Big Brutus

Sunday afternoon of our Kansas weekend was spent in the town of West Mineral, a place I can almost promise you have never been, being home to all of 185 people. 

Unless, of course, you have been to visit Big Brutus. 

Big Brutus is the (truly fantastic) name of the largest electric shovel still in existence.  It's no longer used for its original purpose, but there's a strip pit just beyond it so that when you sit in its... cabin?  Cockpit?  Whatever the name of the place where the driver sits, the strip pit is dead ahead of the windshield, so you can pretend you're about to strip mine the guts out of southeast Kansas, which is exactly what Big Brutus did in the 1960's and 70's.  After it was decommissioned it apparently just sat there, a big rusty hunk of metal in the middle of nowhere, just begging kids like my dad to come and see whether or not today was the day to contract tetanus. 

He didn't, thankfully, and by the time he and my mom took my sisters and I to visit it had been cleaned up and made relatively safe.  As a child, the only things I really remember about it was its massive size (hard to miss) and that our parents bought us slim plastic tubes filled with honey from the gift shop.  I also recall that we were allowed to climb up onto the boom, which I chose not to do because I was an intelligent child and risk-averse when it suited me to be. 

Nowadays those pesky insurance companies have stepped in and forbidden the public entrance to the boom. What's a boom on an electric shovel?  I'm still not sure- some kind of big metal thing that sticks even further up into the sky than the main part of the shovel. 

My dad, his wife, and their grandson met my sisters and their families plus my clan at Big Brutus.

It's hard to explain how big this thing really is in person, but to help you, here's a picture of it with our two boys circled in blue at its base.  It's sixteen stories high, not counting the boom.

One of my more interesting idiosyncrasies is that I frequently forget that heights are not my favorite.  Derek will suggest going ziplining in Branson and I'm all, "Great idea!"  The next thing I know we're on a platform attached to a tree way up high, strapped into a harness by some college kid who seems half-asleep and not at all concerned for my personal safety.  Thankfully I'm usually able to ignore that feeling of nausea in my belly that comes with being too far off the ground and do whatever is necessary:  step off the platform into nothing, walk out onto a rope at a ropes course, or in this case, climbing the open-air metal stairs that encircle Big Brutus and take you up, up, five stories up.  That did not save my brother-in-law Clinton from having to hear me chatter nervously behind him.  About what, I honestly don't remember, I just needed to make sounds until I was back inside the machine and couldn't see how far up we were.  

That body of water out the window up there is the strip pit, one of many that you'll find all over southeast Kansas.  My mom used to scare us with stories of machinery left in those from coal mining days, how you should never swim in them because they're so dangerous.  Also... something about the mob from Kansas City dumping bodies in them because they're a straight shot south from KC?  Sisters, is my brain making this up?

Both the boys wanted their picture in the drivers seat.  Adelaide abstained, for some reason.

That's Caedmon in the scoop and my dad kicking the tires, as it were. 


Requisite family photo in front of BB, which seems like a terrible nickname for Big Brutus, which is itself a nickname for the Bucyrus-Erie model 1850-B electric shovel- I'm just tired of typing Big Brutus.  We're missing two people in this photo, one because he sadly wasn't there and one because pictures aren't his favorite and I'd already shoved him in front of a camera many times that weekend.

My sisters and I haven't gotten a picture with our dad in quite some time, so we seized our chance in front of one of the many pieces of machinery on the grounds.  I knew what none of them were. 

And these are just two cute nieces.

And before you think this is all just some hick tourist attraction (which it totally is), NPR did a story on Big Brutus last year when it was turned into a museum and historic landmark.  When asked post-trip, Caedmon reported it as being "cool," Atticus liked skipping rocks on the water in the strip pit and spotting a turtle in the same, and Adelaide said that it was "a big metal thing that was slightly interesting, I guess."  She also liked hanging out with the babies, and crawling around inside BB.

 I guess that's one of the charms of kids; they usually get something out of your planned experiences, just never quite what you'd expected. 

The Weekend Report: Massacre Sites, 90 Years, and Trees

In the last post, I noted that sometime soon we planned on heading south for my Grandpa's big 90th birthday party.  That sometime soon was last Saturday, which I intentionally didn't mention because God only knows who's reading this and we don't want any unplanned visitors relieving us of all our belongings because I blabbed GUESS WHO'S LEAVING THEIR HOUSE UNATTENDED?

So last Saturday the kids and I drove the five hours to my grandparents' house, which felt short because our southward travels are normally seven hours, to my mom's house.  Who knew that just two fewer hours would make a drive feel so short, so manageable? 

