Tag Archives: mylife

A Little Boy’s Calendar

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A delightful Christmas project for my soon-to-be-three grandson.
Cowboys and horses get Gavin’s heart thumping.
This calendar came in the mail from one of my financial planners.

I decided to personalize it for Gavin.
It has his birthday, his folks’, his grandparents’, his ‘greats’,
and all ten aunts’ and uncle’s birthdays marked
with colorful stickers.

I put questions from a child’s catechism on the top of the page
and the answers on the bottom.
After a year, he’ll know the first 12 Q & As.

I thought a way to mark the completion of each day would be fun.
Immediately I discarded the thought of a Sharpie marker.
I don’t want his Mommy to hate me!
What about a water-color kid’s marker?
Still, the risk of a mess was huge.
Stickers!
They had to be big enough for his little fingers,
but not too big for the calendar box.
I found these primary colored dots.
They are attached to the back of the calendar
with a huge plastic paper clip (not shown).

(Daddy-Dad is Gavin’s best attempt at saying Granddad. It’s
now what his maternal grandfather is called.)

Small Children’s Catechism
Chris Schlect

1.  Who made you?
       God
2.  What else did God make?
       God made all things
3.  Why did God make all things?
       for His own glory
4.  Why do things work as they do?
       God has so decreed it.
5.  How do we learn about God?
       God reveals Himself.
6.  Where does God reveal himself?
       in His word and in nature
7.  What does God reveal in nature?
       His character, law, and wrath
8.  What more is revealed in His Word?
       God’s mercy towards His people
9.  Where is God’s Word today?
       The Bible is God’s Word.
10. How many Gods are there?
       There is one true God.
11.  How many persons are in the Godhead?
         three
12.   Who are these persons?
          Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

Road Trip

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I’m home after a glorious, perfect-in-it’s-splendidness road trip.  A girls road trip!  A trip to solidify plans for my friend’s son’s wedding.

Highlights:

•   the minute-by-minute variations in the light from inky black to pale blue

•   car conversations, the kind that follow rabbit-trails, hither-and-yons, and interruptions

•   a lingering lunch with two lovely friends at my favorite restaurant in the world: West of Paris.  Between us we savored  “An American in Paris” salad, Terrine de canard, and onion soup…succulent and salubrious!

•   an afternoon in the personal library of my dreams.  My friend’s husband is an author and professor, and his library was just the kind of reading room I’ve envisioned in my home in heaven. Floor to (twelve foot) ceiling shelves, comfy chairs, good lighting, wood floor, framed art, books placed on shelves in such a way that you knew they were read.  This was no antiseptic, perfectly-lined-up collection.  I had permission to browse and graze to my heart’s content.  It was so fun to recognize books I owned, to look at new ones, to dip into curious looking titles, to just Stand. And. Gaze. 

•   a lingerie shower with  a sparkling group of young (and middle) women.  One woman thought I looked familiar and started asking questions.  After we established the identity of our mutual friends, she asked me “now, do you know the [my brother’s last name]?”  Uh, just slightly…

•   brimming-with-joy hearts as piece after piece of the rehearsal dinner puzzle fell into place

•   listening to a disc of The Omnivore’s Dilemma about the Polyface Farm with my friend who has been talking about this kind of sustainable farming for years, and pausing to discuss ideas in between.  My friend is so excited about science, about agriculture, about animals, that when I’m with her I discover the hidden scientist in me.

•   passing through lonely, undulating hills covered with snow, leafless trees covered with snow, scenes from Currier and Ives.  The beauty of the stark white-on-white vista was piercing. We just kept holding our index fingers and thumbs in a frame and clicking the air, pointing to the red-tail hawk on the highway sign,  to the stand of birches, to the river, to the patchwork fields curving with the topography, to the farmhouse…and clicking on our “air” camera.

•   waiting for my friend’s cancer check-up appointment; seeing her face afterwards; hearing the joy in her voice; praising God for his sustaining care over the past several years.

•    in the car, again, in the darkness, this time with two gifted young women in the back seat and two old fogies in the front.  We sang the last hour before home, beginning with “O Holy Night.”  What have we lost when we take our personal DVD players, headphones, books on tape, and CDs on car trips?  We have lost the once familiar folk art of singing together; the fulfilling act of making beautiful music in the dark; improved skill while working out harmonies and rounds; the most enjoyable way of memorizing.  Singing in the car – worthy of it’s own blog post.

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days,
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as my years as we have seen trouble.
May your deeds be shown to your servants,
your splendor to their children.

