I took the children to a local park yesterday for a picnic. We laid out towels with blankets over top, anchored Donovan around a tree, and pulled out the fried chicken, mac and cheese, and biscuits. While we were stuffing ourselves and visiting, we noticed a Park employee drive up near us in a golf cart. The garbage can closest to us was falling over.
He jumped off the cart and ran to the garbage can, righting it into it's normal position. As we watched, the golf cart took off by itself, leaving him behind. It was pointed down a hill and began picking up speed as it tore through the parking lot. We all sat staring in silence, watching the scene unfold before us like a tape from America's Funniest Home Videos.
The guy turned around and realized that his golf cart was a good 20 feet away from him. He took off at a tear, chasing it down as it moved faster and faster. Finally, about half way down the parking lot, he dove for the front seat, sprawled across it, quickly sat up, and regained control. We all looked around at each other. Our eyes were bulging and smirks tugged at the corners of our mouths. Finally, one of us began to laugh and we all burst out.
I honestly think this is one of the funniest things I've ever seen; the look on the guy's face when he realized the golf cart was moving, rapidly, away from him, was priceless. The whole scene was surreal, looking more like a Ben Stiller movie than real life. Certainly, it was unexpected.
They say real life is usually more bizarre than fiction. In this instance, it was at least as funny as something made up. It was one of those moments that families share and never forget, one of those bonding experiences that help define the personality of your life together.
I have to admit, though - I still looked around for a camera or Peter Sellers peeking out from behind a tree.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Shrouded Truths
Several years ago, Don bought me the "Passion of the Christ". When the kids asked the inevitable question, they were told they would have to be "MUCH" older before I would allow them to see it. Last year, I invited Deanna to watch it with me on Good Friday to help her spiritually connect with the meaning of Easter. It was a hard movie for her to watch (which is how most of us feel about it), but it had the desired affect, really impacting her mood on Friday and adding to her joy on Sunday.
Dane asked if he could watch it this year, but I'm still not sure. It's less about age and more about spiritual maturity. I haven't made a decision yet, but, in the meanwhile . . .
The boys and I were snuggling on my bed tonight, having one of our just-before-bed chats when Daelyn mentioned that he had seen Jesus' face. I told him that the Shroud of Turin contained Jesus' image, then had to explain what the Shroud of Turin was.
Both boys were fascinated, so we moved into the Den and plopped down in front of the computer. I Googled the Shroud and page after page of images popped onto the screen. Eventually, I found videos on youtube that were from a T.V. special. It explained this whole thing far better than I ever could. Deanna joined us and we all sat in silence, mesmerized by the images and the science.
During one particularly interesting segment, a scientist explained the blood stains. He went on to show a replica of the instrument used for scourging and matched the pieces perfectly to the wounds visible on the back of the Shroud. Daelyn asked quietly, "Mama, why did they do that to Jesus?"
I realized that, for probably the first time ever, Daelyn was confronted with the wounds Jesus suffered during his Passion. How do you explain to an almost-eight year old something even wisened adults can't quite articulate? I said something like, "No one really knows, honey," and Daelyn continued to watch, seemingly satisfied with my non-answer.
After the children scampered off to bed, I sat at the computer thinking about this experience. Daelyn is FAR too young for "The Passion", but the video on the Shroud may have served the same purpose.
On our way to the Zoo tomorrow (the children are out on Spring Break and I want to do some fun things with them before we reach Good Friday), I want to take advantage of the drive to talk about Christ's passion. Perhaps Daelyn will understand it better, or, at least, it will be more meaningful to him, after having seen the images on the Shroud. I think this is an excellent opportunity to focus my children on the somber, penitential attitude of Lent.
It seems the Lord has provided the perfect opportunity, once again, to aid my children in their spiritual walk. Now if I can just cooperate!
Dane asked if he could watch it this year, but I'm still not sure. It's less about age and more about spiritual maturity. I haven't made a decision yet, but, in the meanwhile . . .
The boys and I were snuggling on my bed tonight, having one of our just-before-bed chats when Daelyn mentioned that he had seen Jesus' face. I told him that the Shroud of Turin contained Jesus' image, then had to explain what the Shroud of Turin was.
Both boys were fascinated, so we moved into the Den and plopped down in front of the computer. I Googled the Shroud and page after page of images popped onto the screen. Eventually, I found videos on youtube that were from a T.V. special. It explained this whole thing far better than I ever could. Deanna joined us and we all sat in silence, mesmerized by the images and the science.
During one particularly interesting segment, a scientist explained the blood stains. He went on to show a replica of the instrument used for scourging and matched the pieces perfectly to the wounds visible on the back of the Shroud. Daelyn asked quietly, "Mama, why did they do that to Jesus?"
I realized that, for probably the first time ever, Daelyn was confronted with the wounds Jesus suffered during his Passion. How do you explain to an almost-eight year old something even wisened adults can't quite articulate? I said something like, "No one really knows, honey," and Daelyn continued to watch, seemingly satisfied with my non-answer.
After the children scampered off to bed, I sat at the computer thinking about this experience. Daelyn is FAR too young for "The Passion", but the video on the Shroud may have served the same purpose.
On our way to the Zoo tomorrow (the children are out on Spring Break and I want to do some fun things with them before we reach Good Friday), I want to take advantage of the drive to talk about Christ's passion. Perhaps Daelyn will understand it better, or, at least, it will be more meaningful to him, after having seen the images on the Shroud. I think this is an excellent opportunity to focus my children on the somber, penitential attitude of Lent.
It seems the Lord has provided the perfect opportunity, once again, to aid my children in their spiritual walk. Now if I can just cooperate!
A Microcosm of Family Dynamics
We stopped on the way out of Wal-Mart to pick up a McDonald's snack wrap for each of us this evening after Dane's baseball practice and our shopping trip to pick up new bats and balls. I sent Deanna ahead with money and our order while Dane and I checked out, then we joined her and Daelyn.
When I finished my wrap, I sprinkled a few french fries onto the wax paper and grabbed a salt packet, generously salting my fries.
"That's too much salt, Mama," Dane chided. "I'm going to tell Grandpa next time I see him that you used too much salt."
"Not if I punch you in the nose first," Daelyn responded.
"Boys!" Deanna curtly corrected, then noticed me grinning.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," I explained, then added, "It's just that brief conversation was a perfect example of each of your personalities. Dane was going to "tell" on me, Daelyn was going to punch him, and you corrected everyone."
The children all paused for a moment to think about that, then cracked up as they realized I was right.
Even in miniature, they're still the same people.
And they wonder why I always seem to know how they're going to react!?!
When I finished my wrap, I sprinkled a few french fries onto the wax paper and grabbed a salt packet, generously salting my fries.
"That's too much salt, Mama," Dane chided. "I'm going to tell Grandpa next time I see him that you used too much salt."
"Not if I punch you in the nose first," Daelyn responded.
"Boys!" Deanna curtly corrected, then noticed me grinning.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," I explained, then added, "It's just that brief conversation was a perfect example of each of your personalities. Dane was going to "tell" on me, Daelyn was going to punch him, and you corrected everyone."
The children all paused for a moment to think about that, then cracked up as they realized I was right.
Even in miniature, they're still the same people.
And they wonder why I always seem to know how they're going to react!?!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Perspective
I've been pondering lately the concept of perspective. How you feel about things changes dramatically depending on the perspective from which you're viewing it.
For instance, $200 might seem like a hefty gas bill for a trip to D.C., but the same $200 spent on a plane ticket may feel like a steal. In both cases, the cost is $200 to go from here to there and back again. But one "feels" high, the other, reasonable.
Last year, I spent a small fortune on my garden. It was a worthwhile expense for me. However, this year, I'm starting plants from seed and the cost for those bedding plants at Lowe's seems astronomical to me.
