This morning as I was in the shower, listening to public radio's Studio 360 where I caught little half paragraphs of an interview about Solomon Rushdi. Somewhere in the stream of water and words I heard Curt Anderson, I believe, say the word "shapeshifter." Sometimes a word just slams up against my forehead and hangs on for a half a day..more maybe. I hunted around on Google for a definition, typed it into GuruNet, and went into Alltheweb and came up with a few citations but no definition. I finally found what I was looking for on Yahoo.
It seems like Tony Hillerman wrote of Shapeshifters, maybe in "The Skinwalkers."
I feel a little like a Shapeshifter today, but I can't figure out why as my corporal self has an opportunity to go help with a church mailing in 15 minutes.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Monday, December 27, 2004
Having One Wonderful Day After Another!
When a person is having such a good time there is no time for blogging.
He Who Must Be Obeyed and I have cooked since Christmas Eve Afternoon and because 'having company' is my very favorite thing, it has been good. Good food, good company, good experiences all around.
I have spent a good deal of time at church between company meals, even on Christmas Day, my altar guild partner and I spent a quiet, holy hour and a half preparing the sacristy for Sunday services.
This morning I read 'the salty vicar's' Christmas sermon. Having read his SALT over the years, I have learned a lot and respect his priestly experiences. I call them priestly because sometimes he appears to be a wild child. I hope he never quits blogging.
My own pastor started his Christmas Eve service with stopping the craziness of the holidays by breathing..in...and out...a couple of times. If you have read me very long you know how that got to me. Taking time to breathe is a good thing. And when he opened a ladder, I knew exactly where he was going. No, not up the ladder to God. God came down to us at Christmas.
And the good stuff goes on. I am cooking for a beloved son today who is helping his dad with the war wagon. I should take a pictue of it as I hope never, ever to have to see it again as it is being sold. If it doesn't sell the Salvation Army gets it. Do I have to show you how a war wagon and an an army of any type go together?
He Who Must Be Obeyed and I have cooked since Christmas Eve Afternoon and because 'having company' is my very favorite thing, it has been good. Good food, good company, good experiences all around.
I have spent a good deal of time at church between company meals, even on Christmas Day, my altar guild partner and I spent a quiet, holy hour and a half preparing the sacristy for Sunday services.
This morning I read 'the salty vicar's' Christmas sermon. Having read his SALT over the years, I have learned a lot and respect his priestly experiences. I call them priestly because sometimes he appears to be a wild child. I hope he never quits blogging.
My own pastor started his Christmas Eve service with stopping the craziness of the holidays by breathing..in...and out...a couple of times. If you have read me very long you know how that got to me. Taking time to breathe is a good thing. And when he opened a ladder, I knew exactly where he was going. No, not up the ladder to God. God came down to us at Christmas.
And the good stuff goes on. I am cooking for a beloved son today who is helping his dad with the war wagon. I should take a pictue of it as I hope never, ever to have to see it again as it is being sold. If it doesn't sell the Salvation Army gets it. Do I have to show you how a war wagon and an an army of any type go together?
Monday, December 20, 2004
Winter Solstice
One day to the shortest day of the year in our northern hemisphere. Tomorrow is truly the dark day of winter. Isn't it a little strange that on the second day of winter the days actually start getting longer? I have enjoyed the darkness this year. Why hurry the days away?
How cozy it is to snuggle under the down comforter while listening to the litany of the morning news people. I find IMUS rude and insulting, but the rest of them are like old friends, some sappy, some tolerable, some enjoyable. Do you find the Network people standing outside in the cold a little crazy. The shouting crowd annoys me so much I switch channels. The CSPAN Washington people are my favorites, no commercials, no opinion except for the guests, and reading the various morning paper headlines is the best. I miss Brian Lamb already. If Tom Brokow from my home state weren't such a blazing liberal I would have liked him better. I used to think I was a conflicted Lutheran, maybe I am a conflicted Republican. He Who Must Be Obeyed would bristle at that statement. He actually emailed our Nebraska Mr. Hagel over his comments on Rumsfield yesterday morning. But I am not going there.
Christmas. This year I love it more than ever. I like all the lights except my neighbors gaudy flashing display. Last night we talked about renting some snow thower to come and make snow for our Christmas. How fun would it be to just fill up our yard with snow, front and back so high that the driveway would have to be plowed out. I think that would be the best thing. We laughed ourselves to sleep over that idea last night. We won't have snow this year.
I am missing fruit cake. I think I would enjoy a slice of mince meat pie. Bourbon balls would be good, I haven't had them since I retired. One of my co-workers made them every year. Maybe just a little bourbon would do the trick. No, no eggnog. Irish Creme would be good. A Chia Pet would be nice. Nope, never had one.
Everyday the Christmas greetings from old friends and family come pouring in. Getting the mail is great. Our mailman took about a hundred with him this morning for every where including Canada. If I hadn't gotten some help with them, I would be doing them night and day alone. The in-law reunion is next summer so He Who Must Be Obeyed mailed about a hundred and fifty yesterday to his relatives everywhere including Norway. Thanks to the good old US Postal System. It makes life happy and handy.
How cozy it is to snuggle under the down comforter while listening to the litany of the morning news people. I find IMUS rude and insulting, but the rest of them are like old friends, some sappy, some tolerable, some enjoyable. Do you find the Network people standing outside in the cold a little crazy. The shouting crowd annoys me so much I switch channels. The CSPAN Washington people are my favorites, no commercials, no opinion except for the guests, and reading the various morning paper headlines is the best. I miss Brian Lamb already. If Tom Brokow from my home state weren't such a blazing liberal I would have liked him better. I used to think I was a conflicted Lutheran, maybe I am a conflicted Republican. He Who Must Be Obeyed would bristle at that statement. He actually emailed our Nebraska Mr. Hagel over his comments on Rumsfield yesterday morning. But I am not going there.
Christmas. This year I love it more than ever. I like all the lights except my neighbors gaudy flashing display. Last night we talked about renting some snow thower to come and make snow for our Christmas. How fun would it be to just fill up our yard with snow, front and back so high that the driveway would have to be plowed out. I think that would be the best thing. We laughed ourselves to sleep over that idea last night. We won't have snow this year.
I am missing fruit cake. I think I would enjoy a slice of mince meat pie. Bourbon balls would be good, I haven't had them since I retired. One of my co-workers made them every year. Maybe just a little bourbon would do the trick. No, no eggnog. Irish Creme would be good. A Chia Pet would be nice. Nope, never had one.
Everyday the Christmas greetings from old friends and family come pouring in. Getting the mail is great. Our mailman took about a hundred with him this morning for every where including Canada. If I hadn't gotten some help with them, I would be doing them night and day alone. The in-law reunion is next summer so He Who Must Be Obeyed mailed about a hundred and fifty yesterday to his relatives everywhere including Norway. Thanks to the good old US Postal System. It makes life happy and handy.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Honor Your Nose
Last night I was lulled to sleep with a lecture on the nose. One of our local cable channels is dedicated to SCOLA; most hours it is a direct feed to live international television in the language of each country; the other hours are dedicated to health and wellness. Often this includes medical lectures to the Nebraska University Medical Center students.
Breathing is meant to be done through the nose. It gives our brains a different experience than mouth or tracheotomy breathing does. It gives us a feeling of being right. My mother was big on breathing. Often we stopped mid-conversation to, as she put it, "breathe." I still enjoy a moment or two of breathing.
I appreciate my sense of smell and those little sensors are a treasure. Smell is all tied up with memory, as many of you know. The smell of a mother's cooking, the smell of baby chicks and little kittens, the smell of horses and tack, the smell of an old boyfriend's aftershave and the familiar scent of a husband. I once lived in a small town with no central air. In summers windows were opened and during the dark night, I could smell the after-lovemaking cigarettes of my next door neighbors. Perfume lingers in my living room days after company has gone, reminding me of that pleasant visit.
Sometimes the sense of smell goes haywire and some unfortunate people smell very bad odors continually. Sometimes they have to have the nerves that connect their noses to the brain severed. Occasionally this gets wired with schizophrenic tendencies. The learned doctor stated last night that those unfortunate folks never continually smell a pleasant odor, it is always very disgusting ones.
I never knew that the ingredient that oils our digestive system is the quart of snot that we swallow each day, not exactly the trivia one might relate at a Christmas party.
Breathing is meant to be done through the nose. It gives our brains a different experience than mouth or tracheotomy breathing does. It gives us a feeling of being right. My mother was big on breathing. Often we stopped mid-conversation to, as she put it, "breathe." I still enjoy a moment or two of breathing.
I appreciate my sense of smell and those little sensors are a treasure. Smell is all tied up with memory, as many of you know. The smell of a mother's cooking, the smell of baby chicks and little kittens, the smell of horses and tack, the smell of an old boyfriend's aftershave and the familiar scent of a husband. I once lived in a small town with no central air. In summers windows were opened and during the dark night, I could smell the after-lovemaking cigarettes of my next door neighbors. Perfume lingers in my living room days after company has gone, reminding me of that pleasant visit.
Sometimes the sense of smell goes haywire and some unfortunate people smell very bad odors continually. Sometimes they have to have the nerves that connect their noses to the brain severed. Occasionally this gets wired with schizophrenic tendencies. The learned doctor stated last night that those unfortunate folks never continually smell a pleasant odor, it is always very disgusting ones.
I never knew that the ingredient that oils our digestive system is the quart of snot that we swallow each day, not exactly the trivia one might relate at a Christmas party.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Saturday Morning Miracle
There are only five of us in Miriam Circle. I think of us as unencumbered by convention. When we started meeting to do the Lutheran Woman Today Bible Study, we agreed that we are not messing with food, we meet at church so we do not have to clean house, we try to be finished in an hour. I thank God for each one of these women and our second Saturday of the month meeting.
This morning we observed Advent with prayers, candles, and singing by the light of one candle. I have come to love our study together and the intimacy we have. Our study centered on the Five Wise and Five Foolish Virgins. Advent is my favorite month of the church year. It has gone beyond my childish waiting, my hurried mother preparations, to this, my more purposeful expectation of Peace on Earth.
When we concluded, my altar guild partner and I prepared communion for two services tomorrow. It was a quiet, reverent way to prepare for the Third Advent Sunday. I am so blessed to have had parents, friends, and congregations keeping me grounded over the years. I could never have done it alone.
This morning we observed Advent with prayers, candles, and singing by the light of one candle. I have come to love our study together and the intimacy we have. Our study centered on the Five Wise and Five Foolish Virgins. Advent is my favorite month of the church year. It has gone beyond my childish waiting, my hurried mother preparations, to this, my more purposeful expectation of Peace on Earth.
When we concluded, my altar guild partner and I prepared communion for two services tomorrow. It was a quiet, reverent way to prepare for the Third Advent Sunday. I am so blessed to have had parents, friends, and congregations keeping me grounded over the years. I could never have done it alone.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
A Cheap Goose
A while back I listed the things that make Finns happy. A clean upstairs could do it. He Who Must Be Obeyed told me I had to go upstairs and look at it. I haven't been up there for two or three years,but with some coersion, hints at compromise, and half promises, I was pursuaded to give it a look. it was worse than I had envisioned.
I could keep busy for weeks up there, but maybe with his muscles and my brilliance for organizing we could do it in two days. I am not kidding about my organizing. I think I am an organizing genius, but I don't have the muscles to go with it. Next to being organized my second quality surely is stubbornness. Without that hint of compromise, I wouldn't have got two steps in that direction in this lifetime.
No, I am not going to chip away at anyone's faults. I recognize my own and probably have enough Lutheran guilt to cover them. I am not going to have everything my own way here. It doesn't matter. I actually said out loud, "I will get rid of all the old Christmas decorations, if we can work together on the rest of it." He grabbed that bait and I am not letting him off the hook. Cleanliness is happiness.
The Master of the Garage, He Who Must Be Obeyed, has a little compulsive/obsessive problem with garage sales. Did I call it a fault? He had a cloth, stuffed goose up there, some of the cotton coming out of a seam. I picked it up and looked it over; he told me he told the lady at the garage sale "that $2 goose is the cheapest goose I ever got."
I could keep busy for weeks up there, but maybe with his muscles and my brilliance for organizing we could do it in two days. I am not kidding about my organizing. I think I am an organizing genius, but I don't have the muscles to go with it. Next to being organized my second quality surely is stubbornness. Without that hint of compromise, I wouldn't have got two steps in that direction in this lifetime.
No, I am not going to chip away at anyone's faults. I recognize my own and probably have enough Lutheran guilt to cover them. I am not going to have everything my own way here. It doesn't matter. I actually said out loud, "I will get rid of all the old Christmas decorations, if we can work together on the rest of it." He grabbed that bait and I am not letting him off the hook. Cleanliness is happiness.
The Master of the Garage, He Who Must Be Obeyed, has a little compulsive/obsessive problem with garage sales. Did I call it a fault? He had a cloth, stuffed goose up there, some of the cotton coming out of a seam. I picked it up and looked it over; he told me he told the lady at the garage sale "that $2 goose is the cheapest goose I ever got."
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
When The Cat's Away the Mouse...well you know
The slippery slope to Christmas has become a bit steeper. One would think I would increase my sliding speed. It doesn't happen. I have known for years that I need a 'to do' list. Without one, I think there is nothing to do. That isn't all that bad either.
I did go to Hobby Lobby last Friday and bought a pre-lit, flocked, fake tree. When I saw the trouble the help guy had loading it in my Wrangler, I knew I was in for more than I had bargained. It was heavier and bulkier than I thought it might be, but I got it into the house and actually got it together. It was my 2004 Christmas adventure; not one to rival cutting a tree in the Black Hills and getting it upright in a pail of water with rocks to keep it straight. But it was o.k. given that I did it alone. Enjoying the satisfaction of completing a challenging task is one of life's pleasures. I am surprised at how much I like my fake tree. It is... well, it is simply beautiful.
He Who Must Be Obeyed is still gone building the greenhouse with a brother. I have come to think of this time as practice for widow-hood. I can do it. I might even be able to clean the garage, given a dumpster and a minimum wage person of height and muscle. But that won't happen while the master of the garage is around. I spent three hours in one corner of it and found some amazing things, three huge trash bags full of junk, and a lot of good stuff. That was a good experience in a way.
I think a lot about my mortality. I suppose most everyone does. I am preparing for a good death; not that I think it is particularly immediate. But I am not going to waste time in meaningless endeavor. I don't think that listening to classical Christmas carols, or reading, or simply thinking are meaningless. The Lectio Divina practice is a gift, and I have learned it. That is something a disciplined mind can manage, but it takes practice. It would be a good goal for me, a good New Years resolution. It is offered and open to anyone at an Mt. Michael abbey not very far from here on Friday mornings, but I can certainly do it on my own.
Do you ask why, my dear reader, why I think on my coming death? Because it is Advent and Lutherans take Advent very much to heart. We are in the dark of December, the days are short, the mentally ill get worse, melancholy Finns get more and more melancholic; and the Henri Nouwen Devotion hitting my inbox every morning have been on that very matter. We must prepare for our death, like our parents prepared for our birth, he states. So I am preparing...for my death, and for the Christ Mass to come. Do I sound a little Catholic? I am, reformed, however, as in Martin Luther.
Life, however, is good and I suspect that will continue for a time. "There is no "after" after death. Words like after and before belong to our mortal life, our life in time and space. Death frees us from the boundaries of chronology and brings us into God's "time," which is timeless." Henri Nouwen
I did go to Hobby Lobby last Friday and bought a pre-lit, flocked, fake tree. When I saw the trouble the help guy had loading it in my Wrangler, I knew I was in for more than I had bargained. It was heavier and bulkier than I thought it might be, but I got it into the house and actually got it together. It was my 2004 Christmas adventure; not one to rival cutting a tree in the Black Hills and getting it upright in a pail of water with rocks to keep it straight. But it was o.k. given that I did it alone. Enjoying the satisfaction of completing a challenging task is one of life's pleasures. I am surprised at how much I like my fake tree. It is... well, it is simply beautiful.
