Busy Hands Homestead

Time is rushing past.   The windows are down, my hair tangling in the wind, as I sing along to the radio, and my hand rests on the stick shift, flying down the highway in fifth gear. I have twenty minutes of, what feels like open time, on my way to pick up the kids from horseback riding camp. They have enjoyed a week of horses, ponies, baby goats, tiny bunnies. I’ve endured a week of begging to bring tiny, furry, undeniably cute creatures home.    They almost convinced me. ALMOST. The default answer is: “not until the house is done.” Time is rushing past and it is hard to stop and take a moment to pause, and even harder to look back and reflect on where we have been. We move from day to day, week to week, month to month while also tackling project after project. It is hard to prioritize. It is hard to focus. Sometimes it feels like we are moving in circles.  It is suddenly summer, and not just summer but the middle of summer, almost the end of summer...

Tired is lodged between my shoulder blades.   I pick a shovel and one scoop   at a time close up the trench connecting the power from the shop to the shell of our house. Seven hours later I shower and drive Adam to the airport.  He is mostly out of town for two weeks and I have no option but to keep moving.  Every day starts and ends with an impossibly long to do list.    I am woken up Tuesday morning a semi load of insulation being dropped off at my curb.  After work an (unbelievably kind) neighbor and I lug each giant bag of rock wool into the house and pile some in every room - down stairs and up the stairs – until my arms no longer can hug the bags to my chest.   Wednesday night we do the same, but when I try to bear hug the first bag insulation to me I find I can’t carry a single one on my own.   As we round up the corner of the stairs the first time a flutter catches my eye.   An owl is trapped against ...

I climb up and down a ladder moving it across the room as I place lights,  connect and then secure wires.  The smell of paint wafts up the stair case from below, where Adam is staining pine tongue and groove boards for the soffit. The roof is dried in, but not yet roofed. The windows and doors are in.  In spite of reservations and the looming lists of things yet to be done, we commit to our annual river trip. "The kids would never forgive us", we say to each other after bed time. Sylvan paddles his kayak,  Ivory rides with a friend, Adam pushes a canoe with all our gear and I stand a top my new paddle board as we move down river to our over night camping spot.  photo credit:  Joe Nickell I leave my phone in the car. I allow myself the space to not think about anything at all.  I still need to wash towels, and pack away our life jackets and camping things.  The plumbing and wiring is almost complete.  I am waiting on the pho...

The bright light creeps into the ceiling vent in the back end of the bus. We heat water for coffee on the picnic table.  I sheepishly greet the crew of workers that show up as I shuffle through the yard in my slippers and pajamas to grab half and half from the fridge in the garage. The summer work weeks are broken up by a weekend trip down the Bitterroot Valley. Logger Days in Darby Montana Jumping High at Logger Days Jump Jump Jump No Hands Water Melon Eating Contest Cooking Dinner under the Big Sky The days are marked by stops at the river, impromptu back yard slumber parties, movie marathons and games of hide and seek have expand to cover the whole block.  We pick huckleberries, cherries show up in our CSA delivery, the apricots on our tree are sweet and juicy,  the plums are turning red but still hold firmy to the tree. It is the first time this tree has fruit.  Red Plum Surprise!! I am reading our way through the stack of...