Life Without Warning



So, after eleven days of persistent flu symptoms, I finally surrendered, and went in to see the doctor.  I had figured I could finally shake this bug on my own, now that I had seven days off until my next work shift.  With a little more over the counter stuff, and plenty of rest, I’d be good as new.  But, to satisfy a worried wife (or a fed up wife; I’m not exactly the world’s greatest patient), I agreed to go to the clinic.  After checking in with the receptionist, I took my seat in the waiting area.  In a few more minutes, they would be taking no more patients for the day.

I hadn’t been there long, when a young couple entered the office, with their two small girls.  He was an Hispanic man, perhaps all of twenty, and he carried a very sick looking two-year old.  The mother, Caucasian, who looked even younger than he, was holding the hand of their other daughter.  If the girls weren’t twins, they were less than a year apart.  Both had raw red noses, and watery tired eyes.  They looked exhausted.  The couple stood for a moment, and then the man sat down next to me, and the woman made her way towards the desk.

But, there was no one there.  And no one came.  After awhile, the woman looked back at the man, and mouthed the words, “I don’t know what to do.”  Still, no one came.  The woman looked to the man again, and he motioned for her to bring the girl back, and they all huddled together, and I heard them talking.  The mother looked worried.  Sometimes, they spoke in Spanish, and sometimes in English, but I heard “dinero,” and “doctor,” and “medicamento.”  The father seemed to have a plan, though, and was trying to soothe the mother.  They would go to the drug store, and buy something there, and they would save the cost of the doctor.  They stood up, and rocked their girls for a few moments longer.  I looked up at the counter.  I wanted to shout, “Take these people first!” but there was no one there.  And then they left.

Water filled my eyes, and I swallowed hard.  I wanted to go after them and say, “Please.  I’ll pay for this.”  But, I dared not.  It may have drained all the pride they had to walk into the clinic, and when no one greeted them, their courage faltered.  Nevertheless, it all seemed so very, very wrong.  This isn’t how things should be.  And so I sat, in the comfort of my full and complete insurance coverage, and wept silently over the inequity of what I had just witnessed.

I would have thought that our nation’s new health care act would take care of families like this one.  Perhaps they didn’t know that.  In fact, this state, without the federal government, has covered all children for years.  Perhaps they didn’t know that either.  Perhaps, he was an illegal who feared being caught.  Perhaps they were just parents too soon.  Whatever the reason, they left, and two girls suffered.

The moment was gone.

“Even if I had wanted to pay it forward,” I reasoned to myself, “he might have rejected anything  he perceived as charity.”

But, I won’t know now, will I?  I didn’t offer.  There is, of course, a great deal of difference between foolish pride that sacrifices family, and honest integrity that says, “We’ll make it.” I pray that the young man was of the second sort, assuring his wife, “I am a father, and we will get through this together, my love.  I promise you that.”

But, I find myself left doubly saddened.  One, that there is suffering, and two, that there is hesitation.


So, then, how should we live, all of us?  Recalling a Life Without Warning moment of your own, how did you respond?  How did it turn out?  Did you miss the moment, as I did, and say, “I should have…..”?  Or, were you ready?  Which is worse, suffering, or hesitation? Why?

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Of Saucers and Corpuscles


          Twenty-two students at Sydney University yesterday morning saw “flying saucers,” similar to those which have been reported in the United State and Canada, where army planes are standing by to pursue them.

            One summer, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I found myself lying back on the concrete steps in our backyard, just enjoying the shade and gazing at the sky.  I’m not sure why I thought this was comfortable.  Nevertheless, the sky was a clear, dark shade of blue, easy to look at, not at all like the bright white-blue skies that make one squint.  There, as I gazed at nothing in particular, and meditated on the great philosophical questions of the day (yeah, right), I became aware of a peculiar phenomenon playing out right before my eyes.  I began to see spots moving across the sky.

Addressing a class of 450 students, Professor Cotton drew attention to cable messages reporting that hundreds of persons in many parts of the United States had reported having seen “flying saucers.”

These were not the spots of dizziness (I was lying down, after all), nor the “floaters” that tend to drift and then return with each new blink.  When you are young,  floaters are not permanent.  They usually mean that there really is something stuck in the mucous of the eye—something you can wipe away, if you try.  They can look like a wad of string, or a misshapen speck, but if you tear up and cry, or else rinse and wipe your eyes, they will usually go away.  Then, again, sometimes they just move about from side to side, and change orientation, depending on how well you can manipulate them with eye muscles, and head turns, while lying on concrete steps, and watching a clear blue sky.

He suggested that the students co-operate with him in experiments.  At his suggestion they left the lecture room, and before returning to the main building, carried out observations of the sky.  Professor Cotton suggested that they look at the sky about a mile away, and concentrate their gaze on a fixed point while standing perfectly still.  He asked them that if they saw any objects corresponding to those set out in the cable reports they should see him in the main medical school.  Within 10 minutes 22 students reported that they had seen the objects described. …

Perhaps not the most riveting of pastimes, but I was enjoying the show, nonetheless, magnified and sharply defined, as if under a well-focused microscope.  But then, I began to see something completely different, and quite unexpected.  Little white dots began to cross before me in random, meandering routes.  I tried to focus in on them, and I lost them.  They only appeared when I focused on nothing.  The more I focused on nothing, the clearer they stood out.  I could see then, that they were not dots, at all, but little ovals.  They crossed in many directions.  If I unfocused long enough, and didn’t blink, I could watch a single oval travel a long, twisted, narrow trail.  It would zig and zag along the way, but never linger, like a floater.  Always they passed in one side, and out the other. I noticed, soon after, that one oval would be followed by another oval following the exact same path.  Then another.  And another.  Like a string of pearls.  This was happening all over—my field of vision was crisscrossed with trails.

Professor Cotton said…that the students had seen what he expected them to see…

            I had always paid attention in Science class, and it dawned on me that I was witnessing blood cells coursing through the capillaries of my eyes.  I was fascinated.  I watched for a long time, mesmerized by the moment, and wondering whether this was a fluke of nature.  Would I ever be able to repeat this extraordinary phenomenon of seeing into my own eyes? 

(He) declared later that the “objects” seen by the students were caused by the movement of red corpuscles of the blood passing in front of the retina of the eye.             —The Sydney Morning Herald (Tuesday, July 8, 1947)

As it turns out, it is repeatable, and just as enthralling.  All it takes is just the right shade of easy blue, a little bit of patience, and the magic of convergence—the art of slow and deliberate observation that enables us to see what was there all along.

 —memories of an Iowa summer’s eve, 1967

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Short Accounts

She was just a cat.  Eleven years old.  Not as fast as she used to be, perhaps.

When the kids were young, they had visited Aunt Angie’s farm for a week, and had played in the barn daily with frisky, scampering, cuddly, six-week old kittens from Oreo’s latest litter. When they returned home, they marched through the door with a shoebox, and an announcement.

“Guess what, Daddy?”

Two kittens, named Zoe and Chloe, and as different as night and day.  Zoe, the black kitten, with puffs of white, was a meanderer—slow and aimless, a lap sitter, affectionate, quite content with domestic life, and the security of the food dish.

Chloe, in tiger-striped gray, retained the free spirit of her barnyard heritage.  She could cuddle for thirty seconds, maybe.  She was a darter— under the dresser, under the bed, out from the dresser, out from the bed, behind the sofa, out the door.

“Clever, clever, kitty, kitty, kitty,” someone would coo.  “Danger, danger, no, no, no.”

“Gonna be a miracle she don’t get run over,” I’d say.  “Stupid cat.”


“Okay, okay, she’s not a stupid cat,” I’d retract. “My mistake.”  Then, I’d mutter, “She’s a kitten.”


Over the years, from time to time, one or both cats would go through those special times of heat (the serenade of the tortured meow), but while Zoe would remain a life-long spinster, Chloe would have three litters of her own before we had her spayed. Not all of the kittens survived.  But one that did, Poof, became a great favorite of the two youngest boys, and was allowed to join the family.  The boys were ten and twelve when we bought a little acreage, forty miles away, near Lost Nation.

Poof’s dappled, marble-cake, polka dot-esque markings gave him a clownish appearance. He became their best friend, and constant companion, acting more like a dog than a cat.  I had given strict instructions that no cats were allowed upstairs in the bedroom areas.  It was to be a Dander-Free Zone.  But I knew Poof was being allowed into the boys’ room.  The move had been hard on them.  They missed their old neighborhood friends, and Poof filled a void.  They told me later that Poof would sit for hours on their beds, just “keeping company” while they did their schoolwork.  All the while, he would purr.  Poof had a motor.

Poof used to irritate me a lot.  If he were left alone for any length of time, we would come home and discover entire rolls of paper towels, or toilet paper shredded and scattered across the floor.  In my mind, I used to call him a “son of a Chloe”, but I wisely kept these words to myself.  Instead, I came to accept his antics because the boys loved him so.  It even got to where Poof would (occasionally) venture to sit on my lap.  Not too often, but enough that it mattered.

One day Poof died.  It was a strangulation-type accident, when his collar caught in some bushes near the house.  I had worked a long night shift, and was sleeping.  It was mid-morning.  I was awakened to the sound of anguished sobbing.  I was needed downstairs quickly!

Both boys were crying, and looking lost, and bewildered.  One shook his head, and slammed a hand on the kitchen counter.  The other held Poof’s lifeless body.  They looked to me, with hope in their eyes, that their father, who could fix anything, would somehow be able to adjust this too.

But they knew.  His body was warm from the sun.  But, he was stiff.

