Summer's Almost Over

So before that day arrives--the day when you have to get back into the routine and pick up the heavy textbooks...or lesson plan books (which can be heavy too)...I suggest you go to the lake. Pick a day when not too many people are around...and that's easy to do now that a lot of summer is over. Find a little lake. Sit and look at the water. Splash. Row a boat. Watch the ducks. Fish.



Or, you can do like I did and take a few pictures before sauntering back to the welcome air-conditioning of the cabin.

Perseverance

Now what is that?
Over there by the hand-painted handicapped sign?
It's a weed, I think, growing in a crack.
How dare it?
How could it?
The last two weeks have been 'death to all plants'.
Grass is giving up the fight and browning in great waves.
Plants I coddle and cool with sprinklers are pouting--wilting in surrender.
Yet this little weed is growing in an asphalt crack.
On the parking lot.
All day.
In the sun.
So. . . well. . .
I carried him a cup of water.
Don't tell.

Why Moms Worry

Our mortal children--especially when they gain their independence and begin to look with pity on their aging, fearful, superstitious parents--like Icarus, fly much too near the sun. The agony lies in seeing where they are flying, begging them to stop and think, and being humored with affectionate banter but no changing of direction.

This was brought home to me very vividly this week when my cousin went through what no parent should ever have to face...waiting up until 1:30 for a daughter who had gone out with some friends, promising to be home early; getting an unresponsive phone; finally calling the trauma center and being told accident victims were there; finding their daughter badly wounded, bleeding, in pain...but at least alive; and then learning what had happened.

She hadn't known the driver before that night. From the back seat of the vehicle she begged him to slow down, but he sped to 75 miles an hour on an isolated dirt road, then hit an embankment. The police report shows that the car was airborne for 60 feet then turned end over end six times before it came to rest. The driver was injured badly. She was conscious but in a lot of pain. Fortunately, the third rider was ejected and uninjured. He called 911, but it took the authorities a long time to find the accident site. They finally were able to trace the cell phone call. The injured young lady, Ren, tried to call home, but her phone died. As she was being transported by helicopter, and in the trauma center, she asked people to get in touch with her parents and her twin sister, who would be worried. Nobody did. They had to come find her--on a table, broken and bleeding.

So there they all sit in the trauma unit. Broken jaw, missing teeth, injured face, torn spleen, broken vertebra, broken ribs, swollen body, lots of pain. Dad can't fix it this time. Mom can't smile and kiss it away. And all the loving in the world can't bring back that innocent little "aw, don't worry, Mom, I'll be ok" attitude she walked out of the house with.

The hardest lessons are those that cost.
That's why moms worry.

13 Itching Solutions for Poison Ivy

I've been conducting an experiment over the last two weeks...well, out of sheer frustration and necessity.

Let's just suppose that you are itching...badly...with poison ivy around your neck like some great, glowing, growing Egyptian collar, and let's suppose that you were also wearing it like greaves on your shins and like bangles and polka-dots up your arms. In that case, the itching would drive you to this same experiment. Here's what I found:

1. Scratching. This relieves the itching for a few minutes, but makes ugly scars all over your body and causes infections to begin in the middle of the rash areas. (not recommended)

2. Cortisone cream (prescribed by the doctor for the initial outbreak on the shin) This works for about five minutes. Then everything starts itching again, only worse. (A lovely little side effect of this cream is that it thickens the skin it sooths, so I now have a scar-thick buffer on my right shin...the better for playing soccer, I guess.)

3. Ice packs (prescribed by the doctor for the ivy necklace) This works as long as you are keeping it cold and holding it on the neck...i.e. in bed. It looks rather silly to wear to social events...like weddings.

4. Adhesive tape (suggested by the receptionist at the doctor's office.) I didn't try it because I would have looked like a chicken or a mummy, depending on how the tape was anchored. Besides, I was afraid that infection under the tape would not be a good thing.

5. Baby powder. This helps for a few minutes. I keep it by my bed for during the night agony. It has the added advantage of smelling good and not being greasy.

