Fall Cleaning

   I am so weary - but it's a good weary.

I took a week's vacation from my job, specifically to do my fall housecleaning.

I don't do spring and fall cleaning the way my mother and grandmother and their mothers before them did. I do zone cleaning. I do not tear the whole house apart and live with disarray for a week or so whilst the cobwebs get swept out.

I learned zone cleaning from either Good Housekeeping or Women's Day magazine, back in the 1970s - when my stupid generation was all-about "Women's Lib."

I have always hated Women's Lib. It surely did not liberate me!  I, au contraire, was obviously born in the wrong generation. I love to keep house, raise children, cook scrumptious meals. I love this sort of vacation that I have taken this week: I get to pretend I am a full-time homemaker.

Most years, though, I do my spring and fall cleaning in the evenings, when my husband is at work, (since I work first shift and he works second).

I had an extra week of vacation to use up yet this year, and he cannot get the time off right now; so I set this week aside to bless myself by doing my fall cleaning in the daytime. I am loving every daylight moment of it!

I am so weary! But it is a good weary!

... And having the man home with me these mornings to see what his trophy wife does to keep his home so charming?: Priceless!

I have one more day off. Then the weekend. Then back to the trenches on Monday. Three more birthdays, and I will, Lord willing, be old enough to "retire." Then I can, at last, and forever, be what I have always wanted to be: a full-time "homemaker".  (Sorry, Libbers, but I have always hated you. You didn't liberate me. You made me conform to your definition of meaningful contribution. You are welcome to take my vacant position in the Rat Race when I retire. By the way - the Rats win. Just sayin'.)

This is for you, JD

   When young, impressionable, hopelessly floundering but so danged intelligent

Misfit, yet outstanding among my peers in the eyes of my elders

Wanting to fit, wanting to feel ...

Feeling guilty for my fortune

Unwilling to admit my misfortune

Searching (no: WAITING) for purpose for ME

I wasn't KNOCKED off-course

I didn't WANDER off-course

I jumped

Headlong into anything, anything, that was OTHER

...

Hardly a soul that could look at me knew

So intelligent, articulate, seemed so mature

(God knew)

JD - you will know you are mature and on-track

When you look in the mirror, and see the grown-up version

Of the person that you were when you were wee

And you do not hate that tyke

Or the people who loved him

Inspire Me!

            “I’m just trying to keep him alive, until the Lord can do something with him.”

            That’s what a girlfriend in Christ told me once about one of her nephews, or grandsons, or children.  I don’t remember which.

            Prodigal children – I have been a Christian adult long enough to notice that every family’s got some.

            In the parable told by Christ, the Prodigal comes home.

            I happen to know from experience, that not every Prodigal comes home alive.

 

            Every Christian pastor probably gets the question, multiple times from multiple sources, worded in various ways: “What can I do to keep from losing my children.  And: how can I make sure that GOD doesn’t lose my children?”  (This is worded various ways.  I am speaking more pointedly than most would dare to speak.)

 

            When I was a senior in high school, I took an honors Creative Writing class.  One of my classmates, Joy, was a decent writer.  She and I weren’t friends in high school. Both of us were shy and nerdy, but we didn’t connect on that basis back then, like the nerds in today’s trendy movies do.  We were, at that time, terminally shy and nerdy.

            Forty-plus years have passed, and Joy and I re-connected (actually connected for the first time) on Facebook a few years ago. We’re friends now. 

            Joy’s husband is a pastor.  Joy is a pastor’s wife.  Joy and Bill have had some prodigal children.  I have had some prodigal children.  Joy and I have talked a little about our prodigal children, and a lot about the usual Facebook stuff:  We “like” each other’s photos and witty sayings.  We promise to pray sometimes about this or that.

 

            Joy doesn’t live in our home-state of Michigan any more.  Her parents still live here.  Two years ago, Joy and her husband came up to visit her parents; and Mike and I spent an afternoon with Joy and Bill at the John Ball Zoo, here in our home town.

            Joy’s husband had, at that time, recently self-published a non-fiction book.  He gave us a copy.  I tried to read it through, and so did Michael.  It is on a shelf somewhere.  Sad to say, I do not even remember what it was about ...

 

            Joy and Bill came back to Michigan this week.  I met them for lunch today, and we had a delightful one-hour visit.  Two of their daughters married last summer.  My youngest son is marrying this coming Saturday.

            Bill has self-published another book.  He gave me a copy.

 

            I read his book tonight.  I am reading it through for the second time!  This book needs to be professionally published, and promoted.  It is a very short novel; Bill calls it a parable; it weaves a tale of multiple generations, giving timeless insights and hope for families.  OMG!  It imagines, quite realistically, the rest of the story of the Prodigal Son:  forty years, and two more generations.  You have got to read this book!  It’s an easy read, and will break your heart, then put it back together again.  The story feels like a mirror.  You will see yourself, your friends, your parents, your children, and God in this tale.

