Breakfast With a View

view, originally uploaded by podso.

breakfast, originally uploaded by podso.

reel it in, originally uploaded by podso.

fruit, originally uploaded by podso.

It's a fact. Breakfast on the beach has always been a favorite of mine. Etched in my memory is a birthday breakfast at sunrise overlooking Lake Michigan, the year I got the Rocky album. Last week we celebrated breakfast on a pier, overlooking Tampa Bay. Not bad at all, definitely a memory-maker. The Rod and Reel was the name, but we didn't have fish. The pictures can speak for themselves.

coming attractions

Ghana Chocolate

A big thank you to you-know-who-you-are!

Easter Morning

lenten rose, created by boniface ... originally uploaded by podso.

When the Sun Is At Its Best

After bedtime prayers, I used to tuck my little boys in bed and say, "See you in the morning when the sun is at its best." Due to the extensive amount of travel we've been doing these weeks, as well as my usual days away from home working, I feel I've lost out on badly needed "home time." I love being home, I love having things around me that tell me stories about our lives, and I love seeing the sun streaming in the windows especially in the mornings. So with the precious little time I have had at home this week, I've found myself stumbling around figuring out what needs my attention the most. And I badly feel the need of accomplishing a project, but there's no time for that these days.  So midst my fretting the other day I stopped myself and said, "Each moment is what it is. It's what it's to be, you have done what should be done with it, and you can only do that one thing (well I do like to multi task at times). Let it go, and go for the next moment.

I made a meal for a family with a new baby on one of those days (I had the extreme joy of caring for the newborn in the hospital last week), but it took me way too long to make it. And I think it's because of the fretting I'm doing with this lack of time at home. It completely exhausted me, which shouldn't be. So I looked at the sunshine streaming in the window, especially welcome after a rainy day, soaked it in, and lived for that sunny moment.

FOR ME ...

... He died.  And the tomb is empty.

No Easter eggs this year ... I'll just look at last year's !

back road baby

On our way home from Atlanta, Spouse wanted to take back roads. Back roads from Atlanta? A bit "over the top" I'd say. That could take hours (and it did––an extra 2 1/2 at least.) Spouse is known for loving back roads. I do too, and love to stop at local eating places, even though here in the south such places often mean an extra helping of grease. But on a Sunday afternoon when I wanted to get home, "back roads" just wasn't what I wanted.

One interesting thing was driving through the heart of  the University of Georgia. Fun to see creatively painted bulldogs on each corner. But I declare Spouse slept through the best scenery. But a nap comes, and can't be helped.

Sunset arrived and then things got good. My absolutely favorite time to drive. Traffic has died down (of course on back roads you about have them to yourself anyway), we turn the volume up on some country music and just relax as the miles fly by. It's so good to be together, me and my "back road baby."

Kirk

"Tornado coming. Take cover now!" These were the words we heard over a loudspeaker as sirens blew throughout the town. We watched the angry sky outside our hotel room window for signs of a funnel. Golf ball-sized hail bounced on to the pavement below. We could hardly believe we drove all the way to Atlanta to be in a tornado (the second day Atlanta area had been hit with torandoes). Thankfully all turned out well, and later when the sun shone the only proof that "something" had happened was noticing that the air had been sucked out of our water bottles.

We were visiting our old friend Jon who we first knew when he was just out of college and trying to figure out his life. He was a superb soccer player, a mentor to our sons, and I cooked many a meal for him! So it was pretty cool to visit Jon––now minister, husband, father of two great kids––and to eat at his table in his home. We spoke at his church and enjoyed his warm and friendly congregation. The church building is brand new and has a certain Scottish feel to it--probably influenced by Jon's studies in Scotland. His little Hans is already doing some good footwork with a ball.

The Basil Was Sweet

The weather could not have been more spectacular as we drove a couple of hours to meet 

friends from (brrr) still-snowy Minnesota ... in a little southern town known for its pine trees. I recognized our meeting place--a little cafe--before I saw the sign, for the window area was stuffed with basil plantings. After lunch at Sweet Basil we walked and talked, and talked and walked--fallen pine needles crunching under our feet while our eyes soaked up glorious blossoms of spring. We had much to catch up on--our roots go deep these 30 years--but we found ourselves going leisurely about it, probably because of the slowness and quietness we sensed amidst the charm of this endearing village.

Yate Butler's Five

Somehow I became the family correspondent. In the early years of our marriage I not only kept in touch with my friends and our friends, but also Spouse's friends. Such as Yate Butler, a lankly English major and for a time, a college  rommate of Spouse's. Our correspondence began in the days before keeping in touch became so quick and accessible with emails and cell phones.

Today Yate and I continue a snail mail correspondence by choice. His letters to us, written in a beautiful, flowing handwriting, are on recycled 8 x 11 paper, and are never short. Content is the best, as Yate writes vividly of his life raising five daughters––five girls with four names apiece. I have saved his letters in a folder labeled "Letters from Yate." Someday I'll send them back to him and he can write his book.

And write he can, as he describes with great flair life with his girls. He has raised them single-handedly since his wife, their mother, died an untimely death when the youngest weren't yet in school. Yate chose to live in a small town near his mother, so the girls could have a feminine influence. His "painted lady" victorian-style house is not far off the main road, and is filled with antiques, fine china, and family heirlooms.  His girls were raised with grace and have become lovely young women, each one very  much her own person. Some remind us of their mom, some have their dad's unique outlook on life, and some are just a good combination of them both. 

