Christmas Acrostic

C - Christ came to become one of us.
H - Holy time to worship Him
R - Redeemer of sinful humanity
 I  - In the town of Bethlehem
 S - Shepherds, ordinary people, were told first.
 T - Temple Presentation of Jesus on the eight day.
M - Mary, His dear, courageous mother.
 A - Angels proclaimed the good news of great joy.
 S - Savior and Lord

J - Joseph, His loving earthly father.
O- Oh Come Let Us Adore Him!
Y - You can have Christmas Joy; Just say "Yes!"

Peyton

Everyone has heard that it's a good thing kids are born to the young, because they have the energy to keep up with them. There's a cliche in there somewhere, but I can't recall it. See, that's what I'm talking about! We took care of our younger granddaughter a few days this week, and even had her for the night. It seemed every little task or activity was harder than it used to be when we were young and raising her mother.
Check out her beautiful, blue, wild eyes and the dressed-up, also wild-eyed Dakota, the family dog. The night before, Peyton climbed into bed around 8:00, and the next morning was up at 5:45! Every  activity pictured was finished before 8:30 a.m.

Dressing up Dakota

Her own mixture for baked ornaments:
salt, flour, oatmeal, rice krispies, tea.

Breakfast of French toast

She painted and decorated this paper
plate Christmas tree.

Math in the Weekly Reader

I read three library books to her.

She built a fort out of the couch

 .

She read books to herself.

We also watched Tom and Jerry Christmas. Needless to say, Peyton is a human dynamo, and Grandmother is working hard to keep up!  I love it

Turkey Trots

Another Thanksgiving Day has come and gone, and with it came many thoughts of years gone by.
 So many of those memories seemed to focus on The Turkey.  One of my earliest memories of doing the actual cooking of the bird is such a cliche; I left the little baggies of slimy turkey body parts inside the cavities. There was actually no harm done, just a little blow to my self esteem when I pulled the steaming mess out, providing a good laugh to my waiting diners.

Then there was the fatal hour early one Thanksgiving morning when after carefully preparing the turkey by removing the baggies (whew) and stuffing "Tom" with fragrant and hot dressing,  I realized the oven had not come on. I frustrated myself for awhile trying to trick it in to firing up, but ended up brainstorming with my daughter about what to do. We finally came up with a plan to call a friend. The call went something like this; "Hi Marie... Are you cooking a turkey today?... No? May we cook ours in your oven?" She promised to leave the front door unlocked, and we drove two miles, lugged the roasting pan up the walk, and found a locked door. Thankfully the back slider was open and we got the turkey going, saving that Thanksgiving day. Thanks dear friend!

While those memories bring a smile, the last one I'll write about still makes me cringe in disbelief even though I think I've forgiven myself for the debacle. We were joyfully planning a weekend in a Big Bear condo with Don's brother, my beloved sister-in-law, and their kids.  Our own three children were thrilled to get to spend two days with their cousins, and did their own packing.
My only dinner related task was to bring the turkey, while Valerie, a great cook, was preparing all the sides. I will blame my lapse of thinking on the fact that as a teacher, I had to work 'til 3:30 on Wednesday, leaving little time for planning. Long story short, I took a frozen twenty pound turkey up to Big Bear on Thanksgiving morning. It took hours, and hours to defrost, as everyone waited with empty stomachs and hopeful peeks into the kitchen. Finally, at least eight hours later than anyone expected, we got dinner on the table.
They always say turkey helps a person to sleep better, and that night it was true as we went from the dinner table to bed.

Just the shortest blog ever to say "Happy Thanksgiving!"

An Evening at Union Station

This morning, after a reasonable night’s sleep, we’re laughing over the event which I’ll call “An Evening at Union Station.” Since my brain isn’t quite awake yet, this will undoubtedly be a rambling account.

          We took the Amtrak from Oceanside to Los Angeles yesterday in order to spend time at Olvera Street, and later visit the Japanese American Museum in Little Tokyo where we met our son, Dan, for dinner.

           When our day was almost over, Dan accompanied us back to Union Station on the Gold Line, and we settled down to wait  half an hour for our train.  We were enjoying the parade of “the beautiful people” who were arriving at the station for a real runway-type fashion show when an announcement came over the loud speaker, “Those passengers on train 790 to San Diego will have a TWO HOUR delay.” No explanation, just the facts, ma’m.

