Mangled Manger

Today there was an article in our paper about a nativity scene in another town. The life-sized figures not only depicted the traditional, divine event, but several "additional people” were added to put a group’s spin on the setting. The article was about the desecration of the additional people, which had been knocked over and destroyed.

This has been the year of “additional people” in the scene which has always represented the holiest time of year for a lot of people. In many novelty stores, on the web, and on greeting cards, during Christmas, the most diverse of nativities can be found.  Some range from cutsie; the doggie manger scene with real dogs all dressed in Bethlehem costumes including a Yorkie in the hay, to downright obnoxious; huge, hideous aliens from outer space occupying the sacred tableau. Can you picture those other-worldly empty eyes staring up from the crèche?

I love Christmas and all it means to us and feel quite certain that in our home we’ve achieved a balance between Santa and all he means to the children, and the true meaning of the celebration of the birth of Christ with all its representations. I’m not against fun and jolliness and love a play on words of a favorite carol; “Wee fish ewe a mare egrets moose…” complete with pictures. But I wonder why our sweet depictions of Jesus’ birth have to be tainted with political or comedic messages. And just for the record, I also hate it when Santa is shown as evil or a bumbling buffoon.

Doubtful that I’d ever lower myself to attacking and ruining almost anything someone else has created,  I do understand the feeling when the object itself degrades my core beliefs.





Hands



 Two years ago as I hurried around to get ready for company, I slammed the ring finger of my right hand into the wall in the laundry room. I didn’t break it, but several doctor appointments and months of therapy later, I could just barely bend it. Now, three years later, it works quite well, but I’ve never been able to get any of my cherished rings over the knuckle, which has been a source of disappointment for me.

This week I’ve come into contact with three women whose hands have been injured or disfigured. Older skin seems to pop when accidentally smacked on the simplest of surfaces; a counter corner, drawer edge, or doorjamb.  This can leave a nasty gash which can even need stitches. This was the first woman’s injury, and while to some it might seem minor, to her it was very painful and serious.

The second woman I’ve known for awhile, and realized on our first meeting that her fingers were bent and twisted with arthritis.  Even her thumbs bend backward at an awkward and unnatural angle. However, she has a beautiful smile which doesn’t betray the pain she must have on a daily basis.

The third woman was at a party we attended last week. While she was away from the table, her husband alluded to “the painful events of the past year,” and when I commented on that, he explained that an accident had occurred just last summer.  While she was volunteering at a camp by loading logs, one at a time, into some sort of machine to be cut up for firewood, she put the last log of the last day of the season into this machine, and it cut off all four of her fingers on her dominant hand. He then added that she had been a quilter. I almost cried but kept my composure because no one likes to know the conversation was about them while they were gone.

Finally, this morning on the news I saw a young woman whose hand had been crushed and then amputated after a car wreck. The most amazing thing is that doctors have replaced her hand with a donor hand, which she is now using successfully.

Perhaps what I’m learning from these thoughts is to be thankful for my hands. Even though they aren’t pretty anymore and I can’t get a ring over my right hand ring-finger knuckle, they are still indispensable in my daily life.

Psalm 134:2 Lift up your hands in the sanctuary and praise the LORD.

Palm Trees and Poinsettias

I was born in Colorado, the land of pine and columbines. Winter memories there include icicles, snow-laden evergreens, and bone-chilling cold. One December day I even got my tongue stuck to our metal butane tank which sat in the middle of our backyard. There was nothing slightly romantic about needing to shovel the sidewalks and driveway before normal life could continue after a snowstorm.

When we got up yesterday, the temperature was 39 degrees as we drove to Banning to meet some dear friends for breakfast and were treated to a glorious view of the San Jacinto Mountains lightly dusted with snow.  The cold wind tried to separate my hair from my head as we headed into the restaurant.

 In contrast, as we began our leisurely drive home, the outside temperature inched slowly upward as we approached the coast and the Pacific came into view.  I reveled anew in the view of palm trees lining walks or growing solitarily on the beach, and in flowerbeds overflowing with poinsettias for Christmas. This is what has become more familiar to me, and I especially enjoy seeing the trunks and fronds of the palms glowing brightly with colorful lights or twinkling white ones.

 Our county has been called, “The Flower Capital,” at least of the States, and maybe the world. A poinsettia I was given last year has proven that assessment, because it’s the first time, ever, that I’ve planted a Christmas poinsettia and got to watch it grow! It is lush, green with turning-red-tips and seems to say;

 “Merry Christmas!”

I do love my heavenly-smelling evergreen Christmas tree inside our home…that will never change!

Sky Love

I’m a Sunrise/Sunset addict. When I die, my children will find hundreds of pictures saved on CD’s, thumbdrives, and computers of the skies over California, and much of the rest of the U.S.A.. They will groan and utter, “Here’s another sunrise…”

I just can’t help it! The absolute beauty of the sun slowly peaking up from the mountains or ocean just knocks me out every time and I have to run for my trusty little camera, and snap ten or twelve pictures. Many, many times we have sat at the beach as I take frame after frame of the sun sinking below the waves. Each minute seems more breathtaking than the previous one, and before I know it, twenty more pictures are on my memory stick.