He Who Must Be Obeyed is still gone building the greenhouse with a brother. I have come to think of this time as practice for widow-hood. I can do it. I might even be able to clean the garage, given a dumpster and a minimum wage person of height and muscle. But that won't happen while the master of the garage is around. I spent three hours in one corner of it and found some amazing things, three huge trash bags full of junk, and a lot of good stuff. That was a good experience in a way.
I think a lot about my mortality. I suppose most everyone does. I am preparing for a good death; not that I think it is particularly immediate. But I am not going to waste time in meaningless endeavor. I don't think that listening to classical Christmas carols, or reading, or simply thinking are meaningless. The Lectio Divina practice is a gift, and I have learned it. That is something a disciplined mind can manage, but it takes practice. It would be a good goal for me, a good New Years resolution. It is offered and open to anyone at an Mt. Michael abbey not very far from here on Friday mornings, but I can certainly do it on my own.
Do you ask why, my dear reader, why I think on my coming death? Because it is Advent and Lutherans take Advent very much to heart. We are in the dark of December, the days are short, the mentally ill get worse, melancholy Finns get more and more melancholic; and the Henri Nouwen Devotion hitting my inbox every morning have been on that very matter. We must prepare for our death, like our parents prepared for our birth, he states. So I am preparing...for my death, and for the Christ Mass to come. Do I sound a little Catholic? I am, reformed, however, as in Martin Luther.
Life, however, is good and I suspect that will continue for a time. "There is no "after" after death. Words like after and before belong to our mortal life, our life in time and space. Death frees us from the boundaries of chronology and brings us into God's "time," which is timeless." Henri Nouwen
Thursday, December 02, 2004
On Wanting a Dog
How dumb is it to want a dog? I can't find a Standard Poodle in Omaha. That is exactly what I want. The Nebraska Agricultural Department placed a whole bunch of Chihuahuas into our local Humane Society a couple days ago. They had closed down a puppy mill somewhere in the state and were placing dogs and cats with ringworm where ever there was room. Maybe I should go to see if there might be a poodle in the bunch.
I need a beating heart in the house that I can boss around. A cat would be nice, but I have a son that is alergic to them. It would be rude to get one.
He Who Must Be Obeyed helped me prepare the church worship center this morning. I didn't quite know what to make of that. I will be on my own Sunday, communion at 8:00 and in the afternoon when we have the ordination service of our Music Director who has gone on to become more. I will set up the intinction for that and clear after. It will be nice to hear the Bishop. I am glad for Jennifer.
I will be alone again. This is why I am getting serious about a dog.
I need a beating heart in the house that I can boss around. A cat would be nice, but I have a son that is alergic to them. It would be rude to get one.
He Who Must Be Obeyed helped me prepare the church worship center this morning. I didn't quite know what to make of that. I will be on my own Sunday, communion at 8:00 and in the afternoon when we have the ordination service of our Music Director who has gone on to become more. I will set up the intinction for that and clear after. It will be nice to hear the Bishop. I am glad for Jennifer.
I will be alone again. This is why I am getting serious about a dog.
Monday, November 29, 2004
A Slow Slide to Christmas
We had a little pre-Christmas trip that turned out to be unexpected in a couple of ways. Maybe more than a couple. We had planned to spend a night in Lindsborg, Kansas on our way to Wichita; but I hadn't considered the fact that the small Swedish town was going to be decorated for Christmas nor that it had snowed four inches the night before we got there. It was splendid with shocks of wheat tied to the lamp posts, Christmas elves on the shop facades, and the Swedish Dala horses everywhere.
He Who Must Be Obeyed surprised me with purchasing Swedish clogs for me. No, not one pair to wear home, but two more to be hand painted and shipped when completed. The Swedish immigrant shopkeeper was going to paint them, daisies on the blue, rosemallen on the red, the Friday after Thanksgiving. She is going home to Sweden for Christmas. I don't know who was happier over the purchase, she or I, and isn't it fun when that happens!
We enjoyed Thanksgiving with our son and family in Wichita. Good food, good company, Christmas decorations every where one looked, it was a Thanksgiving to remember, good in every way.
The adventures never ended, either. We spent a night in Atchison, KS and had dinner at Paolucci's, an Italian Restaurant founded in the mid 1800's. Our server was Joe, a first generation descendant, who gave us a history lesson with every course. Lewis and Clark's expedition spent July 4th, 1804 in the area and celebrated the first Independance Day in the American West there. It would be fun to go back on Amelia Earhart Day.
Now that we are past the First Sunday in Advent, it is time to get serious about Christmas. No, I am not going to let the secular commercial world tarnish it for me. But I do have to make a decision about the card/letter thing. Yes or no? At this point, I don't know.
He Who Must Be Obeyed surprised me with purchasing Swedish clogs for me. No, not one pair to wear home, but two more to be hand painted and shipped when completed. The Swedish immigrant shopkeeper was going to paint them, daisies on the blue, rosemallen on the red, the Friday after Thanksgiving. She is going home to Sweden for Christmas. I don't know who was happier over the purchase, she or I, and isn't it fun when that happens!
We enjoyed Thanksgiving with our son and family in Wichita. Good food, good company, Christmas decorations every where one looked, it was a Thanksgiving to remember, good in every way.
The adventures never ended, either. We spent a night in Atchison, KS and had dinner at Paolucci's, an Italian Restaurant founded in the mid 1800's. Our server was Joe, a first generation descendant, who gave us a history lesson with every course. Lewis and Clark's expedition spent July 4th, 1804 in the area and celebrated the first Independance Day in the American West there. It would be fun to go back on Amelia Earhart Day.
Now that we are past the First Sunday in Advent, it is time to get serious about Christmas. No, I am not going to let the secular commercial world tarnish it for me. But I do have to make a decision about the card/letter thing. Yes or no? At this point, I don't know.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Lorem Ipsum
Lorem Ipsum. Lotte, from Australia, shared the website with my Elders list. She has been a wonderful source of information to all of us. She is a newly retired University Reference Librarian and knows everything in the world, I think.
Here is an example of it: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Integer nec odio nec risus scelerisque dignissim. Nam pulvinar est et nisl. Duis in tellus. Aenean cursus fermentum est. Sed leo nisl, elementum vel, scelerisque non, porta vitae, tellus. Nullam faucibus, lectus ac feugiat mollis, nisl magna ultrices wisi, sit amet gravida odio sapien nec erat. Etiam.Generated 1 paragraph, 55 words, 360 bytes of Lorem Ipsum
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
I knew I had seen it before. It is my MSOffice templates. I had always wondered why it was used and how dumb was I anyway? Now you have a nice little tidbit to share over pumpkin pie when the in-laws are getting too testy.
If you mouse click the Elders link, you will find a "Meet the Elders" section. There I am, with He Who Must Be Obeyed. We have been emailing as a group for eleven years.
Here is an example of it: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Integer nec odio nec risus scelerisque dignissim. Nam pulvinar est et nisl. Duis in tellus. Aenean cursus fermentum est. Sed leo nisl, elementum vel, scelerisque non, porta vitae, tellus. Nullam faucibus, lectus ac feugiat mollis, nisl magna ultrices wisi, sit amet gravida odio sapien nec erat. Etiam.Generated 1 paragraph, 55 words, 360 bytes of Lorem Ipsum
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
I knew I had seen it before. It is my MSOffice templates. I had always wondered why it was used and how dumb was I anyway? Now you have a nice little tidbit to share over pumpkin pie when the in-laws are getting too testy.
If you mouse click the Elders link, you will find a "Meet the Elders" section. There I am, with He Who Must Be Obeyed. We have been emailing as a group for eleven years.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Pointing Finger
The saying is familiar. If you point your finger at someone, there are three pointing back at you. Three is a number that suits this situation.
I am in deep paska with half of our adult children and maybe four of the six. I can never tell exactly. When this happens I play the scene over and over in my mind looking for clues to explain to myself just what happened and why. I think with the number getting so high, I have to figure out if I am unreasonable, crazy, or both. Sometimes I think I am an easy target, being so cursed with introvertism, combined with the feeling that I am right. Of course the fact remains that it takes at least two to disagree. One never yells at a tree alone in a forest.
Last night during dinner all hell broken loose, or maybe more of that hell to pay now, and the rest will come later. It is something that drives me to my knees. I hate a scene. When it happens during a meal, I cannot swallow. Food and fighting do not mix except in a high school lunch room.
The 18 years I lived under my parent's roof, I never experienced scenes like those I have observed, or been a part of, over the years with the new name I was given 50 years ago. Getting used to listening to yelling and observing anger is nothing I am apparently going to get used to either.
It ends by my lying awake in the night with the replay, which never has an ending, trying to sort it out with my roommate of 50 years, and replaying it again in broad daylight. Nothing is working. I should go right to the source of the problem, but simply cannot take a chance on the incident taking off again where it stopped originally by people walking out in a huff.
The incident was with a daughter and her husband over a turkey. He Who Must Be Obeyed was simply stubbornly silent and unbending. I made everything worse when I used the word 'negligent.' I should have just kept my mouth shut. That is perhaps the answer to it all. Maybe I should have walked out with my last bite in my throat.
I am getting very depressed and exhausted at being so, like my mother called me, compliant. From the very beginning of my life I would rather comply than get pulled into a controversy. So now in my age, when I do not comply, it infurates people and they question my motives. I saw a son-in-law boil with anger and flash a look at his wife with the very mention of instant mashed potatoes. At that they left. Now how bad is that!
I am in deep paska with half of our adult children and maybe four of the six. I can never tell exactly. When this happens I play the scene over and over in my mind looking for clues to explain to myself just what happened and why. I think with the number getting so high, I have to figure out if I am unreasonable, crazy, or both. Sometimes I think I am an easy target, being so cursed with introvertism, combined with the feeling that I am right. Of course the fact remains that it takes at least two to disagree. One never yells at a tree alone in a forest.
Last night during dinner all hell broken loose, or maybe more of that hell to pay now, and the rest will come later. It is something that drives me to my knees. I hate a scene. When it happens during a meal, I cannot swallow. Food and fighting do not mix except in a high school lunch room.
The 18 years I lived under my parent's roof, I never experienced scenes like those I have observed, or been a part of, over the years with the new name I was given 50 years ago. Getting used to listening to yelling and observing anger is nothing I am apparently going to get used to either.
It ends by my lying awake in the night with the replay, which never has an ending, trying to sort it out with my roommate of 50 years, and replaying it again in broad daylight. Nothing is working. I should go right to the source of the problem, but simply cannot take a chance on the incident taking off again where it stopped originally by people walking out in a huff.
The incident was with a daughter and her husband over a turkey. He Who Must Be Obeyed was simply stubbornly silent and unbending. I made everything worse when I used the word 'negligent.' I should have just kept my mouth shut. That is perhaps the answer to it all. Maybe I should have walked out with my last bite in my throat.
I am getting very depressed and exhausted at being so, like my mother called me, compliant. From the very beginning of my life I would rather comply than get pulled into a controversy. So now in my age, when I do not comply, it infurates people and they question my motives. I saw a son-in-law boil with anger and flash a look at his wife with the very mention of instant mashed potatoes. At that they left. Now how bad is that!
Monday, November 15, 2004
Things One Can Learn From Staying in Bed Watching TV
I did not go out to walk this morning, instead I crawled back under the covers and turned on C-Span II. I was hoping to catch the last of Book TV from the weekend and what I got was an eye-opening and brain snapping view of one Tammy Bruce. I had never heard of her, as my flirting with NOW ended almost as fast as it began with a women's lunch group on the campus of the University of Nebraska at Omaha in 1975. Believe me that was a mind bender for this Stepford Wife of the '50's.
Back to Tammy Bruce. She really irritated the group at Florida State University. They were anxious to get to the mike and tell her so, too, after her presentation. The main thrust of her speech "Contrary to Public Belief: How Conservative Ideas Empower Women, Gays and Other Minorities," was that group think and labeling are divisive and dangerous.
When I googled her name she came up on, of all things, NewsMax. I should have expected it. A Democrat voting for Bush is as celebrated as an athiest becoming born again. She has many traits that I had no idea NewsMax would listen to. But then what do I know by reading Itar Tass and the BBC.
Jeff Kooperman has some very strong things to say about her. Just to show you my ignorance, who is He?
I guess I am wondering why we didn't hear about her prior to the election? Are people like her shut up by the mainstream media? If I had been reading NewsMax, I would have probably been aware of her stridant politics.
Back to Tammy Bruce. She really irritated the group at Florida State University. They were anxious to get to the mike and tell her so, too, after her presentation. The main thrust of her speech "Contrary to Public Belief: How Conservative Ideas Empower Women, Gays and Other Minorities," was that group think and labeling are divisive and dangerous.
When I googled her name she came up on, of all things, NewsMax. I should have expected it. A Democrat voting for Bush is as celebrated as an athiest becoming born again. She has many traits that I had no idea NewsMax would listen to. But then what do I know by reading Itar Tass and the BBC.
Jeff Kooperman has some very strong things to say about her. Just to show you my ignorance, who is He?
I guess I am wondering why we didn't hear about her prior to the election? Are people like her shut up by the mainstream media? If I had been reading NewsMax, I would have probably been aware of her stridant politics.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Annoying WalMart and Funny Dreams
We just got home from WalMart. Every time I go, which is as seldom as possible, I swear I will never set foot in one of those places again. The front door looked like the back alley back door of an inner city warehouse. It is Omaha's newest WalMart. How crazy is that?
I observed the young guy checking people out and he nailed a couple who were trying to get off with a $17.00 CD lying flat in the bottom of the cart they were wheeling off. He was good, authoritive, and sent them back in to pay for it. He was one assertive guy in a wheel chair. I was waiting for He Who Must Be Obeyed to check out and mentioned to the other woman at the door what a good job he did. "He has been with us four years," she said. At the rate he was going he was more than making up for his wages. It was the best thing of the day.
We blabbed at our circle meeting this morning at church instead of really getting into the parable of forgiving. I needed to talk about that, because my daughter cannot forgive me for my past transgressions. The more she cannot forgive me the more annoyed I get at her. We are on a vicious circle with this maddening unforgiveness. A few months ago I got a four page letter in the mail from her detailing all my failings as a mother and as a person since she was very small. Now she is very large and my transgressions have increased with her size and age. I should not have read the letter, and I should have burned it after I did. Maybe I won't read it again. Or maybe I should when I get to thinking I am too perfect. There they are, God and my daughter keeping track of me for the reckoning. From her it came before my death. The deadly list...now it is hell to pay. I hope it isn't going to be pay now and pay later.
I had a good thing happen. I woke myself up laughing out loud last night. I laughed so hard I got into that snorting sort of laughing. I had the funniest dream and thought I would remember it forever I can't recall it at all. All I can remember is the laughs. Really funny dreams. How good is that!
I observed the young guy checking people out and he nailed a couple who were trying to get off with a $17.00 CD lying flat in the bottom of the cart they were wheeling off. He was good, authoritive, and sent them back in to pay for it. He was one assertive guy in a wheel chair. I was waiting for He Who Must Be Obeyed to check out and mentioned to the other woman at the door what a good job he did. "He has been with us four years," she said. At the rate he was going he was more than making up for his wages. It was the best thing of the day.
We blabbed at our circle meeting this morning at church instead of really getting into the parable of forgiving. I needed to talk about that, because my daughter cannot forgive me for my past transgressions. The more she cannot forgive me the more annoyed I get at her. We are on a vicious circle with this maddening unforgiveness. A few months ago I got a four page letter in the mail from her detailing all my failings as a mother and as a person since she was very small. Now she is very large and my transgressions have increased with her size and age. I should not have read the letter, and I should have burned it after I did. Maybe I won't read it again. Or maybe I should when I get to thinking I am too perfect. There they are, God and my daughter keeping track of me for the reckoning. From her it came before my death. The deadly list...now it is hell to pay. I hope it isn't going to be pay now and pay later.
I had a good thing happen. I woke myself up laughing out loud last night. I laughed so hard I got into that snorting sort of laughing. I had the funniest dream and thought I would remember it forever I can't recall it at all. All I can remember is the laughs. Really funny dreams. How good is that!
