Internet Withdrawal and Thought for the Day

The internet went out this weekend. I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath and clutch your AOL password like a life preserver.

According to the very polite tech who came out (bless his soul and his giant van full of wires), the satellite dish got all cranky thanks to “electrical interference” from recent storms. Nothing was even that close, but apparently a little static in the air is enough to send our internet connection into a full-blown existential crisis.

Now, I’m no Bill Gates, but I’m pretty sure something got zapped or frazzled or otherwise offended. If I had to explain it in my own words, I’d say: “The storm ticked off the internet gremlins and they pulled the plug.”

Needless to say, we suffered.

My grandson couldn’t get on AIM or play his online game (something about cartoon penguins running around an island?), and after two hours of no connectivity, I caught him just sitting and blinking, like an unplugged robot. It was unsettling. I haven’t seen him that still since naptime ended in preschool.

As for me, I spent the time wisely—cleaning, organizing, baking bread. JUST KIDDING. I sat on the porch muttering about “the good old days when we had encyclopedias,” and threatened to write a stern letter to the satellite company using a real pen.

When the internet finally came back on, I had 148 emails waiting. I almost passed out. Half of them were spam, a few were actual people, and one was from my sister-in-law who somehow managed to forward the same cat video to me five times. Technology is a gift.

But here’s something I did learn this week (no, not during the outage—I was too busy staring at a blank screen and questioning my life choices): At exactly five minutes and six seconds past 4 AM on July 8th, 2009, the time and date will read: 04:05:06 07/08/09

Now, that is cool. No, I didn’t figure it out myself. But I did double-check it on a real calendar and a digital watch, which is basically math at this point.

So if you’re up at that hour, take a moment to marvel. And then go back to bed. You’re not 20 anymore.

Moral of the story? The internet giveth, the storms taketh away, and teenage boys without Wi-Fi become eerily quiet. Also, never underestimate the power of a well-timed cat video.

Giveaway - Harvest 72" Food Storage Center

Note: Giveaway is now closed - nope, I didn't win. :(

Now here's something that could get your food storage (aka stock pile) area organized. What an ingenious concept. AND they're having a giveaway. Click here to find out how to enter. I've never won anything in my life but here's hoping because this is definitely worth having.

Shuttin Detroit Down

Food Storage

I remember my mother, as did many old-time farm folk, always had a canning closet full of food that had been prepared during the summer (a time of plenty) to be eaten during the winter (a time of scarcity). Before the convenience of a market as close as your car will take you, folks routinely canned and preserved food for winter usage. In these uncertain times a lot of us are wisely trying to keep more food, fuel and emergency supplies on hand. My DIL wrote this guest post about food storage. (If you missed her post on couponing you can read that here. And check out her blog for ongoing coupons, deals, and more ways to save.)

Food Storage.
Also called stockpiling.

Chances are you either know what that means, or you couldn't care less.

So today I want to talk about:
What it is
How to get it
And why some people don't.

Food Storage is security.

Basically by building a stock pile of foods and goods that your family uses on a regular basis-you are preparing for the future. Kind of like the Biblical principle of the Egyptians storing away 1/5th of their grain in the "FAT" years. (Genesis 47:24) Then if one of those "rainy days" comes along and you have less pay then expected or NO job at all-you'll still eat. If you need to pay an unexpected bill-you can stop buying groceries and put that $ towards the bill.

Stockpiling food actually saves $ too. If I stock up on tuna when it's .25 a can and buy enough till the next sale-I don't end up paying $1 a can. That's just an example from 1 item. I try to do this with everything;)

How to store Food:

Simply one can or box at a time. That's the secret. Just get started. Before you know you'll have a nice little stash of goods. No one is saying to go stock the garage with a silo's worth of wheat! But if you see a sale on your brand of Peanut Butter for the week-by all means grab an extra one or 2 and tuck them away.

