The Matriarch

I come by the title "matriarch" honestly. Grandma told me I was in line for it when I was probably thirteen ( I had no idea what it meant).  She said that after her passing, Aunt Marjie would take over and then me.  We were talking about the Royal family as I recall, and she was doing her best to explain what it all meant.

I remember asking Aunt Marjie about it later on, maybe when I was twenty or so. She, in her slightly blond terminology, made it sound like a great triumph. And when she died. Mom came into the title. We talked about it a few times, then her interest waned. It came to my mind again when Mom passed over in May of 2010.

I am the matriarch of my family. Certainly I can't claim the same status as Rose Kennedy or the Queen Mother. I am wife, Ma, Grandma.  I am Matriarch.

There is something about the title, however.

It is an ancient rite of passage, or maybe just old-fashioned, given to the oldest female--or at least the one who manages to remember the title and carry it forward. It should bring with it respect, wisdom and maybe a bit of groveling on the family's part.

Alas, nobody in my family recognizes the entitlement. To them I am Ma ( can you make the meatballs?), wife (Honey, what's for dinner!) and Grandma ( Can you buy me some XBox games?). If is mentioned at all, it is with a snigger and a comment, "That means you're OLD, Ma!"

I am thinking that when I turn 62 in seven months that I should do it up right, with a tiara, a royal wave and my subjects rolling out a purple carpet while I in my ermine-trimmed robe make my way to a silver Bentley jammed with Matriarch-worthy gifts....sigh.

Here's the thing. I will settle for the wisdom, the respect and a hug now and then. I don't need anything, not really, except maybe a Kindle Fire and the sway bar link on my car fixed.  Or maybe a license plate that acknowledges the fact. And a few of my traditions carried on.

Nope, I'm not the Queen Mother--not even the Queen.

I am Ma, Wife, Grandma.

I am also MATRIARCH.

I'm Baaack!

What a year this has been.

I quit my job, but I told you that.

I've started three different jobs, one of which I really like but they are going out of business. The second I like, but after finding my client near death I'm not sure I can go back. The third...well, we'll see. I don't feel like I'm a good fit,  especially after the Christmas party, but time will tell. Six months and 21 days to decide, less if the Mayans are right.

My book is creeping along. I find it light in some areas, too sentimental in others.  Well, in six months and 21 days I will decide if I should continue. Less if the Mayans are right.

I've been thinking about those Mayans. If I believed their end-of-days calendar, I could be out spending right now, stuffing my face with gin and chocolate without fear of the consequences, driving Hubby's sports car without the horror of dinging it, telling all those people who bug me where to take a leap and on and on. But I don't believe them, so I will keep my doctor appointment on Tuesday, get the sway bar link (or whatever that thing is) fixed and go back to religiously working out at the Y.

The blog may take a new bend. It depends on where my heart lies at the moment I put fingertips to keyboard.  Cousin Zelda inspires me to write about our slightly moronic but...uh... interesting relatives. Love inspires some sentimentality. My church inspires me to write about faith and my friends and acquaintances give me ideas without knowing it.

So I'm back, semi-regularly. Please read, comment, share, laugh (I hope) and cry if you feel like it.

Jezlebub and Zitzenbio, Tiddlewinks' Relatives

Jezlebub was the sister of Zitzenbio and they were the children of Katinbloom and Snodgrass Smith. third cousins of Tiddlewinks some times removed.  The two were inseparable, not like Toobald and Hirsute, but because they liked each other. An older sibling, Annie (who was made fun of because of her name) didn't quite fit in with their mischievous behavior. Besides, Annie was positive that there was a Higher Power, and Jez and Zits were never really sure.  The chasm grew between the three (four if you count their brother Hurtsalot who was  constantly fighting with Ezra, the town drunk) till it made the Grand Canyon look puny.

It was a sunny day in the middle of May when everything came to a head, including seven pimples on Zitzenbio's nose and three on his neck.  Biganddumb Nosebetter, the town bully, was on a rampage. For most of March, all of April and all but two days so far in May he had terrorized Jezlebub and poor Zitz, and with Zitz' nose getting ready to erupt any second, well, he just made a better target for Biganddumb. It had reached a point where townspeople would line the streets at 4:02 p.m., waving flags; the town cheerleader would bounce around with her pompoms and little white boots (they hurt her feet but the town fathers insisted on them) and everybody would sing "On, Wisconsin".

Along would come Biganddumb, and he'd stand in the middle of Main Street waiting for Zitz and Jez, and soon as he saw them he'd wind up that big ol' arm of his and start pounding poor Zitz while Jez wrung her hands and wailed. Why nobody came to his rescue is a mystery.  An even bigger mystery was why Zitz and Jezlebub walked that way every day as if wanting to see poor Zitz bloodied. (It later came out that Jez really did have some issues and in therapy years later she admitted to a secret crush on Biganddumb.)

Well, on that day in May Zitz got wind of a bookie who was taking bets on the daily outcome.  Actually, Zitz was downwind from the bookie (Jeremiah Sludgebody) who had a terrible body odor and when he went to investigate the stench, he overheard several townsmen and one woman kibitzing on his fate-to-be.

Well, Zitz had had enough. He dropped to his knees and said a heart-felt prayer and asked for a miracle, and when he stood up lo and behold, his forearms were like tree stumps with fingers, his biceps were big as cannons, his triceps were like, like, like...well, I don't know, but you get the idea. He popped out of his shirt like some sort of Incredible Hulk (how come David Banner never ran out of shirts?) and ran towards Biganddumb like an out-of-control freight train (or like Jezlebub after a few Manhattans).

Biganddumb, being too stupid to move his carcass, stood stunned while Zitz  had his way, punching here and squeezing a zit there, until Biganddumb couldn't take much more and threw up on Zitzenbio's patent leather shoes.

Oh, the reaction of the townspeople! Hey, they had lost a ton of cash betting on Biganddumb, the "sure thing" and they took after Zitz and ran him and Jez straight into Bugspit, Georgia. So the bookie made a bundle, huh? Not exactly....one townswoman, full of faith that Zitzenbio would win one of these days had wagered two dollars for every dollar the town put up against Zitz.

Annie walked away with a big smile and and a scrub bucket full of moolah.

From the Diary: Hiswife

Hiswife had a given name, Justina, I think it was, but back in those days she was so often referred to as "his wife" that eventually the nickname stuck.  Hiswife decided to go into politics before most women had political ambitions, and, indeed, before they had the right to vote in most states.  Her frustrated husband, Webster, disapproved, but stopping Hiswife from doing what she wanted was like trying to stop me from eating peanut butter.  She would go on a rant, starting about Washington (the man, not the city) and ending...well, not ending, which drove him crazy.

Hiswife decided she needed a cause if she planned to win any kind of seat in Fleabasket County. From there Hiswife  dreamed she would go  to the state senate, then to the governorship, maybe even president someday. She made a list of everything that troubled her in the small community of Looselice and went to work.