Driving Creatively

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When I was a young mother, I was earnest.

So earnest that I read a book called How to Raise a Creative Child.  I’m sure there were many efficacious ideas, but the only one I remember implementing was the one about driving.  Instead of traveling the same route to a typical destination, say the library, you were supposed to mix it up.  Get outside the groove.   I earnestly suggested this to my forbearing husband. 

Curt had a way of humoring my silly notions and having fun at the same time. 

“Let’s turn on H instead of G” I’d prod.  [Can you believe it?  Our city planners named the streets after the alphabet!!  Their mothers hadn’t read the book.]

“Oh, is it time to drive creatively?” he’d ask.  And he’d drive as if we were in a go-cart at the fair, broad curves, on the wrong side, herky-jerky brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of the road.  [We live in a small town and this was always when there were no other cars on the road.] 

The boys loved it.

“Daddy, drive creative!”  they’d scream, never quite knowing if or how Daddy was going to obey the command.

Those fun memories came to me on our recent trip to Seattle.  We went through four or five roundabouts.  If you look up roundabout in the dictionary it will say “a method of traffic control designed to produce creative children.”  Seriously, if my son had not just gotten his four wisdom teeth and a few shards of jawbone extracted yesterday, I’d make him write a paper on the engineering design of roundabouts.  Someone must believe they are beneficial; they are slowly replacing traditional intersectins.  Before Seattle, I’d only seen them in New England. 

Curt will have his fill of driving creatively in Scotland and England.  He’s already nervous.  I offered to move the gear shift knobs while he pushes the clutch in, an offer which fails to bring him comfort.  We hope that we don’t run out of petrol, bang up the bonnet, blow a tyre running up a kerb, crash into a lorry, or rear-end the boot in front of us.  Translation here.

Any roundabouts in your neighborhood?

What Saturday Brought

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Saturday brought….a gathering of my kids, more pesto production, a celebration of a century (my DIL’s mom’s 50th birthday Sunday and my upcoming 50th birthday), fresh apple cider, a build your own burrito feast, many hugs, kind words, smiles and good wishes.  It brought a huge surprise!  I walked into the kitchen and my oldest sister (and surrogate mom) from Chicago was waiting to give me a hug.  I loved to have her enter my world, meet my friends, love my people.  Her birthday was yesterday. 

Saturday also brought a PaperBackSwap book in the mail, The Philosopher in the Kitchen by Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, and, with it, this quote.  It provided a hearty laugh.  I give it to you with apologies to my thin readers.

But for women it [thinness] is a frightful misfortune;
for to them beauty is more than life itself,
and beauty consists above all in roundness of form
and gracefully curving lines. 

 

The Courage to Purge

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My zone in the garage, the “after” picture.

Lately, I’ve been a brave little buckaroo.

I’m learning to purge.

Don’t worry, I’m not upchucking.  Bulimia will never tempt me.  It doesn’t take all my fingers to count the times I’ve experienced what Hank the Cowdog calls reverse perestroika since I was twelve years old.

I’m Throwing. Things. Away.

It’s hard.

Somehow, growing up, I developed a hatred of waste.  As poor as we were, there was always the sense that “someone else might be able to use this.”   The facility with which some folks fling something like a dirty towel into the trash, makes me wince.  I feel righteous indignation at the disposable society that we’ve become. 

So we recycle.  We use stuff until it is no longer usable.  We take stuff other people are pitching if we can use it.

Our culture has become so affluent that we cannot even give stuff away.  The local Salvation Army went under, in a bankrupt sort of way, because their trash bill was greater than their receipts.  Think about it.

My personal little MySpace, the zone in the garage (I prefer the British pronunciation: GAIR-azh) under my dominion, was, well, beyond the beyonds.   The lovely counter was invisible.  It was the landing zone for all kinds of stuff.  Leftover garage sale remnants, old curricula that no one wants, papers to file – in short, the detritus of decades of my life.

Every three years or so, God blesses me with the perfect mindset for this kind of job.  I stiffen my sinews, twist my head looking aside, and start filling garbage bags.   Those  large, round earrings that no one would take?  Gone.  Clipboards galore?  Out of here.  My favorite mug, chipped right were you sip?  Trashed. Boxes saved and tumbling over everything?  Recycle.

