I've never cared about labels for these essays. But recently I've been covetous of other blog formats with slick buttons for different topics. I could have a button for unschooling. One for cows. One for Mommy's infantile and ego-ill need for attention. And one, with thanks to Supernatural, called Pictures Of My Soup. This post is filed under Pictures of My Soup, for sure.

I came home this weekend and found Ry rolling fresh homemade spinach pasta with her Dad. Her Dad, the man of my dreams. Because, did you hear me? I said, Fresh Homemade Spinach Pasta, I came home (as in, I was OUT and then came back) and they were making it! All I was required to do was make the decision: butter or sauce (homemade of course,) then sit and eat. He said, "look, it looks like a mermaid's kitchen!" I love that man. I need a button for true love as well. I guess we could file this one either way.

Meet our new baby. She isn't named yet. But she is outstanding in her field. And she looks like the culmination of so many things I want for our children. If we are lucky, she will bring us unforeseen lessons as she brings us fresh organic milk and calves. She will bring us moon set mornings. She will bring us a new rhythm. She will bring us into the freshest air of every season. She may insulate us from a swinging economy and the price of milk. But mostly she will remind us again, every third day when it is our turn in the dairy, that we can begin to depend more on our selves, our creativity, the work from our hands.

I look to her this fall, a sweet symbol of our handmade life. I do not want my children mass produced in the academic industry. I don't care for those lessons nor that example. I want my children standing in a field this year soaking up solitude, immediacy, mother nature, and the innate reward of hard work.

Yes, she looks like a gift and a challenge to me. I am aware she is a beast of burden. Aren't we all? The question is, for whom do you work? This year I work with her, for my children, and to put food directly on the table for several years to come.

We could call her Uhuru and intend the Swahili meaning: freedom. But more likely she'll be named Nectar Pie or Bess or Honey. I don't care so much what we call her. She looks like freedom to me, the kind of freedom that works with in a system, provides wholesome nourishment, and serves more than just yourself. But independently, on a small scare, by hand, the slow way, and with great love.

One Myth and Two Truths
How to turn good readers into good writers too.

"Undoubtedly, the “good” writers in the group are likely to also be “good” readers, but why does one not follow from the other as we have been told? How do we understand and deal with the good reader/poor writer enigma? An astute teacher must ask these questions."

I'll skip the sob story. I haven't been blogging, I know. I'm busy. And today I planned a nice long catch up session. But no. That will have to wait. You want to read this, from the Onion, instead:

Nothing But Tears Shampoo
Because it's never too early to grow the hell up.

"We at Johnson & Johnson have been making bath time a safe and soothing experience for far too long," company CEO William C. Weldon said. "Years of pampering have left our newborns helpless, feeble, and ill-equipped for the arduous road ahead."

Click over and keep reading. You wouldn't think there could be more to the article. But it's the best laugh I've had in a while. Homeschoolers will make their own analogies...

Urban Way by Issa Nyaphaga

You feel me? Oh, HELL YES.

Issa Nyaphaga Documentary Part 1 (English)

Issa Nyaphanga lives and works here. If we are lucky, the children may have a chance to study art with him next spring...

I feel like I am adopting a baby. The baby has been born and I am adopting her and so GET ME TO THE BABY RIGHT NOW! Baby cow, that is. I just got off the phone with the farmer. She says she has several heifers in mind for our project. She wants to narrow down the choices, based on her assessment of their little dispositions and their dairy making parts. Then she will call my partner and I and we will go PICK OUT OUR NEW LITTLE BABY COW! Maybe we'll name her Holy. Maybe not. Maybe then she might think we are calling her hole-y, as in full of holes. And then she might start leaking. We could name her Sugarpie. We could name her Michelle, after our future First Lady of the United States. We could call her Saphira, for the blue dragon in Eragon. All I know is, someone better put a baby in my arms SOON, because some kind of hormonal surge is happening with me. As if I am actually going to have a baby, which I am.

Good Lord, I am so excited.