Most of the items in a food storage will have a long shelf life such as canned veggies, tuna, dry milk etc. There are plenty of commercial food storage sites on the net available to buy #10 cans of food from. While I have some of those, most of our food in storage comes from the good ol' grocery stores where I buy things in multiples, when they go on sale -with coupons of course:)

I find there are only really a few reasons people don't build a food storage.
Maybe 3.

1. They don't want to offend God.
2. They worry where they'll put it.
3. They're barely getting by now, so afraid they can't afford it.

#1: I don't know how many times I have heard someone say that they don't need Food storage because "God will provide". This is true. All that we have comes from Him. He is our great provider. But I can tell you I have never felt He is mad at me because I have had an extra case or 2, OK 5, of Hormel chili laying around. In fact I think He has been very happy when hard times have hit people like my Brother when he lost his job, or our neighbor's daughter and I was able to give them a good load of food and toiletries because I had a stockpile.

Trust me, we do not offend Him by taking some thought to be a little prepared. I mean really if our children do a little more then expected do we get mad? Why would food, an every day basic need, anger Him? Especially if there are children at home...He doesn't want us to wait for Manna, He wants us to get prepared for some of the things He's already told us will come: famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in divers places. (Matthew 24:7)

I have a feeling those will affect the food chain...

#2: Some of my first Food storage used to be in the cardboard cases I brought them home in and then tucked them under a bed. I now keep 5 Gallon buckets under another bed filled with Oatmeal, rice, wheat, dry milk, pastas etc. that we buy in bulk. Mac n cheeses, crackers, cereals, puddings etc. go on shelving. (We don't have a basement, so if we can do it-YOU can too:) Sugar is kept in galvanized trash cans with lids that I just throw the packages in that I bought for that reason alone, with flour in another as well.

#3: Might be the only excusable reason for not starting a stock pile. Most times though it can be just a mismanagement of one's $ that leaves them without even a dollar or 2 to put towards Food storage each week. I myself have had to ask if my kids really needed another $20 toy that would break in 2 days or should I buy 5 cases of canned Food at Aldi for that?


I put the toy back-I'll let them splurge at the yard sales...
Or better yet wait for Grandma to visit! :)

Really, in this uncertain economical time we live in, being prepared will be a blessing to your family. Please consider getting started today it only takes an extra can or box and you're on your way!

For more articles on Food Storage visit these great sites:
Prepared LDS Family GREAT! pics. of a food storage (much neater then mine;)
Safely Gathered In Food storage ideas,recipes, and Emergency Preparedness
Everyday Food Storage-great recipes to use your food storage with.

An Open Letter to our Nation's Leadership

Here's a letter to our Nation's leadership that, although I didn't write it, states my thoughts exactly (except for the part about being a registered Democrat). And here's the link where you can sign a petition to voice your agreement as well.