We comforted them in their grief, and they spent the afternoon saying goodbye, with dignity.  They picked a place under the apple tree Poof loved to climb.  They wrote notes of farewell, and placed them alongside their friend, in a shoebox, along with a few cat toys, and kitty treats, and a small roll of toilet paper.

I was never more thankful that I had already made peace with Poof, than I was that day.  It would have done no good for the boys to suspect me of harboring secret glee over the death of their beloved.  It was a good reminder to keep short accounts.

Never go to bed angry.

Don’t fight over money.

Always say, “I love you,” when leaving home.





In the country, there are two kinds of barn cats.  Some roam from farm to farm, looking for handouts.  They are friendly, and would love to come inside and be adopted.  Many have been fed from our back porch, but we did not bring them inside, not even in winter.

But, there are also feral cats.  Feral cats are seldom seen.  They chase, fight for territory, and do not come near humans. One of these feral cats was known to us simply as “the yellow cat”.  Poof, had he lived, would have been an alpha-male competitor of the yellow cat.  Chloe was aware of the yellow cat, but relied on her own stealth and quickness.  She never came home bloodied.

At first, when we moved to Lost Nation, we no longer worried about her being outside.  Then, her last litter arrived.  It would fall to Zoe, once again, to care for the kittens, and cuddle them as if they were her own.  Chloe was not a good mother.  Aunt Zoe never minded.

Then, one late fall day, I went to bed angry.

I was stone-walling—not ready to apologize, not ready to listen.  I had been wronged, and it didn’t matter what wrongs I had also committed.  I was not ready to talk.  I was going to make my wife endure my silence for an entire night and day, while I went to bed, then went to work, and “processed” things.  In my cave.  Alone.

As usual, I figured out that I was the most guilty, and would need to do some serious apologizing for judgement errors and hurtful words.  I would need (again) to do a better job of seeing and sensing her needs.  It would not be easy.  Pride is a bitter pill.  It can seem easier to throw in the towel, and shout, “Me! Me! Me!” “I was wronged, too!”  “I will if you will.”  And on and on.   I certainly did not relish going home that night.  Mending can be wearying.  But, I knew it was best to move beyond the hurts, and remember the vows.  Remember the vows.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since voicing any terms of endearment.  I drove mechanically home, down the same familiar highway.  Rounding a curve, I watched a car approaching an intersection up ahead.  It slowed, but then did not stop.  The driver pulled directly in front of my car, leaving no room for braking.  I swerved violently, left heavy skid marks on the road, fishtailed through the shoulder gravel, and spun out in the median grass.  My heart was racing, and I sat stunned.  But, I had avoided a very high speed collision, and I was still alive.

I started to get angry.  Very angry.

“Fatal!” I thought, “That could have been fatal!”

Spinning wheels, I had every intention of chasing down the idiot in the other car.  It had just kept going down the road.  But then I remembered that I had already been angry.

I yielded.

“Short accounts,” I said out loud.

I let the other car go.  I turned off the radio.  For the remainder of the journey, I didn’t think about justice, or rights.  I considered consequences.  Would my death in a fiery crash have “served her right” or would it have left, instead, an ocean of regret for the survivor?  Or, what if I got home to find a suicide note?  It had been known to happen.

Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.

“Okay, Lord, I get it.  I get it.”

I did not know what I would say when I got home.  I did not know if she would want to talk.  Sometimes talking wasn’t enough.

I turned the last gravel corner before the house, and approached the drive.

Things changed.

There in the road, illuminated into long shadows by the headlights, was a very flat, very still Chloe.  I closed my eyes.  I sighed.  I turned into the drive.

Inside the house, my wife sat in semi-darkness in the living room.  She had had a hard day of thinking as well.  I could sense deep depression in her demeanor (funny how I couldn’t sense what she needed the day before).  Neither of the boys was home from athletic practice.

I sat down on the coffee table.  She looked away.  Wonder what he’ll say this time?  Words.  More words.

“I’m sorry,” I began softly, “but I have some bad news to share.”

Chloe had been a good mouser.  She had loved to hunt.  She would catch-and-release, catch again, eventually kill, but never eat.  We had had her de-clawed, but she was not deterred.  She had eventually moved on to birds.  That had been a problem because we wanted to attract birds to a porch feeder.  Chloe would stalk, hide, and wait…and wait.  Claws, or no claws, she got her bird.  We moved the feeder.

She had always been quick.  She had learned how to time her movements, like a base runner timing a pitcher before stealing second base.  The housecat moniker suited Sister Zoe fine, but Chloe’s passion had always been escape.  We had all learned to master (what surely looked like a strange dance to our neighbors) the fine art of entering the house by first swift-kicking through  a narrow door opening, before opening a portal wide enough for human entrance.

I remember opening a window in the bedroom, once, when the screen fell out.  Having seen Chloe escape through that route before, and sensing that she was in the room at that moment, I instinctively reached my hand towards the opening and closed my grasp just as a furry blur brushed past, and I caught her by the tail, while the rest of her body was already tasting freedom.  It was a magically unrepeatable moment.  I’ve since wondered how it felt from her end.

At first, when she escaped, it would cause a family crisis.  With six children under ten, a “Chloe Alert!”  was the family way of signaling “All hands on deck!” and “Man your battle stations!”  Everyone had to fan out across the yard, or the neighborhood, until she was cornered and secured.  I never captured her.  She would not come my way.  Cats just kind of know, I guess.  We started using that to our advantage.  I would stand in whatever gap was the biggest escape route, ensuring that she would not sprint in that direction.  After each episode, there would be a lot of cooing, and loving, and cuddling of the Great Houdini by the rest of the family, while I just rolled my eyes.  Eventually, she became more daring, and went further from the yard.  She would stay out all night.  Litters happened.

Whenever she was out, there was anguish in the home.  In pursuing her own indomitable way, Chloe taught me a lot about how words can come back to haunt.  The lesson was never easy.  I would often find myself in the strange position of having to say nice things about a cat I didn’t even like, because everyone knew I didn’t like her, and it was now my duty to convince everyone that I hadn’t plotted to run her off, and I did not hope that she would be run over by a car.

She always came back.  Always.  But, it was on her terms.  A soft meow at the door, and joyous hearts, no longer despairing, would fling open the door, and Queen Chloe would strut on in—a hero’s welcome every time.  Of course, coming home on her terms meant she was not coming home on my terms, and I always found that rather annoying.  From the security of someone’s welcome home embrace, she would glance my way, with a look that seemed to be saying, “Take that, evil cat-hater man!”

On the night Chloe died, it was dark, and cold.  It was beginning to drizzle.  The forecast was for heavy rain overnight.  So, with flashlights in hand, we went together down the long drive to retrieve our pet one final time.  It was apparent that she had been run over by a large tractor, as the tire marks continued down the gravel.  From the shoulder grass, about twenty yards down the road, we could see the reflection of two eyes.  The yellow cat.  Had Chloe been fleeing?  Did she not see the tractor?  Was she simply not as nimble as she once was?  The yellow cat would know.  It sat there silently.  Watching.  Like it was sorry.

We picked up Chloe, the hunter, and laid her to rest.

The wounds of our contentions were still fresh.

We didn’t speak.

We buried.

We stood.

We pondered.

We held hands.

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House Racing

I’ve been trying to remember what sorts of activities we used to participate in before video games. I remember racing around the outside of the house. Our house was set into a hill, and sometimes, when the cousins were over, we would time ourselves running around it. It was dusk, on one particular evening, and I had forgotten something very important. A few weeks earlier, my dad had bought a regulation horseshoe pitching set, and charged me with the task of laying out the court between our house and our neighbor’s. It was a massive set: 2 ½ pound cast iron horseshoes, and 1-inch steel bars to be driven deep into the ground so that only 15 inches remained above ground, leaning slightly forward, and 40 feet apart. The “clink-clink” of a ringer is a satisfying sound.
But, on that weekend, the cousins were over, and someone wanted to race. We always used a crude timing device: a Timex watch with a sweep second hand. The only persons with stop watches, back then were horse trainers, and track coaches. The first LED digital watch, the Pulsar, had not yet been marketed, and when it was, it would cost over $2000 for a device that only told the time when you used your free hand to press the display button. No, we used the Timex sweep second hand, which invariably caused observational difficulties. It wasn’t hard to differentiate between the thirty-second runs of the younger kids, and the ten second runs of the older teens, but there were no tenths, or hundredths of a second, either. It took some rather subjective interpretation, and charges of “Cheater!” sometimes, to determine the winner. It was best, therefore, to leave the timing up to a single individual, which was usually Michael, because he didn’t like to run, and he had a watch.

It was always best to start at twelve, three, six, or nine on the dial, so I’m sure I heard something that night like, “Aach! Just missed it. I’ll get the next one. Okay, here we go…ten seconds…five…three, two, one, Go!”

And, I was off! Under the first tree, down the hill, across the driveway to the corner of the garage. There, you made a decision: slow down enough to make a sharp right to reduce the overall distance, or blast around the corner at full speed, in an arc that would carry you all the way around to the backyard hill. I “blasted” that night. Big mistake.

Midway into the arc, with my dusk-challenged eyes blurrily focused on rounding the back corner, my right foot landed adjacent to the forgotten horseshoe stake. As my left foot came flying by to meet its destiny, the force of the impact ripped my favorite blue Ked’s sneaker completely off my foot, and sent me into an immediate faceplant with the grass.
I think I said, “Ow.”

