There are Many Things in Life that I Cannot Understand

I know that's the first verse of a song somewhere, but it's also the theme for this Thursday Thirteen.

1. I don't understand why my clothes hamper never retains clothes. They gather around its feet in a worshipful pose and lie there limply on the floor. Strange.

















2. I don't understand how my sock basket gives birth to totally new socks, never twins, single odd socks that I never bought. They just appeared in the nebula of the sock galaxy. If you recognize any of these socks, claim it. Suspicious












3. I don't understand how anyone could possibly use 21 fishing rods.
That's right: 21. Even if you did inherit some, and bought some at garage sales, and were given some: the question is why must you keep them forever. Puzzling.














4. I don't understand why grass grows so well in the flower beds--trespassing over cement and risking sudden death at the clipper-equipped hand of an irate gardener to get there, and refuses to grow on certain spots of the lawn, where it's pampered. Irritating.













5. I don't understand what is so hard about putting
the new toilet paper on the roll when the old one
is finished. Am I the only one who does this? Confusing.
















6. I don't understand where nail clippers go when you need one.
There must be at least 21 pair of them around here. Maybe I need a rack to hang on the wall so I can hang them all side by side. Intriguing.





7. I don't understand why perfectly well-behaved, intelligent children, upon being introduced to an adult
--particularly an adult you want to impress--decide to talk gibberish and make faces while pretending to be an iguana. Amusing.








8. I don't understand how anyone prefers Nacho Libre to Casa Blanca.


Weird.










9. I don't understand how squash, with all those pretty colors and vitamins, isn't as alluring as plain old home made vanilla ice cream with its wicked empty calories. Tragic.














10. I don't understand what's better for a car that doesn't fit in the garage--parking under the trees and suffering bird splats or parking in the sun and getting bleached spots on the upholstery. Disconcerting.













11. I don't know why the telephone doesn't ring for twelve hours, then rings three times in five minutes...when you are out in the garage, painting something. Annoying.









12. I don't understand how the same recipe produces different results in different households...namely something delicious in somebody else's kitchen/ something indigestible in mine. Discouraging.











13. I don't understand how some people can come up with a Thursday Thirteen every week, but I have blank weeks when I just can't think...so you get stuff like this.
Amazing.

A Rare Gift

Although my grandchildren don't realize it yet, and probably won't for many years, they are being given a rare gift: a father who plays games with them. No, they aren't old enough for T-ball and baby soccer; they are still at the very imaginative stage where they want to act out adventures a la "Blues Clues". It's inconceivable to them that adults wouldn't want to join in the fun.

Last Saturday Zaya decided that Lupe, his stuffed wolf, had become a "detector" and was going to "discover mysteries". As per usual, that became a theme to intermingle with the adventures of Mario and Luigi, stolen from video game worlds.

Mim came running in to the den on a mission:
"Please, Daddy, won't you play an adventure with us?" she asked with a baby charm.
"Sure," he answered, "What character are you going to be?"
"I'm going to be...Lupe."
"So who will I be?"
"You can be Peach."
"Peach?"
"Yah"
"Couldn't I be someone a little less girly?"
"Ok."
"I'll be Mario"
"Yes, and Luigi can come with us. Come'on, Luigi," she yelled to her brother, "Let's have an adventure!"

So they were off...off to the far away living room to use their "special skills", lighting the night with the white flashes from Luigi' fingertips and shooting down spiders with Mim's red fire balls so they could eat the amazing apple star fruit huddled under a small, promotional blanket for the local football team--a blanket that has yet to be used at that kind of entertainment. Daddy Mario assured them that the blanket was a "floppy submarine." His "skill" for the adventure lay in "singing old Beatles' songs badly". His two cohorts weren't sure how this skill would help the adventure, but they loved the submarine and the song--We all live in a floppy submarine-- that served as the roar of its engines as they tunneled through the deep blue sea. "

In a few minutes the blanket submarine slinked into the den, all three characters crawling under it, and emerged at the golden chair, where it docked. Mario slipped out of character long enough to whisper to my daughter and me in the kitchen that he needed some dinosaur sounds. We produced them: I was the tyrannosaurus and Babystepper was the saber-toothed kitty---lots of growling and meowing. We were rewarded for our efforts with showers of white and red fire balls. Then the submarine submerged and slid back into the far away living room.

