Pellets

Today, it's gray once more, February and final(?) ice pellets. Public school was cancelled.

It's been a restful day. Cody and I are watching the story of Wilbur Wilburforce, the movie "Amazing Grace," the abolitionist movement in England. I wonder how Cody will process all of this information given him of oppression, of right-movements, of caring for human needs over economic. I don't want him to be self-centered, nor myself. There are still choices to be made in the world for good. The movie, in fact, seems quite relevant today despite the eventual ban on slavery. It's interesting how justification can always be made to turn away and not look. I want to teach him to stare and think and do.

Well, well, the hopes on a wintery day.

Sixteen Years Worth

Here we are at an event; we're a couple. I've received his hugs for sixteen marital years now. He likes to do this, grab at me, while my hands are customarily crossed against the cold. He wants to warm me and show affection and be sturdy for me. He's sturdy, steady, steadfast to my whimsical, wandering, wayward nature. To boot, he's kind and loving and reliable; and, a farm kid himself from the cornfields with a nature for the right and good. I don't know how God arranged for us to become a couple as seen above, but he definitely knew how to take care of me through his choice. And, yes, at times, I wonder about his choice, particularly when grabbed and poked and teased and tormented by my hubby who thinks this is funny. And, I wonder when our interests differ widely; however, I couldn't have done a better job at choosing who would make my life more complete and secure. I am blessed by His choice for me. Grateful!

Ben's to Blame

Late night incriminations like ...

Why did the book club settle on a biography of Ben Franklin? As if we're going to work hard to redeem the character of Ben Franklin through our discussions? As if we're going to dispute what's been known 100fold since his lifetime of his life? As if we're going to be titillated by any new erotic disclosures. Hmmmm..... I feel antagonistic now towards Ben Franklin. American hero -- that's not good.

Mornings. Why did I have to select a running partner who grim-eyed, steel-willed, weather-notwithstanding expects to see me there in the dark, under the light pole, hobbling with my plantar fascitis, cold, draggy and sneezy, in the wee hours of the friendless morning? I should have picked a fence rider. I'm happier with fence riders than the absolutists of SternEye, yet I will set my alarm and grit my teeth and wear my night splint to bed on Valentine Eve. Is this called codependency?

Banjo player. I'm not sure why he's hesitant to pick his stuff and be proud. He's a good singer as well, my senior fun friend who I play and harmonize with on Tuesdays. But, lately, he's been lackluster.

I wish my bed weren't so far away or I would be in it now .... praying, stumbling, dreaming about Ben Franklin, and resolving all thoughts of incrimination.

Good night.

Ye ole ...

We ran for the van, kicking up our heels sideways in the air ~~ my 48 year old friend, me and my son. We just saw the lively Natalie MacMaster, and afterwards we were on a cloud of air as we ran laughing and talking and kicking it up. Natalie plays fiddle, accompanied by a cello, a pianist, a drummer, a bass guitarist, and a guy who played the bagpipes, flute, banjo; she's from Scotland and, therefore, so is the music. It was amazing; my blood is still exclaiming in lilt the ole country rhthyms. If you have a chance to see her, do!

Rain-splashed

Faith is such a crazy thing! Why is it? Or, do I undoubtedly make it crazy with my own offbalance? It could be a peaceful calm lake phenomena, but then the fish and turtles and snakes do lurk beneath, don't they? I guess that 'crazy' faith is just the human experience of it if one attempts to understand, commit, explain, impart its dimensions. Who can filter God? Tame the Spirit? Know and interpret all? No one. We have clues, messages, yes, yes, but even those are nebulous.

However, the morning called me to clearly respond to God due to some inner conflicts. It's crazy when faith seems muddy, happenchance, tilted, yet at times the response needs to be completely forthright as if one is faced with the most sensory (yet comfortable) Thing possible. God asking something of one, me, due to my straightforward human-woman need that needs his intervention.

So out the door into the rain-splashed morning I went anticipating. Running shoes, old paint-dropped sweats, New Orleans T-shirt, pony-tail, hat were acceptable worship material. I followed the old trail, around the lake estates where the geese fly, across the busy road where the morning commuters fly, to a street where it's happened before necessarily. I remember that time God told me to let go of a huge globe of fear and to recommit: from toes to hair, from bones to heart, bit by bit, both to Belief and to husband and to self and to others. It felt good again to release and reorient.

I walked back into the house doubting still, but yet knowingly committed, despite any where my adventurous mind takes me, or any where my body goes. I am committed and that's the clarity that is essential.

Hair care

I've been curled twice, given new frizz-master products, been finger-sleeked when a strand rebels, and, today, I'm receiving a new style compliments of her scissors. The last two years, I've been the forgotten, the cast-off, the oft-despised, the freedom-slicer, the square, the ugh-mother. Now, I'm cool again, loved, and worthy of pampering by the fashionable, career-stylist daughter. I've somehow regained gratitude which translates into beauty options.

Works for me.

She sent us a loving and gracious card, thanking us for everything. Life is good, and pretty!, right now. Thank you, God!

The Jazz Buzz

Calmer here now, even Obama and Hillary agree (per their amicable debate last night)(political humor). I'm less apt to wonder as I wander (like Keats, etc) into the snow and ne'er more return.

I am nervously looking forward to Cody's jazz band tryout today. He's been taking drum set lessons for a while now, but how will he perform under pressure? Jazz, who would've-a thunk? That music sounds as remote to me as universal health care for all (per Hillary's plan) (another political insert here). I mean "*Jazz*" -- here in the southern Midwest, we don't know much about it, especially me, bluegrass heritage and all. Yet, when I hear it, it's lovely, lively, interactive, puts me on another sort of move, set, expedition. And, Cody, with his ear would be great at improv (on piano or guitar).

Anyway, we shall see if "*Jazz*" becomes kitchen buzz in this household!

Snowfull Entity

Despite the calm of the snow (our two cats are perched by the window staring, their mesmerized forward ears pointing, their backs Bingham-humped), I don't feel the calmest. It's a time where a need for a God, directive and informative, calms some anxiety that a good path will be snowed over. I know that one's own footsteps are exciting, yet when one is lost, a beaten path means rescue and safety. I'm not lost, just wondering about the wander in the snowfull woods. Again.

A perception of God, a real Entity, is essential for me to explore towards and be upon.

Enunciation

The big picture window to my right showcases it, reveals how many can fit into one frame. It shows how they swirl prettily to experience their fall, their purpose, their trek. If I were a measurement-taker, perhaps there would be per square foot, about 100, but it would be wrong and hard to contain their flailing merriment before they become bound to the ground. The ground is changing because of them. Life is becoming simple and quiet. I think of the Ingalls in the Big Woods, or Robert upon the sleigh before the woods. The ground holds their effort, holds their purpose, restores them during another season. The ground is becoming them, and they the ground. I would like to have a hat on and walk amongst them. The loveliest woods walks I've taken have been within their lacy friendliness and musical descension. It's right then to think about the day of death because living has remitted its best to you, its natural result of original creation, its amazing moist ingenious cycle of life. Our bald cypress tree now has a lining on its arms to enunciate itself to the looker. The dried monarda pods have a flaky stocking cap.

