Decision made

Yeah, it's been awhile.  Sorry about that.  The kids got sick again in mid-April, a doozy of an infection lasting several weeks over the three boys.  I swear next fall I am going to neti-pot, musinex, eucalyptus oil, zinc and vitamin C the heck out of my family at the first sign of a sneeze.  Whatever it takes, I am on it.

Benjamin's asthma doc decided it would be best if he had his tonsils out.  It will open up his airway and reduce the number of URIs he gets.  Kinda scary, but if it helps in the long run, great.  Of course I have been reading all about tonsillectomy horror stories on the internet, like any anxious mother worth her salt should do.  Right now the surgery is scheduled for June 13, but I will probably need to reschedule, because of ...  a decision we've made.

A decision we've been forced to make, really.  My job is likely to disappear in the next year or so.  I can't really go into the details, which would involve me cursing a lot.  I'd really like to, but I won't.  In any case, in April I was "warned" that my position was "on shaky ground" and that "something is going to happen" before the beginning of the next fiscal year.  Of course, back in February when I asked whether my position was in any danger of being eliminated, I was told 'No.'  Nothing like a cold dose of ambiguity to start your day.

So, I have to transfer.

Openings in my department pop up every few months or so. The whole hiring process takes about four weeks from the first day the position is posted.  So, that's four weeks of not knowing whether you have the job or not.  Four weeks of not knowing whether you will get to pull up stakes and move quickly, or whether you will have to wait for the next job that opens up.

The not-knowing thing drives me crazy.  It's hard to make plans, not knowing where we'll be in one month, three months, six months, etc.  I applied for one opening in late April, made it to the interview, but didn't get it.  Another opening was posted last week, and I sent in my application.  I'll get a call later this week for an interview, which will probably take place sometime next week.

The new job will mean more money, which is good.  But it means leaving a home and a community we love.  It means pulling the kids out of school and having them leave all their friends.  We've already sold the goats (to a farm three miles down the road), and I will have to find a home for the chickens.  And we will have to sort through everything we have accumulated in our ten years here, figuring out what to pack, what to toss, and what to give away.  (Garage sales don't work very well when you live ten miles from town.)  It means finding a temporary place to live in a new town.  It means getting approved for another mortgage, finding and buying a new home, and then trying to sell this house.  When I think about all of it, I am overwhelmed.

So, blog friends, that is why I haven't posted in so long.  Lots of changes in the air, lots of uncertainty.  And being the control freak that I am, I don't do well with uncertainty.  I'm trying to be very Zen about it.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.  Unless we are incredibly lucky and find another fourteen acre farmstead to live on, I will have to rename this blog.  We are trying to be optimistic.

Like I said, it's the not-knowing that kills me.  I feel like I'm in a holding pattern, circling above the airport waiting for clearance to land.  At this point I don't know when we'll land, and I don't know where we'll land.  I just hope I don't run out of fuel.

A few things growing

Celeriac and leek.

Tomatoes.

Cabbage and cauliflower.

Broccoli.

A few young asparagus I grew from wild seed.

Self-seeded chamomile.

My tarragon survived the winter on the deck with no protection!  Amazing.

I also started some calendula, sweet pea, basil and cumin this evening.  The cumin is an experiment--we'll see how this Asian spice does in western Minnesota.

Raised beds

We will be using raised beds for the first time in the garden this year. 

This afternoon hubby put together six of them.  We plan on building more, when time allows.  They are made from untreated pine.I'm thinking about whitewashing them, in an effort to have them last longer.  I'm not sure if that would work, though. 

Graham practiced with a hammer and nails while hubby was building the beds. It was a beautiful, albeit windy day for playing and working outside.  Tonight it's forecast to drop down to the low 20's.  I'm kinda glad I haven't planted anything in the garden yet.  I hope my garlic, now eight inches tall, survives the freeze.

Winter's leave

Last week we received six inches of new snow.  It came down in heavy flakes over the course of an afternoon and evening, covering everything with a woven blanket of white. Not since November have we had this much snowfall, and a part of me realized that despite the headache of shoveling and scraping and waiting for the plows, I had missed it.  I had missed the snow.

I missed the stillness that only a long day of falling snow can give.  Stillness so great it binds everything and everyone within it.  I missed the beauty of frost coating branches and limbs, turning every tree into a chandelier of crystal ice.

I missed the winter nights--how a ground covered in snow can take a full moon's light and radiate it tenfold back to the heavens.  Moonlit snow in winter weakens the boundaries of night and day.  Too bright for night and too dark for day -- a moonlit walk in the heart of winter is treading into myth.

I don't think I could live in a place without winter.  Not for very long, anyway. Despite my anxieties and worries about sicknesses and travel woes, winter is a part of me.  And it always will be.

This small patch of winter weather was short-lived, however.  The sun has come out and the temperature is rising.  The frost is gone and melt water is dripping from the eaves.

It seems that spring is just around the corner.  The sap is running in the trees and geese are filling the sky.  Soon we will open doors and windows and welcome the sun back to our northern land.

And I too will welcome the sun back with open arms.  But not before giving winter a long kiss goodbye.