Thursday, January 31, 2008
I scooted off the end of the tissue paper exam table. "Sure. Why?" I asked.
"Your sonogram," she said, quickly.
Huh? I laughed. Then sighed. "Maybe there's been a chart mixup. I'm not pregnant. Could you check again?"
She gave me a long look and asked my name. Then she gave the chart a long look. Then she gave me another long look. "Come with me, please," she repeated, her eyes narrowing.
"But I'm not pregnant!" I insisted. "Why do I need a sonogram?"
"Doctors orders!" she barked. "Leave your purse here."
There are several things I really don't like. Like liver. Screaming babies in nice restaurants. Stupid drivers. Rap. Hillary Clinton. The movie Fargo. And mean nurses.
Oh, and maybe un-pregnant sonograms. They're creepy. I thought the first time I had one I'd be accompanied by a handsome, excited husband and we'd be talking baby names: James or ...? What's your mom's maiden name again? I didn't think I'd be topless in some room with a machine and a beady-eyed radiologist sporing a thin mustache. I could think of better ways to spend a Wednesday.
A few hours and several people poking my chest later, the doctor came in. "If you were trying to find a baby, I could have saved you the work," I said jokingly. "Besides, your creepy radiologist sonogrammed by boobs." She laughed. I love my doctor.
"You have a small bleeding hematoma in your left breast," she said.
"I'll take it," I said.
Thank God it wasn't breast cancer. I've been really, really concerned.
I left the hospital and stopped in Target to get some bottled water. And mittens. I'm not sure why I bought mittens, but I did. Like eight of them.
Might have to have a little work done tomorrow. Thought I'd be up front about it all in the hopes that it will save me some email answering and a plethora of phone calls. If you haven't heard from me lately, this is why. And if you don't hear from me for a few more days, this is why.
In the meantime, my new mittens and I hold you close to my heart.... -Brin
Monday, January 28, 2008
Also, to those of you who rushed over to order Scrappy Bags, thanks. That's a few of them, above. I was tickled with the way they came together, and hope you will be, too. They're all in the mail... straight to you from Freeman House. Enjoy! (And you should know that a percentage of all Freeman House Shop purchases goes toward youth outreach ministries in east Texas. So God bless y'all real good, too.)
Yep, today we're doing instead of talking. (Or reading online devotionals.) So smile at someone today. Make a phone call. Send a letter. Buy someone dinner. Pray for someone. Tell someone you love them. It doesn't take much to matter.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The worst thing about being sicker than a dog-kicking nun-tripper is you miss out on so much: meals you have to chew... sunny afternoons... church. But the up side is satisfactory enough: leisure hours.
I love being in my room. Miss it when I'm away. So today, after forcing myself to wash and hang curtains out to dry (blech), I settled into fluffy pillows to watch CBS Sunday Morning. Do y'all ever catch it? I became addicted while working for CBS, and it's my favorite info-tainment program ever.
Anyway, add to the sunny morning a stop-in from a darling friend (bearing pink tulips... enough for a pot on each nightstand!), and I'm in sick business. Can't seem to stop glancing over at the two beautiful pots on either side of my comfy, cozy bed and gasping at the pretty sight.
Tomorrow I'll be well, but I think I'll be sick right here for the rest of the day. You would probably want to, too, if you were here.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
I came down with something nasty Thursday night. I got out of bed twice yesterday, I think - once to take out the trash and once to see to the mail. Nearly fell over in the road and rested both times. I kept thinking that maybe I was just really tired, for some reason, until I realized that I dialed my telephone banking service and had somehow pressed "2" instead of "1" and had been responding to the nice Spanish-speaking lady. For 14 minutes and 36 seconds. I can't be sure, but I may have transferred all my money to Guatemala. Yep, think I'm sick. So I took something and watched Monk and then slept. Slept and slept and slept.
When most people are sick they want chicken soup and flat Dr. Pepper and Saltines and things of that nature, right? Not me. When I'm sick I (never fail) wish for the following: chocolate pudding and orange juice. Cold things. Always. But this time I've prayed for peanut butter cookies and iced tea. (My peanut butter cookies. I may be partial, but they're the best.) Since I'm not eating carbs at the moment... and haven't been in almost a month... the cookies would have to wait. So iced tea it is. Let's talk tea.
It should be noted that southern iced tea is nothing like its hot, British counterpart. (I was surprised to learn this week that one in every eight people who read this blog are reading from somewhere in the United Kingdom. So I hope one in eight of you doesn't take offense.) Sweet iced tea is a concoction all its own, and although every family has its own method... usually involving a special pot or kettle... here's how my mother taught me. And I should point out that we're both known for our iced tea.
