Every year along about the end of February, when things really need to start looking toward spring in order to bring the human soul out of winter, I watch, wait, and listen for the return of robins to Indiana. Other birds may be more beautiful or have sweeter songs, but to me, robins are one of the first signs of renewal and new life. They are a part of the natural order of things. Just as the sun will come up in the morning, so will the robins return to the north country near my birthday.
Every year, I watch for them. I know they will come, just as sure as I know my own name, but what joy it gives me to see my first robins of the season! It doesn't count if others have seen them already. I have to have my own personal witness in order to be reassured that all's right with the world. And today, February 27, 2019, I saw several of them in a yard just down the street from home. They're here! I can breathe now!
Welcome, little birdies of springtime! I will sing the sun up with you in the morning!
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Domestic Archaeological Dig
My birthday approacheth, and with that comes the expiration of my driver's license. The online reminders that I got about that didn't happen to mention that, in Indiana, one can only renew a license online every OTHER time. I needed to go to the license branch to renew, since the last time I renewed was online. Oookaayy.
In the process of trying to renew online, I came across the information that my so-far secure driver's license would no longer allow me on airplanes after 10/1/2020. I need what is called a REAL-ID.
In order to get a REAL-ID, I need to provide a birth certificate, an SS card, a document to show name change, and proof that I have bills in my name. No problem. I've lived in this same house since 1992...blah, blah. I absolutely knew where my documents were. All I had to do was gather them together to get my REAL-ID.
Guess what? My folder that says "Important Documents" on it, that I absolutely KNEW where it was, wasn't there. The Important Documents folder contains my birth certificate, my marriage information, etc...but I can't find it. I've looked everywhere. Even my cleaning lady has assisted. Nope. Nowhere. It's frustrating! I'm looking into how to get replacement documents, thankful that I still have a lot of time to do it, but upset that I have to go there. SOMEWHERE in this house is the info I need. Just as soon as I replace it, it will show up. Trust me! In the meantime, I am digging and digging in the chaotic file system to try to create order, so that the next time a document is required, I might be able to find it. I hope it happens in my lifetime. Otherwise, my poor daughter will have to deal with it after I croak.
My new bedtime prayer is:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my life to keep,
Until I have my business done,
So all I leave will be just fun.
Amen!
In the process of trying to renew online, I came across the information that my so-far secure driver's license would no longer allow me on airplanes after 10/1/2020. I need what is called a REAL-ID.
In order to get a REAL-ID, I need to provide a birth certificate, an SS card, a document to show name change, and proof that I have bills in my name. No problem. I've lived in this same house since 1992...blah, blah. I absolutely knew where my documents were. All I had to do was gather them together to get my REAL-ID.
Guess what? My folder that says "Important Documents" on it, that I absolutely KNEW where it was, wasn't there. The Important Documents folder contains my birth certificate, my marriage information, etc...but I can't find it. I've looked everywhere. Even my cleaning lady has assisted. Nope. Nowhere. It's frustrating! I'm looking into how to get replacement documents, thankful that I still have a lot of time to do it, but upset that I have to go there. SOMEWHERE in this house is the info I need. Just as soon as I replace it, it will show up. Trust me! In the meantime, I am digging and digging in the chaotic file system to try to create order, so that the next time a document is required, I might be able to find it. I hope it happens in my lifetime. Otherwise, my poor daughter will have to deal with it after I croak.
My new bedtime prayer is:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my life to keep,
Until I have my business done,
So all I leave will be just fun.
Amen!
Friday, February 22, 2019
My Guy Brian
When I moved to Plainfield, IN, from Cloverdale, IN, in 1991, I left behind a hairdresser that I liked. For a cycle or two, I made appointments with her in Cloverdale, but Cdale is 30 miles from Plainfield. It wasn't going to work.
Not sure how I came to be a client of Hair Designs by Brian. Can't remember if I just looked in the Yellow Pages of the phone book or what. I chose Brian, or someone did, and I started getting my hairs cut with him on a regular basis. Had him cut it again today, but my how things have changed!
When I first started with Bri, he was married to a woman and had kids. One day over a Thanksgiving weekend, I caught the two of them on a Jenny Jones show on TV. Whaaaat?
Next thing I knew Brian and wife were divorced, and his focus had changed to men. Bri was bisexual in those days. I think he is simply gay now. I sat as a captive audience to his filthy jokes in those early years, but he soon mellowed out. He had some hard times, and I had some hard times, but he always made room for me in his schedule even though I didn't have enough hair to do much with. I stuck with him through HIS hard times, and there are advantages to that. Once, he even came to my house to cut my hair on my patio. It was a nice touch.
My hair--what's left of it--is thin, fine, and curly. Just over a year ago, I got weary of the way it looked and gave way to wearing a wig--a gift from my daughter. (Jeannie is the wig's name. She is my close companion.) Brian's whole function in my life now is not to make my hair easier to style but to make it easier to fit under Jeannie.
I didn't keep records, but I think Brian has been my hairdresser for about 25 years. Even my marriage didn't last that long! We have a bond, of sorts. Do I care if he is homosexual? No. Not even a little. That has nothing to do with me. Do I need to stand on my Christian morals and reject him? No. He is my friend. After all of these years, we hug when I leave his shop. Will his gayness besmirch me because I support his business with my dollars and attendance? I can't speak for what others may think, but I say nope. God don't make no junk.
It probably won't happen in my lifetime, but I pray for the day that my guy Brian can exist without a label. How hard is that??
Not sure how I came to be a client of Hair Designs by Brian. Can't remember if I just looked in the Yellow Pages of the phone book or what. I chose Brian, or someone did, and I started getting my hairs cut with him on a regular basis. Had him cut it again today, but my how things have changed!
When I first started with Bri, he was married to a woman and had kids. One day over a Thanksgiving weekend, I caught the two of them on a Jenny Jones show on TV. Whaaaat?
Next thing I knew Brian and wife were divorced, and his focus had changed to men. Bri was bisexual in those days. I think he is simply gay now. I sat as a captive audience to his filthy jokes in those early years, but he soon mellowed out. He had some hard times, and I had some hard times, but he always made room for me in his schedule even though I didn't have enough hair to do much with. I stuck with him through HIS hard times, and there are advantages to that. Once, he even came to my house to cut my hair on my patio. It was a nice touch.
My hair--what's left of it--is thin, fine, and curly. Just over a year ago, I got weary of the way it looked and gave way to wearing a wig--a gift from my daughter. (Jeannie is the wig's name. She is my close companion.) Brian's whole function in my life now is not to make my hair easier to style but to make it easier to fit under Jeannie.
I didn't keep records, but I think Brian has been my hairdresser for about 25 years. Even my marriage didn't last that long! We have a bond, of sorts. Do I care if he is homosexual? No. Not even a little. That has nothing to do with me. Do I need to stand on my Christian morals and reject him? No. He is my friend. After all of these years, we hug when I leave his shop. Will his gayness besmirch me because I support his business with my dollars and attendance? I can't speak for what others may think, but I say nope. God don't make no junk.
It probably won't happen in my lifetime, but I pray for the day that my guy Brian can exist without a label. How hard is that??