We still stopped four times within that five hours, none of which I can blame on the children.  I was the one feeling simultaneously achy and jitter-buggy, needing frequent stops to stretch my restless limbs. We stopped at my favorite Iowa rest stop, which borders and provides access to a county park complete with a body of water and wooded trails, which I have run before on a solo trip south and which freaked Derek out because a single runner on isolated trails right next to a rest/truck stop is apparently not the safest idea? 

Our other superfluous stop was made because I'm a sucker for historical markers.  I've seen the sign for the Marais de Cygnes Massacre site many times before, but this time we finally got off the highway, followed the increasingly narrow and windy gravel road, and drove into what ended up being a secluded but picturesque national historic site.

The above is an interesting contraption that you wind up by following the instruction to "turn briskly for sixty seconds," which charged it, I guess; then we pressed play and listened to a dramatic reading of the newspaper article from the 1860's which detailed the events of the massacre, where pro-slavery Missourians crossed the border and shot a bunch of Kansas free-staters (this is all Civil War era, Bleeding Kansas stuff, if you're trying to figure out why on earth any of this ever would have happened).  This was looking over the ravine where the victims were forced to stand and then fell dead into.  I appreciated looking over all of the information available and walking around the area; the boys' favorite part seems to have been the wild turkey sighting.  If you push this stuff in their faces enough something is bound to rub off, right?  Maybe?  Hopefully?


We did eventually make it to our destination, where we got to see nieces and grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles and other relatives whose connection to myself I can only guess at.  And even though we forgot our customary bribes (frozen snack-size Kit Kats), we still forced all the children into group photos, which I somehow did not end up with a picture of on my phone, but I do have this nice one of my mom, her sisters, and their parents. 

I also got this rare sighting of a group of von Soostens.  

What do think a group of von Soostens would be, anyway?  A herd?  A peck?  Whatever the German word for a pack is?  Whatever, they are all now or at some point were von Soostens, and I think at this point the birthday boy was just ready for his cake.

If at all possible, I would highly recommend having a cousin with a bakery.  It makes every family gathering better.

This weekend allowed me to make a big old checkmark on my list of things to do and people to see before we move.  That made it all bittersweet, because hurray, I got to see so many people I love!  But oh, no, when will I see them again?

Loved ones like my sisters who aren't afraid to hug not-a-hugger Adelaide.  She will tolerate this kind of behavior from very few people.  Her aunts are two of them.  (No Adelaides were harmed in the making of this photo; just made to feel momentarily uncomfortable BUT NO DOUBT LOVED, DAUGHTER.)

Sunday before we left we got in plenty of tree climbing, because although she is not a people hugger, she most certainly is a tree hugger.

There most definitely is a Daughter in that Ash.  Click to embiggen and see if you can spot her.  Hint:  look for the serial killer face lurking amongst the leaves.

She also conquered the Sycamore, which was decidedly more difficult, not having a handy fork a few feet off the ground.

Yep, she's in that picture, too.  I'm also happy to report that years of calmly reciting, "You got yourself up there, you can get yourself down," often in the face of twenty feet high hysterics, has resulted in her being able to monkey herself up and down with ease.  

The boys were more excited about the afternoon's entertainment, which I'll post about tomorrow.  It was larger and a little more ostentatious than a morning of peaceful tree climbing, but also involved fewer ticks, for which I think Adelaide has an increasing sense of appreciation.

Exotic Travels

I'm going to be honest:  I will not be sorry to see the backside of June.

What's supposed to be a warm and somewhat carefree month has been cooler than usual and full of unexpected change.  No me gusta.


Still, there have been good pieces to this month.  I got to go see my sisters and their families.

I am evidently an exhausting house guest, as most of my six nieces passed out toward the end of my stay at each house.

I spent most of that visit trying to cram as many words as possible into the time with my sisters, and marveling at how each niece is so unique.  Growing up in a family as one of three girls, and seeing my mom- also one of three girls- with her sisters, you would think this wouldn't be quite so astonishing, but you would be forgetting how slow I sometimes am.  Both of sisters now have three girls of their own, and each child is so different, there is no lumping them into categories.  Their natures refuse to let this happen.

This is the one who started it all, who made me realize that being an aunt is ah-mazing, as you get to do all that playing and cuddling and marveling at their traits and personalities without having to ask yourself regular questions like, "Just how much did I screw them up today?" and "Hmmm, what are the chances they'll remember that?  Hopefully very, very small."  Instead you just get to try and smother your laughter when they're sassy or naughty, although this is especially difficult when they're being just like their mother and it's all you can do not to say, "Man, I remember that glare appearing on 5-year-old Kelli's face."  

