This afternoon I was out on the front porch painting a second coat of white on our porch swing. For the last month, we’ve been working on repainting the outside of the house, a project which was no small undertaking.

“Do you do eyes?” 

I looked up from the bench. It was Darryl, the neighbor riding up on his bicycle. Darryl lives in a trailer up the road with about two hundred bicycles in his front yard. Among them stands a confederate flag. He loves bicycles and is constantly resurrecting them from various locations on the island. We’re not sure how they get there. Rumors abound.

“What?” I wondered if I heard him right. “Yeah I do eyes. I’m an optometrist. Why?”

“Oh I heard that from the lady at the store. You have nice teeth. You should take care of them.”

“Thank you." I smiled. " Yeah you have to brush them all the time.” 

“Well your smile becomes you.” Then he rode off home again.

As I went back to my painting, I thought how strange this little island is. I wonder who told him I was an optometrist. This town is so small- only 1300 people- it’s not like anything is a secret.

Yesterday at the post office I was walking out to my car and a man in his sixties approached me. “Are you really from Iowa?”

I was confused, as usual, about my origins. “Well kind of. My family moved there. I can’t work here until March, so I am sort of in between places.” I gave the short version of my reason for being on an island with Iowa plates. And somehow mentioned that I was an optometrist. His wife had eye cancer recently, and was still in the process of treatment. He was the second person who I randomly met with a direct family member who had eye cancer. The day before it had been a man on the ferry from DC whose granddaughter had bilateral eye tumors as an infant.

Sometimes I think this profession is useless repetitiveness but when I hear things like this, I figure that we're doing good things. For the last five years, I've been working off and on, which has allowed me freedom to travel, regenerate and visit family. Lately, I've used my free time to work on the house and the yard with Justin. But I think the best thing about the quiet time is that it gives me time to appreciate this life.

We're headed to Iowa for Thanksgiving. The first Thanksgiving that my whole family has spent together since 2000. I'm thankful this year to be traveling back to my family, with Justin in tow. I'm thankful for this new journey we are on, one small step at a time. 
   

 

It is the time to once again gather around our tables, heavy with delicious food, and give thanks for what we have, for what we have had and for all that is coming to us. There is nothing like a feast of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, and of course, pumpkin pie to kick off the holiday season. I began my pre-feast fast a week ago in anticipation of the huge, table bending meal. Thanksgiving is the best holiday of them all. It is like Christmas without the stress of shopping. 

Every family has their special traditions this time of year. Some do the traditional turkey feast, others will be setting their tables with goose, duck, ham or, like my friend Troy's family, lasagna.  

One of my family’s traditions that I miss the most was sitting at the Kid’s Table. I loved sitting at the card table set up in the kitchen or other place a comfortable distance from the Adult Table. The Adult Table was always set with the "good dishes," usually some sacred china gingerly passed down from one generation to another. The Kids' Table was set with the everyday dishes, and that was just fine with me, because everyone cared less if you accidentally broke one. 

It was at the Kids' Table where our great family traditions began. It was at this simple table that some of the best stories first happened and were shared. It was here that I once laughed so hard milk came out my nose, at which point my cousin Paula started laughing so hard she wet her pants, which we both thought was hysterical and commenced to laugh even harder, so hard we made ourselves sick, all to the escalating voices from our respective parents inquiring, "What's going on in there? What are you two doing? What in the world is so funny?" And at that, with our faces flushed from laughing so hard we were hyperventilating, we burst into even more uncontrollable giggles. 

Laughter like that almost never happened at the Adult Table. They were always so serious and proper, so somber and polite. It was at the Kids' Table that you could really cut loose and have a good time. 

Sometimes the stories begun around the table never die, but follow us from holiday to holiday, from year to year. One Thanksgiving when I was eight or nine, I blurted out toward the end of the meal that I could always tell when I was getting full because I started to sweat. For years, I couldn't sit down to a meal with family members without someone asking if I was sweating yet. It was funny the first few times, but after several decades, the joke grew old and stale.  

I not only miss the Kids' Table, but I miss gathering with my extended family at the holidays.  I no longer have any family to include me in their feasts, so I’ve been creating my own, new traditions, which often include crashing my friend’s family gatherings.  