          Urging Dan to leave as he has a life of his own, we found comfortable chairs and cookies and milk to help our moods, and tried to rest. Ha. The runway fashion show was in full, high-decible swing, complete with a wantabe comedian and pounding music.

          An hour and a half later, the show ended and another show began. The women tottering back to the Gold Line to Hollywood were a sight not to be missed! I’ve never seen so many shoes with five inch heels and three inch soles in so many styles in my life. Just to describe a few: Red velvet, green velvet, orange alligator which encased the woman’s feet like strange, mutant oranges, black patent, pink and clear plastic, and boots to the calves, but at least twelve inches below the hemline of the dress. There were shoes with straps which sort of gave them a torture-instrument look, connected to black soles and of course, five or maybe six inch heels. You get the picture, I think.  Very entertaining but stressful as I kept expecting one of them to fall over..

          THEN, “Passengers on train 790, your train will now leave at 10:15 p.m.”  O.K., we were no longer being entertained, and were slumping in the waiting room seats, when a uniformed guard came up and demanded to see our train tickets! When we asked why, she replied, “We are checking for vagrants and homeless who try to sleep in the station.” I kid you not.  I guess we weren’t looking our best, but come on, this was a real case of adding insult to injury. So we showed our tickets, and decided to walk over to where the line would form. Suddenly, an Amazon leaped out of the Amtrak office and yelled, “Train 790 is loading on track 10!” and almost everyone left in the station sprinted down the tunnel.  I was reminded of Dave’s rugby shirt, “Trample the Weak, Hurdle the Dead.”

          Once we got on the train, a train employee told us it wasn’t number 790, but it would get us to Oceanside. Huh? Turned out he was wrong; it was the right train, we got to our station, and back home, just three hours later than we planned.

Education Total

So many hours of my life have been devoted to children and their education, it would take one of those irritating word problems I used to try to teach, to figure it all out! “If a twenty-two year old woman going sixty miles an hour for the next forty-six years, spent ten months of each year in a classroom of thirty-two students, and every evening and weekend thinking about said classroom…  Add to the total, activities involving three children at home, and hundreds of others in church classes…” You get the idea.  

Having had a break from kids for almost three years now, I’ve decided to jump back into education. “If a seventy-year-old woman going thirty miles an hour…”

Don and I volunteer at our granddaughter’s school, giving weekly assessment tests to each student. Since I’m not the child’s teacher, the pressure isn’t on too high, and it’s so gratifying when the youngster recognizes and can write another letter! The best perk is seeing the cutest little blondie in the whole world in her classroom environment.

On Wednesday nights we travel to our church to Faith Kids Clubs, to experience a different kind of teaching.  Excitement reigns supreme in the church gymnasium as a hundred wound-up kiddos play games and sing. When it seems they cannot get any crazier, it’s time to split up into grade levels, and I go with the fifth grade girls to actually be the teacher of important Bible concepts.  It’s such a privilege to teach God’s Word, and so fun to be with one of my all-time-favorite age levels, that the time whizzes by and the evening is over for another week. 

While having my own classroom of thirty children will never again be in my schedule, this venture back into education fulfills that need. The total?   Incalculable!

Best Laid Plans

For at least three months we’ve been planning a trip to the Nixon Museum with a favorite couple. Today was the day we were supposed to meet them there, but yesterday, Marc called and said there was a tiny problem: Carol had fallen during her usual morning walk and had broken her hip!  Oh my poor, super-active teacher friend, was laid up in the hospital with only two weeks until her classroom must be ready to go. Since we were planning to make the long drive to Yorba Linda anyway, we drove instead to Ontario to visit her after the surgery to put in three pins.

            We found her resting and looking quite lovely, and as still as I’d ever seen her. After discussing how she had somehow tripped on the tiny lip of a driveway in her neighborhood, her prognosis, and how long she would be using a walker (heaven forbid, but necessary), I asked, “How long did you lay on the driveway until you got help?”

She looked sheepish for some reason, and answered, “You’re going to be mad at me… After I found my phone, keys, and walking stick, I…”

            “Yes?” I asked. “That’s when you called 911, right?”