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Unexpected Treasure
Plainfield, Indiana, where I live, is Quaker country. Much of Indiana is. I don't know why. I also don't know much about Quakers (Society of Friends). I know that they are pacifists and good people. I know that the Quakers in Indiana were very much anti-slavery and very active in the Underground Railroad, but that's about the extent of my knowledge. Plainfield is the home of the Yearly Western Meeting House of the Society of Friends, and the high school's teams are called the Quakers. (Now known as Red Pride because the Fighting Quakers wasn't particularly politically correct.) There are Quaker meeting houses/churches all over the rural and semi-rural landscapes in the area.
Quite a few years ago, when my daughter was married to her first husband, Nathan, he took a position as the superintendent of a small, country golf course, known as Friendswood, about six miles from my house. One of the perks of that job included an old house on the property, just for the purpose of keeping him on the grounds 24/7. That little yellow house had some serious issues, but it had one major advantage for a young married couple: it was rent free. The kids had the support of Nathan's family and me, plus a radio friend or two of mine, working full tilt to make the place habitable for them and, soon thereafter, our two grandchildren, born while the family lived there.
Maybe a half-mile north of the little yellow house is a Quaker church--Fairfield Friends Church. Very rural and quaint with a graveyard just adjacent. Truly, were it not so close to the road, it would be the stuff of postcards.
We aren't Quakers. I think Nathan's mother Judy has roots in the Friends Church, but my crew doesn't. Still, if we heard of a public church dinner at Fairfield Friends, or a gift bazaar, we would go. After all, it was only just down the road from the kids'...
Fast forward short of two years. Nathan took a job in Muncie, IN. The kids moved there, less than two hours away. I cried and cried. The yellow house was deemed unfixable with its problems. It was offered to the fire department to be burned for practice, but it didn't pass the asbestos test, and so was rejected (which caused me no small amount of anguish, since my daughter, son-in-law, and grandbabies had lived there). Thus, the little yellow house was torn down. On one of her weekend visits, my daughter and I drove by the semi-demolished house, only to notice a storehouse of walnuts falling out of what once was a bathroom wall, explaining the scritchy-scratchy noises she used to hear in the walls. We saw the half-exposed remnants of what was the children's nursery and toddler bedroom, shed a tear or two, and quickly moved on before we did what Oprah Winfrey calls the Ugly Cry. And that was that. If you go by the site now, you simply wouldn't know that a house ever existed there, except for the cement sidewalk that goes nowhere.
Every once in awhile, I drive by that area just for old times' sake. The Fairfield Friends Church is still there; in fact, it has been expanded, but the sentimental aura of that whole neighborhood is gone for me. Megan and Nathan are no longer married. Megan and Denis are. They now live in the Pacific Northwest, a couple of thousand miles away from me and Nathan and Nathan's parents. But nothing ever stays the same, you know? They all seem happy. That's all I need to hear.
But I digress.
Tuesday of this week, I had occasion to meet with my "team" from our adult Sunday school class, preparing what to do for the spring quarter of class lessons. We met in the library of our church--Plainfield United Methodist--and somehow, in the process of discussing things, someone said something about author Philip Gulley as being a local author of inspirational books. Philip Gulley? Never heard of him....but there, on the shelves, were at least six of his books, all signed by him. One of the gals on my team went through the books to find the first one and set it down in front of me. I felt somewhat obligated to check it out, even though it was labelled as fiction, which is not my favorite genre. I took it home.
Wednesday (yesterday) afternoon, I picked up the book just to see if it really was something I wanted to read. It was. I finished it this morning. What a joy to read! Written by a Quaker pastor, it was a fictional memoir of people and places in the main character's imaginary hometown of Harmony. It was funny. It was poignant. It was a breeze to read--one of the first times that I have ever read something with so special a message in such subtle vignettes. As I read it, I pictured the setting to be just like the Fairfield Friends Church. His characters reminded me so much of the stalwart members of my grandparents' church, the Ancona Church of Christ in Ancona, IL. It's a tiny rural church. The sanctuary has 50 theater-style seats--or did when I was last there. (I counted.) There was Willy Decker, whose wife, Reva, always marched down the aisle clutching her Bible as if she would be contaminated without it. There was Myra Sass, who was stern to the young'uns she taught in Bible School. Clarice Ringer, the pianist. And Great-Uncle Ray Armstrong, grandson of one of the founders of that house of worship, who refused to attend church during Daylight Savings Time because it wasn't "God's time". The author made me laugh and cry in recognition that God's House sometimes contains people that only God could love. I intend to read more of Gulley's books. I'm not easy to impress.
Now, here's the kicker. I didn't know this, but author Philip Gulley happens to be the Reverend Philip Gulley, pastor of the Fairfield Friends Church, just down the road from the now-demolished yellow golf course house where my grandbabies had their beginnings. God works in mysterious ways.
Quite a few years ago, when my daughter was married to her first husband, Nathan, he took a position as the superintendent of a small, country golf course, known as Friendswood, about six miles from my house. One of the perks of that job included an old house on the property, just for the purpose of keeping him on the grounds 24/7. That little yellow house had some serious issues, but it had one major advantage for a young married couple: it was rent free. The kids had the support of Nathan's family and me, plus a radio friend or two of mine, working full tilt to make the place habitable for them and, soon thereafter, our two grandchildren, born while the family lived there.
Maybe a half-mile north of the little yellow house is a Quaker church--Fairfield Friends Church. Very rural and quaint with a graveyard just adjacent. Truly, were it not so close to the road, it would be the stuff of postcards.
We aren't Quakers. I think Nathan's mother Judy has roots in the Friends Church, but my crew doesn't. Still, if we heard of a public church dinner at Fairfield Friends, or a gift bazaar, we would go. After all, it was only just down the road from the kids'...
Fast forward short of two years. Nathan took a job in Muncie, IN. The kids moved there, less than two hours away. I cried and cried. The yellow house was deemed unfixable with its problems. It was offered to the fire department to be burned for practice, but it didn't pass the asbestos test, and so was rejected (which caused me no small amount of anguish, since my daughter, son-in-law, and grandbabies had lived there). Thus, the little yellow house was torn down. On one of her weekend visits, my daughter and I drove by the semi-demolished house, only to notice a storehouse of walnuts falling out of what once was a bathroom wall, explaining the scritchy-scratchy noises she used to hear in the walls. We saw the half-exposed remnants of what was the children's nursery and toddler bedroom, shed a tear or two, and quickly moved on before we did what Oprah Winfrey calls the Ugly Cry. And that was that. If you go by the site now, you simply wouldn't know that a house ever existed there, except for the cement sidewalk that goes nowhere.
Every once in awhile, I drive by that area just for old times' sake. The Fairfield Friends Church is still there; in fact, it has been expanded, but the sentimental aura of that whole neighborhood is gone for me. Megan and Nathan are no longer married. Megan and Denis are. They now live in the Pacific Northwest, a couple of thousand miles away from me and Nathan and Nathan's parents. But nothing ever stays the same, you know? They all seem happy. That's all I need to hear.
But I digress.
