Author Archives: kzmclain

Friday Book Whimsy: The Weight of Blood

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imgresMysterious characters, a large helping of suspense, dark family secrets, and a gritty southern rural setting – all elements that will call out to me and set me to reading a book. Laura McHugh’s debut novel The Weight of Blood has all of those elements and more.

The fact that the book was set in a poor area of the Ozarks in rural Missouri immediately reminded me of Daniel Woodrell’s creepy novel-made-into-a-movie Winter’s Bone, a book I liked 100 percent because of the setting. The Weight of Blood had the same sort of sinister atmosphere.

Lucy Dane’s mother apparently walked into a cave and disappeared when Lucy was a baby. Her disappearance has haunted both Lucy and her father Carl for almost two decades. How could someone who people say so loved her daughter abandon her?

Many years later, Lucy’s friend Cheri, a teenager who most believe is developmentally disabled, is found murdered and dismembered. Reminded of her mother, Lucy undertakes her own investigation. The harder she works at finding the truth, the clearer it becomes that her own family has its own sinister secrets. Running into roadblock after roadblock from friends and family alike, it becomes clear that lots of people know more than they are saying, and there are things she may not want to learn. Only her friend Daniel will help her find out the truth.

McHugh’s writing is good, and kept me reading into the night. At first glance, her characters seem to be black hat/white hat, but as the novel progresses, some of the gray begins to display itself. These are characters you don’t easily forget, even after the book is finished. McHugh paints a clear picture about what it’s like to live in a small town where everyone knows everyone else and blood is thicker than water.

The ending held little surprise, but was satisfying. I would recommend this book for the setting and the memorable characters, but only if you are in the mood for somber reading.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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Gone, But Not Forgotten
Whenever my siblings have been visiting, it’s always so quiet when they leave. It’s not, of course, that they are boisterous or demand a lot of activity. It’s just that Bill and I live a very quiet (read, dull) life. So as soon as Bec pulled away from our house yesterday morning to head back home to Arizona, the quietness settled around me. As is typical of all visitors, Bec forgot a few things: the cherries and grapes she had bought to eat on the road, her water bottle, and other things that we will discover over the next few days. The worst thing that any of my siblings ever forgot was the time that my brother visited with his kids over some school break and they left our house for home at the crack of dawn, forgetting to take the school books they had brought along to study. They made it to Colorado Springs before they had to turn around and come back.

Tick Tock
Bill continues to work on the playhouse. He assures me he is almost finished. Today he is putting up the siding. I have been joking with him that if we ever have a tornado, I’m going to go to the playhouse because it is most assuredly built stronger than the house in which we live. You know, homes built in the 70s and all……

Law and Order
This past Friday, Jen had to take Bec to the emergency room for a non-life-threatening situation involving her hearing aid (growing old is not for wimps), which, while not a bit dangerous, had to be taken care of. Unfortunately, the need didn’t arise until 10:30 that night, after they had both been going to bed. Off they went, and the situation was handled. As they were driving back home, Jen noticed flashing red and blue lights behind her. She pulled over, assuming the lights would speed by her, but ooooooh no; instead, a cop got out of the car and began walking over to Jen’s car. “Hello,” he said to Jen. “How are things going tonight?” “Not so good,” Jen assured the police officer. “We are just returning from a trip to the emergency room where I took my sister.” After checking to make sure Bec was breathing, he asked Jen if she realized that she had stopped her car at the last stoplight in the pedestrian walking area. Remember, it is past midnight at this point. As you can imagine, pedestrians abounded. Not. “No Officer, I didn’t,” Jen told him. He took her information, and then informed the perp that he needed to go check for outstanding warrants. Egads. Jen told him her alias was Grammie. (Not really, but seriously? Two grandmas wearing almost pajamas?) I’m happy to tell you there were no outstanding warrants. When they got home, Jen admitted two things to Bec. The first is that prior to the hearing aid situation arising, Jen had taken two Advil PMs. The second is that she hadn’t brought her cell phone with her. Since Bec learned while in the emergency room that her phone was nearly dead, if they had needed to have to place that one allowed phone call, they would have had to use Jen’s IPAD to Facetime BJ. Since then, Bill and I have both been cognizant that we nearly always stop in the pedestrian area. Little did we know that there is a police officer in Fort Collins who is enforcing the law one grandmother at a time.

