Category Archives: Uncategorized

A Corking Good Time

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My husband and I made our first cork board. We have our own; this was a gift for friends.
Would you like to make one? Here are 5 things to consider.

1. The frame. You can re-use frames you have around,
look for old windows, etc. Garage sales are a great place to find frames.

 

2. The backing. My husband cut 1/4″ plywood for this one.
I imagine a hardware store/carpenter’s shop would do this for a small fee.

 

3. Corks. I have a private supplier (my brother). Check with
restaurants in your area. I set the synthetic ones aside.
You can bid on bags of corks on Ebay.

 

4. Design. I like the 2 x 2 design. If there was one thing I’d
highlight it is these words of wisdom from my husband:
“It’s just like tile: lay them out before you glue.”
Impatient to get going, I had planned the glue-as-you-go method.
But corks have different sizes and it took a bit of
maneuvering to have a board without humps or gaps.

 

5. Glue. I thought I would use a glue gun, but instead I used
wood glue. I centered the writing/design on the corks.
Let the board sit overnight, then turn it over to see if
any corks are loose.
Here is the finished work!

 

Making the Bed

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I think about death. I do. When my husband falls asleep on his back with his hands on his chest and his chin falls down, I call it the coffin pose. My funeral playlist is an oft-pondered subject. I am more inclined to say, “I love you” to people who don’t expect it, because I know that one sometimes doesn’t get go-backs. I remind myself that our days are numbered. And this is a sober introduction to a playful subject.

Because, if I survive Curt, one of the things I would miss the most is making the bed with him.

There is a history.

Three weeks into our marriage, we experienced an unsettling reality: we had different ways of doing things. What we were doing was making the bed.

It started with the fitted sheet. There is a correct sequence: first a top corner, then the opposite bottom corner, like an X…then the other top corner, and finally the opposing bottom. Fewer wrinkles or gaps. Curt disregarded my domestic dogma and just put the sheet on…however he saw fit.

Next was the flat sheet. Back then, there was a right side and a wrong side. Which side faces up? I said the right side, because…that is right. He said the wrong side so when you folded the sheets back to get into bed, both sides were right. (I concede, he was right.)

But the pinnacle of our disagreement was pillow placement. He said the open sides of the pillow were in the middle. I said the seams were in the center, open sides at the edge. And, you see, one of us had to give.

Because we were twitterpated there was no rancor in our disagreement. Just lots of teasing.

 

Life filled up and I ceased caring about X corners and pillow placement. The bed just had to be made. Early on, however, it became a game.

After the bedspread/duvet is smooth and folded back, we race to put the pillows in the pillowcases. And there are no rules, no holds barred. Everything is fair play. If I am on the verge of victory, he lunges across and yanks the half-cased pillow out of my hands. I hide his pillow case and begin before he’s retrieved it. We giggle like idiots. It’s hard to case a pillow when you are shaking with laughter. The winner flings the pillow on the bed with a flourish and a shout.

Making the bed.

Ordering the common life.

This is what we keep striving towards: get the work done, but infuse it with fun. (I hope we have 34 more years of laughter.) 

  

News You Can Use

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I learned a trick from Vicki, my sister-in-law, that makes the thankful all year long. It involves yogurt containers and water.

 

 

Filled cleaned plastic containers—like the ones yogurt and sour cream come in—with water, leaving some head space. Freeze. Presto shazam! You have ice for a small lunch-sized cooler. You have ice for ice-water, drink dispensers, lemonade, iced tea. I especially like the one pound containers; they fit every pitcher in our house.

Here is a Iced Tea Syrup recipe that is great for thirsty souls. One hot summer afternoon we were at a friend’s house for lunch. We gulped down a gallon of iced tea. She picked up the empty pitcher and brought more cold tea to the table a minute later. Who stores iced tea by the gallon? “How did you do that?” I asked. “Oh, I have a syrup concentrate,” she replied. It’s my go-to tea now.