Well, okay, I probably said more than that, but I did not say, “Owie, owie, owie,” or scream like a girl. I do, however, remember thinking, “OH……….. Yeah…….. Stupid…….. Idiot!” —all before my face even hit the ground.

I did writhe in pain, grab my foot, and moan and roll a lot. When I did not complete the course in my allotted ten seconds, I had cousins to the rescue, and soon a whole assortment of adult assistance as well. However, once it was determined that my foot was not actually broken, only strained and badly bruised, I’m pretty sure I heard worse than stupid and idiot from that same adult assistance crowd.

Then, “Okay, all you kids get in the house now! It’s dark out here.”

“And no more racing around the house!”

“These things are dangerous! You could get hurt!”

Sheesh! Talk about overkill. And like any of the rest of us would need to be reminded. Now, I had adults mad at me, kids mad at me, my foot throbbing (it would be tender for a couple of weeks), and to top it all off, I had just ruined my favorite pair of worn-in-with-holes-here-and-there, comfortable, never-take-em-off, stink-like-a-locker-room, teenage-wardrobe-necessity sneakers. What a crappy night. Stupid stake.

We actually used that horseshoe set a lot over the years, after that, and nobody else ever got hurt. We didn’t use sand around the pit, though, so there were plenty of times when people had to jump out of the way of a rolling 2 ½ pound horseshoe. I even won a third place ribbon at the Mississippi Valley Fair one year for a picture I snapped (with a Kodak Instamatic, no less) of that same stake poking out of a big mud puddle after a rain. Okay, there weren’t very many entries in that category that year (three, I think), but it was still a ribbon.

Note: The title picture is not my long lost, ribbon winning picture of forty years ago, but is instead, from a wonderful blog piece I came across, about spending time with your dad. Visit it at

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Harold and Rose

So, I’ve started work on Harold and Rose, an historical novel about the adventures and struggles of a young newlywed couple who, in 1930 Great Depression America, move thirty times in the first year of marriage, following roadbuilding, sawmill, and grainmill work throughout the idosyncratic German and Swedish-American towns of northeast Iowa.

I won’t be posting every in-process draft, but today, I thought I would, to see if this works as a Chapter One.  I want to lay some background down for Rose’s family, and another for Harold’s, before bringing the two together for the rest of the novel.  I suspect that some of the characters from these backgrounds will lift themselves off the pages later in the novel to influence the direction of the main characters’ thoughts and actions.  We shall see.  I’m going to have to keep notes on things raised in earlier chapters that need to be resolved in later ones.  Should be fun.

But, for today, here’s Chapter One:

            One of the worst accidents in this part of the country took the life of Frank Gerlach, one of the best men in the country last Wednesday afternoon.  They were threshing at E. W. Priem’s place, and about four o’clock Mr. Gerlach went to climb up on the load of grain with fork in hand.  No one saw just what happened but they saw him start to get on the load and just afterwards they found him lying by the side of the load on the ground with the end of the fork handle thru his left eye into his brain.  Drs. Westenberger and Culbertson were called and arrived at the Priem farm as soon as possible.  It was decided to take the injured man to the Mercy Hospital at Mason City and, tho everything possible was done, he passed away at 12:30 o’clock in the night. 

            Just how the accident occurred no one knows, as no one happened to be looking in that direction, but it is supposed that a tine of the fork was caught in the big drive belt and thrown in such a way that the end of the fork handle struck Mr. Gerlach in the left eye.  The eye ball was crushed and from all evidence the fork handle entered his head to the depth of five or six inches.

            Frank was one of the best known and best liked men in this section of the country, one of the men we can not afford to lose.  —St. Ansgar Enterprise, Aug. 9, 1927


After the funeral, Earl Gerlach drove his mother and two of his sisters to Carpenter, and parked his father’s old Maxwell 25 at the corner by Sefert’s store.  Frank Gerlach had bought it in 1919, for $655, when the enterprising salesman inMason Citypersuaded him with the company’s new slogan, “Once a Luxury–Now a Utility and Economy.”  Inside Sefert’s, an electric fan whirred.  Frank Gerlach had been persuasive in arguing that Carpenter should “be progressive and bring the future to the town, for us and for our children’s children.”  Gilbert Severson had been the quick to see the potential for his store, and convinced the board to sign on with the St. Ansgar Power Company, if they would bring electricity to the schoolhouse without a construction charge.  He also recognized its potential in another enterprise.


In  March of 1908, with Emma’s due date still about a month away,  Frank Gerlach, had a bit of an itch.  His good friend, Herman Canada, had bought his own family a shiny new Victor, two Christmases ago, at Severt’s store in Carpenter, and it had been attracting nothing but compliments ever since.

Though they had been best friends, and friendly rivals back in high school, the frequent refrain of “Why don’t we meet out at theCanadaplace?” had been burning just about long enough for Frank’s ears.  So, when George Severt motioned Frank over in the store, to show him an advertisement in Harper’s magazine for a floor model Victrola, with internal horn and space for 130 records, all in one elegant mahoghany cabinet, Frank was of a mind to do something to even the score.

“Whoa, that’s something,” said Frank.

“’Refined entertainment in an elegant setting’”, George read out loud.

“Yeah, two hundred dollars elegant,”said Frank, daintily fluttering his fingers in a high society salute.  He figured he could buy a quarter of an automobile, or a good wagon for two hundred dollars, and have change left over for a box of Hershey bars.

“I could get you one for one-seventy-five,” offered George, “but keep it quiet.”

Frank was squirming.  Herman’s Victor was a table top model, with an external horn, which had fallen off a couple of times, judging from the dings Frank had noticed last time.  This model was called a Victrola.

George slowly brushed imaginary crumbs from his apron, and leaned in on the counter.  “Canadawas in here, yesterday,” he mentioned, resting on his elbows.  “Ordered some more records for his machine.”

Frank looked around the room.

“One-seventy,” he countered.

“Said something about bringing it out to your place to help celebrate your new arrival,” George added.

Frank said nothing.  George stroked the stubble on his cheek, turned his gaze down toward the magazine page, and waited.  But, Frank didn’t budge.

“One seventy-three,” said George.

“One-seventy,” said Frank, again, firmly.

Their sideward glances met, and lingered while the two men assessed.

“One-seventy-two, and I throw in a full box of Hershey bars.”

Laughing, Frank slammed a hand on the counter, and said, “Ah, sold, you fox.”

“Be about three weeks,” said George.

“Just about right,” said Frank, calculating. “Baby’s not due ‘til the middle of the month.  Be just about right.  Don’t you say nothing, now.  This’ll be quite the surprise, I expect.”

“Yes, I expect it will,” nodded George, with the practiced calm of a successful merchant.  “Anything else for you today, Frank?”

“Yeah, I’ll need a couple of Hershey bars this afternoon.”

“That’ll be four cents.”


Across the street, in front of the Andersonbuilding, stood the lone remaining gas light in the town, where a small crowd of mourners gathered beneath the lamp that lit the curfew bell that Frank Gerlach had mounted for the town when the council deemed it necessary to provide juvenile order to a sleepy town of 200 souls.  Tonight, it would be rung by Emma, in one final tribute to her husband.


Frank Gerlach was greatly respected about Carpenter.  He had a playfulness about him that made people smile .  It was well know that he worked his farm hard and kept it in well groomed order, but if it was raining, he would sometimes instruct the older children to finish the chores, while he himself went fishing at Deer Creek.  There, he would catch a pail of soft shell crabs from his secret bank.  Back home, he would stuff several of them into his hat, and then put the hat back on his head.  Walking into the kitchen, he would proudly doff his hat, revealing a Medusa head of crabs nestled into his thick dark hair.

“Hey, Emma, look what I brought home for dinner tonight!”

Around the county, his good humor, bright smile and thick hair were what people would remember.

“Frank, your beard feels like velvet., but still cuts like wire,” the barber often remarked,

“There you go, boys,” was his winking response, “chug a few raw eggs for breakfast, and you too can impress the ladies.”

For Newburg township, Frank Gerlach had become the one they trusted as their voice, if they had any business with the county.  He was useful for other business, as well.

“I ain’t no politician,” he had told them, “but I guess I can be a pretty gabby messenger.”

Affable enough to earn the trust of most of his neighbors, the sight of him smoking his pipe and driving up for a visit was call for a break.

“Thirsty, Frank?”


“Offer the man a drink,” the husband would say.  It was a watch phrase, and for the men of Newburg township, it signaled there would be a private drink, and a transaction, usually inside the barn.  When wives returned, they would say, “Now, you tell them trustees my road is washing away down that hill to where I can’t keep a wagon on it.”

“Oh, yes, I understand.”

Now, the lane belongs to me, I know that.  But the road is county.  You tell ‘em I need it fixed, and to stop trying to bring in electricity everywhere.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I will do that.  I certainly will, and thank you, ma’am for the lemonade.”


The paper had said he would be “greatly missed from all good enterprises of the community”

Rose knew about the distribution of Templeton Rye.  Iowahad been dry since 1916, and the corn whiskey traffic fromTempleton,Iowa, had a well-established underground by the time national prohibition began four years later.  Dry was not popular with German American men.  Frank and Emma would battle over his involvement with Templeton.  Frank loved his liquor, and Emma found the WCTU’s arguments about saving husbands from themselves very persuasive.

Rose cried deeply and sobbingly at her father’s funeral.  His death had been a double tragedy, an unfortunate accident with a preventable beginning.  Though the paper would not mention it, she knew the rumors were true.  Someone had iced a barrel of beer at her uncle’s farm the day of the accident, and had gotten it out early because of the heat.  She knew her father.  She had been with him the day he first encountered the Templeton traders.  She had been six years old,Iowawas still wet, and her father didn’t think she understood what was going on.  She did, but what could she do?  Always, what could she do?  Now, she was filled with regret.  It really would be children running the farm.

