Mom's Black Purse

I have four sisters.
They live in North Carolina, Oklahoma, Dallas, Texas, and the Panhandle of Texas, (which is a different world than the rest of Texas). We seldom see each other, but every great now and then we do all manage to get together. Last year I was hosting a great Thanksgiving get-together, so I hurried out to buy groceries enough for the families. The check-out counter was loaded with turkey, ham, cottage cheese, dressing, sweet potatoes, and egg nog.

As I lifted my purse to the counter, I noticed how shabby it had become. My secret pal had given it to me the spring before, and I had used it all summer out of gratitude, but now as I frowned at the daisies on the navy background I made a decision...time for a new one. Hurrying over to the general store, I frantically searched for just the right one...not too big, not too little, lots of pockets, solid black, silver metal parts(so it will match the most outfits...the rest will just clash, ok.) It took me a while, but I finally found the one in the entire two aisles worth that I could tolerate and bought it on the spot.

Thanksgiving. They arrived. We ate, visited, did dishes, laughed, played Balderdash, all the things families do, until day was weary and evening approached.
Time to collect our purses and go. Mine was right here.

No wait. It seemed a little different. Was it mine? No. That's not my phone. That one over there? "That's mine," said my mom. I see the scarf...and we all started laughing. All the purses were black--not too big, or little, lots of pockets. Crazy sisters. My daughter brought hers out from under the table. Black. Not too big....lots of pockets

Is it possible to inherit a purse preference gene?
So if you are related to me, and haven't sent me a picture of your black purse yet, join this pile.

May Day Madness

We are close to the end of school.

The kids are antsy; so are we teachers.

I have to share with you a picture

that one of my students drew

to illustrate a Bible verse.

It made my day.

Words that Describe Me...Thursday Thirteen

This Week for Thursday Thirteen we were asked to choose a letter of the alphabet and then pick thirteen words, beginning with that letter that described us. I chose F.

Frumpy...yes, I'll admit it. I wear clothes like I'm the potatoes in the sack, and I keep the same comfortable shoes until they wear off my feet.

Friendly...only to a point, however.

I detest small talk, but I do smile at people. Does that count?

Family-oriented...I'm one of those who can discuss my family's faults, but don't like it when other people do, because I'm pretty--

Fierce when it comes to defending them. My husband calls me a mama bear.

Faithful. Once I come to a reasoned conclusion on beliefs and loyalties, I'm pretty difficult to shake away. ...
I didn't say impossible, but it takes earthquakes to budge me.

Famished. Usually, I can eat food.

Just about any food.

Therein lies a problem...

Fat. Unless I'm looking in one of those clever mirrors

they put in the dressing rooms of chic clothing stores

to make middle-aged dumpling shaped women

look like celery stalks,

I have to face facts.

Yes, that--all of that-- is little old roly poly me.

Futuristic. I like to launch my dreams way into the future. For instance: "When I'm retired, then I'll learn how to ski." (Skinny chance) or, "I'll sky dive later"...much later...when I'm immortal and don't need a parachute because you never know with parachutes who packed them and manufactured them and they just might not decide to work and then where would I be? Falling screamingly through the atmosphere?

(All you purists wincing out there, I know I sort of corrupted the meaning of the word, but I'm not a purist, or I would have picked the letter "P". Ok?)

Fearful. Can I help it if I have a superb imagination? I can see all those things that could happen and yikes! Life is scary for us dramatic imaginers.

Foreign. Wherever I am, I always feel a little foreign, like I really don't belong on this planet.

Favored. It amazes me that I've been so blessed in this life. I feel like I was born into the hand of God or something. No. not my doing. Just "Who Am I?" to deserve all this? No. not riches or fame or all the usual stuff...just so many people around me who care.

Feisty. Rather like a little chihuahua. Well, a plump little chihuahua that never catches up with the object of its fierch barkings.

Fuddy Duddy--yep, that's me. stuffy. old fashioned and conservative. Well, I'm not quite sure about the stuffy part actually...because every now and then I get all flamboyant and fire-breathing...but not often.

Grandparents' Day at School

(While all my students wrote letters to their grandparents,

I decided to write an essay about my own.)

