When I acquired a pen pal in China, I was unprepared for one of Lucy’s questions. She had specialized in the study of the English language for 18 years of her short life. By her letters, she seemed to have an excellent command of her topic of study. I have since been told that, in person, it was hard work for Americans to understand much of her spoken words.
In one letter to me, she asked, ”Why is your language so difficult? In my language, there is only one word that means to walk. But in English, there are many. For example saunter, swagger. shuffled, moped, skipped, etc.. Can you help me to grasp this concept?”
As I recall, I spent quite a chunk of time gathering information, forming my thoughts, and answering her question. Now, I am finding myself searching for just the right terminology in describing the word fall.
In May of this year, I had on hosiery that caused hardwood floors to be very slippery. And, sure enough, I slipped. The result was two crushed vertebrae and eventual back surgery.
Last Sunday morning at 5 a.m., out of concern for a neighbor, I traipsed across our lawn in bare feet. I know exactly where the short path lies, the familiar clearing we have worn from years of crossing our property lines to visit or share with each other. What I did not take into consideration was the complete darkness that time of morning and the fact that the path had not been used very much in recent times. Well, I tripped, tangled in a short, brushy ground cover. And here I sit with my left arm in a splint, learning to type with one hand, and kicking myself that I will still be thus encumbered when Eli comes to entertain and be entertained in one short month.
I am really hoping to not plunge, dive, stumble, hit the dust, faint, misstep, step in a hole, become upright challenged, tumble or....must I say it? FALL ever again!!
Proverbs 16:18
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Training Up A Child
As I write this, David (our firstborn) is on his way for a visit. He called a couple of days ago to say he would be coming by train. I arose at 5:20 a.m. and called his cell phone to make sure he was still coming. He answered."Yes. The wheels just started turning. I am on my way."
I do not know how much life's experience he has riding this mode of transportation; however, I do recall our first visit to the "lower 48." After living in Juneau 3 years, our family of four flew to California. Mainly, the reason for this journey was so our two children could experience unconditional love otherwise known as "Grandparents." The plane we were on from Seattle to San Francisco had a scheduled stop in Portland, Oregon, where David peered out the window and noticed the sprinkler system watering the grass and asked, "What are they doing?"
We explained to him that places other than Juneau sometimes had to make certain their plants did not die from lack of rain. The way this was accomplished was to feed water to them. He thought for a second and surmised, "That is the silliest thing I ever heard!"
He did not realize that life was full of silly things. This child was too young when we moved north to recall "cows" and "sheep" and "goats" other than in books we read. In real life, he was accustomed to "seals" and "whales" and "bears." So, when riding from the airport, Grandma pointed out the sheep "over yonder" (thus earning her the title That Yonder Lady). "But where is the shepherd?" he asked. Another time, Grandpa stopped the car to point out the"horned toad" crossing the road.
After the allotted time with my parents, we decided to take the train south to visit John's family. The train left us free to point out every herd of cattle or grazing horse or bleeting sheep as we passed. Hours after John and I had tired of that game, David was still going strong, identifying every living thing God made. Somewhere around Santa Barbara, David called out "tiger" to which we started to explain that tigers don't live in California. That is...we STARTED to tell him, except that, looking out the window, we discovered that he was right. For the train was passing through a zoo!
I wonder what splendor he will discover on today's journey!
I do not know how much life's experience he has riding this mode of transportation; however, I do recall our first visit to the "lower 48." After living in Juneau 3 years, our family of four flew to California. Mainly, the reason for this journey was so our two children could experience unconditional love otherwise known as "Grandparents." The plane we were on from Seattle to San Francisco had a scheduled stop in Portland, Oregon, where David peered out the window and noticed the sprinkler system watering the grass and asked, "What are they doing?"
We explained to him that places other than Juneau sometimes had to make certain their plants did not die from lack of rain. The way this was accomplished was to feed water to them. He thought for a second and surmised, "That is the silliest thing I ever heard!"
He did not realize that life was full of silly things. This child was too young when we moved north to recall "cows" and "sheep" and "goats" other than in books we read. In real life, he was accustomed to "seals" and "whales" and "bears." So, when riding from the airport, Grandma pointed out the sheep "over yonder" (thus earning her the title That Yonder Lady). "But where is the shepherd?" he asked. Another time, Grandpa stopped the car to point out the"horned toad" crossing the road.
