Good old Moby Pickle. We have been tempted to put him out to pasture, but he’s still got some steam left and is in amazingly good condition for his vintage. We did have to get his air conditioner fixed before we could take him through the central valley’s smoke and heat, but his eight cylinders did a fine job hauling seven children, one corgi, and all their stuff through the mountains and all the way to the beach. Every time we go on a trip, everyone expresses doubt that everything will fit in the vehicle. Every time we go on a trip, I make it work.

The smoke around home has dissipated, but there is still plenty of it around Mount Shasta. On the way there, this is what it looked like through our car window. On the way home, we could barely make out the massive mountain’s outline. We sang quite a bit along the road (it’s corny, but we do it, including the old standards “Found a Peanut” and “Johnny Rebeck’s Machine”), but I wish I had thought of belting out “On Top of Old Smoky” as we passed Shasta.

The first night we had an overnight break in Medford. The seedy motel (it wasn’t really that bad, a Shilo Inn) made us even more anxious to reach our destination. The second day, we stopped for lunch in Salem, after picking up some sandwich fixin’s and cookies at Costco. We met Grandma at a park by the riverfront, where there is the most amazing carousel: hand-carved horses, each one adopted by a different individual or family and with special ornamentation planned by its owner. My children love it every time we go. Baby Braveheart is beaming atop his noble steed. At the park’s playground, we witnessed a young man proposing to his sweetheart, near the playset. When we realized what was happening, and we could see the young lady’s acceptance, we all burst into applause and hurrahs. I think they will remember that and have a story to tell their children .

While driving through the Portland area, we realized we were very close to the church where Steve and I were hitched 27 years ago. Some things are still the same, like the location and the fact that famous evangelist Luis Palau is a member. Some things are changed, like the very emergent emphasis it now has…I remember when they did a study on Rushdoony’s book Tithing and Dominion. We, of course, haven’t changed at all.

This is the view when I had the courage to look into the back seats. Nobody ever asked, “Are we almost there?” Really. Or maybe I blocked that part out.

When we arrived at the fabulous beach house, we were bowled over. You can see them toppled like bowling pins in the picture. When the blinds over those big windows were opened, we had a fabulous view.

This was the view. My 12-year-old son told me that he thought “ocean view” meant we would have a distant glimpse of the sea. We could see the sea as far as we could see. It was, ahem, breathtaking.

Make your own here.

See some more pictures of our fabulous family vacation tomorrow.

When I walk about my brown (not green) acres, there are two plants that are both blessings and cursings, depending on my mood and where they take root. Those are the ones I will share for my first entry of my 100 Species Challenge.

Verbascum thapsis, more commonly known as common mullein (pronounced “mull-in”) is pervasive here, even though it’s an illegal immigrant to California (no comment, please). It’s not an unattractive plant. It begins it’s life with a pretty rosette pattern, growing low to the ground, producing softly fuzzy leaves similar in texture to lamb’s ears (the plant, not the frolicking animal). As it grows, it proceeds into leggy adolescence, gaining in stature until it is a tall stalk. When it reaches maturity in its second year, it blossoms (lots of metaphors in the plant world, aren’t there?) at the top with a spike of clumped yellow flowers.

I have known for some time that mullein leaves have been used medicinally for lung ailments, including asthma and bronchitis, by making a tea out of the fresh or dried leaves. I didn’t know that the flowers could also produce a tea with “strongly soothing, sedative properties.” I may have to change my mind about throwing so many of my mullein plants on the compost pile. I believed that the Indians used furry mullein leaves for covering wounds, but the article I found says that they are irritating to skin, which is why some women rubbed them on their cheeks to redden them, earning the plant the nickname “Quaker Rouge.” I’ve also heard that Indians used the dried mullein stalks, perhaps rubbed with pine sap, as a kind of torch.

Well that’s enough information about that…let’s move on to Rubus species, blackberries. I have to keep pulling these little suckers out of my garden, but I kind of regret that we had a lot of them removed from other parts of our property, as they are ripe here now and the only ones we have are in hard-to-get places. I love homemade blackberry jam, even though the wild variety tend to have lots of seeds. It makes a nice addition to my Christmas baskets. We may ask our neighbor if she has any bushes she hasn’t eradicated that we can raid for some ripe berries, and we will give her some jam.

In Oregon, where I grew up, they grow a variety of blackberries on purpose that produce huge berries: Marionberries, named after the county where I lived, not after the controversial former mayor of the city where my father and stepmom now live, and which is filled with Bushes and other invasive species I wish we could eradicate.

According to one website:

The blackberry is also the symbol of envy, lowliness, and remorse. This is because its thorns can catch you, trip you up, and hold on to you.

Blackberry bushes and other brambles can take over a habitat and choke out other plants, the way an greedy person may try to take things from others. So people in Shakespeare’s day called lawyers bramble bushes, because they grab on to you and don’t let go until they’ve drawn blood.

Seems like the plant metaphors abound, just like my brambles. Since it’s such an abundant source of free food right now, I’m not complaining about them too much, even though they bring to mind Shakespeare’s bramble allusion and the criminal class on the east coast which causes me to see free food as a blessing not to be despised, seeds, thorns, and all, as the grocery bill seems to double every time I go to the store.

