Tevye shouts "Tradition!" as he sings and points to a fiddler on the roof. I consider his "tradition" as referring to a way of life as it always had been. At this time of year, we think of tradition as what meaningful things we do on holidays, especially, from year to year.
When we sought out our roots at the family reunion last summer, few of us knew what really went on inside the walls of the houses our fathers lived in. Exactly how did they celebrate holidays? What traditions did they practice year after year? More than likely, without being aware, we are following many of the same traditions. Since we practice traditions with our children that we did in our childhood, it's probable that those traditions were part of our parents growing up as well. There have been modifications for sure, but it is likely we are more connected than we realize to the traditions those houses would surely tell us about--if they could.
Last month I read an article about the importance of empty nesters developing new traditions. It's hard to maintain all that you did when your kids were growing up, now that they are beginning their own families and traditions. Chief and I started a new tradition a few years ago of going to the city symphony's annual eclectic Christmas concert. Tucked way up at the economic top of the gorgeous orchestra hall, we may not see every facial expression on the performers way down below, but the acoustics are flawless and the music delightful. What a great way to start up the Christmas holiday. This year as I snuggled against my husband's warm arm, I was particularly aware of the grace in our lives and the gift that we have to be together this Christmas. After a fall of much uncertainty and scary doctor visits, we are thankful for reasonable health and the opportunity to continue to enjoy each other for today, and hopefully tomorrow ... and practice old and new traditions!
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Just Three
Both of my sons are creative. But the older one has a particular twist to his creativity that brings a smile. I remember years ago we arrived home one afternoon to learn the new gleam to his old red jeep came from a good rub with WD 40. This little Sumarai, cast off to him by a friend, he hopes to fix up for a cheaper ride to work. Meanwhile he painted it black to cover up a multitude of messes. And yes, he used just three cans of black spray paint.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Little Women Revisited
What a treat to have a lovely young lady play beautifully on our "Little Women" piano this afternoon!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
78 Years Young
My grandmother was always full of life and lots of fun. I never thought of her as old, as she had a youthful spirit about her. May I be so at that age!
The Attic Gang
No words are needed to caption this reunion of Wheaton College friends. The guys all lived together in an attic of sorts. All made an impact in this world––superb mothers (of 9, 7, 4 and 3 kids), two preachers, businessmen and entrepreneurs. Seven are having a great celebration in heaven this Christmas, while three are here missing them.
Little Women
This is how I envision the piano may have looked as the March women gathered around to sing at Christmas time. At least that's what I thought after I finished messing around with this greenery.
Frosty, Not the Snow Man
A young man with cerebral palsy awkwardly made his way to our car when we were at the Wendy's Drive-up and offered us a coupon book for a dollar. The entire dollar would go to Dave's Adoption Foundation. And for our dollar we got ten coupons for 6 oz frosties...that is, totally free, no hitches or glitches. Not a bad deal, and a great cause. (Almost makes you feel guilty using the coupons.) Furthermore, Wendy's now has vanilla frosties. So we indulged. The now battered coupon book tossed around at the bottom of my purse is a sort of secret comfort...there if we need a quick fix. Only six ounces--that's practically a diet frosty.
We were visiting our son and his wife overnight and I gave them a couple of coupons ... how generous of me! But that's not the frosty that this post is about. The frost bit is something we discovered this weekend and laughed and laughed about. Two times my Christmas cookies were brought up in conversation. (The Tradition of particular Christmas cookies is an important part of the Christmas season. I had been planning to skip a large portion of this Tradition until these conversations occurred.) "Chief" husband began talking enthusiastically about my "frozen butterscotch mounds." "They are so cool and crisp as they come out of the freezer." Full stop. They are not meant to be frozen desserts. They are meant to be kept in a cookie tin on top of the frig. We suddenly realized what he was talking about. I make the cookies and then they are stashed away deep in the freezer, hidden, or so I think––until some magical day (whenever that is) when suddenly all the Christmas cookies come out of hiding and are "free game." Obviously Chief had done a lot of scavenging about in the deep dark corners of the freezer to remember those cookies as "frozen." Big smile here.
But later Son and wife asked if I would be sure to make my delicious frozen fudge for when they come home at Christmas. Frozen fudge? I don't recall it. Oh yes, same deal as above. It's all about hiding the cookies or fudge in the freezer!
