Shepherd's Harvest

Dave and I recently did some demonstrating for the friends who organize and oversee Shepherd's Harvest Fiber Festival at the Washington County Fair Grounds every May. Dave was knitting and I was spinning. The weather was grand, sunny but not too warm. Excellent day for seeing sheep, looking at products for knitting, spinning, crochet, weaving, felting and getting hands on a multitude of fun playthings.

We set out some of Dave's finest projects to be seen and touched and he was sitting at the table knitting. I was at my spinning wheel working on some dyed emerald merino wool. People stop, watch, ask a few questions. One little girl stopped because her mother wanted her to see what I was doing, but the little charmer was more interested in telling me about her sparkly tiara perched atop her shiny hair. She told me it hurts her head and we discussed the pain involved in being a princess.

Many people pull up a chair and just sit and chat about what is happening with the wheel and men want to know why it works (fortunately my mind works that way as well; and I can tell them). Boys want to know where Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger. One youngster confided in me he was keeping his sister safe so he wouldn't have to kiss her! We just chat while I spin. No fancy presentation boards or long lectures -- just people neighboring on about a craft from the past.

Sometimes, I am very aware of the people around me and sometimes I am intent on the fiber so don't fully realize someone has come up to watch. I did notice there was a dog nearby, but no one was asking questions at the moment so I didn't raise my eyes from the wheel. A voice at my side said, "Tell me what you are doing. I want to know how the wheel works."

She was blind. I now realized the dog at her side was a companion dog. There was also a friend with her. I asked how technical she wanted me to be. The friend finger spelled into the woman's hand my question, while she told me the young woman had limited sight and limited hearing. The young woman's face lit up and she said, "Tell me everything!"

I asked the friend to hold the dog lead and the young woman to put her hand on my shoulder so she was close and yet had a way to balance and identify her space. Then we began. With her other hand resting on the back of my right hand, we went over the wheel itself. Drive wheel, drive band, flier, maiden uprights, brake, brake spring, bobbin, orifice. She was catching on faster than some sighted people. She knew immediately that the drive wheel made the flier turn fast to spin the fiber. She asked great questions. She asked for permission to get down and touch the treadle.

I gave her some fiber and told her to "twiddle" it like she might do with her long hair if she was nervous. She laughed and started twisting the fiber in her hands. I said, "You are spinning! But, it would take a long time to get any product that way!" She laughed. I told her she could keep the piece of fiber. Then, I put both of her hands on mine so she was touching both my hands and the fiber I was holding. Together, we began to spin so she could feel it running through her fingers. She was thrilled.

Both women thanked me for taking so much time. I assured them that's what a demonstrator does -- I have no agenda, no product to sell, just information to give. She had one more question.

"Does spinning require much sight? I had a friend who's wheel I had hoped to buy, but she sold it before I could buy it. Could I learn to spin?"

I had to take some time to think. Her understanding and gentle touch were certainly sound. I told her I thought if she could find an interpreter who understood something about spinning and a patient instructor, she could spin. I suggested they keep moving through the buildings until they found someone selling or demonstrating drop spindles. I told them to ask to be able to try one or two. It's a good place to start sensing the fiber and the action. I didn't get a name nor a way to contact them. I certainly pray they found a way for her to experience what she was so enjoying.

Change of Season

Spring is not my favorite time of the year albeit the season does bring some of my favorite things: Lilacs, Lilly of the Valley, Sand Cherry Blossoms, Crab Apple Blossoms, Red Wing Blackbirds, Mourning Doves, and Dandelion greens (new, tender, and better than spinach). While I like new grass, Daffodils, Tulips, and Hydrangea, they don’t sooth the fact spring also brings thunder storms, hot weather, too bright days, and gardening/yard work.

Often in spring, I have watched our weather go from 30 degrees overnight to 80 degrees the next day. I do not rush out to worship the return of spring as others do. In my opinion, Persephone should remain in Hades with her abductor. I sit in the house and mumble to myself and God about the too great switch in temperatures, the glaring sun that is causing the heat and my general reluctance to see summer with all its humidity and extreme temperatures just around the corner. I don’t sun bathe – never when I was young and svelte and certainly not now when I am “hands full of svelte”! Daylight Saving Time is another diatribe better left to another story. In other words, don’t get me started!

Spring means dirt! Dirt is tracked into the house in the form of mud, winter sand/salt mix, moldy leaves, dust flying in the air, and other stuff too gross to inspect too closely. I vacuum, dust, and vacuum dust, and vacuum, dust and . . . . Holy Minerva! Stop me. Along with the vacuuming and dusting, we have a tree near the front entrance that is of the Locust family. It is the last to lose its leaves in November, and the last to grow new ones in June. It has the tiniest of leaves that get into everywhere: hair, clothing, cracks and crannies in the windows and doors, the car. They don’t rake up nor blow properly with the leaf blower. The tree has another endearing quality: it drops seeds for nearly a full month! I literally, no exaggeration this time, take a push broom and shovel and clean the deck and steps only to repeat the process two hours later. If you don’t keep at it, the seeds track in and leave stains everywhere. I do love that little tree for its shelter of birds and the shade it eventually provides; it is a part of the property we rent so we do not have the privilege of taking it down and replacing it with a “nice” tree.

I suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Most people suffer from too little sunlight and become depressed during the long winter months. There are a little known few of us who are exact opposites. The shorter days and autumn’s softer day light, bring peace and tranquility and the long winter nights are a comfort. During spring and summer, the extra long days and brighter light mean anxiety, nervous fidgets, and irritability. I was fifty-some years of age before I met another person like me – after growing up thinking I was unique! Several years ago, a doctor actually spoke on a TV special about there being more like me. Gadzooks! If there were more of us the ozone layer would have been perfectly safe as we would have increased it to provide more filters from the sun.

So what does all this have to do with birds? Birds make the earlier mornings bearable! Robins have such a soft yet cheery chirp. Red Wing Blackbirds have a thrilling call and sing clearest with cloudy skies and rain falling. Mourning Doves have such a velvety, mellow tone heard best at evening when the light is fading and dew is beginning to form. After bright spring days, I steal out to our patio to the swing. Perhaps it is cool enough to use a shawl, hold some knitting, or have a fire in the chiminea.  All is still. The neighborhood is settling down; even the children have reached a point of slow and quiet. There, with just the slight creek of the swing, a gentle breeze, and mood lighting created by God, softly comes the first “coo” of a Mourning Dove. If I am very still, there will be an answer from another direction followed by yet another. Sometimes, one will fly and the soft warbling of their wings in flight adds to the serenity. With very little effort, I am lulled into a rest far better than sleep. Just before the last rays of the sun disappear, the Mourning Doves are joined by crickets, frogs, and maybe a loon call or an owl. Bliss!

I am most blessed if such an evening is followed next morning by a chance to sip my coffee while listening to the Mourning Doves herald a new day along with Red Wing Blackbirds calling that it will be misty and cool all day. Such times are to be treasured, valued, tucked away in memory and thought about during those more hectic times of summer activities and heat. Times when the cares and worries of the world strive to push aside God’s promise He is in control and nothing can remove me from His saving mercy. He gives to us those beauties of His creation to salt away as tokens of the Heaven we will one day see.

The spring in 2010 after a trying time of watching Helen battle cancer, Dave become disillusioned about his workplace, and Marc and his family struggle with their own economy became a special challenge to put all the change grave illness brings in perspective. I was weary in bone and body, in mind and spirit, in heart and soul. I didn’t want to do what my dad did. As he suffered the trauma of watching many in his family die before the age of forty five, he succumbed to depression. He basically went to sleep for almost fifteen years. He rose early, went to work every day, came home every evening, napped until the rest of us went to bed, then prowled the house alone and sad until he fell asleep before starting the cycle again. His Rip Van Winkle escape caused him to miss much of what might have been a comfort to him had he stayed awake to participate.

