The Modest Motorcycle Mama Goes Cross Country, Part 1

In Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

5,266 miles in 17 days, averaging 310 miles a day!

As far north as Glacier National Park in Montana and as far west as the Pacific coast.

In a skirt the whole time, except for one afternoon when it was storming, and I had to put on a rain suit.

I wore long, full skirts with tights underneath.  It was no problem at all!   I found that the best way to get on the bike was to sit down sidesaddle and swing my right leg over.  This I could do easily while maintaining modesty.  Apparently, my attire did elicit some attention.  Two or three times on our trip, my husband told me via our intercom, "Those ladies like your skirt," as their car passed us.  Each time I asked him how he knew that.  Each time he said that he was sure because they were looking and pointing and smiling.  I'll take his word for it.  In any case, he was really happy and proud, which made me feel fantastic.

Our first full day on the road,  we started with breakfast on a rock in the HEB grocery store parking lot.   So romantic!  I think we were just north of Waco.  We had our own little patch of grass and a wonderful assortment of delectables to savor, including guacamole.  I discovered that I really like guacamole and bananas and coffee for breakfast.

We made our first big stop in Vernon, Texas.  Herb indulged my longing to tour this little museum there.  It proved quite interesting, as it was all about the history of the area and how it was settled by these big ranchers, like W.T. Waggoner.  A giant section of the museum was devoted to scads of exotic hunting trophies bagged by a local man, William A. Bond.  

I really was not expecting to see this in sleepy little Vernon.

The explanation of what happened to our country after the War of Northern Aggression and also the insight into the cattle barons' philosophy (below) was worth the price of admission.  Nothing Catholic here, folks.

One thing I didn't take into account when preparing for our trip:

At the end of the first day, I discover I am a Redneck.

Superman Got Nothing on Him

I fell in love with Charlie Puth's One Call Away the first time Emma played it for me.  She said, "That's Dad."

She was absolutely right.

If you don't know the song, here it is with the lyrics:

I kept thinking about all the times that my husband has rescued me, even before we were married.  I sent him a link to the song and told him, "This is you."

A few days later, the oil light came on in my car, and I pulled over and called him.  Even though he was in the middle of a turnaround at the plant, he very patiently gave me thorough instructions on what to do and waited while I did what he said.  When the issue was fully and happily resolved, I texted him and said, "You're only one call away!"

He was happy.

First and Foremost, a Wife and Mother

Queen Elisabeth of Belgium exemplified the kind of femininity that I admire.

I read about her life on The Cross of Laeken blog and loved the description of how she expressed her affection for her future husband in her letters to him.  This bubbly romance was not reflective of a superficial love.  It was the expression of a fierce love and admiration for him, that continued to grow in their married life.  It is beautifully symbolized by her anger at discovering after his accidental death from a mountain climbing accident, that others had prepared his bruised, broken, and muddy body for burial.  She wanted to render him this last loving service of devotion herself.

I needed Queen Elisabeth's inspiration, as I found myself in somewhat of an identity crisis after I received advice from a finance guru that I should re-enter the work force.   He believes that it's ridiculous for a woman to stay home in "retirement" after her children are grown.

Although I bristled at his use of the word "ridiculous",  I could understand his viewpoint.  I know lots of women do go to work when the children are grown.   In fact, I became painfully aware early in my mothering career that every little milepost in my children's lives was an opportunity, in many people's eyes, for me to go back to work.  But now, apparently, I have no excuse to allow me to stay home and devote my full energy to my career as housewife.

So I spent several weeks considering leaving hearth and home and plunging into the "real world" where what I did every day could be duly categorized and measured in terms of dollars, income taxes, and contributions to the Social Insecurity system.  I realized it would indeed be pleasant to be approved of as a faithful member of the Church of Commerce.  Plus, there are many things that interest me, and it would be great to have the extra income.  I would probably make much better use of my time than I do now.  The discipline would definitely be good for me.