I'll tell you about my Grandparents,
those who poured their lives into my parents
and into me
and into my children.

I see them resting side by side,
under emerald mounds of wild marigolds.
young again,
Serene, at peace with God.
Sheltered from the frenzy of this world
and from its pain, of which they had their share...

For this one brought home a bronze star and a purple heart from the Great War.
Trembling in the trenches with other frightened boys,
scarcely old enough to hold a gun, he breathed the caustic, mustard gas that withered his lungs, while his eyes saw sights that seared and scarred the senses. It aged him and he lived old for the rest of his life, still a fighter; but, knowing that this war hadn't really ended all wars, he preached a different campaign, one to change the human heart, for the war that smolders there breeds all the others.

And this one held her baby son and watched him breathe his last. Just a fever, just a flu, and the fragile little love was gone. For all her days she remembered him, his shining sapphire eyes--such a bright boy, with that perfect dimple in his chin, like his daddy's. For solace, she carried Psalms within her heart and taught them to her two little daughters. She quoted them still at ninety, when her eyes failed her, for faith and words never did.




























That one lived through howling winds out in the prairie dust bowl, tossed by a tornado,
slammed by the shed, his leg bone driven into the hip socket and fused there for seven months. "You'll walk with crutches all your life," the doctor predicted. But it didn't happen. After a short, brush arbor, revival prayer, he ran, and left his crutches in the dirt. He raised his seven children on the dry Panhandle sod, and they rose early to milk the cows, and they climbed whirling windmills under a topaz sunrise. When Grandpa was old, he groaned softly with each step, uh-uh-uh, yet though his bones were hurting, he always managed a thank you, smiling up at strangers, for in the end we were all strangers to him.


And my grandma over there, well,
not one of her two dozen grandkids could beat her at a game of checkers. She was the queen.
I remember her hair, bound tightly to her head with silver clips, and her voice--singing softly, while she rocked one grandchild or another on her ample lap:

"Little children, little children

who love their Redeemer are the jewels,
precious jewels, His loved and His own.
They shall shine on that morning,
His bright crown adorning..."

So there they sleep--my grandparents--gems under grass green velvet, alive and crowned with forever, released from the yoke of time.

My Sweet Little Grandbabies

You knew it was coming sooner or later.
I can't help it. They are simply adorable.
If you want to read more about them,
follow the link to Babystepper's blog.

Buffalo Trail

Every year I decide--about the last two miles--that I'm too old to take a class on the Buffalo Trail. But for seventeen years, we've hiked it, the sophomores and I. It's a pilgrimage, of sorts, which ties in with the last unit of our book in an object lesson sort of way.

The country kids remember where the water holes are and the best places to sun on the rocks midstream, catching crawdads and loving the wind. The city kids chase the lizards and scream at the snakes. Surrounded by so much quiet springtime, it's hard not to relax and laugh for sheer joy of beauty. The sign says that the trail is eight miles long; the brochure in the ranger station says six; It feels more like twelve.

I'm not sore today, but the bottoms of my feet are bruised a little. No ticks. No scrapes. What a wonderful day it was. Maybe a little too warm though. Next year we should leave at 6:00 instead of 8:00. (I always say that)

The videos are of trail views. First, a group of adventuresome crayfish chasers, (It's a little long) and then some scenery (On the high meadow, and down by the water). The trail has a lot of variety. I stayed quiet so you could hear nature sounds, but what you hear most is the wind.

Dreamdays--and other Compound Flopflips

My grandson, on his walk yesterday, suddenly commented that he liked the "woodcottons".
Hmmm. Well it does take some learning to know which word of a compound word should appear first. Is cotton or wood the most important contribution to that tree name?

It started me thinking about compound words, and I decided to write a story misusing, transposing, if you will, several common compound words. There are thirteen.

(In honor of Thursday Thirteen)

See if you can spot them.


I was just a little snipe gutter, high knee to a hopper grass, when I escaped the crossing streets and found myself out in the glorious side country. There were fly butters out there, in the breeze, and on the ground by the grass crabs under the pigeon stools, I found a treasure of fish silvers and worm rings. The trees were alive with sucker saps, and between their roots were colorful stool toads. I heard a noise...a buzzing...ah... it was just a bunch of bug hums!

