What a fun toy! I discovered Homestyler this weekend and am having a great time playing with it. It will even do 3D! It doesn't have everything (the lineup of chairs will be a long banquette, the two woodstoves will be one large wood cookstove facing the hallway), and thought Jack would love it, I doubt we will have this many large pieces of leather furniture. Even so, what fun. On to the yard next!
You can see better version here, or try your own free: http://www.homestyler.com/designer
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Simon the Zealot
Jack got zealous for Easter this year. Well, for Maundy Thursday. He was picked to play Simon the Zealot in our church's production of the Living Last Supper. It was his first play and he had a big monologue to memorize and even more difficult, he had to wear shorts!
But thankfully, not this. This was reserved for Jesus. Which is why Jesus is invisible in all my pictures. Jesus as Cousin It doesn't photograph well. Or maybe his disappearance from the pictures is more of a spiritual metaphor. Oooh. Deep.
And sandals!
Jack had to grow a beard for the role, but it just couldn't keep up with the 'stache. And he is zealous about that mustache. (Note the atrocious wig on our friend Gene. Why? Why?)
The tableau. Jack is seated at right. Roger, playing Peter, looks like a Greek statue. So regal.
The cast in the afterglow of their success.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
The flip side
What a difference a year makes! We generally know we are always evolving but when you stop and look back in diaries, journals, calendars or, say, blogs, you are transported with complete clarity. This post from a year ago brought me back into the skin of Cory, ca. 2011.
I was madly reading modern homesteading memoirs (left the big city behind for the more authentic pace of farm life) and planting a monster garden. I loved Dominique Browning's story of leaving New York City for Rhode Island and Eric Brende's tale of doctoral research turned life change among the sort-of Amish. I read at least a dozen. Yet, there we were, surrounded by nothing by fields and animals. We lived the farm life, well, ranch life.
A year later we've made the opposite move from everyone in those books. From farm to town. We are surrounded by neighbors. Our dogs are fenced in and shushed. We try to remember to draw the curtains at night. The oxen and chickens have new homes.
And yet, we love it. We love being so close to town and feeling a part of the community. We can bounce home for dinner and back out for events, take evening classes, join activities. We have shifted from being apart to being a part.
Quite a change.
Reading that old blog post had me rolling around in the memories and reflecting on these changes until the very end, when I read the last line: "Green Acres is the life for me?"
I laughed out loud. God is funny. The name of our little subdivision here in suburbia? Green Acres.
Seriously.
Further proof that this was meant to be our home.
I was madly reading modern homesteading memoirs (left the big city behind for the more authentic pace of farm life) and planting a monster garden. I loved Dominique Browning's story of leaving New York City for Rhode Island and Eric Brende's tale of doctoral research turned life change among the sort-of Amish. I read at least a dozen. Yet, there we were, surrounded by nothing by fields and animals. We lived the farm life, well, ranch life.
A year later we've made the opposite move from everyone in those books. From farm to town. We are surrounded by neighbors. Our dogs are fenced in and shushed. We try to remember to draw the curtains at night. The oxen and chickens have new homes.
And yet, we love it. We love being so close to town and feeling a part of the community. We can bounce home for dinner and back out for events, take evening classes, join activities. We have shifted from being apart to being a part.
Quite a change.
Reading that old blog post had me rolling around in the memories and reflecting on these changes until the very end, when I read the last line: "Green Acres is the life for me?"
I laughed out loud. God is funny. The name of our little subdivision here in suburbia? Green Acres.
Seriously.
Further proof that this was meant to be our home.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Back on track
Phew! What a few months it has been! We have been without access to the Internet at home, so I've not been able to post. I'm sure more details will come, but in a nutshell we moved - and then moved again.
The ranch where Jack worked (and we lived) split up last fall and we had to move quite quickly. We found a place to take our menagerie half an hour north of town where neither Internet or cellular service dared to roam and stayed there for six months. While there, we sold the oxen, moved Joker to a retirement home, gave away the chickens and sent Skip to live with relatives. A few weeks ago we closed on a house here in suburbia, a.k.a. the land of the roving children on 4-wheelers and the 8 minute commute. All we have left are the three cats, Mater and Sluggo. Our new home is a renovation project. Perhaps I should rewrite our bio for this blog. We no longer live on a cattle ranch, but now we're marriage under construction country folk trying to make it in town. Oy!
Let the adventures begin!
The ranch where Jack worked (and we lived) split up last fall and we had to move quite quickly. We found a place to take our menagerie half an hour north of town where neither Internet or cellular service dared to roam and stayed there for six months. While there, we sold the oxen, moved Joker to a retirement home, gave away the chickens and sent Skip to live with relatives. A few weeks ago we closed on a house here in suburbia, a.k.a. the land of the roving children on 4-wheelers and the 8 minute commute. All we have left are the three cats, Mater and Sluggo. Our new home is a renovation project. Perhaps I should rewrite our bio for this blog. We no longer live on a cattle ranch, but now we're marriage under construction country folk trying to make it in town. Oy!
Let the adventures begin!
Monday, October 10, 2011
His name is my name, too
Jack is really John.
For generations - since Adam and Eve, he says - the first male Schmidt has always been (and must always be) named John.
Jack's youngest son, Jacob, will become a father tomorrow. And, as he will be the first boy Schmidt of this generation, he will be a John.
It is common for the new John to be given his father's name as his middle name, but wait - that would make him - John Jacob Schmidt. Hear the Jingleheimer in there? It's implied.
Update: Jacob Alexander was born Oct. 11. He may not be a John, but he's a healthy happy grandson!
