Blueberry Girls

We were supposed to be focusing on this:
But mostly we were doing this:We went to a great u-pick blueberry patch about half an hour southwest of town yesterday, with tall blueberry bushes and big fat blueberries and tadpoles in deep wagon ruts filled with water. Heaven.Oddly enough (or perhaps not), it seemed like everyone else from Bloomington was there, as well, including a few families we see around town regularly (I call this the Mom Circuit--public library, Wonderlab, park, pool), some Montessori families, and my dear blog friend Cake. It was a delicious morning for blueberry picking.

We made it home with 13+ pounds of blueberries. We dropped a quart or so off with Matt to sustain him throughout his afternoon of work, and Sydney carried around her own personal basket chock-full of blueberries that she, herself, had picked, for the entire day, munching and munching--I finally found it in the yard near dusk, empty.

The surviving blueberries got washed and laid out to dry:

And of those that survived that, about half got packed into a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, stuffed full, and put in the chest freezer for those blueberry cravings that inconveniently surface themselves in the winter.

I'm dying to use my brand-new pressure cooker and canning stuff to preserve some blueberries, but I'm not in love by the amount of sugar that jam requires. Any ideas for healthy methods to preserve blueberries?

Variations on a Flag

One of my favorite things about having a blog (along with the regular practice of writing and photography and the making of new blog-friends) is how it helps me see the flow of my life. I had forgotten, for instance, that last summer around this time both the girls were obsessed with maps. It was a nice tie-in for Independence Day, actually--we made a giant map of the United States that we downloaded from Megamaps, and a big sugar cookie map, and we decorated each of them with stuff that I explained to the girls were symbols that represented things in the real world. Because don't even get me started about symbols.

Or do. I love myself some symbols. And symbology is such a terrific thing to teach a very young kid, in my opinion, because so many of the things that they'll be asked to do in structured learning use symbols--reading, writing, math, cryptology, etc. Call me crazy, but I think it's something very important for even a four-year-old to understand overtly that C-A-T represents "cat," but is not cat itself (This is not a pipe, y'all). That might turn them into the eighteen-year-old freshman comp students who CAN get it through their thick skulls that although King Kong is, yes, a giant gorilla, he represents, (at least in the 1930s version) a racist fear of African-Americans. And write a paper about it. A paper with a thesis, please.

So lately the girls have been really into flags, which is apparently our current symbol of choice. Will enjoys leafing through our children's atlas together, having me name the country that goes with the flag on each page, and I've been thinking about making some kind of puzzle of world flags, because Sydney likes puzzles...but anyway, I'm digressing.

Will's been asking lately to go again to our sometimes wandering destination, Rose Hill Cemetery (Hoagy Carmichael! Alfred Kinsey!), so since it's nearly Independence Day, I involved them first in a project to make some American flags that we could put on the graves of soldiers at the cemetery. I gathered up red, white and blue cardstock and scrapbook paper, beads and buttons, popsicle sticks, crayons and markers and colored pencils, and pulled up a nice, big picture of the American flag on the computer screen.

The results? Beautiful. Creative. Evocative. Patriotic.

Flag-like? Ummm...

Here's Willow with her flag, at the grave of a World War I soldier that we found:
The scrapbook paper is red and white and blue, you see, and the popsicle sticks are red, and the stones and shells are white.

Here's Syd's, with red and white and blue scrapbook paper and red and white and blue buttons and a big orange carrot that she's munching as hard as she can:
Her soldier was also from World War I. And lest you think that we were simply using these belated gentlemen as mere canvasses for our artwork, I'll have you know that we also swept their markers and pulled the weeds and long grasses from around them, leaving quite the pretty, if inexplicable, picture for other passers-by. I'm glad that neither of our soldiers actually died during the war (Sydney's soldier was a bugler!), because although the girls and I talk about soldiers oddly often, I haven't yet happened to bring up the fact that soldiers, you know, fight--I tell the girls that soldiers work for our country and do jobs for everyone who lives here, so they probably think that they're like administrators, or garbagemen, or something. Who knows.