 

            Proofreading errors abound.  (Joy, what were you thinking?  I hope Bill didn’t pay for too many copies of the first edition!)  I am marking my copy the second time through with proofreader’s marks, and wishing I actually remembered all the marks that proofreaders use. I worked as a professional proofreader in 1970, but that was a long time ago.

            My cousin, Julie, is an editor for a major Christian publisher.  I am going to do whatever it takes to persuade Julie to read Bill’s book.  Heck, I think I’ll even offer to pay her to read it if need be.

            As soon as I had read the final page tonight, at 9 p.m., I made an impulse phone call to Julie’s cell, but got her voice mail.  I am not particularly eloquent on voice mail.  I simply asked her to call me.

            Then I started re-reading, and proofreading.  Then I thought maybe I ought to call it a night and head for bed.  Then I got the bright idea that I should write this blog. 

If I post my blog link to Facebook, only two of my Facebook friends will follow the link and actually read this blog.  One of them is Joy.  The other one is Julie.

 

Julie!  You pumped me with questions and used my stories for your Sunday School class ... Can I call in the favor?  Will you read my girlfriend’s husband’s vanity-press novel?  It only took me 2 hours to read it, and I didn’t want to put it down.  Oh! and Bill doesn’t even double-space between sentences like I do.  (Pet-peeve of Julie’s)  Bill does, however, let “spell-check” autocorrect for him.  Bah!  (But we can fix that!)  You’ve got my cell number.  Give me a call, please!  This is probably the busiest week of my life so far ... but I’m taking the time to try to pique your interest because I’m convinced this book will appeal to a very broad audience.  It speaks to a need I am constantly asked to pray about in every life and family I know.

 

How can you get to the “happily ever-after” in the too-true story of the Prodigal Son?

 

Mmmm!

Grilled steaks, fries, salad and milk.




Sent from my iPhone

December, 1955

I have a Debbie doll, and I have a sister, Debbie, and I got them both at about the same time.

The "bathinette" is yellow.  It is a table -- tall.  It has a rubber hammock and a length of rubber tube for Mommy to fill the hammock with warm water to give Debbie baths.  The bar of Ivory soap is smaller than the bars we use in our bathtub.  I think that Mommy got it at the Hospital.  It makes the water scummy -- just like it does in my bathtub.  But Debbie's skin smells sweet, when washed -- just like my skin smells when I get washed.  And Debbie's little bald head smells like Johnson's baby shampoo -- just like mine does.

Debbie has a black scab where her belly button should be.  She is so little.

The bathinette has a lid to cover it, which makes it into a "changing table" that Mommy uses to change Debbie's diapers.  The diapers are cotton -- white.  Over them go rubber pants. When they are wet, Mommy swishes them in the toilet while it's flushing, and then puts them in the diaper pail.  After the diaper pail is full, you do the wash.  Then you tumble them in the clothes dryer.  If you hang them on the line, they get too stiff, and give the baby a rash.

Debbie sleeps in my old crib.  I sleep in Mommy's old bed!  I saw her in this bed when I was a baby myself.  My crib was in the same room as Mommy's bed.  My earliest memory, probably 1953, was looking out the crib at Mommy laying on her bed (now my bed).  We lived with Grandpa and Grandma on Rathbone Street.  Daddy was in the Navy, and I didn't know him yet, back then.

My bed is gray.  It has a bookcase headboard.

(This will always be my bed until I marry Mark VanZyl in 1972.)

Mommy puts a "receiving blanket" on my lap, and lets me hold my baby sister.

I am three years old.

The nest is NOT empty

 Up early with a nice cup of coffee -- yesterday was an awesome day -- after 2 weekends of serious shopping, hubby and I finally found just the right set of tables for our living room.

Couple of weeks ago, youngest son (nearly 20 now) moved out of the nest.  I was a little at odds with myself wondering what to make of this new phase of life, and frankly, I was feeling rather sad and possibly useless.  I've been raising children quite a while, you see.  That job is now finished.  They all are grown, and nice young men, and God is good; but what do I do now, I wondered.

Well, as life would have it, I stumbled upon the answer.  After-the-fact, as usual LOL.  (I believe I have mentioned before that I always know exactly what to do -- ten years after any given life cycle challenge I am going through.)

Well, it just hit me when I woke up happy this morning:  Nesting is something you do with your mate... not your offspring.