Few children can say that on a Saturday, after a challenging week of solving problems most people aren't capable of understanding, their father makes some time to enter into their little world--a world they, themselves, will outgrow very quickly and remember only faintly.

Zucchini Baby

I feel very fortunate to receive fresh vegetables
from time to time in the summer even though I don't
tend a garden. My friends bring from the overflow...zucchini,
yellow crook-neck squash, acorn squash, potatoes,
real green beans, cucumbers, and, occasionally,
true tomatoes--the dark red kind that aren't mushy or mealy--
but I do have to admit that not every single veggie
suffers the fate of the oven or the frying pan.
You see. I have grandchildren who visit.

Meet Zucchini Baby, who single-handedly managed to entertain two pre-schoolers for an hour and a half. They dressed her, rocked her, gave her a bath, listened to her heart beat, and took her little blood pressure. I dragged this old doll bed of their mother's down from the attic, and there she sleeps still.








Shhhh! Nevermind. Her eyes are open now.

Raining in the Trees

It's strange to walk this morning. The ground is wet and the streets are shining. From the north, comes a mist-laden breeze and everywhere I hear the dripping and rustling sound of steady rain. Out in the street, away from the trees which gather to gossip at the creek, the rain is over. It was a good rain though. You can tell that by the lively, green rustle of the Virginia creeper, which has lately drooped over fences in a languid protest at this July heat. I walk a mile alone. It's Sunday. Everybody is sleeping in. Church doesn't start until ten o'clock, but you can't tell that to the birds. They are singing already. Loudly. Incessantly. Joyfully. That's what rain does for the thirsty.

My Oldest Friend

A Sunday Scribblings Prompt

She’s ninety five, and because of a stroke, her limbs are of no more use than branches on a backwards tree. So every day someone dresses her, as if she were still going to her old job at the courthouse—soft knit dress, slip, hose worn like knee socks, and brown penny-loafers— then lifts her out of bed to the recliner, where she sits patiently, watching television in the dusky living room. The house is old around her, filled with the furniture of her grandparents and carrying the smells of two bygone centuries. This is her entire world, well almost. Every evening, her son pulls out the wheelchair and the two of them go down to Benny Jack’s to eat catfish and hushpuppies. It’s like an expedition to the carnival: lots of noise; loud, lively music; real people crowded into booths and tables so close the waitresses must take turns passing by. The gossip is delightful to her old ears—who’s getting married, whose son became a fighter pilot, and who’s having trouble with that bunch of amateurs up at the courthouse.

I met her this summer when her substitute caretaker ran into some problems and asked for my help. Imagine meeting someone the first time when they come into your room holding a bucket and asking if they can give you a wash.

“Are you a nurse,” she asked suspiciously. (Much can be forgiven nurses.)

“No. Just a friend of your friend here”

“I’m not going to let you do it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“This is one of those emergencies,” interjected the sitter, “You don’t really have a choice, because I can’t do this by myself.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lilibeth”

“Mine’s Mim. You don’t hear a name like that much anymore.”

“It’s a pretty name, and it happens to be the name of my little grand-daughter.”

“Well imagine that! Her parents named her Mim, huh?”

“They did.”

“Well, if we’re going to do this, we’d better get started.”

So we did. It’s an odd way to meet someone, but it certainly does away with all the social airs and graces and lets one get on with just being friends.

That wasn't the last time I ever saw her, for life has a way of letting people meet again.

Three weeks ago, when I told her goodbye, she was sitting stiffly in the recliner, funny little hose still rolled at the knee, smiling in spite of her strait-cast life, ordering the sitter to sit over by the window and quit being so nervous and fluttery.

My old friend Mim.

Observations Through the Fence.

Hey look, Arnold, Visitors!

Look, Mommy, Goats!











See how they sit and stare, all alike.
Maybe they are from the same flock.

They look hungry. See how they stand and stare at us. They don't really like grass, though, maybe some weeds would be tasty.










I don't care what they look like. What's that in their hands. Weeds? Delicious.


Here little goat, have an iris leaf.









I've got the munchies for that dress. Who cares about the leaf?

Why Would Anyone Ever Want To Live in a Small Town Out in the Middle of Oklahoma?

