What is it All About?

The world we live in is too much. The super markets are bewildering, the new housing is obscene, wars are worse than ever before, every thing is over the top. I can't make any sense of any of it.

Art Buchwald died, he knew he would and he wrote a column to be published after his death. He said some things I agree with. He said his mind keeps turning to food and he has found it hard to pass up a banana split. That makes sense to me.

He thinks it is egocentric to believe that someone is put on earth for a reason. He would like to think his last column might wind up on a cereal box or be repeated every Thanksgiving Day. If anything I ever wrote ended up on a cereal box, I would hope it would be "Eat your vegetables."

It would be a good thing if we were here for a reason other than to make love and war. Making love in the 50's gave me a reason for being here, five to be exact. The eternal question for me is what about after all that? The five, or six, or seven are off with their own reason for being here. After working and saving for a rainy day, or in my case my old age, then what? More precisely, NOW what?

Buchwald ends his posthumous column, "What's it all about, Alfie?"

Bad Calls

My wake up call was from a South Dakota pay phone. I thought pay phones were a thing of the past. The first words that rattled my ear drum was a blast of profanity. "Are you really so stupid." "Where is my twin?" "Your name is ruined." "The FBI and CIA and Hillary Clinton are all on to your evil schemes." I am flummoxed with the profanity. I should have known better than to answer it.

Novels pale when one's real life is besieged with the dark mind of the mentally ill. The hatred has become predictable over the past 20 years. It is not easier, however. For the moment she is safe and so are we, it would be a relief if it lasted a while, but nothing ever lasts.

He Who Must Be Obeyed has been gone for nearly a week picking up the pieces again. He calms me with frequent phone calls, his own quiet acceptance of difficult days, and kind warnings against picking up the profane calls.

R. is in the South Dakota Mickelson Center for the Mentally Ill after a week in jail and some time in the hospital. Why, I wonder, do they allow their patients to make harassing phone calls? She is "protected by the FBI and CIA and they are on to our evil ways." "The Eye in the Sky is watching your every move, you know." "Hillary Clinton has taken over your computer. Did you know that, or are you so stupid you don't know that either?" "I know the entire Kennedy family, even the one they hid away in a convent." "Why did you name my twin the same as me?" "Why are you so f***ing ignorant?"

Friends have made me happy with food and girl talk.

There are worse calls than those from telemarketers.

Start the Year With Humor

NOAH: If the few remaining polar ice caps melt, are we in danger of another flood that would cover all the dry land?

TLGA(The Lord God Almighty): When is the last time you read Genesis 9:11-17? I thought you had some new questions to ask Me. If My Promise doesn't satisfy you, calculate the volume of water required to bring mean sea level over the top of Mt. Everest, and then see if there is that much water in your entire planet. More than half of your habitations may be flooded, your expensive vacation homes may be demolished, your insurance rates may rise beyond what even the wealthiest of you can afford. In the worst-case scenario, your best farmland may be flooded, and two thirds of you may starve to death. But there will still be dry land. You aren't ALL going to die.
By the way, before the polar ice caps totally melt, a corrective mechanism will be invoked, but you won't find it comfortable. It is called an Ice Age – kicks in every time sea level goes above a certain point. Might be good for you.

When I read the WittenburgDoor and laugh at the absurdity, does God laugh with me, or is he wagging his finger at my boorish behavior? God is probably too busy with this godforsaken, no pun intended, world to give a snap about what I laugh at. If he did, I could keep him busy. I find way too much humor in my world.

Happy New Year, my dear reader. If that sounds like a joke to you, maybe you need a laugh or two right now, also.

Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka

This is a December occurance. It is the Astronomy Picture of the Day for today, 2006 December 29. I use these beautiful images often as my computer wallpaper.

Mintaka comes from the Arabic word for belt. Alnilam means "a belt of pearls." Alnitak means the girdle. All three are Super Giant Stars and are 35,000 times greater than the Sun in brightness and 20 times the mass of the Sun.

Turning Off Lights

The photo exemplifies our existential Christmas Eve. It is our dearest A, and her darling Z. A to Z, thank you for being ours. A California grandson can attest to the fact that it happened. The more I think about it the more wondrous it is in my memory. I love our family so much I feel gushy.

More of our family spent the afternoon of the 27th with us. We have grandsons from California that I think of as our Gentle Giants. B is 6'4: and his brother D, is 6'3". It makes the rest of us feel like shrimps; well maybe not their uncle, B, who is about 6'. People of height are noticed when they come into a room, when they walk in a mall, when they sit in front of you at church or in the movies. They can reach things. They show up in family photographs. Their height alone marks them.

