The day before yesterday Otto found nine four leaf clovers in our yard.  NINE.  And I found three.  (Which beats my life time score of finding four leaf clovers – previously I had only ever found one four leaf clover.  In my entire life.)

 

 

I thought maybe Otto’s luck would transfer over to our whole family.

But I don’t know.

We drove on a bit of an excursion to visit a dairy farm that provides milk to several local restaurants for a story.

 

 

The smell of farm air and manure and cow and hay and copious amounts of milk was all very familiar to me.

This dairy farmer raises Jersey cows while I grew up a Holstein farm.  Dad loves to tell stories about how much I did not enjoy my chore of feeding the calves after the first summer or two I spent on the task.  But maybe if my dad had raised Jerseys instead of Holsteins, I might have been won over for longer.

I mean – look at those doe eyes.

 

 

It was good be reminded that everything we eat or drink or touch has an original source somewhere.  That there’s a person and a face and a family behind the products we use and the foods we consume.  I maybe preached a little car sermon to the kids.  About waste and about how taking them on journeys and trips and adventures to meet makers and artists and farmers and creators and builders is intentional.  About how I want for them to be aware, conscientious, not wasteful with their resources, to appreciate what it takes for something to appear in front of them – for gratefulness to come quickly to their hearts and minds.

And maybe they listened, but mostly they just got excited because I let them guzzle fresh chocolate milk from the jug.

 

 

After our farm tour with some friends, we stopped at a restaurant I had been hearing about – one of those restaurants that makes it to all the lists and the food TV shows.  Grits & Groceries.  Everything we ate was delicious.  And of course we took a picture with their iconic chicken.

 

 

After our trek home I had promised the kids a stop at a shaved ice stand.  We pulled up, got out and stood at the counter, just feet away from our Yukon.  I heard a sound that strongly resembled the sound of locking doors.  I glanced at my children.  One, two, three, four, five.  They were all standing in line with me.  Then a sickening feeling crept over me.  Our Yukon had just decided to lock itself.  It’s done that a time or two before.  I don’t know.  Maybe Kreature lives in there.  (I’m almost done with the series you guys.  Book Seven.  I’ll need consoling I imagine.)

Anyway.  The sound made my stomach turn because I knew that my keys were inside that locked vehicle.

Otto said, “Well, at least we have shaved ice.”

 

 

And he was right.  We had shaved ice.

And we also had long sighs and sibling nonsense.

 

 

We had an hour and half wait for Triple A to appear heroically on the scene, thus earning themselves a grape shaved ice.  (So grateful I finally enrolled in Triple A.)

 

 

Eventually we made it home.

I think if Otto wants to look for four leaf clovers again, I might say no.

 

 

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