The wonder of all this snapping is that I can upload all of the pictures from my memory stick to my computer and then decide which three…maybe four J I NEED to save. Back in the “olden days” when film was our medium, each picture had to be IT because of the expense, and I have albums filled with not-so-perfect pictures of…you guessed it, skies.

Perhaps as I think of this, I need to acknowledge the power of the sky over me at any time of the day, as I also have scores of cloud images; white and fluffy, gray and heavy with rain or snow, high and thin cirrus glowing with ice crystals. I have startlingly blue skies over the Anza Borrego Desert and Grand Canyon, and yes, a huge number of pictures from my own front and backyards.

Of course, I am only one in a millenniums’ old love story with the sky. My favorite Book talks about the skies in so many of its verses. (Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies.) Perhaps this is the root of my obsession with the heavens.

Puzzling Passion

As I watched the faces caught on camera, raw emotions pouring from wide, fearful eyes, it seemed a disaster of epic proportion was eminent. Loud chanting punctuated by insistent drumming and clashing sounds assaulted my ears.  The camera panned away from the screaming crowd and focused on the object of this display of passion.

Two small armies of young men faced briefly before they slammed into each other, all intent on doing great bodily harm. Or so it seemed. Each man’s eyes mirrored the eyes in the crowd as they stared out through bar-like structures which covered young, tender faces. At one point in the confrontation it appeared that a golden head went flying into the air as a brown object spun the opposite way. A blur of tightly-clad blue and yellow men flung themselves to the ground.

Suddenly, the mood changed as one of the men tucked his head and arms inward and began to run madly away from everyone else. The voices increased in pitch as some of the other gladiators threw themselves with abandon at the runner. With supreme effort, the runner escaped his pursuers and fairly flew to the refuge he sought, an area seemingly off limits to those who chased him.

The sound became deafening and the drumming was joined by a  legion of instruments playing a triumphant melody which reverberated around the arena. A great celebration by the brightly-dressed army ensued as all the young men retreated from the field, hugging one another and leaping into the air. As a final act of joy, a large container of liquid was poured over the leader and many once-fearful eyes danced with victory.

Writer's Block

I’ve always heard of this malaise but haven’t experienced it in a huge way until recently. Honestly, I can’t think of anything to write about!  Part of the problem I’m sure, is that I’ve begun to wonder if anything I have to say is important enough to put into print, and if anyone has time to read it. We are constantly going here and there, so I’m assuming everyone is as busy as I am. The stories hitting the internet this week are so touching and in some cases so grim, that writing about mundane life almost seems counterproductive. I guess I could add my two cents to some story coming out of the entertainment world. Talk about counterproductive! Why Lindsay had so much blush on when she was late to the morgue… how much or how little Angela weighs now… is Jennifer really pregnant?  What about Ashton? No, I know he's not pregnant.

Perhaps I could write about manners and where they’ve gone or why a person would throw away a perfectly good latte because of a simple remark by the barrista. Another story.

Truly, most topics are seeming unimportant to me except for how they relate to loving and helping each other, and eternity and what we’re going to do about it. This is not to say I’ll never write about something silly again, but not for awhile.

Quest for Beauty

Looking good is fairly important to me, and as I stood at the mirror pulling this way and that  with my fingertips on the loose skin at my temples, and then at my neck, I was thinking, If only I could really do this…But as far as ever messing with my face with surgery or botox goes, it’ll never happen. First of all, I’m a chicken and couldn’t face (no pun intended) going under a knife to smooth out my skin. Also, there are several women I’ve seen who look as though they opened a catalog and said, “There, that’s the look I want; fat lips, squinty eyes, and cheeks which look stretched to the limit. Never mind the neck, I’m leaving it turkey-wattle-like.”

I will stick with minor, tried-and-true attempts at keeping my face presentable; wash, brush, floss, and moisturize with calendula, Retin A, vitamins and minerals, UVB, UVA, alpha hydroxy acids, kinetin, blah, blah. I’ll keep my eyebrows under control, use light lipstick, and smile a lot.

I decided it WAS time to color my hair, another thing I could do to follow my quest for youth and beauty.  I see women every day who look fine with their hair its natural grey color, but on me it seems to pull what color I have out of my face, through each dull hair, and out into the air. I used to pay an arm and a leg to have my hair colored and highlighted, but now do it myself with fairly good results. (I think!) I do get highlights in between coloring at the roots!

Two more important regimens to follow for beauty are of course diet and sleep. Hmmm, all protein, all vegetable, only carbohydrates, or sea food- eat everything I see? I’d eat chocolate for all three meals every day if I thought I could get away with it! But no! It’s oatmeal for breakfast, broccoli, fish, brown rice, and 1% milk for lunch, and spinach, chicken, and whole wheat bread for dinner. Thinking of the other above mentioned regimen, I think I’ll put this blog to bed and get my beauty sleep. Anyway, my mom always said, “Beauty is as beauty does.”

Online Order Woes

“Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line. All calls will be answered in the order received. We will be with you shortly.”. Then the musak played on and on and on.  After listening to this same recording for seventy-one minutes last Friday, and sixty-six minutes on Monday, I felt my brain had fried. Adding injury to insult (or is it the other way around?) I woke up in the middle of the night with the insane lyrics from the musak going over and over in my memory. I just might sue for pain and suffering!

