A Kinda Bedtime Story

I started the day on the wrong side of the bed, but it was Leo's side so it was a nice side of the bed. Somehow, every morning after he leaves, I end up crossways in the bed, using his pillow.

I don't even like flat pillows, but yet there I am. Do I secretly want the flat pillow and can't admit it?

Ever since we got married, he has liked flatter pillows; I use two fluffy pillows. I began to dread making the bed because when the pillows were put in their proper place, it was flat, then fluffy and sooo uneven. It assaulted my sense of balance and needing things in proper alignment and cohesiveness.

I stopped making the bed every single day. Now, how an unmade bed looks more balanced to me is a mystery that I have yet to solve. It makes no sense. None.

I have often thought about how we fix the bed, trying to make it look all pretty, just so we can mess it all up again that night. Why do we do it?

~ Nothing feels as nice as pulling back the covers and they are all smooth and not shoved in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. Or even worse, when you pull the covers up and the corner that should be draped over the side ends up in the middle. Ack. It's like having a flannel night gown twisted around your legs. Ack. Not that I wear a flannel nightgown or anything. Really.

~Because a bedroom should be relaxing and inviting, and a beautifully made bed is part of that invitation. I think that is one reason I do not make my bed and that is because I feel like I never get it to look that way. Flat then fluffy unevenness does not say "Hello baby...."

~It is kinda like doing the dishes. Eating off of a clean dish is a much more desirable experience. Ever eat off a dirty dish? No? We don't either and there's a reason. Hence, climbing into bed after a crazy day is just better when the bed has been prepared.

So what does that mean for me? Do I need to make a resolution? Oh no. I think I have written myself into a corner.

Or, it is a reason to get some pillows, redo the nonexistent headboard and make going to bed an experience. (I know what you're thinking. Stop it. ;) )

So here it is, fixed:

See how uneven that looks? No headboard, no adorable pillows. Better Homes and Gardens, I am not.
But, it's a start. And you know, and I know you can't ever finish unless you start somewhere.

Love,
Dianne

A Mac 'n Cheese Inspired Garden

I remember when boxed macaroni and cheese became a part of our family mealtime. My sister, Roxie, became the mac 'n cheese queen, making it with sloppy joe sandwiches every time she cooked.  Like every single Saturday that my mom was working, and one or two other random days in the week. We were glad she cooked, but we were all getting tired of the boxed macaroni and cheese, with green peas mixed into it, and sloppy joes. 

I was kinda glad when I got married at 18 and I didn't have to eat it anymore. 

Sad, but true. Sorry Roxie. 

Tonight we made Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. No added peas, but we did have a vegetable blend. No sloppy joe, but we did make fish. Sometimes a good ol' bowl of Mac 'n Cheese hits the spot. 

I know, I know, it's processed like crazy. It's not good for you. Healthy was not in the ingredient list, but for tonight, I enjoyed threading the little macaroni's onto my fork and eating them. 

Tomorrow I'll eat healthy, unprocessed food as I look through online seed catalogs and plan my garden for this year. I like to cook healthy for myself and my family, but it isn't always easy. Processed is so, well available. And easy. But....

There's always a "but" isn't there?

But, despite the mac 'n cheese of tonight, I have a goal. It's been a couple of years, actually it's been many years since I had a proper vegetable garden, but this year, I'm going to try. I'm actually excited about it. 

Except for the weeds, the groundhogs and the rabbits that is. 

But tomorrow, when I am eating salad from Food Lion purchased vegetables, I will think about my own VintageDandelion homegrown goodness and in spite of the snow and ice, I will be planning and scheming and dreaming. 

Cause, even though I don't like groundhogs, rumor has it that the proclamation of "Spring is just around the corner" was pronounced and I better get ready. 