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Sunday Afternoons
Sunday afternoons are the strangest times of the week. I often look forward to the newspaper, so alluringly large and heavy, the advertisements more formidable than the news. I have started tossing the whole lot into the recycle bin unopened as they are such a waste of time, paper and energy. I am feeling cynical about advertising; I have become a demographic, used for my lack of ethnicity, age, and zip code. How annoying to be used like that.
Instead of sitting down with the paper, I made a couple of bannana breads. They smell good cooling on the counter.
He Who Must Be Obeyed arrived home from helping his brother since Wednesday. No, he isn't even able to chat. He is fast asleep in his chair. He looks a little worn out, actually. I am not waking him up.
I could go out and mulch the leaves in the front yard, but really haven't the heart to do it. Instead, I will put a chicken in the oven to roast, read Hosea for next week's study, maybe get to that newspaper.
Sunday afternoons can be a Holy Sabbath, or just plain ungodly long with random thoughts accompanied by the rise and fall of an old man's snoring.
Instead of sitting down with the paper, I made a couple of bannana breads. They smell good cooling on the counter.
He Who Must Be Obeyed arrived home from helping his brother since Wednesday. No, he isn't even able to chat. He is fast asleep in his chair. He looks a little worn out, actually. I am not waking him up.
I could go out and mulch the leaves in the front yard, but really haven't the heart to do it. Instead, I will put a chicken in the oven to roast, read Hosea for next week's study, maybe get to that newspaper.
Sunday afternoons can be a Holy Sabbath, or just plain ungodly long with random thoughts accompanied by the rise and fall of an old man's snoring.
Friday, November 05, 2004
College Student's Financial Lament
He Who Must Be Obeyed called. We haven't seen one another since Wednesday morning. My neighbor across the street asked me if I was getting lonely. I don't think I am capable of it. So then why do I groan over being cosmically lonely periodically? It makes no sense. I was glad he called, glad he hasn't hurt himself, and glad he is coming home sometime on Sunday.
My mundane life revolves around a clean house, a perfectly clean back yard, a sparkling clean, cold swimming pool, even my trash cans are clean. I am one happy Finn.
In the morning I shall put the Altar Flowers in urns beside the Altar and arrange the six white roses and filler in a crystal vase on the Altar. It is All Saints Sunday, six members have died during the year. I will be preparing the items for an infant baptism for the 9:15 service. The question is shall I go to early church (uugghh) or go after it is over and sprint with the set up in the 15 minutes between services and then go to Loud Church. I need Liturgy so I had better go to 8:00. This is called plinking or plogging as I plan and blog.
My college student grandchildren are lamenting college costs and their financial burdens. My folks borrowed my first year's college costs. They could not afford to borrow more, so I took the harder road of marriage, five kids, one foster niece; and 17 years from that first year of college we all ate bologna sandwiches and mixed powdered skim milk, as I paid as I went, to get my degree at 40. We all suffered. If I hadn't been such a bumpkin, I surely could have gotten an academic scholarship as I graduated Cum Laude. I didn't know about that sort of thing and had no one to guide me into the logical route of graduation at 22. I did get 36 credit hours that first year and that gave me a good jump at the new start when I was 37.
Do you hear the violins in the background? Of course I walked to school forever as we didn't even own a car until I was 17. In the snow, now here come the brasses, coming home for lunch as there was no hot lunch at school, the basses and drums rise to a crechendo. A tiny little flute sounds, I walk home from college, three miles, as we only have one car. The violins rise and fall and the flute fades away. I graduated without one college loan, the knowledge that I could do anything, signed a teaching contract and my 40th year was indeed the beginning of my life as a person.
It rained and the old man's pipe went out.
My mundane life revolves around a clean house, a perfectly clean back yard, a sparkling clean, cold swimming pool, even my trash cans are clean. I am one happy Finn.
In the morning I shall put the Altar Flowers in urns beside the Altar and arrange the six white roses and filler in a crystal vase on the Altar. It is All Saints Sunday, six members have died during the year. I will be preparing the items for an infant baptism for the 9:15 service. The question is shall I go to early church (uugghh) or go after it is over and sprint with the set up in the 15 minutes between services and then go to Loud Church. I need Liturgy so I had better go to 8:00. This is called plinking or plogging as I plan and blog.
My college student grandchildren are lamenting college costs and their financial burdens. My folks borrowed my first year's college costs. They could not afford to borrow more, so I took the harder road of marriage, five kids, one foster niece; and 17 years from that first year of college we all ate bologna sandwiches and mixed powdered skim milk, as I paid as I went, to get my degree at 40. We all suffered. If I hadn't been such a bumpkin, I surely could have gotten an academic scholarship as I graduated Cum Laude. I didn't know about that sort of thing and had no one to guide me into the logical route of graduation at 22. I did get 36 credit hours that first year and that gave me a good jump at the new start when I was 37.
Do you hear the violins in the background? Of course I walked to school forever as we didn't even own a car until I was 17. In the snow, now here come the brasses, coming home for lunch as there was no hot lunch at school, the basses and drums rise to a crechendo. A tiny little flute sounds, I walk home from college, three miles, as we only have one car. The violins rise and fall and the flute fades away. I graduated without one college loan, the knowledge that I could do anything, signed a teaching contract and my 40th year was indeed the beginning of my life as a person.
It rained and the old man's pipe went out.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
What Makes a Finn Happy?
There is nothing an introverted melancholy Finn likes better than trying to figure out the meaning of life. I have even looked up "the meaning of life" on google. Today I found what makes me happy in a list on Virtual Finland. Lists make me happy.
Finnish feel-good factors
1. Home sweet home, a home of one's own
2. Sunny weather
3. An honest relationship
4. A trusting relationship
5. The freedom to be oneself
6. A freshly cleaned home
7. Friendship, gestures/words in a relationship
8. Friendship, actions in a relationship
9. Fidelity in a relationship
10. Security in a relationship
The explaination of each of those was right. I feel just like the author says, " It never takes long in a country where people on the whole lack a small-talk culture, but are ever ready to open a seminar on "Why are we here, where are we going?"
So why are we here, I ask? Where ARE we going? I need to find another Finn to discuss this with. He Who Must Be Obeyed is Norwegian and they know why they are here and where they are going and they do not like to waste time talking about it.
"Instead of materialism we're in for more relationships, but not before number six, which is a freshly cleaned home." Deep meaningful relationships and a clean house are everything.
We Finns "are obviously content with simple, honest pleasures such as the smell of newly washed laundry, falling in love or walking in the countryside.
The first direct reference to money appears at number nineteen and it is that great feeling: "there's more money in my account than I remembered". It is true. I taught school for twenty years and never really cared how much money I made. My paycheck was direct deposited and I never knew what I was earning.
Joe Brady who wrote for Virtual Finland got it right. Maybe now we should have that discussion on The Meaning of Life.
Finnish feel-good factors
1. Home sweet home, a home of one's own
2. Sunny weather
3. An honest relationship
4. A trusting relationship
5. The freedom to be oneself
6. A freshly cleaned home
7. Friendship, gestures/words in a relationship
8. Friendship, actions in a relationship
9. Fidelity in a relationship
10. Security in a relationship
The explaination of each of those was right. I feel just like the author says, " It never takes long in a country where people on the whole lack a small-talk culture, but are ever ready to open a seminar on "Why are we here, where are we going?"
So why are we here, I ask? Where ARE we going? I need to find another Finn to discuss this with. He Who Must Be Obeyed is Norwegian and they know why they are here and where they are going and they do not like to waste time talking about it.
"Instead of materialism we're in for more relationships, but not before number six, which is a freshly cleaned home." Deep meaningful relationships and a clean house are everything.
We Finns "are obviously content with simple, honest pleasures such as the smell of newly washed laundry, falling in love or walking in the countryside.
The first direct reference to money appears at number nineteen and it is that great feeling: "there's more money in my account than I remembered". It is true. I taught school for twenty years and never really cared how much money I made. My paycheck was direct deposited and I never knew what I was earning.
Joe Brady who wrote for Virtual Finland got it right. Maybe now we should have that discussion on The Meaning of Life.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Perfect Parent Pretense
He Who Must Be Obeyed is still in denial about the roof. I know it is about the $350 stainless steel tarring gun he bought. He probably doesn't even know that is what drives his denial.
The new roof was expensive, but worth it in every way imaginable. Financially, our home insurance went down 17% and that is no small matter. Emotionally, I have quit thinking about black mold creeping through the ceiling in our bedroom and I no longer think I am going to start a fire when I turn on the light switch. I found brown water streaming though the ceiling fixture almost as unnerving as the little blackness I see where crown molding should have been put up 25 years ago.
He still mentions that if only he had retarred the spot that leaked... I really find that annoying.
Fifty years of marriage can get a person down sometimes. We have a married son and family visiting in the city this weekend. Every time we expect grown children, we have a little discussion about not argueing or disrespecting one another while they are with us. One of them told me, I can't recall which one, he hated to hear us argue. Every person wants perfect parents. It simply cannot happen.
Carrying on this facade sometimes works and sometimes it doesn't. One thing leads to another and the perfect parent-farce collapses into an unfortunate scene. I suppose in the grand scheme of things the practice is good for us.
The new roof was expensive, but worth it in every way imaginable. Financially, our home insurance went down 17% and that is no small matter. Emotionally, I have quit thinking about black mold creeping through the ceiling in our bedroom and I no longer think I am going to start a fire when I turn on the light switch. I found brown water streaming though the ceiling fixture almost as unnerving as the little blackness I see where crown molding should have been put up 25 years ago.
He still mentions that if only he had retarred the spot that leaked... I really find that annoying.
Fifty years of marriage can get a person down sometimes. We have a married son and family visiting in the city this weekend. Every time we expect grown children, we have a little discussion about not argueing or disrespecting one another while they are with us. One of them told me, I can't recall which one, he hated to hear us argue. Every person wants perfect parents. It simply cannot happen.
Carrying on this facade sometimes works and sometimes it doesn't. One thing leads to another and the perfect parent-farce collapses into an unfortunate scene. I suppose in the grand scheme of things the practice is good for us.
Friday, October 22, 2004
"Crazy Woman Creek"
Fifteen women contributors gathered to read and sign "Crazy Woman Creek" books Wednesday at the Center for Great Plains Studies in Lincoln, NE. I was one of them and it was a good first experience to both read and to meet the other writers. In fact it was very enjoyable.
The place was called the Great Plains Art Collection but the term on the brochure says it is the Center for Great Plains Studies and was called one of the Paul Olson Seminars. The room was walled with artwork from the region. At the corner entrance were bronze sculptures of the Lewis and Clark, a magnificant Indian, the little Sacajawea, and the Newfoundland dog. To the north of the door was a beautiful young homestead woman in a bed of natural prairie grasses and flowers that haven't been wasted by a frost yet. They both were beautiful scenes in our American prairies.
There seemed to be almost 200 that attended the event. I tried to have good eye contact with my audience, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at WILLIAM KLOEFKORN who is such a distinguished poet in Nebraska. If he is even a little bit as personable as his pretty wife, both of us could have dealt with it. Instead I gazed at some of the harmless looking students who were taking notes. I, too, have had that kind of class assignment. It would be nice to get a look at their notes. There would be an honest critique for a wanna-be writer. A person would know right there whether to go back to the cello or spend more time with a camera.
He Who Must Be Obeyed drove me there, with 20 minutes to spare.. I wonder what he really thought when he saw me in this setting instead of flailing on my back, in the back yard pulling weeds, or chasing dirt with a wool duster on a stick.
The place was called the Great Plains Art Collection but the term on the brochure says it is the Center for Great Plains Studies and was called one of the Paul Olson Seminars. The room was walled with artwork from the region. At the corner entrance were bronze sculptures of the Lewis and Clark, a magnificant Indian, the little Sacajawea, and the Newfoundland dog. To the north of the door was a beautiful young homestead woman in a bed of natural prairie grasses and flowers that haven't been wasted by a frost yet. They both were beautiful scenes in our American prairies.
There seemed to be almost 200 that attended the event. I tried to have good eye contact with my audience, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at WILLIAM KLOEFKORN who is such a distinguished poet in Nebraska. If he is even a little bit as personable as his pretty wife, both of us could have dealt with it. Instead I gazed at some of the harmless looking students who were taking notes. I, too, have had that kind of class assignment. It would be nice to get a look at their notes. There would be an honest critique for a wanna-be writer. A person would know right there whether to go back to the cello or spend more time with a camera.
He Who Must Be Obeyed drove me there, with 20 minutes to spare.. I wonder what he really thought when he saw me in this setting instead of flailing on my back, in the back yard pulling weeds, or chasing dirt with a wool duster on a stick.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Does Putin Really Know?
Reading Itar Tass this morning I find a quote from Russian President Vladimir Putin at a new conference. He said, "The attacks of international terrorists in Iraq are aimed against George Bush personally. International terrorists set the goal to inflict maximal damage to Bush, to prevent his election to the second term.”
After a month in Norway a few years ago, and enjoying Aftenposten advertisements in the rail stations, I read it fairly regularly. Today, the Norwegians are much more concerned about the King's bloodline than the American election.
If you are interested about midwifing a pig click on Life Of Onni in the Helsingin Sanomat. There you have a little movie complete with subtitles and ambient sound. The little boy asks, "What was he doing in there?"
Some Kurds have lived in Finland for 'many years' according to one of them. That and the fact that Nokia is important to Finnish economy is more important than our presidential election.
Of the few foreign newspapers I read, only The New Zealand Herald mentions that tomorrow is a "Black Anniversary for the Stock Market." Of course today is tomorrow there, so that makes sense. We had a son call home that day to see if anyone was jumping out of the upstairs window.
Closer to home, the folks at The Wichita Eagle seem calm in this Monday edition. I have an inlaw who is employed there. His responsibilities at The Eagle include leading editorial board meetings, writing and editing editorials, and editing opinion columns. He also writes a personal column and is a regular guest on "Kansas Week" on KPTS, Channel 8.
Finally, our own Omaha newspaper has the poorest online edition in the world in my estimation. I did a double take as I was getting ready for church Sunday, I was certain that NPR said they had come out for Kerry along with a list of other papers around the nation. Reading the paper, they didn't. I still wonder if I was half asleep or somebody at NPR was not quite awake. Maybe they really meant The Des Moines Register, which looks as credible online as it is on newsprint.
I once team taught Intro to Journalism with an up-and-comer who touted the wonders of that paper. Both liberal, both excellent at what they do. He has gone on to teach Journalism at Lawrence, KS at the University.
Those were the good old stressful days. I love newspapers.
After a month in Norway a few years ago, and enjoying Aftenposten advertisements in the rail stations, I read it fairly regularly. Today, the Norwegians are much more concerned about the King's bloodline than the American election.
If you are interested about midwifing a pig click on Life Of Onni in the Helsingin Sanomat. There you have a little movie complete with subtitles and ambient sound. The little boy asks, "What was he doing in there?"
Some Kurds have lived in Finland for 'many years' according to one of them. That and the fact that Nokia is important to Finnish economy is more important than our presidential election.
Of the few foreign newspapers I read, only The New Zealand Herald mentions that tomorrow is a "Black Anniversary for the Stock Market." Of course today is tomorrow there, so that makes sense. We had a son call home that day to see if anyone was jumping out of the upstairs window.
Closer to home, the folks at The Wichita Eagle seem calm in this Monday edition. I have an inlaw who is employed there. His responsibilities at The Eagle include leading editorial board meetings, writing and editing editorials, and editing opinion columns. He also writes a personal column and is a regular guest on "Kansas Week" on KPTS, Channel 8.
Finally, our own Omaha newspaper has the poorest online edition in the world in my estimation. I did a double take as I was getting ready for church Sunday, I was certain that NPR said they had come out for Kerry along with a list of other papers around the nation. Reading the paper, they didn't. I still wonder if I was half asleep or somebody at NPR was not quite awake. Maybe they really meant The Des Moines Register, which looks as credible online as it is on newsprint.
I once team taught Intro to Journalism with an up-and-comer who touted the wonders of that paper. Both liberal, both excellent at what they do. He has gone on to teach Journalism at Lawrence, KS at the University.