After the first half hour of this on Friday, I felt my investment was already high. After all, my precious time was being devoted or more like sacrificed to finding out where in the world a very small piece of furniture we had ordered online had disappeared to, and why this huge company seemingly couldn’t hire enough people to man their phone lines. The person who finally did answer had a heavy accent and sounded unable to help. “Do you mind if I connect you to my supervisor?” he asked.  “She will be with you shortly.”  And then, you guessed it, another forty minutes of the above message and musak. By the time the second person came on the line, I almost cried because... she finally came on the line, and because I could understand her! However, while she was helpful in taking off the premium shipping charge, three days later we still had no delivery.

Monday, I bit the bullet and called the number again because I hate paying for something which I don’t receive. So, the same drill, and incredibly the same two tunes. The first person I waited thirty-three minutes on the line for had a heavy accent. He passed me to his superior, and thirty-three more minutes later, I got to talk to a woman I could understand. Again, I felt emotional. She found in checking through the order, that there actually wasn’t an order, and she reordered!!  She assured me that I would be able to check on the delivery progress using a tracking number she gave me.

Unbelievably, this saga is not finished as we got an email today which said our order would be delayed up to twelve days. L When my husband typed in the new tracking number, a message appeared on the screen, “You are not authorized to enter this site.”
So much for ordering anything else online. I think we've learned our lesson.

Ah, Family!

This past week, we flew out of California to have an oh-so-short-but-special visit with our nephew and niece, and their respective families. We had the pleasure of having our oldest son along with us.

In their backyard, we watched as our nephew raised the American, Norwegian, Manx, and 10^th Mountain Division flags on the flagpole, representing family backgrounds.  We climbed down a hundred or so steps to the beach below their property which has been in my nephew’s wife’s family for a hundred years. Our grand nephews will grow up surrounded by family. Their aunt and uncle brought gifts and hugs when they came a bit later.

While with our family, we didn’t go shopping (oh, groceries once), didn’t attend a concert or go to an amusement park. No table games were brought out, and we only watched part of one football game on television.  We went to our grand nephew’s soccer game which he played happily in the light rain, and then were treated to a visit to our nephew’s office in town.

We ate quite a bit and enjoyed a delicious breakfast our nephew cooked, and a scrumptious shrimp, crab, and salmon dinner he and his wife fixed. In town we went to an English restaurant where dishes like cottage pie, fish and chips, and bangers were served.  And, oh the bakery! Can’t forget the Scandinavian goodies we ate.

During all these activities, we talked and listened, listened and talked; recalling the past and rejoicing with each other over our family ties and fond memories.

Next month we’ll spend some wonderful times with my brother and sister-in-law, and my cousin and her husband in Yosemite. Then in November, our youngest son and his little family will come to celebrate Thanksgiving with us, and our daughter and her family. Sometime soon, we’ll make a visit to my husband’s aunt and uncle and hopefully see cousins as well.  And we’ll talk and listen and listen and talk!

My point in all this is that family matters most. Not what’s going on in the political, religious, or entertainment scenes, not who has the best or most education, or whose sports teams are winning and losing. These are all great topics for conversation but never important enough to cause a rift, and above all, not as important as FAMILY.

Moon Love

The full moon is beginning to wane and while I don’t grieve over the diminishment, I look forward wholeheartedly to all the phases leading up to another full, luminous moon.  I am a Moon Lover. Never a worshipper, but so aware of the loveliness the moon gives to our world, that I look for it each and every day, talk about it with people, and know the words to many songs written extolling either the beauty or sway this traveling orb has over lives.

“Shine on, shine on Harvest Moon up in the sky...” just a sentimental song about love? Actually, the Harvest Moon was a topic in the news last night as farmers take advantage of the all-night-night-light to get in their crops. One of my favorite songs says, “The moon and I are much the same; we’re both reflections of a greater light.” A few more moon songs are Moon River, Honey Moon, Moon Over Miami, and Blue Moon.

Scientifically, puzzlement sometimes sets in as I ponder the orbit, the tilt, the makeup of moon rocks, but those sometimes mysterious aspects can’t detract me from the joy the constant light of the moon gives to me. Whether the phase is a tiny sliver of the crescent moon, the quarter, or somewhere in between, I love it!

Judging from the huge amount of information written about our moon, I am not alone in my devotion to earth’s glowing satellite. Literature, the internet, and the Bible are chock full of moon references. Here’s a good one from my favorite book: Psalm 89:37 – “And his throne as the sun before me and as the moon, perfect forever and a faithful witness in heaven.”  I like that, “perfect forever and a faithful witness.”

1.    

 

Unprecedented Power Outage! Lights Out San Diego!

During our years in Upland, we lost power due to the wind a handful of times, usually leaving us in the dark a few hours. Yesterday our power was out for seven hours, a new record for us. All in all, it was a positive learning experience.