That was fun. I think I'll try a poem.
(Thirteen switched compounds again)

Back fiddles and will whippoors
give me bump geese
Space crawls and snake rattles terrify.
Give me a bird song or a box of plum sugars,
flake snows or bow rains through a light sky,
A dragon snap colored in cool marine aqua
or a proud, white lily water. Sigh.

Celtic Thunder

My husband and kids have been telling me about a new group of singers from Ireland. Although they know I'm not usually impressed by modern music, they persuaded me to watch a youtube video performance by the youngest, Damien McGinty. Believe it or not, I watched the entire video, amazed by his stage presence and ability to sing. Then I watched four or five other songs. It was refreshing--understandable words, songs that actually said something. These singers used the English language as it was meant to be used, as a carrier for ideas and passions; they did not merely tear language into strips and fragments of random thoughts, throw them into a blender, turn it on high and add a few screams. No. They sang: Love songs, patriotic songs, and funny songs that were not about alleys, addictions, killing cops, or seducing Satan. The songs were not meant to repel or make anybody want to beat his or her head against the floor. People of all ages in the video audience were caught smiling. I was smiling too.
Yes.
Maybe people are asking for sanity in music once again.
Is the emperor wearing clothes...finally?

Composition

"Compose thyself!" she muttered quietly, and tried to stop her fingers from jumping madly all over the computer keyboard.

"If you insist on composing without thinking, you will be left with only little tatters of dependent clauses, all leaning haphazardly against one weak verb-subject frame. Is it then so important that you get the prompt pounded and stretched and shaped into some semblance of a blog entry before you go to work? It's Friday. It's five o'clock in the morning. Most people are sleeping. Or drinking coffee with brown sugar and hazelnut creamer and slowly coming to grips with the reality of the day."

But I see the situation looks hopeless. If I were a gardener I'd be hacking at the soil to make a soft spot, planting new lilacs, burying them snuggly between the roots of last years decomposing wild roses; if I were a cook, I'd be sprinkling garlic salt onto an omelet, composed of golden eggs, green bell peppers, and sweet, yellow onions; if a musician, composing, with narrow intensity, one smile-giving, newborn motif, walking it up and down the piano keys, feeling where it finds the freedom to break out into forte. Instead I spew forth words, no matter that my composition will only be fit for the compost, food for tomorrows posts.

Composer, compose thyself."

The Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "Compose"

Father Brown--Quotes from Chesterton's Stories

Thursday Thirteen

One of my favorite detectives is Father Brown. G.K. Chesterton modeled him after one of his friends, a real priest. Of course he changed him for the fiction stories, or in his own words he

"permitted myself the grave liberty of taking my friend and knocking him about, beating his hat and umbrella shapeless, untidying his clothes, punching his intellectual countenance into a condition of pudding-faced fatuity and generally disguising Father O'Connor as Father Brown."



I've taken thirteen of my favorite passages from Father Brown Stories. Enjoy them.

1. The winter afternoon was reddening toward evening, and already a ruby light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with the ghosts of the dead roses."




2. ...a car of splendid speed, great elegance, and a
pale green colour swept up to the front doors
like a bird and stood throbbing.









3. A large, neat chauffeur in green got out from the front, and a small, neat manservant in grey got out from the back, and between them they deposited Sir Leopold on the doorstep and began to unpack him...

4. "A radical does not mean a man who lives on radishes,"
remarked Crook, with some impatience; "and a Conservative
does not mean a man who preserves jam.
Neither, I assure you, does a Socialist mean a man
who desires a social evening with the chimney-sweep.
A Socialist means a man who wants all the chimneys swept
and all the chimney-sweeps paid for it."


5. "But who won't allow you," put in the priest in a low voice, "to own your own soot."



6. The green gaity of the waving laurels, the rich purple indigo of the night, the moon like a monstrous crystal, make an almost irresponsible romantic picture...

7. He sparkles from head to heel as if clad in ten million moons; the real moon catches him at every movement and sets a new inch of him on fire.

8. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes down and down.