Roy and Earl had farms of their own by now, just across theMinnesotaborder.  Irma had married and moved toSt. Louisin March. Art, twenty-six, and Bill, fifteen, would stay on for a lifetime, never marry, and raise championshipHolsteins, and Yorkshires.  Gene, the youngest, would become a writer for the Des Moines Register.

It fell to Rose and Lucille to help their mother.  Lucille was not as much help.  She was to be a senior at Carpenter High in the fall.  Everyone insisted those plans not change.  Rose, class of ’27, was ready for the world.  Her world was getting smaller.

Their mother, Emma, retreated into depression as the harvest season moved on into full swing. Art was working non-stop.  Bill stayed home to work in the fields with Art that fall.  Lucille, and Gene went off to school.  There was no time for fishing.

It was left to Rose to nurse Emma through the dark days.  Confining herself to her bed for days on end, she found no comfort in the well wishes of friends and neighbors.  Lucille was trying to bravely move on, but seeing her mother’s defeat weakened her own resolve.

“Mama, you’ve got to get out of bed,” she would plead before school.  “If you don’t get out of bed, I…I just don’t know what I’ll do.”

The conflict between living a “normal” life, and the nausea of broken-heartedness began taking its toll on Lucille.

Rose could not live that way.  She had seen her father’s darker side, but she had also inherited his zest for seeing things brightly.  She went about opening curtains, singing little songs, making quips throughout the day, and chuckling at her own comments, trying to cheer her mother.  But Emma found no comfort in such cheeriness.

“Such a sunny day today.”

“Mmm, clothes smell so fresh from the line.”

“Papa would have loved this sunset, hmm, hmm.”

Winding up the Victrola, on a particularly bright morning, she selected a recent Jolson recording, put the needle down, and began to sing along.

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob bobbin’ along, along,

There’ll be no more sobbing when he starts throbbing

His own sweet song.

Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head,

Get up, get up, get out of bed,

Cheer up, cheer up the sun is red,

Live, love, laugh and be happy.

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob bobbin’ along.

“That’s enough, Ruth,” came a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Mama?” said Rose.  She quickly lifted the needle from the Victrola, and came over to her mother’s bedside.  She said again, “Mama?”

“That’s enough, Ruth.  I don’t like that song,” Emma softly sighed.

Frank and Emma’s firstborn had been a baby girl that lived only eighteen months.  Her name had been Ruth Rose.  Emma had reversed the order to Rose Ruth, in naming Rose, so she would never forget her littlest angel.

“I’m Rose, Mama.  Rose.  Not Ruth.  Ruth is dead.  Ruth is gone, and…and Papa would have loved this song.”

Silence followed.

“Papa,” whispered Emma.

Rose sat down by the bed.

“Mama, look at me.  Look at me.  This is not Papa’s world anymore. Ruth is gone.  Papa is gone.  That’s the way it is.  Now, we have to go on, Mama.  We have to go on.”  When Emma still said nothing, she added, “Lucille is hurting, don’t you know?”

Emma looked up.

Rose continued. “She’s thinking about quitting school.  She is so torn up, because you’re torn up, that she can’t concentrate.  She’s not doing well in school, I’m afraid.  She misses her mama.”  She let this sink in.

“Papa was a drinker, yes.  We all know that.  Everybody knows that.  And we also know things might have been different if…  But they’re not.  Still, Papa was a great man.  In my eyes, he was a great man.   I will always think so.  Please come back, Mama.  As hard as it is to believe, this was no surprise to God.  Please believe that.”

Emma turned to the wall.  Rose hung her head and sighed.

“Temperance,” said Emma, softly.  Rose raised her head.  The word hung in the air.  She turned and looked Rose in the eye, and said more firmly, “Temperance.”

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Morph Images             @

Morph Images

Ever wonder what goes on inside the mind of a writer?

I’m going to allow my blog to morph this year. Up to this point, , has merely been a convenient repository for things I’ve written—songs, personal essays, experimental memoir-esque storytelling from social media sources, and such.  Not much readership, although I certainly appreciate those who have stopped by.

But, now I think I’ll archive most of that in favor of developing a theme and a purpose. I will be focusing (I think) on memoir-based historical fiction striving to become literary fiction.  I’ll be learning the ropes as I go, so to speak, so bear with me.

“Spicing things up a little bit” has always been tempting.

In a scene from the early 60’s sitcom, Leave It To Beaver, young Theodore (the “Beaver”) Cleaver decided his mother’s story of having been fired from a book store, because she messed up the receipts, wasn’t exciting enough for his assigned composition, so he described her instead as a chorus line dancer who performed in beer joints for a notorious gangster until she married Ward Cleaver, the tap dancer.  The trouble wasn’t his imagination.  It was his trying to pass it off as history.

In A Million Little Pieces, the writer, James Frey, marketed his tale as a memoir. It resulted in a sort of media scandal when it was discovered that he had greatly exaggerated significant sections of the book.  Again, the trouble wasn’t his imagination, or intent (to help other addicts), but that he told lies, and called them facts.

Mark Twain once used the term, “lies, damned lies, and statistics”, in referring to the persuasiveness of exaggeration.  What may start off as a boring memoir, that even family members avoid reading, somehow morphs inside the writer’s mind to become the American tough guy story.  Americans love their tall tales.  They just don’t like being suckered.

In Beaver’s case, the kids all knew he was making it up, but they didn’t care, because it was more creative than their own stories.  In James Frey’s case, the public was incensed because they were told to be incensed.  All of his humiliation could have been avoided if he had just turned his work into a novel instead.

I do find it ironic, however, that journalists get so carried away with the vetting process, and the relentless finger-pointing persecution that follows.  Who among us believes everything they read in a memoir?  Look deeply enough at the motive behind the expose, and I suspect that it usually comes down to money, more than morality; first for the author who initially stretches the truth, then for the journalist who uncovers the lies, and then for the talk show hosts who air the egregious scandal.

Really now, doesn’t there come a time for caveat emptor? Aren’t we, the readers, at least partly culpable when we allow mob consciousness to determine our outrage?  Literary novelists often write with visions of creating masterpieces that impact in profound ways, and change lives forever.  It is their intent.  In their effort to do so, they fabricate.

A recent American Masters episode, on PBS, examined the life of Harper Lee, author of To Kill A Mockingbird.  One of the commentators spoke of the transition from an author’s real world to the fictional worlds they create.

I first came, over the years, to a realization, that I bet is true of Harper Lee as well, …you know, you start with who and what you know.  It’s sort of like, take a survey of the lay of the land that formed you, shaped you, and then you begin to lie about it.  You, you tell one lie that turns into a different lie, and after awhile those models sort of lift off, become their own people, rather than people you originally thought of…and when you weave an entire network of lies, what you’re really doing, if you’re aiming to write literary fiction, I think what you’re, what you’re really doing is, by telling lies, you’re trying to arrive at…a deeper truth.

Wally Lamb, novelist, I Know This Much Is True

Novelists have been granted a freedom that their journalistic counterparts have not.  Label something “fiction”, and you are allowed to “create”.  Label it “fact”, and you may be vilified.  So, as this blog progresses, this year, I shall be examining the process of morphing family histories into novels.  That means changing names, inventing characters, and rounding out the details (putting flesh on the bones).  The “deeper truth” toward which historical fiction sometimes strives, is a destination that will not be often reached, but the end result of a tale well told is better than being called a liar. teams up with Midwest Writing Center for family history seminar May 5

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A Hard Road Home (Part Thirteen) Meditations


“…this morning I was so rash as to read some of the public newspapers; suddenly an indolence of the weight of twenty atmospheres fell upon me, and I was stopped, faced by the appalling uselessness of explaining anything whatever to anyone whatever. Those who know can divine me, and for those who can not or will not understand, it would be fruitless to pile up explanations.”

                                    -Charles Baudelaire,

from the preface to Fleurs du Mal                                                                                                  (Flowers of Evil)

The dynamic current of humanity moves with the dull force of hugeness.  Discoveries, however, are made along the fringes, where secrets are revealed to those who dare to soar.

The Boundary Waters are so-named because they are part of a country with a prescribed perimeter.  What if it were not so?  Might we more aptly call them the Boundless Waters, a place to discover limitlessness and connectedness? 

Walking toward the cemetery, during a rehab walk, after my knee surgery, it finally dawned on me that the tree that had blown down during the July derecho had been the tree.  In February, it had defined one half of the “V” that had given me direction during the blizzard.  That lone tree had stood for decades on the edge of the cemetery hill.  It had suffered numerous bruises and battles with the weather, as evidenced by its gnarled limbs, and awkward branches.  It had been broken before.  But, it had withstood.  Until now.

I was stunned.  All of the stories and blessings, and relationships that had made my life immeasurably richer this year, would have still gone on whether I was here or not.    Stumbling blocks can lead to triumphs or to tragedies, and often the only difference is in our perception of what matters.  As I gazed at the broken remains of that landmark tree, it occurred to me that I had been blessed with a great gift—an opportunity to matter.  Is there anything more significant than that?  Sometimes we miss what is being accomplished in our absence, while we are off accomplishing. 

As I stood there in the cemetery, surrounded by the “Larkrise” beauty of the fields turning into the golds of harvest, I had no words of explanation.  The same God that had planted my tree, and then watered it, nurtured it, and given it the strength to overcome, had taken it away once it had led me home—a personal glimpse into the divine, my own Jonah’s gourd. 