My poor family fondly remembers mainly frozen Christmas cookies? What a hoot!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Rose Colored Glasses
The first time I remember experiencing rose colored glasses was looking out on the formal garden at Windsor Castle. I must have picked up some cheap sunglasses somewhere in London and put them on when we walked out on the balcony to view the garden. I still remember its exquisite beauty. But when I took the glasses off, I was appalled at the difference. For the garden was still lovely, but had lost its vivid luster and gleam.
The other day, driving along while admiring the beauty of the fall colors, I pulled an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment. The leaves on the trees instantly turned to a brilliant gold and orange and red. The beauty was almost breathtaking, but not so when I pulled the glasses down my nose and looked above them. I was reminded of rose colored glasses and the phrase "looking at the world through rose colored glasses."
So I decided to do some research. Google of course. Every mention of the phrase, of which there aren't many, has sort of negative connotations. For instance, parents tend to view their children through rose colored glasses, and they should wake up and realize their kids aren't all that great. I found references to it being viewed as "a cheerful optimistic" view of the world; and some "unfortunate people never take their glasses off." The phrase goes back at least 150 years when "it is first recorded in 'Tom Brown at Oxford': 'Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain. He continued to behold towers, and quadrangles, and chapels through rose-colored glasses.'" (From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson.)
Maybe rose colored glasses show us a bit of what heaven will be like. Maybe if we always "wear rose colored glasses," we may not pay attention to our fallen world, or see things that need to be cared for or dealt with. Nonetheless, a little more optimism might not hurt any of us. And I'm thinking that with a world-view that a relationship with God provides, the world should be viewed with rose-colored glasses. For, as my five-year-old niece recently told me, "All that God made is very good." No matter what difficulties occur in life, we know all is allowed by God and touched by His hand.
I'll keep those rose colored glasses in the glove compartment. When I enjoy the view of life they give me, I'll be reminded that all that God made is very good.
The other day, driving along while admiring the beauty of the fall colors, I pulled an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment. The leaves on the trees instantly turned to a brilliant gold and orange and red. The beauty was almost breathtaking, but not so when I pulled the glasses down my nose and looked above them. I was reminded of rose colored glasses and the phrase "looking at the world through rose colored glasses."
So I decided to do some research. Google of course. Every mention of the phrase, of which there aren't many, has sort of negative connotations. For instance, parents tend to view their children through rose colored glasses, and they should wake up and realize their kids aren't all that great. I found references to it being viewed as "a cheerful optimistic" view of the world; and some "unfortunate people never take their glasses off." The phrase goes back at least 150 years when "it is first recorded in 'Tom Brown at Oxford': 'Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain. He continued to behold towers, and quadrangles, and chapels through rose-colored glasses.'" (From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson.)
Maybe rose colored glasses show us a bit of what heaven will be like. Maybe if we always "wear rose colored glasses," we may not pay attention to our fallen world, or see things that need to be cared for or dealt with. Nonetheless, a little more optimism might not hurt any of us. And I'm thinking that with a world-view that a relationship with God provides, the world should be viewed with rose-colored glasses. For, as my five-year-old niece recently told me, "All that God made is very good." No matter what difficulties occur in life, we know all is allowed by God and touched by His hand.
I'll keep those rose colored glasses in the glove compartment. When I enjoy the view of life they give me, I'll be reminded that all that God made is very good.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The most dangerous road in the world
Finally I have proof of the dangerous road we traveled more than a decade ago, from the high city of LaPaz down to the Amazon jungle. Our little family of four plus two other men in a VW bug loaded with barb wire on the roof. My husband had a bruised knee from this trip. No guard rails, etc. It was an amazing ride and we're thankful to be alive to tell the story!
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Personal Relationships
I welcome fall this year like never before. Maybe it's because of challenging times recently with illness and the need for refreshment and looking to better times. Or it might be the wonderful change of temperature––a crispness to the air that renews energy after the heat of summer. Whatever the reason is, I stop and take note of beautiful colors and a new season for new beginnings. Our drive up to Pennsylvania Amish country a few weeks ago marvelously attacked our senses...autumn colors, rich farmland ready for harvest rest, pumpkins galore, and homes tastefully decorated for the season.