Southern Iced Tea
½ cup loose tea leaves, or 2 family-sized tea bags
2 ½ cups cool water
1 cup sugar, or preferred sweetener to taste
Pour cool water into a saucepan over medium high flame. Add tea leaves or tea bags. (I like Luzianne. Have always used Luzianne.) Heat just until boiling, then remove from heat and allow to steep for 5 minutes. Pour brewed tea into a clean gallon pitcher or jar. Add cold water until pitcher is almost full. Stir in sugar until dissolved. Keep in back of refrigerator for a few hours before serving.
Since I'm staying away from flour and sugar, I usually have two tea pitchers stirred up and ready: sweet and unsweet. I prefer my tea with Stevia and mint... or sometimes with lime... but most of my favorite folks prefer it as described above. (With a few exceptions, of course. My mom never drinks hers without lemon, and her mom stirs 1 1/2 cups sugar into her pitcher.)
Yes, I realize it's crazy to be talking tea in the dead of winter. But you almost forget it's winter with a glass of sweet tea at your lips. (This coming from the girl who puts "freshly cut grass" and "sweet tea" at the top of her Favorite Things Ever list....)
I'm also the girl who needs to call her bank and see what in the world kind of Spanish transfers I made yesterday.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
In fact, I have been. And in doing so, I realized there's enough to share. So if you've been itching for a bag full of new odds and ends, head on over to the Freeman House Shop on Etsy and grab one of your very own. But hurry. There aren't many.
No pretty piece pressure or anything. *wink*
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The dining room is doubling as an indoor potting shed today. It's too cold to be out but seeds won't usually jump in dirt and sprout themselves. Soil and spades and seeds on the floor and table? Oh my. My Mother would strongly disapprove. If you'd told me that one day I'd have a rambling old house to scatter organic soil in as I pleased, I would have been incredulous. And horrified. But mostly incredulous. I love this old place.
Along that line, some exciting things happened here yesterday. BIG THINGS. Lovely, lovely, happy things. Let's just say that Freeman House is expanding. In square footage and online! Remember the new blog/website I mentioned? I hope you'll love it as much as I do. And can you say Freeman House Cottage? (Excuse me while I do a little dance.) We're making room for guests and gardens. Think homemade cookies and lavender lemonade. Country sky star gazing. Porch-side knitting classes. Line-dried, quilt-covered beds. Herb gardens. A library. Fences threaded with tangles of roses. Old bicycles and creek-side trails.
Yep. You love it. Almost as much as I do. It's thrilling around here, I'm telling you. Even the sun's emerged to check it out....
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Due to a generous bonus from an oil company client, I treated myself to a KitchenAid stand mixer this Christmas. It's enormous and has all the attachments and hooks and motors. It's also still in its box. Until I have need of making meringue or homemade whipped cream, it's staying there.
Kid you not. I am not crazy about noisy kitchen gadgets. I am over-the-moon crazy for quiet old spoons. This weekend I bought another ancient wooden spoon to add to my growing collection of ancient wooden spoons. I have several that are hand-carved. I have others that are worn smooth and thin with time. All of them wordlessly brag of generations of care and use. I wrap my fingers around their handles and wonder where they came from. What they've made. I wonder whose birthday cake they mixed. Whose soup they stirred. Whose bottom they paddled. (wink)
And please don't get me started on rolling pins. I collect wooden ones, of course. Just the wooden ones. They're so romantic; one glance tells you someone... somewhere... used these beauties to fill a pie safe and feed their sweetheart. I imagine cherry pies with lattice tops and golden buttermilk biscuits and thick, crumbly sugar cookies and bubbly chicken pot pies and hot, fried peach pockets. I can just picture the pin in a drain board, all clean and dripping, as its family scoots up to the old farmhouse table to eat their dinner and grin their grins.
Tell me that's not more romantic than a noisy KitchenAid mixer. Yes, I'm looking forward to adding to the legacy of my spoons and pins. It's only the modern that ever becomes old fashioned, after all....
(Side Note: Please be sure to get in on the chance to win a FREEMAN HOUSE CARE PACKAGE by helping our friends at A Place to Bark. You just may find yourself the winner of an antique rolling pin to go with that book and apron! See sidebar for details.)
Monday, January 21, 2008
Oh, but we're all about the charm and the beauty. To us... even as Christians... the measure of a woman is her beauty and charm.