Heather’s Iced Tea Syrup

2 quarts water
2/3 C tea leaves (=8 family sized tea bags)
4 mint tea bags
4 C sugar * 
8 whole cloves
mint leaves

Bring water to boil.
Turn heat off, let bubbles die down.
Add tea; cover and steep for 15 minutes.
Add sugar and cloves.
Stir well.
Keep covered in the refrigerator.

Mix 1 part syrup to 4 or 5 parts water,
or to taste.

* I have used Splenda instead of sugar, with good results.

Wedding Glory

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The Grand Occasions of my life are never complete until I’ve written about them. Zack and Addie’s wedding was certainly a Grand Occasion.

Tuesday, June 26, 4:30 p.m.  Zack’s family (minus Zack and his best man, Rex) arrived at our home in Oregon. We talked and laughed around our table, the mood buoyant with anticipation. After dinner, we got busy. Di, mother of the groom, measured out bushels of flour for bread dough. John, father of the groom, got his guitar out to practice a song he had composed for the occasion. Reunited sisters and girlfriend set up their camp in a spare bedroom. Brennan, youngest brother, did what he was created to do: shoot hoops.

Wednesday, June 27, 7:10 a.m.  The family, coffeed and victualed, loaded into the van.  I love the next five words: Di stayed at my house. It was the day to cook, bake, combine, marinate. Her three-ringed binder had all the recipes. We zested lemons, chopped garlic, thickened berries, boiled pasta, cut basil, diced prosciutto, quartered artichokes, blended lime dressing. We did all the prep work that’s doable the day before a dinner for 55 people. And we talked, filling in the back stories of our lives. We sat down once for a think session. When the moon was suspended in the sky, we stopped.

Thursday, June 28, 6:30 a.m.  My husband Curt helped us fill every space in our coolers and cars the next morning. With walkie-talkies on the same channel, we embarked on the drive through bedazzling mountain passes. We stopped in Enterprise, Oregon, so Di could hold baby Solomon and to pick up Anna, for whom in twelve hours I would be thanking God about every minute.

Thursday, June 28, 6:15 p.m.  Rolls on the table, drinks in the dispensers, salads on the buffet, candles lit, places set: hurry up chicken and be done! Near disasters have been averted; several times Anna, the red-headed wonder, and I have locked eyes over the kitchen work space and said, “What are we going to do?” Addie and I share a hug, the first time we’ve met in person. The dinner looks, smells and tastes delicious. Murmuring voices, ice tinkling in glasses, forks clinking on plates, giggles forming a double helix in the air: these are the sounds of a gloriously good meal. Slideshow, skits, toasts, hugs, tears, smiles, songs. As parents, we labor for years to get to this moment of fruition.   

Friday, June 29, 6:30 p.m.  You could not pick a more picturesque setting for a wedding: rolling hills, slanting sun, peaceful air, exquisite music. As I am accompanied down the aisle, the usher says, “You need to sit in the family section.” I gulp, awed by the honor. Minutes before the ceremony begins, we are upgraded to the front row! Grateful for the opportunity to imprint the images for dear ones agonizing in their absence, I raise my camera. One by one the ten bridesmaids walk down the lawn in their cobalt blue heels, each one praying that she stays upright.

Friday, June 29, 7:05 p.m.  We stand. Wes walks his youngest daughter to her future. I take about 20 pictures of Zack, capturing the sunrise of his smile. This ceremony is invested with meaning, with solemn joy. Bridesmaids wipe their eyes. I’m needing air in my lungs. This is the moment that restricts my throat. The Daddy (as we who have read Mma Ramotswe books say) comes to that moment when all things change. He kisses his darling girl, he shakes the groom’s hand. And he steps back. Exhale. And then Addie’s fingers are linked in Zack’s. Her eyes only strayed from Zack when the pastor was talking directly to her. The homily was like the best-crafted novel. The tone was heavier than most wedding sermons, creating tension. This is all true, but why here? Why now? I wondered. And then Pastor Sumpter began resolving that tension, weaving truth into a magnificent strand, bringing it home with grace.

