Tag Archives: mylife

I Know, Let’s Talk About Hormones

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Ah, you know…hormones. At my age, I hear this all the time. I say it myself. It’s the reason we are hot, the reason we are cold, the reason we are wet, the reason we are dry, the reason we can’t sleep, the reason we can’t wake up.  Many women my age feel like a hostage to hormones.

If you need to take back your body, you will find much to consider in this book. Stanton addresses diet, exercise, stress, supplements, and, most importantly, bioidentical hormones. The book’s design and writing is about as exciting as a Wikipedia article. But the content is helpful.

Bioidentical? Huh? This neologism describes a “hormone [which] is exactly the same as a hormone made by our bodies.”  This is different from conventional hormone replacement therapy.

And we have just tripped off the path of traditional medicine onto the scenic bypass of alternative medicine. In other words, (lean close to me so I can whisper) the FDA hasn’t approved bioidentical hormones.

Yes, there is controversy. Google “bioidentical hormones” and you will dance your way into the debate.

 

May I tell you my story? Purely anecdotal evidence, but it’s my anecdote. 

I’m not a physician, but I’m a pretty good reader. When the hot/cold/wet/dry problems began—roughly seven years ago—, my most pressing problem was an utterly deflated outlook on life. I woke up, took a shower, and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.  Stanton discusses this in a section delightfully titled NOT YOUR MOTHER’S MENOPAUSE. 

Initially, many women notice they have less energy or zest for life.
They don’t get as excited about things that should matter,
or just don’t have the energy to do things they used to enjoy.
One day follows another, but none of them brings much joy.
They might notice themselves getting irritable or exploding
for reasons that, in retrospect, seem ridiculous.

 

My respoonse to problems is to read. Shoot, my approach to life is to read. I looked through the lenses of both traditional and alternative medicine, searching for some sense. Across the spectrum, three words flashed: diet and exercise. No one argued with basic stuff like drinking more water and taking a walk. And I firmly believe that so many problems we blame hormones for can be corrected with real food and real movement.

I work for a compounding pharmacy; I am an accountant and cannot pronounce the drug names. But, we have a library of books and CDs (where I got Hormone Harmony) that we lend out to physicians and customers. I took John Lee’s What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Menopause. When I read parts aloud to my husband, he dismissed it as rubbish. But one Sunday afternoon, we listened to Dr. Lee speak and his words filled us with hope.  “Let’s do this,” Curt said, although all the “doing” was mine. So I began using an over-the-counter bioidentical progesterone cream. 

Because of my symptoms, my doctor had urged surgery as a solution. Well. He hadn’t urged surgery, but I’ve been longing to pair up that delicious pair of words. The big H. Take it out and be done with it. It made sense to everyone but me. I acknowledge that I have issues: my mom died immediately after a minor gynecological surgery. I wasn’t hysterical, but I refused to consent to a hysterectomy, to use another phrase I’ve tasted these many years.

It wasn’t a shazam! solution, but I made progress with progesterone. I knew my OB/GYN would raise his eyebrows when I disclosed this bit of information. “I think you are wasting your money,” were his words. I decided to push back. “Are you telling me not to use bioidentical hormones? Because I want full cooperation between us; if you say to stop I will either stop or I’ll find a different doctor.”  I respected him and don’t believe in doing stuff—medically speaking—behind my physician’s back. He shrugged and relented.

After a few years, I did my own experiment. I stopped the progesterone. The hot/cold/wet/dry symptoms came right back. That convinced me, and I continue on, with over the counter progesterone (which doesn’t require an RX to buy). Ideally, one should take a $150 saliva test that tells exactly what your hormone levels are. A physician or nurse practitioner uses that data to prescribed an individually formulated compound prescription for you.

If you are curious, click on the link above and use the Look Inside! feature. If you type “frequently” in the search, you’ll be able to read a large part of the the FAQs.

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.

Dear Mom

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Dear Mom,

We love you. We miss you. We remember you.

Even though we are separated by that grand canyon between mortality and immortality, our love for you continues. You left an enduring imprint on us. We all have ways that embody Nellie Harper. Your kindness is part of each of our DNA. It would be fun to tell you about the kindness of your children, exhibited just this year. That quiet kindness abides in each of your grandchildren, too. It isn’t always evident between siblings (wry grin), but they are kind people.

We all have wishes.