There are days when I just want to go to sleep and stay asleep and not think and not try to give to God what energy I have left. My father did not recognize depression for what it was. He was actually trying to protect us from the sadness of losing him at age forty five. If we didn’t know him too well, we wouldn’t miss him so strongly. I was born when Dad was forty four years of age. He lived to be sixty nine years old. In retrospect, I see what he was doing; I pray God will help me not be like him in that way. Instead, I have long conversations with God, write letters to Him, and dedicate memories to Him. It’s a better way to fight depression and fear, I believe. I hope some of Dad’s prowling was spent the same way.

So, the other day I stepped out our door and saw Mourning Doves. They were just arriving in the area so had not started the process of nesting calls as yet. But I saw them! My heart lightened. I began to watch carefully. More arrived and finally I was able to hear a call. I remarked to Dave that they were back but that I had not yet seen nor heard Red Wing Blackbirds. Great day in the morning! They too are back! What a lovely cacophony.

Mourning Doves are tied to people I love. Helen enjoys the evening cool and the sounds that come from the quiet time before sunset. My mother hated them. She connected them with too many mornings prior to funerals. She would throw rocks at them. I am sad to relate she had a good arm and unerring aim. When she learned how much I loved their sound, she did not come to appreciate them but did refrain from throwing more rocks. Even though he never knew my mother, Marc also does not like Mourning Doves and would gladly throw rocks if his daughter Bett would let him. When Bett was an infant, we would sit in the evening or morning cool and I would call the Mourning Doves for her. Later she learned to call them as well. I also cawed like a crow one time so she could see which bird was making that noise. As a crow landed on an electric wire nearby, she frowned and said she didn’t like that bird. As a murder of crows grew on the wires and trees nearby, Bett glared into my eyes and chided, “Just look what you did! I’m going in!” Dave and Isabelle cannot hear them. The tone is just soft enough to escape their hearing. Jenny has never said anything about the birds – nor has Kevin. They are tolerant of the attitude of those pro and con.

February 12 of this year, we received news that Helen has passed the three-year mark of her cancer as being cancer free and having great numbers in her blood work recently checked. Marc and family are not completely back at par after some of the financial changes in the economy, but they keep on trucking. Bett and Belle have their good and bad days at school, but they are growing into fine young ladies. While I wish I were still best because, as Bett put it “You are four like me!”, I know that friends, cute teen guys, and activities aren’t quite as exciting as baking cookies and pies with Grammy. Dang! I miss that.

We basically sidetracked winter this year. Autumn had its beauty and stayed long. Christmas neared and we had just enough snow to be able to call it a “White Christmas”. Then Winter gathered up her velvety cloak and skits and traipsed on out of here, leaving moderate temperatures, dirt and dust and decayed leaves, road salt to blow freely through the air, and no snow in which to frolic. (Yes, at almost seventy years of age, I DO still frolic in snow.) It is March which is supposedly one of our snowiest months in Minnesota. A few weeks ago, we had slop! Rain, snow, rain, sleet, snow, slush fell by the bucket load, stayed a few days and caused driving and walking problems. It is gone! Ice is supposed to be out of the ground sometime in the next week or so (usually an occurrence celebrated in May or early June). We are having record high temperatures for March. Those who think they can manage time, save time, build time, add time, and recapture time have inflicted daylight saving time earlier than ever. Someone should break their little hearts and let them know nothing changed but their stupid clocks!

My seasonal affective disorder has kicked into full swing. I am jittery, anxious, tend to be crabby over small irritations, and weep easily. I have already found ways to stay out of the sun and in shadier, darker rooms of the house. I have instituted my search in the Bible for comforting passages and I have begun seeking those things that help me make it through spring. I’ll worry about summer when it gets here.

Yesterday, when the temperature was already in the mid seventies, I stood quietly while all my favorite birds called and chirped at our bird feeder. I enjoyed the memory that on Monday of this week Dave and I saw our first Sandhill Crane and a Bald Eagle in the same errand trip. I pulled the gas grill onto the patio and prepared to cook our first meal on the grill. I repeated my mantra, “God created seasons for man to enjoy. He meant for me to find pleasure in each one even if I have favorites, He will bring me cloudy days to break the heat and brightness of the summer. He cares that I don’t deal well with weather that is too warm. He cares. He cares.” In the midst of my chanting the birds were calling; I noticed buds on the neighbor’s tree. I got out a broom and cleaned up the grit which protected us from the ice that had been on the steps of both of our entrances. I attached the hose to the faucet and used it to wash away some winter dirt on the patio. I checked the peony bushes for early signs of sprouting and then fired up the grill.

¹ There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven: ² a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, ³ a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, ⁴ a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, ⁵ a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, ⁶ a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, ⁷ a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, ⁸ a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes Chapter 3:1-8. Yup, God cares. He has arranged the seasons. I will listen to the birds; I will watch for the lilacs, lily of the valley, peonies, hydrangea, and I will find pleasure in the season. If the summer is hot, I will hide from it the way some of you hide from the cold winter. When the first blessed day of Autumn brings cool temperatures and color in the vegetation to excite and charm, I will come out of hiding. I will lift my head and wave goodbye to the flocking birds heading for warmer, brighter climates. I will watch the sky and sniff the breeze for the fresh scent of the first snowfall. I will not be discouraged nor dismayed for my God is in charge!

That Was A Mouthful!

Don’t talk while the flavor lasts. Mom said this to indicate talking with food in your mouth was not polite. There was also sanity in the message for her. Roughly translated, she was letting me know if I talked before the flavor was gone, my lemon drop might fall to the ground and get all full of dirt. The ensuing tantrum would be something she would have to deal with. One of Jenny’s and my favorite laughs together is the time Bett and Belle were very excited about something at the dinner table. They both started talking at once. Both had food in their mouths. Being a mom with manners in view, Jenny insisted, “Don tak wif yu mofful!” all the while maneuvering her hot bite of sausage to get her sentence out. She and I made eye contact and started to laugh!

Mom also always cautioned, “Don’t run or you might fall”. She knew I would fall. My upper body always gained momentum faster than my feet. Running usually meant I broke my fall with my forehead! The ensuing tantrum was something she would have to deal with.

Don’t interrupt your elders! This was a strict rule and was not to be broken! Why the latest scoop on Mrs. Peabody’s husband returning home long past the dinner hour was more important than: “1) the toilet was running over again, 2) the cat just got hit by a boy on a bike, 3) your dress is unbuttoned for three buttons” I’ll never understand. Nevertheless, I perpetrated the same stricture on our children and our grandchildren. Standing at the grocery one day chatting with someone I had not seen for several years, Bett waited patiently for me to get on with life. As I started to walk from the spot we’d been visiting, I noticed a spill on the floor. Joshing Bett who was newly potty trained, I said, “Oh, Bett, did you wet your pants?” She solemnly nodded. My bad! I asked her why she hadn’t told me she had to go to the bathroom. “You were talking,” she whispered. I apologized to her, arranged for someone to wipe the spill, and hurried her home. I later explained that if something was very important, she was to touch me and say, “very important”. You know neither she nor her sister ever abused the privilege. Why could I not have learned that one earlier? My sister, Pat, also waited dutifully while Dot’s fiancé chatted with Dad. When there was a break in the conversation, she said, “Your car is rolling down hill!” By the time she was able to tell him it had quite a head start on him and this was Polk Street Hill we are speaking of. He made a dash out the door and down the hill, flinging himself head first through the open driver’s window and hitting the brake with his hand to keep his car from meeting disaster with a neighbor’s parked car.

Respect your elders. There’s another one. Yes, there is something to acknowledging years add knowledge and some wisdom to a person. They have been where a young person has not. We had a neighbor who yelled at his wife, ignored his children unless they were doing something annoying to him, and insulted my sister and her son. There were other elders in my lifetime that showed little or no reason to be respected. I can think of several supervisors that also fell into that category. Give respect where respect is due but accept the fact that some people will not either deserve nor attain your respect. If you cannot respect them you can ask God to help you stay out of their way.

