Haiku with Hebrides (Played loudly)

Morning drive in March
Misty and mysterious
Mendelssohn's Music

Sheets of fallen cloud
Spreading tenuously thin
Slice through the treetops

Glowing in the East

Reveals an elevator

Palace of the plains

Driving North Into Kansas

Sandra, a fellow teacher and friend of mine lost her mom last year to a heart attack. It was a sudden tragedy, one for which the family was not prepared...but then we never are.
Jeanie was an artist, whose life in a small college town included helping the students in her clay studio. Every year they made dozens of clay projects--dishes, dolls, canisters, baskets, and ceramic statues. These were then sold at a yearly auction to benefit the college.




Yesterday, Claye and I took a trip to Kansas to purchase some of the glazes. Our trip up there and back took all day, but the weather was pleasant. We saw a tidal wave of dark clouds approaching from the east, and were soon overtaken by gentle rains.

Arriving somewhat later than we had planned, due to my hasty decision to trust the GPS over the map, we made a call and were led to a garage-shaped building on a grassy lot.
We met Sandra's father, the builder of the shop, an industrious man, who was kind enough to show us around and fit us into his work schedule for the day. The shop had been sold, but everything in it still needed to be moved into storage or bought by people like us.

We were particularly interested in the glazes, because they are expensive to buy new, and Claye uses them in her studio. There were so many of them, we hardly knew where to begin. While we selected and loaded plastic tubs full of glazes, the rain settled down to a misty drizzle. Outside, the quiet little town nodded steadily. Students popped in and out of the studio occasionally, making sure we weren't a couple of pottery thieves. We could tell they missed their mentor and felt protective of her little shop.

It took about three hours, but we got the car loaded and called the owner. He was back in a couple of seconds, between jobs and smiling, despite the sadness this task must have cost him. How do you part with the things---all the little things that gave pleasure to the one you loved? How do you let strangers carry it off without sending a little of you with every jar?

"She was happy here," he told us. "Working away for hours with clay, painting and spinning and firing." He looked around the shop. "It was usually busy here, too. Students coming and going. She had a gift. Our daughter has it too, you know, and our grandson. He can spin pots and work with all this."

"I'm not much of an artist, but I built this place for her. It's got everything she needed."
We could tell how much he had loved her by the pride in his voice and the obvious labor he had invested. There was a kiln room, spinning area, office, bathroom, painting table, and shelves everywhere. They were all full.

Claye and I showed him the buckets full of glaze and the clay tools we had chosen. I offered him as much as I knew we could afford, hoping he wouldn't think it too little.
He looked serious. I thought, "Maybe I should  offer more. Even if some of the glazes are ruined, the ones that work will be worth it, and I can manage."

Then he smiled, "If you would write that check for half the amount you offered, it would make me happy. I think Jeanie would have wanted you to have the glazes. She would be glad that they are going to good use. And the shelf you need to store them, I'll throw that  in for free."

Sometimes a thank-you isn't enough.
I was overcome with gratitude.



Here was a man with cause to be bitter, to be self-absorbed in sorrow, loathe to part with shreds of memories. But he smiled. He carried on. Courageous, that's what he was, and pleasant on a stormy, rainy day.










On the way home, I took a picture of this little tree, just standing, feet planted into the green, bathed in daylight...a daylight that finally comes after the dark cloud has passed. It reminded me of the gracious gentleman we had just left, standing in the door of his little shop with misty, new sunbeams on his bowed head.

The Long and the Short of It

Ever since Turtle had to take a personality test for an upcoming seminar, we've been enthralled by the whole Meyers-Briggs/Keirsey personality typing--testing everyone in the family with the enthusiasm of amateurs.

