From Time to Eternity

For death is no more than a turning of us over

from time to eternity.

-William Penn

My Grandfather passed around midnight. I cried as I kissed his cheek a final time and watched through puffy, water-logged eyes as the funeral home loaded him into the hearse.

I miss him already.

The thing about death... it's so simple yet so incomplete. It's like peering into a dark tunnel you can't see the end of. We think we have an idea of what's on the other end, but really, who can see for sure? Christians - those who profess faith in Jesus Christ as the Messiah - believe that "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord". You die, you fly, in other words. We stake our current situations and our very lives, even, on the blessed hope that another world awaits beyond the grave... a world that promises no pain, no tears.

I don't have all the answers, and I'll admit that sometimes it all sounds a bit far-fetched and idealistic to these human ears. Yet I believe it all the same. Where is my Grandfather right now? He's in heaven. Maybe it's even dinner time there. Maybe he's feasting on chicken and mashed potatoes and cornbread and lemon icebox pie. Maybe it's the best day he's ever known. Maybe exchanging time for eternity is the greatest and sweetest thing for which we can ever hope...

....................

I miss you, Grandad, and rejoice that you're no longer in pain. You were the best grandfather a girl could have asked for, and I'll always remember the laughs, life, and love we shared. If you run into Jesus up there, give Him a message, would you? Tell him I can't wait to see His face. And know that I can't wait to see yours again, too. All my love, BB.

Heavy Day... and A Sale!

The deed to relinquish ownership of Freeman House is drawn up. I just can't bring myself - yet - to sign it. How did it come to this? How can I bravely venture into new adventures knowing my beloved home won't be there to return to?

For now, I'm keeping my head down. I'm sitting at my Grandfather's bedside or home, knitting. As a result, you'll find the Freeman House HouseHelper Sets on sale this week - $5 off! If you've been wanting a piece of Freeman House, now's the time and here's your excuse. I truly hope these find happy homes....

You know how, when you get emotional, your throat feels thick and your eyes pound, heavy with tears? Guess that's how I feel right now. Good thing I know good things are coming, else I'd be despairing under a thick and heavy load...

Still holding out over here. You?

So. Okay. I skimmed my emails quickly just now and noticed several inquiring about the "Sponsor this blog" button that's just landed on the sidebar over there. Have you seen it? Here's the deal: beginning this week, I'm offering sponsorships of this blog. Huh? you say. Here's how it works: individuals wanting to support my little corner here while simultaneously promoting their shop, business, or cause can now do so by signing up for a sponsor space. Rates are super affordable and... well, they provide other small businesses with limited budgets an opportunity to meet and reach out to the Messy, Thrilling community. And it is an awfully great group of folks we have here, isn't it? *wink*

I won't bore everyone, but if you're interested in a sponsorship space, click on the information I've provided here.

Thanks in advance. For everything... -Brin

I'll never forget yesterday.

Father's Day. After waking up on the hard, hot floor at my parents' house, I trudged the hard, hot quarter mile to the octagon-shaped house on the hill. Easing the door open, I heard joking and laughter. Aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings were gathered around my Grandparents' large kitchen table. Beyond them, pushed against the large sliding glass door, was a hospital bed. The oxygen machine pumping breath into my Grandfather was still purring. He made it through the night, I thought, and shut the door behind me.

The stool next to his bed sighed as I lowered myself onto it. I reached for my Grandfather's hand. It's Brin, I said. Happy Father's Day.

He's on morphine, someone said from the table. He isn't responsive today.

But that didn't stop us from talking to him. Or singing to him. Or telling him jokes or reading to him. At one point I saw my mother draw the stool close and, speaking softly, read from a Father's Day card she pulled from her purse. I love you, Dad, I heard her whisper, and her tears made wet stains on his pillow. That's the last Father's Day card my Mom will ever buy, I thought. My eyes welled with hot tears.

We planned the funeral service, considering favorite songs and Scriptures. My Grandmother copied down the order of service, pausing to ask me to write my Grandfather's obituary. I'd be honored, I said. My mind skipped back through difficult writing assignments: papers for my law degree... stories I'd written as a reporter... my divorce paperwork. This will be the most difficult thing you've ever written, I thought.