Batter Up
Addie softballI was all set to settle into my recliner yesterday evening to watch the news and perhaps catch up on some shows we have recorded. Suddenly my telephone dinged. A text message from Addie. “Are you coming to my softball game tonight?” Well of course I am, since you asked. How could I possibly say no? So following a dinner involving gyros, Bill and I headed north a couple of miles to watch Addie play ball. We didn’t stay for much of the game, but got to see Addie up at bat one time. She hit the ball, but was tagged out at first base. Well, at least she got a hit, I said to Bill. No she didn’t, he answered. Apparently if you are tagged out at first, it isn’t counted as a hit. Hmmmpf. That’s a stupid rule, and she got a hit in my book. Apparently she got a hit that even her papa would accept later in the game, and the team went on to win, coming back from a 10 point deficit.

Ciao.

Live Life Like You Were Dyin’

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And I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I watched an eagle as it was flyin’
And he said, Someday I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dyin’ (written by Tim Nichols, Craig Michael Wiseman, recorded by Tim McGraw)

At first it seems like a macabre thought – to live like you are dying. And yet, at the end of the day, that is what we should be doing every single day. The reality is, my friends, that we never know what lies ahead.

Mclains

L-R: Dagny, Nana, Maggie Faith, Allen, Alastair

Our family has had somewhat of a difficult summer. One daughter-in-law lost her father; another has had to undergo surgery; yet another lost her beloved aunt and her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I, of course, spent much of July suffering from a painful neck, which – after one thing led to another — resulted in four days in the hospital. Bill’s kids lost a much-loved uncle and my family lost a dear aunt. All-in-all, we were all quite content to say goodbye to July. Bring on the rest of summer!

But here’s the thing that makes me proud of my family – both immediate and extended. No one spent much time wallowing in pity. Instead, Monday night – the night before breast surgery – we celebrated over food and wine and lemonades and martinis.

My daughter-in-law Jll’s sister Julie can be thanked for putting the celebration together. It was time, she said in her email, to “kick off August and celebrate the good stuff.”

And celebrate we certainly did. Our four McLain grandkids (aka the cousins) looked freshly scrubbed and very gussied up as they arrived at the restaurant. Dagny, who celebrates her 9th birthday in a few days, proudly sat by the sign that said Happy Birthday in big, colorful letters.  Her Aunt Julie gave her the privilege of picking out the appetizers for the table. She chose beef carpaccio and grilled artichokes. Yes, I said she was turning 9. Unfortunately, the restaurant was out of artichokes so she made do with a pepperoni pizza. Who wouldn’t? And she ordered beef tenderloin, medium rare. The server literally did a double-take. By the way, she ate every bite.

Dagny's beef tenderloin

She ate the whole thing, but did give me her asparagus.

I’m sorry that Jll’s mother and my friend has to go through what she will go through in the weeks ahead. Her prognosis, I’m happy to say, is excellent. But what an inspiration that she chose to spend a night of fun, food, and plain joy prior to her surgery. What’s the use of being sad? God will bring us what he brings us.

Bec and I pose with Dagny.

Bec and I pose with Dagny.

We never know what tomorrow will bring, so live life like you are dying.

 

Pickled

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Every year without fail I put up at least one batch of dill pickles. I occasionally will make jelly or can tomatoes. I have been known to make dilly beans as well. But the pickles I do each year.

And each year when I make my pickles, I tell people – either by word of mouth or via my blog – just how darned EASY it is to put up pickles, and why-oh-why don’t more people do it. I’m actually quite, well, smug about it. Look at me. I make homemade pickles. Ma Ingalls (of Little House on the Prairie fame) and I and could be BFFs. We could sit around and quilt and talk about pickling recipes and how much butter we were going to churn this week.

This year I went one step further and actually grew my fresh dill. I began making noise about going to the Farm Store to buy pickling cucumbers since my dill was ready to pick. It didn’t happen, however, because I went instead to the hospital. Choices, choices….

By time I got out of the hospital, my dill was starting to look sad. So despite the fact that I didn’t feel that great, and despite the fact that my body was still working its way back to normal (a process that’s taking longer than I expected), a week ago I went to the Farm Store and bought four pounds of pickling cucumbers. When I got home, I washed them, put them in a big bowl of ice water, and placed them in the fridge to chill overnight. In the meantime, I went out to my garden and picked my long sprigs of dill, and put them in a vase of water to stay fresh until the next day when I would do my pickling.