But seriously, the real question for me was not about the value of my returning to the workforce.  It was whether I would be of less value if I chose to continue at home.  Right away I could see a paradigm problem.  I think of myself as a domestic goddess.  Haha!   Wouldn't that term throw the Department of Labor into a tailspin?  I'm sure they just classify me as "jobless" in their grand economy of the gross domestic product, which of course has nothing to do with domesticity.    After many hours of considering what I "produce" in my economy, I concluded that even though I am not changing diapers or homeschooling or ferrying children to piano lessons or baseball practice anymore, I still have a distinct role to play at home.  Just like with all the other stages of my career as a wife and mother, there is a demand for my services.  And I dearly love providing them!

I still research issues in order to offer guidance for the matters upon which my children consult me.  Other times they just want my presence, like the time my then 21-year-old son asked me to accompany him to look at a car he was considering for purchase.  This was on a weekday, during hours that I would have been at work if I had had a job.  He handled the whole meeting with the seller while I stood in the background and marveled at how courteous, confident, and knowledgable he was.  I went with him on the test drive, and he talked to me about his observations of the car's condition and performance.  On the way home we took the scenic route through an attractive neighborhood, and we talked about investing in rental houses.  Later he compared the car he test drove to his Mustang.  He concluded he would rather keep the Mustang.  I don't know how to quantify this two-hour experience with my son for someone who thinks of me as retired.  I can only say that when we got home, I was conscious that we had shared something incredibly important for both of us, and it had nothing to do with cars.

Then there are my parents.  I am free, on short notice, to take them to the doctor and be not only the chauffeur but the second set of ears to listen to what the doctor says and help my parents make decisions on follow-up care.  Right now I am providing all their daily care, but even when they had a hired aide, I still took them to the doctor, stayed with them in the hospital, did their grocery shopping, managed their home maintenance, etc.

My husband, too, can count on me to care for his needs and make home a pleasant place, a refuge for him to return to from his battles in the world.  He is the only boss I have, and the benefits package he offers includes loving me unconditionally.  I love making him happy, and I look forward to being able to devote more time to this project at this new stage in our marriage.

And guess what.  When I asked him if he would like me to return to work, he said promptly and firmly, "No."

So I'll keep on at home and maybe get a framed picture of Queen Elisabeth of Belgium to hang in my living room over the fireplace.

Women Waiting for Marriage: It's Hard to Know What to Do

So I heard recently about an eligible bachelor with a high income and a stable job history, a young man who is intelligent and amiable and wants to marry but with this one twist:  he seeks a bride who earns a high income as well.  He is not Catholic but still I was surprised.  Is this a thing?  Am I that out of touch with the modern world?

I checked in with my husband.

"Honey, did you ever consider how much money your future wife would make as part of the criteria for finding the right one?"

His face contorted.

"What?" he asked, as if I had just asked him if he had ever considered marrying a Martian.

"No," he answered definitively.

I explained why I was asking, and he too was surprised.  "I never heard of that," he replied, shaking his head in disbelief.  He didn't say it, but I could tell he was thinking, "he needs to man up".

The next day I heard about a son-in-law who left his wife every time they had a new baby or made an expensive purchase like a car.  He has a fear of responsibility.  Maybe that's what is at the heart of the problem with the other guy.

I didn't need another reason to appreciate my husband, but these stories did cause exactly that reaction.

I'm not so sheltered that I am unaware that the majority of married households are made up of two wage earners.  It's just the idea of a man who already earns an income that is more than enough to support a wife and family comfortably, screening potential spouses based on income-producing ability, never occurred to me.   What a complete inversion of the traditional household economy!

The traditional Catholic world is steeped in its own controversies regarding women and careers.  I know plenty of trads who vehemently disagree with the idea of a woman attending college.  They are mostly single young men, insisting that women should stay home and learn domestic skills until marriage.  I also know others, mostly worried parents, who insist that women need to prepare to support themselves for life, to not expect that they will ever find anyone to marry.   I know wonderful, pious young ladies in both situations.  I spoke with a lovely young Catholic woman recently who told me that her traditional Catholic parents had witnessed so much divorce within their own Catholic families, that they advised their girls, growing up in the 1980s-90s, to become self-sufficient and not to become attached to the idea of marrying.