After complaining for weeks about having to take the test, and the absurdity of tests, and the conspiracy of all testers, and the consequences that would probably ensue should he not perform well on the "stupid" test, Turtle finally caved in and took the fifteen minute exam. From that, he tallied his scores and was given a four letter "code". When he researched the four letters on the internet, he found pages and pages about his personality type. These descriptions fit him so incredibly well that (in his own words) "It was spooky". Suddenly all those crazy little quirks--like never finishing a sentence or at least not until you've started three or four others to leave hanging, or forgetting everything and blaming it on everyone else--were explained as part of a particular personality type. His affection for children; his "alleged" affection for animals (that never leads to actually owning one because they are not hygienic); his always having a story ready to tell; his propensity for long conversations with complete strangers; and his distrust of logic. It was all there. Having seen the simple test, I simply couldn't see how anyone could use it to deduce these things. It did seem kind of "spooky". 


So I took it myself. Not surprisingly, I tested the exact opposite in every letter. The descriptions seemed uncannily apt also. All my unique personality had obviously been studied, unbeknownst to me and posted on the internet. Logical, diligent, introspective, and sometimes needing silence for my overactive imagination, I love sequence, charts, lists and main points. Now Turtle knows why I frequently interrupt his detailed, twenty-minute, explanations that start in the middle of the subject and dart in both directions crying: "Get to the point, please, before I go crazy!"


I always knew we had nurtured a wild and crazy family. 
Now I know why--all that genetic variety available for our offspring's personalities.






Our Three word Wednesday prompt was: diligent, nurture, amateur

March-The Lamb and the Lion

I took a little trip today to a town about thirty miles from here. The morning was golden when I left home, so I stopped to take pictures of the yellow flowers on green fields.

In the distance, I could see a white bank of approaching clouds, like a line of surf heading toward the shore.

The sky was beginning to darken when I arrived, but by the time my shopping was finished and I headed toward home again, there were curly clouds everywhere.

It made for a beautiful sky. I drove past the windmills just so I could get their picture against that swirling, leonine, backdrop.

As I drove west, the skies began to lighten through the clouds

It's amazing to me how a distance of thirty miles can affect the scenery!   I arrived home to find full sunlight on the trees, just like it was when I left.

Genetically Dominant Haikuity

 An Interesting Facebook exchange.

Carina started it by posting this status:

Carina---My Victory Haiku

Dumpster to the road
Lid pushed down; I'm just in time
Here comes the trash truck.

Whereupon her Aunt Rebecca commented

• 
  • Rebecca  You are 200% your mother's child, even in spite of the fact that is impossible!
    

    
    

    
    
  • 
    

    Carina:  I felt the occasion had to be commemorated. Now that I think about it, my mother is probably the source of that particular DNA code.
    

    
    
  • 
    

     
    Lilibeth:   Why would you think that? It could have come from your dad.
    Ha Ha just kidding. ( I don't know how to space it like a haiku)
    

    
    
  • Elijah:   
    

    Formatting Haikus?
    Try Using Shift + Enter
    Just like this mom, see?
    

    Whereupon I deleted my previous comment and put it in proper formatting like this:

                

                   Why would you think that? 

                    It could have come from your dad.
                    Ha Ha just kidding. 
    

    And Elijah protested
    

    
    
  • 
    

    Elijah:      You fixed it, now people won't understand my Haiku :(
    
    

    Lilibeth:
    

    If I had known that

      you were writing the Haiku,
     I wouldn't have fixed it.

    
    

    Lilibeth
    Well, I should have known
  • Haikuescent phenotypes
    Are hard to suppress
    
    
    

           Elijah:‎.
    
    Comment formatting
    deletes initial spaces!?
                   Very uncool facebook.
    

    
    

    
    
  • 
    

    Carina wrapped it all up with:
    

     In the words of Sam
    The big, blue muppet eagle,
    "[We] are all weirdos."
    

    
    

Stars on the Ceiling

Once again, my classroom ceiling is covered with stars. Spring and stars are now intrinsically linked in my mind. Our modern missions unit involves oral reports, research biographies, a bulletin board and Stars for each missionary researched by a student. This year there are sixteen. Here's what the final board looks like.

Some of the stars are exceptional. Look at this one, which remembers the life of Eric Liddell, a Missionary to China. All the detailed props have been fashioned with clay. I was especially impressed with the spokes of the bicycle and the laces and cleats on the running shoes.

