Texting

One of the great things about texting: You SEE what you may not be attentive enough to hear. Yesterday in texts about mundane matters from all 3 of my living sons were these words: I love you, Mom. (iPhone $200, texting Priceless)

Words! Seriously in need of Words!

Waaaah! Took me several minutes AGAIN to find where you post a blog on the *new* Multiply.

I know, it's not new anymore to y'all.  I'm the one who wasn't paying attention when they upgraded us.  And I'll get used to it.

Heidi says I should write when I feel like crying.  I dunno WHAT I feel like.

I just think I need some WORDS!

My son was killed by a hit & run yesterday morning.  (Was that one day ago?  How would I know?  Time isn't acting normal anymore.)

Today I know it might have been a homicide.  Probably it was a homicide.

Isn't that a word we use when writing fiction?

Who wrote this awful fiction with me as a character in it?  With my Scooter, my little boy Scooter, as the victim?  (Okay, so he's 30 years old.  Doesn't matter.  Time warp, you know.)

There.  I wrote.

I guess I'll try to sleep now.

My other boys will be here 8 AM.

We buried Scott today.  (FICTION!  EVERY WORD SCREAMS FICTION!)

At 2 PM will be his funeral.  But they don't call it a funeral because we already buried him.  Okay.  It's the BIG part of the burying ceremony, when EVERYBODY comes.  And Pastor tells us death's an enemy that was never supposed to be in our life on earth.  And he is SO right.  Which is why this don't compute.  It must be fiction.  We have ETERNITY in our heart.  We know with every fabric of our being that we WERE NOT CREATED FOR DEATH!

My son is SLEEPING!  When Jesus calls his name, my Scooter will wake up.  All smiles.

It's more than words.

Nighty-night baby boy.  Sweet dreams.  See you in the morning.  Mama loves you.

Sink or Swim -- Writing Prompt # 7

My mother pushed me off the dock into water over my head and I nearly drowned when I was two years old. 

 

Or at least that’s what it felt like. 

 

And so, although I used to love the water, used to love the dock, and even now I love to swim, I have to this day a fear of the moment of fall. 

 

Only that moment.  The transition moment.  The land to sea moment, so-to-speak.  Sink or swim.

 

In defense of my mother, what had truly happened I will tell you now:

 

My great-grandparents had a cottage at the lake.  There are many inland lakes in Michigan, and many people had cottages in those days.  Nobody lived year-round on the lakes.  People had to earn a living back in town.  The roads were poor in winter.  Besides, the heat was from a pot belly stove, for crying out loud.  Water did come from the tap, I think; but I can’t even tell you that for sure, because when the great-grandparents became infirm in their old age, we stopped going there in four-generation groups.  My younger siblings have probably never been to the cottage, and they certainly never knew my great-grandparents.

 

Anyway -- Mommy and Daddy, and Grandpa and Grandma, and Grandpa’s brothers, and their wives and children, would spend every weekend, I guess, at the lake.

 

I could tell so many recollections of the lake, and that is odd, because I was so young when we would go there!  I can describe the dusty road to the general store where Grandpa would walk with me holding his hand.  I can remember the little shorts outfit I would wear as we walked.  I can remember the taste of the orange sherbet push-up confection Grandpa would buy me.

 

I can remember the smells:  in the cottage, of moth balls and wood smoke, and cedar walls.  I can remember the lull-you-to-sleep sounds of rain pattering on the tin roof, and of the wooden rowboats rocking you against the dock, and the lapping of the water when the rowboats rocked against the dock.  I can remember the awful feel of seaweed: oh too squishy!  Slimey!  Nasty!  I can remember the beauty of the blue dragonflies coupled with my fear of them when their hard little wings and crustacean little bodies buzzed them into my arms.

 

I can remember the dock!  It was long – oh so long!  Probably only long enough to dock a standard wooden rowboat, but I was very small, you see; which made the dock so long.

 

I was an early riser in those days.  I woke up excited with life, and hungry.  I loved to be at the cottage, because Grandma, too, was an early riser.  She would feed me love and cheerios, and talk and talk and talk to me.

 

Grandpa and Daddy would get up even earlier than Grandma and me, though.  They would go fishing!

 

I, too, loved to go fishing; and they would take me in the boat in the afternoons.  The fish don’t really bite, though, in the afternoons.  Grandpa and Daddy did their real fishing in the early mornings, when the fish were biting.

 

When Grandpa and Daddy came back from their fishing, they were always glad to see me.  And I was ecstatic to see them, to see the fish swimming in the bucket, to RUN to them as the boat came to the dock.  I can smell the outboard motor’s gas, and hear the water lapping against the dock to this day, and see my two men, people I adored, smiling as I ran to them down the long, long, dock.

 

They would call to me!  Encourage me!  Smile at me!