Those were the good old stressful days. I love newspapers.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Nation's Center News, Buffalo, SD
My hometown newspaper, Nation's Center News, is one thing I look forward to on weekends. The local columnists write with a knowledge of their neighbors activities. Reading them makes me lonely for home. I would include a link for the paper, but unfortunately there is none.
Four writers are my favorites. One has a short column of pure cowboy humor and I never know if it is true or not. He has written of the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale that was started by an ancestor of my husband; and he writes of the days and nights of ranching with cowboy humor.
Another writes of women cattle ranchers doing what all ranch people do. It is inspirational to read of women who are competant on a horse, working cattle, or in an investment group. They are people with a work ethic, individualism, and a depth of intelligance and good sense. Women widowed or divorced, with children to raise, and ranches to manage. She is one of them and writes from experience and close friendships.
One woman writes of the battles of the ranchers and the State Game and Fish folks. She writes of politics without political correctness. She takes on the State over a Branding Inspector despute. She writes of mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes killing livestock and a cousin of mine that she calls "Chicken Man" who is contracted by ranchers to hunt coyotes by small plane. She spats out her feeling of what she calls "do-gooder environmentalists."
A home town son taught English in Saudi Arabia for 20 years and retired to our home town, Buffalo, SD. He now writes a column of Mid-East history with the inside information of personal anecdotes. Last week he wrote of his father, who was one of the original county cowboys and bronc busters. This week we read of his kidney stone and gout. He concludes his column "that the difference between a doctor and God is that God doesn't go around believing he is a doctor".
It is a darned shame that small town papers are not read by more people. It only goes to 1,800 subscribers.
Four writers are my favorites. One has a short column of pure cowboy humor and I never know if it is true or not. He has written of the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale that was started by an ancestor of my husband; and he writes of the days and nights of ranching with cowboy humor.
Another writes of women cattle ranchers doing what all ranch people do. It is inspirational to read of women who are competant on a horse, working cattle, or in an investment group. They are people with a work ethic, individualism, and a depth of intelligance and good sense. Women widowed or divorced, with children to raise, and ranches to manage. She is one of them and writes from experience and close friendships.
One woman writes of the battles of the ranchers and the State Game and Fish folks. She writes of politics without political correctness. She takes on the State over a Branding Inspector despute. She writes of mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes killing livestock and a cousin of mine that she calls "Chicken Man" who is contracted by ranchers to hunt coyotes by small plane. She spats out her feeling of what she calls "do-gooder environmentalists."
A home town son taught English in Saudi Arabia for 20 years and retired to our home town, Buffalo, SD. He now writes a column of Mid-East history with the inside information of personal anecdotes. Last week he wrote of his father, who was one of the original county cowboys and bronc busters. This week we read of his kidney stone and gout. He concludes his column "that the difference between a doctor and God is that God doesn't go around believing he is a doctor".
It is a darned shame that small town papers are not read by more people. It only goes to 1,800 subscribers.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Presidential Debate Tonight
He Who Must Be Obeyed has gone to encourage a brother. The brother is about to take on 40 radiation treatments for cancer. They are together in Wyoming tonight in an elegant RV. I miss being there in spite of my reasons for not going.
I was glad to stay home for several reasons. The only time I can throw useless things away is when he is gone. Even my own useless things find their way back out of the trash cans to be stashed here or there. Tonight a lot of stuff is on its way to the land fill.
Quite a while ago I learned not to clean his closet. He came close to not talking to me. That lasted a couple of hours, I suppose, and every time he did talk it was to wonder how I would feel if he threw away my yard shoes, or my painting shirts. To tell the truth, it wouldn't matter much to me.
Before he drove out a couple of days ago in the morning darkness, he kissed me like he meant it and said he might call a couple of times while he was gone. He called twice before the first day was over. I asked him when he called today if my phone calls were over. No answer. So who knows?
This morning I heard a presentation on "Healing Touch." It was interesting and I know first hand that it works. There was a time before and after a back surgery, before the Pain Clinic, that if it weren't for the warm, healing hands of my husband, I might have committed hara-kiri. (I looked it up, it is right.)I told him how healing and soothing it was to me then. At my age a person better tell people how they appreciate them.
In a half an hour we have a nephew that is on the camera crew for the Presidential Debate in Arizona. Having taught television production, I am going to be watching those camera shots. I prefer the split screen in the debate situation if the correct camera is on the candidates, otherwise it looks like they are looking away from one another. Maybe they are! The shots looking down on people are demeaning in my mind; and the ones looking up at them are a little grandiose, don't you think?
I had a camera crew on the "...and you are not John Kennedy" remark. The spin room went absolutely still for what seemed a long time and when it was over I thought the place would explode. Actually my students were in the spin room to do interviews when it was over. It was a memorable experience for this teacher and her high school students.
Work was and is good. I have great memories; and cleaner cabinets today.
I was glad to stay home for several reasons. The only time I can throw useless things away is when he is gone. Even my own useless things find their way back out of the trash cans to be stashed here or there. Tonight a lot of stuff is on its way to the land fill.
Quite a while ago I learned not to clean his closet. He came close to not talking to me. That lasted a couple of hours, I suppose, and every time he did talk it was to wonder how I would feel if he threw away my yard shoes, or my painting shirts. To tell the truth, it wouldn't matter much to me.
Before he drove out a couple of days ago in the morning darkness, he kissed me like he meant it and said he might call a couple of times while he was gone. He called twice before the first day was over. I asked him when he called today if my phone calls were over. No answer. So who knows?
This morning I heard a presentation on "Healing Touch." It was interesting and I know first hand that it works. There was a time before and after a back surgery, before the Pain Clinic, that if it weren't for the warm, healing hands of my husband, I might have committed hara-kiri. (I looked it up, it is right.)I told him how healing and soothing it was to me then. At my age a person better tell people how they appreciate them.
In a half an hour we have a nephew that is on the camera crew for the Presidential Debate in Arizona. Having taught television production, I am going to be watching those camera shots. I prefer the split screen in the debate situation if the correct camera is on the candidates, otherwise it looks like they are looking away from one another. Maybe they are! The shots looking down on people are demeaning in my mind; and the ones looking up at them are a little grandiose, don't you think?
I had a camera crew on the "...and you are not John Kennedy" remark. The spin room went absolutely still for what seemed a long time and when it was over I thought the place would explode. Actually my students were in the spin room to do interviews when it was over. It was a memorable experience for this teacher and her high school students.
Work was and is good. I have great memories; and cleaner cabinets today.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Petrichor
Once I wrote about favorite words. I recieved an warm response to it. Today I write about the word for an indescribable occurance. I mentioned it in an email to cousins, but couldn't for the life of me recall the word for it later on. The word is petrichor.
Petrichor is the pleasant smell that often accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions. According to Australian researchers who coined the word in an isssue of Nature magazine in 1964, Petrichor is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed into neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain. The word is derived from the Greek words petros, a stone, and ichor, the Greek term for the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.
I wasn't there after a rain, but I suspect that the rain on Uluru, Ayer's Rock, in the Australian Outback smells the same as the rain on Sweet Pea hill behind my childhood home, and in the Cave Hills of northwestern South Dakota.
It is hard to describe the sweet pungent smell of home after a long awaited rain. That, and the song of a Meadow Lark, are two of the sweetest things in the world.
Petrichor is the pleasant smell that often accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions. According to Australian researchers who coined the word in an isssue of Nature magazine in 1964, Petrichor is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed into neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain. The word is derived from the Greek words petros, a stone, and ichor, the Greek term for the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.
I wasn't there after a rain, but I suspect that the rain on Uluru, Ayer's Rock, in the Australian Outback smells the same as the rain on Sweet Pea hill behind my childhood home, and in the Cave Hills of northwestern South Dakota.
It is hard to describe the sweet pungent smell of home after a long awaited rain. That, and the song of a Meadow Lark, are two of the sweetest things in the world.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Mount Michael Benedictine Abby
Yesterday we had lunch at Mount Michael Abby. Actually it was at the St. Benedict Guest House. Reservations were made two months ago. I understand the backlog. The food was served in elegant warmth. One does not order from the menu. One is not presented a bill. No, we eat what is being served that day, with wine and dessert, and donate whatever we are moved to.
My own experience there was enhanced by the aesthetics, the early elegant Nebraska farmhouse, the period table setting, the music, paintings, the food of course, and by our host, a servant in the truest meaning of the word, Brother Jerome.
As I visited with Bro. Jerome, over purchasing some greeting cards, I discovered that of the ten I had chosen, he had painted five. They are perhaps the most beautiful cards I have ever seen. I asked him if one could come to purchase cards at any time. "Yes," he said, "these are the envelopes for the money." He motioned to a few legal sized envelopes beside the cash register. The door is never locked. People are not always there. I was amazed at the unconventional wisdom of that.
He intoduced me to robed Novice, Cori, who was behind us during that little visit, who was washing our dishes by hand. He told me he was from Oklahoma, but not that he was a 1999 Creighton University graduate. Bro. Jerome had been there for 40 years, arriving when he was 21.
On Friday mornings 10 to 12 people gather in a cozy conversation center to pray and meditate in the lectio divina discipline. Being guided through that Benedictine way of prayer several years ago, I found it life changing.
I am truly a conflicted Lutheran.
My own experience there was enhanced by the aesthetics, the early elegant Nebraska farmhouse, the period table setting, the music, paintings, the food of course, and by our host, a servant in the truest meaning of the word, Brother Jerome.
As I visited with Bro. Jerome, over purchasing some greeting cards, I discovered that of the ten I had chosen, he had painted five. They are perhaps the most beautiful cards I have ever seen. I asked him if one could come to purchase cards at any time. "Yes," he said, "these are the envelopes for the money." He motioned to a few legal sized envelopes beside the cash register. The door is never locked. People are not always there. I was amazed at the unconventional wisdom of that.
He intoduced me to robed Novice, Cori, who was behind us during that little visit, who was washing our dishes by hand. He told me he was from Oklahoma, but not that he was a 1999 Creighton University graduate. Bro. Jerome had been there for 40 years, arriving when he was 21.
On Friday mornings 10 to 12 people gather in a cozy conversation center to pray and meditate in the lectio divina discipline. Being guided through that Benedictine way of prayer several years ago, I found it life changing.
I am truly a conflicted Lutheran.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Clarence Wolf Guts
Last night I watched a C-Span II rerun of a Committee Hearing of the Bureau of Indian Affairs headed by Senator Ben Nighthorse-Campbell. I have only seen the Senator from Colorado once in person. He was on a Harly surrounded by a group of bikers in Sturgis, SD and he was a half block down a street filled with motorcycles. It was obvious that he was well regarded in that setting.
Clarence Wolf Guts was speaking in the Committee Hearing when I tuned in. He was very old, toothless, Lakota, wise and revered. He spoke in his Lakota/English accent of his love for America. "We love America. Nobody can take that from us...We love our country so we will do anything we can to protect us. We want America to be free. We didn't want the enemy to come here. I sang for my wounded buddies when they came home. We are proud to be Lakota. We are happy."
Clarence is the last surviving Lakota code talkers of the 11 who enlisted during WWII. Code takers from 18 American Indian tribes assisted the war effort. The link is to Heidi Bell Grease's article in the Rapid City Journal.
His only wish was to be able to see the World War II memorial and to talk to President Bush. He added that he didn't think he would ever get back to Washington DC again. Nighthorse told him that the visit to the Memorial would be arranged. I saw on the news this morning that Pres. Bush spoke to the Indian delegation this morning, before he and Ayad Allawi's press conference.
What a dichotomy today to hear this man, Clarence Wolf Guts, so depressed historically, speak with such deep and moving conviction regarding his love of country and honor upon serving during war time.
Clarence Wolf Guts was speaking in the Committee Hearing when I tuned in. He was very old, toothless, Lakota, wise and revered. He spoke in his Lakota/English accent of his love for America. "We love America. Nobody can take that from us...We love our country so we will do anything we can to protect us. We want America to be free. We didn't want the enemy to come here. I sang for my wounded buddies when they came home. We are proud to be Lakota. We are happy."
Clarence is the last surviving Lakota code talkers of the 11 who enlisted during WWII. Code takers from 18 American Indian tribes assisted the war effort. The link is to Heidi Bell Grease's article in the Rapid City Journal.
His only wish was to be able to see the World War II memorial and to talk to President Bush. He added that he didn't think he would ever get back to Washington DC again. Nighthorse told him that the visit to the Memorial would be arranged. I saw on the news this morning that Pres. Bush spoke to the Indian delegation this morning, before he and Ayad Allawi's press conference.
What a dichotomy today to hear this man, Clarence Wolf Guts, so depressed historically, speak with such deep and moving conviction regarding his love of country and honor upon serving during war time.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The Sight of Sun Sparkling on Cut Glass
The set of dishes for 16 in the drawer under the stove has not been used for several years. This morning I called a daughter to see if she wanted them and she does. I found 12 clear pink etched glass plates at a garage sale yesterday for $10. They are so pretty I bought them. The lady that sold them had bought all the books for her six college kids with her art work, she knew what she was selling. Her aunt had them in her house as long as she could recall. I think they must have been a grocery store premium at one time. They will replace the unused dishes in the stove drawer and I will use them next Tuesday night for expected company.
The garage sales at which I find good stuff just drives He Who Must Be Obeyed nuts. I found another oil painting that he had to hang on the back fence and a miniature to go with the little grouping in my bathroom. The little outdoor toilet watercolors, my artist aunt painted on Christmas cards over thirty years ago, had to be moved around. One thing leads to another. There is some conventional wisdom for you..."One thing leads to another."
The philosophy of social order reveals itself in garage sales. I will never have one for two reasons: a. it is too publicly revealing and b. I believe in giving away, not selling. I would be a natural at a potlatch.
Yesterday a nice lady in a lower middle class part of town sold her mother's cut glass bowls and creme and sugar set for pocket change. People who sell their parent's or older relatives things, in order to get them into nursing homes, have people like myself who buy them to cherish for a few years before my own kids sell it again to get me into a nursing home. Being the kid of 'Depression' parents, we are starved for things. The men can't get enough tools and the women can't get enough 'pretty dishes.' My dad made his own tools in his blacksmith shop and I ate off of chipped china. That stays with you. I cannot abide a chipped dish. I do appreciate hand smithed tools though. I am at odds with my own materialism.
Buying the same things in an antique or second-hand store does not have the same impact. There it all looks pathetic. On a table in the driveway with the sun shining on it makes it magical.
Maybe it is the relationships, no matter how momentary. Yesterday I visited with a woman, a decade younger than myself, who six years ago, with her husband, bought a power station from the power company to turn into a home. It was in a neighborhood of tudor brick homes and was my idea of a perfect adventure. Brick inside and out, concrete floors and ceilings, no heat, two windows, meeting city codes was tricky, she said. I admire their pioneer spirtit even if they find it chilly in the midwest winters. An artist had worked with them to create the gargoyles and wrought iron enclusure for courtyard. I found a treasure there as well, Chinese blue and white pottery with maker's marks on the bottom. Without the lid she didn't want it. To me it was beautiful.
Instead of a thesis on the philosophy of garage sales, perhaps I should figure out why I go to them. I suspect I know. It is the sight of sun sparkling on cut glass.
The garage sales at which I find good stuff just drives He Who Must Be Obeyed nuts. I found another oil painting that he had to hang on the back fence and a miniature to go with the little grouping in my bathroom. The little outdoor toilet watercolors, my artist aunt painted on Christmas cards over thirty years ago, had to be moved around. One thing leads to another. There is some conventional wisdom for you..."One thing leads to another."
The philosophy of social order reveals itself in garage sales. I will never have one for two reasons: a. it is too publicly revealing and b. I believe in giving away, not selling. I would be a natural at a potlatch.
Yesterday a nice lady in a lower middle class part of town sold her mother's cut glass bowls and creme and sugar set for pocket change. People who sell their parent's or older relatives things, in order to get them into nursing homes, have people like myself who buy them to cherish for a few years before my own kids sell it again to get me into a nursing home. Being the kid of 'Depression' parents, we are starved for things. The men can't get enough tools and the women can't get enough 'pretty dishes.' My dad made his own tools in his blacksmith shop and I ate off of chipped china. That stays with you. I cannot abide a chipped dish. I do appreciate hand smithed tools though. I am at odds with my own materialism.