He Who Must Be Obeyed has an ancestor that was seven foot tall or more. It is in the family history written in Norway. The work starts out with the giants fighting in a field near Laerdal, a municipality in the county of Sogn og Fjordane, Norway. His great grandmother was married in the Borgund Stave Church there.

What is this all about? I started writing about wrapping up the Christmas lights. That is how my morning started. He Who Must Be Obeyed was winding up the light strings from the front bushes and the little row of White Spruce in the front yard. I don't think Christmas is over until after Epiphany. I am not turning off the lights inside until January 6th. Speaking of epiphanies, that A to Z was mine this morning. Yes it is a web browser too.

The Boe Barn

A son and grandson built this beautiful barn. Last year about this time he added trout to the pond; they all had to be taken before the water got too warm in June. Fly fishing in ones back yard is as good as a Black Hills stream; closer to the freezer, too, or the grill.

I suspect my daughter in law took this photo last December and emailed it to me. I think it is lovely. Thanks J. for sending it on.

In the olden days when we lived in Nemo, SD, a neighbor boy would often knock on the door with a string of trout just caught in Box Elder Creek. They were cleaned and pan ready, ten cents apiece. My own children swam in the creek but I don't recall very much fishing going on. One caught a trout in his hands that had spilled over a dam behind our house.

There is More Than One Way to Skin a Cat

The above maxim is strange but the meaning is true. I have spent three days trying to get the sheep picture below uploaded. It was just too large to handle so I emailed it to myself from my picture file. That was an automatic jpg.

Our eldest son is in Italy for a month. He had to leave his family to take on a task for Boeing. He tells me he might be able to go to Rome for Christmas. That is very exciting news. It is good it is him instead of me as I would surely die of the moment.

I love getting his email. I hope he writes about every little detail of his experience there.

We in Omaha are getting rain instead of snow. Every city is beautiful in a snowstorm.

The Shepherd

My father was a sheepherder in his youth. That is a lowly position and one that, for years, I wasn't terribly proud of. To make matters worse, I doubt very much that in that wild western land he herded on horseback. I just bet it was on his two feet.

What I am certain of is that he spent some of the time when the sheep were safe and still in carving on the rocky outcrops of the South Cave Hills. I have seen only two of these petroglyphs by his had. There are more. He also painted many canvases of sheep. Many of them include Archer Gilfillin's sheepwagon and dog. In some ways I can compare my own father to today's readings which are all centered on the care of sheep. I am not so timid anymore about saying "My Father was a Shepherd."

"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young." Isaiah 40:11

"For he is our God; and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand..." Psalms 95:7

"How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nice, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?" Matthew 18:12

Saints and Christmas Trees

The tree is up, the flocking vacumed away, He Who Must Be Obeyed is so terribly exhausted. I am still addressing cards and with every envelope, I pray a little blessing for that person or family so very dear to us.

This 12th of December is the Saint Day for St. Jane Frances de Chantal. Born at Dijon, France in 1572, she married and had six children. After her husband's death, Francis de Sales became her spiritual director. She founded the Congregation of the Visitation for women who wished to live a religious life but could not endure the austerities of existing orders. She spent her life in the care of the sick and poor, and died in 1641.

We still exist, we women who would like to live a religious life but can't endure the austerity of it all. We not only want our comforts, but our Christmas tree as well.

I have a dear e pal who calls himself the English Papist. He sends me the Saints and Readings every single week and has for years. I am thankful for his faithfulness. J.R. you are the saint, me thinks.

Called to the Table

I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see. - John Burroughs. Me too.

Weather Forecasting and Hypothermia

December 5th, the countdown to the 24th is on a slippery slide. Holy Cross is having Advent Services on Wednesdays using the Holden Evening Prayer as liturgy. It will be a good way to quiet oneself for Christmas.
The only thing I have done in preparation is to address some Christmas Cards. It feels like I am farther along than I actually am, as I started with the 'H's' in my Address Book. I am doing them the old fashioned way, with a pen. Having married a Boe whom is the fifth of ten siblings, I have the largest amount left.

Sometimes I write a Christmas letter...at the moment I am all written dry. Perhaps after this Wednesday's Advent service, I will think on a higher plane. Lately, all I can think of is what is not right with the world. What sort of letter would that make? I have gone there in an email or two; but I have deleted the paragraphs of nasty temperament in a couple others before sending them off. Half empty glasses are nothing to write about; and they only drag one's reader.

A sister in law sent me a book, called "Sister Chicks." I would never have picked it off the shelf by it's title. It has surprised me in that I can relate to it and a trip to Finland with the main character. If you read this, E., thanks. I like it and I am about half finished.

