Soda Pop

Sitting in the back of our green 56 Chevy, Dad pulls into a Standard Oil gas station, causing the cable stretching in front of the gas pumps to sound off a “ding ding”, announcing our arrival.  I draw my arm in from the open window and pull my sweaty body away from the seat.  While passing the attendant who fills the tank and washes our windows, I can smell the leaded gas luring me to linger long, to fill my lungs with its tantalizing aroma.  Dad warns me of death and so my sister and I follow him into the station.  Immediately we spy an icy chest of bottles.  “May we, Dad?” we ask.   Dad gives each of us a dime and we lift the lid.  

The choices are better than going to a picnic.  Besides the usual colas, the flavors that attract our attention are all fruity: grape, strawberry, orange, and the delicious renegade, root beer.  Mmmm.  Not only do their flavors explode in our mouths, they are excruciatingly cold, sitting in the chest filled with ice and water.   The art of the whole cooling process is not just the immersion in ice; the water melt-off is also a key element.  As the ice slowly melts it surrounds the sodas and keeps the temperature frigid and delightful.  Reaching in, my hand is transported from Iowa to Alaska.  I smile. 

The bottles are upright, hanging on a slit which causes them to dangle in the cold solution below.  After making my selection, I slide the bottle down the line toward the end of the row where the opening enlarges.  Lifting it up and out I find the bottle opener cavity in the side of the chest, pushing down on my bottle to release the cap. Vapor rises from inside, cold frosty air, appearing like a genie.  This is going to be good . . . and it is.  

This mid-century gas station does NOT contain glass-doored refrigerated cabinets holding cans and plastic bottles of internationally distributed sodas.  No, these sodas are made and distributed regionally, for the most part.  There are hundreds of companies, some giving their local brew corny names like Kickapoo Joy Juice, Yoo Hoo, Jic Jac and Nehi. The Kickapoo didn’t last long.  I hear it was because it contained alcohol.  Of course, the kids loved it.

The old-time sodas of the first half of the 20th century were several steps up from what we drink today.  It might be compared to the difference between a gourmet hamburger and one from McDonald's, or the difference between a glass of Welch’s 100% Grape Juice and mere grape Kool-Aid.   That’s the contrast.  Back then, many of the fruity sodas contained juice.  I worked with a girl who’s grandfather had owned the Orange Crush company.  She told me the soda did indeed contain orange juice in earlier years.  

Somewhere in the 70s or 80s soda companies switched from sugar syrup and a generous squirt of juice to high fructose corn syrup and artificial flavorings.  When they did that, the carbonated fruity kick was lost.  Gone was the intoxicating, addictive nectar which was so hard to stop guzzling.  To let that sweetness slide past my happy taste buds, down the throat was difficult to stop.  

Resting the bottle on my knee, a smile comes across my face.  This is my childhood and this is heaven.

Wet Eyes at Hallmark

Today it changed.  Finding the perfect Mother's Day card for my mother changed.  In fact, I got choked up a bit as I scanned the cards at my local store.  Mother's Day is in about a week so I decided it was time to get something in the mail.  Should I choose serious or funny?  I gravitate toward funny but today "funny" didn't work - not for my mother, and not for this year.

You see my mother has reached a place where the humorous cards hit too close to home.  I saw several that joked about their mother some day reaching the point where she would need them to diaper her instead of her diapering them.  Hmmm. Can't send that one as Mom now needs help with this sort of thing.  It would be cruel to make light of something so sensitive and probably humiliating to her.

Another card jokes about their mother reaching the stage of senility where she won't remember their name or some other important fact.  Nope.  Can't go there either.

Then deep in my heart I felt a sad ache.  We have now arrived at those stages, those aging challenges to the point where joking about it is inappropriate.  My mother is on the downward slope of mortal life. Clearly it is as hard for her as it is for me.  Neither of us like what is happening.  Neither of us want to say goodbye.  Saying goodbye will happen though and each new weakness or challenge is God's way of nudging me to say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done -- nothing huge - just simple acts of love is all that is required.  And loving her today means buying a serious mother's day card telling her I love her and always will.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Sin Is Crouching at the Door

It sticks and clings; 

     It lures and stings.

I hate it and love it;

     I grab it then shove it

Like Gollum’s dear “Precious”

     It’s precious to me.

Oh how I hate it; 

     “please come back to me!”