 

Behind me, though, was Mommy.  Yelling to the men that I should never be encouraged to run the dock to greet them.  Chasing me!  Reaching out for me!  Stopping me!

 

“She’s going to fall off the dock one of these days, and then you will be sorry!” Mommy would shout.

 

And one day, just to prove her point, I did!

 

And the last thing I felt before I was swirling in the water with the seaweed swirling round me in the brown and murky warm world was my Mommy’s fingertips, so gentle, and not close enough to snatch me, only close enough to push me one step further than I’d ever meant to go.  My little feet did not stop as they should have/ would have.  Nor did Grandpa’s arms receive me, for the water got me first.

 

Grandma pulled me out by my hair.  Carried me to the cottage.  Sat me on the counter-top.  And wrapped me in a towel.

 

Mother scolded.  Scolded me for running.  Scolded Gramp and Daddy for encouraging.  All the fun was gone from fishing with the guilt of drowning children.  I daresn’t ever say it, but my two-year-old mind was certain that my Mommy really pushed me off the dock, just so she could prove it to my Grandpa and my Daddy.

These are 2 of my uncles on the dock.

As a grownup I am equally certain that Mommy didn’t push me.  She was frightened with good reason.  She was reaching out to grab me.  Her reach, though, is what added momentum to my run.  Only a fraction of resistance.  Had I weighed more, it could never have pushed me over.  Had my feet been larger, she’d have gotten my shirt and been able just to stop me.  But she pushed me, very lightly, and off the dock I went, into the seaweed and the swirl and the tomorrow-never-comes world you aren’t supposed to see at the age of two.

This is my grandpa & me (with my hair lopped off & now wearing a life vest).

 

Then fast forward!  There is another dock, a future world, equally frightening, equally dangerous. 

 

I am seventeen, and have just finished my Senior Year of high school. 

 

Again my Mommy pushed me.

 

I fell off the dock, and into adulthood, and nearly drowned; till Grandma pulled me out by my hair, and I’ve survived for many years since then, and learned to swim these waters, and to love them; even as I loved to swim after I had conquered fear and found that if I just relax, my body floats.

 

I have a son now, in the 12^th grade, and he is worried for a friend of his whose parents haven’t eased him into adulthood.  My son has been beseeching me to do something for this friend – maybe to speak strongly to his parents, maybe just to move the boy to our house – I am not sure what he wants for me to do, as I cannot raise his friend from infancy, that’s for sure.

 

So I thought I’d write this story.  Sink or swim are not the only two options.  You don’t have to make your child afraid to leave the shore; nor do you have to push them off the dock!  Go with him into the water!  Hold him up!  Show him he can float!  Show him he can move!  Then he will swim without fear.

 

Nowadays, they even teach two-year-olds to swim, you know.

 

All Over the Place

The people I admire the most on Multiply are so "out there."  Each of you is different from me, and yet each of you hold an attraction to my soul.

It's a blog I read tonight that made me sad.  This one: http://lindao6.multiply.com/journal/item/523/We_Need_Each_Other._._._

Because we ought to be connected, I want to be connected, I imagine myself connected, maybe I am connected, but I don't FEEL connected.

And some of you feel smothered by your connectedness.

And I'm a great listener, advice-giver, someone who knows how to find "the quiet center."  And yet, there is not a soul that I would trust with mine.  Not really.  ...

That was a great blog on Linda's page, and I really like what I know of Linda, and I wanted to leave a comment.  But I was too dang sad.  Because my roots don't seem to intertwine, although I try to tangle them.  They've just been chopped too many times!

My parents moved us around every time I got my bearings when I was growing up.

The first man I married was never contented with a blasted thing in life, and he kept changing everything constantly.  On top of which, he rather wanted to be a hermit.

Church connections are supposed to be good ones, but to really be connected at a particular congregation (any of them) you're supposed to bad-mouth the ones that aren't your kind.  I worship, and have raised my youngest son, where the liturgy and the sermons do me the most good.  And he's connected there, having gone to parochial school there "all his life," but I don't really fit.

I'm a church secretary at a different kind of church.  I don't want to worship there.  They don't meet my deepest needs as "my own" church does.  But they are "inclusive" almost to a fault, and I need that.

The friends I've chosen on Multiply (and those who've chosen me) are extremely diverse, from down-home Baptist to Catholic to Pagan or Agnostic ... and I guess that if truth be told, I am a little bit of all those things myself.  (I'm a Lutheran, if you want to know -- Missouri Synod -- with a few unfortunate Baptist and Jewish tendencies, and the occasional respectful irreverence and willingness to dance at the winter solstice.)

Some of my friends are way more sensual than I'd ever care to be.  Some are searching for meaning in life, some are just trying to hold their grip, and some think they've got it all figured out.  Some could care less.