We wish we could honor you, our mom, face to face. As the years accumulate, we see with greater clarity what we owe you. What was a given—your smile, your excellence, your steadfastness, your encouragement—when we were kids, we now know was such an immense gift. You shaped us into who we are. We all would love to ‘praise you in the gates’. To have you hear our gratitude, feel our hugs.

We wish our kids knew you…beyond the stories we tell. Ditto, for the husbands and wives who never met you. They get the trace elements of you through us, but we’d love them to know the real you.

And Mom? We all wish we were more like you. Sometimes that is the grief we silently share, more than missing you. Your wisdom: your sweet, practical wisdom. Your generosity. Your faith. You made such an impact on more than one community. You were extraordinary in such an ordinary way.

We’re getting together for Anne’s wedding soon. A large, unruly, talkative, loud crowd of relatives. It will be a great time.

It always comes round to thanksgiving. The hollow years without you can’t compare to the full years of having you. You filled us up; you fed us; you nurtured us; you made each of us know how special we were to you. The tears have slowed to a tiny trickle. We all get throat-lumpy in May. But it is thanksgiving that we feel in the end. Another of your legacies is the lack of bitterness in your children.

Mom. We love you. We miss you. We remember you.

Carol, for all of us

Musings of a Bibliophile

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In my dream house, I would have a library: walls of floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted bookcases. In reality I have six open bookcases and a woodstove, a dust procreator. Periodically I remove all the books, vacuum the top edges of them, wipe them, and cull out the books I don’t need to keep. It is my favorite cleaning project: old friends are fondly acknowledged, unread books are opened and sighed over. There are discoveries and dialogs. Yes, I talk to myself.

Here then, are my thoughts while cleaning and shelving books.

• What discoveries! Many books have Post-it flags dotted across the top; I found (and removed) other forms of bookmarks. One square of toilet tissue. A white plastic flosser. A register receipt. Bear that in mind if you want to borrow my books.

• I moved Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare from the Shakespeare shelf down to the kids’ books on the bottom. All things Greece gave up the glorious Black Ships Before Troy: The Story of The Iliad and The Wanderings of Odysseus to the same location.  Which prompts me to say how much I love the illustrations of Alan Lee.

• There is the problem of the Norton Anthologies. What if? I whisper.  What if? I repeat.  What if I started working through these, reading sections in between other books? I pick one up and flip to the last page. Page 2579. Well, that’s a happy thought, I conclude.

• I love the idea, and occasionally the practice, of deep reading. Reading through all the works of a great author. Ignatius Press has issued The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton. How I would love to own all 36 volumes! Seven are still to be published. But I have Volume 1 on my shelf; I remember the splurge of purchasing it at Twice Read Books in Chambersburg, PA. Even though I haven’t read all of Volume 1, I like to imagine having read all 29 published volumes.

• The internet has made so many reference books redundant. Take The New York Public Library Desk Reference. I imagine that every tasty bit of information (TBOI, for short) could be found online. But oh, what a glorious source of whimsical reading. And how many hours have I enjoyed between the covers of TNYPLDR. Browsing isn’t the same online. Alas, it is on the “out” pile.

• I couldn’t just dust the art books without some lookie-loos. Winslow Homer, I love you. 

• I’ve been called a Grammar Nazi a few times lately, a label I protest. This shelf, however, tells a different story.

 What tales do your bookshelves tell?

An Afternoon in a Graveyard

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I’m eating my lunch in a graveyard.
Human seeds have been planted in neat little rows. Stone stakes label the crop.

~ N.D. Wilson in Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl

 

I like cemeteries.
The names, the epitaphs, the iconography, the quiet.
I like the sadness, the melancholy, the stab of pain, the bracing reality of death.

I hate death.
I hate the ripping and tearing, the long separation, the disruption, the destruction.
Death is my enemy.
I whisper John Donne’s words, “Death, thou shalt die.”

 

But.
I believe.
Weekly, we quote the Apostle’s Creed:
I believe in the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.

 

Grief for Little Charlie. Grief for Little Charlie’s mom.

 

 

 

So personal: My Mother. Our Son.

A hollow emptiness.

Spring time is perhaps the best time to visit a cemetery.

 Spring’s blossoms sing an ancient melody ~
after death comes the resurrection.

 

Our favorite epitaph.

 Your life in five words?

