For posterity

For posterity’s sake, here’s an update on the current happenings of the Oehlschlager kids.
Seven-year-old Kadence, the eldest of our clan, is finishing up her first grade year of elementary school.
I have been shocked by the changes in our tallest baby. Besides all the lovely attitudes and the like she has been exposed to at public school, she is now (horror of horrors) learning to spell!
Those teachers have inadvertently ruined one of our greatest parental conveniences: “parent code” (when parents spell words so the kids don’t understand what they’re talking about).
Kadence has caught us off guard on more than one occasion by not only breaking our code, but by then announcing said secret to the three non-spellers.
Kadence also has become a leaver of notes. One day, Matt intervened in an altercation between Kadence and Bella. Justice sided with Bella, and Kadence escaped to cry it out in her room.
Not five minutes later, a crayon-covered Post-it note floated down the stairwell.
“Dear dad,
You are mean.
Love, Kadence”
Second-oldest Rylan, who is now 5, is nearing the end of his preschool year.
His days off are spent building Lego creations. He even built a carwash after I took him with me to wash the Suburban one day.
One day Bubby (Ry’s nickname) thought it would make sense to use blinkers when you are walking around like adults do when driving. He blinks (winks) to let us know which way he plans to “turn.”
His most recent achievement is learning to ride his bicycle without training wheels.
Bella Rose, 4, is the diva of the family. She is constantly performing, which you would never guess because she is also our shyest — by far!
I turn on the radio, and she sings and performs for literally hours. But as soon as she catches you watching, the show is over.
She is also VERY particular about her clothing. I was ordering shoes online for the kids the other day and she looked for a long time before finding just the right pair.
Bella is excited to start preschool next fall.
Three-year-old Masen, the fourth and final, is also the liveliest firecracker we have.
If it were socially acceptable to have children on leashes, Masen would definitely be a candidate. When he decides he wants to be somewhere, I can barely catch up with him. The boy can run!
He is very animated in his speech and cares very much about his few interests: lawn mowers and tractors.
Masen is also the toughest small person in our clan. It seems in any physical altercation (of which there are a lot of around here), Mae Mae comes out on top.
The only constant thing around here is activity. Life is in constant motion. With all six of our very strong personalities swirling around, the mood changes quickly from quiet playing to laughter to fists and tears.
Literally the only quiet moments are bedtime and naptime.
Thank goodness warmer days are near. Every day is better with a little fresh air.

Farm, sweet home

When Matt and I moved to downtown Hoberg in spring 2004, a house on the way caught my eye.
“I want to live there some day,” I prophetically told Matt.
But inside my head, the statement equated to nothing more than a dream.
The place was not fancy. It was old. Very old, in fact. And it needed lots of work and updating. But it had my two musts: lilac bushes and a porch swing.
Since the land we were renting was neighbor to my “dream place,” Matt eventually became friends with its owners, Kenneth and Faye.
He was a World War II veteran and the couple had raised their four kids (coincidentally two boys and two girls) on the farm.
We became fast friends with the couple, and Matt spent many hours soaking in the wisdom of the gentle veteran.
When Faye’s health began to fade, Kenneth devoted himself to her care, and after her death, he gave us the surprise of our lives.
“Matt, you can have my place,” Kenneth said.
A chance of a lifetime.
Over the next few months, Matt and I devoted hours and hours to making that chance into our reality.
We had nothing worth anything (at least from a banker’s perspective). I was pregnant with our third child. The chance for success was bleak.
But circumstances cannot stand in the way of fate.
Toward the end of my pregnancy, all the pieces began falling into place and we signed the mortgage papers seven days before Bella Rose was born.
Another child and three years later, it still baffles me that we actually live here.
Despite all the problems associated with owning an old home, it’s heaven on earth for me. I love it here.
It is so easy to feel close to God on a farm. Step outside. Take a deep breath. Gaze into the blue skies. Feel the cool breeze on your face. Get swallowed up in the vastness.
Our farm is the perfect distance from town. Far enough away Matt is comfortable and close enough for me to feel “connected.”
We have a big garden and lots of space for the kids (and the chickens and cows and dogs and cats and ducks) to roam.
I love the summer evenings on the porch swing shucking peas.
Large cups of cut lilacs scenting the wind blowing through the old windows.
Clothes flapping dry on the line.
Washing the kids off in the spigot after they played for hours in a mud hole by the well house.
The sound of calves weaning in the pen outside our bedroom window. (Not really a love of mine, but a reality I have to accept.)
Picking blackberries and apples straight from our backyard with the kids.
Watching Matt shoo cows out of our hay lot.
The sounds of the kids running (some sliding) down the stairs in the morning.
When we are here, it feels like home. I know walls don’t make a home. People do. Love does.
It all boils down to memories. Our history we are making today.
Life on this farm has given our children opportunities to see and feel and experience life.
And there’s not much more I could ask for in a house. In a home.