A cousin sent He Who Must Be Obeyed a book when he had his shoulder joint replaced. I am reading it aloud to him as it sooths both of us, even though the story is chilling to both of us. Being children in Dakota, it is a bit too close to our own experiences with cold weather. "The Children's Blizzard" is about the January 12, 1888, killer storm that took Dakota Territory, Nebraska, Montana and Minnesota down in disaster with below zero temperatures, strong winds, and blowing snow. It caught rural children not dressed for disaster, as the morning walk to school was balmy. Those trying to walk home or to a warmer place were in for trouble of the worst kind.

The author describes weather fronts, lows and highs, temperature changes and exactly how a human dies in below zero temperatures. We are not done with it, but we are learning a lot. He has also put familiarity into the children and parents involved in this ghastly disaster. And thank you to L and N who sent this to HWMBO.

He Who Must Be Obeyed was lost in a blizzard once while deer hunting alone in the Black Hills. We talked about it some the other day. He was dressed for the cold but was lost in deep snow getting deeper by the minute. He was ready to find for shelter for the night about the time he found his pickup that he had left hours before. He said his pockets were full of candy bars but he made one bad mistake. He didn't have any matches.

Small Talk

People who have a gift for small talk amaze me. Maybe Finnish folks as a rule are not as glib as our more gabby cousins. I say cousins in a more universal way. Most of my cousins are also Finnish or half Finnish Americans and are about as small talk handicapped as I am.

Family reunions and Class reunions separate the small talkers from the shy "lump in the throat" people. Debra Fine says the ability to connect with people through small talk is an acquired skill.

I married into a huge family; my husband is the fifth of ten siblings and not all of them have the gift of gab. But their heritage is Norwegian and we all know how morose they can be. The term "dark Norwegian" was exemplified by Edvard Munch in his "Scream." Omaha's Joslyn Art Museum featured a traveling exhibit of Odd Nerdrum some years ago. Some of his works could give a person nightmares.

Being a melancholy Finn married to a dark Norwegian I regret that our house isn't filled with chatty small talkers. It would be a good self improvement study. The Internet seems to be helpful. Along with Debra Fines suggestions there are more on the Net, one is titled "How to Make Small Talk." The tips and warnings at the bottom of the page are worth reading, but if someone pulled her exit line on me I would never bother to speak to them again.

On second thought maybe it is too late to "small talk" if it simply is not one's nature.

Gratitude

This morning I woke up to Grace Matters, which is perhaps my most favored radio program. Sleeping through it isn't the loss it once was as I can go online and listen to them at any time. "Thankful Beyond Understanding" was today's broadcast. "This program’s reflection speaks to the joy contained in one of Loder’s prayers of thanksgiving, in a week when Americans are remembering what it means to live thankfully".

My simple little photo is of my current table decoration. The tiny evergreens came home in a water bottle from the top of the Big Horns the day after Labor Day. A dear sister in law cut out the leaves and painted them on the gourd in 1999 and the pears were picked by a son in September. The last of them have ripened now between newspapers in a box in the refrigerator. Each item a memory ripe with gratitude.

Living thankfully. That is a good mantra.

The Jerk and the Jounce

I am one of 600,000 people world wide who subscribe to A.Word.A.Day; it is a good feeling to belong to a group. I hear it is good for your health as well, especially if you are in a crowd cheering on a sport. As long as I don't do that I am glad that I am one of something.

Once a week readers have their say over the words used the previous week. A couple of folks wrote in about 'jounce.' "Jounce is also a technical term in engineering, although perhaps not in the widest standing. Some fairground ride designers make use of it." This fellow goes on to say that "human animals really, really enjoy jounce, so long as it's kept to a healthy level."

Jounce is defined as the change in acceleration over time.

Another fellow writes: "It turns out, after much graphing of results, that the excitement you feel on a ride is not so much to do with the speed of the ride as the acceleration - how fast the speed is changing. And it's not so much even that, more how fast the acceleration is changing -- the 'jerk'. And, lo and behold, it's even more to do with how fast the jerk is changing -- the 'jounce'.

Words are certainly enjoyable and I like being a part of a group of 600,000; I can't see that it is improving my health, however.

Schadenfreude or Journalism?

This morning I learned something new about something old. New words, even foreign ones, if they can be used in an English sentence, are enjoyable. I learned the word "schadenfreude" this morning from Martin Marty's Sightings.

