Histories and Blogging

Everyone has a story. Everyone. Some of us are better at telling our stories, but the secret to that is actually practise. I write well because I write often. It is a craft. Being good at the craft doesn't mean that I am the only one with a story worth telling.

Everyone has a story that is valuable. From a historical perspective, what we blog and facebook will be the diary and memoir records of daily life. It will be where historians go to find our how people reacted to events of cultural and political importance. It doesn't matter if you don't have millions of readers, your reactions and observations matter historically.

They also matter personally. Your children and family could have a record of who you were and what you thought. I think about that when I write about my children, if something were to happen to me, have I told them all my stories? All the folklore and family history that I know and make up our collective family origin stories? Will they remember how much I loved them or how much I worried over them or the joy they brought me everyday? No one is promised a tomorrow, am I making enough of my today? Are you?

Do not worry about grammar or perfect expression. Just write like you would talk. This is not a magazine or a book, it is a diary. The only folks who are held to perfect writing on blogs are those of us who are academics and professors and the only folks holding us to that are not usually very kind to begin with. Just write. You'll get better at it with practise and you can always go back and revise.

When my grandmother Mel died, I had a chance to look at her diaries. They were mostly newspaper clippings and random horoscopes and weather reports. It was very much like facebook is, things she found interesting. Little notes here and there. Collectively they said a lot about who she was in those last 20 years of her life. Scraps in a notebook.

I would have loved her to write more and in more detail. I love reading the memoirs of folks who lived through historical events, especially those who were like me- mothers, wives, farmers, just everyday folks not celebrities and politicians. I find these stories matter more to me as a mother and as a historian. I love reading essays about everyday life and relationships.

Too many times really interesting people dismiss their own stories as being too boring or mundane to share. Who would want to read them?

Me. I do.

So, write for me. All of you wonderful folks, write your stories and I will read them. I will value your thoughts on things. I won't judge your grammar or style, I will just love that you are telling your histories, for prosperity.

Writing publicly has its downside. Those critics are never far, chattering their negativity and pointing out flaws, trying to undermine us all and silence anyone else who dares write. Don't be fooled and bullied. Write anyway. Dare to dream. If you need, to make your blog private or anonymous, or journal on Google docs. It is still important. Do it for long enough and you will find your voice.

I know I have. Now that I found it, I am giving it a work out and will not be hushed or put down. Too long did I let those external critics voices become the ones in my own inner dialogue and determine the worth of my thoughts. My thoughts now? If you don't like what I write, don't read it. If you do, yay! I love readers and making people think! If something I have written sticks with you, let me know. If you need encouragement to write, I'll be here for you. Everyday.

This is what I thought about as the miles sped by on rural Missouri highways today, as I drove an 8 hour round trip to fetch new pigs. Each abandoned farm house sighed at me as I passed, whispered that the stories of those who lived there are all lost and gone, washed away with the years and the rain and the snow and the wind. Gone.

Don't let yours disappear like that. Write them all down: what you ate, what games you played, what your thoughts on Syria or Miley's VMA performance are, what the weather was like, what books you read and liked, what beauty you found, acts of kindness you witnessed, your everyday happiness and sorrow- they all have value.

22k(ilograms) for 22q - a Challenge I am Struggling With

Running. I have a long and complicated, even stormy relationship with running. I often joke that if you ever see me running, don't ask questions, just you start running too because something horrible is chasing me.

I loathe it. I think that may even be a kind way to put it. Just reading about my wonderful friends joyously 5k running or mapping their energy boosting jogs makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Not because they love it, but because the idea of running for fun make me feel ill and like punching someone all at the same time.

I love walking. I love swimming (in clean water free of man eating giant prehistoric shark turtles). I love cooking, dancing, swinging in the trees, soccer, even riding a bike now and then. But running elicits the fevered terror of gym class, reminds me of being the last one to walk around the track, being yelled at because the class won't meet its goal if I don't MOVE faster, and walking in the hot sun anyway. Forgetting how many laps I had already made and being forced to go one more time. It reminds me of humiliation of the locker rooms, shower checks, being locked in my locker as a joke. It brings back being mocked for not being physically able to meet the goals of gym class. I was healthy enough, but I was physically small. I am a midget, a dwarf. My legs are shorter. I have less muscle mass. I also did not enjoy the aggressive competition.

I remember doing really well at badminton, something I played at home for fun. I made it to the final round, against the class athletic star. The longer our game went, the angrier she got. She grunted something about not letting this girl beat her. She said it with such ferocity that I immediately let my game go to crap. I stopped playing. If I beat her, she would later beat the crap out of me. That is the scenario that comes into my head when I think of exercising or athletic work of any kind.