Love,

Dianne

Trucks, Dogs, Mom Jeans and The Woods

I went for a 4 mile walk yesterday and it was glorious. Feeling the need to clear the cobwebs from my head, I felt wonderful as I bounced along listening to Celtic music. The spring in my step was undeniable and, in fact,  I had to try really hard not to dance as I walked by all our Amish neighbors houses. The same buggy with the gray-bearded gentleman passed me on three occasions as he made various stops along our shared route. I wondered if I should pick up the pace. Maybe if I had been dancing, I could have maintained my lead. 

The afore mentioned cobwebs were more like the tangled, sticky web that Frodo got tangled in as he made his way through Shelob's lair, but the brisk, chilly wind as I walked blew the knotted strands to nothing. Worked better than a sword. My thoughts were varied as I walked but this is what happens when those cobwebs dissipate: 

~Two trucks passed by, and two drivers honked. I waved, but had no idea who I was waving to. We tell our kids not to talk to strangers, and yet I wave. Do as I say and not as I do. Maybe they were honking so I would quit texting as I walked, which I discovered is difficult to do and not look stupid. Let's just say that I am glad I was wearing boots. And that horse manure is better than any other kind of animal manure to step in. 

~I am thankful that the little mean orange fluff dog stayed on his porch. I always wonder what I would actually do if the fluff ball would try to attack. How do you reasonably say, "But I had to kick him away" when it is a fluff ball for crying out loud. A mean fluff ball whose name is probably "Fang". 

~I am thinking about jeans and I wonder if what I am wearing constitutes "mom jeans". The kind that makes your butt look flat, shapeless and mom-like. And why does this bother me? I am a mom. I have given birth five times. I think I have earned the right to wear the mom jeans. But yet, I don't want to. I want to wear the "I am forty-two and fabulous" jeans. And wear them with pride. 

~Do the Amish wonder why I am walking? Do they wonder if I have a purpose, like going to the store or delivering a package? Why do I feel like they think I need a purpose? And why do I care exactly? And isn't just walking for enjoyment a purpose? I think it is, so why am I contemplating pulling a little red wagon behind me the next time I go? 

~Drinking water is quite a good thing to do when walking, but I have discovered that doing so only results in the need to use the bathroom. NOW! And when I am walking, I don't have too many options, but there is this patch of woods that has seen more of me than most people. At least I hope no one has ever seen me in the woods. Ever. And if you have, please DO NOT tell me. Feign innocence. 

And now I am back at home, my legs are doing that weird twitchy thing that happens after exercising, my ears are freezing, but I feel good. 

No more cobwebs. (And why is it every time I go to write cobwebs, I spell cowbells?)

Love,

Dianne

Back Into The Light

I stayed home from church this morning; the little guy is not feeling well. I think there my be a little exaggeration in the "not feeling well" part, but sometimes I just let it slide. We have all been sharing the germs here over the last two weeks and actually, a rest at home for me this morning felt nice too.

I don't like being sick. Ever. But then I read about people who have it so much worse and are quite critical and I think, "Yeah, I can handle a little flu". I am thankful for my family's overall good health. Yes, we get the "normal" stuff and the occasional not-so-normal rash (ever hear of a Christmas Tree Rash?), but in the end, we function.

The past couple days, for me, have been more of an internal sickness that no one can see. I have mentioned before about my struggles with depression over the years, and even though I have so many more "good" days than I used to, I still have days that this heavy blanket of darkness threatens to smother me.

I don't know why. I don't know where it came from this time, but there it was. Silent. Dark. Looming. Waiting to catch me at my most vulnerable moment.

I didn't want to write. I didn't want to do anything, but yet I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel something. I felt trapped in this lonely place. I didn't want to be there, I just felt like I didn't know where the door was to get out. Depression can be very ugly.

The door to get out. For me, the key to open that door varies. Sometimes, it's music. Sometimes, a person just asking if I am okay, someone who knows me and recognizes that I am trapped. Loves me in spite of it because I am not always lovable when I am in this place. I am harsher in my judgements and meaner in my words, which only adds to the guilt and suddenly I am locked in even tighter.