Of course, the other fun thing to do (along with running around all that nice, grassy space and wishing you could climb all the gravestones but being told by your mother that despite all appearances, this is actually NOT a playground, both feet on the ground please) is to pick out cool stuff on the marker stones, especially cool, probably, because of Bloomington's own glorious limestone-carving history, which means that scattered among the generic headstones, there are some true gems: And, of course, intimations of one's own mortality:

I'm trying to put together an entire alphabet from gravestone photos, which sounds kind of morbid but is actually pretty awesome (and morbid, yes), so although the girls and I are going blueberry-picking tomorrow, we'll likely be back out at Rose Hill Cemetery the next day.

The day after that, we're totally making another 64-page map of the United States.

Future Farm Girls

This morning was typical of the way I'm woken up every morning:

"Moooooommmmmma!"
"Whmsopiuff?"
"Also on our farm, I think we should build a plower so in the winter we can plow our riding trails so we can still ride our horses in the winter."
"Mmmmm. Sounds good. Go play."
"And we need to make a better list of jobs, because Synnee says that all she's going to do is take care of the baby kittens, and I have to take care of the baby chicks AND the baby horses."

I think I may have originally invented this game, this What Will We Do on Our Farm Someday? game, one tiresome road trip or other, but my Willow has taken up my own private fantasy full-force and turned it into something that the entire family shares in, now. Ideally, our farm will be in Oregon, near the mountains and the sea. Ideally, we will move there by the time Willow is ten (she says seven, but I'm pretty sure that's pushing it, even for a fantasy). Ideally, Matt will do freelance graphic design and I'll manage the Hands-on Art Barn (see the Hands On Art Studio for where we got that idea); we'll both homeschool the girls and we'll all run the farm. We will have the following animals:

• chickens and chicks
• cats and kittens
• farm dogs and sled dogs
• horses to ride
• llamas to carry things
• pigs and chickens to kill and cut up and eat in the fall (I am clearly the only one in the family who has a problem eating meat)
• ducks
• sheep
• angora rabbits
• peacock and peahen
• bees in a hive
• cow

We will have a gift shop where we'll sell soap and dried herbs and milk and eggs and crafts. We'll have an herb garden, and a flower garden, and fields of crops. We've spent long hours with the girls discussing how many fields of hay we might need for the animals in the winter, and what time of year the bull needs to come to help the cow make a baby so she has milk again in the spring (I'm pretty sure that these days it's a man with a long rubber glove and a hypodermic full of bull, but nevermind that for now). I've got a couple of single friends in mind whom I'm going to try to get to come with us (if Eric can live in a trailer behind the welding barn, I don't know why my friend Mac can't) and help out.

This is among the stuff that Willow thinks about every single day, along with looking through her library books about farms and asking for help making lists of farm animals and vegetables to grow. On my list of things to do this summer is to take the girls to numerous local farms, obviously, but happy us that while we were in Wisconsin we found, perhaps, the best working farm for children to visit: The Farm.

As a living museum of rural America, it had a little of everything, all laid out the way it should be, but smaller, obviously, so that you can walk around and see it. And you're allowed to walk wherever you want, you're allowed to touch stuff and handle it and pick it up, you're allowed to crouch down and get a good look at how the tomato plants are doing this far north--one kid I overheard said, "There aren't any rules here. This is like Europe!"

I was pretty interested in the herb garden and the field crops, obviously (as well as wary that people were permitted to hand-feed the cows and bull. I'm sure they're docile and all--but the bull? Seriously? Uncle Tom Earl would not have wanted me to hand-feed a bull. Cows, sure, but not a bull), but the girls? They were all about the baby animals.