Tuesday of this week, I had occasion to meet with my "team" from our adult Sunday school class, preparing what to do for the spring quarter of class lessons. We met in the library of our church--Plainfield United Methodist--and somehow, in the process of discussing things, someone said something about author Philip Gulley as being a local author of inspirational books. Philip Gulley? Never heard of him....but there, on the shelves, were at least six of his books, all signed by him. One of the gals on my team went through the books to find the first one and set it down in front of me. I felt somewhat obligated to check it out, even though it was labelled as fiction, which is not my favorite genre. I took it home.
Wednesday (yesterday) afternoon, I picked up the book just to see if it really was something I wanted to read. It was. I finished it this morning. What a joy to read! Written by a Quaker pastor, it was a fictional memoir of people and places in the main character's imaginary hometown of Harmony. It was funny. It was poignant. It was a breeze to read--one of the first times that I have ever read something with so special a message in such subtle vignettes. As I read it, I pictured the setting to be just like the Fairfield Friends Church. His characters reminded me so much of the stalwart members of my grandparents' church, the Ancona Church of Christ in Ancona, IL. It's a tiny rural church. The sanctuary has 50 theater-style seats--or did when I was last there. (I counted.) There was Willy Decker, whose wife, Reva, always marched down the aisle clutching her Bible as if she would be contaminated without it. There was Myra Sass, who was stern to the young'uns she taught in Bible School. Clarice Ringer, the pianist. And Great-Uncle Ray Armstrong, grandson of one of the founders of that house of worship, who refused to attend church during Daylight Savings Time because it wasn't "God's time". The author made me laugh and cry in recognition that God's House sometimes contains people that only God could love. I intend to read more of Gulley's books. I'm not easy to impress.
Now, here's the kicker. I didn't know this, but author Philip Gulley happens to be the Reverend Philip Gulley, pastor of the Fairfield Friends Church, just down the road from the now-demolished yellow golf course house where my grandbabies had their beginnings. God works in mysterious ways.
Preparing for Company
I don't care who you are, if you expect guests for any length of time, life goes into Frenzy Mode.
When the pastor steps up to the pulpit on Sunday, he often says (from Psalms 19:14) "May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight, O God, my strength and my redeemer."
With apologies to the scripture writers, I would like to suggest that the master of a house expecting company might say, "May the words of my mouth and the condition of my house be acceptable in Thy sight, O Guest, my perceived judge and jury."
It isn't true, of course. Most people who come to visit, or even to stay for a day or two, aren't looking for your flaws. YOU, however, are.
Case in point: a day or two before my grandmother's funeral, the family had gathered at the farmhouse. Arrangements had already been made. We were being social. The house was filled with immediate family, and the beer was flowing. Then, suddenly, the local preacher's car came up the driveway, causing my mother to exclaim, "Quick! Get rid of the beer!" We scrambled to erase the evidence of perdition, even though the house already reeked of my Dad's cigars and everyone else's cigarettes...and if he had come close enough to smell breath, the cat would have been out of the bag. Who were we kidding?
Case in point: every one of your precious possessions look great in the light of your home, but get ready to move them--out in the bright sunshine--they will be "shabby chic". I will never forget how, when my daughter moved into my house with my two grandchildren, we endeavored to move the stuff in her storage unit into my house. Particularly welcome was her kitchen table and chairs. Perfect! But...ugh...covered with sticky fingerprints and dried milk splashed everywhere--not at all visible until put under the scrutiny of the move. We cleaned and cleaned... She has moved on to Washington State. I still have the set, and it doesn't look great, even now. It's getting old...
Getting old? So am I! I can't keep things as clean as I once did. I try, but I have hired a gal to help me get things done. Even when I think things are as clean as they can be, they aren't. There is a mirror over my sink that looks like a window. I cleaned the water spots off of that mirror a couple of weeks ago, but my now-critical-eye-because-company-is-coming shows every single streak. Did I say "company"? Yes...I am expecting my sister and her fella for next weekend. There are hard-water accumulations around the kitchen sink faucet. Nothing shines. That means clean sheets, clean toilets, comfortable feelings...and nothing up to my expectations. Normally, it wouldn't bother me. My sister is "family". She gets what she gets and always leaves me better off than when she came..but...but...now she is bringing the new love of her life who has never seen my house-on-a-slab before. I have no "dog" to put on, but best foot forward, right? I hope he isn't too shy to say, "Where are the towels?" when he gets ready to shower. He who hesitates is lost, right?
Thankfully, old age brings more acceptance than younger years do. If I yielded to my fears of being judged for how things are here, I would be lonely, indeed. I'll make things as clean and hospitable as I can. Somehow, I think I'll get through. I'd rather have them here and be embarrassed than not here and alone.
Amen!
When the pastor steps up to the pulpit on Sunday, he often says (from Psalms 19:14) "May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight, O God, my strength and my redeemer."
With apologies to the scripture writers, I would like to suggest that the master of a house expecting company might say, "May the words of my mouth and the condition of my house be acceptable in Thy sight, O Guest, my perceived judge and jury."
It isn't true, of course. Most people who come to visit, or even to stay for a day or two, aren't looking for your flaws. YOU, however, are.
Case in point: a day or two before my grandmother's funeral, the family had gathered at the farmhouse. Arrangements had already been made. We were being social. The house was filled with immediate family, and the beer was flowing. Then, suddenly, the local preacher's car came up the driveway, causing my mother to exclaim, "Quick! Get rid of the beer!" We scrambled to erase the evidence of perdition, even though the house already reeked of my Dad's cigars and everyone else's cigarettes...and if he had come close enough to smell breath, the cat would have been out of the bag. Who were we kidding?
Case in point: every one of your precious possessions look great in the light of your home, but get ready to move them--out in the bright sunshine--they will be "shabby chic". I will never forget how, when my daughter moved into my house with my two grandchildren, we endeavored to move the stuff in her storage unit into my house. Particularly welcome was her kitchen table and chairs. Perfect! But...ugh...covered with sticky fingerprints and dried milk splashed everywhere--not at all visible until put under the scrutiny of the move. We cleaned and cleaned... She has moved on to Washington State. I still have the set, and it doesn't look great, even now. It's getting old...
Getting old? So am I! I can't keep things as clean as I once did. I try, but I have hired a gal to help me get things done. Even when I think things are as clean as they can be, they aren't. There is a mirror over my sink that looks like a window. I cleaned the water spots off of that mirror a couple of weeks ago, but my now-critical-eye-because-company-is-coming shows every single streak. Did I say "company"? Yes...I am expecting my sister and her fella for next weekend. There are hard-water accumulations around the kitchen sink faucet. Nothing shines. That means clean sheets, clean toilets, comfortable feelings...and nothing up to my expectations. Normally, it wouldn't bother me. My sister is "family". She gets what she gets and always leaves me better off than when she came..but...but...now she is bringing the new love of her life who has never seen my house-on-a-slab before. I have no "dog" to put on, but best foot forward, right? I hope he isn't too shy to say, "Where are the towels?" when he gets ready to shower. He who hesitates is lost, right?
Thankfully, old age brings more acceptance than younger years do. If I yielded to my fears of being judged for how things are here, I would be lonely, indeed. I'll make things as clean and hospitable as I can. Somehow, I think I'll get through. I'd rather have them here and be embarrassed than not here and alone.
Amen!
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
This Is Gonna Get Pet Personal...
There are people in this world who treat pets as part of their families.
There are people in this world who think pets can fend for themselves, even if they are penned up and out of options.