I also swung by southeast Kansas and got to spend some time with my grandparents.  Hallelujah.

I was unable to get solitaire working again on my grandpa's iPad, marking me as a failure of a granddaughter.  Grandma saved the day by helping Grandpa figure out how to play on her iPad, but only after making him promise "not to get cranky because it's different and you have to learn something new."  Grandpa promised, possibly because he would swear anything to get his hands on the solitaire.  

Grandpa also dug up carrots and onions for me to take home.  Anytime I tried to help he waved me away, never mind that it felt shameful to watch an 88 year old work while I just stood there.

So I took a picture, because that's better.

I also spent an inordinate amount of time staining wood for a big project we've had going over the past several weeks, which deserves a post of its own.  Also needing their own posts:  the boys' soccer camp, running stuff, and a State of Our Yard Address.  Putting it here means it will happen... right?

Also, our kids are still the cutest.

Here a Niece, There a Niece

When my sister Kelli was a baby, she was seriously cute, all dark brown eyes and dimples.  Of course, I didn't really appreciate that at the time, being only three years old and pissed from the start over the fact that they didn't name her Amy like I wanted.

"Kelli and the Floating Heads" sounds like a great band name.

Thankfully she has passed that cuteness on to her sweet babies, including the newest, Kate, who makes you so happy when you hold her you feel a halo of divine light surrounding your person.

The great and terrific and wonderful part of being the aunt rather than the parent is you can swoop in, hold the baby for so long that you know she's going to give her parents fits after you leave trying to get her to sleep anywhere but on a person, then waltz off a couple days later, secure in the knowledge that you, at least, will get a good night's sleep that night.

Unless you have a kid with night terrors.  Then sleep is never guaranteed.  But at least half of that paragraph up there applies to me.  I'll take it.

I like to think it also makes those parents appreciate their little bundle, as evidenced by Aaron muttering (good-naturedly), "Oh, I finally get to hold my baby?" when you hand her over after hogging her for most of the day.

This baby is just so loved.  Her two older sisters will be playing, minding their own business, then they'll catch sight of her out of the corner of their eyes, and come over to kiss and talk to her, which is good, because there are years of screaming ahead.  I don't really ever remember lowering ourselves to the level of hair-pulling, but oh, was there screaming.

Not yet, though.

Now, don't worry, I also played Annoy the Baby at Kelli's.  I probably took a million pictures of Norah while I was there, and it took a loooong time before she was done.

This was first thing in the morning, okay?  FIRST THING.

And yet, when I said, "Norah!  Hi, Norah Mae!"  She turned and SMILED.  The girl smiled at me.

Do you know what would have happened if you had done this to me, or, God forbid, Kelli when we were kids?

Not Stephanie, though.  No, she preferred to wake up early and TAP DANCE on the kitchen floor, which was conveniently right over my slumbering teenage head, causing me to spend many an adolescent morning plotting her painful death immediately after waking.

So how could I tell when Norah was done with picture-taking?  Well, it was subtle.

"Hey, Norah, can I take a picture of your shirt to send to Kim?"   *sigh* "Okay."  

And then I left her alone for a while.

As for this girl:

As the oldest of three girls, she is a child after my own heart.  She knows what needs to be done, and specifically how to do it, and will not let things slide, not on her watch.  I am convinced she could rule her own tiny kingdom if she wanted to.

Plus she's just dang cute.

Of course, now my mean, evil sisters are posting all kinds of adorable pictures of their babies smiling, which they were both so close to doing while I was there.  I would look in their infant eyes and smile and make faces and talk and I could just tell they were thinking, "Aunt Kristy, you are so hilarious and obviously also very charming and intelligent and if I could just get these zygomaticus muscles in check I'd smile to let you know how I feel!"

Niece Hoarder

I'm on High Alert:  Operation Impending Babies right now.  Every text I receive could be from one of my sisters telling me they're in labor.  As I told Kelli a few days ago, I am in a sweet, sweet spot in all this baby business, as I get all the excitement but none of the pain.  Glory hallelujah.

Yes, indeedy-do, each of my two sisters are due to have their third baby girl any time now.  You remember my sisters, right?  Kelli, the middle child, who I once convinced to play chicken on the old highway down the road from our house, where we'd run out in front of passing cars, seeing who could get closest without actually getting hit?  That sister.  (Incidentally, that is the last time I remember getting a spanking from my mother.  Sometimes, when I've been sitting for too long, I believe I can still feel the effects of that particular disciplinary action.  It turns out fear gives mothers divine strength.  Thanks a lot, neighbor who snitched on us- no, but really, thank you, you likely saved our lives.)