Bad mom. Bad wife. Bad Christian. The negative mantra plays over and over in my head like a stuck recording. I need to find a way out, even as I hear the lock click in place as one more padlock with chains is added to the door.

"Be still and know that I am God" A tiny lock falls away.

"His mercies are new every morning" I repeat this to myself, and this begins to replace the broken record I had been playing.

"Dare you to move, dare you to move, I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor..." Switchfoot plays in my head, and I take one step, then another and another. Left, right, breath. You are made for more than this. Left, right, breath.


Psalm 107:14-16  (NIV)
14 He brought them out of darkness, the utter darkness,
    and broke away their chains.
15 Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love
    and his wonderful deeds for mankind..."

I am tired of dragging around these chains, so tired. I toss one aside, then another. Then I stretch my arms out and I shake the rest off until I am free. The door is open and is that a glimmer of sunshine?

Depression is ugly. I have come a long way from living under that darkness almost every day. Now, I have clumps of days, random days that are far apart and oh, you better believe I am thankful for that. I am glad I can find my way out, even if it takes some time. But in that darkness, God is always there. His presence is palpable. His breath is warm on my face. I am aware like I am not any other time of how real He is.

I step into the light. The dark days are part of who I am and I may always have to deal with them, but I will deal with them. But never alone, never alone.

Love,
Dianne

Cops and Dance Fever

Twice in one week I had the pleasure of having red and blue flashing lights serenade me. 

Aren't I lucky? I mean, who wouldn't want the feeling of being in their own private Dance Fever? 

"Ah ah ah ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive..."

Except...

But...

You knew there was a "but" didn't you? 

But it wasn't Dance Fever; it was more like Cops. 

"Bad boys, bad boys watcha gonna do...?"

Well, one thing I am not going to do is speed up and go faster to see if I can get away, although that thought always flashes through my mind when I see the flashing lights. There is this little part of me that says, once, just once I should try it. There is this even bigger part of me that says, rather loudly I think, " I. Don't. Think. So!" So I don't. 

Twice pulled over, twice not speeding or weaving. Twice caught for having exactly one headlamp out. 

Now, I see lots of cars with headlamps out, but for some reason, my poor innocent Scarlet gets pulled over for closer inspection. Where is the justice? 

I thought about flipping my high beams on every time I see a police car so that both lamps would be lit, but then figured that could be misconstrued as me being an aggressive driver, and didn't. 

Now I have two warnings in my car, one from PA and one from MD. Hey, I could try for West Virginia and Ohio too. How many warnings do you think I could get before a fine gets slapped on?

All this makes me think about God. He gives me warnings and He gives me second chances, but He is also just. If I am in the wrong, I know it. I need to seek forgiveness and I need to make it right. God doesn't just see me as a "bad girl, bad girl", but He sees me as His child and He wants me to be "stayin' alive, stayin' alive". His grace abounds in bountiful abundance. 

And that's what I learned from a burned-out headlamp. 

Oh, and that I need to get it fixed, posthaste as it were. 

Love,

Dianne

Another "Happy" Adieu To School

This morning it was confirmed.
I. Am. Not. A. Morning. Person.

It would seem that every time I get up with my school age youngsters, the morning ends in a crashing pile of words and misread looks. I mistake the teasing as arguing and jump in to save the day. Instead, my cape gets tangled and I fall flat on my face. Again.

My kids are so used to dealing with their mornings without me that when I do appear (really, it's like magic) I throw everything off kilter. I just don't "do" their normal routine well.

This morning, Adrienne was going to take the three youngest to school as she had to be at work in town at the same time they needed to be arriving at the school. Perfect plan, until a broken zipper on a backpack, a stuffy nose and eyes that looked sad,  and someone watching the clock with eagle eyes to make sure they weren't late, happened.