I am one of that first category. I dearly love animals, which is why I don't have any, if that makes sense. If I can't do enough to take care of myself, I don't care to subject an animal to my disabilities.
I get warped out of shape when I read stories about animals that have been abused or neglected. For that very reason, I skip over those stories unless I know they will have happy endings. The only huge regrets I have in life have to do with dogs in my life. All I can do is ask that the god of "all creatures, great and small" understands that I loved the creatures but simply did not understand. I was going to write about Taffy, and Ann, and Frodo...and Butterscotch and Puddy Tat...but I would cry myself to sleep. Sorry. Not tonight. Can't handle it. Don't even want to go there.
Thus, I am critterless. I miss furry friends. I just know that it is not wise for me to have a pet. I love them all. I just think that critters deserve a family that will be with them all the time instead of wanting to randomly...like...head off to Seattle every whipstitch.
I send my love and blessings to those who keep and love fur babies. I wish I could.
There are people in this world who think pets can fend for themselves, even if they are penned up and out of options.
I am one of that first category. I dearly love animals, which is why I don't have any, if that makes sense. If I can't do enough to take care of myself, I don't care to subject an animal to my disabilities.
I get warped out of shape when I read stories about animals that have been abused or neglected. For that very reason, I skip over those stories unless I know they will have happy endings. The only huge regrets I have in life have to do with dogs in my life. All I can do is ask that the god of "all creatures, great and small" understands that I loved the creatures but simply did not understand. I was going to write about Taffy, and Ann, and Frodo...and Butterscotch and Puddy Tat...but I would cry myself to sleep. Sorry. Not tonight. Can't handle it. Don't even want to go there.
Thus, I am critterless. I miss furry friends. I just know that it is not wise for me to have a pet. I love them all. I just think that critters deserve a family that will be with them all the time instead of wanting to randomly...like...head off to Seattle every whipstitch.
I send my love and blessings to those who keep and love fur babies. I wish I could.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Altruism or Selfishness?
What is the normal response from someone who is being hailed as a hero for saving someone's life at the risk of their own? "I was just doing my job." "Adrenalin just kicked in." "I'm not a hero. I only did what anyone would do if they'd been there." Some are uncomfortable with the recognition. Some seem confused, as if they truly don't understand why it's such a big deal. Some, of course, bask in their well-deserved glory.
What is the normal response from someone who is a caregiver? "I just wanted things to be normal and comfortable, so I sacrificed a bit." "I've been blessed, so I just want to pass it forward." "I wish I could have done more."
Heroes are made, not born. Arguably, caregivers are born, not made. The difference between the two is urgency. The person that jumps into the water to extract people from a sinking car understands that time is of the essence. There is no time to worry about self. Do it, or people will die. Deal with consequences later.
The person that gives to others has more time to consider the impact to him/herself before taking action. No one is going to die immediately. He/She has time to ask questions. Do I have time for this? Can I afford this? Is it worth it to me?
The differences should be obvious.
There are people in my life who want to count me as one of their blessings because I have helped. I spent money or gave time and support, but I have never risked my life for them. What I do, I don't do out of altruism. I do what I do because I'm selfish. It makes ME feel good for helping THEM. I imagine myself in their shoes and do what little I can to help out. I'm not rich. Not even a little! I have physical limitations which make me more of the problems than the solutions, but I understand that the rest of my life is short, and I want to make the world just a little bit better for having been in it. Right now, I am probably taking more than I am giving.
I'm no hero. I understand my limitations all too well. I don't live a lavish life, but I still feel blessed enough to help others when I can. It isn't altruism; it is pure selfishness to make my life feel useful in my old age. Fading into the woodwork as not needed by anyone is the kiss of death. I can't bear it. I'm not enabling anyone because the folks I am helping aren't engaged in destructive behaviors. I'm just happy to make tiny differences in their lives. Each time I do makes a tiny difference in mine.
So please...understand that I do what I do for me, not necessarily for others. Get it?
What is the normal response from someone who is a caregiver? "I just wanted things to be normal and comfortable, so I sacrificed a bit." "I've been blessed, so I just want to pass it forward." "I wish I could have done more."
Heroes are made, not born. Arguably, caregivers are born, not made. The difference between the two is urgency. The person that jumps into the water to extract people from a sinking car understands that time is of the essence. There is no time to worry about self. Do it, or people will die. Deal with consequences later.
The person that gives to others has more time to consider the impact to him/herself before taking action. No one is going to die immediately. He/She has time to ask questions. Do I have time for this? Can I afford this? Is it worth it to me?
The differences should be obvious.
There are people in my life who want to count me as one of their blessings because I have helped. I spent money or gave time and support, but I have never risked my life for them. What I do, I don't do out of altruism. I do what I do because I'm selfish. It makes ME feel good for helping THEM. I imagine myself in their shoes and do what little I can to help out. I'm not rich. Not even a little! I have physical limitations which make me more of the problems than the solutions, but I understand that the rest of my life is short, and I want to make the world just a little bit better for having been in it. Right now, I am probably taking more than I am giving.
I'm no hero. I understand my limitations all too well. I don't live a lavish life, but I still feel blessed enough to help others when I can. It isn't altruism; it is pure selfishness to make my life feel useful in my old age. Fading into the woodwork as not needed by anyone is the kiss of death. I can't bear it. I'm not enabling anyone because the folks I am helping aren't engaged in destructive behaviors. I'm just happy to make tiny differences in their lives. Each time I do makes a tiny difference in mine.
So please...understand that I do what I do for me, not necessarily for others. Get it?
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Mid-Winter Blues
From T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land:
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
With all due respect to Mr. Eliot, I beg to differ. Every public school teacher in the United States will tell you that April isn't the bully that teases us into longing for springtime. February is. More specifically, mid-February. Like now.
I was a teacher in public schools, in Illinois and Indiana, for 40 years or so. Without a doubt, February was the worst month of all for both content and discipline. It was as predictable as sunrise, and we on the other side of the desks dreaded it. The common mantra was "If we can just get through February..."
Why is that? Why is February so much worse than other months in the school year? Let me count the ways...
First and foremost, cabin fever has set in.
At the elementary level, the students have been stuck inside for awhile. Conditions on the playground, temperatures, and wind chill factors determine whether the kids are allowed to have recess outside or not. In spite of injury possibilities on the playground, outside recess allows the children to burn off pent-up energy. They can run and shout and play--something they cannot do at inside recess. Inside, they are stuck in their classrooms with the same kids they may have been fussing with all day and forced to play board games that may or may not have all of the pieces intact. And the teachers have to split their time between classrooms to "keep the lid on" in order to give their colleagues a break on a rotating basis.
At the secondary level, students--especially those who drive themselves to school--are tired of the snow and the slush and the cold. It's hard to show off your new tattoo or wear your flip-flops to display your expensively-pedicured toes if you have to stay covered up. Prom is coming (usually in April), so the young ladies are already looking at catalogs for gowns in order to miss the rush. Spring break also looms, so vacation plans to Panama City Beach need to be made before everyone else reserves the available accommodations in Florida. Kids are distracted. Education is usually the last thing on their minds. (I wish I were kidding about this. I'm not.)
Secondly, educational efforts evaporate.