When we bought Donovan, we were very careful to not discuss his cost. He was a VERY expensive dog. We knew that most people would not understand spending this amount of money on a pet. But God had provided the money for us just when we needed it, the perfect puppy for us in the breed we had decided would be best for the children, taking into consideration their health problems, and free transportation from the breeder's home in Arkansas to Atlanta. We even got a $300 discount off the price quoted to us by all the other Border Terrier breeders. We sucked in our breath a little when writing the check, but we've not had a single doubt since the moment we laid eyes on him that God hand-picked this little dog for our family.
I was talking with a person today that lives, as she states it, "hand-to-mouth". It's a true statement. There have been times that this woman only had pennies left to provide for her family and farm animals, but God has always met their needs. Today, she stopped by to pick up a check from me for a joint business venture (honey bees). I cleaned out my closet several weeks ago and had put aside a few tops for her that I thought she might be able to use. After we talked on the phone this morning, and I knew she was coming by, I pulled out the shirts and put them on the table. When she arrived, I told her I thought perhaps she could use them. She smiled and laughed.
"God's timing," she said, "is always perfect! We've been so busy with the animals and the yard that I haven't had a chance to do laundry and I'm out of clothes." They were things I was throwing out, but to her, they were a God-send.
As she glanced at the check, her face lit up. I had included a little extra as a gift. She profusely thanked me, then was very quiet, and I could tell that little bit of money meant the world to her. It was almost insignificant to me; something we would easily spend without even a thought.
For a child used to making "C's" in school, a "B" would be a victory. But Deanna cried when she brought home an 89 in Science at the beginning of last year. Middle School and the standards expected by her teachers was a huge shock to my little A+ student. She's brought all her grades up to her typical level, but that 89, which would have thrilled some of her friends, was a huge let-down for her.
The way we evaluate everything in life depends on our perspective. It occurred to me today, while pondering the look on my friend's face as she saw my check, that maybe I need a change of perspective sometimes. When I'm frustrated with my children, perhaps a little time with someone else's will calm me down. When my household chores feel overwhelming, I ought to think about those single moms who work a full day, then try and keep up the chores in the evening and on weekends.
There's always a different perspective from ours. And, often, looking at any situation from a new angle will help us see it very differently.
So, as I walk by the dustballs in the hallway this week, I'm going to choose to remember the panic I lived through when Dane, at 9, had to have his 3rd sinus surgery. No carpets to absorb the dust means accumulation on the hardwood floors. But I much prefer dust in the halls to the Waiting Room outside an O.R.
It's all in my perspective.
For instance, $200 might seem like a hefty gas bill for a trip to D.C., but the same $200 spent on a plane ticket may feel like a steal. In both cases, the cost is $200 to go from here to there and back again. But one "feels" high, the other, reasonable.
Last year, I spent a small fortune on my garden. It was a worthwhile expense for me. However, this year, I'm starting plants from seed and the cost for those bedding plants at Lowe's seems astronomical to me.
When we bought Donovan, we were very careful to not discuss his cost. He was a VERY expensive dog. We knew that most people would not understand spending this amount of money on a pet. But God had provided the money for us just when we needed it, the perfect puppy for us in the breed we had decided would be best for the children, taking into consideration their health problems, and free transportation from the breeder's home in Arkansas to Atlanta. We even got a $300 discount off the price quoted to us by all the other Border Terrier breeders. We sucked in our breath a little when writing the check, but we've not had a single doubt since the moment we laid eyes on him that God hand-picked this little dog for our family.
I was talking with a person today that lives, as she states it, "hand-to-mouth". It's a true statement. There have been times that this woman only had pennies left to provide for her family and farm animals, but God has always met their needs. Today, she stopped by to pick up a check from me for a joint business venture (honey bees). I cleaned out my closet several weeks ago and had put aside a few tops for her that I thought she might be able to use. After we talked on the phone this morning, and I knew she was coming by, I pulled out the shirts and put them on the table. When she arrived, I told her I thought perhaps she could use them. She smiled and laughed.
"God's timing," she said, "is always perfect! We've been so busy with the animals and the yard that I haven't had a chance to do laundry and I'm out of clothes." They were things I was throwing out, but to her, they were a God-send.
As she glanced at the check, her face lit up. I had included a little extra as a gift. She profusely thanked me, then was very quiet, and I could tell that little bit of money meant the world to her. It was almost insignificant to me; something we would easily spend without even a thought.
For a child used to making "C's" in school, a "B" would be a victory. But Deanna cried when she brought home an 89 in Science at the beginning of last year. Middle School and the standards expected by her teachers was a huge shock to my little A+ student. She's brought all her grades up to her typical level, but that 89, which would have thrilled some of her friends, was a huge let-down for her.
The way we evaluate everything in life depends on our perspective. It occurred to me today, while pondering the look on my friend's face as she saw my check, that maybe I need a change of perspective sometimes. When I'm frustrated with my children, perhaps a little time with someone else's will calm me down. When my household chores feel overwhelming, I ought to think about those single moms who work a full day, then try and keep up the chores in the evening and on weekends.
There's always a different perspective from ours. And, often, looking at any situation from a new angle will help us see it very differently.
So, as I walk by the dustballs in the hallway this week, I'm going to choose to remember the panic I lived through when Dane, at 9, had to have his 3rd sinus surgery. No carpets to absorb the dust means accumulation on the hardwood floors. But I much prefer dust in the halls to the Waiting Room outside an O.R.
It's all in my perspective.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Shifting Into "GO"
I got an e-mail today from a friend with details about the Y's week-long Summer Camp. I knew that she had looked into it last year, but preferred to send her son if he knew someone else that was going. I had to stifle a laugh when I got the e-mail from her this year.
I don't know what happens to our summers. By the time the iris' are peeking their little heads out of the dirt, our summers are already so packed it's scary to think about. It's been this way ever since the children started spending time alone with their Grandparents each summer.
I like to have at least one long week with Don's parents during the summer months. It's a great opportunity to unwind, relax, do crafts, visit, spend time with the children . . . in short, a VACATION! Add Deanna spending a week (and the transportation back and forth) and Dane getting his time and that's 3 weeks already spoken for, right off the bat. We tried Daelyn last year, but it was just too hard for him, so we've decided to give that a few more years before trying again.
In addition to time with family, we always have at least one trip to a vacation destination per summer, often more than one. When Don and I go for our Gold Crown Survey while visiting our condo in Hilton Head Island, they always give you this "sales sphiel": "If you could get two week's vacation for the price you paid for your one, wouldn't you want to do that?" We always, in unison, vehemently shake our heads and say, "NO!" We can barely manage to fit in all the vacations we have now. They always look at us like we're crazy, but Don has to work sometime!
This summer, we're taking our long-awaited trip to Hawaii. We started planning it two years ago, reserving a condo in December of 2008 for a week this August. Once we got our Frequent Flier tickets, I began to process of filling in our other accomodations, which has been both fun and exciting.
When we planned this trip, we figured we'd spacebank our condo and just have one long, nice vacation. That was before my niece, who lives in Washington, D.C., got engaged and planned the wedding for June 4. It was also before my other niece got married and moved to Panama City Beach and began comparing dates for our "visit" even before the engagement ring was correctly sized. Before my dear, close friend, Fr. John, was transferred back down to Savannah, his hometown, and pointedly mentioned numerous times that his family HAS a beach house on Tybee Island ("Just let me know when you can come for a visit, P.D.")
Of course, we'll be visiting Alicia, who has a stand-alone apartment behind their house and lives, like, across the street from the beach. Certainly, we'll be at Lydia's wedding in D.C., and make a week's vacation out of it while we're there so as to take advantage of the 10-hr. drive. Without a doubt, we'll be visiting Fr. John - and the summer, while the children are out of school, is the perfect time.
Add to that Dane's birthday and Father's Day (both in June), the 4th of July, Dane and Daelyn's baseball league that runs into the summer, teaching Deanna to cook, gardening and canning, crafts, making and wrapping Christmas presents . . .
Whew! It's not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm thankful that our lives are so full. Occasionally, I do see other children that are bored during the summer. We can't imagine boredom at our house. There are days Deanna prays for rain so she can just curl up with a good book.