6. Sea salt mixed with baby oil. This stings badly, but that feels better than the itch. It works for a few hours and dries out the initial blisters but doesn't heal anything.

7. Dermoplast in a spray bottle. I applied this at the zoo and the science museum. All that day, it kept my neck from itching as long as I sprayed it on every couple of hours. However all the funny looks I got in the restroom as I kept anointing myself required a lot of explanations, and the blouse I was wearing is probably ruined from the greasy spray. When I got home, my neck was not only itching like crazy, but it looked like it had suffered a second degree burn. I tried it again, and it didn't help. Maybe it only helped because I was having my mind distracted by the great outing with my Grandchildren.

8. Benadryl gel. This helps until it evaporates.

9. Benadryl tablet. This helps because it knocks you out and you sleep all day and all night. (not recommended for anyone who has anything to do.) Unfortunately, you still wake up between hour-long snoozes...and the itching is still there!

10. Zanfel--this is an expensive over-the counter cream. It stopped the itching for about six hours. I've reapplied it twice, and, according to all I've read, may have to keep it up for several days because mine was a systemic reaction. Next time I get poison ivy, I plan to try this first and not have to spend the money for doctor visits.

11. Prednisone shot and pills. This doesn't relieve any itching for at least a day, but it does help over-all. Eventually, it soothes the reaction. However, it has the nasty side-effect of making you gain weight...great--new fat for the poison ivy to spread to!

12. Aloe and oatmeal poultice--this one was recommended to me but I haven't actually tried it. (mainly because I'm doing better now, but if I revert to the acute stage, you can bet I'm going to go buy some)

13. Baby oil--this doesn't work for the poison ivy itch, but it sure helps the dry skin itch that comes with the healing process.

And with all that said...I think it's time for another shower and treatment with Zanfel. I'm about to start clawing.

Oklahoma Science Museum

Well, it was quite a wonderful day for the kids, and even pleasant for Carina and I.
We were determined to visit the zoo for a little while, at least, because we had free tickets from donating blood and you just can't let something like that pass, can you? So we met my sister, brother-in-law, and niece for a pleasant little stroll in the aquarium and around by the meerkats and young lions. We were able to tolerate the heat, with the help of the zoo sprinklers, until an early lunch. Then we parted ways and headed with the grandchildren over to the science museum, where they could have stayed until midnight.

The Science Museum is a child's dream world, with so much for young explorers to do. They almost immediately get into the spirit of adventure: building chutes; cutting paper cups and seeing which ones fly to the top; yelling into echo tubes and close to a sound-sensitive light-up tree; exploring giant teeth, tide pools, mirror mazes and earthquake platforms; building with blocks; and playing with magnetic sand. A large toy train exhibit runs continually, and nearby sits a real, beautifully restored Pullman train car. Of course there are all kinds of scientific experiments--some easy to explain to a five year old, others not so easy. The grandkids ran from one area to another--stopping shadows, setting off hot air balloon replicas, sending toys up rope pulley buckets in a giant tree house. We could hardly keep up with them. Finally, at three, we headed for home.
The were asleep before we had traveled the five minutes to McDonalds.
As we neared home the temperature rose higher and higher...reaching 112 degrees by the time we arrived...not really a day for playing out of doors. Look at these faces though. See.
It was worth the trip.

Blessings

Urushiol

I've been researching. It's a poison. It may last five years on the handle of a rake or in a pile of firewood. When you touch it, it makes blisters and an itchy, red, rash. It's driving me crazy. Never fear though, Turtle, the mighty defender, has rounded up the poison ivy and--hopefully--ended it's reign of terror on the front gate. I stayed inside, not trusting the air which carries such lethal stuff as urushiol(sounds a little like a fallen archangel). And yet... I'm much too self absorbed right now because the stuff has flared up on my neck and hands. Did I get re-infected, breathe in some of the toxic stuff? I've tried benadryl, which makes me groggy and grouchier, but doesn't stop the itch. Ach! Nothing helps more than a few minutes...except sea salt, which I rub into the red patches. For a few minutes they burn brilliantly, then...peace...no itching, no burning. It lasts a couple of hours anyway and brings more relief than the prescription cream. Anybody out there have any more ideas.