Friday, June 29, 7:35 p.m.  The kiss! Whoa. It began like most kisses begin, but then it changed. He dipped her, tango-style, and that man kissed his wife! Applause breaks forth. The bride and groom stand, facing the guests, irrepressible smiles. They are Married! The slightest pause, before the music begins, signalling a change in the mood. Party On!

Friday, June 29, 8:45 p.m.  Dad, dad, granddad, brother, brother, and cousin give toasts that also set this wedding apart from a typical wedding. A poem crafted for the occasion, wise words, funny comments, closing with a prayer from The Book of Common Prayer. Words that widen the moment, another dividend from the huge investment made by both families. After all the glasses have been lifted, we move to the lawn. Darkness has settled down into a comfortable sprawl. Tiki torches punctuate the fence, candles on tables keep winking. The dancing mimics the ceremony, a final reprise. The Daddy and Addie dance, smiling. Zack and Addie dance, singing to each other, encapsulated in their love. Guests join on the dance lawn. With each new song, the volume increases, the arms get higher. No DJ was needed to talk into mikes and direct traffic. At the appointed time, fireworks fill the sky. Zack and Addie run to their car under a canopy of sparklers held by the guests. Oh glorious day!

 

 

Photos are on Facebook. 

The wedding homily.

The rehearsal dinner recipes.

China Road & City of Tranquil Light

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One blessing of living in the age of interwebs is that it is much easier to communicate directly with an author. After I finished Bo Caldwell”s exquisite City of Tranquil Light, I found her Facebook page and thanked her for her transformational book. And she graciously replied! This morning, after I finished reading Rob Gifford’s eye-opening book China Road, I sniffed around and found a podcast of Gifford in which he reads segments of his books.  [Addendum: even better is this 7 part series On the Road in China.]

Two of my favorite genres are travel memoirs and historical fiction. China Road takes us west from Shanghai to Kazakhstan along the 3,000-mile-highway, Route 312 in the twenty-first century. City of Tranquil Light tells the story of Will and Katherine, who move to northern China as Mennonite missionaries in 1906.

Gifford’s book put a face on China. It was the first book I’ve read about China that didn’t read/feel foreign, where the I thought of the subjects he interviewed first as people, then Chinese. Gifford created a thirst in me to know more about China; his list of recommended books has weighted down my to be read (TBR) list. His prose and style reminded me of Colin Thubron’s  The Lost Heart of Asia.  William Kirby writes, “If there is one book to read before you visit China, it is China Road.”

Bo Caldwell’s lyrical writing took me apart and put me back together again. The story is inspired by her maternal grandparents, missionaries who adopted China as their homeland. Caldwell effectively alternates the telling of the story between Will’s reminiscences at the end of his life and Katherine’s contemporary journal entries. I thought, when I finished Eric Metaxus’ Bonhoeffer in January, that it would be my favorite book of 2012. But City of Tranquil Light at least is tied for first, and is clearly my favorite fiction of 2012, thus far. Reading Bo Caldwell is like reading Wendell Berry, a lofty compliment.

Missionaries have gotten a bad rap in most books published in the last twenty years. It was refreshing to read, in both titles, winsome accounts of missionaries. Rob Gifford calls James Hudson Taylor one of his childhood heroes. He also introduced me to Mildred Cable and Francesca French, two stalwart middle-aged English women who tramped across the Gobi Desert and wrote “one of the great China travel books.”  Bo Caldwell makes you love her main characters. I want to find an elderly man in an assisted living home in Claremont, CA, put my hand on his arm, and say, “Tell me your story.”

Two highly excellent books that are guaranteed to raise your interest in China.

What Do You Want in a Book?

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We all have our druthers.

As a book lover, I have a list of what I’d like in the books I read. Not content—though I care about that in another context—; I’m talking layout, format, design.

I ask you: what do you want in a book?