My Aunt Jo was a resourceful woman. When my dad’s brother Ted died at a young age, Jo was left with a small child and not much to live on. She went to school and learned to be a teacher for children with Down’s Syndrome. Children tended to like her. She would put her purse on the floor, point to two pockets and say, “You may play with my car keys and any happy surprises you find in those pockets are yours to keep; but you will not touch anything else in that purse!” The keys were fun, and the candy and gum she had put there along with a few things like Cracker Jack rings etc. were a delight. She was caustic, harsh, and coldly calculating with adults. I think she had mellowed a bit when I was allowed to dig in the purse pockets, but not much. When Pat had been at that age, however, Jo had caused a fair amount of problems between Dad and Mom and she was a favorite to neither of them. Pat refusing to check out the pockets said to her one day, “My mother doesn’t like you so I don’t like you either and I won’t look in your purse!” I wasn’t born yet so I don’t know the outcome of the exchange. I do know that whenever it came up Mom was embarrassed, but Dad thought it was funny.

I don’t even want to go down the road of: “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about”, or “There! (after a swat) Now! Stop crying!”, or “If you keep scowling your face might freeze that way”, or “Cat got your tongue? (yuk!)”, or “Stop laughing! You’re just being silly!”

Where do we get these sayings? If I was overly giggly, which I often was, Mom would say, “After the laughter come the tears!” I have no idea what she meant. With her German upbringing, I suspect she meant that life is full of laughter and sorrow. For the longest time I thought it meant that when I laughed hard I usually wound up laughing and crying at the same time. That still happens to me now and then. My cousin Frieda was easy to make laugh. Once you had her laughing it was easy to reduce her to helpless hysteria with laughter and tears simultaneous with wetting her pants.

I particularly remember working on an art project. It hadn’t gone well and my teen frustration level had risen to high anger. Pat was trying to get me to see it wasn’t worth the anger. Something she said struck me funny, and the laughter led to tears and then all was going on at the same time. I couldn’t catch my breath, my throat hurt and I was choking. Mom got me a cool wash cloth and told me to hold it to my face until I could calm down. I was finally able to remove the wash cloth, dry my eyes and breathe. Dad came from the bedroom where he had been taking his every-evening nap, and said, “You really shouldn’t do that it isn’t good for you!” Mom, Pat and I exchanged looks and I was in as bad straits as before! If only he hadn’t said anything!

Early in our marriage, having one of my fits of hysteria over something, Dave, stepped close to me and asked in a very worried voice, “Do you want me to slap you?” He looked so stressed at the thought, and sounded so hopeful he wouldn’t have to go to that extreme. Of course, he shortly realized he had made things worse. Dave and our kids learned the best thing to do is let me get it out of my system without helpful comments on their part. We were in a restaurant when Helen was around ten which would have made Marc about six. We were looking at the menus and we were on a vacation so had been driving pretty much all day. Marc looked over his menu with very serious brown eyes intently staring at me asked, “Mom, are you intelligent?” I didn’t even have time to take in a breath. We all laughed, but I couldn’t stop. I was wiping tears out of my eyes and gasping for air. The waitress came and they all gave their orders. She looked at me and Dave said, “She’ll order when she gets it together.” The waitress left our table looking like the men with straightjacket in hand would be a comfort to her. Their food was brought, and I was finally able to ask for something to eat. The whole time my insides were being bounced with laughter, they had continued their conversation and sipped their drinks and waited for me to get a grip. Marc’s question was raised because Dave and I had been discussing Intelligence Quotient and the fact that both my sister, Dot, and brother, Ev, had extremely high IQ’s (as do Dave and his siblings) but no common sense. Marc wanted to know if I am like my siblings. I don’t think my IQ measured as high as Dot’s or Ev’s, but I have my share; I was also blessed with a bit more common sense!

The reason this has come to mind? I’m not sure. I have been reading Scripture in a new way. I have been looking at what God says and incorporating His actual words intentionally into the prayers I pray. I have always included the verses that came to me while praying, but this is actually seeking out His words to apply to specific need for others or for myself. God does not ever tell us not to cry but He does tell us how to look for the reason we are crying. He doesn’t give us silly platitudes nor threaten us with a better reason to cry. He asks us to evaluate our part in our sadness and then confess it, ask forgiveness, and be forgiven. If our tears are not our own cause, He promises He will take care of the issue. He tells us not to be afraid but He knows from time to time we will be very afraid. He doesn’t tell us to turn out the light, close our eyes tight and just ignore the fear. He tells us He is the light, He will never leave us or forsake us, and to keep our eyes focused on Him and all will be well. He does not tell us all will be rosey; He tells us all will be well. For true wonderment of someone experiencing that type of sense of wellness, look up the story and the words for the hymn It Is Well With My Soul. We humans know how to spew forth comments and conditions. God doesn’t comment and He is unconditional. He asks one thing. Believe that Jesus Christ is the answer God promised way back in Genesis to a fallen Adam and Eve. Believe that when we acknowledge our helplessness to save ourselves, tell Him, and ask Him to manage our lives better than we have; He will step into our hearts and show us His amazing ways.

Crossing the Generation Gap

Our church has been discussing “Inter Generational” ministry. When I was a kid (don’t you dare say that was when the earth was brand new!), the few times I was taken to church, kids sat in the pew. Novel thought. We didn’t contemplate messing around because the evil eye didn’t only come from Mom. Any adult nearby and some from 752 miles away could cast a look that settled one down without argument. A friend of ours recalls that whenever she or her four siblings misbehaved in church their thigh became the resting spot of Mom’s index and middle fingers. It may have looked like a mother gently cautioning her child, but I have been assured that those two fingers carried the weight of an elephant in stiletto heels rendering pain to quell the desire to act up. Psalm 22:6 Train a child in the way he should go.

Of course, the occasional baby voice proclaiming need for a potty break, a comment on someone’s hat, or an expressed desire for a drink of water NOW, was not considered acting up and received smiles and chuckles from adults whose kids were beyond that age. While the mother may have been a bit red faced as she ushered the child up the aisle or hushed the commentary on the hat, it was understood kids will be kids. 1 Samuel 1:22 Hannah did not go. She said to her husband, “After the boy is weaned, I will take him and present him before the LORD, and he will live there always.” In Hannah’s case, she was actually giving her very young son into the care of the priest for priestly service to God. But parents and grandparents have God’s blessing to give their children and grandchildren to the Lord and ask in full confidence that they remain with Him always. That’s trust that God will watch over them and give them every opportunity to choose Him when they are making their own decisions.

My family was not even what has been referred to as Christmas and Easter Christians or Lily/Poinsettia Christians. Way back before I was born, there was pain inflicted by the good people of the church that made Dad and Mom decide they would not set foot in any church except when absolutely necessary such as weddings and funerals. Thus it was that I felt a need for “church” when our kids were born and pushed Dave and myself to find a church we could attend regularly. I wasn’t looking for Jesus; I was looking for what church-going people seemed to have when facing a crisis. Hmmmmm, wouldn’t that be . . . Jesus?

Church had changed. It was compartmentalized or departmentalized. The approach to the sermon meant children were ushered out for children’s church. Teens went off to Sunday school or Youth Church. No longer was it imperative that a child learn to sit still and be quiet while the pastor was speaking. Even Sunday school took on a cubical appearance. It became divided into age groups and gender groups. No one shared across the generations. Of course, no one stayed on the family farm any more either. Grandparents lived miles away from their second and third generation progeny and in many cases one generation never really knew the new generation. I grew up without grandparents because mine were all deceased before I was born. I missed what other children talked about for visits and fun.

Our children basically grew up without grandparents as they were all out of town. My parents died in 1966 and 1967. Our children were born in 1966 and 1970. Dave had one full set of grandparents on his father’s side of the family and a grandmother from his mother’s side of the family and had known his great, grandmother. While he was the proud possessor of so many grandparents, they and his parents were all out of town. Dave’s mother died when he was eighteen and his dad remarried. Our kids never really got to know any of them although they did meet them and interact with them. Dave’s dad is still living.

