Snowy morning

The product of a very snowy morning and the first time Jonas has "helped" me bake. He prefers tomatoes (which he calls "Moe-toes") to cookies, but he certainly enjoyed dumping the ingredients into the bowl.

This snowy morning turned out to be the beginning of our second Really Big Snow this winter. It occurs to me that in the five previous winters we have spent in Virginia, we have had perhaps six inches of snow total each winter. This year we're at five feet and counting. Although I don't love snow enough to live up north, I do love it enough to relish another weekend snowed in with my boys.

Case study

It occurs to me frequently of late that my life seems to be tracking weirdly closely with the collective consciousness of the United States.

There, I said it. I am a microcosm of 300 million other lives. Not to overstate my importance or anything.

Here are the facts: Like much of America, I have come to the realization in the past year that I have too much debt, that I have been living beyond my means, that I need to scale back in every facet of my life. That gardens are good. That shiny things are usually bad.

These are not entirely new realizations for me, and in fact I've been moving in the direction of Shoeless Hippie for sometime. But my convictions in these matters have accelerated over the past several months. Except, whereas the average American is probably buying grocery store generics to save money, forgoing an additional widescreen TV and considering whether they really need to expanded cable package, my version of scaling back seems closer to Going Amish than anything else.

The desire: To live sustainably in a modest, naturally-built home on a plot of 25 or so acres in a rural area. To grow 75% of my own food. To make 25% of my family's clothing and textile needs.

I appear to be on the cusp of a new life chapter. Or perhaps the cusp has passed and I am now in the early pages of that chapter. Cusping tends to be something one identifies best in retrospect. But in any case, it is a very new and delicate and tender notion that has taken root -- one that involves a complete life change my current existence into some that, while not wholly unrecognizable, would be radically different.

Bloom

Jonas turned one year old on Saturday, prompting a host of emotions. I can remember the days leading up to his birth with near-perfect clarity. Yet, the weeks that followed -- when he used to sleep in his bouncy chair on the kitchen table, when he was so tiny he slept in his Moby carrier for hours on his daddy's chest, when all but his tiniest newborn clothes hung off him -- seem distant, and believably a year ago.

Of course there is a part of me that wants to freeze him in time. Every year as my birthday approached, my mother used to say, "Ok, I'll make you a deal. You can turn [insert upcoming age here] but then you are stopping." It was a joke, but I was always so eager to get on to the next age. To be a big kid and sit at the back of the bus. To be old enough to go to high school. To be old enough to drive. To be old enough to leave home and go to college. To be old enough to drink. To be old enough not to feel so young and foolish and clumsy anymore. Now, of course, I'm approaching the age where I would happily take her up on that offer. But it took nearly 30 years to get there.

The day before his birthday, Jonas decided it was time to start truly walking. He had taken his first steps on August 1, when we were up visiting my grandmother in Arlington. And since then, if you set him on his feet and he was in the mood, he would take a few steps - five or six or seven - before dropping to his knees and crawling the rest of the way to the desired destination or object. Crawling was faster and easier. But on Friday, something switched over and he spent more than 50% of his time walking. On Saturday, it was 75%. And Sunday, it was 90%.

This has come amid a flurry of changes. Beginning during our trip to Iowa earlier in August, Jonas started eating much better. Never a picky eater, neither was he a big eater. But, perhaps inspired by the farmhouse, he took to eating much larger meals during our time there. He also started behaving much better in the car. Both of those changes have continued since we returned to Virginia. He also began speaking more clearly, and added at least five words to his vocabulary in the 1o days we were in Iowa. That increased vocalization -- I'd say his vocabulary is about two dozen words -- has also continued.

As much as I want him to stay right as he is today, watching this flower of life unfold is so miraculous, so enchanting that I wouldn't want to rob him of the chance to change, to grow, to blossom. It is a new state of emotion when you have a child: wanting something for that person. On behalf of that person. Yes, if you are fortunate enough to find a true partner in life, you experience that feeling. But when it is a child you are raising, the feeling is so much stronger and so much more prevalent.

I want things for myself, I want things for Egidijus. I want things for my family and my friends. And I am devoted to doing what I can to bring about those things for the people I love. But there is no length I would not go to for Jonas. It is just one of many new emotions that his addition has prompted.

So many new things. What did I do with my time before? What did I think about? What did I desire? Were all the places he occupies within me empty before, or did his birth simply create new spaces?

The road not (yet?) taken

This posting has been delayed, not out of lack of something to say but out of lack of knowing how to say it.

FloydFest was just as enjoyable as we had hoped -- more so. Jonas loved all the music and, with the exception of one very brief nap, spent seven hours dancing - in his stroller, on our shoulders, in the grass. Dancing, dancing, dancing. His ability to find a rhythm after only a few bars of a song just astounds me. He must be on dozens of cameras; every time I turned around someone else was taking a picture of him. The Duhks even noticed him waving his arms back and forth while he sat on his daddy's shoulders. Our little extrovert. Incredible.

Floyd is every bit as beautiful as I remember it. The elevation is nearly four times that of Charlottesville, which sits in a valley. This means you can see a lot further from the top of a hill around Floyd. Growing up in Iowa, where you can see for miles upon miles in every direction, I find that I crave that kind of vantage point. Living in the foothills or among the trees is nice, but I need to be able to see some distance, otherwise my brain feels muddled. I spent two years in Vermont feeling like I couldn't think straight. And one of the main reasons we bought our little fixer-upper in Belmont is because of the view of Monticello, Brown and Carter Mountains out our back door.

