Nikole reports that during the trauma, she wore a slightly different expression. I wouldn’t know — I wasn’t there for most of it.

She was out water skiing with the neighbors when she made a cut across the wake – a move she has made a thousand times before. Something went awry and her right foot came off the ski. She crashed and the ski dug into the water and arrested the motion of her left leg, while her body kept moving into a somersault and (graphic content alert) the ball of her left femur was DISLOCATED.

The boat circled around and she said, “There’s something really wrong with my leg.” She slithered up onto the back deck of the boat, while everyone speculated on how they might get her back to shore. They ended up lifting her into the boat and made for land.

The boat drove up to the dock at Zellmanns’ cabin and Nikole’s father, Roger, carried her up the fifteen steps to the cabin. After a short triage, the neighbor carried her the rest of the way to the car. (Notice how I narrowly missed all the carrying? I seem to be very adept at being scarce when work is being performed.)

Roger obeyed some, but not every law governing the use of motor vehicles on Minnesota highways as he drove Nikole and her mom to the hospital in Perham, Minnesota. (Helen, who is going to be a great mother herself someday, was left at home to take care of the kids. Oh, and I was still out enjoying a leisurely bike tour in the country.)

When I finally got home, got presentable, and got to the hospital, I learned that I would be driving to Fargo… North Dakota. My wife did indeed have a dislocated hip, and she needed to see an orthopedist in North Dakota. Isn’t North Dakota like a different state? Yes, it is. But apparently it is only an hour and a half away from here.

As I drove highway 10 to North Dakota (observing Minnesota traffic laws like the boring, careful man I am), Nikole was flying over my head in a helicopter. My wife… stay-at-home mom… baker of bread… wiper of noses… becomes the most exciting ER patient of the day, and the recipient of a ride in a flying ambulance. I am very proud of her.

In Fargo, I stood in the waiting room because they would not let me go in to see her right away. I thought, shouldn’t someone offer me a warm blanket and a cup of coffee? What kind of hospital is this when nervous husbands are just left out in the cold? But no! Like most hospitals, all they care about are the patients.

When I did get in to see her, she was all better! She said, “Look! My leg is straight!” They had mildly knocked her out and, according to the doctor, gave her leg a pull and a nudge and “pop” it went back into place.  The doctor also mentioned that it wasn’t actually him who popped it back in, but it was the 17-year-old kid who we thought was an orderly but who was actually a med student. Then he said, “This kind of injury is very rare in someone your age. We see it all the time with people who have artificial hips. But we never see it in someone your age.” Again, Mrs. Average Mom is actually Mrs. Extraordinary, today.

A CT scan showed that none of the hard tissue was damaged in the crash. After the scan, my wife practically hopped out of bed and pranced down the hall to prove that she was worthy of being discharged. After buying some very strong pain reliever at the pharmacy, we burned rubber (in my father-in-law’s van) to get out of North Dakota.

I must say, my wife was not very good company on the way home. She dozed most of the way. I just don’t understand why she did not want to talk to me about her hopes, dreams and ambitions. But alas, I comforted myself with coffee and National Public Radio.

When we got home there was a great reunion with much hugging and shedding of happy tears. Every daughter ran at her mother with open arms as if they were going to tackle her, and every child had to be preemptively tackled herself to prevent further injury to her mother. (I could not tackle Helen and Claire, our Olympic swimmers… they got more of a hockey style hip check to deflect them from flattening their mother.)

So, it was sort of a bad day. But then again, for a trip to the ER, all the pieces fell into place very well. And the issue was resolved relatively quickly. We were home for supper. And nothing is broken, AND SHE’S, LIKE, WALKING AROUND AND STUFF! For a day in the Emergency Room, this one turned out great.

We are all super happy to have her home, and we are praising God that it all turned out so well. And we are hanging up the water skis for the season (frowny face)

This year we were very successful in our attempt to not do anything noteworthy.

Let’s start with news about the most important person in the family—me. When Nikole said, “Let’s take the family photo today.” I made sure everyone wore earth tones while I wore the brightest orange shirt I could find. Actually, I wore that shirt so I might avoid being struck by a car on our annual family bike ride to celebrate Dad’s 39th birthday. I am still an instructor of graphic design at the technical college in town. The school pays me wheelbarrows full of money to teach young people to design advertisements that convince people to spend wheelbarrows full of money. I rode my bike a lot more last summer. I never got fast. I spent a lot of time being noticeably slower than my peers and those much older than me. Every Sunday I made my kids do the 10-mile ride home from church. I crushed them with my middle-aged speed, because they are the only people I can crush anymore.