Or Stephanie, the youngest, who Kelli and I used to stuff in a sleeping bag and shove down the stairs?  Or shove in a laundry basket and pull around the kitchen, bouncing off the sharp cabinet corners?  Or shove in the dryer, because how else were we supposed to answer the age-old question, "Will our baby sister fit in the dryer?"

Those sisters.


I was worried they were both going to be selfish and deprive me of any more nieces, but thankfully they both managed to get knocked up a third time and now my family and I will have even more little girls to smother with our well-meaning, overly-affectionate love.  We got to see them a month ago, where we did our best to get enough niece/cousin time to last us a while.

Adelaide also made sure to demonstrate to all the little girls that you're never too big to sit in Grandma's lap.

Incidentally, our children still love to sit in our laps.  I love this, too, even if it feels like this most of the time:

Come on, nieces.  You have an aunt ready to smoosh and smooch you, plus I have it on good authority your mothers are perhaps just the teensiest bit uncomfortable right now.  I don't want to point any fingers, but some of you aren't being very careful with your pointy knees and elbows.

The Best Kind of Tough Choice

Last weekend in Kansas, Adelaide, my mom, and my sister Kelli made pies for the crowd mom had invited over.

Mom always invites a crowd.  It's, like, a thing.

I was so glad Adelaide was having a chance to freshen up her pie skills, as we haven't made any in a while, and you know I'm not eating any subpar pie at Thanksgiving.  I just won't have it.

Adelaide was doubly pleased because when she asked to put a lattice crust on the top they said, "Sure."  Adelaide's mother never says, "Sure," when Daughter asks to do a lattice crust because Adelaide's mother is cruel but also because generally when we're making pies we're trying to complete four in a shortened space of time and who the heck has time to make a lattice crust?

Aside from my mom and sister, of course.

Also we don't have one of those zippy-wheely zig-zaggy pie crust lattice cutter thingies (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, well, I'd say that's fair), so that's always been another handy excuse not to make a lattice crust.  Now that Adelaide's made one, however, I might just have to let her try at Thanksgiving.  And speaking of Thanksgiving!

I love this book, because how could you not love a cookbook that, if you were to make a pie chart depicting its contents, would look like this:

Yes, I made a pie chart about a pie cookbook.  There was no way it was not happening.  I don't have that kind of superhuman self control.


In addition to being a professional pie maker (pie artist?  pie-ologist?  baker?), Ms. Howard is a writer, so the essays in between sections are well-written and interesting.  I sat down last night and read the thing like a novel, front to back.  Now I get to go back and decide which ones will make it onto our table; Adelaide's voting for Chess Pie, which I have neither baked nor eaten before, but which the author makes a strong case for.  My front-runners are her Toffee Pecan, Chai-Spiced Pumpkin, Shaker Lemon, Strawberry Margarita, or Banana Cream.  I have no idea how we will ever choose just two of three.

Also in the running is her Apple Pie.  It is classic.  It is simple.  It is delicious.

It has a lattice crust.

Purposefully Trivial

Since things are all serious and stressful right now and I'm afraid to turn on the tv for fear of what election news awaits me, I'm going to discuss only the most trivial of things tonight.  I get to do this because I voted and then was called a socialist by a patron at the library who did not vote as I did.  Ah, patrons.  So fun.  (And I get double-bonus points for not saying what was in my head at the time, which was, "Actually, we prefer the term 'Marxist,' or, in a pinch, 'Commie.'"  Even if I'm neither a socialist nor a Marxist nor a communist.  Either way, she wouldn't have gotten it, trust me.)


We were in Kansas and Oklahoma last weekend, and while at my mom's house, I stumbled upon a photo.

First of all, do you remember those terrible school lunches that- at least at my schools- were called Hot Open-Faced Turkey Sandwiches?  They consisted of a slice of white bread, topped with a thin round of gray mystery meat (honestly, if turkeys got together and hired an ambulance chaser I think they'd have a real case in suing for defamation of character- I'm sure they'd get oodles of cash from all those notoriously wealthy school food providers), then on top of the "turkey" was an ice cream scoop of fake mashed potatoes, topped by meat water, or "gravy," if you wanted to drown your elementary school sorrows.

Anyway, I would decline the gravy and eat as much of the fake potatoes as I could without actually ingesting any that had touched the meat.  (I was a real peach to live and eat with, let me tell you.)  But I remember my friend Megan would slide the bread out from underneath the whole mess, then take the middle of that white bread and roll it up into a ball of somewhat-cooked dough and eat it.