This is especially true if you teach seniors, which I did for quite awhile. Kids who plan to go on to college or trade school are stressed by 1) needing to decide what they want to study, where they will go to school, and what they think they need to do for the rest of their lives; 2) trying to procure funding for their higher education. (Applying for federal aide and scholarships is stress-inducing); and 3) figuring out, maybe for the first time, that accumulated GPA and class standing will affect their ability to get into a school of their choice. Suddenly, skating through the previous three-and-a-half years hangs heavily over their heads. Oops!
The seniors are simply killing time to freedom by February. We in education call this Senioritis, and the struggle is real. In a word, they're done. They are what the military refers to as "short timers". They have already met with the Josten's representatives for their graduation announcements and been measured for their caps and gowns. Like work horses that sense proximity to the barn, they sprint to get there whether the driver/rider wants to go in that direction or not. The conscientious students will continue their efforts, even knowing that class rank was established in January. Those who just can't wait to get on with their lives no longer care, as long as they don't embarrass their families by failing the year. Everyone else is somewhere in between. Each day is a new exercise in frustration--for them and their teachers. (Went through this with my own child at that age. We got through Senioritis only by, as they say, the skin of our teeth!)
Teachers of seniors have a special charge, (or at least did just before I retired). The administration expected us to work the kids right up to the last minute in order to limit senior pranks and other shenanigans, and yet, we were expected to notify admin. a month ahead of time if a senior were at risk of not graduating. Then, too, there was a proficiency test, administered to sophomores, that had to be passed for graduation to happen. If not passed, the test--a different test each year--was given the next year, and so on until passed...or not. If not passed by senior year, teachers were given a list of students to tutor before the test but not given any extra time to do it. (That's a whole other blog post. Don't get me started!) The prep for the extra tutoring for the test to be administered in March was in...guess? Yup. February.
My grandchildren go to a Sudbury Model school in Washington. Private. Not public. Because of the Snowmageddon conditions in their area this February, most of the schools out there have been closed for the better part of two weeks, which is unheard of for them. The public schools are still closed today. Next week is mid-winter break for them. This morning, my daughter was asking me, from a teacher's perspective, what kind of education would be going on if the schools opened tomorrow for the ONE DAY that they would have before the break. My response? Unless they are miracle workers, the name of the game for one day will be Keep The Lid On. No education will transpire. And that is what prompted this whole post from me.
In Illinois, a couple of "snow days" are built into the calendar surrounding breaks. If they aren't used, the breaks get longer; if they are, the breaks get shorter. In Indiana--at least in Central Indiana--snow days aren't built into the calendar. Days used are tacked onto the end of the year. In Washington, where my grandbabies are, debilitating snow is rare enough that extra days aren't built into the school calendar; however, they have something called Midwinter Break. This is apart from Christmas Break and Spring Break...and it happens in February. Why? For all of the reasons I have mentioned in this whole blog post, plus the fact that, since they usually have gloom and rain all winter, the Powers That Be understand the need for a February break. Of course, the school year goes late into June out there, but at least they aren't all ready to kill each other before it happens.
Oh, February! Thou art so cruel! Typically, Valentine's Day is the dividing line between winter and spring-ish in Indiana. Today is Valentine's Day. It's 53 degrees where I am. I'm ready for robins and crocuses and the knowledge that my Washington family is done with the worst of their weather problems. I'm ready for sunshine, even if cold. I'm ready. But winter isn't over yet...
Happy Valentine's Day, my friends. We are almost through February. May the mid-winter "blues" turn into spring "greens" for us all soon!
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
From Grandma, With Love
In a previous post, I wrote about what Seattlites are calling Snowmageddon. They have had several heavy snows (for them), one on top of the other, with no thaw in between. I mentioned that before the second storm hit, grocery stores were stripped bare of food and anything weather-related. (My son-in-law went out to buy a snow shovel one evening. The clerk said they'd had 450 shovels that morning. Denis got one of the last four.) I think I also mentioned that I had shipped a box of cookies out to them. Timing was of the essence.
Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Well...not so much. These weren't just cookies. These were Girl Scout cookies. They are only available once a year, and my family loves them. I thought it would be a nice treat if I shipped a few boxes to my Washington family.
The cookies aren't cheap. They are $5 a box here in Indiana; however, I do like to support the organization, and one of my former students has a child who is an active scout. I texted my grandkids and daughter to ask what kinds they would like, then bought ten boxes of their favorites from my friend's daughter (plus another seven boxes for me) to send to them. (I should note that I wasn't intending to eat seven boxes of Girl Scout cookies myself. I bought them to give to my cleaning gal and some friends. That's my story, anyway!)
Next on the agenda was getting the cookies packed for shipment. The cookie varieties come in different-sized boxes, so finding a box for all ten to fit in neatly can be tricky. I usually use what's known by the United States Postal Service as a "large" flat rate box. You know--the one for which they say, "If it fits, it ships"? I usually keep a couple on hand here at home but didn't have any of the large ones. It's almost $19 to ship one of those boxes. I was afraid that the ten cookie boxes wouldn't fit in one because the USPS idea of large and my idea of large just aren't the same. I really didn't want to have to use TWO of those boxes, so there was nothing to do but make a trip to the Post Office to pick up a box or two to find out. Guess what? They didn't have any. Okay. On to Plan B.
The next morning, I fiddled around with the boxes of cookies by playing a cookie version of Tetris, just to see if I could get all ten boxes in one of the cardboard boxes they were delivered in. With a little creativity, they would fit fairly snugly. It would have to do! I had to get inspired, however, because those boxes have a gap in both top and bottom, where the glued flaps don't completely close the box. And there were cut-out holes for handles that also had to be taped shut. I happened to find a piece of cardboard to add to the top and bottom on the inside. (How did I get so lucky???)
I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to just slap a paper on top with the To and From addresses because the outside of the box is covered with advertising. I didn't care to confuse the carrier...so...I dug out some paper grocery sacks to cut up in order to wrap the box completely in brown paper. I think I used half a roll of packing tape and quite a bit of transparent tape just to get it all encapsulated. (Not as easy to find paper grocery sacks these days, either.) To give myself an estimate of how much it would cost to ship, I tried to weigh the box. My bathroom scale doesn't register without someone on it, so I had to weigh myself without the box, then with the box, and subtract.
Took the box to the Post Office. I could get 7-day shipping for $20-something, but with the snowstorm predicted to come in, I bit on the bullet to fork over $31 for 2-day delivery. This was on a Wednesday. The box was promised for Friday, The snow storm was forecast for Thursday night into Friday. It was going to be close!
It's winter, you know? It snows in the winter every place in the civilized world except Seattle, where it mostly just rains all season. They might get an inch here or an inch there, which is usually gone by the next day when it rains again. One wouldn't think that snow would slow things down that much. WRONG! It's hilly out there. My family lives halfway up a steep grade. Their mail is delivered further up the hill to a cluster of locked boxes. In other words, they must leave the house and climb the hill in order to collect their mail, IF the mail truck can make it up the hill at all.
