Category Archives: Uncategorized

Little House on the Oregon Trail

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The first books, other than the Bible, that I owned–the seed corn of my personal library–were the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. My dad and mom, both avid readers, gave them to me as soon as I could read. I received a beautiful hardbound copy of the next book in the series each birthday and Christmas. I read and re-read these treasures countless times.

So it makes sense whenever I read a “pioneer” story to have a flash of recognition, like seeing a long-lost cousin as a grown-up instead of a child. Written in 1968 by the 84-year old author, Walter L. Scott’s book Pan Bread ‘n Jerky is a rustic autobiography of a settler who saw a lot of life here in Eastern Oregon.

I call it rustic because the writing is choppy and lacks cohesion.  The author’s eighth grade education isn’t the problem as much as lack of editing. Rustic, because it describes a rough life.  Not unhappy, but full of the vicissitudes of living in a wild country.  Food was hunted, trapped, gathered, and gleaned, seldom purchased.  The pioneers were scrappy folk who eeked out a life any way they could from the land. 

Walter Scott was a horse man.  Many times he earned his bread by handling horses. My favorite sentences of the book:

Horses have played an important part in my life since I was a colt myself.  Many times I’ve been on a horse when I went up but there was no horse there when I came down.  I’ve been bitten, kicked, struck, stepped on, run away with, treed on a corral fence, and had horses fall on me, but I still like horses.

The stories remind us that the “good old days” had their share of sorrow and tragedy. Gold mines used cyanide in the 1890’s and dumped it into the rivers.  A boy lost both legs from cyanide poisoning after wading in the water.  Snowslide, homicides, horse rides, suicides all snuffed out lives.  But there are huckleberries, sage grouse, snowshoes, and horses which mitigate the austerity. 

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This a bear killed by the author’s father.

The bonus for me is that all the locations of this book are…local.  Believe me, you East Coast and European friends, not many books are located in Eastern Oregon.  (Okay, I forgot about The Shack.)  Getting a glimpse of life here a hundred years ago was worth the wade through the problematic prose.

 

Not Ashamed

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Our dear friend, Stephen Bump, puts words to music whenever he studies the Bible.  He doesn’t have a CD, nor does he promote the songs, but they have been sweet to the congregations who sing them. 

When I rerun Chris and Jessie’s wedding (oldest son), two songs come to mind.  My brother filling the upper space of the room with The Lord’s Prayer, the soaring notes of for Thine is the kingdom bringing tears to those around us.

In contrast, the other song was quiet, a song of benediction, written and sung by Steve, with his acoustic guitar. 

Now I commit you to God, to the Word of His grace,

which can build you up with the rest of the saints.

This morning we sang Not Ashamed in which the epistle to the Romans is condensed into seven verses.  Here is one section of the song. When my flesh is whining and demanding, I’m going to say, “Not obliged, pal.” 

In Christ no obligation to satisfy the flesh.

In Christ no condemnation as the slaves of righteousness.

We’re free to serve our Master, our new Father and our God,

Who has freely bestowed His salvation.

 

We Brake for Bakeries

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“I’m interested in the idea and fact of home.
I’m going to places where I have dreamed of living
and will try to settle down in each, read the literature,
look at the gardens, shop for what’s in season,
try to feel at home.”

Thus Frances Mayes introduces the idea behind her book, A Year in the World. She and her husband Ed traveled from their home base in Tuscany over five years and put the notes together into this charming book.  Their trips took them to mostly Mediterranean places: southern Spain, Portugal, Sicily, Morocco, France, Britain, Greece, Crete, Scotland, Turkey and several locations in Italy.

Mayes weaves her passions for reading, eating, colors, friendship, architecture, gardening, and people-watching into her narratives. She doesn’t drench the reader in wretched enthusiasm: if an experience is bad, she says so.  I reveled in her descriptions, particularly her choice of words to describe colors. 