And I LOVE the summer - time with my children, time to pursue activities and tasks that can't be accomplished during the school year. Running through sprinklers, staying up late to watch the International Space Station as it nears our atmosphere, digging in the dirt and getting filthy, then taking a nice bubble bath to wash away the cares and the mud, the sound of laughter throughout the yard and the house, activity, fun, developing new skills and gifts in the children - all wonderful activities in which to involve ourselves.
One thing I've learned, though. A plan is vital. Without a plan, days end up being spent in front of Game Cubes or the T.V. Mom gets absolutely no work done and children get grumpy. Swim dates, crafts days, canning chores, and all the other things that are important to us have to be scheduled.
So, I'm fastening my seatbelt right now. Things are already beginning to gear up. I have plants popping up from the seeds that need transplanting and Daelyn needs a new bat and glove. Deanna's already dreaming of days full of reading and the boys are looking forward to endless hours in their tree fort.
I just am hoping to get through summer unscathed.
I don't know what happens to our summers. By the time the iris' are peeking their little heads out of the dirt, our summers are already so packed it's scary to think about. It's been this way ever since the children started spending time alone with their Grandparents each summer.
I like to have at least one long week with Don's parents during the summer months. It's a great opportunity to unwind, relax, do crafts, visit, spend time with the children . . . in short, a VACATION! Add Deanna spending a week (and the transportation back and forth) and Dane getting his time and that's 3 weeks already spoken for, right off the bat. We tried Daelyn last year, but it was just too hard for him, so we've decided to give that a few more years before trying again.
In addition to time with family, we always have at least one trip to a vacation destination per summer, often more than one. When Don and I go for our Gold Crown Survey while visiting our condo in Hilton Head Island, they always give you this "sales sphiel": "If you could get two week's vacation for the price you paid for your one, wouldn't you want to do that?" We always, in unison, vehemently shake our heads and say, "NO!" We can barely manage to fit in all the vacations we have now. They always look at us like we're crazy, but Don has to work sometime!
This summer, we're taking our long-awaited trip to Hawaii. We started planning it two years ago, reserving a condo in December of 2008 for a week this August. Once we got our Frequent Flier tickets, I began to process of filling in our other accomodations, which has been both fun and exciting.
When we planned this trip, we figured we'd spacebank our condo and just have one long, nice vacation. That was before my niece, who lives in Washington, D.C., got engaged and planned the wedding for June 4. It was also before my other niece got married and moved to Panama City Beach and began comparing dates for our "visit" even before the engagement ring was correctly sized. Before my dear, close friend, Fr. John, was transferred back down to Savannah, his hometown, and pointedly mentioned numerous times that his family HAS a beach house on Tybee Island ("Just let me know when you can come for a visit, P.D.")
Of course, we'll be visiting Alicia, who has a stand-alone apartment behind their house and lives, like, across the street from the beach. Certainly, we'll be at Lydia's wedding in D.C., and make a week's vacation out of it while we're there so as to take advantage of the 10-hr. drive. Without a doubt, we'll be visiting Fr. John - and the summer, while the children are out of school, is the perfect time.
Add to that Dane's birthday and Father's Day (both in June), the 4th of July, Dane and Daelyn's baseball league that runs into the summer, teaching Deanna to cook, gardening and canning, crafts, making and wrapping Christmas presents . . .
Whew! It's not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm thankful that our lives are so full. Occasionally, I do see other children that are bored during the summer. We can't imagine boredom at our house. There are days Deanna prays for rain so she can just curl up with a good book.
And I LOVE the summer - time with my children, time to pursue activities and tasks that can't be accomplished during the school year. Running through sprinklers, staying up late to watch the International Space Station as it nears our atmosphere, digging in the dirt and getting filthy, then taking a nice bubble bath to wash away the cares and the mud, the sound of laughter throughout the yard and the house, activity, fun, developing new skills and gifts in the children - all wonderful activities in which to involve ourselves.
One thing I've learned, though. A plan is vital. Without a plan, days end up being spent in front of Game Cubes or the T.V. Mom gets absolutely no work done and children get grumpy. Swim dates, crafts days, canning chores, and all the other things that are important to us have to be scheduled.
So, I'm fastening my seatbelt right now. Things are already beginning to gear up. I have plants popping up from the seeds that need transplanting and Daelyn needs a new bat and glove. Deanna's already dreaming of days full of reading and the boys are looking forward to endless hours in their tree fort.
I just am hoping to get through summer unscathed.
Monday, March 22, 2010
I Guess, Eventually, You Have to Admit to It
I survived my surgery. But it's amazing how sore I was. By Saturday night, my throat and neck hurt, my ribs, back and stomach hurt, my abdomen had sharp, shooting pains and dull throbbing pain, and my calves hurt.
Someone said, "You just don't bounce back quite as fast when you're 'older'." I guess I've reached that hallmark in life - I'm "older".
Saturday night, I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, carefully put my breathing mask on my face, checked to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything important around my alarm clock (where I put ALL critically important things), switched off my lamp, laid carefully down and gently covered up. I was laying completely still since moving just made me ache more, when Don and the dog came to bed.
They have this nighttime routine. The dog attacks Don, Don fights him off while allowing a few well-placed kisses. After they scuffle for a few minutes, Don shooes Donovan down to the bottom of the bed and they both settle down to sleep, Donovan curled up on my legs.
Needless to say, the activity on the other side of the bed was ill-placed. After cringing silently for several minutes while Donovan thumped against me and Don shoved and prodded, I finally lost my temper.
"Could you two PLEASE settle down!! I ache from the top of my head to the tip of my toes and you're jostling me. PLEASE!!! STOP!!"
The dog immediately made for the end of the bed. Don silently continued his routine of preparing for bed, but made an effort to still the bouncing from his side.
This morning, as I made breakfast for the children, Don peered around the corner into the kitchen.
"Feeling any better today, Mommy?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded enthusiastically. "I feel MUCH better. But I'm going to take it easy today and stick around the house, keep my feet up, rest, do laundry. . . that sort of thing."
No response, but I thought I saw a smile. Daddy's ready to have Mommy back, instead of this sore, grumpy woman who had surgery on Friday - the "older" woman.
Someone said, "You just don't bounce back quite as fast when you're 'older'." I guess I've reached that hallmark in life - I'm "older".
Saturday night, I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, carefully put my breathing mask on my face, checked to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything important around my alarm clock (where I put ALL critically important things), switched off my lamp, laid carefully down and gently covered up. I was laying completely still since moving just made me ache more, when Don and the dog came to bed.
They have this nighttime routine. The dog attacks Don, Don fights him off while allowing a few well-placed kisses. After they scuffle for a few minutes, Don shooes Donovan down to the bottom of the bed and they both settle down to sleep, Donovan curled up on my legs.
Needless to say, the activity on the other side of the bed was ill-placed. After cringing silently for several minutes while Donovan thumped against me and Don shoved and prodded, I finally lost my temper.
"Could you two PLEASE settle down!! I ache from the top of my head to the tip of my toes and you're jostling me. PLEASE!!! STOP!!"
The dog immediately made for the end of the bed. Don silently continued his routine of preparing for bed, but made an effort to still the bouncing from his side.
This morning, as I made breakfast for the children, Don peered around the corner into the kitchen.
"Feeling any better today, Mommy?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded enthusiastically. "I feel MUCH better. But I'm going to take it easy today and stick around the house, keep my feet up, rest, do laundry. . . that sort of thing."
No response, but I thought I saw a smile. Daddy's ready to have Mommy back, instead of this sore, grumpy woman who had surgery on Friday - the "older" woman.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Acquaintances Far and Wide
Don has kidded me for years about how many people I know in Augusta. It seems like every time we go out, I run into someone I know. That's no surprise. I've lived in Augusta since 1973! Between Elementary, High School, College, work, church and general life over the years, of course I've met a lot of people.