All that to say, when I saw this photo of my sister as an infant and me as a three-year-old, I could only think, "Look how adorable Kelli was!  And... look how I look like a floating ball of Hot Open-Faced Turkey Sandwich bread dough with a bad wig.  Huh."

The 80's were a special time.

In other news, I have found that Adelaide corrects her friends notes they have written to her.

This made me inordinately happy.

In election-ish news, I saw this sign and thought the person running had an unfair advantage.  Who's not going to vote for Bacon?!

And now, if you're at the point where you just want to bypass all the hoopla and need something to send you into a meditative trance (or coma, whatever), this did it for me.  So neat.

Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter

Last week was a rough week for many in my hometown.  Two dearly, dearly loved people passed away, one of whom was an age (nearly my age, actually) that makes you say, "But he'd barely gotten started on the best part!" and the other was older, yes, but still far too young to say good-bye to, because as far as I'm concerned, no one should ever have to say farewell to the likes of Larry.

[Edited to add:  And now I just found out Anna Dewdney died, the author of the Llama, Llama children's books.  This must be how other people feel when their favorite movie stars overdose, except people who write and illustrate children's books die from things like brain cancer, which feels way more tragic to me.  Getting pretty sick of this whole "people dying" thing.]

One of those hometown-many is my mom.  Last week was hard, and this week will be, too, as she goes through all the rituals that accompany death, and helps those left behind, as she's close to both the grieving families.  So we're going to talk about one of the things that makes my mother happy, which could be quilting or traveling or hand-washing, but will today be her grandchildren.

I could go full-on vain and talk about how amazing the three grandchildren that just so happen to belong to Derek and I are, maybe play a little Carly Simon in the background as inspiration, but instead I simply must show you this picture my mom emailed me a while back, one of herself and her sister Kay.

The back of the photo has a note written by my grandma:  "Dresses are gold checked with organdy aprons.  Lorri [my mom] was mad because she had to wear her bonnet.  I think it's pretty but she doesn't.  Have given Kay's hair a feather cut.  Sure is easier to take care of."    

Now, let's just pass right over the fact that I now feel like a failure for never dressing Adelaide in an organdy apron when I had the chance.  I suppose I could still try, but I have a feeling it would end in a storm of tears and shredded fabric.  Let us also skip over the serious cuteness of Kay's beaming little face, framed by a new feather cut.  

Instead we're going to focus on the my mom, the one year old on the left, who is mad because she had to wear her bonnet, a revelation that I am dying over.  Dying because how many times have mothers of girls dressed them in the most darling of clothing- like bonnets- only to have them pout over it in front of the camera.  She's like a chubby Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I'm also dying because when I look at this and other old photos of my mother, I see the face of our niece, sweet Elliot Ann.

The picture is a little fuzzy because I zoomed in on Ellie's face- the one on my mom's lap, there- so you could get the full effect.  The resemblance is even more striking in person, when you watch Elliot as she goes about her business, her tall, strong build just like my mom's, who infamously stomped the floor out of the playpen my grandmother cruelly placed her in to get something done or maybe catch her breath fifty-something years ago.  It would seem that toddler Lorri had trouble understanding why she was in prison when her two older sisters were not.  Her solution?  Break it to pieces, of course.  

I put that scowling picture up there to mark the resemblance to mom, but I don't want you to think that's all she does, so here are other, smiley-er pictures of her.

Look at how happy she is.  Elliot, I mean.  And yes, my sister Steph is pregnant again, with girl #3, as is my other sister, Kelli. There's a special place in my heart for three-girl families, and now both my sisters will have an estrogen trio!

And now, because I am one of three girls and know better than to go on and on about one of them while leaving the others out, here are some pics of my mom's other granddaughters, our other nieces.

Kelli's family, minus Kelli.  Hang on, let me see if I can find a picture of her.

Well, that's Kelli, all right- around 25 years ago.  Here you see she and I dressing a baby Stephanie for the day.  Notice Steph is not crying, or reacting much at all.  She was used to such loving abuse.  I thought it so charming that my parents were thoughtful enough to get me a living, breathing doll when I was 8 1/2.  This model had overactive tear ducts as an infant, so I got to wipe her eyelids with a warm, wet washcloth until they were once again able to open many mornings because they were sealed shut from so much gunk.  Take that, Baby Alive!  

And, of course, we mustn't forget Vada, Elliot's big sister:

That's her at my grandma and grandpa's house over the weekend, following the Adelaide up a tree.  We were down south celebrating Grandma's 80th birthday.  I now can't wait to become an octogenarian, as when I said, "Grandma, you don't have to do that," she informed me, "I'll do what I want!  You get to do that when you're 80!"  

Only 47 years until that magical day.