Roscoe Love

All of the reasons I love Roscoe are right here.  He tolerated with good humor being tucked in with multiple blankies and stuffed animals. Goodnight kisses and songs.  He learned to drink from the sippy cup that he was force fed with, and didn't give the slightest protest to having his limbs and head manhandled into position by a small girl child.



Sweet Dreams.

Of Socks and Snow

In the winter I tend to wear my husband's socks.  They are thick and cozy and adorned with "Carhart", "Smart Wool" and other warm sounding names.  And under my jeans nobody can see them pulled high up on my legs like an old man's sock.   My socks tend to be either ankle running socks, (invariably with huge holes in the heel) or in cute patterns like spots or stripes with absolutely no thought to keeping my little toes warm. 

This morning as I got the kids off to the bus, and was heading back to bed to rest a fuzzy feeling head, I took a peek outside.  The light on the snow was brilliant.  Hmm, go out with the camera or stay in with the covers?  Camera won.  I will not describe the outfit I went outside in, but suffice it to say that I was rocking the "eccentric artist who was about to head back to bed and suddenly decided to go outside" look.  (And "Carhart" socks).


My ever faithful hiking buddy who gets really excited when I bring out my camera because he wants to "Go".


The car temp said that it was 14 degrees outside.  I was just enough of a weenie to leave the car running with the heater blasting while Roscoe and I ran around in the snow.


My husband doesn't understand my fascination with barbed wire.  Neither do I, really. But there it is.


When both of our feet were numb with the cold, Roscoe and I headed back to the overwarm car and home.  Me to a bath and book, and Roscoe to stretch out in the rays of sunshine on Chloe's sheepie rug.

First Day of Snow

There is just enough kid in me that everytime it snows, I am hoping for a blizzard.  Colorado loved me enough this year to give me a great big fluffy snow for our first snowfall.

A friend asked me to take her kid to school today.  And I'm not sure why we couldn't get ourselves together this morning.  Every year the first cold day incites a scramble for lost gloves, warm socks, and hats.  It's not like the weather took us by surprise.  The weatherman did mention that the snow was coming, but apparently the tradition is more important.  So adding an extra stop this morning meant that something had to give.  And that just happened to be any semblance of normal clothes for me this morning.  Stripey fleece pants, check.  Furry black boots, check.  Bumblebee yellow sweatshirt from Broken Arrow track team, check. (And for the record, that color doesn't look good on anyone, except maybe a bumblebee.)  Went to bed with head wet resulting in a mountain of fluff atop my crown?  No problem...stripey hat with huge pom pom, check!  Fortunately, I didn't have to get out of the car. 



The chickens approached their first snow with caution.  Tikka came barreling out of the coop only to cluck scoldingly at Aidan for the weather and turn and try to shove her fluffy self back through the blockade of sisters behind her.

 



Roscoe decided that he didn't have to go to the bathroom after all and instead would like to spend the day curled up on Chloe's sheepie rug.  I am going to sip some tea, then try to tackle the clean laundry in hopes of finding all the right socks.

Photo Shoot

This weekend was full of outside fun, and work, as we tried to squeeze the last bit out of gorgeous fall weather in anticipation of the coming winter storm. 

One of my projects this weekend was to take a shot for the fashion portion of my photography class.  I needed to find and duplicate a professional advertisement.  Being the jeans and t-shirt kinda girl that I am, I decided to pull in the big guns.  Jill Carter of Common Couture graciously agreed to collaborate with me and lend me her professional expertise.  I'm very grateful, as everyone who has ever seen me apply make up can attest to.  They wouldn't have turned out the same without her, or Jackie Kofahl, who was our lovely model.

My instructor used to work for Ansel Adams and then she went on to be on staff at a museum for 25 years taking pictures for their permanent displays.  She has definite ideas about how she wants things presented.  My ideas of how I want them to look sometimes differs.  And I've discovered that when I am doing things my own way rather than trying to fit into a prescribed set of guidelines, I have a lot more fun.  (Some things never change, isn't that right, Mom?)  So I compromised by taking some for me and some for my instructor. 

The texture used in this photograph was one created by Kim Klassen.  I'm not allowed to used photoshop in any of the photos that I send in for my assignments. 

I love shooting into the sun. It makes it sort of dreamy and romantic looking in my opinion.

 

The clouds are rolling in now, and winter is making her attempt to chase away fall.  Hope you got your fill of leaves, pumpkins, and pears.