After the allotted time with my parents, we decided to take the train south to visit John's family. The train left us free to point out every herd of cattle or grazing horse or bleeting sheep as we passed. Hours after John and I had tired of that game, David was still going strong, identifying every living thing God made. Somewhere around Santa Barbara, David called out "tiger" to which we started to explain that tigers don't live in California. That is...we STARTED to tell him, except that, looking out the window, we discovered that he was right. For the train was passing through a zoo!
I wonder what splendor he will discover on today's journey!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
WILLIE
John and I have attended four memorial services recently -- Vicki (King) Thompson (48) and Charles Fikes, Jr. (41) both passed away quietly in their sleep; the only diagnosis I have heard for both was pneumonia. Neither death was expected and came as a complete surprise to everyone; they will be sorely missed. The 3rd was Jeanette Dean, daughter-in-law of my good friend Ava Dean. Jeanette had not been well for some time.
Last Sunday afternoon, we joined family and friends remembering Willie Rudkin. Willie was our next-door neighbor, the owner of the 5 acres to our north. Just one year before we moved here, Willie had been given the heart of a 20-year-old motorcycle accident victim. He made certain we had a file of his medical history. At the time of his surgery, he was told his life expectancy was 5 years. He lived just a few days shy of 23 years with his new heart.
Willie was a good neighbor. We need never fear grass fires on the Fourth of July because he made certain his field was mowed. When we had a wedding in our back yard, and on other special occasions, he allowed folks to park in his field.
Willie was like a wind-up toy. If we spotted him coming for a visit, we knew to cancel any plans for awhile. He loved to talk. One of his favorite topics was his property. He told how his place once looked like a city park. He loved sharing it with families for picnics. However, because people littered and did not respect his hard work, he had to stop granting permission to use.
Willie especially loved his trees. When we first moved here, he had very recently planted a number of evergreen trees. Now, they have grown enough to obscure our view of Mount Saint Helens. When John had the greenhouse full to overflowing with bonsai miniature trees, he invited Willie over to see that 16-year hobby. Willie studied each tree or group of trees as John pointed out the manipulating skills it took to form the perfect work of art. He asked pertinent questions and was in no hurry to end the visit. When the guided tour ended, Willie summed up his feelings for John’s labor of love.
“Just think,” he said. “Someday, you could take these plants outside and plant them. Then they would grow to their intended size.”
Last Sunday afternoon, we joined family and friends remembering Willie Rudkin. Willie was our next-door neighbor, the owner of the 5 acres to our north. Just one year before we moved here, Willie had been given the heart of a 20-year-old motorcycle accident victim. He made certain we had a file of his medical history. At the time of his surgery, he was told his life expectancy was 5 years. He lived just a few days shy of 23 years with his new heart.
Willie was a good neighbor. We need never fear grass fires on the Fourth of July because he made certain his field was mowed. When we had a wedding in our back yard, and on other special occasions, he allowed folks to park in his field.
Willie was like a wind-up toy. If we spotted him coming for a visit, we knew to cancel any plans for awhile. He loved to talk. One of his favorite topics was his property. He told how his place once looked like a city park. He loved sharing it with families for picnics. However, because people littered and did not respect his hard work, he had to stop granting permission to use.
Willie especially loved his trees. When we first moved here, he had very recently planted a number of evergreen trees. Now, they have grown enough to obscure our view of Mount Saint Helens. When John had the greenhouse full to overflowing with bonsai miniature trees, he invited Willie over to see that 16-year hobby. Willie studied each tree or group of trees as John pointed out the manipulating skills it took to form the perfect work of art. He asked pertinent questions and was in no hurry to end the visit. When the guided tour ended, Willie summed up his feelings for John’s labor of love.
“Just think,” he said. “Someday, you could take these plants outside and plant them. Then they would grow to their intended size.”