They Warned Me About Those Steroids...

...and after four days of them, I can say I'm beginning to see what they mean.
I know, I know, they're just supposed to clear that poison ivy patch on my shin, and I'm beginning to see some improvement there, but I'm also seeing a side effect. Let me explain.

This morning when I visited the bathroom by the laundry, I noticed that the toilet needed cleaning. So I found the bowl cleaner and cleaned all the toilets in the house. Upon cleaning them, I noticed that the corners of the bathroom floors looked dirty, because of a lamentable buildup of "mop and glow". There was nothing to do but get a bottle of ammonia and scrub the bathroom floors. In the back bathroom floor, as I was scraping the corners, I became more and more dissatisfied with the condition of the quarter round and molding. It looked terrible.

Well, I have white paint. So I painted the quarter round, molding, sideboard, top round, window sill, sink cabinet...and around the corner to the molding in the laundry room...doors, sills, same story. I pulled out the washer and dryer even, painting behind them, cleaning the floors about five times with the ammonia, then breaking out a new bottle of "mop and glow". About this time it dawned on me that it was three o'clock and I hadn't eaten or rested and my heart was just pounding...but the floor shone. See. That's the danger of prednisone. It makes you feel so good you want to work yourself to death. So I'm making myself relax and enjoy a bit of computer time. It's raining, but I'm too hyped for a nap.

Besides, it's the fourth of July, and I'm enjoying the holiday.

The Market Place

We have ten shops in the marketplace. The families visit two each night. Of course everybody's favorite is the bakery, because we smell those whole-wheat rolls cooking throughout the evening, and at the end of VBS each family gathers around their table lamp and eats the bread and drinks cold water drawn from our marketplace well. We also have a carpenter's shop where the children learn to use hand tools and stain a cross, a jewelry shop for making bullas with a hidden symbol inside. There is a scribe who teaches them to write in Greek, a grammaticus school for learning Roman numerals and how to use the abacus. (Is the plural abacci?)They make leather wrist bands in the leather shop, paint a top in the toy shop, make mosaic tiles in the clay shop, and sample simple Roman-type foods in the food market. In the weapons shop they explore a miniature Roman fort and see the might of the Roman army, observing little models of actual siege weapons. Every evening there is also a skit in the market place. Tonight a bread thief was almost arrested, but the owner refused to press charges and forgave him. Here are a few pictures.

Apostle Paul, Under House Arrest in Rome

Here's Elijah as Paul. His chained cohort, Brutus, grew the beard especially for the part, and the young soldier, Carl, stands nearby with a message. I don't know what I'd do without these willing volunteers. They certainly make things exciting for the little VBS kids, who hang on their every word. One little girl embarassed Brutus by hugging him a couple of nights ago. She wanted to show him God's love. Every evening, one group of kids takes a letter from Paul to the underground church and the other group brings an offering from the church to Paul. Last night it was a blanket for his bed. I also contacted one of my eighth-graders to put in an appearance last night in the market place so that he could get arrested and taken away. Now it looks like I may have to invite him back, because the children are worried about his fate. I want them to understand history, but I don't want them to suffer needless fear. It's hard to know where to draw the line.

Here are Lucia and Marcus in the catacombs. They are doing a fantastic job also, bringing hope into what was a dangerous time for the early Christian church.

Good Shepherd of the Catacombs

We are having a great VBS this week.
The theme is "Early Christianity in Rome". Paul is in prison; the Christians are meeting in the catacombs. Thus, there is a serious element to our normally boisterous celebration. Even so, the emphasis is quiet joy. In fact, my favorite moment of the day is when we are singing, Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow, softly in the flickering darkness of the cavern fire light

I'll be posting more pictures over the next several days. Here is a shot of our makeshift catacomb room. My son-in-law, Art, plays the part of Marcus, a pastor in the underground church, and my son, Elijah is "the Apostle Paul". Everyone in our family, almost everybody in our church, and several of my students who go to other churches have a part. They are shop owners, soldiers, and senators. Carina is the leader of a family surnamed Pompeius, Turtle is a scribe and runs the weapons museum. Claye runs the clay booth in the market place. She also did some research on Catacomb art and drew this example on the wall with pastels.

