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".
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
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 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.
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.
Friday, January 13, 2012
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?
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?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
3....2....1
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year to my friends and family on Facebook and beyond.
May 2012 bring you happiness.
May your wildest dreams come true.
May your soul be filled with compassion and your heart with love and forgiveness.
May your grudges fade away and be replaced with joy.
May you find humor in the mundane, love in the sadness and light in the shadows.
May you radiate health.
May you know God and learn from His Word.
May you be blessed with enough of everything you need; enough that you can share your abundance.
May this new year bring you riches, the kind that matter most.
May you find your heart's desire.
Superstitions abound--jingle coins in your pocket at midnight, eat nothing that scratches the ground on New Year's Day, tuck a coin in every purse and pocket so you will never know poverty. Or learn to be content with what life offers and make the most of it.
May you make friends of your enemies and extend the warmth of your family to your friends.
May you face a challenge without running, face your fears with dignity and face the truth no matter how painful. May your enemies forgive you. May any unpleasant truth be tempered with compassion.
May you accept love in the spirit it is offered and return it in kind.
May you know the warmth of human touch in the hug of a friend.
May you find something in every day for which to be thankful, something in every day that will make you smile and something in every day that will show you that God lives.
Peace be yours in 2012.
Happy New Year to my friends and family on Facebook and beyond.
May 2012 bring you happiness.
May your wildest dreams come true.
May your soul be filled with compassion and your heart with love and forgiveness.
May your grudges fade away and be replaced with joy.
May you find humor in the mundane, love in the sadness and light in the shadows.
May you radiate health.
May you know God and learn from His Word.
May you be blessed with enough of everything you need; enough that you can share your abundance.
May this new year bring you riches, the kind that matter most.
May you find your heart's desire.
Superstitions abound--jingle coins in your pocket at midnight, eat nothing that scratches the ground on New Year's Day, tuck a coin in every purse and pocket so you will never know poverty. Or learn to be content with what life offers and make the most of it.
May you make friends of your enemies and extend the warmth of your family to your friends.
May you face a challenge without running, face your fears with dignity and face the truth no matter how painful. May your enemies forgive you. May any unpleasant truth be tempered with compassion.
May you accept love in the spirit it is offered and return it in kind.
May you know the warmth of human touch in the hug of a friend.
May you find something in every day for which to be thankful, something in every day that will make you smile and something in every day that will show you that God lives.
Peace be yours in 2012.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Meet Great Grand Aunt Tiddlewinks, Chapter One
Great Grand Aunt Tiddlewinks wasn't really an aunt, but a close family friend who was once intimately involved with Uncle Herbivore who wasn't really an uncle but a third cousin twice removed on Mom's side. I think it was Mom's mother's side, because that is the only way I can explain the affinity between me and cousin Zelda...
Anyway, by somewhat nefarious means I was able to wangle Tiddlewinks diary from the cold (possibly dead. It's hard to tell with that side of the family) hands of Toastre (pronounced Toe-Stray) Pastry, one of the daughters. Toastre is sweet and a bit flaky. She does exotic dancing (or did until a few years back) at the Limber Puppy club in Winoshka. After age began to show itself she got fired on the grounds that her puppies needed an uplifting experience. She is now the historian at the Modern Adult Bohemian Culture Club, Salome chapter, whatever that is. I'm sure I don't want to know.
Tiddlewinks was a tiny creature (I use the word advisedly) with long claw-like fingernails that twisted spiral-like at their tips, She painted them blood-red or black. She said she liked the color, but I suspect it was because she was too lazy to clean them properly. She wore her hair in a tall bee-hive (sigh...I wish I was better at description...bees really did take residence in that hive...) that rarely knew a shampoo or a comb. Herbivore worshipped the ground she walked on; if he slipped up, she kept a small whip tucked discreetly in her garter.
Tiddlewinks and Herbivore led quite an adventurous life, traveling around the county (yes, county. Only left it once as far as I can tell) making money on Herbivore's inventions. One of them, a flying car, is still in litigation according to Zelda. I can't imagine why. It only got eighteen inches off the ground, crashed into a fire hydrant drowning two dogs, injuring a bunch of street sweepers and whooshing a hot dog vendor's cart into the Wagasaskins River where several carp reportedly exploded from gas build-up after eating Farter's Chili. I wouldn't lie about that, would I?
Herbivore was a vegetarian who occasionally succumbed to a spare rib (he said there was no meat on the bone), a chicken nugget (he said that wasn't real meat) and Spam (ditto). He subsisted mainly on Tiddlewinks' inedible offerings of cucumber and kraut casserole and Pepsi. Once he invented a fruit that tasted like a pear on one side but if you turned it over it tasted like cherry. The farmer's lobby said it was too confusing, then came out with an apple that tasted like grapes. Go figure.
Herbivore was diminutive, perhaps four-foot-ten or so, with a bristly red beard that Tiddlewinks couldn't get him to shave and eyes like emeralds (one of them, anyway. It replaced the eyeball he lost in one of the wars). He walked so straight that some said he had a rod down his back, but of course that was nonsense. It was merely a yardstick.
Tiddlewinks loved animals and well-designed men. She raised boxers for awhile but after losing several matches in a row she decided to train dancers instead. Looking at the antique furniture she had acquired, she got the inspiration to call her dancers the Chippendales. Finding out the name was taken, she was very disappointed. Somehow the Duncan Pfyfes never caught on.
As she wrote it, the big break for Tiddlewinks and Herbivore came when they went on their one and only trip outside the county to the State Fair in the next county, some twenty-seven miles from home. Tiddlewinks took a jar of her famous ragweed honey and Herbivore took a sample of his newly-created lawyer-calling bullhorn. So many people had allergy attacks after trying Tiddlewinks' honey that one blast on the bullhorn brought lawyers from seven states to their rescue.
You'd think it would be Tiddlewinks who got sued, wouldn't you? But not on your life. Those lawyers loved the bullhorn so much that they paid Herbivore just to carry one around and blow it every time he saw somewhere they could make money. Eventually every ambulance in the county was equipped with an Herbivore lawyer-calling bullhorn. The judge got his cut, too, and the honey was dismissed as just one of those things.
