A Sand Pile Extravaganza

Sixteen tons of sand makes a big sand pile. He Who Must Be Obeyed had it dumped on the front drive way; he shoveled it into a wheelborrow and spread it under the pine trees in the back yard. Three big toads dug their way out of it. It fulfilled the purpose of making the area weed free for about three or four years. Years of pineneedles have made a lovely mulch under those Scotch Pines. The entire city is full of dying pine trees. The blight/beetles march down streets one tree at a time.



The sand dumped near the Missouri River a couple of months ago was enjoyed by young and old. There is no greater fun than a big pile of sand full of little children with their pails and shovels.




Family fun is encouraged in our beautiful city known for corn and big trees...the only time I think of corn is when the street corner stands advertise "Sweet Corn and Tomatoes."

The smartest man in America

The smartest man in America

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Joy in the Train Station

A friend sent this link to me:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k

I wish I were skilled in putting the little video right on to the page.

Life can always use a little joy and the act of smiling warms the heart.

When a person can't string a few words together, what makes them think they can finish a book? My days are woven together with small activities, beating down stress, enjoying small delights, and ever, ever thankful for the kind help of He Who Must Be Obeyed.

Juhannus, a Magical Day

As a child of the Finnish immigrant community in the Cave Hills of northwest South Dakota, I enjoyed the Juhannus picnic in Casper's Gulch. It was a day of treats, competitions, ball games, food and homemade ice cream. The women of the Cave Hills Lutheran church, Suomi Synod, made hand goods such as pillow cases, doilies, quilts, pot holders and hand loomed rugs to be auctioned off for the church treasury. My Grandpa Tuovinen called the auction. My grandmother was the weaver of the rugs and perhaps Mrs. Tilus.

In the Finnish midsummer celebration, bonfires (Finnish kokko)are very common and are burnt at lakesides and by the sea. Often two young birch trees (koivu) are placed on either side of the front door to welcome visitors. In Midsummer night the sauna is typically heated and family and friends are invited to bathe and to grill.

When my mother and I were in Finland in 1980, our Tuovinen relatives invited family members to their home to visit. The birch trees had been placed on either sides of their front door to welcome Midsummer visitors. We met our female relatives during sauna on their sauna island and the men at the cabin coffee table. Seppo had made us fresh birch switches for the occasion. A couple of dives into the lake were refreshing as well. It was a magical, memorable Juhannus.

"Before 1316, the summer solstice was called Ukon juhla, after the Finnish god Ukko. In e.g. Karelian tradition, many bonfires were burned side by side, the biggest of which was called Ukko-kokko (the "bonfire of Ukko"). After the celebrations were Christianized, the holiday is known as juhannus after John the Baptist (Finnish: Johannes Kastaja).

Sick Sinus Syndrome

The heart is a mysterious thing both literally and metaphorically. For a couple of weeks after getting the pacer, I felt great and resumed my normal routine of mowing, tree trimming, general cleanup inside and out. Swelling and high blood pressure of late has resulted in a new prescription, blood tests and more appointments with both my General Practitioner and Cardiologist. It is very discouraging as I have things to do, places to go, and do not have time nor the 'heart' for this business. Two or three days on this new drug should bring the blood pressure down. It would be nice if it happens.

In the meantime, dependent adult family members call to tattle on one another, expect financial hand outs, and generally are the victims their own stupidity and poor decisions. They are the result of our poor parenting, genetic bi-polar disease, Godlessness, and a litany of anti-social behaviors. It wears heavily on the heart and gives me a headache.

I treasure my little heart and cling to every metaphor it embodies; however, I am a little put out with the tricks it is playing of late.

Wild Swans
I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
and what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more:
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air. I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Young Cowboy Wins in Winner, SD

How sweet it is when a young cowboy wins the lottery. This is all the sweeter as he lives in one of the poorest parts of America. The write up in the Rapid City Journal warms the heart and we rejoice with this family.

Doris Haveman, who works at Klein School, the country school where Wanless attended from kindergarten through 8th grade, said he went to college but eventually returned home to the ranch. "He was a very likable student," Haveman said. He was a well-behaved kid, very well behaved."