Marty, University of Chicago Divinity School, writes "Considering Ted Haggard's Plight." He says reporters find this discovery "....an occasion for enjoying Schadenfreude among those less friendly to him -- many of whom regard themselves as wounded by him, and oppose him now as a front-rank motivator to "get out the troops" to vote on Election Day for measures focused on by the Christian Right."

"...expressions of Schadenfreude don't go well in the week when Democrats are embarrassed by Senator Kerry's blunder...."

SIGHTINGS :Under the editorship of Jeremy Biles, and the sponsorship of the Martin Marty Center, reports and comments on the role of religion in public life via e-mail twice a week to a readership of over 5,000. Through the eyes, ears, and keyboards of a diverse group of writers—academics, clergyman, laypeople, and students—Sightings displays the kaleidoscope of religious activity: a reflection of how religious currents are shaping and being shaped in the world.

From the Catechism of the Catholic Church: 2497 By the very nature of their profession, journalists have an obligation to serve the truth and not offend against charity in disseminating information. They should strive to respect, with equal care, the nature of the facts and the limits of critical judgment concerning individuals. They should not stoop to defamation.

The long thin line between reporting the facts and Schadenfruede emerge when a public person says something or commits an act defaming himself or herself and is the tightrope the media has to navigate. Does it only seem that the difference between print and broadcast divide the situation? The act of telling and listening makes Schadenfreude all the juicier.

Sorting Out What is Really Important

When I experience things that matter, I am wanting to share it with the world. Like yesterday when our pastor baptized an infant, took it out of its father's arms, called it "Sweetheart" and faced the congregation to show her to her new family; the saints who would love her and pray for her and watch her grow into adulthood. She fell asleep in her father's arms and with the oil and water was anointed a child of God with a family so numerous it was impossible to count.

It was all a miracle, a rebirth, and one that will stay with me forever; as will the sermon. Our pastor is a gift from God.

The past week or more I have had a huge and somber responsibility. A loved one has come to me for a listener and advice and encouragement. Every word must be prayed over and weighed before spoken. One cannot dash hope, one cannot discourage second thoughts, one cannot be anything other than supportive. Then pray like crazy that one has said the right word of encouragement, with the correct amount of faith in, and expecting of the best of all decisions made. An example here or there, acknowledgement of life's difficulties; and always the faith in people's motivation.

This beloved person is amazing. I believe the Holy Spirit moves in people's hearts and minds in mysterious and wonderful ways if we are inclined to listen and recognize when God works in our lives in sacramental ways so mysterious to us.

Everyone deserves that chance to reorder life in a way to be able to move forward with love and hope.

Black Hills Ghost Stories

I don't particularly like Halloween. Even when I was an enthusiastic teen, tipping toilets throughout the ranch country around my home town wasn't to my liking. I was more the bobbing for apples in a dimly lit basement sort of girl.

The toilet thing always bothered me as my dad had such a terrible time keeping ours upright. He finally got so sick of the yearly ordeal that he dug four deep post holes on each corner of it, put in sturdy wooden posts and wired the structure to each of them. I was in highschool and it was the talk of the town to my chagrin. He put an end to the November 1st ordeal. A cousin bought the property and not very many years ago, I noticed that the outhouse was still standing.

In this morning's Rapid City Journal Online, Heidi Bell Grease writes about Black Hills Hauntings. I took a class called Ghost Towns and Gold Mines of the Northern Hills and our instructor told us the story of Red Water Hill. Bell Grease writes "...Another story goes that on the second floor of the Bodega, also a former brothel, a prostitute was killed by a customer. Some say they’ve heard her decapitated head rolling down the stairs from the second floor."

He Who Must Be Obeyed and I had an interesting occurrence in the mid '60's while we were living in Nemo, which is about halfway between Rapid City and Deadwood.

We had gone into Deadwood to pick up groceries one evening and stopped in to the Bodega on our way home. We were the only people there. It was beginning to snow and we weren't going to be there very long. The barmaid, an elderly woman, was talkative and friendly. She felt very sorry for the old pimp who lived upstairs as he was old, ill and lonely. I didn't know at the time that prostitution was still going strong until 1982 when the city fathers finally shut the trade down.

After she reminisced about old times for a little while, she asked us if we would like to look at the tunnel in the basement. She locked the door, led us down the brick stairway into the basement. Apparently all the businesses on that side of the street were connected by a brick tunnel with an arched roof from building to building. She said some businesses had cemented the thoroughfare to prevent theft as the access to one another's buildings were so free. Actually the reason for the tunnel was to provide access to the Chinese opium dens in days of old.