Poison Ivy

Be thankful. At the last minute I decided not to post a picture of my poison ivy reaction. (Some things are better forgotten.) Suffice it to say I am now on antibiotics, prednisone, and some kind of multiple-syllabic topical ointment. To celebrate the occasion I wrote a limerick.


Ode to Poison Ivy

I didn't know what I would catch
when I mowed that innocuous patch
of oddly shaped leaves.
I should have worn greaves
On the areas I now have to scratch

Here are some pictures of poison ivy for your viewing pleasure. I didn't know it could race across a flat field like this, or present itself in the form of a bush. All I can say is, it's a wonder I'm not covered from head to toe.




I copied this pictures from an official "poison ivy" site. If you are doing any outside activities this summer you should visit it first...and avoid my fate.

Those Old Sycamore Trees

Lining the street in front of my house, casting long evening shadows and shielding us from the wrath of the western sun, stand four huge sycamore trees. They are beautiful and shelter doves and all that stuff...but oh my goodness they are a mess.

In the fall: they drop huge leaves, enough to fill about fifty large garbage bags.

In the winter: sticks come crashing down all over the driveway every time we have the
tiniest little ice storm. (this is probably where the nursery rhyme comes from: "five six, pick up sticks" but the next line of the rhyme is not about sycamore branches because you could never lay them straight.)

In the spring: they drop golf-ball-like green bombs that litter the driveway and get squished by the traffic, grinding them into the gravel.

In the summer: the green bombs burst into a carpet of yellow, baby-chicken-like, fluffy seeds which blow in the wind and fill every cranny, including between roots of trees, behind gutter spouts, and in the middle of the iris bed. These then sprout into a new crop of trees, which have to be snipped off with pruning sheers...or ignored and eventually cut away with a chain saw before they grow into the air-conditioner. They also make a soft bed for the poison ivy leaves which come flying in from the creek, land on the fluff, cuddle down, and decide to stay and attack the shins of some hapless, lawn-mowing victim.

Wait, there's more: I know I'm out of seasons, but the trees are not out of mess-producing functions. They bark. Like Hank the Cowdog. No, like four Hank the Cowdogs barking up the sun.

Who knows what triggers them. There seems to be no reason for it: the trash man goes by, they shed large sheets of bark on the ground behind him; a kid whizzes by on a bicycle, they shiver and drop more bark. It rains. They shed. The wind blows. They shed. They see a newly-mown lawn. They shed with wild abandon and laugh in naked white glee.

Sometimes I wish God had never dreamed them up.
But then...
What would that wee little Zacchaeus have done?

Guess Who Learned How to Wink.

Sunday Scribblings Prompt: Vision

Old Farm House

This is the basic design for old farm houses in our part of the country. I've been in several of them and can tell you what the "state-of-the-art" floor plan was for the early 1900's. Downstairs are three rooms--a large, long living-room; a square kitchen, big enough to hold a table and chairs; and a big bedroom. (Most of these, if they have been kept intact, have a bathroom added on under the stairs; this one probably doesn't.) In the living room, at the foot of steep stairs leading to the upper floor, is a wood furnace. There is no door to the stairs, so the heat--theoretically--goes up to warm the four bedrooms, each of which has its own gable and window. It's a neat design for a farm family, especially since the farmers in this area grew their own harvest crew...and chopping cotton crew...and pulling rye crew...

The ground looks dry because I took these pictures back in March before the rains came. Now it is all green and golden.

Being Buff

For six months now, I've been exercising...mostly faithfully...at least four times a week. I've stretched and bowed and bended and beaten all the white metal hydraulic dragons, and I've walked miles and miles of digital hills to run my heart rate up to 85 percent of the recommended maximum for weight loss.

And I've lost--five pounds! Yippy Skippy! At this rate I'll be down a whole dress size by 2011. . . and after only five hundred more hours of slugging away. Thank you,German genes!

