix things using old and new; baling wire and nails.

The dads and moms, the grandpas and grandmas who built, fixed and looked after their own, who passed down their tools and trades are hard to come by. We are trying our best to be that for our offspring and theirs.

We are finding many mended items, welded, hammered, beefed up or bailing wired together. I couldn’t love it more. Innovation. This gutsy spirit is floating in the Home Place ethos. Some of these repairs need to be re-repaired.

Grandpa and grandma loved this land. I walked barefoot up the only seasonal stream on the property with my niece, great niece and nephew this summer and wondered if Grandma did the same many years ago. Our DNA mingling with hers as the water washed over our bare feet. Did grandma shed tears that trickled into this stream? She’d marked in one of her ancient medical books that “water is a healer”. Did she soak in nature; hoping to get relief from her long illness of undulant fever?

We watch this wetter than normal year as the stream cuts bigger pools and paths to flow through, creating areas that our grand children play in. Did daddy and his brothers frolic in this small stream, catching pollywogs and frogs? Now it waters our cattle and flows on to the neighbors carrying some of our viking DNA with it. Look out below! I love this natural change agent. It isn’t too severe, just interesting enough to cause me to want to explore.

I move through the splintery timeworn door, and into Grandpa’s shop sniffing the oil, the home place dust and rusty metal. This was grandpa’s man cave. It smells like grandpa, daddy and my uncles; the aroma of hard work. I am brought back to my childhood and I think, at the age of 68 that is a good thing to remember. I walked this dusty dirt long ago in a much smaller body and every fiber of me remembers. Life was simpler then. Not necessarily easier, but less complicated for sure.

I sense I am going to a similar place past the veil. A place of clarity, remembered aromas, heavy peace, belonging, family and deep love.

The pulse of those that have gone on before us is strong here. I imagine that is why we love it so much. The ingrained pull is powerful. I think we all have the premonition that time is short.

We find photos of the pristine builds; once beautiful and strong, now tilting and overgrown with tea vine. It is fun to see what they looked like all those many years ago before they began to falter. They were beautifully crafted for a purpose. I love these photos and seeing that grandpa built with beefy beams and sinew. But what once was necessary and useful, is now no longer of service. Some structures are beyond repair, so we use our own might to bring them down, while we purpose to shore others up. This feels like a full circle moment, like the right thing to do. We are not hasty; slow and steady is our motto.

On the ranch, rusty machinery is purring again while other oxidizing helpers await their turn to be handy. The “boys” (ages 64 and almost 66) have found the buck rake, disc and clod buster useful while preparing to plant barley. Still functioning as they were intended, rust and all. Bless their metal hearts (the artifacts not the boys).

Fences are being repaired, fields are planted and garden spots expanded. Steady she goes.

Seed catalogues bring smiles as the orchard and garden are plotted during the winter months with hopes of an early spring. Once again the fallow land is being tilled and used as our Creator intended, to bring forth fodder for animals, herbs and food for humans and beauty for all. This living soil released nutrients for our ancestors some ninety years ago and here it is providing for a third, forth and fifth generation.

In the midst of rebuilding there is a pruning and ripping that goes on continuously. The Jumanji force is real on this place. We have to keep our eyes open and beat away at the tares.

Something beautiful will rise from the ashes.

A LASTING HERITAGE

Below is a drawing from 1937 (towards the end of the Great Depression) by our great grandfather John of a chicken coop he drew for his son, our grandfather, Roland (how cute is that!). He states in his letter that he’d like to help grandpa build this structure for the new chicken business he’d mentioned in one of his notes to his dad. (Great grandfather John would have been 75 years of age when he offered his building services. He was born in 1861 in, Oslo Norway and immigrated to the US when he was eight years old in 1869). Building chicken coops was something our great-grandfather made a living at. Great grandfather was a pioneer settler of Milton, Morgan county where he was a farmer and stock raiser. He was also a high priest in the Ogden first ward. No stranger to tragedy. He’d lost three wives; my grandfather’s mother included, Ellen Charlotte Peterson/Ekstrom.

Our grandpa’s dad had traveled to Martinez CA the winter of 1937 to help Roland’s older brother Allen remodel his home. I can see him bent over his son’s table in the evenings with the piece of paper below, wooden ruler, pencil the letter intended for grandpa and an envelope, drawing with purpose. Dreaming of the day his son would receive the letter and drawing and when he’d see and work with his son, Roland again after years of not knowing whether he was dead or alive. People were still scattered and staggering from the hit of the post depression economy. Many struggled to find work. Great grandfather John traveled to provide for and help his family and in that he sometimes went to visit his ten grown children. Now I know where daddy got his helper spirit from. He would drop what he was doing if one of his six needed help. We appreciate your heritage Daddy.

Great grandpa John mentioned taking the bus from Martinez to Yreka and said that he’d packed his work clothes and tools, so he was ready to go to work. I hope I have his work ethic when I’m seventy-five.

I love this family history. I mean, I really love it. We are currently cleaning out the coop they built that…had been filled to the rafters with old newspapers and is in much disrepair. How fun to revive something (or to try) designed and built by the hands of our great-grandfather and grandfather? Maybe they will cheer us on as we shore up their vision. We’d love to have our own flock of chickens as we carry on the dream.

We walk lightly upon this land. We listen and absorb. We keep still hearts and open ears. When the time is right we dig in where we are sure and you know what, it is fun and we are getting stronger. That Viking spirit rising still.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

RECIPE:

Simple chicken enchilada casserole for a busy day:

Today, on my day off, I have an appointment in town (that I need to be in a fasted state for) and Zach needs my care this morning regardless of whether I am on the clock or not. So with having to be out the door and a full plate beforehand I put this very quick and easy casserole together in less than 10 minutes (having cooked the chicken the day before).

*May prep the day before and refrigerate over night.

2 large halved chicken breasts. Pressure or roast with some seasonings of choice. Or, use a generous helping of Five Marys Classic Spice Rub and 1/2 lg sliced onion. Cool and shred chicken. Pour the broth over the shredded chicken. Store in an airtight container overnight, or use right away.

Coat a 9x13 with butter or oil. Line with flour tortillas, or use whatever tortilla you prefer (GF work also). Let them ride up the side and overlay across the bottom.