9. And it seemed as if, on that particular morning, a swarm of total strangers had been buzzing in his ear with more or less unenlightening verbal messages; the telephone seemed to be possessed of a demon of triviality."

10. As is common under the lurid Quietude of that kind of light,
what colour there was in the landscape gained a sort of
secretive glow which is not found in objects under the full sunlight; and ragged red leaves or golden or orange fungi
seemed to burn with a dark fire of their own.

11. The door was thrown open with violence and a woman with a wild mop of red hair rushed to meet them, as if she were ready to board the car in full career... "Come into the inn," she said with extraordinary abruptness..."There's been a murder done."



12. In the broken sunlight from behind,
the tree-tops in front of them stood up
like pale green flames against a sky
steadily blackening with storm,
through every shade of purple and violet.






13. "Surely," said Father Brown very gently, "it is not generous to make even God's patience with us a point against Him."



Chesterton, G.K., " The Flying Stars", "The Insoluble Problem", Father Brown Mystery Stories, Dodd, Mead & Company, Binghamton, N. Y. 1962.

Parents of Grandparents are Still Parents

I never imagined that when I became a grandparent myself, I would still have to turn to my parents occasionally for counsel. Nope. I thought that surely by then I would have life all figured out and be entrenched behind the "giving advice" side of the table. Wrong. For no matter what I learn, there is always that vacancy caused by something I haven't learned yet, and I have to call to ask. Now I don't mind asking, because it gives us a chance to talk and I love talking to them, but I'm just amazed that I still don't know everything they do. Somehow they are a few years ahead.

Take this year's income tax, for instance. We sold a rent house on installments last year, and the math looked daunting, so I just counted it as a rental and avoided the issue, but I knew that sooner or later, if the house stayed sold and didn't come back in another life as a repo, I would have to deal with the dreaded amortization schedule. I called Dad.

"What? You've been counting it as a rental? No, you don't want to do that at all. You'll be losing money on the deal. Don't you have a record of when he paid?"

"Well, yes, I have the bank deposits, so maybe I should just download an amortization schedule from the web..."

"If he paid every month and didn't skip any, you could, but with him being late, you have to figure it yourself."

"Figure it myself ?" My fear of math overwhelmed me and I blanched and collapsed quietly back into my chair. Fortunately, he couldn't see me through the phone so he just went confidently on.

"Here's the formula. Write it down. It's twelve percent interest. That's easy. Take the balance that he owes times point 12. Then divide that by 365. Then take that times the number of days since he last made a payment. That's the interest. Subtract that from whatever he paid and apply the rest to the principal."

It sounded a little complicated, but hey, I can follow a formula. So I did. Pencil and paper. In my little log book. Twelve times for twelve months. Find the interest for the year and the principal to report as capital gains. Plug it all into my computer tax program and voila! I ran the errors check, and was rewarded with a no errors message.

Thanks, Dad.

Last night when I called Mom to get the buyer's social security number, she told me that Dad had just saved a calf and its mother. Seems he went to check on them, found the cow in trouble, went back for a rope, pulled the calf and saved them both. I wasn't surprised.

Dad is 81 years old.

The phone rang. It was my son.

"Hey Mom, I forgot my music for the choir tonight and I have to conduct a number, so could you or Dad meet me halfway with it so I won't be late. It should be on the coffee table or on the piano there or somewhere in the front room."

"Sure. I'll bring it all. We'll meet at the usual gas station. See you in a bit."

I guess he's about thirty years behind me.

The Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "Family"

Senior Recital

I guess I'll call him Elijah because in singing he reminds me of the prophet. (Not that Elijah ever wore a tux, but his booming voice surely rang out fearlessly over the hills of Judea.) Last night we, the family and friends, sat at the music hall in room 101, and listened to our son's senior recital. And we were proud of him.

The song is an Italian one, taken from the opera, Le Nozze di Figaro, by Mozart. In this part the Count Almaviva is scolding the court page after having consigned him to military duty. He is also explaining to the spoiled young man what his new life will be and won't be like in the army.