I got wind that another letter is on its way to us. When it arrives, its time to sit down with a cup of tea and read the next chapter of the Butler Five. It's something to look forward to, and then, to remember.

The Wheels on the Bus

I DON'T THINK  I'LL ever get used to turbulence on a plane. As many times as I have flown, the fear remains. Our short flight to Chicago had more turbulence than a little flight should be allowed. I turned to frequent-flyer husband, "Is this some of the worst turbulence you've experienced?" (implying, "and you're still here to talk about it?")

"Not the worst," he smiled back at me. My eyes closed. My coping mechanism: I envision myself back in Africa, riding a bus over the severe potholes. Up and down the bus goes, as we jostle around inside, holding on for dear life. I've even been known to chant, "The wheels on the bus are going round and round, and over pot holes, that's for sure. My it's a bumpy ride."

When the turbulence ends for awhile, the relief is as sweet as when a pain pill kicks in, dulling sharp pain. I sometimes feel exhausted.  During some of this flight's bumpier moments, Spouse looked at me and asked, "Did we ever get the executor of our will straightened out?" I hope no other passengers heard my screech, "WHY are you asking me that NOW?  Is there a reason? Could you find a better time?"

We got there. And our flight home was smooth sailing compared to the one going. I always wonder if other passengers are as calm as they look.

The Sidewalks of Home

SPOUSE AND I HAD A QUICK TRIP TO CHICAGO.  BEFORE THE BUSYNESS of the weekend set in, we drove from the airport to the small town I grew up in (a quiet Chicago suburb perched on the commuter line.) The entire suburban area is coming out of the worst winter since we lived there when our firstborn was a baby. Even though it was bleak and cold with dirty snow piled up at the corners, warmth filled my heart as I entered the land of my childhood. Almost everything looked as I remembered--but––of course, smaller.

The memories spilled from my mind to my soul, but it was the familiarity that drew me in. As a child I was allowed to walk uptown to the dime store and hardware store, but not as far as the block the bank was on. As Spouse and I walked the streets, the sidewalks felt like home. Most of the shops were different, but I was amazed at the familiar feeling that came to me from the sidewalks. 

One thing has not changed an iota--Kirschbaum's Bakery. I think the fake wedding cakes displayed in the high glass case are the same ones as when I was a child. This is the bakery I think of every time I walk into and savor the delicious scents of any other bakery. To see this one unchanged by the passing of (40) years was incredible. Spouse bought the cookie I chose, just for "old-time's" sake. We found a little cafe across from the train station and ate our lunch by the window so I could revel in my memories, watching commuter trains fly by, and soaking up the past. A new memory formed among old ones.

SIX

jack, originally uploaded by podso.

Something amazing happened when neighbor Jack turned six this week. He got on his new bicycle and took off without training wheels. A skill he will keep a lifetime. Happy Birthday, Jack! Sister Kayla is not far behind!

kayla, originally uploaded by podso.

Stones for the Temple

"What comforts me is the thought that we are being shaped here below into stones for  the heavenly temple--that to be made like Him is the object of our earthly existence. He is the shaper and carpenter of the heavenly temple. He must work us into shape, our part is to be still in His hands; every vexation is a little chip; also we must not be in a hurry to go out of the quarry, for there is a certain place for each stone, and we must wait till the building is ready for that stone ..." (Charles George Gordon, 1833-1885)

Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone; in whom all the building fitly framed together grows into a holy temple in the Lord... Ephesians 2:20-21

It is beginning ...

to look a lot like Spring!

Photo by lulu

Lamp Story

There is a lovely blue Wedgewood porcelain lamp that has sat on my mother's dresser for as long as I remember. I've always fancied its simple urn-like lines, and and it's pure white shade. There's a crack or two I've noticed ... it has obviously been repaired but I never really knew what all that was about.

Today my mother and I were taking a walk where she live

s. We passed some windows with messed up venetian blinds and I told her how I hate to see messy blinds in windows.  Just a personal preference--neat rather than messy. Back at her little apartment, we sat on the sofa to talk. 

"Speaking of venetian blinds," she began, "when we moved into our little parsonage as (almost) newlyweds, the church had fixed it up for us and had hung new venetian blinds at the windows. But they didn't know how to hang them. I discover

ed that fact the day I first went to clean the living room. I pulled up the blinds and they came crashing down, taking my beautiful wedgewood lamp with them. It broke into many pieces. How I loved that lamp––a wedding

 present from my aunt and uncle. When your father came home for lunch he found me on the living room floor dissolved in tears."

My father, loving groom that he was (all his life) took the pieces and somehow glued the

m back into a beautiful lamp that still hangs together 65 years later. You'd

 never know how broken it had been. Nor can I visualize my mother on the floor crying!

I love the stories that come at the oddest comments. Now I'll examine the lamp more closely, and from now on when I  look  I'll think of my dad's loving hands gluing broken pieces together for his young bride.  I have two more stories about broken Wedgewood, but this one is the dearest by far! (Top photo is of a favorite lamp of mine, as yet unbroken).