First of all,  Fleabasket County was a hotbed of bugs. Little bugs, big bugs, bedbugs, biting bugs, creepy crawlies and head lice.  Her slogan became "Bugs Out!' and since the other candidate's name was Butthorn Bugs, well, the men (not the brightest of creatures in Looselice) thought she meant him, and since they didn't like Butthorn Bugs  much anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, they voted for her. The women, who were a majority in Looselice and had the vote, knew exactly what she meant and came out in swarms (so to speak) to vote for the eradication of insects.

So Hiswife became the first woman custodian of Looselice and probably would have stayed in office till she died, except for one bug in the ointment. Community council voted to merge with the neighboring township of Westofhere and her office was abolished as part of the agreement. I heard it went up for grabs in a game of Penny-Ante, but I have no documentation of that.

The "bugs out" slogan didn't work so well during the state race and went nowhere when she ran as a candidate for president although her idea that women everywhere should vote did catch on. She made a small fortune on fly traps and sticky strips, hair wash made from kerosene and tiny little combs which she called nitpickers. Sales of anti-itch creams dropped considerably under her watch.  The sales of convenience foods grew exponentially because nobody cooked from scratch anymore. Yes, it was a shame to see her reign end.

Webster was so proud of Hiswife that he quit his job as a soap salesman to become Hiswife's campaign manager when she decided to run for mayor.  His untimely death due to the bite of a black widow spider made Hiswife even more determined to succeed at the political game.  Her new slogan would be "Stomp Out Arachnids!"......

And since the mayor's name was Arachnid Redbelly, and he wasn't well-liked anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, well, her political web caught all the people and she went on to serve eight and a half terms.

I don't know why Tiddlewinks included Hiswife in the diary because I can't see how she could be related to me and Zelda unless it's from the time great-great granduncle Protrude  (also called "Probe") went out west with the harem girl and came back with ringworm, three puppies, eleven kids and a scorpion called 'Ray'.

Politics and Me

I see that two old acquaintances are vying for the same seat in our primary election in April. They are both filing their petitions under my registered party. There are others running, too.  In a city this size I am amazed that I don't know all of the candidates on a first-name basis.

I was thinking that I should choose. Fortunately, I have grown enough to know that I don't have to choose.  Neither of them espouses my political ideals. This may be the first election where I decide to abstain--at least in the primary.  I haven't missed one since I turned twenty-one, the first year I was allowed by law to vote.

I'm disgusted with politics.  The in-fighting of the candidates irritates me--aren't they all of the same party?  For the most part the current crop of elected officials are leaches on the taxpayers' wallets.  How dare they criticize welfare recipients and corporate hand-outs when they are living on the public dole themselves?  They work for it? They work fewer days a year than many children attend school.

I don't want politicians telling me that it is wrong or right to be pro-choice or pro-life. Stay out of my medicine.  Stay out of my bed--who I sleep with or choose to marry isn't for government to decide.  Don't tell me where I have to go to school.  Stay out of my church.

Don't tell me it's OK to get drunk as a skunk on Jack Daniels but it's not OK to get high on marijuana. Of course I don't want heroin for sale at the corner CVS, but for an adult to choose pot? The same rules apply as to alcohol--DUI, no selling to minors. Jail time for an ounce? I don't think so.

I don't want the feds intervening in education, housing, insurance or business. Let the states set rules if they must.  In business, forget federal interference.  The consumer will weed out the incompetent and make wealthy the reputable.  No, we don't need feds to regulate our milk or our vitamins.   Americans are independent and resourceful when they have to be.  The candidate I'm looking for will back off personal issues and let the government get back to defending our liberty.

The federal government is our biggest employer. They have no incentive to be creative or productive. If a program fails taxes go up and they throw money at it.  They spend precious time and money passing legislation that is designed for their own job security.  Government  adds nothing to the consumer--no product, no distribution--only rules that keep Grandma from selling the jelly she makes in her own kitchen.

I get so angry when I think about it!

So to you who choose to run for political office I ask this: WHY?? Are you willing to be a servant of the people?  Or are you in it for the perks?  Will you answer honestly when asked a question? Or will you ignore it and hope it passes? No, I will not sign your petition and no, you will not get my vote unless you can show me you believe as I do. You believe as your conscience will allow.  Maybe there is a middle ground somewhere.

I may not vote at all this year for the first time.  It's quite a struggle to separate the wheat from the chaff.

The Book of Felsnaptha

Felsnaptha had a mouth like a fishmonger's wife (but not knowing any fishmongers' wives, I can't verify that) or perhaps Tom Brady's grandma who I heard say some choice phrases on Super Bowl Sunday. Felsnaptha (fourth cousin, twice removed, I think on Zelda's mother's father's side, but that's a little fuzzy), whose real name was Ebenezra (I am not making this up...) was so nicknamed because she spent much of her younger days with a bar of soap in her mouth in the useless attempt to clean up her language.  Nobody knew where she had learned those words, though I suspect Jon Crapper, the second-floor houseman had something to do with that, just to get even with the nanny (Bruce Twoshoes, of course nicknamed Goody) who told Felsnaptha's aunt that he had been trying on her wigs and...oh, never mind.

Felsnaptha's mouth was a source of irritation to everyone around her, especially to the pharmacist Mr. Pillmaker.  She would go into the pharmacy-slash-soda bar, wait until he was concentrating on mixing drugs for a special order (often a particularly volatile one that she had called in herself) and wait...wait...wait for it ..."$#$% ^&*( %%#@!!!" till poor Mr. Pillmaker would leap skyward and cling to the bars he had installed on the ceiling for this very purpose when Felsnaptha came of age.  She'd proceed to laugh her BWAHAHAHA laugh until Mr. Pillmaker would drop exhausted from his branch, then go on to ridicule street children, cab drivers (who often responded with a "<>?$" of their own) and the humans at Watcherwalkin Pet Park...

Felsnaptha was well into maturity when she met her match, a mostly soft-spoken vet (animal doctor, not disengaged service personnel) who specialized in wild animals.  She had actually gone to see him, thinking he was a doctor for humans, for a sore hoof...uh...foot. (They were quite clunky. It was hard to tell.) When he stroked the offending appendage, she let off a stream of expletives that would have made George Carlin blush. Well, young Dr. Halfpigeon took her under his wing (literally--you should have seen it! White, with feather-shaped fingers), amazed at her extensive vocabulary.

They instantly fell in love.  He taught her how to reserve her language for the hyenas who laughed at it and the gorillas who mocked her and Felsnaptha found that she was quite the animal whisperer.  She of course preferred to tutor parrots and toucans which wouldn't have bothered Dr. Halfpigeon quite as much if they hadn't been boarding an African blue for a preacher from Redneck, Kentucky and a cockatoo from Hewhospeaksfoulgetsslapped, Minnesota. It took months to re-educate the birds and of course by that time every six year old in the Land of a Thousand Lakes knew a thousand ways to call somebody a dirty name.

Dr. Halfpigeon and Felsnaptha have spent the last few years in Catchupwitchu, Peru where they teach the Mayan descendants how to speak English slang.

Their mission ends on December 21, 2012.