I’ve shut the door and turned it away, 

     Only to welcome it back the next day.

Who will deliver me from this strong sin?

     Only Christ Jesus can change me within.

And if I persist in ignoring His help,

      If I give in to the sin’s constant yelp

I know He looks softly into my wild eyes,

     And promises freedom in eternity’s skies. 

Canine Spa Treatments

Copper is by my side, upside down, luxuriating under my massaging hands.  His tummy is exposed to the world and I can't resist rubbing his soft furry underbelly.  Canine eyes glaze over as if hypnotized.  A rawhide chew is in his mouth, doing nothing.  It just happened to be there when I started massaging so there it stays, wedged  between his teeth.  Front paws flop over limp.  

Does it get any better than this?

I stop.  Immediately his eyes enlarge and focus - going back to normal.  The rawhide is dropped to the side and up he raises.  "Hmmm, why did you stop?" he seems to say.  "The spa treatment is over already?"

He's still in arm's reach and I can't resist rolling his loose neck skin in my hand.  There is something for me in this.  Maybe it soothes my soul too.  My breathing slows; I am calm.  God surely gave us to each other, two different species of His making, enjoying each other on a couch in the morning.

Conversational Games We Play

I like people who tell it like it is.  If they want to communicate something to you they come right out and say it without taking a detour through a tulip field. I admit there is a personality type that handles this better than some.  Those straight-shooters seem to have been born with the ability to say what they think and deliver it unemotionally, without sinister motives or destroying anyone in the process. Well, most of the time.

To be honest, I am not one of them.  Maybe that’s why I like them. You know, the old “opposites attract” syndrome.  Alas, I am one of those people who drive ME crazy.  At this point I should tell you an anecdotal story of how I have not said what I have said, or is it said what I did not say while saying something else?  You know what I mean. Instead, I will sacrifice making this about me.  Although I do love to talk about myself, this time I will forego being self-absorbed and choose someone else to expose!  See how nice I am?  

Victim, er, Example Number One: my husband.  Just this morning my husband needed information about a new doctor he was going to see and instead of simply asking his name, he asked, “Does he have a name?”  I looked at him.  “No honey, his parents didn’t think he needed one and it’s amazing he has gotten as far as he has in life without a name!”   Are names so private and personal we should be careful who knows what they are?  I am not being sarcastic, well, maybe a little.  But this is quite fascinating to me!

Example Number Two: people give you their opinion by slyly asking questions.  “Do you regret the way you handled your children in that situation?”  Sputter, gasp.  Obviously they think I should regret it!  They didn’t come right out and say it.  Are they being critical deep down inside? I don’t think so.  They want to encourage dialogue on something about which they have an opinion, but are afraid the other person will be offended.  So they don’t say what they want to say.

Sigh.  See my three fingers pointing back at me while pointing at them?

Ninety One

She is a Depression survivor and it shows.  At 91 years of age, her mind is alternately foggy and sunny, cloudy and clear.  Names are hard to remember as well as how people are related.  “Now who are you?” she might ask a grandchild.  Yet in the midst of forgetting these important things, she remembers little things that helped her survive her childhood in the 30s.  Today she needs help with showering, dressing, even going to the bathroom.  But that part of her that served her well her whole life, that part of her that is methodical, organized and frugal, is still alive and well.

Her morning routine is a study in who she is.  Visiting her recently to help my stepfather with her care as he recovered from minor surgery, I observed how her mind works to make life safe, controlled and functional.


“I put these three things on my left side in this order”, she tells me as she sits at her makeup table.  She is referring to a rubber encased 2 inch mirror she uses for applying lipstick, a container of blush, or “rouge”, and a foundation color.  They are placed on a diagonal line starting from the middle of the table going back to the left near the lamp.  To the left of them are placed two hair picks and kleenex.  In the middle is a mirrored tray holding lipsticks and miscellaneous other things.

After applying lipstick she blots her lips then carefully tears off the kissed corner of the kleenex, throwing it away while retaining the rest for her pocket.  “Waste not” is the unspoken commandment she is still obeying.

As she proceeds with her morning ritual, she narrates everything, not so much to inform me but more to inform herself, to keep things clear in her mind as to what she has done and not done.  Behind the tray, propped up against the large table mirror is a 7-inch fold up calendar with a pen attached.  She notices it as she sits there, deciding now is the time to make a mark on the day’s date.  With an unsteady hand she slowly marks an X on the day’s number.  She notes the day of the week and lets it sink in.  “Today is Wednesday, March 27th” she tells me.

Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays are her shower days. Before doing her makeup, on these days she will carefully enter the shower stall.  While I wait outside, having already turned on the water and checked the temperature, she soaps up a wash cloth and begins a verbal narration of her bathing progress.  “I’m washing my right arm.”  I wait.   “Now I’m washing my left arm.”  Having finished that she tells me, “I’m washing my right arm now.”  “Mom, you already washed your right arm” I tell her.  “Oh, that’s right.”  Now I help her wash her back, gently passing over her rounded shoulders that had been my burden bearer as a young child; the shoulders that gently stooped over her pie-crust in the making; and the shoulders that powered the push in kneading her homemade rolls.  How can there be so much memory making contained in the body and shoulders of one woman?

We turn off the water and she backs out of the stall to a waiting towel.  All is done a step at a time, again announcing each movement as if she were demonstrating how to get dressed to a classroom of the uninitiated.

“Now what do I do?” she asks as we leave her bedroom headed to the kitchen. “Which way should i go?”  “This way Mom.” directing her to the right while she constantly looks to the left, down the hall.

“Oh, yes.  That’s right.”

The last time I was inspired to blog, I couldn't get here.  Yes.  This is me through and through - I've become my mother (sorry mom).  Why is it that as I get older I find myself less willing to figure out technology?  Or unable to?

Before I was married I worked as an Administrative Assistant at Iowa Children's and Family Services.  This was in the dark ages.  Being a non-profit meant our equipment was often from the dark ages.  Case in point, we had a switchboard telephone system like Lily Tomlin used.  (I'm huffing on my fingernails at this point because I know how to use one.  Yep.  I'll sign autographs later).  Because everything was so behind the times I actually had the "opportunity" to use some sort of a dinosaur pre-computer to record minutes from meetings.  It was loud and clunky and so not today.  But there was a definite learning curve required to use it and I got to it, without any help, and figured it out.  It was a challenge.

Fast forward.  Christmas, 2012.  Dear hubby surprised me with an ipod touch.  I didn't ask for it.  I'm still not sure what all it can do.  I'm even thrown with it's name.  Is it an ipod or an ipad?  It has been sitting around the house for over a month and I still am looking at it sideways, wondering if the benefits of figuring it out are equal to the chore of learning how to use it.  Guess what I did?  I asked a daughter of a friend to teach me how to use it.  Uh huh.  There's no shame in this!  I've earned the right to let others do the hard work, right?  When I was younger, I did it for the old folks.  Sigh.  (May I insert here that I have a good reason for some of the delay in learning how to use it.  I can't read the small print!!!!  Argh!  The girl who used to thread needles for her mother needs a magnifying glass for her ipod.  I actually have a magnifying glass which I used for a few days before purchasing reading glasses.)

This is fast becoming a diatribe on aging, isn't it?

But technology IS changing so fast none of us can hardly keep up with it.  Each time I am ready for a new cell phone, there is another learning curve.  The last time I was at the phone store I realized simple little cell phones seem to being going the way of the incandescent light bulb.  Now you need a smart phone or other gadgets even higher in "intelligence" than the smart phone.  It's an old joke, but fits here.  Just give me a dumb phone and no one gets hurt.

All this to say I'm here!  I made it back to my blog.  What shall I write?

Surprise!

The season is fast approaching when bell ringers position themselves outside cold store fronts, collecting coins for the needy.  Almost without fail, each year brings word on the evening news that a valuable coin has been donated by an unknown good-hearted person.

I also leave surprise presents sometimes.  They are not given to bell ringers but  I may choose to drop the surprise outside storefronts where they stand, or inside, wherever there is a handy depository, i.e.  trash bin.  My surprise "donation" is NOTHING like gold coins.    Nope.  It's pooh.  Dog pooh to be exact.  You see I have two dogs to walk each day and after they do their business, I pick up the offending product using the bag in which my morning newspaper arrives.  So far so good, right?  There's nothing unusual about this practice.  Ah, but you are not me.

Having two dogs means two leashes and busy hands.  Add in to the equation a bag of pooh and you might understand why sometimes I carefully place the wrapped up product into my coat pocket.  There.  Now I can better control the dogs for the rest of the walk.