Then there was the file cabinet.  Stuffed so full that your knuckles began to hurt as you approached it.  Good stuff mixed with useless rubbish.   In one moment, I broke an eccentric little habit that even my husband didn’t know I had.  I saved years of utility bills.  When the file got too large, I made a ledger of notebook paper and wrote the information down from each month’s bill before I tossed it.  Our kilowatt usage, price per kilowatt, and amount paid.  Water, gas, electricity, phone.  Years of information.  That’s why I didn’t answer your letters timely, Mel!

In an epiphany of blinding clarity, I asked myself, Why?  So in 1983 we paid $17 a month for water.  How does knowing that help me?  Out they went, pages of useless information.  It was a Neil Postman moment.

But I admit to being a little lost.  How do you do it?  Do you save three months at a time?  A year?  Nothing?

A. HA!!  I need to switch to online bill paying and voila!  my paths will be made straight. 

But I am curious.  How do normal people file their bills?


Oh beautiful counter, it’s so good to see you again.

Thrills in the Thrift Store

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This is one sweet book.  I’ve held my DIL’s copy hostage for at least
two years.  Now I can remove it from my PaperBackSwap wish list;
my request was 79 of 87 for the hardcover, 67 of 77 for the paperback!


Soap dispenser that matches my shower curtain!


I’ve been looking for art for my guest room.  I don’t like the frame
color on this Monet, but paint covers a multitude of sins. $9.99 <grin>


This little wooden figurine reminds me of Christian in Pilgrims Progress. 
It will go on the bookshelf near that book.
A profile shot reminds me of Carson’s backpack.


This water pitcher appealed to me more when I picked it up than just looking at
it. It just felt good to hold.  Mel liked it too.  I offered it to her. She demurred.
I offered it again.  She was concerned about getting it home unbroken.
I went for the kill, and offered to buy it for myself.
Christian service, and all.


The pièce de résistance is a footed cake stand. 
I have secretly yearned for a footed cake stand for several years.
There it was.
Goodbye Tupperware.
In the beautiful life, glass trumps plastic every time.

Sampling Heaven

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Yesterday was a magical day.  I had The Most Thrilling Thrift experience, but that will get its own glorious post when my camera is back. An ivory moon played peek-a-boo among the treetops and hills on our car ride home. It drew the gauzy clouds over its face like a toddler who supposes she can’t be seen. My long friend Mel came for a visit and we found ourself tooling around Boise, in that delicious position, outside the Get from Point A to Point B mentality, where we were free to stop wherever our whims took us. 

As we drove on a major artery, I craned my head looking for a street address to get my bearings. 

“Great Harvest Bread Company – doesn’t that look wonderful?” I said.

“Let’s stop,” Mel replied. 

It was a lovely bakery, the nutty aroma of wheat dough invitation enough.  The woman behind the counter was the perfect balance of helpfulness and reserve.  We chatted amiably when she said, “You look so familiar to me.”

I shrugged and mentioned my home town with a questioning lilt. 

“Do you know ____?” she mentioned her sister-in-law’s name, (V) a dear friend, neighbor, and home schooler.
 
Suddenly it clicked.  V and I stayed at her (E’s) house twelve years ago when we came to Boise for a Andrew Pudewa writing seminar.

“But I thought you moved to Michigan,” I said.

“We moved back.” she grinned.

One night.

Twelve years ago.

What do I remember?

“I remember that you had a lovely teacup collection that you’d gotten at thrift stores.  I remember that your house smelled wonderful even though you had a baby in diapers.”   I didn’t say it, but I remember how the harmony between the kids, the love that lubricated the relationships made it such a comfortable home to be in.

“You know what I remember about you?  You asked how I home schooled.  I told you that I used many different materials and methods.  You responded, ‘Oh, you’re an Eclectic Homeschooler.’  And I’ve used that term ever since.”

I find this “chance” encounter as good an argument for the existence of God as The Argument of Efficient Causality.  More than an apologetic, it is a delight, an unexpected gift.   Like the delicious and satisfying sliver of Honey Wheat bread E was sampling, that little encounter was a foretaste of heaven.

Hands On Learning

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Back then, the Outdoor Education Camp was an annual
highlight.  Local home school families of different stripes joined
together, rented a primitive 4-H camp and focused on a period of history or a
specific topic to study.  Costs were low,
friendships formed, and learning actually occurred.  One year we studied the Constitution; a local
judge was a guest lecturer as well as a judge for a mock trial. 

I was sitting across from a dad during lunch when his eyes watered
and he started to cough. 

“Are you okay, Bob?” I asked.  We made eye contact before he shook his head
and got up from his seat.  He didn’t make
it seven steps when we realized that Something was Very Wrong. 