            “Well, I knew I was hurt, but I had a nail appointment to go to, so I hobbled home and asked Marc to take me.”

            “You walked home on a broken hip!!!?? Then you got your nails done, and finally went to the ER?” I was incredulous but not mad. Awed at her strength was more like it. When I had my hip surgery, it was all I could do, during the days just before it, to barely get around!  However, although there was no doubt it didn’t help the break to walk on it,  she was safe and sound, all stitched up, and had even started therapy. She really wants out of the hospital, and I’m sure she’ll make a break, no pun intended, from there as soon as possible. The hardest part now for her is to be calm about not being able to start her own classroom.

          Sometimes, it takes an extraordinary change in our best laid plans to slow us down enough to smell the flowers, appreciate our life, make us contemplate God’s plans for us, or all of the above.

Who’s in Control?

If I know you personally, let me assure you I am not writing about you or your child. All the children and their parents, in my sphere are not the subjects of this blog, and to be fair and honest, most of the children I see are behaving quite nicely.  I guess the kids I know are in this first paragraph!

          However, more and more, I’m seeing behavior of children and reactions from parents which causes me to wonder who truly is in control of their home.

          Here are a few examples of this lack of control issue:  Sitting in our beach chairs yesterday, we observed a dad and his boys. Obviously on their way off the beach, the dad commanded the guys to head for the car.

           “I’m going back in the water,” the littlest kid declared without a backward glance.

           “I said get to the car!” the father roared.

          At that point, the child scampered off to the surf, with his dad hollering, “Well o.k., but don’t get sandy!”  

Whew, unbelievable, because the child was then unsupervised (oh, yeah, the Red Flag warnings were up) as the others went to the car. As many are fond of saying today, “Seriously?”

On another occasion, we were down below the deck of an historic ship named The Californian, which sits in the harbor at San Diego. A dad and his two boys were there as well, surely pretending to sail the oceans, but not in a way expected of people aboard an antique and precious souvenir of days gone by. Yes, tourists are allowed to “steer” with the helm above, help turn the anchor chain, and peer into long unused bunks and galley. However, these guys were hopping around within the displays, checking out off limit cupboards and instruments. In this case, the father never said a word of reprimand to his sons!

While subbing in a church school kindergarten, I proceeded to introduce myself and help them with opening calendar activities. A darling little girl opened her mouth and yelled, “You shut up! It’s my turn to talk.” It’s all a blur after that. Although her parent wasn’t physically in the class, no one gets to that point in rudeness by five years old without a little help at home.

This kind of non or poor parenting seems be on the rise, but I do remember having a father on a field trip with our class in Sacramento MANY years ago who himself acted like a child. Rather than being in charge as he was asked, he allowed his group to disobey most rules, to arrive late for their appointment at the train museum by going to the magic shop instead, and by putting itching powder they’d been allowed to buy in a drinking fountain at the airport.

Parents can’t be their child’s buddy all the time, and believe it or not, kids want and need discipline with justice from them. So keep at it and don’t give up the goal of great kids!

Kayaking on the Pacific

            As I prepared for our adventure of kayaking on the ocean by pulling on a wet suit, buckling into a life vest, and snapping on a helmet, I was picturing a calm paddle from shallow water to not-too-deep water, and then around a bay. All this protection, however, especially the helmet, was making me a bit apprehensive and changing my thoughts. What could happen to cause a head injury, and how cold was it really going to be in the ocean depths? I guess falling off the kayak was possible, hence the vest.  I was soon to learn that kayaking on the Pacific Ocean was a bit different than kayaking on a calm, mountain lake, or even a bay, both of which we had done before. 

            Looking somewhat like a scuba diver, I walked with Don and twelve other people and two guides three blocks down to the beach where our guides explained just how we’d get onto our tandem kayak (affectionately known as a “divorce kayak”)  and out into the water.  So glad America’s Funniest Videos doesn’t have a video of that!  Needless to say, it was not a graceful process, but once we were aboard, our guide pushed us into the surf and our voyage truly began.

            Both of us paddled like mad to get over the first wave, out farther into the foaming breakers, up a large swell, and through a wave which crashed over the bow of the kayak. Oh hurray for the wetsuit!  Suddenly I realized two of our traveling companions had fallen off their kayak and were struggling to mount it again. Patting my life vest with affection, I continued to paddle, erratically smacking Don’s paddles with mine. While it was difficult to set up a rhythm, I doubt it would lead to divorce, especially since it was our forty-ninth anniversary.