Two or three hours later finds me doing errands around town and slowly I start to notice the car stinks, or is it the air outside of the grocery store?  The odor is so faint that it takes awhile for me to put two and two together.  Oh!  I've got pooh in my pocket!  Silly me!

So as I approach a business or the library or the local Caribou, I hunt for a "donation box".  With a bit of guilt easily brushed aside, I rid myself of the obnoxious "cologne" and continue on with my day.

The next time you see a bell-ringer, think of me.

What I Know About Mice

This is what I know about mice:

They travel in a line over pillows.  I know this is true because it happened to my mother when spending the night at her sister’s farmhouse.  Her head must have been a road block on their nightly excursion.  I think she heard them singing the song from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go. . .”

They can be scared to death.  Literally.  I know this also because of my mother. She spotted a mouse in her house, and screamed so loud the mouse fell over dead on the floor.  This saves on purchasing traps and wasting good cheese.

Their tails can fall off if you twirl them around enough times.  My four year old, who owned a pet mouse, forgot to count how many revolutions are required for this to happen, but eventually it does happen.  Warning, there will be a bit of blood to clean up.

I know other things about mice that aren’t so interesting to report because you already know them, but mention them briefly I will.  They leave droppings wherever they go. They live behind the walls in your house. They know how to gently lick peanut butter off of traps without springing them.  They hoard dog food by hiding it in the basement in the boxes of Christmas decorations.  They destroy fabric.  They like to visit in the spring and fall.  No one invites them.  They just show up after having been gone all summer.

So this is pretty much what I know about mice.

Jealousy

Jealousy was common;

  envy tagged along.

It seems these nasty feelings had been with me

  way too long.

Was it because I felt so empty?

  Was it insecurities?

Did my lack of passion and purpose

  feed these feelings deep in me?

Struggling to know direction

  Wanting to have a “call”

I’d look at other’s successes

  I’d criticize them all.

Then I met with Jesus,

  in a place of joy and light

He told me I had purpose

  He told me wrong from right.

The strengths I saw in others

  were give to them by Him

They were given with a purpose

  to bless all of earth’s men

Their strengths are for us all,

  and in this we should be glad.

Whatever someone else does well

  is never ever “bad”.

So now when someone’s talents

  shine for all to see;

I thank my heavenly Father,

  for helping me to see.

As I Look in My Mirror . . . 

I am looking at my face.  In a mirror.   I can see how I’ve aged, complete with puffiness under my eyes and a mottled skin tone that comes with 59 years of life.  I could focus on that.  But instead I look at my eyes.  The eyes.  That is where I live.  In there somewhere.  I am reminded that the outside of my being, my body, although a gift from God, is not really all that I am.

The inside of us is a jewel, a fascinating, complex creation.  You know,  the outside can often betray what is inside.  See that obese woman walking down the street?  Her thighs swish together, she saunters sideways, trying to propel her excess weight forward.  On the outside, she is not really a pretty picture.  But if we give her the time, if we explore what is behind her eyes, we will see someone with complexity, with gifts, with personality.  We just don’t know what’s inside her skin.

Or, we could be looking at a man with cerebral palsy, hardly able to form a sentence without stuttering or slurring his words.  Take note!  He has something to say.  There is a person in there who is articulate and intelligent.

Even the simple folk in our world, those who have been gifted with a mental impairment, they have a wealth of personhood, of personality and temperament waiting for us to discover.

So I look in the mirror and see me, and I see God's mark.  I am made in His image and it is a humbling thing to ponder.

Nothing’s Perfect ‘Til Heaven

Nothing’s perfect until heaven.  For instance, take dogs.  If you’re a dog lover, you’re right with me on this one.  Can there be a more perfect pet than a dog?  Need I list their wonderful qualities such as unconditional love, sloppy exuberance when you walk in the door, following you around the house and protecting your house from bad men at all times of the day and night?  I could seriously go on and on.

My point?  These seemingly perfect companions also eat poop.  If you leave dirty underwear on the floor, it’s like taking them to Baskin Robbins.  You’ve heard the Bible verse about a dog returning to its own vomit?  Yes, it is true.  That they will do!

So dogs serve as a prime example of how nothing’s perfect, not even dogs, until we get to heaven.

This has been a belief of mine that has been slow in coming.  We can tend to want the perfect family reunion, perfect spouse, perfect home and neighborhood, perfect island get-away.  Get over it.  There is no perfection in any of these things.