The poison has left my body with lingering side effects to the treatment and some delicate skin in need of repair. The wonders of prednisone amaze me as I experienced some good (wide-eyed clarity of thinking, forgotten pain from arthritis, and energy to do many projects long-neglected) and bad (think "balloon") side effects. The chief's health has been one scare after another recently, and even more so this week––a week that seems like a year long, as every nook and cranny of his heart is poked and prodded. We experience God-instilled peace as we wait for answers. We are thankful all is well so far, with one corner yet to walk around.
Today is a big leaf day. Sagging gutters, full driveway, cluttered grasses––leaves everywhere. They are falling rapidly, but a mere tip of the iceberg to come. As I mow and bag and blow and dump, I know it will start all over again in a couple of days as the multicolored leaves dance down to my doorstep. I look up, up, up––way up to the tops of the trees and down again, and think how before it's over and any possible snow flies (yeah right), I will have a personal relationship with each and every leaf in those trees.
And you thought this might be a blog entry on something spiritual possibly. All of life relates in some way to spiritual things. We see that from our gratitude for a new (lease on) life the chief* feels he's been given, to the simple glories of changing seasons––personal relationships with fallen leaves included.
*my husband's college knickname
The poison has left my body with lingering side effects to the treatment and some delicate skin in need of repair. The wonders of prednisone amaze me as I experienced some good (wide-eyed clarity of thinking, forgotten pain from arthritis, and energy to do many projects long-neglected) and bad (think "balloon") side effects. The chief's health has been one scare after another recently, and even more so this week––a week that seems like a year long, as every nook and cranny of his heart is poked and prodded. We experience God-instilled peace as we wait for answers. We are thankful all is well so far, with one corner yet to walk around.
Today is a big leaf day. Sagging gutters, full driveway, cluttered grasses––leaves everywhere. They are falling rapidly, but a mere tip of the iceberg to come. As I mow and bag and blow and dump, I know it will start all over again in a couple of days as the multicolored leaves dance down to my doorstep. I look up, up, up––way up to the tops of the trees and down again, and think how before it's over and any possible snow flies (yeah right), I will have a personal relationship with each and every leaf in those trees.
And you thought this might be a blog entry on something spiritual possibly. All of life relates in some way to spiritual things. We see that from our gratitude for a new (lease on) life the chief* feels he's been given, to the simple glories of changing seasons––personal relationships with fallen leaves included.
*my husband's college knickname
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I Won––But Even More, Be Aware!
" I never win anything." I hear lots of people say that, and it certainly is true for me––or was. Today some nurses came to where I work with pink bags and lots of information about breast cancer (October is the pink month.) It's interesting that there is new technology (only one place in town offers it now) that is so much more accurate at picking up tumors. We were reminded about all the risks and good things to do to prevent breast cancer. There were candy kisses of varying chocolate choices, and mini donuts to entice us to listen to their five minute inservice. The fatty sweets were a humorous mixed signal. And we wrote our names on scraps of paper for a drawing.
Not long after the nurses were back with a pink package for ME. I actually won something. I think it was that fact more than what the package contained that added a small inner smile to the day. My name actually came forth out of a drawing bag. What did I find when I tore the pink tissue away? A tiny pink ribbon pin, and a pair of sox with pink writing that said, "Awareness." That's what this month is all about. Be aware, be knowledgeable about this killer disease.
Not long after the nurses were back with a pink package for ME. I actually won something. I think it was that fact more than what the package contained that added a small inner smile to the day. My name actually came forth out of a drawing bag. What did I find when I tore the pink tissue away? A tiny pink ribbon pin, and a pair of sox with pink writing that said, "Awareness." That's what this month is all about. Be aware, be knowledgeable about this killer disease.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Walmart, By Prayer
Our Walmart is huge, and I'm never too excited to visit it. But family is coming this weekend so I'll be cooking for 15 and needed to go. There's just too many bargains to not take advantage. I worked hard on my list, practically had it memorized. This time I wrote out each meal's ingredients with an individual shopping list and then transferred that to a "master" list. Wow, I was ready to go. Four pm is not the best time to be at a busy Walmart, but off I went, praying on my way.