Slowly, surely, we open for the snow, all of us affected. We can think clearly of the worse now, death, because life has given us her best and shows us deep and lasting beauty.

Steep

Suffering compresses itself at times upon us at various points of our lives. Still, it does seem that certain people suffer at greater rates than others due to unfortunate situations. A young man was killed here recently on his motorcycle; his mother burned to death in a car fire a couple of years ago. The father/husbands stands alone, shaking. A tragic woman in my bookclub lost a son and a husband within a year.
Now my morning running friend is going through myriad difficulties. We walked/ran this morning (due to injuries), and she poured out some of these ills. Life is tough for her; she's resilient, yet things are definitely steep.

Please, Lord, be the God of care and receive her prayers for light and blessings.

Mull

One season, we led a women's ministry small group together. We decided to drop all pretenses, cutesy skits, dramatic readings (all of which I admit), as we presented our class to the 150 women before us who were listening to all class options. We might as well have been wearing our black turtlenecks, straight from an existentialist conference. Our study was on questioning God (of course) and hardships. She was reeling from memories of a pastor-father-inflicted-heavy-hand childhood, and I was breaking away from the mold a bit.

We laugh now as we remember our presentation, three years past. It was a wonderful class, although it didn't draw the flocks like my funny skits used to. Now, when I occassionally run into my friend, we chatter like wild birds landing on a safe tree in the fall. We decided to meet regularly, and so I go to her house, and we talk about heady things, about psychology, about faith issues.

We've decided to read Carl Jung's "Memories, Dreams, and Recollections." I've read it before, but I'm happy to mull with her because we have much in common. And, Jung, he is an honest reporter of inner experiences, and what's not to appreciate about that? I'm happy; a compatible friend is worth so much.

Eyes and Notes

We communicate with our eyes eventually, and so we stared at one another. Her eyes were an arch, they were a violet-blue, and they made her face still beautiful. She couldn't speak, or smile, but could grip my hand, and talk to me with her eyes. I wonder how the physical qualities of those eyes shaped her past, and the thoughts behind them, and the scenes that became and were. Who loved her eyes the most? To whom would she most like to set those eyes upon?

I'm sure it wasn't the mandolin player from the bluegrass group who just played at her nursing home. But, it's my favorite part of the gig ~~ moving around afterwards, shaking hands, smiling, talking silently or aloud, giving honor to those on the precipice. A pilot from WWII was in attendance, shaky with Alzheimers, yet he visibly brightened when the music started. He had been in three bands himself, said the recreation director to me.

Cody played with us for the first time. He was the most versatile player on the mirimbula, guitar, spoons, shakers, and sticks. My dad says to put a stint next to him musically, "the right kind of music" (i.e. bluegrass), and for the first time, Cody responds affirmatively, "This was fun!" A good day.

If music came with the light-in-the-darkness, then all was indeed very good on the day of creation.

Out of the Jar

Recently I took a short three night course at my church entitled "Do It Yourself Bible Study." (Our church is always about practical application taglines!) The idea is to begin a book (John); read the chapter over three or four times one day; the next day rewrite the passage and observe language clues (repetition, dichotomies, verbs, etc); the next session, write questions regarding the text and search for meaning; and finally, the next day, apply what you've learned to your life (ask the questions: what could this mean given the context? or, perhaps, why am I confused or bothered by what it says? in order to help it impact your life).

Today, I wrote questions about the first 20 or so verses of John 1. I wrote questions until I stopped believing in God's goodness and wondered why he withheld instead of gave. Why didn't he make it so people would recognize him? Why is the darkness more appealing to many? Even his own didn't receive him? Couldn't the heir be more apparent if the stakes were so high? These are "negative" questions, I realize, yet there they were.

I began to swirl and despair. But, I typically love questions. It's interesting that when you open the lid, they fly out like lightening bugs into a dark summer night. You can watch them take flight, you can follow them to a stand of alfalfa, or to peony leaves, or you can recapture them and put them back into your jar for the night, where they die before morning.

My questions led me into a bit of research about mythology. The light/dark motif, the god rescuer ... how is Jesus' entrance different?

I'm following the blinking light, and it's taking an interesting path. Where will it land?

Will It bite?

Saying you're a Christian homeschooling mom seems to signify a certain stance. I'm not so good at posing. For instance, perhaps I shouldn't be so enthusiastic when my son asked me, "Why should we pray for my sister during the tornado? I'm sure if someone is killed, they will have also had people praying for them. Why would God protect her, but not them?" Inwardly I cheered at his logic and smartness. The little tyke is growing up out of pat answers and needs to understand things for himself. I complimented him for his thoughts and then said something about hope and comfort being an important benefit for us and her, regardless of whom the swirling cloud of natural laws chooses to alight upon (and, unfortunately, there were two killed in this storm). And, I gave him my views that God doesn't create badness and that he cares. If Cody wants to question how much he cares due to his not intervening for those two southwest Missouri women, then I see that as natural; it is curious. Questions of faith ~~ ones that involve throwing out a line to see if possible a fish will bite ~~ are encouraged here, despite my responses from my own hard-won beliefs. Hardcore curriculum with all the answers figured out makes me wary. Search, young man, search your way to your own fitting statements of faith in God. Amen and amen.

D'em bones

The evening of bones. We rattled, we shook, we gripped them to make primitive music, instructed by "Dr. Bones" himself, who shook, rattle, clacked himself into a dancing jester, or a dancing tribalist, or a dancing freak. The boys of the jam-session home were bright-eyed, happy, unplugged, entranced. I couldn't get the hang of bone-playing, but the doctor said it takes time. He holds a convention for bone-players once a year. The internet, he said, helps to bring freaks together. A place to belong, I added. You're not alone, said the fiddle father.

I went on a good long walk yesterday with a friend on the trail. The sky was bright, the air crisp, the geese drinking, the favored bench facing the lake. I'm most alive outside. The hubby and I went out again this morning, and we heard the geese wings overhead, above the morning-misted lake. I could lie on my (her) bench for a duration just listening and soaking in what the earth says, what God whispers. Former girl woods-walker, yess'um, ah, life and death quite mingled.

Books I'm reading:

The Spiral Staircase, Karen Armstrong ~~ she adapts to "the world" after leaving the convent; she's one of my favorite writers, intellectually honest, attempts to stare at faith and figure out what it is really.