I feel fortunate and am grateful to share a Thanksgiving meal with my chosen family of friends, but I miss those days when the house would be full of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The women gathering in the kitchen making final meal preparations, the men in the living room watching football, us kids racing around from one room to the other until someone shooed us outside to burn off some of our excitement. There was laughter then and the warm, secure feeling you get when you are surrounded by the people who have known and loved you from your first breath. I miss the feeling of belonging to something bigger that being around grandparents, aunts and uncles gave me. Why, I even miss being asked if I am sweating yet. 

But the only constant in life is change. Without it, we would all be stuck in the monotony of sameness. Despite not having my own family to sit with around a Thanksgiving table, I am grateful for so many fond and fun memories of Thanksgivings past and for having a large and loving circle of friends with whom to share this year's feast.  

So next Thursday, as well as every day, I will give heartfelt thanks for all of my many blessings, including things just as they are. 

My mother use to apologize for leaving me with the task of clearing out her basement.  I would quickly suggest that she help me by bearing witness as I pulled each box down from the shelves, opened it and began the arduous journey determining what was to stay and what was to be thrown away.  Mother would just as quickly back away from my suggestion, obviously preferring that I take that journey alone after she was gone.

And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since she passed over four years ago.  Box by box, whenever I felt strong enough, I’ve been going through the many shelves and piles of things left behind from lives well lived.

Sometimes I find things that I know must have been important, and may still be, but I have no idea about the story behind the items.  But every once in awhile I come across something that is pure treasure. That was the case when, in a box of hankies, photographs and unopened bottles of Avon cologne I found an old autograph book.  As I carefully opened the worn orange cloth cover with the white plastic flowers on the front I was treated to my Great Aunt Pauline’s carefully scribed name, followed by the year, 1895.

I never knew Pauline.  I may have met her, but she died in 1955, three years after I was born, so I have no recollection of her beyond the photographs I’ve seen.  To hold something that she once held was humbling, but to read the carefully written friendship poems inside touched me deeply.  I felt connected to something much greater than I, much longer lasting than my fleeting lifetime.  I can tell by the carefully worn pages that Pauline must have looked through this book of wishes from her cherished friends many times.  Inside were “forget me not’s” and lovely rhymes, such as:

“Live for those that love you,

For those whose hearts are true,

For the heavens that shine above you,

And the good that you may do.” 

Many of the names were familiar to me, having heard of the Surdez’s, the Junod’s, the Bonjour’s and the Jeanerret’s, many who were distant relatives, all through my youth.  Pauline was my grandfather’s older sister.  They, along with their mother and three other siblings came to America from Switzerland in 1888.  I’ve heard the stories and I know my mother always had fond memories of Pauline, but holding her autograph book made her more real to me.

Maybe it’s my age, having just turned 60, but finding this book has somehow deepened my interest in learning more about history.  When you walk through your local historical museum and see your old high school band uniform on display you feel a bit historical, if not hysterical realizing that you are now old enough to have things that were part of your lifetime displayed as though they are artifacts of a bygone era. 

Maybe I’ve now lived long enough to have a history, or to remember history.  When you drive down the main street of your hometown and can remember what businesses were at each location…over the last 50 years, you have some history in you.

And holding something that I know was cherished by a family member who has gone before me makes me want to know more about the people from whom I came.  Aunt Pauline’s autograph book has prompted me to try to learn more of my family’s history, which I now realize is a significant part of my own history.

To hold something once held by a family member over 100 years ago provides a wider and deeper perspective.  Aunt Pauline lived, she had friends she loved and she kept this book to remember them by.

And now I will keep it too.  

 

The lilacs are in full bloom here - early, as is everything this spring, but as gorgeous and aromatic as ever. For as long as I can remember, I've loved lilacs, and scent memory is a remarkable thing. My grandparents have a row next to their house, which played an important role in my play as a child. I searched in those bushes for everything from hidden Easter eggs to elusive kittens. To this day, the smell of lilac bushes in bloom makes my mind see home dyed eggs and hissing cats.

My grade school had a lilac hedge row that stretched for what seemed to be eternity to my first-grader eyes. We spent hours of recess minutes playing hide-and-seek in them, and racing on foot around them. To this day, the sight of lilac bushes makes my nerves tingle as those of a hiding child waiting to be found, and my lungs burn with sting of running at top speed in the cool air.

 

But more than anything these days, lilac bushes make me think of my father-in-law.

