A Break From Life

In our Taylor Swift Era. Jordan painted Eric's bibs for the tour.

We have returned from a much-needed break from our daily grind. We left last Wednesday for a long-anticipated adventure. In June 2023, we purchased tickets to the Taylor Swift concert as a Christmas/Birthday present for The Bean. If you are not a "Swifty," tickets for the Eras Tour are highly coveted. My darling daughter talked of nothing else than attending The Eras Tour for months. We were unable to procure tickets for the Pittsburgh show. Jordan begged to go when Taylor Swift announced the tour's second leg. We decided as a family this would be our much-needed vacation. Jordan used her phone number, my phone number, and The Bibbed Wonder's phone number to enter a lottery for tickets in three different cities: Indianapolis, New Orleans, and Toronto. We could purchase tickets for the New Orleans show by luck of the draw. After eighteen months, our opportunity arrived, and we made an adventure out of it.

New Orleans has been on my bucket list of places to travel. I have always wanted to go during Mardi Gras. However, my bib overall-wearing buddy is a reluctant traveler and does not like crowds or cities. Although I could not convince him to partake in Mardi Gras, he agreed to go to New Orleans to see Tay-Tay for my girl. He would do anything to make her happy, including attending a concert filled with teenage girls in a city seventeen hours away. Rather than fly, which he hates to do, we decided to road trip old school so Jordan could see the country and Eric could refrain from having a mental breakdown.

We drove eight and a half hours to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, to spend three days. We could not have chosen a lovelier time of year to travel, dear reader. The drive from Pennsylvania to Tennessee was stunning. While in Pigeon Forge, we visited the Titanic Museum, Dollywood. We ate incredible food and shopped anywhere Jordan wanted to go. It was a lovely and scenic visit that we all appreciated. On Saturday, we drove seven hours to Gulf Port, Mississippi, and spent the day at the beach. I had forgotten how good it feels to have sand between my toes. On Sunday, we drove an hour and a half to New Orleans to take in the city and attend the concert. We then spent Monday in the city and drove seventeen hours on Tuesday to make it home. Initially, we were going to split the drive home into two days but to be honest, we all were ready to be home, so we pushed through and were home by ten o'clock Tuesday night.

Getting away for a bit was good, but it was even better to return home. We genuinely enjoyed ourselves. We laughed, saw new things we had always wanted to see, spent quality time together, and relaxed. The best part of the trip was watching Jordan experience the Taylor Swift concert. My girl actually cried when Gracie Abrams took the stage. The energy of the crowd was electric. Taylor was incredible. Regardless of how you feel about her music, that woman puts on a fantastic show. I was captivated by the sheer artistry and execution of the performance. I can't lie; I now consider myself a diehard Swifty. Not only is she an incredible artist, she is a really good human. I give her props for taking new artists under her wing, giving back to the cities that welcome her and her fans, and being a boss.

New Orleans was not what I thought it would be. I was shocked and saddened by the homeless and drug-addicted population that seemed to be everywhere. However, if I had to be in a city, I was happy I was in a city filled with Taylor Swift fans. Taylor Swift fans are top-notch. They were respectful, friendly, polite, and positive. It was a great experience, and I am happy to have shared it with my husband and daughter. New Orleans has true beauty, but I don't think I want to return. I have decided I am a mountain kind of woman. Actually, I am any kind of woman other than a city woman. City life simply is not for me. I don't think I have to worry about my girl moving to a big city in the future. She found the city to be intimidating and a bit overwhelming. The visit was pleasant, but I am happy to return to the farm.

We all agree our next vacation will be sooner rather than later, and it will not include a city. We are thinking of a remote beach with little to do other than soak up the sun, be together, and relax with sand between our toes. After that, it is a remote cabin in the mountains with a hot tub and a quaint small town nearby. These are all things to look forward to.

I can't write about our trip without mentioning my dear friend, Jenna. God loved her; she took on all the responsibilities of the farm and business. She milked the girls and cared for everyone while caring for her animals and working full-time. Not only did she care for our barnyard family, but she also packed orders and kept things running for the business. We could not have made our trip happen without Jenna's help. We are truly blessed to have people who move mountains to help us. Jenna started as a friend, but she is family. We adore and appreciate her and all she does.

It was good to get away, dear reader. I feel refreshed, re-energized, and more creative. The ideas for soaps, products, events, and the business are overflowing. I believe a vacation was exactly what we needed. Now, it is time to jump back into life with both feet and welcome the holiday season. In honor of my favorite holiday, we offer no tricks, just treats with 20% off sitewide. Exclusions include weekly specials, merchandise, and subscriptions. Use promo code Treats24 at checkout to apply the discount. This promotion will last through 11/1 at midnight. Holiday/Winter scents will be released soon. If you are local, join us for our holiday tradition of The Ligonier Holiday Market this Saturday, November 2nd, from noon to four o'clock. We will be in our regular spot, feeling festive and having fun. This is one of our favorite events, and we look forward to seeing our soap family.