The Teenage Liberation Handbook: how to quit school and get a real life and education, by Grace Llewellyn; her first chapter advises that organized school destroys essential, innate desire for learning by constant control. She advocates unschooling. I don't understand unschooling that much; however, I think I'd like to add some elements of it to Cody's school day instead of me planning and nagging him. What does he want to learn? How can I accomodate that? Less control, more trust in the learning process. We'll see. I doubt if I'm a total convert, yet she has some good points already.

A Saturday ~~ the boys are at a basketball game. I have empty space! The sky is blue, blue, bright outside my window. I wish I were on the trail again!

Chirp-a-Roar-oo!

I know ... another tribute to a sports tribe, another yelp, another hoot, another chirp. But, I can't help myself .... we're so proud of the Missouri Tiger football team!! Part of my non-blogging activities involved wringing my hands on the couch on game day, or sitting with hubby on the hill (as pictured), or checking polls and stories online at ESPN, or sitting in the stands with my daughter with our old familiar chat n' laugh and cheer. The season was astounding -- we're not used to it here; therefore, giddiness is deserved. We ended the season being # four in the country. Wahoo! Yelp! Hoot! Chirp!

Going forth

We loaded up her treasures: a big male cardboard poster to keep her company at night; bags of fashion; photo albums of various states; her wicker bed frame, dresser, and night stand; her basket of cosmetics; Oatmeal, her small bear from her birth; her needed technology. We piled them into the truck, and she got behind her wheel, and we all pulled out of our cul-de-sac into the next world. She's gone. Her room is vast and spotless now.

I can imagine her apartment, her first day of school tomorrow, her ventures into college-kid budgeting, her disorientation of being in a different town when all she knows is 3.5 hours away. She called tonight, with a practical question, but her voice wavered some, and we talked for a while. She called me! Is this what wise women friends projected about the future? That there's a definite period of mother/daughter reconnection and need?

My husband just walked by and asked about her, sympathizing about her lonely and difficult plight, plopped in the middle of new. He's done so much for her, a godsend stepfather, 16 years ago, one who cares to be involved (unlike her real father), one who follows through and gives even during the difficult times. I love him for his loving and strong character.

But, back to my daughter, she's gone. It's quiet and empty here. However, I'm cheering for her to go forth and conquer. I know she'll make it.

Active Livin'

What I'm doing these days:

1) whizzing around town with little musician boy in tow; drumsticks, piano books, guitar colliding in cacophony in the back of the van;

2) sitting on the parent bleachers, watching Cody bow respectfully, kick like a mad mule, and chop like a banchee; I'll be his taekwondo practice guinea pig at home later;

3) making coffee for the Tuesday men in my kitchen in my bluegrass group; they, even though in their sixties, report that not all men must have Folgers like every farm man I'm related to. Perhaps they even drink something different than Mtn. Dew? Wow, cultural expansion for me!

4) enjoying/tolerating my daughter as she prepares to leave on Friday for school in Springfield; it's strange to think that she'll be a city away. It's strange to think that the piles of clothes, sacks, old dishes in her room will magically go with her. It's hard to think that I will be left only with boys. I will miss her, yet will she mature? Yes, the time is now. I'm glad for her and hopeful in her new start for a new life. It's an answer to prayer that she's at this point. Little bird, needs to fly. And soar;

5) getting together with friends; walking on the trail with one of my favorites; playing music with another; going to dinner and discussion; coffee in the mornings. Although it seems like friendship outing-time has diminished, I always have someone to call and get together with. Grateful! Necessary! I'd be sunk otherwise!

6) plunking on my mandolin;

7) reading, reading, reading; in the last 48 hours, I've read chapters from a Joseph Campbell book, an Amy Tan novel, the Bible (Ezra), Charlotte Mason, John Ortberg, and numerous books on Asperger syndrome;

8) baking, gift giving, spending time with family (laughing and crying some because of it);

9) straightening, cleaning, trying to make my husband happy because of it. I'd rather be plunking, reading, any of the above! However, I like semi-order myself; I'm thinking of putting in a system again for doing it without knowing I'm doing it. Is that possible, Fly-Lady??

10) being grateful for the good things in my life; i.e., the possibility of everything on the list above. I'm alive and kickin' -- and, this is essential, and good.

Abandoned blog

Greetings from the desert. The blog desert, i.e. Mine has turned into one of those blogs where the last date signals a wander, a refusal, a hike over another scape. I've been busy, and I, gasp, have reunited with the scratch on page, my hardback bound, specially-picked-for-beauty, journal which has this irresistable saying on the cover: Go placidly amid the noise and haste, & Remember what peace there may be in silence. How can I refuse those haunting words for a time like this? And to drive in a point, among other quotes, it directs only me, its purchaser five years ago: Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
Therefore, I've grabbed it, forsaken blog-to-world, and sipped my coffee quietly contemplating, contemplating, scratching, scratching. One must think. One must scratch (ah). One must caffeinate. One must escape. A journal welcomes like no other.
But, now, this early morning, I'm back. The boys sleep. I had a dream about a past acquaintance (a word). I remembered a communication. Writing opened up again. A space, a password, a cup of java in my "Etude" oriental china red-floral cup, silence for the tip-tapping of the letters upon the blankness to send out, a longing for more time, more expression, more thought. Is this good enough? One might think of this in relation to the blog. I often do. However, the act itself of writing should be reward enough. I'll let it remain there, with happiness of wording, instead of insecurity with output. Language love upon the eve of a new year. I'll go with it "placidly amid the noise and haste & remember what peace there." Happy New Year from Bo of the Bales!

Anna

I've been thinking much about Doris Lessing's character, Anna, in the Golden Notebook. She pops into my mind when driving my son to lessons, or pumping gas, or sticking my hands in the dishwater. She will likely be immemorial to me, although to like her is to admit her edged turmoil into an acceptable place. She makes me sad, for her, for her seeking, and her denials, and her utter unmet desires which work to undermine, then bolster, her. She waves, heaves, rolls, flips, dives, flies, and nearly, or does, lose her sanity. Lessing does an amazing job of showing the complex divisions that we often are. At least I am. When I get close to women, and they're vulnerable with their true thoughts, I see it within them too. It's difficult. I know I need the Stabilizer, and even within Hands, I often conflictually toss, and need advice and fingers, and outside help. But, Anna was alone, walking outside "the myth" entirely, caught in her time's disillusionment, being brave, yet weakened too. I'll think of her for a while because Lessing (the recent Nobel prize winner) created someone that you believe in.

"One bunch of grapes," repeated my uncle. Smack went the paddle. "One bunch of grapes," said my uncle. Smack went the paddle. Mrs. Coble meant to win, but my Dad reported cheerfully his little brother held strong and had the final say, after the final futile smack. They ran out the schoolhouse door, making the other kids smile and yearn or tskk: those boys!