1. E-book or print? Already it’s an old question, but a necessary starting point. I like my books incarnated in paper and ink. And, really, isn’t an e-book a disembodied book? But the benefits of e-books are many. My favorite reasons to use a Kindle: the availability of out-of-print books, often free; a light way to carry 96 books onto the airplane; the note-taking abilities. I use my Kindle in church now, because I can put notes and quotes from the sermon right on my Kindle.

2. Hardcover or paperback? If a book was available in both, at the same cost, which one would you pick? I like hardcovers for books I want to hand down to my children, but since I often read in bed, I find the paperback more comfortable. With the hardcover you have an the additional question of the dust jacket. I prefer the cover of the hardback book to be the same design as the dust jacket, so if when the dust jacket gets ripped/worn/coffee-stained, you still have an attractive book. 

3. If paperback, mass-market or trade? I might as well confess that I only injected this question to vent my hatred of the mass-market paperback book. Those squatty loathsome 4″x7″ books with print crammed up the edge of the page. On the other hand, I love me a trade paperback, the larger-sized book that is often the same size as the hardcover.  Mass-market paperbacks are hard on the eyes, but they are also hard on the soul. Reading a steady diet of mmp’s will transform you into a squinty-eyed, miserable wretch. There is no margin, and we all know that margin is an essential component of life.

4. Cover: photo-based, typographic, or black and white?  A good photograph on a cover magnetizes me. You can peruse 90 book covers here, particularly if you want to explore what works and what doesn’t. Designing a cover takes talent and skill, as any cover of a self-published book will demonstrate.

5. Chapters: numbers or names? Since I’ve already established my QUIRKY credentials, I’ll put it all out there. I love the stuff of chapter divisions. When an author is clever, when she has clearly invested time and thought into the naming of a chapter, I appreciate it. When he adds a quote, especially if I need to figure out how it relates to the chapter, I love it. And for the win? The naming of *sections* within the chapter. Oh, yes, that makes me happy. Connie Willis, a living author, used this technique in her hilarious To Say Nothing of the Dog. 

6. Illustrations: none, some, mostly? Let’s restrict this discussion to adult books; illustrations are children’s books. Photos, pen and ink drawings, and watercolors can add to the reading experience. Unless they are cheesy. If the book is fiction, I’d rather keep my mental picture of the protagonist unsullied by a drawing. But a cottage, field, road, wood, or an object relative to the text is fine.

7. Author photo, bio? Yes, please! I want to see who wrote this book. Do you find it unsettling—a tad disorienting—when you have a picture of the author in your head which is inordinately different from the real thing? I pictured Malcolm Gladwell as the brother of Alistair Cooke, a white-haired, well-suited Anglo Saxon gentleman. Ha, ha! And I’m curious to know what the author thinks is noteworthy enough to include in a short paragraph. I found N.D. Wilson’s bio fun. “because if I have to write it, I refuse to do so in the third person.”

8. Index? I came to love indexes/indices late in life. Browsing a well-considered index is the perfect getting-to-know-you technique if you and the book are on a blind date. One of the biggest guffaws in my life was when I read Maya Angelou in the index of a book I wouldn’t suspect would speak to/about Maya Angelou. Page 342. The book had 339 pages.

9. Map? Cookbooks are perhaps the only book that would not benefit from a map. Or an algebra text. But I love maps. If a book were a glass of wine, the map would provide the perfect finish. Maps, genealogies, timelines…they make it better.

10. Typeface/font? How do you want your words to look? I’m not devoted to one particular font, but I love the g in Baskerville (see image). And I get a thrill reading that penultimate page in a book which announces, “This book was set in {   } font.” It’s more proof that someone in the publishing world cares. Simon Garfield snickers in The 8 Worst Fonts in the World. The Cracked Guide to Fonts snickers too. What font do you prefer to read?

