Rocky Mountain High

We were definitely high in the Rocky Mountains last month when we visited friends there prior to The Gardener's business in that area. I don't remember altitude sickness every bothering me quite so much.  We live not all that much above sea level here, so we were really up there at 10,000 feet above sea level. The cool air was really refreshing just at a time when we were reaching our limit with the humidity and heat here in our place of living. 

We started out staying with our friends in Denver where they treated us to an unusual breakfast casserole of rice and sausage and something else--I must get the recipe--and throughout our time there, Jeannie played records for us. 

Her collection is amazing and it was just so much fun to see her put them on the turntable and set the needle on ... and the music would start!  Whenever she hears of someone getting rid of their old records, she takes them off their hands

The Pink House

Have you seen all the pink stuff around this month? It's national breast cancer awareness month, of course. By now we all have more than one friend who has received this diagnosis. 1.2 million people (not just women) are diagnosed each year with breast cancer (per W.H.O.) To help with awareness of this month, our first lady lit up her house with pink spotlights. She has been an advocate for breast cancer research for a long time in both private and public sectors. I'd say this was a pretty cool way to close out her days in that big  house. After making a speech as dusk settled over her city, she gave the signal, and the house lit up pink.

I am dedicating this post to the memory of Verdell, my friend who died of breast cancer at age 45  (I have many more who are survivors and doing well). We've come a long way since then, both in treatment and cure. We know  much more now, and there are many new treatments ... it makes me thankful for all the research that is being done. Be sure to get a mammogram, by the way!

--Not my photo of course, though I would have loved being there. 

small world

While visiting friends in Colorado recently, we talked with Youngest Son on the phone. Turns out that on that day (back in the southeast) he had taken care of a patient who had slept in the very same bed, two weeks prior, that we were going to sleep in that night! It all got connected through conversation that started with––well, I actually don't know how the conversation started, but eventually a question came during a break in the dental work, "What does your father do?" which led to connecting the dots of us having the same friends––with whom  he, the dental patient,  two weeks before, and now we, stayed overnight.

A recent Wo*ld magazine article talked about the "Six D*grees of Separation Theory."  Apparently M*crosoft has done a study of instant messaging conversations among 180 million folks ... and found just 6.6 degrees of separation between any two users of its instant message program. So, in essence, any two random people in the survey were separated by a string of just 6.6 acquaintances, on average. The researcher suggests a "social connectivity constant for humanity." (Eric Horv*tz in the W*ashington Post.)

How many times, when a conversation occurs, we find someone who knows someone we know. Some amazing connections (especially, I suppose, the longer one lives.) It makes life interesting, doesn't it, and we say, "It's a small world."

Photo: Estes P*rk and my illustration of six degrees ...

Mom's Oatmeal Bread

I had forgotten how good kneading bread is for the mind and for the soul.  You can work out a lot while you knead. I love working with my hands.

Photos: Rising, and ready to be punched down.

 

Oatmeal Bread

1 cup uncooked oats

2 Cups scalded milk

1 pkg. yeast in 1/2 Cup water with a pinch of sugar

1/2 Cup molasses

2 tsp salt

1 Tb. shortening

4 1/2 or so cups flour 

Pour hot milk over oats and let sit until  cool. Meanwhile begin activating yeast in warm (not too warm) water

with the sugar. When milk/oat mixture has cooled add the yeast/water, molasses, salt, oil, with a cup of flour (I chose to use one cup of whole wheat flour and the rest white, though it makes a heavier bread) and beat well. Continue adding rest of flour and turn out onto floured surface and knead until smooth. Return to floured mixing bowl, cover with tea towel and let rise until doubled (or almost). Punch down and place on floured surface, let it rest a few minutes, cut in three and roll out each section. Roll each piece into loaf shape, pinching under the ends and placed in greased and floured bread pan. Cover with tea towel and let rise another hour. Bake in preheated 425 degrees for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake another 25-30 minutes. Let loaf pans cool and turn out onto cooling rack.  If you desire softer crust, dab butter, margarine or oil on top of resting loaf. Wait til cool before slicing.  Especially good toasted.

 WARNING: May be consumed faster than you intended.

A Baby's Smile

What is it, this smile of a small child

That we reach for?

We lean in close, fingers out to tickle

Making dorkie faces we'd never live down

With gurgles and coos belying our stature.