Does that mean we should expect the worst and be grumpy old men in our walk through life?  Nope.  Let’s hope for the best, let’s make situations the best they can be.  Just remember that we live in a fallen world filled with fallen people, surrounded by imperfection.

The fact that we long for perfection, as CS Lewis would say, hints to us that there will some day be a place of perfection.  Maybe when we get to heaven there will be wonderful dogs who no longer desire stinky things.  I’m convinced there will be family reunions beyond our wildest dreams.  It will all be good and it will all be perfect.

So wait.  Enjoy what we have now with the understanding that it will never be perfect until heaven.

I am so looking forward to it!

Good Bye

There is a house closing going on this morning.  Right now as a matter of fact. A home is being sold.  An old family home.  It is a home that saw the birth of children, the scraped knees, the bountiful meals, the leaving home to fight in wars or marry or join a convent.  It is ordinary in every respect except for one thing.  It carries the memories of a particular family.

There are a few remaining old pine trees in the back yard.  Approximately 80 years ago one was planted for each child.  The walls  heard tell of the youngest child running away from school one day.  He had to make it to the train depot no matter what his teacher or his parents said.  Ignoring Dad's order to stay at school, he arrived in time to say goodbye to his favorite brother.  The brother was leaving for WWII and never came home.

The house probably heard the sobs of that young boy the day he was delivering  newspapers and found out his brother had died.  No one told him.  He read it in the daily paper.  The house witnessed grandkids coming to stay a few days in the 50s and 60s.  It witnessed the failing health of the parents, their passing, and the youngest child's inheritance of the house.


Now it is empty.  Every last item removed, every photograph, every dish, even the electric beer sign over the kitchen sink.  


It was not a perfect family.  What family is?  In fact, it holds dark secrets.  Yet, it also holds laughter and joy and love.  


Everyone has passed away.  Everyone who would want to live there is gone.  The wood and the walls, the basement and stairs will belong to another family.   And our family's time there has come to an end.  


Good bye old house.  Thanks for the memories.

There was a piece of board under the stuffed chair.  It was part of the chair's skeleton and that is where I hid it.  When does darkness enter the heart of a child?  Darkness it was when I hid my sister's treasure.  I don't even remember what her "treasure" was;  I just remember I hid it and then lied about knowing it's whereabouts.  It could have been candy, or money, or a toy.  It's not important what it was; what is important is that I stole it; hid it; and lied.  And at a young age.  

Patsy called on Dad to help her find it so he asked me if I knew where it was.  What choice did I have? I had hidden it, already setting the stage for deception.  One lie was an easy next step.

At some point my guilt got the better of me and I revealed everything.  For that guilt, I am thankful.  Having a dark place in the soul where deception is easy to commit necessitates one's need to feel guilt.
Think about it.  If I felt no guilt for anything, I could be a psychopath - killing others without remorse or sense of wrong.

So, yes Patsy, I stole your treasure.  Here it is.  Spank!  Ouch!  Ah Dad! Yep, I deserved it.

Hello Blog!  Hello any friends out there who remember me at this place!

I have been gone so long I forgot how to get here.  Tis true.  The only reason I am here right now is because I found an old friend's blog via facebook and she follows my blog (or used to).  I wonder if I'll be able to get back here after this posting.  Yes, this is challenging for me.

I have something exciting to share though.  And it might affect my blog.  Here it is:  I have joined a writer's group.  That last sentence should be in CAPS because it is very exciting for me.  Unlike many who like to write, I never had an inner "pull" to attempt being a wordsmith as a child.  In fact, I never had any encouragement to try it until I was an adult.  Could it be that it was something God had hidden in my innermost being that couldn't come out until later in life?

So in this writer's group, I am finding I LOVE to write - about anything.  Well, mostly about memories at this point, but it will evolve to more, surely.  The group is so affirming and encouraging - seeming to love anything I write!  They are being kind, I know, but they feed my soul and so I keep writing.

I have learned I don't have to know what I'm going to write about when I sit down.  The story comes as I apply the words and sentences.  Sometimes I'm surprised by the ending - as if I'm not the author at all. Strange huh?

This is what I've discovered about myself through this experience:  I write short little diddies.  No novels for me, no research.  Just simple story-telling based on real life experiences.  My daughter, who is gifted in writing, will some day write a novel.  If she sits down to do a writing exercise with me, say we both will write about chipmunks, her 10 minutes will be given to setting the stage for a long story.  Mine?  You get the whole package in just a few paragraphs. Beginning, middle and end.  Isn't it cool how different personalities offer variety in things like this?