I added my two cents worth of opinion about the backpack, had to check a forehead and take a temperature. All the while, two of my girls are teasing and commenting and I just was not taking it well.
I need a morning therapist.

(Ohhh, that's why there's coffee?)

So, now suddenly I am on the defensive and someone is saying that I am always taking the side of this child over the others, and I am feeling like I am babying another one, and why don't I just stay in bed?
Really what I wanted to say was ?!@#%%#$?/ you bad mother!!

Some days, it really doesn't take much does it? To show just how human, how very human I am.
I sigh loudly (even though there is no one around now to hear it) and I wipe a stray tear that has spilled over from my suddenly full eyes. I want to be that perfect mother, up at dawn, fully dressed and coiffed, preparing a healthy balanced breakfast for my offspring. I want to greet them with a smile and a perfect Bible verse for the day. I want to send them off with a prayer and a song in their hearts.

But, this is usually how it goes:
Poptarts or cereal are on the menu, or if Heather is in her groove, she makes eggs for herself and Ryan.
I may venture forth, in pjs or sometimes just wrapped in a blanket, with my eyes squinted shut against all the lights they have on. Seriously, they turn them all on in the morning. I may mumble a "good morning" and they all gag at my morning breath. If needed, I sign a planner or divvy out lunch money, usually grumbling that it wasn't done the night before when I was perky and pleasant. Then off they go out the door. Sometimes I would drive them up the lane and sometimes I have prayed with them before they go. All in all, not my vision of how I want to be.

Am I going to change? Should I change? In some ways, yes, I need to make more of an effort. I don't have to be Marion Cunningham or June Cleaver, but I can smile a little and give a word of encouragement. I don't have to fit into perfection, because what I find is that in trying to do that, it only leads to disappointment and anger at myself. A vicious cycle that only ever spirals downward.

I may never be a chirpy, chipper, bouncy, vibrant morning person, but I can at least shine a wee bit brighter. And that's before the coffee.

Lamentations 3:22-23 (NIV)

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,

    for his compassions never fail.

 They are new every morning;

    great is your faithfulness.

Love,
Dianne

My Today Resolution: When I get up in the morning, don't be perfect, be myself, but do it with a little more patience and a lot more grace. 

The Day of the French Toast Demise

The year was 1981. I was eleven years old and in the 6th grade. Young and impressionable, I walked hesitantly into the Home Economics room at Northern Middle School. My knee socks were pulled up to my knees, my skirt was on straight and my blouse was tucked in neatly. So why was I nervous?

We were going to be placed at tables and this would be our group for the cooking lessons. Believe it or not, I was shy at times and unsure of myself, especially with people I didn't know well, or I felt didn't look at me beyond my "Mennonite-ness". I was not looking forward to being put into a group. Not at all.

But then, there I was, at a table with Jencene (my cousin and best friend!), Kenton (my cousin), Jerry (another cousin) and, if I remember correctly, I think the other person was Ken (who I had known since Kindergarten and we rode the same bus). Whew. I was saved. I could relax. I was still in my comfort zone.

Until....

Until The French Toast Lesson.

French Toast. How hard could this be? I had helped my mother make this dish for Saturday lunches and it didn't seem complicated or unreasonable. But then again, she didn't follow a recipe, she just cooked.

I do not remember the recipe. I just know we had to work as a team in our assigned kitchen cubicle. Maybe there were just too many of us. Maybe there were just too many "Bender's" in the kitchen, too many Mennonites. Whatever the case, our French Toast was not the French Toast the recipe promised.

One side of the toast was burnt.
The other side was raw and drippy with eggs and milk.
With a sprinkle of nutmeg.

After preparing this dish we were supposed to sit down at our properly set table, with all the correct spoons, forks, knives and napkins...and eat our creation.

Eat it? I don't think so. Even if this was part of our grade, I didn't think I could do it.  Even sprinkled with powdered sugar, I didn't think I could do it.
I'd rather have a  "C".