But I think I know what has happened. I've gotten in shape alright. It's just that the shape is way, way inside--right next to the bones. I can feel those steel muscles as I flex them. I know the strength and power in my stretches.
Way in there, I'm buff.
You just can't see it, for all the marshmallow-ish surface being pushed out by those bulging muscles. One day I'll be standing close to a campfire and it will all melt and run out my ankles and people will be amazed--by the size of the puddle around my feet and by my well-toned, sleek, physique!

Right.

Actually, last night I squealed as I noticed that my ring was loose. "My ring is loose! It's slipping on my finger! Do you think this actually means I'm losing weight? And if so...WHY JUST IN MY FINGERS?

Then it hit me--all this blogging, and facebook junk, and e-mail--no wonder my fingers are buff!

Courage

One of my facebook friends--and this is a real person, a daughter-in-law to one of our parishioners--was involved in a sudden industrial accident which took her right hand and part of her arm. We got the call three nights ago, late. Turtle went to stay with our friends while they waited for news from Colorado, where the surgery was taking place. In a time like this, when you want to be there comforting the family and holding the little one--who doesn't know what is happening but frets because she feels all the tension--it helps to have friends who come pray with you.

I could not reach her, miles away, to stand silently in hospital; nor could I offer to keep the little girl, or bring a pumpkin cake. So I went down to the local blood drive and donated a pint of blood. I know. I know. This is Oklahoma blood, and she took Colorado...but at a time like this it helps to give.

She's going to be fine, because she has exceptional courage and an attitude that says, "It happened. It's not the end of the world. Let me dress myself. I want to look at artificial limbs and start learning how to use them." Not every young wife and mother would have responded so stoically. Still, I'll keep praying for her, because the day may come when, for a moment, she will feel overwhelmed. You pray too. Her name is Amanda.

Move Over, Online Generation!

I'm witnessing a curious phenomenon--adults are taking over facebook! First it was a college ambition--They went wild, multiplying to themselves friends in a frenzy, reflecting in their moods their rise or drop in popularity as they were ranked on facebook. Then it hit high school and junior high; parents bemoaned the fact that kids saw their friends all day at school, texted them all the way home, and messaged them on facebook until suppertime. They posted pictures all over the web, weird pictures of themselves making faces and trying to look like teen-aged pop stars in the dull blue light of a barrio.

Finally, a few brave adults ventured into the uncharted land and began to connect with its youthful, zany population. Now there is an explosion of mature voices in the land as we discover the excitement of "finding old friends" on facebook. I've 'friended' my aunts, my cousins, friends of my parents, people I haven't seen in thirty years. Now I can stop wondering what ever happened to them. I can ask them.

Not that interaction consumes all one's time; there do seem to be facebook rules. For instance, you don't let people know that you have looked at all their pictures the first day you friend them; that would seem like excessive interest. Wait a week or two, then let them know. You don't message them more than once a day, unless, of course they are asking questions, and you don't overwhelm them with requests for them to join this cause or another. If you do, they will probably hide all posts from you and you will be relegated to the obscure state of yelling in a soundproofed room.

The danger of facebook lies in over-involvement, not just with people, but with games: At the bottom corner of the screen, there are "applications". These are time-wasters, delicious little games that capitalize on one's whims and desires. Love to collect things but don't have room? There are collections online, virtual collections that you can keep in your computer to look at whenever you please: gemstones, painted eggs, puzzle pieces, butterflies; they never need dusting. Wish you could plant a garden and watch things grow but don't have the energy to actually hoe the weeds and till the ground? Well, there is Farmtown to satisfy that need--virtually. Plant and harvest. There are no weeds, no drought, and pigs that never get into the melon crop. There are word games and math games and engineering adventures. Like to take quizzes about the most important person in your world--namely yourself? Never fear, there are a hundred quizzes you can take to see what movie star, profession, or garage sale item you are most like. The list goes on and on... I could post about it indefinitely...except that I have sunflowers that need harvesting, a butterfly collection to enhance, and Pathwords is calling my name. (I can't believe that one of my eighth-grade students is still ranked higher than I am!)