Every morning I try to take a walk---before the heat of the day comes roaring up from the East. Today was rainy, so it wasn't so bad. As I walked along the streets in my neighborhood, I was--once again--glad I live in a small town. Here are a few reasons why.

1. The street in front of my house has a slow speed limit.
Even our main streets(both of them)
have sections at this speed and only ever get to 35.
















2. The edge of town is only (at most) a mile from the center of town, so country seeps into town and mingles with the lawns of suburbia...which starts a block from the central courthouse.















3. People's lawns look like parks...and these aren't really rich people either...just hard-working folk, some retired, who are proud of their gardening ability.














4. In the early morning, it is quiet...not too many people rushing out to work or to find some kind of entertainment.















5. I think its interesting that the "wood shop"
is bigger than the house.























6. Even this little house, full of children's toys and not at all ostentatious, has its own charm... look at the room these children have to play--no apartment-smothered little cement patios or crowded sidewalks. Kids need trees.
















7. Pets have room to run around.
In this field you can see goats, 2 llamas, and a dog.

















8. Old work trucks don't really look out of place.
















9. People sometimes keep horses in their backyards. No. I don't ride them,but they are lovely to look at, especially when you aren't the one having to clean the stables.















10.I hear lots of doves calling,
and some kind of bird that goes
twi-twi-tic-tic-tic-tic. There are squirrels too, running all over the trees, and a couple of years ago there was a skulk of little foxes living in the creek bed.















11. Old houses get fixed up and added to and added to again,
but they still retain that character.















12. People make lots of places to sit.
This one just faces the road
so you can see who is driving by.
















13. I never have to spend gas for a drive in the country,
because I walk there every morning. It almost makes up
for the fact that we don't have Walmart or a mall.













The house across the street from me is for sale. Well?

For more Thursday Thirteen, check here.

Props for Prisoners at Philippi

My hands are tired: painting and typing.
I'm writing the curriculum for our VBS this year, because we wanted to use the same setting as our last year's program, but the cycle for the company was three years and we wanted at least one more scenario. First we were in Jerusalem, then Bethlehem, then Capernaum, and now we are going to Philippi. Paul and Silas have to arrive and be introduced to Lydia's prayer meeting down by the river. (oops, we'll have to make a river) The slave girl has to be delivered--in the market place (At least we already have a market place from last year; we just have to drag all the pieces down from the church attic and set them up). We will need a jail this year, and an Olympic booth. (This is ancient Greece after all.) There are skits to write, and songs to plan and stories to tell. We need a costume for a huge Roman soldier and we need a project for the carpenter's shop. Today one of our board members brought over some chains and manacles that he had made for the prison scene. They are made of PVC pipe and chains. I painted them dull black. My fingernails look really grungy, but the typewriter keys don't care. I've typed and typed--four days worth of lessons.
Now I want to say: THANK YOU, Microsoft Word!
Why?
Well, I had an abnormal shut-down of the computer, but, thanks to their extreme courtesy in creating an instant save mechanism, I did NOT lose it all. Not any of it, actually.

Ah. I love technology.

The Pottery Peddler

Claye, my senior art student, with a little prompting from me-a pushy mom-- has decided to post pictures of some of her works on the internet. We started a little blog for her, and, since she doesn't write, and has no desire to talk about anything, we will be posting only pictures of her stuff. Someday, maybe, when we can figure out how to do it, she might have a web site and sell stuff. For now, this site will be like a catalog... or a virtual file cabinet. I only wish they took up as little space in her room. Anyway, here is the link to a work--a whole lot of works eventually--in progress.

Just Desserts

Here are two limericks for Mad Kane's Humor Blog.
The topic was Food and Drink.

# 1

I ate your ice cream bars, he gloated
Creamy, and rich—chocolate coated!
Now you’re feeling trim,
But how about him?
Well he’s feeling lethargic and bloated.

#2

My stomach keeps calling for more
and no matter how much I deplore
the sugar sweet snacks,
I have to face facts:
Those rascals are winning the war!

Great-Grandpa's Garden

Such wonders in the world--
Squash and Tomatoes
Banty Chickens and Quail
Smooth brown Cows
with smooth brown calves
Haystacks sticking up into
the blue bowl of horizon
and Grandfathers willing
to show you the wonders
and share the wind
that sweeps mightily
over the Texas plains

Such Wonders!