Toastre came to see me the other day; I'm getting the idea she isn't dead after all. I heard she paid a visit to Zelda, too. She says I have no right to the diary because Tiddlewinks wasn't really my aunt, just the concubine of Herbivore. As it turns out, Zelda's in-law said that she found out that Zelda and I, being second cousins of first cousins and by a quirk of the law being sole heirs to the estate of Herbivore and consequently to Tiddlewinks (their marriage license and will were in the diary), we are the real owners of the diary and the estate (which after everything was paid and the bull-horn matter settled amounted to $13.73). So there, Toastre.
I also found out that Toastre's birth name is Gruntsmuch. Hmmmm....there must be a story in there someplace....
Anyway, by somewhat nefarious means I was able to wangle Tiddlewinks diary from the cold (possibly dead. It's hard to tell with that side of the family) hands of Toastre (pronounced Toe-Stray) Pastry, one of the daughters. Toastre is sweet and a bit flaky. She does exotic dancing (or did until a few years back) at the Limber Puppy club in Winoshka. After age began to show itself she got fired on the grounds that her puppies needed an uplifting experience. She is now the historian at the Modern Adult Bohemian Culture Club, Salome chapter, whatever that is. I'm sure I don't want to know.
Tiddlewinks was a tiny creature (I use the word advisedly) with long claw-like fingernails that twisted spiral-like at their tips, She painted them blood-red or black. She said she liked the color, but I suspect it was because she was too lazy to clean them properly. She wore her hair in a tall bee-hive (sigh...I wish I was better at description...bees really did take residence in that hive...) that rarely knew a shampoo or a comb. Herbivore worshipped the ground she walked on; if he slipped up, she kept a small whip tucked discreetly in her garter.
Tiddlewinks and Herbivore led quite an adventurous life, traveling around the county (yes, county. Only left it once as far as I can tell) making money on Herbivore's inventions. One of them, a flying car, is still in litigation according to Zelda. I can't imagine why. It only got eighteen inches off the ground, crashed into a fire hydrant drowning two dogs, injuring a bunch of street sweepers and whooshing a hot dog vendor's cart into the Wagasaskins River where several carp reportedly exploded from gas build-up after eating Farter's Chili. I wouldn't lie about that, would I?
Herbivore was a vegetarian who occasionally succumbed to a spare rib (he said there was no meat on the bone), a chicken nugget (he said that wasn't real meat) and Spam (ditto). He subsisted mainly on Tiddlewinks' inedible offerings of cucumber and kraut casserole and Pepsi. Once he invented a fruit that tasted like a pear on one side but if you turned it over it tasted like cherry. The farmer's lobby said it was too confusing, then came out with an apple that tasted like grapes. Go figure.
Herbivore was diminutive, perhaps four-foot-ten or so, with a bristly red beard that Tiddlewinks couldn't get him to shave and eyes like emeralds (one of them, anyway. It replaced the eyeball he lost in one of the wars). He walked so straight that some said he had a rod down his back, but of course that was nonsense. It was merely a yardstick.
Tiddlewinks loved animals and well-designed men. She raised boxers for awhile but after losing several matches in a row she decided to train dancers instead. Looking at the antique furniture she had acquired, she got the inspiration to call her dancers the Chippendales. Finding out the name was taken, she was very disappointed. Somehow the Duncan Pfyfes never caught on.
As she wrote it, the big break for Tiddlewinks and Herbivore came when they went on their one and only trip outside the county to the State Fair in the next county, some twenty-seven miles from home. Tiddlewinks took a jar of her famous ragweed honey and Herbivore took a sample of his newly-created lawyer-calling bullhorn. So many people had allergy attacks after trying Tiddlewinks' honey that one blast on the bullhorn brought lawyers from seven states to their rescue.
You'd think it would be Tiddlewinks who got sued, wouldn't you? But not on your life. Those lawyers loved the bullhorn so much that they paid Herbivore just to carry one around and blow it every time he saw somewhere they could make money. Eventually every ambulance in the county was equipped with an Herbivore lawyer-calling bullhorn. The judge got his cut, too, and the honey was dismissed as just one of those things.
Toastre came to see me the other day; I'm getting the idea she isn't dead after all. I heard she paid a visit to Zelda, too. She says I have no right to the diary because Tiddlewinks wasn't really my aunt, just the concubine of Herbivore. As it turns out, Zelda's in-law said that she found out that Zelda and I, being second cousins of first cousins and by a quirk of the law being sole heirs to the estate of Herbivore and consequently to Tiddlewinks (their marriage license and will were in the diary), we are the real owners of the diary and the estate (which after everything was paid and the bull-horn matter settled amounted to $13.73). So there, Toastre.
I also found out that Toastre's birth name is Gruntsmuch. Hmmmm....there must be a story in there someplace....
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Not To Be Forgotten (preview)
The adventures of Great-grand aunt Tiddlewinks and cousins Peach Melba and Toastre Pastry (pronounced toe-stray') are in the works. I've just uncovered a diary from their early days that will help a lot in reconstructing my and Zelda's family. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Happy New Year (Almost)
I've been thinking about resolutions for 2012. Every year I make some, break some. In 2011 I did pretty well. I accomplished a lot of what I set out to do. The most glaring failures I fully intend to rectify. Some aren't important anymore, but I had to find that out for myself.
The book...ah, yes, the book. It isn't going as fast as I planned. The editing is nerve-wracking, the cost is currently prohibitive. It will happen. It will happen. Hopefully it will come to pass before my next class reunion in 2014. Guess I'd better get a move on.
I've lost a few pounds, and I'm in better shape than I was a year ago. It isn't the result I wanted, but at least it is something. I will continue this effort for my health as well as my vanity. Wait till you see me on New Year's Eve.
My resolve to do more resulted in lots of changes from my haircut and wardrobe changes to my activities. I hurt my back which kept me from whitewater rafting as planned, but I did go kayaking. I didn't get a bike yet (same reason--the tailbone thing), but I have been invited to try snow-shoeing. Yes, you read that right. I didn't get my East Coast trip, but I did get to Las Vegas. Not bad, huh?
Of course, there were some private resolutions, too, that I never did accomplish. Why not? They weren't impossible. It was because I didn't share them. There was no one to care, no one to make me accountable. Perhaps if I had had some feedback I might have done things more aggressively, or at least differently. No matter, they go on my private list once again.
Over these months, since I started the blog, I have become acutely aware of my shortcomings--my sometimes lack of faith, my lousy homemaking skills, my vocabulary among other things---all of which need tweaked to put it mildly. It's not that these have been ignored, just circumvented....It's time to pay more attention.