“He’s choking,” I called out and the nearest man began the
Heimlich maneuver.

Instantly the dining hall was quiet, an intense quivering
quiet.

Terry thrust several times, to no avail. He kept at it, but it wasn’t working.

“Lord God,” I silently prayed, “You just can’t let him die here
in front of all these children! Help us!”

Another friend darted into the kitchen and called 911.  Mentally I rolled my eyes: we were 18 miles
from the closest ambulance, beyond a timely response.

“No, Nooo!!! Not my Daddy!”  The daughter’s sobbing wail was the only
sound that broke through the strained silence.

Bob’s body was slumped forward and drool dribbled out of blue
lips.  He repositioned Terry’s hands
higher on his abdomen before Terry thrust once again.  The piece of carrot popped out, Bob’s face
pinked up, and everyone took a collective breath. 

Though stunned, we paused and prayed, giving thanks for the deliverance.

Before the evening meal a paramedic gave us a talk on the Heimlich, a nice, clean, clinical echo of the real thing we had earlier witnessed.  Two striking points embedded themselves on my psyche.

1.  Because choking and gagging are queer, risky spasms of weirdness, our first impulse is for privacy and preservation of dignity.  But in distress, isolation could become termination.  Bob was headed to the bathroom.  Had he made it there, he may have died.   Isn’t there a life lesson here?  So often we are more concerned about shielding our distress from the eyes of others than (seeking and) receiving needed assistance.

2.  When you are choking, you cannot talk.  Communicate your problem by pantomime, hands pointing at your throat or encircling your throat.  If you see someone choking, you need to talk for them. The first question is “Can You Breathe?” They can respond nonverbally to that question.

That noon after sanity was restored, we gathered together our stunned senses. There was a moment when the drama of it all absorbed all conversation. Soon a buzz began throbbing  as everyone rehearsed their perspective of the story.  A lot of food was left unfinished that meal. 

A local reporter had spent a few hours at the camp that day and had joined us for lunch.  After the dramatic interruption, a mom turned to him, picking up the thread of conversation and said, “As you can see, home schoolers tend to emphasize hands on learning!”

 

The Search for a Beautiful Life

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I remember with shamed face my attitude towards my bridal registry.  We were not china people at all.  So impractical!  So materialistic. So unnecessary.  So frou-frou.  It was stoneware for us.  Not local, hand-thrown pottery, just an ugly orange and yellow flower on a beige and brown background.  It was the 70s.  We had no patience with spending money on beautiful things.  “You can be just as hospitable with a paper plate as with a china plate.”  Yep, those words came from my mouth.  True statement, but the problem was that I truly thought paper was more spiritual than china.   Now I shudder at the arrogance. 

The times they are a changing.  Really, our minds are changing. 

My mother in-law and I had our annual garage sale.  The sale this morning was slow, so I went around my MIL’s neighborhood to the other 10-15 sales.   I bought a couple bags of books, 6 for a dollar, to post on PaperBackSwap.   Then I saw it.  A complete set of china in Christmas colors.  But there were only 8 place settings and we often have large gatherings for holiday meals.  I argued with myself about all the reasons not to get it and walked away.

After the sale was over, I told Mom about the dishes. 

“Oh,” she sighed, “I’ve always thought it would be fun to have Christmas dishes, but at my age we’re getting rid of stuff, not acquiring it .”

“Talk me out of it,” I challenged her.

“Does the set have serving dishes?”

“Yes, a bowl and a platter; it even has creamer and sugar bowl.”

“Where would you keep it?” she continued.

“I just cleaned a space in the garage cupboards.”

“How often would you use them?”

“They would be my everyday dishes starting the First Sunday of Advent. I’ll use them through Christmas.”

“Let’s go look at them.”

When we arrived her eyes got large.  “Oh my yes, they are lovely.”

Guess what?  The set, called Magnolia, includes two extra dinner plates!  We can easily have ten adults, and kids can use salad plates. The seller was asking $40.  I offered her my entire profit from my own garage sale, $27.  Sold! 

The First Sunday of Advent is December 2.  I can’t wait.

~     ~     ~   

A platter I picked up for $4 with this tablecloth in mind.

A 5×7 sized art book which I got for a quarter.

…because I especially loved this Degas.
 

which will go up in my small laundry room!

The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes.
If you foolishly ignore beauty,
you will soon find yourself without it.
Your life will be impoverished.
But if you invest in beauty,
It will remain with you all the days of your life.

~ Frank Lloyd Wright