My father-in-law, Bob, is an incredible man: virtuous, hard-working, two time cancer survivor, raised an amazing man in my husband, not to mention his other children. But more importantly, he is wonderful in so many smaller ways. For example, we've only lived on our current farm for about two and a half years. At our old place, he was considerate enough to bring us two starts from their lilac bushes at the house where my husband grew up. We proudly planted those tiny baby bushes and excitedly waited for them to grow into breathtaking beauty. 

 

When he would come to visit us at that old house, he was also kind enough to mow. It was a large yard, and we only had a push mower, so mowing would take FOREVER, and often we found that the grass had gotten on top of us. Or, more aptly, on top of our small attempts at landscaping.

One day while he was mowing, I looked out to see one of our tiny lilac starts, hidden by the lush towering grass that surrounded it, directly in his mowing path. I took off running toward him, waving my arms like a lunatic, only to let them fall limply to my sides as my mission failed and the poor little bush was sheared off by the fierce blades of the lawn mower. Needless to say, he felt awful. That lilac start never found the strength to restart, and we moved before we had a chance to replant it. Meanwhile, the other start kept growing and growing.

A few days ago, we received the news that Bob's cancer had returned yet again, and the doctors were not giving him much time. As we drove, numb with shock, down to visit them in the hospital, we passed our old house. There was the single standing lilac bush, now in bloom. A lopsided landscaping testament to efforts, successes and failures.

 

And tonight, we got the call that Bob had passed away.

I mowed my yard today, and through my tears I noticed a stark absence of lilacs at this new house. I imagine that is something we'll have to remedy.

 

As I was preparing to write this monumental blog post, I toyed with different titles. The one above came to me just now and I realized there could be no other. It is a line from a song that was popular when I was in high school, "Closing Time" by SemiSonic. The context of the song is completely unrelated to our lives here, but the line itself is universally true.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

And so, Andrew and my time at Foxwood Farm has ended. Our beginning, just a scant two years ago, has taught us more than any university or master's program could have hoped. With the grace of God, we have built a thriving business out of nothing. We have expanded our family from three to (going on) five. And we have met so many wonderful people both in person and online; blessings beyond comprehension; life lessons, horrible mistakes, amazing accomplishments and satisfying evenings of exhaustion.

This blog will be in two parts: What happens to us? and What happens to the farm? Let's start with us.

As you well know, we have been working with my parents to come to a smooth transition for ownership of this land. We were up against a lot of hurdles as we had no equity, no savings and some college debt. My parents graciously worked with us as we transitioned from an outside income to direct consumer sales. Still, with fresh milk being outlawed like cocaine, we found that our sales reached a certain level and plateaued (as we could not advertise). We could not get past a certain income level and therefore, our plans of ramping up our rental payments to my folks were in a holding pattern.

Time grew long and patience grew thin. We began exploring options with financing a loan and land contracts but kept returning to the fact that our income stream would not support those plans without supplemental income (read: Off-farm job). With the workload mainly on Andy, and the childrearing mostly on me, loans and other jobs didn't seem very possible.

Four weeks ago, we sent out a sort of SOS email to a select group of friends with varying backgrounds who would be able to offer wisdom and advice. We felt most certainly the farm slipping from our hands and needed to make some proactive decisions. Both families deserved some closure, and soon. There were several viable suggestions that came back to us and we began researching all of them.

A few days later our friend Brian from across the state mentioned in a voicemail that he knew of a farmer looking for a young family to take over his gardens on his farm. We were unsure what this offer meant, so we asked for more details. It turns out this farmer (Vince) was a part of our fresh milk producers group, and we had briefly met him at the Eau Claire hearings in March. He runs a certified organic farm with two farms under the name. One runs grassfed beef and organic hogs. The other runs an organic dairy and pastured poultry. The farms are about two miles from each other, and, while Vince owns it all, the dairy is run by a young couple out of UW-Madison. Across the street from the dairy is a small home and about 50 acres of certified organic crop land. This is where the gardens would be.

You see, Vince has a dream for a completely sustainable farmstead. All they are lacking is a large scale market garden, and the family he wanted to bring on would take care of building that market. Well, we had to go check this out. We saw it was a three hour drive, coordinated to have childcare and took off. We actually got a hold of Vince about an hour into the drive where we asked if we could come see his operation. He laughed and said yes. When we arrived, we got to know Vince and his background, see the farms and meet the other people who lived and worked there. We then shared our story and our visions for Foxwood Farm. He had many of the same goals that we have here. In fact, many of them are already in place and working profitably at Vince's farm. They sell everything direct and work with a food co-op in La Crosse to market the grassfed beef. We also learned that the responsibility of the "gardener family" would be to market and expand the farm and bring in new sales.