The snow arrived to the tune of eight inches deep Thursday on into Friday, with no thaw anywhere in the forecast for a week. Friday came and went. No mail and no cookies. Saturday came and went. Still no mail or cookies. Of course, there is no delivery on Sunday. On Monday, the package tracking system finally moved from "in transit" to "out for delivery". Really?? On that hill??? At one point, the tracking said, "Delivered". Yay! The mail delivery truck had tire chains on it, but even cars with chains were having trouble getting up the hill. Mr. Mailman finally succeeded.
I tell this long, overly-detailed story by way of explanation of just how difficult it can be to do just one simple little thing, and how foolish I felt about it when all was said and done. I mean, they have Girl Scouts in Washington. I'm quite certain my family could buy their own boxes of cookies if they felt the need. I don't know why it seemed so blasted important for me to send them, especially since I spent over $30 in shipping charges for an assortment of cookies that only cost $50 to begin with. Who does that? I do, I guess. I did it because I wanted to. I wanted my family to know that I was thinking of them, which they surely already know, right?
When I got word that the cookies had been delivered, I alerted my daughter who sent Denis up the hill in the snow after dark to retrieve the box. There had been more heavy snow on top of what they already had. Schools were closed (still are). No one could get up or down the hill. The whole neighborhood was trapped in their homes. Megan took a picture of Denis trudging up the hill, and then video'd his return to the house. He looked like Bigfoot in the snow!
The unexpected result of my going to all that trouble and expense just to send some cookies to my family was that it seemed like Christmas to them. Like an oasis in the desert. Their supply of sweet treats had dwindled, and they couldn't go anywhere to restock. But here comes the long-anticipated box of cookies from home. Not even homemade cookies but just as welcome. And you know what? I felt pretty good about that!
Thereafter, my daughter posted the following on my Facebook page, which totally made my day:
Megan: Captain's Log, Day 9: Despite our harrowing refueling mission on Day 5, supplies are dwindling again. We're out of yogurt. The bananas are gone. The treats long vanished--like popcorn before the start of a movie. Morale is low, boredom is high. Denis went out into the great white world to see what he could scavenge from the snow. I watched his shadowy form disappear into the flurries, fearing he would not survive... But lo! He returned triumphant, bearing a curious brown package. It was packed with cookies and Grandma's love, sent from the distant land of Indiana. I think we just might make it after all!
Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Well...not so much. These weren't just cookies. These were Girl Scout cookies. They are only available once a year, and my family loves them. I thought it would be a nice treat if I shipped a few boxes to my Washington family.
The cookies aren't cheap. They are $5 a box here in Indiana; however, I do like to support the organization, and one of my former students has a child who is an active scout. I texted my grandkids and daughter to ask what kinds they would like, then bought ten boxes of their favorites from my friend's daughter (plus another seven boxes for me) to send to them. (I should note that I wasn't intending to eat seven boxes of Girl Scout cookies myself. I bought them to give to my cleaning gal and some friends. That's my story, anyway!)
Next on the agenda was getting the cookies packed for shipment. The cookie varieties come in different-sized boxes, so finding a box for all ten to fit in neatly can be tricky. I usually use what's known by the United States Postal Service as a "large" flat rate box. You know--the one for which they say, "If it fits, it ships"? I usually keep a couple on hand here at home but didn't have any of the large ones. It's almost $19 to ship one of those boxes. I was afraid that the ten cookie boxes wouldn't fit in one because the USPS idea of large and my idea of large just aren't the same. I really didn't want to have to use TWO of those boxes, so there was nothing to do but make a trip to the Post Office to pick up a box or two to find out. Guess what? They didn't have any. Okay. On to Plan B.
The next morning, I fiddled around with the boxes of cookies by playing a cookie version of Tetris, just to see if I could get all ten boxes in one of the cardboard boxes they were delivered in. With a little creativity, they would fit fairly snugly. It would have to do! I had to get inspired, however, because those boxes have a gap in both top and bottom, where the glued flaps don't completely close the box. And there were cut-out holes for handles that also had to be taped shut. I happened to find a piece of cardboard to add to the top and bottom on the inside. (How did I get so lucky???)
I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to just slap a paper on top with the To and From addresses because the outside of the box is covered with advertising. I didn't care to confuse the carrier...so...I dug out some paper grocery sacks to cut up in order to wrap the box completely in brown paper. I think I used half a roll of packing tape and quite a bit of transparent tape just to get it all encapsulated. (Not as easy to find paper grocery sacks these days, either.) To give myself an estimate of how much it would cost to ship, I tried to weigh the box. My bathroom scale doesn't register without someone on it, so I had to weigh myself without the box, then with the box, and subtract.
Took the box to the Post Office. I could get 7-day shipping for $20-something, but with the snowstorm predicted to come in, I bit on the bullet to fork over $31 for 2-day delivery. This was on a Wednesday. The box was promised for Friday, The snow storm was forecast for Thursday night into Friday. It was going to be close!
It's winter, you know? It snows in the winter every place in the civilized world except Seattle, where it mostly just rains all season. They might get an inch here or an inch there, which is usually gone by the next day when it rains again. One wouldn't think that snow would slow things down that much. WRONG! It's hilly out there. My family lives halfway up a steep grade. Their mail is delivered further up the hill to a cluster of locked boxes. In other words, they must leave the house and climb the hill in order to collect their mail, IF the mail truck can make it up the hill at all.
The snow arrived to the tune of eight inches deep Thursday on into Friday, with no thaw anywhere in the forecast for a week. Friday came and went. No mail and no cookies. Saturday came and went. Still no mail or cookies. Of course, there is no delivery on Sunday. On Monday, the package tracking system finally moved from "in transit" to "out for delivery". Really?? On that hill??? At one point, the tracking said, "Delivered". Yay! The mail delivery truck had tire chains on it, but even cars with chains were having trouble getting up the hill. Mr. Mailman finally succeeded.
I tell this long, overly-detailed story by way of explanation of just how difficult it can be to do just one simple little thing, and how foolish I felt about it when all was said and done. I mean, they have Girl Scouts in Washington. I'm quite certain my family could buy their own boxes of cookies if they felt the need. I don't know why it seemed so blasted important for me to send them, especially since I spent over $30 in shipping charges for an assortment of cookies that only cost $50 to begin with. Who does that? I do, I guess. I did it because I wanted to. I wanted my family to know that I was thinking of them, which they surely already know, right?
When I got word that the cookies had been delivered, I alerted my daughter who sent Denis up the hill in the snow after dark to retrieve the box. There had been more heavy snow on top of what they already had. Schools were closed (still are). No one could get up or down the hill. The whole neighborhood was trapped in their homes. Megan took a picture of Denis trudging up the hill, and then video'd his return to the house. He looked like Bigfoot in the snow!
The unexpected result of my going to all that trouble and expense just to send some cookies to my family was that it seemed like Christmas to them. Like an oasis in the desert. Their supply of sweet treats had dwindled, and they couldn't go anywhere to restock. But here comes the long-anticipated box of cookies from home. Not even homemade cookies but just as welcome. And you know what? I felt pretty good about that!
Thereafter, my daughter posted the following on my Facebook page, which totally made my day:
Megan: Captain's Log, Day 9: Despite our harrowing refueling mission on Day 5, supplies are dwindling again. We're out of yogurt. The bananas are gone. The treats long vanished--like popcorn before the start of a movie. Morale is low, boredom is high. Denis went out into the great white world to see what he could scavenge from the snow. I watched his shadowy form disappear into the flurries, fearing he would not survive... But lo! He returned triumphant, bearing a curious brown package. It was packed with cookies and Grandma's love, sent from the distant land of Indiana. I think we just might make it after all!