Evening came, and stars shone through the sliding glass door behind my Grandfather's bed. My aunts twisted the floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds, shutting out the night. I still have towels to take off the clothesline, my Grandmother said. I volunteered.

The night was still warm, and from somewhere in the darkness, tree frogs sang to the stars. I walked the back porch, pausing at the glass that separated me from my Grandfather. Peering between the slats in the blind, I saw my own father sitting by the bed. He embraced Jack, murmuring something I couldn't make out, and began to cry. As I watched his back rock with sobs, I was surprised to hear another crying. It was me. For twenty minutes, I pressed my forehead to the glass and watched and cried as my father, and later my father and mother, said goodbye.

I'm sure I will never forget yesterday....

Still...

Still here. Still sewing. I brought the sewing machine along to my folks', so I'm busy stitching away as I'm caretaking. It works.

Coming from a deeply patriotic family, I usually start planning for July Fourth around this time... when it gets glaringly hot and fried pies and rootbeer floats start popping up in diners and stands around town. I came across some patriotic stash prints and have stitched those up, catching myself humming Yankee Doodle or Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave... as I sew along. So much comfort there. The aprons are up at the Shop as I type...

Wanted to tell you that my mother sat down with my laptop last night and read aloud each of the 70 or so comments you all left the other day. About halfway through, we were both crying. They touched me deeply and mean so much right now. I simply can't offer enough thanks. God bless you.

Hoping your summer weekend is full of hope. -Brin

Thanks for all the kindness and support you shined down on me yesterday. These are for you.

Although fall is my favorite season, summer's flowers and produce have a special place in my heart. My friend Shelley owns Faith Farms, a little place outside town that turns out astonishing flowers and vegetables. Her Zinnias are my favorite. Can't you just feel the summer sunshine when you gaze at these beauties?

Speaking of beauties, I have some cool summer Apron Toolbelts somersaulting into my Etsy Shop this week. I know I've blogged about them before, but they truly are a big help around the house. I wonder if I'll ever tire of making them?

................................

Off to sit with my Grandfather for awhile. I started reading a story to him last night and want to be sure to finish it....

I wish my life was as organized as my kitchen cabinet.

So much to say and respond to today, but the truth is, I have other things on my heart. My Grandpa is being released from ICU today. We're bringing him home so he can pass in the place he loves best. Funeral arrangements were made yesterday, so now we make him as comfortable as we can and wait.

Yes, there's that, and this: the bakery is closed and I'm losing Freeman House. Deciding where in this world to move and what in the world to do in the meantime is about all my brain can manage.

Yes, I wish my life was as easily ordered as my kitchen cabinet....

The Pup's Having Pups

There is no psychiatrist in the world

like a puppy licking your face.

-Bern Williams

Suppose I'm in for a lot of psychiatry soon, because Millie is pregnant. I happened upon this discovery Saturday while rolling around on the floor playing Getting Licked In the Face by My Dog. (What, you've never played that game? You should. I promise it lowers blood pressure faster than any bowl of oatmeal ever could.)

I think this is how it happened: while I was away at the bakery, Millie went to doggy daycare next door. Only... okay. Remember that fire on our street? Several weeks ago, an enormous oak tree, badly charred in that fire, came crashing down on the house next door. It took the doggy daycare fence with it. The dogs - Millie included - escaped and roamed the streets for the next six hours. It had to have happened then. Dang it.

Anyone going to be needing a chocolate lab/mix puppy in several weeks? I hear it's better than therapy....

Nutter Butter Banana Pudding

Nutter Butter Banana Pudding has been a big hit at henrybella's. Creamy, sweet and cold, it has all the ingredients of a summer hit: fruit, peanut butter and whipped cream.

I found a recipe - this one - in Southern Living a few months ago. The good news? Even folks who don't cook can make this luscious layer dessert. Using store bought pudding, Cool Whip, bananas and cookies, a sweet lover can make and take this in a hurry. You can even make it in advance and then stash it in the refrigerator and forget it.

I'm thinking of making this for the weekend. I'll use my homemade vanilla pudding, though, and vanilla beans to round out some sweetened whipped cream. Just like at henrybella's. I think my family can use some cold, comforting desserts this weekend....

Thanks for all your kindness this week. Wishing you a happy Friday. -Brin

For Now, We Wait

Let us then with confidence draw near

to the throne of grace,

that we may receive mercy and find grace

to help in time of need.