I had been so stubborn.  I would have missed it all.  I would have walked away in blindness, years earlier when times were rough, trapped in my own addictions, but I could not shake His presence.  I had tried.  I know, now, what trials would have been avoided, but not what snares would have ensued.  There is a nakedness before God that we try to hide with leaves.  And yet, there are these moments of divine communion that reveal his power and capacity to care. 

There is a fear, of course, that goes along with cooperating with God.  Perhaps, I will accomplish my purpose then, and he will take me away?  I don’t want to go.  I want to say I’ve learned my lesson and things will be different this time.  This time I will put people first, I promise!  This time I will treasure relationships over accomplishments.  I will.  I promise I will.

Welcome, Conner Talon Schultz.  Perhaps we will play together.  Bob, the Builder?  Thomas, the Train?  Barney (nope, nope, nope, nope)?  I’m sure I will read to you.  Or, we’ll make up our own stories.  What do you want to be, a private-eye, or a super-hero?  How about, C.T. Schultz: Conner by Day, Talon by Night!  You could be the “Caped Crusader”, or the “Winged Warrior”!  (I’m laughing now, because, in my days, there was a radio program where the hero used those very monikers.  It was a tour-de-farce called, Chickenman!)  I’d like to tell you about that.

Perhaps you will be a rugged outdoorsman, and a sensitive lover, without being fettered by the expectations and definitions of either.  May your “talons” be liberating.

I’ve had a rich life, watching your parents grow.  And I will watch you, too.    And I will tell you about me.  And I hope you’ll like that.  And the God that protected me, and gave me the opportunity to tell you anything, I want to tell you about Him too.  And if you don’t believe in him the way I do, that’s okay.  You will.  Even if it takes a blizzard.        

“Wherever you are, be all there.”  —Jim Elliot

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Grandpa Never Did Like Priests

(September 3, 2012, marks the 100th anniversary of my grandfather’s arrival in America, from Poland.  Though he seldom talked about the old country (he was sixteen when he emigrated), he would often tell tales about his life in Chicago, and in Michigan (or Mi-shi′-gan, as he called it). Sometimes, he would tell the same stories, but I guess that’s what helps us remember.  Some of what follows is from a tape recording I uncovered recently.  I seldom changed his mind about anything (particularly about religion), but I learned a great deal about seeing the world through a different set of eyes.)

When I was in the hospital, some priest come up.  First, he send somebody else, kinda feel me out.  Then he come down, second time already.  Well, I think of him what he thinks of me.  I thought (well, he kind of, uh, put a finger in here), I thought to myself, I would like to tell him exactly what I think of him.  What do you think I am?  I would like to tell him that.  What do you think I am?  So he tried telling me different, uh, different, uh, some highlights.

Fact, he says, uh, “Keep up the good work.”  Yeah, and he tried to coax me in so I should, uh, taking communion.

I said, “What do you think this is here—a trick?”  They think that you’re taking communion, ah, you already, you, you their sheep.  See?  I said, “I know the communion is.”  I say, “I used to make a communion myself!”  Ha, ha.

I was living onBlackhawk Street,Chicago, with the nuns, and the Sister Superior, with the six nuns in there, and uh, they had a divided basement.  I seen they, she, was doing something by their gassstove.  She make up what you call angel food-cake flour.  It was just warmed up, you know, and she put it on a pan, like a tart, hot little bit, but it’s white, not just burnt, see?  It’s just stiff, you know?  And they have it, uh, put your, uh, round, and she made it like a pancake, and she’s punching out there the communion.  Yeah.  I looked at first.  No, it’s the communion for sometimes they have at mass, and the, from altar there too, you know.  Priest come down, some habit, you know, when he’s learning how to be priest.  Though some people bring it to a house, here and there, and they have a mass.  And they have a communion.

          You know, I talk to her, Sister Superior, and she know that I’m not that stupid, either, see?  She understood.  She said, “Mr. Kabala, I don’t think the way they say.  Different.  I know you right.  It’s different than Jesus,” she told me, “and that ever-body is a human.”  I know what she meant by that.

          I had a coal shaft underneath the sidewalk (the streets were higher), and they have like a cover and you drop the coal in there for the winter for storage.  Sometimes I had to go get some coal for my stove.  They had a oil heater, in the first place, throughout the building.  I had a stove.  Hard coal and soft coal.  There was, sometimes they had some young ones, you know, they just joined in, and this and that, you know.  Young girls, you know.  And what they do, they join the convent.  And they not allowed to go by themselves.  They always had to go in pairs.  And so that didn’t bother me.

Florencewas only maybe little girl, maybe three or four years old at that time.  Chuck  was maybe year or year and a half.  And, uh, I, we lived there.  We had three rooms and a bathroom.  And I didn’t have to pay.  I done some work for them.  They want to, some painting, some this, and that, all around they house, you know.  Some construction work sometimes.  And for that I got rent, you know?  I didn’t have to pay rent.  I stayed there for ten years, I think.  Course, those days the rent was maybe fifteen, twelve dollars.  That’s all it was.  Yeah. 

And I had all kinds of experience with those nuns, you know.  The young girls that go for coal, before long they’re running after me.  But, the others, they’re running too.  It was, oh, she was so eager for the man, you know, she grab and shakes.  Oh, I had my ideas.  I didn’t touch them or anything like that, but so…

          There was a couple of them that was, they got married even, you know.  They, the men, they brought their kids to the, what you call, the  żłobka, the day nurse, and, uh, their wives passed away or something.  They got acquainted ,and they got married.  They went.  Su-ure.  I know all about.

The nuns, the priests, they take care of you, this, that, to see if you want to keep you barred to them, alright.  They, they know you, you their sheep.  ‘Cause heaven is not enough.  You can, ten towers upside down, and it don’t mean nothing.  I know.  I read a lot of books about those, you know, about the Popes, and this, and how they used to, what you call a Inquisition, thirteenth, fourteenth century.  If you said something against the Church, somebody heard you said something, you’d tell priest.  You know, they come pick you up, and throw you on a goddamn stack of fire!  That’s what they used to do.  I read how they poisoned each other Popes even.  You know, they get Pope, and then they poison each other.

Oh, I figure if there would have been such a thing as one religion all over the world, then you would be, well it would be something to start.  But, you go through the world, and you see so many different religions, so many different people twisting their Bibles and all this.  Well who the heck…it doesn’t match up at all!  You look on the educational viewpoint, and you have a, well, I pick up a rock, any kind of piece of rock.  And you see what they preach you, that the earth was created and all that.

So, I take a piece of rock, and I say, “Well, you so smart, tell me when that rock was created.  How old is it?  How old is it?  How?”  Tell me about it.  You say you preach to me.  I say I’ll give you a piece of rock.  Now, tell me.  When?  When was it created?  Thousand years?  Two thousand years?  Grow up, or what?  Doesn’t match up at all.

You know what they say, one part of the world has the black, coal kind of colors, people.  They don’t know even, if I say to stop, to, why, some people they want you Catholic, you this, you that. Some other people never heard of us even.  See?  And you tell them already, or you tell some Catholic, like you take your friends, and like they have an island, you know.  See?  They don’t care.  Kill the childrens, womans anyway.  Why?  What reason?  Where reason?  What kind of reason is that?  Why?  They teach them that way.  It’s the poison in their mind.  Some people say, well, there’s only this kind or that kind of way, you’re Buddhist, and all this, and they never heard of anything like that which we got.  They won’t do that, but some other people say, “Oh yeah, sure, if you’re Catholic,” and they some other one.  They used to kill each other.  Why?  ‘Cause that religion!

They say they use the psychology to confuse the people.  Say you outsmart somebody.  By what?  By psychology.  You use psychology to tell, oh, somebody’s looking at you, but you don’t know it, see?  But, you only trickster.  Sure.  You know, I told the priest, I said, I, uh, he said I should go to confession.

I said, “What for?  I ain’t got nothing to confess.”  Say, “If I had something, I go to police station to confess.”  If I commit some kind of sin.  What I want to confess?  They only testing you, how stupid you are!

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A Hard Road Home (Part Twelve) The Gift of Heritage


Chris Schultz  Meet Connor Talon Schultz……your new master.

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Like ·  · August 19 at 10:12pm via mobile 

Sarah Kabala, Cindy Elliott Cordes, Joshua Maxwell and 15 others like this.

Chris Schultz  August 19……The greatest day of my entire life! Thank you so much Shalom.

Like ·  · August 20 at 2:05am 

Drew Kabala, Randin Joy Turner, Cindy Elliott Cordes and 19 others like this.

Chris Schultz  We have lots of pics comming soon.

August 20 at 4:08am · Like ·  1 person

Shalom Kabala Schultz   You’re still up too, huh? Lol. I just woke up & HAD to look at the pics of my little miracle again. Can’t wait for us all to be together again tomorrow. It’s all so amazingly surreal. Love you!

August 20 at 4:23am · Like ·  3 people 

Chris Schultz  Day after Connors birth and I found myself crying to this sing on the way back to the hospital lol

Foo Fighters – Walk

Song off of the Album Wasting Light.

Like ·  · Share · August 20 at 11:19am · 2 people like this.

Brandy Welvaert Great song. Totally see why it had an … effect on you! :*)

August 20 at 5:52pm · Like


Chris Schultz  Thank you all for the congrats and well wishes. I feel like in one fell swoop three lives were started this weekend. Here we go.