This year coming, I have vowed to be a candle that lights the way for others to find God. I will not hide my faith because it might make somebody uncomfortable, or because they might believe differently than I do...if I can lead one person to God's Word, I will be content.
I will work harder--much, much harder--to say nothing unkind. I will speak my mind; I will not be a pushover or yes-woman. I will learn to temper my words. I want to be remembered for kindness in the eulogy, not referred to as "the bitch".
In case you didn't notice, I've been a bit down of late. I will drive myself mercilessly to overcome these tsunamis of sadness and frustration. There is not much logic behind them, it just IS. It will take some doing to understand the wherewithal; it is something I have to do myself.
Hubby has his flaws like we all do, but he is a good man, honest and steady, and I doubt there is a better kisser in all the world. No matter how mad I get, one kiss turns me to mush even after all these years. I resolve to reserve my anger, pick my battles and be a better wife.
One resolution I won't make this year is to clean the basement...dungeon...whatever that hell-hole should be called. It's a depository for worthwhile and not-so-worthwhile junk and treasures. Some of it has to go, and some of it will--eventually. The basement has become last on my list of priorities, just below getting a full-body wax job.
Then there is the job --actual work, not wax. I resolved to get a new one last year and I did--not one, but three. One sent me to Las Vegas but I hated it. The second makes me more content, but the money isn't enough to survive. The third is sales--it makes me alive! Looks like I may be job-hunting again.
I'm excited about serving on church council, especially since I have only been a member since last January 9. Messiah has become my friends, my family and home to me. I am at peace when I am there. It is bright on cloudy days, the pews are full of people I trust, my Pastor is a human man with God's word flowing from him. I resolve to give my church my time, my talent and my finances until I know its mission is fulfilled.
My friends--those I have known more than fifty years, my high school friends, those I have made in the course of my careers, those who are neighbors and Y friends and Facebook friends--have all become so important to me! Each is a pearl in a very long strand. When I lose one, the strand is incomplete. Perhaps this is part of the sadness thing. I resolve to mend that strand, winning back those that matter and replacing those that don't mean so much with a new lifelong ally.
So there they are, my resolutions for 2012 in black and white, for all to see and to hold me accountable. The private list will remain just that, although I suspect somebody knows and will encourage me on that, too.
An early Happy New Year, my friends!
The book...ah, yes, the book. It isn't going as fast as I planned. The editing is nerve-wracking, the cost is currently prohibitive. It will happen. It will happen. Hopefully it will come to pass before my next class reunion in 2014. Guess I'd better get a move on.
I've lost a few pounds, and I'm in better shape than I was a year ago. It isn't the result I wanted, but at least it is something. I will continue this effort for my health as well as my vanity. Wait till you see me on New Year's Eve.
My resolve to do more resulted in lots of changes from my haircut and wardrobe changes to my activities. I hurt my back which kept me from whitewater rafting as planned, but I did go kayaking. I didn't get a bike yet (same reason--the tailbone thing), but I have been invited to try snow-shoeing. Yes, you read that right. I didn't get my East Coast trip, but I did get to Las Vegas. Not bad, huh?
Of course, there were some private resolutions, too, that I never did accomplish. Why not? They weren't impossible. It was because I didn't share them. There was no one to care, no one to make me accountable. Perhaps if I had had some feedback I might have done things more aggressively, or at least differently. No matter, they go on my private list once again.
Over these months, since I started the blog, I have become acutely aware of my shortcomings--my sometimes lack of faith, my lousy homemaking skills, my vocabulary among other things---all of which need tweaked to put it mildly. It's not that these have been ignored, just circumvented....It's time to pay more attention.
This year coming, I have vowed to be a candle that lights the way for others to find God. I will not hide my faith because it might make somebody uncomfortable, or because they might believe differently than I do...if I can lead one person to God's Word, I will be content.
I will work harder--much, much harder--to say nothing unkind. I will speak my mind; I will not be a pushover or yes-woman. I will learn to temper my words. I want to be remembered for kindness in the eulogy, not referred to as "the bitch".
In case you didn't notice, I've been a bit down of late. I will drive myself mercilessly to overcome these tsunamis of sadness and frustration. There is not much logic behind them, it just IS. It will take some doing to understand the wherewithal; it is something I have to do myself.
Hubby has his flaws like we all do, but he is a good man, honest and steady, and I doubt there is a better kisser in all the world. No matter how mad I get, one kiss turns me to mush even after all these years. I resolve to reserve my anger, pick my battles and be a better wife.
One resolution I won't make this year is to clean the basement...dungeon...whatever that hell-hole should be called. It's a depository for worthwhile and not-so-worthwhile junk and treasures. Some of it has to go, and some of it will--eventually. The basement has become last on my list of priorities, just below getting a full-body wax job.
Then there is the job --actual work, not wax. I resolved to get a new one last year and I did--not one, but three. One sent me to Las Vegas but I hated it. The second makes me more content, but the money isn't enough to survive. The third is sales--it makes me alive! Looks like I may be job-hunting again.
I'm excited about serving on church council, especially since I have only been a member since last January 9. Messiah has become my friends, my family and home to me. I am at peace when I am there. It is bright on cloudy days, the pews are full of people I trust, my Pastor is a human man with God's word flowing from him. I resolve to give my church my time, my talent and my finances until I know its mission is fulfilled.
My friends--those I have known more than fifty years, my high school friends, those I have made in the course of my careers, those who are neighbors and Y friends and Facebook friends--have all become so important to me! Each is a pearl in a very long strand. When I lose one, the strand is incomplete. Perhaps this is part of the sadness thing. I resolve to mend that strand, winning back those that matter and replacing those that don't mean so much with a new lifelong ally.
So there they are, my resolutions for 2012 in black and white, for all to see and to hold me accountable. The private list will remain just that, although I suspect somebody knows and will encourage me on that, too.
An early Happy New Year, my friends!
Dammit!
No, I'm not really cursing. It's the name of my client's cat.
Well, it wasn't, but it is now. At least that's what I call her. Carol doesn't seem to mind. Neither does the cat. She loves me. The cat. Maybe Carol, too.
I like cats...sort of. I wouldn't want a cat for a pet. I find them sneaky and unpredictable (witness the scratch and bite marks on my hand). Love bites, says my friend the cat lover. (Yeah, my patootie.) I like to hear them purr. I like their soft fur. I like to stroke a cat, and I like it when they sit on my lap. I like to watch them play. I wouldn't hurt a cat. But let's face it, people, I'm a dog person through and through.