I grew up in an inter generational family. Dad and Mom married in 1920, Dot was born in 1921, Everett in 1924, Betty in 1931, and Pat in 1934. I was born in 1942. Dave’s father was born in 1923. Our children didn’t have a chance to figure out the difference between aunts/uncles and cousins because my nieces and nephews were the same ages as Dave’s siblings. Let me tell you there was plenty of inter generational stuff to learn from – both good and bad!

So, through the changes over the years, the family became disconnected, spread around the world, and technology made it faster though not easier to communicate. The post WWII men and women who wanted to strike out and go farther and get there faster than their parents began moving where the jobs were, where the housing was, where the grass was ever so much greener. Now we can communicate by so many gadgets and electronic devices in the speed of seconds, but we can’t understand each other.

I have been blessed in that I did not work away from home until our youngest child was fourteen. Still that was a difficult age to come home to an empty house. The values Dave and I hold were instilled in our kids. That isn’t to say they are cookie cutter images of us (thank you, Lord Jesus!). They have evaluated our values, kept some, strengthened some, and discarded some. Doubly blessed, I have been in close contact with Bett and Belle since their birth. I treasure the times with our kids and with Bett and Belle the way God treasures our time with Him.

Now families and churches are struggling to find solid footing in holding dear the generations as well as making sure each generation gives something to the other. What once came naturally has become families trying to learn to stay close, help each other out and learn from those who went before. If we don’t do this, there will be gaps in believers attending church. Notice I did not say there will be gaps in believers. We are experiencing churches losing the 19 to 30 age group. This is not to say they are shifting from one church or denomination to another, they are losing interest in what church community has to offer. What my generation saw dwindle away family life is now attacking the church family as well. The connection has been broken, wireless has dropped the connection, the interface has separated, the lines have been cut.

How do we repair all this? We learn to take delight in one another. Once when Bett was age four, we were having a wedding dance on the beach at the lake. She was in her bathing suit with a towel draped over her head for a veil. She was clutching dandelions in her baby hands and walking gracefully toward me from the end of the doc. I was singing the wedding song from Lohengren (not well, but very loud). She reached the end of the dock and stepped onto the sandy beach and we danced. She stopped and smiled up at me and said, “Grammy, do you know why I like you best?” I said I didn’t. “Because you are four like me!” What a compliment. Belle is a bit more prosaic but she too, likes it when I forget I am older than dirt and remember what it was like to be her age.

We have to get back to the time of enjoying to spend time together liking both our likenesses and differences. Typically grandparents have more patience with the younger set, because they may have some health issues but they have time. Besides, the younger set likes to hear about the good ol’ days and the young set’s parents are still finding the old set too slow witted to tie their own shoes. This attitude changes around the time the parents discover their progeny feel the same about them.

Some things to share with youngsters: telephone, telegraph, phonograph, vinyl records, 78, 33 and 45 rpm and the needle that captured the sounds. How about the Dictaphone? Try explaining that one especially if you are old enough to have used wax cylinders to record and play back the sound of your boss’ voice. Where did the ticker tape come from for the ticker-tape parades in the 30’s? What is a ticker anyway and what was it the forerunner of? I recently walked into an AT&T store to purchase a new cell phone. As the young man approached and asked if he could help I said, “I want a new phone with the following apps. I would prefer a little crank on the side which when turned brings to my ear a nice lady who will get me to whomever I wish to speak. I will accept a party-line of three.” He stared at me for a moment and then said, “Wouldn’t it be a blast if we had a model that looked like that?” He at least knew of what I spoke! Dave, as usual was embarrassed to be with me.

Show the youngsters how to make egg noodles from scratch but don’t expect to keep any for soup the next day because they will make them, cook them, salt and pepper them and eat them as fast as you take them out of the boiling water. Teach them to make their favorite pie or cake from fruit from the orchard, and ingredients that do not come as a fine powder from a box. When they come in the door and say, “Hi Gram (or Gramps) what are we going to do?” ask them what they would like to do and then do it.

Listen to them. Sometimes they are quicker to tell the older set the hopes and dreams they have as well as the trials and pain they suffer than they are to tell their parents. Learn to keep a confidence. If it is something Dad and Mom need to know, encourage your youngster to tell all and be willing to be a part of the telling. Be an encourager. If they say something very sage that makes you laugh, remember to be honest with why you are laughing. Could it be because you once thought the same thing and aging and daily living took it away?

Youngsters have to do their part. Take off the headphones and ear buds and hear what your parents and grandparents are saying. Some of it will astound you. No holding hands or kissing until you were engaged (in some cases not until you were married)? Find out why. Find out if it was difficult. Find out why granddad thought grandma was pretty and why she thought he was handsome. Teach the oldies how to text! Teach them to play a game on an I-pad or I-pod. Let them teach you how to play scrabble without electronics.

Start small and build a strong foundation of mutual trust and enjoyment. What could be better than learning sitting around the fire pit in the back yard is more fun than sci-fi, or vampires, on the television? Share each other’s hobbies and find humor in what you cannot do as well as the other generation can do. Try dancing to each other’s music. (In my case you would have to learn to dance to operatic arias!)

When people complimented Dave and me on how well our children were behaving or growing into adults, we would smile, thank them and admit they were who they were in spite of us and our mistakes! We weren’t being flip; we were giving God credit for raising them when we messed up. My mistakes were often in giving too much information before they were ready to receive it. Sometimes it was funny. After Helen did not follow direction carefully given to her, I angrily demanded why, if she hadn’t understood, did she not ask for clarification. She tearfully stood before me (probably all of 7 years old) and said, “You always talk like you are writing a book! If I ask you to explain you get worse!” I burst into laughter and promised to try to do better and to ask for questions. Marc always insisted I talked so long he forgot the beginning by the time I reached the end! I remember these times because I learned from them and they are funny. I am sure they remember times when I didn’t learn and it wasn’t funny! With our grandchildren, I have had the pleasure of enjoying them and the pressure of over-correcting, driving to succeed, and creating up-standing citizens of the community to glorify their parent is not so strong. Ooooops! Who is supposed to be glorified? I overheard our two telling someone what it was like to be corrected by me. Marc referred to my "maniacle murderer's voice" and "the look that turned him to stone". Helen said, "She used to kneel down at our level, hold us by our little shirt fronts, and hiss into our faces until our eyeballs rolled back in our heads! And, she would smile so people passing by thought we were being sweetly talked to by the loving mom!" Rosy little family portrait, what?

The Bible is full of child-rearing hints and direction. Here are two of them. Proverbs 13:24 He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him. And Proverbs 23:13 Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish him with the rod, he will not die. In my generation, some of our friends took this literally and smacked their kids for every infraction. One woman I admired in most areas talked of putting her toddlers to bed with repeated spankings because they stood up in their cribs and cried to get up. What a lovely bedtime! She was trying so hard to be biblical, she was forgetting compassion. Another friend of mine startled me when she squished an entire toasted marshmallow into her son’s mouth to “keep his clothes clean”. He cried so she swatted him. I remarked that the treat was hot. She said, “He knows he’s supposed to keep his clothes clean and he wasn’t obeying me!” Whoa, Bubba! That isn’t what God intended at all. For a bit Satan had a field day twisting God’s meaning from the scriptures and parents bought it hook, line and sinker.

Jesus didn’t use the rod on his listeners. He chastised, spoke in anger and strong words to those who were self-righteous and keeping people from seeing the One True God. He downright put the fear of God into the money changers in the temple. But, to those who sought and believed, he was gentle, and meek, and loving. He taught, He set examples, He prayed. That’s a model parent! Why couldn’t I have known that when I was parenting? I did my best with what I had within me at the time and God protected me from doing my worst. With our Bett and Belle, our kids have looked on and marveled at the things we do and wondered how we changed. I smile. I used to tell our kids in the midst of their squabbles over who “mom always liked best”, that they would see how much we loved them when they saw us with their children. “You will see us do things we wish we had known to do with you, the things we couldn’t do because we were busy being responsible parents, and the things we just didn’t have money to do after meeting the bills and feeding and clothing you.”