"I'm a home grown American citizen, 53, registered Democrat all my life. Before the last presidential election I registered as a Republican because I no longer felt the Democratic Party represents my views or works to pursue issues important to me. Now I no longer feel the Republican Party represents my views or works to pursue issues important to me. The fact is I no longer feel any political party or representative in Washington represents my views or works to pursue the issues important to me. There must be someone. Please tell me who you are. Please stand up and tell me that you are there and that you're willing to fight for our Constitution as it was written. Please stand up now. You might ask yourself what my views and issues are that I would horribly feel so disenfranchised by both major political parties. What kind of nut job am I? Will you please tell me?
Take a breath. Listen to the people. Let's just slow down and get some input from some nonpoliticians on the subject. Stop making everything an emergency. Stop speed reading our bills into law. I am not an activist. I am not a community organizer. Nor am I a terrorist, a militant or a violent person. I am a parent and a grandparent. I work. I'm busy. I'm busy. I am busy, and I am tired. I thought we elected competent people to take care of the business of government so that we could work, raise our families, pay our bills, have a little recreation, complain about taxes, endure our hardships, pursue our personal goals, cut our lawn, wash our cars on the weekends and be responsible contributing members of society and teach our children to be the same all while living in the home of the free and land of the brave.
I entrusted you with upholding the Constitution. I believed in the checks and balances to keep from getting far off course. What happened? You are very far off course. Do you really think I find humor in the hiring of a speed reader to unintelligently ramble all through a bill that you signed into law without knowing what it contained? I do not. It is a mockery of the responsibility I have entrusted to you. It is a slap in the face. I am not laughing at your arrogance. Why is it that I feel as if you would not trust me to make a single decision about my own life and how I would live it but you should expect that I should trust you with the debt that you have laid on all of us and our children. We did not want the TARP bill. We said no. We would repeal it if we could. I am sure that we still cannot. There is such urgency and recklessness in all of the recent spending.
From my perspective, it seems that all of you have gone insane. I also know that I am far from alone in these feelings. Do you honestly feel that your current pursuits have merit to patriotic Americans? We want it to stop. We want to put the brakes on everything that is being rushed by us and forced upon us. We want our voice back. You have forced us to put our lives on hold to straighten out the mess that you are making. We will have to give up our vacations, our time spent with our children, any relaxation time we may have had and money we cannot afford to spend on you to bring our concerns to Washington. Our president often knows all the right buzzword is unsustainable. Well, no kidding. How many tens of thousands of dollars did the focus group cost to come up with that word? We don't want your overpriced words. Stop treating us like we're morons.
We want all of you to stop focusing on your reelection and do the job we want done, not the job you want done or the job your party wants done. You work for us and at this rate I guarantee you not for long because we are coming. We will be heard and we will be represented. You think we're so busy with our lives that we will never come for you? We are the formerly silent majority, all of us who quietly work , pay taxes, obey the law, vote, save money, keep our noses to the grindstone and we are now looking up at you. You have awakened us, the patriotic spirit so strong and so powerful that it had been sleeping too long. You have pushed us too far. Our numbers are great. They may surprise you. For every one of us who will be there, there will be hundreds more that could not come. Unlike you, we have their trust. We will represent them honestly, rest assured. They will be at the polls on voting day to usher you out of office. We have cancelled vacations. We will use our last few dollars saved. We will find the representation among us and a grassroots campaign will flourish. We didn't ask for this fight. But the gloves are coming off. We do not come in violence, but we are angry. You will represent us or you will be replaced with someone who will. There are candidates among us when hewill rise like a Phoenix from the ashes that you have made of our constitution.
Democrat, Republican, independent, libertarian. Understand this. We don't care. Political parties are meaningless to us. Patriotic Americans are willing to do right by us and our Constitution and that is all that matters to us now. We are going to fire all of you who abuse power and seek more. It is not your power. It is ours and we want it back. We entrusted you with it and you abused it. You are dishonorable. You are dishonest. As Americans we are ashamed of you. You have brought shame to us. If you are not representing the wants and needs of your constituency loudly and consistently, in spite of the objections of your party, you will be fired. Did you hear? We no longer care about your political parties. You need to be loyal to us, not to them. Because we will get you fired and they will not save you. If you do or can represent me, my issues, my views, please stand up. Make your identity known. You need to make some noise about it. Speak up. I need to know who you are. If you do not speak up, you will be herded out with the rest of the sheep and we will replace the whole damn congress if need be one by one. We are coming. Are we coming for you? Who do you represent? What do you represent? Listen. Because we are coming. We the people are coming."
Janet Contreras

Happy Father's Day

My dad used to say that anyone can be a hero for a moment—in a crisis, under pressure, when courage is called for. But the real heroes? They’re the ones who get up every morning, day after day, and do what needs to be done. No applause. No spotlight. Just steady, faithful effort.

They lace up their boots (or slide on those well-worn sandals with socks—because comfort outranks fashion), head off to work, and come home to tackle whatever else the day throws at them—whether it’s a broken faucet, a math problem that should require a PhD, or a “mystery noise” under the fridge that’s been growling since Tuesday.