Like ·  · August 20 at 9:59pm 

Chris Schultz  The benchmark for all future babies. Try to live up to the new standard.

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Like ·  · August 20 at 10:22pm via mobile 

Angelia CruisinCougar Bovee likes this.

Ann Eldridge Campbell He makes it very tempting..for sure

August 20 at 10:45pm · Like

Rebeccah Davis So who wrapped him??

August 20 at 11:11pm · Like

Chris Schultz I figured it out lol

August 20 at 11:12pm · Like

Chris Schultz  Thank you Mom and Dad-in-law!

Worth the Wait

Photos: 7

Share · August 20 at 11:17pm  

Alexis Anne Gilbert and Mary Climie Schultz  like this.

Shalom Kabala Schultz  They just brought him to me cause he was super fussy, thinking he needed to feed. But as soon as he was back in my arms, he passed out again. Guess he was just missing mommy. It’s nice to be needed I guess. Then again, we did spend 9 whole months together, why should it be a surprise? Love this little guy something fierce. 🙂

Like ·  · Share · August 21 at 5:53am

Chris Schultz  He’s finally home!!!! time to wish we could go to sleep.

Like ·  · August 21 at 1:19pm

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Home at last! Somehow it is NOT the same house I left. Dogs have moved out to the kennel for the time being-way too excited/noisy. Just had best feeding ever on L side for 24 min. C passed out on breast & couldn’t get him to latch on to R. Been asleep almost an hr…should I try to wake him up soon to take it or just wait til he lets me know he’s hungry again? Trying to get the hang of this…I thought I was pretty smart before, but this is a lot to learn in a short time 🙂

Like ·  · Share · August 21 at 5:26pm

Chris Schultz  ok, getting two 50lb Siberians used to the fact that theres a baby that they are only allowed to see from a distance is going to take a while lol. I hope they calm down and stop friggin whining soon ><

Like ·  · August 21 at 7:01pm


Shalom Kabala Schultz  So, we’re both terrified to fall asleep at the same time because Connor can already easily roll himself over onto his side. We’re tempted to put him to sleep in his car seat, but I know that’s not recommended. Hoping a nice, tight swaddle will help…

Like ·  · Share · August 21 at 8:10pm

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Yes, we actually have a small play yard that he will sleep in at night (at least that’s the plan), which is right next to my side of the bed. Chris just ran out to get some newborn swaddling blankets like in the hospital. C really likes it & they do help keep him from thrashing so much. We’ll try that method first I guess & hope & pray for the best. Btw, I just have to say I couldn’t ask for a better husband to help me with this. He’s been like a foot away the whole time & so involved. I haven’t changed a single diaper yet & I suck @ swaddling while he’s become the resident expert, lol!

August 21 at 9:23pm · Like ·  5 people

Chris Schultz  ‎1:30 am—-still awake. Did I mention how much I love my new insomniatic son? 😛

Like ·  · August 22 at 1:33am 

Chris Schultz  yup, its after 4 am. Love ya Connor. >< lol

Like ·  · August 22 at 4:12am 

Chris Schultz  Its 5:20….1 1/2 hrs of sleep so far 🙂

Like ·  · August 22 at 5:19am 

Audrey Petersen LOL. Awww I just had the funniest mental image of the two of you all bug eyed blood shot with a goofy grin on your face. He looks so sweet, I can’t wait to meet him and his little cousin Donny.

August 22 at 6:09am · Like

Joseph Conklin  it has only just began:)

August 22 at 6:21am · Like

Chris Schultz  ‎6:33………………..sigh

Like ·  · August 22 at 6:33am 

2 people like this.

Don Gilbert Get used to it… No use fighting the system.

August 22 at 7:16am · Like

Alexis Anne Gilbert Welcome to parenthood

August 22 at 7:18am · Like

Don Gilbert ‎1 night down, 6,569 to go!

August 22 at 7:23am · Like

Laura Nolen Robbins Crazy as it seems, you will get used to it, and Conner will get better at sleeping longer. : )

August 22 at 7:26am · Like

Chris Schultz  I am just hopeful that he will sleep in the bassinet soon or school is going to be very difficult lol. at least Shalom got a couple hrs here and there. This is the first all nighter I have pulled without video game involvement, ha.

August 22 at 7:34am · Like ·  1 person

Laura Nolen Robbins Where did he sleep last night? You have to remember it was only his first night. I promise it will get better. I know everyone keeps telling you guys that but it really will!

August 22 at 7:50am · Like ·  1 person

Brandy Welvaert Just channel any energy you have left into patience with s, and c. It will be rough for a while but you guys are so strong, you’ve got this covered.

August 22 at 7:58am · Like ·  1 person 

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Well, we survived the first night on our own. C ended up just taking turns sleeping with me or Chris cause he didn’t like not being held. So whomever was NOT on watch duty tried to get an hour or so of sleep until the next feeding time. I know we’ll have to find a way to break him of that habit eventually, but for now tag-teaming is getting us through. Once again, I’m SO grateful to have such an amazing partner to work with 🙂

August 22 at 1:38pm · Like ·  2 people

Chris Schultz   well, for only getting a1 1/2 hrs of sleep, I feel pretty good so far. The dogs have stopped whining so much to get downstairs with us. We will move upstairs today to see if they are still crazy hyper whiny mutts. I hope no one dares to think that my posts in the middle of the night were of a complaining nature. I just figured ppl would get some humor from the first night updates. =)

Like ·  · August 22 at 1:58pm 

Trevor Kabala and 3 others like this.


Denise Eldridge Allen nope. didn’t take it as complaining. Love your facebook journal- makes me feel included in what is going on with my little nephew since I can’t be there.

August 22 at 2:39pm · Like

Amber Bailey No the complaining will come in a couple of weeks when you’re so sleep deprived you’re CRAZY! LOL! Kidding…It’s amazing and doesn’t last long enough!

August 22 at 3:12pm · Like

Chris Schultz  You’re only half kidding Amber lol, don’t lie.

August 22 at 4:22pm · Like ·  1 person

Amber Bailey  It doesn’t change when they’re 6 and 3 and sneaking in your bed interrupting your sleep either. LOL!

August 22 at 4:32pm · Like

Chris Schultz  i can’t wait lol

August 22 at 4:38pm · Like

Chris Schultz ‎  adding all the pics of Connor overtime to flickr, so check em out from time to time.

Like ·   · Share · August 22 at 5:40pm ·

Drew Kabala and Rachel Kathleen Gordon like this.

Chris Schultz  ‎*over time

August 22 at 5:43pm · Like

Chris Schultz   and yes I noticed I said time 3 “times” get over it, I’m still excited lol

August 22 at 5:43pm · Like ·  3 people like this

Chris Schultz  


 · August 22 at 7:26pm via Yahoo! ·

Ashley Paul Cooper likes this.

Mary Climie Schultz Aww, the poor baby 🙂

August 22 at 7:32pm ·Like

Audrey Petersen LOL I agree, poor baby! 🙂

August 22 at 7:47pm · Like

Rebeccah Davis And who wrapped him??

August 22 at 7:47pm · Like

Susan Bernheardt Blomberg Congratulations!!!!

August 22 at 9:01pm · Like

Denise Eldridge Allen I take it pink was all they had?

August 22 at 9:01pm · Like

Chris Schultz hand me downs lol

August 22 at 10:06pm · Like ·  1 person likes this

Chris Schultz ‎…and I told you I mastered the swaddle, Becky

August 22 at 10:07pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Stupid blood sucking vampire doctors. When are you gonna be done poking my baby?

Like ·  · Share · August 23 at 1:00pm  

Chris Schultz   Just gave Connor his first bath and he, in turn gave mommy and daddy a shower immediately after drying. Timing is key. 

Like ·  · August 23 at 10:13pm 

Joshua Maxwell and 12 others like this.

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Hello 2 am. Just finished pumping what Connor couldn’t finish (did I mention how much I LOVE my breast pump? If only he could work that quickly, lol). SO happy, I will get a lil break come 5am meal time 🙂 This is the hardest, messiest, exhausting job I’ve ever done, but I’m loving every minute of it!

Unlike ·  · Share · August 24 at 2:10am  

Chris Schultz   I am coming to the conclusion that I need a third shift job. lol

Like ·  · August 24 at 3:26am 

Jeremiah Hall You will get more sleep trust me on this one…

August 24 at 6:29am · Like

Melissa Koontz Mangas  ‎6 weeks seems to be a magic number. worked for us too.

August 24 at 8:10am · Like

Chris Schultz   I’ll look forward to it lol. Still, I can’t think of anything better to do at 1-5am than be with the lil guy.

August 24 at 8:32am · Like

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Soooo full

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Like · August 24 at 1:11pm via mobile

Christine Borchardt Villalpando and 9 others like this.



Shalom Kabala Schultz  He sleeps just like mommy. Mouth wide open & a steady stream of drool running down the side of his face, lol

August 24 at 1:29pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz  lol. Eating certainly does seem to trigger the runs for C. I guess every baby is different. Some times he has trouble concentrating on nursing if he’s also ‘busy’ at the other end & if I can’t get him to calm down enough to eat I will have to stop, change him & then try to resume where we left off. It sure is interesting trying to get used to his rythms. I think I’m starting to notice that he’s much calmer during d changes if he’s fed first tho. Today, I changed him a lil later than normal & then just let him ‘air dry’ for a bit before putting his new d on. I read him a story in the mean time – he really seemed to enjoy it! Good to hear a variety of opinions from experienced mommas. Learning has never been so much fun 🙂

August 25 at 10:46am · Like ·  1 person


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Sigh… was gonna change C’s poopy d before feeding him, but wanted to wait til he was ‘done’. HE didn’t want to wait to eat tho & is now in dreamland. Hate to disturb him right now, but don’t want him sitting in it too long…Advice anyone?