The void I noticed in this book was the absence of passionate worship.  As a “doubter with strong spiritual interests” she is certainly interested in the role of many religions.  Had I spent time in each of those locations I would have cherished times of worship with like-minded believers. 

Mayes lush narrative invites lingering silences, pondering thoughts.  I’m going to string a necklace of her sparkling short sentences.

Two of my favorite words are linked: departure time.  

Breakfast is such a key to the culture.

We’ve gone quiet with disappointment.

The language uses many sounds that previously
I have heard only from the washing machine.

There’s choreography to traffic flow.

Often the thoughts tumble like coins in a dryer,
circling, banging, going nowhere.

The art of departure I may never master.

I have lived in places where art and beauty buoy everyday life.

The people fold themselves into their houses
the way they fold themselves away in their clothing.

Cheese would be reason enough for a trip to France.

How to translate sunlight into words?

We are drowsy as bees in the heat.

We brake for bakeries.

Harmonic Convergences

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Patara Beach, Turkey

Delectable connections. 

With two chapters left in Frances Mayes’ A Year in the World: Journeys of A Passionate Traveller I am reluctant to come to an end of this book.  As much as I tried to slow down and savor the cultures, I’ve read it too quickly.  Initially I explored points and people of interest, like Spanish guitar composer Angel Barrios (follow the link…it’s two minutes you won’t regret).  But much of my reading was done when the computer was turned off. I would like to revisit A Year with my laptop, using Google and Youtube to see more. 

Last night I was reading about a reunion of friends in Scotland.  When Mayes described girlfriends Kate and Susan who opened the first bookstore-with-a-café, Printers Inc., in 1978, in Palo Alto, I had a jolt of recognition.  Their bookstore was described in a book I read last month, The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop.  The author of YLB, Lewis Buzbee, worked at Printers Inc. and named Kate and Susan in his book. 

~     ~     ~

This morning our New Testament reading and sermon were from Acts 21.  It opens

21:1 And when we had parted from them and set sail, we came by a straight course to Cos, and the next day to Rhodes, and from there to Patara.  (underlining mine)

I came home, drowsy and droopy, picked up A Year in the World and continued to read the chapter on Turkey’s Lycian Coast.  Turn a page and we’re in Kas.  Next page Patara Beach. 

Silky long-haired goats graze among the foundations.  Three brown-bearded ones pause and look up, as if to say, What brings you here?  Mustapha sees us coming and sends the dinghy.  We board in the same spot where Saint Luke and Saint Paul, that most peripatetic traveller, having landed here from Cos then Rhodes, found a ship to take them on to Phoenicia.

Though not uncommon, these moments of synthesis never fail to delight me.  Sweet!

Glory! More Books!

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Sometimes email delivers happy surprises.

At 3.58 a.m. (my time) Anna and Serena, hosts of the War Through the Generations blog, notified me that I won the GRAND PRIZE in the Overachievers Giveaway!!  Seven new books!  One signed by the author, one an out-of-print book. 

I need to catch a gulp of air!

And now I am contemplating joining Anna and Serena’s Vietnam War Challenge.  I need to work my way through the recommended reading list.

Any suggestions on *good* books on Vietnam? 

 

How NOT to Host A Giveaway

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 :: Don’t schedule the drawing to take place on your husband’s birthday.
Or on the week three friends die.

:: Don’t use Post It Notes to put names on.  They stick together
and you suddenly have six winners.

:: Don’t offer a book that breaks your heart to send away.
(Hyperbole alert: it’s just the more I handle it…)

:: For those who didn’t win, here are some of the early photos of NYC.
(the one on the left is a drawing) (click for larger pictures)

::  Yay to Hope in Brazil who won 1,000 Places to See Before You Die

:: Hooray for toomanyhats (another Carol in Oregon) who won How the Other Half Lives

Goodbye My Friend

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One of the hazards of working with an aging and ailing clientele (I work at a local pharmacy) is facing that hideous monster death who snatches patients away. 