One of the reasons we moved here was the milder climate, but the last few days have been in the nineties, so when everything electric sighed into silence, I went over to check on my neighbor. She is a very lively gal in many ways, but needs a walker or her motorized cart to get around. Her air conditioner had gone off so I opened her windows and checked on her flashlight batteries. Although she wears a battery operated device to alert the police if she needs help, since the power was out, it wasn’t working on their end. She promised she’d yell really loud if she needed me. Then I looked in on one other neighbor while Don visited one a few doors up. Moving into a senior community has opened some ways to help others when needed. This was one of those times!

While listening to the car radio and later our portable, we heard updates, possible causes of the outage, and tips for safety after dark. During this time, I tried to call our daughter on my cell phone, but that irritating little message “Searching for reception” kept appearing on the screen. Of course my laptop wouldn’t work either. Disappointing, because in a series of books I’d read once about the end of civilization as we know it, the good guys had kept in touch with email and cell phones.

Since I had already thawed out some meat, and even though it was growing darker in the kitchen, I started dinner. The stove burners were missing that tiny spark to ignite the gas, so my candle lighter came in handy to do that job. Don had just that morning bought some solar lights for our backyard garden, so he brought them in to softly illuminate the corners of the living room and bathrooms. I employed a small flashlight to see what was cooking, and in no time we enjoyed a candlelight dinner. No dishwasher or disposal though, so cleanup reminded me of the olden-days when we washed dishes by hand.  Nice! Really.

As we sat in relative darkness inside our home, we had time to reflect on how long we might be without power. The radio guy was saying to prepare for days. That didn’t bother me too much, and in fact the darkness was growing on me.

We went outside where the moon brightened the landscape, and the stars were more visible than usual without all the city lights. It was so quiet as the traffic was lessening and the airplanes weren’t coming in over us in their regular flight pattern.  In the homes across our ravine, an occasional flashlight or car headlight would show. Not at all a usual night!

All was calm except I still wondered if our kids had gotten home safely. Last report we’d heard about the freeway our daughter takes from work sounded chaotic. Still no phone, so we got in the car like any neurotic parent would do, and drove the mile to check on them at 8:30. Home safe, candles burning brightly in every room, they were tucking in for a cozy night. Happy and satisfied, we drove back to our home and enjoyed two more hours of darkness.

Thoughts about causes intruded now and then since this is the weekend of 9/11, but we had heard the cause was simply employee error. Hard to believe millions of people could be without power because of one person, but at least not terrorism at the hands of a malevolent person.

Then at 10:23, the electricity came back on bringing  with it sighs of relief but also some sadness for the passing of seven uncomplicated hours during which we reconnected with a more simple life.

 

Small Talk vs Small Tools

Today we rode the Sprinter into Oceanside and walked out onto the pier.

The Sprinter is a two to three car light rail train which costs us $2.25 each for a round trip. The cars have huge windows, bright material-covered seats, and a smooth ride from Escondido to the pier area in Oceanside. We got on at the Palomar College Station along with several students. Riding gives us an opportunity to observe the people waiting to board the train, and once we’re seated to get acquainted with anyone who wants to talk. No agenda, just old-fashioned small-talk.

This little activity of observing and meeting people has brought us pleasure for years. Recently however, it has become an uphill battle to interact with anyone except ourselves because of the newest techie toys and tools everyone and their three-year-old has. Eye contact between people has all but disappeared as the point of vision for most people I saw today was their hand-held device, whether cell phone, blackberry, ipad, iphone, ipod, or “iother.” Most had an ear bud with a cord hanging down one side or the other or both. Many were gyrating to unheard (by us) music, and there was the occasional person who was gesticulating and talking to the air. I remember the first person I ever saw doing such a thing was at the Ontario Airport, and after watching him a moment, I decided he was stark raving mad!  Now in the age of the Bluetooth-type earpieces, there is at least a clue. These same good citizens, who are willing to wear the mark of technology on the outside of their head are most probably the ones who would recoil at having to wear a necessary hearing aid!

Even the smaller children have their battery-operated games with them. In any given booth at a restaurant these days you’ll find at least two adults who are either talking to or texting with other people, and a child or two who either:  Stare off into space because they are being totally ignored, play a game alone, or are fighting with each other over whose turn it is to play.

Of course I know how to text and do it often, but usually when I’m alone, and never while driving. Not just because it’s against the law in California, and somehow the message gets garbled when you have to look at the road instead of your text “<rry ,r gpt vpggrr sy Dystnivl]d om sm jpit/,”  but because I personally know someone whose life will never be the same because a driving-texter ran full speed into her at a stop light.

If my cell phone rings when I’m out in public, I try to answer it if I can, but try not to ignore the people I’m with to talk to the caller. No one around me really wants to know how I’m feeling or what kind of surgery Great Aunt Suzie had. (Neither does the caller for that matter!) Anyway, my point is that cell phone talking should be somewhat private.

I’m thinking that the general population will never give up their technology, so Don and I will need to cultivate some different ways to pass the time while traveling. Hey, I  know… we could talk to each other!

My Mom

Anyone who has loved a parent can understand my reminiscing about my mom and forgive me a walk through my memories. And what memories there are!

Several people I know would agree that my mother, Mab Graff Hoover, was the funniest lady they’d ever met. Being funny came naturally to her, and although that wasn’t her only amazing attribute, it’s what I’m going to write about today.