I've heard "Elijah" practicing through the years, so the piece was familiar to me. In the background, playing the grand, is his voice instructor. They both did a marvelous job. Elijah sang a dozen songs in German, Italian, French, and finally, English. His voice was tired when it was all over, but he made it through this milestone and was thrilled that he may now resume his regular chess matches with another one of his professors--there had been a moratorium on them until after this senior recital--and spend a little more time relaxing with songs that require less thought, and with pursuits that are less stressful.




I'm going to post another couple of clips. The first is in German (Die beiden Grenadiere) and the second in English. It is from a Shakespearian poem, but of course you'll recognize that from all the hey nonny nonnys.

I know that's a lot of video if you don't know him...but hey. Family reads this blog too, and many of them live too far away to attend, so I guess it's a proud mom's privilege.
Enjoy.

Looking for Bugs

There aren't many bugs out right now, but if your mom buys you a bug-catching kit, and if you have wings and a yellow hat, no matter the wind is blowing and it's chilly outside, a bug catching you will go. I took this little clip of Mim in the backyard. She doesn't say much...mostly talks to herself, but if Babystepper comes over today and translates it, I'll add the words.

Fearless

He was Fearless!
Ah.
Fearless.
He was.
Alas.




Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was "Fearless"

My Favorite Math Problem

Math has never been my passion; in fact, excepting geometry--which captivated me with its "proofs"--I reluctantly approached every math class I ever had. I have to admit, however, that I have used math regularly in my life, and those tedious sessions learning how to understand numbers were not wasted. Nonetheless, it was language and the puzzle of it that first attracted me to this particular problem. I actually thought the problem was a spoof when I first heard it, back in my high school days, so I didn't try to solve it. Instead, I scrawled it, word for word, into a tiny diary which I acquired and maintained somewhere around my senior year, and saved throughout the years to remind myself not to be too hard on my high school students when they seem immature. Some years later, I happened to run across this problem while shaking my head over the diary and its inane contents, and I discovered that it actually was a valid puzzle. I labored as only a non-math person can labor over math, and finally solved it. Thereupon I declared it my favorite math problem and have challenged students with it for years, keeping a list of those who managed to solve it. If you find the answer (without help...be honest now) send me your answer at lilibethsblog@gmail.com and I will affix a list of "those who got it right" on this post. I wish I had a huge prize to offer, but I don't. Blog fame will have to suffice. Here is the problem:

Over the top of the fence is placed a rope, the same amount on both sides. The rope weighs 1/3 pound per foot. On one end of the rope hangs a monkey with a banana, and on the other end hangs a weight equal in weight to the monkey. The banana weighs two ounces per inch. The length of the rope, in feet, is equal to the age of the monkey. The weight of the monkey, in ounces, is as much as the age of the monkey's mother. The combined ages of the monkey and its mother are thirty years. The weight of the banana plus 1/2 the weight of the monkey is 1/4 th as much as the sum of the weights of the weight and the rope, where all weights are in the same unit. The monkey's mother is 1/2 as old as the monkey will be when it is three times as old as its mother was when she was 1/2 as old as the monkey will be when it is twice as old as it is now.

Question: How long is the banana?

Students who have solved this: Patrick S, Kenny P, Matthew E, Carolyn T, Roman R, Erin F, Corey H, Kent Mc.

Thirteen Islands in the Deep

Thursday Thirteen

People have always been fascinated by islands. The idea of living on your own little piece of earth isolated from all the rest of humanity and its problems is a romantic one--not necessarily the most practical--but still a dream shared by people all over the world. Here are thirteen of the earth's small islands, some barely inhabited, others...well you shall see.



1. Hvar Island--Called one of the top ten most beautiful islands, it is located in the Adriatic Sea and belongs to Croatia. It is 68 kilometers long and not very wide. Apparently this island is populated with 11200 inhabitants who enjoy 2750 hours of sunshine every year and, with that said, I imagine they live off the tourists...well, the travel brochure did say something about agriculture, old olive trees and wine, but wow look at all the white sand beaches!













This picture of a little city street on Hvar is so good I may do an entire blog entry about it some day...or a novel. I love the bougainville and... I could just ramble on and on.














2. San Blas Islands. These "barely above sea level" islands are just off the coast of Panama, protected from the Atlantic by a hook of land. It still takes hours in a small boat to get to them. They are inhabited by the Kuna people. (Well some of them are; others are just for growing coconuts.)












