I feel I need to preface this by explaining that my father was a preacher. The preacher's residence was always next door to the church building and always about the size of a cracker box. It was not uncommon to be awakened during the night by total strangers seeking refuge for themselves or their children. Folks migrating from the "dust bowl" of Oklahoma and Texas would come to our house needing money or food, desperate enough for assistance they would sell any of their goods they treasured enough to pack for the journey. Others sought us out for Daddy to help seal the bond of marriage of an eloping couple. Mostly, these people were strangers to us...people we met only once in this life. This description of my family life has little to do with John Wayne except to introduce you to my father. Now, on with the purpose of this tale. The names have been altered to protect the forgiven guilty parties.
We were living in Tucson, and it was the middle of the night when the phone call came. It was Mrs. Jones, a single mom struggling to launch her attractive teenage daughter Rhoda into life with the fewest number of scars. There were six or eight "thick as thieves" teenage girls in our congregation. For the most part, we were a screaming, talkative '50's pack, crammed into one car, all talking at the same time. Rhoda was a couple of years older than most of the group and the only word I can think of to describe her is voluptuous
Rhoda had gone to a party that night and returned home well beyond the limitations of curfew and rip-roaring drunk. Her mother called my father first, then the police. By the time my parents arrived on the scene, the police were already there. Mainly, the police put Rhoda in one room and her mother in another while they tried to calm both. One of the responding officers moonlighted as a security guard at Old Tucson, a tourist attraction in the desert, used mainly for making cowboy movies. Once the hysteria was calmed, that officer assured Mrs. Jones that her daughter was not a bad person, and after they had time to get a good night's sleep, they would need a day of good memories to overcome this night. If they would come to Old Tucson the next day to a certain gate, he would introduce her to John Wayne and Ricky Nelson. My parents were invited to join them, and "Certainly...bring your daughter, too."
At the appointed time, we picked up Mrs. Jones and Rhoda and drove through the countryside to Old Tucson. The guard was at his station. He took a break to accompany us to the setting for the bar. There, seated around a rickety table was John Wayne, Ricky Nelson, and Dean Martin. The female lead walked through, and I remember not wanting her autograph because she was an unknown -- her name was Angie Dickenson.
We watched them film a shootout scene. It took hours to get it right. When the movie came out, the portion we watched in the making equaled about 20 seconds of the actual movie. We posed for photos and gathered autographs and "dust from Ricky Nelson's feet." What I remember about John Wayne was that he was bigger than life with enormous hands. He and Ricky talked to each other during the photo session, discussing their upcoming scene.
The photos snapped that day never made it back from the drugstore developer. We always expected them to show up in some movie magazine; but if that was the case, we missed it. "What happened to the autograph?" you might inquire. I sold it to a man at an antique show for $150. Now, this blog is all I have to show for it.
Can you guess the name of the movie?
Monday, December 24, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
EVIE (1918--2007)
We were prepared by Evie, herself, that the end of her life was nearing. She prepared us for everything, including this when she said "Do not grieve." However, I hope she will forgive some moments of tears as we individually recall our acquaintance.
The year was 1967 when we arrived in Juneau. We had packed only one stick of useful furniture for the move. That was David's crib. It did not take long for the members of the Church of Christ to furnish our rental. Stan and Evie had a desk they "loaned" us - for 20 years! When we left in '87, they requested its return
When one spoke of Evie they also spoke of Stan. To this day, Ron will tell you that it was the quiet, steady, daily example of the mailman that attracted him to seek out the church where Stan attended. I remember in the bitter cold of winter, several of us driving to the lake and everyone parking with their headlights barely penetrating the darkness to spotlight those brave enough to try to stand on the ice. Most of those skaters were pretty wobbly. But, then, out of the night came the most amazing sight. Not one person but two moving as one, dancing and twirling in harmony.....gliding, skimming the ice as though it had been miraculously groomed, moving in and out of the light. That couple was Stan and Evie.
Evie was a nurse. Each time we gathered to worship, she would make her rounds, inquiring about our health and that of our family. Apple juice seemed to be the remedy for many intestinal concerns; a small amount of 7-Up for colicky baby, the list is endless. When I voiced concern that my feet would be cold giving birth in the dead of winter, she showed up at my door with some fuzzy socks.
When visiting in their home, the offered beverage often would be a root beer float. Once, an already-troubled pre-teenager asked his parents for their car keys so he could listen to the radio as he waited for them to finish visiting after worship time. However, once he was in the car, he decided to try his hand at driving. He threw the gear shift into "R" and backed right into Stan and Evie's station wagon, shattering the rear window and damaging the door. For years, you would hear this story being repeated with this conclusion, "It was a good thing for that kid that he hit Stan and Evie's car." They not only spoke forgiveness, they lived it.
The last time we visited Evie in her room at the Pioneer Home, she pointed out her window to a little gnome scene she had created. Just weeks before, she had left the confines of the Home and walked around to her special spot. It was a sunny day, and she enjoyed the pleasure of being at eye level with her project. When she realized it was time to go inside for dinner, her knee replacement surgery prevented her from rising. Eventually, she was able to scoot close enough to the building to strike it with a stick, but no one came. As the day slipped into night and the temperatures dipped to freezing, typical of Evie, she did not panic. Rather, she enjoyed the peaceful setting, finding pleasure in the night sky, singing, talking to God and visiting with Stan. It would be well into the next day before her absence was discovered. Even this experience was a beautiful memory to Evie.
Tom Brokaw has correctly labeled Evie's age group as "The Greatest Generation." Yet, I pray that some of their legacy will survive because of their example and influence. We will grieve our loss for a short while, but remember joyfully for a great deal longer the life and love of Evie.
The year was 1967 when we arrived in Juneau. We had packed only one stick of useful furniture for the move. That was David's crib. It did not take long for the members of the Church of Christ to furnish our rental. Stan and Evie had a desk they "loaned" us - for 20 years! When we left in '87, they requested its return
When one spoke of Evie they also spoke of Stan. To this day, Ron will tell you that it was the quiet, steady, daily example of the mailman that attracted him to seek out the church where Stan attended. I remember in the bitter cold of winter, several of us driving to the lake and everyone parking with their headlights barely penetrating the darkness to spotlight those brave enough to try to stand on the ice. Most of those skaters were pretty wobbly. But, then, out of the night came the most amazing sight. Not one person but two moving as one, dancing and twirling in harmony.....gliding, skimming the ice as though it had been miraculously groomed, moving in and out of the light. That couple was Stan and Evie.
Evie was a nurse. Each time we gathered to worship, she would make her rounds, inquiring about our health and that of our family. Apple juice seemed to be the remedy for many intestinal concerns; a small amount of 7-Up for colicky baby, the list is endless. When I voiced concern that my feet would be cold giving birth in the dead of winter, she showed up at my door with some fuzzy socks.
When visiting in their home, the offered beverage often would be a root beer float. Once, an already-troubled pre-teenager asked his parents for their car keys so he could listen to the radio as he waited for them to finish visiting after worship time. However, once he was in the car, he decided to try his hand at driving. He threw the gear shift into "R" and backed right into Stan and Evie's station wagon, shattering the rear window and damaging the door. For years, you would hear this story being repeated with this conclusion, "It was a good thing for that kid that he hit Stan and Evie's car." They not only spoke forgiveness, they lived it.
The last time we visited Evie in her room at the Pioneer Home, she pointed out her window to a little gnome scene she had created. Just weeks before, she had left the confines of the Home and walked around to her special spot. It was a sunny day, and she enjoyed the pleasure of being at eye level with her project. When she realized it was time to go inside for dinner, her knee replacement surgery prevented her from rising. Eventually, she was able to scoot close enough to the building to strike it with a stick, but no one came. As the day slipped into night and the temperatures dipped to freezing, typical of Evie, she did not panic. Rather, she enjoyed the peaceful setting, finding pleasure in the night sky, singing, talking to God and visiting with Stan. It would be well into the next day before her absence was discovered. Even this experience was a beautiful memory to Evie.
Tom Brokaw has correctly labeled Evie's age group as "The Greatest Generation." Yet, I pray that some of their legacy will survive because of their example and influence. We will grieve our loss for a short while, but remember joyfully for a great deal longer the life and love of Evie.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Seeking the Past
Because of the research that went into writing Jessie's Story, I find myself wondering about friends with whom I have lost touch. Sometimes, that leads me to the people search. Recently, I have located and talked to two friends from the distant past. It seems to me that everyone I know should know each other, and sometimes I take a moment to place them in their slots of time and place.
Sherry belongs in the "early Alaska" slot. Without her, the book would have been very different. She is the one who accompanied her husband to Eagle in 1975, taking with her Jessie's photo album. Her assignment was to see if she could find out if any of the pictures in the album were of the trunk's owner. On that trek, she not only identified Jessie, but many others, beginning with the Native dancers. It was the presentation of these photos that led to the potlatch on July 2nd 2007.
Jean's slot goes back to college days. We lived across the hall from each other in the dormitory and wore our green beanies with the big, orange "P" for orientation to George Pepperdine College in the early 60's. She was from Arkansas, the baby of her family...if my memory is correct, her mother was a widow, Jean had two burly, rough-and-tumble, BIG brothers and a sister who was a missionary in Korea. What I remember most about "Jeanie Belle" was that she had short, red hair and freckles, and she loved to sing.
I remember someone asking her if her mother had been bitten by a Victrola when pregnant with Jean. I remember she went home with me for Thanksgiving, and when my Mother made me a new dress, she made one for Jean, too.
Thanks to the Internet, these connections were made. What fun...to catch up on friends of old and, yes, old friends. I am wondering if you have found anyone?
Sherry belongs in the "early Alaska" slot. Without her, the book would have been very different. She is the one who accompanied her husband to Eagle in 1975, taking with her Jessie's photo album. Her assignment was to see if she could find out if any of the pictures in the album were of the trunk's owner. On that trek, she not only identified Jessie, but many others, beginning with the Native dancers. It was the presentation of these photos that led to the potlatch on July 2nd 2007.
Jean's slot goes back to college days. We lived across the hall from each other in the dormitory and wore our green beanies with the big, orange "P" for orientation to George Pepperdine College in the early 60's. She was from Arkansas, the baby of her family...if my memory is correct, her mother was a widow, Jean had two burly, rough-and-tumble, BIG brothers and a sister who was a missionary in Korea. What I remember most about "Jeanie Belle" was that she had short, red hair and freckles, and she loved to sing.
I remember someone asking her if her mother had been bitten by a Victrola when pregnant with Jean. I remember she went home with me for Thanksgiving, and when my Mother made me a new dress, she made one for Jean, too.
Thanks to the Internet, these connections were made. What fun...to catch up on friends of old and, yes, old friends. I am wondering if you have found anyone?
Monday, November 19, 2007
When Truth Becomes A Dream
It has finally happened. The reality of peddling books has entered my dreams.
THE DREAM
With a crowd of others, I was waiting for the train to come. Patty and her daughters were also waiting. As the train approached, I realized that I did not have a single copy of my book with me. Without mentioning it to anyone, I dashed home, picked up two copies, and ran back to the train station. The train was already loaded and pulling out, but I was able to hop onto the caboose as it passed.
Though everyone seemed to know each other, I did not recognize anyone. Every passenger was a middle-aged woman, dressed in 1930's fashion (dark-colored, rayon dresses with full skirts accented only by white bobby sox). I soon realized that each lady had a book in her hand. They were highly intelligent, discussing their own piece of literary excellence. It did not take me long to realize the passengers were all authors. It did dawn on me that they might speak to me if I could introduce them to Jessie.