The friends here that I admire most are those who have an opinion -- their own point of view.  Whether they bitch about their mother-in-law, or gripe about bad weather, or try to make everything funny, or just tool around posting glitter graphics, or try to capture the most exquisite moment in words or photography.  Whether they flaunt their intelligence, or only their silliness.

I am a little bit like all of you ... and nothing like any of you.  And I do not share myself completely with anyone but God.  So if He does not exist, then apparently I do not share myself completely with anyone but myself.

"My own counsel will I keep." -- Yoda, from one of the Star Wars movies.

But damn, I sure do wish I really felt as connected, rooted, and intertwined, as my head believes we all are.  Because in my thought life, with my reason, from my world-view, I am convinced of the truth of the blog that set me tip-toeing through melancholy tonight.  I honestly think that, believe it or not, even when we don't speak the same language, we are ALL connected, in the eternal sense of things.

There.  That's as close to revealing as I am able to be.  For what it's worth.

My Grandma's Christmas Cookies

2 cups sugar 
1 cup shortening
3 eggs 
1 cup sour milk 
1 teaspoon vanilla  
2 teaspoons baking powder 
1 teaspoon baking soda 
5 cups flour 
1 1/4 teaspoons nutmeg   

Combine sugar, shortening, and eggs.  Add sour milk, and vanilla.  Sift in flour, baking soda, baking powder, and nutmeg.  Chill overnight. 

 

Roll out on well-floured surface and cut with cookie cutter. 

For filled cookies, use 1 teaspoon filling between 2 cookies (see recipes below), and seal edges with warm water before placing on ungreased cookie sheet.  For unfilled cookies, just bake on ungreased cookie sheet, and then decorate cooled cookies with icing (see below).  Bake at 350. 

Raisin Filling:  Combine 1 pound raisins with 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 teaspoon mace, 1 teaspoon lemon juice, and 1 cup water.  Bring to boil and thicken with a little cornstarch.                                                                         

Date Filling:  Combine 1 pound chopped dates with 1/2 cup sugar and 1 cup water.  Bring to boil.                                                                           

Icing:  Beat 1/4 pound butter with 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla, 3 cups confectioners sugar, and approximately 1/2 cup milk.  Put into separate little dishes and add different color of food coloring to each dish to decorate cooled, unfilled cookies.

 

 

My grandma made these cookies every year when I was a child, and I have made them every year since I have been grown.

Balloon head-gear is optional.

 

 

 

 

Napping while the dough chills is optional.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Burning your arm when removing the cookies from the oven is optional.

 

 

 

 

 

Flouring the dog is optional.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men and boys will definitely paint cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because they taste EXACTLY like Christmas!

Building the Log House

            I was really disappointed when my husband capped the well to our pitcher pump.  We owned 15 wooded acres.  The first thing we did after purchasing the land was witch for water and drive a well.  My mother-in-law knew how to witch for water, and the water she found was good.  We drilled the well ourselves.  This was in the late 1980s.  You could still rent the tools to drive your own well then.  I don’t know if you can anymore.  You could still buy a “point” and the pipe for the well, and you could still buy a pitcher pump.  A couple of men and half-grown boys can drive a well.  I have photos, somewhere, I think, of driving the well.  I am certain I have circa-1994 photos of the pitcher pump.

 

            The second thing we did after purchasing the land was construct an outhouse, a good distance from our water source.  I think the outhouse may still be standing, but I don’t think it has been used since about 1996.  My now 18-year-old son was “potty trained” using the outhouse while we were living in “the little trailer” and building the log house.  I know I have photos of that.  In case you don’t know this, the way you keep an outhouse sanitary is by pouring lime into the hole from time to time.

 

            Having water and an outhouse, we used our land for camping for several years.  We bought “the little trailer” and set it up on the property.  That was a big luxury after rainstorms when we camped in the tent.

            Over the course of several years, we marked out trees that were tall and straight, and these eventually became our log house.  We felled the trees with chain saws, dragged them with chains, and stacked them to dry for several years.  My brother-in-law had learned blacksmithing, and he designed and made for us the tools to peel the logs.  I may have pictures of peeling logs.  If I don’t have them, my ex-husband does.  Half-grown boys are good at peeling logs, and they even think it is fun to do.

            About a year before we constructed the log house, we had electricity brought out to our land.  The electric company put in a pole, and brought the power to a “box” on the pole.  We ran temporary lines from that box to “the little trailer” and then we could use electric space heaters in the little trailer.  We could watch TV.  We could cook with small electric appliances like a crock pot, and electric frying pan.  Before we brought in the electricity, we cooked over a campfire or used a propane canister camp stove to cook when we camped.

