Myra and Kendric, who've been in Montana since the seventeenth, rode horses up to Mollman Lake with Grandpa Rick today.  I have to admit that I was fearful.  I mean, I'm all the way over here, and certainly couldn't catch them were they to fall.  (I maintain that the hardest part of parenting is NOT the late nights, the childish destruction, or even the endless laundry; it's the Letting Go.  Realizing that even when I'm "right there," their lives are being sustained by God, and not by my efforts -- however fervent.)  Myra kindly phoned this evening to let me know they'd made it home safely, and I'm looking forward to seeing the pictures she took.

We're expecting cold weather, so I sent Mari out to pick the plums from our tree.  Bri made plum cobbler for dinner.  Y-U-M.

Bri: "If we could still go swimming, fall would be my favorite."  I don't know.  If we could still eat plum cobbler (and soup), I might like summer best.

Things change.  Seasons change.  People change.

Oh, the essence of things don't change.  A tree is still the same tree whether it's wearing its spring foliage or snow.  I'm still me, though my habits and surroundings may change -- and they certainly have.  For one thing, my "Most Visited" on my internet browser is completely different from even a year ago.  (It feels a silly way to measure, but I must admit to its validity.)  Xanga isn't even on the radar, and that makes me sad.  It's just one of those habits I've ... forgotten.

I do enjoy going back in time, remembering every day when the children were so little.  Even within the general misery of our time in California, there were happy moments.  Even within the difficult days of Now, I'd like to be able to recall -- with clarity -- the happy moments.  Habits can change; I'm determined to make journaling a habit once again.

We've been in Idaho for nearly three years.  Between church, soccer, theater, etc., we know people here.  It's not quite the same as our small town in Montana where we meet a familiar face on every aisle of the grocery store; here, the familiar faces are diluted among a much larger pool of people, but they are familiar nonetheless.  I know every road -- in order -- from the state line to the far end of Coeur d'Alene, from the interstate up to Highway 53, and when people give directions that include landmarks, I can usually recognize them.  I can get around, though I don't feel any emotional connection with Here.  It's Home, but it doesn't necessarily feel like Home.

Our neighbors are wonderful.  Jimmy and Darlene are the sort who borrow eggs and butter, and lend ladders and tools.  My girls help them rake the yard and stack wood; Darlene gives random gifts (especially holiday treats).  Fred and Charla babysit their small granddaughters on weekdays, and often invite our boys to their yard to help entertain with Tag, Hide and Seek, and Catch during their Outside Time.  (I haven't clocked it, but I get the impression that Outside Time is carefully scheduled.)  Fred keeps a meticulous lawn, but he graciously stopped using Roundup along our fence, where our garden is located.  Most significantly, they own the wooded hill behind our place, and have given us permission to play there at will, the only stipulation being that we make no permanent structures, and for goodness' sake, don't injure yourselves.  Where they may not be like-minded, they make up for it with long-suffering.

We host a Poetry Society in our home every month.  I do like poetry, but my motivation was mostly to give my children a deadline for memorization pieces.  (I also aimed to build their confidence in speaking before an audience -- and to practice being a gracious audience.)  Attendance is spotty with most, but we can always count on the Goodmans, the Rices, and the Hoisingtons.  The poetry is fun, but you know the kids are mostly looking forward to the fun and games after.  Ha.

So... This is an abrupt ending, but hey, I'm out of practice.  I'm not going to cancel this entry just because I don't know how to end it gracefully.  Time to click Submit.