I set about trying to locate where I had laid my copies. When, at last, I spotted my book, there was only one copy. After searching diligently, I noticed a person standing like the Statue of Liberty. Instead of bearing the torch, she was holding up my book and stating, "Don't read this. It is not a true story." That is when I realized that all of the other's books were nonfiction. And since I have wavered between calling my literary piece of work "fact" or "fiction," I declared, "That is why I have always called it non-fiction." Then I walked to the next car and found my daughter and her youngest sitting in wicker seats. They refused to pay me any heed.
REALITY
John had shared with his class on Proverbs that he will be taking a train trip with Patty and the girls and other home-schooling folks.
Over our weekly dinner, before studying the Bible together, three other ladies and I were discussing a monthly book club they attend. Next month, the book of choice will be Jessie. I will be present at the critiquing session, and my Christian sisters are concerned that my feelings will be hurt by some of the "honest" comments.
As John and I left for an appointment, I realized there were no copies of the book in my car so I ran back inside to get one book. One never knows when someone will want to ask about it.
The only thing missing in reality is my hopping on a caboose. Stay tuned!
THE DREAM
With a crowd of others, I was waiting for the train to come. Patty and her daughters were also waiting. As the train approached, I realized that I did not have a single copy of my book with me. Without mentioning it to anyone, I dashed home, picked up two copies, and ran back to the train station. The train was already loaded and pulling out, but I was able to hop onto the caboose as it passed.
Though everyone seemed to know each other, I did not recognize anyone. Every passenger was a middle-aged woman, dressed in 1930's fashion (dark-colored, rayon dresses with full skirts accented only by white bobby sox). I soon realized that each lady had a book in her hand. They were highly intelligent, discussing their own piece of literary excellence. It did not take me long to realize the passengers were all authors. It did dawn on me that they might speak to me if I could introduce them to Jessie.
I set about trying to locate where I had laid my copies. When, at last, I spotted my book, there was only one copy. After searching diligently, I noticed a person standing like the Statue of Liberty. Instead of bearing the torch, she was holding up my book and stating, "Don't read this. It is not a true story." That is when I realized that all of the other's books were nonfiction. And since I have wavered between calling my literary piece of work "fact" or "fiction," I declared, "That is why I have always called it non-fiction." Then I walked to the next car and found my daughter and her youngest sitting in wicker seats. They refused to pay me any heed.
REALITY
John had shared with his class on Proverbs that he will be taking a train trip with Patty and the girls and other home-schooling folks.
Over our weekly dinner, before studying the Bible together, three other ladies and I were discussing a monthly book club they attend. Next month, the book of choice will be Jessie. I will be present at the critiquing session, and my Christian sisters are concerned that my feelings will be hurt by some of the "honest" comments.
As John and I left for an appointment, I realized there were no copies of the book in my car so I ran back inside to get one book. One never knows when someone will want to ask about it.
The only thing missing in reality is my hopping on a caboose. Stay tuned!
Friday, November 2, 2007
Happy Anniversary
November 1st marked the first anniversary of my personally selling Jessie's Story. I know that several people had already ordered from Lulu and that other copies were "out there." However, this was the date I opened the box from Lulu and accepted money for a copy. The first customer was Judy.
According to Lulu.com, 979 copies have now been sold. This count is off by 10 because I pushed an order button twice and had to request a refund for those. It also is not quite accurate because, especially in the beginning, I hated to ask for money and gave away many. By far, the biggest customer has been the Eagle Historical Society & Museum (350 copies). The original price I set was $15. Lulu changed that to $15.99, and I altered that price personally to $16 in order to not have to deal with the pennies people refused in change. At charitable auctions, two copies went for a combined total of $1,100 and, more recently, $45 was the winning bid in Sitka.
If you think I penned the story of the life of Jessie Fox alone, you are gladly mistaken. You may quote me: "It took the Lord and an army greater than Gideon's final count." Many of the behind-the-scenes workers I mention in the acknowledgement section of the book. However, myriad others should have been named. A few that come to mind are
Vetta, who was the very first reader of the rough manuscript who encouraged me to keep going. She always knew how to ask the right question.
a hubby who drove me all over tarnation searching for a book or a clue or a grave or a salt shaker or a camper or, quite literally, the ends of the earth and the top of the world.
a daughter who prodded me to keep writing and designed eight covers before the final product. At the going rate of $85 an hour for her fine work, I figure I owe her around $10,000.
a son who set me up with a corner of his wonderful website, www.wyattjourney.com/jessie.
a son who designed a postcard for advertising.
a stranger who owns a tea shoppe, who gave me encouragement and space for a lovely evening of book-signing.
a local Dairy Queen owner who not only allowed me to launch the book on her premises, but even put the event on her marquee.
strangers along the AlCan and Cassiar Highways who believed my story enough to purchase a book.
a christian brother whose wife was just beginning radical treatment for cancer, who took time to share his equipment and expertise for framing some special photos.
the residents of Eagle and Eagle Village who put me in a position I never would have dreamed of and made me feel so welcome.
those who tackled the labourious task of teaching me about keeping financial records.
the few wonderful souls who took time and effort to write reviews of the book on Lulu.com.
the many who either wrote to me or told me how they loved her story.
Who would have ever dreamed the turn my life's road has taken as I approach my 65th birthday? and my 44th wedding anniversary? and my 2nd year with the book?
I thank God for every remembrance...
According to Lulu.com, 979 copies have now been sold. This count is off by 10 because I pushed an order button twice and had to request a refund for those. It also is not quite accurate because, especially in the beginning, I hated to ask for money and gave away many. By far, the biggest customer has been the Eagle Historical Society & Museum (350 copies). The original price I set was $15. Lulu changed that to $15.99, and I altered that price personally to $16 in order to not have to deal with the pennies people refused in change. At charitable auctions, two copies went for a combined total of $1,100 and, more recently, $45 was the winning bid in Sitka.
If you think I penned the story of the life of Jessie Fox alone, you are gladly mistaken. You may quote me: "It took the Lord and an army greater than Gideon's final count." Many of the behind-the-scenes workers I mention in the acknowledgement section of the book. However, myriad others should have been named. A few that come to mind are
Vetta, who was the very first reader of the rough manuscript who encouraged me to keep going. She always knew how to ask the right question.
a hubby who drove me all over tarnation searching for a book or a clue or a grave or a salt shaker or a camper or, quite literally, the ends of the earth and the top of the world.
a daughter who prodded me to keep writing and designed eight covers before the final product. At the going rate of $85 an hour for her fine work, I figure I owe her around $10,000.
a son who set me up with a corner of his wonderful website, www.wyattjourney.com/jessie.
a son who designed a postcard for advertising.
a stranger who owns a tea shoppe, who gave me encouragement and space for a lovely evening of book-signing.
a local Dairy Queen owner who not only allowed me to launch the book on her premises, but even put the event on her marquee.
strangers along the AlCan and Cassiar Highways who believed my story enough to purchase a book.
a christian brother whose wife was just beginning radical treatment for cancer, who took time to share his equipment and expertise for framing some special photos.
the residents of Eagle and Eagle Village who put me in a position I never would have dreamed of and made me feel so welcome.
those who tackled the labourious task of teaching me about keeping financial records.
the few wonderful souls who took time and effort to write reviews of the book on Lulu.com.
the many who either wrote to me or told me how they loved her story.
Who would have ever dreamed the turn my life's road has taken as I approach my 65th birthday? and my 44th wedding anniversary? and my 2nd year with the book?
I thank God for every remembrance...
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Who? Me?
I am not certain, but I think I am being pursued by federal agents. I don't recall ever receiving an email from ebay, but there was one this morning -- all in Spanish! Now, I did take Spanish in high school but have even forgotten that questions begin with an upside down questioon mark.
Why would anyone be after me? Could it be because of the ridiculous circumstances that led me to my nom-de-plume for ebay. At the time I signed up for ebay, I was heavily into research for the book I was trying to write. You know the one... Jessie: the story of a genteel lady in frontier Alaska? Daily, I was listening to a taped reading of Charles Dickens's Pickwick Papers. If that 500-plus page tome had not been Jessie's favorite, I would never have attempted reading it. Forgive me; I digress. Let's see; where was I? Ahh, yes! Feds chasing me.
I was trying to register on ebay to purchase a highly recommended book on the Yukon and I was determined to do it on my own. But (as you probably know) every identification I tried had been taken: name? date of birth? name of firstborn grandchild? song titles? every visible item in the room? Finally, I came across one that worked...place of birth (Texas) plus present reading material (pickwick papers). Only problem was that made my i.d. so lengthy. Using my noggin, I abbreviated Texas and removed the word Papers. It was only after the deed was done that I noticed I had somehow dropped the first k in the book title--thus, the invention of txpicwick. So... do you think the g-men think I might be an illegal alien?
I proved my ineptitude in Spanish back a few years ago when John and I visited our son in Venezuela. Angel, the guard/doorman, was trying to tell me something about "esposa" as he pointed to the neighbor's front door. In return I was trying to tell him we were feeding the neighbor's cat while they were away. Not even knowing the word for "cat" or "away," I seem to recall that "casa" and hand motions were my best bet. Finally, he led me to that portal, turned the key in the lock, turned the knob, and opened the door carefully so the cat would not escape, revealing John sitting at a table viewing the city below. Turns out Angel was trying to tell me that my husband (spouse) was locked out of our apartment so he had placed him inside the neighbor's. I guess John could not rouse me from my siesta.
Why would anyone be after me? Could it be because of the ridiculous circumstances that led me to my nom-de-plume for ebay. At the time I signed up for ebay, I was heavily into research for the book I was trying to write. You know the one... Jessie: the story of a genteel lady in frontier Alaska? Daily, I was listening to a taped reading of Charles Dickens's Pickwick Papers. If that 500-plus page tome had not been Jessie's favorite, I would never have attempted reading it. Forgive me; I digress. Let's see; where was I? Ahh, yes! Feds chasing me.
I was trying to register on ebay to purchase a highly recommended book on the Yukon and I was determined to do it on my own. But (as you probably know) every identification I tried had been taken: name? date of birth? name of firstborn grandchild? song titles? every visible item in the room? Finally, I came across one that worked...place of birth (Texas) plus present reading material (pickwick papers). Only problem was that made my i.d. so lengthy. Using my noggin, I abbreviated Texas and removed the word Papers. It was only after the deed was done that I noticed I had somehow dropped the first k in the book title--thus, the invention of txpicwick. So... do you think the g-men think I might be an illegal alien?
I proved my ineptitude in Spanish back a few years ago when John and I visited our son in Venezuela. Angel, the guard/doorman, was trying to tell me something about "esposa" as he pointed to the neighbor's front door. In return I was trying to tell him we were feeding the neighbor's cat while they were away. Not even knowing the word for "cat" or "away," I seem to recall that "casa" and hand motions were my best bet. Finally, he led me to that portal, turned the key in the lock, turned the knob, and opened the door carefully so the cat would not escape, revealing John sitting at a table viewing the city below. Turns out Angel was trying to tell me that my husband (spouse) was locked out of our apartment so he had placed him inside the neighbor's. I guess John could not rouse me from my siesta.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
10-20-30, pass it on.....
The following paragraph explaining this blog is copied directly from Patty's:
"An acquaintance in the writing community, Mary DeMuth, is doing a blog experiment to see how far-reaching blogs can be. She tagged 12 people and asked them to tag others to see how far this can go. If you decide to answer her question, either leave it as a comment on this blog or answer it in your blog and link back to hers. (http://www.relevantblog.blogspot.com/)
"The question is, what were you doing 10, 20 and 30 years ago? Here's my response:"
10 years ago:
In 1997, Geoffrey asked if his friend, Jim Fincher, could stay with us for a few days while he located a place to rent for the duration of some extended work with the US Forest Service. Of course, we said yes. Within days, his wife found a lump and needed to see a doctor. Long story, short, Carol and their two children (age 6 years and 5 months) also came to stay with us while she received medical treatment in this area. They stayed in our home for 4 months. Very soon after they moved to their own place, Edwin, Patty and 2-year-old girls came from Togo for their first real furlough. One highlight of that visit was a trip to Cannon Beach for the whole family; another was a family portrait day when David and Paige announced the expectant birth of another Wyatt due in May.