Everybody likes a chick, of course:

And Willow liked the goat kids a lot, as well, probably just because they're such a nice armful to pick up and snuggle:
Sydney, however, learned (as I think I might have learned at about the same age--I think it was Uncle Charles who kept some goats?) that goats are MEAN. First an adult goat bit a tiny little chunk out of her finger when she was stupid enough to stick it near the goat's mouth (Lesson #1: A goat will eat anything. Lesson #2: Don't stick your fingers in an animal's mouth)--when I took her inside for antibiotic cream and a bandage, the teen worker is all, "Oh, those goats. They're, like, bipolar." Then, as soon as she's recovered from that, a goat kid ups and butts her (Lesson #3: Goats will butt you.). In all our farm discussions now, Sydney makes sure to mention, "No goats, though. They mean."

Fortunately, it didn't take Syd long to find an animal much more her speed: And I thought we were champions at raising the most docile cats ever with our foster kittens--these kittens behaved like melted butter.

Sydney, of course, was having nothing to do with the goat milking, but Will gave it her best shot, and Matt got it down pretty well, actually, for never having touched his hand to an animal's teat before:

I have to tell, you, though, that I milked very well--that's one thing that nursing constantly since 2004 can do for you (nope, of course the baby hasn't weaned yet, she's barely three!).

It's like on the job training for milking someone else.

How the Hands On Art Studio Stole My Heart

At the Hands On Art Studio in Door County, Wisconsin (post garage sale weekend and the day after the Beachfront Inn), Matt melted glass to make me some jewelry:
He did this all by his ownself:
(Eric, who is awesome enough to actually live in a trailer behind the welding studio, helped a little).

The girls fed the chickens, and enjoyed walking around while the flock parted like a prow through the ocean at their feet: Then they treated the mosaics barn like their own private candy shop: Sydney decorated a triceratops: Willow decorated a bunny:

They were gracious enough to let me assist once in a while:

We ran out of money before I could try fused glass, but the lampwork was for me, after all:

And thus we all ended up mightily pleased with ourselves:

If I, too, could someday find myself running a crazy DIY art studio with a farm attached, husband and kids in tow, I'd consider myself fixed up just about right.

Ladder Ball, and Other Wisconsin Pleasures

Frankly, most of the beaches that we saw in Wisconsin were kind of gross (even a lake as big as Lake Michigan is still a closed system, I suppose), but nevertheless our little family needed a mindless getaway after the garage sale weekend, and fortunately we made our reservations at Beachfront Inn in Bailey's Harbor, and it had a private beach that, although it was still plagued by algae, was by far the best beach we saw.

The kids, at least, had no problem in wading in water dosed with a good helping of algae at the shoreline:

Matt and I became quite good at ladder ball:Don't ever buy one of those ladder ball games, because they look highly DIY--some PVC pipe, golf balls, and rope.

Every evening the owner of the inn starts a nice big fire on the beach, feet away from the water:
She gives you all the fixings for the making----and consumption of smores:

There was even a real live dock for standing at the end of and gazing out into the fog:Add to that the whole stack of Sookie Stackhouse novels that I was burning through at the time (nine books in seven days--they're real good), and you've got yourself one happy camper:

How to Run a Garage Sale: A Guide for Newbies and Yankees

Rule #1: When in doubt, don't do it. A garage sale is a huge and ridiculous amount of work, an insane amount of work, and you have to get up really early, to boot. If you are a Yankee or a newbie, you may possibly need to borrow a sarcastic Southern momma to help you.

Rule #2: If you're going to do it, do it up right. Do not be one of those garage sales with a couple of tables slung out in the yard with nothing on them but some baby clothes and Christmas ornaments--nobody wants that shit. No, if you're going to do it, then challenge yourself to sell every single blessed thing that you can possibly part with and still remain sound in health and heart. Be ruthless.

We didn't have to worry about this part in Matt's Grandma's house, because the entire reason we were there was to help the family clear out her entire house--I don't quite understand the whole plan, but apparently, Grandma Bangle is illegally immigrating to Mexico. No, seriously.