These men don’t strut around in capes. They’ve traded those in for cargo shorts with more pockets than a Swiss Army knife. And while their idea of “saving the day” may not involve explosions or daring rescues, it usually includes things like:

• Fixing the unfixable with duct tape, WD-40, or just a stern look

• Mastering the grill like it’s an Olympic sport

• Balancing a remote control on their belly without ever losing signal

• Delivering dad jokes with alarming accuracy—because nothing says love like a pun

But underneath the humor, the quirks, and the classic dad moves, there’s something rock solid: responsibility, commitment, and a deep, unshakable love. These are the men who show up—tired or not, rain or shine, because their families count on them. The men who provide, protect, guide, and often quietly sacrifice more than we realize, just to give their kids a better life.

So this Father’s Day, we salute the quiet heroes. The working dads, the stay-at-home dads, the stepdads, the grandpas, the father figures. The men who hold families together with their hands, their humor, and their hearts.

To the men who taught us that real strength doesn’t shout—it just shows up.

Now go forth, claim your throne (a.k.a. the recliner), seize the remote, and rule your kingdom. You’ve earned it.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for everything—and yes, we do get your jokes. We’re just pretending not to.

The Great Fisherman

The Great Fisherman  6/16/09

Our grandson Austin—who’s almost 11 and already has the swagger of an old sea captain—came to visit this past weekend. First thing out of his mouth? “Grandma, I’m catchin’ dinner.”

Bold words for a kid who still thinks ketchup counts as a vegetable.

Off he marched to the pond, dragging his fishing pole like a knight heading into battle. I barely had time to blink, or hide the emergency frozen pizza, before I heard the triumphant cry from the bank.

“I GOT ONE!”

Now, I was expecting a tiny sunfish or maybe one of those leaves that look like a fish if you squint hard enough. But no—Austin hauls in a 3½-pound trout like he’s Poseidon’s nephew. This fish was so big I half expected it to have its own zip code.

It flopped, it flailed, and then it surrendered like, “Fine kid, you win, just don’t name me Bubbles.”

That trout? Oh, it didn’t stand a chance. And later that night, it didn’t stand a chance on our dinner plates either—perfectly cooked and proudly devoured, one delicious bite at a time. Moist, flaky, and served with a heaping side of Austin’s smug grin.

Well done, Austin. You’ve officially out-fished the rest of the family and made your grandma consider investing in a commemorative plaque… or at least a T-shirt that says “Fishin’ Ain’t a Hobby... It’s a Superpower.”

Sitting Goat and Other Weird Animals

Farm life: where the animals are confused, the people are tired, and the water trough is never just for water.

Let’s talk about Grinch. No, not the green one who hates Christmas—this is my goat. Though to be fair, she’s equally weird and also not great at following social norms.

Grinch has decided she’s a dog. I’m not kidding. While all the other goats are stretched out chewing their cud like they’re lounging in a hay-scented day spa, Grinch is up on the hill, sitting. Not laying down. Not loafing. Sitting. Front legs straight, back end tucked, just surveying her kingdom like a canine queen guarding the realm.

I keep waiting for her to wag her tail or bark at passing clouds. One of these days, she’s gonna drop her cud, do a spin, and try to her own shadow. It’s giving “Golden Retriever trapped in a goat body” energy—and honestly, I’m not sure she’s mad about it.

Now, if that wasn’t strange enough, let me introduce the soggiest, most confused sheep in the pasture. I don’t know her name because she’s one of the lambs, and naming them would require a flowchart, a name tag gun, and probably a DNA test. But this particular wool dumpling has made the water trough her personal hot tub.

Yep. Every time I turn around, there she is—just chillin’ like she’s waiting for someone to bring her a mimosa and a cucumber eye mask. She doesn’t drink from it. She sits in it. Like a soggy crouton in a sheep salad.