20 years ago:
Who can forget 1987? The year we tearfully said "Goodbye" to Juneau and moved to an area of the country that has roads that connect to other roads that lead to places like our parents' houses. I know, because we tested them several times. And after looking at some 200 houses for sale, we found just the right "country" house with acreage. The very night we signed the papers for that purchase, and the very minute I leaned back and put my feet up, stating, "Now we can relax," was the moment the phone rang. On the other end of the "line" (When's the last time you've heard that term?) were Patty and her fiance announcing they did not want to wait a year to get married; how did December 19 sound? So, while John shopped for a riding lawmower in mid-November and we both looked for furniture, there was always the constant thought of the pending wedding. And it was on the wedding weekend that we tested and coinedd the phrase, "Our dining table seats 13 uncomfortably." And we continue to test that theory to this day.
30 years ago
With my baby Geoffrey startiing kindergarten, I hand-made bread, knitted lots of hats, took classes in cake decorating, had time to read, study, and spend time with the creator of the beautiful land in which we lived. This was the year I met Diane Caldwell, and what one of us did not think to do, the other did. We were partners in room mothering, shopping (I loved to spend her money), took a University class in child nutrition together (Our big project was English Muffin pizza, complete with paint brushes), stood in the snow for hours at the crossroads between our residents, trying to say good bye, ignored warning signs of icy roads and tried to convince our kids we had planned the outing so we could pretend to be Swiss Family Robinson (sea weed IS edible), and giggled a lot.
I pass it on to **Geofrey, **Kay Neathery, and Dian
** Read their response in the comments.
"An acquaintance in the writing community, Mary DeMuth, is doing a blog experiment to see how far-reaching blogs can be. She tagged 12 people and asked them to tag others to see how far this can go. If you decide to answer her question, either leave it as a comment on this blog or answer it in your blog and link back to hers. (http://www.relevantblog.blogspot.com/)
"The question is, what were you doing 10, 20 and 30 years ago? Here's my response:"
10 years ago:
In 1997, Geoffrey asked if his friend, Jim Fincher, could stay with us for a few days while he located a place to rent for the duration of some extended work with the US Forest Service. Of course, we said yes. Within days, his wife found a lump and needed to see a doctor. Long story, short, Carol and their two children (age 6 years and 5 months) also came to stay with us while she received medical treatment in this area. They stayed in our home for 4 months. Very soon after they moved to their own place, Edwin, Patty and 2-year-old girls came from Togo for their first real furlough. One highlight of that visit was a trip to Cannon Beach for the whole family; another was a family portrait day when David and Paige announced the expectant birth of another Wyatt due in May.
20 years ago:
Who can forget 1987? The year we tearfully said "Goodbye" to Juneau and moved to an area of the country that has roads that connect to other roads that lead to places like our parents' houses. I know, because we tested them several times. And after looking at some 200 houses for sale, we found just the right "country" house with acreage. The very night we signed the papers for that purchase, and the very minute I leaned back and put my feet up, stating, "Now we can relax," was the moment the phone rang. On the other end of the "line" (When's the last time you've heard that term?) were Patty and her fiance announcing they did not want to wait a year to get married; how did December 19 sound? So, while John shopped for a riding lawmower in mid-November and we both looked for furniture, there was always the constant thought of the pending wedding. And it was on the wedding weekend that we tested and coinedd the phrase, "Our dining table seats 13 uncomfortably." And we continue to test that theory to this day.
30 years ago
With my baby Geoffrey startiing kindergarten, I hand-made bread, knitted lots of hats, took classes in cake decorating, had time to read, study, and spend time with the creator of the beautiful land in which we lived. This was the year I met Diane Caldwell, and what one of us did not think to do, the other did. We were partners in room mothering, shopping (I loved to spend her money), took a University class in child nutrition together (Our big project was English Muffin pizza, complete with paint brushes), stood in the snow for hours at the crossroads between our residents, trying to say good bye, ignored warning signs of icy roads and tried to convince our kids we had planned the outing so we could pretend to be Swiss Family Robinson (sea weed IS edible), and giggled a lot.
I pass it on to **Geofrey, **Kay Neathery, and Dian
** Read their response in the comments.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
"Important" People
I have gone back and checked to be sure this is not a repeat. It happens to be one of my favorite "lessons learned from life." It recently came back to memory by the ongoing election news. If it is a repeat, I know several folks who will let me know.
Like most of us, our children's room occasionally would get cluttered and messy enough that I would declare a day of cleaning. Sometimes that was nothing more than tossing toys in a toy box and clothing in the laundry hamper. Other times, it meant digging to the bottom of the toy box and sorting play clothes from Sunday-go-to-meeting outfits. On those particular cleanup days, I would encourage them to clean their area as though the President of the United States was coming for a visit or the Queen of England would be dropping by with white gloves to check for dust.
Well, one afternoon I was finishing up a literal mountain of laundry. Everything had been washed and dried. The children were all sitting in the living room, reading or watching TV or watching me. I, too, was in the living room -- folding laundry and making stacks on every piece of furniture and probably even a few stacks in the middle of the floor. I could see the neighbors' house across the street and was aware that there was someone in the neighborhood, going door to door.
So, I was not particularly surprised when the doorbell rang. But I was surprised to see Governor Sheffield, the Governor of the great State of Alaska, standing on my porch. "May I come in for a visit?" he asked politely.
I looked around at the scene I had created and told him, "This would not be a good time." Somehow, from that day on, we never again cleaned for celebrities.
Like most of us, our children's room occasionally would get cluttered and messy enough that I would declare a day of cleaning. Sometimes that was nothing more than tossing toys in a toy box and clothing in the laundry hamper. Other times, it meant digging to the bottom of the toy box and sorting play clothes from Sunday-go-to-meeting outfits. On those particular cleanup days, I would encourage them to clean their area as though the President of the United States was coming for a visit or the Queen of England would be dropping by with white gloves to check for dust.
Well, one afternoon I was finishing up a literal mountain of laundry. Everything had been washed and dried. The children were all sitting in the living room, reading or watching TV or watching me. I, too, was in the living room -- folding laundry and making stacks on every piece of furniture and probably even a few stacks in the middle of the floor. I could see the neighbors' house across the street and was aware that there was someone in the neighborhood, going door to door.
So, I was not particularly surprised when the doorbell rang. But I was surprised to see Governor Sheffield, the Governor of the great State of Alaska, standing on my porch. "May I come in for a visit?" he asked politely.
I looked around at the scene I had created and told him, "This would not be a good time." Somehow, from that day on, we never again cleaned for celebrities.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Harvest Time
BOOTS - check; GLOVES - check; SNACKS - check; MONEY - check; CELL PHONE - check; DIRECTIONS - check; WEATHER REPORT - check (maybe); BAGS - Is plastic OK?
We have 3 hours before piano lessons. It should not take us much over an hour total driving time. Let's do it. Hug the hubby goodbye. Just Memaw, Mother, and three girls will be on this adventure.
The weather people are all saying the "high overcast" will burn off before the day ends and zero chance of rain. The autumnal colors have changed from dull yellow to brilliant reds and crisp oranges with touches of pinks, lavendars, and vibrant gold - a perfect day for a ride in the country.
We know to expect squirrels. That is a major factor in why we are having to make this trip. When the trees in Patty's yard start to produce, the local squirrels call their relatives and friends and pluck the tree's product while still green on the tree, leaving not a morsel for the rightful owner. So, we head for an entire grove of trees in a remote part of the county, expecting to be overtaken by critters.
True to his word the owner is waiting in his yard. It has been over 10 years since John and I discovered the ad in the newsaper. That year, we took his mother and a lad who had recently learned he was going blind. We picked only that one year, but our memory was rekindled recently when taking a country drive. We remembered the fruit of the trees as being plentiful and, best of all, ressonbly priced.
We ladies should have brought a wheelbarrow or wagon. Buckets would have been a great idea, too. Now that we are at our destination, we wonder if the crop has been picked over. Will there be any left for us? The owner leads us along a path to the terminal for the electric fence. The first step onto the path answers any question of "plenty." Each and every step I take, I can feel the snap underfoot and hear the crackling shell. I want to stop and pick them up but must keep pace with our leader.
Contest rules are set: "Whoever fills their bags first, wins a dollar." After hearing the discussion on the other team about which is the cutest and seeing some mighty tiny ones, a new contest is added, "whoever picks the biggest, wins a dollar. Put your biggest choice in your pocket."
In one hour's time, we gleaned 80 pounds of walnuts. We did not see a single squirrel but watched in disbelief the neighbors' dogs stirring enormous numbers of black birds from their roost.
Now the real fun begins - drying the nuts then shelling them.
We have 3 hours before piano lessons. It should not take us much over an hour total driving time. Let's do it. Hug the hubby goodbye. Just Memaw, Mother, and three girls will be on this adventure.
The weather people are all saying the "high overcast" will burn off before the day ends and zero chance of rain. The autumnal colors have changed from dull yellow to brilliant reds and crisp oranges with touches of pinks, lavendars, and vibrant gold - a perfect day for a ride in the country.
We know to expect squirrels. That is a major factor in why we are having to make this trip. When the trees in Patty's yard start to produce, the local squirrels call their relatives and friends and pluck the tree's product while still green on the tree, leaving not a morsel for the rightful owner. So, we head for an entire grove of trees in a remote part of the county, expecting to be overtaken by critters.
True to his word the owner is waiting in his yard. It has been over 10 years since John and I discovered the ad in the newsaper. That year, we took his mother and a lad who had recently learned he was going blind. We picked only that one year, but our memory was rekindled recently when taking a country drive. We remembered the fruit of the trees as being plentiful and, best of all, ressonbly priced.
We ladies should have brought a wheelbarrow or wagon. Buckets would have been a great idea, too. Now that we are at our destination, we wonder if the crop has been picked over. Will there be any left for us? The owner leads us along a path to the terminal for the electric fence. The first step onto the path answers any question of "plenty." Each and every step I take, I can feel the snap underfoot and hear the crackling shell. I want to stop and pick them up but must keep pace with our leader.
Contest rules are set: "Whoever fills their bags first, wins a dollar." After hearing the discussion on the other team about which is the cutest and seeing some mighty tiny ones, a new contest is added, "whoever picks the biggest, wins a dollar. Put your biggest choice in your pocket."
In one hour's time, we gleaned 80 pounds of walnuts. We did not see a single squirrel but watched in disbelief the neighbors' dogs stirring enormous numbers of black birds from their roost.
Now the real fun begins - drying the nuts then shelling them.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
O-O-OOP-S
It is time to admit to the world that I am a klutz, especially when it comes to shopping.
I have been known to leave cases of soda in the grocery cart. Worse yet, I recently arrived home without my purse. Yep, you guessed it...I left it in the cart, and some nice man turned it into the Customer Service lady for me.
Once, I even left a VERY nice golf club behind. This particular putter was John's Christmas present that I had taken to the golf shop to have shortened. Some dishonest person must have claimed ownership. My only hope is that the new owner is very tall and suffering from back strain.
On the other hand, I am reminded of a time when the family was in a very crowded hardware store. John kept David with him, and Patty rode on my back in a backpack. When John helped me remove the pack, it was discovered that my daughter had pilfered a boat anchor! Needless to say, we went directly back in the store to return the item.