-Hebrews 4:16

I rushed away to my childhood home on Saturday, games and ventures and projects temporarily suspended. My Grandfather, the one I've written about often, has been in and out of ICU. Late Monday, the doctor signed an order that said, ominously, to "Allow Natural Death". I looked over the hospital bed to my Grandmother and Mom. They were crying.

I've been here for several days now, cooking meals. Washing clothes. Running errands. Making phone calls. Trying to help. The other evening, while walking my parents' place and snapping pictures, I realized I'm seeing it firsthand: that people who tie up their faith in Jesus... in His person and His sacrifice for us... don't mourn like others. Death is... different for us. Sure, it hurts. Yes, it presents the usual survivor symptoms: shock, grief, etc. But in the midst of the avalanche of emotion is a current of blessed hope. An assurance that reminds us that to be gone from this place is to be present in a far, far better one. So, sometimes with confidence - other times with simply all the faith we have - we draw near to get our fill of help in time of need.


The doctors can't say when Quarterback Jack will slip away. Could be hours, could be days. Sitting in the hospital, I imagine an angel beside his bed, waiting on a nod from the throne of grace.


For now, we wait, too....

Keeping...

The bakery has been dead since summer began. Or, you know, since school let out. I've been worried. Now I'm just exhausted. Yesterday I closed early and walked home and folded my legs under me on the couch and reached for the nearest book and read.

Have you ever tried to settle in with Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson? It's rhythmic and quiet and reading it is akin to trying to run with a bloated, near-bursting water balloon - you simply have to slow down and give it your full attention. Any less and it wobbles and slips out of your grasp and you lose it all.

Most of all, I love how one of the characters, at the beginning of the book, is spelled out: She had always known a thousand ways to circle them all around with what must have seemed like grace. She knew a thousand songs. Her bread was tender and her jelly was tart, and on rainy days she made cookies and applesauce. In the summer she kept roses in a vase on the piano, huge, pungent roses, and when the blooms ripened and the petals fell, she put them in a tall jar, with cloves and thyme and sticks of cinnamon. Her children slept on starched sheets under layers of quilts, and in the morning her curtains filled with light the way sails fill with wind.

I adore it. I want to go there. I want to know her. But most of all, I think I'd want to be described something like this. Yesterday I put a vase of roses on the piano, and left several more to dry with cloves and cinnamon and thyme. Just to see what it felt like.


Still playing at my Garden Grocery Game. I think I'm winning. The past two days I've had baked potatoes for lunch. Dinners have been stir fried veggies with rice... the next day vegetable soup. Tonight is an herb pasta with the first two tomatoes picked from this year's garden. Nothing too inspiring there. Next week I'll do some Spinach Gnocchi and Onion Tarts and Creamed Squash. Or something. Next time I do this, I'm planting a row of cheeseburger and chicken fajita and cheese plants. That's right. If I had any hopes of becoming a strict vegetarian out of this craziness, I think it backfired.

(A row of pork tenderloin would be nice, too.)...

Wishing you a warm and lazy summer weekend from Freeman House, the home of warm and lazy summer weekends. -Brin

Garden Grocery Game, Day 2

This morning's garden fare: gangly green beans, lush lettuces, nutty broccoli and potatoes that will taste of butter. All organic. This is incredible. Most incredible. Instead of fearing for my health on this 84 cent-a-day diet, I'm excited. Come to Freeman House, I want to yell to people sitting in the drive-thru. The eating's great!

Today I'm thinking of some sort of Potato and Tarragon Cake. I saw this yesterday in Fran Ward's Food For Friends, one of my favorite cookbooks. (And seriously, they have it on Amazon right now for about a dollar. Go grab you one.) Trouble is, there's no recipe for this dish. Do you have one? No? Guess I'll have to make one up. Yep, I'm thinking a Potato and Tarragon Cake with a side of steamed broccoli. Or maybe a side of salad with raw, crunchy green beans. Maybe I'll wash it all down with sun tea with a sprig of mint. Yeah. That sounds perfect.

It looks as though this may be typical of the gardening offerings for this week, at least until the squash, zucchini, cucumbers, okra and tomatoes ripen up. Then I'll have so much I'll be sending food to your house, canned into jars and glowing back at you like colors from a stained glass window.