Place next five ingredients in lg mixing bowl:

2 heaping cups of shredded chicken breast meat + 1/2 to 3/4 C of the broth

I 10.5 oz can of organic condensed cream of chicken soup
1 4oz can of diced green chilies

1 16oz tub of organic sour cream

16oz shredded Mexican three cheese blend divided (mix half into the mixture above)

* I added about 1 cup of steamed onions and peppers I’d cooked for fajitas the day before. Don’t be afraid to add simple ingredients like a drained can of sweet corn, or a thick salsa.

Stir till mixed (may sprinkle 1/4 cup of organic flour in and mix if you want a thicker consistency, or use a rue)

Pour wet contents over tortilla lined 9x13, top with 1/2 the cheese. Cover with parchment first and foil second (you don’t want aluminum foil touching your food). Cook at 350 for one hour. Remove parchment and foil, cook for 15 minutes longer till cheese turns golden. Let rest for a 10 minutes before serving.

*Since I will be out of the house I am going to decrease the temp to 225 degrees and cook long and low for 2 hours (perfection).

*Top with crushed tortilla chips, chopped cilantro, sliced green onions, salsa and sliced jalapeno peppers.

He sleeps. I stand by his bedside reflecting, reading that once smaller face, holding much pudgier cheeks and I see my three-year-old sleeping some thirty and one years ago. Seizures were as far away from my thoughts then as quantum physics.

My baby. Calm and seemingly so serene, my three-year-old leapt to thirty-four in a heart beat, having endured thirty-one years of uncontrolled seizures. In my wildest nightmare this was not a wisp of a thought. Nor would there have been the understanding that he could live through one seizure let alone thousands. That guy sleeping right there…he is a warrior.

What is he dreaming? Where is he? Is he sparing with giants? Does he go to the second heaven? Is he dreaming of ambulating through pine scented forests? Maybe feeling the amazing freedom and exhilaration of running alongside a rushing river? Perhaps, he is standing boldly in front of filled coliseums proclaiming the faithfulness and goodness of his God? I pull the chair up and sit quietly by his side, rubbing his arms, holding his hands wondering, praying for and loving him. Thoughts pop up like, is he angry when he awakes and find himself in his prison of a body? I only wonder because when his dad or brother walk him (this requires heavy lifting as he doesn’t carry his own weight) he gets about as excited as he is able these days. Smiles and wiggles. It is the cutest.

What will our day look like today, son? I have eight hours to be with you. To listen carefully for helpful ideas and cues from the Creator of little ol’ you and me and that big thing called the cosmos. Send me helpful ideas?

I stand before my fairly extensive apothecary and try to feel that ancient pull. Herbs are living things, they have energy. They may not talk, but they do pull. What tea might Zach’s body benefit from today? What does mine need?

We are going wild and mild. This slowly steeped tea may be riddled with one or any number of these calming herbs that absorb into his system with gentle flutters and help calm the nervous twitches that come after seizures; camomile, milky oat, lavender, hyssop, blue vervain, valerian root, skullcap, passion flower, oat tops, rue, California poppy, hemp flower, holy basil, calendula, etc.

When I plodded down the stairs earlier this morning to start my shift the caregiver before me was in the middle of cleaning up…well, a big mess. I jumped in to help, transfers and a full bed change was needed. After we moved him back to his clean bed, he continued his wide eyed awake’ness. So I moved off script. There are great acrobatics needed to lift him. At sixty-eight it is a bit of a clown show. But I got it done. I gently clue him in to move his legs. We only have three steps from bed to chair, but it takes a while and mama is huffing and puffing by the time he sits down. Droplets removed from forehead, I release the break and push him through the living area to the kitchen which sits before a sliding glass door. There, he could watch me prep his breakfast or enjoy the peaceful sun filled view of the valley below.

This isn’t normal. He eats his breakfast in bed most every day. But today, I could tell, was going to be different. When he is transferred to his wheelchair he is able to use his legs and lift himself by pushing the soles of his feet against the foot paddles. He pushes himself back and up into the chair all by himself, he seems quite pleased with his accomplishment, he will do this over and over. I wonder if it feels good to him to put pressure on his skeleton? Not so monumental to you and I, but for a person unable to ambulate at will, this might feel like freedom. Isn’t that our greatest gift as humans. Freedom. He started pushing up almost immediately upon the transfer and I sighed… “there you go baby, there you go, do your thing.” I move to the counter and prepare his breakfast rubbing my hand over his soft locks now and then. He and I, we are linked in a special way. I feel it. I wonder, does he feel it too? My last little bundle has proven to be quite the adventure. Nothing on earth could have prepared me. And yet, I now see, I was endowed with a seed of what would be needed throughout, but I had to expose said seed to all the elements it needed to flourish; surrender (this took me decades. So so difficult with a baby), trust, unconditional love, belief all wrapped up inside of “letting go”, then sprinkled over the seedbed of His words that ring through the ages,“I am enough”. I think we are all growing here in the fertile valley of the shadow.

After a few minutes he began to droop. I think his lift-and-push routine wore him out. Chin to chest, I noted he’d fallen asleep in his wheelchair. This is not my first rodeo. I walk over and see signs of a coming seizure. It has been four days since his last. Again, been here done this many times before. I see the hair rising on his arms and that deep, coma type sleep…I know; I prepare. Soon as he falls into a deep enough sleep, the seizure will break through. I wake him gently, tell him I’m sorry for disturbing him, but I feel the need to feed him a hearty breakfast of a duck and quail egg Denver scramble with some herbs and vegan cheese along with his almost every day, banana. He slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes.

He cleared his plate. Mama loves to see her kid eat a healthy meal. Web (his dad) came down to say hello, I quickly snagged him so that he could help me move Zach to the shower, then to bed, where he is safe if, or when the seizure pops through. The shower must have felt good to him. Well fed, cozy, warm and clean he rolled over and promptly fell asleep. I smile, as any mom would when their children are snuggled in, with full bellies, are fresh out of a bath and relaxed.

I quietly move to get other things done close by his bedroom. Anticipating the jolt; the loud electrical pulse that rings through the house when a seizure comes to visit.

I’ve organized our apothecary, cleaned his living room and mopped the bathroom. Washed and dried multiple loads of laundry. Prepared his lunch. I’ve administered his fluids as normal, till now…

It is 2:30 (the time of the photo above). I have monitored and watched him sleep. After administering his second to the last water of the day, he awoke briefly. I think, good, maybe he is waking up and we dodged the seizure bullet. I walk to the kitchen to clean his cup and disinfect his tube when the all too familiar cry in loud guttural moans bellow from his room.