Nikole returns from from another pre-sunrise, epic run in the frigid north.

Nikole is amazing. She does everything. If I told you all she does, it would make you throw up. But don’t worry, because she would clean it up with one hand while she made my breakfast with the other hand, all the while maintaining safe food handling techniques. Actually, she never makes my breakfast. She crawls out of bed every morning at 5A.M. to meet her buddies and train for 5K runs and half marathons and such. When I am walking out the door to ride my bike to work, she is bustling in carrying a couple gallons of milk and some bananas. Before her coat hits the floor, she is cooking malt-o-meal and getting the kids ready for home school. That is about all she does. She maintains a high level of fitness, teaches home school and cooks meals for her family. I think the busyness might drive her crazy, but I wonder if the knowledge that she is stronger than all those cry baby professional football players you see on TV helps her to cope. Or is it a miraculous peace from God that keeps her from snapping and backing over her family with a full size van?

Helen gives some attention to The Great Ignored One.

Helen is 14 years old and is in her first year of home school high school. She takes care of my chickens and my parakeet. She takes care of her younger siblings. She devotes the rest of her time to her on-line history and French classes. She neglects all her other classes and can no longer read, spell or do simple addition. But, she is really cute. She swims, plays the piano and draws beautiful arrangements of fruit and glassware. She recently won the Winter Rec Fest button design contest, for which she will receive a full ride scholarship to the University of Minnesota–Bemidji (or maybe it was $25 — I cannot remember which).

Helens Rebuttal:

“Don’t believe anything my father says. I am the perfect child. I never scream at my younger siblings. And they never scream at each other over important things like rubber dresses for three inch dolls.”

Claire gets smacked. Actually, Claire enjoys using Crayola markers to make herself appear to have been smacked. Then she lurks around the yard with a bow in her hand pretending to be in the Hunger Games.

Claire is 12 years old. Claire hates everything except Katniss Everdeen. (A little culture check for you there. Katniss is a book character who can shoot an arrow through the eye of a squirrel from 30 yards away.) Claire has dropped out of home school and devotes her time to reading fictional books about young people with super powers. She swims with the YMCA team seven or eight times a week. She is shooting for the 2016 Olympics. She wishes there were an Olympic event in which the competitors swim fast then pull out their bows and shoot unsuspecting spectators off the side of the pool. When Claire is not swimming or breaking laws governing the use of weapons in city limits, she is drawing pictures of young people with super powers and very long, skinny legs.

Claire’s Rebuttal

“Dad, that’s not true! I don’t lurk around the yard pretending to be in the Hunger Games after drawing on myself with markers. I just like making tattoos. And my drawings are getting better — the legs aren’t so skinny. And they’re not all about people with super powers. I do do all my school work. [Claire, tell us what you do instead of just negating everything I wrote in the letter.] Well I… I… I guess I do just sit on the couch and read about people with super powers.”

Hey kids, why don’t you go out and play on the frozen creek bed. Don’t worry, the ice is probably thick enough.

Ten-year-old Edward is a boy. But not the kind of boy who pounds nails into the back door, gets in fights, and jumps off the garage roof. He is the kind of boy who talks about his feelings and snuggles up on the couch reading fictional books about young people with super powers. He wages complex psychological warfare on his younger sisters. Edward ran his first 5k this year. He also swims and plays the piano.

Edward’s Rebuttal

“I think I am a little needing to pound a nail into something sometime.”

Hanging Barbies by their chins… No, that’s not a disturbing image. Ruthie is completely normal.

Ruthie (seven years old) is going to rule the world someday. I am warning you now. She is intelligent and successful at whatever she does. (If she is not immediately successful at a thing, she slowly melts into a sobbing gelatinous mass so annoying that her trainer vows never to broach the offending subject again.) Everything good in the house belongs to her. If a sibling owns anything desirable, she will convince him or her to relinquish ownership sort of like how Jacob took the birthright from Esau. I will not be surprised when one day she convinces the president to hand over the reins of leadership and then convinces congress to do away with those pesky elections. I can’t wait to hang out with her in the white house. Ruthie swims and plays the piano. She draws mermaids.