On this lovely Halloween day, stay safe, be smart, and take a break from life when you can; it's a good thing; enjoy the Halloween savings, and keep washing your hands.

A Healthy Beard, Hairy Udders, and Other Goat-Like Symptoms of The Aging Process

She is one of those ladies who is more beautiful at sixty than she could possibly have been at twenty. (how I hope someone says that about me someday)!" ― Mary Ann Shaffer

Lately, I have been comparing myself to my goats and their quirky personalities. As of late, I have been feeling like I imagine Mama Boo to feel. Mama Boo is one of the older goats in our herd. She is the mama of my Sweet Baboo and the sweetest, nicest lady I have yet to encounter. Mama Boo has developed a more mature appearance. She has grown quite an impressive beard, her udders are exceptionally hairy, and she has taken on the appearance of a thin, in-milk dairy goat. She is still lovely; she is just beautiful in an older way. She has to hold her position in the herd with some steely aggression and quiet determination. I am not like Mama Boo in the sense that I have a beard, hairy udders, and I'm definitely not super thin, but she is getting older and has to stand her ground in order not to be overlooked or undermined. She puts the younger ones in their place without being too harsh and feels she has to prove her worth.

The fact of the matter is, I am getting older, whether I like it or not. It matters not that my mind still feels like it's 29. It matters not that my sense of humor falls somewhere around a sophisticated 12…if there is such a thing. It does not matter that I want to look and feel like I did when I was 25, but the realization is that I just don't. The quandary I have been facing for almost two years is how I will go about this aging process. Will I go gracefully and accept each year and the changes it brings with fortitude and strength, or will I fight this unseen and, let's face it, unfair enemy tooth and nail with dyes, acids, and scalpels?  

My Bibbed Wonder encourages me to age naturally and gracefully. He says he looks forward to us growing old together. He tells me he thinks my graying hair is beautiful and my wrinkles are laugh lines that prove he is doing his job of making me happy. (He wasn't so concerned about my laugh lines when he cut down my tree, was he?) …again, I am beating that poor horse and digressing. However, what The Bibbed Wonder fails to point out is that he is eight years my junior. He will always be eight years my junior, and I will always be eight years his senior, and we will never truly grow old together because I will always be almost a decade older than he. I appreciate his efforts, though. 

Now, a peek into my psyche. My dad was a very handsome man. His good looks often helped to get him into a lot of trouble. I look very much like my dad and great-grandmother, and my dad had high expectations for my appearance. There was a lot of value placed upon image, beauty, and weight. My dad advised me when I married Eric: "You've got yourself a young one. If you want to keep him, don't let yourself go." You see, my Bibbed Wonder was a mere pup of 22 when we married, and I was a cougar of 30. I laugh and tell others I was a cougar before it was cool. Yep, trendsetter, that is me. However, back to my psyche and my dad: Um, yeah, that could mess with one's head and self-esteem if allowed to do so. 

Fortunately, I am more evolved and have had years of working on self-growth and self-esteem and a little sprinkling of therapy thrown in for good measure, spoken with completely false bravado. Without the pressure of family expectations thrown in, the societal pressure to remain young and fit and the picture of youth is pretty heavy to carry around as well. There are injections to fill in lines, there are food poisoning by-products to paralyze your facial muscles, and there are silicones and saline to plump, pump, and perk your sagging features. I will be honest: if I were with someone more like my father and less like my Bibbed Wonder, I would probably dabble in all the above…probably. I am honest enough to admit that there is and probably always will be a shallow, vain side of me that wants to look young and attractive. However, when armed with information, one can make educated decisions about what one puts into and onto one's body. As of now, I choose not to inject myself with such advances. The side effects and potential damage are not worth the results. 

However, my greying hair is the real battle I have been fighting, which is less invasive but still pretty shallow. My hair is turning silvery white all around the front, and the back remains dark, a more faded version of my original dark, but still dark. I have colored my hair and fought the greys for many years…like since my 20s. In the last two years, my greys have become more prominent and more challenging to cover. I have been contemplating allowing my hair to go natural but have been unsure about it. Last fall, I decided I would smoothly transition to grey or white…really just hair that lacks pigment. Let me educate you, dear reader, there is no smooth transition to go from colored hair to natural hair and not look like a cartoon character, a Disney villain, or just some poor shmuck who needs a good stylist. Painful, absolutely freaking painful it was! I went really, really blonde, and my hair dried and broke off. I went warmer and gentler blonde, which turned brassy by week three. Then I went to, "Daughter had surgery, and she takes precedence, stay-at-home order, and your stylist is not permitted to practice; let's throw in baby goat season when there is no time to do anything but wash off the smell of poo, afterbirth, and milk, tricolor white, blonde, dark." It's not an attractive look, trust me. However, it lessened the pain of the process and the decision to go au natural. I contemplated cutting off all my hair and starting over, but let's be honest, I have a big, fat Tonkin head, and it's not a look and feel I can pull off. 