This star--representing Corrie Ten Boom--was made by one of our students in his welding class. Each section of the second triangle was a separate bit of aluminum.









Cameron Townsend spent much of his ministry in Mexico, so his star was made of tamale-wrapping corn husks.










And Betty Green's is pilot's wings.













Florence Young's star, all hand threaded yarn, looks like the jungles on the islands she visited those many years ago.










Jim Elliot's star is made of spear tips, burned and sharpened in the fire.











Jonathan Goforth's is a fan, spread like his years of influence over Northern China.












We just finished reading chapter eleven of Hebrews in our morning teachers' meeting, and a phrase of it always runs through my mind when we do this unit: "of whom the world was not worthy"

          ³⁶And others had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of bonds and   imprisonment:
        ³⁷They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented;
        ³⁸(Of whom the world was not worthy:) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. 

 I know that passage is talking about Old Testament prophets and heroes, but I feel that these missionaries would qualify for that hall of fame as well. What a wonderful thing that their sacrifices were not for nothing, that this life isn't an end to itself, but a crowded little lobby where we stand before the porthole of the next.

Someday I plan to see these people, and and I know their faces will shine brighter than our clumsy, hand-crafted stars. 

March Skies-- the evening and the morning

Coming home from play practice at around 6:30 on Tuesday evening, I saw this out to my left as I drove southward through the countryside. Of course I stopped. Who wouldn't, with the moon suspended just so, as if it were an escaping bubble from the sudsy clouds below...

Then I zoomed in a little, steadying the camera for the shot, and catching the shine on the surface a little better. It needed a song, but my brain was simply to exhausted to write one. There was the moondancing song from Celtic Thunder, however, so I played it in the car as I turned and wended my way to the West.

The next morning, I awoke, refreshed and ready to discover this blossoming tree outside my door. Obviously, the warm night winds had shaken its flowers out of their little buds.

I drove at a leisurely pace toward work, which, on Wednesday, begins thirty minutes later. Ahead, were clouds, struggling to contain the persistent sun as it poked and beamed its way through.

The fields are green in March--wheat coated and rain hungry. Meandering through the back roads gave me the freedom to pull over suddenly and take pictures as I approached the cloud bank.

And then...as I was standing there in the early morning quiet, the sun came bursting in, splitting the glass on my camera lens like a star. I snapped it, then jumped back into my little Dusky Wuggins, and drove to school where the inside world awaited--like a different planet.

Baby Crankenstein

Our family living class is taking turns babysitting this little machine. He comes with a carrier, diaper bag full of supplies and a sensor that recognizes a wrist band attached to a caregiver. Each student has three days and nights at a stretch with the cranky little being, who acts, in many ways like a real baby. He has to be fed, changed, burped, rocked, and everything but ignored. His computer records all aspects of his treatment and each student is graded according to how much attention and positive care he awarded the "baby".  The teacher has tried to schedule mostly weekends for this assignment, but that's impossible for everybody, so the doll was in my class this morning. I was able to rock and burp him while the assigned student took a test for my class. It didn't take too long. Then, he settled his cute little plastic head right down on my shoulder and slept. In some ways, I can see that this activity might be good for a student, particularly one who doesn't realize that babies are going to need care.

However, I have a lot of reservations. At first glance, this educational tool seems innocuous, or even beneficial. But, unless it is handled correctly, there could be an undesirable corollary to the activity. I can see students deciding that a child is too much trouble to keep. This one cries a lot, keeps everyone up at night, and never smiles or gurgles with that delightful laughter that convinces a mom she is raising a rare treasure. I think the sleepless nights, the curtailing of planned activities, the sheer enormity of the responsibility might encourage abortions, or decisions to avoid having a child--ever.

Children are a lot of trouble. That's true.
It's also true that the joy they bring is worth far more than all the trouble.

As I held Baby Crankenstein this morning, I remembered a time long ago--thirty two years ago to be exact--when I held my own, colicky, two-month old baby in the middle of a long, sleepless night.
I sat there rocking and wrote her a poem.

