Shiver me timbers and blow me down . . . the internet is awash with a shipload o' phony pirates!
Yarrrrrrr!
Even Ravelry's been boarded. The Ravatars all have parrots perched upon 'em!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
AAAUUUUUUGHHHHHHH!
Guess who is cutting teeth!?!?!?!?
BabyB! At four months!
Nooooooo . . . . not already! He can't be that big already!
BabyB! At four months!
Nooooooo . . . . not already! He can't be that big already!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Like my new look?
I just stumbled upon Leelou's blog templates, and they're beautiful. Even better yet, they're free! She also has a custom blog service, but her waiting list is currently closed.
Just goes to show . . . the best form of advertising is to give away good stuff. ;o)
P.S.) Vern's in my followers over there, if you want to see a picture of him on a mountaintop. Can I just say I'm in love? {Sigh}
Just goes to show . . . the best form of advertising is to give away good stuff. ;o)
P.S.) Vern's in my followers over there, if you want to see a picture of him on a mountaintop. Can I just say I'm in love? {Sigh}
Friday, September 12, 2008
Oh, the Irony of it All.
I decided, since Vern and MrC are off on a manly campout, that I would spend my quiet evening at home getting my FCSS blocked out. (Rav project here.) I want to wear it (as does MissE!), and I wanted to block "real" lace. (Sweet river doesn't really count, although it was fun to block.)
So, I got it out, wove in the two ends, and put together my trusty hopscotch squares. Once the kids saw me put pins in them once upon a time, they went to town with bamboo skewers (bracing for their construction projects, don't'cha know), butter knives, pencils & pens, and whatever else they felt like taking to them. However, they're still good enough to pin knitting to, so they're what I've got.
I worked and fiddled and crouched and got stiff . . . carefully taking pictures (even though Vern has the good camera, and all the batteries were dead on Oly), only to find upon sitting down to blog that I was using the internal memory on the old EasyShare, and I'm out of commission until I can find the docking station or an appropriate USB cable. Ugh. UGH.
So, please do accept my apologies for the stark lack of photos and content in this post. It's all coming . . . once I can retrieve the photographic evidence. What good is a post on blocking lace without show-and-tell?
And now, I'm off to weave in a few ends (lol . . . like 3,000) on a little soaker I knit, and the off to bed. Although, bed sounds awfully good right now. Hmmmmm . . .
So, I got it out, wove in the two ends, and put together my trusty hopscotch squares. Once the kids saw me put pins in them once upon a time, they went to town with bamboo skewers (bracing for their construction projects, don't'cha know), butter knives, pencils & pens, and whatever else they felt like taking to them. However, they're still good enough to pin knitting to, so they're what I've got.
I worked and fiddled and crouched and got stiff . . . carefully taking pictures (even though Vern has the good camera, and all the batteries were dead on Oly), only to find upon sitting down to blog that I was using the internal memory on the old EasyShare, and I'm out of commission until I can find the docking station or an appropriate USB cable. Ugh. UGH.
So, please do accept my apologies for the stark lack of photos and content in this post. It's all coming . . . once I can retrieve the photographic evidence. What good is a post on blocking lace without show-and-tell?
And now, I'm off to weave in a few ends (lol . . . like 3,000) on a little soaker I knit, and the off to bed. Although, bed sounds awfully good right now. Hmmmmm . . .
Monday, September 8, 2008
Follow Follow Follow Follow, Follow the Yellow Brick Blog
Hmmm . . . that just doesn't have the same ring, does it?
And this blog definitely isn't paved with yellow brick.
However, you can still follow it! Even though it's not moving . . .
So, not yellow brick, not moving. But still follow-able. Honest!
Here's how you do it:
Check out that nifty little gadget at the top of my sidebar. It says "Passionate Readers" at the top, and has a little profile photo of my lovely Birrd friend underneath. Click on the orange letters that say "Follow this blog", and Google will walk you through it.