For those of you that know us and know Andy, this was right up our alley. We agreed to give Vince our resumes, a business plan for the gardens, and a marketing portfolio. In the meantime, I directed him to our website and blog, which he quickly dove into. We left that night in awe and wonder at the possibilities.

This farm would not only pay us a salary, but if we were the right fit, allow us to become part-owners and build up equity in the farm itself. Seriously, we were looking for the catch, the rub. I mean, it was like a gift from God himself.

That was Thursday, the 8th of July. The following week we spent getting our stuff together in a nice portfolio presentation. On Friday, July 16th, Vince and Kristin came to our farm to see what we were doing here. Kristin helps run the dairy with her husband. We had a nice lunch and farm tour, and we went over the portfolio. We felt like we had made a good impression the first time, and this solidified it. The kids even responded really well to them! When they left, we knew the next time we heard from Vince would be the decision. There were three other families that we knew of who were interested in the same position. Who wouldn't be?

It wasn't long. Tuesday the 20th, the email came in.

We had gotten the job!

And suddenly, in the course of a week and a half, our entire lives had changed. In such a short amount of time, we were heading a direction we couldn't have even fathomed beforehand. It was mind-boggling and overwhelming and exciting and daunting all at once.

And we have a start date of September 1st, this year! There is much to be done in a scant month. But we feel confident we can wrap things up in a timely and efficient manner.

We are leaving home, only to make a new one. The goals of Vince's farm are right in line with ours. It's uncanny; we feel as though our plans for Foxwood are simply being transferred to another location in the state.

Here is our new home: St. Brigid's Meadows 

Check it out. Take some time to peruse what they do and offer. We will be taking over that website, and I will be taking over their blog.

So, our time with you is not ended. We are still here, just not in the same place. We look forward to sending our newsletters with the St. Brigid's Meadows logo as the header. We relish the idea of customer relations with new folks, as well as keeping up with you.

And we don't regret anything about our past three years here. The three years at Foxwood caused us to be qualified enough to leave. Without those years of intense learning, we would never have been able to take this position. Without the strife of familial transactions, we never would have considered leaving. To be sure, both our parents are very supportive of this decision.

* * * * *

And now you wonder, what happens to Foxwood Farm here in Omro, WI? What happens to the animals, the gardens, the products? Many people have come to depend on the food here.

We don't intend to leave them out in the cold. We are working on an effective exit strategy with my parents. And that brings us to part two: What happens to the Farm?

I will post on that soon. In the mean time, take care and God Bless you all. He is capable of so many things, beyond our scope of understanding. We are in awe of his greatness this day.

Becky, Andy, Elly, Ethan and ??

I am from clothes drying on the line.

Blue skies,  fresh country air,

Green pastures and sunshine.

I am from black and white pictures and television. Transistor radios.

I am from the deep South, rolling hills, and a half a century ago.

I am from the thick Pine straw,

Day Lilies, and the red Georgia clay.

I am from cotton fields, Magnolias,

And Jonquils.

I am from soldiers who fought for all of us.

And from farmers who worked from dawn to dusk.

From Grandmothers who loved us all

And from older sisters who washed my mouth out with soap.

I am from Shall we Gather at the River?

And How Great Thou Art.

I am from rural Georgia, Virginia, and all over England.

From too few hellos and too many good byes.

I am from grits, corn on the cob and fried apple pies.

I am from the two sisters, the four brothers and the Mother and Father.

I am from all who came before

And after me.

I am from Future Farmers.

This is Where I Am From.

 

You can read more about about our farm life on our personal blog Life on a Southern Farm.

What's better than sweet ruby red strawberries in the summertime? WILD STRAWBERRIES!

Here in the Flint Hills of Kansas, wild strawberries thrive amongst the native grasses. We happen to have some inordinately large patches of these sweet berry producing plants on our property. Wild strawberries are much smaller than the domesticated species we are familiar with today. But, they are 100 percent organic (without trying!), super sweet, and require zero effort to cultivate!

We spent about 20 minutes in one patch and were rewarded with approximately 2 pints of the fragrant berries. Might have been more, but it's hard not to eat as many as you pick!