Recently, a young woman showed an interest in knitting. I’ve taught knitting for years; in fact, I’ve knit longer than she has lived! She said there was a group of women who were interested and would I be willing to have a group. After some initial planning, eight women in a range of ages from (I’m guessing middle 20’s to middle 40’s) gathered round our kitchen table and classes began. Tomorrow night will be the last of four lessons. You know what? We laugh, and talk, and tease each other and sympathize. They accept me at least 30 years their senior and I enjoy them. We will get together to knit off and on through the future. Dave and I open our home on alternate Thursdays for knitters who just want to come knit and I help with problem areas in their projects. Here’s the fun part. I didn’t stop to think until today that we are an inter-generational group. On 15 February 2012, I will begin meeting with two moms and their homeschooled children for four weeks on Wednesday mornings to teach the young teens to knit and one of the moms to teach. Can you believe it? I’ll blog again to let you know how it goes. I think God is smiling. I know I am!

Don’t think because I can see the correct way to do things on paper I get it right in practice. I am a clay vessel with lots of cracks. I haven’t mentioned Dave’s parenting ideas here because in spite of what I sound like sometimes I try not to speak for him. We agreed on many things, some we didn’t. We made our share of mistakes, but we look at our kids and see those things God took out of our hands and turned into something pretty wonderful. We also see our mistakes walking around on their legs! I like our kids (loving them goes without saying). Our granddaughters are the reward for hanging in there and being parents. Someday Marc and Jenny will know that. Helen and Kevin will not have any children of their own, but if they adopt some day, they will have to experience the tightrope walk of raising kids so they may be rewarded with grandchildren. Helen is a teacher in a childcare center. Her earliest charges have graduated college. Many a child has been blessed with her love and care. She is especially good with behavior challenged youngsters.

I guess what I am doing in this blog is thinking out loud about how our world has separated families and generations and how we can bring them back together. First step: Pray. Second step: Pray some more. Third step: Say “Hi” to someone not in your current generation and see where it takes you. Fourth step: Keep stepping!

Morning? Already? Why Are We Awake?

Disclaimer and apology: Anyone who read this blog after posting yesteray will realize my mind never caught up with the day. Misspelled words, twisted phrases, and garbled thoughts jumbled together to give a good example of a mind that remained in bed even though the body was up and moving. Thanks to my friend Donna, who sent not one, but two, e-mails to point out I was coining a new language or in error. SHE is obviously another of those from the planet of "Eyes Open, Mind Alert"!

I sleep soundly. I will sleep through almost anything except the sound of someone in need, a crying child, or my own snoring! There was a time I would have slept through all of that; becoming a mother changed that. Infants must have immediate recognition of their needs and I learned to sleep tuned in to what might be needed in the middle of the night. However, waking and responding did not mean I was fully functioning. Waking because it is time to be somewhere (such as a place of employment, school, etc.) means I don't bother to wake at all; I stumble from bed to bath to breakfast to bus without truly being awake and alert. I set everything I needed out at night (still do) and counted on stuff being where I put it as I groped my way through preparation for the day.

Dave, Helen, Belle wake and know that the day is out there, things are to be done, and light is good, noise is even better, and life is to be lived. Marc, Bett and I are difficult to wake; we awaken startled no matter how gentle the approach and bounce off walls without knowing what hit us. If breakfast is served, we are happy to eat it; if it is not served, we are content to wait. For me that first cup of coffee is as important for the warmth it brings to my hands, the aroma, and the time it buys for me is more important than the caffeine. I would be as supremely happy with tea or hot chocolate. Now you may have noticed I did not mention either Kevin or Jenny. That's because I don't know for sure, but I think they both belong to the alert members of society.

Dave bounds out of bed (well he did until his early 60's), is talking before his feet hit the floor, turns on every light in the house, needs the TV, his phone, his computer and anything else that blinks, beeps, snorts, and buzzes going on around him. Through forty-six years of marriage he has never figured out this disturbs the troll that sleeps on the other side of his bed. He slurps coffee, munches noisy cereals, and yawns and scratches with amplifiers attached to his body for optimum sound. While none of this would faze another morning person, any of the above brings him to the very brink of death every morning.

We had been married a few weeks. Light was softly creeping into our room through the drawn curtains. We were spooning with my left arm over him. He grabbed my wrist, sat bolt upright, and roared "I can't believe it!" Hair standing on end, my heart in my throat, every nerve ending screaming, I too bolted upright. "What?!?" I fully expected to see my hand hanging by a thread from the wrist it was supposed to be attached to. "You! You are wearing a ring exactly like mine!" You can imagine when I could breathe at all, I used every ounce of breath to tell him exactly what I thought of our matching rings (our wedding bands), his idea of humor, and what should be done to people who do that in the morning. He was gazing into the face of his beloved turned suddenly into Medusa.

Having married in the glorious '60's, 1965 to be exact, it was the dawning of the age of Aquarius, knee high boots, butt high skirts, and voluminous hair! Ratting was a process of backcombing the hair until it was the size of the finest of afros. The top was then painstakingly smoothed over the whole for a sleek but airy do then well laquered to keep it all in place. I was in the bathroom and had reached the point of very long hair fully ratted without any smoothing. Dave was two rooms away in the kitchen eating a crisped cereal. Every spoon scrape on the bowl, every slurp, every chew was going through me. I stomped through the apartment to confront him. "If you can't eat that quietly," I hissed, "then suck it until it is soggy!" Every syllable was enunciated carefully to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

Let me clarify here that Dave is not a sloppy, messy, rude partaker of food. It is the magnification of light, sound, sensations in my caused by the way I am wired in the morning. He is quite normal. I remember one morning while I was day-care provider to several neighborhood children. Little Gina, of the very big voice from a very small body, was hungry. Helen asked, "Where are you going?" Gina told her she was going to ask for breakfast. "Wait!" The command was given with authority and knowledge and Gina waited. As I poured my second cup of coffee, Helen heard the cup and pot rattle together and said, "OK. We can go ask for breakfast now."

Waking Marc was a study in providing the most ease into the day with the least annoyance. On cold mornings, I would heat the oven to 200 degrees, put Marc's little rocking chair near it, put a blanket in the chair and have a cup of warm chocolate ready to hand him. I would wake him quietly and bring him out to his chair. Once he was wrapped in the blanket and holding the chocolate, I would crack the oven door open and turn off the heat. I was nearby to keep an eye on him but I left him alone. He often was as gentle with waking Bett talking softly to her and not touching her to get her ready for the day. In our home, once Marc was older, Dave and Helen removed themselves early to leave the two non-morning people to bumble and occasionally rumble their way through morning. We were conscious of each other's need to have space, darkness, and silence; nonetheless, there were THOSE days. “THOSE” days indicating the times when in spite of best efforts we got in each other’s way and nastiness erupted with the violence of acid reflux.

When I owned my own typing business contracting for work out of our home, I could wake slowly after Dave left for work, get the kids off to school, and then type my way through the day. When I had to go back into the world of business in the mid 1980's, I had to function to get to a very early bus and actually make my way into downtown Minneapolis without being a danger to myself or others. I usually napped on the bus. I arrived near my workplace two hours early because of the way the bus service from our home to downtown was scheduled. I would make my way to Woolworth's, long since gone, and have coffee, read or do my Bible study, and maintain silence until it was time to go to work. Peter's Grill was another favorite place -- they used the heavy crockery dishes of places remembered from childhood. The aroma from the kitchen, hot coffee in my cup, and the far-away clatter of crockery was soothing somehow.

Having survived the scarring of mornings with me to this point, Dave occasionally brings a coffee offering to the troll he lives with. There he stands beside the bed, softly calling my name until I wake enough for him to hand me the coffee. Then he turns and leaves the room. On one side of the door is the troll clutching the coffee in a dark room with baleful eye cast at the light showing around the edge of the door. On the other side is Dave with all his light and sound going on around him knowing he has minimized his danger for at least one morning.