So, we sat down, made a pretense of eating, all the while plotting how to discreetly get rid of the mess.
The plan: Jerry would take the plate of half burnt/half raw French toast and as he walked past the garbage can, he would put it behind his back and using his hand, slide the stuff into the garbage. Ta-da!

But, as Jerry walked past the garbage can, so did the teacher, and as he scraped the sloppy pile of toast off the plate, he missed the can and down it went onto the floor with a satisfying squooshy splat. The teacher paused, frowning, but did not say anything that I can remember. Jerry just bent down and scooped up the sad pile of toast and deposited it in the trash.

I think I could hear "Taps" playing softly in the distance.

Young and impressionable, my assumption that all Mennonites could cook, was just burnt up in a skillet. What was this? Cooking took work and effort? It didn't just happen as a hereditary gift?
Shocking, I know.

I learned something that day. No, not how to make French toast, but that anything in life that is to be done well, takes practice and effort. Following directions is helpful too, and not assuming that I already know how it's done. I don't remember anything else we made that year in Home Ec, but I remember this day and what I learned.

And you thought Home Ec was just about cooking and sewing didn't you?

Love,
Dianne

The Slide Show

A day was spent together with aunts, uncles and cousins. Games were played, much food was eaten, and conversation abounded. The kids played upstairs in the one big open bedroom, making the lights downstairs shake. The adults played Rook or Shanghai around square card tables. Memories were always made when the Bender family gathered at the farm.

I love my cousins. :) Guess which one I am.

Evening rolled around and nobody really wanted to leave. Someone would mention looking at the old slides. Sometimes it seemed like they just couldn't be found (or was it the thought of having to go look for them amidst the sundry items in the back bedroom with a corner that was used as an attic). But, the best evenings were when the big screen would be brought out, the slide carousals with their carefully arranged squares would be set up, and the projector would be plugged in.

The living room furniture would get pushed around so the living room would become our own private "movie" theatre. Popcorn would be popped and pillows propped. The light switch would be flipped off as the projector beam illuminated the screen. In the beam, dust mites danced and the musty, dusty smell of the screen filled the air. Someone would have to put their hand up into the beam, making bunnies and dinosaurs appear as animated shadows. Then the picture show would begin.

"Awww, look how cute she was!" was the comment for any of my aunts as babies and young girls. Or for that matter, any children, even if we weren't sure who they were. I think I see Aunt Sharon on this one. The cute shy one.

I do believe that's Sharon with her awesome car in the next slide. A Ford Maverick? A Pinto? Or maybe a Chevy Vega?

(No, I don't really know cars that well. I had to ask Leo.)




"Wow! Was that Darwin?" was the comment for my dad. I am sure my dad was looking ornery as always. See the evidence below. See the handsome lad in the back row? In the middle? Yep, that's him.

Maybe the orneriness he comes by honestly. 

Maybe from my Uncle Oren, my Grandpa and Uncle Carl. 

Of course, Aunt Jane doesn't look un-ornery in this picture either. 

"Don't they look "schnook?" was the consensus for photos of young couples dating or in the early years of married life.  Especially the ones with my mom and dad. Of course. 

This one was at their baby shower.

 And then after my sister Kimberly was born. 

Schnook, so schnook. 

Cute, as it were. 

A favorite picture of my mom. 

Old cars, old furniture, funny clothes and hairstyles. My grandparents looking young and my dad and his siblings even younger. The farmhouse as is was back in the day. We loved to look at these pictures and hear the stories as memories were evoked.










Then the "newer" slides showing some of the grandkids would be shown and we liked to pick each other out and then pick on each other just a little, and always in good fun. New memories were being made from the vintage ones. I am conveniently missing from this slide. Oops. 