Wouldn't it be cool... yeah, I'm thinking it would be fun... if I journal my meals here and offer recipes to go along with the meals I dream up. Wouldn't it? That way if you have your own little garden plot or get to the farmer's market or grocery, you'll have even more ideas of what to do with all that beautiful produce. I'll try to get right on that.

Okay. Yesterday, June 2 - oatmeal with fresh plums and honey (I traded peppers for plums with my friend Shelley); and garden pizza (homemade crust, pizza sauce, spinach, garlic, onions and broccoli from the garden, and fresh mozzarella). It was superb:

I think I'm going to call this my little Garden Grocery Game, or 'How to Eat on 84 Cents a Day'. If you have a garden. And if, like me, you're broke, hungry and a smidge crazy....

Growing... and More Growing

This year's onions are in. Harvested. I pulled them up, dusted them off and looped them together with fistfuls of twine. Now they hang from the enormous pot rack in the kitchen, bunches of them. Garlic and shallots will soon follow. It's a good time to be a gardener.


Over the break, I found a box tucked underneath a bed in the back of Freeman House. In it were mementos from elementary school days, and at the bottom, a tattered copy of Little House on the Prairie. The cover was hanging from the book, exposing my name written in my childish hand. Underneath it, in crooked numbers, was a phone number: 796-9389. Our first number after we moved to Texas. I would have been nine. I flipped through the book, seeing familiar but forgotten pictures of Pa, Ma, Mary, Laura and baby Carrie. An hour later I looked up, realized the time, and put the book aside. I had laundry to hang and rows of beans to weed, for heaven's sake. I was a grown woman now, with a house and land of my own to tend to. Laura would be ashamed of me, hiding in the back of the house, reading like a nine year old again.

......................

In true Little House on the Prairie style, I've dreamed up a new mission for myself: to survive the entire month of June on brown rice, oats, corn meal and bread flours, and what I can dig out of the garden. Or what I can trade for what I dig out of the garden. Truly. I gave myself $25 to buy staples for the month. I bought brown rice, organic oats, corn meal, flours, and cheese. Extras like butter, yeast, honey, condiments, salt and spices, etc., I already had, so those didn't count toward my $25 grocery budget. Twenty-five dollars. Works out to about 84 cents a day. Can a girl live for 30 days on that? We're about to find out.

Here's the rundown so far:

June 1 - no breakfast (I rarely eat breakfast); roasted sweet potato fries with garlic for lunch; baby Yukon potatoes, green beans, and onions from the garden, along with a chunk of homemade bread for dinner. So far, so good.

Yes, there's a lot of growing going on over here. Growing outside and growing inside. Always pushing myself to do more, learn more, see more, live more. (Or in this case, a bit less.)

I wonder what Laura would think of it all...

Happiness and Hydrangeas... Hope and Honey

The art of being happy lies in the power

of extracting happiness from common things.

-Henry Ward Beecher

So. Hi. I'm here, with my hands in my back pockets, rocking from my heels up to my toes, blushing. Hi. It's me again.

It's been many weeks, hasn't it? Maybe someday I'll find some courage and use it to tell you all what's been happening in and around me these past few months. Someday. It won't happen today, I assure you. All I can say is, I think I'm back to blogging and I have missed you all dearly. It's good to see you again. You were okay while we were apart, weren't you? Fill me in. Tell me everything.


Everything bloomed while I was away from blogging. These hydrangeas - planted by Ms. Freeman herself some 40 years ago - are at their best today. Truly. The blooms are as large as dinner plates, and the thick-with-dew morning breeze sways them into the peeling, grayed walls of this house. The window pictured here is my bedroom window, along with the hydrangea that sits underneath.

Years ago, back during the second World War, my room was used as a kitchen. A worn table used to sit on the other side of this window. I imagine brides and then children and then old, tired men looking out from the wavy-paned glass onto the frothy blue-and-violet petals below, just as I do now. I wonder if they thought about the same things I do: life... love... dreams... happiness. I wonder if they came to the same conclusion about it all that Beecher and I have: that the art of being happy... of being hopeful... comes from extracting every bit of hope and happiness you can from the common things. It's all much like the bee who extracts good things from blossoms and then carries them home, knowing one day it will all collect and run together and become something substantive and sweet.