Petty Crime

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I admired my husband yesterday. We were driving, and I noticed how effortlessly he converts potentially tense moments into laughter. How, when there is a short second to respond to another driver’s actions, he is relaxed and generous and calm. When a driver tailgates, then moves out to pass—crossing yellow lines on a curvy, two-lane mountain highway—Curt typically says, “You go, dude!” So not offended.

I actually thought about this for a few minutes, contrasting his lack of ridiculous emotion with my tendency towards pettiness. I had a wee little conversation with myself: Self, you need to take a tip from this man. Then I looked at the clouds and thought about Downton Abbey.

At lunch today, I got a pop-quiz in pettiness. I drove to the post office. There were two spaces to park in front of it. As I was about to turn left and take one of the spots, the driver opposite me turned right and parked. I pulled up behind her and waited for her to pull forward into the front spot. I assumed she’s been to gas stations and has experience pulling forward to the front pump. And right before my eyes, she got out, closed the car door, and walked into the post office.

For Pete’s Sake! I put the car into reverse, pulled around the Offender’s car, parallel parked into the middle space. And put my Sheriff’s Badge on. Squinting and spluttering with indignation, I hadn’t got a clear view of the woman. I knew she wore a black leather coat. When I got into the post office there were two women in black leather coats. I had a mind to tap one on the shoulder and remind her of the particulars of parking courtesy. But I refrained, not wanting to tap the wrong shoulder.

Not to sound dualistic or anything, but while I was fuming and debating with myself, another me was standing to the side watching myself, aghast. When did you become such a crotchety old lady? Good grief, she probably never saw you pull up behind her! Get a grip!

Getting to the counter was like receiving a phone call at home in the middle of the argument: that instant transformation from snippy to sweet! I like the kind employees of the U.S. Postal Service and they like me. We were friendly, happy, relaxed, calm, affable. And then I went out the door, as the Offender was getting into her car. I’ll show her! I started the engine, glared in my rear view mirror, and clenched my teeth. I should just sit here and make her have to pull around me. The other me was astonished at this vindictive streak. I pulled into the street. A horn blasted, a car swerved, and now I was on the receiving end of a glare. 

So caught up I was in petty “crime” that I didn’t check for traffic. I was the jerk who pulled out in front of a car. I braked, the car threaded around me, and I saw how stupid I was. I’d just been given a pop-quiz on pettiness and flunked. But the mercies of the Lord are new every hour, and I was spared injury. It was a moment to take stock. It was a moment to remember. It was a moment to give thanks.

Photo credit: Sidewalk outside La Grande post office, D. Harper

 

Why Do You Read?

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I’m a schizophrenic.

And so am I.

No, really, I am.

When it comes to reading, different people inside me emerge. The stronger personalities throw an elbow at the weaker until there is a resurgence and the weaker fights back.

I am a reader.

I can’t “not read.” If there is nothing handy to read—a pathetic situation I strive constantly to avoid—I will sound out the ingredients of cereal: barley malt extract, trisodium phosphate, riboflavin, calcium carbonate…

The intersection of schizophrenia and reading is illustrated in the answer to the question “Why do you read?”

I read because I like to read.

I read to learn facts. What does the third verse of In the Garden mean?

I read to be entertained. Tell me a story!

I read as a way to love others. Nothing like a kid on a lap with a book…

I read to show love to others. You like Dick Francis? Then I will read him, too.

I read to fulfill obligations. Carol, please read this and let me know what you think.

I read some titles because one is supposed to read them.

I read some titles to say I have read them. Shameless of me to admit it, but true.

I read so I won’t be left behind. The buzz about Unbroken is one instance.

I read to nourish my soul.

I read because I’m bored.

I read because I’m tired.

I read some books to get them off my shelf. I could just remove them, but I want to read them!

I read because someone I admire recommended the book.

I read because someone I’ve never heard of recommended the book.

I read to escape unlovely tasks. A habit begun long ago when I had homework.

I read difficult books because they often reward the effort.  Vigorous reading gives me endorphins.

I read to quench my curiosity.

I read to kindle curiosity.

 

So, gentle reader, why do you read?

