Last night marked the functional beginning of fall: we closed the windows at night.  We still enjoy the fresh air during the day, but we don't want to wake up frosted over like the garden.  Now to see how long we can last before hauling up the firewood...

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.

Tell me not in mournful numbers
That life is but an empty dream.
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real!  Life is earnest!
The grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returneth"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us further than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant.
Let the dead past bury its dead.
Act!  Act within the living present--
Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints in the sands of time.

Footprints that perhaps another
Sailing o'er life's solemn main --
a forlorn and shipwrecked brother --
seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I recently finished reading Agatha Christie's autobiography.  It's not so much a narrative of her life as the rambling memories of an old woman, but I like her more after having read it:

I think sometimes we do not appreciate that second virtue which we mention so seldom in the trilogy -- faith, hope and love.  ...  We are ready to despair too soon, we are ready to say, "What's the good of doing anything?"

...Why should one give up any hope until one is dead?...

It reminds me of the story that my American godmother used to tell me years and years ago about two frogs who fell into a pail of milk. One said, "Ooh, I'm drowning!  I'm drowning!"
The other frog said, "I'm not going to drown."
"How can you stop drowning?" asked the other frog.
"Why I'm going to hustle around, and hustle around, and hustle around like mad," said the second frog.
Next morning the first frog had given up and drowned, and the second frog, having hustled around all night, was sitting there in the pail, right on top of a pat of butter.

Wilson:  "Kitties don't know how to light matches."

The girls introduced Kirby to the game "Three on a Couch."  The three players on the couch are posed a question, any question, which they answer, truthfully or not, in sentence form, one word at a time.  Anyone who giggles before the period at the end of the sentence must give up their place on the couch.  I asked, "Can you smell the color nine?"  Of course, Myra recognized the song; when she said "Chris," Wilson piped up from the table, "-mas!"  Later, Kirby followed Bri's "talks" with "ic."  Too bad we can't wait to play the game 'til I'm good 'n' grumpy, 'cause I laugh waaay too easily.

Haikus have three lines
The first has five syllables
Then seven, then five.

As seen in this example

The last time I had heard a doppler, I was greeted with relative silence.  When the midwife found the baby's heartbeat, I got a little teary.  I was surprised to feel no self-pity, but pure joy for Lori.  Her baby was alive and kickin', and all the pain and frustration of her day would soon produce a sweet reward.  "Lori, that's one of the most beautiful sounds in the world!"  (Not for pure auditory enjoyment, because, to be honest, it's a little fuzzy and crackly, but as an indicator of LIFE, what an encouragement!)

I changed my tune, because the next most beautiful sound is a baby's first cry.  Air in those lungs.

The Mosquedas came over this afternoon.  The boys split and stacked wood while we girls visited inside.  Baby Mosqueda is expected to make an appearance Any Day Now, so we did our best to get Lori onto the trampoline.  Ha.  No, we just camped out on the couch, laughing and singing.  The girls pulled out all sorts of trivia cards, but the big hit of the evening was trying to remember lyrics -- without the tune -- of old, familiar songs.  "When the world and I were young -- just yesterday -- love was such a simple game a child could play.  It was easy then to tell truth from lies, selling out from compromise, how much to protect your heart, the foolish from the wise.  But today there is no day or night, to day there is no wrong or right, today there is no black or white, only shades of grey..."