I've been giving this some thought lately. With my marriage over and buried a year ago this past weekend, folks around me are strongly encouraging me to get back into the dating scene. Over Christmas, even family and friends bombarded me with: Are you seeing anyone? and, I've found the perfect guy for you! Yeah. Sure you have. I've laughed.
Yesterday a friend asked me, What ARE you looking for in a guy, Brin? I paused and then gave my standard Patty Griffin answer: "strong and kind and clever". And what should he be looking for in you? my wise friend asked. This time I paused but said nothing.
It's a shame, I think. As we raise our children, we teach them to look for someone smart. Mannerly. Beautiful. We coach them to find someone with good teeth or hair... a good work ethic... good automobiles... good families. We encourage our sons to find a pretty girl... especially one who can cook or isn't afraid to work. We tell our daughters to go after the quarterback... or at least not to settle for an unattractive man who treats her poorly or won't spend money on her.
And those things are important. To all of us. But they're not the point. We're missing the point entirely. We're tossing dozens of arrows at the target and missing the bulls eye. We're buying the deception and gift wrapping it for those around us. We're entrusting our family tree to diploma-carrying, pressed-khaki-wearing, Comedy Central-watching, income-potential-offering young people who have no willingness or desire to exemplify the single characteristic we should be crying out for: a person who fears the Lord.
Where am I going with this? I'm going here: we have it all wrong. As we look at ourselves in the mirror, our potential or current partners out of the corner of our eye, and our family trees down the line, we're still scribbling "charm" and "beauty" at the top of our must-have lists. We're placing far too much emphasis on the external at the expense of the eternal. We're becoming shallow, in this world and of it people who dishonor our God by the priorities we choose and the people we chase.
Strong, kind, and clever. Hmm. I do want a man like that. And charming and beautiful? I want to be that girl, too. But above all, my heart and my family tree cries out for someone who fears the Lord. Where are these people?
Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting, but a significant other... a child... a friend... an in-law... an ordinary man or ordinary woman... who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Start by digging deep, deep down in the freezer for the strawberries you lovingly grew, picked, and hulled back in June. Plop them into the prettiest old bowl you have and let them thaw. Gently crush with a fork until you have one cup of mushed strawberries. Tip into a saucepan and cook, over medium heat, until just boiling. Cook one minute more, then remove from heat and cool.
Now assemble the following: 1 3/4 cups flour, 1 teaspoon baking soda, one teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon baking powder. (Not bacon powder.) Dump the lot of it into a sifter, if you wish, and sift. Close your eyes and rest against your warm counter top and listen to the old sifter scrape powdery heaps into your pretty old bowl. Decide you're happy.
Take your happiness and find 1/3 cup butter (softened) and 3/4 cup sugar and beat until fluffy. To that, add 2 eggs (room temperature) and 1/3 cup (minus 1 teaspoon) of water. Fill the teaspoon - the one you just dumped the water out of - with vanilla extract. Mix it all in with the butter and sugar.
Lovely. Now add your butter mixture to the pile of dry ingredients and mix. Over it, pour the cooled, crushed summer strawberries and a 1/3 cup pecans or walnuts. (Toast them if you wish, or leave them out altogether - your preference.) Now combine it all thoroughly, spoon into a greased baking dish, and bake at 350 F for one hour.
Poor Old Man Winter. He stands no chance against fresh, buttered Strawberry Sugar Bread. Especially when it's accompanied by a steaming cup of tea in a warm kitchen....
Hoping happiness and warmth find and hold you this weekend. -Brin
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I miss the food, too. My own cooking. I miss my oven and its warm, homemade cookies. I miss fresh, speckled eggs. I miss my aprons and cookbooks and worn wooden spoons. I miss sitting at the piano and hearing this music leave my fingers and float throughout the house, filling every nook and corner and gap in the floor boards...
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
...and I'm headed home to Freeman House. You know, until Monday anyway. I plan to make a bundt cake and that jam I was talking about. I plan to see friends and take long soaks in the old clawfoot tub and plant garlic and these heirloom roses I ordered over the holiday.
After I'm done with all that, I'm going to knit this gauzy wrap and wander around the house, all clean and ethereal and at peace. (Because that's how days are at Freeman House, and I miss that.) And if you come knocking and I don't answer, it's likely because I'm piled high in my fluffy, iron bed with a book and the remote.
Oh no. It's not where we are right now that counts. It's where we're headed. See you in a few days! -Brin
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Will explain later and be back as I can.
(And for those who are wondering, yes. This is their new china.)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I suppose it would help if this place had electricity. Insulation. Old newspapers stuffed in the wooden walls. Something. I moved my iron bed into the former dining room/sitting room/bedroom, the warmest room in the house, and am under all the covers I have. Mae is under here with me. I wonder who's trying to get warmth from whom.