Reminded

There are two kinds of people in the world...those who give and those who take.
Or those who give darkness and those who light a candle.
Or those who need healing and those who lead them to the way of healing.
Or those who reject the will of God and those who embrace His Word.

You see what I mean?  My social studies teacher (they called it Civics back then) said the world is full of "haves" and "have nots". Which kind are you?

I believe most of us are "haves", but we are unable to accept that and dwell instead on our troubles and our wants, becoming willing "have nots".

I believe that everyone has a calling--one has to listen carefully to know what the calling is. In real life I see those who are called and those who are pew-warmers. It's so sad. Many are called but few are chosen?  Many are called, but few hear.

Since I accepted my own calling some months ago, I find that I am being called again and again.  Sometimes I move too quickly, like today.  The object of my concern wanted me to listen. I did. For some reason, she is unwilling to share her plight with the people of the church--those who would be so willing to pray with her and for her.  I find it hard to understand. . . why reject the helping hand of God through people who are filled with the Holy Spirit?  She is too private to share, and I should have realized that, but a burden of a hundred pounds becomes only ten--or five--or nothing-- when others help to lift it.

The sermon caught me off guard.  I had finished writing and was set to edit and post a column about how dissatisfied  I am with my work of late and how I was thinking about going back into sales. I've been on a roller-coaster of highs and lows, never leveling off for long enough to see where I am. As I usually do, I asked at the start of the service for God to release my mind, that I could concentrate on His Word instead of my daily tribulations. When the woman said to me, "I want to be at peace", I knew exactly what she was talking about. Being at peace trumps my niggling dissatisfaction. And then I heard the words of the sermon. I knew that it was time to accept another calling.  Being a listening ear? Yes. Turning water to wine? No.

I know that my calling is to write.  I hope that my words will be shared.  I have recently been called to caregiving, and my newest client shows me exactly what that means.  I believe I have been called to chair the Stewardship Committee because of the blinding flash that accompanied my revelations about stewardship...the words, unrehearsed and unwritten,  came as I stood before the congregational meeting.  As they came from my mouth, I knew that they were coming from my heart.

What about you? Are you called to bring joy to someone's life with a plate of muffins? To crochet a prayer shawl to bring someone peace? To serve as a lay pastor to help share the Word?  Are you supposed to use your skills as a mechanic to help keep someone safe? Or as a teacher to give knowledge? Or to surprise a friend with a care package you know she needs but for which she would never ask?

Your calling may not be inside the Church, but just the same it is something that will serve God as well as your community. OK, so you are not a preacher.  Are you a friend?  OK, so you are not a gung-ho evangelist or a committee person.  Did you cut your neighbor's grass or shovel snow?  Were you there to pick up a child who had fallen from his bike?  Sometimes your calling isn't a big thing with a grandiose purpose, but a small thing with gentle impact. 

You never know when your tiniest deed, your seemingly insignificant spoken word, your touch of a hand or kiss on the cheek, your gift of applesauce or venison, your compliment or your saying, "I'm thinking of you" could be the hope that makes someone go on for another day.

I am reminded today that one has to take stock in one's position in life on a regular basis. One has to listen carefully to find out if God has a new reason for you to be alive. As circumstances change, maybe your calling has, too. 

Maybe my words fall on deaf ears.  Maybe you are at best agnostic, even an atheist who denies the existence of the Creator, Sustainer and Redeemer. I will pray that He reveals Himself to you, and that your purpose and your calling are made clear to you.  Perhaps your calling, be it as a secretary or a tool-maker or maintenance worker, is exactly where God wants you to be. Ask, and He will show Himself.

There are two kinds of people...those who have a purpose in life and those who accept chaos.
Or those who choose a calling instead of those who are led to it.
Or those who wallow in their loneliness and misery and those who reach out of their comfort zone for help.

Sometimes we need to be reminded of which kind of person we are.

Page Next: Alibaba

Alibaba was one of Chester Macalvey's thirty-seven children by his nine wives and two concubines.  Chester was a very busy man.  He ran a grocery store to get all the family's food at a discount (and charged exorbitant prices to the rest of the folks in Dead Plants, Arkansas), worked part time at Ding and Felter's Department Store for the employee savings and bought their clothes at the thrift stores. He also had a small dairy farm, trained the middle kids to dumpster-dive and claimed that the youngest two were descendants of Anastasia (their mother was Czech, not Russian, but that didn't matter to Chester) in a reckless effort to gain the Russian throne.  Not only was his claim dismissed, but he was forbidden to ever  enter Moscow again. Since he had never set foot on Moscowian soil in the first place, he was not impressed.

Alibaba was daughter number six, born to our cousin (third, four times removed, I think--barely a relative at all, thank goodness).  She was actually quite pretty if you viewed her from the left side and not at all from the right. Her right side resembled a carp--scaly and yellowish with this thing that looked like a fin sticking out only not as sharp.  She had a striking figure, long golden blond hair, a big blue eye (sigh...yes, only one, the other was devoid of color and lashes. When one asked her if she could see out of it, she most often replied, "What?", so we were never sure if it was an eye after all, or maybe an ear).

She could be sweet as her left face or as mean as her right implied. Trust me. Mean.

I explained to her, after being victimized by one of her pranks that I won't discuss, that Murphy Brown was just a TV show and that Murphy had a nasty streak, yes, but it was all for comedy's sake. It isn't appropriate in the real world to do those thing, plus plenty more Murphy hadn't thought of.  Like filling a Miata to the brim with water balloons. Like calling every pizza shop in town, asking them to deliver large supreme every fifteen minutes to a certain address on Pennsylvania Avenue (the Secret Service ate leftovers for weeks. Bubba got fat). Like opening the door to an ant farm in a spa that featured a honey-wrap, and rubbing habenero peppers on the door handles of the men's room at Quantico....oh, I could go on and on.

Eventually, the pastor at Snake Breath Believers Church in Yallcomebacknow, Kentucky (where she lived while being married to her first cousin, no times removed, until his death from an asp bite) decided she was possessed by son of Satan and ordered her to subject herself to a rattler calling contest. If the snakes came, she was NOT possessed, and if they didn't come, she was. (Did you guess the pastor only had a second-grade schooling?) I never found out what happened after she spewed pea soup and spun her head around clockwise and chased the snakes so far that none one in Yallcomebacknow has seen one since.  Of course, that could be a fairy tale.

Last I heard, Alibaba was working in Washington, DC with forty thieves and some part-time lobbyists. She had cosmetic surgery and now resembles a carp from both angles.  She decided to have the work-up because she didn't want anybody to think that everyone in Washington was two-faced.

Tootsweet

Toastre (AKA Gruntsmuch) had a daughter that no one knew about, except of course Tiddlewinks, possibly the girl's birth father (who I think may have been Troubadour, the singer in the rock group Night Terrors and Sweat) and probably cousin Zelda's paternal grand uncle Kibbles who had started the Kennel and met Gruntsmuch when he saw her dancing at Limber Puppies Nightclub.  (What kind of dogs did he breed? Well, he didn't exactly breed dogs. He was a undocumented {his word} plastic surgeon who specialized in women's breasts and affectionately called his operating studio 'the Kennel'. He also had a majority interest in Limber Puppies. Anyway....)