Saturday, September 19, 2009
An Accidental Rescue
Things just keep happening as a result of the book I wrote and self-published. It has been three years since Jessie: the story of a genteel lady in frontier Alaska came off the press, and I am still finding adventure as a result of Jessie's story. However, the latest turn of events came about because I volunteered to type my friend, Jeanne Stinson’s, memoirs. In May 2008, she entrusted with me her 285 (handwritten) pages. The typing was completed by Christmas, then came the “work.”
She and I met almost every week for 2 hours to read the manuscript watching for errors and clarity. It was my intention to read a few paragraphs and then trade off, but Jeanne read every word out loud to me. I WISH there had been at least a tape recorder or video camera to share those precious hours with others.
When it came time to print I Dream of Jeanne: A Memoir by Jeanne Stinson, she had decided to not purchase an IBSN (every book with this set of numbers supposedly can be found in Books in Print). This way she could control who read her story. However, after her initial 25 copies went like hotcakes, she decided to get an ISBN. As soon as her number was published, she ordered another 25 books.
When that order came, there were three boxes. When opened, the first two boxes contained her books. However, the third box had 16 copies of a book titled Water in My Veins: The Pauper Who Helped Save A President by LCDR Ted Robinson, USNR. I immediately notified the printer of the mistake. They issued me a case number while they researched how to handle my complaint. As a matter of fact, before the saga ended, they would issue me four numbers.
Meanwhile, I decided there must be a way to reach the author. So with a minute amount of research, I found what city and state the author resides in and also four phone numbers for that region. There was no answer for the first three numbers, but a lady answered the phone for the fourth. I inquired if she knew of anyone with that name who authored a book.
Silence.
Long story; short. Somehow, I had managed to reach the wife of the book’s author. Since Jeanne was the keeper of the surplus books, I gave Mrs. Robinson Jeanne’s phone number. The next morning, Ted Robinson called me briefly and then called Jeanne. After several days of waiting for instructions from the printer, Ted arranged for Fed Ex to pick up the erred books. Soon, Jeanne and I had exchanged our books for his.
And, before I knew it, I was reading a 455-page book about growing up in the days of the Depression and World War II. Meanwhile, Jeanne and I have finished reading this fascinating story. Finding they had much in common, she has talked to him several times on the phone. John just finished reading my autographed copy and found the story to be enthralling. It could use some grammatical cleanup; other than that, it is a great read.
Just a quick PS – the printer folks finally got around to reading my plight and wrote to tell me to destroy the books. Too little…too late…the books were long gone.
She and I met almost every week for 2 hours to read the manuscript watching for errors and clarity. It was my intention to read a few paragraphs and then trade off, but Jeanne read every word out loud to me. I WISH there had been at least a tape recorder or video camera to share those precious hours with others.
When it came time to print I Dream of Jeanne: A Memoir by Jeanne Stinson, she had decided to not purchase an IBSN (every book with this set of numbers supposedly can be found in Books in Print). This way she could control who read her story. However, after her initial 25 copies went like hotcakes, she decided to get an ISBN. As soon as her number was published, she ordered another 25 books.
When that order came, there were three boxes. When opened, the first two boxes contained her books. However, the third box had 16 copies of a book titled Water in My Veins: The Pauper Who Helped Save A President by LCDR Ted Robinson, USNR. I immediately notified the printer of the mistake. They issued me a case number while they researched how to handle my complaint. As a matter of fact, before the saga ended, they would issue me four numbers.
Meanwhile, I decided there must be a way to reach the author. So with a minute amount of research, I found what city and state the author resides in and also four phone numbers for that region. There was no answer for the first three numbers, but a lady answered the phone for the fourth. I inquired if she knew of anyone with that name who authored a book.
Silence.
Long story; short. Somehow, I had managed to reach the wife of the book’s author. Since Jeanne was the keeper of the surplus books, I gave Mrs. Robinson Jeanne’s phone number. The next morning, Ted Robinson called me briefly and then called Jeanne. After several days of waiting for instructions from the printer, Ted arranged for Fed Ex to pick up the erred books. Soon, Jeanne and I had exchanged our books for his.
And, before I knew it, I was reading a 455-page book about growing up in the days of the Depression and World War II. Meanwhile, Jeanne and I have finished reading this fascinating story. Finding they had much in common, she has talked to him several times on the phone. John just finished reading my autographed copy and found the story to be enthralling. It could use some grammatical cleanup; other than that, it is a great read.