Me?  I think college today is grossly overrated as a means to a career, and I dislike it in general because it is so flagrantly anti-Catholic and ridiculously expensive.  I would prefer women find other ways to support themselves.  I know that not every home situation is ideal for a woman to remain in until marriage and that it is often the case that she has already learned all that she needs to know about keeping house.  I do think that something is lost when a woman becomes financially independent that will make it more of a struggle to let her husband lead the household if and when she is able to marry.  I also think that her husband, knowing that she is capable of earning a good salary, could be tempted to take advantage of this when things get tough, instead of, as my husband says, "manning up" and doing what's necessary to support the family.   Yes, I know that there are situations where the wife works, and she and her husband have worked everything out where it does not cause a strain on the marriage.  I'm just speaking in generalities and with the idea that we're talking about traditional Catholic homes with several/many young children.

Life is full of struggles, isn't it?

What times we live in.

On a lighter note, maybe the answer lies in promoting participation in wife-carrying contests like this one in Houston.  Enjoy!

My Paleo Lunchable and Kerry Gold Butter Dish

Usually we pack leftovers for lunches, but today we didn't have any.  I grabbed a plastic container and started filling it with odds and ends, and when I was done, I thought, "Hey!  I made a lunchable!"  Guess it was the rectangular container.  I broiled three slices of ham with provolone cheese on top, then rolled them up while hot with a thin celery stick inside.  I added carrot sticks, squash sticks, strawberries, and a container of Ranch dip I made from scratch with homemade mayonnaise.  I love that mayo!  I use a combination of walnut, grape seed, and olive oil, and it's delicious.  As much as I liked this meal because it is tasty, healthy, and gluten/grain-free, I read yesterday about a mom in Canada who was fined for not including any grain in her children's lunches, even though she had packed pot roast with potatoes and carrots, an orange, and milk.  The daycare person added Ritz crackers to the lunch.  Such stupidity.

My darling husband discovered this fabulous butter dish at an antique store recently.  It's wider than normal and perfectly cradles a brick of Kerry Gold.   We've been using the butter in its foil wrapper, which is seriously tacky, I know.   So I wanted the butter dish when he pointed it out to me on a crowded shelf,  close to the floor.   I just wasn't sure if it really truly was the right size.  Naturally, I tried to discourage him from getting it because of that.  Plus it was $12.95, which I thought was high, but after 34 years he knows when not to listen to me, thank goodness.  I have no clue how old this dish is, and I've never seen one like it.  I'm sure if there were a supply available there would be a good market for them.  It's such a relief to have an attractive way to keep this butter.

Goin' Through the Gateway

TO THE GREAT BOOKS AND BEYOND!

At long last, I've begun my great books education.  I'm leaping from the airplane, skydiving into other worlds, suspended by the parachute of western culture!  Whew!  The air is exhilarating!  Or maybe I am just not getting enough oxygen.

I've started Encyclopedia Brittanica's 54-volume "Great Books of the Western World" reading program.  Herb bought me the set for my birthday.  Yes, I have the best husband in the whole world.  My set came with the optional 10-volume "Gateway to the Great Books".  We haven't worked out how we will manage it, but Herb and I are going to read and discuss together.  So far that has been in the car.  It was lovely.  We are reading Volume 1 of the Gateway now.  We will be married 34 years next month.  We have so much to look forward to.

Modest Motorcycle Mama Mondays

Since my husband likes to take me riding on Saturday mornings, I thought Mondays would be a good time to report on my experiences.  I'm expecting them to get pretty interesting because for my birthday, Herb presented me with a piece of luggage by a famous designer. . .

Harley Davidson.

It was even wrapped in designer Harley Davidson paper!  Of course I had to take a guess at what might be inside this inviting package.

"Is it leather chaps?" I wondered out loud.

My whole family burst out laughing.   Apparently, the idea of me wearing leather chaps humored them in the extreme.

Hmph!  Whatever.

The suitcase oozes style and fits perfectly on the rear luggage rack of the bike.