This is all made possible by a new Google nifty-thingie called (amazingly enough) the Google Follower. (Man, I wonder where they come up with these names, don't you?) There are two benefits to Follower. First, you can go to http://reader.google.com, and see all of the blogs you're following there (when you're logged into your Google account, of course). Secondly (and this is my favorite part!), I get to know who you are! Can you just see my big grin from here? Statcounter is nice, and comments are frosting on a bloggy cake, but the Follower makes me feel like I've got permanence, ya know? It means that even without comments (which I still long for, btw), I can know that I'm read, I'm heard, and not just shouting out into the void of cyberspace.
Quick plug for Google Reader: it's like BlogLines or other feed management tools, except it rocks. Straightforward, stupid-easy to add feeds (and now completely automatic with the Follower feature), and error-proof. (Let's not talk about my woes with Thunderbird and TypePad blogs. They're few but pernicious.) And the best best best part of all, you can Follow private blogs! Yep! So, you can go to the Google Reader and see all of the latest updates to your favorite blogs, even if they're private blogs (I have a few I read), and even if they're non-Blogger-blogs. (More on that later.)
Now, as you're wondering why on earth you should bother, let me tell you: because I really really really want you to! (And since you're a devoted blog reader, you'd do it to please me, wouldn't you? Since I work so hard taking photos and typing on this keyboard that has a flaky t-key, and thinking up strange/fun/entertaining/knitterly/munchkin stuff to blog for you, it really is the least you can do. Even if you Follow anonymously (which I guess is okay, even though I don't get to see your cool profile photo), it still shows me I'm being read.
So, now you're wondering how you can add this usefulpot feature to your blog, right? Well, just go to your blog's Layout tab (linked from your Bloggger Dashboard), and click on the "Add a Gadget" link at the top of your sidebar or footer. Type in a witty title (or use the one they supply), and you're in business. I highly recommend putting it at the top, or near it, so it's easy to see for all of your bloggy lurkers.
I've got to get done with this, so ChickenScratch can play with his blog. Later, my future Followers! {ahem} ;o)
And this blog definitely isn't paved with yellow brick.
However, you can still follow it! Even though it's not moving . . .
So, not yellow brick, not moving. But still follow-able. Honest!
Here's how you do it:
Check out that nifty little gadget at the top of my sidebar. It says "Passionate Readers" at the top, and has a little profile photo of my lovely Birrd friend underneath. Click on the orange letters that say "Follow this blog", and Google will walk you through it.
This is all made possible by a new Google nifty-thingie called (amazingly enough) the Google Follower. (Man, I wonder where they come up with these names, don't you?) There are two benefits to Follower. First, you can go to http://reader.google.com, and see all of the blogs you're following there (when you're logged into your Google account, of course). Secondly (and this is my favorite part!), I get to know who you are! Can you just see my big grin from here? Statcounter is nice, and comments are frosting on a bloggy cake, but the Follower makes me feel like I've got permanence, ya know? It means that even without comments (which I still long for, btw), I can know that I'm read, I'm heard, and not just shouting out into the void of cyberspace.
Quick plug for Google Reader: it's like BlogLines or other feed management tools, except it rocks. Straightforward, stupid-easy to add feeds (and now completely automatic with the Follower feature), and error-proof. (Let's not talk about my woes with Thunderbird and TypePad blogs. They're few but pernicious.) And the best best best part of all, you can Follow private blogs! Yep! So, you can go to the Google Reader and see all of the latest updates to your favorite blogs, even if they're private blogs (I have a few I read), and even if they're non-Blogger-blogs. (More on that later.)
Now, as you're wondering why on earth you should bother, let me tell you: because I really really really want you to! (And since you're a devoted blog reader, you'd do it to please me, wouldn't you? Since I work so hard taking photos and typing on this keyboard that has a flaky t-key, and thinking up strange/fun/entertaining/knitterly/munchkin stuff to blog for you, it really is the least you can do. Even if you Follow anonymously (which I guess is okay, even though I don't get to see your cool profile photo), it still shows me I'm being read.
So, now you're wondering how you can add this useful
I've got to get done with this, so ChickenScratch can play with his blog. Later, my future Followers! {ahem} ;o)
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Structural Integrity at 28%
My head is about to explode.