Soon, too soon, the last carousal was flipped through, the popcorn and homemade root beer long gone, and the moon was high in the sky. Time to gather the coats off my grandparents bed and bundle up for the three-mile ride home. Goodbyes were said and sleepy children carried to the cars.

Photos, whether in slides, old home movies, or as they are today in digital, tell a story. They capture a moment in time that might have otherwise been forgotten, or grown hazy like a dream. Today, all it took was just a hint of a smell that reminded me of that musty, dusty screen and I was a girl again, waiting for the first slide.

Love,
Dianne

Shining in the Dark

"You are the light of the world.

A city on a hill cannot be hidden.

Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.

Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.

In the same way, let your light shine before men, 

that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in Heaven.

Matthew 5:14-16 NIV

"Do everything without complaining or arguing,

so that you may become blameless and pure,

children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation,

in which you SHINE LIKE STARS in the universe

as you hold out the word of life..."

Philippians 2:14-16

Lights go out, and the light goes on in my head. 

Here is our evening, spent in darkness, but only in physical darkness,

and for that I am thankful. 

Last night, the electricity was out for a couple of hours. 

The candles were lit, 

the little boy was super excited 

and we roasted mini marshmallows on toothpicks. 

They tasted like potpourri.

All available candles were lit. 

Our one working kerosene lantern shone brightly-ish. 

Heather turned on her Japanese lanterns. 

We are thankful for batteries. 

Ryan had the most fun.

I mean, flashlights are fun no matter how old you are,

especially when you need to use them. 

Then as the evening darkness continued one...two...two and one-half hours,

my bed got filled with my three youngest, reading books. 

And not a one of them was reading the Little House books.

Where oh where have I gone wrong? 

But, they were reading and for that, I am thankful once more. 

The darkness and the shadows were not threatening. 

We were together, the house was warm and the love between family members, even warmer. 

I was at a place of contentment and peace.

Believe me, I haven't always been there, and I often lose sight of the path,

but when those moments are illuminated, I am thankful. 

Even thankful for the dark times, because it makes these moments shine even brighter. 

So, when the lights go out, whether literally, or in my mind, or when I see someone else 

struggling in a dark place, 

I need to remember, and I need to shine.

“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”
― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

So maybe, just maybe, when the pit is at it's deepest and darkest, I can reach out with a light to help. 

Or if I am in the pit, I can reach up and grasp the flicker of hope that I see. 

And as a fan of The Lord of the Rings, I leave you with one last thought: 

“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

May I be a light as God has called me to be. 

Love,

Dianne

SuperButton Sunday

It all started with a few buttons.

(Well, maybe it was more than just a few buttons.) 

And time, because that is usually what I am short on.

Sunday afternoon, after a Sunday afternoon nap, after a Saturday nightshift...

I don't want to straighten anything up, I don't want to do the dishes,

I don't want to run a load of laundry through. 

I want to do something creative-ish. 

So, buttons. 

Button, button, who's got the button?

Who remembers playing this game? 

Only involves one piece of equipment and multiple children.

I'll let you guess what equipment is needed. 

Here's a hint:

However, for my craftiness today, I needed not only buttons and a few beads, but string. 

I like jute. 

Jute sometimes likes me, unless the buttonholes are too small. 

I played around with various combinations and ideas for getting the bracelets on and off. 

Note: Jute does not stretch to get over chunky knuckles. 

 I like the look of these. I am partial to purple. 

Who wouldn't be?

And pearls. 

Purple and pearls. 

Sigh. 

Still playing around. 

I like neutral colors combined together too. 

They have a calming effect. 

Red and black? Not so much. But that was Ryan's favorite. Should I be surprised? 

I didn't even watch the Superbowl. 

Instead I got distracted in the buttons and watched a video with Heather and Ryan. 

Remember The Absentminded Professor? 

Is there really any better way to spend a Sunday afternoon and evening? 

Unless of course, it was the Steelers playing in the Superbowl...

Love,

Dianne