We painted the old woodwork between the entry hall and the "great room" today, Mae and I did. (I'm still calling it the "great room" because I have no idea what purpose the room will serve.) Lori told me it's the room Miss Freeman lived in before she left and died. I guess as she got older and more brittle, Miss Freeman shut up one room, then another, then another, until her life was confined to the great room, nearest the front door, and the bath. I wonder if she knew how badly the roof leaked in the back hall, or what a mess her roses in the yard had become. It must have been a very small world she lived in, here inside this house.
But I know Lori's right about this being Miss Freeman's last room. There are rocking chair impressions rutted into the linoleum. An old phone list thumb-tacked to the wall, right between two white frame shadows on the peach sheetrock. It's odd to stare at those marks where the pictures used to hang. I get a strange feeling, like I'm seeing something I shouldn't. I wonder what - or who - looked out from those frames. There are no other nail holes in the walls, just those inside the frame stains.
Of course, Miss Freeman wasn't the only one whose life played out in this house. Tonight, right after it got dark, I made my way to the front door and its cold, slick windows. I wondered, as I leaned against them, who else had stood in my same position, a hundred years before, and pressed their forehead and palms to the glass, watching. Waiting. I wondered whose feet had worn footprints into the floor boards. Whose fingers had turned the old brass knobs and lost the skeleton keys that locked them tight. I wondered what I would think of these people and what they would think of me. This may be my house now, but I still share it. I share it with rooms full of memories and lives that have gone before.
I'm tired. Tired of working and tired of thinking. And my fingers are too cold to write anymore. Hopefully tomorrow will be warmer and I can make some headway on clearing out that back cabinet. I hope, anyway.
(The entry in my Freeman House Renovation Journal, three years ago today.)
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
My job is nonstop. I'm sure many of you know how that is, whether you mind house or mind a boss. In the oil and gas industry, companies pay handsomely but for that they require your soul. Or so it seems lately.
But tonight there's a thunderstorm and I'm finished before 7 PM and I have a stack of books waiting, thanks to a midnight madness order off Amazon. So before I'm off to read, let's talk books, shall we?
The book above, The Thirteenth Tale, is astounding. I'm only on chapter three, because I picked it up last night after completing a 63-page report, but so far it may be my favorite book. And I mean ever. I adore it. Whatever may come next, I want it carefully noted that the first few chapters of this took me to a world I don't want to leave. The narrative is seamlessly sloppy, which I love, and strong. It sings. I can't wait to get under the covers and drink more in.
Then there's this gem: Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant. Even the title makes me giggle. And everyone's raving over it. I've read bits and pieces of it... here and there. Have any of you read it through? It's hard to put down, but I managed somehow and now I wish I hadn't. But it's to be continued very, very soon.
A journal I've been working through for almost a year now... Finding God in the Broken Places. Don't pretend you don't have them, broken places. We all do. When I've been open, and ready to heal, I've found it's really spoken to and encouraged me. Maybe it will you, too.
And oh. The Crafter's Companion. Beg, borrow, or buy this... or steal a friend's copy. You won't be sorry. She will, but you won't. This baby will have any crafter slobbering and gasping and clapping and ... craving a new project. I love books like this one.
And this. Knitting Nell. Talk about mattering. Any girl, young or old, who does or wants to knit should have this book. I read it several times a week and the end almost makes me cry everytime. Even on the twelveteenth time. Besides Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, it's my favorite children's book.
Oh gosh. I'd hang around and talk book love but I'm zonked and my current paper fling is calling. Let me know about your loves and current crushes, too. We'll dish. -Brin
Monday, January 7, 2008
It would be a relief to be noticed.
Not that you feel you deserve it, but because you need it.
But perhaps you know. Surely you do:
You are not just one of the crowd.
Not to the One who made you.
As you're blowing and bending, He's supporting and holding.
As you're longing to be seen, He's already watching.
As you're feeling the weight of your days, He's feeling it, too.
(Just think of how heavy they'd be if He weren't there.)
And when you're all out of brave... when you're on your last laugh...
He has one. You can borrow His.
You who are special, seen, and appreciated.
Today. Right now.
Not for what you do but for who (Whose) you are.
You’re not alone. You and your cares aren’t forgotten.
And they won’t be.
Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
Just thought you should know.
Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me. -Isaiah 49:15-16
(Pictures taken at and around Freeman House, 2007.)
Monday Moment is a little devotional to help kick start your week. See you again next Monday!