View from the Prairie Box

Livia, sweetly reading a book on the artist Matisse to our dog Shiloh:
Sometimes I like art. [page turn]
Sometimes I like little villages. [page turn]
Sometimes I like naked men. [page turn]

Mommy:
Um, what? [pause] Show me that page. [checks out the sexless nude figures] Ahhhh. Now, read it to me again… [busily types, mutters under breath] so I can share it with the world wide web…

Today we finally got around to joining our library’s summer reading program. One of the activities a child can do for credit is read to a pet. So tonight Livia picked up some books on famous artists, sat down with Shiloh nearby, and began to read aloud in words a simpleton like the dog could understand. After she saw me recording our previous conversation, she asked me to write down the book in it’s entirety. Here is the book on Matisse, according to Livia, thoroughly enjoyed by Shiloh.

**************

I like this antique picture.
Oooh, this one’s pretty. I like this village, too.
I like this picture of naked men, too. Playing music. (Un-propriate!)
Sometimes I like to look at this picture of fish.
Sometimes I like to look at these men again, which is swirling around and is an old painting, too.
I like this old antique house.
Sometimes I like to have feasts with all sorts of kind of food, even fish, and the fish are dead. And also it’s an old painting.
I also like this bowl of fruit painting. It’s nice.
And I like this picture of a lady playing a piano and boys playing checkers.
And I like this picture of a lady sleeping in a pretty dress.
The end.

I just deleted an entire post on gardening. It seemed boring and I’m not sure anyone else is interested in the topic. So if you actually read my posts on gardening, let me know.

Is anyone blogging any more?

I love that, after we told you that you may not ask to hang out with our neighbor friend (a male approximately 22 years old), that you later sobbed to me, “It’s just that I’m so attracted to him!”

I love that you bring me flowers multiple times a day and that you delight in giving them to me.

I love that you asked if my throat hurt tonight—because if it did, you would only ask for one song. But since it felt okay, you requested two.

I love that, when I guessed the next plot point on tonight’s tv show, you turned to me with amazement and asked in awe, “How did you know that?” I felt like a genius in those few seconds.

I love that you call your daddy a genius and that you didn’t listen to me that one time I tried to tell you otherwise. Without fully meaning to, I was being a jerk. But you forgot what I said and you still call him a genius. And I’m starting to believe you’re right. He is a genius, our genius, and we love him to death.

I love that you wanted to see what I bought at the mall today. And that you oohed and ahhed and commented on the absolute cuteness of each article of clothing, even though one was a pretty basic white shirt. I think you noticed the subtle details that made it so cute in the first place.

I love that you slept in longer than me and your dad this morning and that, when I came to wake you up, you stretched out, long and lean, then curled up tight again and went back to sleep again. For a moment I could imagine teenage Livia doing that very thing. But then you stuck your fingers in your mouth, and that darned bad habit was briefly welcomed because it broke my vision of the future, a vision that had you getting big way too fast.

Oh Livia Raine, our lives would be so boring, so mundane, so colorless without you. We thank God for creating you because you have filled our hearts with more love than we thought possible. You, dear sweet kiddo, are amazing. And you are loved.

Flowers make me happy. I know several gals who’d rather receive a potted plant or a foot massage or have the trash taken out rather than get flowers from their spouses. I am not that girl. I think this is why I love spring so much. I love the bursts of color coming from my yard right now and slowly Livia is learning to adore them, too. This morning she kept yelling for me to come outside to see something. When I turned the corner I admired her discovery: the first little rose blooming on our David City rosebush. (We have a small rosebush from Jeremy’s grandparents’ home in David City, Nebraska. It’s extra special to me.)

Most plants in our yard come from unglamorous origins. The peony pictured above came from Sam’s Club many years ago. Most bulbs died, but two survived and continue to make me happy year after year. Other blooms have come from garden store shopping trips over the past ten springs. There’s the clematis from Earl May, the pincushion flower from a neighborhood greenhouse, the gorgeous blue Columbines that Jeremy picked out from a location I can’t recall. The gardens are a constant work-in-progress. Some plants naturally die out after a few years; others are victims of rabbits or over-eager weed spraying. Some are divided and transplanted in better locations where they thrive with more or less sunshine.

I cringe to think of moving and leaving our beloved yard behind. I want to dig up each plant and take it with us. But Jeremy has a more positive take on the move. He reminds me that we can start again—and, I daresay, we’ll be smarter about it this time around. We’ll use the last ten years of knowledge to start something new. Like an artist with a blank canvas, we’ll see endless possibilities in a new space. And hopefully the new Prairie Box homeowners, whoever they are, will enjoy the peonies when they come up, fresh and lovely, next spring.

**Update on moving. No, we haven’t sold the house. No, it’s not on the market yet. We’ve got a few more renovations to make before listing it. But if you or someone you know would like a lovely 1915 home with three bedrooms, let me know!

She questioned the orange goo that had formed on the edge of the popsicle. I told her it was no big deal. She finished it off, no problem, and continued to pull leaves from the nearby bush.

Bring it on, summer. My sticky, popsicle-lovin’ girl and I are ready for you!

My brothers and dad haven’t seen my elbow up close, so I thought I’d post a few shots. Clearly, this is not for the squeamish.

The pic on the left shows the stitches and surgical marks made on my right elbow. The swelling had gone down quite a bit by the time I took this photo. Really, everything looks pretty good! The pic on the right shows the pressure sleeve I’m supposed to wear and the mysterious-yet-ridiculously painful bruising I have on my wrist and hand. I’ve punted the sleeve in recent days because wearing it over that dang bruise hurts big time.

The surgery itself was successful. I have RA and my elbows have taken quite a hit in terms of joint damage. To increase motion and decrease pain in my right elbow, we opted for surgery to clean out the joint. We prayed quite a bit that the procedure would restore movement there, and praise God, it did. I’m glad to have the surgery behind me. Now comes exercises and therapy to get in top shape again.

While I love the captured moment of fun between Joie and me (we always have fun), the close-up of my face every time I open my browser is freaking me out. So I’m moving on.

This, my friends, is the gorgeous Angora rabbit who lives at Toad Hall. She belongs to Anita, who, in turn, assists Denis & Margie Haack with the work of Ransom Fellowship. I got to visit Toad Hall during one of my Rochester trips and it was so great to hang out with the Haacks a bit. I’ve long admired their ministry and writings. Margie’s Notes from Toad Hall inspired the beginnings of the Prairie Box. So thanks for that, Margie!

Honeysuckle is pretty darn sweet. I suppose I have something of an affection for soft white furry critters.

I went up to Mayo last week for surgery on my right elbow. I am currently pleasantly relaxed in front of Netflix, my dog curled up at my feet, a Diet Mountain Dew on the table before me. Blogging while drugged isn’t very wise, but I’m doing it nonetheless. Getting around without full use of one’s arm takes a certain getting used to. I’m so grateful for Jeremy’s selflessness in caring for me—and Livia’s big seven year old attitude goes a long way in making do for the time being. Mercy meals from church friends are keeping us afloat, while my mom’s nursing expertise eases my mind and cares for the details that come up during recovery.

While I get back to normal, I think y’all should leave me links to interesting, thoughtful, funny, etc articles to read online. Either that or bring me something good to read for realz. Thanks!