A smile comes, Aha!

(Especially good when the whole body smiles along.)

Mission accomplished.

We can sit back and rest,

Joy floods our hearts ...

Until we reach out and begin again.

Just one more smile please.

baby fix

.

I had a couple of wonderful hours with our granddaughter today and we made the most of our time together. We napped, ate, changed diapers, read a slightly boring magazine, played the piano, played toys, and went for a walk. Max was also visiting us today and joined us on our walk. So, you could say, I took both my grand-dog and my grand-daughter for a walk in our gorgeous, cool, fall weather. This little one minute video is posted for friends and family who want to see it, and for others who care to, or just need a baby fix. Warning: smiles and coos ahead!

Gas Lines and Bread Lines

Early yesterday morning, on our way to Tuesday, we found gas. All day I felt like I had opened a big, exciting present. Gas is difficult to find right now, and that along with the news about a big bank in town puts a feeling of  "something not quite right" here in our fair city. And then there's the national news.  The concerns about what may happen remind me of the Cuban Missile Crisis days when we felt some fear. I still remember the grave look on my dad's face as he listened to President Kennedy speak on the radio (note: my parents were behind the times by choice, and had no TV in our house until we had left for college).

Maybe we are feeling it more in our city with the gas lines and the bank news, but for whatever reason, I thought maybe I should stock up on flour and start making our own bread again. That's what you always think of when you hear of an economy heading south.  Bread lines of the 30s. Don't think I'm panicking, it's just that homemade bread sounds good anyway. I used to make all our bread, especially in the days living in Africa (where we sometimes had two-day gas lines--taking turns sleeping in the truck).

To lighten this up, I'll tell you about the "phantom" gas lines at W*lmart. I parked the car near the gas station Monday on my way to food shopping, and watched one false line form after another. Cars sped around the station like bees around a flower--looking to see if there was gas. One or two cars would stop by a pump to check and immediately about ten cars formed a line. They would realize their error and disappear and within two minutes another line falsely formed. It was both funny and fascinating to watch, and I sat mesmerized for a few minutes before I headed inside for the long walk to milk and eggs in the far corner of the store.

Runaway Bride

The wedding was beautiful in its simplicity, very much the bride and groom and their view of life. No big frills, but elegant in its own way. After the family members, groomsmen, and bridesmaids were down the aisle, and the adorable flower girls had prepared the bridal pathway with their rose petals, I closed the back door. No bride? The minister feigned surprise. "Isn't someone missing?" he asked. "Do we have a runaway bride situation?" I played along and put my hands up in the air, as everyone of course had turned around to look at the closed door and saw me instead of the anticipated bride. Then Brian turned to the groom and began to talk to him about what was about to take place ... said some meaningful things ... most of which I didn't hear as I was nervously listening for the "cue" sentence. When it arrived I flung open the door, gave Bride and dad a pat, straightened the train, and down she went to the waiting arms of her awestruck groom.

(I didn't know that part of my job description was pinning a flower on each of these guys and all the mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers, but as far as I know I didn't pierce any of them!)

After the wedding was a great party, barbecue style. Many of the casual centerpiece flowers were put together by the bridesmaids after their brunch. After the new Mr. and Mrs. changed and ran through some birdseed, they got into their incredibly decorated car (what a fun tradition, right?) and drove to ... our car ... where I had copies of the marriage license. Guess they wanted to take one along since they were leaving the country. Today I'll take that large pink envelope and mail it to the powers that be. My last official duty as W.C.

(My photos have my "artistic?"  bend to them, so as not to steal prime time from the real wedding photos.)

here comes the bride

I never thought I would enjoy being a wedding "coordinator" or "director" (well, honestly, maybe I thought I might a little bit, as I like organizing), but when my dear friend, the mother of the bride, said she knew I was the one for the job, what could I say? And the bride I've known since she was in her mama's womb. I used to take her out for "coffee" when I could barely see her face across the table above her mug of hot chocolate. 

So actually, it is an honor to serve her this way, and she and her groom  have a great group of friends who are wonderful to work with.  

This morning is a few hours of quiet. The busy rehearsal day is over--bridal brunch, rehearsal, and festive rehearsal dinner; and now I am anticipating a lovely wedding in a few hours. Once I get them all down the aisle I'll breathe a big sigh of relief.  The flower girls are just loving dropping the white rose petals (and picking them up again after practicing), and at the end of the ceremony, they get to reach up and each grab a hand of the tallest usher, Zach, and walk back up the aisle with him. How fun is that!