The no-eating-out challenge results

A few columns ago, I challenged myself not to eat out for 30 days.
This is the follow-up to that writing.
I wish I had a glowing report to give you. I wish the four-week challenge flew by without as much as an inkling of desire for greasy fast-food.
But I can’t give such a report. What I can say is that for the first 2-1/2 weeks or so, I followed my challenge rules to a T.
Let me tell you, I had literal withdrawals from the lack of fast-food in my diet. Because I had taken away the option, it was all I thought about. That first week was torture!
True to form, I let my mouth get ahead of me and committed our family to this challenge without really giving Matt much time to think about it. Matt did participate, but his terms were MUCH different from mine. His rules seemed to go something like this: If Ginia’s not involved, all types of food are fair game.
Very soon into the challenge, I realized the rule differences. Matt had gone to the bank that first Saturday morning, and when he returned, I noticed a very suspicious blob of white gravy-like substance on the corner of his mouth.
Like the wanna-be prosecutor I am, I interrogated my poor witness.
He confessed. Biscuits and gravy. I was nearly sick with jealousy.
But the challenge continued.
The next week, I was starting to feel better. And by the end of the second week, the cravings were pretty much gone. My pants were more loose (really, they were!) ,and I felt better. Empowered.
“This is a piece of cake,” I told myself.
Then a long afternoon of working ran over into dinner time.
Matt wanted to know what to feed the kids (these little people ALWAYS have to eat).
The old, familiar fast-food chant began inside my head.
“Just this one time. It will be so much easier.”
But Matt kept me strong and fed the kids something fast (but at home) while I continued to peck away at the keyboard. When I was finally finished, my nerves were shot, along with my resolve, and I talked my conscience into allowing Matt to buy me some takeout.
I didn’t really want to eat the food inside that brown paper sack. But, on the other hand, it smelled REALLY good!
So I ate it. And liked it.
The next day, my gut was not right (caused I’m sure in part by my moral betrayal of you all).
I wish I could tell you that knocked some sense back into me. It did for a little while. But the last week of my challenge was one of utter devastation.
I relapsed. Hard.
Then came the shame. “Man, I’m such a failure,” was my internal dialogue.
“I can never change.”
Not far into one of my personal abuse sessions, a notion came into my head.
“You’ll never be as perfect as you want to be.”
Never.
“So get over it,” I told myself. “Move on.”
I did.
This challenge has taught me that at 28, it’s high time I start giving myself a little break when I fail.
After all, nobody is perfect.

Into everyone's life...