You cannot own a cat. She is independent, expects a great deal from her human and will turn on you if you don't idolize her. She expresses her displeasure by glaring, ears flat, a quiet growl in her throat. She may or may not accept the treats you offer; she will come when called if she feels like it. (My son once had a cat named Jasmine who hated me even though I saved her life. If I cared for her, she would put up with my presence until she was fed, then she'd turn and hiss, do her business on the floor next to the freshly cleaned litter box and defy me to challenge her. She now rests in peace in my backyard. I bet she hates that.)
Such is Dammit.
She will greet me on arrival, meowing for attention. Carol says she hasn't meowed in forever, so she must like me. She doesn't purr, either, but that's just a matter of time--I'll work on it. She knows I feed her and will come when she hears the box. She recognizes that I change her litter box daily--and she will still pee on the floor next to it. I don't understand. And did you know that while a dog will generally remain tame, even if left to his own devices, a cat will turn feral? That's right, feral, as in wild. Ah, the strangeness of felixus domesticus.
"Dammit! Quit using the floor!" I will plead to deaf ears.
"Dammit! Quit scratching me! I know you don't mean to, but it hurts!"
"Dammit! I'm gonna get a water sprayer after you!"
Today Dammit crawled up on my lap, rubbing her face on my leg, then off to find a suitable perch to watch the rare birds outdoors. I took advantage, getting up to get a drink, sitting the quarter-full glass on a side table. Dammit, living up to her nickname, was back in a shot, batting at the glass with one tiny paw, spilling what was left before I could save it. Miserable cat. A dog would have exhibited some guilt, or wagged his tail at the fun of it all.
Did Dammit do any such thing? Of course not. She twitched her tail, very self-satisfied, and pawed at my hand--claws outstretched--as I mopped up.
A last word about felines, lest you think I'd trap and sell them to a furrier or a dubious restaurant: Cats are beautiful and mysterious animals. I'm sure there is a good reason why they are associated with witches and warlocks, were worshipped by ancients and are the kings of jungles. I'm sure there is a reason why Dammit defies me.
I don't think I want to know.
Well, it wasn't, but it is now. At least that's what I call her. Carol doesn't seem to mind. Neither does the cat. She loves me. The cat. Maybe Carol, too.
I like cats...sort of. I wouldn't want a cat for a pet. I find them sneaky and unpredictable (witness the scratch and bite marks on my hand). Love bites, says my friend the cat lover. (Yeah, my patootie.) I like to hear them purr. I like their soft fur. I like to stroke a cat, and I like it when they sit on my lap. I like to watch them play. I wouldn't hurt a cat. But let's face it, people, I'm a dog person through and through.
You cannot own a cat. She is independent, expects a great deal from her human and will turn on you if you don't idolize her. She expresses her displeasure by glaring, ears flat, a quiet growl in her throat. She may or may not accept the treats you offer; she will come when called if she feels like it. (My son once had a cat named Jasmine who hated me even though I saved her life. If I cared for her, she would put up with my presence until she was fed, then she'd turn and hiss, do her business on the floor next to the freshly cleaned litter box and defy me to challenge her. She now rests in peace in my backyard. I bet she hates that.)
Such is Dammit.
She will greet me on arrival, meowing for attention. Carol says she hasn't meowed in forever, so she must like me. She doesn't purr, either, but that's just a matter of time--I'll work on it. She knows I feed her and will come when she hears the box. She recognizes that I change her litter box daily--and she will still pee on the floor next to it. I don't understand. And did you know that while a dog will generally remain tame, even if left to his own devices, a cat will turn feral? That's right, feral, as in wild. Ah, the strangeness of felixus domesticus.
"Dammit! Quit using the floor!" I will plead to deaf ears.
"Dammit! Quit scratching me! I know you don't mean to, but it hurts!"
"Dammit! I'm gonna get a water sprayer after you!"
Today Dammit crawled up on my lap, rubbing her face on my leg, then off to find a suitable perch to watch the rare birds outdoors. I took advantage, getting up to get a drink, sitting the quarter-full glass on a side table. Dammit, living up to her nickname, was back in a shot, batting at the glass with one tiny paw, spilling what was left before I could save it. Miserable cat. A dog would have exhibited some guilt, or wagged his tail at the fun of it all.
Did Dammit do any such thing? Of course not. She twitched her tail, very self-satisfied, and pawed at my hand--claws outstretched--as I mopped up.
A last word about felines, lest you think I'd trap and sell them to a furrier or a dubious restaurant: Cats are beautiful and mysterious animals. I'm sure there is a good reason why they are associated with witches and warlocks, were worshipped by ancients and are the kings of jungles. I'm sure there is a reason why Dammit defies me.
I don't think I want to know.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Noel, Noel...
The angels sent word to shepards in their fields, to kings, to all who were within hearing distance--Christ the King is born! Bring Him gifts and worship Him as you would Me, for He is My Son, the Living Word. And so, through the ages, we have come to accept Him as our Savior.
The trick is not that we must just believe in Him, or that we must worship Him. It is in believing that this long dead man is the Son of God, that He IS God, that He still lives. Now THAT is an act of faith!
We worship sometimes with words, with lip service. Oh yes, we say we believe, and we do, when it is convenient. It is convenient on Saturday night, but not on Sunday at 8:30; maybe at 11:00, but certainly not on Wednesday. We have to go to work, or to meetings, or out to dinner with Harry's boss. We all have excuses not to worship, or at least excuses not to share the Word.
When the angels called the shepards from their fields, they came. The kings came. They found time.
I have to work. Yes, I do. I don't want to get fired. Neither do you.
So that keeps me from church services sometimes. It doesn't have to keep me from worship.
Pastor Jeff reads my mind sometimes, as I've told you. Last week it was a challenge to see God in our lives every day at least once. For a few days, I couldn't find Him. I asked Him to reveal Himself, He did. This week Pastor offered another challenge--to BE the God-sighting,to let our light of peace illuminate our own corner of the world, letting His light shine through us.
THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO THIS CHALLENGE THAN IT SOUNDS.
First of all, we have to hear the angels calling us to follow the star.
We have to believe that Jesus is the Son of God.
We have to know that He still lives.