A Bird in the Hand

As I watered and weeded the front yard yesterday afternoon, I heard a little chirping/quacking and from the old Maple in the middle of the yard came two little duckling fledgelings. I could hardly believe my eyes. We are in the middle of Omaha, any kind of water is not near, unless our small pool in the back qualifies.

I scooped the two babies up and brought them into the house to display my marvelous find. Sure enough flat little beaks and webbed little feet. Just like a five year old, I thought that I should have little ducks. He Who Must Be Obeyed gave me the wise advice that not only did the little ducks need a mother duck, the mother duck needed her babies.

We turned them loose near where I was weeding and Mother Duck came flying in to gather them and hide them in the corner.

The sweet little neighbor girl came over with gloves on to help me weed under the Hews and as she went down the row she spotted the ducks. I had told her my duckling story and pointed out the hole in the Maple which had obviously been their nest. Off she went for her camera and her mother. The photos were shared. It hadn't even occurred to me to photograph them when I had two in the hand instead of one in the bush.

The Still, Small Voice of Love

"Many voices ask for our attention. There is a voice that says, "Prove that you are a good person." Another voice says, "You'd better be ashamed of yourself." There is also a voice that sways, "Nobody really cares about you," and another that says, "Be sure to become successful, popular, and powerful." But underneith all these very often noisy voice is a still small voice that says, "You are my Beloved, my favor rests on you." That's the voice we need most of all to hear. To hear that voice, however, requires special effort; it requires solitude, silence, and a strong determination to listen.

That is what prayer is. It is listening to the voice that calls us "my Beloved." (From Henri Nouwen: Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith.

The voices I hear on the phone are loud shrill tattle-tales over ones atheism, the other's mental illness, and finger pointing insinuations. Now they are tattling to He Who Must Be Obeyed with 'she said.' They are gifted at shifting blame onto me. Apparently listening without accusation is taken for approval.

It is the small still voice of love that I listen for in contrast to the cacophony on the telephony.

A Day of Sighing

Memorial Day is one of those bitter-sweet days when we sigh with the memory of our honored dead; and we swell with pride for this country they died for. From the Department of Veterans Affairs:

"Three years after the Civil War ended, on May 5, 1868, the head of an organization of Union veterans — the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) — established Decoration Day as a time for the nation to decorate the graves of the war dead with flowers. Major. Gen. John A. Logan declared that Decoration Day should be observed on May 30.

It is believed that date was chosen because flowers would be in bloom all over the country.

The National Moment of Remembrance encourages all Americans to pause wherever they are at 3 p.m. local time on Memorial Day for a minute of silence to remember and honor those who have died in service to the nation. As Moment of Remembrance founder Carmella LaSpada states: “It’s a way we can all help put the memorial back in Memorial Day.”

Sometime today we will take peonies to my mother's grave in Omaha. She was interred with 55 others who donated their bodies to the Nebraska Anatomical Board in 1996.

Hiatus

Being away from my friends and readers hasn't been by choice. My sweet little heart slowed down and quit beating long enough Friday morning to land me on the floor. He Who...bundled me up in my bathrobe and drove me to our hospital five minutes away. "We have a "Red" here," I heard shouting down the ER hall. I was very soon on an external pacer. "We are going to give you a little 'something' and use the paddles on you." Twice. Nothing. 95% of the time it works. Just like an INFP..I have to be that 5% anti-average.

The little machine zapped me over and over for almost six hours until the permanent one was put in place in surgery.

No more of the whirling dervishes for me. I will now enjoy working on Aunt Liz's biography without having to hang on to the computer table just to stay on my chair. That didn't keep me from hitting the floor Friday morning.

An Aside: there have been so many hits here on the poem by ee cummings regarding my entry of his "In Just." I approved a comment today by someone pointing out my ignorance in poetry analysis. Naivety might be my middle name. I am guessing that the universities are assigning this poem to students as the hits are increased at the beginnings of semesters. Apparently this is an evil and perverse poem, lilting on the tongue as it is. But isn't that the way of persons that prey on children...or the elderly.