So, the next day, I began the process of putting up the pickles. The process involves sterilizing the jars and lids, carefully washing and cutting the cucumbers, putting the spices (including mustard seeds, garlic, and red pepper flakes) in the sterilized jars, preparing the pickling brine, bringing my massive canning pot full of water to a rolling boil, filling the jars with the cut cucumbers, making sure the rims of the jars are clean, closing the jars, and placing the jars in the boiling water.

Perhaps it was because I wasn’t feeling tip top, but at some point during this process it occurred to me that pickling isn’t actually all that darn easy. It isn’t, of course, rocket science, but it is time consuming and somewhat tedious. Nevertheless, for reasons I don’t quite understand myself, I LOVE doing it. I generally don’t eat a single pickle; instead, I give them all to my brother Dave or my nephew Erik. But it is really something I enjoy doing.

I had just gotten the jars of cucumbers into the pot of boiling water to begin the process that results in the sealing of the jars. I began wiping the stove and the countertops with a rag. I turned around to place the rag in the sink, and suddenly saw my vase full of dill.

“I’ll be a f*****g son of a b***h,” I said quite loudly. I’m not proud of dillthis.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bill, who happened to be taking a break from building the playhouse-that-will-never-be-finished.

“I forgot to put the dill in my dill pickles,” I said.

“Can you add the dill now?” Bill asked.

Nope, you really can’t, because by this point it’s basically a chemical process that involves the heat creating a vacuum so that the jars can be sealed.

pickle jars

Look! No dill.

So I finished the processing and will be offering dill-less dill pickles this season. All that remains is for me to come up with a quirky name. Any suggestions? How about Killer Dave’s No Dill Dill Pickles?

I thought I might be able to get away with it. Kaiya spotted my jars of pickles the other day and asked if she could have one. I handed one to her. She ate it, but didn’t seem thrilled.

“These taste like sweet pickles,” she said, “and I like dill pickles.”

Well don’t we all.

I had a few little cucumbers left and didn’t want to throw them away. Instead, I made a small batch of my Aunt Leona’s refrigerator pickles, or what she called her Frozen Cuke Salad.

leonas refrigerator picklesFrozen Cuke Salad, courtesy Leona Micek

2 qt. sliced cukes
2 T. salt

Mix and refrigerate 2 hours. Drain and rinse.

Make syrup: Bring to boil..
½ c. vinegar
1-1/2 c. sugar
Onion to taste
Green and red pepper to taste
Parsley (optional)

Cool syrup slightly and pour over cukes. Refrigerate another 24 hours. Put in containers and freeze.

Leona’s Note: We prefer to keep in frig and eat.

Nana’s Notes: Me too!

 

Shingles

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“Would you like a piece of toast for breakfast?” I asked Bill one day last week.

“Sure, sounds good,” he answered.

So I got out a couple of pieces of the high-fiber bread that the nurse practitioner had suggested I eat as part of my effort towards a high-fiber diet in light of my recent health situation. He highly recommended the bread. Killer Dave’s Bread, he called it. He said it was his absolute favorite bread. In fact, it is actually called Dave’s Killer Bread. We purchased it last week from Costco, two loaves shrink-wrapped together in the old familiar Costco way – designed for big families.

I toasted two slices, smeared cream cheese on Bill’s, and carefully dotted the bread with his favorite grape jelly. He took a bite without looking up from his Ipad.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand.

“Hmmmm,” he finally said. “I could use this bread as siding for the playhouse.”

And so he could. Sorry Jeff-the-nurse-practitioner. The bread tastes like a shingle.

I took a bite of my own toast smeared with peanut butter. I chewed……………and chewed………….and chewed some more. My friends, I am simply not cut out for a high-fiber diet.

And yet I must learn. Because I don’t want to end up in the hospital simply because I am opposed to eating shingles.

Honestly, it’s not accurate to say I’m not cut out for a high-fiber diet. I like lots of things that are high in fiber. In fact, in 2011 following my surgery, I had to eat a low-fiber diet for a period of time, and I found it really difficult. I love most vegetables and nearly all fruits. I put a tablespoon of Benefiber in my coffee each morning. I can’t quite stomach whole wheat pasta no matter how animated Rachael Ray gets about it, but I do buy the high-fiber white pasta.