No, I'm serious.
It's stuffed full of unwanted new info on cracked cylinder heads, leaky head gaskets, motors, valves, coolant system leaks, repairing or replacing the same, and a slew of places to call and spit all this info back so they can tell me how much they'll charge.
The 4Runner is at a dealership shop in the next town over, its guts lying on the shop floor around it, with a bill of $700 just in tear-down time. They want either $6,500 or a starting point of $5,000 (sliding upwards from there) to fix it or put in a new motor. I've found a new motor for $1150 (with fewer miles and nearly as good a pressure test as their $5K motor!), and now I've just got to figure out how to get my ol' buddy out of the prison he's in and to a place that's friendlier.
Needless to say, I won't be telling the dealership what I think of their prices until after I've talked them into discounting my bill, I've paid for it, and the 4Runner is on it's way to either my driveway (to be sold for parts) or to a reasonable mechanic.
My dad put it this way: Dealerships are out to sell cars. More expensive repairs mean more car sales and trade-ins.
Add to that the fact that my washer has nearly the most expensive problem possible, and it has been quite the 24 hours. Thanks be to heaven we bought the "Master Service Agreement", (and for about 1/4 the cost due to a labeling mistake at Sears!), and don't have to pay the horrifyingly-close-to-$1,000 bill. The washer cost $1200, for Pete's sake. It's only three years old!
So, with my head spinning about repair options and service scheduling and wondering what this is all going to end up costing, I'm going out to forage for groceries tonight. Wish me luck. Otherwise who knows what I'll bring back.
Sardines and strawberries, anyone?
No, I'm serious.
It's stuffed full of unwanted new info on cracked cylinder heads, leaky head gaskets, motors, valves, coolant system leaks, repairing or replacing the same, and a slew of places to call and spit all this info back so they can tell me how much they'll charge.
The 4Runner is at a dealership shop in the next town over, its guts lying on the shop floor around it, with a bill of $700 just in tear-down time. They want either $6,500 or a starting point of $5,000 (sliding upwards from there) to fix it or put in a new motor. I've found a new motor for $1150 (with fewer miles and nearly as good a pressure test as their $5K motor!), and now I've just got to figure out how to get my ol' buddy out of the prison he's in and to a place that's friendlier.
Needless to say, I won't be telling the dealership what I think of their prices until after I've talked them into discounting my bill, I've paid for it, and the 4Runner is on it's way to either my driveway (to be sold for parts) or to a reasonable mechanic.
My dad put it this way: Dealerships are out to sell cars. More expensive repairs mean more car sales and trade-ins.
Add to that the fact that my washer has nearly the most expensive problem possible, and it has been quite the 24 hours. Thanks be to heaven we bought the "Master Service Agreement", (and for about 1/4 the cost due to a labeling mistake at Sears!), and don't have to pay the horrifyingly-close-to-$1,000 bill. The washer cost $1200, for Pete's sake. It's only three years old!
So, with my head spinning about repair options and service scheduling and wondering what this is all going to end up costing, I'm going out to forage for groceries tonight. Wish me luck. Otherwise who knows what I'll bring back.
Sardines and strawberries, anyone?
Mutant Play Dough Munchkins
The kids were hankerin' to play with play dough the other day, so I stopped by the store on the way home from an errand (registering the van, not as painful as I thought) and picked up the things I didn't have in the house: white flour, veg oil & food coloring. It's funny . . . those, along with the white sugar, are up on a pantry shelf together in the "not for human consumption" section. (The sugar is for the hummingbirds.)
So, making play dough was interesting. Easy, quick, and not too messy. Here are the kids goin' at it:
The Anderman, displaying his work, while Lil'MissL happily chops away with a butter knife on MrC's kayak fleet.
MissE, carefully explaining the finer workings of a play dough kayak.
MrC, (aka ChickenScratch), providing his insights on the finer points of play dough kayak construction. As you can see, he's a master builder with a fleet of aquadynamic vessels.