Photo credit: hotbikeweb.com

Herb plans for us to start taking regular weekend getaway trips, so this is where I'll pack all my cute biker-babe outfits.  He will use the main storage compartment underneath the luggage rack for his clothes, which will mostly be his jeans and a selection from his Harley Davidson t-shirt collection.  He buys one from each different Harley dealer he visits.  They all have the name and location of the dealership as part of the design, along with a skull and crossbones and, as my dear son has recently trained me to say in perfect redneck dialect, a 'murricun flag.  (Gosh, that boy cracks me up!  Yesterday he grabbed me and two-stepped with me across the living room to some country song that he had booming from his iPhone.)  I think Herb owns about 20 of these shirts by now.

Anyway, the suitcase is part of the new Harley-Davidson Premium Touring Luggage Collection!  I know this because I read an article about it in HOG magazine.  My piece is described as follows:

Tour-Pak Rack Bag
FEATURING A PLASTIC REINFORCED TUB that maintains the bag's shape and protects belongings, the new Tour-Pak Rack Bag delivers 20.5 in. x 13 in. x 9.5 in. of storage capacity with six spacious pockets.  It mounts to a Tour-Pak luggage rack and is easily removed for overnight stays.

I can't wait to try it out!  Herb wants to take me to San Antonio first and stay at a hotel on the River Walk.  I don't really care where we go.  I'm happy just riding down the road, snuggled up against him and holding his hand, leaving all my cares behind and

thanking God for cruise control on motorcycles.

Harley, Harpsichord, and Happiness

Saturday morning about 7, my husband Herb and I took off on his Harley to go down to the farmer's market in Houston.  We took a country road for the first leg of the journey, and my nose delighted in the fragrance of the wild honeysuckle that is blooming along the fences.   The cool morning air caressed my arms in the most pleasant way.  I stayed aware of it for a long, long time.  It reminded me of something you would pay to have done at a spa.

Herb tuned the radio to a classical station which was playing a program of baroque music with lots of harpsichord.  I got kind of tickled because the roaring exhaust of the Harley juxtaposed with the delicate singing of the harpsichord made everything I looked at seem just a little bit comical, the same way that a comedy movie soundtrack makes the action on the screen funnier.  All the cows we zoomed past seemed to be staring at me as if they could hear the odd combination of sounds I was listening to and thought it peculiar.  I smiled at them just the same.  It was good to be out early in the sunshine and the fresh air with my husband and with nothing to do but drink it all in.  I can't wait to go again, though this time I will bring my own hat.  When we stopped for breakfast, and I took off my helmet, my hair looked so frightening that I accepted Herb's offer of a ball cap that he had stowed in the large compartment on the back of the bike for just such an emergency--a brown cap with "Harley Davidson" embroidered in big letters across the front.  It wasn't really my style, but hey, the waitress in the bathroom truly admired it.

Chicks on the Move

The mama hen and her four chicks have moved from the toolshed to the mobile PVC pen that my husband put together for us a couple of years ago.  It is wonderfully lightweight and has a handle on each end.  I'm not sure if it qualifies as a chicken tractor, because the bottom is covered in chicken wire too.  The pen has been sitting empty for a couple of years, so grass had grown up all through it.  That's why it looks like we put hay in the bottom.  Mama hen is happy with the new digs, her only complaint is that there is no roost.  Emma and I went to check on them the other night and discovered her roosting on top of the waterer, which you can see on the left end of the pen.  Her chicks were trying to stay under her, but parts of them were hanging out.  A couple fell off as we watched, prompting Emma to start singing, "There were ten in the bed and the little one said,  'Roll over.  I'm crowded.'  So they all rolled over and one fell out. . ."

A Fence Post

It's official!

The last fence post is IN, and my husband, with Emma's help, has started putting up the wire mesh fencing.  It shouldn't take more than a couple of weekends to get that done.  He has to do the east and the south sides only.  The east side is about 2300 feet I think.  The south side is much shorter.

No more breakouts through the electric fence.

I think this one will solve all our problems.  I will be so relieved.

This matter of having to tie cows grew old a while ago.  Fiona has a special knack for breaking hardware and somehow has managed to "untie" some of my very best knots.  In fact, I'm just back in from chasing her down.