Vision

Just a little guy.
beholding the glorious playground
with a vision for great adventure,

but here is work to be done
before he can run along
to the castle!
the bridges!
the scaling walls!

"I have to finish
this digging job,"
he tells me
with solemn eyes.
The golden sawdust
has become wheat
to harvest.

So he works.
That too is vision.


Sunday Scribblings

Climbing Ladders and Self-Confidence

You can tell your children all day long how pretty they are or how smart they are or how strong or how brave, but those things alone don't build their self-esteem. The successful completion of a difficult task is what creates a better self-concept. Notice the glee Mim shows when the job is done.
That's how I feel when I finish a day of hard work.

Laundry on Thursday

Every now and then we have one of those easy, sit around and loaf days. Ah!
Laundry only takes an occasional change over, fold and hang time...a perfect day with lots of rest. It was fairly cool also, cool enough to walk in the evening, so Turtle and I took a two mile hike around town while Elijah celebrated his final day at work (harvest is over) by playing soccer with some little guys who were hanging around the church. Not much to blog about, unless you want to hear that I cleaned out the kitchen pantry and made a pot of perfect chicken and dumplings. Not impressed? Well you would be if you only knew how many times I've ruined simple foods like that.

Thirteen Things That Deteriorate When Mom Isn't Home.

To be fair, things could have been a lot worse. With Claye at summer school and Elijah working 16 hours a day, and only males in the house for three weeks, things could have taken forever to repair, but they handled it well. Babystepper and Claye were able to pick things up in a hurry and make everything tolerable the day I came home...actually I was so glad to get home I didn't care. I'm not the most organized person; in fact I would call myself a "relaxed houskeeper"; still, the house takes on a unique sense of fuzziness when I'm away.

1. Toilet Paper--We have four bathrooms.
The toilet paper is supposed to go on the handy little holders.
You figure it.
















2. Laundry Piles
Everybody tries hard to wash what they have to have,
but the non-essentials pile up.














3. The carpet--Because nobody is around to say
"leave the food and drinks in the kitchen", or
"Wait! you are tracking something from the Coop
all over the den and into the bedroom!"











4. Mail--Why does nobody ever throw away any junk mail when I'm not home?
Do you think we need 25 credit card offers, 5 political party solicitations, 12 sales fliers, and 3 offers to join my college alumni association in funding an endowment for gymnasium upkeep? It's like a sacred stack or something.












5. Bookshelves--Books reproduce themselves, divide like amoeba or paramecia. They were hanging out of every one of our eleven bookshelves. I had to do major surgery-getting rid of all the appendices and spleens-- to make room for such new essentials as Stephen Colbert's "I am America and So Can You"












6. Music--The stack on the piano has grown to balance the Moses statue;
maybe it's modern art versus classical.
Surely we can manufacture some
deeply significant significance here.














7. Nintendo games--there is a little puddle of them at the feet of the great Nintendo idol in the bedroom.
I'm assuming that it was born of a rainy evening and
several tired harvest hands unexpectedly released
from their labors by a downpour and the accompanying thunder/lightening storm.










8. Flower beds--The back yard is soooo far away and it's so "momish" to weed.














9. Healthy food--I have to give Turtle credit for keeping the cabinets well stocked with food. He also made gallons of tea. Still, the quality of the stuff was a little different from what the cabinets are used to. Turtle's four food groups are: the potato chip group, sorghum and molasses group, popcorn group, and sugared cereal and milk group.

















10. Refrigerator Space--Claye was home on the weekends, to temper the decidedly "male" aspect of the house. She used the opportunity to make unique recipes, so I found Scottish oats and a cup of Caledonian cream in the fridge.
Thank you Celtic Thunder.







11. Vegetable Bin--Yesterday, I found an onion in a zip-loc bag. It looked like yellow mush; need I say more?











12 Light bulbs--Hmmm. I wonder. How many of these lights were ever turned off, and how many men does it take to put in a new light bulb?








13 Grandkids--I'm sure they were sick
because they missed their grandma,
so I'm glad to be home.



















For more Thursday Thirteen check here.