For generations - since Adam and Eve, he says - the first male Schmidt has always been (and must always be) named John.
Jack's youngest son, Jacob, will become a father tomorrow. And, as he will be the first boy Schmidt of this generation, he will be a John.
It is common for the new John to be given his father's name as his middle name, but wait - that would make him - John Jacob Schmidt. Hear the Jingleheimer in there? It's implied.
Update: Jacob Alexander was born Oct. 11. He may not be a John, but he's a healthy happy grandson!
Saturday, September 17, 2011
All that glitters is gold
There is an empty space at the end of my bed. A vacancy in the feline-formed depression in my comforter.
It seems strange to leave a half-packed suitcase on the bed. Before, it was a nest to be curled up in.
My clothes are cat-hair free today.
Cancer of the jaw, the vet said. The bone was disintegrating. Anything that went into his mouth went into his sinus cavity. Perpetual infection. Unable to eat or drink.
A sad end for my fierce Jack who pulled me in with his glittering green eyes. He came to the shelter with Callie, without whom I was not leaving. She came to the edge of the cage to snuggle through the bars. He hunched at the back and hissed.
How could I separate them? Who would adopt a cat who wouldn't let anyone touch him? So they came home with me. She cuddled, he hissed. Eventually, a year or so later, he let my hand get close enough for actual contact. Later, he even crawled into my lap and stayed for a second or two. A triumph!
The scars from his leaps off my lap have faded now.
That was years ago. I was still the only human who could get close, let alone touch him, though. Whenever husband Jack walked by, Jack the cat greeted him with a hiss and a swat.
But me? All I had to do was sit and form a lap and he came, jumped up and insisted I remain still until he decided to leave.
Anyone house sitting for us had to be reassured that yes, there really is a cat here. You will not see him, but he does need food and water. If they sought him out, they found a vicious beast cornered under the bed.
But me? As soon as I pulled the covers to my chin, he crawled up and laid on my chest, staring through the book for me to pet him.
Goodbye, friend. Maybe no one else does, but I miss you.
It seems strange to leave a half-packed suitcase on the bed. Before, it was a nest to be curled up in.
My clothes are cat-hair free today.
Cancer of the jaw, the vet said. The bone was disintegrating. Anything that went into his mouth went into his sinus cavity. Perpetual infection. Unable to eat or drink.
A sad end for my fierce Jack who pulled me in with his glittering green eyes. He came to the shelter with Callie, without whom I was not leaving. She came to the edge of the cage to snuggle through the bars. He hunched at the back and hissed.
How could I separate them? Who would adopt a cat who wouldn't let anyone touch him? So they came home with me. She cuddled, he hissed. Eventually, a year or so later, he let my hand get close enough for actual contact. Later, he even crawled into my lap and stayed for a second or two. A triumph!
The scars from his leaps off my lap have faded now.
That was years ago. I was still the only human who could get close, let alone touch him, though. Whenever husband Jack walked by, Jack the cat greeted him with a hiss and a swat.
But me? All I had to do was sit and form a lap and he came, jumped up and insisted I remain still until he decided to leave.
Anyone house sitting for us had to be reassured that yes, there really is a cat here. You will not see him, but he does need food and water. If they sought him out, they found a vicious beast cornered under the bed.
But me? As soon as I pulled the covers to my chin, he crawled up and laid on my chest, staring through the book for me to pet him.
Goodbye, friend. Maybe no one else does, but I miss you.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Games of chance, Wyoming style
What have all these people gathered for? What amazing event do they expect to witness?
Why, a chicken drop!
What is a chicken drop, you ask?
Giggles could be heard from old men and young girls, but never did the tension cease.
They watched with focus and care, hoping it would be on their number she would release.
Which number did she choose?
She didn't! Why that old hen, she just looked out at the fools
with a look that said, Please! Take me back to my nest!
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Playmates
We thought when we got Sluggo, he would be a playmate for Mater. Obviously, we were new to life with a corgi. They do not play, they direct.
Poor Mater became the object of all direction; moments of play were few and far between. Mostly they wrestle over toys and make a big show of their tussle, but only until Sluggo decides he has had enough. Like real brothers, they are competitive and want all the attention.
When Skip arrived, we weren't sure how he would fit in. As a guard dog, for sure. But into the canine family? Turns out, he was the playmate Mater had been waiting for.
Sluggo tries to direct Skip, but Skip dismisses him like a gnat. He is a real dog, patrolling for miles, saving the chickens from coyotes and generally keeping everything in order. He has no time for stunted little barkmobiles like Sluggo turns into around him.
But Skip loves Mater. They roll around, gnaw on each other's necks and Skip runs laps trying to get the blind dog to catch him. Pure joy. No one can help but smile at their delight at simple play.
So please excuse my absence. I have taken their lesson to heart and been engaged in simple play this summer.
Poor Mater became the object of all direction; moments of play were few and far between. Mostly they wrestle over toys and make a big show of their tussle, but only until Sluggo decides he has had enough. Like real brothers, they are competitive and want all the attention.
When Skip arrived, we weren't sure how he would fit in. As a guard dog, for sure. But into the canine family? Turns out, he was the playmate Mater had been waiting for.
Sluggo tries to direct Skip, but Skip dismisses him like a gnat. He is a real dog, patrolling for miles, saving the chickens from coyotes and generally keeping everything in order. He has no time for stunted little barkmobiles like Sluggo turns into around him.
So please excuse my absence. I have taken their lesson to heart and been engaged in simple play this summer.
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