Photo: Bride dancing with her cousin flower girls.

The Bow Baby

 Lil' Miss B. wears big bows well. I hope to see her smiling face this weekend!

Photo:ebc

petrol cycles

Driving past W*almart this afternoon I noticed a huge bundle of traffic. Lo and behold--gas lines. Long and barely moving. Of course I thought of the 70s, and it seems like just yesterday I was inching my car forward in a long line. Then a question was, is more gas wasted waiting in line with the engine running, or turning it off and on as one moves forward? I can't remember the answer.

Right now, for the most part, there is no gas on at least this side of our fair city. Which is why, when this particular place had some fuel, the huge line formed instantly. Guess you need to plan on 2-3 hours to put something in your tank.

Not so eldest son, who is driving around on "E." His fiancee, bless her heart, brought him a gas can (what we called "Gerri tins" in Africa), of fuel from a friend. For some reason he had to syphon it in his tank. It came out too fast and he got a face full as well as a mouthful. 

Back in time again, now in Africa.  No fuel there either--we called it petrol. So the Gardener would constantly drive around on "E" in case there would be petrol available somewhere. I think finding some happened once or twice our whole time there. So when I would get in the truck to go somewhere, I'd see the "E" and be nervous about running out of fuel.  It was a sort of conflict between us.

One day I did run out of fuel. That is a story for another time. But I came home and asked for instructions in syphoning petrol (we always kept a supply in a barrel on our property.) I wasn't half bad at it. From then on, this stubborn female would boldly syphon at least a quarter of a tank into our truck before heading out. And I never ran out of fuel again. Gentle Gardener was okay with the way I dealt with my foolish fears (or not so foolish!)

If we live long enough, things sure cycle around, don't they? I told Eldest I knew how to syphon but thankfully he was fine doing it himself. I'm happy never to do it again, and certainly hope I can hold to that.

(not my photo)

A Generous Spirit

"The loving heart, which seeks to offer all, even disappointments and vexations which touch the tenderest places, to God, will be more likely to grow in generosity of spirit than one who bears grudgingly what cannot be averted." (H.L. Sidney Lear)

Sometimes I get disappointed, particularly in people and my expectations or hopes for them. It can be a deeply searing pain, touching the "tenderest of places." I think it partially comes from my personality of being involved with and caring about people. But some of it comes from what I hope they will give to me (not material things, mind you). 

It's an attitude check I have to make all the time. I need to give grace and let go of my hopes, having a generous spirit, always giving the "benefit of the doubt," and realizing I never know a full story. It's a much better, healthier way to live, when I have this right.

"Your portion is to love, to be silent, to suffer, to sacrifice your inclinations, in order to fulfill the will of God.  ...  All we have to do is give ourselves up to God day by day, without looking further. He carries us in his arms as a loving mother carries her child." (Francois de la Mothe Fennelon)

Fountain Dinners and "Hole-in-Walls"

Recently we enjoyed a gourmet dinner at our favorite restaurant. An outdoor picnic at a fountain in the downtown area of our fair city. There's nothing like this for a romantic setting:  a warm breeze, twilight settling in over skyscrapers, bypassers to "people watch" (a wedding party this most recent time), and, of course, the wonderful sound of a fountain splashing.

I have to admit I'm not a big fan of expensive restaurants. Not that I can afford them anyway, but the few times we've had a not-to-be-wasted-buy-one-get-one-free coupon or a gift card, I've found it stressful. Stressful because this is a "big event" and I must choose just the right menu item to make the evening simply as spectacularly enjoyable as possible. Maybe this comes from growing up in a family where we did not go out to eat (did anyone in my generation?), and from living on a fixed income.  I might also add, (and not to sound pious or judgemental at all, please) that having lived amidst poverty in a 2/3 world country, it does give one pause to spend a lot of money putting food in your stomach.

All that aside, it's not to say I don't enjoy a good meal out. But my favorite memories are of those--what we call--"hole in a wall" little places. They may not look so pretty, but the food is usually good (and cheap), and the atmosphere, a little quirky at best, is memorable. (Isn't that what a lot of it is about?)

