1-Once a bully, always a bully! A large, belligerent looking woman with a Dutch Boy haircut followed me into the warehouse. She snatched a cart and tailed me so closely that if I had stopped, she would have rammed me. She continued her pursuit as I turned into the book aisle. If I stopped, she stopped. If I moved, she moved, keeping her cart mere inches from my backside. She didn’t appear to even be looking at the books. Apparently her purpose was to keep me moving along. Perhaps she was the self-appointed book aisle monitor: “Just grab one as you glide past, folks! No stopping or browsing permitted.” Never mind that you might end up with a cookbook when you wanted an atlas! Well, anyone who knows me will realize that she was “messin’ with the wrong guy!” I stood my ground in front of the paperbacks and leisurely perused several of them while she fumed and fidgeted. I looked around to make sure I was not blocking her way. There were no other people nearby and she could have easily gone around. When I was finished, I moved on and she moved on right behind me, never showing a modicum of interest in the books in that area. She seemed motivated entirely by the desire to intimidate. I pitied her hapless classmates of yesteryear, as I envisioned a flashback of her as a tyrannical fifth grader terrorizing the playground. The low self-esteem that often spawns such bizarre behavior made me realize I should pity her also.
2- I came upon one shoe lying alone and abandoned in the middle of the condiment aisle. The sight of this caused me to reflect on what I call the “Lone Shoe Mystery.” I frequently notice a solitary shoe lying in the middle of the road. Doesn’t it seem rather odd for someone to be driving along when all at once one of his or her shoes disappears out the car window? And why does it seem to happen so often? Could it be Gremlins? If you are watchful the next time you are driving, you will likely see at least one stray shoe somewhere on your route. I wonder if these people arrive at their destinations and exclaim, “Great Scott, I could have sworn I left home with both shoes!” Quinton has a box of five or six spouseless shoes on a shelf in the garage and no idea where their mates might be. I suspect that those vagabond shoes are out there at this very moment littering the streets. Perhaps the whole shoe mystery could have been solved if I had rounded the bend into that aisle moments sooner and actually witnessed the person’s shoe fall off as he put a jar of mayonnaise into the cart, and then limped along to the pickles, oblivious to the fact that something was missing!
3-It was one-thirty in the afternoon when I entered Costco. I had eaten a very meager breakfast, no lunch, and I was ravenous. I decided I would take advantage of the tasty samples handed out in the food section. While this was admittedly not the healthiest meal of my life, here is what I had: One bite of white cupcake with gooey frosting, a Tablespoonful of tortellini with cheese sauce, one small slice of spicy sausage, a sip of Naked Juice, and two other things in tiny white cups that I cannot remember. Then I slipped back to the bakery section for another bite of cupcake, hoping the demo lady wouldn’t remember me. Before leaving the store I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine and downed it on the way home. Now this is the honest truth…20 minutes later I felt stuffed!! After drinking the water, I was full and didn’t feel the temptation to eat another thing all the way till dinnertime. My epiphany for the day was that I could eat much less, expand it by drinking lots of water, and not even approach starvation. The part of our brain that tells us we are full doesn’t kick in until about 20 minutes after we stop eating. By then, if we have continued to shovel it in just because it still tastes good, we will be chomping antacids by the handful. I also realized that in that 20 minute interval I could have polished off the entire box of cupcakes, (if the demo lady hadn’t been looking) and the management would have had to wheel me to my car on one of those big flat bed carts!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
A GALLOP TO REMEMBER
I recall riding a beautiful, brown horse through the mountainous slag heaps that were piled up around the coalmines of Lancashire County, England. It’s something of a miracle that I remember anything at all about that grey, drizzly afternoon when I was only twelve years old.
I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!
I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.
When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.
Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.
After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.
All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.
Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.
I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.
The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.
Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.
After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”
He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.
After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.
The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.
We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.
Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.
This event occurred in England
Probably in1956
I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!
I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.
When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.
Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.
After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.
All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.
Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.
I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.
The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.
Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.
After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”
He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.
After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.
The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.
We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.
Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.
This event occurred in England
Probably in1956
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
BARBIE DOLLS
“The Barbies are ruining my mind!” was my granddaughter’s reply when asked why she no longer played with the glamorous doll whose long legs and glitzy wardrobe defy reality. Instead, she carried around an American Girl doll, which actually resembled a little girl and did not own a brassiere!
