This post originally appeared in April 2007

Yesterday we cleaned out the garage.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time (and if you have been, well, I’m sorry), you’ve probably realized that we do a lot of that.

That’s because we’re slobs, and we treat our garage like a giant trash can, and we have to shovel it out a couple of times a year.

BUT, we’re making so much progress. If it wasn’t for all of our bicycles we could fit BOTH cars in the garage. It’s a sight to behold.

Present in this garage clean, though, were a box for a stove, a washer, and a dryer (it’s been a very bad year, appliance-wise). We kept them because the kids like to play in them, but appliance box houses lose their appeal after a couple of rainstorms. We are only allowed three bags of trash per week, so big boxes get sent to the burn pile.

And thanks to the enthusiastic tree-trimming Theodore did with his new chain saw in the fall, our burn pile was REALLY big.

I explained to Theodore that it would be a really good day to burn. He didn’t think so. I explained a little more forcefully that this would REALLY be a good day to burn. There was no wind. The sky was blue. We have had ample rain lately, there was no good reason why he couldn’t burn.

It was agreed that I would take the load to Goodwill, and he would burn the burn pile.

I was gone forty minutes.

About a half mile from our house, I met our neighbor at a stop sign. She gave me a really strange look. I didn’t know what it meant.

Then I got home.

The huge pile of brush was a pile of ashes. Our two oldest were in the back yard washing off with a hose. Our youngest was trembling and clutching a mug of lemonade. And Theodore was missing most of his right eyebrow.

It appears that it was only an almost wind-free day. But there was a lone gust of wind that occurred when the flames where at their highest. And the gust was strong enough to set the row of 15-foot high hedge maples on fire.

And our youngest child, who doesn’t like loud noises, strong winds, or the Happy Birthday song, apparently doesn’t like to see a row of trees go up in flames, either.

Theodore managed to put out the fire with our garden hose. He says he was seconds from telling Peter to call 911 before he got it under control. Theodore refuses to go to a restaurant on his birthday for fear he will get sang to. The fact that he was contemplating calling firetrucks with sirens to descend on our house is really saying something.

I know what my neighbor’s look meant. It was clearly a look that said, “I bet she doesn’t realize her husband just tried to burn the neighborhood down.”

As for Theodore, he’s fine too. A little singed in places, but that’s all.

I think I’ll let him decide when to burn the brush pile from now on.

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A comment the other day made me realize I was giving an impression that the weather was still bad here.

Let me give you an update. It’s lovely. Here’s a picture I snapped with my phone during my run on Sunday:

My only problem with spring is that it’s inevitably followed by summer. But I’m trying not to think about that right now.

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Apparently, there’s another side to the story about the time I fell in the creek. One of my cousins chose to unburden himself on Facebook this past Friday:

Of course, without hesitating, without blinking an eye, with no regard for my own safety or my own life, I ran like a bolt of lightning, diving headfirst into the creek, going completely underwater searching until I found you on the bottom…. I then pulled you out of the water onto the bank and begun pushing the water from your lungs until I heard you whimper. Thus began, at that moment, the rest of your life……At the time, with you being only 3 years old, everyone felt you could not process that day’s event in a healthy manner, so we sort of sugarcoated the story for you. And now, since you have begun writing about it, I guess you’re ready for the healing process to begin.

Let the record show that this is the same person who once told me that there were snakes in my sleeping bag. While I was in it. I’m not sure he can be trusted.

The gifts of sarcasm and exaggeration? They run in the family.

Just so you know.

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My grandma died one year ago this weekend, and I miss her. This post originally appeared on the old blog. I hope you like it.

When I was three, I had a red coat with white trim. I also had white mittens with red tassels to match.

One day I was at my grandparents farm. It must have been cold, because I was wearing the red coat with white trim and the white mittens with red tassels to match. (Although knowing my grandma it could have been sixty degrees out. She’s of the generation that thinks that babies and young children should be bundled up at all times.) I was standing on the driveway and noticed three of my cousins were on the bridge over the creek, peering down. I wandered down to see what they were doing.

You could do the sort of thing like let a three-year-old wander around unattended back then. This was before people worried about crazy people snatching young children and spiriting them away. The farm was also way out on a dirt road where only about two cars passed by in a day.

The only perceived danger around was the well, but that was covered by a wash tub that weighed more than my husband’s Honda. My grandmother had me convinced that the Wicked Witch of the West would swoop down from the sky and cackle at me if I got too close. Or something like that. I doubt she had told me EXACTLY that, but I knew never to go near it. Unless one of my cousins wanted to show me a neat trick like how he could lower a bucket of catfish into the well, let them swim for awhile, and then catch them in the bucket again. I don’t think Grandma knew about that, though.

Remind me not to drink from that well anymore.

Anyway, my cousins were all gathered on the bridge peering down into the creek. They were very excited. I can’t say this for a fact, but I’m guessing, seeing that this story involves my cousins and the creek, that frog gigs were present.

When I got there I saw that the fuss was over a Mountain Dew bottle that had been dropped in the creek by another cousin the summer before. Then my cousin Doug said, “Watch it, Doodle, the grass is slick.”

I should probably just shut down the blog right now. I have nothing left to share. The world now knows that my cousins used to call me Doodle.

The next thing I knew I was IN the creek. My cousins were still ON the bridge. Three pairs of close-set blue-green eyes were looking down at me. I’m sure they were terrified, not so much for my safety but for fear that they were going to get in big trouble.

In my memory the water was deep and I was floating on the surface. For a time I believed that I had managed to tread water to stay afloat. I’m sure the truth is that the creek was only about six inches deep and I was sitting in a bunch of mud.

But with an uncanny clarity I do remember noticing that my white mittens with the red tassels that matched my red coat with white trim were getting muddy and wet. And that’s when I started to cry.

Somehow they got me out of the creek. I’ve been told there was some later controversy over who actually pulled me out. I do remember the Grandma completely stripped me down, wrapped me in every blanket in the farmhouse, and sat me by the stove.

That story quickly became my favorite story. I was the youngest, and when one is the youngest, any story in which you have a starring role quickly becomes your favorite story.

(I’m sure my desire to start a blog when I was in my thirties is completely unrelated to this impulse.)

Most of the good stories, like the snake in the pillowcase story, happened before I was born. Or, in the case of the horse and buggy wreck when my cousin Mark got his foot stuck in the buggy wheel, I was too young to be a part of it. Because all the fun stuff happens when the youngest is not around.

And to top it all off, I didn’t even get to remain the youngest. My Uncle Kenny had two gorgeous little girls who upstaged me. About that time the great-grandchildren starting coming and it was all over for me after that.

But the creek story was all mine. I held onto it like a talisman. When you are born into a family of beautiful over-achievers, you cling to anything you can.

Thirty-two on the ACT? Summa cum laude? Great singer? Beauty queen? Well. I fell into the creek once.

AND I was wearing my red coat with the white trim and the white mittens with the red tassels to match.

So there.

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Sitting… on the living room couch. I am surrounded by sleeping dachshunds.

Eating…nothing at the moment. But a few minutes ago when I heard one of the children walking upstairs I began frantically wiping brownie crumbs from my face. Make of that what you will.

Planning…this year’s homeschool.

Waiting…for homeschool books to arrive. Some books I bought used are very late, the woman who sold them has not answered my emails, and I’m thinking I might have gotten taken this time.

Deciding… what to this afternoon. It’s going to be 100 degrees, with enough humidity to suck out your will to live, so our options are limited to water activities.

Reading…Orthodoxy by Chesterton.

Was reading…Age of Opportunity: A Biblical Guide to Parenting Teens by Paul David Tripp. A friend loaned this to me, but I may buy my own copy. Best book on parenting I’ve every read.

Pondering…grace, mercy, and forgiveness. If I get angry at someone for nursing a long-time grudge, am I guilty of the same unforgiveness that I’m accusing them of? If I criticize someone for not relying on God’s grace, am I discounting the same grace that I am so vehemently defending?

Anticipating… soccer season. All three are playing this time. I’m not sure how that’s going to work.

Dreading… cleaning off the bookshelves. It has to be done. I don’t want to do it.

Thankful… for lots of things. Since tonight is our only free evening this week, I’m thankful for that right now.

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