 

My 2011 Reading List

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I read 87 books in 2011. I’ve arranged the titles I’ve read this year into genres. Yes, Alexander McCall Smith is a genre unto himself! Each list is presented in the order of my preference, the top being the favorite. I found it very difficult to rank disparate books. How does one compare Elisabeth Elliot’s novel with Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts? The omega icon (Ω) indicates an audio book. K = Free Kindle K$ = Kindle at a price. I only read a few of these on my Kindle, but I’m especially interested in free Kindle books, and think you might be too.

Last year I began noting the date of publication, which helps me see trends in my reading. I find it interesting/curious that as much as I think I love the classics, the only classics I read this year were children’s books. Unless you count Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, which I read to get a feel for Hemingway’s taut and sparse writing style. If I didn’t care for it, it doesn’t count as a classic, right? Seeing this list makes me determined to read Dickens, Trollope, Chesterton and Shakespeare in 2012.

All in all it was a satisfactory year of reading. I look over the list and sigh many happy sighs. My 2011 book of the year is Unbroken. My children’s book of the year is Auntie Robbo, which you are obliged, if you have a Kindle, to read for free. Why I’ve never heard of this book before this year perplexes me. I found it on a fluke: curious about a reference to the author, I Googled her name. That’s one Google I will never regret.

The quotes interspersed are from this year’s reading.

 

As the train drew out of town, Matthew looked out into the gathering darkness
of the late autumn evening. There were clusters of light here and there, and beyond
them the dark shape of the hills. That was what the world is like, he thought:
a dark place, with small clusters of light here and there, where there is
justice and concord between men.  ~ Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith                             

The World According to Bertie 2009 K$ review
Love Over Scotland 2006 K$ review
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones 2008 K$
The Charming Quirks of Others  2010 K$
La’s Orchestra Saves the World 2009 K$
The Double Comfort Safari Club 2010 K$

 

And when the fresh curling trout had been eaten, with a mound of scones and butter,
they lay late round the fire, swilling cocoa, arguing again about stags and cows,
telling stories, and looking back on yet another well-spent perfect day. ~ Ann Scott-Moncrieff

Children’s Fiction

Auntie Robbo Ann Scott-Moncrieff, 1941 K review
Moccasin Traill Elouise Jarvis McGraw, 1952
Tamar Mal Peet, 2007 K$ review
Hans Brinker Mary Mapes Dodge, 1865 K review
Escape from Warsaw Ian Serraillier, 1963
Tom Sawyer Abroad  Mark Twain, 1894 K review
A Wonder Book  Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1852 K review
Nothing to Fear Jackie French Koller, 1991
The Christmas Rat Avi, 2002
Tanglewood Tales Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1853 K
Onion John Joseph Krumgold, 1959
A Dog of Flanders Ouida de La Ramée, 1872 K review
Pinocchio Carlo Collodi, 1882 K
Tom Sawyer Detective Mark Twain, 1896 K
The Peterkin Papers Lucretia Peabody Hale, 1880 K review
The Little Lame Prince Dinah Mulock Craik, 1875 K review

 

I used to tell my children that learning was like building shelves for the mind,
some of which would come to bear much weight, some little,
but all useful for reasoning and classification. ~ Janie B. Cheaney

Children’s Non-Fiction

String, Straight-edge & Shadow Julie E. Diggins, 1965 review
Duel in the Wilderness Karin Clafford Farley, 1995 review
Meter Means Measure S. Carl Hirsch, 1973 review

 

Beauty is a key part to understanding God. ~ Brian Godowa

Christian

A Godward Life Book 2 John Piper, 1999 K$ review
One Thousand Gifts Ann Voskamp, 2011 K$
No Graven Image Elisabeth Elliot, 1966
Wind from the Stars George MacDonald, 1992
For Women Only Shaunti Feldhahn, 2004 K$
Passion and Purity Elisabeth Elliot, 1984
50 People Every Christian Should Know Warren Wiersbe, 1984 K$
The Wisdom of Tenderness Brennan Manning, 2002 K$
The Ragamuffin Gospel Brennan Manning, 1990 K$
Women of the New Testament Abraham Kuyper, 1934

 

On Thanksgiving Day, anyone who wants to wash dishes
is my friend for life.  ~ Rick Rodgers

Cooking

Thanksgiving 101 Rick Rodgers, 2007 K$ review

 

Despite its seeming mundanity, the ritual of flying remains indelibly linked,
even in secular times, to the momentous themes of existence—and their
refractions in the stories of the world’s religions. We have heard about too
many ascensions, too many voices from heaven, too many airborne angels
and saints to ever be able to regard the business of flight from an entirely
pedestrian perspective, as we might, say, the act of traveling by train.
~ Alain de Botton