Don says the issue isn't "having met" a lot of people; the issue is that 4 million residents are my closest friends. I always laugh at his exaggeration, but the truth is, when I make friends, they seem to remember me. I'm a somewhat boisterous, happy person and I remember almost everyone I've ever met and go out of my way to speak to them. When we were in England, Don was always remarking that he couldn't figure out how we got to know so many people. Everywhere we went, strangers would speak to me. One man even gave me a lapel pin he was WEARING after we met on a tram ride once. Liverpool, Manchester, York, the Hotel where we stayed for the first 10 days . . . strangers would even stop me on the street of our little village and inquire how we were doing.
When we went to London, we were waiting for the train one day. Don was standing further down the platform from me and the children. As I observed him, I understood why no one ever spoke to him. He was completely unapproachable - arms crossed, eyebrows bent inward, looking like he'd bite your head off. I made eye contact with everyone, smiled, nodded a little greeting. People would see me smile at them, notice the children, and immediately stop to talk.
So, it was no big surprise yesterday when we went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade and I knew a lot of people. I went to a Catholic high school in town, after all, and at least half the student body was of Irish descent. As floats rolled by with the family name blazened across the side, I'd look for classmates. Naturally, I saw many.
"That's Mary Wright. We went to high school together," I'd tell Deanna as she looked on with one eyebrow raised.
"There's the Bowles' Family float. I went to school with Ralph, but I don't see him on the float," I said as another went by.
Several people came out of the Parade crowd to hug me on the side of the road. Many of them knew it was my birthday and greeted me accordingly. Others were just old friends that I hadn't seen in awhile.
At one point, I noticed Deanna shaking her head. I find this SO-O-O-O very funny. I EXPECT to know a lot of people at the Parade - I've lived in Augusta a very long time. But Deanna's quiet, like her father, and is always surprised at how many people I know. I was careful to explain the relationship I had to each of them, most of them being classmates from high school.
After about the 12 person I knew went by, I noticed a marching band from one of the local high schools. A friend of ours from church is the Band Director at a local high school, and I noticed him walking along beside the band on the side closest to me. I yelled to him,
"Hey, Scott!"
He turned immediately and ran over to hug me. We chatted for a minute, then he ran ahead to catch up with his band. I looked over at Deanna.
"He goes to church with me," I smirked.
"I know that, Mother. He goes to church with me, too."
"See, honey! You know someone in the Parade, too!"
She gave me an indulgent look. Yes, she knew one person. But she's only lived in Augusta 13 years and has led a very sheltered life. Give it another 25 - 30 years and I bet she'll know a ton of people in the Parade, too. Unless, of course, she continues to be like her father.
Don says the issue isn't "having met" a lot of people; the issue is that 4 million residents are my closest friends. I always laugh at his exaggeration, but the truth is, when I make friends, they seem to remember me. I'm a somewhat boisterous, happy person and I remember almost everyone I've ever met and go out of my way to speak to them. When we were in England, Don was always remarking that he couldn't figure out how we got to know so many people. Everywhere we went, strangers would speak to me. One man even gave me a lapel pin he was WEARING after we met on a tram ride once. Liverpool, Manchester, York, the Hotel where we stayed for the first 10 days . . . strangers would even stop me on the street of our little village and inquire how we were doing.
When we went to London, we were waiting for the train one day. Don was standing further down the platform from me and the children. As I observed him, I understood why no one ever spoke to him. He was completely unapproachable - arms crossed, eyebrows bent inward, looking like he'd bite your head off. I made eye contact with everyone, smiled, nodded a little greeting. People would see me smile at them, notice the children, and immediately stop to talk.
So, it was no big surprise yesterday when we went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade and I knew a lot of people. I went to a Catholic high school in town, after all, and at least half the student body was of Irish descent. As floats rolled by with the family name blazened across the side, I'd look for classmates. Naturally, I saw many.
"That's Mary Wright. We went to high school together," I'd tell Deanna as she looked on with one eyebrow raised.
"There's the Bowles' Family float. I went to school with Ralph, but I don't see him on the float," I said as another went by.
Several people came out of the Parade crowd to hug me on the side of the road. Many of them knew it was my birthday and greeted me accordingly. Others were just old friends that I hadn't seen in awhile.
At one point, I noticed Deanna shaking her head. I find this SO-O-O-O very funny. I EXPECT to know a lot of people at the Parade - I've lived in Augusta a very long time. But Deanna's quiet, like her father, and is always surprised at how many people I know. I was careful to explain the relationship I had to each of them, most of them being classmates from high school.
After about the 12 person I knew went by, I noticed a marching band from one of the local high schools. A friend of ours from church is the Band Director at a local high school, and I noticed him walking along beside the band on the side closest to me. I yelled to him,
"Hey, Scott!"
He turned immediately and ran over to hug me. We chatted for a minute, then he ran ahead to catch up with his band. I looked over at Deanna.
"He goes to church with me," I smirked.
"I know that, Mother. He goes to church with me, too."
"See, honey! You know someone in the Parade, too!"
She gave me an indulgent look. Yes, she knew one person. But she's only lived in Augusta 13 years and has led a very sheltered life. Give it another 25 - 30 years and I bet she'll know a ton of people in the Parade, too. Unless, of course, she continues to be like her father.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Innocence of Youth
Someone told me a hilarious story today. Seems a fairly young man with high blood pressure was told by his doctor that he should have a glass of red wine daily.
"Just have a small glass in the evening before bed. It should help with your blood pressure issues," his doctor said.
So, each evening he would drink his "prescribed" glass of wine. His toddler, after hearing the story repeated to various friends and family members, began referring to the wine as "Daddy's medicine".
"Daddy, you left your medicine glass in the living room last night," he would announce in the mornings.
This was all very innocent until they were in church one morning and the toddler noticed, for the first time, the Communion Wine.
In the loud, piercing voice that every parent hears in their nightmares, and at the quietest moment in the Worship Service, the child blurted out,
"Look, Daddy! They use the same medicine as YOU!"
"Just have a small glass in the evening before bed. It should help with your blood pressure issues," his doctor said.
So, each evening he would drink his "prescribed" glass of wine. His toddler, after hearing the story repeated to various friends and family members, began referring to the wine as "Daddy's medicine".
"Daddy, you left your medicine glass in the living room last night," he would announce in the mornings.
This was all very innocent until they were in church one morning and the toddler noticed, for the first time, the Communion Wine.
In the loud, piercing voice that every parent hears in their nightmares, and at the quietest moment in the Worship Service, the child blurted out,
"Look, Daddy! They use the same medicine as YOU!"
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Discipline of Lent
I'm a little behind on my "40 Bags for 40 Days" Lenten project. I just rid the house of two bags that went on the calendar for Saturday, March 6 and last Monday, the 8th. However, getting rid of 40 bags has been a little slow for me because I haven't been willing to just throw them out. It seems my Lenten Penance has taken on a little different twist.
Years ago, as a good Methodist, I decided to add positive disciplines into my life for Lent rather than trying to give up things. One year, I wrote a letter every day during Lent. I had a friend, a young Army Officer, that was stationed in Korea and was desperately lonely. The daily letters went to him. I was amazed that I was able to keep it up for 40 days. Some of the letters were short, but he got something in the mail continuously.
One year, I visited nursing homes every Sunday during Lent. I didn't know anyone there; I just went, socialized with lonely people and did a lot of touching and hugging. It's been my experience that older people, especially those put in care homes, crave personal contact. I spent my Lent touching.
There was another year that I decided I needed to improve my prayer life. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, who prayed every hour on the hour when awake. He trained himself and truly was a man constantly in an attitude of prayer. I set a timer for myself and started off Lent really excited. By 10 days into the season, I realized that my brain had very effectively taught itself to tune out the alarm. I never even heard it. I don't know how Wesley accomplished this training, but it was a miserable failure for me.
Anyway, back to this year. I found myself cleaning out the children's drawers and closets and cleaning off the shelf in the laundry room where we always put things we've outgrown. As I began to bag up all these clothes, I realized that some of them were special to me. I didn't want to send them to Good Will or the Salvation Army. Some of the pieces were in excellent shape, and I began thinking: "Who do I know that could really benefit from these things?"