We have to be willing to be filled with His love and His light and His Word, filled to overflowing, so that we can, without fear or reservation, let His light shine through us.
And lastly, we have to be bold enough to share.
The challenge isn't so simple after all. Am I up to it? I don't know, but I will try, one day at a time, beginning this Christmas morning. I will begin with my husband who deserves much better a wife than I am. I will try every day this week and beyond to give a little light to someone. I will try, even when I wake up in a crappy mood, even when I am too tired to think...I will try to give a kind word, a good deed, a word of prayer or praise.
I accept your challenge once again, Pastor. Thank you for making me see what needs to be done, and keep me in your prayers that I may accomplish your challenge.
Merry Christmas to all, and in the words of tiny Tim,
" God bless us, every one!"
The trick is not that we must just believe in Him, or that we must worship Him. It is in believing that this long dead man is the Son of God, that He IS God, that He still lives. Now THAT is an act of faith!
We worship sometimes with words, with lip service. Oh yes, we say we believe, and we do, when it is convenient. It is convenient on Saturday night, but not on Sunday at 8:30; maybe at 11:00, but certainly not on Wednesday. We have to go to work, or to meetings, or out to dinner with Harry's boss. We all have excuses not to worship, or at least excuses not to share the Word.
When the angels called the shepards from their fields, they came. The kings came. They found time.
I have to work. Yes, I do. I don't want to get fired. Neither do you.
So that keeps me from church services sometimes. It doesn't have to keep me from worship.
Pastor Jeff reads my mind sometimes, as I've told you. Last week it was a challenge to see God in our lives every day at least once. For a few days, I couldn't find Him. I asked Him to reveal Himself, He did. This week Pastor offered another challenge--to BE the God-sighting,to let our light of peace illuminate our own corner of the world, letting His light shine through us.
THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO THIS CHALLENGE THAN IT SOUNDS.
First of all, we have to hear the angels calling us to follow the star.
We have to believe that Jesus is the Son of God.
We have to know that He still lives.
We have to be willing to be filled with His love and His light and His Word, filled to overflowing, so that we can, without fear or reservation, let His light shine through us.
And lastly, we have to be bold enough to share.
The challenge isn't so simple after all. Am I up to it? I don't know, but I will try, one day at a time, beginning this Christmas morning. I will begin with my husband who deserves much better a wife than I am. I will try every day this week and beyond to give a little light to someone. I will try, even when I wake up in a crappy mood, even when I am too tired to think...I will try to give a kind word, a good deed, a word of prayer or praise.
I accept your challenge once again, Pastor. Thank you for making me see what needs to be done, and keep me in your prayers that I may accomplish your challenge.
Merry Christmas to all, and in the words of tiny Tim,
" God bless us, every one!"
Saturday, December 24, 2011
God-Sighting--The Challenge
OK, so here I am, almost a week into the challenge to find God in my life every day.
I was feeling stressed and unhappy, and for a couple of days I wondered where He was. I couldn't see Him. I asked Him to show Himself.
He did. Today.
I baked cookies with a client. Her daughter, whom I wasn't sure I liked at all, turned out to be funny--even silly. She has three BIG dogs, a loving bunch of tongues and tails. I had a wonderful time and am looking forward to meeting her again, something I never would have believed.
A friend at work heard me say that my dryer went kaput. She's giving me one. My sons and their fiances provided transportation when I needed it, dried my clothes, filled me with cookies. My friends made me laugh. Hubby shows his love for me in countless ways. I could go on and on. I am blessed.
When I asked Him to show Himself, I had no idea it would be so revealing, so obvious.
Yes, this is very brief today. I need not say another word. He said it all.
He lives.
I was feeling stressed and unhappy, and for a couple of days I wondered where He was. I couldn't see Him. I asked Him to show Himself.
He did. Today.
I baked cookies with a client. Her daughter, whom I wasn't sure I liked at all, turned out to be funny--even silly. She has three BIG dogs, a loving bunch of tongues and tails. I had a wonderful time and am looking forward to meeting her again, something I never would have believed.
A friend at work heard me say that my dryer went kaput. She's giving me one. My sons and their fiances provided transportation when I needed it, dried my clothes, filled me with cookies. My friends made me laugh. Hubby shows his love for me in countless ways. I could go on and on. I am blessed.
When I asked Him to show Himself, I had no idea it would be so revealing, so obvious.
Yes, this is very brief today. I need not say another word. He said it all.
He lives.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
God-Sighting
I have told you a little about Pastor Jeff. I believe he has been called to be a clergyman, and mostly I find his sermons give me something to think about. Today was such a day. He gave the congregation a challenge--look for a place where God is at work each day this week--a God-sighting.
I accept the challenge.
Since I began my journey to find out who I am (forward two steps, take one backwards) I have tried counting my blessings, finding something to be grateful for each day. Somewhere along the way I got busy, too busy to be thankful. Oh, occasionally God shouts at me, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, UNGRATEFUL WENCH?" I reply, "Nothing, Master." but I continue to make my list. Gratefulness has taken a backseat to fear, worry and callous disregard for what I already have.
When I heard the sermon today, this came home to me--I swear Pastor Jeff reads my thoughts and writes his sermon around them. I knew in an instant why I am so sad of late...I haven't been taking the time to look for signs of God, just the petition-prayers instead of praise.
I need to get back on track. I've been lapsing into worldly worries instead of exercising my faith.
OK. Begin yet again.
When I got home from church I put dinner in the crockpot (cabbage rolls, for the nosy). threw in a load of dark clothes and settled down with more coffee and the newspaper. As we are wont to do, I scanned the obits to make sure I wasn't listed, set aside the comics for later, turned to Dear Abby.
There it was, so obvious. It was a poem, attributed to James Patrick Kinney. It brought unwelcome tears to my eyes, convicting me of my own shortcomings. Not prejudice so much as the things I have left undone for whatever reason, showing me a selfish place in my subconscious that I have denied existed. Would I hold on to my stick of wood when it could mean life or death? No. But do I judge some who I think may be unworthy of my help? God, please forgive me, for this I have done. What have I held back that would have served God and my fellow humans?
The Cold Within
Six humans trapped in happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood. Or so the story told.
Their dying fire in need of logs.
The first woman held hers back, for of the faces around the fire
she noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way saw not one of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood was the chance to spite the white.
The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without.
They died from the cold within.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I have had a God-sighting today. He showed me, in His miraculous way, that the selfishness that I had thought I'd put aside was still lurking.