So, now that I've introduced you to my new passion, check back once in awhile for a short story or thought.  Comments are welcome.

The Wee People

Have you heard of the wee people? The Irish tell of sightings in the woods and crevices of their fair country. It is mystical sounding and delightful to imagine a little person scampering about beneath the flora. Think of The Borrowers. Wouldn't you love it if they were real? Well, I encountered a wee person this week. You think I jest? Would I make this up? (ahem)

I had just hung up from a cell call with sister Patsy, put my phone in my pocket and carried a box to my bedroom closet to store. As I was reaching up in the darkened room, there was the faintest voice coming from down near the floor. Just a squeak of a voice, barely audible to my ears. A wee person, me thinks! (imagine Irish accent here.) Can it be?!! As I look toward the floor, I hear it again! By this time I'm imagining a little person with red frizzy hair and a peasant outfit (just go with this okay?) Heart is palpitating. . . wee person? . . . wee person? Patsy. Huh? Yes, Patsy. She's in my pocket, saying hello? hello? Who's this?

My phone had not locked and had redialed her! Oh, what a disappointment (sorry Patsy)! I had NOT encountered a wee person after all. But they are there, folks. Some where. Keep your eyes out.

Out West

How did the early pioneers survive in Nevada? It's beyond my comprehension. It is a desert, folks! If the electricity went out, in 2010, they all would DIE! No kidding. Just coming back from a visit with Ashley in Utah, we flew in and out of Las Vegas. Yesterday, as we prepared to fly back home, the temperature was 110. How can animals survive, let alone people? It wasn't much cooler in Utah. Although it is the high desert, it still was in the 90's and made hiking in the afternoon prohibitive.

The scenery is awesome. Tall, rugged mountains with peaks, and also a healthy mix of mesas (flat top mountains). This area of the country is supposed to be dinosaur heaven for those who like to dig in the dirt. My family does. You can't or shouldn't remove bones if found, but it's fun to look. All we found was some petrified wood, which is pretty cool.

Patrick and I flew to Utah to visit Ashley for a family weekend at Falcon Ridge Ranch. We saw the little colt which she had the privilege of naming (Inferno). Oh, and we all three got to experience equine therapy. It was so cool! Although I was the only one who was thrilled with it. Ashley was too worried about us getting hurt by a horse to really relax. Each of us were instructed to put orange cones arranged on the ground so that we made an enclosure, big enough for a horse to fit inside. So we each made our space. Mine was right next to the white fence, in a rectangle. Ashley's was in the middle of the corral in a large undefined shape. Patrick chose to make a large triangle, using only 3 cones. Next, we were told to work individually, or as a team, to bring one horse into a space, settle it down, and then step out of the space. The goal was to keep the horse in the space. We could not speak nor re-enter the space. All we could do was stand in front of the horse to keep it in place. We had two horses in the corral with us, so on one occasion we had to keep the other horse out of the space, while keeping the other one in! We were to relate the boundaries we had set up to boundaries in our own life. We were each supposed to decide what boundaries are important to us in our family, and don't want others to cross over. The therapist spoke with us as we completed different steps about our thoughts, etc. It was quite fascinating.

Over the course of the weekend, there were a couple of parent-training meetings which were very very good. Also, we had free time with her. We went to Zion National Park one day, and to St. George another. On the day when we had the most time together to freely do what we wanted, it was Sunday and many things were closed! Grrr. I also looked into us going on an ATV ride out in the desert, but it would have been close to $500! Darn. Someday maybe.

Ashley continues to do well at the ranch. She is hoping to come home for another visit in July.

All for now.

If you had any doubt . . .