 

            The year we constructed the log house, we pretty much “moved into” the little trailer for several months.  In other words, we were camping all the time.  I would drive back to our house in the city about once a week to do the laundry.

            We drew our own plans for the building inspector, and the county advised us on all the specifications for building our home, but we built it ourselves.  We had purchased an old tractor to drag logs, and an old high-low to lift them.  We bought prebuilt trusses for the roof, and put them up with some rented equipment.  We purchased plywood to cover the trusses and put on our own shingles.  We hired a bulldozer to dig the foundation, but we laid our own cement block, and put in all the rebar and metal flashings ourselves.

 

            I was the “brains” of the outfit, and my husband and boys were the brawn.  It was my job to do the research and find out how to build a house.  It was their job to do the grunt work.

 

            We purchased a portable saw mill, and milled our own floor joists from logs.  We purchased plywood to cover them.

 

            Altogether, the cost to build the log house was about $30,000, not counting the cost of the land which contained all the trees.  We didn’t build the house until we had the money.  That $30,000 also included the cost to have a deeper well drilled by a professional, and the purchase of an electric pump.  We also had a professional install a septic system.  And we paid someone else to do the plumbing and electrical work on the log house.  It was rustic, but modern, and completely up to building codes.

 

            The first winter that we lived in our log home, we heated only with wood.  We had purchased a good-quality brand new wood stove.  I learned to be very good at banking a fire for the night so the house stayed warm and the coals were ready to re-ignite come morning.

            We had propane gas for the modern kitchen right from the start, but we didn’t add a propane furnace until the second winter.

            After the new well and electric pump and septic system were complete, my husband capped the well to the pitcher pump.  When he did that, I was sad, because I knew that we could never be so self-sufficient again.

 

23 Years in Six Lines

The First Marriage (Dec. 1972 to Feb. 1996)

There was a young woman who lived in a house;
And she wanted children more than did her spouse.

Her spouse had repented of vows he had made,
To God, and to her, and to bills marked "unpaid."

He did give her children, because she demanded,
And they and she both left his home empty-handed.

-- Poem by Rani Kaye 12/4/2008
All Rights Reserved

Prayer for the first three

"Hear, O heavens!
Listen, O earth!
       For the LORD has spoken:
       'I reared children and brought them up,
       but they have rebelled against me.'" 

-- Isaiah 1:2 NIV

 

 

 

Before my youngest son was born, I adopted and raised three others:

 

Jamie was born in 1973, but I did not meet him until 1982.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scott was born in 1978, but I did not meet him until 1983.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael was born in 1975, but I did not meet him until 1984.

 

From The Lutheran Book of Prayer:

"Lord Jesus, You came into the world to seek and to save those who were separated from Your love.  It is with a heavy and aching heart that I come to You, the Savior of sinners, imploring You to restore to saving faith my erring children.  O Lord, my heart is breaking as I realize that my sons are following the way of unrepentant sinners, which always leads to condemnation.  Save them, O Lord, save them.  You have, in Your vast mercy performed many wonders, and I pray that You would lead back all the erring lambs who have wandered away from Your fold.

"O Lord, if by any fault or neglect of my own I have caused them to have strayed from You, I beg of Your mercy that you would forgive me.  Guide me by Your Holy Word, and show me how to share Your love, mercy, and forgiveness.  Draw all of us closer to You in faith.  If it be Your will, let these erring children be returned so that our hearts are filled again with Your peace and Your joy.  Unite us with You in faith, and abide in our hearts both now and forevermore as our loving, compassionate, and forgiving Savior.  In Your holy name I pray.  Amen."

 

Writer's Forum Find Your Muse #9 'Language Barrier'

"Lost in the Scenery"

Drat!  Now this is EXACTLY why I won't let myself imagine in color:  Because I ALWAYS get lost in the scenery if I do.  I have absolutely no sense of time.  I am "directionally challenged" in my home town.  So what am I gonna do now?  Just HAD TO gaze into that painting, didn't you, girl?

I'm in Rome.  I was in the Sistine Chapel with a tour group.  Why did I let Joyce talk me into coming on this tour?  I NEVER go on tours.  Joyce is so dang visual.  Joyce is so into experiences.  Joyce is so gregarious.  Yeah, and Joyce is off with the rest of the tour, because she can see things and remain connected to reality.  Not me, though.  Oh no.

In the sixties they started calling this phenomena "tripping out."  Mom and Dad just called it "day dreaming."  "Earth to Rani," is what my sister Vickie would say.  Yeah, well, earth (or the part of it I'm familiar with) just walked away and boarded the bus without me.  Yeah, I don't just get lost in the scenery in my imagination.  Oh no, I'm more lost than that.   I am a wall flower.  Absolutely forgettable.  I am so quiet, nobody notices me.