Don't think I haven't tried to change. God looked at morning and knew it "was good". He also created people to work hard during the day, fall asleep once it was too dark to see, and wake well-rested when the sun peeked over the horizon. He never planned on shift work which is like sand to an oyster on every human cell in a human. He never planned on alarm clocks going off before it was time to be up and moving. He planned on people waking in the slow dawning of a day and moving in tune with nature. God did not want us sleep deprived and rushing at top speeds before we were fully awake. He wanted us to have a full day of work with lots of time to spend with Him. He never planned on artificial light to turn waking hours topsy-turvey.

Don't you dare get me started on Daylight Savings Time. God has no clock. It is the twisted mind of man that keeps adjusting the time to rob us of an hour in the spring and give it back in the fall. The sun doesn't work on a giant battery that makes it run slow when the battery is wearing down; leave it alone it does it's job all by itself. Didn't I tell you not to get me started? All the things we do designed to make us function prior to sunrise are perversions created by man for man.

All of this came to mind because this morning, 30 January 2012, Dave and I could sleep until we woke. He has the day off. My alarm went off and I managed to find it and stop it. I didn't wake to do it. I was sleeping really well. Mr. Bright Ray of Sunshine got up! He made noise in the bathroom, but I was sleeping through it (I can just tell you he was making noise because he was UP). The next thing I know he was calling my name sharply with a tone that implied frustration, worry, and urgency. He wanted the battery container because our programmable thermostat was not working (because of dead batteries – just like me in the morning!). I was up without thinking, my head was roaring, my body was sensing extra chill in the air and I was on the move. I grabbed batteries from the basket of Wii supplies for the granddaughters, and said, "Here!" (Marc I have been paid back in spades for a particular morning from your early teens when I brought you awake with one rudely phrased bellow!)

The torture was not at an end. Dave now expected a mind fuzzed and glazed from startled awakening to know what times we have the blitzkrieging thermostat programmed for temperature changes as well as knowing what the temperature settings should be. Since he was holding his nose two inches from the thermostat to program it, he did not notice my slow progress toward him with blunt instrument in hand. I tried to give him settings. I have no idea if they are the correct settings -- we will find out when we begin freezing earlier than we wish or wake thinking summer arrived. I took great satisfaction is hissing that the battery container is where it always is but his lunch box for work was covering it. I crawled back into bed, covered up and waited for warmth and comfort to settle the nerve endings that were like frayed electrical wires.

Not to be. My befogged mind came to grips with a 9:00 AM appointment Dave had and my promise to make waffles for breakfast. Not frozen toaster waffles, not instant mix waffles, mix-from-scratch-know-what-you're-doing-beat-the-egg-whites-into-peaks waffles! I got up.

That is when I discovered my waffle iron wasn't where I keep it. Remember I said I plan things out the night before and life goes well; no previous night planning and the pieces of the morning just won't fit together. It is sort of like trying to do a picture puzzle with the pieces of two puzzles mixed together.

I keep all heavy electrical appliances in the floor level cupboards of which there are ten. This meant that I had to open each door go into a squatted and bent double yoga position while reaching far into the cupboards. There were the small roasters, the pizzelle iron, the ice cream maker, the large crock pot, the pasta machine (not electric but heavy), the fondue pot, the malt maker, the large and small George Foreman broilers. All were the wrong colors. The waffle iron is white with a blue grip. On my second time duck waddling around the cupboards, I found a white electrical . . . sandwich maker I didn't know we still had! Dave came out to help look; we came up empty. On the third time around, I found it! It had tipped over behind the ice cream maker and large crock pot. I brought it out and plugged it in.

I carefully followed the recipe double checking all my additions. I whipped those egg whites to perfection and folded them gently into the batter (in spite of wanting to pound to pieces anything animate or inanimate that moved). Dave was very still in the living room. By the time I had the first waffle cooking I realized a breakfast that is a calorie and carb splurge for us includes eggs and sausage or bacon. I had prepared neither! So, saved from ourselves, we ate our waffles, buttered (well, margerined) and lite syruped before Dave left for his appointment. I was able to freeze two full waffles which will make 4 half-waffle breakfasts which will go with sausage or bacon some morning before work for Dave. The cleanup is still sitting there taunting me to get busy. If I don't turn, I can't see it and it won't bother me until after I get back from grocery shopping.

I am out of sorts, tried to scald myself in the shower but succeeded in getting the water moderated before I completed the job, have jumped every time my mantle clock has chimed the hour in spite of that being one of my favorite sounds, have fallen over the dog twice, and otherwise shown that this day is beyond recovery for one from the slow to awaken set.

When I return from grocery shopping, I will turn to my Bible study to see if God has some wise words for a soul that feels like jello on a vibrating fat reducing machine. I bet He has them. I bet He shows me. I bet He gifts me with something wonderful. In fact He has. We went to buy Subway Sandwiches and saw both the neighboring Osprey and Eagle soaring overhead. He gave me Dave who is patiently aware I am writing about him disturbing my morning. While he was worried about a chilled house and the possibility of frozen pipes, I was mentally picturing a fire in the fireplace and warmth like a blooming rose! While he was practical, he knew I was in some other place, another planet, another sphere. God put us together and He knows why He did that. I will thank God for this day, I will thank God for Ospreys and Eagles, and I will thank God for Dave. I will try to get over morning arriving with a bang rather than a whisper!

Hey! It's Snowing!

Funny, we have finally had some weather more typical of Minnesota. I'm not looking out my window and seeing "mud". We moved our bird feeder to the front deck as an experiment this year. What with Nutmeg being let out that door often, we weren't sure it would work. We put the feeder on a "shepherd's crook" hanger, put our Christmas wreath on the same hook and the added two suet offerings on the deck railing. The first to come, as usual, were the chickadees. Funny little birds that flit and zip from the weeping crab to the feeder an back again. Then a few hesitant juncos appeared. They will clean up what the messy sparrows throw around. Then a flock of starlings stripped the weeping crab of all it's apples. My current favorite is a little downy woodpecker that comes to check out the suet.

Mr. DWP and I spent one afternoon playing hide and seek. He would come to the suet feeder and munch away like me at a salad bar. I would try to take a picture with my phone. I finally got two that showed the little guy but not well. He didn't seem to mind my being close to the window, so I got my camera. That's when he tagged me for bird paparazzi. He flew into our locust and hid behind the largest of the three trunks. When I put the camera down, he came back to the suet. I lifted the camera and it accidentally went off. He flew to the locust and sat there peeking around the trunk to see if I had gotten tired and gone away. Back and forth we went until I started to get the mental image of a Woody Woodpecker Cartoon. I finally gave up and set the camera aside. He ate his fill and then flew away.

The pictures you see in my blog site are taken by me. They are some of the best I have to offer. A camera defeats me. Dave had a once-in- a-lifetime chance to fish with a guide. He returned at the end of the day proud of his string of fish. It's true there were no award winners on it; nonetheless, it was an impressive string of fish. I took a picture to save a life-memory moment. Uh. It is a good thing he wore an identifiable belt buckle because that and the fish were all I caught on film.

I am truly sad to say we have very few pictures of our children growing up. Dave takes creative and artistic pictures of things but rarely records family. I would love to take pictures of people, but one would think I have a deep seated Samurai bent. I lop heads, hands holding treasures, and the part of the picture that tells a story without discrimination. When I'm not lopping, I am doing something that makes it look like all my pictures were taken while I sat at the bottom of a murky pool of water! Add to that, it takes me so long to try to make sure I am framing what I want, that people get tired of waiting and just walk out of the picture. I rarely get a good picture of Belle as she is in constant movement and I am not that fast. Bett poses, but that's because her mother has drilled posing into her psyche.

Jenny, I love you dearly, but you could easily be labeled the Photo Nazi! It is time for me to share "the Baby Shower story"! Jenny is a pretty woman who reminds one of the young and healthy Elizabeth Taylor. She has a gorgeous smile and will turn it on at the opening shutter speed of a camera. At the shower for her first-born, I said or did something that Jenny disapproved. She was scolding me. In the midst of harsh statements, drawn eyebrows, and spark-shooting dark eyes, someone raised a camera. Jenny stopped in mid tirade and SMILED for the camera. She has taught her children well. They too will stop on a dime and smile for the camera. Marc hates having his picture taken and will not be brow-beaten into smiling, cooperating or even just being still. He will go along to a point on holidays and very special occasions but when he is done, he is all done.