If you had any doubt about what life is like in Saudi Arabia, have I got the book for you. It is written by Carmen Bin Laden, ex-sister-in-law of Osama. She met her future husband, one of Osama's 20 plus brothers, in Switzerland, where she grew up. They fell in love, married and lived for awhile in the USA. Little did she know what she was getting into when she said "I do." To be fair, her husband, so far (I'm still in the book), is not like many of his brothers. He seems to go along with the barbaric traditions of his nomadic ancestors, and Muslim faith, in deference to his family. Inside, he is not like them. After schooling in the US, her husband decides they should go to Saudi Arabia to live. Carmen knows little about the Muslim faith, let alone the peculiarities of Saudi Arabian culture. At this point in my reading, she has been there about 3 years and is barely enduring the secluded life of a woman in a country where she is no better than property. She is an intelligent and bold woman and is hoping Saudi Arabia will come into the 20th century instead of remaining in the middle ages. After a few years, things did not get better, but worse. Now she has 2 daughters, not a son which would offer her many benefits and protections should her husband die. With only daughters for children, if her husband dies, she would be under the control of one of her fanatic brothers. She and her daughters could never leave the country without his permission.

Are you interested yet?

Lincoln this, Lincoln that

It's Memorial Day -- and raining. Not to fret. Jeff and I just got back from a fun two days in Springfield, IL. (Did you know there is a Springfield in every state?) We stayed at a bed and breakfast which used to be broken up into apartments. It was built over 100 years ago. I tell you, I felt like I had entered a Humphrey Bogart or Jimmy Stewart movie. There was the woodwork - everywhere. Stairs, winding. A front desk with a small closet where each room's key was on a nail. The amenities were great although i did not partake in all. Each day at 5 pm there is free wine and cheese in a central location. Every evening, after we had been out and returned, there on our door knob was a basket with 4 homemade chocolate chip cookies. Marriott, beat that!

We had a whirlpool bathtub, a remodeled bathroom with a pedestal sink and clean tile, etc. One day, after many people had checked out, I walked on 2nd and 3rd floor and snooped in all the rooms. There were some stunning options.

This was a Lincoln weekend. I'd say there were 3 favorites for me: 1. Lincoln's home; 2. a Frank Lloyd Wright home to tour with original furniture, light fixtures, wallpaper; and 3. (the best) was the new Abraham Lincoln museum. After touring the museum, you feel like you were a fly on the wall and watched him grow up, marry and die. Go see it.

Frankie's home was dark, but the layout and feel of the place was very appealing. It would be a great place to live if only the lighting was better (they had all light fixtures set at 1904 wattage (15) for historical accuracy), and if those darn mission chairs had a curve for the spine. The furniture is great, except the chairs have perfectly vertical backs. Once, when the owner's tried to get rid of the house and the furniture inside, no one wanted the straight-back chairs. This turned out for the benefit of the home - now museum. The chairs did not have to be found and bought back. Go see it too!

Lincoln's home was a two story colonial of sorts. The wallpaper was garish, but in style then. We also toured one of Lincoln's law offices and learned that on occasion, Lincoln came to work after having argued with his wife. His law partner would notice a tear in Lincoln's eye, and disappear for an hour. When he returned, all was well with poor Abe. Did you know his wife was admitted to a mental hospital by her one surviving son? She really was a bit off. Everyone has their own suffering, don't they.

Well, all for now.

An Iris in the Spring

Today is beautiful. Warm. Sunny. Dry. Irises have bloomed in our front yard. They have without doubt the most lovely smell. Next comes Lilacs. Today I walked past a lilac bush which had almost a spicy aroma with the sweetness. Curious. It's amazing to me how God can make such a luscious smell that is not too heavy, or too sweet, like some perfumes can be. People have tried to duplicate God's perfumes and put them in bottles. Have you ever smelled a bottled perfume that smells remotely as fresh, light, intoxicating as an aromatic flower in the sunshine?

We humans can make some wonderful smells - usually associated with food. For example, homemade bread, coffee, bacon, apple pie, Thanksgiving turkey, all produce in us a deep breath with a smile as we enter their vicinity . But even these, with their comforting smells, cannot compare with an iris in the spring.

Traditionally, consistently, without fail, I have had extreme nausea when pregnant. Ask my relatives. It is so bad, even the smell of water can make me up-chuck. One day during my pregnancy with Ashley, God gave me a reprieve. For one day (and this had never happened before), the nausea was gone. One day only. Our neighbors in Red Wing, Minnesota, had a back yard completely filled up with flowers and plants. There was a path through the garden, so I left in-house prison for a walk among irises. Oh, the smell! I believe I got teary eyed, so appreciative of the break I was experiencing. God had given me a gift of flowers with irises. I don't recall if the nausea came back that afternoon, or the next morning, but it did. Just as bad as always. I don't know why. But even today, irises make me think of that day - a present from my Father above. I absolutely LOVE the smell of Irises in the spring.