Our 2-year-old daughter, Kate, just sat down and picked strawberries as fast as she could eat them ... and only moved once! She was so proud of what she picked in her little pail!

I brought all the strawberries in the house, rinsed them in cold water and hulled them (removed the stems).

Kate helped place them in pretty dessert dishes. With a dollop of whipped cream, they made a wonderful summer evening dessert!

We have lots more to pick. I hope to make a wild strawberry pie, and maybe even some wild strawberry wine! Yum!

This is such a great place to retire! My friends here have the answers to so many problems and are so willing to share. I just spent some time in Kansas with my two older sisters, and we had a great time talking and remembering and catching up on our families. We found that we had one little problem in common, and I was happy to tell them the solution I had recently learned.

It seems that as we get older we have trouble remembering or saying things that are “on the tip of my tongue.” When I worked in senior housing and nursing homes, I remember saying that a resident had “some trouble with word-finding.” But when it is you – it is very frustrating. My husband and I are lucky. We have been married so long that we can usually fill in the word for the other one; sort of like two halves make a whole. But there are times when we are not together, or when we both draw a blank.

The ultimate solution to this problem, however, is the wonderful phrase, “When do you need to know?” (WDYNTK?) This is the definitive answer because you always think of the answer later.

For example: “What was Mary’s first husband’s name? You know, the one that ran off with that cousin of Bob’s who taught school.”
“When do you need to know?”

OR

“What is your cell phone number?”
WDYNTK?

OR

“What was your secretary’s last name when you worked at First National Bank 27 years ago?”
WDYNTK?

OR

“Who did you have lunch with yesterday at Bud’s?”
WDYNTK?

OR (most embarrassing)

“Who called a few minutes ago?”
WDYNTK? (They wanted you to call right back!)

If you sat near the coffee group I meet with, you would hear this phrase nearly every time. Like I said, this is a great place to retire!

Here’s a “Welcome Spring” recipe:

Grandma’s Asparagus Thing

Slice about 5 potatoes in the bottom of a casserole dish.
Slice 2 onions thinly on top of potatoes.
Cut asparagus spears in 1” pieces (2 cups) and place on top of onion.
Dot with butter or oleo and salt and pepper.
Bake, tightly covered at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes until potatoes are done.
Lay 4 slices of regular or low fat American cheese on top, and return to oven until cheese melts and “goes in.” Serve.

This is great for a carry in dinner. You lay the cheese on when you leave home, and viola! When you get there, it is ready to serve. All of the amounts and times are approximate. Leave the onions out, put more potatoes in, add the asparagus later in the baking period so it is not so done. You can cook this dish at 325 if you have to be out of the house for a while, or hurry it up at 400 if you watch closely. Enjoy!

Christmas of 2009 will be a “Christmas to Remember,” and maybe not for the right reasons.

I was so excited that for the first time in more than 20 years I could have Christmas at my house for my family, and actually have time to enjoy getting ready and decorating and cooking! My mind was spinning with ideas for meals and lists for activities. I was getting up in the night and writing things down so I didn’t forget.

Many phone calls were made to see what special foods my children were wishing for: Salted Nut Roll Cookies, Ogallala Enchiladas, Fried Chicken with “pudding gravy,” Peanut Clusters, Caramel Corn Puffs, and Original TV Snack Mix.

I was looking for foods that could be made ahead and frozen: Grace Church Mashed Potatoes, Dawn’s Breakfast Casserole, Frozen Cabbage Slaw, Madeline’s Frozen Fruit Salad. And dishes that could be made the day before and refrigerated: 7 Layer Salad, Hash Brown Casserole, Chili. Talk about Comfort Foods – this was the ultimate list!

But – then came the weather reports! Snow, Snow and more Snow. First, Son #2 and wife and Grand-dog arrived safely from St. Louis with just some nasty roads at the end of the trip. Son #1, wife and 3 grandsons arrived between the snows for Christmas Eve noon instead of Christmas Eve supper. They had a wild time getting here from 30 miles away and were anxious to return home immediately after 5 p.m. church. Daughter was scheduled to arrive from Kansas on Christmas Day, and she was watching weather sites and calling often. Things were not looking great, but we planned to wait to “do the presents” until she arrived. We so wanted to all be together.