Tootsweet was her name, and a nicer person there never was.  She had none of Gruntsmuch's dance moves, couldn't sing the ABC's without the words in front of her and had frizzy blond hair (frizzy because it should have been black) she tied back with a chiffon scarf twisted into a big bow.  But she was a sweetheart, never arguing, always trying to give everyone she met a laugh and a compliment.

Gruntsmuch had given her up at birth, but little Tootsweet sniffed out her mother at the tender age of six and they instantly bonded. Her father by then had gone the way of many rock stars (into rehab) and had not much to do with Tootsweet until some years later when he began playing again and let her bang on the tambourine. When she hit a sour note (not hard for Tootsweet, even on a tambourine), they just played louder.  It is said that they set off car alarms in seven counties, but I don't believe it. Any one of our relatives could have done that.

Anyway, Tootsweet by her smile alone (one would rather not look at her face) could charm almost anyone. Her voice (while not a singing one) was still quite musical.  So when she met Moundsof Q. Moneybucks he simply fell in love BOOM! like a thunderbolt had come from the sky and singed his heart.  He and Tootsweet had twelve children, ten of them born with blond hair and black roots and two who resembled Shrek although he swore they never met.

Moneybucks and Tootsweet had adventures that amazed Zelda and me. One time she began to swing and sway to the music on a trip to India and seventeen cobras began to dance. Another time Moneybucks bought a genuine Rafeal (no, not Raphael)  and paid only twenty six hundred and thirty-two dollars and twelve cents plus tax because the vendor was so enthralled with Tootsweet. At Starbucks she got them free whipped cream on their lattes, and McDonald's left off the pickles when they saw her coming.  Even Barnes and Noble (the taxidermists, not the book sellers) had a special area of stuffed wolverines and hyenas that had Tootsweet's name on a plaque.  Somebody said she scared them to death and she brought their limp little bodies to Barnes because she thought he was a vet and Noble, by his name alone, must be a very kind man (which he wasn't, not really) and they gave her a song and dance (much better than hers) and told her they would take care of her pets. Yes, Tootsweet was a charmer.

Tootsweet and Moneybucks eventually moved to Gromax, Texas, to open an indoor flea market and pub which they called the Junk Stop and Beer. People from all over brought their stuff to sell at a booth that Tootsweet rented them for only seventy-three cents an hour as long as they drank beer all day at eight seventy five a bottle, six bottle minimum, two for toddlers. By the time they got to the fourth beer of their special brew, they were sure it was a bargain and spent happy hours hawking junk and swilling lager. 

The health department closed down Junk Stop and Beer when one of the marketeers brought in actual trained fleas to sell and they got loose and wouldn't come back when the whistle blew. They got into the custom brew, got stinkin' drunk and terrorized the marketplace. The whole thing was stupid. The fleas didn't have enough money between them to pay for the beer they drank and Tootsweet decided they took advantage of her good nature, took care of the tab and they never bothered reopening even after the fine was paid and the flea carcasses removed.

The diary ends here--this page, anyhow--so I'm not sure yet what happened to Tootsweet and Moneybucks.  I do know they kept the surviving fleas and formed a circus so the fleas could work off their beer binge bill.

I think they called it Itchkabibble.

Be Nice

I recently attended a gathering where camera-happy people were in abundance.  For the most part, I think I stayed out of range of flashbulbs and video recordings, but you know how it is. Thank goodness I was not the reason for the get-together. I would have banned the lens from the premises.

There's always one you can't avoid.

Knowing full well how I feel about being photographed, you'd think this one would have left me alone, too. It was not to be.

The camera wielder herself was kind, and she snapped quickly and without a half-dozen poses and tries. She wanted to show me the results, but I declined saying, "No thanks, I know I'm not photogenic", to which the other perpetrator replied, ""Hey, the camera doesn't lie! You look like what you look like! It is what it is!"  Thanks a lot.

Lie to me. Tell me I'm hot. Tell me I'm beautiful. Don't tell me what a great picture I take. Tell me it doesn't do justice to my lovely face. Be nice.

Honesty is a double-edge sword.  It keeps us grounded so we don't outgrow our hat size.  It lets us know where we stand in the eyes of friends and fellow humans.  Yes, honesty is a good thing. It's the brutality with which it is delivered that I can live without.

No one wants to be perpetually put down by your critical commentary whether it is said jokingly or not. A constant barrage of "just being honest with you" is nothing more than asking permission to insult one's looks, accomplishments (or lack thereof), talents (or lack thereof) or whatever.  Chances are, those very criticisms reflect your own shortcomings. Wanna hear about them?

I can't believe I look as awful in person as I do in a photograph.  I know what my failures are (trust me on this--I know), though I prefer to be blissfully unaware.  I am trying to make a conscious effort not to notice the things that bug me, or at least not to mention them.  Hard, very very hard.

All I want from you is for you to be nice.

There are times we are feeling high on life; we don't need to be brought down to earth.

A little white lie will do nicely.

Crazy? I Was Crazy Once...

I have had some commentary and criticism, both public and private, on my tales of Tiddlewinks and other ancestors. Most of it begins with various interpretations of the phrase, "Are you crazy?" to which I answer in impeccable politically correct language, "Hell, no!"

Hubby asks what happens if somebody believes me?  Bring it on. Would I lie?  If even one sovereign nation won't admit to snatching their passports (and I think the Czech Republic may have had Aunt Greasemonkey's) and the CIA won't acknowledge their existence, does that make them less real?

Zelda reminds me of tales not in the diary and I am making notes.  You think my tidbits are outlandish? That's because I haven't yet revealed a lot of Zelda's memories, like the time she (or was it Carcassie, the anorexic niece of Tush?)  flew over the Sears building and her hemline got caught on the cell phone tower and she almost fell, but an updraft caught her and took her south to Phlegm, Wisconsin  where her husband-to-be coughed up a fortune...well, you get the picture.

I have been told that my ancestry explains a lot of why I am who I am and why when I speak of these nut cases I talk in run-on-and-on sentences, but that's really the only way to describe them. Zelda concurs.

I've been asked how I obtained the diary and I can only say I didn't steal it...not really...it was out in the open, covered only with a cherrywood top...and sides...and back..and a little lock that opened without a key (I used a hairpin).  The fact that it was in Lovelace's boudoir has no bearing on my eventual ownership and the lawyer agrees.

After studying my genealogy, I am convinced that I come from a long line of slightly homely relatives (our grandmothers being the first generation of  'lookers'--oh, you haven't seen their pics, have you?)  who, for the most part were smart (or at least smart-ass), rich (none of 'em left us a dime--they all spent our inheritance) and wacky. They were also adventurous and of dubious reputation. Most of the still-living ones must be on the run because Zelda found me and had to come out of witness protection when she did and then she blew my cover as an international spy and we haven't yet located any other long-lost cousins, except Hoopla, but she really doesn't count, and it's just as well.   I assume the rest of the family is also in some quirky business.