Buying the same things in an antique or second-hand store does not have the same impact. There it all looks pathetic. On a table in the driveway with the sun shining on it makes it magical.
Maybe it is the relationships, no matter how momentary. Yesterday I visited with a woman, a decade younger than myself, who six years ago, with her husband, bought a power station from the power company to turn into a home. It was in a neighborhood of tudor brick homes and was my idea of a perfect adventure. Brick inside and out, concrete floors and ceilings, no heat, two windows, meeting city codes was tricky, she said. I admire their pioneer spirtit even if they find it chilly in the midwest winters. An artist had worked with them to create the gargoyles and wrought iron enclusure for courtyard. I found a treasure there as well, Chinese blue and white pottery with maker's marks on the bottom. Without the lid she didn't want it. To me it was beautiful.
Instead of a thesis on the philosophy of garage sales, perhaps I should figure out why I go to them. I suspect I know. It is the sight of sun sparkling on cut glass.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Wish List of Bloggers
When I get into my cosmic loneliness I search the blog lists to find a writer that resonates. Then I wish this blogging business had been around for those ancestors who are no longer here but knew so much more than I do. Why didn't we keep every letter from everyone of them forever. Then I could dig them out and have a little cosmic connection with some of the people that meant the most to me, but I didn't know that until too late. Even their handwriting would be a comfort.
As it is, I have a cousin in Kalispell who would be a wonderful blogger; a classmate in Conneticut who has insight that should be shared; a former pastor who spent years in the church all four of my grandparents helped to build; Kurt Vonnegut I would read every day; my dear, now gone professor, Harry Duncan; one old friend, now gone; my cousin, Paul, who was the best history professor ever; my husband's mother who I never met. I feel people deprived today.
INFP's have a hard time using the phone, the cellular connect of this time and age. Getting an answering machine still makes me gasp. I need somebody to talk politics, religion, literature, pop culture, and everything under the sun with. Live, in person, is the best. Reading blogs, in which I can comment upon is a close second.
Blogs are in the news. There are lots of political ones out there. Lots of mindless babble, groaning women, improper men, the religious who go left, mentally unbalanced, you name it it is out there. I read a lot of lists of blogs. A good one is very hard to find, very hard.
I have not figured out how to add a list of good bloggers. I will do that.
As it is, I have a cousin in Kalispell who would be a wonderful blogger; a classmate in Conneticut who has insight that should be shared; a former pastor who spent years in the church all four of my grandparents helped to build; Kurt Vonnegut I would read every day; my dear, now gone professor, Harry Duncan; one old friend, now gone; my cousin, Paul, who was the best history professor ever; my husband's mother who I never met. I feel people deprived today.
INFP's have a hard time using the phone, the cellular connect of this time and age. Getting an answering machine still makes me gasp. I need somebody to talk politics, religion, literature, pop culture, and everything under the sun with. Live, in person, is the best. Reading blogs, in which I can comment upon is a close second.
Blogs are in the news. There are lots of political ones out there. Lots of mindless babble, groaning women, improper men, the religious who go left, mentally unbalanced, you name it it is out there. I read a lot of lists of blogs. A good one is very hard to find, very hard.
I have not figured out how to add a list of good bloggers. I will do that.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Baba Yaga Died
Nancy Duncan, who portrayed the ancient Baba Yaga in her storytelling, died on Labor Day. The world was a better place for having had both her and her husband, Harry, in it for a time.
Outsider Art
Kurt Anderson, Studio 360, is talking about Outsider Artists this morning. My dad was an outsider artist. Untrained, non-verbal, out of the circle, but the description can stop there. Anderson declares that these people are often prisoners, molesters of children, drug addicted misfits. My dad did not fit that list in any way. He was a blacksmith, which is a bit out of the ordinary today; but it wasn't unheard of in his era.
The term Outsider Art first came into my awareness when I edited a biography of my father with an appendix of over 100 of his artworks. I sent the work to be copyrighted by the Library of Congress Copyright Office. The subject heads were his name, Sacrison, Axel 1899-1966, Outsider Art-South Dakota, and Finnish American-- South Dakota. The LOC is not correct about having one copy. They have four. Call Number ND237.S14 A4 2002
I had to look it up on www.google.com to see what Outsider Art is all about. I don't think a person has to collect junk or cut off a body part to be an Outsider Artist. Maybe all that is required is not being able to go to school. Maybe it is the drive of the gift to create in spite of adversity. When I was a small child, I thought my dad painted all night after blacksmithing all day. He would be painting when I went to sleep and painting when I awoke.
The smell of oil paint still does a number on me and I revert to the time when our small house walls were covered with large paintings in various stages of completion. Oil paint permeated everything, but to me was the pleasant association with that of a very loved and secure childhood.
The book is Artist and Blacksmith, Axel Sacrison. It was another time, another place and it was good. Life is good.
The term Outsider Art first came into my awareness when I edited a biography of my father with an appendix of over 100 of his artworks. I sent the work to be copyrighted by the Library of Congress Copyright Office. The subject heads were his name, Sacrison, Axel 1899-1966, Outsider Art-South Dakota, and Finnish American-- South Dakota. The LOC is not correct about having one copy. They have four. Call Number ND237.S14 A4 2002
I had to look it up on www.google.com to see what Outsider Art is all about. I don't think a person has to collect junk or cut off a body part to be an Outsider Artist. Maybe all that is required is not being able to go to school. Maybe it is the drive of the gift to create in spite of adversity. When I was a small child, I thought my dad painted all night after blacksmithing all day. He would be painting when I went to sleep and painting when I awoke.
The smell of oil paint still does a number on me and I revert to the time when our small house walls were covered with large paintings in various stages of completion. Oil paint permeated everything, but to me was the pleasant association with that of a very loved and secure childhood.
The book is Artist and Blacksmith, Axel Sacrison. It was another time, another place and it was good. Life is good.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Olympians on the Roof
From noon yesterday until noon today the Olympians worked on the roof. I should have taken a picture of them, knowing how I love to watch men work. These young men were phenomenal.
When the shingles came in and were delivered to the driveway, they formed a brigade in which each one of them made 15 trips up the ladder with his heavy load on one shoulder, his free hand steadying himself. Between the six they had the bundles of shingles to the peak in no time. The Olympian athletes had nothing on them; they had strength, agility, balance and grace.
He Who Must Be Obeyed was impressed, which is more meaningful than me being impressed. I am impressed with workers who simply lean on their shovels, as we sometimes see on our Omaha street maintenance crews.
They worked late, came early today, and cleaned up everything including a couple of old logs from last fall's tree trimmings! I will never say a disparaging thing about our new Omaha immigrants. If they are illegal, we are not speaking about it. Not one word. We are grateful for their skilled and cheerful labor. I just pray they live better than they ever have before. They deserve it. Gold medals all around.
Four new skylights and a new roof. Life can't get much better than that.
When the shingles came in and were delivered to the driveway, they formed a brigade in which each one of them made 15 trips up the ladder with his heavy load on one shoulder, his free hand steadying himself. Between the six they had the bundles of shingles to the peak in no time. The Olympian athletes had nothing on them; they had strength, agility, balance and grace.
He Who Must Be Obeyed was impressed, which is more meaningful than me being impressed. I am impressed with workers who simply lean on their shovels, as we sometimes see on our Omaha street maintenance crews.
They worked late, came early today, and cleaned up everything including a couple of old logs from last fall's tree trimmings! I will never say a disparaging thing about our new Omaha immigrants. If they are illegal, we are not speaking about it. Not one word. We are grateful for their skilled and cheerful labor. I just pray they live better than they ever have before. They deserve it. Gold medals all around.
Four new skylights and a new roof. Life can't get much better than that.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Compassion and Justice
He Who Must Be Obeyed came home from early church and told me I was in for an excellent worship service at 11:00. He was right again. It was excellent in every way. I got my liturgical fix and was made uncomfortable with a thought provoking sermon.
It is easy for me to get off on what a person should be doing on Sundays. We have heard that third commandment all of our lives; but do we recall that little part where we are not supposed to work our slaves? Jesus healed the woman bent over for 18 years in the Temple and on the Sabbath. It is about compassion and justice, isn't it? Jesus goes against Biblical law and gets 'nailed' for it.
Here was the hook. We enjoyed a little retelling of Mark Twain's Huckelberry Finn and his dilemna over taking off down the Mississippi with Mrs. Watson's slave Jim. Huck is agonized about his offense of helping a slave to freedom which is against the law, and running of with Mrs. Watson's property which is against the Biblical law of stealing. Should he turn Jim in? He tries to pray but can't, sinner that he is, so he writes a letter to Mrs. Watson telling her where her slave is. That agonizes him as he has developed a liking to Jim, who has once put his life on the line for Huck. Finally he decides to go against the Bible, the law of society, and to tear up the letter and just go to hell.
So, what are we, you, my reader, and I, what are we going to do about compassion and justice?Even if we get 'nailed' for it, will we, like Huck, decide we will just go to hell and do the right thing? If so, we will be in good company.
Thank you Pastor Jim for a beautiful new hymn, the old liturgy, and the throught provoking sermon.
It is easy for me to get off on what a person should be doing on Sundays. We have heard that third commandment all of our lives; but do we recall that little part where we are not supposed to work our slaves? Jesus healed the woman bent over for 18 years in the Temple and on the Sabbath. It is about compassion and justice, isn't it? Jesus goes against Biblical law and gets 'nailed' for it.
Here was the hook. We enjoyed a little retelling of Mark Twain's Huckelberry Finn and his dilemna over taking off down the Mississippi with Mrs. Watson's slave Jim. Huck is agonized about his offense of helping a slave to freedom which is against the law, and running of with Mrs. Watson's property which is against the Biblical law of stealing. Should he turn Jim in? He tries to pray but can't, sinner that he is, so he writes a letter to Mrs. Watson telling her where her slave is. That agonizes him as he has developed a liking to Jim, who has once put his life on the line for Huck. Finally he decides to go against the Bible, the law of society, and to tear up the letter and just go to hell.
So, what are we, you, my reader, and I, what are we going to do about compassion and justice?Even if we get 'nailed' for it, will we, like Huck, decide we will just go to hell and do the right thing? If so, we will be in good company.
Thank you Pastor Jim for a beautiful new hymn, the old liturgy, and the throught provoking sermon.
CBS Sunday Morning
CBS Sunday Morning has been my favorite television program for 25 years. This morning as they celebrated that milestone with some past memories; I was once again reminded why I like it so much.
During my high school teaching days, I often taped the John Leonard segment to be used in conjunction with my large group of either television producers or mass communication students. John Leonard is a media critic; a man who knows how to use our language in a rich, memorable way. In this morning's program it was stated that was precicely why they chose him. A man of language and letters.
It was one of those delicious hours in life. My roommate of over 50 years woke me to say he was going to early church and I had the opportunity to watch this example of perfect televion in my cozy warm bed with no distractions.
What do you do with those obtrusive minutes of advertisments? I simply switch over to C-SpanII to see who is on Book TV, my second favorite program.
All of this before real life sets in on a Sunday morning.
During my high school teaching days, I often taped the John Leonard segment to be used in conjunction with my large group of either television producers or mass communication students. John Leonard is a media critic; a man who knows how to use our language in a rich, memorable way. In this morning's program it was stated that was precicely why they chose him. A man of language and letters.
It was one of those delicious hours in life. My roommate of over 50 years woke me to say he was going to early church and I had the opportunity to watch this example of perfect televion in my cozy warm bed with no distractions.
What do you do with those obtrusive minutes of advertisments? I simply switch over to C-SpanII to see who is on Book TV, my second favorite program.
All of this before real life sets in on a Sunday morning.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Where's George
Small things pleasure me. This morning at a garage sale, I found a ThighMaster for a dollar. Just last night I watched Debra Norville interview Suzanne Summers who talked about her greatest business mistake. It was a device similar to her ThighMaster that she named a ButtMaster. She said people weren't likely to want to walk out of WalMart carrying a box called "ButtMaster."
But that isn't my small pleasure. It was when He Who Must Be Obeyed pulled out a dollar for the ThighMaster, he gave me one that was stamped with that little circular "Follow This Bill www.wheresgeorge.com. I did that and found out that the first time it was entered was here in Omaha in January. I can hardly believe that no one since then has followed it. So my next instructions are to spend it in an interesting place. I like that thought. It might be at another garage sale. They are about as interesting as life gets. Some day I am going to do a study on society in the Midwest using them as my material.
But that isn't my small pleasure. It was when He Who Must Be Obeyed pulled out a dollar for the ThighMaster, he gave me one that was stamped with that little circular "Follow This Bill www.wheresgeorge.com. I did that and found out that the first time it was entered was here in Omaha in January. I can hardly believe that no one since then has followed it. So my next instructions are to spend it in an interesting place. I like that thought. It might be at another garage sale. They are about as interesting as life gets. Some day I am going to do a study on society in the Midwest using them as my material.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Get Rich Quick
I know people who are intrigued by the thought of inventing something that is going to bring them instant financial gain. I have read about people who have done that. Oprah has had them as guests on her show. It happens.
I am a Lockergnome junky. Chris Pirillo got his start in Des Moines, Iowa, practically a neighbor. I love it when youngsters do well. Look at Bill Gates. This odd article in this morning's "Lockergnome's Tech News Watch" is about somebody's lightbulb idea. It is all laid out for the artist aspiring to get rich with original artwork. The hook is the artwork must be submitted in a little box the size of a pack of cigarrettes; if accepted for distribution one must make 50 little artworks in 50 little boxes and can expect $2.00 to $2.50 on consignment for each one sold.
I know people who could do this. I could do this. Once I watercolored 50 little Christmas cards, it was fun, they were all the same. Do I want to spend my days watercoloring little cards and putting them in little boxes to be vended out like cigarettes all over the world. What if they sold like hotcakes, or worse yet cigarrettes, and the demand increased until I had to stay up late at night watercoloring more and sending them off 50 boxes at a time. Would I really get rich, and would I want to become a slave to this little endeavor?
The idea intrigues me. It is a little bit creative and a lot enterprise, the American way. A dream that would soon turn into drudgery, a slave concept. My kitchen table would be filled with little boxes and watercolor sets, glasses of murky water, no dinner ever and never on placemats, properly set. It would immediately turn into a disaster. People would be clammering for my little box. I would soon tire of the demand. It would snowball out of control.
But it would be better than babysitting. This sounds better. We all love the sound of cellophane.
I am a Lockergnome junky. Chris Pirillo got his start in Des Moines, Iowa, practically a neighbor. I love it when youngsters do well. Look at Bill Gates. This odd article in this morning's "Lockergnome's Tech News Watch" is about somebody's lightbulb idea. It is all laid out for the artist aspiring to get rich with original artwork. The hook is the artwork must be submitted in a little box the size of a pack of cigarrettes; if accepted for distribution one must make 50 little artworks in 50 little boxes and can expect $2.00 to $2.50 on consignment for each one sold.
I know people who could do this. I could do this. Once I watercolored 50 little Christmas cards, it was fun, they were all the same. Do I want to spend my days watercoloring little cards and putting them in little boxes to be vended out like cigarettes all over the world. What if they sold like hotcakes, or worse yet cigarrettes, and the demand increased until I had to stay up late at night watercoloring more and sending them off 50 boxes at a time. Would I really get rich, and would I want to become a slave to this little endeavor?
The idea intrigues me. It is a little bit creative and a lot enterprise, the American way. A dream that would soon turn into drudgery, a slave concept. My kitchen table would be filled with little boxes and watercolor sets, glasses of murky water, no dinner ever and never on placemats, properly set. It would immediately turn into a disaster. People would be clammering for my little box. I would soon tire of the demand. It would snowball out of control.
But it would be better than babysitting. This sounds better. We all love the sound of cellophane.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Multitasking Again
I am listening to Kurt Anderson's Studio 360 online, trying to write anything of consequence for a change, and keeping an ear on the Olympic boxers. I can't see the tv set and dislike boxing, so slop-over sound might not count.