My favorite customer died yesterday.

We never met face to face; ours was a telephone relationship.  I used to cringe when he first called because he had a speech impediment which required very careful listening.  Eventually I tuned into his talk and we conversed freely.  Looking back, I am thankful for the billing problems that provided opportunities for regular phone calls.

He wore an overcoat of dignity, a suit of humility accented with a scarf of serenity.  And underneath was a heart devoted to the care of his Momma. 

His eyes were blind, but I tell you, they twinkled. 

His speech was garbled but his chuckle won me over. 

Though we only spoke, he touched me.

Oh, my friend, would you be surprised that I cried when I heard you were gone?

Rest in peace.

My Favorite Book, Reprise

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It’s Curt’s birthday today. 
From the archives, here’s a post I wrote earlier.


You are my P.G. Wodehouse.

You make me snort with laughter.


You are my Conan Doyle,

A mystery until the end.


You are my C. S. Lewis.

You see how beautiful truth is.


You are my Hank the Cowdog,

Silly fun with a clever twist.


You are my Alexander McCall Smith,

Always interested in those around you.


You are my Wendell Berry.

You take pleasure in provisioning.


You are my Michael Pollan.

You speak good sense when it’s needed.


You are my Martin Luther,

Famous for good table talk.


You are my David McCullough;

Decent, insightful, articulate.


You are my Anthony Trollope,

Warm comfort on a cold evening.


You are my Shakespeare,

Full of quotes worth memorizing.


You are my Atticus Finch;

The one on whom we depend.


You are my Matthew Henry.

“Look at this,” as you point to a verse.


You are my Chilton.

You keep our cars running.


You are my Dostoevsky;

Complex, difficult, but worth the read.


You are my Jeremy Burroughs.

You model the rare jewel.


You are my Book of Common Prayer.

Your quotidian prayers lead and guide me.


You are my Chesterton;

An original thinker without the bulk.


You are my Fish and Game Regs,

A calendar of high holy days.


You are my Dickens.

You understand human nature.


You are my Dante.

You write poems of love.


You are my Cabela’s catalog;

Treasures waiting in the warehouse.


You are my favorite book to read.

Word by word;

Page by page;

Chapter by chapter.



Music to Accompany a Dying Soul

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I know it sounds odd.  But.  If you were dying–and you knew it…and it wasn’t immediate–what music would you want in your ears when you left this earth?

It’s odd because I have a long list of funeral songs.  But this is a different question. 

I remember hearing about my friend’s brother, who listened almost exclusively to Michael Card’s music.  He wanted it cranked up loud.  His final breath was accompanied by soaring music that enveloped the room.

I think I would like to hear my loved ones singing to me.  When my dad died my siblings and I crowded around his hospital bed and sang until we couldn’t remember any more hymns to sing. The first night we didn’t have hymnbooks and mixed and matched verses.  There were false starts, dangling middles and strong familiar refrains.  Laughter mingled with tears.  The second night we had hymnbooks and it’s a funny thing: the time had a heavier quality to it.  I liked it better singing what we had stored in our heads, mistakes and all.

Within my extended family, loved ones are keeping vigil with a grandmother everyone calls Honey.  My brother walked past her room and heard his daughters singing to their grandma:

I’ll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death,
And praise Thee as long as thou lendest me breath;
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

With its ability to reach down into the tiny tendrils of your consciousness, music is powerful. 

I’m listening to an acoustic blues CD by Kelly Joe Phelps, Lead Me On.  The tracks are one-take songs. He sings a Blind Willie Johnson song, Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed.  I have yet to figure out what the song means, but it’s got a great title.  Another track is a Blind Willie McTell song We Got to Meet Death One Day. 

You gotta meet your death one day,
You’re going to glory after a while,
You’re gonna see death and smile,
You all gotta meet your death one day.

So…when it’s your ready-or-not moment, what would you want to hear?