So in the morning at two o'clock
We sit together--sit and rock
And your head feels very soft against my shoulder.
Someday, Baby, when you're older
Then, I'll let you go.
But, Please God, let the coming of that day be slow.

Exultate!

Claye and I traveled a ways yesterday evening to listen to a concert by the Lawton Pro Musica--a chamber choir. Since Elijah and Marie are members of this 14-member ensemble, we wanted to hear the performance, particularly since Marie had informed me that Elijah had a solo. Not being too sure of what to expect, and even suspecting that it might be all Latin and German numbers, or, worse yet, modern classical music with its screeches and jagged edges, I almost packed my Kindle. Fortunately, the concert was far from that. In fact, it was quite enjoyable.

The singers were almost all music educators, either in or retired from the school system or music ministers in area churches. The singing was exceptional. Also, and this really matters to me, the songs were meaningful!

From the Gregorian chant, "Creator of the Starry Skies", through hymn medleys and Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee, to I Got a Home in-a That Rock, they encouraged my soul.

The setting--St. Andrew's Episcopal Church--and the lighting--subdued as it struck the ancient wooden beams and stained glass--only added to the mood of peacefulness.

The audience even got to participate in a couple of numbers, one of which was a total surprise to me. I knew that Gustav Holst had written "The Planets", which includes a composition for each of those heavenly bodies. (My grandchildren like to imagine they are space-traveling while that music is playing; they hop to the right planet when they hear the music for it) What I didn't know was that Holst had composed hymn lyrics to go with the main theme for Jupiter. Somehow I had never imagined that. The song is called O God, Beyond All Praising.

Our evening was well worth the trip...and Elijah's solo was excellent.

Here are the Lyrics to Gustav Holst' Hymn

 O God, beyond all praising we worship You today

And sing the love amazing that songs cannot repay;

For we can only wonder at ev'ry gift You send,

At blessings without number and mercies without end;

We lift our hearts before You and wait upon Your Word,

We honor and adore You, our great and mighty Lord.

Then hear, O gracious Savior, accept the love we bring,

That we who know Your favor may serve You as our King;

And whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill,

We'll triumph through sorrows and rise to praise You still:

To marvel at Your beauty and glory in Your ways

and make a joyful duty our sacrifice of praise.

Is My Name Balaam?

Last night, on our way to a really great concert by the Lawton Chamber Choir, Claye and I both heard my car speak. No kidding. It was very weird. This car has never spoken before, but suddenly it's mouth was opened and it spilled this phrase from both right and left speakers:

"Ready. Name tags empty. Goodbye."

We looked at each other. Did the car just talk? Yes. I heard it from my speaker.

Same here. What did it say?

"Ready. Name tags empty. Goodbye."
That's what I heard too.

Why would it say that? And why in such a cheery voice?

I checked all the gauges, tested the brakes...nothing. The car seemed to be in perfect form as we kept driving down the four-lane highway at seventy miles an hour.

We called Turtle and had him google voice alerts so he could warn us if this strange message was a portent of something that would endanger our trip home in the dark...nothing. We wondered if the message had been something about main tanks...or air bags...but the message had seemed clear:

Our name tags were indeed empty. In fact, we weren't wearing name tags...but how did that matter?
On the way home, my low gas "ding" came on once. The gauge showed three quarters full and I knew I had just filled the car.

Can it be that my car is going bonkers?

I sure hope not. I love that little sabre-toothed donkey on wheels. His name is Dusky-Wuggins.

Wit

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was: wit, but it was suggested that we pair it with something like "grace". Now I understand that if you really want to be known as a wit, you need a little grace to keep from overdoing it...and if you are subjected to too much "wit" you must have grace to keep smiling pleasantly, but other than that? Well, wits failed me.

 I think I'll write a limerick about it all...

She was known as an elegant wit
Understated, demure, like a Brit
She skewered with grace
And smiled in one's face
As she roasted them there on the spit.

Such an innocent-eyed little chit
Whose jokes were "in fun" and "that's it"
Her victims all smiled
As she stabbed and beguiled.
But they secretly called her a twit.