20150731_085457But when it comes to bread, I want bread and not shingles. I want my bread – at least my sandwich bread – to be fluffy and not weigh nearly the same as a brick. There you have it. I’m a child of Wonder Bread – Builds Strong Bodies 12 Ways. If it was good enough for Captain Kangaroo, why it’s good enough for this baby boomer.

As for the bread I recently purchased from Costco, I have decided that in fact it should be called Killer Dave’s Bread, since it is liable to do just that. One loaf is in the freezer. The other I will give an ample ol’ college try. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. That’s what Killer Dave says anyway.

 

Saturday Smile: An 80-Year-Old Burst of Energy

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My mom and dad were happily married just a couple of years shy of 50, cut short only by my mother’s death in 1995. Her death knocked Dad for a loop, even though it was not unexpected. He simply wasn’t cut out to live by himself.

A couple of years after Mom died, Dad met Shirley. She was the receptionist at his eye doctor’s office. They struck up a relationship. If he had set out to find someone who was the polar opposite of my mom, he couldn’t have been more successful. My mom was somewhat of an introvert and it took a while for her to make friends. She was kind of quiet until she was comfortable with you. Her taste in clothes and home decorations were subtle.

On the other hand, Shirley has never met a stranger. She lives life to its fullest. She laughs easily and heartily. She wears bright colors and jewelry that makes a statement. She will tell you what she’s thinking.

shirley birthday dinner

Their relationship took our family by storm. A storm, I’m afraid, for which we were quite unprepared. And speaking only for myself, a storm that I didn’t handle very well. What up, Dad? I want my mommy.

As the years went by, everything settled down. We all witnessed Shirley’s kind and loving nature. She cared lovingly for my Dad even as he got more and more ill. I never heard her complain, and she made him laugh until the end.

It struck me somewhere along the line that up in heaven, my mother said, “Hmmm. While I might not have done it that way, you are making him happy and I’m grateful that he is being so well cared for.”

shirley dad shotsey

This dynamic woman turned 80 last week, and having her in my life makes me smile. Happy birthday Shirley!

Friday Book Whimsy: Our Souls at Night

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searchKent Haruf’s last book, Our Souls at Night, completed very shortly before he died and published in May, was one of the few books I’ve ever pre-ordered on Amazon. I simply had to own the book as soon as I could. But here’s the thing: I let the book sit in my library without reading it month after month, and for a simple reason. I could almost not bear reading the last words written by one of my favorite authors, knowing I would never be visiting the fictional town of Holt, Colorado, again. Well, except for the many times I will reread all of Haruf’s novels.

I read the book in one morning, and nearly in one sitting. That’s not an exceptional fact as the book is only 180-some pages long. I tried my best to read ever so slowly, savoring every word.

Our Souls at Night tells the story of septuagenarian Addie Moore, widowed for some time, who pays a visit late one evening to her equally-aged neighbor who had lost his wife years before as well. She has a proposal. Let’s sleep together. Not sex; just closeness and talking. The neighbor, Louis Waters, is understandably surprised. But upon taking it into consideration, he decides to give it a try.

What follows is a beautifully poignant story about love, friendship, aging, and family, and finally finding the meaning of life as they approach the end of life. As with all of Haruf’s novels, the story isn’t a driving factor. Instead, it’s about the characters and Haruf’s wonderful dialogue. As far as I’m concerned, there is no author better at capturing the way people really talk.

The story was joyful, but ultimately broke my heart, both because of the storyline (which I assure you doesn’t end tragically, just left a lump in my throat) and because it was the author’s swan song.

While Our Souls at Night can’t compare to his first novel, Plainsong, it was a wonderful final effort and a tremendous gift to his many fans.

I wish you could publish from heaven…..

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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Me Talk Pretty
My goal for yesterday was to go through the entire day without using the word poop a single time. For the most part, I was successful. I say for the most part, because I had a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor. (Remember, the doctor who couldn’t fit me in until sometime near the 2020 Olympic games? Apparently she found a hole in her schedule. She, by the way, called me.) While I tried to use more grown-up words, I must admit the word poop did come out of my mouth. I couldn’t convince myself that I wouldn’t be threatening the spirit of the goal by using the word kaka.