Some of my favorite restaurant memories:  our literal tea-in-a-wall in Bath, England--just a cozy tea shop in the wall of a bridge (pictured above) ; a marvelous but tacky Greek restaurant tucked at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge; ham and eggs at a Pennsylvania diner; a sweaty 

sandwich on a damp table overlooking a gushing river; and a dark Greek restaurant opening onto a sunlit, crowded Amsterdam street (where they started us out with a tiny cleanse-your-palette-zinger). Memorable too is the pizza palace in a small basement in Arad, Romania; a cave-like hamburger place in Chicago where our footsteps on the stone floors were softened by a carpet of peanut shells; a roadside "chop bar" in Ghana––we sat on low stools alongside others, eating with our fingers out of a common stew pot; the lush tropical interior of the Casa Bonita in Denver––on the hour a waiter dives over a waterfall into a pool way down below; and my most favorite here at home--a Mexican restaurant that is so incredibly cozy and neighborly, we are drawn to go back again.

Some think we're strange ("we" includes the Gardener, as he favors the same things), and it may confirm our kids' suspicions that we "were (or are?)  hippies,"  but this is how we are. An cliche-type ending would be:  "The 'best of all' is our table here at home, and true it is." A little candlelight and some cloth napkins go a long way to memory-ville, especially with the wealth that I call friends gathered around our table with us, usually for a meal we all have a part in. Richness, indeed.

first phone conversation

Youngest son was talking to the Gardener tonight and sweet granddaughter was crying in the background. "Hey, Pop," said Youngest, a.k.a. "the new father," "wanna talk to her?"

"Oh she's a little young for that I think."  

"What?" I interjected, "you can talk to her!"

So they did. Grandfather's quiet voice saying sweet things to a crying baby.  She stopped and began to listen. And then she started to talk back (cooing.)

The first of many, God willing.

 

Smile!

I still miss these kiddos when I drive in to our cul-de-sac and they're not in their old driveway waiting to tell me something. But if you'd like a smile today, read what their mom wrote about Jack, the guy on the right.

back at me

So yesterday was the much anticipated (dreaded?)  computer class. I was up early, did the long drive to the other side of town...and got settled in good time at the computer. After an hour in class I was sent home because I had no backs to my shoes. (Stop and absorb that! I'm talking about a computer class at a training center very far from the esteemed hospital where I work. I can understand dress code for employees at the hospital for classes, but at a training center---and an all day class?)

Believe me I had a few hard feelings on the drive home, and not a few tears of frustration. I wore the shoes I always wear, and, in my humble opinion,  I looked quite respectable--more than many of the others in the class with backs on their shoes. I happened to be at a place where my feet were visible to the little black suit that apparently checks shoes (she actually had three pages of images of acceptable and unacceptable shoes.)

I drove back at one to do a 1 to 10 (pm) class. With the right shoes on. At the training center I counted no less than five women with open backed shoes, not being sent home. 

But the point is, I had to remind myself of what I wrote here earlier. The post about God's providence and how He knows best. I had to believe there were reasons for yet another postponement. (I did have a better instructor in this class.)  So once I had wrestled with my fretting sin nature, I accepted another postponement as from God. And, amazingly I was filled with a wonderful peace as I drove the long drive back to class. Only two more classes to go. You can be sure I'll remember to wear the correct shoes.

(not my photo or fingers)

A Little Time to Herself

The day our little granddaughter was baptized was a special day for all of us. She kept pretty busy with all of us loving relations. At one point I took her up to her crib so she could watch her mobile and listen to the music. Out came the camera and this little movie is the result. Every time I watch it I find myself smiling at her. You may too. (Sally, this is especially for you!!)

a day that was meant to be

There was a lot going on in our lives yesterday ... and today I was slated to attend eight hours of computer class--learning a whole new system for my job at the hospital. (The ol' brain isn't what it used to be and wasn't great to start with ...)  So I garnered up some prayer from a few friends. In record number they checked their email soon after I wrote and replied that they understood and would be praying for all the things I shared.

"Something" caused me to look over my class schedule before I went to bed last night. I was horrified to realize I had forgotten an eight hour computer class last week. I had actually scratched it off in my calendar book. Totally mystified I phoned work and confirmed I needed to take the classes in order.  So I would not be attending class today. I kept thinking about those friends praying for me in class all day ... which of course did not occur. But I knew those prayers were just as effective for "whatever..."