Here we go… I drop what I am doing as I’ve done a million times before. I am at his side is two shakes and surprisingly calm, praying and smoothing his silky hair. I say aloud “I’m here, Mama is right here. It’s all going to be okay buddy. It will be over soon, were almost there. You’re gonna be okay. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus”. I comfort him and monitor his breathing till the seizure ends. I gently roll him onto his side. The shaking lasts about four minutes then the post seizure breathing. We both sigh when it is over. I take his stats, change whatever needs changing and make him comfortable…life goes on.

I have no clue how he feels after a seizure. There he lays before me as I sit in his room monitoring him and tapping out this little note (before I forget the details): his eyes are open, he is blinking slowly and laying very still emitting an occasional puffing sound like he does after seizures. I note there is still post seizure activity going on. But we are through the woods. He seems comfortable. I pray he is near Jesus and His angels. That they are singing over him and ministering as only they are able. These beings operate in these hard to reach realms…at least I believe they do. I call this land Kairos (present, no before, no after), and I believe (whether I’m right or wrong) that it breaks into this mortal land of chronos where human understanding will never reach.

I suspected a seizure, but oh how I’d hoped they wouldn’t come today. Seizures are usually at night (extremely rare when he is awake), or..when he has gone a while without having one, they may come during a daytime nap. He was awake when I left his side, so I didn’t expect that sound to come crashing through the apartment. It is easier for me if the seizures come while he is asleep because it is almost as if he never wakes up. He goes from the seizure back to sleep. I can’t help but hear that tiny three-year-old voice telling me “I don’t want to go back down that dark hole mama”. Baby, if your mama had any say, you’d never go down that dark hole again.

I have become more of a nurse/mama during these blasted seizures. There is trouble shooting and fast thinking needed. There’s no time for sentiment or emotion. There is also a certain amount of callousness/or maybe that isn’t the right word, but there it is. There is definitely a layer of divine sinew that has built up over my nerves during this thirty and some years. Having my systems accosted over and over and the ability to deal with such a jolting calamity is not something I take lightly. I used to be a ball of stress and emotion, but that does not serve Zach or myself well. My nursing nerves and abilities have evolved into something more stable. But what is this grounded, calmness I feel in the midst of chaos? I can speculate, but I believe this feeling is a Who, not a what. Thank you dear Comforter of Zach and I for teaching and carrying us on this journey and today showing us how far we’ve come. There are no words.

At 4:00pm I pass the baton to the next caregiver. I brief her on Zach’s day. She is well trained having been with us for over seven years. She knows what to do.

I am feeling the past eight hours. I don a jacket, slip on my boots, grab a hat and head out into the fresh air to release the hot air balloon that was my work day; to help my body and soul transition from that of a caregiver, to that of a singular regular’ish person and ease into an evening of rest and restoration. I inhale the January air carrying the aroma of wood smoke along with a bitter wisp of burning pitch. The leaves and gravel crunch under my feet, the doves and robins provide relaxing background music, the light is soft as the sun sets, I release through a smile to no one in particular…maybe Nature, feeling gratitude; I pray Zach is experiencing some sort of “walk” with the Holy, some calm in his realm, wherever that is. We both go to sleep early, we begin again tomorrow, same time, same place.

The journey that lasted thirty years and counting.

For what? Why? There was a time when those questions mattered to me. I felt I had a right to know. Maybe they are relevant, but those words, I rarely use today in the old sense, except in perhaps the positive frame of; what if he is healed (I mean, WHAT IF?) and has learned all manner of things in a different realm, perhaps walking with God in a sphere we regular mortals have no clue exists. What if he comes back from this mythical land to teach unimaginable truths like John the apostle; beautiful mysteries where those before him sit in rapt attention? What if he has been wrapped in a sort of cocoon, where inside he is evolving into a beautiful butterfly… about to emerge? And then there is the what if nothing changes? I may have dreams, but I now value the prayer; Thy will be done, God, not mine. I know that I do not know, and will never know this side of heaven what is best for Zach or any human going through any given trial. My mind may go in a number of directions when I begin to consider the why’s of the allowance of this ugly thing, but these imaginings always end in the fact that… I don’t know and through this valley, we have never known. God said we would have trials. He said count it all joy. This may not be at the Job level, but I think the outcome will be that of redemption. That is what I think anyway.

Zach is about as innocent as they come. Although there was the cussing; “potty, potty” was used on various occasions when he was upset and I think that may count as a compromised-four-year-old’s cuss word. I am aware no human is good innately. I simply say this to make a point about the innocents and peace I feel when I am around Zach, it causes me to wonder what his Creator has in mind. Why this sequestering away of certain people alive on earth and yet not able to live a regular life? These people didn’t get the freedoms the rest of us experience (and so often take for granted). The freedom to speak, to walk, to make basic human choices like what to eat, what to wear, whether or not they want to shower or not. This pondering brings about some interesting stories. These voiceless ones, are they sworn to secrecy because they know things? What are their worlds like. One day we will all know.

I lean into the “what if’s”, in the sense of “wonderment and dreams” more now. They are more intriguing to me and more helpful than that of the demanding “why’s and what for’s”. Positives rather than the concrete weight of questions needing answers that wrap themselves around my joy trying to drown it day-in and day-out. Am I crazy for going into this realm of the unknown? I guess the storyteller in me just can’t help wading into this ocean. We were all given an imagination to use. I like to use mine, it makes me feel child like. I feel it is just as real to wander into the unknown as it is to stay stuck in the land of mortal questions begging answers that may never come. This waiting for medical or scientific answers raises anxiety and sometimes anger. Because we’ve been at this for a while and the doctors, so many doctors, guess what…after thirty years, they don’t know either. So now I transition from fist banging, on into the land of thoughts lit like Japanese lanterns that float through the cosmos of mystery. I think them and let them go…a land of what if’s. Free to soar and simply be. I think I will stay here in the land of promises and dreams till I am lead out with singing.

Until next time,

Marmie Karen

PS. For an easy satisfying dinner after a day of work-

Chinese Chicken Salad

1 head of organic cabbage (Napa, green or red shredded or cut in small pieces; a combo is nice)

2 cups of organic boneless skinless chicken breasts, or thighs, or a combo; cube and saute’ till golden brown in 1 to 2 tablespoons of olive, or sesame oil (or grab some precooked Costco chicken and season it with a little garlic and salt)

1/2 cup toasted slivered almonds

2 green onions thinly sliced

2 packages of top raman noodles broken into small pieces (organic because they don’t add msg to their seasoning packed which is used in the dressing)

Cool chicken before adding to other ingredients. Toss all and add dressing. Serve immediately.