Hot Times
My lovely garden survived my time away, a surprise because while Bill remembered to water most of the outdoor plants, he forgot the vegetables.  When I went out early Monday morning to see how it had fared, I noticed that the jalapeno that had been tiny when I last saw it was GONE. Oh, was I ever mad. Either a bunny or a squirrel or a bird had nabbed it. It isn’t to my credit that I literally yelled out loud to the universe, “I hope you burned the crap out of your mouth you little shit!” A day later, Bill had constructed a pest control system that consists of a wooden frame that holds netting. It makes it a bit more difficult to harvest, but it should prevent more jalapeno thefts.

garden netted

You People are Sick
My post Tuesday about my most recent visit to the hospital earned Nana’s Whimsies the most hits ever. Running a close second was my post on June 23 about Bill’s Parkinson’s. My conclusion? Sickness sells! I am grateful to all my readers for their continued support. While I joke about my posts about sickness earning the most hits, in reality it simply means a lot of people care about Bill and me. Thank you.

Did Microsoft Happen?
Yesterday was the day of the big Microsoft 10 upgrade. I dutifully registered for the update. I left my computer on so that Microsoft could do its thing while I slept. I awoke, woke up my screen, and saw absolutely no difference. I guess that means either the download was seamless or the download didn’t happen. I was fearful that I was going to walk into my office and my computer would be black and smoking, so I am grateful that it appears to be working.

House Calls
Yesterday I got visits from all of my Denver grandchildren. The McLains came over for a bit in the afternoon so they could check out Papa’s work on the playhouse. They were duly impressed. Court and his family came for dinner. Not being up to cooking, I let the Colonel do it and offered up KFC. It tasted good to me. Probably not what the nurse practitioner was talking about yesterday morning when he was suggesting a healthy diet. But, as usual, Mylee made me laugh. She, Kaiya, and their daddy were in the midst of a wild game of modified Four Square. Really modified. Actually, just Court bouncing the ball really high in the air and the girls trying to catch it and giggling madly when they were unsuccessful. Kaiya is a great giggler. Anyhoo, at one point, Mylee hollered out, “Hold on. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Pause the game.” Now that, my friends, is a child of technology.

Kaiya, Alyx, and Mylee enjoy ice cream after dinner.

Kaiya, Alyx, and Mylee enjoy ice cream after dinner.

Ciao.

Gratitude

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So for the past couple of days, I have been whining endlessly about being in the hospital. Let me just assure you that if you are sick of hearing about it, imagine my family’s increasing lack of patience when I once again start talking about poop. It has become the most overused emoji in our entire family.

Yesterday morning I woke up and couldn’t help but notice that I felt, well, pretty darn good. I’d slept reasonably well, my tummy didn’t hurt, I’d regained my taste for coffee (something I thought I’d lost, which was disturbing), and I had a bit of spring in my step. Hmmm, I thought to myself. Maybe the point of being sick – if there is a point, that is — is to learn to appreciate not being sick.

When something happens that shakes your world, you suddenly come face to face with the fact that you (or at least I) take my good life for granted. Because most days, my world isn’t being shaken. And I forget to be grateful for that.

I also began thinking about the fact that decisions we make throughout our lives really do come back to haunt us eventually. Take me, for example. Like us all, from the time I was little, I was taught to enjoy fresh fruit and vegetables, eat lots of fiber, drink plenty of water, get oodles of exercise. And I really – in some part of my brain – believe this to be true.

But even though I know this to be true, I don’t really do as I am told. I probably only eat half the fiber each day that I should. My sisters and my son Court simply don’t understand how I live on as little water as I drink. I will go an entire day and realize that the only liquid I have drunk was my three cups of coffee in the morning. I’m not talking about not drinking enough water; I’m talking not drinking enough ANYTHING.

And so it should come as no surprise that I developed diverticulitis, which led to a perforated colon, which led to surgery, which led (and continues to lead) to occasional bouts of illness. Maybe I couldn’t have changed a thing, but I could have tried.

But even more important, I could – and should – be grateful for every day I have that I’m able to get up in the morning and read the news and talk to my husband, and Facetime with my grandkids (or, better yet, spend ACTUAL time with them). Instead of being impatient about long lines in the grocery store, I should be grateful I can afford to eat what I like and not have to worry about every penny. I should make sure to tell all the people who love me and who have prayed for me and sent good thoughts my way that I love them back and pray for them as well.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to be back in the mix and raring to go!