She is hellbent on getting to Ferdie because we started weaning him yesterday.  To put it mildly, she is distraught.    My stomach hurts from the stress of hearing her bawling all day.  It is the most annoying sound.  The further out she stretches her neck, the more grating the sound she produces.  Thankfully, Jess the Cat came to my rescue and provided comic relief while Emma was milking this morning.  Jess is Miss Congeniality.  She hopped on Emma's back and stayed there about ten minutes, mewing contentedly.

Ferdie bawls some, but mostly he just acts depressed--with a capital D.  I wish I knew why we have not been able to do the once-a-day milking, where you separate the calf overnight, milk in the morning, then let them spend the day together.  Since the time he was born back in April, we have not been able to get more than a 1/4 inch of cream at the top of the jar.  Pitiful.  Not worth milking for.  We hope that once Ferdie has been weaned a few days, Fiona will stop holding back her cream.  She used to give two to four inches per quart.

Fortunately, there's no loss to us in all the milk he has been getting.  It has been converted to beef for our table.  I think he is a finer and healthier calf for getting to nurse this long.  After all, veal calves get nothing but milk.

The Modest Motorcycle Mama

I just love the way my helmet squeezes my chipmunk cheeks.

Bet you didn't know I lead this secret life as the wife of a Harley man.  I quite like it, although after two hours my backside is numb.  Luckily, his is too, so we stop and take a break.

My favorite stop so far has been at a little cafe next door to an antique shop.  We ate lunch there and then spent 45 minutes perusing the antiques.  I think we were in Livingston, TX.  On Memorial Day we biked to Louisiana for a friend's birthday party.  En route, Herb took me through some little town where there was a church with a giant outdoor statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe that he wanted me to see.  He had been there one afternoon when the sun was shining through some stained glass onto the statue.  He thought it was really pretty and that I would like it.  I did.  Next time I'll get a picture.

When he first got the Harley, I thought that we would go off for the weekend and camp in a tent.  I thought he wanted adventure!  And I was ready to go, but it turns out, he mostly likes day trips.  He assures me that when we go overnight, he wants to stay in a hotel--a nice one, probably with a whirlpool for our numb backsides.  LOL!

I've found that I can pray like crazy about all sorts of things when we are on a bike trip.  The funny thing is, he wants to talk, and he wants me to talk too.  Somehow the motorcycle reverses our natural tendencies in this regard.

As for proper attire, I have just been wearing my long, full skirts, and they seem to do just fine.  I had a little trouble with this blue one (in the picture) wanting to blow up over my knees because it is so light.  But I just tucked it under Herb a little bit, and that solved the problem.  I wear my cowboy boots.  Otherwise my feet get too hot.

Tree Stuff

Nathaniel and Tucker

My dear husband took on this dead tree last weekend.  It was close to the house and shedding limbs at a frightening pace.  I stood in the air conditioning and watched him hold the chainsaw over his head to cut the tree while he balanced on a ladder.   It was really hot and humid, and I worried that he was going to get heat stroke.  

Before he ever got the chainsaw out, he had planned how he would make each cut.  Some cuts required tying the branch with a rope to pull it away from the house.  I worried a lot, as usual, but everything went according to his plan.  My nephew Tucker is staying with us until school starts later this month.  He helped Herb as needed; then when Nathaniel came home from college, he and Tucker picked up all the wood.  They work well together.  It's clear Nathaniel enjoys having a "little brother".

Sunshine wasted no time in claiming the new real estate.

Last year we didn't get any pecans because of the drought.  This year the limbs are so heavy with nuts that they are sagging under the weight.  Several have broken off.  I guess that means that we should have had them pruned last fall.  Oh, well.  Hopefully we won't be visited by any hurricanes this summer, and the rest of the branches can pretend that they are willows and bend.

I feel like this year I am getting an intimate knowledge of our trees, mostly because I have hugged so many as I tie Fiona and Ferdie to them.  I have to rotate them so that they get fresh grass. The menfolk are still putting in posts for our peripheral fence.  Maybe by the end of the month it will be finished.  It will be heavenly!