My Grandma Rosie used to say (and Mom continues to say): “Into each life a little rain must fall.”
More accurate words have seldom been spoken. To make this popular quotation even more descriptive of my life, it should be compounded with: “And when it rains, it pours.”
That is how I have been feeling lately. Bombarded. Rushed. Running. Drowning. It hasn’t really been raining on my life, but there have definitely been some winds, maybe even a tornado.
It’s not that anything major or life-changing has happened. Life has just gotten very fast.
I don’t like it. Every day I walk around in what seems to be “fast-forward” mode. At night, I catch myself wondering where in the world that whole day went.
It all shifted into high gear the afternoon I hit one of our dogs with the Suburban (not on purpose, of course). He didn’t die. But, like all the dramatic animals on our farm, he broke his leg in two places.
A few hours with the vet later, Wall-E was condemned to be a back-porch resident (for at least the next five to six weeks). Fabulous. But how could I really complain? It was MY fault the animal was injured.
And this winter has been especially rough on our family’s health. It seems that rarely a week goes by without some sort of illness. We’ve had numerous doctor visits, pharmacy stops and an urgent care and emergency room visit.
So what do I decide to do when everybody is healthy (for the moment)? Rest? No! I rip out 15 million-year-old, pee-soaked carpet from the boys’ room — on one of Matt’s 22-hour work days. Very smart.
And then we decided (like we don’t have anything else to do), to order 50 chicks! Sounds like fun. And I was fairly excited about the new additions until Wall-E had to have exploratory surgery last week and have a foot of his intestines removed and several days in the “hospital.”
He came home last Friday, cast and staples and all. Then Matt was sick. And, of course, our chickies (all 54 of them) arrived Thursday bright and early.
Ahhhhhh!
But nobody can hear me screaming over the dog barking at the chicks (who are chirping — loudly), the cat hissing at the dog, the kids handling and “loving” the fragile baby birds, Matt yelling at the kids to put the chicks down, the phone ringing, the oven timer going off ... Supper time!
It may not be raining here, but there are definitely some exciting (and gusty) winds a-blowing.
And after relaying to you all the reasons why life is so hectic, I can see (literally in black and white) that it’s mostly my own doing.
Please, God, save me from myself.

The Record's 7,000th issue!

(This column ran in the Wednesday, Feb. 9, 2011, edition of the Lawrence County Record — it's 7,000th issue!)
I am honored to be a part of this week’s paper. Not only because of this issue’s significance, but also because it gives me an excuse to explain the business and what it means to me.
Even before I was born, this newspaper — this 7,000-issue-old periodical — played an integral role in my future.
It is as much a part of me as the color of my hair or the way I walk or talk. Yes, it is that important.
See, both my parents were newspaper writers as teens. My dad, an Aurora High School graduate, wrote for the Aurora Advertiser and my mom, a Mt. Vernon High School graduate, for The Record.
The newspaper is how they met. And not face-to-face. But over the telephone.
Small-town community newspapers communicate a lot for various reasons and that is how my mom met the “fast-talking” writer from Aurora.
A courtship began. And the rest is newspaper history.
My parents’ lives literally revolve around the production of this paper.
No matter the circumstance, they are still working away — day and night — to get the news out.
Last week’s snowacolypse was no different. They worked through the night to get the paper done early in an attempt to beat the storm. No luck. But, thanks to the Internet, the paper went out on time in cyber space, actually a little early.
During the 2007 ice storm, The Record crew had to relocate to put the paper together.
My dad calls it his dairy farm because no matter what, it has to be tended to.
The life was instilled in me from early on.
Mondays and Tuesdays are/were always hectic. Wednesdays were recoup kind of days, and Thursdays and Fridays were spent in preparation for the next week.
I remember sleeping in the back seat of my parents’ van one night when Mom was out of town while my dad covered a horrible house fire.
There were trips to a fast-food restaurant during a break while running the newspaper route.
Sliding down the person-tall rolls of newsprint.
Looking up to (and bothering) the other newspaper employees, who became (and still are) more like family than anything else.
My family moved to different homes around town, but the office was always the same.
7,000.
That’s A LOT of news. That’s a lot of work. That’s a heavy heritage. Hard to really wrap your mind around.
I’ve been around for approximately 1,456 issues and counting.
The magnitude of the history of this newspaper makes me feel both comforted and overwhelmed at the same time.
Since its founding way back in 1876, countless hours have been invested to relay information to this county’s citizenry.
In my opinion, this newspaper is one of the things that makes this community unique and it helps to keep alive the spirit of what small-town America is all about.
Here’s to another 7,000!