We were treated to more stories this weekend at the propped up feet of my reclining, grinning father. He's a natural storyteller, but he says he won't write a western this winter like I want him to. He'd rather have the immediate stage and laugh from all of us. This weekend, he told one story twice, which made me look at my mother and comment upon this fact, which becomes a hereditary trademark at around age 90 and the mind is an endless spin cycle. My grandmother lives in the nursing home in such a tight circle of memories, frets, pleasures, fears. She has the staff call, every once in a while, when they can't calm her down, her son, my dad, and she tells him that her niece, really her daughter, is lost, and she can't find her, and she's at a restaurant called "Autumn Oaks", and her car won't start. Dad reassures her that this niece is spending the night with them, and she is relieved, and her mind turns to the next groove (when she saw decorative crepe paper hanging on the walls of the nursing home, she turned and said to the attendant, "Well, why are my bras hanging out here!"). She's lived here for about four turning years.

But, for now, we enjoy Dad's stories, even twice told, because he always manages to say one new kicker, one funny line that has us grinning and dimpling up at his propped up feet and bright eyes.

I've been a bad blogger lately, but I've never agreed that I would tell-all, have I? Perhaps I've promised anyone who reads this now, that I won't tell-all. Perhaps that is the best thing I could do here with this blogger -- to Spare the readers all of my "reports" of daily life. This is my gift to you, bequeathed, held out, withheld...

The Fall has been good. Tiring. With blips of relational excellence. Troubles that clear up with prayer and friendships and home support. Shadows that hang. Yet sun always pierces through. I am grateful.

My dear friend from North Carolina came this week for a visit. We met on Friday morning for our walk/run on the trail of old. I was quite overjoyed to have her as my travelin' companion again that I couldn't talk openly because I was afraid of tears pouring out, needfully, sorrowfully, joyfully, over such a precious gift of her as my good friend. Therefore, I kept it in, only dabbing at my eyes by the lake when the geese lifted off and reminded us of another one of our old weekly times. As usual, we "churched" ; she spoke of her spiritual life in her searching and obedient and joyous way. I truly needed a female spiritual walk / talk again. Grateful for her. Boo hoo, wail, wail, rejoice, rejoice!

We went to lunch with other friends later that day, and at noon, we tailgated before the game with another group. I got to see much of her; we laughed and enjoyed our time before the plane flies in again tomorrow.

And that's my report (along with the excellent Tiger victory 41-10 over Texas Tech today!).

Science doesn't hurt when one reads a book like Dr. Jenner and the Speckled Monster, replete with colorful, yet direct stories of the smallpox scourge and the subsequent discovery of smallpox vaccination. I didn't realize how much history has been shaped by this disease. Nor, confidentially, did I understand some of the inner workings of our immune system (T cells, for instance). I never realized that the milk maids of 16th-17th century verse were immortalized because they were immune to smallpox, and therefore, always had a beautiful unscarred face. I didn't realize Queen Elizabeth had it at age 29, was heavily scarred, and wore heavy makeup and a wig to hide the disease's aftereffects. I didn't realize that germ warfare didn't begin on the Arabian Peninsula (with Hussein, for instance), but, right here, when germ-laden blankets were given to an Indian tribe which was mostly wiped out due to the high mortality rate. Gaining their land was the reason.

Cody didn't realize all those things (and more not mentioned!) before we read Albert Marrin's interesting and educational story about Dr. Jenner and how he discovered what worked as an immunity to smallpox (cowpox) and experimented until he had created the first vaccine.

An intriguing story. An excellent book. I recommend it.

Anticipation

I have the cutest kitty companion curled up on the bed beside me this morning. She's using my Norton anthology as a pillow in order to cram for her final, I guess. If my camera was handy, she, literary genius, would be immortalized and presented like Dryden. However, my husband now works from home some and has taken the upstairs office which means things are far away.

Many days, we're all home, stomping around the house, our whole family together while others have commuted, paid lunch out, hunkered in for long hours at a desk. Cody and I zoom away for lessons at various times. My daughter will maybe go out for a four hour shift at her strenuous (ha!) retail job. My husband will shut the door and talk for a four hour conference call, while he rocks furiously upon his chair. But many times, we're here, living our lives communally, watching our cute kitties, eating meals together. I enjoy it. I love my family.

Today my daughter and I are going out, though, for a few days. We're driving down to the farm which makes my whole senses anticipate that turn at the mailbox, onto the narrow rocky lane, through the gate, into my great-grandfather-former fields where we'll roll down the windows and admit the fullblownforce of tree and soil and flower and water and air smells, sensations, sweetness. Ah; it's my favorite part of the journey, heaven-hone, honeysuckle, here-we-be, happiness. We drive into it, park, greet Bo of the bales, and then, on air, meet my mother and father who always seem to be the same, smiling, always there (yet it slices me with sadness to remember their future). We sink into our chairs and begin to chat and laugh and relax. It's wonderful, well-being, worshipful, away from the world. I love them much.

However, my daughter and I will only stay one night (after all that!) because we're touring a school tomorrow in Springfield for her. I think the time together will be lovely. In some ways, the past, painful years of her high school career seem far away. God works to restore senses, relationship. It's good.

Therefore, I must stop writing about my life and live it.

Until later ......... God bless and keep you in your journeys!

Achilles and me

Perhaps I'm only vulnerable in my heel like Achilles ....
This week, I'm limping around my house, wincing with Achilles tendonitis, a painful muscle strain centered above the heel. Just last week, I was puffed up at the great shape I'm in at my age, running, loving the strength of it all. And, now, the middle-age athlete affliction has struck. Ouch, I think I need to go stretch and swallow a couple of ibuprofen. So much for the glory of the aging athlete. Thanks, Achilles, thanks.

heroic passengers

Last night, we loaded "United 93" into our DVD player, ready for a movie after a long day in the sun. We knew, of course, the subject would be intense; however, I didn't count on the excellency with which they portrayed the unfortunate situation for these passengers, and the air traffic controllers, and eventually the families. The movie is an example of showing, instead of telling, as we entered into the mundane conversations of the passengers as they waited, loaded, settled into their flight upon the plane, as normal travelers would. The drama of the day spoke for itself, and fortunately the director/writers/producers let this play out instead of superimposing sentimental stories on top of it (which there were probably plenty of).

My heart was pounding through most of it. I'm such an objective-thinker anymore of movies, not wanting to be manipulated by music, excessive camera focus, etc., that the rapid heart beats spoke of the genius of the film.

I'm glad that the heroes of this flight were portrayed in such a manner. I immediately went to a posting of the real people and marveled again at how they reacted, and what/whom they saved. We need to be reminded of their stories, keeping them alive, honoring their deaths.

And 9/11, six years later. Interestingly enough, more American soldiers have died in the Iraq War then were civilians killed on that day. I think, somewhere, that is making our greatest enemy very happy.

It's all sad.