I offered to work today, knowing we were "slammed" with newborns. I always wonder "why" plans are changed like this ... was there a specific reason why I crossed that class off my calendar? Could God have been in it? (of course, smile broadly.)  On my way to work pre-dawn this morning, at a red light, I was slammed from the rear by a careless driver. My back was already aching and strangely the big bump actually felt kind of good. So the other driver and I pulled over in the dark and assessed the damage. It looked like my rubberized bumper would pull out nicely on our old CRV. But had it been our other car, the damage most likely would have been extensive. So right then and there I thought about those prayers, and how I "happened" to take the CRV.

Throughout the day I kept "looking" for a reason for being there. My manager is a believer and we even talked about God's providence. "Did you figure out why you needed to be here today?" she asked with a big smile on her face. Truly they needed my help they were so busy. But I knew I didn't need to "see" the reason. I have such firm belief in God's providence and am so sure there was a specific reason for the changes in my day's plans. I also know I may never see the reason, but am confident that  life is an inter-working of many things that God is putting together across His world. I'm just glad I could be a part of that today.

Aching Arms

A grandmother told me years ago that her arms felt like they were achingly empty after a visit with her grand baby. My arms are aching today.

Photo: Sweet BKC gazes at the wonder of her grandpa's beard.

A Puzzling Letter

An interesting packet arrived in the mail from a familiar address in southern England. It was a bit thick, and I tore into it intriqued with what it might contain. It was a puzzle letter from a dear friend there. I have never put a puzzle together so quickly! I do like to keep in touch, and I have been waiting to hear from J for a long time. Never had to work so hard to read a letter before (smile.) After reading it all, how cool to turn it over and see the picture it made on the other side!

LNO

When we decided to celebrate Barbarino's birthday, I called it a "LNO." When some didn't know what that meant, I realized LNO was homeschooling lingo we used years ago when we referred to social evenings that we moms occasionally had to get a break. We called them "Ladies' Night Out" or "LNO." Having men at our side is wonderful, but sometimes it's just plain fun to have the girls only. So this time we had a great time eating dinner together and celebrating our friend's life.

But the main point of this is the cupcakes that Lydia Grace made. She certainly seasoned with grace what could have been a bit of a flop and showed extreme creativity and flexibility. To get to the main point, it seems that the cupcakes sort of overflowed as they baked. Kind of like the flat topped mushrooms sprouting up all over our fair city with all the blessed rain we've been having. Lydia had had all kinds of ideas of how she would beautify these cupcakes but she never dreamed that they'd end up hats!  Sure enough, she dumped those girls over, iced them, decorated the brim with whip cream and added bits of fruit. Gourmet! If she hadn't had so much fun telling the tale, we would never have guessed they were not what she had planned.

Labor Day for Me

I've always gotten Labor Day a little confused.  When I was a kid, we'd visit my grandparents each summer for a week and every evening about the same time, my grandfather would close his newspaper and say, "Well, folks, tomorrow is Labor Day for me. Good night."  We'd go over to him and accept his wet kiss, and then he'd rise from his chair and up the stairs he would go. We were on vacation, but he had to work early the next morning. 

So that always comes to mind when I think of Labor Day. (And I'll be laboring myself this Labor Day). I have only one Labor Day holiday cemented firmly in my memory. Just after I turned "sweet sixteen" we moved 1000 miles from the home I had always known. Our new church happened to be near my mom's family. That Labor Day my aunts and their families arrived at our house armed with rakes, shovels, and leaf bags, and helped us spiff up a badly neglected parsonage yard. Much appreciated and much remembered. (And how I loved that house. I didn't live too long in it before I headed off to college, but I loved it's nooks and crannies, creaking wood floors, and history.) 

Photo: my grandfather as young man in rear, center. At the far left is Nita of the previous post.

heaps of love ...

Clazina, known as Nita, was the oldest of two daughters in a line-up of eight children born to Dutch immigrants--which, if you can do simple math, means there were six brothers. I should say, eight kids that lived into adulthood. Her little sister came way at the end of the lineup--what some families call the "caboose."  My great-aunt Nita was a favorite of mine. She was a strong woman, and she never married. Aunt Nita was the executive assistant (as we would call it today) for her lawyer brother, and had the time to involve herself in many peoples' lives––including her nieces and nephews and their children––as well as to work in the family mission and, as the family matriarch, kept track of everyone in the large extended family.