Rule #3: Sell the Cheesehead.
Rule #4: Figure out if you're having your garage sale to make a lot of money, or to get rid of a lot of stuff. If you want to make a lot of money, price high, haggle, and box your unsold merch up and store it in your attic until the next garage sale--my Aunt Pam does this, because she is like the Arkansas garage sale queen. If you want to get rid of all your stuff, price low, accept any offer, and get the remaining junk off to Goodwill by 4:00 pm.

Grandma's garage sale was in the "get rid of stuff" category, which is my favorite of the two.

Rule #5: Key words for your newspaper article: tools, furniture, computer equipment, video games, craft supplies. Thank god Grandma Bangle is a quilter, and Grandpa Bangle was a woodworker.

Rule #6: Do not sell the awesome stuff. Give it to the redneck momma who's helping you:
This includes sewing supplies, stash fabric, 80s vinyl record albums, old board games, vintage wooden map puzzles with missing pieces, Contact paper, commemorative iron-on patches--you know, awesome stuff.

Rule #7: Have really good signs. Make them really big, on big neon poster board, written with big black letters, and arrange them at every turn leading from the biggest main road in all directions from the house. EVERY turn, even if the only other option is a dead end--people are stupid. Put these signs up the night before the sale.

Rule #8: Price with colored dots color-coded to prices, or masking tape in which you write in amounts. If more than one person is working the sale, price EVERYTHING, or on the day of the sale everybody will eventually figure out that if they want a deal on the coffee table that the one redneck lady said is $30, they should just find the uncle from Germany and ask HIM what the price is--he'll take $5.

Rule #9: Do not price anything at 10 cents or five cents. Quarters and bills only. If the uncle from Germany wants to accept dimes, that's his business.

Rule #10: You'll need at least $50 in ones and $20 in quarters. Don't break open that quarter roll until you have to, though--people will often bring their own change, and you'll possibly never need extras.

Rule #11: If you want to sell big stuff, you gotta take checks. NOBODY is going to go to a garage sale with 150 bucks in cash on hand to buy your china cabinet and the tacky glasses inside.

Rule #12: If you wanna actually get rid of big stuff, you gotta let people pick up later. Slap a SOLD sign on that china cabinet, tell the two ladies to come back between 3:00 and 5:00, and let them spend the rest of the day wrangling a pickup.

Some tricks to get rid of more stuff:

• Find a box or bin you want to get rid of, fill it with like-minded stuff (sewing patterns, cassette tapes, silverware) and put one price for the box.
• Put a bunch of crap you won't be able to sell into a really nice container (an antique toolbox, a cookie jar) and sell the container "with contents."
• Give away stuff to kids.
• If someone buys three coffee mugs, give her the other two.

Rule #13: Take a break to climb a tree:

Rule #14: No last-minute take-backs. If you're unhappy with a price or want to keep something back, either figure that out or make your peace with it BEFORE the sale.

Rule #15: If you're selling a little kid's stuff, get rid of that kid.

Rule #16: The golden hours for a garage sale are Saturday from 7:00 to 1:00 pm. If you sell on Friday, most people will be at work instead, but your stuff will still manage to look picked over by Saturday. If you don't start by 7:00 am on Saturday, you're going to miss a ton of people. If you go past 1:00 or sell on Sunday, too, people will show up already thinking that all you've got left is crap. And they'll be right.

Rule #17: Go ahead and set up all your stuff the night before. Just throw sheets over the tables to hide the stuff until the next morning. Seriously, who is going to steal from a garage sale?

Rule #18: Get rid of your cars--you'll need the parking.

Rule #19: Remove all your jewelry and prescription drugs from the bathroom. If a tearful preschooler or elderly man with a prostrate problem needs to use your bathroom, are you really cold-hearted enough to say no?

Rule #20: Starbucks in the morning and fast food at 11:00 come out of the profits. It's bad form to request a frappuccino or anything super-sized when you send in your order.

Matt and I were halfway planning to have our own garage sale this summer. I think we may put it off until next year.

Home From America's Dairyland

Phew.