Monday, February 11, 2019
The Elephant in the Sanctuary
I am a person of both faith and science. I consider myself a Christian, but I am not a Bible-pounder. In political terms, I would be called a "moderate" Christian--neither conservative nor liberal. I have been a Methodist for most of my life, with one foot in the faith of my grandparents (Church of Christ, not associated with Disciples of Christ) and one foot in Unitarian Universalism. I am happy with my church--Plainfield United Methodist--largely because the issues that divide Christians are not expounded from the pulpit on Sundays. Sometimes, we have to duke out the issues in adult Sunday School. But the reality is that I have chosen to shelter myself from the broader political problems within the UMC as a denomination, but now things are coming to a head. Now "they" are going to force me to face the reality of what I believe or don't believe, and I will have an internal conflict about whether or not to continue to support an organization that has been doing God's Work for centuries. There is an elephant in each UMC sanctuary, and the time has come to do something about it. Poop or get off the pot comes to mind...
I refer you to this article, written last summer. It is mercifully short and succinct, and explains things well, in my opinion:
https://religionnews.com/2018/06/04/united-methodist-annual-conferences-meet-with-denominations-future-in-flux/
To summarize, the real dividing issue is homosexuality; specifically, whether openly gay people can/should be ordained into the ministry, and whether ministers can/should perform same-sex marriages. (A subordinate issue is whether these marriages can/should be performed on UMC premises.)
The conservative Christians are passionate about how the Bible calls homosexuality "an abomination to God". (Old Testament.) But the Bible also forbids eating pork and shellfish, getting tattoos, divorcing a spouse except under very specific circumstances, and women as teachers, and more. We don't follow those admonitions. Why are "we" so appalled by homosexuality? Many people call it a choice. Many, many others say it is genetically wired. What are people so afraid of? Homosexuality doesn't rub off on others. If you are, you are. If you aren't, you aren't.
I once had a student off-handedly say, "I hate gays". I came unglued. I asked him how many gays he knew personally. He admitted none. And so it goes. Do I also have to face this in church??
My local church accepts everyone without prejudice, or so it seems. (You can partake in our worship and make your tithes, but you can't be a leader??) My local church has also employed a couple of openly-gay men in director positions. I thought we were above the fray...but no. One of my Sunday School friends stopped coming to church when one of these men was hired to be in charge of children's education programs. It seems that he doesn't believe that a gay person should be around children. Does he think gay people are predatory? I wish I knew! If Catholic priests and Protestant youth ministers can prey on young people, why should gays be singled out?
Some people very near and dear to me are LGBTQ. They have God's grace, the same as every other human and animal in our universe. To deny them is denying Christ. I can't be a party to it. I am an active member of my local church...one of the historians, adult Sunday School teacher, etc., but I am now afraid that the executive direction of the church is going to push me out, due to my conscience. I'm not gay, but I stand up for those who have been persecuted for their realities. I don't apologize for that.
I have always considered church as the House of God. If any one of God's children is turned out of the shepherd's fold, I'll be upset because it challenges the church into which I have placed my faith for most of my life. If there is an elephant in the sanctuary, everyone in the sanctuary needs to make room for it, accommodate it, and carry on. Elephants are God's children, too!
I refer you to this article, written last summer. It is mercifully short and succinct, and explains things well, in my opinion:
https://religionnews.com/2018/06/04/united-methodist-annual-conferences-meet-with-denominations-future-in-flux/
To summarize, the real dividing issue is homosexuality; specifically, whether openly gay people can/should be ordained into the ministry, and whether ministers can/should perform same-sex marriages. (A subordinate issue is whether these marriages can/should be performed on UMC premises.)
The conservative Christians are passionate about how the Bible calls homosexuality "an abomination to God". (Old Testament.) But the Bible also forbids eating pork and shellfish, getting tattoos, divorcing a spouse except under very specific circumstances, and women as teachers, and more. We don't follow those admonitions. Why are "we" so appalled by homosexuality? Many people call it a choice. Many, many others say it is genetically wired. What are people so afraid of? Homosexuality doesn't rub off on others. If you are, you are. If you aren't, you aren't.
I once had a student off-handedly say, "I hate gays". I came unglued. I asked him how many gays he knew personally. He admitted none. And so it goes. Do I also have to face this in church??
My local church accepts everyone without prejudice, or so it seems. (You can partake in our worship and make your tithes, but you can't be a leader??) My local church has also employed a couple of openly-gay men in director positions. I thought we were above the fray...but no. One of my Sunday School friends stopped coming to church when one of these men was hired to be in charge of children's education programs. It seems that he doesn't believe that a gay person should be around children. Does he think gay people are predatory? I wish I knew! If Catholic priests and Protestant youth ministers can prey on young people, why should gays be singled out?
Some people very near and dear to me are LGBTQ. They have God's grace, the same as every other human and animal in our universe. To deny them is denying Christ. I can't be a party to it. I am an active member of my local church...one of the historians, adult Sunday School teacher, etc., but I am now afraid that the executive direction of the church is going to push me out, due to my conscience. I'm not gay, but I stand up for those who have been persecuted for their realities. I don't apologize for that.
I have always considered church as the House of God. If any one of God's children is turned out of the shepherd's fold, I'll be upset because it challenges the church into which I have placed my faith for most of my life. If there is an elephant in the sanctuary, everyone in the sanctuary needs to make room for it, accommodate it, and carry on. Elephants are God's children, too!
Saturday, February 9, 2019
The World Is Too Much With Us
William Wordsworth, an English poet, once penned a sonnet (the title of which is the title of this blog entry), in which he says, in so many words, that he regrets being part of a world that distracts him from the beauty of nature. I'm with him on that. There are so few opportunities to give oneself to the reverence that is ever before us for the taking. Listening to the still, small voice in us gives way to the cacophony of a noisy world. No one stays in one place long enough to smell the flowers.
I've had precious few opportunities to feel the awe before me as an adult; however, there have been a few.
When I went to visit my daughter and son-in-law when they lived in Silicon Valley in California, we took a southern trek to the old Spanish Mission of San Juan Bautista. The mission is located right smack next to the San Andreas Fault. It was established in 1797. The mission is still a place of worship after all these years, and has a cemetery on site. All I know is that when we entered the sanctuary, I was in awe. I was walking on a cobblestone floor that had been laid centuries before. How very many worshippers had also walked on those stones? It was quiet. I felt like we were in God's house. I was struck speechless in awe of the place. Not sure if it was the history of the place or the purpose of it that got to me. I simply felt that I had seen something important that struck a chord in my heart.
A year or two later, I was part of a trek with my family, moving back to the Midwest, but we were going to see everything possible along the way. (It was a amazing trip, in soooo many respects!) One place we stopped was in Monument Valley in Utah, which is on the property of the Navajo Nation. On that site, there was a gift shop/snack bar, and a sort of patio facing the rock formations. It was a warm day with a lovely breeze, and soft Indian flute music piped to the outside. I sat on that patio, looking toward the "monuments", knowing that I was seeing something marvelous and serene, not duplicated anywhere else in the world. Everything around me faded out. I felt like I was in church...in God's house of nature. Haven't felt anything like that since.