Yeah, they probably said "last call" or something.  But I was reading Michelangelo's mind.  I was living in his world.  So now how do I get back to my hotel before they all head back to America without me, for crying out loud?

"He is a foreign man.  He is surrounded by the sound, sound.  Angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity.  I said hey, hallelujah!"  Paul Simon.  I love Paul Simon.  What would Paul Simon do?  He travels all over creation, and he's a poet.  THINK, Rani!

I need to ask somebody how to get back there.  NO!  I need to beg somebody to GUIDE me back there.  Or I need a map.  In English.  Okay, now what am I going to do.  Think!  Think!

Hello ... does anyone here speak English?  No.  Well how about this one then, Parlez-vous Francais? 

Yeah, like that will help if somebody says, "Oui, je parle francais."

When I was foster-mom to Than and his English wasn't so good, I tried to remember my French, because he'd told me he'd learned French in school in VietNam.  But my schoolgirl French and his schoolboy French didn't sound the same, so THAT didn't work.  I had wanted to impress upon him some concept, and I just could not find the English words he knew to do it. 

Oh!  I remember!  Finally I found something along those lines in my Bible, and then copied the same chapter and verse out of HIS Vietnamese Bible.  I don't remember if that worked, though. 

But what the heck!

Bibles, Bibles, this is a CHAPEL for crying out loud.  Do they have any Bibles here in Italian?  More importantly than that, is there ANY dang verse in the Bible that says, "I am from America and I am lost.  I do not even remember the name of my hotel, let alone the street it is on."  Obviously THAT is not in the Bible.  So pointing to a verse in an Italian Bible and using that to express myself is NOT going to help me out of this situation.

Yeah, well, quit thinking about that.

Universal language.  Music is the universal language.  Yeah, but not all songs are universal.  What songs do I know in English that your average Roman is going to know in Italian?  Think!  Think!

Pavarotti is the only Italian singer I know.  No, wait, Placido Domingo.  And he sang a few in English: "Perhaps love is like a resting place, a shelter from the storm ..."  SHELTER!  Where is my shelter in this foreign land?  And WHY isn't my group coming back in search of me?

"Stop and stare.  I think I'm moving but I go nowhere ..."  Now WHY am I hearing that song by One Republic in my head?

No, wait!  That isn't a song in my head.  That is the ring tone on my cell phone!  Cell phone!  Answer it!

My son!  Back at home in the USA!  Hi, honey; how ya doin'? ... Oh, ... Well did you look in the study?  Yeah, under Dad's desk, in that little drawer thing.  Say, listen, do you have your computer fired up?  ... Good.  Listen, honey, could you do a Google Earth for me?  ... Yeah.  See if you can find the Sistine Chapel in Rome.  ... Okay, I'll wait.  ... You've got it?  Great!  Now could you look on my desk next to the calendar for the copy of the itinerary of this tour I'm on and see what the name of my hotel is supposed to be? ... You found it?  Great!  ... No, I don't need to know the name of it.  Just do a Google map for me of the directions from the Sistine Chapel to that hotel, and then STAY on the phone and talk me back there. ... Yeah, I know.  Just help me, okay?  STOP laughing and start Googling.  Thank you!

Fiction by Rani Kaye - All Rights Reserved

The Words My Mama Taught Me and The Songs My Grandma Sang

Music is an outstanding gift of God and next to theology ... I would not give up my slight knowledge of music for a great consideration ... and youth should be taught this art ... for it makes fine skillful people ... I would certainly like to praise music with all my heart as the excellent gift of God which it is and to commend it to everyone.

-- Martin Luther

I woke up this morning to the music in my memory:

My mommy told me something
A little girl should know
It's all about the devil and I've learned to hate him so
He'll only give you trouble if you let him in the room
He will never, ever leave you if your heart is filled with gloom, so:

Let the sun shine in
Face it with a grin
Smilers never lose
And frowners never win

So let the sun shine in
Face it with a grin
Open up your heart and let the sun shine in

Does anybody else know this to be the first verse to Rock-a-bye Baby? --

Rock a bye baby, your cradle is green
Daddy's a nobleman, Mommy's a queen
Sister's a young lady who wears a gold ring
And Johnny's a drummer who drums for the king

Rock a bye baby
In the tree top
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all

In adulthood, I heard that some think that cradle falls and crashes to the ground, injuring or killing the baby ... but by the time I heard that interpretation it was too late to stick that ugly picture in my memory because I already saw it floating gently to the softest of landings on the notes my grandma sang to me as she rocked me in her arms.

Remember to sing to your children

Have a joyful day, my friends!