I promise to do better, Lord. Where will I see you tomorrow?
I accept the challenge.
Since I began my journey to find out who I am (forward two steps, take one backwards) I have tried counting my blessings, finding something to be grateful for each day. Somewhere along the way I got busy, too busy to be thankful. Oh, occasionally God shouts at me, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, UNGRATEFUL WENCH?" I reply, "Nothing, Master." but I continue to make my list. Gratefulness has taken a backseat to fear, worry and callous disregard for what I already have.
When I heard the sermon today, this came home to me--I swear Pastor Jeff reads my thoughts and writes his sermon around them. I knew in an instant why I am so sad of late...I haven't been taking the time to look for signs of God, just the petition-prayers instead of praise.
I need to get back on track. I've been lapsing into worldly worries instead of exercising my faith.
OK. Begin yet again.
When I got home from church I put dinner in the crockpot (cabbage rolls, for the nosy). threw in a load of dark clothes and settled down with more coffee and the newspaper. As we are wont to do, I scanned the obits to make sure I wasn't listed, set aside the comics for later, turned to Dear Abby.
There it was, so obvious. It was a poem, attributed to James Patrick Kinney. It brought unwelcome tears to my eyes, convicting me of my own shortcomings. Not prejudice so much as the things I have left undone for whatever reason, showing me a selfish place in my subconscious that I have denied existed. Would I hold on to my stick of wood when it could mean life or death? No. But do I judge some who I think may be unworthy of my help? God, please forgive me, for this I have done. What have I held back that would have served God and my fellow humans?
The Cold Within
Six humans trapped in happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood. Or so the story told.
Their dying fire in need of logs.
The first woman held hers back, for of the faces around the fire
she noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way saw not one of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood was the chance to spite the white.
The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without.
They died from the cold within.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I have had a God-sighting today. He showed me, in His miraculous way, that the selfishness that I had thought I'd put aside was still lurking.
I promise to do better, Lord. Where will I see you tomorrow?
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Twelve Days of Christmas, My Way
I love the song "Twelve Days of Christmas", although I never did see the point.
Why would one want a half-dozen geese pooping around the house? Add a few turtle doves, some French hens and a couple of calling birds (all made nervous by those infernal drummers) and those maids better stop a-milking and start a-scrubbing. And what are they milking? There are no cows on the list. So I have to buy a bunch of bovines to give these maids (which I didn't want to begin with) something to do? Then there's the swans a-swimming...maybe in my backyard after a spring rain. What's with all the birds, anyway? We live in the CITY, for Pete's sake. At least the partridges are in a pear tree and I do love pears.
What earthly good are lords a-leaping and ladies dancing (what else would they be doing? Dancers, I mean.) ? Unless they are Chippendales, give me a break. As for pipers piping, well, I prefer Kenny G. And where would they all sleep? And how do I feed these crowds? If you think I'm going to do all that laundry, you're nuts. I hope it's a quick visit and they're not expecting room and board for the next year. Get a real job, people.
Five gold rings....now THAT I understand. But instead of FIVE gold rings, one will do, and make one of them into a simple gold chain, another some earrings and a bracelet will do nicely.
Not being an especially greedy person at Christmas time, I have opted to write my own wishes for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Listen up, Hubby! If anybody else wants in on the Twelve Days, well, I have another list and I'll tell you where to send it if you ask....
Twelve Days Of Christmas, My Way
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.....
Twelve dishes all washed...
Eleven snows a-shoveled...
Ten dinners cooking....
Nine windows gleaming....
Eight pairs of earrings (OK, maybe a LITTLE greedy)...
Seven rooms all vacuumed...
Six foot massages....
Five tanks of gas......
Four car washes....
Three cups of java...
Two breakfast burritos....
and a kiss by the Christmas tree!
Why would one want a half-dozen geese pooping around the house? Add a few turtle doves, some French hens and a couple of calling birds (all made nervous by those infernal drummers) and those maids better stop a-milking and start a-scrubbing. And what are they milking? There are no cows on the list. So I have to buy a bunch of bovines to give these maids (which I didn't want to begin with) something to do? Then there's the swans a-swimming...maybe in my backyard after a spring rain. What's with all the birds, anyway? We live in the CITY, for Pete's sake. At least the partridges are in a pear tree and I do love pears.
What earthly good are lords a-leaping and ladies dancing (what else would they be doing? Dancers, I mean.) ? Unless they are Chippendales, give me a break. As for pipers piping, well, I prefer Kenny G. And where would they all sleep? And how do I feed these crowds? If you think I'm going to do all that laundry, you're nuts. I hope it's a quick visit and they're not expecting room and board for the next year. Get a real job, people.
Five gold rings....now THAT I understand. But instead of FIVE gold rings, one will do, and make one of them into a simple gold chain, another some earrings and a bracelet will do nicely.
Not being an especially greedy person at Christmas time, I have opted to write my own wishes for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Listen up, Hubby! If anybody else wants in on the Twelve Days, well, I have another list and I'll tell you where to send it if you ask....
Twelve Days Of Christmas, My Way
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.....
Twelve dishes all washed...
Eleven snows a-shoveled...
Ten dinners cooking....
Nine windows gleaming....
Eight pairs of earrings (OK, maybe a LITTLE greedy)...
Seven rooms all vacuumed...
Six foot massages....
Five tanks of gas......
Four car washes....
Three cups of java...
Two breakfast burritos....
and a kiss by the Christmas tree!
Monday, December 12, 2011
What a Year!
My Dearest Family and Friends,
2011 hasn't been half bad. It is leaps and bounds above 2010 in more ways than I can count. Except for the illness of my much-loved mother-in-law it's been pretty good.
Son #1 started a new job. This is the kid who, at 15 or so, I would gladly have rented out for a few years (just joshin'). He's turned into a remarkable man. All the qualities we saw in him as a child--his humor, his charm--have blossomed. I'm so proud!
Son #2 keeps growing. They love him at work and at home. His expanded family is beginning to gel. He has become a fine man. He, like his brother, is driven to succeed. He has ideas and the intelligence and creativity to make them happen. I'm so proud!
The women they have chosen to be life mates are wonderful additions to our little family. All the best qualities reside in them--compassion, loving hands, intelligence and nurturing. How joyful!