            Exhilaration swept over me as my attention focused on the facts: We were out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, cormorants were diving in and out of the water as they fished, and I was looking at the most amazing shoreline comprised of cliffs and caves.  On the cliffs, many varieties of birds and a seal sat sunning themselves, and as the waves collided with the rocks at the cave entrances, white water sprayed into the air.  The interior of one of the caves was our original destination, but because of the roughness of the surf, our leader had us stay out. I suppose we might have gotten use out of the helmets had we gone in!

            After paddling out to sit atop a kelp forest, and get a lesson on the uses and advantages of kelp, we headed back toward the beach. Our guides set up a race which we almost won…well, fourth out of ten.. We were also given an opportunity to slip off the kayak into the ocean for a quick swim. So tempting!

            Too quickly, it was time to go one at a time toward the shore and hopefully catch a wave to ride on to the beach without flipping forward. Taking my cue from Don who used to body surf a lot, I waited and then paddled mightily at the right time to catch the wave. We did it!  Sliding onto the shore gave me a sense of accomplishment and yes, joy!  What a great adventure, one I’m sure we’ll repeat.
I need to add that our daughter bought this trip for us and gave it to us as a gift certificate. Not sure we would have been made aware of such fun without it. Thanks Jenifer!

County Fairs

I can close my eyes and “see, hear, smell, and feel” the FAIR. It doesn’t matter which one I’m thinking about; Los Angeles County, San Diego County, Orange County, or the California State Fair at Sacramento. Indelible memories are in my brain of these incredible events.

            Throw out almost any word and I have memories to match!  Animals - Gigantic, muscular Clydesdale horses strutting their stuff, buildings filled with cages of rabbits with spots, floppy ears, tall ears, and various lengths of hair, rows and rows of cows, pigs, goats, and woolly sheep; Flowers – billows of blossoms everywhere, in huge displays of numerous types of orchids, competitions for who grew the loveliest rose or largest sunflower, and gardening ideas sprouting from patios, walls, pools, and flowerbeds.

            The word Talent brings to mind children dancing, groups singing, and handcrafts ranging from smooth, wooden objects to intricately-patterned quilts. A whole day could be spent gazing and marveling at decorated cakes and cookies, canned jams and jellies, and a host of other delicious, homemade goodies. Just the tip of the iceberg!

            Ice…that reminds me of thirst-quenching drinks and all the food, healthy and not so, that can be found at the fair. Deep-fried Trix, Tang, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are the newest items to emerge from boiling oil. Last year we saw avocados, Twinkies, and pickles cooked in grease, along with almost every other fried food one can imagine. Bar-be-que, corn on the cob, cream puffs, chocolate dipped ice cream on a stick, cinnamon rolls, and gingerbread all clamor for first place in my fair food dream.  

            Going back to my word-association exercise, the word Gadget makes me think of the commercial buildings where scores of “absolutely necessary” items are on display and their proponents actively promote the benefits and joys of owning them. Demonstrations of all types can be found in these buildings; how to transform vegetables into slices, cubes, or juice, how to clean jewelry, or how to get spots out of clothes and furniture using cleaning cloths made of the same easy-to-clean new-age-fabric. One time I even bought a beach jacket and a chamois made from the same stuff!

            Last word; Myriad -  Hundreds of impressions; art, architecture, people, music, horse racing, carnival, giant slide, bungie jumping, county displays, trains, rocks, jewelry, P-Nuttles, boats, RVs, school displays, spas. I could write a book, and almost got to when we had a verbal contract and press passes to the L.A. Fair. We spent nine days and nights walking around and interviewing people, but the project unfortunately fell through, but we have lovely memories. And guess what? We’re taking the train to the San Diego Fair next week. Never done that before!

Empty Nests

For several weeks, a dove has spent hours and hours sitting on her nest under the eaves of the carport at our house. Such an obedient little creature she was, following her instincts to keep her eggs warm and safe.  Almost like a pet to me, she got my greetings and “baby-talk” whenever I went outside, and she watched me with her soft, brown eyes.  I was excited for the day of hatching to arrive.  Her mate spent hours sitting with her as well, and to tell you the truth, I never saw the nest empty until last week, the day after we got home from our trip to Texas.  Once in a while this week I’d see her under the eaves, but most of the time, she was gone.