Funeral on Wednesday

Well, Turtle has had a couple of difficult days. Tuesday he went to the city to be with a church family for a minor surgery. Unforseeably, it turned into a lengthy situation because of an unexpected reaction to the anesthesia. He didn't get home until evening and then had to prepare for a funeral (unrelated to the party of the surgery). He sat up until two in the morning writing the sermon and finalizing the obituary. After the funeral, graveside ceremony, and family meal we both came home and he sat down on the couch while I blogged. Didn't take long.

Cleaning on Tuesday

Call me Wonder Woman.
Today I cleaned the carpet in the den, the foyer and the hall.
Because there comes a point of having to do something or feel embarrassed every time anyone visits, and there is only so much one can do about the spots. So, although only the evening before I had avowed that I would wait until harvest was over to clean it, I caved in with the dawn. Under the beguiling influence of my morning rush of energy I pulled out the machine and went into a frenzy of activity that lasted until time to deliver meals on wheels. I also cleaned out a bookshelf and worked on my bedroom, which was still suffering from the disease of "disorganized male whose wife is away occupancy".

Needless to say, I felt that aptly-named-by-the-British "sinking feeling" by the time afternoon came around. The grandkids were here, so I took advantage of Mim's nap time and took one myself. It was a good thing, because although I slept peacefully all unknowing, I would need strength for the pressure cooker's blowing up and spraying a pot of stew all over the stove, vent, cabinets, and floor. Ah well. Life is so back to normal.

Mowing on Monday

Yesterday, Turtle and I went to work at the family cabin on the lake. Now when I say on the lake I don't really mean on; I mean within a mile of, and when I say lake, I mean a small, man made reservoir that is well suited for fishing and canoes and paddle boats. Don't think noisy speed boats, water skiing or pontoon parties. Also, when I say family cabin, I'm not talking about an expensive set-up a la condo jet-set style. I'm talking about a "needs lots of tender care" little bargain we picked up a few months ago, because we had come to realize how expensive vacations were and had sworn off of them. We were naively thinking that a little place to relax would cost less in the long run.
Sadly enough, it will be some time before we can use the "cabin" for relaxing. Ha ha. First we had to put in a well. Next we had to run all new water lines and new electric lines and move the hot water heater from its closet in front of the electric panel. Now we are painting--inside and (eventually) outside. The trees have been pruned and the pile of branches seems bigger than the cabin. The well is working, but not connected. The lines under the house are set in place but not connected. The electric box is in and we have lights and some plug ins but the hot water heater, stove, and refrigerator are not connected. See--connection problems. They crop up everywhere. However, the furniture is mostly in--all old stuff left over from our house or relatives' houses (You know how it is). Some day we will be able to go to this house, relax, sit in the shade, hike, swim, canoe etc. I'm betting it will be at least two years from now. It seems difficult to even get down there to work. We probably average once every two weeks. There is a largish sort of lawn with lots of fruit trees--apple, peach, pecan, pear, an arbor of grape vines and a fence covered with blackberry vines. Yesterday, while Turtle worked on the well pump, I mowed. Then we took turns mowing. The weeds were knee high--looked like baby's breath and four o-clocks mingled with all kinds of grasses and daisies.

We keep hoping that our extended family will find a cozy little refuge here before long. They deserve a break from the toils of life... and maybe someday we will take that break too.

Isn't it funny how much work we are willing to put into relaxing?

Stuffed Silos

It has been a golden harvest; moisture is down, weights are high, prices are up. What could possibly go wrong for the farmers this year?

Elijah is working at the Co-op. (Farmers' Cooperative) His good friend Ray is working alongside and staying--for the duration of harvest--in our guest room. They works from 8 in the morning until 1 or 1:30 the following morning, and they have been doing this for three weeks with very few breaks. They only take off on Sunday morning for church, then go back to work. Wheat is pouring in. The biggest problem is where to put it all. They have filled up all the silos. The train cars which usually take the wheat north have been slow because a section of the railroad was destroyed in a recent rain, so they have been loading and sending truck after truck to bigger elevators. As soon as each truckload of wheat leaves, another farmer arrives with more wheat to take its place in the stuffed silo. The farmers are all insistent that there is room for their wheat in the silos, but it is possible that they will resort to unloading it onto the ground. After a couple of miserable years of harvest, however, this is a great problem to have. I pray the farmers will be able to recoup their losses from last year and make some extra profit.