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.

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.