            I listened carefully for any peeping sounds of hungry babies, but heard nothing. Today I climbed up on my stepstool and took a picture of the inside of the nest by stretching up, placing the camera over the nest, and blindly snapping. When I looked at the picture, there were no birds, shells, or feathers in the nest.  All evidence of developing doves had disappeared.  I just don’t think the babies could have grown and flown away without us seeing anything. Very disappointing.

            Oddly enough, the same thing happened in our daughter’s yard this week, but with a darling hummingbird. She, too, sat on her tiny nest, only to disappear as well, leaving an empty nest when there should have been tiny, new birds.

            I can draw no conclusions or lessons from this experience except that this “empty nest” happens with humans as well, often taking us by surprise because we don’t expect it and have a tough time accepting the disappointment that lingers.

Mother’s Day

This morning I talked to an older woman whose answer to “What are you doing on Mother’s Day?” was so selfless. She responded that since there are several days coming up like Memorial Day, Fourth of July, picnics, and others when she’ll get to see her kids, she tells her two daughters and two daughters-in-law to have their own Mother’s Day with their kids and just send her a card. Refreshing!

My mom, like this woman, never worried about which day we’d celebrate with her, not just on Mother’s Day, but on Thanksgiving and Christmas as well.  It freed us up and actually made me want to spend more time with my mom.

Hopefully, I’m learning that lesson as well. If you want to enjoy your family, and have them enjoy your company, hold them loosely.

Camera Catastrophies

My last blog presented the succession of our family cameras. It occurred to me that not all the cameras we’d owned wound up at the garage sale because their lives had been cut short by accidents, and they’d ended up in a different sort of box.

            My memory doesn’t serve me well enough to create a list of childhood camera catastrophies, but one type of accident happened several times; the tiny clip on the top of my Ansco came unfastened, the back flopped open, and my film was exposed, rendering it useless. So sad when my last $1.00 had been spent on film.

            Several of our camera mishaps have taken place on vacations when every dime counts and repair or buying a new camera stretch the wallet thin. The one which stands out in my mind so clearly was during our trip to Washington D.C. during the Clintons’ first term in the White House. We came upon a photographer who had a life-sized cutout poster of Bill and Hillary, and he was charging a small fee to take a picture of people with the Clintons, using a person’s own camera.  It seemed like a good idea, but when the entrepreneur tried to snap it, the camera became rigid as stone. No way was it going to have the Clintons in its memory stick! It never took another picture and repair was more than a new one.

            The next scene opens in Hawaii where we are already inside a camera shop, hoping the guy can unstick Don’s 35 mm shutter release. After a few irrelevant questions about the camera, the proprietor began to punch at the button with a pen! We didn’t stay to see any more of this guy’s unconventional methods of fixing cameras, rented one for the rest of our stay, and took Don’s camera to Ritz when we got home.

            Two cameras have suffered being dropped. One, in the parking lot of Yellowstone Lodge got a shattered lens, and the other one…I have to tell the story! We were in New York City’s Grand Central Station with a friend who knew about the acoustics in the high-ceilinged building, and the tricks they played on ears. She wanted to take our picture in a corner outside a very famous bar to prove we’d been there, and impulsively grabbed for my camera. In “slow motion” I watched my almost new Sony Digital make a high arch in the air as it slipped from her hand, and land with a terrible sound on the marble floor. Honestly, a crowd gathered to see what would happen next. Nothing did. My little camera was dead, my friend devastated, and I, speechless. Not another vacation broken camera, my mind screamed. On the outside front corner, there was a little dent, and as I was examining it, the camera gave a whirr, came back to life, and served me well for several more years until I gave it to a young friend.

            And finally, this last weekend while on a VACATION to Anza Borrego, my last in a long line of cameras began to shake inside, leaving me with the feeling that I’d better save up for a new Sony because my next favorite activity to writing is taking pictures!