A couple of years ago my son spent a week on one of these islands while on a missions trip to Panama. It was quite an experience. He really enjoyed sleeping in a hammock and making friends with the Kuna people and language. I can't imagine living in such crowded conditions though. The close up is amazing.












3. Islas Marias--These small islands located just west of Mexico in the Pacific look like a great place to visit.


The three small ones, however, make up the Islas Marías Biosphere Reserve, and no one lives there. About a thousand people live on the largest island--Maria Madre. There is a penitentiary there, so they are support personnel for the most part. Rats! Probably no great hotels and restaurants. And it's ironic that the prisoners don't even get to appreciate the island charm.












4. Semisopochnoi Island--Off the coast of Alaska. When I google-earthed this one, I was amazed by the clarity,
and also by the snow covered mountains.
It looked like a design or something...then I researched it and found out that it is uninhabited. The reason may be that volcano in the center.

It is called Mount Cerberus, if that is any clue.












5. Carcass Island --This one is one of the Falkland Islands which Argentina keeps trying to get back from Great Britain.

It is mostly uninhabited, but there is a sheep farm nestled in a coastal valley. I zoomed in and decided I'd love to visit it. The isolation looks good to me. Don't know why Argentina wants the sheep farm though, at least not enough to fight a war over it.

6. Isle of Man. This one looked fascinating on Google Earth, just because of its location, nestled between England and Ireland in the Irish sea.

Called a self-governing Crown dependency, it is populated, but this shot of a rainbow over lonely fields made me want to pull on a sweater and hike here.

7. Likoma--Located in Lake Nyasa in Malawi, this island has a capitol, buildings, churches...all of which don't show up on Google Earth yet, but they must have gotten these pictures from somewhere!

Here's a house built 'midst the trees.
Maybe they are all nestled in such greenery,
and that's why they don't show up.

8. King Island, Tasmania--this one is populated with under two thousand people and has been called a "beautiful parallel universe a short distance from Australia’s second biggest city that might as well be a million miles away in time and space." Sounds like a great place to go. Of course if all you internets rush over there it will be a "crowded parallel universe". Hmmm. Wait a minute...parallel universe? Sounds good, but if you think what it actually means, how can one small island qualify? I think they need to find better words...unless this is actually a space gateway, a wormhole disguised as an island...hmmm.

Anyway...it has a nice beach.

9. Pitcairn Island This is the only inhabited island of a group of four islands in the south Pacific which were formerly considered a British colony, but are now called a British overseas territory, the last remaining in the Pacific.

This island is known best for its inhabitants, descendants of the mutineers of the Bounty, and those from Tahiti who accompanied them to this unknown place of refuge. There are about 50 inhabitants, from 9 families, and this makes this jurisdiction one of the least populated in the world. It also looks like a lovely place to live.

10. Gotland Island, situated in the middle of the Baltic Sea, belongs to Sweden. It has 58,000 inhabitants and is appreciated by visitors from throughout the world.

There are desolate moors, meadows, cliffs, and beaches. Agriculture abounds, but there are also many old buildings to see, beginning with the 92 medieval churches still in use on the island.

10. Jaguanum--(Close to Rio de Janairo, Brazil) Ok. This, I think, is a true tourist island...all the food, fishing, and hoopla associated with that. Witness these pictures. You might like it. Doesn't look too far from Paradise.

























12.Viringili--This Island is a very small chunk of land south of Minicoy Island near India. The story goes that all of Minicoy's lepers were banished to this place (to live on coconuts and drink salt water, I guess.) Some sources say it was for small pox victims. Alas. Today it is used for a place to stop the tour and have a picnic. Hmmm. I guess it's good there are vaccines.

13. Robert Island--One of the Shetland Islands South of Chili. A good deal south.
The picture seems reasonably pleasant, the penguins for pets and all,
but when I googled it on Google earth,
I think I caught it off season.









Hmmm. Wonder how long that season lasts?
Something tells me that if you live here,
you'd better have a well insulated igloo
and a wardrobe full of furs.














http://earth.google.com/