I was amazed at the wisdom set forth by this seven year old.
Many of us march absent-mindedly through life neither identifying nor confronting the things that might be “ruining our minds.” They are often minor things, but could be anything that has become an obsession or that takes precedence over things of value. They are things that gradually erode our thoughts and carry us off course.
The scale is wide and includes an infinite assortment of hollow distractions. There is something for everyone. For me, Barbie dolls are not a problem, but there are plenty of other things that could be “ruining my mind.” For others it might be video games, Internet surfing, soap operas, gambling, the Sports Channel, anything done to excess and running in the opposite direction from “Improving our minds.”
I applaud the decision of my young granddaughter to leave behind an activity that she feels does not mesh with her goals. She understands that the flashy lifestyle portrayed by the doll is shallow and artificial, and not where she wants her focus to be.
Her insightfulness has blazed a trail for all to follow.
“And a little child shall lead them.”
Isaiah 11:6
I was amazed at the wisdom set forth by this seven year old.
Many of us march absent-mindedly through life neither identifying nor confronting the things that might be “ruining our minds.” They are often minor things, but could be anything that has become an obsession or that takes precedence over things of value. They are things that gradually erode our thoughts and carry us off course.
The scale is wide and includes an infinite assortment of hollow distractions. There is something for everyone. For me, Barbie dolls are not a problem, but there are plenty of other things that could be “ruining my mind.” For others it might be video games, Internet surfing, soap operas, gambling, the Sports Channel, anything done to excess and running in the opposite direction from “Improving our minds.”
I applaud the decision of my young granddaughter to leave behind an activity that she feels does not mesh with her goals. She understands that the flashy lifestyle portrayed by the doll is shallow and artificial, and not where she wants her focus to be.
Her insightfulness has blazed a trail for all to follow.
“And a little child shall lead them.”
Isaiah 11:6
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM MY JOURNALS
I first started keeping a journal in 1981. I began by writing weekly, typewritten entries, but I soon realized that by the end of the week many of the interesting details of daily doings in a large family had drifted away, or all run together and lost their spontaneity.
In April of 1982, I decided to keep a daily, handwritten journal. I bought several blank page books covered in brightly printed fabric. They were visually stimulating, and I figured they would keep me motivated. They did, indeed, and I kept a daily journal continuously for the next nine years. Then for some reason I lapsed. I didn't write regularly from 1991 through 1999. During those years, however, I kept notes on a calendar and wrote an annual synopsis of important events at the end of each year. Then in 2000 I bought an Ansel Adams day-planner, and started making daily entries again. I have faithfully kept a daily journal since that time.
What have I learned from all this journal writing?
1-Things that seemed routine or ho-hum at the time become vitally interesting 25 years down the road. As I made daily entries, I often thought such things as, "Who cares if Quinton, riding in the grocery cart, turned around while I wasn't looking, grabbed the cottage cheese, removed the lid and dumped it out over all the other groceries?" At the time it was just a very messy situation, now it is a hilarious memory!
2-Most of the crises and catastrophies that seemed so devastating at the time are no longer even relevant to my life. "Time heals all wounds" is a truth. Many of the seemingly overwhelming problems and issues just evaporated, often in a matter of only a few days or weeks.
3-Reading a journal entry from the past is like re-living a section of your life. Its possible to retain a memory of an event without a journal, but writing it down brings it back with its full scope of emotions.
4-I've learned not to leave out the bad stuff. Its a natural tendency to want only to write about the happy, smiley-face moments, but this is not real. The bad stuff happens, and to have an accurate account of your life, it must be included. As I said earlier, it will surprise you how irrelevant these shadowy moments in your life become as time erases, or at least diminishes them.
5-Several of my ancestors kept journals that are valuable to me beyond measure. Durant Litchfield, my great, great grandfather kept a day by day account of his experiences as a soldier in the Civil War. My grandmother, Loana Pickering Griffiths, wrote a detailed account of her childhood in the LDS colony in Alberta, Canada. I love and cherish these writings.
I wonder if my ancestors ever wondered if anyone would really be interested in what they wrote. I'm glad Grandfather Litchfield didn't say, "I don't think I'll bother to write anything today. Who cares about the boring, daily activities in camp. Who cares that President Abraham Lincoln visited our company this week." I'm glad my Grandmother Griffiths thought it worthwhile to write that her father took her and her sisters to school on horseback on days when the sub-zero temperatures of a Canadian winter prevented them from walking, but that on one occasion when they arrived at the school, the doors were frozen shut and they had to turn around and go back home.