To tell all the hilarious things I remember her saying or doing would truly be a book, so I’ll just relate a few. If you laugh, you’d undoubtedly enjoy one of her twelve books, half of which told of her escapades and mess-ups. Her most famous one was, God Loves My KITCHEN Best, published by Zondervan in 1977 originally, and at least twenty more times in the eighties and nineties. They are now out of print, but might show up on a used book site.

The tales I will give you here are not in any of her books.

First in my high school to have a pair of contact lenses, I was quite the sensation, even with my mom though it was her idea. But I’ll never forget her almost childlike demand: “I want to try them on!!” After a minute or two of trying unsuccessfully to convince her that she wouldn’t like the feeling, but being an obedient daughter, I said, “O.K, look down and open your eyes really big.”  Within a nano second of my inserting the contact into her huge, blue eye, she began to scream, “Get it out! Get it out!” Not nearly as easy to get out as to get in, but I did, and for about an hour she kept her eye closed. I should have been the adult and said “No” that time!

The first time Don came over for dinner after we met, Mother served fried chicken. Hoping for her favorite piece, nervous in front of this new male presence, she didn’t ask for the platter, but instead asked, “May I have the chicken CHEST?” We all dissolved with laughter at her explanation that she “Didn’t want to say the real word in front of Don!”

Fast forward through our wedding, three kids, careers, blah, blah, blah.

On our twenty-fifth anniversary, we had a great party in or backyard, thrown by our three children. At this gathering was a couple we didn’t know well, but because one of their children knew one of our children, they were there. During the party, my mom had gotten acquainted with the husband who was a brilliant engineer. As the party was winding down, “George and Evelyn” (names changed to protect the unsuspecting) were at the front door saying their goodbyes. Suddenly, my mother said, “Well, George, you sure don’t look like an egghead.” Seeing puzzlement ripple around the little circle at the door, Mother quickly added, “Oh I don’t mean because you’re bald!” If our entryway hadn’t been tile, I would have tried to dig a hole to crawl into. Silence was followed by a stiff goodbye.

One Christmas Eve we had a mixed gathering of people at our home; a friend’s mom and brother, our nephew and wife, one or two of our kids, and my mother and Joe, her long-suffering husband. Again in our entry way, a small candle caught some decorations around it on fire. Being the first to notice it, my mom yelled, “FIRE!”

Don asked, “Where”

Mother, hollered  “FIRE!”

Don demanded, “WHERE?

And yet a third time, in a panic, she croaked, “FIRE!”

Thankfully, by this time others found the fire and we put it out.

You had to be there.

Oh, there’s more.

She gaily confessed to a ranger in Sequoia of having left a six-pack of root beer out for the bears.  That snagged them a $25 fine.

Perhaps on the same trip, she hid Travelers’ checks in the center of a paper towel roll in their motorhome, only to throw it out when she used the last towel!

Another day as we were driving from Rancho Cucamonga to San Diego, she took a picture of a long, orange barrier net (the kind commonly seen at construction sites) with the excited comment, “Look at all those California Poppies.”  She had already had her cataract surgery too. I was with her for that…it was the time the doctor had to ask her “to please stop talking” during the surgery!

Last story, when she and Joe bought their plots at Rose Hills, she insisted that they lie down there to see if the spaces were long enough. Sure enough, they are.  Miss her like crazy.

Animal Family Members

Recently we had plans with  some dear friends for a big day together. They drove all the way from their north Los Angeles area to San Diego County for their first “get away” in a few years, and were able to spend one night in a beautiful, upscale hotel at the beach. Then disaster struck in the form of a sick, beloved cat. They got a call informing them that their aging, diabetic kitty was suffering.  

I know the call my friend made to let me know our special day was off was hard for her, but when a furry member of your family needs you, it takes precedence over fun. They had to head home, and unfortunately, ended the week by losing their baby.

One of the most difficult aspects of moving was giving up our two cats and our dear yellow lab. I got a great report about the kitties last week, but Buddy has joined his brother Spooner in pet heaven, which another friend calls,“Papinga Land,” named after her vet. She, too, has had to say goodbye to those furry family members. I imagine most of us have.

The question now is, should the animal be replaced? For me, no. I imagine it will be years, and perhaps never. I avert my eyes if I should ever see free puppies or a pet shop with kittens in the window. We have discovered a new freedom with no hairy carpets and floors, no worries about care and feeding when we want to go away, no vet bills or high cost of medicines and food.

My need for those moments of pet cuteness can be fulfilled by visiting my neighbors’ cats and dogs (there’s even a turtle who lives next door!), watching the dogs in the surf, and tuning into Animal Planet now and then.

Scrabble Babble

I really need to clean my bathroom but I just want to check my Scrabble games. Maybe it’s my turn on one of the six ( Cathy, Bonnie, Shirley, Bobbie, Donna, and Merry)  games I’m playing!

Hang on…I’m almost ready to leave but I have to check the spelling of avocado.

How can Cathy be beating me by a hundred points AGAIN!

I’ve never heard of these Anagrammer words like stourie, but Scrabble

takes them!

Can hardly keep my eyes open, but it’s my turn to play on two of my games.

My library books are almost due and I’ve only read one of them.