Once I told one of my television production classes that humans multitask; I put a quiz in front of them, told them to take a few lecture notes, turned on a VCR and commenced to lecture on some aspect of production skill. It was a dirty trick and I shouldn't have done it. I wanted to tell them "Welcome to the world." Instead, I observed those who could handle all of it, those who felt like throwing up, and those who became red-faced angry.
Kurt Anderson graduated from the high school at which I taught. His guest, Ursula K. Le Guin, and he are discussing utopia and writing. Inverted utopias are my life. It makes me think of the sermon at St. Timothy's Lutheran this morning around the Lesson, the Gospel and the title of the play, "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change."
I subscribe to the free version of Today in Literature that arrives in my inbox on weekdays. One of the items in it Friday was Powell's Books Tenth Anniversary Essay contest which regards memorable reading experiences. Clinking into the article, I see that one of Kurt Anderson's most memorable reading experiences is Lawrence Wechsler's Mr. Wilson's Cabinet of Wonder that he says "astounded and pleased me intensely and became immediately hard-wired into my personal epistemology...The book's pleasure--its maximum memorablility--depends on a certain slow reveal of its secrets. So: trust me: read it."
When he puts it that way, I think I will finish it. It was given to me last spring by my daughter/granddaughter and my son-in-law/grandson-in-law. Those relationships are a long story and I am not going into that now. When I started thinking Mr. Wilson's museum was a real place in LA, I remembered how I looked up the National Geograpic Photographers after reading "The Bridges of Madison County" and was so embarrassed to think I got that caught up in it, I put "Mr. Wilson's Cabinet..." aside. I didn't want another of those memorable embarrassments. Reading a few reviews, I now think that it does exist on Venice Avenue.
A person would think that a librarian would know the difference between fiction and non-fiction. My inverted utopia. Clinking is a word I just coined. I mean it as clicking on links. Maybe "clinking pink" is appropriate for this blog, or "plinking."
Once I told one of my television production classes that humans multitask; I put a quiz in front of them, told them to take a few lecture notes, turned on a VCR and commenced to lecture on some aspect of production skill. It was a dirty trick and I shouldn't have done it. I wanted to tell them "Welcome to the world." Instead, I observed those who could handle all of it, those who felt like throwing up, and those who became red-faced angry.
Kurt Anderson graduated from the high school at which I taught. His guest, Ursula K. Le Guin, and he are discussing utopia and writing. Inverted utopias are my life. It makes me think of the sermon at St. Timothy's Lutheran this morning around the Lesson, the Gospel and the title of the play, "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change."
I subscribe to the free version of Today in Literature that arrives in my inbox on weekdays. One of the items in it Friday was Powell's Books Tenth Anniversary Essay contest which regards memorable reading experiences. Clinking into the article, I see that one of Kurt Anderson's most memorable reading experiences is Lawrence Wechsler's Mr. Wilson's Cabinet of Wonder that he says "astounded and pleased me intensely and became immediately hard-wired into my personal epistemology...The book's pleasure--its maximum memorablility--depends on a certain slow reveal of its secrets. So: trust me: read it."
When he puts it that way, I think I will finish it. It was given to me last spring by my daughter/granddaughter and my son-in-law/grandson-in-law. Those relationships are a long story and I am not going into that now. When I started thinking Mr. Wilson's museum was a real place in LA, I remembered how I looked up the National Geograpic Photographers after reading "The Bridges of Madison County" and was so embarrassed to think I got that caught up in it, I put "Mr. Wilson's Cabinet..." aside. I didn't want another of those memorable embarrassments. Reading a few reviews, I now think that it does exist on Venice Avenue.
A person would think that a librarian would know the difference between fiction and non-fiction. My inverted utopia. Clinking is a word I just coined. I mean it as clicking on links. Maybe "clinking pink" is appropriate for this blog, or "plinking."
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Baba Yaga is Dying
Nancy Duncan, our local talespinner is dying of cancer. She tells us so in the Sunday World-Herald. The story is poignantly beautiful. As a story teller, the article goes on to say:
"she spun out the tale of the old man and woman who made up the rules for humankind. They decided how many fingers to put on each hand and where to place genitals.
When it came to death, the old man wanted humans to live forever. The woman disagreed.
She said, "They have to die forever or we won't value each other."
I did not know Nancy Duncan, but certainly knew of her and had heard her tell stories both in person and on KIOS, a public radio station in Omaha. I did, however know her husband, Harry.
Harry Duncan was my Fine Arts Professor under whom I studied the History of the Printed Word, and the Hand Printed Book.
For a summer, I volunteered in the Fine Arts Press to print a volume of Reiner Rilke's poetry translated by Rikka Lesser, HOLDING OUT, copyrighted in 1975. I would arrive early in the studio to wet and prepare the heavy hand made paper. Harry inked the old Benjamin Franklin press. We would print together, he inking and turning the press into the paper, me turning and making sure the wetted paper was in its proper place and he again inking, printing, and holding the large sheet up to the light checking for exactness of placement and ink application. We printed four pages at a time on both sides, to be cut apart later. I was gifted a copy of the book when the project was completed.
When the galleys were prepared to go to the translator in Denmark, I would read and he would follow along with the original, checking punctuation, spacing, spelling. It was a travel to another place, another time, and a second chance for me to observe an artist at work.
My own son, then ten years old was in the Omaha Community Playhouse production of Music Man. It was a six week run, with seven productions a week. I was mothering five, fostering one, back in college taking 15 hours after a 17 year hiatus and I saw one of the performances. How amazing I found it, to see my own professor, Mr. Duncan, playing the Mayor.
The last time I saw Mr. Duncan was in my doctor's office. He was waiting for a son, who having returned from a time in Africa, was being treated for a number of after effects of that third world country. Mr. Duncan looked frail and I was happy he remembered me.
The newspaper article says this about Mr. Duncan's last days: "In 1997, he grew weary of his leukemia and the serious complications that came along with it, so he quit eating and drinking.
He slipped into a coma and, within days, died at home. "
Mr. Duncan wove his way into my life again, posthumously. When I attended the interment services of the Nebraska Medical School for my mother two years after her death and donation of her body, we were given a program listing the donees. How joyous it was for me to read my dear, dear Professor's name listed with that of my mother's.
I read that Baba Yaga is "not afraid of death at all."
"she spun out the tale of the old man and woman who made up the rules for humankind. They decided how many fingers to put on each hand and where to place genitals.
When it came to death, the old man wanted humans to live forever. The woman disagreed.
She said, "They have to die forever or we won't value each other."
I did not know Nancy Duncan, but certainly knew of her and had heard her tell stories both in person and on KIOS, a public radio station in Omaha. I did, however know her husband, Harry.
Harry Duncan was my Fine Arts Professor under whom I studied the History of the Printed Word, and the Hand Printed Book.
For a summer, I volunteered in the Fine Arts Press to print a volume of Reiner Rilke's poetry translated by Rikka Lesser, HOLDING OUT, copyrighted in 1975. I would arrive early in the studio to wet and prepare the heavy hand made paper. Harry inked the old Benjamin Franklin press. We would print together, he inking and turning the press into the paper, me turning and making sure the wetted paper was in its proper place and he again inking, printing, and holding the large sheet up to the light checking for exactness of placement and ink application. We printed four pages at a time on both sides, to be cut apart later. I was gifted a copy of the book when the project was completed.
When the galleys were prepared to go to the translator in Denmark, I would read and he would follow along with the original, checking punctuation, spacing, spelling. It was a travel to another place, another time, and a second chance for me to observe an artist at work.
My own son, then ten years old was in the Omaha Community Playhouse production of Music Man. It was a six week run, with seven productions a week. I was mothering five, fostering one, back in college taking 15 hours after a 17 year hiatus and I saw one of the performances. How amazing I found it, to see my own professor, Mr. Duncan, playing the Mayor.
The last time I saw Mr. Duncan was in my doctor's office. He was waiting for a son, who having returned from a time in Africa, was being treated for a number of after effects of that third world country. Mr. Duncan looked frail and I was happy he remembered me.
The newspaper article says this about Mr. Duncan's last days: "In 1997, he grew weary of his leukemia and the serious complications that came along with it, so he quit eating and drinking.
He slipped into a coma and, within days, died at home. "
Mr. Duncan wove his way into my life again, posthumously. When I attended the interment services of the Nebraska Medical School for my mother two years after her death and donation of her body, we were given a program listing the donees. How joyous it was for me to read my dear, dear Professor's name listed with that of my mother's.
I read that Baba Yaga is "not afraid of death at all."
Monday, August 09, 2004
Sturgis Rally Blogger
We have now been married 50 years and two days. I see that it will be clear coasting to the 51st Anniversary. It was amazing to have 13 immediate family members here for our usual Nebraska summer meal of grilled steak, sweet corn and salads.
Our youngest son came in with a white cake on lace and trimmed with little doves. My roomate of all these years called them ducks. We never had a wedding cake 50 years ago, and I have never had a cake with "Willo" written on it. First time events are good at any age. It made me happy.
The morning was beautiful and we had a back yard full of swimmers of all ages. This child-bride, now 69, was one of them. It was a joyful day indeed. My youthful groom got the shingles in spite of all the happiness. He had it diagnosed this morning. Lower right quadrant, I suppose it could go to his toes. Odd isn't it, how he has been fixing a roof leaking through the cedar shingles and now he has them.
Yes, there is a Sturgis Rally Blogger. The rally started this weekend, but my Black Hills high school friends tell me that some of them must have thought it started last week. Bill Harlan, a Rapid City Journal staff writer says in his article that he now knows how Guttenburg felt. It is nice that he will bring us pictures and text from the Sturgis rally throughout the day(s).
He goes on to say "Blogs, however, are not an arboricidal form of communication. Blogging is all done with electrons, which, according to Stephen Hawking's latest thinking, can neither be created nor destroyed, simply rearranged into an image of Britney Spears riding a chopper down Main Street in Sturgis behind a hideous, leather-jacketed Bat-faced Boy.The beauty of a blog is, I can take their picture and report it to you before an editor ever notices."
Maybe that is the beauty of the blog. It happens in a nanosecond, before He Who Must Be Obeyed notices. I don't think he has figured out how to change things in my blog. He is much too busy with two types of shingles.
If I don't sound sympathetic it is unfortunate because I am. He is too nice a guy to have both kinds. I think we are getting a new roof and four new skylights. Not exactly the kind of trip for an anniversary. Maybe it won't be all bad. I have heard this quote too many times: "It is better to live on the roof than with a nagging wife." Proverbs 21:9 Even the Bible can turn on you.
Our youngest son came in with a white cake on lace and trimmed with little doves. My roomate of all these years called them ducks. We never had a wedding cake 50 years ago, and I have never had a cake with "Willo" written on it. First time events are good at any age. It made me happy.
The morning was beautiful and we had a back yard full of swimmers of all ages. This child-bride, now 69, was one of them. It was a joyful day indeed. My youthful groom got the shingles in spite of all the happiness. He had it diagnosed this morning. Lower right quadrant, I suppose it could go to his toes. Odd isn't it, how he has been fixing a roof leaking through the cedar shingles and now he has them.
Yes, there is a Sturgis Rally Blogger. The rally started this weekend, but my Black Hills high school friends tell me that some of them must have thought it started last week. Bill Harlan, a Rapid City Journal staff writer says in his article that he now knows how Guttenburg felt. It is nice that he will bring us pictures and text from the Sturgis rally throughout the day(s).
He goes on to say "Blogs, however, are not an arboricidal form of communication. Blogging is all done with electrons, which, according to Stephen Hawking's latest thinking, can neither be created nor destroyed, simply rearranged into an image of Britney Spears riding a chopper down Main Street in Sturgis behind a hideous, leather-jacketed Bat-faced Boy.The beauty of a blog is, I can take their picture and report it to you before an editor ever notices."
Maybe that is the beauty of the blog. It happens in a nanosecond, before He Who Must Be Obeyed notices. I don't think he has figured out how to change things in my blog. He is much too busy with two types of shingles.
If I don't sound sympathetic it is unfortunate because I am. He is too nice a guy to have both kinds. I think we are getting a new roof and four new skylights. Not exactly the kind of trip for an anniversary. Maybe it won't be all bad. I have heard this quote too many times: "It is better to live on the roof than with a nagging wife." Proverbs 21:9 Even the Bible can turn on you.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Golden Wedding Anniversary
It sounds very strange, very. I frankly don't know what to make of it. It is good, though, in a lot of ways. Strange to think about it, in relation to happening to us.
Fifty years ago tonight, He Who Must Be Obeyed, took the girlfriend before me, out... to tell her he was getting married, he said. To tell the truth that has annoyed me for as many years. I had gone home to my little home town. My last night unmarried and I sure didn't have any thoughts of going out with any of my old cowboy boyfriends.
At 20, he was too young to get married in South Dakota. His dad had to sign a paper at the Lawrence County Couthouse for us to get a license. I felt a little one-up being an old and legal 19. Actually, it shouldn't have lasted according to the statistics today. I hardly knew him and met his family that day at the courthouse. It was so weird. But I was crazy about him. Really crazy in love. It was a nice feeling. It is good to think about it. It is nice to still feel that way.
Fifty years ago tonight, He Who Must Be Obeyed, took the girlfriend before me, out... to tell her he was getting married, he said. To tell the truth that has annoyed me for as many years. I had gone home to my little home town. My last night unmarried and I sure didn't have any thoughts of going out with any of my old cowboy boyfriends.
At 20, he was too young to get married in South Dakota. His dad had to sign a paper at the Lawrence County Couthouse for us to get a license. I felt a little one-up being an old and legal 19. Actually, it shouldn't have lasted according to the statistics today. I hardly knew him and met his family that day at the courthouse. It was so weird. But I was crazy about him. Really crazy in love. It was a nice feeling. It is good to think about it. It is nice to still feel that way.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Meadowlarks
The warble of the Meadowlark follows me, makes me homesick, is stuck like a faultline in an old record, and I am cheered every time I hear it. Today Dick Kettlewell, the Rapid City Journal photo-journalist writes of "Motzart and Meadowlarks."
He writes, "The serene, gentle strains of Mozart's "Concerto for Clarinet and Orchestra" float from the sound system of my truck as I slowly guide it down the crude old ranch road that winds, dips and rises across a high mesa top in this southernmost reach of the Hills." In his article he goes on to say that "My ears detect the familiar warbling of a nearby meadowlark, heralding the start of the day from atop a small boulder. In an effort to tease this little songster, I turn up the music a bit, as though giving her some accompaniment. She cocks her head, glances about and then raises her own pitch as she sings again and again, apparently accepting my invitation. This land is one for both Mozart and meadowlarks."
In my youth, living on the west edge of the small isolated prairie town of Buffalo, SD, I would be stirred from sleep by the sound of Meadowlarks through my open window. My father's morning ritual would be to stand in the yard imitating their call with his own wonderful ability to whistle. I never knew which was which. They would accept one another's invitation and continue the echo until one or the other was beconed to the day's tasks. Life with Meadowlarks, or even the memory of their song, is rich.
He writes, "The serene, gentle strains of Mozart's "Concerto for Clarinet and Orchestra" float from the sound system of my truck as I slowly guide it down the crude old ranch road that winds, dips and rises across a high mesa top in this southernmost reach of the Hills." In his article he goes on to say that "My ears detect the familiar warbling of a nearby meadowlark, heralding the start of the day from atop a small boulder. In an effort to tease this little songster, I turn up the music a bit, as though giving her some accompaniment. She cocks her head, glances about and then raises her own pitch as she sings again and again, apparently accepting my invitation. This land is one for both Mozart and meadowlarks."
In my youth, living on the west edge of the small isolated prairie town of Buffalo, SD, I would be stirred from sleep by the sound of Meadowlarks through my open window. My father's morning ritual would be to stand in the yard imitating their call with his own wonderful ability to whistle. I never knew which was which. They would accept one another's invitation and continue the echo until one or the other was beconed to the day's tasks. Life with Meadowlarks, or even the memory of their song, is rich.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Northern Black Hills Troops Home from Iraq
Two of my close friends from high school have grandsons returning home from Iraq. Today the community had a welcoming parade for them through Belle Fourche, Spearfish, and Sturgis of the Northern Black Hills. These young men and women have been deployed for 474 days. I know my two friends and their families were somewhere along the parade route. One young man spent his time at the Baghdad airport as a mechanic and the other was at Fallujah finding and exploding land mines. We are all thankful they are coming home in one piece. They have returned just in time to hear the politicians and movie makers castigate their Commander in Chief.