Dressing,

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup seasoned rice vinegar

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 TBL liquid coconut amino’s

1 package of organic Raman seasoning

Mix well and pour over salad

There was a time. A time when finances were not as big of an issue. During this period I hired a person to help me with household chores. It gave relief when I was working for Raw, caring for Zach and my mom. I loved this luxury. Then there came another time. A stint where finances were not so flush, if you know what I mean and I had to slash my spending by almost half. That one comfort (help with cleaning) wasn’t that big of a hit, but we had to cut so there it went. I felt sadness at letting my friend and her son go because then this necessary evil also made their finances harder. It was a difficult situation. But we all come to a point in our lives where hard decisions must be made and followed through with. I’ve resigned to the fact, I will be at this “clean day” thing till I die.

Today, when I first awoke I felt bright and happy, until I rolled over, grabbed my pillow and realized this was my every other week clean day. Ugh! But first coffee and that brought a smile along with the ugh.

I’d checked some prep off my list yesterday, so there wasn’t so much scrubbing to do in one day. That helps ease some of the angst, as I get overwhelmed easily if there is too big of a task in front of me (which is why I keep up on my house work). If I let my house go and things pile up (it’s too big of a job) I’m face planted up against the proverbial wall.

Working three days a week (I know, not full time) leaves only a sliver of time for the things I love most after household duties. But on those in-between weeks (I love those in-between weeks) I am able to splurge and either sit and write, or read, maybe go to town for a coffee and a walk about. Letting the house go will only happen if I’m sick, on vacation or dead. But hey, I am still able, I woke up this morning, so whats all the fuss about? Well, some days I just don’t want to do it, that’s what.

The sun was shining brightly, which on clean day can be a plus, or a minus depending on how you look at it. My eyesight isn’t as sharp as it once was, so the brilliance coming through our passive-solar, south-facing-nearly-all-glass-wall began to highlight some areas I’d slacked in (not on purpose). Cobwebs and smudges are harder for me to see (make eye appointment☑️). With the sun emphasizing these areas (and I just can’t let it go), I had to fix all of my lapses on former clean days where eyesight was dim and the sun wasn’t shining. But goodness it took me forever to finish this tedious brilliantly lit chore. I am pleased I did that prep yesterday, or I’d still be at it.

Realizing I needed to see more clearly in areas of the house that aren’t so well lit, I promptly put on my reading glasses as I began to clean the bathrooms. Goodness this one step probably added an hour to the duration of my sunlit sprucing (note to self, don’t wear glasses while cleaning). So many areas I either rush through, or just don’t see (maybe on purpose). I’m okay with that. Now I won’t have to do those things like cobwebs and dusting all the cornices (tedium in my opinion) for another few weeks. So, as hard as it is for me to wrap my head around one of these big clean days, the giddiness I feel about an upcoming easier tidy-up is worth that one hard day per month.

I immediately went to an allegory as I am prone to do. Standing at my kitchen sink as the sun shown through, I was able to see all the mineral build up around the faucet, the splatters on the bay window and the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, I Imagined my inward house. I slowed my cleaning for a moment and allowed these thoughts to hit their mark (Spirit is continually speaking, but am I listening?). My temple, that inner sanctuary that we are all blessed with, is always well lit (thanks be to the Son). But an astute look-see is needed. Distraction will kill us. I am not sure we are aware how spacious and grand our spirit spots are. It would be unwise to dismiss where our Guide has pointed the laser.

Pure Joy is; I will never have to let this Helper go; This Help costs nothing, and said He would never leave me or forsake me. Talk about a luxury! Spirit, our Inner Counselor and house keeper will always shine brightly, no dark days. Revelation is perpetually at our disposal.

In my soul, the big dirt may be cleaned up (or not), but what about the little stuff? In these latter years, there seems be a lot of areas I’ve not seen. I may need some spiritual cataract removal or prescription glasses.

What about those hazy areas I didn’t relinquish because, I thought they weren’t that distorting, or I simply overlook them because it was just too little or to big a job?

• Recommendation, don’t let things build up. Do regular cleanings. No one wants a spiritual face plant.

In my eyes I may think I’m doing well until something unhinges me then I ascertain, these aren’t merely personality quirks, these are mostly murky or blind areas that oppose the work and character of my Teacher and Helper (the one Being I want to emulate). I may need to do some prep work. I am asked to “work out my own salvation”. Salvation may be free, but it isn’t “one prayer and done” as I was taught in Sunday school. This exercise will take a lifetime, however long or short that is. This working out of one’s own soul restoring and redemption is not easy. It is a verb. I need to do some meditation, or cleaning out every day so it makes light work and the overwhelm doesn’t hit. Just like cleaning a house, it will never be done. Things must be redone, unpleasantness looked at over and over and that, regularly. The less we have, the easier the clean. I need to let that sink in.

I quickly went to the past few months when I’ve miss-stepped, or been spiritually lazy and I realized something. This something made me exceedingly cheerful. The longer I walk this road of betterment and redemption, the more the light shines into those shady areas, the more I become aware of the benefits of cleaning house quickly as well as the beauty and necessity of Grace.

There are still areas that I need to open to the light. As mentioned, I am now quicker to note attitudes or ideals that aren’t…well, ideal (insert upside down emoticon). Sometimes it is bigger, I may need to open the door wide to an entire room I’ve closed off for my own pleasure and comfort (these little pests, are just that, they will gnaw away at my soul till I am nothing but a shell. I’ve been there feeling empty and desolate).

But now there are more times than not that I employ my spiritual stop sign “I am not going there.” That’s it. I love how simple it is when I practice these modest yet efficient steps. And when I don’t…oh the bounty and unspeakable appreciation for Grace.

This is a sacred adventure as big as the cosmos (my inner sanctum), that only my Creator and I hike through. This part of me that lives on forever is not a wisp like the body, it is the most real thing in the universe. He works with billions of other humans and lord knows what, or who else on whatever planet or in whatever cosmos we are oblivious to, why take the time for little old me? You may be on a similar sacred trek. The longer I am alive and awake, the more I see what a beautiful journey He and I are on.