Camera Connections

When we set out to move from our home of thirty plus years in Upland, paring down became a necessity, and two huge garage sales helped to that end. Having lots of space in your home is conducive to saving items, and our cameras, childhood through the new century, were a dust-gathering collection. We placed each one in a box for the sale, reminiscing as we went.  Probably the oldest were a Brownie and an Ansco box camera, battery-less, eight print film eaters, which needed loading by hand.  Carefully hooking one end of the roll of film onto the take-up spool, and holding your breath as you turned the knob and hope it caught so the film could be advanced, the photographer prepared to take a prize-winning shot.. Of course, your subject had to be outside because there was no flash, and if a jiggle occurred, there went the prize.

            Several of the cameras in the carton were 35 mm, the type into which a film canister was loaded and advanced by manually turning a knob.  No more rolls of film accidentally exposed due to butter fingers! Later on, with the addition of a battery, film advanced on its own but needed to be rewound at the end of twenty-four exposures.  Flashbulbs were being added now, in single bulbs which crackled after flashing, and then in the amazing cube which rotated to provide four flashes before ejecting.

            Since the technology of camera design went forward at a faster-than-flashbulb pace, there were a few more different types in the box, including a Polaroid. Oh the joy of being able to see the picture just a few minutes after taking it!  I think that was the beginning of photographers needing instant gratification. Each photo still had to be thought through and carefully considered before pushing the button so as not to waste the precious rolls or film packs. Many important scenes were lost in those few seconds of thought, and unless you were also able to process your film, there was never anything in photography so disheartening than getting back a set of prints which were not what you’d hoped.

            Digital cameras changed all that, and there were none in the box for the garage sale.  The ability to see the scene, captured immediately in the tiny window, changed my way of taking pictures. No longer afraid of wasting film, I snapped with happy abandon and deleted with satisfaction any picture which didn’t suit me. The memory sticks, thumb drives, and computers can store thousands of photos. Several online sites I use not only store my treasures for me, but will turn them into souvenir mugs, books, and magnets. When my parents passed away, there were many albums and scrapbooks left behind for me to go through, and not a one was digital. What fun (tongue in cheek) my kids will have sorting out my memories!  

Housekeeping Help or Why Are my Feet Sticking to the Kitchen Floor?

When I was a young mom, someone (probably my mother) gave me a little paperback about organizing housework. My full-time teaching job, three children, four or five dogs and cats, depending on who brought an animal home, and all those extracurricular Saturday activities like soccer, an educational class now and then, and the occasional road trip planned by Don, kept our home in a constant state of questionable cleanliness. I can remember watching a shaft of sunlight as it illuminated millions of dust particles floating everywhere, and the constant questions: “Mom, where’s my underwear!?” “Have you seen my math book?” and the worst, “Why are my feet sticking to the kitchen floor?” 

That small book with its simple plan to lighten the housekeeping drudgery brought a welcome change to our lives, at least until I lost it, probably along with someone’s math book. By that time, however, I’d pretty much put the plan into action, the kids had become older and more self-sufficient, we quit having litters of kittens, and our oldest was no longer in soccer. Life became a bit more doable. I’d love to have that system again, but perhaps I can remember and write a simple outline. Who knows? It might help someone who’s struggling with dust motes, dust bunnies, or worse.

To start down the road to organizing housework, buy a pack of 3 x 5 cards with seven dividers, and the file box in which to store them.

Put a day of the week on each divider card.  On the top of each of seven 3 x 5 cards, write one large task such as “Change sheets,” or “Clean toilets.”  In the middle of each of the seven cards, write another semi-large task such as “Vacuum living room,” or “Dust furniture.”

Now you have seven cards, each with two tasks to file, one under each day of the week. Fourteen jobs accounted for.

Do the same with another set of seven cards, two tasks to each card, and file those. How many cards filed for each day depends on how much you expect of yourself, and how much there really is to do. I believe the plan also called for every-so-often cards for jobs like cleaning out the pantry or  drawers, dusting blinds, and organizing linens. The most important part of the system was to actually look at the cards and perform the listed tasks.

I do know I was more satisfied with our home when it looked nice and the kids didn’t have to hunt for essentials. If anyone has a copy of “That Book” please let me know!

Manners?

To my great satisfaction, I received a thank you card this week, written in the person’s own distinctive hand.  Short and sweet, grateful, and timely, I couldn’t ask for more.  Giving little gifts has always been one of my favorite activities, and while there truly are no strings attached, an acknowledgement of my offering is like frosting on the cake.