ZOU

We covered Faurot field memories as we sat, cheering, or laughing at the "Pinkel's a problem!" guffaws from the ticketholders behind us. We held our arms up to the sun for darkening. We swayed to the Missouri Waltz. We cheered at the numerous touchdowns! and fieldgoals! and shouted ZOU! back to the other side. We laughed at the silly father/husband who became emphatic about something male-concerned. It reminded me of the many, many good times that my daughter and I have shared in the past, laughing, peaceful, celebrating-the-moment-times with which we've been blessed. I'm sure that more will come.

Go Tigers!

steaming Viennese

Today I went to coffee at the university library with an old English professor of mine, a retired 18th century expert, who now sits as a scholar in the stacks, in an office off the Reading Room. We kept running into each other throughout the ten years since I wrote that paper on Evelina, which captured his high mark, and introduced me to intense textual analysis. (I still prize that paper; he was a hard grader. I felt like I was Evelina, as English majors usually have one character that they merge themselves into out of familiarity. She is a character that my proper mother would have approved of.)

Anyway, a friend told me one time that perhaps he had a message for me, since he was one of those people who came out of the folds of the general populace to be in front of me in various places. I agreed that maybe I should go to coffee with him when he asked again (which he did once before). When I ran into him at the library, he greeted me with such glee (and ferocious hug) that I agreed to go downstairs to share a cup together.

So this morning, there we sat, over steaming Viennese coffee, realizing that we didn't have much to say to one another. It was a bit awkward; I tried to ask lots of questions. He has grandkids, and daughters, and a mysterious white four-petal flower in his garden. He asked similar questions. We talked about my master's program, and he offered to help me frame my thesis when the time came. He has twinkling blue eyes and a ready smile.

Then, awkwardness, then time to go. I always wonder about encounters like this. I even prayed for God to show me a purpose as he went to get his lid. What makes two passing people in quick life, stop for a moment to peer, and then continue, passing by one another time and time again at various places, stopping, and then continuing on once more? It's the strangest sensation to me. I feel as if I want to figure it out, but it's larger than myself (or perhaps just arbitrary); it always leaves me with the sense of confusion, though. Perhaps my confusion connects to something that is beyond my present comprehension. But why? Strange.

I was happy to go into the reference section and bury myself in "Columbia Granger's Index to Poetry" and such impersonal books, which only appear when I seek them out.

We'll see. Perhaps the saga will continue, or the saga has been simply played out.

Festival of friends

Last weekend, we had a first annual blues festival in town. My musical friends were abuzz with what would be a good group here or there to see. One had a plan of where to traipse to see whom. Friday night, I met her in the park, and we listened to the group called The Rounders, sound enhanced by the looks of the lead singer (it helps!). Suddenly, another good friend appeared with her daughter, and she bent down to hug my neck and then sat down beside us. Soon another enjoyable woman friend and her daughter found us. Then later, we added another random friend to our circle, and we happily marched/danced/walked around together, laughing, chatting, sharing happy to have been discovered by one another.

I'm not sure of the overall musical quality at this festival. I am simply glad to still be in this town, surrounded by wonderful friends. I don't ever want to be on the brink of leaving again!

Delight

My husband went to Back to School Night at the middle school where Cody attends a few morning classes. The language arts teacher made it plain to him that it was unfair that she didn't have Cody in her class too. The word they're using these days is "delight". As in, Cody is a delight. As in it's a delight not to feel a flogging from the teachers for erratic behavior. As in, I can delight in some calm for a while. As in, God has delightedly been answering volumes of prayer. Delight, what a word!

It's early. The cats have been served. The children lie in bed. I need to crack my big literary research guide book soon. But, one moment to breathe and yawn before it all begins. One moment to think about walking in the footsteps of the One who rose, breathed and exhaled life and love, during the dawn, or noonday, or latenight.

My walk is often replete with pauses where I observe how others are walking. Some walk tightly with lips pursed, carefully outlining their feet into His marks, fearful of looking around. Some walk in circles. Some walk meanderingly, feeding gulls, picking shells, pulling pods from sea oats. Some, I've known, walk liltingly, with a smile, and a regard for those who suffer along the way. Others walk with a spirit and a bravery and a sense of adventure and humor. Still others walk in various combinations.

It's interesting how we all walk once we've made the choice. I find myself, though, hearing some of these walkers bemoan how we don't all do the same strut. I myself become tired of the pursed lip, fearful type, who often look up to scorn or reject. Or, the loud and yelling ones who attack, in the name of God, those who want to walk upon the sands too.

It's often difficult to focus upon His marks in the sand while the winds-of-walks swirl around you. This morning, I rededicate my focus, my loyalty and love, toward the reason, toward His footsteps and ultimately to Him. He knows my walk and willed it. I should trust His design. I will walk with a leap and a skip and a pirouette and a softshoeshuffle in confident jubilant trust, regardless of what others think. I will go toward Him the best that I can, upon the sands, following my Master and Friend, following faithfully. Amen.

ragtime etcetera

My little (tall-ing) middle school student is amazing me this year. Attentive, mature, thoughtful. What's happened over the summer (after a few dips even)? All I can say is that this is the best start of school yet. Over at the public school for three hours, Cody is doing well, being brave, managing the socialfull, sensory-filled, whole teaching delivery. His science teacher e-mailed and said that he's a delight.
And, he's been delightful at home. We've been working from 10:45 to 3:00, and he is skipping / plodding right along. I am delighting in home school this year as it's incredibly fun to be introducing some concepts to him and to see his brain stretch.
Here's yesterday's schedule for those who are interested in what a home school day might look like:

1) middle school: band, academic lab (where he did home school reading on Scott Joplin); science

2) home where I re-teach Science using the Audubon's Weather book. We create a chart and chart the clouds of the day and read about cloud altitude and mechanics of precipitation.

3) math: mean, mode, and average review; multiplication review -- not many problems, I just want to assess that he still remembers how to do it;

4) Find two Scott Joplin resources: a) a soundfile on the web to listen to Maple Leaf Rag and the Entertainer; b) look him up in the real-world Encyclopadia to improve reference skills; read aloud.

5) Continue a page in his Writing Strands work book;

6) Go to white board and put William Penn on the ongoing leadership chart. Would you call him a strong or weak leader? [Strong due to religious convictions that all people were created equal; selfless as he used his land (now Pennsylvania) to set up a colony for other Quakers).

6) Write and define the word of the day "Universal" on a notecard and tape to the inside of the front entry closet door with other words;

7) Have Cody write about his basic rights as a member of this family in his History journal (playing video games is a basic right??). Discuss.

8) Read about Isaac Newton and John Locke in Story of the World. Talk about how the word "universal" applies to human rights. Talk about early beginnings of democracy and constitutional monarch (William and Mary) vs. absolute monarchy (Louis 14th). Relate the idea of "contract" to Cody's journal entry.

9) Visit word door and have Cody make up a sentence with each of the nine words on door.

10) Alphabetize his band music.

11) Practice piano and drums.
school is dismissed!