Cultural Studies

A Week at the Airport Alain de Botton, 2009 K$ review
The Crisis of Civilization Hilaire Belloc, 1937 review
How Proust Can Change Your Life Alain de Botton, 1997
From Cottage to Work Station Allan C. Carlson, 1993

 

An essay is more than just a report; an essay takes a position or makes a point.
It requires higher-level thinking. ~ Janice Campbell (not exact quote; cobbled from my notes)

Essays

Heirloom: Notes from an Accidental Tomato Farmer Tim Stark, 2008 K$ review
Small Wonder Barbara Kingsolver, 2002 K$ review

 

I love fiction, strangely enough, for how true it is.
If it can tell me something I maybe suspected, but
never framed quite that way, or never before had
sock me so divinely in the solar plexus, that was a
story worth the read.   ~ Barbara Kingsolver

Fiction

Gilead Marilynne Robinson, 2004 Ω K$
Green Journey Jon Hassler, 1985 review
In the Company of Others Jan Karon, 2010 K$ review
Dear James Jon Hassler, 1993
Half Broke Horses Jeannette Walls, 2009 K$
The Marriage Bureau for Rich People Farahad Zama, 2009 K$
The Rector of Justin Louis Auchincloss, 1965
Up and Down in the Dales Gervase Phinn, 2004 K$
Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand Helen Simonson, 2010 K$
Staggerford Jon Hassler, 1977 K$
Small Island Andrea Levy, 2005 K$
Shanghai Girls Lisa See, 2009 K$
Olive Kitteridge Elizabeth Strout, 2008 K$
Amy Inspired Bethany Pierce, 2010 K$
News from Thrush Green Miss Read, 1970 K$
Miss Julia Strikes Back Ann B. Ross, 2008 Ω K$
No Dark Valley Jamie Langston Turner, 2004 review
The Sun Also Rises Ernest Hemingway, 1926 K$

 

Commit to one thing: You must change your life.
But if you don’t have fun doing this thing, my friend,
then it will be the dumbest damned thing you have
ever done. You won’t know if you enjoy it until you do it.
 ~ Richard Watson

Health

Hormone Harmony Alicia Stanton, 2009
The Philosopher’s Diet Richard Watson, 1985 K$

 

History lessons were my joy.  ~ P.D. James

History

Unbroken Laura Hillenbrand, 2010 K$ review
Truman David McCullough, 1992 K$
The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris David McCullough, 2011 K$
Eisenhower Stephen E. Ambrose, 1983 review
1,001 Things Everyone Should Know About American History John Garraty, 1989

 

The years are getting so they flash past me like pickets in a fence.
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower on 61st birthday

Memoir/Biography

West With the Night Beryl Markham, 1942 Ω
The Sword Of Imagination Russell Kirk, 1995 review
The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C. S. Lewis Alan Jacobs, 2005 Ω K$
Time to Be in Earnest  P.D. James, 1999 K$ review
Blind Hope: An Unwanted Dog and the Woman She Rescued Laurie Sacher, 2010 K$
German Boy: A Refugee’s Story Wolfgang W.E. Samuel, 2000 K$ review
Heat Bill Buford, 2007 K$

 

It’s not the tragedies that kill us, it’s the messes. ~ Dorothy Parker

Mystery

Original Sin P.D. James, 1995
The Singing Sands Josephine Tey, 1952
Break In Dick Francis, 2007 Ω K$
Old House of Fear Russell Kirk, 1961 K$ review
Dead Heat Dick and Felix Francis, 2007 Ω K$
Crossfire Dick and Felix Francis, 2010 Ω K$
Poirot Investigates Agatha Christie, 1924 Ω K$

 

To be proud of knowledge is to be  blind with light. ~ Benjamin Franklin

Non-Fiction

In a Word Margaret Ernst, 1939 review
Poor Richard’s Almanac Benjamin Franklin, 1747 K$ review

 

We were as happy as people can possibly be in a malarious country. ~ Jessie Currie
I like roads. I live to move. ~ Harry S. Truman

Travel

A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains Isabella Bird, 1873 K
Unsuitable for Ladies: An Anthology of Women Travellers ed. Jane Robinson, 1994 K$ review
The Crofter and the Laird John McPhee, 1969 K$
Harry Truman’s Excellent Adventure Matthew Algeo, 2009 K$ review
The Guynd: A Scottish Journal Belinda Rathbone, 2007 review
Two Towns in Provence M.F.K. Fisher, 1964 K$ review
Palladian Days: Finding a New Life in a Venetian Country House Sally Gable, 2006 Ω K$
Wonderlust Vicki Kiyper, 2007 review

 

Happy Reading!