It began a whole new secondary discipline. The reason I've fallen behind on my Project is because I'm now sorting everything I plan to get out of the house into bags for different people I know that I think could use them. So far, 4 families have benefited from my 40 bags (or 20 so far for me, I think) and the clothes closet at my parents' church got a bag of children's clothes. A bag of books went to my sister for the Realtor's Yard Sale she's been lassoed to head and a bag of food-stuffs from our pantry went into a collection barrel at the school for the mountain people served by the Missionaries of Charity in Kentucky. Some sugar-free items left on the counter by my sister after her visit with us are being delivered to a classmate of one of my children that's diabetic today and a few other food items are finding new homes with people who can appreciate and use them.
All-in-all, even though I've fallen a little behind, I'm very pleased with the results of my Lent. I've been focused on ridding our home of useless items while blessing others. I'm starting to feel a little freer and, man, is it addictive.
I still have lots more sorting and disposing to tend to, but I'm off to an excellent start and feel like I've really entered into the mindset of Christ this Lent.
Now if I can just get through the toys.
Years ago, as a good Methodist, I decided to add positive disciplines into my life for Lent rather than trying to give up things. One year, I wrote a letter every day during Lent. I had a friend, a young Army Officer, that was stationed in Korea and was desperately lonely. The daily letters went to him. I was amazed that I was able to keep it up for 40 days. Some of the letters were short, but he got something in the mail continuously.
One year, I visited nursing homes every Sunday during Lent. I didn't know anyone there; I just went, socialized with lonely people and did a lot of touching and hugging. It's been my experience that older people, especially those put in care homes, crave personal contact. I spent my Lent touching.
There was another year that I decided I needed to improve my prayer life. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, who prayed every hour on the hour when awake. He trained himself and truly was a man constantly in an attitude of prayer. I set a timer for myself and started off Lent really excited. By 10 days into the season, I realized that my brain had very effectively taught itself to tune out the alarm. I never even heard it. I don't know how Wesley accomplished this training, but it was a miserable failure for me.
Anyway, back to this year. I found myself cleaning out the children's drawers and closets and cleaning off the shelf in the laundry room where we always put things we've outgrown. As I began to bag up all these clothes, I realized that some of them were special to me. I didn't want to send them to Good Will or the Salvation Army. Some of the pieces were in excellent shape, and I began thinking: "Who do I know that could really benefit from these things?"
It began a whole new secondary discipline. The reason I've fallen behind on my Project is because I'm now sorting everything I plan to get out of the house into bags for different people I know that I think could use them. So far, 4 families have benefited from my 40 bags (or 20 so far for me, I think) and the clothes closet at my parents' church got a bag of children's clothes. A bag of books went to my sister for the Realtor's Yard Sale she's been lassoed to head and a bag of food-stuffs from our pantry went into a collection barrel at the school for the mountain people served by the Missionaries of Charity in Kentucky. Some sugar-free items left on the counter by my sister after her visit with us are being delivered to a classmate of one of my children that's diabetic today and a few other food items are finding new homes with people who can appreciate and use them.
All-in-all, even though I've fallen a little behind, I'm very pleased with the results of my Lent. I've been focused on ridding our home of useless items while blessing others. I'm starting to feel a little freer and, man, is it addictive.
I still have lots more sorting and disposing to tend to, but I'm off to an excellent start and feel like I've really entered into the mindset of Christ this Lent.
Now if I can just get through the toys.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
An Interesting Point of View
Don's hair has gotten pretty long and shaggy-looking. Last night at the dinner table, Dane whispered in my ear, "I wonder what would happen if Daddy's hair caught on fire right now?", referring to the time he leaned a little too close over the gas grill and singed his eyebrows, sideburns, mustache, etc.
"He'd burn down the house," I responded. The rest of the family sitting around the table heard my remark and asked what the conversation was about. I explained and Deanna responded with,
"Yeah, Dad, you're looking a little bit like . . ."
But, before she reached the end of the sentence, Dane AND Daelyn, in chorus, joined in
"ALBERT EINSTEIN!" the children yelled as one.
Don turned and looked at me. I cracked up. He really DOES look a little like Einstein, with mustache graying and hair askew. He rubbed his hands through his hair to accentuate the look.
"No, no," Dane said. "He really looks more like Magic Johnson!"
We all turned silently and stared at Dane. I blinked a few times and looked carefully for some hint of what he was talking about. Nothing.
"Dane, Magic Johnson is about 7 feet tall, he's bald, and he's black," I told him. Deanna chimed in, "Very bald and very dark. Last time I looked, Daddy was pretty pale."
"Well, he looks like Magic Johnson to me," he said. A few minutes later, he yelled,
"NO! Not Magic Johnson! I meant Crouchie!"
I looked Crouchie up on the Internet. Crouchie is a British soccer player with wild hair. He's 6'7" tall, young, has light, wild hair, and is very thin. I don't think Don looks ANYTHING like Crouchie, but I WILL concede that he looks more like Crouchie than Magic.
Although, I found a picture of Magic with a big smile and the teeth looked strangely familiar . . .
"He'd burn down the house," I responded. The rest of the family sitting around the table heard my remark and asked what the conversation was about. I explained and Deanna responded with,
"Yeah, Dad, you're looking a little bit like . . ."
But, before she reached the end of the sentence, Dane AND Daelyn, in chorus, joined in
"ALBERT EINSTEIN!" the children yelled as one.
Don turned and looked at me. I cracked up. He really DOES look a little like Einstein, with mustache graying and hair askew. He rubbed his hands through his hair to accentuate the look.
"No, no," Dane said. "He really looks more like Magic Johnson!"
We all turned silently and stared at Dane. I blinked a few times and looked carefully for some hint of what he was talking about. Nothing.
"Dane, Magic Johnson is about 7 feet tall, he's bald, and he's black," I told him. Deanna chimed in, "Very bald and very dark. Last time I looked, Daddy was pretty pale."
"Well, he looks like Magic Johnson to me," he said. A few minutes later, he yelled,
"NO! Not Magic Johnson! I meant Crouchie!"
I looked Crouchie up on the Internet. Crouchie is a British soccer player with wild hair. He's 6'7" tall, young, has light, wild hair, and is very thin. I don't think Don looks ANYTHING like Crouchie, but I WILL concede that he looks more like Crouchie than Magic.
Although, I found a picture of Magic with a big smile and the teeth looked strangely familiar . . .
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Birth Order
My children's obedience is directly proportional to the amount of time I spend policing them, which is inversely proportional to birth-order.
Sound a little deep? Let me boil it down.
With your first child, you can't wait to get up in the morning and spend time with him/her. You even find yourself standing over the crib at strange hours of the night, making sure he/she is still breathing and willing the child to wake up and play. They shadow everything you do throughout your day and you teach them all you know, including how to drive by the time they're 2. They can tell jokes like a pro, whip up a meal in 30 minutes, clean a bathroom so you can eat cereal off the floor, balance a checkbook, sew, sing, play tennis . . . anything the Mom is able to do, the first child can do equally as well, usually better. This child is taught order and cleaning chores are done together, mother and child. The culture and family traditions are passed carefully to the next generation.
Enter Child #2 - your life just became twice as busy. More often than not, Child #1 is teaching Child #2 how to keep order in the home, how to plan menus, how to toss a baseball into the air and whack it with the bat, sending it flying across the yards without taking out anyone's windows . . . This child seems to burn food more often and the bathroom still looks clean - on the surface - but you have the sense of germs lurking just out of your range of vision. Child #2 wants to please you AND the older sibling and tries hard, but you never seem to get the basics quite covered. You remember that you always worked side-by-side with your first baby. With this one, you attempt to "inspect" their work to be sure it's been done adequately, which is a hit-and-miss prospect, at best. Things begin to slide.