I'm blessed with six grandchildren, three boys and three girls, some natural and some acquired. I sometimes forget which are which. I love them all. I love the way they laugh, the way they hug, the way they play, the way they tell stories, the way a smile makes their noses crinkle. I see them making great accomplishments.
Hubby and I have been together more than 40 years. We have ups and downs, but we always end up in the same place. He's more handsome now than he was when we married. I guess you could call us lucky. Through all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, I know I am loved.
This year I've been through a myriad of changes, far too many to report here. I started my blog. I went kayaking for the first time. I took Pilates and tried Y-boxing and Zumba---way too much energy for this old lady! I've made lots of new friends online and off. I've found cousins again who have enriched my family and old friends--I'm talking people I knew as a 4 year old--who let me remember who I was in my carefree childhood. I am blessed! In July my company sent me to Las Vegas--I had never been there--and a got to go for an extra few days with a friend who knew her way around. We had a wonderful time--once in a lifetime for me. I'm glad I had the chance to experience it. I've discovered that my brain is only 16! So much of life yet to live!
In October I turned my back on my longtime career in sales and became a caregiver. Is it working out? I'm not sure.
Best of all, a year ago, more or less, I found a new church. In January I officially became a member; this coming January, I will be installed on the church council. I've made so many friends there. The fellowship I've found is incredible. The Pastor encourages my faith to grow with every sermon he gives, every prayer he says. I am home.
I had a sense of foreboding a few months ago. That feeling has been replaced with anticipation. I can feel things sliding into place. I wonder what adventure awaits? The book is slowly shaping up. How I will publish it, I don't know, but it will happen.
Ideas flow through my head like the proverbial river. Sometimes they are dark thoughts and most times they are pleasant ones. As 2011 ends, I am learning how to use them. I hope to use my words to change just one life for the better.
To all who read this, to all who don't--I wish you the happiest Christmas you have ever had and the most joyful new year that life can bring. May we all be generous in giving our love and forgiveness, especially to those we think least deserve it. Reach out to an old friend or touch the hand of a new one. If you know God, rejoice in Him. If you don't, give Him a chance--He's not such a bad guy, you know.
As 2011 ends, and as I write this (whether it is from my dark side or the light), I know one thing for sure. I have friends and family who care, and I love you for that.
A very Merry Christmas to all, and God bless us, every one.
2011 hasn't been half bad. It is leaps and bounds above 2010 in more ways than I can count. Except for the illness of my much-loved mother-in-law it's been pretty good.
Son #1 started a new job. This is the kid who, at 15 or so, I would gladly have rented out for a few years (just joshin'). He's turned into a remarkable man. All the qualities we saw in him as a child--his humor, his charm--have blossomed. I'm so proud!
Son #2 keeps growing. They love him at work and at home. His expanded family is beginning to gel. He has become a fine man. He, like his brother, is driven to succeed. He has ideas and the intelligence and creativity to make them happen. I'm so proud!
The women they have chosen to be life mates are wonderful additions to our little family. All the best qualities reside in them--compassion, loving hands, intelligence and nurturing. How joyful!
I'm blessed with six grandchildren, three boys and three girls, some natural and some acquired. I sometimes forget which are which. I love them all. I love the way they laugh, the way they hug, the way they play, the way they tell stories, the way a smile makes their noses crinkle. I see them making great accomplishments.
Hubby and I have been together more than 40 years. We have ups and downs, but we always end up in the same place. He's more handsome now than he was when we married. I guess you could call us lucky. Through all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, I know I am loved.
This year I've been through a myriad of changes, far too many to report here. I started my blog. I went kayaking for the first time. I took Pilates and tried Y-boxing and Zumba---way too much energy for this old lady! I've made lots of new friends online and off. I've found cousins again who have enriched my family and old friends--I'm talking people I knew as a 4 year old--who let me remember who I was in my carefree childhood. I am blessed! In July my company sent me to Las Vegas--I had never been there--and a got to go for an extra few days with a friend who knew her way around. We had a wonderful time--once in a lifetime for me. I'm glad I had the chance to experience it. I've discovered that my brain is only 16! So much of life yet to live!
In October I turned my back on my longtime career in sales and became a caregiver. Is it working out? I'm not sure.
Best of all, a year ago, more or less, I found a new church. In January I officially became a member; this coming January, I will be installed on the church council. I've made so many friends there. The fellowship I've found is incredible. The Pastor encourages my faith to grow with every sermon he gives, every prayer he says. I am home.
I had a sense of foreboding a few months ago. That feeling has been replaced with anticipation. I can feel things sliding into place. I wonder what adventure awaits? The book is slowly shaping up. How I will publish it, I don't know, but it will happen.
Ideas flow through my head like the proverbial river. Sometimes they are dark thoughts and most times they are pleasant ones. As 2011 ends, I am learning how to use them. I hope to use my words to change just one life for the better.
To all who read this, to all who don't--I wish you the happiest Christmas you have ever had and the most joyful new year that life can bring. May we all be generous in giving our love and forgiveness, especially to those we think least deserve it. Reach out to an old friend or touch the hand of a new one. If you know God, rejoice in Him. If you don't, give Him a chance--He's not such a bad guy, you know.
As 2011 ends, and as I write this (whether it is from my dark side or the light), I know one thing for sure. I have friends and family who care, and I love you for that.
A very Merry Christmas to all, and God bless us, every one.
Dark Places
I enjoy my Facebook friends, even those who have different politics and different opinions of life. I've reached a point where I no longer get mad because we disagree. I don't try to retaliate. Getting even is no longer on my agenda. Instead I have learned to listen and learn, to beg them to teach me what they know--and then I keep what I want and discard the rest.
So it is with the Dark Place....
It is a place where the mind goes so it can look at itself from within and without. It is almost akin to depression as opposed to sadness. I hope I have learned what the friend is only beginning to teach me. The Dark Place, as I understand, is part of the conscious state. I need to be wide awake to be able to use it wisely.
This Christmas I am not happy. I am in that Dark Place. At this moment, I have ups--like the Christmas concert--and downs, like Mom-in-law's illness and adjusting to a new job. The trick, so I've been trying to understand, is to use the Dark Place creatively, to look within and find something good in there. I have to look at the depression, unhappiness, whatever as a thing and not necessarily a state of mind.