Older than Old

I had an interesting conversation with my five-year-old grandson today. It went like this.

"You know, when I grow up, I'm going to be a chef and own a bakery. I'm going to give the blueprints to the construction man and he will build me a building that will say 'Zaya's burgers and sweets and it will be a drive through."

"Well that will be convenient."

"Uh huh, and Mim will grow up and find her mate, (Need I say too many science videos) and she will come and visit my shop and buy treats, but you, well, you probably will be dead by then, by the time I grow up."

Well I hope I'll still be around anyway; I want to eat one of those donuts.

College Guys--A Strange Species

Elijah called me at ten o'clock on the first of June.
"Where are you, Mom?"
"I'm at your sister's, watching the grandkids while she visits the dentist. What's going on with you?"
"You'll never believe what happened. You know I had arranged to stay in this apartment through summer school?"
"uh-huh"
"Well this morning my landlady came charging in here saying my lease was up and why wasn't I out? It seems the guy who told us it would be fine was her son, and she 'doesn't rent that way'. She says we have until tomorrow to vacate, but I have to go to work at two, and after that I have dress rehearsal for the musical until at least eleven tonight..."

So that is how I spent the rest of my Monday. Turtle, Elijah, and I worked until Elijah had to leave. Fortunately, his college roommate, Ray, is getting married in two weeks, so he and his fiancee were able to move stuff right into their newly-acquired apartment in the same town. They arrived at three. At five, Ray's family--father, mother, brother, sister--all came to join in the fun. They finished about seven o'clock, but Turtle and I stayed until after midnight, loading everything into a car, a pickup, and a little flat-bed trailer, leaving a completely bare, polished and scrubbed apartment.

What do you think a college apartment looks like after two guys live there for their senior year of college? Well, these are pretty unusual guys: they don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or party; nonetheless, there were a few surprises.

One wall of the living room was covered with a hanging curtain of suspended empty Mountain Dew cans, and leaning in the corner was a Christmas Tree made out of the same. This was Ray's creation, and all day he and his fiancee were negotiating over how much of this they could keep. (They finally compromised--kept the wall and recycled the tree)

There were three televisions in the living room, a large couch, a small couch, two chairs, a brick and board TV/Nintendo center and two coffee tables. (It seems that whenever somebody moves out of an apartment, they donate whatever doesn't fit in their vehicle to whoever will take it.)

In the kitchen cabinet were all the groceries we moms had sent for the guys to eat, at least all the soups and anything that required preparation. Elijah said he had been eating mostly Ramen noodles and baloney sandwiches.
"That's healthy, right?"
"Well.."
"Carbs and protein?" he said defensively.

He had warned us not to eat anything out of the refrigerator unless we asked how old it was, so we weren't tempted to snack, even though the fridge looked surprisingly clean. Ray's mom and I checked the dates on food, and tossed most of it out, so that was easy. There were twelve eggs--all present and looking perfectly tasty. The date on the carton said September, 2008. "Those are probably the eggs I brought over here when they set up," mused Ray's mom.

In a room lined with plywood and press board panels, there was a sound board station with a computer tied to lots of black boxes, cords leading everywhere, a huge keyboard, an amplifier, mikes, and music stands--late night jamming, it seems. "Nobody ever complained about it," they said, which surprises me, but I guess I haven't spent much time in a mostly-college apartment complex.

There were musical instruments everywhere--a trombone, a guitar, a bass, a violin, two clarinets, a flute, a midi, a mandolin, and, of course, a giant keyboard--which was relatively the size of a coffin and took both of us to carry down to the car. (It belongs to a friend of Elijah's. He says he transported it regularly to music practice, giving me cause to question his understanding of the word portable.)

The clean sheets I sent over a couple of weeks ago and the pillow slips were still in the hamper. Four blankets were in a pile on the floor under the bunk bed. Elijah had slept most of the year in his sleeping bag, which was on the bare mattress along with a couple of slip-less pillows.