But, as is my tendency, I remain unsatisfied. I want to see even more. Ideally, I'd like to be able to watch the sunset without feeling like I'm missing some significant part of it because it dropped behind a mountain range or hill.

But that's a really minor thing. What is far more alluring about Floyd is the mix of folks there. Born-and-bred, transplants, aging Hippies, new-age Hippies, back-the-the-landers -- all represented in Floyd County. And yet, everyone is so darn friendly to one another, and to strangers. There is some kind of simpatico that has developed there that makes it the most comfortable tiny town (population 450) I've ever stepped foot in.

We were last in Floyd in September 2006. We thought it was beautiful. We thought the vibe and the mix of people was exceptional. We toyed with the idea of settling down there. But, it is rural, there isn't a strong economy and we didn't feel ready to start our own business, or whatever we would have to do to make a living in a place like that. And, we found our little house in Charlottesville, which was just meant for us, and the rest is history.

But our trip last weekend proved that the pull toward Floyd and all it represents remains strong. Despite how much we love Charlottesville. Despite how much we adore our little house. Despite all of our friends. Despite everything we envisioned when we bought and then renovated our place -- the images we've had of how we might expand it, the love and time we've devoted to making a nest for ourselves. Despite it all, a feeling lurks that there is Something Else out there for us.

So this week I slowly churned through this new feeling. The vision of the homestead up on the backbone of the Blue Ridge. Among the eclectic mix that comprises that community. With our own businesses. A different house. Potentially chickens and goats. Land. Country life.

But leaving Charlottesville. Leaving our beloved house. Leaving our friends. How could we think of such a thing? Why not be content with what we have? Why look for anything else?

I half-hoped I could answer this conundrum before writing something here, but it hasn't happened. And I don't think it will any time soon. For now, it is something to chew on, to roll around and around in my mind until it is smooth and familiar and I feel I understand its dimensions. And the correct path comes into focus.

Festive

We are headed to FloydFest this afternoon -- our second time in Floyd and our first time at the festival. I have no idea what to expect, but if I can fly to Lithuania and back with a 10-month-old, I can handle a crowd of hippies with an 11-month-old. 

We loved Floyd when we visited in Fall 2006. I first heard of it on a public radio show about Virginia attractions. They discussed FloydFest and the town itself, which aspires for a marriage between hippies and country folk and, by most accounts, succeeds. 

We pondered setting up our household there before we stumbled on the little house here in Charlottesville. We made the right choice, but perhaps Floyd remains in our future yet.

Just peachy

Peach picking happened on Sunday and has yielded, in chronological order: one fruit crisp, 84 ounces of jam and two frozen pies, 

with six peaches to spare.

I tried some of the jam this morning. It turned out a little stiffer than the strawberry jam, but I like it. With two peach pies in the freezer as well, (I even made the top crust for them from scratch -- thanks Joy of Cooking), I accomplished my major goals with the peaches, so I'm feeling pretty satisfied.

Next jam on deck is actually a jelly: Apple-Basil. I had this a few years ago from the local Farmer's Market and I have never forgotten it. I need to find a recipe, but the basil is growing tall in a container in the back and the apples are slowing ripening in the orchard on Carter's Mountain, so it is just a matter of time.

The Pick-Your-Own option seems like one of the best short of growing your own. Although the Dream Homestead would certainly include a whole orchard of different trees, for now this is what I can do. 

So I wait for the apple season for my next round of Jam Madness. Although just last night my friend Amy mentioned that her concord grapes are ripening, and she might be willing to donate them to the Jam Madness cause. *Insert evil jammy laugh here*

Amish paradise

Back from our three-week trip to Lithuania and back to the usual routine, with some amendments. As is my tendency, I spent a good deal of the trip turning over in my brain the things I'd like to do differently when we return and, starting this week, it is time to enact some of those changes. 

One change is walking more. We ran an errand to buy dog shampoo on Monday night; other than that, I haven't touched the car for three days now. Jonas and I walked to the gym and back today. And it is occurring to me as I write this that I probably could be making dog shampoo from scratch, and therefore not needing to buy it.

Who does that? Who makes dog shampoo? What is my problem? If anything, my living-off-the-land/everything-from-scratch fantasy has worsened rather than improved. Even after spending quite a bit of time in the country at my sister-in-law's house, which is located in the woods in the middle of nowhere, Lithuania. Where the only place to walk is through the woods around the house. And a grocery trip involves at least a half-hour drive. But, as if part of what feels like a growing conspiracy, my sister-in-law's husband is perfectly suited to such a life and, what with his handyman skills and mushroom-hunting skills and general living-off-the-land skills, I'm completely enveloped in this idea at this point.

We harvested three gigantic zucchini from our garden two days ago and I spent yesterday grappling with them. I blanched & froze two of them and grated the third to make zucchini bread - four small loaves and one big one. And I found myself thinking: what if the eggs I was adding to this recipe were from my own chickens? What if the applesauce was my own applesauce, canned last fall?

My new theory is that this near-obsession is how I'm taking on the "job" of being a stay-at-home parent. But, no matter how you analyze it, I can't beat it right now, so I'm joining it. You want to live off the land so much, Jenny? Earn it. Do as much of it as you can from here and if you prove yourself worthy, in a few years -- if you are still under the spell of the countryside -- you can consider taking on the real thing. 

So, I made zucchini bread. This weekend we'll go peach picking and I plan to make some peach pies and jams. Maybe even a chutney. Because chutney? Hard core.