Ruthie’s Rebuttal

“I really actually play with my little sister and I’m not as mean as my dad says. And I’m not going to rule the world like my Dad says. I’m going to grow up and I’m going to be a nurse like my mom.”

Bethany oozing sweetness like a recently stepped on cinnamon roll.

Five-year-old Bethany is pure and kind. (I expect that when Ruthie rises to power, she will have Bethany put in an iron mask and exiled to the island of Patmos because of the annoying contrast caused by Bethany’s beautiful character.) Bethany smiles from the time she wakes until she goes to sleep. Bethany will melt into a sobbing gelatinous mass if someone leaves the house without giving her a meaningful goodbye hug. Bethany can swim across the YMCA pool without touching once. Bethany can read, but would rather be read to. She draws detailed copies of her older sister’s mermaid drawings.

Bethany’s Rebuttal

“No I don’t really copy her. I just draw mermaids. I would like them to know that I can read. Well, some people might know that.”

The child who defies description mostly because we don’t really notice her… except when she wears a cute hat.

Three-year-old Lydia is the great ignored one. She mostly walks around the house clutching a blanket, sucking her thumb and observing the chaos. She is excellent at whispering tales of intrigue as she manipulates a couple of Ruthie’s cast-off Barbie dolls. She sits quietly in the laps of older siblings and watches them figuring algebra problems. On rare occasions she may demand someone read her a book. Lydia does not draw, swim or play the piano. Lydia enjoys being held and going on bike rides and car trips.

Rebuttal

Lydia: “I like to draw and color.”

Nikole: “I would say she’s not ignored. She’s so stinking cute, we are always picking her up and covering her in kisses and tickles.”

Our parakeet is a talented singer. Our chickens are in their winter doldrums, not producing any eggs but still consuming food. I still don’t have a dog.

In truth, the Lord has blessed us this year. We aren’t making headlines with our wild success, but we aren’t under a lot of stress either. We hope you are blessed with health and prosperity this year.

Happy Christmas from the Hales.

Finishing the paddling in our borrowed super canoe. Try not to notice that I am not keeping up with Nikole’s race pace paddling

Nikole’s journey to the Row Ride Run podium began with a visit to master paddler, Judson Steinbeck. He loaned us a Wee-no-na canoe and paddles worth more than our minivan. He gave us instructions and pushed us away from his dock for a practice paddle on the backwaters of the Mississippi. We almost did not return – not because we were having fun, but because we could not steer. As we endeavored to return to his dock, I think I saw the St. Louis Arch in the distance. On race day, we switched and I paddled and steered from the stern while Nikole sat in the bow playing the part of the motor. We stayed on course a little better on race day. Our canoe was the fifth out of the water. Nikole was the first woman out of the water.

Your author demonstrating advanced triathlon bike mounting

Nikole and I employed different techniques when we transitioned from canoe to bike. She slipped under the rope supporting the bikes, put her helmet on, and jumped on her bike. She was already wearing mountain bike shoes that clipped into her clipless pedals. I stepped over the rope, tripped and laid myself out in the grass, just to give other competitors a false sense of security. Above, you can see me mounting the bike like the pro triathletes with my fancy road shoes already clipped into my pedals. As I fumbled to get my feet into my shoes I only rode off the bike trail once into the soft wet grass and came to an almost complete stop. It took me two miles to catch up with my wife already far out on the bike course.

No Ed! Don’t look at the photographer! Lame.

I entered the bike-run transition area five seconds in front of Nikole. She still got out on the running course before me. I chose not to trip and fall in the bike-run transition area.

Powering up the final climb to the finish line. (That doesn’t look like powering)

I finished the run portion of the race one second in front of Nikole. She tried for five kilometers to drop me, but I held on and was able to eek out a tiny sprint at the end. But I was disqualified for having the most hideous running wardrobe on the course.  How could they not like cycling shorts and black, wool socks?

First Place Female

I had known that Nikole had the stuff to win the Row Ride Run, but she would not let me express my opinion lest she succumb to race nerves too soon. She would not even acknowledge other female competitors the morning of the race for fear she might go into psych-out mode. But she was forced to acknowledge reality when she crossed the finish line minutes in front of the next female racer.

Below are more photos from race day.

My sister, Laurie, took first place in the Saint Mary’s Business Office Employee Catagory

Nikole in the winner’s circle with some adoring fans.

A cute little girl with a broken arm

I looked and thought, “Three teenagers talking together… Wait! One of them is my wife!”