When we receive a present, sometimes even just a card, in the mail, the need to say, “Hey, I got_____, just wanted to let you know it arrived, and that was so nice of you,” floats at the front of my brain until I sit down and write a note. These days, it isn’t always a handwritten, mailed-at-the-USPS note because email is so much faster, but it does go out.  That way, the sender doesn’t have to ask if ________ got there. Just manners I guess, which we hopefully learned from our parents. One of my earliest memories is of a crayon-written thank you note to my grandmother for “the purfumg” she had given me. Couldn’t spell it, but knew I needed to say “Thank You!” When one of my granddaughters calls to thank us for something, it's perfect... no written note needed!

While I’m at it, I might as well write down my preferred answer to a verbal expression of gratitude. “You’re Welcome!”  Old fashioned I suppose, but much nicer to hear than, “No problem.”

Gone!

We‘re on a little trip, and you know how it is…you choose to indulge yourself in small pleasures usually left alone. Today I had one fun activity in mind which I almost always do for myself: a pedicure.  In California there is a nail salon or two in every strip mall, but even though I found a page and a half of salons in the phone book, when we actually tried to find one, they seemed to be nonexistent. The hotel desk clerk assured me there’d be one in the mall one street over, but lo and behold, it was out of business! Not wanting to take any more time to look, we went to Target (always there) and I bought nail polish. Then…you guessed it! We found a salon which assured, “walk-ins welcome” just around the corner. So I hopped out, went in, and was greeted with  “We’re booked up!"

            This little scenario or one very similar, takes place with us often. If we’re looking for pizza, donuts, Chinese, Mexican, or any other special type of food, all those restaurants or shops are gone, at least in a five mile radius. Seriously, when we left the airport in Arizona in our own car, we had driven into a suburb and decided to get gas. You know, fuel for the car, usually on every other corner. I programmed the GPS to find fuel, and the nearest one to the major highway we were on was 2.7 miles away! I know, as our granddaughter tells us, “This is a first world problem!”

            I’d be interested to know if other people have this trouble, or if it is peculiar to this Clucas couple.

Price Per Gallon

Today Don and I were groaning about the rising cost of gasoline, and we started wondering about the price of other liquids which are important to us. Naturally, coffee was the primary part of our discussion because I’m such an addict. There are basically three ways we get our brewed coffee: I make it in my regular pot, in the Keurig, or we go out for it. Feeling a bit like Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land, we came up with the following figures.

            Home brewed with market coffee at $9.00 a pound yields approximately 32 cups to one pound which equals $4.50 a gallon not counting water and electricity. Keurig packs have 18 cups for $11.00 which comes to approx. $0.61 per cup. Again, not counting water and electricity, it’s $9.75 a gallon. Going out to the local coffee shop costs about $1.50 for 8 oz. which comes to $24.00 a gallon.

            Needless to say, we’d be smart to always make it at home because the cost of drinking the brew at  Peet’s, Coffee Bean, or Better Buzz is  much more than the cost of the gas to get there.

Tricky Traffic

Tricky Traffic

Actually, Treacherous Traffic might be a more apt title, but since we only saw two accidents on our way home from seeing our son in Los Angeles, and weren’t actually involved, I’ll stick with Tricky.

            Since we’ve moved from the Inland Valley in San Bernardino County in 2010, the number of miles we’ve put on our car has increased exponentially. I won’t go into all the reasons we’ve driven back up to our old stomping grounds, but suffice it to say, each trip was necessary as was yesterday’s jaunt to a different destination.

            Our trip yesterday began on the 5, the longest freeway in California. We drove along the coast, out of San Diego County and into Orange County, then driving farther inland, eventually landing in Los Angeles County. Since Don usually does the lion’s share of driving, I have the option to really observe who and what shares the road with us.

            First the drivers: The cell phone enthusiast who may be either driving fifteen miles under the speed limit or twenty over because their ear is directing their brain; The texter who swerves all over the lane as he/she looks up and down, up and down, checking the text on their phone; The quick-and-constant lane changer who seems to think progress is a ”Z” shaped path which doesn’t need any signals, because after all, isn’t there a 5 second rule about that? And finally in this short list of freeway marauders, the guy whose car is his own personal, mobile boom box.  At that volume, I can almost make out the words but the vibration of the car sort of drowns them out.