Writer's Forum Find Your Muse #8 'Secret Rendezvous'

A Shared Secret

My literary career began before I could read or write, and I suppose that Mother Goose may be partly to blame since I learned of rhyme and rhythm from the sing-song-y verses Mama read to me at bedtime.

It's the wanting to REMEMBER, though, that birthed the writer in my soul.  More specifically, it's the COMPENSATING for FORGETTING.

And it is as simple as this:  I often heard songs, I often heard poems, I often heard stories that I loved.  I loved to hear a well-told tale.  I loved to hear a lovely song.  I loved to repeat a well-turned phrase.

The stories my Mama read to me, she read over and over again; and I could remember every word.

The songs my grandpa taught me, he sang with me over and over again; and I could remember every word.

But there were OTHER songs.  There were OTHER stories.  I would hear them once.  I would want to tell them.  I could not remember the words.

I would try to sing a song I had heard.  (This was generally for my own amusement.  At that point I was a toddler, and for the time being, an "only" child.)  I would recall a phrase or two, but not the whole.  So I would think.  I would try to remember. I would wonder what comes next. "Now what word sounds like sky?" I would say to myself. 

Then I would sing, and just PRETEND my new verses were how the true song went. 

I needed to memorize my made-up verses as I went along, though.  So I would do two lines, and get them to rhyme, and then repeat them again and again before making up the next two.  Repetition like that is how my grandpa always taught new songs to me.

Sometimes I would remember almost nothing of the "real" song, and I mustneeds make up MANY verses, in order to go with all the notes.  It seems I could naturally remember the tune and how long the song should be, even if I heard it only once, but I couldn't memorize the words fast enough to keep them forever.  And I mustneeds keep them forever.  That I cannot tell you why, because I do not know.  I have simply always wanted words to be kept forever.

When I got older and went to school, I loved to share songs; but at first I continued to pretend these all were songs I'd learned somewhere.  I ashamedly hid the truth that I had "written" them myself.  At that young age, I somehow felt it was wrong of me to selfishly make up words just so I could teach myself to sing the pretty songs.

Eventually, however, when I was nine, a teacher found me out.  I had escalated my criminal behavior to include teaching my songs to a girlfriend whose daddy played guitar, and this little girl had a charming voice.  Her daddy had her sing for people, and she liked to do that. 

Our teacher played piano, and our whole class sang at the beginning of every school day.  My little entertainer girl friend volunteered to sing my songs in front of the class and dragged me up front with her to sing along.  I could carry a tune, and she could sing like an angel.  Our teacher loved music, and she encouraged us to perform this way every time my girlfriend said that she and Rani had a new song.

Without my knowledge, that teacher started writing down some of my words, and she gave typed-up copies of my "poems" (as she called them) to my mama at parent-teacher conferences. 

When my mama showed those "poems" to me, I was stunned to discover that it pleased my parent and my teacher that I was doing this dishonest thing of making up my own little stories and rhymes.

Well needless to say, my temperament being such as it was, I was all about pleasing the parent and the teacher; and heck, by that time I could make a rhyme out of anything, any time it struck my fancy to do so.

So that's my story
Each word is true
And I have remembered it here for you.

My girlfriend's name was Mary Lewis.  Her voice sounded just like Mary of "Peter, Paul and..."  I just this moment remembered her name.  The school was Malcolm, the town was Sault Ste. Marie.  Mary, if you're out there, write to me.  You moved away before I did, and I never knew what became of you.  I wonder if you knew that I was "making up" the songs.  I do not think I told you.

Looking at the world with my grandmas' eyes

These are two of my grandmothers.  And then me.  The top set is my mother's mother.  The bottom set is my father's grandmother.  I had hoped the album page would appear larger on this page, but I can't seem to get it to. Maybe I'll try to do it another way tomorrow or something, but for now I'm just going to leave it as is.

More on Albert and Jay

Here's Albert and Jay in 1901, with their sisters.  The oldest sister is my great-grandma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's another of their military photos:

Kep, this one may be of some interest to you.

 

And here's their daddy's (and my great-great grandpa's) military headstone.  My grandpa Charles served in the Civil War.

 

For those of you who do genealogy research, please appreciate the difficulty of researching the last name of White!  As they say about Pokemon, "Gotta catch 'em all!"

I have, in fact, collected data on nearly every White family in the counties and states where my own ancestors lived in the 17 & 18 hundreds.

Veterans

These are my uncles, Albert and Jay.  Photo was taken in 1907.  They enlisted together.  However, Albert was told that he could not enlist with his brother.  So he left the line of volunteers, and rejoined the line at the rear, and used the last name of some family friends instead of his own last name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are some photos of my uncles' military days: