Making Elgin Noodles

Do you know who makes the best pie, gravy, chocolate cake, or home made noodles? The list could go on and on, insert your favorite comfort food. The answer; the one who makes it.

I have busied myself today in my own kitchen. Jeff does most of the cooking now and I can barely find my way around. I am not territorial over the cooking space, I never set out to be the domestic goddess, but somewhere along the way I learned to cook.

We have a time honored traditional food at our holiday table. “The Noodles” It is hard to even admit, it has not been my favorite. Mom would loving make them each year for our holiday meals, they were a big part of dad’s family traditions and loved by all, except me. I felt like the odd man out.

I remember the last time mom made them. We were in her upper house. There was a lot of us home and mom made an extra big batch. The broth was rushed and the noodles over packed. They scorched on the bottom. Important side note: If you burn something and it is stuck to the bottom of the pan, do not scrape and stir. Simply pour it into a fresh pan and season well, maybe they won’t notice. On this day mom was rushed and there was too much happening and all the pots were full of something or another. The noodles were ladled up straight from the pan. I didn’t serve myself and first noticed my dad’s expression. He barely cleared his throat. Mmmm, “Boys you’d better help yourself.” Later he would pat my mom and say that those were some pretty good noodles. My husband had long learned this family traditions and it fast became his favorite part of our meal. He ate without hesitation. I finished my plate and to be in the family hoopla, I served a small helping. They were really bad. I didn’t finish mine and wondered if the others even noticed.

Isn’t that the way it is with love? We look past the lumpy bumpy, half done and over cooked outcomes. We stand in our knowing of what and who and how far they have come. You see my mother didn’t start out a good cook. In fact, I heard it told that when she was first married the dog didn’t t even eat her gravy. I know, she told me herself. She cooked it and dad didn’t eat it so she scraped it out for the dog. The next morning it was still there.

She didn’t give up. She had 7 older sisters-in- law. Each a craftsman at their own household specialty. Just imagine 7 accomplished mother’s- in-law. They had all doted on my dad, the baby, and each sister had their own way. Mom learned the hard way. She just kept trying. I remember one year she made the noodles out of wheat flour. They were not a hit. They looked like rubber bands in broth. It’s not funny now and believe me, it wasn’t funny then. Aunt Lucy taught mom, I remember watching. More then watching I remember feeling mom, she straighten her back, she held her mouth just right. She watched and practiced and became the noodle maker.

After my dad passed mom decided she had cooked enough. She came to our house or visited brother’s. She taught her grand daughters to make noodles and I made pie. She watched with a twinkly in her eye knowing that she has taught us well.

Today I rolled up my sleeves. Mom didn’t teach me, my daughter did. I make noodles with the left over Turkey. I have found that my plate becomes overwhelmed with to much going on. I like my noodles all alone. Savoring the flavored broth and giving thanks. My husband just finished his bowl and with a nod and a twinkle he said, “Those were some pretty good noodles, just like your mom.”

I Love to Watch You Live

They found their way to our home when our second child was fourteen, the boys next door. They brought with them brown eyed sparkles that told me they were up to something. I liked “something” and welcome them with open heart and a firm hand. Between the brown eyed boys and the crew that emerged from the house on Wood Street, a bond was formed that was palatable. The organic display was one to behold. It was at times hard to watch but you could not look away. They were visible without effort and oftentimes had no awareness of the shadow they cast on others who were looking through key holes wondering how to turn the latch and enter in.

Going away to school, to work, to play, they navigated adulthood. They wrestled, they loved, they lust, they lost. It was tragic; I held my breath. They gathered in a circle and cried each other’s tears, held each other tight, breathed each other’s breath and sweat each other’s fears.

I was honored a year later to have lunch with a few that had gathered to remember and to be. A drive to the coast was in the wind and they all piled in one truck. Fussing and fighting and laughing and music filled the air, they drove off in a flurry. I wanted to call after them, “buckle up, drive safe.”

I caught myself, they had known safe. He was the youngest of the pack. He had gone to school, got his degree, and landed that job he had hoped for. It was his nine to five. Driving home from work that day he would be taken from them. Some how they had made it through the year. I cried and whispered, “I love to watch you live.”

I have had my own wrestling in these years that followed. I have loved and I have lost. I am finding my way and navigating a plan. I started by clearing my mind and now it’s time to make a list. I give way to prayer and ask The Father to help me make it. I heard him gently whisper, “I love to watch you live.”

We Make Cookies

It was a hard day, I was done. Dinner over and the solitude of my bedroom surrounded me with just the right kinda’ cozy. There is a gentle knock and the youngest finds his way to tell me about his day, of trading at school, and his teacher being out sick. With one glance he knows that something is not right. My necklaces are tosseled in a clump on my dressing table. “Your necklaces” he says with a quiet knowing, he begins to gently untangle them. They are a mass of gifted treasures that have become a mess. Much like the compartments of my heart. He gently untangles and lays them neatly side by side, giving each his full attention. Making mention of favorites and asking questions. Each one has a story, I keep most to myself. His favorite is my oldest piece, gifted to me from my own grandmother. There is no need to tell him to be careful, he is using his own initiative to make this right. I am blessed beyond measure.

He settles back in his chair, we have not had much to say. I haven’t told him that my heart is heavy and that I wonder if my mothering is sufficient. He knows nothing of the charges that my eldest son faces or the unpredictable outcome of today’s court case, and yet he looks me straight in the face and says, “Let’s make cookies.

I am smiling now as I watch him. An old soul or one who has been taught well. You see it has been a long standing tradition, we make cookies.

As a child, I would come home a bit fussed up from my day. Mom could tell by the click in my step and the sharpness of my heal. No words between us, she would set out the bowl and the recipe. She had a special plan for days like this, cookies. Not just any cookies, she had a batch that had to be made with your hands. They were rightfully called aggression cookies. We first had to go to the sink and wash and scrub off the day. A big batch with gooey hands and little correction. I knew if I did well, they came out delightful. If I was too mad and sassy, I would put to much of this, and not enough of that, and I would have a mess. She would gently remind me. Pay attention.

I am sitting now by the wood stove in my kitchen. I am drinking tea and my heart is happy. The gentle reminder of my mother’s voice, “Pay attention. Do not let the troubles of today cause too much of this and not enough of that, you are not a mess.”

The Edge of Giving Up

The day he looked me in the eye and his spirit asked me to love him forever, my world was changed. I will not be complacent to the abandonment of children. I will not turn my heart from the hard things in my path, but seek the comfort of knowing I am enough. He deceived me, stole from me things that can not be replaced, told the officer he did not know me. Changed his name and has not looked back. I once called you son.

My heart feels too heavy to carry and grief covers me like a well worn blanket. I am aware that my words and thoughts hold captive my tomorrows. I have nothing to do in his coming and going, but I hold the door open to walking out my belief. There is a way a truth and life but it is not in me. My son must find his own way.

I quickly give my anger over to forgiveness. This is truth and I will declare restoration. I don’t understand when, where or how. Isn’t that the way with faith. If we could make the list, and launch the project then it is within my grasp, and faith is not needed.

I went to the water, I sat and listened to the rushing and the wind. I am little and I know it. This will pass with the hands of time. I question my place and the things that I have known. The answers have not yet come. I am here, on the light side of darkness, at the edge of giving up.

Eye’s To See

She has a story, and I do tell. Her name is Sky Kitty.

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A kitty without a name was abandoned at a home on the reservation. She was scrapping for food and found her way to the arms of a 4 year old girl. The girl was only visiting, just passing through. Miss Sky Kitty draped herself about the young girls arms and found a warm embrace that took her too a mountain home. Sky was only a kitten herself but much to the young girls delight, soon this young cat brought kitties of her own, from the barn to the garage. They were welcomed into a cozy box and Sky Kitty came and went through an open window. She was gentle as could be but enjoyed her hunting and the freedom to roam. One day she left the comfort of her box and never returned. The young girl learned of life’s lessons in the mountains and settled in to tend to the babies. Finding homes and settling on one to call her own. Time has passed and things have changed in the mountain home. The young girl is now 9 and she and her family have taken on an adventure in a home just up the hill. It’s a family home but no one has lived there for many years. It will take time, attention and hard work but the home will be restored.

It’s summer time and the young girl is living in the house, no longer abandoned. Her family is “camped out” on site as there is potential and the house is coming alive. Music and laughter and food and new memories are being made. Restoration is hard work and takes courage and an eye to see the potential that lies beyond the raccoon intruded, bat inhabited, storage of stuff and heirloom cluttered upper house.

The raccoons have been live trapped and relocated, the bats are busy doing what bats do and the family tired from hard work and elbow grease, are about the business of homemaking. A sound is heard from under the house as children are playing. One child adventures under the house to see what she could see. Thankfully it was not a raccoon. It was Sky Kitty!

She has a rumpled tail and age has been kind to her. She has been living on her own just up the hill for over five years. This mountain home is up in the wilds where life is not gentle. There is snow and rain and weather. She has lived her life on her own terms and comes to the children with her whole heart in tact. Kindness and affection have not been lost in the years.

I tell you her story not out of love for cats. But ask that you walk this path of understanding of the human kind, as you are likely cheering for this fur baby and wish her eyes could tell her survival story. The things that she has figured out in her time of solitude. Gifts that her understanding could give to the women I have known who walk alone. The ones who carried babies that they can not raise. Who found motherhood before they were ready. Who have scrapped for their food and stood up to the bandits in their path of understanding. Like the bands of raccoons that took what was not theirs and left a mess in their path. Let the strength that sometimes causes solitude and self preservation be looked at with eyes to see. Let us not judge the gift or the giver that might look a bit crumple at the tail. Sky Kitty is a delight.

May we all have eyes to see.🐾

Announcing the Birth of Bette Lee

A baby girl was born to Irene and Lee Stapp this beautiful fall morning, October 8, 1939. Bette Lee is welcomed by her grandparents, Edward and Francis Curtis and Guy and Josephine Stapp, Aunt Nelda and Uncle Albert Stapp, and Aunt Elsie and Uncle Ken Dale. She will be the first-born in a close-knit extended family. She will come to have two sisters, Janice Irene and Arvada Carol (Dee), and many cousins including Sharon, Sandra and Shirlee Stapp and Keith Dale.

Bette Lee will take her first steps on the hills of Petrolia and later move to the families ranch in Hetten Valley. The ranch house is one that was built by her great grandparents and will stand as a reminder of years gone by, some good and some good and hard.

Bette Lee will attend a one room school-house in Hetten Valley. Her first teacher will be Hazel Willburn. Hazel will greatly impact Bette’s love of learning and will make a way for her to pursue her education even into her adult years. She will introduce her to literature and with a turn of the page, the world will be hers.

Bette Lee will leave home at age thirteen to attend high school in Red Bluff. Her home only offered school through the eighth grade. She will complete her high school education at Fortuna High School and graduate with a full scholarship to Humboldt State University.

She will meet her husband, John L Elgin at a Ruth dance in the summer of…oh I don’t know the year, but they loved to dance. They will build a home together and make many memories with children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to come. Bette Lee and John L will have four children, Tracy Lee, Maxine Renee, Monica Norene and John Charles. They will share their home with many other children throughout the years. Those children will be “children of the heart” and will love her as a mother and she will tend to them as her own.

Bette Lee will have many talents as she will determine at an early age to be “more than just a pretty face.” She will teach herself to play the piano, she will enjoy drawing and painting. Her early years she will make paper dolls and dress them out of the Sears catalogue. This will lead to her interest in sewing clothes and will later serve as a gift to her children. When times are hard she will dig deep and let her imagination guide her. Shopping at the local thrift store for large clothing made of good cloth, she will make her daughters matching dresses and they will never know they were poor. Her sons will have western shirts made just right to fit and they will become a time-honored tradition.

There will be as many good times as bad time and Bette Lee will instill the love of life to her children. She will take an ordinary day and turn it into an extraordinary adventure. One such day will be in Trinidad on a foggy winter afternoon. She will long for her mountain home and the fun of playing in snow. On such a day, she will let her imagination play and soon she and her children will be crumpling paper and having an all out “snowball fight” laughter and giggling and papers tossed about. Her imagination and mindset will serve her well in raising her flock. There will be giant spider webs taking up the entire living room using a ball of yarn, there will be adventures of camping and swimming and road trips accross country. She will teach them how to live and let live, she will teach them how to go and to let go. But most of all she will teach them that they are valued and a part of something greater in this world.

Bette Lee will struggle and she will find her way. She will seek and she will find her feet on a solid foundation of Christ the redeemer. She will go back to school as an adult and get a doctorates degree in theology. She will establish Solid Rock Foundation Ministry, Hetten Valley Church, Bethany Garden Home and The Olive Branch Thrift Store. These ministries will fulfill her call to tend the sheep, to make a place in the wilderness for the lost and the abandoned. She will be adored by many and rejected by some. She will love them anyway.

She will live her life by design of The Creator and on November 26, 2017, He will take her home. She will leave, just as she has lived, in her own way and without hesitation.

(My Mom; this is the eulogy I could not write. May I now, once again, find my voice.)

Traditions of Deception

To the receiving hands of the ripped and torn children of the system, foster care and adoption. I have some advice. It is only my opinion so take it or return it. I write this with full knowledge that many won’t agree and I’m fine with that. These are just my thoughts followed by a powerfully written piece from my daughter when she was only five.

Be careful with the traditions of deception. I am not a Scrooge nor am I a religious one who hates costumes and candy. But I have some thoughts on Santa. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy too for that matter.

In the past 15 years, children have come to my home with broken foundations of trust. They have been lied to, traumatized and played. Physical and emotionally scared in ways that cause me to evaluate the traditions of deception. Ba-Humbug. I know, It all in fun.

Do you remember the age of discovery, the feeling in your belly when you realized there is no Santa. I do not. My family told the history and story of St Nicolaus and played the role of giving in the tradition of old. We hunted eggs and received gifts for our teeth all in the knowing that someone loved us and was delighted to gift us with surprises.

The Holiday tradition of casting a magical character that knows everything and will judge you naughty or nice and give you gifts based on merit, upsets my humanitarian mind. These children have no self-worth, often do not know that they are deserving of any good thing and furthermore, love people who have wronged them and society. It’s a heavy burden to carry. How many crying babies have to endure the traditional Santa pictures when they know full well this isn’t right. They are coaxed and encouraged and expected to put aside the naturally inherited protective fact, all for the traditional photo. You set them on a strangers lap and ask them to tell him what they want. He is a stranger, in a red costume! Freaky

I have been asked so many time as to when is it the right time to tell children that they were adopted? Let that sink in…it is their story. Tell the truth from day one. Do you question as to when to tell your biological children about their truth?

My girl told me this christmas story when she was five. She was secure in her attachment and belonging.

“On a dark winter night a man named Santa Clause came down our chimney. He snatched up Traven and Lillie when our parents were sleeping. He took them to make them work as elves. But one night we snuck out and borrowed his reign deer. Traven rode Rudolph and I rode the crazy one, I can’t remember his name…nope, can’t remember his name, but he was craaaazy. We got on in the night and flew home. I held on tight and said hyah-hyah. It was a crazy ride but we got home safe. We let the reign deer go back home but then Santa noticed that we were gone. He came back to get us and I wacked him with a stick when he came down the chimney. Then he went back to his home and left us alone.” Lillian Sayad

I love her courage I love her wit.

Give your children a foundation of wonder and imagination with a strong identity of truth.

via Daily Prompt: Torn

The House

The House on Wood Street is tall and imposing. I remember when I first saw her. I was driving a side street and I noticed behind the tall redwood tree’s there was a large bird of paradise plant with dramatic flowers. I didn’t really notice the structure itself. I remember the flower speaking, telling me to take notice.

I have lived in this house now over thirteen years. We were quiet content in our first home. It fit us wonderfully, on a hill with views and lots of natural light. When we opened our hearts to fostering we were quickly told it was not big enough for what our hearts and hands would welcome, so we moved to The House. She was built in 1904 and has withstood the hands of time with very few alterations. As we moved in on a cold winter day our first young momma came with her baby and her things. It was a house for others from day one.

Fostering has given way to adoption and I have always kept my mind on the original heart beat and vision. Every child deserves a home, a place of belonging and purpose. A place to launch from and a place to return. I know longing, and heart-break from a place of empty heart and womb. Adoption is a beautiful story of family for many individuals and the reasoning is as complex as those who make this choice. My story was somewhat more happen stance. I saw a need and I said yes and guess what, that does not make me a mom. My love for them does. There is this thing that happens, you wake up and notice you even love their stink. You want whats best for them even more than you want whats best for yourself. Sometimes that doesn’t lead to adoption but loving them from a distance and carrying them always in the place that only they can hold.

I do not require that the children of our family call me mom. I can read their faces and know their ways. I speak brokenness and miss trust fluently. “Mom” just the very word stirs up vision and expectation and some are not good. There is confusion and strings attached and I am patient. In my mind I am patient. I rationalize the lack of title and have fully convinced myself, I want to be fine with it.

One day I am doing my household chores, tending to the house. I take a break and sit outside and look up and the reflections in the window looks as if she is winking at me. Not teasingly but assuredly. I was fussing over my place and my identity, I will admit. I want to be the mom and I want all due respect. I want to be adored and favored, I want to be their everything…The House spoke to me, it was the oddest thing. She told me they were not ready and it will come, but for now she would stand in proxy. She would hold them in her belly, keeping them safe and warm. Sheltering them and giving them a place to heal. She will raise them up and never ask for anything in return. I was humbled, this is truth. The House on Wood Street stands in proxy for all the mom’s who could not, and I am honored to call her home.

I answer to many names; The sweetest name is the one that comes from them. It sounds like a song that only they can sing.

via Daily Prompt: Proxy