August 25 at 9:30am Like · 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Have noticed I never stand still anymore. Like I’m always swaying back & forth, whether I have a baby in my arms or not. I’ve caught myself doing it while brushing my teeth, washing dishes, eating a quick snack at the counter…am just waiting for it to happen while I’m choosing tomatoes at the grocery store as the other customers slowly back away from ‘the crazy woman in produce’.

Like ·  · Share · August 26 at 8:25am via mobile 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  My son’s 2nd biliruben test came back ‘a little high’ again & since he IS showing some mild yellowing they want to test him again tomorrow (yay more pricks!). My question is when are they gonna be done ‘testing’ and actually DO something about it?

Like ·  · Share · August 26 at 1:54pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz   I know I can put him in the sun to help, but is there anything else besides hospital treatment? I suppose he’d have to show excessive levels or something for them to want to admit him…I just want him to be OK…NOW! Hate knowing that something’s wrong & feeling helpless. 😦

August 26 at 1:55pm · Like

Chris Schultz   I know that when the baby sleeps you’re supposed to sleep, but I find it incredibly dificult not to just sit here with him on my lap and watch him sleep the whole time. 

Like ·  · August 27 at 11:57am 

Shalom Kabala Schultz, Randin Joy Turner, Seth Andrew Kabala and 11 others like this.

Brandy Welvaert  best status ever.

August 27 at 12:02pm · Like

Dawn Bernheardt Kler Green Looks like you haven’t reached your breaking point yet lol! It is hard and they grow so fast. Enjoy EVERY second of him. Seems like Adyson was just born and she’ll be 1 in less than 2 weeks. Time goes by too fast.

August 27 at 12:07pm · Like

Chris Schultz  Ok, I am starting to suspect that either Graco laces all their baby stuff with some sort of illegal paraphernalia or that this new swing is just that friggin awesome. They should’ve called this product “3..2..1..sleep”.

Like ·  · August 27 at 10:41pm  · 5 people like this.

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Hold the phone…I’m coming downstairs to see this miracle for myself!

August 27 at 11:01pm · Like ·  2 people


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Finally caved in & shelled out $70 for a swing (after at least 10 other fancy gadgets failed to put our fed, burped, changed, cuddled yet fussy lil guy to sleep). So…miracles DO happen. As an old boss once said, ‘sometimes you just gotta keep throwing (*baby poo) against the wall til you find what sticks’. *he used a different word, which I shant repeat, lol

Like ·  · Share · August 28 at 11:36am via mobile 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Chris’ basement diaper changing station

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Like ·  · August 28 at 3:19pm via mobile 


Shalom Kabala Schultz   Um…honey? We need to talk. Now.

August 28 at 3:19pm · Like ·  1 person


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Connor got an A+ on his first exam. He’s getting a big, gold star when we get home 🙂

Like ·  · Share · August 29 at 1:16pm via mobile


Shalom Kabala Schultz  So, the ONE kind of nipple that Connor seems to like best is apparently not sold in stores ANYWHERE (it came in a variety pack). Similarly shaped ones in a different brand didn’t fit his bottles so I bought new bottles only to discover that ‘slow flow’ for this new brand means it will take C 2 hrs to finish a bottle. Grrr, why aren’t bottles/nipples universal like plugs for electrical outlets…or light bulbs?

Like ·  · Share · August 30 at 9:43am via mobile 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  OFFICIAL NOTICE: Breast feeding is NOT an exact science…OR a religion (in case anyone was wondering). However, starving your child IS considered child abuse. If you have nothing positive or encouraging to say to me, don’t say anything at all. Your negativity is not welcome here.

Like ·  · Share · August 30 at 3:21pm 

Don Gilbert, Alexis Anne Gilbert and 17 others like this.


Brandy Welvaert  YES!

August 30 at 3:30pm · Like

Alexis Anne Gilbert  Thank you Shalom. I am glad that you and I are on the same page. Sometime we have to give our babies formula when they need it so they don’t starve. Giving formula for a supplementation is a good thing so that our sons stay healthy and get the food they need. I love you. You’re a good mommy:-)

August 30 at 3:37pm · Like ·  1 person

Chris Schultz Anyone who dares to insinuate that my wife or sister-in-law don’t care about their baby because of the way they feed him needs to just keep their messed up ideals to themselves. Also, I love how ppl can preach to you about “God’s Way” while so obviously judging their fellow man. How pious can ppl possibly be? “I am better than you and this is why…” Are you serious?? Get over yourselves and try to realize that it is this same aggressive style of judgement that drives ppl away from you and God’s way. Trying to force your personal opinions on other ppl as law and criticizing them for doing things differently is definitely NOT God’s way. So for future reference to possible targets of this post, don’t preach to ppl in an obvious backhanded hypocritical fashion, it just makes you look foolish in everyone’s eyes. -This message was brought to you by the letter ‘S’.

August 30 at 5:29pm · Like ·  5 people

Melissa White Proctor You go Chris!!! I completely agree with you as well Shalom. I was planning on breast feeding Amelia but was in so much pain and the doc had me so drugged, that I couldn’t. Plus some blood pressure meds I was on would pass through my breast milk. So we ended up having to give formula. As much as I wanted to try I thought that as long as she was fed and content then that’s the way it has to be. I had a lady (a stranger) basically almost cuss me out in public b/c I wasn’t breast feeding. I told her to “get bent” as Lon says and told her to mind her own business. It’s whatever works best for you and your baby. God isn’t going to punish you if you don’t breast feed. And how dare anyone judge. That is for God to do…not you!!!

August 30 at 7:59pm · Like ·  1 person

Audrey Petersen You tell em shultz! I couldn’t agree with any of you more. And Alexis, that was totally sweet what you said to your sister. You both are awesome mommys…Now, when do I finally get to meet either baby???!!!

August 30 at 7:59pm · Like

Mary Climie Schultz Shalom just do what you know is best for my grandson, you don’t have to answer to anyone but Chris and God. None of my children were breast fed and they turned out healthier than most breast fed babies.

August 30 at 8:21pm · Like ·  1 person


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Just finished paying August’s bills. Not a particularly exciting thing to do, but I do get a sense of satisfaction from ‘tying up loose ends’ after living in the Twilight Zone for nearly 2 weeks. Now, if only I could manage to keep enough clean burp cloths around for more than 2 days…

Like ·  · Share · August 31 at 10:21pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Connor farted so loudly in his sleep last night that he scared himself awake, arms & legs flailing everywhere. It was a proud moment for his papa.

Like ·  · Share · September 1 at 12:08pm via mobile 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Hopes that I am never the kind of ‘friend’ who can’t take it when others don’t see things my way and who writes them off completely over one disagreement. I hope I am never so proud that I feel I don’t have room left to learn anything from anyone else or that my opinions could be changed through persuasive arguments. ‘Agree to disagree’ is what REAL adults do these days. ‘Taking your ball and going home’ leads to a very lonely life.

Like ·  · Share · September 2 at 3:54pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Am already sliding down a slippery slope…instead of changing out of the super-comfy sweat pants I JUST pulled out of the dryer before feeding Connor, when he puked all over them, I decided I’d rather just scrub the spot with a soapy rag so I could keep wearing them, at least for one more day. I have enough laundry piled up as it is.

Like ·  · Share · September 2 at 5:46pm  5 people like this.

Laura Nolen Robbins You’re defiantly a mommy now!!! It’s ok we’ve all been there. : )

September 2 at 6:08pm · Like ·  3 people

Chris Schultz  

Old timey Baptists can have horrible manners

Here’s a thought: If you happen to be an old school, judgmental type of Baptist who would rather focus on the fact that someone dared to wear a nice dressy hat to church and feel the need to reprimand them in front of their family rather than focusing on the fact that they have shown up for the first time since they’ve had a 10 yr in the making child that they are excited about debuting to everyone in the church….(takes a deep breath)….Just keep your thoughts, opinions and misguided translations of the Bible to yourself, and just keep as far away from me as you can! I will NOT let you ruin this for me!

Like ·  · Share · September 4 at 9:00pm 

Drew Kabala and 3 others like this.

Laura Nolen Robbins  Some people will never learn!!!

September 4 at 9:10pm · Like

Emily Bosma  I don’t visit churches like that anymore.

September 4 at 9:25pm · Like

Chris Schultz   Emily, you hit the nail on the head. That is exactly my point. Ppl like that do soooo much damage to the church. If I were a visitor or a new member it would drive me away for sure.

September 4 at 9:27pm · Like

Emily Bosma  My church is concerned about the heart, not the outward appearance.

And a hat? Seriously?

September 4 at 9:33pm · Like ·  3 people

Brandy Welvaert  This type of stuff is why I stopped attending church at the tender age of 17. I was standing outside of my church, and the kids I was hanging out with at the time started ragging on a kid who wasn’t there based on his clothes. I never went back. It was a knee jerk reaction at the time, and sometimes I regret it, but mostly I don’t. I love Jesus a lot, I just am not very much like him so far.

September 4 at 9:40pm · Like

Rebeccah Davis  Dude, I thought you looked pretty sharp this morning! And Connor is adorable!! Don’t let anyone take that proud father happiness from you!

September 4 at 9:43pm · Like ·  4 people

Brian Houston  I always wonder how faithful people like that are in their personal Bible reading & prayer. If I were a betting man…

September 4 at 10:28pm · Like

Brian Houston  Water off a duck’s back, my brother. Pay no attention to the Pharisee behind the curtain.