The Christmas Eve Chili and Chili Dogs were a real hit, and we got to church on time. Sons #1 and #2 had volunteered to fill in for two handbell ringers in the handbell choir that I direct, so we went to run through the two numbers at 4 p.m. Grandpa and the grandsons were planning to usher and hand out bulletins and candleholders. But when we got to church (in the 4-wheel drive), Pastor said the Special Music person was unable to be there and the organist was yet to arrive. He talked the grandsons into singing a duet of “Away in a Manger” with a few run throughs, and the organist arrived in the nick of time. The service was beautiful, the handbells sounded great with a Fanfare on Joy to the World and a lovely song featuring Silent Night, and the grandsons did a great job on their duet. Sons #1 and #2 filled in for some choir members who couldn’t make it. (Grandpa thought maybe people would think that our family had arrived on tour from our theater in Branson to take over the service.) I am always touched by the light that flows from the Christ candle to all the worshippers in the pews on Christmas Eve. It is truly a special moment.

Daughter was still planning to come on December 26th, but it just wasn’t safe. We talked on the phone, emailed, and took lots of pictures so she could be with us in spirit. (We went to Kansas to see her the next week.)

Many friends and neighbors had similar experiences. It seemed that NOBODY had EVERYBODY there that planned to celebrate Christmas. Yes, Christmas 2009 was definitely “The Christmas that Wasn’t.” But the Light of Christ will still shine through 2010.

Dawn’s Egg Casserole

7 eggs
1 cup milk
4 cup shredded cheese
1 pound browned sausage or ham cubes
8 frozen hash brown patties
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground mustard

Grease 9-by-13 pan. Line bottom of pan with hash brown patties. Sprinkle with cheese and top with meat of choice. Beat eggs and milk with salt and ground mustard. Pour over. Cover and bake at 350°F. Original recipe says to bake one hour, then uncover and bake 15 minutes more. This is tooooooo long. Bake until center is cooked (knife comes out clean). If you bake eggs too hot or too long, they get rubbery. I just baked 60 minutes at 325°.

I believe the best place to start is to go back to the beginning, back to the first memories I have of life on a farm. I come from a large family of nine children; four brothers and four sisters. We grew up on what I consider a medium-sized farm, we always had a few of many different animals. We had chickens, goats, rabbits, horses, a cow or two and on occasion a pig. My parents expected us all to be contributing members of the family and to help when and where we were needed. They also expected us to be kids – to run, play and explore. I have so many fond memories of our big white farm house that was surrounded by corn fields and pastures.

My mind is swirling with all the things we were able to learn on that farm, all the things were able to experience and all the memories that will forever be etched within me. I think back to all my parents hard work and how there was not a thing they could not do or make with their own hands from things we had on the farm. Essentially the bulk of all our food was either grown or raised right there on that farm, by my parents, with a little help from all the kids. My mother could whip up a new dress for any of us girls at a moment’s notice, I don't recall many patterns laying around so I assume it was all just part of her common knowledge. We would always have a newly knitted pair of mittens, a hat and a scarf waiting for each us every winter. My father chopped and stacked wood what seemed to be every day to ensure our home was comfortably heated throughout the cool days and nights of winter. Every single meal that graced our table was filled with vegetables from our garden, either fresh or canned, warm home-baked bread and finished off with a tall glass of fresh milk from our cow or goats.

I have come to realize how ungrateful and unappreciative I was to have such pleasures. I look at all the things I had taken for granted as a child, and every single one of them I now long to provide for my children. I hear myself making excuses why I can't find the time to bake that loaf of bread or have a larger garden, and then I have to step back and truly take a look at how ridiculous I sound. Every new generation believes they have less time to do the things that need to be done and the things they need to get done are twice as hard as they ever were. How can that be true if we are supposed to be in an ever-improving society? If every new invention or electronic item is suppose to make life so much easier, than why does life always seem to just get harder?

I have reached a point in my life when I am doing some real soul searching, trying to find my true place on this earth. I am finding that all roads are leading me back to where I began, back to the beginning of all the experiences that truly defined me as a person, back home to my childhood. That life of hard, simple work that had true meaning in every single thing that was done. I have been blessed with the basic knowledge to get me going and the true love and support of my husband who stands firmly beside me as we venture through this journey to our "new" old way of living. We have realized that we no longer want to live behind walls of "maybe" and "never" but we are willing to step back out into the sun and allow ourselves to find and create a self-sufficient, self-responsible life. We have planted the seeds of change, begun to spread our roots and are anxiously awaiting our full harvest from our farm, family and life.