goodbye cottage

We said goodbye for a few months... to our cottage in northern Michigan. More than a building or a place, it's where our lives slow down.

No television blaring or microwave beeping. Just wind and waves and dishes piled in an old ceramic sink. It's sipping coffee while wrapped in a blanket and reading God's Word in the early morning. It's getting to know the hardy people who live there year-round. It's satisfaction in the physical work of preparing our little place for winter.

Goodbye docks.

And goodbye rocks.

Goodbye to painting

and painting

and painting some more.

And goodbye to campfires by the shore.

Goodbye boathouse, closed up tight.

Goodbye to lovely, quiet nights.

Goodbye to the sweetness of friends together,

goodbye to incredible Great Lakes weather.

Goodbye lighthouses, strong and tall.

Goodbye to birches welcoming fall.

Goodbye. We'll see you next year.

(Yes, I am inspired by Margaret Wise Brown's Goodnight Moon ... one of my favorite children's books...even though rhyming poetry isn't my favorite!)

a fine little fair

Local readers know all about "the fair." THE event of the year in Delaware, Ohio: The Delaware County Fair. Not only does it encompass the typical kids' 4H projects, prize pumpkins, steers and quilts, it's home of the Little Brown Jug, harness racing's equivalent of the Kentucky Derby. This Thursday, 50,000 race fans will descend on our little town!



Our fair gives me a perfect portion of fair life every year. Phooey: forget the Ohio State Fair, a mammoth August event just south of us. We took our four kids one year. ONE year. It left my head spinning.


Since our fair is within walking distance of our house, we can pop over every evening if it suits us. Which it usually doesn't. But I say, "oh, I'm not going to the fair." Then the race announcer's voice drifts through our windows, or I catch a whiff of corn dogs, and I want to skittle over to join the fun. And to nuzzle the horses.



If you're ever in central Ohio the third week in September, stop in. To a fine little fair.

(Cool fair photography by Katie Haller)

93 years young

This post is exactly one year old. And I count that as a blessing! Enjoy ...


photo by Katie Haller

Isn't this the most marvelous photo? It says many things: the love three grandsons have for their grandma. The playful, affectionate nature of their relationship. Grandma is obviously tickled by these three towering grandsons. Her youthful spirit pours forth.

Elizabeth Haller. Born September 20, 1916. She hates most vegetables but loves most desserts. She loves the Cleveland Indians & Browns and watches a myriad of sports on TV.

Most people she meets cannot believe she is (today) 93. Why? It's her youthful spirit and attitude toward life. She's interested in others and loves to laugh. She's giving and meets each day gracefully, with whatever God hands her.

We would all do well to emulate her, whatever our age.

Happy 93rd birthday to my dear mother-in-love!

a whirl of words

These are but wild and whirling words.
- Shakespeare, from Hamlet

As expected of a writer, I've always been a lover of words. Reading words. Learning new words. Crafting words. I taught my small children to speak their needs, not whine them. Words will fascinate me, I am sure, for life.

How pathetic that I never fully appreciated the power and privilege of the spoken word. Until now.

This year I've been humbled to experience something new: children who struggle to find even one word to express themselves. Children whose mental capacities delay their progress in speech and other areas of life.

Imagine being five years old and lacking the means to tell your mother that you are hot, cold, sick, tired, hungry or just plain bored. Your peers sprint ahead of you playing t-ball, learning math, and chatting on the playground. You want to, but most of the time you cannot join them at their level. Sometimes your frustration boils into tears and tantrums.

Still, your strong and noble family loves you for who you are and your many successes. Your huge efforts with a smile to match inspire me mightily. Each hour I spend with you, helping you work at finding words, makes me realize that I never knew the meaning of frustration as a mother.

I could talk all day about what you're teaching me and how much I admire you.

But really, you leave me at a loss for words.

bumpy blogging

I've made three false starts on a post this week, none of which were completed. I type at my desk. I move to the porch. Then to my daughter's empty bedroom because I love her bed by the window. But the words don't flow. Madly frustrating.

Maybe I need to go here for creative inspiration ...



But there could, maybe, possibly be a guest blogger this week.

Stay tuned!

self-imposed exile

Something's wrong with our dog, Ellie. I mean in her head.

About a year ago I bought a long-handled wool duster for those hard-to-reach places. Alas, it's super handy for dusting just about everything from baseboards to picture frames.

Well, Ellie doesn't get along with the duster one bit. In fact, she high-tails it whenever I pull it out.

We're stumped. I've tried looking at this from Ellie's viewpoint.

"Acccckkkkk!" she thinks. "There's that opossum that scared me the night I found my way to the humane shelter.... I'm outta here!"

Or, "ooooh, I'm sure that's the cat who scratched my nose a long time ago. I'm not taking chances!"

The color and size of the duster does strongly resemble a opossum. But for crying out loud, a 50-pound dog running from a wool duster??

Not only is Ellie terrified when she sees my duster, it seems to traumatize her for the rest of the day. In our backyard is a zip wire which is one of Ellie's potty methods. She typically will potty and come right back in. Yesterday she spent over two hours out on that leash, sleeping on the patio. I know it's the thought of the dreaded duster that keeps her outside.

Jeesh. Dogs!

9.11

Today I am remembering the events of eight years ago this day. Isn't it strange that today's elementary kids are too young to remember? I was homeschooling my daughter Katie, then age 11, when news of the attacks broke.

Later, I watched, dumbfounded, as the twin towers fell to a terrible, flaming heap in Manhattan.

As my own three sons reached young manhood, it struck me that countless other mothers have lost their own sons for my freedoms. I think that's when my heart became most thankful for these sacrifices.

I'm reflecting and giving thanks today for the men and women who sacrificed their lives on 9.11.01. I'm thankful for the strength and valor of the U.S. military, the families who support them, and all the other helping professions such as firefighters and police who have chosen to protect us all.