And the best part? When she realizes I’ve spotted her mid-bath, she slowly sinks down…like she’s trying to become invisible. Girl, you are bright white, fuzzy, and the size of a carry-on suitcase. You’re not blending in. This is not a Mission: Impossible scene, you’re not Tom Cruise, and you are absolutely not stealthy. You’re just a sheep butt slowly disappearing into farm soup.

Somewhere in the dusty corners of her ping-pong-ball-sized brain, she’s thinking, “If I can’t see her… she can’t see me.” Sure, sweetie. That worked for me too—when I was five and thought I could hide behind a lamp.

So yes, I have weird animals. One thinks she’s a dog. Another thinks she’s a duck. And I? I just live here. I feed them, I clean up after them, and I write blog posts so I don’t start narrating out loud to the chickens like they’re on reality TV.

P.S. If you've got a cat that thinks she’s a cow or a rooster with an existential crisis, please share. Misfit barnyard animals deserve to know they’re not alone.

Went to the Temple

Thank you to everyone who sent blessings my way—heaven knows I
needed them. Life has its ups and downs, and lately, I’ve been on a bit of an upswing. (Don’t jinx it.) One of the highlights came last Friday, when I had the chance to visit my church’s temple in Boston, MA.

Now, if you’re thinking Boston sounds close—let me stop you right there. From where I live, it’s at least a four-hour drive, not counting pit stops for snacks, bathroom breaks, or necessary detours to avoid Boston traffic (which has been known to bring grown men to tears). And honestly, I can barely drive into town without needing a nap, let alone trek across state lines.

Earlier in the week, I was chatting with a dear friend while going over the music for church, and apparently, she noticed I sounded a little down. (I must’ve let my perky mask slip.) I mentioned that I felt like I needed to go to the temple—it was just something on my heart.

Without missing a beat, she asked, “When would you like to go?”

I shrugged and said, “Well, I’m not doing anything Friday.”

She replied, “What time should I be at your house?”

Just like that.

Everyone should have at least one friend like that in their life—someone who sees your struggle, picks up the keys, and says, “Scoot over, I’m driving.” I even had someone snap a photo of the two of us in front of the temple so you could see how stunning it is—graceful, peaceful, and towering in the kind of way that makes you feel small in a good way.

The temple is more than just beautiful. It’s a soul-soothing, heart-centering, quiet kind of place. A place where the world's noise fades, and heaven feels closer. It lifted something heavy off me. The sky seemed a little bluer when we left. My burdens felt a little lighter. My spirit felt... well, renewed.

I’m so grateful I was able to go—and even more grateful for the friend who sacrificed a whole day from her own busy life just to get me there. That’s the kind of blessing you can’t measure.

I Need A Hug!!!!

Farm life: Because boredom is overrated.