In reality, speaking only for myself here, I think I am fearful I will become a smaller version of myself if I let go of some personal asymmetry that I’ve held dear, and yet, the reality is quite the opposite. When I turn from the imbalance, or these little dears that are not dear at all, and walk in the opposing direction, mysteriously my soul experiences an Equalizing, we are now standing taller, stronger. We’ve won ground. We are not stagnant, we are growing, our roots running deeper. Quite the dichotomy. I let go of filth, Spirit rewards with…mostly inarticulate, incomprehensible things, but I’ll call it an inward brawn.

Trust me, I’ve been spiritually blind, or apathetic to certain personal traits that “aren’t that bad” and these little flaws grow a large colony in two shakes of a lambs tail. I feel the gnawing. They will be irritants until dealt with. When I soften my spiritual eyes (I can eye roll with the best of them) and look straight on at what needs to go, this causes an emancipation (I don’t know where this stuff goes, but who cares). Fundamental. Were not flirting with sin here…this is a must go situation. I already know what to do, but practice is required and sometimes it is as humble as sitting quietly with my cuppa whatever, no words, no doing, just quietly listening, I allow, accept and attend.

The beautiful thing about the sunshine, it has the ability to give power, to disinfect, to heal disease, create and grow good things and help those depressed in heart to lift their heads and move on as their way is lit; it gives life to all manner of spiritual seeds and all without any coercion at all. The sun does all this splendorous work by simply doing what it was created to do…shine.

So, this one short post is to help me remember this cleaning day in the brightest light we’ve had in a while. Open up and…Let The Son Shine In.

And to help us all:

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen 😍

Twenty Twenty-Five has been a year of rekindling. It has been a time of re-connection to places and to people. It has been twelve months of reckoning and balance for me. For discovering a renewed strength that I believe, came from surrendering to the need for rest and recovery after a long stint of stress and spiked cortisol. When that time of rest had come to a climax (as all seasons do), I found I had the resolve to push forward.

*First off, I genuinely want to thank each of you for following and reading Marmie Karen’s essay’s and thoughts this last year. I greatly appreciate your support whether paid, or free. Writing, for me is an avenue for releasing, healing, sharing, creating and connection. It anchors me. It brings freedom and a clean kind of therapy. I write for the life it brings me, but having the Marmie community, having you amazing folks (all 175 of you :-)) read and comment, or just gently touch the heart button…well you have caused a heart expanding smile more than once and made writing extra extra sweet for me. Thanks again little Marmie community!

TRUST

Yeah, I have found a fresh spark within. A regenerated fervor for participating in life and all it brings my way. Not the least of these things, is learning to trust my Creator no matter what. I can say with all the truth within, that He IS trust worthy even in the ugly (when we are finally able (able being key) to place it in His care, it is indeed used for good. This word trust was nearly wrestled to death by me. I didn’t get it. I am a very slow learner. At this time, I am unable to articulate the level of peace and safety trust is causing within, how trust has turned to love. How I learned that if we don’t love, we don’t trust and vice versa. How trust was the key to annihilating my anxiety and fear about what was and what might be. Maybe one day I will fully understand this key. For now though, I’ll just relax here in this comfortable space.

Mulling over this past year…as I am want to do most every new year; two things stand out. I am remembering the hard, the wonderful and even contemplating the wild and wonderful childhood my siblings and I were blessed with, all the while pondering a calmer productive future. I am reminded…

#1. That I never expected (or wanted) to go back to work this year. Yet I’m loving it down there in Zach’s cozy apartment tending in the heavy peace that resides there.

#2. Nor did I see the inheritance of The Home Place coming in 2025. These two things involve active living and there is something in me that loves this. There is a part of me that needed the connection and the work.

I didn’t know what 2025 would hold any more than I know what 2026 is carrying. Time totes things and then it releases them upon queue.

1. My best life, that of working at age 68 was held and released. I never dreamed I’d have a 34 year old handicapped son and yet, what a blessing and test his life continues to prove to be. Count it all joy.

2. Then there sat Cricket Flats nestled at the base of the Cascades patiently waiting for grandpa’s grand children to come rescue her. All of these blessings and some hardship are part of our slowing down years. We can do hard things if we keep moving… slowly, joyfully and with purpose. I was unable to see six little gray haired ragamuffins and their families coming together decades in their future to build up what their ancestors loved and cherished for a century. An opportunity to rebuild what human inability, climate and time wore down.

Both of these life events cause me to look forward with warmth and anticipation.

This ranch endeavor allows me (in these days of working 8:00-4:00 a few days a week), the great gift of natural and ongoing recuperation, which sometimes looks like physical labor…I mean, it almost always looks like physical labor.

While Zach’s care requires the entirety of my being; body, soul and spirit, the ranch takes less of me. So when I go to the ranch I am able to let go of all the muscle tension and business that comes with tending and release, as I laugh and speak of our Holy G_d with my siblings, as I breathe in the country air, listen to the coo of the doves and bathe in nature, restoration, peace and healing happen naturally and deeply. I return home after a few hours in this ancient family environment feeling totally regenerated. And at such a time as this, what a gift.

As kids, or (better grammar would put forth) children, we were raised “cattle-ranch-feral”, pretty much, I mean, as you will read below, there weren’t many constraints put on our play other than, be kind (right) and don’t get hurt (right) or kill anybody (we didn’t). Mama and daddy were the only ranch hands. Their home grown children frolicked from one corner of the ranch to the next. There wasn’t time for our parents to hover over us.

We are now returning from the suburbs to freer days of running hither and yawn in the wide open spaces except that there is less frolicking now and a little more hobbling, a great deal more laughter at the hobbling and a lot of “be careful” being said, though some still end up with scrapes and bruises (Phil). So far no bones have been broken. We are kinder, but we are also siblings (whether born in or married in to the clan). I am fully aware, the squabbling and poking-fun will follow us into eternity.

We come by this love of land honestly. I’ve grown to understand through reading letters written in the 1930’s between our great grandfather John Ekstrom and grandpa Roland, that he was so proud of his son for purchasing land and having animals, an orchard and gardens. Grandpa Roland was proud of our daddy for the same. It is in our blood to love the land, to build and dream. Great grandpa John dreamed of owning land, Grandpa Roland also and Daddy. Now daddy’s offspring are carrying on his aspiration of restoration, tilling and planting. Daddy loved tweaking something run down. I watched him gussy up five ranches. He never gave up on anything, from people, to land, buildings or things with motors. We will do our best to make you proud, Daddy!