Why pray before shopping, one may ask. It's a matter of panic attacks, which I've been known to have at Walmart. About halfway through a major shopping I can suddenly feel stifled, attacked by the crowded aisles and a feeling that I can't get another thing and I have to get out of there fast. May sound strange to others, but that's me. So I garnished or girded this trip with prayer, before, during and afterwards, a breath of thanksgiving. This time I found the aisles manageable. I remembered almost the whole list without looking and rarely had to circle back for something. But even when I got to the main ingredient aisles that always get busy (oh boy, I forgot today was a holiday so it was even more crowded), I found myself maneuvering the crowds with my heavy cart, smiling at people, even making a few comments like you do when you find yourself looking for the same food item with another person. Two Mormon looking young men (dead giveaway short sleeve white shirts and ties) came through smiling and excusing themselves in every direction. That was pleasant and people responded pleasantly to them.
By the time I reached the check out counters my back hardly hurt and I was feeling pretty on top of things. I looked at the lines and chose what looked like a nice checker. She was Latino and I hadn't seen her before. I made some friendly comments about the lower grade bags that all the checkers have been complaining about and when she didn't respond much, I wondered how her English was. Then I realized she was new, and this was the icing on the whole cake of the shopping experience. It was her first day checking alone. As I questioned her I found her English fine, but she was very nervous and unsure of herself. So I had my chance to affirm her and I did so with great gusto. I told her what a wonderful job she did and I that I would be back to her counter next time. I left her smiling. I even smiled a good bye to the door guard who didn't want to see my slip for some reason. What a worthwhile trip, even if there hadn't been groceries.
I think it may have been my best trip ever to Walmart.
Why pray before shopping, one may ask. It's a matter of panic attacks, which I've been known to have at Walmart. About halfway through a major shopping I can suddenly feel stifled, attacked by the crowded aisles and a feeling that I can't get another thing and I have to get out of there fast. May sound strange to others, but that's me. So I garnished or girded this trip with prayer, before, during and afterwards, a breath of thanksgiving. This time I found the aisles manageable. I remembered almost the whole list without looking and rarely had to circle back for something. But even when I got to the main ingredient aisles that always get busy (oh boy, I forgot today was a holiday so it was even more crowded), I found myself maneuvering the crowds with my heavy cart, smiling at people, even making a few comments like you do when you find yourself looking for the same food item with another person. Two Mormon looking young men (dead giveaway short sleeve white shirts and ties) came through smiling and excusing themselves in every direction. That was pleasant and people responded pleasantly to them.
By the time I reached the check out counters my back hardly hurt and I was feeling pretty on top of things. I looked at the lines and chose what looked like a nice checker. She was Latino and I hadn't seen her before. I made some friendly comments about the lower grade bags that all the checkers have been complaining about and when she didn't respond much, I wondered how her English was. Then I realized she was new, and this was the icing on the whole cake of the shopping experience. It was her first day checking alone. As I questioned her I found her English fine, but she was very nervous and unsure of herself. So I had my chance to affirm her and I did so with great gusto. I told her what a wonderful job she did and I that I would be back to her counter next time. I left her smiling. I even smiled a good bye to the door guard who didn't want to see my slip for some reason. What a worthwhile trip, even if there hadn't been groceries.
I think it may have been my best trip ever to Walmart.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Awful Wonders of Poison
It was such a beautiful day! A warm sunny day with fall in the air. Spouse was safely home from the hospital and even feeling like puttering just a bit outside. I did the lawn and dumped the clippings in the back woods, checking oh so very carefully for the poison ivy that attacked me so vigorously a year ago. All done, I didn't want to go in. The day was too nice, besides there was weeding and cleaning out of vines and bushes that had gone too long neglected. I got busy. Pretty sweaty too. Wow I got a lot done. A great sense of accomplishment.
Several days later, driving home from work, I noticed two bumps on my leg that itched. Must have gotten bitten by something. Then two more "bites" on my chest. (You would think I would have remembered a year ago, turning the house upside down cleaning, convinced there were bugs infesting something.) Well, duh, I finally get what it is. But still leave it, thinking this can't be as bad a case as last time. No scratching this time, but still it spreads daily and weeps and looks like leprosy or something. This is true POISON inside me. I am amazed at it's power. Finally treated, the poison is still taking its sweet old time to leave my body. And I get to suffer side effects of the treatment as well. What we are thinking in this household is, "When will life get back to normal?"