Just a quick PS – the printer folks finally got around to reading my plight and wrote to tell me to destroy the books. Too little…too late…the books were long gone.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Precious Memories...
Precious Memories how they linger...
Today was the day...finally. In three years, I have donated four separate "Evenings with Jessie" for an auction raising funds for Columbia Christian Schools. Sadly, two of the four never took place because of the busy lives we live. Trying to find time for eight adults to gather is nigh unto impossible. Actually, last November's successful bidders gave their space to others for that very reason.
After months of negotiating, a date and time was decided on, and the chosen meal was a brunch. The co-owner of Jessie's trunk, Joanne Roberts, prepared deviled eggs and a lovely breakfast crab casserole. John exercised his sourdough starter and fixed pancakes with ancient batter. Other things on the menu were rice pudding, fruit salad, moose meatballs with cranberry sauce, shrimp and asparagus salad, and salmon ball with crackers. One would think this was a memory-making occasion, and indeed it was. However, it was amazing how many memories of years, even beyond my lifespan, this day evoked.
First of all, the "Time with Jessie." goes back to the 19th century as we opened the trunk and viewed things a total stranger had felt worth keeping until her death. One of the guests learned that we once lived in Juneau and asked if we knew the Long family. "Of course. The sourdough starter came to us from Nello. The mention of the starter brought to mind Lucille Weir and her Mother Bertha Goetz...the original owners of the starter." Seems our guest had hosted one of Nello's girls for about a year when his family lived in Sacramento. The cranberry sauce was prepared by a lady at a book club I spoke with; she used a recipe directly from Jessie's book.
The salmon was provided for the occasion by the host of our Wednesday p.m. Bible study group; the moose meat by hunters from church. The rice pudding came from my recipe box. the explanation of its origin is in my mother's handwriting -- "This recipe tastes like my mother made when I was a child." The memories brought out with each item removed from our trunk were priceless.
As Joanne removed each item, I shared stories of Jessie's life and loves and family; also names and faces of so many folks I have met because of her trunk -- special Eagle Village and Eagle residents of then and now, folks who have bought the book, people I've never seen who own a piece of Jessie's puzzle, etc.
Our walk through Memory's Trunk was sadly incomplete because Ron (co-owner's hubby) was sick abed. He was sorely missed. For me, the highlight of "Brunch with Jessie" was precious time with my very dear friend Joanne and another reminder of what a terrific man I married. Not only did he, unquestioningly, set and prepare the pancakes, he also hand washed my special dishes.
How they ever flood my soul!
Today was the day...finally. In three years, I have donated four separate "Evenings with Jessie" for an auction raising funds for Columbia Christian Schools. Sadly, two of the four never took place because of the busy lives we live. Trying to find time for eight adults to gather is nigh unto impossible. Actually, last November's successful bidders gave their space to others for that very reason.
After months of negotiating, a date and time was decided on, and the chosen meal was a brunch. The co-owner of Jessie's trunk, Joanne Roberts, prepared deviled eggs and a lovely breakfast crab casserole. John exercised his sourdough starter and fixed pancakes with ancient batter. Other things on the menu were rice pudding, fruit salad, moose meatballs with cranberry sauce, shrimp and asparagus salad, and salmon ball with crackers. One would think this was a memory-making occasion, and indeed it was. However, it was amazing how many memories of years, even beyond my lifespan, this day evoked.
First of all, the "Time with Jessie." goes back to the 19th century as we opened the trunk and viewed things a total stranger had felt worth keeping until her death. One of the guests learned that we once lived in Juneau and asked if we knew the Long family. "Of course. The sourdough starter came to us from Nello. The mention of the starter brought to mind Lucille Weir and her Mother Bertha Goetz...the original owners of the starter." Seems our guest had hosted one of Nello's girls for about a year when his family lived in Sacramento. The cranberry sauce was prepared by a lady at a book club I spoke with; she used a recipe directly from Jessie's book.
The salmon was provided for the occasion by the host of our Wednesday p.m. Bible study group; the moose meat by hunters from church. The rice pudding came from my recipe box. the explanation of its origin is in my mother's handwriting -- "This recipe tastes like my mother made when I was a child." The memories brought out with each item removed from our trunk were priceless.