Well...this week, I purchased a movie at Goodwill. I had seen the movie before, but someone asked if I'd stayed through all of the credits at the end of the movie. At the end of the credits, there was something revealed that would make anyone go back and rewatch the movie for clues of a thread that ran through the plot. Well, when I was explaining to John why I wanted to sit through a second viewing, I removed it from its box. Staring me right in the face was the title...200 Cigarettes! Not the one so eloquently described on the container. I came in and looked it up on the internet. Ben Afleck stars as a bartender...now how bad could that be? The answer...pretty bad. As a natter of fact,,,downright awful.
We will not watch it, but my purchase will not be wasted. It will go perfectly with the can of road-kill possum at this year's White Elephant party for some lucky acquaintance.
I have been known to leave cases of soda in the grocery cart. Worse yet, I recently arrived home without my purse. Yep, you guessed it...I left it in the cart, and some nice man turned it into the Customer Service lady for me.
Once, I even left a VERY nice golf club behind. This particular putter was John's Christmas present that I had taken to the golf shop to have shortened. Some dishonest person must have claimed ownership. My only hope is that the new owner is very tall and suffering from back strain.
On the other hand, I am reminded of a time when the family was in a very crowded hardware store. John kept David with him, and Patty rode on my back in a backpack. When John helped me remove the pack, it was discovered that my daughter had pilfered a boat anchor! Needless to say, we went directly back in the store to return the item.
Well...this week, I purchased a movie at Goodwill. I had seen the movie before, but someone asked if I'd stayed through all of the credits at the end of the movie. At the end of the credits, there was something revealed that would make anyone go back and rewatch the movie for clues of a thread that ran through the plot. Well, when I was explaining to John why I wanted to sit through a second viewing, I removed it from its box. Staring me right in the face was the title...200 Cigarettes! Not the one so eloquently described on the container. I came in and looked it up on the internet. Ben Afleck stars as a bartender...now how bad could that be? The answer...pretty bad. As a natter of fact,,,downright awful.
We will not watch it, but my purchase will not be wasted. It will go perfectly with the can of road-kill possum at this year's White Elephant party for some lucky acquaintance.
Monday, September 24, 2007
God's little helper
I was recently reminded a little of when I was going to personally finance my daughter’s family decision to be missionaries in Togo, French West Africa. How was that to happen? I was going to sell Watkins vanilla to Alaskans. But it turns out Watkins does not promote only vanilla so I had special permission to take 17 boxes of a variety of Watkins products to Haines, Alaska, for the Southeast Alaska State Fair. It was easy getting the product there; we mailed them.
When we arrived in Haines, our friends said for us to use their Cadillac for the week; the keys were in the ignition. Of course, we are talking an old car with Alaska rust. One door was wired closed so everyone climbed in through the driver’s side. I will never know why John went along with my scheme, but he did. He patiently carried all of those boxes into the tiny façade of a building allotted for just my product. That structure was leftover from the making of the movie “White Fang.” It still stands today.
Well, as folks have heard me say many times, “We spent a week in Haines one day.” --years before this trip. But even seasoned Haines residents had never seen rain to compare with the Watkins week. Even those brave enough to attend the Fair stayed in the one building with a roof over their heads. Even the area with a stage had a tarp that had to be emptied of the water that accumulated. And it seems that before week’s end that tarp gave way.
The façade building was only deep enough for one person at a time, There was no electricity to it, and besides being damp, it was cold. By week’s end, someone had run an extension cord out to me and plugged a space heater into the socket to keep me warm. At least my ankles dried out from the heat source.
The only prospective customers dropping by wanted to talk about how they had once sold Watkins, and what a great product it was and how they thought they still had some.
Well, as the week wound down, we loaded all of our fortune-making product into the car; onto the ferry, and into our Juneau friends’ garage. The only real sell I made was to Kathy, who signed up to be a salesperson; I am certain it was a pity move. Anyway, imagine the poor folks behind us in line at the airport…luggage, at least 15 boxes, well you know. And Alaska Airlines did not even charge us for the extra! AND the Watkins folks took back all of the unsold items.
Anyway, that is part of the story of one of the lessons God has taught me when I try to do His job.
When we arrived in Haines, our friends said for us to use their Cadillac for the week; the keys were in the ignition. Of course, we are talking an old car with Alaska rust. One door was wired closed so everyone climbed in through the driver’s side. I will never know why John went along with my scheme, but he did. He patiently carried all of those boxes into the tiny façade of a building allotted for just my product. That structure was leftover from the making of the movie “White Fang.” It still stands today.
Well, as folks have heard me say many times, “We spent a week in Haines one day.” --years before this trip. But even seasoned Haines residents had never seen rain to compare with the Watkins week. Even those brave enough to attend the Fair stayed in the one building with a roof over their heads. Even the area with a stage had a tarp that had to be emptied of the water that accumulated. And it seems that before week’s end that tarp gave way.
The façade building was only deep enough for one person at a time, There was no electricity to it, and besides being damp, it was cold. By week’s end, someone had run an extension cord out to me and plugged a space heater into the socket to keep me warm. At least my ankles dried out from the heat source.
The only prospective customers dropping by wanted to talk about how they had once sold Watkins, and what a great product it was and how they thought they still had some.
Well, as the week wound down, we loaded all of our fortune-making product into the car; onto the ferry, and into our Juneau friends’ garage. The only real sell I made was to Kathy, who signed up to be a salesperson; I am certain it was a pity move. Anyway, imagine the poor folks behind us in line at the airport…luggage, at least 15 boxes, well you know. And Alaska Airlines did not even charge us for the extra! AND the Watkins folks took back all of the unsold items.
Anyway, that is part of the story of one of the lessons God has taught me when I try to do His job.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Deja Vu all Over Again...
I just thought it was funny enough to share with my blog that I received two strange emails yesterday.
In the subject line of the first message was something about a credit card. Upon opening it, I found that my cousin's husband had forwarded their credit card bill to Dillards! Since I've only once been inside a Dillards and since there are none that I know of on the West Coast, I figured somehow it was a mistake. The sender has no idea how it happened.
The subject line for the second email said "query." If you recall, when I sent my query to an agent recently, I had a couple of typographical errors, one of which was in the address. So I sent the same letter a second time to be certain he received it. Well, guess what?! He received both. I know because a duplicate rejection letter came yesterday.
In the subject line of the first message was something about a credit card. Upon opening it, I found that my cousin's husband had forwarded their credit card bill to Dillards! Since I've only once been inside a Dillards and since there are none that I know of on the West Coast, I figured somehow it was a mistake. The sender has no idea how it happened.
The subject line for the second email said "query." If you recall, when I sent my query to an agent recently, I had a couple of typographical errors, one of which was in the address. So I sent the same letter a second time to be certain he received it. Well, guess what?! He received both. I know because a duplicate rejection letter came yesterday.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Get on your mark...Get set...
This is the week of our Big annual race. Not a relay, silly. No; not a marathon. Nope, not an iron-man race either. You have had three guesses. Give up?
This is the week that the starlings and grackles return to our yard. They have come for (what they consider their own) harvest time. They come by the thousands, and they can wipe out an entire crop of grapes in one afternoon. They are bandits. Each year, we can expect to see at least one news article with pictures of the black birds diving by the thousands into a favorite chimney in this area.
We watch them arrive on a weather front and speckle our yard and skyline in throngs. They load the enormous electrical towers until there is no space for another bird. Once they arrive enmass, we know we are too late to even place our toes on the starting line. Okay, I admit that we have been known to jump the starting signal and harvest some very tart grapes.
There are many methods used by desperate folk to try to keep them away. One local farmer has a recording of a gunshot being fired every little bit.Some years ago, we even saw a carcass of one hanging on a fence. Of course, there are scarecrows, fake owls, hanging CD’s in order to reflect the sun, hanging streamers of video tape for the unfamiliar sound and movement in the trees, and always there is covering with net. This is the protective method we most often choose.
But, this year, our crop is small so we picked them when our family taster gave us the "go ahead.” Granted, the first frost has not yet arrived, but the fruit is sweet this year even before the frost. Yep, this year, we won the race. The crop was tiny, but the reward of tasting the fruits of John’s labor is sweet.
This is the week that the starlings and grackles return to our yard. They have come for (what they consider their own) harvest time. They come by the thousands, and they can wipe out an entire crop of grapes in one afternoon. They are bandits. Each year, we can expect to see at least one news article with pictures of the black birds diving by the thousands into a favorite chimney in this area.
We watch them arrive on a weather front and speckle our yard and skyline in throngs. They load the enormous electrical towers until there is no space for another bird. Once they arrive enmass, we know we are too late to even place our toes on the starting line. Okay, I admit that we have been known to jump the starting signal and harvest some very tart grapes.
There are many methods used by desperate folk to try to keep them away. One local farmer has a recording of a gunshot being fired every little bit.Some years ago, we even saw a carcass of one hanging on a fence. Of course, there are scarecrows, fake owls, hanging CD’s in order to reflect the sun, hanging streamers of video tape for the unfamiliar sound and movement in the trees, and always there is covering with net. This is the protective method we most often choose.
But, this year, our crop is small so we picked them when our family taster gave us the "go ahead.” Granted, the first frost has not yet arrived, but the fruit is sweet this year even before the frost. Yep, this year, we won the race. The crop was tiny, but the reward of tasting the fruits of John’s labor is sweet.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Learning to Accept
Well, the very kind letter of rejection came in less than a week. The agent with the misspelled name did not write it; he asked an associate to let me know Jessie just does not fit their needs at this time. How does it feel? It is never easy to be rejected when the rejectors have never asked to see the book. The good news is that, on that very same morning, someone ordered two books through Lulu.com., bringing my total sales to 918 in just over 10 months.
Friday, September 7, 2007
life's little lessons
One does not have to know me well to know that God chose me to be John's humbling agent. Anything my hubby does is error free. In contrast, a motto I embraced early in life is "It's okay to be wrong as long as you are consistently wrong." That way, folks can often be fooled into thinking you may be right.
For example, two days ago, I sent a query letter to an agent for Jessie. This agent is one I have watched with interest because not only does he accept email but he also is reputed to answer queries within five minutes. For those who may not know, most letters of rejection don't arrive for agonizing weeks and by pony express or US postal service. Not only do I not know what an acceptance letter looks like,I do not even know anyone who does. Okey...okey...back to my original thought.
Well, without revealing this man's name for fear he could be inundated with manuscripts let me just continue. I wrote my letter in "Microsoft Word" and copied and transferred it to be emailed. It had been checked carefully for any possible problem, and (trust me) it was error free....until last night. Just as I was heading for bed, I decided to read this masterpiece one more time, to savor something done correctly. Just as my eyes grazed past the date, "What is this? Those computer gremlins have been working overtime!"
The agent's name was not spelled the same in the email address as in my greeting! Well, like a scab that is almost healed, this could not be left alone. I quickly removed the blatant letter of error and repaired his name to be the same as in the address. That was when I noticed a possible lifesaving error. Tucked in the left-hand margin of the space allotted for email addresses was a teeny, tiny dot (') that may have saved my skin. I can hope against hope that the first letter I sent is still searching for an agent whose address begins with an '. Meanwhile, I still await a reply.
My Mother had lots of wise sayings, one of which was "Two wrongs don't make a right." I am hoping, this time, that she was wrong.
Happy Birthday, Sam.
For example, two days ago, I sent a query letter to an agent for Jessie. This agent is one I have watched with interest because not only does he accept email but he also is reputed to answer queries within five minutes. For those who may not know, most letters of rejection don't arrive for agonizing weeks and by pony express or US postal service. Not only do I not know what an acceptance letter looks like,I do not even know anyone who does. Okey...okey...back to my original thought.
Well, without revealing this man's name for fear he could be inundated with manuscripts let me just continue. I wrote my letter in "Microsoft Word" and copied and transferred it to be emailed. It had been checked carefully for any possible problem, and (trust me) it was error free....until last night. Just as I was heading for bed, I decided to read this masterpiece one more time, to savor something done correctly. Just as my eyes grazed past the date, "What is this? Those computer gremlins have been working overtime!"