Great stories, all! Aaron confiscating Ben's shoes is a great story, as is the cottage cheese incident, the Blue Donkey incident, the dead mice dressed in doll's clothes incident, the "Nephi and the brass plates of Laban" re-enactment that frightened Mia out of her wits, and every other fun, terrifying, delightful, miserable or just plain ho-hum thing that happens in the course of the day.
Write it down. Someone, sometime, is going to just love it!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
A POEM FROM THE DISTANT PAST
This is for Mia, because I read the great poem she wrote on her blog and told her I would post one I had written when I was a child. I wrote this poem when I was 8 years old for a school assignment. The teacher thought it was too good for an 8 year old to have written, and accused me of copying it from a book. My Mom (Grandma Kay) was furious, because she had been sitting with me when I wrote it. She stomped over to the school and told that teacher a thing or two!! Here is the poem:
THE BLACK STALLION
When everyone has gone to bed,
For the stallion comes at night,
He comes and goes without a sound
Just like a flash of light.
He lets the corralled horses free
And runs off to the plains.
The cowboys get up just in time
To see their flying manes.
They've tried to catch him many times.
He's the wildest horse out West.
They chase him over hill and dale,
But he always turns out best.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT???
In the small southern Colorado town of San Luis there stands a beautiful, old Catholic santuario situated at the top of a hill. A trail winds up the hill to the church, and along the route the traveler encounters several shrines and statues, which represent the various Stations of the Cross.
A couple of months ago there was an incident in the town, which made the news. Three LDS missionaries assigned to the area had climbed the hill, and had posed with the various statues in a disrespectful and irreverent manner while the others took pictures. When they reached the top, they clowned around inside the sanctuary and vandalized some of the structures.
Apparently someone witnessed this despicable behavior and reported it. The three elders were subsequently reprimanded and sent home. The Mission President and a local Bishop were sent to San Luis to apologize to the townspeople and try to undo some of the damage that had been done.
We read about this incident when it happened, lamented about how unfortunate it was, and then more or less forgot about it. This, then, is the back-story for the following experience in San Luis.
On our way home from New Mexico in early May, we approached a beautiful, well-kept, little town. We noticed a Catholic Shrine at the top of a hill near the center of the town. We also noticed that in spite of the town’s tiny size, there was a brand new LDS church nearing completion on the main street. We circled around to get another look at the newly built chapel, then drove another block or so back to the visitor’s center to use their restrooms.
A friendly lady greeted us, and engaged me in the usual “Where are you from?” type conversation. I commented on the new LDS chapel just down the street, and mentioned that we were LDS. She seemed somewhat taken aback, and referred to “The recent news stories concerning the LDS Church.”
Having forgotten about the missionary incident and having no idea we were in the very town where it happened, I assumed she meant the recent news stories about the polygamist cult in Texas. Our conversation went something like this:
Me, referring to the cult in Texas: “Oh, those people are in no way associated with the mainstream LDS church. We no longer engage in such practices.”
The lady, probably surprised that we at one time did engage in the practice of vandalism: “Well, those three boys are all back home now.”
Me, thinking she meant three young boys in the Texas commune who had perhaps been abused in some way: “Thank goodness for that! At least they are now in a safe environment where they will no longer be harmed.”
The lady, with question marks beginning to appear above her head: “It was a terrible thing. The townspeople were very offended.”
Me, determined to smooth things over: “I think the whole nation was offended. This practice is becoming more and more common and we cannot allow it to continue.”
The lady, wondering why she had not heard about this rampant vandalization of shrines across the nation: “Well, the LDS Bishop who came down here was very nice. We had a town meeting and he offered sincere, heartfelt apologies.”
Me, in my mind: “WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?"
The lady: “Yes, and another nice man from the LDS church came and offered to help repair the damage.
Me, wondering why a town meeting would be called in San Luis, Colorado because of a polygamist cult in Texas: “Those who practice this type of behavior are called Fundamentalists. The mainstream LDS Church excommunicates anyone who engages in this practice.”
The lady, somewhat shocked that an organization of vandals called Fundamentalists even existed: “That seems harsh. I think we should forgive them.”