The night before, playing with some commercial PD MissE was given at church:
I don't remember what prompted the pink boils, but they sure got into it.
And MrC's crowning achievement: a play dough pirate ship.
And, just because I need some warm fuzzies today, a photo of my favorite part of my little house, complete with hydrangeas and roses from the front yard.
Have a great Tuesday, evereyone. I'm sure going to try. (Oh. I guess it's Wednesday, isn't it . . . )
So, making play dough was interesting. Easy, quick, and not too messy. Here are the kids goin' at it:
The Anderman, displaying his work, while Lil'MissL happily chops away with a butter knife on MrC's kayak fleet.
MissE, carefully explaining the finer workings of a play dough kayak.
MrC, (aka ChickenScratch), providing his insights on the finer points of play dough kayak construction. As you can see, he's a master builder with a fleet of aquadynamic vessels.
The night before, playing with some commercial PD MissE was given at church:
I don't remember what prompted the pink boils, but they sure got into it.
And MrC's crowning achievement: a play dough pirate ship.
And, just because I need some warm fuzzies today, a photo of my favorite part of my little house, complete with hydrangeas and roses from the front yard.
Have a great Tuesday, evereyone. I'm sure going to try. (Oh. I guess it's Wednesday, isn't it . . . )
Monday, September 1, 2008
Socks
Socks are the bane of my existence.
Not my own. Not Vern's. I mean little, disparate, smelly, mischievous munchkin socks.
I picked up 21 socks from my downstairs tonight: 17 icky, dirty ones and two clean pair. They were everywhere . . . under furniture, behind things, mixed into the toys, under the kitchen table . . . and this is during sandal season, when I try to keep the kids out of socks as much as possible.
At least there weren't any in the piano.
Hopefully the slight, but persistent, smell I've been chasing today is now banished. Ugh. Maybe there's a reason I haven't knit socks for the kids that are big enough to remove their own footwear.
I think it's time I go and do some reading on the barefoot movement.
Not my own. Not Vern's. I mean little, disparate, smelly, mischievous munchkin socks.
I picked up 21 socks from my downstairs tonight: 17 icky, dirty ones and two clean pair. They were everywhere . . . under furniture, behind things, mixed into the toys, under the kitchen table . . . and this is during sandal season, when I try to keep the kids out of socks as much as possible.
At least there weren't any in the piano.
Hopefully the slight, but persistent, smell I've been chasing today is now banished. Ugh. Maybe there's a reason I haven't knit socks for the kids that are big enough to remove their own footwear.
I think it's time I go and do some reading on the barefoot movement.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Old Habits
I sat down to finish the Boho Baby Soaker for Apple Yarns yesterday.
I got comfy, and began working the k1p1 ribbing on the last leg cuff. As I stitched away, noticing the familiar sounds of the kids playing quietly in the next room, a soft contentment came over me. I looked up . . .
and realized something wasn't quite right. {Ahem . . . who has been complaining about the lack of furniture in her life for the last few years?}
That's better. And after a 45-second tidy, I got to knit in a lovely living room. (That first sofa shot was for you, Shan. ;o)
And a few minutes later, I had happy company. Even better. ;o)
And no worries, Mom. I'll post photos of the kids now that I have the computer set up for it. And if I'm not posting enough of them fast enough, just leave a comment and let me know. (Comments have great power over bloggers.)
I got comfy, and began working the k1p1 ribbing on the last leg cuff. As I stitched away, noticing the familiar sounds of the kids playing quietly in the next room, a soft contentment came over me. I looked up . . .
and realized something wasn't quite right. {Ahem . . . who has been complaining about the lack of furniture in her life for the last few years?}
That's better. And after a 45-second tidy, I got to knit in a lovely living room. (That first sofa shot was for you, Shan. ;o)
And a few minutes later, I had happy company. Even better. ;o)
And no worries, Mom. I'll post photos of the kids now that I have the computer set up for it. And if I'm not posting enough of them fast enough, just leave a comment and let me know. (Comments have great power over bloggers.)