Nikole actually owes her victory to Lydia who moved many of the course markings sending several women way off course.

Isn’t the brooding teenager supposed to be the one texting? Can’t you just imagine Marilyn texting “I’m stuck at this race and its like so boring!”

More of our support crew: Roger in charge of canoe security, Steve in charge of transition smoothness, and Maddie in charge of pooping in embarrassing locations.

The Row Ride Run was a super fun time, and we were very blessed to have Roger and Marilyn, Josh and Mackensie Hale, Steve Haase and all our kids to help us. And thanks to Laurie and Steve for throwing the best pre-race carbo feed and slumber party ever. It would not have been half as fun without all that help.

Ruthie poses by the traditional birthday sign

We celebrated Ruthie’s birthday today, with breakfast in bed, ice skating, gymnastics and chocolate cake. Nikole always makes a beautiful birthday sign to greet the kids when they come downstairs on the morning of their birthday. I am a little jealous of her lettering skills and her ability to choose colors. She is a skilled graphic designer.

Editor’s note: I sent the camera along with the ice skaters with instructions, “Make sure Mom takes some pictures of Ruthie and her friends skating!” The camera and the instructions were delivered, but the order was not carried out. You are probably wondering why I stay married to a wife who often defies my orders? Look at the cake below… that is part of the reason.

The big seven-year-old aglow in the presence of chocolate.

Three sweet chicks. (Note to potential suitors: the sweetness rises as you move to the left. You didn’t hear that from me).

Nothing increases productivity like having a two-year-old between your hands.

There is the amazing woman, making chocolate cakes and raising the next generation of professional cyclists.

Helen sporting her new tooth hardware.

Ug, my oldest kid just got braces. I suppose I better plan on all of them needing braces. I don’t even mind the price. I sort of figured I would be purchasing some braces when I decided to have kids. But something about being like everyone else bugs me. I own a little, old house. I own two cars. And now I have kids in braces. Just like everyone else. I think it might propel me into a mid-life crisis. I’m going to buy a really cool fixed gear bicycle, grow my hair out and get dreadlocks.

I scored some rubber roofing from a school re-roofing project. Here it is installed on the coop roof.

Nikole spreads dirt on the green roof.

Edward Luke enjoyed spreading the dirt on the green roof. All the kids enjoyed having an excuse to get on the roof.

My beautiful wife plants sedums into the green roof. I am really glad she wanted to do this step (No power tools).

After this something very motivational happened. My wife set a due date. We are going to get the chickens on Saturday, August 11. Skip the details and get the coop ready for inhabitants by the 11th! Coop construction took on a new, accelerated pace. No trim! Just utility.

First I needed to attach a chicken run to the side of the hen house. I spent a lot of time wondering where to attach it in relation to the fascia and roof line. I knew the world would  judge me on the placement of the run.

After much contemplation, the chicken run appears next to the hen house.

It is always inspiring with the boss rolls up her sleeves and gets her hands dirty. Nikole took it upon herself to staple chicken wire into the most difficult places in the hen house ventilation system. (Look at those pipes!)

Everyone was pressed into service during the final push. Here my father makes the ramp into the hen house. Lydia is checking to see that the steps are evenly spaced.

My dad displays the chicken ramp after is has passed inspection.

On the day before the chickens arrived I needed to make nesting boxes. I told my wife I did not want to start from scratch because if would take me all day. I wanted to find something that I could repurpose into a nesting box. I found a chest of drawers in a neighbor’s trash and determined that, with a few alterations, I could make it into nesting boxes in no time. So, after working on them for about eight hours, I had fashioned the nesting boxes you see below. I hope the hens appreciate all the time I am putting into this!

After a full day of working on them, the nesting boxes are almost done. Do you dig the drawer fronts?

The very morning of the chicken acquisition, Helen made a ramp to help the hens get onto the roost poles inside the hen house. (Hurry, Helen, the chickens are coming!)

The very last step -- just before we jumped into the van to head to the farm, I attached a makeshift door latch to hold the hen house door closed. (Picture my wife in the van tapping her foot impatiently.)

After the final push, we sighed and got in the van to drive to the farm and pick up our chickens. In my next post I will tell you how the young ladies are adapting to their new house.

My neighbor, Jarrod, is the real brains behind this operation. Here he employs some sub-contractors to stress test the floor of the hen house.

No big deal. Just me and "my" Dewalt circular saw looking manly.