After my family moved back to the Midwest, they bought a house in Lindenhurst, IL. It had a HUGE back deck that faced their own backyard and some wooded property complete with a pond. Ducks and geese were prevalent, with herons and other water birds, and occasional deer in the yard. I would go out to the deck, lean on the rail, and just soak up the peace and tranquility. I remember saying, "I could stand here forever."
I feel bad that I have lost so much of the beauty of life in my old age. I don't have a bucket list. Much of what I did have on a potential list has already occurred, thanks to my daughter. I am grateful that God has given me opportunities that many others can never have. I've been blessed. Truly blessed. And everybody said, "Amen"!
I've had precious few opportunities to feel the awe before me as an adult; however, there have been a few.
When I went to visit my daughter and son-in-law when they lived in Silicon Valley in California, we took a southern trek to the old Spanish Mission of San Juan Bautista. The mission is located right smack next to the San Andreas Fault. It was established in 1797. The mission is still a place of worship after all these years, and has a cemetery on site. All I know is that when we entered the sanctuary, I was in awe. I was walking on a cobblestone floor that had been laid centuries before. How very many worshippers had also walked on those stones? It was quiet. I felt like we were in God's house. I was struck speechless in awe of the place. Not sure if it was the history of the place or the purpose of it that got to me. I simply felt that I had seen something important that struck a chord in my heart.
A year or two later, I was part of a trek with my family, moving back to the Midwest, but we were going to see everything possible along the way. (It was a amazing trip, in soooo many respects!) One place we stopped was in Monument Valley in Utah, which is on the property of the Navajo Nation. On that site, there was a gift shop/snack bar, and a sort of patio facing the rock formations. It was a warm day with a lovely breeze, and soft Indian flute music piped to the outside. I sat on that patio, looking toward the "monuments", knowing that I was seeing something marvelous and serene, not duplicated anywhere else in the world. Everything around me faded out. I felt like I was in church...in God's house of nature. Haven't felt anything like that since.
After my family moved back to the Midwest, they bought a house in Lindenhurst, IL. It had a HUGE back deck that faced their own backyard and some wooded property complete with a pond. Ducks and geese were prevalent, with herons and other water birds, and occasional deer in the yard. I would go out to the deck, lean on the rail, and just soak up the peace and tranquility. I remember saying, "I could stand here forever."
I feel bad that I have lost so much of the beauty of life in my old age. I don't have a bucket list. Much of what I did have on a potential list has already occurred, thanks to my daughter. I am grateful that God has given me opportunities that many others can never have. I've been blessed. Truly blessed. And everybody said, "Amen"!
Friday, February 8, 2019
Snowmageddon, 2019
It's winter in Indiana. Snow is expected to happen.
It's also winter in Washington. Snow is fairly rare there. The average annual snowfall for the Seattle area where my daughter and family live is three inches. It usually arrives in dribs and drabs, then melts and can refreeze into "black ice" in 24 hours or less.
Most of their winter precipitation is in the form of rain, and plenty of it. Until now.
Last Sunday, the Weather Gods delivered six inches of white stuff to the Seattle area. It basically shut everything down. Why? They aren't used to it. They don't know how to drive in it. They don't have enough snow removal equipment to make the roads much better than slick. The real challenge, however, is that the terrain is hilly. (That might be putting it mildly.) Driving up or downhill on unplowed streets, or streets that have been reduced to ice by traffic or freezing rain that often follows snow out there is risky. Schools and churches closed. Deliveries were suspended. It took the better part of the week just to seem normal again.
Then comes the one-two punch: another round of heavy snow is forecast and starting to happen in the Seattle area, even though there has been no thaw of the previous round. In anticipation of it, a "state of emergency" is called. People are encouraged to stock up and hunker down. They took heed and hit the grocery stores with fervor. The result is that stores--BIG stores, like Walmart and Costco and Fred Meyer--have been picked clean. My daughter has sent me picture after picture after picture of totally empty store shelves. People are posting on Facebook, asking where they can find milk or eggs. It's insane!
Washington residents are tired of hearing from Midwesterners about what weenies they are about driving in bad weather conditions. I don't blame them! My daughter and family live on a hill. Last winter when I was visiting, they had a three-inch snowfall one night, and "we" ended up taking in a couple of women who were just too frightened to continue down the hill. They parked their vehicle near the house and so were invited to come in to keep warm while they waited for a husband with better tires to come and rescue them. My daughter loaned the elder woman her boots (which were returned the next day). It was both fun and terrifying.
And so, tonight, Snowmageddon is happening in Seattle. Only time will tell how things will turn out. Fortunately, my daughter was able to do her grocery shopping a day before the really big rush hit, and everyone is home and safe. For the moment, it seems that the only casualty of the day is the box of Girl Scout cookies that I sent. They haven't arrived yet, and if they don't get there tonight, it might be a number of days before they do.
Stay strong, Seattle. If winter comes, can spring be far behind??
It's also winter in Washington. Snow is fairly rare there. The average annual snowfall for the Seattle area where my daughter and family live is three inches. It usually arrives in dribs and drabs, then melts and can refreeze into "black ice" in 24 hours or less.
Most of their winter precipitation is in the form of rain, and plenty of it. Until now.
Last Sunday, the Weather Gods delivered six inches of white stuff to the Seattle area. It basically shut everything down. Why? They aren't used to it. They don't know how to drive in it. They don't have enough snow removal equipment to make the roads much better than slick. The real challenge, however, is that the terrain is hilly. (That might be putting it mildly.) Driving up or downhill on unplowed streets, or streets that have been reduced to ice by traffic or freezing rain that often follows snow out there is risky. Schools and churches closed. Deliveries were suspended. It took the better part of the week just to seem normal again.
Then comes the one-two punch: another round of heavy snow is forecast and starting to happen in the Seattle area, even though there has been no thaw of the previous round. In anticipation of it, a "state of emergency" is called. People are encouraged to stock up and hunker down. They took heed and hit the grocery stores with fervor. The result is that stores--BIG stores, like Walmart and Costco and Fred Meyer--have been picked clean. My daughter has sent me picture after picture after picture of totally empty store shelves. People are posting on Facebook, asking where they can find milk or eggs. It's insane!
Washington residents are tired of hearing from Midwesterners about what weenies they are about driving in bad weather conditions. I don't blame them! My daughter and family live on a hill. Last winter when I was visiting, they had a three-inch snowfall one night, and "we" ended up taking in a couple of women who were just too frightened to continue down the hill. They parked their vehicle near the house and so were invited to come in to keep warm while they waited for a husband with better tires to come and rescue them. My daughter loaned the elder woman her boots (which were returned the next day). It was both fun and terrifying.
And so, tonight, Snowmageddon is happening in Seattle. Only time will tell how things will turn out. Fortunately, my daughter was able to do her grocery shopping a day before the really big rush hit, and everyone is home and safe. For the moment, it seems that the only casualty of the day is the box of Girl Scout cookies that I sent. They haven't arrived yet, and if they don't get there tonight, it might be a number of days before they do.
Stay strong, Seattle. If winter comes, can spring be far behind??