Happiness and hydrangeas... hope and honey - they have much in common, if you ask me.

So. So you know, things may begin looking differently around here in the coming months. I want to add some features and introduce you to some new things I love. (Like Picnik, the new [free!] photo editing software I'm using to play with pictures now.) I want to tidy the place up a bit. I still haven't made a decision on ads, but I do know that the bakery isn't turning a profit yet, and this girl's got to do something to survive. Living on hope is running its course.

In the meantime, we'll plan for a calm and comforting summer, and continue to press our noses to our windows and look out, extracting every bit of hope and happiness we can from the common things.

So then. It's hello again. I'm settling back in again. It's good to be back. -Brin

Stripes and Summer

Sneaking in to tell you that I spent some time over the Memorial Day weekend dreaming up some breezy summer totes for us all. (Because we know, of course, that totes are all the rage this summer.) Thought I'd tell you that the first are up in the Etsy Shop, and I promise more as the summer wears, happily, on.

Stop by and shop - without getting up - by clicking here.

And. I think I'm reconsidering blogging. I'm considering a return to blogging. With stipulations. Stipulations that involve earning money. (Sigh). I just don't know. I just can't decide....

May 2009 Freeman House Newsletter (Updated!)

The world's favorite season is the spring.
All things seem possible in May.
-Edwin Way Teale

It is May at Freeman House. April's cool winds have retired, leaving drizzly showers to take their place. Daffodils have given way to roses and hydrangeas, and the garden is awake and at work. In the evenings, I cut fistfulls of blooming, reaching things and bring them indoors.

They make me deeply, quietly satisfied.

With all my time and efforts and attention devoted to the bakery, I'm getting little done at Freeman House. I have hung some pictures... and an Italian mirror I found three years ago (for $10!) in the library. This room. Gosh. I adore it. It's my favorite place to be.

As longtime readers of this blog know, the home didn't start that way: being my favorite place to be, that is. This is the library, half-renovated:

And here's that same corner and window now:

The chair is one of my best places to read. The light is perfect. The room is calm. I light candles and kick my feet up and bury my heart and head in a book.

Some books I've read this spring? Surprisingly many. (When have I had the time? Now I'm puzzled.) Some have been disappointing. Others have been a life line. In no particular order (and without prejudicing you with my little opinions or moral objections to characters/character behavior), they are:

Beachcombing for a Shipwrecked God

The Drowning People

The Year of Pleasures

The Story of Forgetting

Made From Scratch

There's still much to be done in this room. The mantle needs to be finished; I've sanded off the old lead paint and have begun to stain it. (Yuck.) The 120 year old pine floors still need to be restored. As does the chimney and fire place. And the moldings. And ... gosh. Thinking about all that remains to be accomplished has me reaching for my panic attack meds. But I do, already, adore this space. It's collected and cluttered but calm, like me.

Elsewhere in the house, work continues. Especially in the kitchen. Always in the kitchen. Right now, Lemon Balm, Mint and Thyme spread out on racks and dry. Soon there'll be organic teas and herbal bath salts.

Although much is the same, much has changed around here. The bakery keeps me busier than ever. Slowly, a rhythm has presented itself, but I've found that baking for yourself- baking for friends, even - is far different than baking for the public. I crave solitude the way others crave socialization; being "out" every day, keeping up a public face, is torture for me. I dislike the interruptions... I'm easily annoyed by the necessary chatter and introductions and small talk. (Or, in a few words, serving customers. Yikes.) I need to hire someone to be me, so I can be me....

Spring has brought rain, and the drizzle has played outside the windows lately, coming down in droves. Outside, Millie's watched as I've fished clothespins from puddles; apparently the clothespin bag has filled with water numerous times, sending the pins swimming in the mud below. I've gathered them and brought them inside to wash, carefully turning and drying them along with my favorite wooden kitchen utensils. (This spoon a hand-carved beauty with a crooked "1884" scratched into its back.)

The clothespin and spoons are pieces in a Freeman House game I'm playing now: sort of a how-low-can-your-electric-bill-go? game. By carefully averaging my usual summer electric bills in years past, I've devised a dollar amount that I should expect to pay each month for the electric. Anything I can save off that I'm turning into fun money. Or maybe into a wood-burning oven for my kitchen. We'll see. All I know is that clothespins negate a dryer and spoons a mixer, so I'm the sure winner in my summer electricity game.