Next is Helen, also dearly loved, but second in line for the Photo Nazi contest. She has won county fair awards with photos of Bett and Belle, her cats (Calamity Jayne and Annie Oakley) and flowers. She has caught me in all manner of less than photogenic attitudes. She is highly critical of my attempts to take pictures of just about anything. Both she and Jenny are immersed in Creative Memories and have enough scrapbooks between the two of them to paper the globe! I have to admit, with Helen's inability to relax in front of the camera and my inability to take pictures, I have gotten some expressions on Helen that would look nice on Post Office walls.



Now that Bett and Belle have reached the age of pictures and Creative Memories, the excitement of what will appear as an opportunity for blackmail is even greater. We live in fear. However, without malice and no serious planning on my part I often take pictures that give me ample ammunition back at them. Every room shot is usually tipped and every nature shot contains a garbage can, junk pile, or other unwanted piece of flotsam. Dave gave me PhotoShop for Christmas. I have been having fun using some of my pictures to experiment with adjusting color and sharpening the photo. My favorite picture of Belle from this Christmas is not a good picture by any one's standards. She is surprised, close to tears, and laughing. However, the lighting was poor and the picture is blurry. With PhotoShop, I was able to clarify somewhat, crop the distracting busy background and bring the expression more into focus. I also have one of Bett, who posed so it isn't candid, that needed the distracting background removed as well as color correction. As a result of playing on PhotoShop, I have two credible photos that please me very much. They won't win prizes, except in my own heart.

I have been caught with my mouth open, eyes shut, and a moronic expression that could be the model for Walt Disney's Dopey! I have been caught in the act of falling over, moving with all the grace of a pachyderm on a tightrope, and sound asleep in a sleeping bag on a rock in Northern Minnesota! I am loved by my family in spite of the odd things I do, and I am in their photos because they love me. Think about that. My favorite photos of family are not the ones where they look perfectly put together but where they look like we were enjoying each other. I can smile with pleasure over the photos that didn't go altogether well, but show love. I sometimes weep for times I wish I had paid more attention and enjoyed us all more.

For a few:

• Dave begging a kiss from two-year-old Helen.
• Marc sitting in Dave's old chair so we can't throw it away.
• A very pregnant Jenny helping Bett look for Easter Eggs.
• Marc and Jenny on their wedding day.
• Kevin and Helen on their wedding day.
• Jenny's Dad (now deceased) and me watching Belle sleep in my arms.
• Helen, Jenny, Bett and Belle lined up with their backs turned to show all their long hair as Helen was about to lose her hair to chemo.
• Dave looking relaxed on the patio of a coffee shop in Duluth.
• My children, their spouses, and my grandchildren together Christmas Eve of 2012.

What does God's family album look like? Are we perfectly posed and smiling or is there a smudge of dirt on our cheeks or nose? Are His favorite pictures the ones where we are battle-weary, dirty and scuffed but victorious because we obeyed and were the type of person He asked us to be? Does He have pictures of us being knit together in the womb where He was fearfully and wonderfully putting us together? Does He shed a tear over those photos where we were being stubborn and insisting on doing things our way? When He shows me the album He has kept for me? Will I be able to share in His joy or will I wish I had done better? I suspect there will be some of both. Regardless, I know He has kept a record of His child growing and maturing in her faith; and He has loved me dearly. The same is true for you.

Blahs; Blah, blah, blah, and Ho Hum!

I must admit the post Celebration blahs have set in. The expectation of what winter will bring following the fancy dress ball of autumn has turned into a major let down! I haven't missed the cold that sometimes drops to minus zero right after Thanksgiving and stays through Ground Hog Day. I keep wondering, however, "where is the snow?" When I was a member of the Columbia Heights High School Choir, we sang "Winter Wonderland" which opened with the line "Over the ground lies a blanket of white; a sky full of stars shines down through the night . . ." My sister Pat being humorous would sing it with the following words, "Over the ground lies a blanket of brown . . " Up to that period Minnesota had not experienced a "brown winter"; not until 1975 (I believe) did Old Man Winter withhold snow from the forecast.

A youngster me would wake on a given morning knowing that snow had arrived. I could smell it during the night and would race to the window knowing the moldy leaves and dust of autumn were all covered over with a fresh coating of white. I was hardly ever wrong. Dave and I sleep with the window open a bit almost all winter long. It takes a real cold snap to force us to close it. I still smell the freshness of new-fallen snow. Not so this year!

When I worked at a church over a period of seven years, I would arrive early because Dave would drop me off on his way to work. After a fresh snowfall, I would deposit my things inside my office and then take shovel in hand and shovel snow. Some co-workers thought I did it to keep the walks dry and safe for them, others thought I did it for an extra jewel in my Heavenly crown, and others thought I did it because I was too crazy to be questioned too closely. I did it to play in the snow. Pure, simple delight in being outside in the snow. If it was still snowing the delight was heightened. Several times, I finished shoveling and went to each office window and created a "snow angel".

Remember as children, we would rush out into new snow and make the first snow angels of the year? Finding a patch of undisturbed snow, we would fall back, swing our arms and legs and then try to rise without ruining our angel. If we remembered to have a broom handy, we could reach out with the handle and draw a halo above our angel. Mom always said the only time she could see an angel was in the snow or when I was sleeping. Hmmmmmmmm.

I still like new, fresh snow! We have a small deck, a patio, a short driveway, and a set of steps by our back door. Those are mine to clear! If the snowfall is very heavy or very persistent as it was in 2010-11, I run out of oomph lifting the snow. Dave and I own one of the snowplow thingys that has a wide yellow blade, a swinging handle, and wheels so I can plow the heavy snow fall to the side of the driveway. I have fun and when Dave comes home from work, he can make short work of my plow ridge with the snow blower. If the snow blower weren't so heavy, I would play with that too, because another love of mine is machinery.

I am no longer agile enough to make snow angels (on purpose that is). Sometimes the very lack of agility causes me to land in the snow and create something akin to a snow angel as I try to right myself before too many neighbors notice. But I still like to be the first to walk through new-fallen snow. The squirrel, rabbit or bird who trounces my unblemished snow before I do better beware! Just the other night, I made an unnecessary trip to the recycling bin to make sure I was the only critter who had left prints in our quarter-inch dusting of sparkly flakes.

I believe it was in 1981 (or was it 1991?) we had the Halloween Blizzard. In one night it dropped about a third of the snow we usually amass over an entire winter. I was beside myself. I could go out and shovel and play and walk. Well I could if we could get out either door! Both our doors were drifted shut and it took determination and lots of work to just set foot on the outside. Once out, I laughed and played and shoveled while Dave shoveled and muttered and groaned. When the shoveling was done, I put our Miniature Schnauzer, Liebchen, on a leash and took him out to play. Dave was done with me, our children wouldn't play so I took the dog. I guess I kept him out too long. For the rest of his life, when there was new snow, if I put on my coat, boots, and mitts he would groan and hide under the bed until I went out without him. Traitor!

For a time, we had an "electric shovel". This was a mini snow blower. You gave it the action of a shovel, thrusting and scooping. However, it had blades that bit into the snow and threw it for you. It was especially nice after the snowplow went by. We had a Standard Schnauzer named Mr. Whiskers (nasty piece of work who only liked me). He was not much for playing outside in the snow. He would only come out when the shoveling was done and he had level places to be out. We had a snowfall, followed by an unusually mild day. Fresh clean air and mild temperatures made me decide it would be a good day to give the house an airing while I cleared a path with the power shovel. Another fine idea of mine! I lowered the furnace temp so it would not come on, opened front and back doors to let the air blow through freshening every nook and cranny of a winter-closed home. I heard Whiskers barking, but that was not unusual. His two least favorite things were snow and the power shovel. When I could take the constant noise no longer, I turned off the shovel and turned to scold. No wonder he was barking! I had power shoveled about a barrel full of snow right into our living room on top of the dog! Don't you wonder why he picked me to be his favorite person?