I'm not sure I've got it right. It doesn't matter. It fits how I think of the mind with its many rooms and many file cabinets and many phases. I want to explore them all and tap whatever is there. It isn't the lack of ideas that has been keeping me from writing, it is the energy it requires. It isn't the lack of desire that keeps me from cleaning the basement--I would love to see the things I have forgotten are there--it is the overwhelming challenge of it all. I'm hoping that by examining the dresser drawers in the Dark Place that I will find reasons for the inertia.
Meanwhile, I have been writing but not publishing.
Tonight I will do some publishing but not writing.
Somewhere in this Dark Place is a switch.
It's time to turn it on and shed some light on the subject.
So it is with the Dark Place....
It is a place where the mind goes so it can look at itself from within and without. It is almost akin to depression as opposed to sadness. I hope I have learned what the friend is only beginning to teach me. The Dark Place, as I understand, is part of the conscious state. I need to be wide awake to be able to use it wisely.
This Christmas I am not happy. I am in that Dark Place. At this moment, I have ups--like the Christmas concert--and downs, like Mom-in-law's illness and adjusting to a new job. The trick, so I've been trying to understand, is to use the Dark Place creatively, to look within and find something good in there. I have to look at the depression, unhappiness, whatever as a thing and not necessarily a state of mind.
I'm not sure I've got it right. It doesn't matter. It fits how I think of the mind with its many rooms and many file cabinets and many phases. I want to explore them all and tap whatever is there. It isn't the lack of ideas that has been keeping me from writing, it is the energy it requires. It isn't the lack of desire that keeps me from cleaning the basement--I would love to see the things I have forgotten are there--it is the overwhelming challenge of it all. I'm hoping that by examining the dresser drawers in the Dark Place that I will find reasons for the inertia.
Meanwhile, I have been writing but not publishing.
Tonight I will do some publishing but not writing.
Somewhere in this Dark Place is a switch.
It's time to turn it on and shed some light on the subject.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
A Newsletter, Sort Of
Dear Friends,
What a year this has been!
Aunt Tinglebottom and Fred finally tied the knot. Get married? No, she tied the knot around his throat, but his neck was so greasy (he works as a mechanic and hasn't taken a shower since 1966), the noose slipped off. Too bad for her. The sheriff of Nottingham, Kentucky saw the whole deal and locked her up. It all worked out OK, though. She made him a key/lime pie and used the leftover keys to let herself out of jail.
Aunt Cribbage (or is it great-aunt?) has been playing cards for money again. She had a big loss last month. She had taken some things with her when she moved out of the circus, among them an elephant. You guessed it, she lost the elephant in a poker game. Uncle Sahib wasn't happy, and he's been trying to recover the pachyderm ever since. I hope she never gets so desperate again. She already lost the Bearded Lady to her old friend Min Oxydil.
Uncle Fresno moved to California in April, but he's coming home to Cincinnati for Christmas. Every time the ground shakes out there he gets homesick for his girlfriend Gargantula. I'm not saying she's large, but when she plays jump-rope with the kids it can be felt in Arkansas.
Cousin Fleamaker has had a new job for awhile as a veterinary assistant. Sales of Raid, Off and tick repellant have tripled since he's been working there.
Second cousin thrice removed Prego and her husband Dick are expecting children number 18, 19 and 20 any time now. She says these might have to be the last. I don't see why. She's only 52. I guess Dick is tired of changing diapers. It's so hard to understand him when he babbles.
Cousin Zelda tells me I need new Christmas traditions, and she's right. It's hard to get my family together for various reasons but I have a plan. I bought sixteen yards of Velcro and I am using it to upholster the couch in the living room, the toilet seat and the refrigerator. I bought eighty-seven rolls of duct tape, sixty-nine tubes of superglue and a large sledge hammer. Just in case somebody tries to escape. . .I mean, get away, I won't feed my hundred pound dog until New Year's, and I offered to babysit my friend's Rottweiler while they are in Salt Lake City for the annual Gremlin/Pinto races on the Flats. If that doesn't work I have a back-up plan which involves Prozac. . . .
And finally, don't tell Aunt Wallflower's fourth ex-husband Uncle Feelers you heard from me. He's from Europe, you know. Those Russian hands and Roman fingers give me the creeps.
Warmest Regards,
MzzRzz
What a year this has been!
Aunt Tinglebottom and Fred finally tied the knot. Get married? No, she tied the knot around his throat, but his neck was so greasy (he works as a mechanic and hasn't taken a shower since 1966), the noose slipped off. Too bad for her. The sheriff of Nottingham, Kentucky saw the whole deal and locked her up. It all worked out OK, though. She made him a key/lime pie and used the leftover keys to let herself out of jail.
Aunt Cribbage (or is it great-aunt?) has been playing cards for money again. She had a big loss last month. She had taken some things with her when she moved out of the circus, among them an elephant. You guessed it, she lost the elephant in a poker game. Uncle Sahib wasn't happy, and he's been trying to recover the pachyderm ever since. I hope she never gets so desperate again. She already lost the Bearded Lady to her old friend Min Oxydil.
Uncle Fresno moved to California in April, but he's coming home to Cincinnati for Christmas. Every time the ground shakes out there he gets homesick for his girlfriend Gargantula. I'm not saying she's large, but when she plays jump-rope with the kids it can be felt in Arkansas.
Cousin Fleamaker has had a new job for awhile as a veterinary assistant. Sales of Raid, Off and tick repellant have tripled since he's been working there.
Second cousin thrice removed Prego and her husband Dick are expecting children number 18, 19 and 20 any time now. She says these might have to be the last. I don't see why. She's only 52. I guess Dick is tired of changing diapers. It's so hard to understand him when he babbles.
Cousin Zelda tells me I need new Christmas traditions, and she's right. It's hard to get my family together for various reasons but I have a plan. I bought sixteen yards of Velcro and I am using it to upholster the couch in the living room, the toilet seat and the refrigerator. I bought eighty-seven rolls of duct tape, sixty-nine tubes of superglue and a large sledge hammer. Just in case somebody tries to escape. . .I mean, get away, I won't feed my hundred pound dog until New Year's, and I offered to babysit my friend's Rottweiler while they are in Salt Lake City for the annual Gremlin/Pinto races on the Flats. If that doesn't work I have a back-up plan which involves Prozac. . . .
And finally, don't tell Aunt Wallflower's fourth ex-husband Uncle Feelers you heard from me. He's from Europe, you know. Those Russian hands and Roman fingers give me the creeps.
Warmest Regards,
MzzRzz
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