 

Addendum: Quote from C.S. Lewis (HT Di)

To enjoy a book like that thoroughly I find I have to treat it as a sort of hobby and set about it seriously. I begin by making a map on one of the end leafs: then I put in a genealogical tree or two. Then I put a running headline at the top of each page: finally I index at the end all the passages I have for any reason underlined. I often wonder – considering how people enjoy themselves developing photos or making scrapbooks – why so few people make a hobby of their reading in this way. Many an otherwise dull book which I had to read have I enjoyed in this way, with a fine-nibbed pen in my hand: one is making something all the time and a book so read acquires the charm of a toy without losing that of a book.

Ken Burns on Story

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A poignant view of the personal side of filmmaker Ken Burns, pioneer of the “Ken Burns Effect,” the panning and zooming of still photos to create a sense of movement.

His mother died of cancer when he was 11. 

“It might be that what I’m engaged in, in an historical pursuit, is a thin layer of perhaps a thickly disguised waking of the dead…that I try to make Abraham Lincoln, and Jackie Robinson, and Louis Armstrong come alive. And it may be very obvious and very close to home who I’m actually trying to wake up.”

Colson Memorial Service

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Curt and I just finished watching Chuck Colson’s Memorial Service held in the Washington Cathedral, on May 16th, 2012. It is close to 2 hours, but time well spent. You can scan the program to see the musical selections and the order of service.

His daughter Emily’s remarks were awesome. Any father would want his daughter to be able to say what she said. The music was over-the-top wonderful. We need to be nourished by the words of the Bible spoken. There was a joyful solemnity infused into the whole service.

I love a good funeral.

Heart of a Soldier

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Heading out the door, remembering that my iPod needed to be re-charged, I swung by the library to pick up audiobook. As I scanned the shelves, someone bumped into me and apologized. “Oh, it’s you!” my dear friend Jan said. We were both in the same lane: looking for a good listen on a long, solo driving trip. In her hand was The Heart of a Soldier, which she pressed into mine. “I just finished this: it’s quite good, you’ll appreciate it,” she assured me.

That’s how I came to listen to Kate Blaise’s memoir of a military marriage. The first half could be the story of any bright-eyed spunky grand-daughter of a Lutheran minister raised in a small town. I had read David McCullough’s Truman last summer, so I connected with the flavor of Missouri.

My interest was peaked after Kate and Mike—high-school sweethearts—combine marriage and the military. I am neither a fan of women in combat positions nor of married couples living in separate quarters; yet I found Kate’s story compelling. She is honest about the stress of dual military careers. Because she held a higher rank than her husband, he saluted her in public. They were stationed in Korea when the 9-11 attack was made; later they were deployed in Iraq. I had just started the last disc when I arrived home. The next morning I sat down and wept—unable to combine listening with cooking or housework—as I came to the heart-breaking conclusion. Like all good stories, this one stuck with me long after I had finished it.

When Mike and I did manage to squeeze in a weekend together, we fought over even the smallest things: where to eat, what movie to see. We had fallen out of the habit of being together. Our visits, thought short, were extremely stressful. There was the pressure to get along because we didn’t know when we would see each other again; the pressure of squeezing a month’s worth of good times into a weekend when what we needed to do was resolve countless problems and issues. There was simply too much catching up to do and too little time to do it. We were fighting and clawing to feel needed in each other’s lives. 125

You won’t find a gushy, sentimental story: Kate strikes me as a stoic. You won’t agree with all her opinions. But if you are interested in a military memoir that isn’t so edgy that you might lose your lunch (there is mild profanity), if you are curious about a life as a woman in the military, if you are interested in a ground-level view of Iraq, I would recommend The Heart of a Soldier. Reading it was a vivid reminder to me of the risks our soldiers take and the sacrifices they make.   

In Praise of The Teaching Company

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Here is the loot I brought home from my brother’s house. He must love me: he let me borrow anything from his vast Teaching Company library.

David and I share a thirst for learning. Several years back, I bought a suitcase in Pennsylvania and filled it with bulky Teaching Company courses—mostly Medieval studies and music history—on cassette. Did you know that you can replace the cassettes with CDs for $10?

Luther, Literature and Lee. How is that for good stuff?

Color me happy.

Label me loved.

Thank you, David.