    Yup. One of those days. Scratch that—one of those weeks. I didn’t document the disasters with pictures, which is probably for the best. Some things just shouldn't live forever on the internet.
    Let’s rewind to last weekend when it all started. Apparently, someone (cough—not me—cough) didn’t shut the house door tight enough, and Pippin, the goat, made herself right at home—in my living room.
    I was out in the barn when I heard Indy, our 11-year-old Weimaraner, doing his best Cujo impression at the door. I raced back to the house, thinking he was seconds away from an explosive accident, opened the door, and instead of a desperate dog. . . I found a goat. A big, smug-looking, white goat.
    Indy saw me, yelled, “You’re on your own, lady!” and took off like he owed her money. Pippin, on the other hand, made it clear she wasn’t finished inspecting the feng shui. I had to convince her—firmly but politely—that goats do not belong in the house. She hadn’t been in long, but just long enough to christen the oriental rug with both duties. Lovely. I mean, sure, the rug needed cleaning. Just not with farm-fresh fertilizer.
    Fast forward to the week, which continued the theme of “minor irritations that stack like Jenga blocks of doom.” No big disasters. Just a parade of little gremlins: cold, rain, mud, rain, more cold, did I mention rain? And a general vibe of blah.
    Then came Saturday. Jim and I had plans—had, past tense. But you know what’s great at ruining a day? A limping sheep. Upon closer inspection, she had severe mastitis on one side. This ewe had been nursing twins for two months like a champ, and then BAM!—out of nowhere—udder emergency. So Jim rolled up his sleeves for an unplanned butchering. He’s getting faster—practically the Gordon Ramsay of mutton at this point—but it still took long enough to flush our Saturday plans down the compost bin.
    We did end up seeing our daughter and grandkids in southern NH, which was a bright spot in the storm. The visit was lovely and way too short—like a free sample at Costco that just gets your hopes up. And we saw the new Star Trek movie. Two thumbs up. Beam me up, Scotty—somewhere sunny.
But by the end of the weekend, both Jim and I were tired, crabby, and got into an argument. Nothing says romance like arguing over whose week sucked more.
Now, let’s talk about this morning.
    I woke up to the suspicious sound of chickens in the driveway. Not that unusual—unless, like ours, your chickens are supposed to be locked up at night. I peeked out the window and saw chaos: chickens doing the Chicken 500 across the gravel, and the barn gate wide open like someone yelled, “Free snacks outside!” I threw on clothes like I was trying out for a barnyard fire drill and bolted outside. Thankfully, the goats hadn’t wandered far—probably because they knew breakfast was late and they wanted to file a complaint.
    Checked on the two Great Pyrenees and found they’d been locked in their section of the barn all night. Normally they’re the night shift security team. Nope, not this time. Instead, they’d spent the night rough housing like sumo wrestlers and managed to knock over a 25 lb. bag of white clover seed. You know, the $150 bag. Because if you’re going to destroy something, it may as well be pricey.
    Then I discovered the little door to the chicken coop had also been left open, and the goat kids—being bendy little hoodlums—squeezed in. They’d been snacking on chicken feed, digging around in the hay nests like they were at an Easter egg hunt, and pulled out eggs along with the straw. Result: yolk, shell, feathers, and mayhem all over the floor.
    So instead of a nice leisurely breakfast, I started my day by scooping seeds, herding freeloaders, and trying to prevent a poultry uprising.
    And because that wasn’t quite enough chaos, I was also supposed to get my summer tires on today. (Yes, I know it’s June, but up here, a blizzard in July isn’t entirely out of the question.) I’d asked my grandson to take the truck in, but apparently sleep was more important than Grandma’s schedule. So off I went. Pulled into the garage, tired, frayed, and hanging on by a hay string—only to see Jim pulling in behind me. Apparently, the grandson managed to damage yet another tire and rim on his car. Because why not add a cherry to the sundae of stress?
    I just sighed, shrugged, and walked into the garage like a woman resigned to her fate. Jim was not thrilled with that reaction. Apparently, he thought I should have suggested hanging the grandson up by his thumbs. He also had to leave for the week. So now we’ve got anger, exhaustion, and a goodbye wave that felt more like a soap opera cliffhanger.
    Oh—and surprise! The truck had a fan problem. $340. Of course it is.
    And just to wrap the day up with a comedy pratfall, I later tried to get lumber down from the rafters, fell off the step stool, crashed into more lumber, turned my ankle, bruised my butt, and whacked the back of my head.
    Nope. Still didn’t take pictures. Pretty sure my dignity is in traction.
    So yeah. I need a hug. A big one. Preferably from someone who doesn’t chew cud or knock over seed bags.
    Thanks for letting me rant. Y’all are cheaper than therapy.
    P.S. If one more animal gets into my house, I’m charging rent—and I don’t accept hay as payment.
    P.P.S. If you’re reading this and daydreaming about “the simple life,” I suggest a weekend trial: one goat, a forgotten barn gate, and a carpet you love. If you’re still smiling after that, we’ll talk.
    P.P.P.S. No goats, chickens, or dogs were harmed in the making of this meltdown. But several were strongly encouraged to rethink their life choices.