Thanks for the Advice

According to "The Power of Paying Attention" by Laura Rowley, "If you want to be happy, pay attention."

She goes on, "Perhaps first and foremost, "you have to choose your target." "...If you don't choose a target, your brain will choose one for you -- the brain is out scanning around and saying, 'Let's stare at that screen, let's listen to that infomercial.' When you focus on something, your brain photographs that sight or sound or thought or feeling --and that becomes part of your mental album of the world. So it's important to make those choices count."

That is great advice. Once-upon-a-time my parents helped me with that habit. Teachers were good at it. Babies were the best. One had to pay attention to them or they would remind you what time it was, the younger they were the better. Now, I am on my own with it and sometimes I am hopeless. Some tasks take all of my attention, all of my brains, and a huge amount of discipline. A helper that taps my knuckles with a stick, so to speak, when I dilly-dally only annoys me and I go eat ice-cream.

"What makes you happy is paying rapt attention to something that interests and absorbs you," Rowley says. Paying attention sounds like a no-brainer, but it's similar to the platitude "Live within your means" -- it makes a gigantic difference in your well-being, yet many people can't figure out how to do it."

My Shepherds.

The old photo is much like the tasks of my shepherds.

It comes from a rich source, the American Memory collection at the Library of Congress.


Tonight our Pastor spoke on the Old Testament Lesson, Psalm 23 which we read responsively. It has a calming effect on a lot of us. The Gospel reading was John 10:11-18 "I am the good shepherd," which is about sheep herding and hired men.

He pointed out that there is only one person in his congregation that has had experience as a shepherd, and that of course being He Who Sits Beside Me in Church. Needless to say I loved the service. My father was a herder when he was young. I think our Pastor is a gifted shepherd.

Our dear, dear Elsa is in hospice and no longer sits beside us in her chariot. My shepherd herded it with her, to the communion rail for several years.

Squeeky Cheese

My grandmother, Jennie Haivala Tuovinen, made what my cousins called 'Squeeky Cheese.' I never learned to make it. One of my cousins, either second or once removed, did though and I admire her for it.

It, as well as the familiar cardamom bread, was served on the refreshment table in Astoria during a play performance during the FinnFest 2004 held there.

Finnish Cousins Galore

This has been the warmest week, not only of the Fahrenheit kind, but also as in company of the warmest kind. This very day we had two sweet sisters that exchanged Finnish immigrant history with me. We reminisced about the elderly immigrant Finns that settled or homesteaded with our grandparents. Gone are the days when children dressed up and went visiting with their parents, to be seen and not heard. But always welcomed with the adults at the coffee table.

These two drove a long way to attend the two day professional bull riding event at Omaha's Quest Center; only girls that grew up on a ranch with rodeo stock, cowboys, and boots in their lives, would do such a thing.

Two days ago we entertained seven cousins and a friend at our own coffee table and later on at our dinner table. Every Finnish American is a long lost cousin of our hearts...but two of these actually were cousins. They gathered here from five states. There is is a whole lot of laughing with a group of retired women on a trip. The beautiful daisies were a gift from them!

But the big surprise was when I was contacted by a woman who I believe is truly a cousin, one who I never knew existed until I got the unexpected and delightful email query. Yes, I was a Buffalo, SD Sacrison. Her grandmother was a Finnish immigrant Kyro-Sacrison to Lead, SD.

It is Fahrenheit warm as well. The old fashioned lilacs in the planters are beginning to bloom. That makes me very happy.

Pictures are Worth a Thousand Words

It is a pleasure to obey this kind gentleman.

The Power of the Printed Word

A grandson was here from California for dinner on Maundy Thursday. On Good Friday and Saturday He Who Must Be Obeyed had a manly-man garage sale of machines and large equipment. Men of all sizes and descriptions drove up in vans and pick-ups. Men do love a manly garage sale and every one was lonely and talkative, or so I was told. I felt sorry for the ones who wanted a little something to buy that didn't cost them an arm or leg. Next time I am going to have a table of those extra hand tools that seem to reproduce themselves, filling up every shelf and nook in the garage.