Me: “Yes we should, but in the meantime women and children are being hurt and we need to think of them.”
The lady, unable to make heads or tails of this comment simply signed off: “We hope you enjoyed your visit to San Luis, and that you will visit us again. Goodbye!”
As we drove away, I tried sorting through the details of this conversation as my head spun in perplexity. Len salvaged my sanity by remembering the news story of the three missionaries and reminding me of it.
I’m afraid it was too late to save the sanity of the poor visitor’s center lady!
A couple of months ago there was an incident in the town, which made the news. Three LDS missionaries assigned to the area had climbed the hill, and had posed with the various statues in a disrespectful and irreverent manner while the others took pictures. When they reached the top, they clowned around inside the sanctuary and vandalized some of the structures.
Apparently someone witnessed this despicable behavior and reported it. The three elders were subsequently reprimanded and sent home. The Mission President and a local Bishop were sent to San Luis to apologize to the townspeople and try to undo some of the damage that had been done.
We read about this incident when it happened, lamented about how unfortunate it was, and then more or less forgot about it. This, then, is the back-story for the following experience in San Luis.
On our way home from New Mexico in early May, we approached a beautiful, well-kept, little town. We noticed a Catholic Shrine at the top of a hill near the center of the town. We also noticed that in spite of the town’s tiny size, there was a brand new LDS church nearing completion on the main street. We circled around to get another look at the newly built chapel, then drove another block or so back to the visitor’s center to use their restrooms.
A friendly lady greeted us, and engaged me in the usual “Where are you from?” type conversation. I commented on the new LDS chapel just down the street, and mentioned that we were LDS. She seemed somewhat taken aback, and referred to “The recent news stories concerning the LDS Church.”
Having forgotten about the missionary incident and having no idea we were in the very town where it happened, I assumed she meant the recent news stories about the polygamist cult in Texas. Our conversation went something like this:
Me, referring to the cult in Texas: “Oh, those people are in no way associated with the mainstream LDS church. We no longer engage in such practices.”
The lady, probably surprised that we at one time did engage in the practice of vandalism: “Well, those three boys are all back home now.”
Me, thinking she meant three young boys in the Texas commune who had perhaps been abused in some way: “Thank goodness for that! At least they are now in a safe environment where they will no longer be harmed.”
The lady, with question marks beginning to appear above her head: “It was a terrible thing. The townspeople were very offended.”
Me, determined to smooth things over: “I think the whole nation was offended. This practice is becoming more and more common and we cannot allow it to continue.”
The lady, wondering why she had not heard about this rampant vandalization of shrines across the nation: “Well, the LDS Bishop who came down here was very nice. We had a town meeting and he offered sincere, heartfelt apologies.”
Me, in my mind: “WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?"
The lady: “Yes, and another nice man from the LDS church came and offered to help repair the damage.
Me, wondering why a town meeting would be called in San Luis, Colorado because of a polygamist cult in Texas: “Those who practice this type of behavior are called Fundamentalists. The mainstream LDS Church excommunicates anyone who engages in this practice.”
The lady, somewhat shocked that an organization of vandals called Fundamentalists even existed: “That seems harsh. I think we should forgive them.”
Me: “Yes we should, but in the meantime women and children are being hurt and we need to think of them.”
The lady, unable to make heads or tails of this comment simply signed off: “We hope you enjoyed your visit to San Luis, and that you will visit us again. Goodbye!”
As we drove away, I tried sorting through the details of this conversation as my head spun in perplexity. Len salvaged my sanity by remembering the news story of the three missionaries and reminding me of it.
I’m afraid it was too late to save the sanity of the poor visitor’s center lady!
Friday, April 18, 2008
FUN WITH MAGNETS
We recently bought a set of magnetic words called "Magnetic Poetry". (www.magneticpoetry.com) We put all the words, (nouns, verbs, adjectives, pronouns, etc) up on our refrigerator, and when inspiration strikes, someone writes a message or a poem. It's fun, and really stretches the limits of our creativity because we can only use the words that are there. Here are three recent creations:
CHAIN ME TO A CHOCOLATE MOON,
LET MY DREAMS BE SWEET AND LUSCIOUS.
SMELL IT'S EASY POWER SPRINGING,
WHISPERING LANGUAGE OF A GODDESS.
WINTER'S SAD SYMPHONY FADES SOFTLY
AS SUMMER MUSIC WHISPERS NEAR THE GARDEN,
DELIRIOUS WITH SPRING.