12) Go to rockband practice from 6-7

13) Read a chapter from his book (or Bible) right before bed

Whew! Collapse! Its been a productive day, now on to the next.

There she is, tossing bread upwards, skittishly, delightedly, upon her favorite beach in Destin, Florida, where her family goes periodically. Like her other childhood photos, she can peer (or glare) into the moments that comprise her life, and she can wonder who she is in relationship to it all. Particularly in relation to that restless body of water behind her which always churns, always cycles, always invites, threatens. From tranquil to tumult within twenty-four hours. She within knows the wave types.

She can wonder particularly in relation to the mother who holds the camera, focusing upon her always, desiring her to be captured in a placid moment of unreasonable, safe joy. Perhaps so she can then be captured in writing under a photo, a yearning pressed out; a frayed hope of points and light, which may be illusory. She doesn't know.

However, inevitably, she will look at the photo which frames her, caught, always beside the sea, always with the forty three year old mother who may one day appear full of love, praying, hoping, behind the camera which records a moment with the seagulls in Destin one August evening in 2007.

Will she see?

Sleds and water balloons, why not? The sleds later became water troughs for the 23 kids who roamed around my yard yesterday, slurping up the cool refreshing liquid into their water guns, wands, later my plastic bowls. It was the beginning (and the end?) of an annual water fight and ice cream party. There were many drenched, dripping smiles and lots of splattery feet. And no whams, bams, thuds, cries, or sirens either, thankfully. Cody's vision of summer fun came true, and even though he made a new girl enemy friend ("She wouldn't stop squirting me, Mom!"), he went to bed sleepy and happy last night. My torn up backyard and raw balloon tying thumb will be just fine (although I do mention them for sympathy). The best thing out of all this is that there will be no more nightly drench-mother-rehearsal-pre-fights. I'm safely dry now and plan to stay that way.

Raised arms, gasping thoughts

Those little faces looking up to the stage, gasping when a related thought hits them hard, throwing up their arm for me to call on them stays with me. The talk this weekend was on fear and trust. And, as I performed the script for three children services, the kids listened and swung their arms high, wanting me to call on them, listen to their specific fear.

My script didn't call for participation at that point in the talk, but they were insistent arm wavers : "I have a fear that someone is going to walk up the stairs and get me and take me away from my mommy and daddy," said a six year old girl. "I have a fear of losing my sister," said another one. "I have a fear of falling off an airplane," a boy said. Waving arms of fear, gasping thoughts of the innocents filled the room. But I had to keep going, continuing on with the sermon, speaking of the issue of trusting God, giving him your fears, making a wise choice to trust Him. Their eyes glazed. Fears are quite specific, it seems. Something they understand early on. God is less detailed, fuzzy, difficult to sense in the same way. Will fear be supplanted by trust one day?

I hope, but why can't God be as tangible as fear to small children? Even now in their innocence, they feel especially vulnerable to terrible things. Waving arms of fright. Please listen, Teacher, and help us all in our anxious world, especially the young children, protecting them in every nation, because of your love, despite the fallen state, despite the horrible conflicts of man, despite a generational curse, despite a harsh environment. Suffer not the little children as you once willed. Please call on the children and comfort their arms and fears through tangible signs, proving yourself the stronger and more attentive force. Amen.

Perspectus

The world revolves for those of us lucky enough to be here.

When I see the collapsed bridge in Minneapolis, I can't help but think of Thornton Wilder's "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" in which he examines the lives of those who were crossing the bridge when it snapped and fell. The novel poses the question of destiny / fate / divine purpose against random occurence. The question used to bother me quite a bit. Now, I tend to believe that random occurence is a causal powerful thing which is hard to avoid in this land of natural laws and motions. Our divine purpose meets its wall. Our divine purpose occurs before meeting the wall. Perhaps God will move the wall, perhaps He won't. Perhaps we'll be on the wrong section of the bridge some time. May we live according to his plan and light until then.

But, life goes on for me. Cody finished his social skills training at the local autism center yesterday. I'm excitedly seeing timers and conversation topics and he and I conversing, with certain rules of conduct, over our reading. I think this will continue the work of the summer.

Music continues. Cody, his learn-by-play piano teacher (not the technical one on Monday's), and I whipped up a rendition of O Susannah to record on Wednesday afternoon. Cody wrote my (very haunted F minor sounding) harmony which I memorized on the mandolin. Linda played her guitar, and Cody manned the piano, having recorded also a drum part. We taped; Cody wasn't happy! We kept doing reworks. We kept laughing. He wants a mic for each instrument next week! I am grateful for Linda and call her Annie Sullivan, a deserving teacherly name for her.

My daughter is driving a friend to the KC airport today which worries me. I told her so, and she hushed me off, and I have no way to take her keys as she lives with her friends. Life goes on there. In a couple of weeks, we're all bound for the beach. I'll look forward then, away from the drive of the day.

Finally, I received my syllabus for my graduate class in English that I'll be taking online. Wow, am I crazy?! Yet, I'm idiotically looking forward to the learning goals and deadlines that this paper represents, now on the outside, soon to be swirled within the language of pedagogy. Do I have you to thank for this, Jennifer (haha)?

Life continues until who knows when or how. May God grant us perspective.

John

It's strange that there he sat in my kitchen chair with glasses, with a gentle air, with a giggle or two when the banjo clucked like a pained chicken. He gripped his guitar during his solos, attacking the new runs, participating in a singular joy of musical expression. He, in fact, was a professional trombonist, but his lungs refused to answer to the mouthpiece after awhile. I never heard him play, but he used to for a local group, going into bars perhaps, perhaps inhaling the smoke of others, never from a habit of his own.

All I knew of him was that he liked jazz, the Em chord, his friend James; he had a sweet wife; he sat unknown in front of me in church for a couple of years; he showed up at the same bluegrass class; then, he made a way into my kitchen on Tuesday afternoons. The cancer was already there, they say. Yet he seemed quite healthy five weeks ago as we played at his family reunion. Three weeks ago, he occupied his normal spot at our practice. Yesterday, he died; the lungs refusing any more breathful musical progressions whatsoever.

The last time, he came over, I tried out a new song learned from a Laurie Lewis c.d. called "When I Get Home"; it's a peppy tune which talks about going to heaven, finally being satisfied, about making music with a million angels, "gonna play me a harp of gold that's just like David's", etc. John heard it and smiled and commented that he really liked it.

I hope heaven is not a myth. I hope it has harps and mimosa-flower-smells and God's crushing love and reunion. I hope John is basking in its music right now, upheld, reunited, regarded as chosen, swaying, tapping, sliding his trombone once more, smiling.

I must trust that John is there. I must be thankful that for awhile, my kitchen reflected a small bit of its grace and light and welcome to him.

Thank you, God, for John's life here on earth.