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Long-Awaited Story
How We Got to Oregon
by Annalea
So, waaaaaaaay back at the end of April, we accepted an offer on our house in Idaho. The terms were perfect . . . really, just what we had been praying for. The buyer wasn't in any hurry to close, so the closing date was set for six weeks out. We would then rent from the seller for an additional six weeks, giving me at least a month postpartum before the move.
The time passed as those blurry days before childbirth and moving often do . . . packing, life feeling pretty chaotic, and all of the stress and work that go with both of those things. (I highly recommend not combining the two . . . ever.) Vern did the lion's share of packing and moving, sparing me stress that my body honestly couldn't handle at that point. Around that time, (can't remember exactly now), I was also finally diagnosed with hypo-glycemia. All of the strange and debilitating symptoms I had been struggling under (depression, panic attacks, night terrors, lethargy, sleeplessness, hormonal imbalances, headaches, racing/pounding heart, muddy thinking, short-term memory loss) finally made sense, and I was able to take steps to quit exacerbating my condition and learn to live with it.
At long last, the moving day came. With lots of help from friends and family, we made it to Bellingham over a two-week stretch. The lag between loading the truck and walking into the rental in Bellingham was spent with parents and cousins, and was a necessary and welcome respite from the horrors of packing/unpacking. While staying with family in Oregon, Vern and I came to the realization that the quiet dream we had of living in that beautiful area could become a reality. We had considered moving there about four years earlier, but the relatively lower land prices in Idaho clouded our judgement, and made the two and three acre parcels available here seem exorbitantly priced and restrictively small. The dream was shelved, and we went back to the reality we chose in Northern Idaho. But with the continuing development in our area there, the prices soon came into line with Oregon's, and Vern kept scaling back his idea of an acceptable place to live. First it was 20 acres, then 10, then 5. And then, staying over for that week at Miriam's house (on less than 2 acres), Vern could see how much space it really was. He saw what a wonderful place it was for her children to grow and play, and the wheels began to turn. So we began talking about settling there . . . someday.
Impatient to get moved in and settled, we got things unloaded at the B'ham house, and tried to start making a home there. But things weren't right. The property management company hadn't taken care of the home as they should've, and we spent the first week, barely unpacked, trying to decide if we could live with cabinets sticky to the touch with years' of grime, strange smells in the carpet downstairs, and an overwhelming scent of mothballs. (Well, overwhelming to me . . . it was just strong to everyone else. Chemical sensitivities is a symptom of endocrine system dysfunction, which is part of hypo-glycemia.) But, determined to end our quest for the ideal and get on with living our lives, we tried to stay. I told myself I could somehow manage to clean nearly 40 cabinet doors & drawers of about 20 years' grime and scrub 1800 sq ft of hardwood upstairs (rubbing it with a damp paper towel made the towel coal-black). And do laundry, cook healthy meals, homeschool, nurse the baby, cloth diaper, unpack, and explore Belligham. And then I would have a flash of clear-thinking, and realize my still-weak and wobbly body just couldn't do it for quite some time yet.
The view was breath-taking. Looking out the window, I really felt as though I was living in some ancient English manor, overlooking manicured grounds and a private lake. (Living above a golf course can do that to you.) I took so many photos, trying to catch the many moods of lake and sky. Even without pictures, I'll always remember its loveliness. Our Bellingham ward (a church unit similar to a parish) was welcoming and friendly to the point that we look forward to attending there again when we go back to visit. We were right by the lake, where Vern could kayak on 5 minute's notice and we could take the kids to splash and play, I had found an awesome LYS, Apple Yarns, and loved the knit night there. (Hi Andrea, Hi Anna!) But this strange feeling of impermanence . . . of visiting . . . would. not. dissipate.
The second Sunday after arriving there, Vern got an email from his business partner, notifying us of his intent to dissolve the partnership. That completely rocked our world. So close to finishing a project that we had invested nearly two years in, and that Vern had been dreaming of and scheming for since before we were married (that's more than 10 years folks), he was absolutely devastated; I was shocked and bewildered. As if the rental wasn't enough of a problem to try to hash out and resolve, we now had a much bigger problem: dissolving the partnership without losing everything we had worked so hard to gain. It was strange, having someone who was Vern's ally and partner for 40+ hours a week suddenly step over the line and declare himself a completely self-motivated opponent.