I remember visiting my aunt when she lived with my great grandmother, taking care of her mother in her later years. But I remember her most when we would visit her in her one room abode tucked inside a big Dutch retirement home. I can still hear her resonant voice. And remember her long hair (that reached below her waist) which she wore in a bun. When she eventually, in her upper nineties, moved to the care center, they cut off her hair. She was disgruntled. In fact, the last visit I had with her she complained about it. When we would take our little boys to visit, she always had a some candy stashed away for them to eat. Her desk was piled high with letters ... and she answered every one. One time she showed me the little record book she kept of the letters she wrote. Well over 1000 a year.  We'd feel very special to see our photo on her mirror. (I think the missionary great-nieces were the ones to make the mirror post.)

 

But most of all I remember Aunt Nita's notes to me. After I got married, each year she would send us an anniversary card, with a note always included. She signed it as she had all the letters she wrote me in my childhood, "Heaps of love and daily prayers ..."  I did not take lightly her words, and indeed knew that she meant what she said.  Her prayers were a true gift to us, something we counted on in life.

When she went to Glory a few years ago, at age 103, I felt we had lost something more than just my Aunt Nita. But, I am left with a legacy, a memory, and a model.

It seems like yesterday. Thirty-seven years ago (tomorrow) we were married on the edge of Hurricane Doro. Things dried out enough to let all our guests get there, but a bridesmaid missed the rehearsal because of it. My mother told me tonight that she thinks it was so funny that we got dressed at our house (the parsonage) and then my bridesmaids and I marched in our wedding finery across the busy street to the church. I had forgotten that bit of drama.

It's been an eventful 37 years ... challenges we never dreamed of have met us along the way. But they've turned into precious memories of leaning on God and seeing His power! 

Best friends forever, we are.

note: A rare beardless photo of the gardener; probably the last time I saw his chin.

How Dreams Begin

Mowing the lawn is a lot like washing dishes. Kind of a mindless task that allows a brain like mine to get plenty busy thinking about all kinds of things. 

 

I used to day dream a lot in school. Back then no one knew about that little three-lettered brain syndrome that begins with "A" and ends with "D." I had it for sure (and still do.)  And I still day dream, especially when doing simple household chores. It's refreshing. Usually my brain is overactively trying to comprehend the newest change in my nursing job, or figuring out just how to rewrite an article for my editing job, or attempting to keep straight the refilling of my mother's long list of medications. So I think it deserves "down time."

The other day when I was tossing the grass clippings way at the back of our property where there is a mini-forest, I looked around and realized how much room there really was there. (Since we live on a cul de sac, most of our lot is in back of the house.) My mind went to cutting down some trees to clear the area ... why, another little house would fit just fine there. What about building a little guest cottage? I've always wanted to run a bed and breakfast. My mind began to plan what the place would look like--and almost got to decorating it. Curtains or blinds? Kind of fun. A little "cottage in the woods."

Well that's as far as that dream is going, but what a good mental vacation it was. I mentioned it to the Gardener who looked at me like I was daft and said something about property easements. But still as I look out across the yard I can see a vision of a little place with shutters and window boxes filled with flowers. "Breakfast at eight?"

not my photo

A Sea of Blueberries

Boniface brought us blueberries. What richness! This time I froze most of them to use later in our blueberry pancakes. They bounced around on the cookie sheet like little china balls. And as I carefully scooped the frozen berries into the freezer bag I was amazed at the thought that Boniface handpicked each and every berry.  We are blessed. Thanks, good friend!

A Light in the Window

We still miss the kids across the street who moved last month. But it's great to get emails from my friend, their mom, and to continue hearing about their adventures as well as seeing them on their blog. The other day their mom wrote:

"Jack found a Henry Huggins book yesterday...he started reading it in bed at 8:00.... When I went to check on the kids at 10:15 he was still reading, legs propped up, all kicked back. He just grinned. I told him he needed to get to sleep and he said he really needed to find out what happened next. He read all but one chapter of that book! He said, 'Well, mom, I guess you didn't expect to find me still awake, huh?' If we still lived in the cul-de-sac  you would have seen a little light still on in his bedroom window!"

I think Jack is just starting first grade (homeschool).

Photo: Jack's bedroom window on moving day.