The agent's name was not spelled the same in the email address as in my greeting! Well, like a scab that is almost healed, this could not be left alone. I quickly removed the blatant letter of error and repaired his name to be the same as in the address. That was when I noticed a possible lifesaving error. Tucked in the left-hand margin of the space allotted for email addresses was a teeny, tiny dot (') that may have saved my skin. I can hope against hope that the first letter I sent is still searching for an agent whose address begins with an '. Meanwhile, I still await a reply.
My Mother had lots of wise sayings, one of which was "Two wrongs don't make a right." I am hoping, this time, that she was wrong.
Happy Birthday, Sam.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
A LOST ART
I received in the mail this week, believe it or not, a hand-written letter. This was not an oligatory thank you note for "the (fill in the blank) gift you gave us. I know we will use it a lot" No. This was a genuine 4-page piece of correspondence. There was nothing earth-shattering in the letter, just a hello and catching me up on her family's news.
In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.
My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.
Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,
In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.
My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.
Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,
Friday, August 17, 2007
WAXING NOSTALGIC...
I dare not speak how many years ago this day, I was ready to end the pregnancy. For only an elephant would have been expecting a child longer. It, like most of my stories these days, is a long one. Suffice it to say that, somewhere in the past year, I had had a miscarriage, and by the time the obstetrician detected that, I was pregnant again--also undetected.
Would this child be a little brother or a little sister for our firstborn? God only knew. We purposely took a bumpy ride up to Perseverance Theater to encourage the delivery. After all, another expectant friend (2 weeks past her due date) had announced to me that very day she was taking castor oil to induce her delivery. The race was on.
When my labor pains began, John and I ran for the phone book...not to call the doctor, but rather to come up with a boy's name. That's when the silliness started....but I won't bore my reader with that except to say that amidst all our giggles, the baby joined in...with the hiccups. The more bizarre the name, the harder the hiccup; the harder the hiccup, the more intense the nudge to be born.
Probably because in winter they needed to keep the steep hillside clear and sanded, parking was not allowed at the old Saint Ann Hospital. The climb from the block below took only moments. By the time, I was prepped for the delivery room, a chattering flash by my doorway returned to inform me "You better not be first!" In truth, I cannot say which of us delivered our baby girl first nor can I recall the family name. But somewhere in this world is a lady named Darian celebrating her birthday today.
And this day I will once again hold my daughter in my arms and remind her how very loved she is! And how much joy she has been in our lives.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICIA KAY.
Would this child be a little brother or a little sister for our firstborn? God only knew. We purposely took a bumpy ride up to Perseverance Theater to encourage the delivery. After all, another expectant friend (2 weeks past her due date) had announced to me that very day she was taking castor oil to induce her delivery. The race was on.
When my labor pains began, John and I ran for the phone book...not to call the doctor, but rather to come up with a boy's name. That's when the silliness started....but I won't bore my reader with that except to say that amidst all our giggles, the baby joined in...with the hiccups. The more bizarre the name, the harder the hiccup; the harder the hiccup, the more intense the nudge to be born.
Probably because in winter they needed to keep the steep hillside clear and sanded, parking was not allowed at the old Saint Ann Hospital. The climb from the block below took only moments. By the time, I was prepped for the delivery room, a chattering flash by my doorway returned to inform me "You better not be first!" In truth, I cannot say which of us delivered our baby girl first nor can I recall the family name. But somewhere in this world is a lady named Darian celebrating her birthday today.
And this day I will once again hold my daughter in my arms and remind her how very loved she is! And how much joy she has been in our lives.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICIA KAY.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
LIGHTS ALONG THE SHORE.....
John and I just returned from a trip to the Washington coast; we spent time with three other Christian couples in a little-known RV park. After Friday's breakfast, John suggested he wanted to go into Westport to take pictures of boats. Everyone else decided to accompany him.
As we first entered the city limits, we spotted the top portion of a lighthouse towering over trees. Figuring that should lead us to some water, and perhaps boats, John turned left. However, when we approached the location, we could see that the lighthouse seemed to be in the middle of a forest. The road continued at least one-third of a mile with no water in sight. Turning around we did not stop to read the sign that was posted, so I drew my own conclusion (as I am prone to do). I decided it was not a real lighthouse but rather a restaurant or expresso structure.
Later, when the group decided to tour the local museum, I asked the lady who sold us tickets about the lighthouse in the woods not near the water. She told us the Grays Harbor Lighthouse is the tallest lighthouse in Washington State. It was built in 1898 and stood as a beacon for seamen for most of a century. However, silt from the Columbia River has changed the coastline, adding land in some places and subtracting land elsewhere. This structure of great pride is now more than half a mile from the shoreline. Later in our tour, we watched a video explaining the phenomenon further.
There is a hymn from my childhood (or maybe older) wherein God is our beacon, but we are the keepers of His lights along life's shore. Applying this natural phenomenon to life, I have been thinking about how each grain of sand that would distance one from the Father was so minute, no one would notice the change. I wonder how long and how far and how many grains of sand must accumulate before one realizes the perilous danger of being distanced from the Father. With the right equipment, one could dredge away the silt...but the better way is to live a pure and righteous life, unspotted from the world.
As we first entered the city limits, we spotted the top portion of a lighthouse towering over trees. Figuring that should lead us to some water, and perhaps boats, John turned left. However, when we approached the location, we could see that the lighthouse seemed to be in the middle of a forest. The road continued at least one-third of a mile with no water in sight. Turning around we did not stop to read the sign that was posted, so I drew my own conclusion (as I am prone to do). I decided it was not a real lighthouse but rather a restaurant or expresso structure.
Later, when the group decided to tour the local museum, I asked the lady who sold us tickets about the lighthouse in the woods not near the water. She told us the Grays Harbor Lighthouse is the tallest lighthouse in Washington State. It was built in 1898 and stood as a beacon for seamen for most of a century. However, silt from the Columbia River has changed the coastline, adding land in some places and subtracting land elsewhere. This structure of great pride is now more than half a mile from the shoreline. Later in our tour, we watched a video explaining the phenomenon further.
There is a hymn from my childhood (or maybe older) wherein God is our beacon, but we are the keepers of His lights along life's shore. Applying this natural phenomenon to life, I have been thinking about how each grain of sand that would distance one from the Father was so minute, no one would notice the change. I wonder how long and how far and how many grains of sand must accumulate before one realizes the perilous danger of being distanced from the Father. With the right equipment, one could dredge away the silt...but the better way is to live a pure and righteous life, unspotted from the world.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sisters
Just when I sit back in my easy chair and sigh, "Life cannot possibly get any better than this." Hang on....because, once again, this roller-coaster ride called LIFE is about to reach a new peak.
Yesterday morning, following public worship, our oldest granddaughter (she will be the first to remind you that she is four minutes older than her sister) came to give me her usual hug. Or so I thought. However, this time, she whispered in my ear, "Memaw, I am going to be baptized today. My sister and I are!" Well, naturally, I assumed that they were going to avail themselves to using the new multi-dollar addition to the church building, but as I prepared to go to the front of the auditorium, her younger sister walked up to tell me that their choice of place for the re-birth (see Romans 6: 3-4 for starters) was the Columbia River.
Just before 7 on a beautiful, mostly cloudless evening, about 30-40 chirstians gathered on the banks of the Columbia River to witness the most important decision they will make in their lives.
Someone had thoughtfullly brought a few chairs for the event, and since I was not very steady on my feet, I sat down. I knew there was an alto singing beside me but gave little thought to who she might be, but after a couple of songs, I turned to see that the person holding my hand was my dear, dear friend of 38 years, co-owner of the trunk, and still the most beautiful lady I know. Since I was unable to maneuver the rocks that lay between my station and the dripping wet and happy girls, Joanne and I talked. I said, "There has been a lot of water under the bridge in 38 years."
Now I am thinking "There have been a lot of bridges over the water in that time." While we stayed in Juneau, they lived in Chile. In more recent years, she and I have shared the same bridge between Vancouver and Portland. Mostly, though we do not share the luxury of time we once shared. Our bond is eternal...for, we, too are sisters in Christ. And we now have two new young sisters. "Life just cannot possibly get any better than this."
Yesterday morning, following public worship, our oldest granddaughter (she will be the first to remind you that she is four minutes older than her sister) came to give me her usual hug. Or so I thought. However, this time, she whispered in my ear, "Memaw, I am going to be baptized today. My sister and I are!" Well, naturally, I assumed that they were going to avail themselves to using the new multi-dollar addition to the church building, but as I prepared to go to the front of the auditorium, her younger sister walked up to tell me that their choice of place for the re-birth (see Romans 6: 3-4 for starters) was the Columbia River.
Just before 7 on a beautiful, mostly cloudless evening, about 30-40 chirstians gathered on the banks of the Columbia River to witness the most important decision they will make in their lives.
Someone had thoughtfullly brought a few chairs for the event, and since I was not very steady on my feet, I sat down. I knew there was an alto singing beside me but gave little thought to who she might be, but after a couple of songs, I turned to see that the person holding my hand was my dear, dear friend of 38 years, co-owner of the trunk, and still the most beautiful lady I know. Since I was unable to maneuver the rocks that lay between my station and the dripping wet and happy girls, Joanne and I talked. I said, "There has been a lot of water under the bridge in 38 years."
Now I am thinking "There have been a lot of bridges over the water in that time." While we stayed in Juneau, they lived in Chile. In more recent years, she and I have shared the same bridge between Vancouver and Portland. Mostly, though we do not share the luxury of time we once shared. Our bond is eternal...for, we, too are sisters in Christ. And we now have two new young sisters. "Life just cannot possibly get any better than this."
Monday, July 23, 2007
A Long Way From Home
For the moment, let’s skip the report of getting to Eagle and our 10 days there. Let’s travel 3 miles South to Eagle Village on a dusty road which parallels the Yukon River.. There, we will find Charley Juneby’s House, or the community hall for the group of Athabaskan people – the Han Hwëch’in (pronounced Kwichin - with a little spit added in).
Most everyone knows that a potluck is an occasion when everyone brings a dish to share. A potlatch is the same thing except its purpose is to bring honor to someone. Postings in both Eagle and Eagle Village announced everyone was invited to honor Betty Wyatt at a potlatch on July 2nd. On July 1st, Joanne Beck came to our camper to discuss expectations.
The reason for the potlatch was two-fold. First, I wanted to present to Chief Marky the first several pages of Jessie’s photo album. The pictures on those pages are of Han youth in full regalia and of ancestors they have never seen. In 1975, a friend of mine took the photo album on a trip to Eagle and interviewed people who identified Jessie as well as other citizens. Second, it is important for the young people to witness such occasions.
At our preliminary meeting, Joanne asked if the pictures were framed, and I was happy to tell her that they had been beautifully mounted and framed. At that time, we also prepared her that we considered the photos to be a gift from Jessie, and we also wanted to present a gift from us. She said she would like to wait to see our gifts when presented.
In preparing me for the coming evening, Joanne said that after my presentation, a line would form to bring me gifts or hugs. She also said she did not know how many to expect but she knew of six from Dawson City and she thought there might be some from Fairbanks.
John and I arrived at Charley’s House shortly before the meal. Every Parkinson symptom I have experienced to that moment in time reared its ugly head for the occasion. After the wonderful meal, everyone gathered outside. John counted over 90 present so we figured 100 was a good guess. Young Chief Marky stood beside me as I shared my heart.
“In 2004, John and I came to Eagle to research the life of Jessie Fox Mather. Upon our arrival, we were invited to The Gathering which had been postponed because of fires in the region. We were shown around the property and went inside your church. When we came out, we walked to behind the church building.” At this time, I pointed to the huge bluffs across the Yukon River and stated, “When I looked at this scene, I felt I had been here many times before though I knew this was not possible. Then I realized that this was the exact place where some of the pictures of your ancestors were taken. It was not until we were ready to leave that I learned that Jessie’s possessions were a rarity. I apologize that it has taken me so long to present them to you.” Then John gave an eloquent speech, presenting the beautiful bent-wood, cedar box from Sitka.