And then driving one day, Vern was on the phone with someone and said something that still stands so clearly in my mind. He explained how the partnership had been the prime motivating factor in our choosing Bellingham, and then said: "That factor is no longer there."
The reason for living in Bellingham disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Hearing that was the strangest experience. Like an old-fashioned newspaper title, the words stood out in bold black in my mind. It's hard to explain the feeling of liberation, almost lightness, than followed. We had been discussing the prospect of the Portland area, and upon hearing that fragment from Vern, it all fell into place.
One month after our last visit, we all went back to Miriam's for Vern to run in a 10k in Estacada. Again, it was a blessing to have the space and time away from that rental to think things over and breathe some air untainted by the stress and negative energy in that rental. And we decided to stop making decisions based on external pressures . . . to stop running from things we couldn't control. When we began looking back, all of our previous moves had been made in the "running from" frame of mind. Finally, we stopped "running from" and made a conscious choice to "go to".
We chose Oregon.
The next weekend Vern was back in Oregon, and found a house for us. The next Monday we sent notice to the property management company (who had failed to make a legally-required repair, freeing us to break the lease), and began packing like mad. With said due notice given, and within six weeks of moving in, we had moved out.
Since arriving here, my whole world has changed. I honestly can't detail it--there's not much tangible, concrete evidence to support that statement. But nonetheless, I feel as though I've come out of a long, dark tunnel. (Longer than six weeks . . . more like four years.) I'm having more good days than not, with decent energy and a hopeful outlook on the constant struggle that is my chosen vocation. I miss my parents a lot--it was wonderful living near them for the short time that we were able to. I hope that someday we'll be able to live near them again, or that we'll have the financial independence necessary to visit them often. (A vacation home near Sandpoint would be simply lovely, don't you think?)
And that's how we got to Oregon.
by Annalea
So, waaaaaaaay back at the end of April, we accepted an offer on our house in Idaho. The terms were perfect . . . really, just what we had been praying for. The buyer wasn't in any hurry to close, so the closing date was set for six weeks out. We would then rent from the seller for an additional six weeks, giving me at least a month postpartum before the move.
The time passed as those blurry days before childbirth and moving often do . . . packing, life feeling pretty chaotic, and all of the stress and work that go with both of those things. (I highly recommend not combining the two . . . ever.) Vern did the lion's share of packing and moving, sparing me stress that my body honestly couldn't handle at that point. Around that time, (can't remember exactly now), I was also finally diagnosed with hypo-glycemia. All of the strange and debilitating symptoms I had been struggling under (depression, panic attacks, night terrors, lethargy, sleeplessness, hormonal imbalances, headaches, racing/pounding heart, muddy thinking, short-term memory loss) finally made sense, and I was able to take steps to quit exacerbating my condition and learn to live with it.
At long last, the moving day came. With lots of help from friends and family, we made it to Bellingham over a two-week stretch. The lag between loading the truck and walking into the rental in Bellingham was spent with parents and cousins, and was a necessary and welcome respite from the horrors of packing/unpacking. While staying with family in Oregon, Vern and I came to the realization that the quiet dream we had of living in that beautiful area could become a reality. We had considered moving there about four years earlier, but the relatively lower land prices in Idaho clouded our judgement, and made the two and three acre parcels available here seem exorbitantly priced and restrictively small. The dream was shelved, and we went back to the reality we chose in Northern Idaho. But with the continuing development in our area there, the prices soon came into line with Oregon's, and Vern kept scaling back his idea of an acceptable place to live. First it was 20 acres, then 10, then 5. And then, staying over for that week at Miriam's house (on less than 2 acres), Vern could see how much space it really was. He saw what a wonderful place it was for her children to grow and play, and the wheels began to turn. So we began talking about settling there . . . someday.