 

Gut it Out

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Well, that’s 5,400 minutes I’ll never get back…..

Last Wednesday afternoon, I told Bill I knew in my heart of hearts (well, really my gut of guts) that I needed to go to the Emergency Room. Heck, it had been nearly four months since my last visit. Plus, I had a houseful of company — my sister from Arizona and our family from Vermont, including grandsons I only get to see a few times a year. What perfect timing and a simply fabulous idea.

But I knew something was amiss and I was right. Unlike last time I was in the hospital in April, however, after which I wrote a generally amusing blog post about my hospital experience, there was virtually nothing funny about my most recent stay.

I’ll tell my readers right now that there is every possibility that this will happen again. And again. It seems my bowel resection in 2011 didn’t say goodbye to me when the doctors stitched me back together and I went out the Mesa hospital door. The scar tissue is omnipresent, and may occasionally rear its ugly head.

What this means in practical terms is occasional bowel obstructions. Last time it was the small bowel. This time it was the large bowel. I don’t like to discriminate.

It actually all began a week or so earlier when I began having muscle spasms in my neck, likely a result of the arthritis that presents there. I haven’t had a serious bout of arthritis in that particular spot in literally years. But wait! My sister is headed my way! Now is the time.

I think I have a pretty high threshold for pain, but I found the muscle pain to be nearly unbearable. Nothing helped. Not heat; not cold; not massage; not gin and tonics. Nothing. I tried to make an appointment with my primary care physician, who could get me in sometime around Addie’s graduation. From college.

Please, please, please, can you just prescribe me a pain medication? I promise I’m not going to go downtown and sell it in the nightclubs. I couldn’t even get into the nightclubs as I don’t own proper attire.

No can do. Not their fault, but being a controlled substance and all, I had to see a physician. So I did. A very nice fellow at the neighborhood urgent care who cheerfully prescribed Vicodin and sent me on my way.

I’m not going to go on and on about this (though reading back, it appears I already have), but one thing lead to another and I began experiencing one of Vicodin’s most renown side effects (which the friendly doctor never mentioned) – constipation.

After seven days of not, well, you know, I was bloated, had regular and severe cramps, and knew something was wrong. It was. I would go into detail, but then I’d just been like one of those people in the lobbies of retirement homes that sit and compare ailments. I’m actually afraid I already am.

What I will tell you, however, is that a few days after my April hospital visit, Bill and I went to Disneyland. This time I can barely get out of my chair. Ladies and gentlemen, this one kicked my butt.

Finally, after indescribable indignities, painful procedures, and more forms of laxatives than you would ever imagine are made (including one that was shot directly into my stomach), the blockage finally made its way past the narrow part where the scar tissue eagerly awaits, and I was able to go home.

And the good news? My muscle spasms in my neck have stopped!

I will leave you with a couple of upbeat notes.

300px-Betty_White_Sue_Ann_Nivens_1973Friday afternoon, I felt my absolute worst. I had been given a medication that bloated my stomach to the point that I could have floated right next to Snoopy in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. I was in excruciating pain, and was just this side of a Dilaudid coma. I felt horrible. It was right then that the hospital nutritionist reckoned she should stop by to give me a pep talk on proper eating. She was lovely, reminding me of Sue Ann Niven of The Mary Tyler Moore Show fame. My obvious physical discomfort didn’t dissuade her. She continued to speak cheerfully about fiber and fresh fruits and vegetables and making sure you blah blah blah even as the attendants were lifting me onto the gurney to take me to my next procedure. I promise you this is a true story.

The second upbeat note is that on Saturday, I was able to see every single one of my grandkids. All nine of them. Not at the same time. Still, even in my state of duress, that made me happy.

Here are a few examples of why……

11264902_10153040024285963_2602851633148417094_n

Maggie and Joseph on a camping trip. Photo taken by Dave.

Joseph and Alastair on the same camping trip.

Joseph and Alastair on the same camping trip.

Kaiya and Mylee at recent Renaissance Festival.

Kaiya and Mylee at recent Renaissance Festival.

11800408_10153053721190963_7808984125392652547_n

Micah going vroooooom.

Aren’t they they cutest things ever? And these photos are just a sampling!