After that, about 6 or 8 people lined up with gifts and hugs for me. Joanne’s aunt had made a lovely beaded necklace for me; it matched my clothing as though made for it; Joanne gave me foods she had canned, including salmon and “high bush,” and Carol Copeland presented to me a birch-bark basket which had been made by a lady from Eagle who had been taught the skills by Sarah, a Han master craftsperson. Of course, Carol waxed eloquent for her presentation. Then some of the heritage researchers from Dawson City presented a few gifts then demonstrated half a dozen songs and dances.
I think that I will never grasp the importance of the entire evening, but I know for certain that the pictures are in the right hands. To see them examine the notes from 1975 and see things I had never noticed even with a magnifying glass will live with me forever. And when I was visiting with a National Park Service employee from Fairbanks, I casually asked, “So, What brings you to Eagle? “His answer took me by surprise, “I came for this evening.”
The following day, Joanne Beck and two of the researchers from Dawson City came to visit. They talked of many things, but mainly they mentioned details they had seen in the pictures that mean something to their heritage, and they discussed preservation of the new treasures. It was a magical evening…a long way from home.
If you do not know the background of Jessie Fox Mather, you can learn about it by going to www.lulu.com/wyatt3.
Most everyone knows that a potluck is an occasion when everyone brings a dish to share. A potlatch is the same thing except its purpose is to bring honor to someone. Postings in both Eagle and Eagle Village announced everyone was invited to honor Betty Wyatt at a potlatch on July 2nd. On July 1st, Joanne Beck came to our camper to discuss expectations.
The reason for the potlatch was two-fold. First, I wanted to present to Chief Marky the first several pages of Jessie’s photo album. The pictures on those pages are of Han youth in full regalia and of ancestors they have never seen. In 1975, a friend of mine took the photo album on a trip to Eagle and interviewed people who identified Jessie as well as other citizens. Second, it is important for the young people to witness such occasions.
At our preliminary meeting, Joanne asked if the pictures were framed, and I was happy to tell her that they had been beautifully mounted and framed. At that time, we also prepared her that we considered the photos to be a gift from Jessie, and we also wanted to present a gift from us. She said she would like to wait to see our gifts when presented.
In preparing me for the coming evening, Joanne said that after my presentation, a line would form to bring me gifts or hugs. She also said she did not know how many to expect but she knew of six from Dawson City and she thought there might be some from Fairbanks.
John and I arrived at Charley’s House shortly before the meal. Every Parkinson symptom I have experienced to that moment in time reared its ugly head for the occasion. After the wonderful meal, everyone gathered outside. John counted over 90 present so we figured 100 was a good guess. Young Chief Marky stood beside me as I shared my heart.
“In 2004, John and I came to Eagle to research the life of Jessie Fox Mather. Upon our arrival, we were invited to The Gathering which had been postponed because of fires in the region. We were shown around the property and went inside your church. When we came out, we walked to behind the church building.” At this time, I pointed to the huge bluffs across the Yukon River and stated, “When I looked at this scene, I felt I had been here many times before though I knew this was not possible. Then I realized that this was the exact place where some of the pictures of your ancestors were taken. It was not until we were ready to leave that I learned that Jessie’s possessions were a rarity. I apologize that it has taken me so long to present them to you.” Then John gave an eloquent speech, presenting the beautiful bent-wood, cedar box from Sitka.
After that, about 6 or 8 people lined up with gifts and hugs for me. Joanne’s aunt had made a lovely beaded necklace for me; it matched my clothing as though made for it; Joanne gave me foods she had canned, including salmon and “high bush,” and Carol Copeland presented to me a birch-bark basket which had been made by a lady from Eagle who had been taught the skills by Sarah, a Han master craftsperson. Of course, Carol waxed eloquent for her presentation. Then some of the heritage researchers from Dawson City presented a few gifts then demonstrated half a dozen songs and dances.
I think that I will never grasp the importance of the entire evening, but I know for certain that the pictures are in the right hands. To see them examine the notes from 1975 and see things I had never noticed even with a magnifying glass will live with me forever. And when I was visiting with a National Park Service employee from Fairbanks, I casually asked, “So, What brings you to Eagle? “His answer took me by surprise, “I came for this evening.”
The following day, Joanne Beck and two of the researchers from Dawson City came to visit. They talked of many things, but mainly they mentioned details they had seen in the pictures that mean something to their heritage, and they discussed preservation of the new treasures. It was a magical evening…a long way from home.
If you do not know the background of Jessie Fox Mather, you can learn about it by going to www.lulu.com/wyatt3.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Onward & Upward
Our next destination was Wasilla, Alaska, where we were expecting to stay on a quiet lake for the better part of a week. John would work on a cabin recently purchased by a dear friend. The only other plan was to go into Anchorage for a couple of days for John to 1) have lunch with a Christian brother who goes WAY back and 2) to find where Sydney Lawrence Paintings are housed to view them. By the time we pulled out of our perch in Haines, we had already heard whispers of other plans for this portion of the journey.
Incidentally, from Haines Junction to Beaver Creek and beyond seemed to me the worst roads on the trip. The road signs that indicate three clumps of coal are a warning you are about to hit the ceiling, and everything in the camper is about to shift to spaces unknown.
As we neared our destination, the timing just seemed right to go straight into Anchorage, and since our friends could not be reached by phone, we decided to start at the Anchorage Museum to view Sydney Lawrence. At the end of our tour of this magnificent facility, we visited their gift shop. I was impressed with the book collection, and thought Jessie could do well there. But I was told the buyer does not work on weekends and he would expect to see a copy of the book first. I told her I could not spare a copy but did leave a postcard our son David had produced to help promote Jessie.
Well, "long story - short" (I know, I know. By the time one inserts this, it is too late!) We caught up with our dear friends in time for dinner only to find she was in the throes of preparing for church camp and he was shuffling a new job with a new business venture so we just stood aside and watched the activity. Anyway, the following day after morning worship, we found ourselves following him to a lake near Wasilla, but not his cabin lake. Instead, we set up our camper at a lake that came complete with campers! John held his title from "Faith Quest" as Camp Grandpa but picked up others such as Metalsmith, Fix-it man, and Sourdough Cook. Miss Betty helped where she could with the darling pre-schoolers. The campers and staff were a delightful God-send, and though it was not the week we had planned, the Master Planner (with a boost from our DEAR friends), certainly made it one for our memory bank.
During this week, I did find a spot to make a phone call to the Museum shop manager, and was surprised when he said he would like eight copies. After I took his information, I asked, "Why did you order without even seeing the book?" His answer, "Your references on the postcard are impeccable. I have never met Robert DeArmond personally, but I've been around a long time, and Stanton Patty is well-known. Did you know he has written a book?"
So...how does this get us to the potlatch? We are on our way. Leaving camp, we are headed toward Eagle and Eagle Village.
.
Incidentally, from Haines Junction to Beaver Creek and beyond seemed to me the worst roads on the trip. The road signs that indicate three clumps of coal are a warning you are about to hit the ceiling, and everything in the camper is about to shift to spaces unknown.
As we neared our destination, the timing just seemed right to go straight into Anchorage, and since our friends could not be reached by phone, we decided to start at the Anchorage Museum to view Sydney Lawrence. At the end of our tour of this magnificent facility, we visited their gift shop. I was impressed with the book collection, and thought Jessie could do well there. But I was told the buyer does not work on weekends and he would expect to see a copy of the book first. I told her I could not spare a copy but did leave a postcard our son David had produced to help promote Jessie.
Well, "long story - short" (I know, I know. By the time one inserts this, it is too late!) We caught up with our dear friends in time for dinner only to find she was in the throes of preparing for church camp and he was shuffling a new job with a new business venture so we just stood aside and watched the activity. Anyway, the following day after morning worship, we found ourselves following him to a lake near Wasilla, but not his cabin lake. Instead, we set up our camper at a lake that came complete with campers! John held his title from "Faith Quest" as Camp Grandpa but picked up others such as Metalsmith, Fix-it man, and Sourdough Cook. Miss Betty helped where she could with the darling pre-schoolers. The campers and staff were a delightful God-send, and though it was not the week we had planned, the Master Planner (with a boost from our DEAR friends), certainly made it one for our memory bank.
During this week, I did find a spot to make a phone call to the Museum shop manager, and was surprised when he said he would like eight copies. After I took his information, I asked, "Why did you order without even seeing the book?" His answer, "Your references on the postcard are impeccable. I have never met Robert DeArmond personally, but I've been around a long time, and Stanton Patty is well-known. Did you know he has written a book?"
So...how does this get us to the potlatch? We are on our way. Leaving camp, we are headed toward Eagle and Eagle Village.
.
Monday, July 16, 2007
A Journey of a lifetime
At Geoffrey and Dana's rehearsal dinner, John (proud papa of the groom) stood up, introduced himself, and asked each person present to stand, introduce him/her self, and to tell a brief story of how they were associated with the bride or groom. He saved me til the last. I stood, introduced myself as Mother of the Groom, and announced (to no one's surprise) "I don't have any brief stories about Geoffrey." I am learning that I don't have any brief stories on any subject.
I say this to say, "I will share with you about the potlatch in my honor, but you will have to endure the buildup."
On Monday, following the Saturday wedding, John and I flew to Sitka. Our hostess thought we were arriving by sea so, while waiting for her to come to the airport, I showed the book to the rental car fellow who had helped me locate Celeste's phone number. He asked what my wholesale price was, and when I told him, he said he'd like a dozen. Turns out he also owned the gift shop.
Anyway, we had just enough time to have a hot chocolate before I was to do a reading from the book at the Sitka Pioneer Home -- the setting for the beginning and the end of Jessie, the story of a genteel woman in frontier Alaska. Maybe 25 residents and staff were present for the reading, and because they were so receptive (laughing in the right places, etc.), I extended my time of reading. The following day, John and super-Celeste ran around town passing out flyers and encouraging folks to stop by the Pioneer Home. to meet the author. Much of that afternoon was spent unsuccessfully trying to locate Jessie's grave. I had a photo Geoffrey had taken earlier, but that photo was in Haines in the camper. We sold 37 copies in Sitka. We were invited to lunch in the Home, and felt doubly blessed to sit at the table with Robert DeArmond.
That evening, John and Celeste took her dogs to the beach. After the beach, it seems the two of them had been discussing the extreme honor of a potlatch and went in search of an appropriate gift. They located a local artist who agreed that the potlatch is very special and said he had a bent-wood cedar box he was working on that would be just the right presentation.
The next morning, there were a few stops to make before leaving Sitka. The first stop was a total surprise to me. The two of them introduced me to the artist, and we took possesion of the magnificent box. Already, I felt honored. We stopped by the bank to cash local checks, and the banker was the wife of the airport gift shop gentleman. She was half way through the book. She said I needed to leave several copies, but I told her it was early in our journey so I'd better wait. John and I caught the Fairweather ferry back to Juneau and, the next day, began our trek northward,
STAY TUNED!
I say this to say, "I will share with you about the potlatch in my honor, but you will have to endure the buildup."
On Monday, following the Saturday wedding, John and I flew to Sitka. Our hostess thought we were arriving by sea so, while waiting for her to come to the airport, I showed the book to the rental car fellow who had helped me locate Celeste's phone number. He asked what my wholesale price was, and when I told him, he said he'd like a dozen. Turns out he also owned the gift shop.