Patricia Polacco Made Me Cry

We were sitting in the bookstore on Pearl Street for over an hour.  My two littles had finished their Ben and Jerry's and we were ensconced in the bottom level, scrunched into those little wooden chairs in the children's section, happily spending our Sunday afternoon reading.  It was like a buffet with everything amazing that you would want to eat, but you never quite got full so you didn't have to stop.  Aidan was devouring the "Asterix and Obelix" series and "Ripley's Believe It or Not".  Chloe was working her way through the Bernstein Bears.  I had just finished "Knuffle Bunny Free" and so was already in a tender state when I grabbed "The Junkyard Wonders" by Patricia Polacco.  Aidan introduced me to her writing when he was in first grade.  She writes really deep and thought provoking stories on a picture book level.  This starts as the story of a little girl in a new school, hoping to avoid the tag of "special" that had followed her in her old school.  Only when she is assigned her class, she again lands with the misfits.  The ones that all don't fit in for some reason or another.  The "normal" kids mock them and call them junk.  But they each have a unique, and brilliant talent, hidden behind various "disorders.  And they also have a teacher who believes in them and fiercely fights on their behalf; who doesn't let them believe the labels given to them and gives them a new name, and wings to fly.  By the time I reached the end and found out whose actual story it was, I was sniffing and blinking furiously to hold back the tears.  Oh my goodness, the power of words...for good, or for evil.

End of the Season Garden Notes

We had our first really good frost last night.  The tomato plants that had survived the previous light frosts wilted into a disorganized pile of used-to-be-alive heap.  I covered them the night before, but somehow didn't think it relevant last night.  All in all, I think my second attempt at gardening in Colorado was a success.  I learned a bunch this season about how to make things live in our short growing time.  I have a new love for parsnips, tomatillos, ground cherries, spicy arugula, and bok choy thanks to my Australian friend who shares the produce from her garden in exchange for my manual labor.  (One of our frequent exchanges went something like this: T-would you like some of this to take home?  Me-Sure!...what is it?)

We grew a big momma of a pumpkin called Big Max that is Aidan and Chloe's pride and joy.  I had to enlist the help of the husband to move it because it nearly matched me in weight.

Chloe sat on the front steps decorating mini pumpkins with markers which seemed to be some sort of a pied piper song to the neighborhood children.

Roscoe desperately wanted to come out and help, but had to content himself with gazing though the window.

Fortunately there were enough small pumpkins to go around and everybody got to take one home. 

This year I canned jams, peaches and chutney, and learned to use a dehydrator.  I can braid garlic and make tomato sauce from scratch.  We raised chicks from cute, 2 day old balls of fluff to happy, sassy egg-laying hens.  I've made tea from my herbs and butter from cream.  We produced about 5 cucumbers and 8 stalks of corn, and more cherry tomatoes then anyone could possibly want.  Not to bad for this city girl.  Now that the garden is a scraggly mess of dying plants, I can start planning next year.  Maybe some bees.  And some bunnies...





Tough

My dad was the toughest person I have ever known.  He made Chuck Norris look like a cream puff.  Not in a wild tornado karate kicking kind of way.  But with an inner determination that was pure steel-or titanium, because I think that's harder than steel. (I am after all, the wife of an engineer-precision is necessary)  When the Marines got first pick out of the drafted men, he was the second one chosen.

He was the sort of guy who decided he wanted to mine for gold in the mountains.  So he went full out, with the beard and the dynamite, and the metal pan.



 He built a stove for my mom to cook with and they slept in tents and bathed in the river.  And to up the ante a little bit, he also did this with 5 kids in tow. 



He was the sort of guy who decided that delivering babies couldn't be that much different than delivering animals (down from the mountains now, and working as a foreman on a farm), and it'd be a whole lot cheaper than having the hospital do it.  (There were 7 of us babies when it was all said and done, so I can sorta see his point)  Yep, I was born at home, with my dad in charge. 

When he decided that he was going to do something, he really went for it, with a single minded determination.  When the doctors told him he was going to die, and there was not much they could do at that point; he decided he was going to live and not die.  And for 13 more years he fought like the warrior he was.  But he didn't just survive, he lived.  He created a business and built a laboratory from scratch.  He greeted 14 more grandchildren. And he was never alone, because he had a Rock to cling to.  He followed God with the same kind of restless determination that drove everything else he did.   For the next 13 years, I watched as he battled.  And in the midst of it all, he became softer in some ways--the rough edges smoothed out. 

As we were driving through the night to get to Tulsa, all I could think was that I wanted to say that it was okay.  It was okay to stop fighting; okay to put down his sword and rest.  That he had run the race, and done what was asked of him.  My dad didn't get beat by cancer.  Not even at the end.  He just knew it was time to stop fighting and go home.  You gave life a helluva shot, Dad.  And I hope that I'm half as tough and brave as you were.

Linking up with Storytellers :

Weekend Unload

I did a photo shoot for a friend's 18month old this weekend.  What made it super special was mommy/daughter date it turned in to.  Earlier I had sat at the computer browsing pics with my cup of coffee.  A purple cup appeared in the hand of my little who had sat on my lap before scooting back across the room to become reemerged in her fairy book.  Don't leave your milk by the computer...it's not milk, Mommy, it's coffee, like yours. 