Several days later, driving home from work, I noticed two bumps on my leg that itched. Must have gotten bitten by something. Then two more "bites" on my chest. (You would think I would have remembered a year ago, turning the house upside down cleaning, convinced there were bugs infesting something.) Well, duh, I finally get what it is. But still leave it, thinking this can't be as bad a case as last time. No scratching this time, but still it spreads daily and weeps and looks like leprosy or something. This is true POISON inside me. I am amazed at it's power. Finally treated, the poison is still taking its sweet old time to leave my body. And I get to suffer side effects of the treatment as well. What we are thinking in this household is, "When will life get back to normal?"
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Conversation
Wife: (stupid question) Do you think there could be some kind of curse on you or your family? (After a fourth near-death experience.)
Husband: No.
Wife: Sins of the father being visited on the offspring?
Husband: No.
Wife: Why this incredible list of maladies you've had the last 35 years, especially this one?
Husband: So God can be glorified.
Wife: I can think of other ways.
Husband: You're not in charge.
After another serious bout for my husband with life threatening P.E.s (many clots in both lungs) this week, we are home from the hospital. The effect of it all starts to hit me. As I vacuum, I feel sad and wonder if I should start questioning "why." I stop vacuuming and thus begins another conversation:
Wife: Why? And why you?
Husband: Don't even waste your emotions thinking that way. Just stop right now.
Wife: But....
Husband: I'm kind of curious and excited about what God is going to do with this, and because of this. And I know He'll get glory in how we respond to it.
So now the nitty gritty starts. The big test. By faith and many praying, we've gotten through the main crisis. But how will I continue to respond as I process it all? How will I manage watching my beloved struggle with frequent blood tests, trips to the doctor, always fearful of eating too much spinach, always watching for bleeding, remembering to keep his legs moving, to take his afternoon Coumadin.... In faith? And to His glory? Or, with fear of a next time. Begging him home from travel in the deadly skies or the long drives (both bad for clots). A friend writes, "Don't give in to fear and stay home under a blanket for the rest of your life."
It's a daily determined uphill walk, garnering strength for faith, through the One who not only enables faith, but also receives it and is glorified through it. It's all about Christ being central in our lives. It's all about a willingness to sacrifice too, but that's a conversation for another day.
Husband: No.
Wife: Sins of the father being visited on the offspring?
Husband: No.
Wife: Why this incredible list of maladies you've had the last 35 years, especially this one?
Husband: So God can be glorified.
Wife: I can think of other ways.
Husband: You're not in charge.
After another serious bout for my husband with life threatening P.E.s (many clots in both lungs) this week, we are home from the hospital. The effect of it all starts to hit me. As I vacuum, I feel sad and wonder if I should start questioning "why." I stop vacuuming and thus begins another conversation:
Wife: Why? And why you?
Husband: Don't even waste your emotions thinking that way. Just stop right now.
Wife: But....
Husband: I'm kind of curious and excited about what God is going to do with this, and because of this. And I know He'll get glory in how we respond to it.
So now the nitty gritty starts. The big test. By faith and many praying, we've gotten through the main crisis. But how will I continue to respond as I process it all? How will I manage watching my beloved struggle with frequent blood tests, trips to the doctor, always fearful of eating too much spinach, always watching for bleeding, remembering to keep his legs moving, to take his afternoon Coumadin.... In faith? And to His glory? Or, with fear of a next time. Begging him home from travel in the deadly skies or the long drives (both bad for clots). A friend writes, "Don't give in to fear and stay home under a blanket for the rest of your life."
It's a daily determined uphill walk, garnering strength for faith, through the One who not only enables faith, but also receives it and is glorified through it. It's all about Christ being central in our lives. It's all about a willingness to sacrifice too, but that's a conversation for another day.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
What You Can Fit on a Train
The tall, bearded 40-something man with a large knapsack on his back walks into the train station pushing a bicycle loaded down with a bedroll and assorted bags attached at the handlebars, in sidebaskets, and behind the seat. Following closely comes his wife riding a handicapped electric cart. I think they fit about as much tucked in and around her cart as one could fit in a small car! It practically is the size of a small car! Collapsed tent, bedroll, lawnchairs, knapsacks, umbrella, a giant cooler....it is an amazing sight to see. Apparently they are on some sort of camping expedition, but now it's time to ride the rails. They head for the platform to catch the next train to Brighton.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Pricey Skirts and Penguin PJs
I guess there are some women in town today who are excited that the new Neiman Marcus has opened its doors. The news of 1900 dollar skirts is buzzing around. This morning while driving home I listened to a local talk show host phone his wife toward the end of his show. "Honey, I want to apologize that I've never bought you a $1900 skirt."