Child #3 makes an appearance. Gone are the days of training. It's all you can do just to get food on the table before bedtime and make sure homework is completed. This child is clueless how to make a bed and can't even seem to manage to get clothes on hangers correctly. In the few free minutes you have each day, you want to spend time snuggling the one child that still will allow you to touch them, not spend it "training" them to cook, clean, organize, keep ordered lives. This child is your delight, but never does a lick of work. If you ask them to put their shoes away, you find the shoes 2 hours later, moved to the next room down the hall from where you found them, but never actually put away. When you walk into the kitchen after switching laundry loads and discover that this child has run outside to play after you expressly told them to sit down and do their homework, you sigh, but never actually go outside to call him/her back indoors. You have dinner to start, math homework to check for the other two, lunch boxes that need to be washed out . . . As you're furiously setting the table for dinner (yet again), you realize that the disappearing child is responsible for table-setting, but it's quicker and easier to do it yourself and you're tired of pulling teeth to get them to do their chores.
As Perfect Child #1 sweeps through the room, announcing that he/she has completed all the assignments that the teacher will be giving out next week and can he/she now go and clean his/her room, you glance over to see Almost Perfect Child #2 wiping off the table after finishing his/her snack and carefully putting his/her cup (that had held milk, of course) in the sink. Then you realize there's a child missing - old #3, the one you just don't seem capable of holding to any responsibility.
But #3 is the baby, after all, and so sweet, you think. Images of a tiny, wrinkled little body flash through your mind as you finish setting the dinner table. Just then, the back door flies open and in stomps #3, crying because of an incident in the yard. You scoop them up in your arms, hold them tight, kiss those darling cheeks, and wipe away the tears. Okay, you think. This child may never be able to clean a bathroom well and I seldom have the energy to fight the battle with them over setting the table, but they'll be a loving parent one day, understanding the need that a child has for time with a parent.
And instead of asking them to show you their homework so you can check it over, you pull a stool up to the counter.
"Come sit down and visit with Mom for a few minutes," you suggest. Because, in the back of your mind, you realize that you don't want to waste the precious little time you have with this child arguing over chores.
I just hope this child has a very loving, neat, understanding spouse.
Sound a little deep? Let me boil it down.
With your first child, you can't wait to get up in the morning and spend time with him/her. You even find yourself standing over the crib at strange hours of the night, making sure he/she is still breathing and willing the child to wake up and play. They shadow everything you do throughout your day and you teach them all you know, including how to drive by the time they're 2. They can tell jokes like a pro, whip up a meal in 30 minutes, clean a bathroom so you can eat cereal off the floor, balance a checkbook, sew, sing, play tennis . . . anything the Mom is able to do, the first child can do equally as well, usually better. This child is taught order and cleaning chores are done together, mother and child. The culture and family traditions are passed carefully to the next generation.
Enter Child #2 - your life just became twice as busy. More often than not, Child #1 is teaching Child #2 how to keep order in the home, how to plan menus, how to toss a baseball into the air and whack it with the bat, sending it flying across the yards without taking out anyone's windows . . . This child seems to burn food more often and the bathroom still looks clean - on the surface - but you have the sense of germs lurking just out of your range of vision. Child #2 wants to please you AND the older sibling and tries hard, but you never seem to get the basics quite covered. You remember that you always worked side-by-side with your first baby. With this one, you attempt to "inspect" their work to be sure it's been done adequately, which is a hit-and-miss prospect, at best. Things begin to slide.
Child #3 makes an appearance. Gone are the days of training. It's all you can do just to get food on the table before bedtime and make sure homework is completed. This child is clueless how to make a bed and can't even seem to manage to get clothes on hangers correctly. In the few free minutes you have each day, you want to spend time snuggling the one child that still will allow you to touch them, not spend it "training" them to cook, clean, organize, keep ordered lives. This child is your delight, but never does a lick of work. If you ask them to put their shoes away, you find the shoes 2 hours later, moved to the next room down the hall from where you found them, but never actually put away. When you walk into the kitchen after switching laundry loads and discover that this child has run outside to play after you expressly told them to sit down and do their homework, you sigh, but never actually go outside to call him/her back indoors. You have dinner to start, math homework to check for the other two, lunch boxes that need to be washed out . . . As you're furiously setting the table for dinner (yet again), you realize that the disappearing child is responsible for table-setting, but it's quicker and easier to do it yourself and you're tired of pulling teeth to get them to do their chores.
As Perfect Child #1 sweeps through the room, announcing that he/she has completed all the assignments that the teacher will be giving out next week and can he/she now go and clean his/her room, you glance over to see Almost Perfect Child #2 wiping off the table after finishing his/her snack and carefully putting his/her cup (that had held milk, of course) in the sink. Then you realize there's a child missing - old #3, the one you just don't seem capable of holding to any responsibility.
But #3 is the baby, after all, and so sweet, you think. Images of a tiny, wrinkled little body flash through your mind as you finish setting the dinner table. Just then, the back door flies open and in stomps #3, crying because of an incident in the yard. You scoop them up in your arms, hold them tight, kiss those darling cheeks, and wipe away the tears. Okay, you think. This child may never be able to clean a bathroom well and I seldom have the energy to fight the battle with them over setting the table, but they'll be a loving parent one day, understanding the need that a child has for time with a parent.
And instead of asking them to show you their homework so you can check it over, you pull a stool up to the counter.
"Come sit down and visit with Mom for a few minutes," you suggest. Because, in the back of your mind, you realize that you don't want to waste the precious little time you have with this child arguing over chores.
I just hope this child has a very loving, neat, understanding spouse.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Scary on so-o-o-o many levels
Me: "Dane, did you feed the dog his breakfast?"
Dane: "Hmh, I don't know!"
Me: "Son, how can you NOT know? Every single day, you take him for his walk, then you feed him breakfast. Did you take him for his walk?
Dane: "YES. I'm SURE I did that."
Me: "So, did you feed him or not?"
Dane: "I don't remember, Mom."
Me: "Well, since he's hovering in the kitchen, looking hungry, I doubt you did. Normally, he's gone back into our bedroom to take his nap by now. Think hard, son. This is the only meal he gets all day. You need to remember."
Dane: "I just don't know, Mama."
Daelyn: "Why don't you ask Donovan?"
I stopped in the middle of swiping mayo onto sandwich bread to observe. Dane walked to where the dog was lying pitifully, leaned towards him, spoke his name and waited till Donovan made eye-contact, then simply asked,
"Donovan, did I feed you today?"
As we all watched, Donovan CLEARLY shook his head - three times. First to the right, then the left, then back to the right.
Dane: "Okay. He said 'no'. I must have forgotten. I'll feed him now, Mama."
Me, cautiously: "You know, Dane, you can't always trust him, especially not when it comes to asking about food. He lies."
True story.
Dane: "Hmh, I don't know!"
Me: "Son, how can you NOT know? Every single day, you take him for his walk, then you feed him breakfast. Did you take him for his walk?
Dane: "YES. I'm SURE I did that."
Me: "So, did you feed him or not?"
Dane: "I don't remember, Mom."
Me: "Well, since he's hovering in the kitchen, looking hungry, I doubt you did. Normally, he's gone back into our bedroom to take his nap by now. Think hard, son. This is the only meal he gets all day. You need to remember."
Dane: "I just don't know, Mama."
Daelyn: "Why don't you ask Donovan?"
I stopped in the middle of swiping mayo onto sandwich bread to observe. Dane walked to where the dog was lying pitifully, leaned towards him, spoke his name and waited till Donovan made eye-contact, then simply asked,
"Donovan, did I feed you today?"
As we all watched, Donovan CLEARLY shook his head - three times. First to the right, then the left, then back to the right.
Dane: "Okay. He said 'no'. I must have forgotten. I'll feed him now, Mama."
Me, cautiously: "You know, Dane, you can't always trust him, especially not when it comes to asking about food. He lies."
True story.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Don't read this while eating!