Anyway, we had just enough time to have a hot chocolate before I was to do a reading from the book at the Sitka Pioneer Home -- the setting for the beginning and the end of Jessie, the story of a genteel woman in frontier Alaska. Maybe 25 residents and staff were present for the reading, and because they were so receptive (laughing in the right places, etc.), I extended my time of reading. The following day, John and super-Celeste ran around town passing out flyers and encouraging folks to stop by the Pioneer Home. to meet the author. Much of that afternoon was spent unsuccessfully trying to locate Jessie's grave. I had a photo Geoffrey had taken earlier, but that photo was in Haines in the camper. We sold 37 copies in Sitka. We were invited to lunch in the Home, and felt doubly blessed to sit at the table with Robert DeArmond.
That evening, John and Celeste took her dogs to the beach. After the beach, it seems the two of them had been discussing the extreme honor of a potlatch and went in search of an appropriate gift. They located a local artist who agreed that the potlatch is very special and said he had a bent-wood cedar box he was working on that would be just the right presentation.
The next morning, there were a few stops to make before leaving Sitka. The first stop was a total surprise to me. The two of them introduced me to the artist, and we took possesion of the magnificent box. Already, I felt honored. We stopped by the bank to cash local checks, and the banker was the wife of the airport gift shop gentleman. She was half way through the book. She said I needed to leave several copies, but I told her it was early in our journey so I'd better wait. John and I caught the Fairweather ferry back to Juneau and, the next day, began our trek northward,
STAY TUNED!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
watching...
I know the world is watching our family's blog for word of the wedding. Let me just say every detail was thot out by someone other than us, and though communication was difficult with cell phones being out of reach, etc, the happy couple drove off to somewhere nearby since that is the makeup of this wonderland called Juneau.
We have sat in the home of our dear friends and watched a mother whale and her calf, eagles by the score, boats, planes, too much to take in. I'm certain you will hear LOTS more when folks get to their own computers and networks. Suffice it to say, we have been blessed by God beyond belief this entire visit.
Edwin, Patty, girls, with his mom and her hubby leave today; also Paige and all of Dana's kin.
John and I leave for Sitka in the morning for a 2-day visit. I will do a reading of Jessie selections tomorrow and a signing on Tuesday, both in the Pioneer Home where Jessie lived.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey and Dana will be preparing to head to Skagway tomorrow to begin the drive south.
We have sat in the home of our dear friends and watched a mother whale and her calf, eagles by the score, boats, planes, too much to take in. I'm certain you will hear LOTS more when folks get to their own computers and networks. Suffice it to say, we have been blessed by God beyond belief this entire visit.
Edwin, Patty, girls, with his mom and her hubby leave today; also Paige and all of Dana's kin.
John and I leave for Sitka in the morning for a 2-day visit. I will do a reading of Jessie selections tomorrow and a signing on Tuesday, both in the Pioneer Home where Jessie lived.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey and Dana will be preparing to head to Skagway tomorrow to begin the drive south.
Friday, May 25, 2007
and the other is....
When my husband and teenage daughter were on a cross-country trek together, their last stop was in Seattle. There were many fascinating sights and people to watch but none so memorable as the panhandler carrying a gallon-size bucket. In large letters, printed on the side of his container were the words "No Canadian Coins!" My daughter looked at her father and said, "So much for Mother's advice that Beggars Can't be Choosers."
Friday, May 18, 2007
Publication reject
I wonder how many others have sent humorous stories to Reader's digest, thinking they would be awarded a sum of money. Over the years, I have sent in two masterpieces. But, alas, I have never heard back from RD.
Here is one of my entries:
My husband and I were in Memphis, Tennessee, on a visit with our college-age children. Having exited the freeway, we were in a position to see across the overpass. What we saw was a snarl of cars with their lights on. A funeral procession had been delayed because the lead automobile had been in an accident. Just as we passed, we could see that the casket was being transferred to another funeral home vehicle. Our clever freshman commented "Look everyone! A re-hearsal!"
Here is one of my entries:
My husband and I were in Memphis, Tennessee, on a visit with our college-age children. Having exited the freeway, we were in a position to see across the overpass. What we saw was a snarl of cars with their lights on. A funeral procession had been delayed because the lead automobile had been in an accident. Just as we passed, we could see that the casket was being transferred to another funeral home vehicle. Our clever freshman commented "Look everyone! A re-hearsal!"
Monday, May 7, 2007
IT WORKED!!
"Sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy."
"A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam, I'll be a sunbeam for Him."
"Let a smile be your umbrella."
"But that lucky old sun got nothin' to do but roll around heaven all day."
"A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam, I'll be a sunbeam for Him."
"Let a smile be your umbrella."
"But that lucky old sun got nothin' to do but roll around heaven all day."
Thursday, May 3, 2007
RAIN
"Rain. Rain. Go away. come again some other day.
Little Suzie wants to play."
"Raindrops keep falling on my head,
but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red.
Crying's not for me..."
"Rainy days and Mondays always get me down."
"There shall be showers of blessing.
this is the promise of love.
There shall be seasons refreshing
sent from the Father above."
"Lord, reign in me; reign in your power."
"A little ducky daddle went wading in a puddle one day."
"Pitter patter Pittter patter Splish splash."
"April showers bring May flowers."
"But what do May Flowers bring?
"Pilgrims."
"It Ain't gonna rain no more"
"Into each life some rain must fall."
"The Rain in Spain stays mainly in the Plain
(By George, she's got it)"
"Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain."
"100% Chance of Rain."
"April Showers."
"April In Paris"
"Come Rain or Come Shine"
"Don't rain on my parade"
"I'M SINGIN' IN THE RAIN...JUST SINGIN' IN THE RAIN...
WHAT A GLORIOUS FEELIN'...I'M HAPPY AGIN."
Little Suzie wants to play."
"Raindrops keep falling on my head,
but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red.
Crying's not for me..."
"Rainy days and Mondays always get me down."
"There shall be showers of blessing.
this is the promise of love.
There shall be seasons refreshing
sent from the Father above."
"Lord, reign in me; reign in your power."
"A little ducky daddle went wading in a puddle one day."
"Pitter patter Pittter patter Splish splash."
"April showers bring May flowers."
"But what do May Flowers bring?
"Pilgrims."
"It Ain't gonna rain no more"
"Into each life some rain must fall."
"The Rain in Spain stays mainly in the Plain
(By George, she's got it)"
"Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain."
"100% Chance of Rain."
"April Showers."
"April In Paris"
"Come Rain or Come Shine"
"Don't rain on my parade"
"I'M SINGIN' IN THE RAIN...JUST SINGIN' IN THE RAIN...
WHAT A GLORIOUS FEELIN'...I'M HAPPY AGIN."
Friday, April 20, 2007
A Poem
When I was in sixth grade in Springtown, Texas, I memorized this poem for the class “Friday talent show.” For years, my father used the small card it was printed on as a bookmark It was given him by an insurance agent.
Wouldn’t this old world be better
If the folks we meet would say,
“I know something good about you.”
And then treat us just that way?
Wouldn’t your life be sweeter
If each handshake, tried and true,
Held with it this assurance
“I know something good about you.”
--Anonymoous
Wouldn’t this old world be better
If the folks we meet would say,
“I know something good about you.”
And then treat us just that way?
Wouldn’t your life be sweeter
If each handshake, tried and true,
Held with it this assurance
“I know something good about you.”
--Anonymoous
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
A story Crying to be heard....
When I opened the Internet (http://www.wyattjourney.com/) this morning (April 11, 2007), there was a familiar sight punching me in the arm to share this one. The pictures were of racers running in Juneau. The race in my memory was called the "Governor's Cup Race." As I recall, it began in the street in front of the Capitol Building and ended near the hospital. The two main characters of this tale are the Web Master himself and me, his mother.
Geoffrey must have been about 5 years old when he heard there was going to be a race. He really wanted to run that 5K foot race. (Actually, I think we opted for the shortened 3K version.) However, he was afraid to try it alone. It did not matter at all to him whose body would stick with him so long as it was family. Where his brother or sister would be, I do not recall; they may have even run the race but declared their disdain for being encumbered by "him."
The morning of the race came, and we were there plenty early to collect our tee shirts and find a place in the crowd of runners. Of course there were serious runners -- properly attired, stretching, warming up. As more and more racers joined, Geoffrey and I moved further back. Then the officials stood on the steps of the Capitol and explained the route and rules. At this time, Geoffrey was inching us a little forward, to the back of center.
Ready...aim...fire. We were off. "I always thought the Capitol was at the crest of this hill. This is no time to realize there is quite a climb just from there to the Governor's mansion." About the time I spotted the familiar white columns (about one-half a block from the starting line), I realized I had lost sight of my little boy. "I must force myself to run no matter how it hurts..poor Geoffrey; he must be frantic." About the time the course wound around the neighborhood ABOVE the cemetery, my side began to ache. Never mind that I had been walking the greater majority since rounding the corner by the city library, which was the building just across the street from the Capitol. By this time, I was "running the race" (I do use that term loosely) completely alone.
By now, the main thing was to "Stay the course and hope Geoffrey was not too frightened. " Eventually, I remember seeing the long downhill stretch to the finish line, where a few stragglers from the real race awaited the arrival of us late comers. John walked up to meet me and to encourage me to pick up my feet and run the last little bit. As I recall, my name and age and race time were published in the Juneau Empire followed by three or four other names.
And Geoffrey? Well, he was waiting at the finish line to cheer me on. I see by this morning's photo that he still is talking unsuspecting women into running with him. For those curious if I went out and bought the wardrobe and exercised and got in shape for the next year, the answer is "No." I went back to baking chocolate chip cookies and being roommother, but I never ran another race.
.....and I wore that tee shirt for years, with pride.
Geoffrey must have been about 5 years old when he heard there was going to be a race. He really wanted to run that 5K foot race. (Actually, I think we opted for the shortened 3K version.) However, he was afraid to try it alone. It did not matter at all to him whose body would stick with him so long as it was family. Where his brother or sister would be, I do not recall; they may have even run the race but declared their disdain for being encumbered by "him."
The morning of the race came, and we were there plenty early to collect our tee shirts and find a place in the crowd of runners. Of course there were serious runners -- properly attired, stretching, warming up. As more and more racers joined, Geoffrey and I moved further back. Then the officials stood on the steps of the Capitol and explained the route and rules. At this time, Geoffrey was inching us a little forward, to the back of center.
Ready...aim...fire. We were off. "I always thought the Capitol was at the crest of this hill. This is no time to realize there is quite a climb just from there to the Governor's mansion." About the time I spotted the familiar white columns (about one-half a block from the starting line), I realized I had lost sight of my little boy. "I must force myself to run no matter how it hurts..poor Geoffrey; he must be frantic." About the time the course wound around the neighborhood ABOVE the cemetery, my side began to ache. Never mind that I had been walking the greater majority since rounding the corner by the city library, which was the building just across the street from the Capitol. By this time, I was "running the race" (I do use that term loosely) completely alone.
By now, the main thing was to "Stay the course and hope Geoffrey was not too frightened. " Eventually, I remember seeing the long downhill stretch to the finish line, where a few stragglers from the real race awaited the arrival of us late comers. John walked up to meet me and to encourage me to pick up my feet and run the last little bit. As I recall, my name and age and race time were published in the Juneau Empire followed by three or four other names.
And Geoffrey? Well, he was waiting at the finish line to cheer me on. I see by this morning's photo that he still is talking unsuspecting women into running with him. For those curious if I went out and bought the wardrobe and exercised and got in shape for the next year, the answer is "No." I went back to baking chocolate chip cookies and being roommother, but I never ran another race.
.....and I wore that tee shirt for years, with pride.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
HEROES
All day long I have been thinking about people I consider my heroes, and then John goes and writes a wonderful tribute to one of his heroes, Johnny Hart. My heroes have no fame nor even the desire to be recognized for anything besides being faithful.