T M I

"Brown never comes after 6 p.m. unless it's Christmas."

"He'll will be here in 10 minutes," eldest son insisted.

"And how do you know that?"

"I tracked it and he's on his way."

Sure enough, ten minutes later the brown truck pulled up and the long-awaited package was delivered.

In my mind, that's just a little too much information. Whatever happened to feeling some suspense about when a package might arrive? Now we can narrow it down to a ten-minute time span? No wonder I feel a bit confused and overwhelmed these days. Information overload.

I enjoy my friends who I see regularly here in town. But I have many more around the world, literally, that I keep in touch with--with far greater frequency than the days before email contact.  And then (skipping My Space for me) along came Facebook. Reconnecting with cousins and old friends, looking at their photos--it can almost be ... too much information.

Don't get me wrong--I love keeping in touch, and I'm known to be better at it than many. It's interesting to ponder, though. Facebook is superficial--like skimming over the water's surface. You learn and see only what people want you to (and, I might add, the "younger" generation exposes way more than the older), so that it can be--well, not really real life.

It's still something I'm figuring out--these new ways of keeping in touch. How long will we keep up such a pace of being connected? Will we ever go back to not wanting to know? Could "ignorance [really be] bliss?"

Just In

These birds flew in from the south for my birthday. Opening them was very suspenseful. My brother-in-law had packed them so well for my sister that I about (or actually did) broke into a sweat getting the parcel undone. Once inside, peeking out of extensive bubble wrap, were two blue and white print fabric sacks, each tied with a blue bow. And inside the sacks? These two guys.

My sister said they called out to her, saying they were needed on my porch. She pondered for a long time how to wrap them for a birthday gift, and then came up with the adorable sacks. I just love my birds, and even more, the idea that she knew me well enough to know I would like them.

I don't like to call attention to myself, and usually wish my birthday would slip by unnoticed. But this year some dear friends and family gave me sweet gifts that let me know that they really know me.  For one, my kids gave me some sleek, celery-green mixing bowls that spice up the kitchen and are such fun to use. Someone else gave me my first Will*w Tree Angel (angel of the kitchen!)

This caused me to consider my gift giving. Sometimes it's just to get it checked off my "to-do list," but how much more it means, both to me and to the recipient, to put thought into a gift and to be intentional about it. If you really know the person, you will know what to give, and you will get more pleasure from the giving.

I know God is involved in all aspects of life...even my gift giving and wrapping. It's such fun for me to run up to my little office where I store all kinds of things, including wrapping paper and ribbons (I'm a big recycler in this department)--never knowing for sure what I'll find. Somehow there's always just the right piece of wrap (usually second or third time around) and a piece of ribbon to polish the package, along with something for a card. This has become something I look forward to––seeing just what God will put together. In all His wisdom God said that it is better to give than to receive, and that is such a truth. 

hysterical but controlled ...

... so did the Gardener say about me this morning. A compliment of sorts. Our microwave had died two weeks ago, and in this day and age it's usually more costly to repair them than to replace them. It had run its lifespan, so we got a new one. It finally was delivered and installed yesterday. I wasn't home, but the Gardener assured me it had been tested. So, I plop some meat in to defrost. "What's that banging noise?" I call out to him. 

"What banging noise?"  Turns out nothing heated evenly, and the glass plate in it seemed uneven and got too hot. Things were not right. I was a bit upset. So later that evening we decide to call the company. They will call to set up a date to send a repairman out.

Suddenly I think, "What's wrong with that picture?" A repairman? I ask for the phone. I call the salesman and give him my spiel. "It doesn't sound right to me that I pay for a brand new machine, but get a repaired one."

He agreed that it made sense and he told me who to call in the morning. This morning in my phone conversation I suggested politely but strongly that the repairman bring a new machine on his truck when he comes. A few minutes later the phone rings, "We are bringing you a new microwave in the next half hour."  Yes!

When all was said and done, the Gardener, a.k.a. kind and gentle Spouse, said, "Well done my dear. It just needed a woman to take care of this ... hysterical, but controlled."

Note: the young installer asked both the Gardener and I how are days were going and answered for both of us before we could, "Well I guess I know the answer to that ... not well, huh?"  I thought to myself, if he thinks a bummer microwave is going to give us a bad day, he hasn't been around too long. Perspective ...