Many years ago, I had a roommate whose family lived here in the same town. They were Lutheran. At some point, her parents felt a strong call from God and converted to Messianic Judaism. Later, in response to another call from the Lord, the man, Don, was accepted in Yeshiva and became a Rabbi. He and his wife, Karen, have a Messianic Jewish church (I think you call it a Synogogue, but I'm not sure) in town. They're quite good friends of Don's and mine and I very often consult them with Biblical questions.
Through them, we met a woman about my age who was attending their church. She has a small farm and three young daughters. On Saturday, she invited us to join her family for dinner. We were celebrating the Lord's Day with a ceremony similar to the Jewish Sabbath Meal. Don and I have a form that we use that have the prayers, lighting the Sabbath lights, the sharing of the bread and blessing cup, etc. all written out. We took those along.
Melody laughed when we told her we had the sheets.
"We could've done it from my prayer book . . . in Hebrew," she said. We were very thankful we had taken the time to print out the service sheets.
After dinner, we visited for quite some time. She has a litter of pups about ready to be sold. They're Australian Sheepdogs and beautiful. They're fat, soft little nuzzlers and all my children fell instantly in love. As the boys snuggled with each puppy in turn, we chatted about the farm. Melody has pigs and she offers them for sponsorship. You can sponsor a whole pig for a set amount per week. That pays for food and upkeep. When they're big enough for slaughter, all the meat (roughly 155 lbs.) gets delivered to you, packaged neatly. All told, you sponsor for about 4 months from weening to slaughter. Not a bad deal.
The boys got very interested in the pig information and began asking a lot of questions. Melody told us that she is thinking about changing slaughterhouses. She's been unhappy with the one she previously used and may change over to "Happy Valley".
"Yep," I commented, " 'Happy Valley'. I bet those pigs are just delighted to go to the slaughter. Happy, happy. 'Come visit Happy Valley'!" Of course, I was mocking the name.
Dane spoke up. "How do they slaughter them, anyway?" he wanted to know. Melody's daughter began an explanation of typing their legs up, then hoisting them into the air, etc. I told her that he meant, 'How do they KILL the pigs?'
"They slit their throats and bleed them out," Melody interjected.
Since Judaism requires animals to be completely bled out prior to butchering, this made sense to me. Jewish law forbids them from eating blood because blood is considered the "life" that flows through them. Butchering must be done very specifically, according to Jewish laws.
"So they're Kosher pigs?" I asked. There was silence until Don rolled his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Oh, God. Oh, God!"
I only had a momentary lapse. I explained to him later, in the car going home, that I just wasn't thinking all the way through what I said. You see, if you don't know, pigs are considered "unclean" by Jews. They are not allowed to eat ANY pork. Once, when visiting Israel, I had a lovely pin that I wore on the lapel of my wool blazer. It was a pig. My father made sure I removed it so as not to offend the Jews. And here I blurted out, in the home of a Messianic Jewish family, the wierd thought of a "kosher pig", two words that just cannot go together.
Melody cracked up, as did her daughters. My children, at least the boys, didn't understand, but Deanna was quite embarrassed by me.
Melody very quickly said something funny. She has a wonderful sense of humor that really releases tension in situations like that. She wasn't offended and really thought it was humorous. Thank God.
So, I show up last night for our Support Group meeting. Don and Karen are there, as are Melody and her oldest daughter, Lynn. Don passes out a flier he had printed and says he'd like to talk about "kosher". He launches into an explanation of how you can know if something is kosher; what symbol to look for on the packaging, what the different symbols mean, etc. People began asking questions - why do you keep kosher, etc. I sat quietly, for a change, and pondered the proximity of this impromptu teaching to my serious faux pas. When the room quieted again, I caught Melody's eye and mouthed, "Did you tell him about our pig conversation?"
"No," she said. "What do you mean?"
By then, the whole group was watching us. I looked around and explained that I had said something very inappropriate while at Melody's house over the weekend. Of course, that stirred everyone's interest. It eventually became obvious that I had to tell the story. I apologized in advance to Don and Karen, in case I offended them, then explained the story.
Every laughed. Don actually roared with laughter. I sat, red in the face. Yes, I told on myself, but I still felt like an idiot to make a mistake like that. No one was offended, thank goodness, but that started the jokes and more questions.
Eventually, we moved on and were talking about another subject when one of the women suddenly laughed uproariously. We all stopped and looked at her.
"My husband just leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'Do you get kicked out of the synogogue if you get the Swine Flu?' "
Don, ever quick on his feet, responded with, "Nope. Only if you get the Avian Flu."
Through them, we met a woman about my age who was attending their church. She has a small farm and three young daughters. On Saturday, she invited us to join her family for dinner. We were celebrating the Lord's Day with a ceremony similar to the Jewish Sabbath Meal. Don and I have a form that we use that have the prayers, lighting the Sabbath lights, the sharing of the bread and blessing cup, etc. all written out. We took those along.
Melody laughed when we told her we had the sheets.
"We could've done it from my prayer book . . . in Hebrew," she said. We were very thankful we had taken the time to print out the service sheets.
After dinner, we visited for quite some time. She has a litter of pups about ready to be sold. They're Australian Sheepdogs and beautiful. They're fat, soft little nuzzlers and all my children fell instantly in love. As the boys snuggled with each puppy in turn, we chatted about the farm. Melody has pigs and she offers them for sponsorship. You can sponsor a whole pig for a set amount per week. That pays for food and upkeep. When they're big enough for slaughter, all the meat (roughly 155 lbs.) gets delivered to you, packaged neatly. All told, you sponsor for about 4 months from weening to slaughter. Not a bad deal.
The boys got very interested in the pig information and began asking a lot of questions. Melody told us that she is thinking about changing slaughterhouses. She's been unhappy with the one she previously used and may change over to "Happy Valley".
"Yep," I commented, " 'Happy Valley'. I bet those pigs are just delighted to go to the slaughter. Happy, happy. 'Come visit Happy Valley'!" Of course, I was mocking the name.
Dane spoke up. "How do they slaughter them, anyway?" he wanted to know. Melody's daughter began an explanation of typing their legs up, then hoisting them into the air, etc. I told her that he meant, 'How do they KILL the pigs?'
"They slit their throats and bleed them out," Melody interjected.
Since Judaism requires animals to be completely bled out prior to butchering, this made sense to me. Jewish law forbids them from eating blood because blood is considered the "life" that flows through them. Butchering must be done very specifically, according to Jewish laws.
"So they're Kosher pigs?" I asked. There was silence until Don rolled his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Oh, God. Oh, God!"
I only had a momentary lapse. I explained to him later, in the car going home, that I just wasn't thinking all the way through what I said. You see, if you don't know, pigs are considered "unclean" by Jews. They are not allowed to eat ANY pork. Once, when visiting Israel, I had a lovely pin that I wore on the lapel of my wool blazer. It was a pig. My father made sure I removed it so as not to offend the Jews. And here I blurted out, in the home of a Messianic Jewish family, the wierd thought of a "kosher pig", two words that just cannot go together.
Melody cracked up, as did her daughters. My children, at least the boys, didn't understand, but Deanna was quite embarrassed by me.
Melody very quickly said something funny. She has a wonderful sense of humor that really releases tension in situations like that. She wasn't offended and really thought it was humorous. Thank God.
So, I show up last night for our Support Group meeting. Don and Karen are there, as are Melody and her oldest daughter, Lynn. Don passes out a flier he had printed and says he'd like to talk about "kosher". He launches into an explanation of how you can know if something is kosher; what symbol to look for on the packaging, what the different symbols mean, etc. People began asking questions - why do you keep kosher, etc. I sat quietly, for a change, and pondered the proximity of this impromptu teaching to my serious faux pas. When the room quieted again, I caught Melody's eye and mouthed, "Did you tell him about our pig conversation?"
"No," she said. "What do you mean?"
By then, the whole group was watching us. I looked around and explained that I had said something very inappropriate while at Melody's house over the weekend. Of course, that stirred everyone's interest. It eventually became obvious that I had to tell the story. I apologized in advance to Don and Karen, in case I offended them, then explained the story.