We are not a perfect bunch, but one thing we are, is filled with love for one another with a stubborn determination to stay connected and get the job done. There is a certain grit that comes from a wild and carefree upbringing.

Speaking of wild. I heard a story recently told by my brother Orval (with little brother Phil laughing along) that made my eyes open wide and my mouth fly open. Since our gatherings on the Ranch, I have heard tales of my brother’s wild…ahem, adventures, antics we girls, Mama and Daddy knew nothing about…one of which was, OJ at age nine and Phil seven, sniffing gas from the ol’ battle-ax of a FarmAll tractor till getting high, hallucinating and then running for the barn some 300 ft away till they started to pass out…what kid?! I can’t. I will save the “spinning donuts" in the field in daddy’s ranch truck for later. Yeah, we didn’t have helicopter parenting back then. I love these two brothers of mine. Even though the hearing of their antics flabbergasted me, I am glad we grew up a little feral, a little unbridled. Living with few constraints can teach a kid a thing or two and indeed we learned a great deal. My goodness! I wish kids today had it so…wild, safe (so much safer than today) fun and free, so barefoot and connected to nature. What a great childhood we had.

Knowing this, I now think that maybe a teeny bit of observance by my parents of what their brood were doing throughout the day might have been a good thing.

We four girls had our own gas sniffing incidents, like making and drinking blackberry wine in the bunk house. Yeah, too bad (or too good) the alcohol content was about the same as a kombucha. It didn’t take me as high as I wanted to go. Scarcely enough fizz to give a slight buzz. Dang it!

Our frolic’some’ness was just wayward enough to bond us together because now, though we are bent away from the naughty experiments (pretty much), we are profoundly and miraculously linked and bolted together in our new shenanigans.

Shocking or not, stories are treasures. I love hearing these remembrances as they roll from my siblings mouths. We all lean in when someone says “remember when”. It makes me love these siblings of mine all the more. It makes each person deeper somehow. Some stories are sad and then we all cry together. Some are just rowdy enough to make us laugh till we cry. But hearing ones own history as seen through another’s eyes is priceless.

Trouble has turned

These Ekstrom boys, they are strong integral men. Taught by one of the best.

They can fix nearly anything with a motor

They are kind and courteous, mostly, except when one of them flipped the neighbor off and had to go apologize, or when teasing each other, or their older sisters

They love animals and have the ability to heal and tend them well

Now they are amazing trouble shooters, rather than trouble makers

When one reaches the age of almost seventy, your circle of human contact shrinks. This year, ours has, maybe not expanded but because we’ve stirred the embers of our past, it feels like the circle has grown. I couldn’t have imagined a more unexpected 2025; an exuberant life filled year.

What will this year bring? My second year of full time tending Zach again? Our second year on the family ranch? I can’t wait to take photos, store up memories and write stories of all the adventures attached to my present life. It is like living in a storybook.

The ranch is a decades long rebuild, which sort of makes me smile, cause I don’t want it to end. Tending Zach holds a luxurious calm, a tender sweetness, an emotion (hard to explain) I didn’t know existed. Filled with peace and purpose, now I don’t want that to end either. Trust has come to roost. Please never fly away my dear friend.

I am growing Zach’s herbal apothecary in hopes this next year we implement more natural care. We are plotting a bigger garden on the ranch, with an improved fence and an orchard. Squirrels and mice, you better look out because you aren’t getting our produce this year! We will be setting on the back porch with you in our sights… you little sh*^’s.

I don’t think any of us began this past year with any expectations. As you age you are just happy to wake up breathing. Happy for the simplest cuppa. But our Creator knows the plans He has for us. He had this ranch and this work in mind before time was created. Staunton Hill and Cricket Flats are Creator’s domain. These plots of land were created to grow love if anything. To be places of healing. They are both sacred havens.

I gladly and appreciatively open the door to 2026 (I am still healthy and alive); Come on in, but do be well behaved. Do not make too much trouble. As a baby new year, let’s not have any gas sniffing. Though we mortals, we may pull a few brodies in the field in grandpa’s ranch truck…look away.

Until Next Time
Marmie Karen

I loved the movie Little Women so much that I named my blog Marmie Karen after Marmie. It moved me for several reasons; firstly, we’ve been the Four of Us sisters for sixty-seven years now (except we aren’t just “the four of us” we have two “little” sixty something brothers tailing this little women lineup and they, like us, have “helped make” many little women).

We have all added to our bloodline and somehow, this all feels very holy and sacred.

But sisters, all sisters share in the ancient ancestry of blood; the covenant of womanhood, the moon cycles and the possibility of carrying life inside of our bodies. The sacred and the messy seem to go together like book ends. It links every woman on the planet in a special way. Men, have their ways of bonding, but it does not include the ability to grow a human inside their bodies, these are women’s issues, and only women share in the dance of bearing life.

So much of a sisterhood is grown in unconditional love, support and understanding.

Our upbringing seemed much like the March sisters. We baked, played dress up, frolicked in the snow, held kitties and told stories while we sipped Ovaltine by the fire. We’d dream of marrying husbands, having families and our own houses.

This time of the year, the warmth of sisterhood presented in Little Woman hits home for me. We have clung to our sisterhood, we four. We have taught our little women to love their own well and create an atmosphere that breeds a silly, serious, crazy glue kind of love and warmth. We want our little women to stick together because in a few years, they will begin to reap some very hefty benefits that grow inside our sister unions and stay throughout life no matter what.

We are elders now. The Four of Us. A gray haired force to be reckoned with. One day you vibrant, shiny ones will grow older if blessed in that way. We have moved to the front of the line now. Our mama is no longer with us, linking us together through her stories, belly laughter and weekly coffee dates. But her little women, The Four of Us, didn’t take for granted our time when we had her in this realm. We counted our days with her and made sure to be there for her till the end. She taught us well though, just as we are teaching ours. Stick together my little ducklings. Don’t let silly things divide. Love suffers long.

With our work cloths and aprons on, put us in charge of a job and we will get it done if it is remotely possible. And I really do think it is the little women (and of course the little men) that have gone before us that make this so fun and meaningful. We feel them every day waving our DNA colors, routing for us to finish well. I mean, we probably can’t build a rocket ship and send it to Mars, most likely not, but we get stuff done, we figure it out as a team. Our cloud of witnesses cheering us on from behind the veil and sailing an idea or two our way on a shooting star.