What We Remember

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Lingering after a meal is an important part of our family’s culture. We love to exhale a contented sigh, pour another cuppa, perhaps clear a few dishes out of the way, talk, laugh, tell stories, and delay—as long as possible—the end of the meal. A friend told me years ago that the German language had a word for lingering at table for which there was no English equivalent.  If anyone knows that German word, please leave a comment. I’d love to have it in my possession.

As we lingered, we talked about Christmas memories. And it struck me that the Christmases where everything goes right, where good things abound, must be remembered through gauzy nostalgia instead of distinct memories. Because the stories we heard were the disasters, the years of want, when times were hard.  The Christmases where we got what we needed rather than what we wanted. (Aside: This year a friend’s child exclaimed: Wow, Mommy! New boots just like you needed me to want!) The year everyone was too sick to get out of bed. The year the family had just moved and were completely on their own. Moments of comfort and joy amidst misery and pain.

Does this resonate with you? When you think of Christmases past, what comes to mind?

In the spirit of providing stories for future Christmases, we made some memories this year. It was the year of the Great Yorkshire Pudding Overflow. My daughter-in-law and I thought it would be fun to make Yorkshire Pudding, something I’ve never before tried. We poured the batter into a tray of muffin cups and slid it in the 400° oven. Ten minutes later hot grease covered the bottom of the oven, the smoke alarm was going off (while the babies slept) and the kitchen filled with smoke. When guests arrived, my son Carson was holding a box fan in the window trying to exhaust the smoke.  The Yorkshire Pudding was delicious, but the residue was A Mess. 

While I’m bound to remember the Year of the Smoke—if only through my husband’s groans—, the kids surely won’t. If they remember anything, it will be the fun playing games and running around. It was a minor catastrophe, laughable even while it was happening. And we take pictures of the beautiful parts to keep the myth of perfect Christmases alive!

Purging

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We’ve been shuffling the contents of our house around. That’s a pretty way of saying we’ve been moving books, bookcases, papers, desks, CDs, and games. I’ve been bravely culling our collection, mailing an average of five books a day. We got to the point in the process where the mess was overwhelming and I was approaching paralysis. My husband, seeing the situation—calculating the time before our house is full to the rafters with boys, toys, and thrills—pitched in, bringing order out of chaos.

I had boxes and boxes of binders: small, medium and extra-large three-ring binders. I’m embarrassed to admit the years of my life that I’ve spent putting paper in binders. I had at least eight thick binders, full of magazine articles I’d clipped, trimmed, indexed, paper-protected, and clicked into binders.  I had reams of notes from conferences, classes, seminars, forums, symposiums, and workshops, all three-hole punched. And a half dozen binders with full magazines slipped through those plastic-strip thingies you see in libraries.

All those years of organization sent to the recycle bin. The humiliating recognition that when I thought I was being so clever, so resourceful…um, I wasn’t.  

Finally, I worked through the residue of my homeschool life. Binders for every subject. Binders for sub-subjects. Samples of my sons’ work. I saved representative pages, but recycled dozens of three-point paragraphs.

Curt kept me focused. I felt the refreshing lightness that comes with relinquishment. This is good, I told myself. At the same time, it was sad. A huge part of my life—15 years—is done. I worked to keep up a disciplined view of what was happening. And then, I had an emotional hernia: my reasoning tore and my emotion bulged. I kept working through tears.

“I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching,” I sniffed. “Do you remember coming home and we couldn’t wait to tell you about Savonarola, Cortez, Romney, or Fibonacci numbers?”  Selective memory: I didn’t mention the anger, the failures, the frustrations. “It feels like I’m throwing away proof that I really did this.” 

“Our sons are the proof. And now you can pour yourself into our grandsons.”

I write this to encourage you who are in the trenches. Work hard and persevere. There will come a time when you look back on what you are doing now with a fierce fondness. You will say, “I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching my kids.”