My small assistant helped me scout out the location and eagerly gathered leaves and pumpkins, and placed them artfully around.  She blew bubbles and jumped around to capture the little guy's attention.  (Because he certainly wasn't paying any attention to me! In fact, I spent most of the time running around to get a picture of his face just as he would dodge and reward me with the view of his back)

She waited patiently for wardrobe changes and snacks, and carried around my extra gear.

I think I'll hire her.  I hope she'll work for chocolate and oodles of mommy love.

October

Fall is my aboslute favorite season in Colorado.  I went for a walk in the mountains the other day in a little ski town.  The view was incredible, and there was the smell of woodsmoke in the air.  Piles of firewood were lined by the houses and the paths were covered with a scattering of leaves.

 

So of course I had to come home and pick our pumpkins out of our little patch and harvest our sunflowers.  And fill the house with the warm cinnamony smells of pumpkin bread and coffee...And pretend to be a ninja with Aidan.  He had the sharp stick and I had the sunflower.  Beware of our awesomness.

I should mention that photocredit for this picture goes to Miss Chloe Cummings.

Every Picture Tells a Story

There's a spot in our little town across from the library that used to be the home of a trailer park.  It's a shady, secluded sort of area.  I drove by a while ago and noticed that the lot is now full of emptiness. 

 Empy dirt areas where there used to be homes, and concrete driveways that lead to nowhere.  I originally cheered when I heard that the land had been sold and the trailers would all have to move. It was, after all, a bit of an eyesore and doing nothing for the land values in our town. 

What I didn't take into consideration as I cheerfully rejoiced in the "cleaning up" of that area, was people.  What it might be like to be told to move from your home like you are some sort of blight on the landscape.  The feelings that you are "less than...".  To be shuffled off because you stand in the way of progress.  

And that thought makes my heart ache.  That I would be so eager to surround myself with things that make me feel good, and things that make my life more comfortable, that I wouldn't take a second thought to the other side of the picture.

A single row of mailboxes stands now in the memory of what used to be.  And the only footsteps carefully tiptoeing around the mud were mine and Roscoe's.   

Linking to Storytellers-check it out here. 

Just Because

When Chris heads out of town, the kids and I have a tradition of pizza for dinner.  We went through a fozen pizza phase, a Papa Murphy's phase, a try every new pizza place phase, and a Pizza Hut phase (that one only lasted for the span of 1 pizza).  But this time, as we lay on the bed with our horde of library books surrounding us and the remnants of the wild plum pie we had for snack crumbling on Chris' side of the bed, we couldn't come to a democratic agreement.  So we improvised, because nobody makes pizza like us anyways.

Three pieces of dough so we could all make what we wanted and pizza sauce made from our tomatoes...


My pizza: heirloom tomatoes, spicy arugula, Jimmy Nardelo peppers,  and fresh garlic and herbs (all from the garden) and apple cinnamon sausage...yumm.


Aidan's pizza:  Stromboli stuffed with sausage and two kinds of cheese, and jalepenos...yumm with a little kick


Chloe's pizza:  Stuffed crust with two kinds of cheese and fresh herbs...no way Papa Murphy's can compete

Monday

The dishes are piled up in the sink and counter from a hastily prepared dinner.  The dishwasher is on the fritz and my sweet engineer is out of town and unable to rescue me from my appliance-less state. I'm well aware that soap and water work just as well, and probably better, then my tempermental dishwasher.  But scrubbing each dish by hand takes a lot of time.  I know that that is therapeutic for some people, and if you know any of those people, feel free to send them to my house.  I don't mind.  The kids are in bed and I am finally sitting down with a cup of tea knowing that I have loved them well today.  Instead of cleaning up after dinner, I scrubbed my little girl's hair and chatted about friends and recess.  I took a turn sitting and watching my little man impress me with his snowboard tricks on his xbox.  (and wincing slightly everytime his dude took a spectacular crash because I was imagining that happening in real life).  Maybe I should leave my dishes as a monument to time well spent... Now, how can I talk myself out of doing the laundry?

Some weekend fun with one of my favorite people:

Evidence of that quirky Hewitt gene.

Memorial Service-Hewitt Style

Sometimes the best way to celebrate memories is to make new ones.

A little bit of marital rivalry might have been going on.  I don't mind throwing some elbows if it helps me win.

Brotherly love.  Somebody's gonna get hurt.

Carrie doesn't mind sweeping the leg of a ten year old if it gives her an advantage...that's why she was on my team

Brilliant form.  I shouldn't mention that my sister scored like a zillion goals to my one.

This was really a very complicated dance move.

The man in purple was unstoppable.  Which was also why he was on my team.

Ps. I did not take any of these pictures.  I was too busy running around after the little blue ball and trying to hurt my husband so he would quit blowing by me.