As Joanne removed each item, I shared stories of Jessie's life and loves and family; also names and faces of so many folks I have met because of her trunk -- special Eagle Village and Eagle residents of then and now, folks who have bought the book, people I've never seen who own a piece of Jessie's puzzle, etc.
Our walk through Memory's Trunk was sadly incomplete because Ron (co-owner's hubby) was sick abed. He was sorely missed. For me, the highlight of "Brunch with Jessie" was precious time with my very dear friend Joanne and another reminder of what a terrific man I married. Not only did he, unquestioningly, set and prepare the pancakes, he also hand washed my special dishes.
How they ever flood my soul!
Friday, August 14, 2009
Afternoon Delight
It has been a long time since I have laughed out loud at a movie. I actually even found myself screaming once from hilarity along with the onscreen actress and some of the audience. When Patty called to see if we'd like to hit a matinee, we both jumped at the opportunity. I had already determined to rent "Julie & Julia" (or vice verse) when it came out on DVD. Over and over again, during the viewing, I kept thinking of what few things I could recall reading about Julia Child or seeing her on TV. Even at that, I have a story to share.
When our youngest was in pre-school, we purchased a color TV set, which led to getting cable hookup. One day, he and I were watching Julia Child at work in her kitchen. I don't recall what she was preparing, but I do recall it required a lot of flour. So, I am guessing it may have been bread. Anyway, she looked down at her well-floured work area and, with her bare hand, wiped a substantial amount of flour directly onto the floor. Geoffrey looked up at me and said, "Can you do that?" I told him she probably had people who would clean up after her.
It was about that time in his life that he asked Granny Ruth to make him an apron and a chef's hat. When he donned this wardrobe, he announced "When I have this on, you can call me Cheffrey!"
When our youngest was in pre-school, we purchased a color TV set, which led to getting cable hookup. One day, he and I were watching Julia Child at work in her kitchen. I don't recall what she was preparing, but I do recall it required a lot of flour. So, I am guessing it may have been bread. Anyway, she looked down at her well-floured work area and, with her bare hand, wiped a substantial amount of flour directly onto the floor. Geoffrey looked up at me and said, "Can you do that?" I told him she probably had people who would clean up after her.
It was about that time in his life that he asked Granny Ruth to make him an apron and a chef's hat. When he donned this wardrobe, he announced "When I have this on, you can call me Cheffrey!"
Friday, July 10, 2009
T.T.Tuc...S.S..Son
The year was 1956 when our family of four moved to Tucson from Frankel City, Texas (population 9). Sammy was not happy about the move because, this being his senior year, he would not be graduating with his close friends. When we walked into the Mabel and Santa Rita church building that first Sunday morning, several girls came and asked me to sit on the second row with them.
Before that Sunday ended, we had learned it was necessary to register for school. “Register” would be the first of many three-syllable words added to our vocabulary. None of the others at church would be attending Tucson High that year, but everyone agreed we should start at the bookstore to register. The only clue we had about required classes was another three-syllable word – Algebra.
Monday morning, Sammy drove me to the high school, and we hunted for the bookstore. Already, anyone we met had hung the moniker “Tex” on Sammy’s drawl. He was my big brother and my protector...or so we thought. Finding the tiny entryway labeled “bookstore,” we went in the door to the left. A big “no no.” Entrances and Up stairways were always on the right; we were sent out to correct our first (of many) assumptions.
“Yes, Ma’am. No Ma’m,” Sam answered any and all inquiries. “We were told we have to buy our books for school.”
“What books do you need?”
“Well, Ma’am; for sure, we need Algebra.
Both ladies searched through every file cabinet in the tiny space, and one of them even went through the (righthand) door behind her in search of any hint of our name. Returning through the (lefthand) door, they were both mystified.
“Do you have your printed schedule with you?” Note that schedule would be a three-syllable word to a Texan.
“No, Ma’am. What does a sked-dew-all look like?”
“Who is your counselor?”
“What is a counselor? And where do I find one?”