Home Alone
We are home alone. It could get as dangerous as it was for the kid left behind in the movie.
He Who Must Be Obeyed has been up on the roof with a compressor driven tar gun squirting tar under the cedar shakes. He found the leak after running a hose on the roof for an entire day. My job is to adjust the air pressure as the gun empties. A few years ago he came down from a ladder and was in a wheel chair for four months after hitting the concrete driveway. Old men should stay off of ladders. Old women should mind their own business. But life isn't perfect and neither are we.
I heard a former high school student of mine on the noon news. He is now the Director of the Strategic Air and Space Museum between Omaha and Lincoln, NE. The Tuskegee Airmen are having a reunion there this weekend. I always love to hear this young man speak about the events at the SASM as he is very articulate and very handsome as well. Teachers love it when former students go on to make this world a better place. This fellow is also the current President of the School Board. It would be a good place to start a political career, in my estimation.
His younger brother took my courses also and a few years after he graduated, their mother asked me if I would mind if she took TV Production I and II. I certainly didn't mind so she joined one of my production crews for a year. It was great for me to have an adult in my classes. I enjoyed it. The high school students seemed agreeable to it but they grumped a little when she didnt' join them for the quizzes and tests. She did complete all the assignments. The younger brother went on to Princeton Divinity School and thier mother is teaching at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. An honorable family. I am blessed to have been a small part of their lives.
He Who Must Be Obeyed has been up on the roof with a compressor driven tar gun squirting tar under the cedar shakes. He found the leak after running a hose on the roof for an entire day. My job is to adjust the air pressure as the gun empties. A few years ago he came down from a ladder and was in a wheel chair for four months after hitting the concrete driveway. Old men should stay off of ladders. Old women should mind their own business. But life isn't perfect and neither are we.
I heard a former high school student of mine on the noon news. He is now the Director of the Strategic Air and Space Museum between Omaha and Lincoln, NE. The Tuskegee Airmen are having a reunion there this weekend. I always love to hear this young man speak about the events at the SASM as he is very articulate and very handsome as well. Teachers love it when former students go on to make this world a better place. This fellow is also the current President of the School Board. It would be a good place to start a political career, in my estimation.
His younger brother took my courses also and a few years after he graduated, their mother asked me if I would mind if she took TV Production I and II. I certainly didn't mind so she joined one of my production crews for a year. It was great for me to have an adult in my classes. I enjoyed it. The high school students seemed agreeable to it but they grumped a little when she didnt' join them for the quizzes and tests. She did complete all the assignments. The younger brother went on to Princeton Divinity School and thier mother is teaching at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. An honorable family. I am blessed to have been a small part of their lives.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Amazing Hands
I have always been aware of, and intrigued by hands. So much so, that I have been accused of being a witch. First by my mother's beautiful, capable hands with the tapered fingers and perfect nails which were a startling contrast to the down to earth, edge of poverty, life she lived starting in 1912. She never let her hands lie idle. I think about home made bread when I think of her hands.
My dad's hands were the hands of the blacksmith. It was amazing how deftly he used them to paint his western scenes, detailing the smallest thing in the foreground. I am pleased that I inherited his no nonsense, square hand. The hands that contribute well to society, the hand of philosophers, artists, painters, men of letters. The hand of the person more keen on fame and recognition than wealth. The last sentence sounds like a negative thing to me; I never thought my dad was keen on anything but blacksmithing and painting.
I love my husband's hands. He was an engineering student, finishing concrete when I met him. I thought it was his soft mouth kissing that attracted me to him but it was his hands. They were those square hands that matched my own. His roughened by hard work in contrast to mine. I still love his hands though they are softer now after 27 years in an office and 10 years of retirement. They are still as capable as ever and very strong which is an added benefit to life.
I once made a live action short film on hands. The first hands in the movie were those of a five day old baby and progressed to the hands of an old man playing the yellowed keys of an old piano. The people whose hands I filmed were loveable people. That was over 30 years ago and I recall each one with tenderness. My husband's hands were in the film filling out income tax forms. Hands do a multitude of things. Even in America, then and now.
Today I got an email from a young friend in the Peace Corps in Thylla, "a typical thatched hut village" in Senagal, Africa. She writes of hands. It is a beautiful, poignant letter. "My hands and feet are ...callousing, darkening. My feet cracking at the heel..." "Hands and feet are survival tools, modes of transportation, complex machines." "Laundry is tediously scrubbed, article by article with the hands, the peanuts we plant were shelled by hand, knock by knock. Soil is tilled and prepared by hand and beast. Loose fingers strain and separate food, cluthch hot pans as though somehow magically insulated. Protection is a curious notion. No cutting borads, no rubber gloves, not much soap. The women cook by feel, by the handful. Salt and spices are thrown into the mix. palms are licked clean. Hands are exposed, vulnerable to the rough environment. That is life here."
I thank and love her for reminding me.
My dad's hands were the hands of the blacksmith. It was amazing how deftly he used them to paint his western scenes, detailing the smallest thing in the foreground. I am pleased that I inherited his no nonsense, square hand. The hands that contribute well to society, the hand of philosophers, artists, painters, men of letters. The hand of the person more keen on fame and recognition than wealth. The last sentence sounds like a negative thing to me; I never thought my dad was keen on anything but blacksmithing and painting.
I love my husband's hands. He was an engineering student, finishing concrete when I met him. I thought it was his soft mouth kissing that attracted me to him but it was his hands. They were those square hands that matched my own. His roughened by hard work in contrast to mine. I still love his hands though they are softer now after 27 years in an office and 10 years of retirement. They are still as capable as ever and very strong which is an added benefit to life.
I once made a live action short film on hands. The first hands in the movie were those of a five day old baby and progressed to the hands of an old man playing the yellowed keys of an old piano. The people whose hands I filmed were loveable people. That was over 30 years ago and I recall each one with tenderness. My husband's hands were in the film filling out income tax forms. Hands do a multitude of things. Even in America, then and now.
Today I got an email from a young friend in the Peace Corps in Thylla, "a typical thatched hut village" in Senagal, Africa. She writes of hands. It is a beautiful, poignant letter. "My hands and feet are ...callousing, darkening. My feet cracking at the heel..." "Hands and feet are survival tools, modes of transportation, complex machines." "Laundry is tediously scrubbed, article by article with the hands, the peanuts we plant were shelled by hand, knock by knock. Soil is tilled and prepared by hand and beast. Loose fingers strain and separate food, cluthch hot pans as though somehow magically insulated. Protection is a curious notion. No cutting borads, no rubber gloves, not much soap. The women cook by feel, by the handful. Salt and spices are thrown into the mix. palms are licked clean. Hands are exposed, vulnerable to the rough environment. That is life here."
I thank and love her for reminding me.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Mind Filler
The call came from my church office. It appears some folks haven't paid for their donated altar flowers, bless their souls. Shall we go to the senior pastor? Not yet, we decided. I am on the Altar Guild and as such agreed to be the telephone liason between the people signing the flower chart for the year, the florist we contract with, and the church secretary who writes up the little note of the giver and the occasion of the gift or "for the glory of God." Now how glorious can unpaid flowers be when the church gets the bill?
I can't think of that right yet. In two weeks we will be giving flowers with thanks to God for 50 years of marriage without either murdering one another, running off with the first better thing, or divorce. But I won't have all that in the bulliten or flashed on the big screen on either side of the altar. The screens overpower the altar and the entire chancel. I don't know if that is symbolic or not.
My mind at the moment is all filled up with the sexuality study and after being married for so long it is much easier to say those words in it than it would have been when I was younger and thought sex was a private affair. I guess affair isn't quite the correct word. It was private. Everything about it was private.
My mind isn't completely filled up with that. I have been to a granddaughter's wedding reception and met a lot of folks I never knew, saw some I did know, and enjoyed the whole thing a lot. I have some photos to prove I was there and how young everyone looked, or not.
More mind filler is the fact that I have a lot of books piling up and not getting finished. If I didn't ever turn on a television set at night, I would be better off in more ways than I care to list.
At the moment we have five of my favorite houseguests with us. I swam with my 10 year old grandson this morning right after I looked in the mirror and discovered my face was red and swollen from the steroids I am taking. They are pills this time and not the epidural. But I think they are going to work and I am pretty much pain free. We had three races across the pool and tied two of them and I beat him the third time. You can believe that made me feel good. I probably shouldn't have tried so hard to beat him. I told him to brush up on his breast stroke and we would try it another day.
Our oldest son, his wife and three of their five are here from north of Seattle. We share them with the other grandparents. It is the best time of the year for us. We look forward to their time with us and remark to one another after they leave what fun we had with them. One turns 13 tomorrow and one turns 16 on Friday. I think we should have two birthday parties.
The heat index was 110 today. I love hot weather when the AC runs and the pool is warm. Grilled rib eye and corn on the cob make for a wonderful Nebraska summer meal. Swimming this evening in an 88 degree pool in 90 degree weather is an unbeatable combination for this old woman on steroids. I wonder if that had anything to do with my beating the swimming races this morning? Hmmmm.
I can't think of that right yet. In two weeks we will be giving flowers with thanks to God for 50 years of marriage without either murdering one another, running off with the first better thing, or divorce. But I won't have all that in the bulliten or flashed on the big screen on either side of the altar. The screens overpower the altar and the entire chancel. I don't know if that is symbolic or not.
My mind at the moment is all filled up with the sexuality study and after being married for so long it is much easier to say those words in it than it would have been when I was younger and thought sex was a private affair. I guess affair isn't quite the correct word. It was private. Everything about it was private.
My mind isn't completely filled up with that. I have been to a granddaughter's wedding reception and met a lot of folks I never knew, saw some I did know, and enjoyed the whole thing a lot. I have some photos to prove I was there and how young everyone looked, or not.
More mind filler is the fact that I have a lot of books piling up and not getting finished. If I didn't ever turn on a television set at night, I would be better off in more ways than I care to list.
At the moment we have five of my favorite houseguests with us. I swam with my 10 year old grandson this morning right after I looked in the mirror and discovered my face was red and swollen from the steroids I am taking. They are pills this time and not the epidural. But I think they are going to work and I am pretty much pain free. We had three races across the pool and tied two of them and I beat him the third time. You can believe that made me feel good. I probably shouldn't have tried so hard to beat him. I told him to brush up on his breast stroke and we would try it another day.
Our oldest son, his wife and three of their five are here from north of Seattle. We share them with the other grandparents. It is the best time of the year for us. We look forward to their time with us and remark to one another after they leave what fun we had with them. One turns 13 tomorrow and one turns 16 on Friday. I think we should have two birthday parties.
The heat index was 110 today. I love hot weather when the AC runs and the pool is warm. Grilled rib eye and corn on the cob make for a wonderful Nebraska summer meal. Swimming this evening in an 88 degree pool in 90 degree weather is an unbeatable combination for this old woman on steroids. I wonder if that had anything to do with my beating the swimming races this morning? Hmmmm.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Uuuggghhh.
I am certainly hoping Blogspot doesn't murder its blogs. I am just getting the hang of this while other bloggers have run out of something to say. I can't imagine that. If one took the number of words in an English dictionary and started combining varous sentences using the infinite variy of ways one could do that, a person could go on till Kingdom Come.
Which reminds me of the Borg book. For lots of folks the Kingdom has come and for lots of others it will happen at death, or maybe not.
The sexuality study discussion was a little less heated last night than in the past. Maybe it was the heat and humidity having its affect on everyone there. Maybe there are too many "either/or" issues or "never could be" situations. Some congregations are already getting ready to bail out if anything changes from the status quo. The Synodical Guide is helpful in some instances, as is the Bible, and in other instances both are as clear as mud. I say that, lacking the gift of discernment.
Which reminds me of the Borg book. For lots of folks the Kingdom has come and for lots of others it will happen at death, or maybe not.
The sexuality study discussion was a little less heated last night than in the past. Maybe it was the heat and humidity having its affect on everyone there. Maybe there are too many "either/or" issues or "never could be" situations. Some congregations are already getting ready to bail out if anything changes from the status quo. The Synodical Guide is helpful in some instances, as is the Bible, and in other instances both are as clear as mud. I say that, lacking the gift of discernment.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Oh, how I want to blog but this stool is so uncomfortable!
Sundays have a way of turning on me. This morning I had good intentions of going to church which fizzled out in a matter of minutes. He Who Must Be Obeyed was off renting a Rug Doctor and was going to fix the spots from the last flood "no matter what."
During the course of the morning the entire house got a going over by Mr. Rug Doctor. He did a great job. I tried to vacume ahead of him and move small things, but I could see that was getting out of hand. I went outside for a Sabbath Swim, thanking God I didn't have what it took to help.
It is muggy as a sauna outside and icy cold inside, with the AC running full blast. I think the best thing for me to do is get under a blanket and read.
Yes, I still want to talk about reunions. But I need to read about sex for the ELCA study tomorrow night and I want to finish the Borg book and a person can only do so many things perched on a stool.
During the course of the morning the entire house got a going over by Mr. Rug Doctor. He did a great job. I tried to vacume ahead of him and move small things, but I could see that was getting out of hand. I went outside for a Sabbath Swim, thanking God I didn't have what it took to help.
It is muggy as a sauna outside and icy cold inside, with the AC running full blast. I think the best thing for me to do is get under a blanket and read.
Yes, I still want to talk about reunions. But I need to read about sex for the ELCA study tomorrow night and I want to finish the Borg book and a person can only do so many things perched on a stool.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Reunions
Reunions of the family sort and the school kind are as close to heaven as it gets, I think. Being of Finnish decent on all sides, my parents were a little dismayed when I married a Norwegian. But coming from such a scarcely populated area in the High Plains of northwestern South Dakota, the only Finnish boys I knew were cousins. I had to seek a mate farther south, in the Black Hills. His school was our competition in sports and I met him at a basketball tournament dance. He was a good dancer and a soft mouthed kisser. I was impressed and still am, but I digress.
Things are always better than I expect them to be. Before we left for the Black Hills, we spent a little time at the Omaha Downtown Art Fair. I enjoyed a little visit with a blacksmith from Grand Island, NE. He probably thought I was lying when I told him my dad spent some time teaching me to weld. I never got to the smithing part using the old bellows forge and the anvil but I was interested. Smithing is an art being revived today. I have found classes for women that sound interesting. Maybe I should start lifting weights. This is not exactly a craft for wimpy women. When my dad was teaching me, I suppose I was at 5'2" and about 110.
I digress more...there on the street at the art fair was my favorite music group, BRULE', from Worthington, Minnesota and the Lower Brule Indian Reservation of South Dakota. This family group, Paul LaRoche, his son and daughter, and a Cherokee drummer are incredible. He was chosen as musical ambassador and speaker for the 2000 UN Peace Conference held in the Hague Center for Peace, has won awards including 2003 "Best Instrumental Recording" at the Native American Music Academy for "Night Tree," with his daughter Nicole on flute with BRULE'. If you like soft spoken people, music that stirs your soul and transports you to the stars, go to a concert and buy a CD from either his wife or his sister. The experience is one of those thin places, that Marcus Borg talks about. Thin enough to allow the Spirit of God to move you. It is a bit startling to hear a soft spoken Lakota with a Norwegian Minnesota accent, startling but good. It is another thin place.
I have digressed so much I can't recover. Reunions will come another day. Google distracts me and my neighbor came to visit. I like her so much even if she goads me over politics. John-John, my eye. Then there is Jazz on the Green at Joslyn Art Museum and I 'can' go if I can make potato salad before then. I just hate "if so then there" bargains. A quick bottle of wine would suffice for me.