Rhonda

Unwinding from the sounds at Queen City. Hearing the ring&roll of the fivestring. Hearing the doodle, doodle doo doo of the small one. Hearing the dadadadadda from the soundboard. Hearing the harmonies, clinging to one another and then rolling in the hay and back up again to do the work. A bluegrass festival. Rhonda Vincent took our money at the gate, and then she entertained us on the stage. Wonderful. Smooth. Enviable. Enjoyable. Missouri bluegrass girl making it big now.
My friend and her friend and I sat and swayed and talked, clapped and laughed and made plans for our own groups. It was super. Bluegrass is an amazing art form.

ZZzzzzz.....

Fifty-seven

As my class was leading "Panther Boy" from the alumni banquet stage this weekend, I saw my tall, strong dad in his striped polo and Levi's, at his '57 table, pointing me out to one of his fifty-years-ago sidekicks. His dimples were flashing as customary, eyes a-glinting. My sweet little mother with her natural brown hair by his side. He was indicating, later I learned "the prettiest one up there" said as a funny, but meant pridefully. And, as I see him now, the past, present, and future meld together, making me realize that I was granted that opportune glimpse.

And perhaps now I'll always see him pointing, waving back at me when I did so to egg him on, to aid him in his offspring identification. When he's no longer here, perhaps we'll still be waving, pridefully, gleefully, to signal our enduring, immortal blessed connection.

I'm counting on it.

Eighty-Two

Walking into the airport VFW Hall ushered me into a confrontation with age: faces appeared from all over to the country to reconvene again as alumni celebrating a 25 year high school class reunion. These faces were lined, fuller, interesting, inquisitive.
We stared searching for evaporated years, inquiring, collapsing the time from our joint starting gate to the present. How many children? What are you doing now? Where are you living?
I stared at my best friends from basketball, student council, band, church. Why didn't we stay in touch? I silently ask. Why did I go through a tough spell quite alone? What happened during those years to me? What have you suffered too? What have you celebrated? When will you disappear again? It was wonderful to hug them and remember, yet it made me somewhat tired and melancholy.
We arise in our different plots, set apart now, once blooming and fading together, now in another perennial bed. Rising, blooming, and falling around other forms. It's as it should be, yet the loss hits me somewhat because those friends were the early safe giggling smart loved ones. We tripped and skipped and laughed together as small town youth. We have many solid memories of equal superficiality and depth.
When I saw their faces this weekend, they were the same, but we had traveled far apart, keeping with us the memories, but inevitably replacing each other. I know that's the way the world works, but I'm sentimental and feel loss.
Yet, I have pictures of us in the year 2007 arm-in-arm. Still holding on. Still moving forward. Still planted together by virtue of the gazebo-ed Square, the long maroon building, the choices of our parents and God to plunk us in that soil, that grouping, that cycle. That infamous class of 1982.
It's the strangest thing to think about: those who are granted to be our side compansions. It never ceases to amaze me regarding its purpose.
May my old friends be blessed and safe until we meet again.

Leaning upwards

I should never feel guilty about floating around my flowers here at my lovely home. Yet last night at the Bible study I attend on Thursday, it struck me again how unfair life can be, and I'm glad for the beatitudes, promising good first to those who suffer here.

Many of the women struggle with poverty, addiction, racial, family issues which are foreign to me. When the sweet woman next to me, squirming baby in arms, tried to tell me about her DFS visit in order to find housing for herself with a drug record and an abusive man in her life, I could only listen and offer to pray. Sounds quite mild, although prayer is a rope.

The women just reminded me, though, of what is often distant to me: the trials of rising above circumstances, thick and heavy ones, the suffering. When I choose to draw near to it, and not just go to a more comfortable study in my affluent white church, I am made aware. It's difficult to be aware because pain isn't enjoyable to look at. It reminds me of the comment that Mary Sheehan, the anti-war mother who lost a son said recently that Americans are more interested in who wins American Idol than who is dying over in Iraq.

It's easier to look away and become distracted and indifferent. I came home last night with her baby's smell all over me, after taking turns with him. She's got an uphill to still press against. I pray for her and the other women there and ask for help in not avoiding how I can help. To not look away. To not become buried in my bounty.

The precious name of Jesus gives hope to us all. Amen.

The calico stepmother simply wants to clean that spot she sees on the side of the young'un's head. Yet that always gets her into a wrestle and a thump. It's difficult being a Mom at times, we think in my household.

For those of you who haven't seen this while on the Mansfield shaggy square:), here is my new Bible which I received from my husband for my birthday. We went to the Christian store to preview the purchase, and I stared at the row and row of Bibles trying to make sense of it all. I saw "The Quest", which is my beloved first NIV version, yet it was a bulky hardback with a commercial looking picture on the front. Many Bibles employed the use of a famous evangelical guide (like Henry Blackaby) who commented bountifully upon the Scripture in forms of printed sermons tucked in between books. Quite arrogant, quite idolistic, I thought, no thanks.

I saw Bibles for men, children, teens, firefighters, nurses. Pink Bibles for women with pretty fonts grabbed my eye, yet again the didactic lesson-pointers/testimonies ruined the purity of the truth-language.

There were comparative Bibles, thick study ones with Greek and Hebrew, and parallel versions side by side, footnotes filling half the pages. Marginal boundaries crisscrossed all over, aiding the analytical reader in a pursuit of heady holy hermeneutics. Not a relaxing read for my morning coffee at the kitchen table, or on the deck, or in the coffee shop. Too intricate and dizzying.

Then, I saw her. A sweet, flower-embroideried, brocaded fabric with gold threads, and a leather hold which says: Holy Bible: ESV, English Standard Version, Crossway. Opening her pages, I encountered only the words of Scripture (with a few, few footnotes) for me to meditate on as I encounter them. Perfect!

We brought her home, my feminine window into God's language of wisdom and rescue and love (which isn't alway delicate, by the way), and I'm satisfied. We should be friends for quite some time if all goes well.

Summer graces

Some of my favorite summer flowers grace the front of my house right now: scarlet bee balm (monarda); and a white balloon flower. I drive up, always participating in their glory. The bee balm blooms fairly long too, approximately 2-3 weeks.

















A summer bouquet for my table includes:


coreopsis
bee balm
loose strife
antique roses
corn flower
amaranth
daisy
stoke's aster
tea rose









The back view of the arrangement; here you can see the Stoke's astor (blue); the daisy and a tea rose.

More Grace

I just joined another online support group for parenting an autistic child. This past week has necessitated it (it's better than beer and book in the long term:) per yesterday's post). And, it's a decidedly Christian one, making it a requirement to pray for one another. It's called PREACCH, or Parents Rearing and Educating Autistic Children in Christian Homes. When I read my first digest today, these lines encouraged. Looks as if if they're from a hymn.