Cutting the chicken door the way Jarrod taught me. The amazing part is that I measured it correctly and the hole was indeed between the studs. That was the first time I measured anything correctly.

Photo by Bethany Jane Hale (4 years old). I am saying, "Bethany, you have to aim this thing at my face." And, yes, I do customarily hang out with a tape measure clipped to my pocket.

Roofing in the noon day heat. I make Claire do all the hot jobs while I sip lemonade in the shade and take photos.

The 50 pound, hand crafted, door with 3/4 inch, rough sawn oak veneer.

The door installed, and it actually swings closed! Helen is testing to see if any chickens could escape the oaken fortress.

Can't you just hear me saying, "Wait, wait until I pick up some manly hardware before you take the photo!"

I estimate only about three more months of coop crafting before the project is complete. Ugh!

Happy Valentines day from the Hales! Oh wait, it's March. (Can you find the baby in this picture?)

Our life is so milk toast, I am grasping at something to blog about. Since there ain’t nothing going on here, I will try to fabricate something interesting. (I threw the “ain’t” in for scholarly Helen’s benefit.)

This photo shows Nikole and me getting married. (Photo by Ruthie)

On or about March 2, my wife and I celebrated the 16th anniversary of our marriage. To celebrate the event, my wife and I went out for breakfast. Yes, breakfast — the least expensive meal to eat out. I wanted to go to the Freight House for really expensive, tiny steaks, but she wanted to be frugal.

About two weeks later, my wife threw frugality out the window and forced me to take her to a bed and breakfast for two nights. (Her wonderful, retired, parents watched our unruly kids while we were away. Afterwards, they both made plans to re-enter the workforce thereby cementing an excuse the next time we need them for mid-week childcare.)

We went to a beautiful bed and breakfast in Red Wing, Minnesota called the Moon Dance Inn. It is a great place to stay as long as you don't mind absentmindedly humming a '70s song by Van Morrisson for two straight days.

It has been 14 years since the back of our minivan has looked like this on a trip. Check it out -- Two bikes, a couple bags and lots of space! Usually, this space would be filled to the ceiling with portable playpens, diapers and various other kid supportive materials.

The craziest thing we did on our trip was to take a bike ride together without children. (My wife is training for a Row, Run, Ride race and she needed me take her on a 15-mile ride.) It was very fun.

My wife also went on an early morning run. Here she is on the top of the bluff overlooking the city.

The required Red Wing Boot shot.

After watching some rock climbers on top of Barn Bluff, Nikole decided to try some free climbing herself. She was a little stressed out at this point.

Bethany and Ruthie made us a welcome home sign (with some spelling help from Helen and Claire). Can you find the baby in this picture?

Other Random Recent Events

We watched a friend’s dog for a few days.

The dog just wanted to sit in Nikole's lap. Dog's can sense who likes them the least and gravitate toward that person.

Helen longed for the dog to sit in her lap. Finally, it happened.

Lydia fed the dog one piece at a time. The dog was saintly as she condescended to such service.

You can see that the dog hated me, and generally was a negative influence on the family. We won't ever watch that dog again.

Now you are up to date with the Hales. I bet you could not have lived without this amazing news post. Thanks.

The bounty of tomatoes

I would like to tell you that the tomatoes you see in the photo above, came from my husband’s garden, but they did not. They came from a way more talented Amish farmer who produces so many tomatoes that he has to give them away. My good friend Cathy brought them to me, hoping I could use them. Yay! What a blessing!

For those of you who like to spend lots of time in the kitchen, maybe you can relate to my victory. Others of you may think I am crazy. I just spent the last two days trying out a new experiment. The truth is, at this time of year, I am addicted to canning tomatoes. Come over some weekend and you will find me ignoring all other responsibilities and canning tomatoes into some form or other. Well, this week I branched out and tried something new. Tomato paste. I got a bunch of Romas and thought I would try making paste. Well, 25 pounds of tomatoes and eight hours later, I found myself questioning whether three pounds of paste was all worth it. Now, as soon as I tasted it, I found that it was! Super nummy! Oh, it was like tomato gold, especially after all the time it took to bake it down to paste! Crazy though, how 25 pounds of tomatoes can cook down to only eight 6-ounce packages of paste. Now the next question is, when do I use it? I think I need to wait until the dead of winter, I surely can’t crack it out tomorrow and use it!

The fruit of all that labor