Things are always better than I expect them to be. Before we left for the Black Hills, we spent a little time at the Omaha Downtown Art Fair. I enjoyed a little visit with a blacksmith from Grand Island, NE. He probably thought I was lying when I told him my dad spent some time teaching me to weld. I never got to the smithing part using the old bellows forge and the anvil but I was interested. Smithing is an art being revived today. I have found classes for women that sound interesting. Maybe I should start lifting weights. This is not exactly a craft for wimpy women. When my dad was teaching me, I suppose I was at 5'2" and about 110.
I digress more...there on the street at the art fair was my favorite music group, BRULE', from Worthington, Minnesota and the Lower Brule Indian Reservation of South Dakota. This family group, Paul LaRoche, his son and daughter, and a Cherokee drummer are incredible. He was chosen as musical ambassador and speaker for the 2000 UN Peace Conference held in the Hague Center for Peace, has won awards including 2003 "Best Instrumental Recording" at the Native American Music Academy for "Night Tree," with his daughter Nicole on flute with BRULE'. If you like soft spoken people, music that stirs your soul and transports you to the stars, go to a concert and buy a CD from either his wife or his sister. The experience is one of those thin places, that Marcus Borg talks about. Thin enough to allow the Spirit of God to move you. It is a bit startling to hear a soft spoken Lakota with a Norwegian Minnesota accent, startling but good. It is another thin place.
I have digressed so much I can't recover. Reunions will come another day. Google distracts me and my neighbor came to visit. I like her so much even if she goads me over politics. John-John, my eye. Then there is Jazz on the Green at Joslyn Art Museum and I 'can' go if I can make potato salad before then. I just hate "if so then there" bargains. A quick bottle of wine would suffice for me.
Friday, June 25, 2004
"WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?"
I suppose we all have a list of favorite things. The question on the header for today is the question asked of actors at the end of the interview on "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO. The quietness of the program, the seriousness, and the end questions are things I enjoy about it. Tom Hanks' interview was endearing. No, I don't recall his favorite word, but his favorite sound was the laughter of his family.
One of my favorite subscriptions on the Internet is "The Cool Tricks and Trinkets Newsletter." I always find enjoyable amusements there that keep me from my own mundane, but enjoyable as well, small daily routine. It is a once a week announcement of great places on the Web. In today's newsletter, #30, was a site of travel photos that are phenomenal.
The 2004 top ten favorite words were another item on Cool Tricks this morning. None of them were my favorites. Some were new to me. I probably couldn't spell any of them without the help of GuruNet or Mirriam Webster. I have never even heard of callipygian. There is a nice little pronouncer on both sites.
As you can see, I have learned how to create links, lots of them.
One of my favorite subscriptions on the Internet is "The Cool Tricks and Trinkets Newsletter." I always find enjoyable amusements there that keep me from my own mundane, but enjoyable as well, small daily routine. It is a once a week announcement of great places on the Web. In today's newsletter, #30, was a site of travel photos that are phenomenal.
The 2004 top ten favorite words were another item on Cool Tricks this morning. None of them were my favorites. Some were new to me. I probably couldn't spell any of them without the help of GuruNet or Mirriam Webster. I have never even heard of callipygian. There is a nice little pronouncer on both sites.
As you can see, I have learned how to create links, lots of them.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Shellac
I haven't thought about shellac for a long time. I used to watch my dad pulverize the lacs, mix it with denatured alcohol and then strain the bug parts out of it through a cloth. He used it to finish things he made out of wood, and I suspect that he might have used it as a clear coat over his oil paintings.
From what I read it isn't supposed to yellow with age. If that is so, what is it on all of these old western oil paintings that makes them look so yellowed with age? It is a mystery to me.
Father's Day has come and gone and our sons had good things to say to their dad, my roommate of nearly 50 years. I asked him if he wanted me to make something happen. "Don't bother," he said. I didn't. I told him not to vacume the house. That must have counted for something. Now two days later, I asked him if he might like to do it sometime soon.
Yesterday, I was cleaning out a creeping cedar bed. The fern in the middle were quite tall so I found a place to stand and grabbed a fern plant in both hands pulling for all I was worth. When if finally came loose and out of the ground, I fell completely backward and hit the ground flat on my back. Other than knocking the wind out of my sails and being a little shocking, I am fine. I needed help getting up again. Old women floundering around in the creeping cedar on their backs are about as helpless as mud turtles on their backs.
He who must be obeyed was mad at me for even thinking about pulling weeds. I love pulling weeds.
From what I read it isn't supposed to yellow with age. If that is so, what is it on all of these old western oil paintings that makes them look so yellowed with age? It is a mystery to me.
Father's Day has come and gone and our sons had good things to say to their dad, my roommate of nearly 50 years. I asked him if he wanted me to make something happen. "Don't bother," he said. I didn't. I told him not to vacume the house. That must have counted for something. Now two days later, I asked him if he might like to do it sometime soon.
Yesterday, I was cleaning out a creeping cedar bed. The fern in the middle were quite tall so I found a place to stand and grabbed a fern plant in both hands pulling for all I was worth. When if finally came loose and out of the ground, I fell completely backward and hit the ground flat on my back. Other than knocking the wind out of my sails and being a little shocking, I am fine. I needed help getting up again. Old women floundering around in the creeping cedar on their backs are about as helpless as mud turtles on their backs.
He who must be obeyed was mad at me for even thinking about pulling weeds. I love pulling weeds.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Wyrex Found
The first paragraphs in the Rapid City Journal article, "Eighth T.rex unearthed" reads this way:
"HILL CITY -- The Hill City fossil company that gained national notoriety after excavating the Tyrannosaurus rex nicknamed "Sue" recently excavated its eighth T-rex.
The Black Hills Institute of Geological Research dubbed its latest T.rex "Wyrex" after Don Wyrick of Baker, Mont., who owns the ranch where it was found."
Pete Larson, Black Hills Institute president, said it is possible that Wyrex is the third-most complete T.rex ever found. "Stan" was 70 percent complete. Thirty T.rex skeletons have been found since the early 1900's.
"Next month the Black Hills Institute will host volunteers--including students--at a dig near Hulett, Wyo. (For more information go to the "contact us" page at www.bhigr.com/.)"
I am anticipating a trip to the South Dakota Black Hills soon. Visiting the BHIGR in the heart of the hills is always a thrill. Part of that is seeing "Sacrison" tacked on to the huge exhibit of "Stan" and finding pretty rocks to buy. Of course pretty rocks can sometimes get out of hand. One year we hauled home a Brazillian Amethist almost four foot in length. It took three men to get it into the van. That was a wonderful sight for a person who loves to watch men work.
"HILL CITY -- The Hill City fossil company that gained national notoriety after excavating the Tyrannosaurus rex nicknamed "Sue" recently excavated its eighth T-rex.
The Black Hills Institute of Geological Research dubbed its latest T.rex "Wyrex" after Don Wyrick of Baker, Mont., who owns the ranch where it was found."
Pete Larson, Black Hills Institute president, said it is possible that Wyrex is the third-most complete T.rex ever found. "Stan" was 70 percent complete. Thirty T.rex skeletons have been found since the early 1900's.
"Next month the Black Hills Institute will host volunteers--including students--at a dig near Hulett, Wyo. (For more information go to the "contact us" page at www.bhigr.com/.)"
I am anticipating a trip to the South Dakota Black Hills soon. Visiting the BHIGR in the heart of the hills is always a thrill. Part of that is seeing "Sacrison" tacked on to the huge exhibit of "Stan" and finding pretty rocks to buy. Of course pretty rocks can sometimes get out of hand. One year we hauled home a Brazillian Amethist almost four foot in length. It took three men to get it into the van. That was a wonderful sight for a person who loves to watch men work.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
It Makes My Head Spin
People in my life amaze me so that it does make my head spin; or is it just the middle ear infection that came pounding down on me last Saturday? It was enough to make me thankful for whoever discovered antibiotics, for Minor Medical Centers that stay open on weekends, and for keen young physicians that put in extra hours manning er, womaning the place. They were all there when I needed them and the spinning will probably stop.
Our youngest son, who is now the age I was when he thought I was old beyond belief, called to expound on his latest bizarre experience. He has more than his share and always has had since he and a neighbor kid decided to break the windows out of an old woman's shed kitty-corner behind us. Raising sons, broken windows were in my repitoire, both windows of my own and other people's. I wasn't prepared for the little ant pack of neighbor boys that decided to walk the city storm sewers from Little Papio Creek east of us, up the three or four blocks under Nicholas Street, to stick their muddy little heads out of the run-off intake across the street from our house to yell at the people in the neighborhood.
It appears that last week he went for a late lunch at a Chinese Restaurant and after the shrimp, and during the meat and vegetables, he said he heard a horrible commotion in the kitchen. He said there was only one other table of people eating and he thought he should go see if there might be a fire and perhaps he could be of some help. Upon opening the kitchen door he said there were the cooks, the waitresses, all the help staff and the manager, each of them screaming at one another in Chinese. When one of them grabbed a large chopping knife, eyes bulging, screaming Chinese explitaves at all the rest, he retreated and left without paying. Now how helpful is that?
He calls the place the KAMAKAZI GORMET CHINA BUFFETT.
If it were not for the people in my life and a good book, I don't know what I would think about. Unless it might be whether I should wear sunscreen to ward off the UV from the computer screen.
Our youngest son, who is now the age I was when he thought I was old beyond belief, called to expound on his latest bizarre experience. He has more than his share and always has had since he and a neighbor kid decided to break the windows out of an old woman's shed kitty-corner behind us. Raising sons, broken windows were in my repitoire, both windows of my own and other people's. I wasn't prepared for the little ant pack of neighbor boys that decided to walk the city storm sewers from Little Papio Creek east of us, up the three or four blocks under Nicholas Street, to stick their muddy little heads out of the run-off intake across the street from our house to yell at the people in the neighborhood.
It appears that last week he went for a late lunch at a Chinese Restaurant and after the shrimp, and during the meat and vegetables, he said he heard a horrible commotion in the kitchen. He said there was only one other table of people eating and he thought he should go see if there might be a fire and perhaps he could be of some help. Upon opening the kitchen door he said there were the cooks, the waitresses, all the help staff and the manager, each of them screaming at one another in Chinese. When one of them grabbed a large chopping knife, eyes bulging, screaming Chinese explitaves at all the rest, he retreated and left without paying. Now how helpful is that?
He calls the place the KAMAKAZI GORMET CHINA BUFFETT.
If it were not for the people in my life and a good book, I don't know what I would think about. Unless it might be whether I should wear sunscreen to ward off the UV from the computer screen.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Kurt Vonnegut
One would think that if I enjoy Kurt Vonnegut's books so much I would just go to Amazon.com and load up on new ones. But no, I go to my public library used book sales and try to find them that way. Once I actually found "Slapstick" and it was so profoundly sad and funny, that it hit my own tuning fork which in turn set off a ringing that has never stopped.
In "Slapstick" the premise is that one can never have too many relatives. It is true, so I sent it to this first cousin once removed, one of my own favorite relatives. I have looked for another copy for ten years. I look in the mystery, classic, science fiction sections and find nothing. Maybe I will tomorrow. Yes, there will be another used book sale. Always another.
So until tomorrow I read what I can online. In "Common Dreams News Center: Breaking News and Views for the Progressive Community" is an essay by Kurt Vonnegut called "Cold Turkey." It was published May 12, 2004 by "In These Times."
Among other things he mentions:
"For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes. But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course that’s Moses, not Jesus. I haven’t heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere.
“Blessed are the merciful” in a courtroom? “Blessed are the peacemakers” in the Pentagon? Give me a break!
I know he is a radical. Imagine being an 81 year old radical. Age is no respector of which way a person leans, unless one has a bad back and then the bend is always forward, emphasizing the direction one is looking.
This favorite relative that I sent the book to? He is the epitome of the Beatitudes, although famous in his own right. He has a T-REX named for him as he was the guy who found the huge pelvis sticking out of the gumbo south of my grandparents homestead in northwestern South Dakota.
In "Slapstick" the premise is that one can never have too many relatives. It is true, so I sent it to this first cousin once removed, one of my own favorite relatives. I have looked for another copy for ten years. I look in the mystery, classic, science fiction sections and find nothing. Maybe I will tomorrow. Yes, there will be another used book sale. Always another.
So until tomorrow I read what I can online. In "Common Dreams News Center: Breaking News and Views for the Progressive Community" is an essay by Kurt Vonnegut called "Cold Turkey." It was published May 12, 2004 by "In These Times."
Among other things he mentions:
"For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes. But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course that’s Moses, not Jesus. I haven’t heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere.
“Blessed are the merciful” in a courtroom? “Blessed are the peacemakers” in the Pentagon? Give me a break!
I know he is a radical. Imagine being an 81 year old radical. Age is no respector of which way a person leans, unless one has a bad back and then the bend is always forward, emphasizing the direction one is looking.
This favorite relative that I sent the book to? He is the epitome of the Beatitudes, although famous in his own right. He has a T-REX named for him as he was the guy who found the huge pelvis sticking out of the gumbo south of my grandparents homestead in northwestern South Dakota.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Summer Reading
My ELCA women's circle group is reading and discussing Marcus Borg's "The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering a LIfe of Faith." Also on the front jacket is "How We Can Be Passionate Believers Today."
Marcus Borg,as you will see in the link, has been busy writing since 1987. He tipped my world in a pastor led study of "Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time" a couple of years ago.
Not exactly crawling out from under a rock, or falling off a wagon, he has his doctor's degree from Oxford University. In this second book that I am reading he states his Scandanavian Lutheran background.
He is readable, makes sense to me in my own view of what it is to be Christian. Why am I doing this or even writing about this? Because I see such polarity between Christian faith groups today. If that were not the case, we all could get on with living life the way it was meant to be lived. In my own opinion too much energy goes into proving points, thus losing sight the big picture.
Marcus Borg,as you will see in the link, has been busy writing since 1987. He tipped my world in a pastor led study of "Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time" a couple of years ago.
Not exactly crawling out from under a rock, or falling off a wagon, he has his doctor's degree from Oxford University. In this second book that I am reading he states his Scandanavian Lutheran background.
He is readable, makes sense to me in my own view of what it is to be Christian. Why am I doing this or even writing about this? Because I see such polarity between Christian faith groups today. If that were not the case, we all could get on with living life the way it was meant to be lived. In my own opinion too much energy goes into proving points, thus losing sight the big picture.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Watching Men Work
Bronze sculpture always fascinates me. Watching men work is infinately more interesting than watching them dance. This morning we parked our own work ethic and drove to the Missouri Riverfront Park. There to my amazement was a million dollar work titled "Labor". Four men and one woman depicting just that.
One of the figures is a blacksmith working at an anvil. My own father was a blacksmith and often, after school, I would watch him work between his forge and his anvil, with red hot metel grasped in his tongs, other arm above him with his heavy hammer. I have always loved to watch men work.
This was the perfect morning, perfect sculpture, perfect setting with the Missouri taking its prairie topsoil to the Lousiana Delta.
Good Job, Matthew Placzek!
Monday, May 31, 2004
Memorial Day 2004
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields. By John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields. By John McCrae
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Tattered Cover
I received a postcard announcing that the editors of "Crazy Woman Creek" and contributors will be presented on June 12 at the Tattered Cover Book Store in Cherry Creek, Denver. Not long ago we contributors recieved a note that this is a desired location to read.
This morning CSpan II's Book TV featured the writers of "The Ambushed Grand Jury" and the plutonium situration at Rocky Flats. It was a little horrifying. Why is it that it takes a ordinary woman employee to shake up the system? Watching Book TV is starting to sound like listening to Art Bell in the middle of the night.
I have found Blogger Help that shows pictures of how to create links. If it works now, I will be so much happier than I was when I could not figure out how to do this. My first links! Imagine that! Tattered Cover and Crazy Woman Creek are links for you!
This morning CSpan II's Book TV featured the writers of "The Ambushed Grand Jury" and the plutonium situration at Rocky Flats. It was a little horrifying. Why is it that it takes a ordinary woman employee to shake up the system? Watching Book TV is starting to sound like listening to Art Bell in the middle of the night.
I have found Blogger Help that shows pictures of how to create links. If it works now, I will be so much happier than I was when I could not figure out how to do this. My first links! Imagine that! Tattered Cover and Crazy Woman Creek are links for you!
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