“You go across the street to the Main Building. Go up the stairs and, after you have passed the columns, go through any of the doors. Walk straight ahead until you come to a wall of windows; you will see counselors sitting at their desks. They will help you get your schedule.”
Following those directions, we found the counselors’ office. The lady at the front desk said we could not just walk in and expect to be registered. I was assigned to Counselor Miss Smith; she would stick with me for 4 whole years. A man was to counsel Sam. We had to make an appointment (three syllables) to meet with our counselors to work out our schedule.
As it turned out, Tucson High School was the largest school in the Nation that year. We were on triple shifts, from dawn to dusk. Our shift was early morning, and we were out before noon. Before the school year ended, 3,000 students would move into the brand spanking new Pueblo High School, and 2,000 more exited THS’s halls to become Catalina High School.
Academic classes were held in the Main Building; imagine how hot those third-floor classes were without even a fan much less air conditioners. The Vocational Building housed classed fpr training for life’s careers: Home Ec, secretarial classes, auto shop, machinery, and (who knows why?) Algebra. The Annex held the cafeteria, boys PE and girls PE and gyms, band and choir, and the bookstore.
Some quickly learned rules -- Stairways were marked for “Up and Down," and woe unto you if you erred from that rule. Hall monitors sat in every hallway, and one did not dare peek out of the assigned classroom during class hours without a hall pass. Hundreds of students filled the cafeteria for study hall. The wrestling coach was assigned my table to make certain there was no talking; he wasn’t very much help with Algebra.
Before that Sunday ended, we had learned it was necessary to register for school. “Register” would be the first of many three-syllable words added to our vocabulary. None of the others at church would be attending Tucson High that year, but everyone agreed we should start at the bookstore to register. The only clue we had about required classes was another three-syllable word – Algebra.
Monday morning, Sammy drove me to the high school, and we hunted for the bookstore. Already, anyone we met had hung the moniker “Tex” on Sammy’s drawl. He was my big brother and my protector...or so we thought. Finding the tiny entryway labeled “bookstore,” we went in the door to the left. A big “no no.” Entrances and Up stairways were always on the right; we were sent out to correct our first (of many) assumptions.
“Yes, Ma’am. No Ma’m,” Sam answered any and all inquiries. “We were told we have to buy our books for school.”
“What books do you need?”
“Well, Ma’am; for sure, we need Algebra.
Both ladies searched through every file cabinet in the tiny space, and one of them even went through the (righthand) door behind her in search of any hint of our name. Returning through the (lefthand) door, they were both mystified.
“Do you have your printed schedule with you?” Note that schedule would be a three-syllable word to a Texan.
“No, Ma’am. What does a sked-dew-all look like?”
“Who is your counselor?”
“What is a counselor? And where do I find one?”
“You go across the street to the Main Building. Go up the stairs and, after you have passed the columns, go through any of the doors. Walk straight ahead until you come to a wall of windows; you will see counselors sitting at their desks. They will help you get your schedule.”
Following those directions, we found the counselors’ office. The lady at the front desk said we could not just walk in and expect to be registered. I was assigned to Counselor Miss Smith; she would stick with me for 4 whole years. A man was to counsel Sam. We had to make an appointment (three syllables) to meet with our counselors to work out our schedule.
As it turned out, Tucson High School was the largest school in the Nation that year. We were on triple shifts, from dawn to dusk. Our shift was early morning, and we were out before noon. Before the school year ended, 3,000 students would move into the brand spanking new Pueblo High School, and 2,000 more exited THS’s halls to become Catalina High School.
Academic classes were held in the Main Building; imagine how hot those third-floor classes were without even a fan much less air conditioners. The Vocational Building housed classed fpr training for life’s careers: Home Ec, secretarial classes, auto shop, machinery, and (who knows why?) Algebra. The Annex held the cafeteria, boys PE and girls PE and gyms, band and choir, and the bookstore.
Some quickly learned rules -- Stairways were marked for “Up and Down," and woe unto you if you erred from that rule. Hall monitors sat in every hallway, and one did not dare peek out of the assigned classroom during class hours without a hall pass. Hundreds of students filled the cafeteria for study hall. The wrestling coach was assigned my table to make certain there was no talking; he wasn’t very much help with Algebra.
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