We have much to do on the ranch. So what are four little women to do? We are getting good at bossing our little brothers around and they us. These younger brothers also, like we sisters, know how to get a job done. They are strong and know how to fix things, pretty much anything. Together the six of us are a heck of a work crew. Who would have thought that sixty years from the taking of the photo below, we would all be gathered on The Home Place working side by side to restore a dream that came and went in a lifetime and now will come again in another? Orchard House or Cricket Flats, inheritance is inheritance.

We were richer than most in family traditions and a lasting kind of affection and love. Our family, and especially we sisters were hobbled together while growing into our own separate lives. Much like the March family, we moved as one until we all married and moved away and now we are merging once again.

The simple pleasures and stories of our growing up together bring a slice of nostalgia and mostly warm memories. Much like the emotions evoked during the movie Little Women. It is like standing outside in the snow watching the goings on it the golden glow of a candle lit home. I feel the warmth. It creates a yearning, not to return to a simpler time, but to make a simpler lifestyle and gives birth to thoughts of a more peaceful future. Our lives, from then till now wore the clock of a lifetime together. We didn’t have a movie made about us, but we have a long history of stories to tell and the tales continue to line up. I don’t see them stopping anytime soon.

We grew up pretending too. Many who grow up with less, create more. We played with our kittens, with our German Shepard Princess’s puppies, horses, cows and even a pig named Petunia. Anything on the ranch was up for grabs to play with. We’d climb behind the rusted metal bar of the old milk cart, pull it to the driveway with its metal wheels pulverizing the dust, and rope poor ol Knot Head (our pet steer) to it. After dressing up using clothing from the missionary boxes in the woodshed we’d head off on our pretend adventures. Knot Head was our transportation to and from our outings. Sitting on the splintery gray boards in our finest we’d imagine ourselves in a covered wagon, or the dining car of a train going to a big shindig.

We are still playing (but it mostly looks like work). I even dress up in grandpa’s old overalls, or one of my uncles turtlenecks or a vintage sweater. They are like wearing a hug from these precious family members. I can’t wait to try on some of grandma’s dresses. Maybe we will model for you one day.

Thinking back, there were no commercials, or cunning ads telling us what we didn’t have, we lived as though we had everything we needed and indeed, we had more. Sometimes going back in time, whether it be watching a movie, or remembering your own simple life you take in what before and beyond might mean. Both contain the building blocks of a future. At this time in my life, a lifestyle filled with nature, home cooked meals and hard work is enticing. Some may call it nostalgia, or even antiquated but to me, the Victorian era, or the agrarian, animal husbandry lifestyle call to me. I don’t know why, they just do and always have. It is the memories of growing up in wide open spaces, fresh air, sunshine, while having enough to foster a good simple life that give me hope for the future.

I know, we are going to all be okay. We have enough history now to bind us together with all the decades we lived together and now an interest in all we are discovering about our intriguing ancestors and a future on the ranch. It is funny this learning about heritage…we are discovering the sprouting of our DNA seeds planted deep in the depths of our own souls and in a particular soil. I wonder what the fruit will be of these riches plunged in so long ago, these things uncovered that resonate and feel like home.

Though our family’s hand written cursive words were not written by one of our little women, these letters were written by the Joe’s boys of our story and they are very powerful. Personal words grow the knowledge of our unique histories and lay a foundation for the future generations.

We were not the only ones having to use our imaginations to play. We read letters and see old black and white photos of daddy with his brothers holding guns, riding motor bikes and skating on icy ponds in the 40’s and 50’s. That was an era to study and part of our story. Simpler and yet the same in so many ways.

In our era, the 60’s and 70s, we played school and war with sticks for guns (we knew so little about the real wars grandpa and daddy fought in). We built forts under the bridge, mud pies were made in abundance, we had forts in the trees, in rocks and played in the old bunk house (which eventually became our bedroom) where I’m sure the cowboys told stories of broncs and girls, fist fights and cattle drives. If those old board and batten walls could talk…

We were where we were, with who we were with and that was enough till mama rang the dinner bell. I’d give a million bucks to go back to this kind of clarity.

Many of those early years of bonding as siblings were often spent fighting like the feral cats, but that is how we learn to resolve conflict isn’t it. We had many opportunities to learn that societal benefit. Now with our linked history and resolve we are tight as can be.

As teens we had the thrill of earning the trust of neighbors, while our parents good name gained us the option of acquiring local jobs. We had the ability to work for some community friends cleaning their homes and babysitting on Friday nights. One of my favorite things about this season was what it felt like to have a little jingle-jangle banging about in my sock drawer. A very powerful feeling.

Thus began the joyous tradition of earning and spending money on things you wanted. Being able to take one’s wallet filled with hard earned money and go to town was a new high. Now reading over daddy’s letters I can see that his family, though frugal, spent money on things they wanted too. He wrote of purchasing watches, guns, cars, bikes and motorcycles, and all manor of stuff advertised in the back of magazines.

We sisters began to shop together and purchase more modern clothing and shoes, fingernail polish and makeup.

As teens the four of us were deep into how we looked, beauty and clothing became an obsession. I must say the seventies with our makeup sporting thick black Liz Taylor eyeliner, white lipstick and our clothing of hip huger pants, go-go boots, hot pants, baby doll tops, mini skirts and platform shoes were such fun. I think we need to bring these back just as they were, without any “improvements” because these items of clothing from K-Mart, Penny’s and Sears and Roebuck were built to last. I don’t think I want to see white lipstick again though.

The days of war, though close behind with Daddy having served in Germany and out front with the Vietnam war eminent; having a dad go off to war, as the March family endured, was not something we had to fear in our growing up years and I’m so grateful for that.

I pray we don’t take these years without war for granted.

The movie Little Women came out in December of 1994, which was right in the early throws of seizures turning our world upside down. It was healing for me to travel to the Victorian era and view something that took me back to my roots. It reminded me that I had a beautiful past that linked me to people that had my back in the present and future. To be able to recall that everyone has hardship and that there were still beautiful things to enjoy in life and that not all years would be fraught with pain and darkness. This has proven true three decades later.

I’ll never forget sitting in the theater nibbling my Jr. Mints and snatching a handful of popcorn now and then with my young girls beside me and hearing the 1994 rendition of Little Women begin and then the visual…four little women (sisters just like mine) sledding, skating, play acting, holding baby kittens and feeling that proverbial lump growing in my throat.

This was my history with four sisters. I had little women.