So what have my spoons been busy mixing up? Lately it's this: Lemon Balm Shortbread. I haven't served it yet at henrybella's, but likely will soon. Here's the recipe in case you want to try it, too:

LEMON BALM SHORTBREAD

2 sticks butter, softened
1 cup sugar
3 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 splash vanilla
1 cup fresh Lemon Balm leaves, chopped

Preheat oven to 325° F.

In a large bowl with a wooden spoon, stir together butter and sugar until they make a grainy paste. Stir in flour and baking powder, working it together for 30 seconds or so. Crack in eggs and pour in vanilla. Combine well, using your hands to knead dough, if necessary. (This usually isn’t necessary for me, but I’m an enthusiastic stir-er.) Sprinkle in most of the lemon balm (or whatever you’re using: lemon or lime zest, chunks of fruit, etc.) and mix until it’s well incorporated throughout the dough.

Turn onto a floured board or counter and roll until it’s as thin as your pinkie finger. Lightly press remaining lemon balm into top of dough. Transfer to baking sheet and bake at 325°F for 15 minutes or until it begins to turn golden brown at the edges.

Remove from oven, cool, and cut into shapes using your favorite cookie cutters. Dust with powdered sugar too, if desired. Serve at room temperature.

At the sweet shop, I generally use this recipe to roll out two very thin sheets of shortbread, then bake them with a layer of homemade strawberry jam between the sheets. After they bake and cool, they're cut into heart shapes and dusted with powdered sugar. The Strawberry Shortbread Hearts are a big seller and a favorite of many customers.

So. Adjusting. Baking. Hosting. Writing. Making new friends. Attending graduations. Trying to keep up. That's life here in May.

Of course, we can't forget about Millie. She plays next door all day, then sits at the kitchen door in the evenings as I make dinner, often catching a nap here and there.

She's as loyal and amusing as ever. The best friend a girl could hope for.

Such a sweet, agreeable pup.

Speaking of sweet, agreeable things, I've been quietly working on these - I call them Hanky Stacks. A Hanky Stack consists of three hand-or-machine stitched cotton hankies. The fabrics and thread are cheerful poking out of bags and pockets and purses, and I've found them to be my eco-friendly and charming answer for a variety of life situations, including: spills, bawling at movies, wiping eyes and noses, sopping sweat after workouts, relieving the heat, removing funky stains (and fingernail polish!)... even cleaning the dog's paws. My gosh, are they great!

If you're interested in a set, they're $9.99 each, and that includes postage to mail them from Freeman House to your door. Check them out by clicking here....

So... that's some of the latest here. Hope your spring has been lovely. Happy May, and Memorial Day!, from Millie and me.

Warmly, Brin

Follow on Facebook...

...because henrybella's is going gang-busters over there! Jump in on the fun and the sweets by clicking here. See you soon! -Brin

Roads and Scenery

So the road's wide open before us all. There's so much to get to... so much waiting ahead to surprise us, delight us, teach us. I can't wait.

Six hundred and sixty-seven posts. That's what today makes. Four years of sharing my life. I started this blog as a means of keeping up with friends back in Dallas. I'd just moved here - just bought Freeman House - and wanted a common show-and-tell space to share pictures and stories of my new life. My friends read, then would call me to discuss my decision to move to the country. What was I thinking? Was I really giving up reporting? What about my career? My boyfriend? I had no answers, but each day I had a story. And somehow those stories became my answers.

Blogging suited me. I learned to write, professionally, in a newsroom, banging out dozens of facts and sources in paragraphs that would fit a 17 second window and leave eyes and ears informed, inspired or intrigued. Or whatever. Getting on the computer and spitting something out for a faceless, nameless audience is all I knew. Blogging was second-nature to me. It's always been something I didn't have to think about.

But that changed. The first time someone I didn't know left a comment on this blog, I was perplexed. Who was this person reading my story... reading my life? How did they find my blog? Why were they so interested? I was scared - for reasons you guys could have no way of knowing about. I stopped blogging, then eased back into it again. But one day, when three people I didn't know commented, I quit. This was too scary, and suddenly my always nameless, always faceless audience had both names and faces. It was too real. I went back to paper journals.