I leave this botanical post with a sweet old poem I found about a little girl’s blackberry-picking misadventure. It reminded me to be a little more patient with my children’s childish foibles as they try so hard—sometimes too hard, resulting in calamity—to please.

Phebe, The Blackberry Girl
by Edward Livermore

“Why, Phebe, are you come so soon?
Where are your berries, child?
You cannot, sure, have sold them all,
You had a basket piled.”
“No, mother, as I climbed the fence,
The nearest way to town,
My apron caught upon the stake,
And so I tumbled down.

“I scratched my arm and tore my hair,
But still did not complain;
And had my blackberries been safe,
Should not have cared a grain.

“But when I saw them on the ground
All scattered by my side,
I picked my empty basket up,
And down I sat and cried.

“Just then a pretty little Miss
Chanced to be walking by;
She stopped, and looked pitiful,
She begged me not to cry.

“‘Poor little girl, you fell,’ said she,
‘And must be sadly hurt;’
‘Oh, no,’ I cried; ‘but see my fruit,
All mixed with sand and dirt.’

“‘Well, do not grieve for that,’ she said;
‘Go home, and get some more.’
‘Ah, no, for I have stripped the vines,
These were the last they bore.

“‘My father, Miss, is very poor,
And works in yonder stall;
He has so many little ones,
He cannot clothe us all.

“‘I always longed to go to church,
But never could I go;
For when I asked him for a gown,
He always answered, “No.

“‘”There’s not a father in the world
That loves his children more;
I’d get you one with all my heart,
But, Phebe, I am poor.”

“‘But when the blackberries were ripe,
He said to me one day,
“Phebe, if you will take the time
That’s given you for play,

“‘”And gather blackberries enough,
And carry them to town,
To buy your bonnet and your shoes,
I’ll try and get a gown.”

“Oh, Miss, I fairly jumped for joy,
My spirits were so light;
And so, when I had leave to play,
I picked with all my might.

“‘I sold enough to get my shoes,
About a week ago;
And these, if they had not been spilt,
Would buy a bonnet, too.

“‘But now they’re gone, they all are gone,
And I can get no more,
And Sabbath I must stay at home,
Just as I did before.’

“And, mother, then I cried again
As hard as I could cry;
And looking up, I saw a tear
Was standing in her eye.

“She caught her bonnet from her head,
‘Here, here,’ she cried, ‘take this!’
‘Oh, no, indeed – I fear your ma
Would be offended, Miss.’

“‘My ma! no, never; she delights
All sorrow to begile;
And ’tis the sweetest joy she feels,
To make the wretched smile.

“‘She taught me when I had enough,
To share it with the poor;
And never let a needy child,
Go empty from the door.

“‘So take it, for you need not fear
Offending her, you see;
I have another, too, at home,
And one’s enough for me.’

“So then I took it – here it is -
For pray what could I do?
And, mother, I shall love that Miss
As long as I love you.”

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Pastor Bret is doing a masterful job explaining covenant theology and why we Presbyterians consider our children, from conception onward, as belonging to God.

A Case for Wet Babies
More Wet Babies
Babies Are in the Covenant

Fireman Ben getting baptized at four years old by Pastor David Chilton. Six children in one day got sprinkled.

For further reading:

The Covenant: Baptism of Infants by Pastor Jim West
Jonathan Edwards on Infant Baptism
John Gerstner on Jonathan Edwards and Infant Baptism
Francis Schaeffer on Baptism

(Note: the last three links are from Monergism, and there are lots more where they came from ).

See those pretty flowers? That’s where some peppers are going to grow, I hope. Red ones and green ones and yellow ones.

These are supposed to be brown, because they are chocolate peppers. They are called that because of their color, not because of their taste, unfortunately.

We are growing several different kinds of tomatoes in our garden, some in boxes, some in the ground. My daughter made two “pizza gardens” by marking out 8-foot diameter circles and dividing them into “slices,” and we planted some of our tomatoes in those slices, along with some hot peppers and some herbs.

Look! It’s working! We have Roma tomatoes, Early Girl, Brandywine, yellow and red cherry tomatoes, and others I can’t remember.

The basil is getting huge. Pesto, anyone?

The bush beans have just started producing. We ate some last night in minestrone soup. These purple ones are so pretty! There are also yellow and green beans.

These are potatoes, the part that you don’t see when you buy them from the store. That part is hiding under the dirt, and hopefully the gophers won’t find it. I want a botanical print of the leaves and stems of potato plants…so lovely with their deep green leaves and milky white flowers with brilliant yellow centers. This area of the garden is full of spiritual lessons: from the way the showy leaves eventually wilt and die in order for the humble vegetable to grow stronger under the ground, to the unwanted blackberries that sneak in almost daily among the wanted plants, cleverly disguising their thorny vines until I discern their presence and unmercifully yank them out. If I don’t do it soon enough, their roots go very deep and they are difficult to get rid of without using a shovel and engaging in some serious digging. Any little bit left behind quickly sprouts up again.

I’m glad we have room for squash plants—pumpkins, too—they look so impressive in a garden. Once they start growing, they seem to produce well, as long as you remember to water them.

I planted nasturtiums at the end of each of our garden boxes. They are supposed to keep away some pests, but my children are just as pesky as ever. I don’t mind that so much, as long as the deer don’t figure out how to jump over the 8-foot fence.

If all else fails, the zucchini will survive. We’ve already begun to harvest it. Want some?