So how do I stay fit? I dance while cleaning. I walk with my kids. I farm. I do any number of things that also completes a needed productive task. Hauling buckets, carrying produce and freezer inventory, moving laundry baskets are all things I do near daily with ease. Sure sometimes I also run, chasing pigs back to the pen or out of the way and over the fence when Blizzard the ram gets to remembering that he hates me. I can move fast under those circumstances. I have to.

Still, as a child I loved sports. I actually competed in a regional free throw competition and won at age 9.  I never played on a team though. Now I use my near magical shot to slam dunk dirty diapers into the laundry pail or toss apples from a tree into a bucket. Useful. I have athletic ability and I am capable.

My sister was the team sports player, but even then, she fought to play baseball instead of softball and lost when we moved to Iowa. The unfairness of that hurt me too. The gender bias in sports is still something that makes me bitter and hold me back from enjoying recreational sports watching.

So why am I sharing this?

Because I am going to run.

Because my son has 22q deletion syndrome.

Because this is bigger than even that. I need to stop running from all the awful I associate with everything and recover from everything I have been through.

My friend and fellow 22q mom Samantha Block has posted a challenge:

Some of you may have heard of the International 22q Foundation's 22k for 22q event.  The idea is that you run, walk, bike, or swim 22 kilometres to spread awareness and fundraise for 22q.  It's a great idea!  Sign up for a couple local races, or form a team and sign up for just 1 local race then add your kilometres together.  Wear a 22q shirt and get some pledges from friends and family. 

I thought I'd do a spin on that.  22 *kilograms* for 22q.  What do I mean?  I mean let's all band together and support each other while we work towards making ourselves healthier.  In doing so, we make ourselves better equipped to face the challenges of raising a 22q child.  22 kilograms is about 48.5lbs.  I would love for a couple dedicated followers to join me in pledging to lose a combined 22 kilograms in the month of September.  If I get 10 people to do it, we only need to lose about 4.8lbs each!  Totally doable!  If you all spread the word and we get more people joining us, I might just get to add a zero to that number and make it 220 kilograms for 22q!  Wouldn't that be awesome?!

All day long I thought about Sam's challenge. I grumped and grumbled. I listed all the reasons that I can't do it. I can't run. I won't run. I hate running.

I am running away from running? How ridiculous is that? So, I'm in. I am doing this. My posts about this will have the labels chasing normal and 22 deletion syndrome so they will end up under the top bar tab. I hope all of you will cheer me on as I do this crazy amazing thing for Isaac and for all the 22q kids out there.

Because I need to do it my way and make it mine, I will be running while doing things at the farm. It may look more like a pastured run. The sheep can verify my progress. I won't do things like public races, because I am not there emotionally and I will not torture myself with that yet. I will do that when I am ready. First I have to stop hating the idea of running and that means gaining ground on my own turf. I bought the shoes. I broke them in. Now I need to step on the ground and just do it.

Also, there will be pie. There will always be pie. I am doing this my way, after all.

I will run so I can be even healthier and be that much better at what I do as a mom and farmer. I will help others with recipes and encouragement. I will be a part of this team (and no one will beat me up afterwards, right?). I can and I will do this. Every single step Isaac takes on the ground has come to him with three times the work as it did for his sisters, 22q has done that to him, a big boy trapped in a baby's body. Yet, every single day he wakes up laughing and gets up, works hard until the end of the day, and earns his good sleep. If he can do it, I can too, for Isaac and one step at a time.

Heat Wave

We have had a lot hot days here at the farm. This summer has been exceptionally lovely, warm enough in the day and cool at night. Usually July is hot and humid and that heat lasts into August. We have to set up window air conditioning to cut the humidity and make our house safe to live in. Our upstairs has central air, but the downstairs and the kitchen do not. This summer has been so cool at night though, that the window units stayed in storage.

This week though, the heat finally arrived. We've not had much rain the last month either, so the wallows for the pigs are dried up. The downstairs of the house is hot, but not humid (drought) so we figured we could wait out the heat and save on the electric bill. So far so good.

The weather isn't just dangerous for humans though, it can also be deadly for the animals. We moved the sheep to the pasture with the deepest shade and the taller grass, made sure the pigs were set up with shade too. We check the waters each day.

Yesterday the cow was spooked out of her pen. Luckily she found the duck pool and got water from there.

Then we discovered the pigs were out. We still h ave no idea how that happened, all the gates were tethered shut and there were no breeches in the fence large enough for a 400 lb sow or two to escape. None. Yet, we found one pig in heat stroke and the others missing.

It was 100 degrees out. The sun was blaring down. No humidity.