Impatient to get moved in and settled, we got things unloaded at the B'ham house, and tried to start making a home there. But things weren't right. The property management company hadn't taken care of the home as they should've, and we spent the first week, barely unpacked, trying to decide if we could live with cabinets sticky to the touch with years' of grime, strange smells in the carpet downstairs, and an overwhelming scent of mothballs. (Well, overwhelming to me . . . it was just strong to everyone else. Chemical sensitivities is a symptom of endocrine system dysfunction, which is part of hypo-glycemia.) But, determined to end our quest for the ideal and get on with living our lives, we tried to stay. I told myself I could somehow manage to clean nearly 40 cabinet doors & drawers of about 20 years' grime and scrub 1800 sq ft of hardwood upstairs (rubbing it with a damp paper towel made the towel coal-black). And do laundry, cook healthy meals, homeschool, nurse the baby, cloth diaper, unpack, and explore Belligham. And then I would have a flash of clear-thinking, and realize my still-weak and wobbly body just couldn't do it for quite some time yet.
The view was breath-taking. Looking out the window, I really felt as though I was living in some ancient English manor, overlooking manicured grounds and a private lake. (Living above a golf course can do that to you.) I took so many photos, trying to catch the many moods of lake and sky. Even without pictures, I'll always remember its loveliness. Our Bellingham ward (a church unit similar to a parish) was welcoming and friendly to the point that we look forward to attending there again when we go back to visit. We were right by the lake, where Vern could kayak on 5 minute's notice and we could take the kids to splash and play, I had found an awesome LYS, Apple Yarns, and loved the knit night there. (Hi Andrea, Hi Anna!) But this strange feeling of impermanence . . . of visiting . . . would. not. dissipate.
The second Sunday after arriving there, Vern got an email from his business partner, notifying us of his intent to dissolve the partnership. That completely rocked our world. So close to finishing a project that we had invested nearly two years in, and that Vern had been dreaming of and scheming for since before we were married (that's more than 10 years folks), he was absolutely devastated; I was shocked and bewildered. As if the rental wasn't enough of a problem to try to hash out and resolve, we now had a much bigger problem: dissolving the partnership without losing everything we had worked so hard to gain. It was strange, having someone who was Vern's ally and partner for 40+ hours a week suddenly step over the line and declare himself a completely self-motivated opponent.
And then driving one day, Vern was on the phone with someone and said something that still stands so clearly in my mind. He explained how the partnership had been the prime motivating factor in our choosing Bellingham, and then said: "That factor is no longer there."
The reason for living in Bellingham disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Hearing that was the strangest experience. Like an old-fashioned newspaper title, the words stood out in bold black in my mind. It's hard to explain the feeling of liberation, almost lightness, than followed. We had been discussing the prospect of the Portland area, and upon hearing that fragment from Vern, it all fell into place.
One month after our last visit, we all went back to Miriam's for Vern to run in a 10k in Estacada. Again, it was a blessing to have the space and time away from that rental to think things over and breathe some air untainted by the stress and negative energy in that rental. And we decided to stop making decisions based on external pressures . . . to stop running from things we couldn't control. When we began looking back, all of our previous moves had been made in the "running from" frame of mind. Finally, we stopped "running from" and made a conscious choice to "go to".
We chose Oregon.
The next weekend Vern was back in Oregon, and found a house for us. The next Monday we sent notice to the property management company (who had failed to make a legally-required repair, freeing us to break the lease), and began packing like mad. With said due notice given, and within six weeks of moving in, we had moved out.
Since arriving here, my whole world has changed. I honestly can't detail it--there's not much tangible, concrete evidence to support that statement. But nonetheless, I feel as though I've come out of a long, dark tunnel. (Longer than six weeks . . . more like four years.) I'm having more good days than not, with decent energy and a hopeful outlook on the constant struggle that is my chosen vocation. I miss my parents a lot--it was wonderful living near them for the short time that we were able to. I hope that someday we'll be able to live near them again, or that we'll have the financial independence necessary to visit them often. (A vacation home near Sandpoint would be simply lovely, don't you think?)
And that's how we got to Oregon.
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