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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
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.
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