HE GIVETH MORE GRACE

1. He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater;
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase;
To added affliction, He addeth His mercy;
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

chorus: His love has no limit; His grace has no measure;
His power has no boundary known unto men.
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

2. When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father's full giving is only begun.

Beer and mosquitoes

It's been an evil evening here: two beers and a book about Dracula for me. And, I have mosquito bites on my legs after taking them lovingly out to the deck. The beers had been in my closet for the last five months, leftover from someone's gift at a gathering. I chilled them today for the men who come over on Tuesday's for bluegrass, intending to joke with them and set one in the middle of the table to see who reached for it first (they all go to my church), to see who was in greatest need. However, one of the men was absent and so I thought I'd save them for next Tuesday. But, the beers remained chilled, and when I popped one open, took the first swig, I exclaimed, "Ah!" And, then I thought how if I weren't a pious Christian mother that I would be swigging the wonderful amber elixir more often and out in society and laughing in a carefree manner. Perhaps I'd be in Germany over a stein. Perhaps down at the local brewery. But, oh my, it tasted good with my spaghetti and homemade bread. Before I knew it, the second top had been removed. And there I was at my table first, and then moving to the deck, lighting some candles, taking my bookclub novel called "The Historian" (unfortunately about Dracula. But, with beer, I don't care nearly as much). I've waved my husband off from talking and ordered him to play with the son and tuck him in. Now, I think I'll make the evil evening more complete and find a place against the pillows in my room and hunker in for the total-experience.

Yes, such an evil, unforeseen evening, which I am grateful to swig.

:)

Butterfly weed

Language, words, dissection, redirection, reassembly.

My life as a parent of an autism spectrum child brims with re-words, redefining, re-clarification. Re-wind. I just took my son and a friend to a laser energy/light class, plunking him into a confusing nominative-classification driven discipline. He wishes that the teacher spoke English.

That's understandable. It's a jargon for sure. I felt the same way at times, being a right-brain learner.

Yet all the way over there, Cody perseverated on a gaming issue of his, a desire for hacking, which needed a motherly ethical overview, an empathy insight, a golden rule. It's exhausting, and challenging, to help him understand other views than his own encased one. Each word, jargon, of a new idea requires slowness, examples, a requested replay back from him for comprehension. And, then, suddenly, once you're satisfied, he'll ask the same question over again. The road towards understanding resumes with the same landscape features. A tangled vine, a patch of meadow, a stand of brilliant orange butterfly weed. Perseveration is the vehicle towards eventual destination, I guess.

This summer, Cody is going to a social skills training class at a local autism clinic. I met two mothers the first night. We had a small debriefing with a staffer and then we visited, shared. I mentioned something about "incessant counseling", and one of them laughed! Ah, it's nice to be understood in this particularly unique mode of motherhood! I would be abundantly wealthy if I charged the going rate!

Onward, backwards, and onwards we go!

Mulberry and friends

It must have been the recent birthday. Perhaps it's Alzheimer's setting in (today, my daughter had to write a check from her account for both our driver license renewals as I forgot my checkbook. A sign of things to come, I told her, get ready, defend your senseless mamma.) But, old things are coming back to me, like the feelings of the sudden death of my young boyfriend, encountered again per last entry.

And just recently Mom reminded me that I liked to climb things as a girl. Ah yes, trees in particular. But instead of climbing them just to conquer them, it was best to go live up in them, for hours at a time. The ultimate was our mulberry wide-branched tree, with an old teapot hung up in the "kitchen". When the cows walked under, oh that was a mighty giggly treat of twig aimin'. There were flowers and fruit and lots of rooms to scoot or climb to in the mulberry. But, mainly, it was nice to hang out in the tree and just think. There was an elm not too far away. A stately walnut with ladder branches. An oak with enchanting seeds. I still remember them well and sitting in their branches, and no one knew where I was. Then I'd hear the yellow ford truck horn honk three times for lunch or supper or town. The dog waiting below and I'd head on up to the house.

But the wind is lovely up high, and you're like a bird almost, and you make squirrels curious, and the tv wasn't blaring so Dad could hear it. And there were no other annoying sounds like the water faucet continually dripping. But the sounds were pretty and relaxing, and I wished to not be human and to be something more like a fairy.

I semi-forgot all of this; but, when I went to Europe two years ago, I kept exclaiming to people how the climbing of things was one of the best part of the tours. Comes back somehow.

I'm going to climb a tree before too long, and if my bones permit, just sit and think. That would be lovely.

Hensley

The fact of the turnoff, behind brushy hilly growth, materialized at the last minute, and I swung the wheel to the left, to the narrow gravel road, up a jot, to the drive, though the open ornate gate. A small rectangular really of a field. Could not have been more than 50 markers. I drove up a faded, grassy, gravelly lane to mine and spotted his face smiling above his sixteen year old shirt selection of a day, of an eternity. Wide white collar above a tan bodice with white sleeves. His hair feathered into style, longish in the back, wide wings. His eyes' sparkle hidden by the glaze, yet known to those who remembered, whom he loved. Including me, a young and everlasting girlfriend.

Old plastic blue dirty flowers were leaning over next to his stone, contrasting with the bright new Memorial Day attire of those next to him. I pushed in my bright yellow irises and saw a future mission. Where were his parents? I think they moved to Ohio. They haven't visited for a while. Am I the only local one left for him and this cold stone? Why is the cedar tree closely planted? What are the roots destroying down below? The practical questions when one suddenly becomes a steward again. And then it hit boldly: the short life, one unlived, the parent's dream cut short, the wreck, the sadness, the unfairness snuffing a bright spark.

My son and I drove on, up curvy Highway 5, where trucks sail away, where tears are blinked. Twenty-six years ago. It still appears to shock.

As I drove quickly through Lebanon, Missouri, enroute home today, I spied a sign which reminded me of the essential. It said,

Jesus is preparing "myspace" in Heaven.

Only in the Bible Belt would all things be perceived in evangelical vibrant possibilities. At Silver Dollar City, a basketball one-man show dimmed the lights to narrate a one-on-one to 21 between Jesus and Satan. There was a resurrection, after Satan won, but Jesus arose to win by two. He slam dunked, of course. The angels roared. A small sermon ensued, and then the lights came up and we were allowed to leave the theater. Transformed? Well, not quite, but sweetened by a dribble of faith syrup.

Perhaps it was to prepare us for the funnel cakes just around the corner. Everywhere, people were eating. I heard a man crunch pork rinds across a wide walkway. A group of cousins slurped some honey sticks. A family ate kettle corn on the green tram to parking lot C. We carried taffy and peanut brittle back to our men. I think I dreamt that night about swirling in a potato and sausage skillet hash, with a man hacking at me with a big wooden knife.

I think I screamed for escape, but, yet year after year, I ended up sizzling once more, jumping in due to some foolish nostalgia, paying the $43 entry fee for such an experience as this.

The cycle needs to end.

Silver Dollar City (aka Steal Your Dollar City) farewell!