We've agreed that each family will buy in on this cow, each paying $200.00. We will split the cost of her care 3 ways. (But the farmer said she's only ever had to call a vet about a cow twice in her life. So that doesn't seem too risky.) And we will all three handle her and milk her and share her milk. There are other details. But that's the gist of the deal. Pretty cool, huh?

Wounded. Humbled To My Core.

I've found another blog I like. Its called Elsie and Joe Deluxe. Good writing. Interesting enough life. Not too silly or fluffy or serious or fake. Good blog. I'll link to it, which means I'll take a peek most days. See how strong I am? See how flexible my ego is? See how I can take it? What am I talking about?

Elsie (I assume) made a shawl. And hers, which looks a whole bunch like mine, was "an intriguing pattern, and it was fun and easy to knit." KwaFLUMP! Hear that? That was the sound of me fainting onto the floor. Just like I did at Windy Hill when I was fifteen and sun stroked. But this is good, this perspective. This is yet another reason I love blogs and blogging. You get good perspective on your life.

I wish every single person I know had a blog...almost every person. I wish all my siblings blogged, all my far flung family, all my friends. And I don't need those blogs to be shiny. I like the mundaneness about many blogs. For me, a good blog really is just another door knob to open on someones life. How can that be a bad thing? All we have to do here on earth, is some form of communication. Be it with ourselves, our environment, or other people, we communicate and therefore we grow. And as growing defines living, who wouldn't want another way to communicate?

When I hear people say "I could never blog. I am not a good writer." What I really hear is, "I could never blog because it's too scary to open up." And it is scary. And sometimes it causes you to go Kwaflump on the floor by your computer. But its been demonstrated here and yon, good writing is no requisite. Honesty is required, the bravery to reveal yourself, and a willingness to look foolish is helpful. Wait, I guess honesty is not required at all. I've seen plenty of shallow or fake blogs.

Blogging on. Adding another link to my blog roll. Knowing I look foolish plenty. And loving the blogs I read. Thank you, dear bloggers! Thanks for the sharing, the ability to wound me, and for taking an open stance. I tip my shawl to y'all.

And They Start To Look Primal

Then again, this is primary school.



We discussed the best strategies to help the oven dry faster. We decided to scoop the sand form out on the second day. The cob was still quite wet. We knew the oven might collapse without its form. But we also knew it would dry much faster if hollow. So we took the risk and scooped out the sand and even built a tiny fire. The oven wouldn't draw well. This seems to be more of an issue with smaller ovens and may indicate our door isn't cut high enough. We added an air hole in the back of the oven. But the fire may simply pull too much moisture out of the clay, in effect snuffing itself. Time will tell. I'm glad we hollowed the oven because it is drying VERY slowly. Yesterday I sent the kids out with matches and orders to burn a small fire on the hearth. They were more successful than I. Yes, I sent my kids outside to play with fire. Yes I did.

Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

I said to the farmer, "We want to keep a cow and milk her, me and my friend. We're all soon to have teenagers to feed." And the farmer replied, "We have plenty of cows. No need to buy one. My wife would love to have a fresh cow."

We shop off the pages of a storybook, at this organic farm. The blacksmith and his wife live there. "Come any day. Let's fire up the forge." Sure we have pork. And the cows, sweet Dexters, you'll have to halter break a heifer and wait for her to grow up.

Mothers are pretty good at waiting, knowing exactly how fast they grow. This year we will spend our mornings in a field with a calf. We pour in love, learn how to handle with care, and are soon to be rewarded with fresh organic milk. A fair trade all the way over the moon. I am beyond thrilled.

So we've found a class and a job and a new way of life, all rolled into one sweet misty morning meadow. There will be days, difficult to wake. That's ok. Its just my job. I'm a dairy farmer now. And these children will know where their milk and butter and cream and cheese come from. And they will never forget the smell of the field, the fluff of the fur, the months Mama Cow needs for her calf, the circle, and the possibilities inherent in friendly open inquiry.