I heard Chad yelling for help when he found the pig (she was ok, btw, once she got water) and I set the kids up with netflix and walked out. Walked. Running in this heat is not an option, it would be deadly stupid.

The dog was out too. Zim helped me track the missing pigs while Chad secured the fencing and set up bait. Chad was frustrated and mad at that point, also in the heat and harsh sun. I was not about to argue, but I did anyway. I flushed out three pigs, one of the big sows went back in easily.

I stayed slow and calm and made careful progress. Still it was dangerously hot. I got caught up in the bramble and scratched and scraped and my boot laces tangled. Chad and I got separated and couldn't hear each other. It was a mess. Even though I flushed out both the remaining pigs, they didn't go where we set up and they ran in two different directions.

I was too hot and headed back to the farmhouse. Chad got mad and frustrated and kept at it. I was mad and frustrated too. I was also loud and probably could give the FCC a run for their money if it had been a live broadcast. Oh my. Not my proudest moment.

My approach was to think through while I got hydrated. Chad took a different approach and thought that staying with the pigs was the better option.

In the end, the pigs were all rounded up and penned back up, given fresh water and food. All the sheep were accounted for. The llama was healthy and well. The cow was put back on her plot and her fence checked.

The people however were overheated and exhausted and flushed from being frustrated and angry. I made a light dinner and we headed to bed. Days like this are how we earn our farmer cred, though I wish we had fewer of them.

Dinner was simple: 
Elbow macaroni boiled and strained
Crushed tomatoes from the garden, simmered with granulated garlic
Italian sausage and onion browned and added to the tomato
Mix all together and serve hot



It all came together in about 15 minutes (while the noodles boiled, I cooked the meat and the tomatoes).

We ate, showered, and went to bed early.

We still have no idea how the pigs escaped and the worry that they will get out again is lingering like this heat. I am really looking forward to the cold front predicted for Sunday night and the bit of rain that might come too.

Mrs. Amelia Davis, 5th grade class, Thank You.

A recent conversation with a very sweet friend got me thinking about my first day of 5th grade. On one hand it was the most horrific day of my young life up to that point. My mother curled my short hair and it ended up like a clown wig, we had pulled up in the moving truck the day before and the only clothes I had were the jeans and t-shirt I wore on the drive from Colorado to eastern Illinois and my farm sneakers. It was raining. I had never ridden a bus before. The bus was late, I got lost in the building, the entire class was dressed in their Sunday best, right down to shiny black shoes and ties. Late, I was offered a seat at a desk in a sea of strangers and the chair broke from under me.

I wish I was kidding. I sat there, being stared, in a we muddy pile of mortified farm girl, for what seemed like an hour while someone got a new chair from a different classroom. I cried silently and on the inside.

My teacher though was the most jarring of the picture. She was black. I had never seen a person with black skin. My classmates were a rage of colours too. Sure I had seen the Cosby's and Michael Jackson, but being from rural Colorado, I honestly, at age ten, thought that they were Hispanic. That was my range of experience. I had Hispanic classmates, but never any teachers. I don't think I had interacted with any adults who were not white before that day.

Yet, here was this very dark skinned black woman standing at the head of the class. I have no idea what she thought of me. Oh, she was gorgeous and fierce. She didn't bat an eye, or roll them like the students did, when I presented my report on the "real" Thanksgiving feast, massacre and all. That was my first foray into the untold histories and making sure someone educated my classmates. I also wrote about Peabody Coal Company. She presented me with Black History Month and a goldmine of history that I had never read, people standing up to oppression and hatred. Those became role models to my tiny framed white farm girl mind. Heroes.

Mrs. Davis kept me in at lunch recess. It was probably for losing my homework. Though, I loved it. I caught up. She gave me more things to read. She encouraged my writing, both journalistic and poetry. I worked hard at both. I felt heard.

I never forgot her.

My friend said she didn't remember our teacher as the description I provided, stunning and beautiful. Then again, I also see that friend in the same way and I am quite sure that's not how she'd describe herself either. Sometimes, children and the adults they grow into, do not factor things like extra flesh into an assessment of character. To me, Mrs. Davis remains in my memory the captain of a very stormy ship in my childhood. Without that experience, I would not have set my foot on this journey.

The rest of the year, and quite honestly the rest of my time spent in Kankakee school district, was painful and horrible. Bullied and mocked daily, I dog paddled in shark infested waters, retreating at lunch to the library and escaping into books and writing stories and poetry. I knew recess could be calm and nourishing from those 5th grade afternoons spent with Mrs. Davis. Quite frankly, sometimes I would pretend to have lost my homework just to stay in.

So, wherever you are Amelia Davis, thank you. Thank you so much.