Sitting by Men on Planes

It feels like years since I have been here. C died and went to heaven. He Who Must Be Obeyed had a cobalt-chromium ball put into a shoulder joint right at the time of the funeral. When he was in the hospital I became so sick I didn't go see him until I picked him up at the door, he in a wheel chair me in my Wrangler. The specific gravity of cobalt is 8.9 and chromium is 7.19. I thought his left shoulder might feel a little heavier but he says not.

I was pleased to be in charge for a week or so. Now, I will be glad for the help, especially because the ice maker is leaking water again, another case of built in uselessness. We have had it fixed once or twice already and the frig isn't that old.

Yesterday I took him to his talented surgeon to take the stitches out. My sore throat has turned into a pain between my shoulder blades. We were both ready to throw in the towel until I made meatloaf and baked potatoes for lunch. Life is like lunch, sometimes it is leftovers and sometimes it is meatloaf.

I have coughed into my pillow night and day and wondered what I should write about. I thought about the nasty situation with the FCC and the communication giants wanting to hog up all of the air in the country. That is dangerous and makes me mad. My only hope is that our Omaha World Herald, still employee owned, will retain its integrity. I once taught with a journalism teacher who felt the OWH was very biased and leaned to the right. The Powell kid really dropped the ball and disappointed me with letting the FCC get so out of control. I think it is about fairness to the citizens not capitalism when it comes to information. Obscenity is a whole other matter.

My nightly local radio station, KFAB, is in hot water and owned by Clear Channel; but still has enough local programming to get its nose in a wringer by one outspoken afternoon personality. He aired a parody about our northside violence, angered some outspoken people, was asked by the city council to apologize; and then wrote a parody about the council. So it goes.

I do care about what is happening to the information highway. I like being able to email, google, blog, and snoop into everything that is and is not my business. I don't want it to change. I don't want a gatekeeper shutting me out of the traffic.

I was going to write about sitting by men on planes. Next time, I will.

When a Friend Dies

The following is from the Henri Nouwen Daily Meditation of August 29th, 2006.
As I read his series on death, I thought of my long time friend, schoolmate, cousin by marriage, and later traveling companion. She was ill and we spoke of her coming death over the phone and in person many times. I am grateful for the opportunity we took to say our mortal goodbyes when we were together the last time over the Labor Day weekend.

She explained to me how she no longer felt "at home" in her beautiful Black Hills condo. She said that over the last days she was less and less attached to the beautiful things around her. The Norwegian things that she loved and books she loved. She was in the process of giving them away to friends, relatives, the church, charity.

I was given items she had treasured over the years. Pillowcases my own mother had embroidered for her wedding to my cousin, a wooden spoon from Finland my mother had given her 25 years ago, books about growing up Lutheran, Finnish and Norwegian books.

Another friend was there when she was stripping the walls. She sent a framed Norwegian print, "The Boy With the Silver Flute," to be given to me. After we spent a month in Norway together, I ordered the print for her from a remote art gallery in Norway.

It was the stripping of Good Friday. She died, and we are celebrating Easter Sunday once more. My friend lives and is re-membered and loved.

The Companionship of the Dead from Henri Nouwen

As we grow older we have more and more people to remember, people who have died before us. It is very important to remember those who have loved us and those we have loved. Remembering them means letting their spirits inspire us in our daily lives. They can become part of our spiritual communities and gently help us as we make decisions on our journeys. Parents, spouses, children, and friends can become true spiritual companions after they have died. Sometimes they can become even more intimate to us after death than when they were with us in life.

Remembering the dead is choosing their ongoing companionship.

Numa Numa Dance

Last night I was inundated by brain stuff on television. 20-20 entertained the differences of female/male brains. There is nothing like gender differences to keep one glued to a program. Then our local Health and Wellness channel, which offers medical lectures to professionals across the state of Nebraska, examined brains and what has been learned about them. Having had a TIA several years ago the second half of the program, devoted to brain attacks, had me both mesmerized and horrified.

After 52 years of wedded bliss, I am daily mystified as to why He Who Must Be Obeyed and I almost never see eye to eye. I suspect it is all because his remarkable brain was flooded with testosterone in utero and mine repelled it and welcomed all of that soft gooey estrogen. Is it any wonder if I try to go off of Premarin, I go into waves of hot flashes, even in my age.

The only brain I have a conversation with is my own. Wouldn't you think a person would be consistent in their interests? Why then can I be so entertained by both the speakers on C-Span II's BookTV and yet be so delighted by the Numa Numa Dance? It makes no sense.

In 2004 I was so tickled by the Numa Numa guy that when I first found it on Lockergnome I sent it to all of my grandkids. I still like it...but not hours of it. This link repeats itself until a person's brain goes dead.