            In the “what shared the road” category on this trip, there were several interesting vehicles: The shiniest black and silver Rolls Royce with a grill any self-respecting bug would die to end up on; The cutest, perfect VW van with red and white Hawaiian curtains to match its paint;  a completely restored wine-colored ’39 Chevy coupe, way too many yellow school buses for a Saturday, and two identical pickups traveling together, both loaded unbelievably high and wide with what must have been a whole Bekins Van Line cargo.  The terrible wreck we saw involved a semi and a car which had turned over, backing the freeway up for miles and miles.

            Signs I noticed along the way were the speed limit signs, now the same as

our age, the occasional billboard I would change if I could (Plumbing Utilities Supply) and the license plate I cannot figure out (PBVGLDY).

            We were on the road a total of five hours, and got about twenty-five miles per gallon for the ten gallons we bought at $4.35 a gallon., Definitely worth it, but for our sanity, we’re going on the train next time.

Our Flag

As we drove up to a funeral on Saturday, we passed a car which sported a ragged half of a tiny American flag which was flapping mightily in the wind.  It  caused me to wonder about the flippant way our society treats our stars and stripes these days. Flags are left out day and night, rain or shine, and sometimes left to rot at the top of the flagpole to which they are attached, ragged edges deteriorating almost as one watches. I remember the days when the flag was raised each morning and lowered each evening, usually accompanied by some patriotic action. As a Girl Scout, I learned how to carefully fold the flag for storage until the next time it was hoisted to the sky.  Children sometimes knew and could sing all four verses of “The Star Spangled Banner” and “America the Beautiful.”

            I’m so grateful for every business, school, and government building which has the flag prominently displayed, and I trust the colors encourage each American to be thankful for our nation.

            The flag is more than just a symbol of what we hold dear, and an analogy can be drawn: The cloth of the flag will slowly disintegrate when not treated with care. The storms of political disagreement, human greed, and plain civil disrespectfulness will erode and disintegrate the foundations of our great nation. 

            That little half-a-flag I observed on the speeding car will one day be no more unless its owner decides to care for it properly. And the United States of America?  Let’s do what we can in our own circles to restore trust, civility, and honesty, vote our conscience, and ask God for His protection and wisdom.

Music, Music, Music!

The newest technology to enter my scene is an iPod Nano which I received as a Christmas gift. It reminds me of an older gadget made to play cassette tapes which I first saw years ago, hooked to my nephew Tim’s ears, but it is far beyond that in capabilities while perhaps one thirtieth of its size.  Those capabilities have taken the joys of music to a higher level for me.

Some of my happiest moments have been when I’m singing; alone in the car, together with a hundred of my closest friends, or in the church choir. My most exciting experience in singing was with seven other women, The Ensemble, singing somewhat difficult Christmas music.  The best was performing Emmanuel,  acapella. It can be so thrilling when you are helping to make the music!

Through the years, I’ve learned to play four instruments; piano, viola, hand bells, and ukulele, but only the hand bells in performance.  Oh, I take that back. I played the viola in my junior high orchestra recital, during which I was hopelessly lost trying to read the music. No thrill there, just fear. Nothing like playing your assigned hand bell at the wrong time either. Sadly for me, but perhaps for the best, my performing days are over. 

Now my thrills are coming while I listen, in a world of my own, to some of the finest music recorded. My nano allows me to upload (or is it download?) all my own CDs on it, purchase one song at a time, or a whole album from the site, and then pick and choose how I want to listen to all the songs. Tiny ear buds fit comfortably in each ear and block out the world around. I sound like an ad for my little device, but it’s really all new to me, and still exciting to hear parts of the music I’ve never heard because of outside sounds or lack of concentration. The lowest note on an upright bass, tiny tinkle of a bell, and all the tones in between are clear and inspiring. 

One of my dear friends suggested on her Christmas card to listen to the Hallelujah Chorus in surround sound, so I promptly bought a glorious rendition of Handel’s gorgeous music and now have “in my head surround sound.” Electrifying!! Today I will go online and purchase At Last  by Etta James as a memorial to her contribution to this world of music. Imagine, I still have 5 GB of memory left! Oh the possibilities.