Still, the computer keyboard called to me. I missed it... the release of seeing words line up and my urge to write dissipate into orderly sentences. I type over 100 words a minute, so blogging was much faster than smearing ink across a page. So I started again, deciding to ignore the "nosies", as my friends called the strangers who left comments.

That was years ago. Now this blog is read by people I've never met in places I've never been. But the tone of my blog never changed. It's always been about my life - my grief, my searching, my joys and my dreams. It was never right for ads or profit. Life isn't all about money. It was about reaching out, sharing myself and what little I have, and connecting with friends.

If we sat here all day, the two of us, I still couldn't tell you what your participation and support of this blog... of my life... means. You've cried with me. Laughed with me. Cooked with me. Crafted with me. Read with me. Listened with me. Petted with me. Traveled with me. Lived with me. Somehow we've become friends, haven't we, and faced our days together. It's meant everything to me. Thank you.

The relief associated with ending this blog is enormous. I say this without apology. I want to be anonymous. I'm tired of my life being "monitored" by people I'd rather not keep tabs on me. But this isn't to say I'm disappearing altogether. In the coming weeks, henrybella's web site (now pointed here) will be restored, and a little blog there will keep up with the comings and goings of the happy business. (First up? Renown Christian author and one of My Messy, Thrilling Life's favorite writers -Leigh McLeroy - will be at henrybella's Thursday, April 16th, at 6 PM for a reading/talk. Tickets are $5 in advance and at the door. Details soon on the website.) Also, the Freeman House newsletter, which many of you signed up to receive, will begin in May. I've also kicked around the idea of writing a book, and would enjoy finally getting that cookbook out as well. So, you see, this isn't a goodbye. We're simply changing scenery between acts.

So I'm still here. Just not here. So you know, commenting on this little blog will be disabled at the end of the day, so feel free to say anything that's on your mind until then. Afterward, the blog will still be visible, but any interaction associated with this site will be discontinued.

This has been one amazing journey already, hasn't it? I look prayerfully and wondrously at the road in front of us, and hope we cross ways again. Take care until then, will you?

All my thanks and love. Warmly, Brin

A Compromise

So much to say, right? Ideas and words float through my mind - sail by like balloons - but I've given up trying to chase them down and hold on to them. Tomorrow is April 7 and I'm terrible at goodbyes.

I will say this: the blog will not be taken down. It's one compromise I'm happy to oblige after a torrent of emails from folks saying they never got to read it all, or their printer ran out of paper before they could get the last few recipes. My apologies to those who copied and printed and pasted like mad women; I only decided to leave it up yesterday.

Note though, please, that all commenting will be permanently disabled. So if you've been meaning to speak your mind, now may be the time....

Sending warm hopes and thoughts and prayers your way, along with all the thanks my heart can hold. -Brin

Business Meeting

So I run into my egg supplier over the weekend. Hey Mr. Noah! I call. He turns, then hurries over.

Hey, my bakery's going to reopen within the week, I say. Sure would like to be able to get a few dozen from you each morning. Everyone knows Mr. Noah has the best eggs around - he collects twice a day from the free-range chickens he keeps on the land behind his house.

Well, Ms. Brin, he replies, shifting his weight between his cowboy-booted feet, I've lost a lot of my flock. We set traps, but so far nothing. Think it may be a wild cat that's gettin' em.

Noah treats his chickens like family. This must be hard for him, and I tell him so.

Yeah, only have four good laying hens right now, he says, but you can buy what we don't use. Until I can get that incubator I've been wanting, anyway. Then you can have all you want.

I thank him, and tell him I hope he can get that incubator soon. I'll help you as soon as I can, I promise him. He grins.

Oh. Did I mention? Mr. Noah is 10 years old. He lives with his father (his mom long since out of the picture) and sells eggs to buy BB guns and have money go to children's church camp in the summer.

Forget buying eggs from Sam's Club. Around here, we know the name of the people who supply many of our staples... I even know the names of some of the cows, chickens and goats who provide me with milk, eggs and cheese. Mr. Noah's one of several folks henrybella's supports by buying local and patronizing hometown people and products. So, to my customers, thanks. Thanks for helping support honest, hard-working people in our small community. -Brin