I've been told that I am politically incorrect (see paragraph one)--especially about Gutsy and the bare-naked ride through Persia on a camel-- and that I'm sure to get in S-O  M-U-C-H  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.  I call 'em as I see 'em.

No matter--one can't choose blood (except perhaps in a case like this where their creation and viability give Zelda and I a reason for being)--which is why we must carefully choose our friends.

Time to get back to the diary.

Next Page: Titchfiddle

Uncle Titchfiddle, actually a cousin of great-great Grandpa Horsebucket's half brother Cheatsat (and you wonder why first names aren't handed down in this family?) from Freshpants, Arkansas, was a rich old curmudgeon who had been abandoned by his sister in the Grand Canyon when the family went on vacation and then was left to the mountain lions because his father never liked him anyhow and believed his sister because she was blond and cute and clearly his favorite child. Truth is, he wasn't sure he was Titchfiddle's real dad and always suspected that the birth father was the funeral director in Infested, Louisiana, but that's another story. Anyway, the lions did find Titch and raised them as their own. He turned into a mostly OK man after escaping although he did like to bring home dead birds and lay them at your feet.

He also purred, but that's another story.

Titchfiddle made his first money in unknown ways, although it was suspected that he was a rum-runner with the Kennedy clan from Chappedquick, Minnesota.  It was never proven, alas, and his dirty laundry was soaked till it gleamed.  Titchfiddle bought a chain of laundromats and a factory that made dribble glasses and made a fortune until the citizens of Freshpants caught on.

Titchfiddle's special love was archaeology, and he spent years traveling in South America looking for proof that modern man came from Brazil despite evidence to the contrary.  He wasn't opposed to manufacturing 'facts', and on one trip to Sao Paulo planted artifacts that showed a cave-drawing of a native (who looked much like himself) and a winged creature that looked like the Mothman. It wasn't hard to denounce, and Titchfiddle left the site in disgrace. For many years before being banned from South America (except the Balkans), most of Africa, Australia and several European states he plotted ways to get back in good stead with the archaeological community. When that didn't work he fabricated flying machines and amused himself setting them off over Nevada. One crashed, unfortunately, and the government spent years trying to explain it, lying through their collective teeth to make sense of it all when they themselves had no idea what was going on.

Titchfiddle died mysteriously when, shortly after marrying Augustina Hootchiemama, he was in the gondola of a giant weather balloon when it was shot down by apparently not-so-friendly fire, in fact some say it was a bazooka but there was no evidence of bubble gum and the Utah cops refused to believe it was anything but an accident.

His tombstone reads 'Rest in Pieces'.

The Dream Revisited

I read an article by a friend today.

She said she used to dream of raising all the children of the world to know only peace--no fighting, no arguing, no wars, no conflict....how wonderful that sounds!  She knows it can't be so (a very sensible person, she is). But still, it is a dream of many.

It made me think.  What if?  Why didn't God in his infinite wisdom make us a peaceful people?  Why so much turmoil inside and out?  Why do we compete, argue, covet? Why is money the be-all, end-all for so many of us?

Because God in His Infinite Wisdom knew what lay ahead.

If there were no anger, there would be no need to solve conflict.
If there were no conflict, there would be no opinion.
If there were no opinion, there would be no need for change.

If there was no change, we would be content to not bother trying.

Would we try to make strides in medicine? Illness is, after all, a human condition and not caused by God.  Would we accept sickness? Would we have the knowledge and the spirit to fight to get well? Would we have the skills? Would we care?

Why bother with technology? Or why compete to make vegetables grow bigger and wheat fields to produce more?  Who cares about the cost of gas?  We would be too content to argue.  Maybe there would be no need for cars because we would be content to walk.

To be sure, there would be no war.  No race for space.  No need for a military or police.  Or even for government (which might be construed as a good thing).

Would there still be homeless and hungry?  Would our compassion still exist? Or would the "keep the peace" mentality take over? Would the hungry, unwilling to make waves, tell anyone what they need? Or just quietly go off to die?  Or would they even recognize the pain in the gut as hunger?

Would there be a need to praise and worship? No, because Satan, the author of our discontent, would not exist.  No anger, no conflict, no place for Satan to do his dirty deeds. And if Satan did still exist? Then the discussion is moot because there would be wars and violence and arguing and discontent all because Lucifer never learned as a child to keep his paws off other peoples' things.

I would love to see a world of peace, but never one of total contentment. I love to watch the great talents of the world strive to make a better mousetrap.

It's all conjecture, of course. Fact is we live with teaching our children to turn the other cheek, to respect others' positions in life, to compete and cooperate and debate, to share opinions in a way to produce thought and conversation. Each has his own idea of right and wrong or good and evil. 

It's called "free will".

Fill Me

Open my heart, Lord.  Show me what belongs there. Show me the things that are of the world, and the things that are of You.

Teach me to tell the difference.  Let me recognize your voice.  Let me not run away when you call.  Don't let me turn back to the evil when you are calling me to come to you.

Let me be like Simon and Andrew and James and John.  If you call me, I want to go with you.

It would be hard, Lord, to leave my job and my family and my dog.  I don't think you would ask that of me, because it is a different world now, and you know that.  We  need to be more selfless in taking care of ourselves and our family, and the people of our church. You wouldn't ask me to leave them and to follow you, would you, Lord?

I understand.

You are calling me, aren't you, Lord? 

You aren't asking me to leave my job or my family, my church or my dog.  You are calling me to serve you from where I am.  You are calling me to comfort my mom-in-law during her need, to love my family (even the ones that are hardest to love) unconditionally, to do my part to bring others to your feet--especially those who I know as unbelievers and those who are wishy-washy about religion.

Lord, take out of my heart those dark thoughts.  Replace them with kindness. Make me an example of faith and let your eternal light shine through me. I don't want to be the "before" picture of Jonah who ran to hide in a whale. I don't want to be Lot's wife who turned back to see the evil once more. I don't want my heart to have room for the abyss, but for you and your works.

I think I've got that right.  I accept your calling, unworthy as I am.

Fill me with your Spirit. Let me be living in the world as long as you need me to be, until I have accomplished your purpose, but never let me be worldly. I know you understand me, Lord.

Next Chapter: Toobald and Hirsute

From Tiddlewinks' diary, I can't discern if Toobald and his Siamese twin Hirsute were actual blood relation or just friends who became ingrained into family rites.

I do know that the two were inseparable, physically as well as emotionally, for many years of their lives.  They shared in common no organs, but a strangely configured ten-toed foot.  The chink in the armour of their separation was that they hated doctors, surgeons in particular. As children someone complained about his tonsils hurting and both had theirs removed. Years later when the other had a bad appendix, both were taken. And then there was the wisdom teeth fiasco.  You get the idea.  So when a perfectly competent surgeon suggested the foot separation, well, you can imagine their thought processes.

I never said they were smart.