BENEATH THE MOON
HEAVES THE STORMY SEA,
POUNDING OUT A WATERY SYMPHONY.
CHAIN ME TO A CHOCOLATE MOON,
LET MY DREAMS BE SWEET AND LUSCIOUS.
SMELL IT'S EASY POWER SPRINGING,
WHISPERING LANGUAGE OF A GODDESS.
WINTER'S SAD SYMPHONY FADES SOFTLY
AS SUMMER MUSIC WHISPERS NEAR THE GARDEN,
DELIRIOUS WITH SPRING.
BENEATH THE MOON
HEAVES THE STORMY SEA,
POUNDING OUT A WATERY SYMPHONY.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
WAY BACK WHEN - 'Bama Days #2
OCTOBER 3, 1984
This morning we had what could only be called "The Great Shoe and Car Fiasco!" First of all, Ben missed the school bus because he could not find his shoes. He tore the house apart looking for them, and ended up suffering the great indignity of having to wear his Sunday shoes to school. He then caught a ride with Lenny, and I thought the shoe incident was over.
Shortly thereafter, Aaron sauntered out of his room wearing Ben's shoes. I was somewhat annoyed, but duly thankful that Ben had already left, thus averting a confrontation even more unsettling than the frantic shoe hunt had been.
About the time Aaron was in the middle of his cinnamon toast, Lenny, Ben and Mike Dean arrived back at the house announcing that the car had broken down over by the shoppette. Fearful of the showdown that would occur if the shoes were discovered, I cheerfully volunteered to drive the boys to school, and tried to discreetly usher them out the back door and into my car. But alas, Ben noticed Aaron wearing his shoes. The scene which ensued is difficult to describe. Ben, in his best high pitched shriek demanded the shoes back. Aaron insisted that he had "found" the shoes in his room (having, by the way, been left there by Ben while watching Aaron's TV on the sly) and wasn't about to return them.
Pandemonium reigned for a few terrible moments, but I was able to resolve the matter by promising Aaron that if he would return the shoes, I would buy him a new pair after he got home from work. His shoes were falling apart, and I guess no one had noticed till this outbreak occurred.
I then drove the three school-bound, but very late by this time, boys over to the shoppette and let them out to see if they could start the car while I dropped Quinton off at his school. When I returned, they had managed to start the car which had only been flooded, and were finally on their way.
Wow!! What a morning.
This morning we had what could only be called "The Great Shoe and Car Fiasco!" First of all, Ben missed the school bus because he could not find his shoes. He tore the house apart looking for them, and ended up suffering the great indignity of having to wear his Sunday shoes to school. He then caught a ride with Lenny, and I thought the shoe incident was over.
Shortly thereafter, Aaron sauntered out of his room wearing Ben's shoes. I was somewhat annoyed, but duly thankful that Ben had already left, thus averting a confrontation even more unsettling than the frantic shoe hunt had been.
About the time Aaron was in the middle of his cinnamon toast, Lenny, Ben and Mike Dean arrived back at the house announcing that the car had broken down over by the shoppette. Fearful of the showdown that would occur if the shoes were discovered, I cheerfully volunteered to drive the boys to school, and tried to discreetly usher them out the back door and into my car. But alas, Ben noticed Aaron wearing his shoes. The scene which ensued is difficult to describe. Ben, in his best high pitched shriek demanded the shoes back. Aaron insisted that he had "found" the shoes in his room (having, by the way, been left there by Ben while watching Aaron's TV on the sly) and wasn't about to return them.
Pandemonium reigned for a few terrible moments, but I was able to resolve the matter by promising Aaron that if he would return the shoes, I would buy him a new pair after he got home from work. His shoes were falling apart, and I guess no one had noticed till this outbreak occurred.
I then drove the three school-bound, but very late by this time, boys over to the shoppette and let them out to see if they could start the car while I dropped Quinton off at his school. When I returned, they had managed to start the car which had only been flooded, and were finally on their way.
Wow!! What a morning.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
WAY BACK WHEN - 'Bama Days #1
APRIL 13, 1984
Last night Ben came into my room and asked me for an assortment of very strange materials. I asked him what he wanted them for and he rather sheepishly admitted that he wanted to make a pair of nunchuks; a martial arts weapon of some sort. I firmly said NO, and that he was to pursue the idea no farther. I thought that was the end of it, but I should have known better.