How can Bonnie, Shirley, and Bobbie be ahead of me in this game too? Bobbie used to be in my fifth grade class…can’t let her beat me!

Let’s see…my score 102, Donna’s 234…you do the math.

Words have always been my biggest interest in school, much more than math. Reading and writing have always attracted me like magnets, and Scrabble has been my favorite game since junior high. However, I’ve discovered competition isn’t my thing and I’d much rather play just for fun. That you can tell by my scores!  

Baseball and Horse Races

I know this sounds absurd, but recently we’ve gone to both an Angel game and to Del Mar to watch the horse races, and I’ve found they are surprisingly similar!

First of all, there is a lot of running involved; the ball players run around the bases and the people run to make their bets. Oh…the horses run too, usually in an oval, while ball players run in diamonds.

Each participant wears a specific numeral on their back by which their position is tracked.  There can be as few as five horses and as many as twenty in a race, but only nine players on each baseball team. The baseball uniforms are mostly white but can be changed according to location of the game. The horse colors

are always assigned the same numerals: one is red, two is white, three is blue, and so on. The names of horses can be unusual such as “Our Coco Beans” or “Tick Me Off,” while baseball players only sport names like Satchel, Cookie,

Pee Wee, and Duke.

The goal of each activity is to score by crossing over a predetermined spot in the dirt, and both can be very exciting for the observer especially if your choice of mammal has crossed the spot in the dirt first.

Some differences are that the horses want to pass each other, but the ball players must NEVER pass each other while running around. The horses might get hit by a stick to encourage them to run, but in baseball, the stick or bat is only used to hit the ball and must not come into contact with the player.

Money is involved in some way; tickets must be purchased to watch the action, and in horse racing, betting and winning money isn’t a secret.

No matter which sport one attends, the cost of food is outrageous, there are loud, sometimes obnoxious people in the stands, but a day in either park provides a lot of fun!

Fall Down Laughing

Today I fell down again. I’m the clumsiest, most off balance person I know! Now I must say it’s the first time I’ve fallen in a long time because being aware that I do this goes a long way to alert me to where I put my feet. You see, this isn’t something that has started happening because of age. I'm sure it's an inherited trait from my mom.

The first time I remember falling clear down was in college. I fell backward in my chair in the cafeteria in front of everyone at lunch. I won’t tell you who was just one table over and was too uncomfortable to come to my aid. But it was my brother. I didn’t really blame him…just too embarrassing to admit you’ve got such a klutzy sister, and I wasn’t hurt.  Within about a month, I fell again, down the steps in front of the school. The student body president and some of his friends witnessed that wreck, and all I could do was lay there and giggle as my ruined nylons sent one run after the other up my legs. Only my pride was hurt both times.

More seriously, I broke my ankle while roller skating with David when he was only four. Again, I lost my balance, thought I was going to crush my little boy, and forced myself backward, landing on my ankle. Tricky, huh?  We sat in the middle of the rink as a river of laughing kids skated around us. They were laughing because I was laughing! And then there was the time I lay on the garage floor several minutes wondering how badly I was hurt, and when Don was supposed to get home. Lessons that time were never to step on newspapers which were supposed to be soaking up spilled oil, and laughing doesn’t solve the problem. I can attribute my hip replacement to two other times of landing at the bottom of a couple of steps, and strangely enough, my reaction is always laughter! Hysteria perhaps?

Today when I fell, it had nothing to do with where my feet were except that I lost my balance reaching into a container on my closet floor, and by the time I had made a complete 180 my feet were tangled and I sat down hard on another box in the closet, scraping my arm as I went down. Laughing insanely, I managed to fall out of my closet and crawl up on to the bed where I stayed until my self control returned.  No harm done except to my self esteem. What kind of a nut falls over and then laughs about it?

Publishing Pressures

Lilian Jackson Braun was one of my favorite authors with her huge collection of light-hearted mysteries, most involving YumYum and Coco, mystery-solving Siamese cats. She published three best-selling novels, but then dropped from the scene in the 80’s. A New York Times article said, “ Discouraged by the market’s seemingly insatiable demand for sex and violence in mystery novels — her books have little of either — she set the series aside for 18 years. After retiring from The Free Press, she resumed with “The Cat Who Saw Red,” which appeared in 1986.”  

She went on to publish scores of her best-sellers the way she liked to write them.  Bravo!!  I can recommend her books to everyone I know.

At least three other of my favorite mystery authors have over the years become harder and harder for me to read comfortably because they have chosen to survive by introducing more sex and violence into their stories. In July I wrote about the corruption of our language, a problem which is also huge in many novels today. It seems the authors have forgotten how to use real adjectives, verbs, and adverbs in their writing, and just replace them with myriad forms of the f… word. The solutions open to me are 1) skip every third word (oops! Too late, already read the word), 2) choose new authors and hope for the best, or 3) watch more T.V….you’ve got to be kidding!!

Ocean

A few months ago an astounding piece of artwork turned up overnight in a most unlikely place. Under the train bridge on a busy street almost to the coast, a crew of workers posing in city maintenance garb, erected a six by nine foot mosaic of the Virgin of Guadalupe riding on a surfboard. Down the left side in carefully crafted letters it said, “Save Our Ocean.” The artist remained unknown for months as the city council tried to decide what to do about this unauthorized art which became known as The Surfing Madonna.