"That's okay, dear, there's a lot better things to do with $1900 than spend it on a skirt."
"But," he continues, "I've never been able to buy you $800 boots."
"That's still okay. Even if I had married a rich man I would not buy $800 boots. It's not my style. It's not how I was raised. There are more important things in life."
"Honey, where did you buy those penguin pajamas you wear?" His patient wife names the store, saying they were two for $20. "And the frog ones?"
"The same store; each piece is $10 and you can intermix them. Penguins with frogs if you like." As the strains of a Johnny Cash song begin, he wraps up his show saying, "You don't know how many men envy me––going home to a wife with penguin pajamas."
I doubt everyone hangs on to the values he or she was raised with, for whatever reason. But I think this guy is pleased as could be that his wife did. (As, my husband declares, is he). I think the radio guy really is proud to be going home to those penguin pajamas, two for $20.
"That's okay, dear, there's a lot better things to do with $1900 than spend it on a skirt."
"But," he continues, "I've never been able to buy you $800 boots."
"That's still okay. Even if I had married a rich man I would not buy $800 boots. It's not my style. It's not how I was raised. There are more important things in life."
"Honey, where did you buy those penguin pajamas you wear?" His patient wife names the store, saying they were two for $20. "And the frog ones?"
"The same store; each piece is $10 and you can intermix them. Penguins with frogs if you like." As the strains of a Johnny Cash song begin, he wraps up his show saying, "You don't know how many men envy me––going home to a wife with penguin pajamas."
I doubt everyone hangs on to the values he or she was raised with, for whatever reason. But I think this guy is pleased as could be that his wife did. (As, my husband declares, is he). I think the radio guy really is proud to be going home to those penguin pajamas, two for $20.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Come for Tea
A silly "thrill of a lifetime" for me was being served a true Dorset tea by an English woman in her 250 year old house in the little town of Wareham, surrounded by Saxon walls (though half the size of what they had originally been). This is living in real history. The old house is in incredible shape, with inside shutters and an amazing English garden in the back. This is one of those houses whose door opens right up on the winding village street, each house attached to the next.
We entered through the tiny car park at the back gate. The "coffee" table was laid with the tea things. Napkins, small sterling silver butter knives, small blue and white plates, cups and saucers, and the cream and sugar. After we had given our greetings, we sat down and out came the tea pot, a plate of buttered scones, a plate of buttered raisin toast and a Dorset apple loaf cake. And of course, raspberry jam and divine clotted cream that was the "cream of the crop." The very finest top of the cream. It looked like yellow butter. The proper way, though much debated, is to put the jam on first and then a touch of the cream. Milk in the teacup first of course. Mmmmmm. Around and around the lovely goodies were passed. "You must have some more." It seemed the thing to take more than one, and have seconds at that. (This type of nonsense must only be allowed because the Brits walk so much!) I was so touched. I just sat and thoroughly enjoyed the moment, taking it all in, not believing I was where I was.
Interesting conversation with the tea preceded a tour of the house. Then we walked down the road to the 11th century parish church...where there was a flower festival wrapping up. We saw a cast iron baptismal font that was carefully hidden when Lord Cromwell turned anything made of iron into canon balls. The church had been burned once, rebuilt, and at one time fell down. But the very front chapel in one corner is original. It is now a prayer room. As I stared at the small chairs gathered for their current mid week prayer service, I could not help but sense history in a tangible way. Here believers had gathered throughout history and prayed for things like the Black Plague, the French Revolution, the War of 1812--you get the picture. This is the site where Edward's, the brief King of England, body had initially laid (in the 900s) after being murdered by his stepmother's aide, in order that her younger son become king. Later his body was sent to Dorchester.
We also heard the story of a mother whose son had died in France in the war, his body never found. In despair the mother herself years later went to the battlefield where he had fallen. She ate some food while she sat remembering his life, later burying the rubbish in the ground. As she dug she struck something--and found it was something of her son's belongings. An excavation soon took place and in no time her son's body had been found and brought back to Wareham to be buried. True story! There was a flower memorial in the church to this young soldier.