Actually, Toobald and Hirsute got along just fine until about 1972 when Toobald got tired of Hirsute shedding dandruff all over his black turtleneck and Hirsute resented wearing one big clunky specially made boot in a size fifteen quad-J width and simultaneously decided he wanted a gender reassignment.
He tried psychiatric counseling, but of course Toobald had to be there and a sedative to knock him out during the sessions only made Hirsute upset because Toobald could have brought down the walls of Jericho with his snoring. Finally Hirsute put his foot down (the unshared one) and insisted they revisit the doctor who could disconnect them, so to speak.  Dr. Footloose (Ironic, isn't it?) did some tests and several weeks and thirty thousand dollars later made a miraculous discovery.  The two were conjoined by skin. Period. Snip, snip. Ten minutes tops and their biggest complaint became having to buy new shoes.

Well, Toobald thought that would be the end of the gender reassignment talk.  He spoke blissfully of finding a wife and having his own room, getting up to go to the bathroom when he felt like it and not having to wear trousers that snapped on one side but being able to pull both legs through them.  Best of all, no more dandruff!

Hirsute had longings, too, like not having to put underwear on over his head and to wear spiffy patent-leather sandals and to put on mascara without Toobald poking him with an elbow and nearly putting his eye out.

Here Tiddlewinks is a little unclear, not saying whether or not Hirsute went through with his surgery. I suspect he/she might have because Tiddlewinks later makes reference to a bearded lady in the Dingaling Brothers' Circus who went by the name Hairiette. Some of the photos show a manager in the wings who looks remarkably like Toobald and others have a blond (I think female, incredibly ugly) who resembles Brunhilda.  On her feet are those quad-J size fifteen boots.

My grandmother never spoke of Toobald or Hirsute in a harsh manner (although I understand the two did plenty of things that one could talk about). Kind and quiet as the day is long in July, Gramma preferred to let the boys be boys and the girls be girls and the Hirsutes of the world be Hirsutes.  They shared her table on occasion (any occasion--the two were remarkably cheap and would sponge a meal anyplace) and Grandad tried to teach them to drive but could only teach one because the other was on the wrong side of the car. The eventually solved that problem with an English Astin-Martin and took turns playing chicken with the semis on Highway 90.

I turned pages, fully expecting to read more of Hirsute and Toobald's adventures, but it was not to be. 

Instead, I found letters.

I Came, I Saw

Many moons ago I told you about my fascination with body language.

The book came out in the early seventies and as soon as I saw it I was hooked.  I became a student of body language almost before the country knew what it was...well, at least the people of Erie.  We tend to be a bit slow at these things.

The study of body language led me to paying more attention to the eyes.  Some people are bland, to be sure, and some have dark lenses that obscure the truth. There are those who smile with their lips but the eyes betray them. There are those who think they can pass on a lie (and I often let them to allow their sizable egos to remain intact).  There are those who think that staring a hole through you will make you believe them, and those who hide their chicanery by looking away. You haven't fooled me.

I attended a meeting recently where I studied the group when my attention for the counselor faded. (I felt he was dismissing females and my personal religious beliefs. That rankled me and rather than show my displeasure I took myself out of the situation.) Uncrossing my arms and legs, I used the opportunity to make myself appear open while I watched the others, rejoining mentally when my offended self came under control.

Some of the women apparently shared my feelings, hugging themselves as if to protect their beliefs, unwilling to change even though this voice of authority gave them guilt. One man chewed his lip to keep his own voice from being heard. Another woman looked as though she might cry from frustration.  I watched the twitching as the counselor spoke. I could feel the tension among the few of us who dared not disagree.  The counselor's eyes surveyed the room, pausing to take in reaction to his words.  He seems an intelligent man, but I would not want to be in his employ.  Because one is schooled does not make him always right.

And then I saw it...well-controlled anger as the discussion continued...uh-oh. Some of the participants had found a point of contention with another (who, incidentally, sat placidly, hands folded across his belly almost daring to be challenged. In parlance it is called passive-aggressive).  One of them, a peacemaker, plastered a grin on his face from the eyes down. When he spoke it was smooth and non-confrontational, meant to soothe the brewing fire. Another folded his hands and played with his thumbs in a PLEASE DON'T DO THIS NOW  mode. A third was visibly shaken, eyes flashing. Still another's eyes said, "you were saying what I was thinking!" The counselor eyed them but said nothing.  Had this been a less-civilized group fur would have flown. The placid one leaned back, mission accomplished.  Had he leaned forward the outcome might have been different.  The angry one drummed his pen, planning how to phrase his rebuttal, wisely taking deep breaths.

I watch people.  I can see in their eyes love, joy, lies, commitment, anger, disgust, understanding, longing.  It is a gift--a nurtured one.  Most people--save a few politicians--are unaware of how every move and every glance reveal their true feelings. Some are afraid to let those feelings loose, couching them in carefully worded phrases and stilted handshakes. Some, being more confident, allow themselves to speak their minds; some just want to make it all go away.

It's a shame, isn't it?  Here we are, the only mammals on earth who are given emotion in the likeness of our Lord.  We try to hide it in the name of politeness or civility.  We put up with being afraid of tears, embracing peacemaking, having tension headaches and stomach aches. (Ever wonder why your lower back hurts? How many times have you called somebody a "pain in the butt"? Stomachache? Who "makes me sick"?)

No, I am not advocating a free-for-all, but once in awhile I enjoy seeing honest emotions.  Once in awhile I want to hear what angers you or what you embrace.  It might make me mad or hurt my feelings, or it might be exactly what I need at the time but that's all OK. I will heal or rejoice.  In the meanwhile your eyes tell me a lot of what I want to know.

Oh, I'm the same as everybody else.  I try at times to consciously will myself to hide what I don't want you to know.  I ignore the look in your eyes at times so as not to betray what you are thinking. Your body language says one thing, your words another.  While I am far more proficient at expressing myself in the written word, it is too easy to hide oneself that way. A person-to-person showdown reveals so much more.

If you catch me watching you it is because I want to know what makes you tick. I want to discern if your believe what you are saying or if it is just words.  I will watch your hands and whether you lean forward when I speak.  I have a need to know.

You may hear my audible sigh when the answer comes.

Chapter Three: Brunhilda

I tried to trace the genealogy that led from Brunhilda to Zelda and myself but the diary made the lineage more confusing than it needed to be.  I got the impression that nobody wanted to claim Brunhilda as blood.  Well, her mother was, I think, but her father is in doubt at least in my mind.

Brunhilda was a third or fourth cousin, several times removed, on Mom's side before the later generations of beautiful women like myself and Zelda were conceived.  Ugly wouldn't quite describe Brunhilda.  She was a Nordic blond from her assumed father's side, big-boned and horsey-figured, but without the grace of a filly. (I thought she looked more like the mailman, but that's just my opinion. Most of the photos of Brunhilda as a girl revolved around her picking up the mail from a tall blond uniformed fella whose profile resembled Brunhilda's, especially the lack of chin and abundance of nose).  She was once married to one of Gutsy  husbands, number three, I think. Her eyes were large, blue and bulging--probably from a thyroid condition, and this was complimented by what we thought was a goiter but turned out to be a wad of Double Bubble that she had mis-swallowed as a child and it hardened and calcified and she was too poor to have it removed until she married Tush and he insisted on it.  Her skin, pasty and translucent, reminded one of a plastic milk jug. She had a sound, ostensibly called a laugh, that could clear a room in Ohio and set off motion detectors in Tennessee.

