This is Bo, our Boggle (Boston Terrier/Beagle combo).  She is usually camera-shy, but gave me this sweet look before running from the camera.  Bo is pretty much scared of everything.  If the big blue exercise ball is in the room, she won’t come through the door.  When the vacuum cleaner starts up, she high-tails it to the farthest corner of the house.  When the camera is pointed in her direction, she turns away and tiptoes out of the room.  She won’t play fetch because she’s afraid of the tennis ball.  It’s a sad way to live.

When she goes to bed at night, we put up a flimsy piece of cardboard to keep her in her corner.  If she wanted to, she could knock it over with the tip of her nose, but for some reason she thinks the cardboard is impenetrable.  Bo is convinced that she is powerless.  This dog is fed, bathed, petted, walked, given treats, talked to, and loved.  But something is holding her back from her true dog-ly-ness and we’ll probably never know what it is. 

Know anybody like that?

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the undogly… I mean, ungodly.  Romans 5:6  (Sorry.)

It’s been a glorious few days, with all the little birdies back in the nest.  That means all the kids were home at the same time for a stretch.  For the life of me, I can’t remember how I ever managed to cope when they were all under the roof all the time.  I must have had more energy.  I must have been younger.  I must have never slept.  Add in a son-in-law, and a few girlfriend/boyfriends and kapowie – we don’t even all fit around the dinner table. 

The prospect of all four children going forth and multiplying someday is mind-boggling.  If all four of them get married and have four kids, that will mean…. um……  hold on, I’m getting out the calculator…. that will mean I will need to cook for 26 people.  And if I am blessed to live long enough to see great-grandchildren and they keep procreating at the same rate, I could wind up with…. just a minute…. 64 great-grandchildren.  How will I remember all their birthdays?  How many batches of chocolate chip cookies will I need to make?  I don’t have enough silverware.  Or chairs.

I’m getting a little ahead of myself I suppose. 

It’s been a glorious few days.  But it’s been a little like a Tilt-O-Whirl ride.  Time to get back in the swing.

When I was pregnant with our fourth child, my husband was asked to counsel at a church camp for a week.  Oh, and a few days before he left, the other three little ones (ages 8, 5, and 2) all got chicken pox.  He left for a week.  And I had a houseful of itchy, spotted, miserable children.  And I was pregnant.  And he left for a week. 

Camp week  has changed over the years.  My husband went from counselor to director; that was 22 years ago.  There’s a lot of work involved in directing a camp.  Hands down, I’d rather be at home with three feverish children than be responsible for 80 kids out in the woods.  However, in those early years, the week dad went to camp was the hardest string of days in our summer.  I tried to be the fun parent and plan outings to the water park, go to McDonalds for lunch and spend an afternoon at the beach, but it was exhausting.  I was better suited for creating chore charts and instituting a non-negotiable quiet reading hour in the afternoon.  Dad was definitely the fun parent.  Back in those days, there were two rules for camp week: 1) No inviting friends over.  2) If you get invited over to anybody’s house, you can go.

One by one, the kids got old enough to go off to camp with dad and suddenly, one summer, I found myself alone for a whole glorious week.  I was giddy!  Finally, payback for the year of the chicken pox. 

I still love camp week, although all five of them don’t go anymore.  But I still look forward to those glorious few days.  Here’s my revised rules for camp week:

1) No laundry. Do it all the day they leave and then don’t do any washing of clothes until they get back.  (One year, my wonderful hubby stopped at a laundromat on the way home and all five of them came back with bags full of clean clothes!  Glory halleluiah!)

2) No cooking.  Eat fruit and cereal and go to Taco Bell.  Buy favorite flavors of yogurt with no fear of someone else eating it.  Run dishwasher once all week long.

3) Girl-i-fy the bathroom.  Clean it real good when they leave and revel in the fact that it will stay clean: no whiskers in the sink, no toilet seat left up, no toothpaste spray on the mirror.  Leave facial mask, fingernail polish and make up on the counter in pretty trays.

4) Go to the library and check out a stack of decorating and craft magazines.  In the evening, sit on the deck and read them with no tv background noise.

5) Turn off the air conditioning and open all the windows.  (There’s usually a thermostat war going on – he sets it at 69 degrees, I change it to 80 degrees; and back and forth we go.)

Now you see why I love camp week.  It’s like being on vacation without leaving the comforts of home.  Perfect.  Except by the end of camp week, I’ve had enough peace and quiet for one year and can’t wait to have the craziness of family life pick back up.  Also perfect.

 I took my husband to a pick-your-own strawberry patch.  Now that the children are grown, I need someone to help with the household chores.  He has always been willing to offer a hand, but as the nest empties, his interests are expanding.  This summer we are tending our first garden in years and visions of a shelf full of canned goods is on his mind.  My hubby has always been a man in search of new adventures, so a trip into the country to pick berries sounded good to him.  He also likes my strawberry jam.  The fact that the jam cupboard has been empty since February provided good motivation.  The sweet stuff really is like a taste of summer in the deep midwinter.  There’s nothing  like a piece of warm buttery toast slathered with sugar-laden strawberry jam right before going to bed on a cold January night.  Mmmm, comfort food.

I usually fill two flats with ripe, juicy berries and head home to whip up several batches of jam.  When all the kids were little and peanut butter and jelly was the lunch of choice, I often made as many as six or seven batches to get the whole family through the winter. 

Now what you need to know about my wonderful husband is that he thinks big.  He comes up with great ideas, and usually finds a way to pull them off.  Most of the time I admire that outlook on life.  If a 12 ounce cup of coffee is good, 24 ounces is better.  If a one mile walk is good,  four miles is better. If a 15 passenger van is good, a 48 passenger bus is better.  In this case, 15 pounds of strawberries would’ve been good, but 30# was better.  “Besides,” he reasoned, “with the economy the way it is, we should try to preserve as much as we can.”  I am comforted to know that if  Wall Street crashes, at least we will have plenty of jam to eat.

I made ten batches. 

And froze another eight quarts of sliced berries. 

And made strawberry shortcake. 

And will put berries on my cereal every morning this week. 

To his credit, my husband hung in there with me, helping to wash and mash most of those berries.  He even ran to the store to get more containers when I had three more batches ready to go and no more margarine containers.  In a couple weeks, it will be blueberry picking time on the farm.  I’d better stock up on sugar and plastic freezer bags.  Blueberries taste pretty good in January, too.