            Eventually, the artist came forward after the city council decided to take it down, possibly destroying it in the process. They felt it was a type of graffiti and to leave it would set a precedent. Since the artist had installed it, he knew how to get it down, and it is now in storage. Emotions have run rampant over the fate of The Surfing Madonna, endless conversations have been inspired, and we have lost a gorgeous mosaic. There are plans to reinstall it “somewhere.”

            Thankfully, we have not lost the inspiration for the art, as the motto “Save Our Ocean” abounds in the community.  Souvenirs, smaller works of art and photos inspired by the mosaic, postcards, and T-shirts all remind us to care for the Pacific Ocean.

            We feel blessed to be able to get to the edge of the largest body of water on the globe any day we choose, to enjoy the surf as it never disappoints. The constant motion, changing colors, and abundance of life keep us enthralled for hours. We are more clear-headed and focused as the oxygen and negative ions do their wonders. A sense of restored youth and memories of childhood adventures wash over us along with the cold waves. Even small cuts and hangnails heal more quickly in the salty water.

            When the picnic lunch has been eaten (along with a little sand), and the sun begins its descent to the horizon, we think about leaving, but stay until a fiery sunset lights the clouds and sends a glittering beam on the rippling surface of our beloved ocean to the wet sand. Inspired, we head home as the pelicans and gulls do, but look forward to another day of joy along the California coast.

(photo by Deb Capetz)

Coffee Addict

One of my earliest memories is of my mom, dad, brother, and me all sitting in our parents’ bed, reading the comics and drinking coffee. Yes…we were pretty young and drinking coffee. Wow. No wonder I’m an addict.

            As the years went by, one thing remained permanent; coffee; hundreds of cups during college, and surely thousands during my teaching years. When Don and I got married in my senior year at Biola, and we sat in our tiny kitchen after our honeymoon, my new marriage was threatened (not really) by his polite refusal of a cup of coffee! It’s hard to believe, but I cried and said, “My mother always drank coffee with me on Saturday morning!” Oh brother. However, he totally redeemed himself on a short trip in our VW a few months later.. We’d left before sunrise and as we drove over the Grapevine I whined, “I wish I had a cup of coffee.” My new husband reached back behind the seat and brought out a brand-new Thermos full of coffee!

            I actually tried to figure out my intake once, and came up with a shocking twenty-four cups a day. That was a wake-up call and I stopped cold turkey which was stupid because withdrawal was bad with flu-like symptoms, complete with chills and nausea. For several years afterward, I took my trusty Thermos to school, filled with a half leaded and half unleaded brew.

            My love of coffee proved to be dangerous and embarrassing a few times at my elementary school. The biggest mistake was taking a cup back to the classroom with me most days because recess was never long enough, and in the “olden days,” we had to stand duty on the playground during our break. The path to my classroom door had its share of coffee spills, but the real damage was to my desk. Don’t even ask how a whole cup of hot coffee ended up in the drawer! So thankful no child ever suffered from my addiction, not even my own as a distaste for the lovely brown liquid always heralded my three pregnancies and I did without for the first half.

            The brewing process has taken a long and “grinding” road through scores of different makers; aluminum and stainless steel percolators, a press, Mr. Coffee, Melitta, Braun, Krups, a wonderful grind and brew machine, espresso, and most recently, a Keurig. This is the height of lazy but delicious coffee making. Most unorthodox was a sock filled with grounds and prepared with the hottest water ever to flow from a faucet in a Yosemite Lodge room. I just dunked it in the cup in tea bag fashion. Tasty! Of course the sock was clean. Don assured me it wasn’t a new way, but the “cowboy way.” I told you I’m an addict, and they must have been addicts too! Proof of that was coffee in metal cups at the Bar D Ranch in Colorado hot enough to burn your lips off. Speaking of cups, I've amassed at least a hundred different mugs, most which say "Teacher." 

            We learn by example, and both my darling granddaughters like to make and drink “pretend coffee” when they’re at our home. Sometimes they serve on Grandmother’s special coffee table which I made myself from a $10 used end table covered with fifty or so coffee bean labels, displayed under glass. Smart girls. Even their Grandpops has his half a cup a day now!

Litter

Littering

We have two friends who are passionate about cleaning up the litter found along the side of the roads and in other public places. 

            A good friend from Upland walks the length of a long street there, making it his business to pick up the junk other people have so rudely thrown out into the native plants. Now some people might call them “weeds,” but they are lovely in their own way and native to the area. He fills Hefties full of papers, fast food bags, cups, wrappers, and occasionally, larger things like tires, chairs, or used fencing. Kidding about the last three; not that they were on the road, but that our friend picked them up. There was a small couch on the road for a year or so! Seriously though, his efforts do make a difference.

·                                              Another friend has spent hours and hours picking up trash along the coast where he lives. “His” beach has been trashed several times this summer, but he patiently turns the trash cans right side up, picks up the junk, and carts away the trash. He really cares about how California looks! The following is a website he posted recently about youth making a difference in cleaning up litter. pickupamerica.wordpress.com  This is his comment about it:  “They've picked up 118,589 pounds of litter across 1,105.4 miles! Click above to see their story & donate if you want to help in some small way-we did, and it feels right!”