Knowing Its Own Mind

This may be one of my favorite posts of all times ... just because I love the colors on this house. Not that I'd have them on my own house, but I love that someone enjoys color enough to bravely do this. Here we go:

"Muddy colored walls are nothing but a blight. So are undecided colors that compromise ... [such as] blues that are neither sea, sky, nor good old cornflower. There should never be a doubt what your color has to say .... It may be chalk blue, watermelon pink, lemon yellow, grass green, chocolate brown, cafe au lait, warm gray––anything on earth you like, just as long as it knows its own mind."

So wrote Dorothy Draper (1889-1969)  in 1939, in her book Decorating is Fun! How to Be Your Own Decorator.

Hmm... what are the colors in my house saying?

oh the weather outside ...

There should be some comment made about the glorious weather we are having here. Everyone has noticed ... and rejoiced. It's as if we've been transplanted up to some northern state where they have bearable summers! Opening the house today, and feeling the cool dry air flow in ... ah, there's nothing like it! What a gift!

not my corner grocery

I've know I've posted about Walm*rt before, and I don't mean to rant, but sometimes I just need to comment. I rushed over to this store at the "witching hour" of 5 p.m.––on a Friday no less. The traffic just to get near the store was atrocious.  I felt like I was self-inflicting some pain as I went forth to conquer the parking lot. Who possibly could have designed one where you had to enter one lane, literally going opposite the traffic and painted arrow, and then  swivel around to get to another lane going the right direction? As I attempted to twist and turn to find a parking spot in the treeless, sunbaked tarmac, I felt like I was in a two-thirds world country. Monday mornings the place is spotless, but on a Friday afternoon I stepped over squished soda cans, sputem, plastic bags flapping in the breeze, and passed by people of every ethnicity, size, and shape, as I made my way to the door. Upon entering I began some serious walking exercise to get the milk I need from the rear of the store.

Oh yes, and my shopping list was on the kitchen table back at home.

I think I must have prepared myself for the worse, for it wasn't all that bad. I rehearsed what I could remember from my list, and headed up and down the aisles. There wasn't even a line at the check out (which is the advantage of shopping at a busy time that time of day––all the cashiers are actually working at their check-out stations.)

Sailed on home. The shopping list was not waiting for me on the table, but I found it later somewhere else. And I hadn't forgotten a thing on it. Exhausting, isn't it? And not quite like the Wednesday once-a-week shopping my mother did at the corner grocery store!

I'm a little busy right now ...

clc photo

birthday bliss

I had a quiet birthday.  Fitting that it be a bit sober on this birthday before a new decade. The Gardener asked me the day before what I would like to do for my birthday. I told him the truth. "Nothing."  My dream of a day. We were in the mountains for a week, in a wonderful cabin friends excitedly asked us if we wouldn't want to use it for a week. ("Of course.") It was tucked far away in a national forest in Western North Carolina ... near a beautiful lake.

So I got my wish. This is what I did. I slept in (well 'til 8 a.m.) and woke up slowly (isn't that a luxury).... Had a leisurely breakfast on the wonderful porch. Went for a walk in the woods, up the hill to beautiful views of the lake and mountains. And I read, read, and read on the porch ... and even took a nap (that wonderful kind where you are so relaxed you nod off while reading and wake up 30 minutes later). I got two phone calls (cell phones don't work there, but they do have a land line): youngest wishing me a happy birthday, and another call with some special news that could not wait for our return.  I already forget what dvd we watched that night, but it was my choice. And the meals were not memorable in what they were, but memorable because they were eaten at the porch table. A quiet day ... just what the birthday girl ordered.  A  little corner of bliss!

The Sowing Begins

"Thank the Lord, the rains have finally come. It is very late in the year to begin sowing but people have no choice. At first the rain was hit and miss in places but almost every one has been able to begin now. For many the difficulty will be in getting bullocks to plow. There are so few available and people line up to give their name and ask for help from those who have them. Now is when there is a lot of hard work to do and little food to give the energy and strength to do it. With the rain come more mosquitoes and the chance for a malaria attack."

A letter from a friend in northern Ghana reminds me of how easy life is for us here, and how difficult it is for much of the rest of the world. In the north of Ghana, simply put, they totally depend on the rains for their gardens and farms, and therefore their subsistence. It truly puts the relative ease of my life in perspective.

unknown photographer