Things that would have driven me crazy--light switches not working, disposal being out(we pushed the reset switch and it worked fine), a sluggish sink drain, broken dishwasher, (They said it had never worked; they just hand washed the amazing hodge-podge of dishes they had bought at the local thrift store--along with a quesadilla maker, wok, waffle iron, coffee pot, and blender) and blinds that didn't reach to the bottoms of the windows--hadn't seemed to bother them at all. Furthermore, the guys are still on speaking terms. In fact, Elijah is going to be the best man at Ray's wedding next week.

Here's to apartments everywhere...that support guys learning to live on their own.

And with that, I turn my attention to my own responsibilities: laundry is piled on the floor, the window sills are dusty again, the blinds need their yearly soaking, and the microwave is in deplorable condition. Sometimes I hate the second law of thermodynamics.

Three Peas in a Pod

Well...not exactly.

I really wasn't prepared to have children so strikingly different.

The oldest, Carina, stepped promptly into a management role at three, telling me what to do, and making sure I had remembered everything. Always an early riser, when she reached the very responsible age of five, she got up at six thirty, fixed herself a bowl of cereal, packed her books and her lunch, then woke me up to take her to kindergarten. When she was in the third grade, I went back to work. Since I drove a school van, and left early, I hired her to wake up, dress, and feed her little brother and sister so they would be ready to take to day care when Turtle got home from his night shift at the hospital. She took to the task with great competence, and has been helping me organize their lives ever since. She married a responsible man and now has her own children to manage, but we remain close, talking on the phone and solving the world's crises one at a time.

Daughter number two, Claye, is a plodder. (We called her turtle as a very young child; some families name children after their fathers and ours is no exception.) All her life she has struggled with writing and math and excelled at reading comprehension and visual memory, a mystery to the analysts of such things. She deplores swarms of people and socializing, having to be encouraged to attend even the most important of events. She'd rather sit up all night in a fourth floor studio at the old art building on campus, working on a sculpture, than call somebody on the phone and chat for ten minutes. She takes an inordinate amount of time to decide what to do. Once she decides, however, she perseveres with unusual patience. This persistent, moving-along slowly-with-her nose-toward-the-goal helped her graduate from college--with honors--to the amazement of all the hares-like her brother, for instance.

Elijah jumps from one grandiose plan to another, showing tremendous ability but no organization. Every deadline has to stretch to accommodate his careening into it at the last possible moment, doing a flourishing dance, and handing in the masterpiece to the drama of a four part jazz ensemble background. He rushes onto every stage of life in time for the finale, and usually manages to pull it off ten seconds before the absolutely last call. Of course when he gets back out to his car, he discovers that he's locked his keys in it and has to call his mom, dad, or one of his sisters to bring him another key.



Here's a picture of them all--including my daughter's husband--taken about five years ago. I would post a recent one, but I think I don't have one. If Carina were here she would tell me to set up an appointment for family pictures immediately. Claye would shrug and say, "What does it matter? It's the same people." and Elijah would write a melancholy ballad about the passing of time and how we are all mortal before he dashed off, fifteen minutes late for one practice or another.

The Land of Taller Trees

We just got back from a swift trip to Southern Arkansas. We went to visit family, because there is nothing like actually seeing and spending time with somebody to ease your mind as to their actual condition.

Anyway, we feasted on catfish and sour cream fries, visited with Turtle's step mom, who is 85 but still getting around just fine, and even managed a pleasant afternoon with my Uncle and Aunt who live in Magnolia.

Speaking of Magnolia, we did get to see those delightful trees in bloom--white blossoms from the sky to the ground.

It rained much of the time--a gently falling rain--intensifying the deep green of the Lob lolly Pines and the lime green of the Kudzu vines.

Turtle realized, suddenly, on our last day there,
that he hadn't entered his step mom's family into his genealogy files.
As she has eight brothers and sisters and had four children herself, this looked promising as a whole new limb to go out on...
He sat there interviewing her, getting names, places, dates. I curled up in a corner of the sofa and read from the complete Father Brown stories of G.K. Chesterton.