·                                  I’m fairly certain that the people who read this blog are not the piglets who litter our land, but perhaps we all could exert some influence on those who do, especially the children.  

 

Litter

We have two friends who are passionate about cleaning up the litter found along the side of the roads and in other public places. 

            A good friend from Upland walks the length of a long street there, making it his business to pick up the junk other people have so rudely thrown out into the native plants. Now some people might call them “weeds,” but they are lovely in their own way and native to the area. He fills Hefties full of papers, fast food bags, cups, wrappers, and occasionally, larger things like tires, chairs, or used fencing. Kidding about the last three; not that they were on the road, but that our friend picked them up. There was a small couch on the road for a year or so! Seriously though, his efforts do make a difference.

·                                              Another friend has spent hours and hours picking up trash along the coast where he lives. “His” beach has been trashed several times this summer, but he patiently turns the trash cans right side up and refills them. He really cares about how California! The following is a website he posted recently about youth making a difference in cleaning up litter. pickupamerica.wordpress.com  This is his comment about it:  “They've picked up 118,589 pounds of litter across 1,105.4 miles! Click above to see their story & donate if you want to help in some small way-we did, and it feels right!”

·                                  I’m fairly certain that the people who read this blog are not the piglets who litter our land, but perhaps we all could exert some influence on those who do, especially the children.  

Nostalgic Trip to the San Bernardino Mountains

Driving up the grade to Lake Gregory where we were going to spend a few days, I was pleased that each curve and turn looked familiar even though it had been several years since we had come up this way. As we drove, Don and I talked of the many different people with whom we had shared these mountains: Our children, both of our brothers and their families, parents, school and church groups, and several friends. We began our trips up the San Bernardino mountains separately with our parents, Scouts, and different childhood friends.

            Together in our forty-eight years, we have camped in a tent with our kids, even when they were just babies, camped with relatives, stayed in a lovely condo with other relatives, attended church camps at least five times, and enjoyed several different hotels or motels. We’ve hiked, fished, and cooked over an open campfire, gotten lost once, and even attended a concert. I’ll just mention a few outstanding memories:

            Sleeping on the ground, gazing at the incredible stars.

            Walking through Pine Knot Campground with my mom and dog Twinkie.

            Watching Dan, Jenifer, and David playing in the forests and lakes.

            Washing hair in the icy water in the campground with my
            sister-in-law Barbara.

            Fixing Thanksgiving dinner with my other sister-in-law Valerie.

            Kayaking on the lake with Don.

            Taking my sixth grade classes to Camp O-Ongo for a week.

            Learning and worshipping during church retreats.

             

            During this short get-away, we drove up the additional twenty-six miles to Big Bear just to take a look at some of these places from our past. On our way we took a look at one of the camps we had attended, tried to locate a couple of campgrounds, and looked at stores we had patronized and restaurants we’d enjoyed.  The lake was full to the rim of the dam and to the edges of the road which bisects the lake at one point.

            Every season has brought us joy during our stays: Snowfall, sledding, and snowball fights in winter; rivulets of water running here and there watering daffodils and an abundance of wildflowers in the spring; the warm smell of pine forest, more flowers, and blue, blue sky in summer, and crisp nights, turning leaves, and frost in the fall. Of course blue sky, incredible cloud formations, and bird songs are always a part of every season. I trust we’ll be able to enjoy many more seasons in the San Bernardino Mountains.

           

Automation Nation

My grandmother was born in 1888 and died in 1982. She was born before there were a million of the appliances, conveniences, and necessities we now enjoy, and died without ever using a credit card, seeing a computer, a cell phone, or flying in an airplane. It’s almost mind-boggling how much technology has advanced in our nation and around the world in just the last thirty years, and I have no doubt it will keep advancing.

            Today we stopped for coffee at a shop in Riverside. We parked on the street at a parking meter which took coins or a credit card, (never saw that before).  We went in and ordered, and while waiting, I went to the restroom which had a unique lock on the door. Passing a 3”x 4” “Women’s” sign over a small light near the door automatically opened the lock! Throughout my life of using public restrooms, I’ve been given brass keys attached to various objects such as a blue kitchen funnel, a 12” piece of dowel, or a short toilet plunger, but never something electronic. Motel room keys are now plastic cards as well, but they must be inserted into the lock to activate it.

            Once inside the restroom, I had almost nothing to do as the toilet flushed by itself, the soap, water, and towel were on sensors and did their job without me, and as I left, the light went out by itself. Only in the airport in South Dakota did I see more automation, and that was an automatic seat-covering device!

All of this has become so “normal” I have caught myself with my hands under a regular faucet for a few seconds before it dawns on me that I have to turn, push, or pull the handle for water.

            Advancing technology in the restrooms of the nation is a tiny example of the whole progression which IS mind-boggling and a bit scary. I can still remember a cartoon I saw back in the fifties of a human who had a shriveled body from lack of exercise, a gigantic head to encase its ever-developing brain, and a long, muscular index finger for pushing the buttons which launch the systems it needed at the time, whether it was technology or housekeeping. Perhaps I’ll begin exercising my fingers!