  I no longer tie Ferdie in the back yard.  We've had two too many broken PVC water pipes from his insatiable head scratching.  I tried tying him close to the back of the house one night.  I thought he couldn't cause any trouble because I made sure he couldn't reach any pipes.  When I went to bed he was asleep on the ground next  to the dogs by the back door.  They looked really cute.  I wish I had gotten a picture!  But in the morning, the memory of their cuteness faded fast as I found my potted rose bush completely unpotted with most of the leaves gone.  Not a bit of soil clung to the roots.  I think Ferdie must have grabbed it in his teeth and shaken it.  Apparently he has a consuming interest in gardening.  I soon discovered he had also pruned the top of my Satsuma tree.  Plus he peed three giant puddles on the sidewalk and pooped two times as well.  Herb reports that Ferdie can pee five minutes at a time.  I believe it after seeing the size of those puddles.  I can't keep him in the chain link fence anymore because he busted the bottom of it and now just slides out underneath within minutes of being put in there.  Luckily Fiona doesn't do that.  She just starts bellowing at the crack of dawn until I take her out.

Tonight, as I led Ferdie out in the front yard by the light of a glowing full moon, we passed by one of our Crepe Myrtles, and I realized for the first time that it was awash with luscious deep pink blossoms.  I think the moonlight made it especially pretty.  Ferdie didn't seem to notice it.  He was too busy reacquainting himself with the bird feeder post.  It's his secret friend.  He butts his head against it and leaps in the air and butts it again.  Hopefully, it will still be standing in the morning.

Something He Can Work On

"Mom?"  Nathaniel called to me the other day.  "Do you have something called distilled white vinegar?"

"Yeeeees," I replied.  "How much do you need?  I have 3 1/2 gallons."

He took the half gallon and disappeared out the back door.  Shortly, he was back with a wide grin.  "Come see," he said.

I followed him out to his Mustang, and he showed me two different sections on the hood of his car.  One had water spots, and the other one didn't.  He was using the vinegar to take the spots out and was really pleased with the way it was working.  He said that he found the vinegar tip on the internet.

The car has been one of the best learning experiences he has had.  Something always needs his attention, and he has been forced to figure it out.  His dad has worked with him on this, trying his best to guide him without taking over and doing it himself, which is really hard for him.   Not only has Nathaniel gained great mechanical knowledge, he has learned a lot about himself and how people approach problems differently.  For instance, when his clutch went out, his dad saw the first step as going under the car and looking at the transmission to see what would need to be done to get it out.  Nathaniel wanted to look it up on the internet.  This led to another "people skills" learning experience, as neither could see at first where the other one was coming from.  To add to the stress, it was Christmas and freezing cold.  They eventually got it worked out and the huge job of changing out the clutch on that car successfully accomplished.  

Once all the pain was over, Nathaniel just swelled with confidence.  The experience was worth every moment of pain and suffering.  It was a rite of passage.

Well, There's a Bull on the Loose

I didn't see it happen when the water pipe from the well to the house got broken last week, but Ferdie adores scratching his head on faucets.  I had let him out to "play".  This is not what I had in mind, though.  Thankfully, my husband took off work and had it fixed in no time.

The King and the Thing in the Wing

My husband heard a mysterious noise in the garage the other night.  It emanated from one of the wings of the airplane he is building.  Until then, dear husband's face had reflected the contentment of a quiet evening at home, where he rules as a benevolent but just king.

What was this thing in his wing, and how dare it be there?

Oh, thing!  Have a care!

THE KING DECLARES WAR

The wings are stored overhead.  They have "skin" on the outside, but the far end, the one that will be the wing tip, is wide open.  Armed with a .22, the king drew a ladder to the wing root.  He climbed up, grabbed the wing spar, a piece of metal that protrudes from that end, and shook the wing.

A furry critter scrabbled out the far end onto a rafter.

Oh, possum!

Pow!  The king nailed the possum in the head just as it realized its life circumstances had grown perilous and it better make a break for it.

Despite the mortal wound to its brain pan, it leaped. . .






back inside the wing.