If Brunhilda had at least had Gutsy's moxie or even as much intelligence as Tiddlewinks, one could have understood her popularity with the opposite sex. "Dumber than an earthworm, uglier than sin on the Atkin's diet. She must be damn good in bed," commented Tiddlewinks in the infamous diary.

Her hometown of Pussbucket, MO, population 234, gave her the key to the city--not for Pussbucket, but for the neighboring town of Sharkbait.  Property values immediately dropped in Sharkbait and she was given a train ticket for anywhere in the States, at least as far as Sharkbait's budget would allow.  Eventually, she found her way to Toledo, OH where she lived out her days of men, money and misery.  Pussbucket , incidentally, went on to fame as the most beautified city in the US of A.

After a couple of horrendous liaisons and a failed marriage or three, Brunhilda settled into a life of an overstuffed couch, coconut bonbons and professional wrestling fanaticism. After being turned down as a round girl she settled for being a chapter fan club founder and president.  In the days before VCR and DVD, Brunhilda had her own set-up. She put a old-fashioned camera (acquired from one of her tours of Paramount in the 40's--Tiddlewinks didn't say how, and while Zelda and I have our suspicions we have never voiced them) in front of the television, made a recording and played it back on a white sheet.  She was especially fixated on Gorgeous George with his blond locks, the midget tag team and the criminal Gallagher Brothers.

When she occasionally tired of the spoof, she would turn to the Three Stooges, gurgling at their antics until the earthquake center in Wisconsin  reported 5.7 tremors and traced the epicenter to her home just outside Toledo. It is also reported that she once pounded the floor so hard in hysterical fits (after watching one of the exploding cake episodes) that at least six gurus in diverse corners of the world predicted with exhilarating confidence that the end was near, a great avalanche occurred in the Himalayas and a tidal wave of epic proportions in the mid-Atlantic wiped out the entire population of herringbone tweedie tweetie birds on Stugotz Island.

Brunhilda did have some accomplishments in spite of  her sullied reputation, incredible lack of looks and her abysmal intellect.  She is said to have invented a push-up bra--a pair of hands holding up one's mammaries to their best advantage.  It failed in the marketplace, however, because the hands kept moving and that looked silly under a taffeta shirt even though it certainly attracted attention, one of whom was the multi-billionaire son of a Texas oilman who wanted nothing (I repeat--NOTHING) more than to watch Brunhilda's quad-D's walk back and forth in front of him for hours on end. She got a nice divorce settlement after he finally got around to looking at her face.

As I read through the diary, I am amazed at the details Tiddlewinks left out, and the obscure ones she calligraphied (Tiddlewinks never just wrote anything!).  She never mentioned Brunhilda's ability to tell a story or  to cook a meal for two that would feed twenty.

It's hard to believe that Zelda and I were related to her, isn't it?

Chapter Two. Meet Gutsy

Great grand aunt Tiddlewinks had a very best friend by the name of Miss Gutsy.  No one ever said her last name out loud because she got married so often that no one could remember it, and Tiddlewinks only referred to her as Gutsy or "that damn red-headed man-stealing witch" or something similar.  She lead me to believe that Gutsy was a knock-out, but as I remember her, well, she wasn't.

Gutsy was tall, probably six feet, maybe six-two. She was slim to the point of being emaciated. She, like Tiddlewinks, had long spiralled nails, only hers were immaculately kept and generally painted in something that included sparkles. She said she had so many diamonds that she crushed one on occasion just to do her nails. My childhood self believed her. Even today, I wonder.  Gutsy's hair was fire-engine red, an unlikely hue, with streaks of sometimes-blond, sometimes-silver, and worn Marge Simpson style. Her eyes were squinty, pig-like and small, often red-rimmed with drink.

Gutsy had been married eight times--only once for love. After Leland died, she married for cash. By the time Henry (the eighth) came along, she could have bought and sold Bill Gates. She may have, for all I know.  Too bad she was so cheap. She'd even buy two-ply bathroom tissue and carefully separate it into two rolls. She loved to travel. She stayed at hotels with breakfast included, stock up on the offerings and never ate another meal unless someone else was buying.  Her rare moments with generosity were often shamed upon her by Tiddlewinks who was usually the recipient.  Everybody knew it was blackmail, and I'm surprised Tiddlewinks lived to enjoy the fruits...it must have been a doozy.

On one trip, according to the infamous diary, She and husband number four (maybe it was five, Tiddlewinks just called him Adonis) went for a tour of the mid East.  Gutsy apparently imbibed a bit, and went a little crazy. Some Arabs told Gutsy that she was expected to wear a burka in their country...oh, geez, you may as well have told Gutsy it was illegal to ride a camel naked down Broadway, only of course it wasn't Broadway, it was somewhere in Persia, and she did indeed have a burka which she sat on as she whooshed down Main Street, nude from her piled-high red hair to her diamond-encrusted toenails while Adonis hung his head and cried.  I understand they still talk about her and in fact have a rendition of her naked ride on the underground beer bottles.

After an enormously wealthy Adonis died under extraordinary circumstances ( Gutsy had an alibi, provided by husband-to-be number six, which I find to be a little fishy and I'm sure had something to do with his demise after a few months, but, hey, I'm only speculating here), Gutsy and Tiddlewinks went on a spending spree.  Among the treasures was a glass company and a brass/woodwind group with a soloist who specialized in high C notes.  Think about it.

Husband number seven was apparently nondescript, being a accountant for a big corporation in Utah. Utah law, almost as antiquated as my home state, only allows the sale of alcohol in state-run stores. Two things happened simultaneously:  several million dollars came up missing--eventually being found in a Cayman Island bank with Gutsy's name on it, and Ebeneezer died in a blizzard, waiting in line for the state store to open, already loaded to the gills. His dying words mentioned Gutsy, but it was more of a declaration of her guilt than his love.  No matter, who believes a drunk embezzler?  Gutsy vanished for a time along with countless millions.  When she came back, Henry (the eighth) was in tow, bedazzled by Gutsy, the front of his several-thousand-dollar suit wet with drool, his platinum Rolex on his wrist, his teeth gold implants and his pockets fat with cash.

Henry was mugged shortly after his arrival but, of course, Gutsy had an alibi again.  No one noticed the gigolo who sported a platinum Rolex, nor the five-carat cuff links that became earrings on Gutsy's sizable lobes.  She and Henry stayed together for some time; Henry  either was crazy about Gutsy or crazy.  He ended up babbling away in a private mental hospital--owned by guess who?--and guess who managed his assets?

Incorrigible.  I wonder how Tiddlewinks remained on civil terms with Gutsy and why the men flocked to her.

