About (sigh) Me
Me. Is there a topic that I like even less to write about? Or even worse . . . talk about?
(I’m thinking.) The answer, as you might expect, Gentle Reader, is a resounding and heartfelt “No.”
Ask me about my beautiful and talented kids (How’s the second grandbaby doing? He’s absolutely perfect, thank you! How’s Andrew’s new webcomic going? It’s awesome and you should check it out at pleasetip.us. How’s Bethie’s semester at college going? I’m so glad you asked! Her new show is coming up next week . . . Has Malachi talked you into buying him a pocket knife yet? Um, No. How is Amalia’s curly hair experiment working out? and so on.) or my current chicken conunudrum (Mom brought out bushels and bushels of windfall apples that a new friend gave her, too bruised and worm-eaten for us, but perfect for my chickens. So the chicken yard is littered with them and I take my life into my hands every day I take a step in there. So my question is: why don’t chickens like to peck round hard things? And how can I get them to change?) or how I make so much bread in one day for Farmer’s Market every week (practice–practice–practice!) or how my garden is doing (gotta minute? I’ll take you on a tour!) and I’ll talk until you will wish that I would quit.
- Me with little Mack, my chickens and my dogs. They are all constantly in my orbit.
Get the picture?
But talk about myself? Not so much. I don’t like being the center of attention. I’d rather write a story than tell one. I’m not very articulate, and I’m always insecure about how my hair looks. (None of my readers are aware of this, hopefully) That said–I feel I owe you a brief (but modest) introduction (yawn) to a few things moi. If you’re bored already, I won’t blame you for clicking out. There are surely more interesting things for you to read. Shakespeare. Jane Austen. The cereal box.
- See how blessed I am.
My name is Amy Young Miller, and I am the wife to Bryan, and the mother to six adorable young’uns, ranges in ages from mid-twenties to six years old. I live on a few acres outside a small town in Nebraska, and I teach my children at home. We also raise chickens, ducks, and geese, and have an impressive array of house pets, as well. We produce a good quantity of our own food with a large garden and a small orchard, bee hives, hazelnut bushes, and berry bushes and brambles. We plant a lot of trees, too, just because we love to do that. I’m an artist and a writer and a musician. I love to draw old houses, dead things, and Nebraska landscapes. And my children.
I found this old abandoned house in Bee, Nebraska. (Not to be confused with Bea, our dog.) It needs a bit of love.
I’m a Christian and am poignantly aware of how lost and depressed I’d be without Christ in my life. I am blessed with a very large and impressively creative and fun extended family, whom I am slavishly devoted to. I love to cook. I would rather be outside than inside, in any weather, at any time. I am delighted by howling coyotes, star-gazing, climbing trees, and laying my eyes on anything beautiful or unusual. I play the piano, the flute, and I’m trying to teach myself how to play the banjo.
- These are my people.
In the summertime, I spend most of my time outside, pruning, planting, picking, weeding, and drawing. In the wintertime, we hit the books and we all work together to produce a musical melodrama with a group of home school students in our area. So you can understand why I never get my house clean. Not that I really care. Cleaning house, to me, is nearly as boring as . . . well, as me.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? In fact it was easier than I thought it would be, but not as interesting as I’d hoped. Oh well. Thanks for joining me here!