I've always wanted to winter camp. Dave doesn't like camping in any form (says he slept in his last tent in 1967 in Viet Nam). He has explained through gritted teeth that spending a night near Lake Superior with the windows in our room open wide so I can hear the lake is like winter camping. I no longer have the strength in my legs to walk from a parking area to where a winter camp could be made especially carrying sleeping bag, plus gear. Unless I decide some year to camp in our son's back yard during the winter, I probably will not be able to do any winter camping. Think of being burrowed into a sleeping bag in a mound of snow with winter white all around you. I know there would be a full moon and clear skies. The sweet odors of wood fire and fresh air would provide atmosphere. If my camping world was completely right, the howl of wolves (in the distance, to be sure!) would round out the experience. I bet it would be a fine night's sleep!

So, a brown winter surrounds me except for the few flakes that have dusted house and home since Christmas. I'm not above making mud angels -- it's just not the same. Muddy the mud man doesn't have a nice ring to it. Stepping outside in the winds we've been having means that your cheeks are sandblasted and your nostrils have a fine ring of dust coated round them. I was cleaning up after Nutmeg the other day and actually got hit in the forehead with a leaf blown at gale force. It stung! No wonder I have the blahs. Guess I'll end this here and knit for awhile.

Clarification

Before I can write too much more on any given subject, I have to clear my son's (Marc) good name. He was teasing me about the length of my blogs so I decided to write one only he could appreciate. I did not expect people to rush to my defense. Our family has a way with words (for good or for evil) and we take each other on often. Marc is the same child who gave me a loving compliment only a son could deliver when he said, "Last night when you sang, Mom, I think you really surprised those people!" I smiled and said, "Really?" He nodded and hugged me. "No one would ever expect that high sweet voice out of a little fat lady like you!" Ah how God provides protection from conceit through the eyes and mouths of our children. Both Helen and Marc as little cherubs dear to my heart charged their friends quarters to see that I could indeed hold my teeth in my hand! One last thought on the time and effort we put into parenting only to have it misfire in our direction. Marc arrived at the door dirty, scuffed, and rumpled after clearly having been in a fight. I asked him if he was fighting. He affirmed that he had been and with Curt, his neighborhood nemesis. I asked if he would tell me what they were fighting about. With a tear threatening to drop, he said they had quarreled over who's mom was fattest. I said, "Oh, Marc, I don't mind what Curt thinks of me, you didn't have to fight over that. We've talked about leaving others' opinion of how I look as their opinion!" To my surprise he stated firmly and without hesitation, "I tried to tell him you were lots fatter!" To God be the glory! I was put in right perspective in an instant.

Marc was not hurting my feelings, he was jerking my chain or as Bett put it, "Stop yerkin' on me!" I jerked back, and accidentally set him up to be the villain. There will be much more about our family's banter and I will tell you it is just that and nothing more.

For Marc

Marc says some people only have limited reading time and each of my blogs is War and Peace paired with Nicholas Nickleby. Get to the point. Tell me what I need to know. No frills, no chills, no graphic explanations. Spew forth or get off the pot! Love you, Marc!

Happy New Year (A Peek Into My Mind)

What part of Happy New Year don't I understand? New: Never Before, Unused, A Beginning of Something. Year: A calendar representation of time marked off in 365 days, broken into groups of 7 representing a week, broken into hours of 24 and so on and on and on. (This year being a leap year just makes for confusion.) Happy: A State of Euphoria, Pleasure, Joy, Enjoying a Happening, Circumstance, or Event. Got all that.

As a child, I didn't like change (and I haven't changed much in that respect). I remember one NYE being distressed because 1949 was good why did we need a 1950. It was bad enough when in my short span of life the numbers kept going up one, but this was up by 10! Go figure. My mind never did, does not now, nor ever will track like the minds belonging to others. I remember sitting in my favorite security spot, Dad's armchair with matching ottoman, thinking I would like to grab the calendar edge to keep the pages from flying away. That mental picture still comes to mind at various times.

That mental picture of the woman hanging on to calendar pages as if her life depended upon it was there when my so very handsome and wonderful new husband was given a departure date to leave for Viet Nam. Concurrent with that was the pending birth of our first child. How do you anxiously desire something and dread another at the same time. Stop the calendar; that's how! Little did I know. I thank a gracious and merciful God that I did not know. Helen was born to us as a beautiful baby girl, followed four days later by the death of my father, followed ten more days after that by Dave's departure for Viet Nam. Some tornado came along and ripped nearly an entire year off my calendar and stole memories from an overwrought mind between August 10, 1966 and December 31, 1967.

The mental picture has occurred often when something was so right I wanted it to stay. Marc's birth and the look on Dave's face when he saw in his son his own face reflected back. Is that the expression God wears when we get it right? Dave's and my 25th wedding anniversary. While that anniversary is good for a whole 'nother blog, let's just say the chaos of preparing for it was forgotten in the wonderful evening we spent together. In the morning we awoke to the news that the pipes had frozen at home and we needed to get our warm bodies out into the sub zero Minnesota weather to come home and fix them.

Holding sleeping children and then grandchildren is another time when I don't want those calendar pages to even flutter! There is bliss in holding a sleeping baby that far exceeds any other pass time. When else do you receive such complete trust as when a child falls asleep in your arms? Where else can you find the ability to stay so still no matter how many extremities are painfully buzzing and pinging because they too have fallen as sound asleep as the child?

That mental image was present with me the night of 10 September 2001. Little did I know. I am so thankful there is a gracious and merciful God that doesn't let us know. It was such a perfect evening. A beautiful blue sky slowing dimming into a gloaming like none other. Cool air after a very warm day was creeping over everything bringing rest and relaxation. I didn't want to go in the house and end the day as I sensed life would never be like that again.

So. Uh. Happy . . . New . . . Year. My new year doesn't start until May 20. I an no longer new -- only my years are new. I only had two chances at being new. One was at my birth and I hope I did well because I don't remember. The other was the day I asked God to take over the life I was not living well and to make me into His kind of new person. I've dissected New and Year every which way and still cannot decide if I have a grip (don't you dare tell me to get a grip!) The happy part. That's the difficult one. Why are we supposed to be happy just because the calendar pages have flown away and a new bundle have been put in our hands? Why do people get all dressed up, flock to parties (alcoholic and non-alcoholic) to sing, dance, throw streamers, wish everyone "Happy New Year" and go home to face the first day of the new year exhausted and out of sorts? Is that happy? Could our psyches absorb 365 happy days? How would we differentiate between happy, happy-happy, and gloriously happy if all of them are happy?

I have started telling newly weds I hope they experience enough hardship to understand the good times for without measure in this imperfect world, there is no way to experience true happiness. Happiness is not joy. Joy is what the angels knew at the birth of Christ and great joy was known by the angels when He triumphed over the grave and once again ascended into Heaven. Joy is the persistent, all pervading, sense that in the midst of chaos all is well. Joy is what comes when one has suddenly had an insight of God and sees the magnificence of God in His Glory rather than someone to fear or hide from.



Thus another turn of the calendar has come and gone and already the calendar pages are getting away from me no matter how hard I hang on. Each day brings some disappointment, some laughter, some pain, some peace, some frustration, some love, and throughout all there is life. As long as there is life, there is hope. There is hope for those I love to find true refuge and joy in knowing God (the real God who cares for us -- not the faulty God we Christians represent to others). There is hope for a better world when God fulfills His promise to bring a "new Heaven and a new earth". There is hope I will find more golden joy than tin happiness in the things God has given to me: health, home, food, family, freedom, work to do. May I not take any of them for granted. May I keep the kind of mind that evaluates and weighs the worth of living.

May your 2012 be filled with discovery, laughter, kindness, delight, perseverance, love, and joy. Since that took a long time to compose, I guess someone was trying to make it less of a mouthful when they coined "Happy New Year"!