It’s been two months since I’ve written a blog post. Sorry about that. I’ve become a true football mom, spending all my Saturdays at Cruz, Garry and Joey’s football games. And Friday nights at John’s JV game. And Thursday nights at Scott’s freshman football games since Scott became the defensive coordinator for that team this year, along with assistant coaching Joey’s team. Today we are headed to Joey’s championship game in Red Bluff. John was given the honor of moving up to varsity for playoffs, so we are looking at football games all the way into December, which makes me happy, except for freezing at John’s football games at night now.

I’ve also done a few women’s retreats and books signings this fall, meeting new authors and readers and really enjoying interacting with people who love books the way I do. I have to be honest, I hate signing books. I get so frazzled, I forget how to spell words like thank you and bless you. I really would love to say, “Let’s go find Paula Scott and get her to sign these books for you. Paula Scott isn’t who I really am. Scott’s wife is who I am. Cami, Lacy, Luke, John, Joseph, Garry and Christian’s (Cruz is Christian’s nickname) mom is who I am. I’m also Poppy now to my grandkids, which feels almost as foreign as Paula Scott, but I know I was born to be Poppy. Maybe I was born to be Paula Scott too. I’m still trying her on to see if she really fits me.

I have discovered why I write… for redemption. I enjoy writing in different genres, but redeeming stories are my thing. I’m also still a farmer, working a little in the orchard with Oma in October. I really want to learn how to make Oma’s amazing peach jam. Maybe I’ll do this in December, God-willing since I froze a bunch of peaches this past summer with this in mind. I also love to make pies. It’s the only thing I like to bake. Baking is not my thing. Baking is kind of like cooking a turkey for me, I can do it, but it’s not pretty.

I’ve also had to put my nose to the grindstone and finish my memoir, Farming Grace which I did a few days ago. Now we wait. Wait for what? you might be asking.

Wait for God to open some doors in traditional publishing. If that doesn’t happen, we will move forward with publishing Farming Grace on Amazon in 2019.  Like my other books, my memoir is too edgy for the Christian market. The editor I’ve been working with wants me to try the secular market, so that is the direction we are headed right now.

In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you all I love and miss you. I hope your lives are going well. If not, hang in there. Seasons change. I still can hardly believe I’m a poppy. Nothing delights me more than spending time with my adorable grandkids. They both love to be read to and I can’t tell you how much I enjoy them.

I’ll leave you with a funny Thanksgiving story from a few years back. My hope is still the same for this year. I will not stress out over the holidays. Here you go:

So I told myself I would not freak out about the food, my house, or the boys running around like wild Indians this year. I would love my family and just enjoy our Thanksgiving together. It’s going to be so nice.

Then I overslept and had a dream I forgot to cook the turkey. I stumbled out of bed, freaking out, fumbled to the kitchen, and attacked the big, dumb bird.

My first turkey ever because my mom or Aunt Marolyn always cook the turkey, but this year it’s on me. My eyes were so blurry from sleep, I couldn’t see the instructions on the turkey wrapping, even with my reading glasses on. Could the instructions be printed any smaller? Do ants cook turkeys? Somebody get me a magnifying glass for goodness sake!

I wrestled the raw turkey around the kitchen, imaging I was contaminating the whole place with toxic turkey juice. I screamed at four-year-old Cruz to get some shoes on or get out of the dang kitchen because he’s walking around in raw turkey juice. Cruz could die of E Coli or something.

Do I cook the turkey in a bag or not in an oven bag? I want to call my mom.

I will not call my mom!

I’m a big girl now. I’ll go with the dang bag, but forget to flour the bag. I wrestle the big raw bird back out of the bag after reading the directions on the oven bag box. Flour the bag, put the bird back into the bag, back into the oven. Oh, my word! I forgot to rub butter on the big raw bird. I pull it out of the oven and butter the dang bird, yelling at Cruz to get out of the kitchen because it’s covered in toxic turkey juice now. Put the buttered, floured, big raw bird back into the oven.

Now I’m nearly in tears. I finally call my mom.

Mom says, “If you’re starting the turkey now, you cannot use the bag. It will cook too fast.”

I hang up the phone. Do I go with the bag or not go with the bag to cook this big raw bird? I hate this big raw bird! I’ve never roasted a turkey in my life. I’m agonizing now over this stupid turkey!

I call my mom again. “Without the bag you will have to baste it every 45 minutes for hours. Hours and hours of basting as you cook it. You don’t own a baster,” Mom informs me.

What the heck’s a baster? I hang up the phone feeling like a failure. Don’t all women know what a baster is? Aren’t we born knowing about basters? Knowing about how to cook? Knowing all about Thanksgiving turkeys?

Oh my gosh!

What just happened to not stressing out and just enjoying the holidays? The turkey might taste like the Sahara Desert now. We might not be able to even eat it. I’ve sprayed Clorox bleach all over my kitchen. All over the sink and counters and floor because E-Coli could be lurking in all these places. I’d like to Clorox Cruz too, but he’s hiding from his crazy mom.

It’s 8 a.m. and I’m already a mess. How did this happen? For any of you stressing over Thanksgiving, here’s a prayer for all of us… Jesus, please help us. It’s just a day. It’s not about the turkey, it’s about living a thankful life. If the turkey turns to crap, we can still live thankfully.

If Thanksgiving Day isn’t what we imagined, we can still be grateful for all we have in the here and now. Please God, grant us all grateful hearts today.

Scott read this and reminded me that I forgot to add how the oven door fell open in the middle of this madness and I banged my thigh really hard. I am grateful for this big fat bruise on my leg reminding me not to freak out again over the holidays. 

Happy Thanksgiving friends!