This morning I received a phone call from Ben’s school informing me that Ben had been caught with nunchuks, and now had a police record for carrying a deadly weapon! Ben, being the inventive person that he is, had scavenged together the needed materials on his own, and assembled the nunchucks in his room on the sly after I thought he had gone to bed. He is in big trouble and will be suspended from school for an undetermined length of time. Naturally, Len is away on one of his trips and I was just too flabbergasted over the whole thing to deal with it. It will just have to be put on hold till Len returns!
Busted! Busted! Busted!
Last night Ben came into my room and asked me for an assortment of very strange materials. I asked him what he wanted them for and he rather sheepishly admitted that he wanted to make a pair of nunchuks; a martial arts weapon of some sort. I firmly said NO, and that he was to pursue the idea no farther. I thought that was the end of it, but I should have known better.
This morning I received a phone call from Ben’s school informing me that Ben had been caught with nunchuks, and now had a police record for carrying a deadly weapon! Ben, being the inventive person that he is, had scavenged together the needed materials on his own, and assembled the nunchucks in his room on the sly after I thought he had gone to bed. He is in big trouble and will be suspended from school for an undetermined length of time. Naturally, Len is away on one of his trips and I was just too flabbergasted over the whole thing to deal with it. It will just have to be put on hold till Len returns!
Busted! Busted! Busted!
Monday, April 7, 2008
HELEN, MY SISTER
I sat at the desk in our hotel room completely engrossed in my book when a sharp rap on the door startled me. The door opened slightly and a cheerful face peered around the edge.
“Housekeeping!” announced the owner of the face.
“Come in,” said I, and thus began a brief but unforgettable friendship.
The lady, who introduced herself as Helen, set to work immediately and while performing her housekeeping chores, spoke of many things.
I learned that she was born in 1942 in a poor section of Chicago. She had attended school with children of varied ethnic backgrounds, but at the end of the school day she and the other African American children were escorted back to their neighborhood and were expected to stay within those boundaries. She felt no anger or animosity toward anyone for this injustice, but accepted the fact that in those times “that was just the way things were.”
Helen had a happy home life, with several brothers and sisters, and good parents who taught their children of God’s love for them. They grew up with the certainty that even though the world discriminated against certain people, all were equal in God’s eyes. Their parents gave them the gift of self-esteem and confidence in an environment where self-doubt could easily have deflated them.
Helen is slightly round in shape and suffers from arthritis in many of her joints. Her knees are bad and require surgery. She has a heart condition, which causes frequent fatigue and often compels her to miss work. She did not mention these problems in a complaining way, but rather as a tribute to the hotel’s housekeeping staff for their understanding and kindness. Whenever she calls in to say she feels too ill to work, the management always tells her, “Just take care of yourself, Helen, and get to feeling better. We hope you will be back with us soon.”
Retirement is something she eagerly looks forward to. In November she will be sixty-six, and eligible for social security. She looks forward to spending time with her grandchildren. She is the mother of four, but one daughter recently died of sickle cell anemia, a severe and frequently fatal hereditary disorder common among those of African descent.
I suspect Helen could have completed her duties in our room quite quickly, but she lingered a full forty-five minutes to visit with me, puttering around and keeping busy all the while.
Not only did she freely share many details of her own life, but she was also interested in mine. She asked whether I had children, and when I told her she was sincerely intrigued.
“Wow.” She exclaimed, “Five Men!”
I told her about my eleven grandchildren; five boys and six girls, three of whom were triplets. She was ecstatic over this revelation, marveling and exclaiming about how wonderful it was.
The time passed much too quickly, and we very soon felt like old friends. Finally, when she could justify staying no longer, she came close to me and extended her hand in a gesture of farewell. What I saw in her eyes was genuine love and concern for a person she had known for less than an hour.
Though the circumstances of our lives appear different on the surface, the issues we deal with are much the same. We share a love of God and family. We worry about the world our grandchildren will inherit. We have elderly parents to be concerned about. We face health issues and the myriad of problems associated with aging. But above all, we are able to find joy amid the conflicts and complications of daily life.
I reached out and grasped her extended hand, forming a symbolic bridge between two lives. I had found a friend, a kindred spirit, a sister.
“Housekeeping!” announced the owner of the face.
“Come in,” said I, and thus began a brief but unforgettable friendship.