September 4 at 10:29pm · Like ·  2 people

Brian Houston  People like that put the “Old” in Old Timey Baptists. See, now you got me started.

September 4 at 10:30pm · Like ·  1 person

Brian Houston  Ok, one more comment on this, and I’m going to bed. One of my favorite quotes that I’ve had to remind myself of far too often is this: Christianity is NOT about Christians…it’s about Christ. Keep that in front of you, and when other Christians let you down (and I use the term “Christian” loosely, because one can be saved and not be a Christian, since “Christian” means you’re like Christ), you can move past that and focus on the One who won’t let you down. I know you already know this, but sometimes we just need a refresher course.

September 4 at 10:37pm · Like ·  4 people

Cindy Elliott Cordes WHO does that!!!????

September 5 at 6:20am · Like

Cindy Elliott Cordes  I’m sorry that happened, Chris. I tell myself in situations like that to make sure I never treat someone that way. It was great to meet Connor and your sister and family yesterday! God bless you.

September 5 at 6:22am · Like ·  1 person

Mary Climie Schultz  Chris it isn’t about Baptists, those kind of people are everywhere, and what have I taught you about bucking the traditions of men?

September 5 at 7:16am · Unlike ·  4 people

Rachel Murphy-Kline  Oh my. Ppl like that everywhere…like Brian said, “water off a duck’s back”. You can’t control what ppl think/say/do, but you can control your reaction to it. Be proud of your son, daddy!!!!

September 5 at 8:59am · Like ·  3 people

Kristin Strickler Cadwallader  I’m sorry you guys had to endure that at church of all places. People blur the line between personal conviction and biblical conviction way too often. Congrats on your new baby!!

September 5 at 10:36am · Like

Charley Kabala  Sorry this happened to you. I had no idea until I read your post. I agree with Brian, keep your eyes on Christ and draw closer to him. People will let us down, disillusion us, even make us want to quit going to church, but it is our choice to follow Jesus every day. He will never disappoint us or judge us wrongly.

September 5 at 11:07am · Like ·  1 person


Sandy Kabala  I wrote the above comment. Didn’t realize I was on dad’s fb. You’re a great daddy already and that is what matters!!

September 5 at 11:10am · Like

John Beeler  Thank the Lord, that one person doesn’t make a church…Chris you looked studly as always, and your testimony about Conner was off the hook…I am sorry not everyone has changed with our church, but I am so excited about the ones who have and the new ones we are attracting… and for what it is worth, I just don’t get those people, if they are not going to change and become like Christ, then we need there seat for someone who will…its about loving God, and loving others…and we love you guys!

September 5 at 11:12am · Like ·  1 person

Chris Schultz  Never doubted that for a second john. I love what is happening at legacy and I am proud to bring in a new member. 🙂

September 5 at 12:01pm · Like

John Beeler  Between reaching them and birthing them…we have a growth explosion on our hands :o)

September 5 at 1:42pm · Like ·  1 person

Mary Climie Schultz  Praise the Lord, I’m glad to hear that Legacy is still growing

September 5 at 6:38pm · Like

Shalom Kabala Schultz  It was a beautiful, long-awaited moment. In my 32 years I have learned that there are some people whose friendship and good opinion are worth pursuing and others whose…aren’t. I was so proud to be there as your wife, watching you introduce our much-loved son. Your sweet words will forever be etched in my memory and THAT is what I will think of always when I remember that day. Nothing else 🙂

September 5 at 7:39pm · Like ·  2 people

Mary Climie Schultz I heard Chris had to speak…wish I’d of been there for that

September 5 at 7:59pm · Like

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Since I seem to spend the better part of my day sitting in bed watching TV while feeding my son, I decided to try ‘audiobooks’ instead. Always preferred ‘real’ books, but I’m starting to feel like a complete slob and need to be able to do something productive during this ‘down time’ that doesn’t require hands. How much longer til he can hold his own bottle? lol (just kidding)

Like ·  · Share · September 6 at 6:23pm

Chris Schultz  Product: Baby’s first hand print.

Alternate Name for Product: Baby’s first mouthful of plaster.

How did we not see that coming???

Like ·  · September 6 at 8:21pm 

Seth Andrew Kabala and 2 others like this.

Shalom Kabala Schultz  Connor’s stump fell off yesterday. I cried at the realization that the last part of what attached us for 9 months is now gone…also at the small milestone that indicates my baby boy is growing & growing up. So happy yet so sad at the same time. Strange feelings… it came off in the sink while he was getting a sponge bath under the faucet…I briefly thought about keeping it, but then thought that was probably a road of super-sentimental mommy weirdness I didn’t want to go down.

Like ·  · Share · September 7 at 9:08am


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Sneaking eskimo kisses while my lil nuzzler is napping…new favorite pastime.

Like ·  · Share · September 7 at 12:52pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Connor made a new record of 4 HOURS last night….of keeping me awake 😦 But he’s making up for it by being so adorable today. Did I mention how much I LOVE coffee and LOVE God for creating it in the first place???!!! lol

Like ·  · Share · September 8 at 2:19pm  


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Crockpot chili bubbling away. Homemade apple crisp in oven, cornbread next in line. Baby asleep. Hubby relaxing on couch. For me, nothing else accomplished today but domesticated bliss & that’s enough 🙂

Like ·  · Share · September 8 at 6:23pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Just going through pictures and this was one of the wall decorations for my Dr. Seuss-themed baby shower…I think I am going to adopt it as my “life verse” 🙂

Wall Photos

Like ·  · Share · September 11 at 12:34pm ·


Denise Eldridge Allen  stopping by to say hello & check in on Connor. How’s the little guy doing?

Like ·  · September 11 at 7:20pm 

Chris Schultz  stopping by the house? lol

September 11 at 7:22pm · Like


Denise Eldridge Allen  i wish (did I scare ya)! = )

September 11 at 7:25pm · Like

Chris Schultz   nah just seemed odd lol

September 11 at 7:26pm · Like

Denise Eldridge Allen  stopping by your facebook hood lol

September 11 at 7:27pm · Like

Chris Schultz  he let me sleep for almost 3 hrs last night lol

September 11 at 7:27pm · Like

Denise Eldridge Allen  progress!

September 11 at 7:28pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Contentment is not the fufillment of what you want, but the realization of how much you already have.

Like ·  · Share · September 13 at 12:47pm 

CindyandEric Linder, Christine Borchardt Villalpando and 5 others like this.

Mary Climie Schultz Amen, good stuff

September 13 at 1:00pm · Like

Chris Schultz Good job reading that bumper sticker babe. lol

September 13 at 5:56pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz   It was a quote from today’s devotional reading that stood out to me. Not that I’d expect YOU to grasp it’s deeper meaning :p

September 13 at 6:13pm · Like

Mary Climie Schultz LOL

September 13 at 8:01pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz  This weather is only missing some fiery colors on the trees to make it perfect. I feel like…BAKING. So you know it has to be ‘something in the air’.

Like ·  · Share · September 14 at 9:22am  


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Aahhhh…it’s good to be clean.

Mobile Uploads

Like ·  · September 15 at 12:06pm 

Christine Borchardt Villalpando, Tabitha Kabala and 6 others like this.

Candace Chitwood Sweet boy!

September 15 at 1:17pm · Like

Brandy Welvaert melt my heart!

September 15 at 1:32pm · Like

Mary Climie Schultz So that’s what contentment looks like….how sweet.

September 15 at 1:40pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz   He had his first ‘real’ bath today in his whale tub. I got it on video, if you want to watch it when you get here 🙂

September 15 at 1:43pm · Like

Denise Eldridge Allen Adorable! His eyes are so stinkin’ cute!

September 15 at 2:36pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz   I love it when I can capture a moment like this – with his eyes wide open and happy. Usually his ‘awake’ expression is ‘grumpy old man who needs a nap’, lol

September 15 at 2:40pm · Like ·  2 people

Tabitha Kabala He’s so chubby and cute! I can’t wait to meet him!

September 15 at 4:20pm · Like

Rachel Murphy-Kline He is soooo cute!

September 15 at 5:21pm · Like

Mary Climie Schultz I’d love to watch the video

September 15 at 7:12pm · Like

Phil Kline ‎“OK, She’s relaxing. I’m gonna wait until she’s totally calm and scream in 3……2…….1.

September 15 at 7:15pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz   Phil, did you plant a hidden camera in my house or something? Lol

September 15 at 7:23pm · Like


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Connor slept 6.5 hours last night, then another 2 after his 6am feeding!!! Yesterday was so awful with his crankiness, that I found myself literally ‘crying’ out in prayer for a better night and day today. Good to know God is still in the business of hearing and answering prayers…no matter how small 🙂

Like ·  · Share · September 15 at 1:49pm 


Shalom Kabala Schultz  I haven’t put together a photo album in 10 years…since my wedding. Don’t remember it being this much of a ‘challenge’ (gotta get all the pics off my camera, phone, computer in 50 different folders, my Facebook albums, other people’s facebook albums, Flickr, etc.). Kind of miss the ‘good old days’ when you had no idea what kind of pictures you were getting til you got the envelopes back from Walmart, but at least they were all there in the same place, the same size and ready to go.

Like ·  · Share · September 15 at 4:38pm


Shalom Kabala Schultz  Happy ONE MONTH Birthday, Connor!!! You sure are a cute 10 lb chunkaroo 🙂

Like ·  · Share · September 16 at 12:44pm

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