Chapter three to come.

Winter

The calendar says it is winter.  It coulda fooled me.  I expect crocuses to pop at any moment, the grass to grow, the leaves to burst. Oh, yes, the trees are barren and the fresh fruit is from Chile and not Piazza's Fruit Farm. There has been a brief flurry or two, gone in days with rising temps.  The calendar says it is January. Surely it must be March, maybe April. It cannot be winter.  I am not prepared for winter. The seasons are a blur.

The calendar says it is January 12, 2012.  It can't be. I was born in 1951. January 7 would have been Grandma Hess's 121st birthday. She hasn't been gone that long, has she? She died in 1965.....it has been that long.....What happened to all those years?

My much-loved mother-in-law says time goes faster as you get older. She is 83, she should know. How old was she when we first met? 40-something.....

My first grandson is thirteen.  I remember the day he came to be....wasn't it a week ago?

We've been married more than forty years...that can't be right....

So it is the winter of my life. I am not middle-aged (how many live to be 120?).  In my brain I am in springtime.  There should be skin that is petal-soft, long hair that is auburn-from-a-bottle and thick. The eyes should be twinkling and clear, not sparkling from cataract lenses. The vision should be sharp, not riddled with distortion and virtual night blindness. The back should be straight without hurting when I sit too long. My children should be wishes; I am too young to have grown sons and teenage grandchildren.

If I was still in summer, the air would be warm, the sand hot.  We could still go to the drive-in movie and not watch it. My hair would be frosted with premature silver streaks.  I could party, but I never did it when I was of age. Too busy, always too busy to see the calendar changing.

I came awake a bit in the autumn, long enough to see the gold of the leaves, the pumpkins on the doorsteps, the harvest moon. Very slowly I looked around...something was missing...it was autumn, the leaves were falling...we hadn't made our trip to the mountains...we hadn't had enough fresh corn...I must have fallen asleep again, because when I woke up, it was winter.

My hair is silver. My body is overweight, though better than a year ago.  There are days when I feel the winter in me, when I am cold and my joints hurt and I find another wrinkle. I refuse to undress near a mirror. I refuse to have my face in a picture. I feel old, just plain old. I feel like it is a dreary, grey winter day, that I will never see the summer me again, much less the spring one.  There is so much left to do!  Forget the basement.  It isn't important.  Living is.  Gathering nuts for winter; preparing myself for the blizzard that is sure to come.  I need to stock up on milk and honey instead of bran flakes and fish oil capsules.

As I look back over the spring and summer, I take a good long look at myself.

I don't want to be eighteen again, though if it was gifted to me I would use the opportunity to make better decisions.  Thirty would be nice, much like May, but I didn't know that back then. Sixty is just a number, but it is looming like the harvest moon in my line of vision--huge and bright, beckoning and reminding...

I am not ready for winter, neither the environmental one that will be coming any day, nor the physical challenge that I can't avoid. "Make the best. What comes, comes" said Grandma Laura. You were so right, Gram.  I thought it sounded almost silly back then. Now I understand.

I will go snowshoeing with Irene. I will build a snowman with Maddie. I will take a road trip to Baltimore and go whitewater rafting in Ohio. I will kayak on summer days and walk on summer evenings.  I will sit and dream by the lake; I will will find the time to spend with the love of my life.

I can't stop winter, I can only change my attitude toward it.

Believing in Something

As usual, Pastor Jeff made me think.

Sometimes thinking hurts.

He talked about the baptism of Jesus in a way I hadn't thought of. It made me ask to be baptized again, now that I understand it, but that is not to be.  As I think back on my own baptism--well, I was two years old. My parents, not particularly religious churchgoers at that time, had me baptized under protest and wanting relief from the badgering of my father's family.

When I was confirmed some ten years later, I knew what I had been taught, nothing more. It was words. It took a special Pastor to show me what faith was, and I think of him to this day. He was kind, faithful, patriotic--all those good things. He could sing the Lord's Prayer with a voice that brought tears to your eyes...then he was gone, and with him a chunk of faith.

I attended church more or less regularly after he left, but there was always something amiss, and finally I just quit going. The ebb and tide of my faith resulted in a lot of lapses and a lot of mistakes. Then I walked into Messiah in October of 2010. I found what I had been missing.

I began to pay attention to the sermons instead of thinking about the things left undone at home or at work. I found a new strength. I learned to hear God when He speaks--a recent development.  Best of all, I learned how to find God within me as well as in the world. As the sermon came to a close, I heard Pastor present a challenge.  I was led, I believe by the Holy Spirit, to accept it.

I accepted a challenge to find God in my daily life. It is hard sometimes, but then God says, "Look there!" and I do, and there He stands.  I accepted the challenge to BE a God-sighting. Much, much harder....but then it came to me (once I understood all it entailed) that it could be as simple as a good deed that makes someone smile. Amen (so be it; it shall be so).

This week, the challenge is to reflect on the  baptism of the Christ, and our own baptism.

I believer, personally, that there are only two sacraments--those things that are bound by God, and cannot be broken by Man, those being baptism and communion.  My own baptism I don't recall. My children were baptized because I felt a need to do so, to give them to God. I don't recall the Pastor ever asking me why I wanted them to be baptized.  He assumed they would be, as we did.

Hearing about the Christ's baptism in a new way was so powerful!  How the Holy Spirit entered the God/Man in preparation for our salvation...I had heard of the baptism by John many times, but never saw so clearly what it meant.  The Holy Spirit not just surrounding Jesus, but entering him, becoming a part of him, joining with him so that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit were ONE.

(Explain the Trinity? It's like this. H2O (water, for the less chemically inclined). It is gas (vapor), it is liquid, it is solid (ice). Yet it is all chemically H2O. It is the Father, it is the Son, it is the Holy Spirit--but it is all God. Three in One, the same, but different; equal and inseparable.)

OK, a new understanding is mine. The challenge is to identify the benchmarks in my life when the Spirit was active in showing me how He empowers me, or someone around me.  I need to recognize those moments as being from God. I need to have the courage to act on that empowerment, moving forward, being unafraid to share His Word.

I have a friend who wonders if God works on unspoken prayers. I answer--if it is happening in your life, God knows whether you speak to Him about it or not.  Prayer, after all, should not be merely petition. God is not a genie to bring forth when we want wishes granted. Prayer should also be worship and praise. So yes, God hears the unspoken.  How do I know? Because I have asked for a new understanding; I have thought about things but not prayed about them.  And Pastor Jeff, not knowing these things, preaches as though he was reading my mind....because the Word has been brought to him, and he is led to translate it to me, often in the form of a challenge.

Our challenge is to reflect, identify, respond to the Holy Spirit.  Can I do this?  I am just learning to walk, and Pastor is asking me to run!  Deep breath....

It is Sunday.  I will pray, and I will reflect.  I will look at my life for the times the Holy Spirit showed Himself. I will ask Him to give me courage and empowerment to use this knowledge, that others can see Him at work.  I hope I've got that right, Pastor Jeff.

Pastor, once again, I accept your challenge.