My badass stylist and friend, Mandi, made the trip to the farm and worked her magic…a bit. She trimmed, highlighted the whites, darkened the blondes to a more natural brown, put on a blue toner for brassiness, and declared battle victory over the aging process. Meanwhile, her smart-ass 14-year-old son informed me, "I look hot for an old lady." I'm not sure if I'm completely grossed out by a 14-year-old boy dubbing me as hot, irritated that he called me old, or disturbed that I'm even contemplating what came out of his foul little mouth. I should have just gone with my knee-jerk reaction and purple-nurpled him. 

The other night, I was looking at hair color on Pinterest… it's what I do when I'm not making soap…and I informed my bib-wearing buddy that I think I will color my hair again. It was a moment of weakness, and the color and style of the 20-something modeling looked hella cute. Eric's response was exasperation and irritation, "Seriously, after all we've been through, you're thinking of coloring it?" I laughed at his response. However, after pondering his words, it hit me with an impactful weight: we are in this together. My struggles are his struggles; whether he likes it or not, he is an active participant in my real life or self-imposed issues. His meaningful and honest response is enough to soothe the ugly monster of insecurity and self-doubt. I guess I can stop feeling like Mama Boo because, with Eric, I do not have to prove my self-worth. It's a bit of a comfort to know that no matter what my size, my hair color, or how many birthday candles are on my birthday cake (which I will eat with unbridled enjoyment), he thinks I rock, and his opinion is the only one that matters, except my own of course. Now, when the day arrives that I have grown a healthy beard and hairy udders, medical hair removal is not off the table. However, until then, I will just do what I try to do best: be me. 

As always, stay safe, stay smart, try to be good at being yourself, and keep up the hand washing until this passes. Even if it passes, it's never acceptable not to wash your hands. Seriously, people.   

A Legacy Of Happiness

“Take responsibility for your own happiness; never put it in other people’s hands.”  ― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

Eric and I have been married for seventeen years. Most of those seventeen years have been an enjoyable adventure. We’ve completed two major renovations of two old homes and are living in one as we remodeled. We’ve each buried our beloved dads. I resigned from my teaching position, and we went to one income. Eric worked away more often than not, and we held it together. We’ve faced infertility issues, and we’ve gone on the roller coaster ride of the adoption route. We’ve worked together to rear one amazing, joy-filled, fierce little girl. Eric has worked for a man he genuinely respected and admired for the past eight years. He’s worked for a company he felt was moving in a positive direction and would make a mark on an industry. I often say that most of the time, we feel blessed beyond belief. However, as many of you know, when it rains, it pours.

On October 29th, Eric was notified that his company would close his department. We have been very fortunate; we have never experienced downsizing before. After a week or so of becoming accustomed to the idea of the loss of income, as par for the course, I began to panic, and Eric began to stew. Eric had good job offers. He had job offers to improve our financial situation, but there was a hitch. To accept these offers, he would basically have to live in a hotel and see us on the weekends if we were lucky. Our entire life would have to change. We would have to give up what we value most: time together as a family, surrounding ourselves with creatures we love and respect, and raising our little girl in an enriching environment, and on the farm, her grandfather was at his happiest. We had years of being apart, and honestly, we have become spoiled by having Eric work from home most of the time. This would all have to change, and the thought of this angered my husband.

Eric does not anger easily. He is the epitome of calm, rational, and collected. He is slow to anger, but he is a fearsome force when he does. Very rarely do I see the look in his eye that should strike fear into the heart of the roughest character. My husband had this look. After a week or so of my quiet panic…or maybe not so quiet…he sat me down and explained his position. He told me he was angry and that this job loss had become personal for him. He told me he had looked over everything and thought we could make a go of life on the farm. He told me, “Never again will I give someone that much power over me.” He doesn’t want our daughter, who we have fought so hard for, to see him a few times a month. He doesn’t want to sell our beloved farm to move where there is work. He doesn’t want to sell our animals off just so we can have a steady paycheck for a while, but for what length of time is uncertain.

So, we have taken back the power. We agree wholeheartedly to jump into this new endeavor together and see where it will take us. Are we afraid? Absolutely! We both have an entrepreneurial spirit. My dad was a self-made man, and I grew up watching him make decisions, succeeding and struggling, but in the end, feeling that overwhelming sense of self-worth, pride in hard work, and accomplishment. I want to pass on that legacy to Jordan. I want to build something my girl can be proud of and jump into if she chooses. Most of all, I want her to see the worth in hard work, the reward of struggles, and the strength in knowing that even if something doesn’t turn out the way you plan, you will be okay.

We have taken control of our happiness. We begin this new year as entrepreneurs and full-time farmers. We are looking forward to this new chapter and to sharing our struggles, wins, and losses with you. If you believe in positive energy, please send some our way. Rest assured, this will make for some fascinating tales.