The lady, who introduced herself as Helen, set to work immediately and while performing her housekeeping chores, spoke of many things.
I learned that she was born in 1942 in a poor section of Chicago. She had attended school with children of varied ethnic backgrounds, but at the end of the school day she and the other African American children were escorted back to their neighborhood and were expected to stay within those boundaries. She felt no anger or animosity toward anyone for this injustice, but accepted the fact that in those times “that was just the way things were.”
Helen had a happy home life, with several brothers and sisters, and good parents who taught their children of God’s love for them. They grew up with the certainty that even though the world discriminated against certain people, all were equal in God’s eyes. Their parents gave them the gift of self-esteem and confidence in an environment where self-doubt could easily have deflated them.
Helen is slightly round in shape and suffers from arthritis in many of her joints. Her knees are bad and require surgery. She has a heart condition, which causes frequent fatigue and often compels her to miss work. She did not mention these problems in a complaining way, but rather as a tribute to the hotel’s housekeeping staff for their understanding and kindness. Whenever she calls in to say she feels too ill to work, the management always tells her, “Just take care of yourself, Helen, and get to feeling better. We hope you will be back with us soon.”
Retirement is something she eagerly looks forward to. In November she will be sixty-six, and eligible for social security. She looks forward to spending time with her grandchildren. She is the mother of four, but one daughter recently died of sickle cell anemia, a severe and frequently fatal hereditary disorder common among those of African descent.
I suspect Helen could have completed her duties in our room quite quickly, but she lingered a full forty-five minutes to visit with me, puttering around and keeping busy all the while.
Not only did she freely share many details of her own life, but she was also interested in mine. She asked whether I had children, and when I told her she was sincerely intrigued.
“Wow.” She exclaimed, “Five Men!”
I told her about my eleven grandchildren; five boys and six girls, three of whom were triplets. She was ecstatic over this revelation, marveling and exclaiming about how wonderful it was.
The time passed much too quickly, and we very soon felt like old friends. Finally, when she could justify staying no longer, she came close to me and extended her hand in a gesture of farewell. What I saw in her eyes was genuine love and concern for a person she had known for less than an hour.
Though the circumstances of our lives appear different on the surface, the issues we deal with are much the same. We share a love of God and family. We worry about the world our grandchildren will inherit. We have elderly parents to be concerned about. We face health issues and the myriad of problems associated with aging. But above all, we are able to find joy amid the conflicts and complications of daily life.
I reached out and grasped her extended hand, forming a symbolic bridge between two lives. I had found a friend, a kindred spirit, a sister.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
BOOK REPORT
I have just finished reading the sixth book in the "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency" series by Alexander McCall Smith. These books are purely delightful! Adabelle recommended them to me and after I bought and read the first one, I was hooked. They take place in Botswana, Africa, mostly in the city of Gabarone. All the towns and villages mentioned in the books are actual places. I looked them up on a map. The stories have a hearty amount of drama, but the mood is always upbeat. The thread that runs thoughout the books is the impact that can be felt in a person's sphere of influence by exercising kindness, sensitivity, and forgiveness. The traditional ways of Botswana are an example of charity in action. There is also a great deal of humor, and I often find myself smiling or even laughing out loud!
Costco had these in stock a year or so ago, and then they were gone. Now the author has added a new book to the series "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive," and Costco carries it, plus it has brought back several others of the series. They are $8.00 each. I recommend that you read them in consecutive order, as each is a sequel to the one before. There are a total of eight books in the series. As Ada said, "They pull you right into Africa." They truly do, and they give you a perspective of that great country that you would not otherwise enjoy.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
LITTLE LIZZIE IN THE NEWS! EASTER SUNDAY 1947
The newsprint in this article is pretty small, so here is what it says:
"The excitement of finding Easter eggs and candy is seen in the face of little Elizabeth Lynn Griffiths, upper left, 3-year-old daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. Max Griffiths, as she discovers an Easter basket in her garden." The rest of the article refers to other pictures that were also included.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve
the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other
people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence
automatically liberates others."
Marianne Williamson
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Thanks to Heather's wonderful talents, I now have a most excellent and totally customized blog site! As son Len said to Dad when he started his blog, "You have finally entered the 21st century!" I guess its about time. I am delighted to have a venue where I am able to share my thoughts and writings with you from time to time.
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