UTTER DISMAY contorted the king's face.  "He's bleeding out in my wing!" he complained bitterly to me and Emma as we rushed in.  (We had been banished from the garage, but we had pressed ourselves against the side entry door, where we, all a-tingle, watched the proceedings through the window.)

Now that we were inside, we could hear the varmint scratching out a frantic break dance inside the wing.

Ewwww!   My stomach rebelled at this sound and somehow pulled on my tongue, causing me to have to swallow several times, which action caused my eyes to squeeze shut.

At last, all grew still.  The prince was called to assist with the extraction of the deceased. 

His assistance was not needed after all.  The king, unbeknownst to me, managed to grab the possum's tail, and suddenly its bloody corpse, with eyes still bright, swung down into our midst.

Something about the way its body came swinging down overwhelmed my senses, and I gasped and had to turn away shivering.  Emma comforted me.

The body was dispatched to the field morgue.  Yesterday a team of winged medical examiners worked feverishly on the post mortem.

And so happily ends another possum tail in the Kingdom of Haught.

The Helpmate Who Helps Too Much

One of the fabulous things about being a homemaker is that I have the opportunity to read good books and research important topics.    The down side is, it turns me into an "expert", and I can and sometimes do give too much advice to my husband.  This dilemma grabbed my attention in an article by Ed Willock called "The Father in the Home".  It's from the book, Fatherhood and Family, which is Volume Three of the Integrity Series.  Mr. Willock says, "The father must be the head of the house, and that means if and when he becomes a better man it will be in accordance with his own idea of perfection and not his wife's.  To say other than this is to imply that mother knows best.  If she knows best, then God would have made her the head of the house.  He didn't."


Later in the article, Mr. Willock says, "In order for the man to be the proper head of the family, his wife must continually consent to it.  He cannot effectively force her to consent.  On the other hand, the man must consent to her being his helper or else she cannot truly be helpful.  If he seeks advice for living from some other sources, looking down upon her suggestions, then he is cutting himself off from the most likely source of wisdom."  


These two quotes illuminate why marriage is indeed a dance! 


One of the wonderful things I observed while watching waltzing lessons is that it is the woman's job to make the man look good while recovering from any leadership mistakes.  She must do this without ever leaving her role as follower.  How is this done in a marriage?  Well, I think in the same way that the wife corrects mistakes that she makes in "helping" too much: encouraging and supporting him.  I found this helpful list  today on Betty Beguiles: 15 Ways to Encourage Your Husband.

• Compliment him on his strengths and achievements and acknowledge his victories. 
• Create a peaceful atmosphere within our home. Make it a place that he can lay down his burdens and rest easy.
• Pray for him. Reread The Power of a Praying Wife.
• Write him love letters. Make sure he knows how absolutely swoon-worthy I find him to be.
• Speak well of him to friends and family. It wouldn't hurt if he accidentally overheard from time to time, either.
• When he stumbles, respond with mercy, compassion and encouragement.
• Encourage him to dream big and find ways to support those dreams.
• Try not to give feedback on every single decision he makes.
• Ask him for his opinion and guidance. Make sure he knows how much I value his opinion.
• Be affectionate. Don't be shy about communicating how much I desire him.
• Make sure he has the time to do the things he loves and to pursue his passions.
• Apologize for things I’ve done in the past that have hurt him.
• Thank him for all his hard work and many sacrifices.
• Don’t bring up past failures or hurts or rehash old fights. Truly forgive and forget.
• Have faith in him and let him lead.

Scared of the Light

My dear husband is a man of action.  He knows what he wants, and he gets it.  I really, really admire that, as  I am exactly the opposite.  Depending on the expense of the item, I can deliberate forever, until I am so worn out by worrying over it, I just want to forget the whole thing.  There is only one slight problem with my husband's method.  If it is something inexpensive, he doesn't read the label carefully.  It's like there is this intense magnetism between his procure-happy fingers and the object of his desire, and it totally blinds him to details.  This has led to some interesting purchases, but last night's definitely tops them all.