Looking down on the french braided hair of my two little Staunton women and seeing their innocent smiles in a more carefree space rather than our home then fraught with the chaos of seizures (ages ten and six at the time) will be a memory I will never forget.

This semi true tale brought a little whimsy into a hard space, a meander down look back lane taking me to a time when things were much less chaotic. Now with a lineage of twenty two little women and that growing, we are leaving our mark on the world in a profound way and I pray it is a positive one bathed in kindness, love and grace and that some day our future little women will read our letters, our stories and are encouraged in their rich DNA and beautiful family heritage and that they too remember, everyone has hard in their lives and that they also might gather and connect on our inheritance of Cricket Flats, their great, great great, and great great great grandfathers land.

In honor of all of the Ekstrom “little women”

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen

WW1 happened a long time ago…

That I have a grandfather who fought in that war is somewhat astounding.

WW11

Daddy, the eldest of three boys was drafted as were his two brothers. Being of the same blood, the same DNA, I wonder if they were scared and yet brave? No doubt because they all stood tall and served. I wonder if they cried into their pillows at night when no one was near (cause I would have)? I see them all as kind courageous men. And I thank God for their service and that they all came home safely.

I am no expert on war or training camps. I do however know these four gentle men, my grandpa, daddy and two uncles fought in wars that were perhaps not theirs to fight, not America’s to fight either. But they did their duty and by G_d’s grace returned home and lived out their lives as best they could, but not without wearing the scars of war. These were not men who like being told what to do (do any of us like being told what to do?). I can especially see this trait in my Uncle Raymond’s letters home; some anger resides between the lines. Daddy seemed to rely upon his faith; he was a stoic one. I see a different turn in my Uncle Don’s letters. A pliability and a reconciling with what was, a contentment and a peacefulness. Uncle Don had a strong faith that perhaps he lent to his younger brother later on. Good men every last one of them!

After their stints in the service though, they all moved on. Grandpa and daddy purchased land. They farmed, started a new dairy and egg businesses, planted fruit trees and grew large gardens while practicing their arts, music, reading, photography, conservancy and they all had an appreciation of a fine vehicle. Daddy built ranches up from nothing and also grew a considerable family, six babies made up the eight of us, perhaps making up for his bachelor brothers. My two uncles found odd jobs here and there, then at the lumber mill and helped grandpa on the ranch and both chose to remain single.

Daddy rarely talked about his experience in the service except to tell a few stories, perhaps the only stories he could tell, around the dinner table. He’d tell us about the time his superior asked him a question and apparently daddy with his soft voice didn’t answer loudly enough and he was ordered to go yell at a post for hours and hours till he lost his voice. He giggled and giggled about this incident, though I doubt he was laughing while yelling at the damn pole! We are a soft spoken bunch we Ekstrom’s. I am a proud carrier of that DNA, but I’m sure daddy would have liked to trade that soft spoken DNA in for a more robust set of vocal cords that particular day.

We come upon boxes and envelopes as we unfold our heritage on the ranch, the tendency might be to throw dirt filled envelopes, stained papers and cards in a bonfire and burn them, but I just can’t. I have carted some of these burned, dirt caked, stained envelopes that have traveled the whole world home and am taking my time opening, blowing the dust off and reading about my family. I read each precious word. I’ve come across some gems. The military letters are my favorite.

I am learning about my grandpa and his father, my great grandfather John and grandpa’s seven siblings, John, Eric, Agnes, Allen, Blanche, Edna and Harold and far as I can tell, two half siblings (still researching). I am learning about my dad and his brothers. What they went through and their great sacrifice. What they liked and didn’t like. It is gold to have found letters written from the heart when we come from a family that didn’t talk much about their past. I’m learning what these wars were like for these family members of mine. And through my great grandfather’s letters I am learning about my own grandfather.

My Grandpa and his father had been separated for some time, grandpa and some of his siblings were fostered out. I didn’t know Grandpa and his father had rekindled a relationship, but I am finding through the letters that they had. Great grandfather came looking for grandpa from Utah, to California, but couldn’t find him and returned home very disappointed. One day one of grandpa’s siblings, I believe it was his older brother Allen, let great grandpa John know he’d found my grandpa, one of John sons and sent a mailing address. Soon grandpa Roland received mail from his long lost father and shortly after, reciprocated. I can feel the jubilation in my great grand father’s words as he responds to his son’s letter. The letter begins…

*My Dear Son Roland, wife and boys,

Your dear letter came a few days ago and to say that I was pleased to get it would be putting it mild. I was just thrilled. Could hardly believe my eyes as you said in your letter…

What a joy to find a long lost child! They formed a relationship through letters and apparently great grandfather came to help grandpa build a chicken coop for his egg business (Great Grandfather designed the building and said he sent the drawing with the letter, though the drawing was not with the letter. I hope to come across it in the piles and piles left to go through). This building (said in letters to have been designed by great grandpa John) is about to fall down, but then these letters are dated mid 1930’s. I hope we can shore it up for another round of chickens.

As much as possible grandpa and his siblings kept in touch through letters, Christmas cards and occasional visits. I have some cards dating as far back as 1909. For these special letters, this peek into their lives I thank them for not throwing anything away (though, the bundled thousands of news papers not so much).

These words, these faces in photos, these feelings that come across in words are somehow making me stronger, more connected to my family and The Home Place. To learn my great grandfather walk on the land we now tend is wonderful. Learning of their pasts, re-connection and how they were made into who they were is priceless to me. There is something powerful here. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I feel it has something to do with who I am, who we are as a family and what this ranch means.

In light of the anniversary of Pearl Harbor on December 7th, I’d like to post this peace/I mean piece in honor of my family, and all the lives that were lost and also wave a glittery flag of courage for each soldier who returned and is returning home, from 1916, when Grandpa served, to the 1950’s when daddy and his brothers served and on into the present. That is almost one hundred and ten years of soldiering. That might not sound like much, but I know some of these souls intimately, especially the souls of my family who were in the infantry. We civilians should never take soldiering for granted. These were good kind people. Salt of the earth people. Honor and integrity were a part of their makeup. They left home for years; gave a great deal. Thank you Grandpa, Daddy, Uncle Don and Uncle Ray.

Below find a letter in my father’s hand writing to his family (five and a half years before he was my daddy) on New Years day 1952; where he wished they kept the slippers home for him as he’d be home soon:

Pray for our soldiers. Behind every face is a family.

Until Next Time

Marmie Karen