One lady drove up and waited till 8:00 and then asked "Where are "Willo's things?" She should have been invited in to pick out what ever she fancied. I was flattered, even so. Maybe I will have to set up a table of the things that multilpy in my kitchen drawers and on my book cases; such as the lonely lead crystal swan who lost her mate in the last house cleaning episode. He lost his head with one swat of a long handled duster and crashed to the floor.

Yesterday He Who... went to a funeral while I had my quarterly visit to my Nurse Practitioner. My blood pressure fluctuated in the office and I was told to take it at home several times before Thursday. It fluctuates here as well and my pulse races from 83 to over a hundred. I don't know what that is all about. It seems to occur with a whirling bout of vertigo.

Maybe I am just giddy over our recent computer crash. We purchased a new tower that wasn't compatible with our printer. It is going back to the store as I type. The old tower is being updated and the data has been recovered. It is not exactly like 'the same old w____ in a different dress,' but more like the same one with different underwear. I rather like shiny new things; but then new "underwear" is always nice too.

We are now reading "Frederic Remington's Own West: Written and Illustrated by Fredric Remington." Remington is as gifted with the pen as with the brush and we are enjoying his ability to describe his surroundings, the people he rides with, and the bloody incidents with the buffalo soldiers. TV violence is a poor comparison to our own bloody past with those that first peopled our land.

We are ever aware of the power of the printed word.

A Beautiful Boy

How Blessed with babies we are!

The Blue Hazzard

Could you speak louder, please? Very good.
“Lima, that must be Peru? Not Peru? Oh, India."
“Take the case off. I need my book to see how.”
"Willo, I need a flashlight."
“Do you mean the Rim, the Rom? The Ram? It is silver colored?”
“I removed the one closest to the battery.”
“There are silver cords all over.”
“The third one is the second from the battery.”
“The first one from the battery, right.”
“I have this thing plugged in, should I unplug it?”
“O.K.”

“I think I am connected."
“I need to shut the computer off and then unplug it.” I am laying it on its side again and opening up the case.”

“Should I push Enter again?"

“Who will do this?”
“OK, A local service guy that will charge me? Uh huh.”

“Do you have a service guy in Omaha? You are in India? You don’t know service guys in Omaha?”

“Alright, Alright.” “A local tech?” “Thank you. Bye.”

Learning Life Skills

Life is one great experience after another!

Life's Little Pleasures

Diddle, diddle dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.

I was reminded of this Mother Goose Rhyme as we drove home from the shoe shop. No not shoe shopping, shoe repairing. I took in a pair that needed a seam resewn, and upon looking down at my ancient leather Ked on my right foot, I was reminded where my big toe had pressured it into holiness last summer in the garden. "Yes, I can fix it," the butcher-sized fellow behind the counter said,"but I will have to put a patch on the inside so the hole will still show on the outside. "Bring it back when you pick up the one with a ripped seam tomorrow."

He Who Must Be Obeyed told him I would leave it right now, thus saving us the gas for an extra trip. He followed me to the Wrangler and took it back into the repair shop. Hence the Diddle, diddle.

Shoe repairing is a fascinating business. I have always thought so. It started with me leaning on my elbows watching my dad slip one of my shoes on the iron last bolted to his work bench and hammer on a new heel, or paste on a sole. Some tasks take on a pure and holy demeanor; polishing shoes, same thing. My dad polished my mother's, mine, and his own; a Saturday night ritual, while I was having my weekly bath in a little tin tub off the kitchen.

One of our dear friends, Fritz, a hero from the Grand Generation, had a shoe shop in South Dakota when he was just back from WWII and starting his family. In my small home town, Mr. Zoldie, a Jewish immigrant in that land of Finnish, Norwegian, and Irish immigrants, owned the shoe shop. If a job got too complicated for my dad, our shoes went to Mr. Zoldie and I had the opportunity to listen to his lovely Yiddish accent. He reminded me of Geppetto, a cobbler, in the Pinnochio book my Aunt Olga gave me for Chistmas.

He was found in his shop hanging one day, no family, no synagogue, he was alone in the hinterland; probably lonely, hopefully not hated.