We've been banging around in the dark for several months now with inoperative night lights.  I was perfectly willing to continue this way, as I have read how even a little light can disrupt your circadian rhythm and contribute to sleep problems, which my husband has aplenty.  I failed to share this information with him, though, so he waited patiently for me to replace the little stubbed-toe preventers, as such things fall under my domain of responsibility.  Unbeknownst to me, yesterday, apparently, was my deadline for fulfilling this important duty.  Despite putting in a full day at work (which was a very trying one because of a power outage) and attending evening schola practice and then still having to drive an hour to get home, he squeezed in a trip to the night light store.

He arrived home as Emma and I were in the midst of the rosary, strode past us purposefully while briefly "showing" me what was in his right hand and confidently giving me the "I came, I saw, I conquered" look.  Bewildered, I kept saying Hail Marys, though he had shattered my concentration.  "What was that?" I wondered.

Shortly, he returned, and as he passed through, he said under his breath, "I made a little mistake".

So much for meditating on the mysteries of the rosary!  Overcome with idle curiosity, my brain slammed on the brakes and made an illegal u-turn as I contemplated the mystery of what my husband had had in his hand and what mistake he had made when he disappeared with it down the hall.  You can see why "Grant me the grace to pray as I ought" is one of my favorite prayers.

Luckily, I managed to regain control before the end of the rosary, and by the time we had finished reading about Easter Tuesday, I had actually forgotten about my husband's purchase and "mistake"--that is until 11 p.m., when I came out of the master bathroom and turned out the light to go to bed.  Immediately I was bathed in a blue glow from a new night light.  Before I could recover from the shock, it changed to red, then green.  I crawled into bed in the twilight zone and lay there anxiously in the miasmic atmosphere, waiting for the little green men to take me away in their spaceship.

"I can't sleep!" I whined to my husband as I clutched the covers and nervously watched the shifting colors on the ceiling.

"Shut your eyes," he advised practically.  Then he snored.

Gimme Some Skin

After a long hiatus, my dear husband posted an update on his airplane building project on Haught Wings Cafe!

I Sing the Separator Electric

While I have been supremely content to lightheartedly and carelessly skim cream off the top of the milk with a gravy ladle, leaving to waste an 1/8" in each quart, my husband has worked feverishly behind the scenes trying to catapult me into machine efficiency with a properly working electric cream separator.

Our first one, an antique Westfalia that I bought used on eBay many moons ago, is missing a part that adjusts how fast the milk goes through the machine. If it goes through too fast, the cream does not separate completely and must be run through again. Possibly related to this is a problem we have with the milk foaming excessively. We're not sure because we also do not have a book for this machine. So this separator is usable, but it certainly does not perform at its peak.

This situation has preyed on Herb's mind for the last six months. Ultimately, it could not be borne. He tried and tried to buy the missing part, but to no avail. Apparently it's just one of those parts that is prone to get lost after 40 or 50 years.

Despite its problems, Herb loves our Westfalia machine. It gushes with horsepower; its body is rock hard and quivers not under a load, the Atlas of cream separators. As its motor winds up to full speed, it sings a manly song of precision machined bearings, which draws Herb into the earthy, testosterone-rich milieu of shared masculine memory, where Vikings row in sweaty synchronization and tribal hunters converge on the charging buffalo, bows drawn.

So I was not surprised when, with immense satisfaction, he informed me that he had found and purchased another Westfalia separator, one with the milk flow adjustment part and a book. It arrived while he was out of town. Despite being travel weary, upon his return Friday night, he set briskly to work setting it up for the greatly-anticipated triumph of cream separation without waste or worry.

Well, he got half of what he wished for. No waste. Solid cream. HEAVY cream. We tried using it in our coffee, but it takes quite a bit of stirring to get it to dissolve, and it leaves an unattractive layer of fat cells floating on the top. All is not lost, though. Herb figured out how to adjust it by the time four gallons of milk had run through. Next time we'll have pourable cream.

In the meantime, he suggested that this batch must certainly be just seconds away from butter. I'm going to put it in the mixer and see. If it works, I have an idea for a song: It Ain't Heavy, It's My Butter.

Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man of Mine!

Herb got to fly the shuttle simulator at NASA the other day. He nailed the landing with the nosewheel right on the center line. He was still walking on air when he got home that night.