OK, this is the final bit about our trip to England!
We entered through the tiny car park at the back gate. The "coffee" table was laid with the tea things. Napkins, small sterling silver butter knives, small blue and white plates, cups and saucers, and the cream and sugar. After we had given our greetings, we sat down and out came the tea pot, a plate of buttered scones, a plate of buttered raisin toast and a Dorset apple loaf cake. And of course, raspberry jam and divine clotted cream that was the "cream of the crop." The very finest top of the cream. It looked like yellow butter. The proper way, though much debated, is to put the jam on first and then a touch of the cream. Milk in the teacup first of course. Mmmmmm. Around and around the lovely goodies were passed. "You must have some more." It seemed the thing to take more than one, and have seconds at that. (This type of nonsense must only be allowed because the Brits walk so much!) I was so touched. I just sat and thoroughly enjoyed the moment, taking it all in, not believing I was where I was.
Interesting conversation with the tea preceded a tour of the house. Then we walked down the road to the 11th century parish church...where there was a flower festival wrapping up. We saw a cast iron baptismal font that was carefully hidden when Lord Cromwell turned anything made of iron into canon balls. The church had been burned once, rebuilt, and at one time fell down. But the very front chapel in one corner is original. It is now a prayer room. As I stared at the small chairs gathered for their current mid week prayer service, I could not help but sense history in a tangible way. Here believers had gathered throughout history and prayed for things like the Black Plague, the French Revolution, the War of 1812--you get the picture. This is the site where Edward's, the brief King of England, body had initially laid (in the 900s) after being murdered by his stepmother's aide, in order that her younger son become king. Later his body was sent to Dorchester.
We also heard the story of a mother whose son had died in France in the war, his body never found. In despair the mother herself years later went to the battlefield where he had fallen. She ate some food while she sat remembering his life, later burying the rubbish in the ground. As she dug she struck something--and found it was something of her son's belongings. An excavation soon took place and in no time her son's body had been found and brought back to Wareham to be buried. True story! There was a flower memorial in the church to this young soldier.
OK, this is the final bit about our trip to England!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
First Class Feet
There's a mesh curtain that flight attendants are very careful to keep closed during flights, even though it's a pain to unfasten it as they move about the plane. It separates the first or envoy class from the common folk. You can see through it, but I guess it's a barrier/reminder NOT to use the envoy bathrooms. That's against the rules. But, apparently, tourist feet by themselves are okay to go through the "great divide."
When we waited in the "preferred flyer" US Air lounge in Gatwick this week, the young woman behind the desk worked her craft to get us into Row 8, the "bulkhead"(with my very tall husband's medical history he has some "clot clout"). She claimed she got us the "very best seat." (Was God reserving it for us? Where were the babies that needed it for their cots?). The deal was, with four seats across, the row end seats in the bulkhead have nothing but space in front of them. Ah, stretching room! Right under the curtain and into first class went my tall husband's feet. No complaints from any sensitive envoy noses either. His feet rode first class the whole way across the Atlantic! Does God have a sense of humor or what?
When we waited in the "preferred flyer" US Air lounge in Gatwick this week, the young woman behind the desk worked her craft to get us into Row 8, the "bulkhead"(with my very tall husband's medical history he has some "clot clout"). She claimed she got us the "very best seat." (Was God reserving it for us? Where were the babies that needed it for their cots?). The deal was, with four seats across, the row end seats in the bulkhead have nothing but space in front of them. Ah, stretching room! Right under the curtain and into first class went my tall husband's feet. No complaints from any sensitive envoy noses either. His feet rode first class the whole way across the Atlantic! Does God have a sense of humor or what?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Holey Clogs
Months ago when we booked our flight to the United Kingdom, only God knew that we would be flying on the day the London Heathrow terrorist plot broke loose, and therefore all airports and travel were a mass of confusion. Throughout our departure day we fielded calls and e-mails from concerned friends, family and neighbors. Would we still go?
We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?
The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!
It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.
Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.
Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.
Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"
"Yes, many times."
"Do you generally get there in one piece?"
"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.
We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?
The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!
It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.
Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.
Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.
Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"
"Yes, many times."
"Do you generally get there in one piece?"
"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