Every laughed. Don actually roared with laughter. I sat, red in the face. Yes, I told on myself, but I still felt like an idiot to make a mistake like that. No one was offended, thank goodness, but that started the jokes and more questions.
Eventually, we moved on and were talking about another subject when one of the women suddenly laughed uproariously. We all stopped and looked at her.
"My husband just leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'Do you get kicked out of the synogogue if you get the Swine Flu?' "
Don, ever quick on his feet, responded with, "Nope. Only if you get the Avian Flu."
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Beginning the Process of Gardening
Last spring, when I was working on trying to put in my summer garden, I was shocked at how much money I spent on "good" soil and fertilizers. The cost of bedding plants also stunned me. By the time it was all said and done, I had spent probably a couple of hundred dollars for the pleasure of worrying, watering, and spending all my free time freezing or pickling.
I decided I needed to make some changes. My first idea was to start a compost pile (we always had one when I was growing up) so I wouldn't have to buy fertilizer. It even occurred to me that sad, worn-out soil could become rich again if I mixed it with enough seasoned compost.
Secondly, I decided to try and start my own plants from seed. I attempted this with my winter garden and the plants did beautifully, but the seed-starters seemed to be only a single-use item and broke into many pieces in the process.
I used foam cups for my small plants to establish them before transplanting to the garden. I poked holes in them around the sides and at the bottom for draining and filled them about 1/2 full with soil. When I took out my plants to move them into the garden, I saved the styrofoam cups for another crop.
Throughout this winter, I've been saving small yogurt cups. I have about 10 that I thought would make great seed-starters. Last night, I melted holes in the plastic and I'm all ready to fill them with soil and start my seeds for my spring/summer garden. It should all save me a ton of money this year and it has been simple and fun.
Not so the compost pile. I bought a large 1/4 wooden barrel and put it off the end of the deck where it was easily accessible, even in the dark, but hidden from view by the garbage cans. After talking with a few other people, I realized that most folks use their grass clippings for their compost. A friend of mine, whom I talked with about this, showed up one day with some pallet sides that stack perfectly to form a wooden compost protection. I began accumulating grass clipping and lawn trash in this, but not enough to really DO anything - it's been winter, we haven't been cutting our grass.
Meanwhile, I have become very faithful about saving all my fruit and vegetable peels and not throwing away eggshells, teabags, or over-ripe anything. After removing the outer leaves of a cabbage, they go in compost. Those orange peels - don't forget to compost. The onion skins . . . compost. And so on. However, mid-summer, we couldn't get rid of the fruit flies buzzing around the bowl where I accumulated my "stuff" during the day before tossing it over the railing before bed.
Don was fit to be tied. He went on a rampage against fruit flies, even threatening to do away with my kitchen counter fruit bowl that keeps the children interested in the good stuff occasionally. I finally went out and found a big-enough plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. It now holds my compost until I have time to toss it.
A secondary problem has been reaching a fully-composted status. When I'm constantly adding new stuff, I never finish the process. Last night, my father mentioned that he had seen a kettle being thrown out on the street behind his house. It was one of those huge, handled metal pots that you use in commercial kitchens. I immediately sent the boys out to retrieve it. Sure enough, it's even larger than my compost barrel and, with the handles, much easier to move about.
I decided it was time to turn my compost. I began with my trusty compost stick (set aside specifically for this purpose), but discovered it was so thick that I couldn't really move it with the stick. Next, I pulled out a shovel whose handle was broken off. I dug it into the barrel, pushing with my foot until it hit the bottom, then turned it carefully. What I found below delighted and thrilled me - rich, thick black compost, teeming with (wait for it, wait for it . . . ) EARTHWORMS!!! Big ones, little tiny baby ones, all wriggling and moving amongst the black compost.
I went straight up to Dad's. How'd they get there, I asked him. He laughed and Mama chuckled.
"Oh, the worms will find a way if it's good soil," she said.
"You realize, Hon," Papa began, "that you have GREAT compost if you have earthworms, right?"
Yep. I realized; thus the excitement. And, now, with the metal pot, I can alternate which one I use, allowing the "stuff" in one to finish composting as I add to the new pile.
I'm really excited. I can't wait to begin to mix my compost into my garden. I keep thinking of all the money I'll save and how thrilled I am with the work of my hands.
MY GARDEN, MY COMPOST, MY SEED-STARTERS, MY BEDDING PLANTS. Boy, does it EVER have a nice ring to it.
I decided I needed to make some changes. My first idea was to start a compost pile (we always had one when I was growing up) so I wouldn't have to buy fertilizer. It even occurred to me that sad, worn-out soil could become rich again if I mixed it with enough seasoned compost.
Secondly, I decided to try and start my own plants from seed. I attempted this with my winter garden and the plants did beautifully, but the seed-starters seemed to be only a single-use item and broke into many pieces in the process.
I used foam cups for my small plants to establish them before transplanting to the garden. I poked holes in them around the sides and at the bottom for draining and filled them about 1/2 full with soil. When I took out my plants to move them into the garden, I saved the styrofoam cups for another crop.
Throughout this winter, I've been saving small yogurt cups. I have about 10 that I thought would make great seed-starters. Last night, I melted holes in the plastic and I'm all ready to fill them with soil and start my seeds for my spring/summer garden. It should all save me a ton of money this year and it has been simple and fun.
Not so the compost pile. I bought a large 1/4 wooden barrel and put it off the end of the deck where it was easily accessible, even in the dark, but hidden from view by the garbage cans. After talking with a few other people, I realized that most folks use their grass clippings for their compost. A friend of mine, whom I talked with about this, showed up one day with some pallet sides that stack perfectly to form a wooden compost protection. I began accumulating grass clipping and lawn trash in this, but not enough to really DO anything - it's been winter, we haven't been cutting our grass.
Meanwhile, I have become very faithful about saving all my fruit and vegetable peels and not throwing away eggshells, teabags, or over-ripe anything. After removing the outer leaves of a cabbage, they go in compost. Those orange peels - don't forget to compost. The onion skins . . . compost. And so on. However, mid-summer, we couldn't get rid of the fruit flies buzzing around the bowl where I accumulated my "stuff" during the day before tossing it over the railing before bed.
Don was fit to be tied. He went on a rampage against fruit flies, even threatening to do away with my kitchen counter fruit bowl that keeps the children interested in the good stuff occasionally. I finally went out and found a big-enough plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. It now holds my compost until I have time to toss it.
A secondary problem has been reaching a fully-composted status. When I'm constantly adding new stuff, I never finish the process. Last night, my father mentioned that he had seen a kettle being thrown out on the street behind his house. It was one of those huge, handled metal pots that you use in commercial kitchens. I immediately sent the boys out to retrieve it. Sure enough, it's even larger than my compost barrel and, with the handles, much easier to move about.
I decided it was time to turn my compost. I began with my trusty compost stick (set aside specifically for this purpose), but discovered it was so thick that I couldn't really move it with the stick. Next, I pulled out a shovel whose handle was broken off. I dug it into the barrel, pushing with my foot until it hit the bottom, then turned it carefully. What I found below delighted and thrilled me - rich, thick black compost, teeming with (wait for it, wait for it . . . ) EARTHWORMS!!! Big ones, little tiny baby ones, all wriggling and moving amongst the black compost.
I went straight up to Dad's. How'd they get there, I asked him. He laughed and Mama chuckled.
"Oh, the worms will find a way if it's good soil," she said.
"You realize, Hon," Papa began, "that you have GREAT compost if you have earthworms, right?"
Yep. I realized; thus the excitement. And, now, with the metal pot, I can alternate which one I use, allowing the "stuff" in one to finish composting as I add to the new pile.
I'm really excited. I can't wait to begin to mix my compost into my garden. I keep thinking of all the money I'll save and how thrilled I am with the work of my hands.
MY GARDEN, MY COMPOST, MY SEED-STARTERS, MY BEDDING PLANTS. Boy, does it EVER have a nice ring to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)