FAYE became my hero the first time I walked into her lovely “Country Gentleman” home. I had not taken two steps inside her front door before she said, “Don’t touch the dust. I’m collecting.” She is a craftsman of pithy sayings.
IRENE became my hero when she demonstrated her “green toe.” Anyone visiting her home did not leave without adopting at least one plant and an armful of vegetables from her perfectly groomed garden. When showing us a 40-foot tree that just suddenly appeared in her yard, I told her I would appreciate knowing her secret soil formula and any hints on planting.
She found a seed in her lean-to greenhouse and brought it outside where I stood and said, “Watch this.” Without even bending, she scuffed the grassy area with the big toe of her well-worn oxford. When there was a patch of dirt about 4 inches square, she dropped the seed on the ground, kicked it into the bare spot, and maneuvered with her foot what little loose dirt was available, tapping it lightly with the ball of her foot. Then she looked up into my eyes, and with that permanent smile of hers said, “That’s all there is to it.” And, you know? I think she believes that.
GERALDINE is a painter..an artist kind of painter. She did not know she had the skill until someone talked her into trying it. ERMA is a quilter beyond belief. Her stitches are so perfect that the first thing I saw quilted by her, I really thought she had cheated by using a sewing machine.
My list could go forever. My talent? Don’t you ever forget this. My talent is appreciating others' talents. Don’t kid yourself; that is a very good talent to have.
FAYE became my hero the first time I walked into her lovely “Country Gentleman” home. I had not taken two steps inside her front door before she said, “Don’t touch the dust. I’m collecting.” She is a craftsman of pithy sayings.
IRENE became my hero when she demonstrated her “green toe.” Anyone visiting her home did not leave without adopting at least one plant and an armful of vegetables from her perfectly groomed garden. When showing us a 40-foot tree that just suddenly appeared in her yard, I told her I would appreciate knowing her secret soil formula and any hints on planting.
She found a seed in her lean-to greenhouse and brought it outside where I stood and said, “Watch this.” Without even bending, she scuffed the grassy area with the big toe of her well-worn oxford. When there was a patch of dirt about 4 inches square, she dropped the seed on the ground, kicked it into the bare spot, and maneuvered with her foot what little loose dirt was available, tapping it lightly with the ball of her foot. Then she looked up into my eyes, and with that permanent smile of hers said, “That’s all there is to it.” And, you know? I think she believes that.
GERALDINE is a painter..an artist kind of painter. She did not know she had the skill until someone talked her into trying it. ERMA is a quilter beyond belief. Her stitches are so perfect that the first thing I saw quilted by her, I really thought she had cheated by using a sewing machine.
My list could go forever. My talent? Don’t you ever forget this. My talent is appreciating others' talents. Don’t kid yourself; that is a very good talent to have.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
GETTING TO KNOW YOU
For many years, my hubby and I have had a standard rule for visitors to our home. "The first day of your visit, we treat you like guests. After that, you are family." Generally, that means we show you where the eating utensils and extra blankets are kept, and if you need a cup of coffee or bowl of cereal, you are on your own.
But this week, we had to adjust the rule just a tad. When Dana walked in the front door, she was welcomed as "family" even though the wedding is still in the planning stages. The granddaughters are puzzled whether to call her Aunt Dana or Miss Dana or Hey You. They settled on Miss Dana though I have yet to hear anyone actually use her name when addresing her. Whatever name she is tagged with, she has fit into all facets of our life.
Patty and I are especially thankful that she loves the kitchen, for cooking and for cleaning. Dana is a preschool, special-needs teacher. One of the younger future nieces has shadowed her a lot this week...and this shadow is silent. Embarrassed, scared, unsure, fascinated and curious about this new relation, she approaches Dana with her head bowed but her eyes following. She tries to keep both future groom and future bride in site at all times.
It has been a special time, and we are, as always, impressed with Geoffrey's decision. She fit in very well, meeting our family and friends. She holds her own when being singled out as the brunt of the joke and when playing board games. Best of all, she loves the Lord and Juneau and Geoffrey. Maybe not in that order.
But this week, we had to adjust the rule just a tad. When Dana walked in the front door, she was welcomed as "family" even though the wedding is still in the planning stages. The granddaughters are puzzled whether to call her Aunt Dana or Miss Dana or Hey You. They settled on Miss Dana though I have yet to hear anyone actually use her name when addresing her. Whatever name she is tagged with, she has fit into all facets of our life.
Patty and I are especially thankful that she loves the kitchen, for cooking and for cleaning. Dana is a preschool, special-needs teacher. One of the younger future nieces has shadowed her a lot this week...and this shadow is silent. Embarrassed, scared, unsure, fascinated and curious about this new relation, she approaches Dana with her head bowed but her eyes following. She tries to keep both future groom and future bride in site at all times.
It has been a special time, and we are, as always, impressed with Geoffrey's decision. She fit in very well, meeting our family and friends. She holds her own when being singled out as the brunt of the joke and when playing board games. Best of all, she loves the Lord and Juneau and Geoffrey. Maybe not in that order.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Wonderin'
When I am reading the Bible or listening to it being read, there is one passage of scripture that makes me hold my breath and to think, "If I could be anyone in God's Word, this is the character I would want to be."
I wonder if others feel this way. I wonder whom others might choose. I know that some believe they know the name of my chosen woman. Many things have been said about the person they would name. Mostly, what one reads about her are completely fictional. In truth, as far as I know, there is only one encounter between this woman and Jesus Christ, and she is nameless.
Ah-h-h, but what an encounter! Jesus had accepted an invitation to eat in the house of a Pharisee; and when He entered the house, the host did not do Him the courtesy of washing His feet. But a woman, hearing of the visitor, entered the house of the Pharisee. When she came near Jesus, she dropped to her knees, crying.
Why was she crying? Why would I be crying? Coming in contact with God in flesh, knowing my shortcomings, knowing that He knows me. Not simply that He knows my name but He knows all about me; and loves me just the same. He cares.
Her tears flowed from her broken, penitent heart. They were not wasted. She used them to wash the accumulation of dust and dirt on His feet from His journeys. And she dried the briney liquid with her long hair. All the time she was wetting His feet with her tears, she was kissing them. What humility of spirit that would require. Finally, she used her perfume to anoint His feet.
At the start of this blog, I stated, "She was nameless." However, there is a descriptive word...an adjective....telling the reader much about her. That word is sinner. Jesus speaks to her twice, saying, "Your sins have been forgiven." and "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
The Bible does not tell us anything more about that woman, but I can fully imagine that she left His presence IN PEACE. A good cry can feel so cleansing, and knowing one's wrong doings are forgiven....well, life just can't get any better!
Luke 7:36-50
I wonder if others feel this way. I wonder whom others might choose. I know that some believe they know the name of my chosen woman. Many things have been said about the person they would name. Mostly, what one reads about her are completely fictional. In truth, as far as I know, there is only one encounter between this woman and Jesus Christ, and she is nameless.
Ah-h-h, but what an encounter! Jesus had accepted an invitation to eat in the house of a Pharisee; and when He entered the house, the host did not do Him the courtesy of washing His feet. But a woman, hearing of the visitor, entered the house of the Pharisee. When she came near Jesus, she dropped to her knees, crying.
Why was she crying? Why would I be crying? Coming in contact with God in flesh, knowing my shortcomings, knowing that He knows me. Not simply that He knows my name but He knows all about me; and loves me just the same. He cares.
Her tears flowed from her broken, penitent heart. They were not wasted. She used them to wash the accumulation of dust and dirt on His feet from His journeys. And she dried the briney liquid with her long hair. All the time she was wetting His feet with her tears, she was kissing them. What humility of spirit that would require. Finally, she used her perfume to anoint His feet.
At the start of this blog, I stated, "She was nameless." However, there is a descriptive word...an adjective....telling the reader much about her. That word is sinner. Jesus speaks to her twice, saying, "Your sins have been forgiven." and "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
The Bible does not tell us anything more about that woman, but I can fully imagine that she left His presence IN PEACE. A good cry can feel so cleansing, and knowing one's wrong doings are forgiven....well, life just can't get any better!
Luke 7:36-50
Sunday, March 11, 2007
remembrance
This is one of my favorite lessons from Togo, West Africa.
There was a young African man named John. He was a young christian from a nearby village who would come weekly to sit for hours on the missionary's front porch and talk about the Bible and its teachings. John was the owner of only one shirt which he wore with great pride. It was a brilliant yellow, tattered, polyester, maternity top. Every time the young missionary saw John in that shirt, he would try to think of a way to convince John to somehow replace it.
Finally, he came upon the perfect plan. He taught a series of lessons about giving, especially to help those less fortunate than oneself. He stressed how our giving is from the heart and certainly does not necessarily mean that we give money. And, when he felt the subject was exhausted, he declared a "giving Sunday."
Giving Sunday seemed to go well. In the collection basket were some dried beans, a pineapple, a sack containing sugar, a slightly cracked bowl, and a live chicken as well as a size large tee shirt. On Tuesday, John showed up for his usual visit, still wearing the holey maternity top.
When asked, "Did you not see the new shirt?" John's reply was quick and sincere, "Yes, and I made certain that it went to the poor."
There was a young African man named John. He was a young christian from a nearby village who would come weekly to sit for hours on the missionary's front porch and talk about the Bible and its teachings. John was the owner of only one shirt which he wore with great pride. It was a brilliant yellow, tattered, polyester, maternity top. Every time the young missionary saw John in that shirt, he would try to think of a way to convince John to somehow replace it.
Finally, he came upon the perfect plan. He taught a series of lessons about giving, especially to help those less fortunate than oneself. He stressed how our giving is from the heart and certainly does not necessarily mean that we give money. And, when he felt the subject was exhausted, he declared a "giving Sunday."
Giving Sunday seemed to go well. In the collection basket were some dried beans, a pineapple, a sack containing sugar, a slightly cracked bowl, and a live chicken as well as a size large tee shirt. On Tuesday, John showed up for his usual visit, still wearing the holey maternity top.
When asked, "Did you not see the new shirt?" John's reply was quick and sincere, "Yes, and I made certain that it went to the poor."
Friday, March 2, 2007
THANKFULNESS
Ten things, in random order, that are great about e-mail:
#10 An occasional shared smile.
#9 Hearing from people I thought were gone from my life (example - high school buddy).
#8 Meeting new people (example - son's future mother -in-law).
#7 Daily Scripture ( example - First thing I see each day is scripture from Coach Fields).
#6 Keeping up on news.
#5 Salutations - One does not have to waste effort deciding on an appropriate ending of an email message such as"love" or "yours truly" or "sincerely."
#4 Making and breaking appointments.
#3 Keeping in touch with folks other than holidays.
#2 Keeping others informed of goings on and staying informed, too.
#1 Instantly learning travellers have arrived safely.
#10 An occasional shared smile.
#9 Hearing from people I thought were gone from my life (example - high school buddy).
#8 Meeting new people (example - son's future mother -in-law).
#7 Daily Scripture ( example - First thing I see each day is scripture from Coach Fields).
#6 Keeping up on news.
#5 Salutations - One does not have to waste effort deciding on an appropriate ending of an email message such as"love" or "yours truly" or "sincerely."
#4 Making and breaking appointments.
#3 Keeping in touch with folks other than holidays.
#2 Keeping others informed of goings on and staying informed, too.
#1 Instantly learning travellers have arrived safely.
Friday, February 23, 2007
But who's counting?
Today, John and I celebrate 43 years of marital bliss. Yep! Forty-three years ago, we stood before a small gathering, facing my earthly father, attended by John's brother and my college roommate, vowing "I do." to whatever the question was.
Most folks who know us have heard the story of our courtship. Basically,when LaPhonia (college roomie) asked if I'd like to get a group together on January 4th, to celebrate several January birthdays, I answered, "Because John and I have birthdays on January 3rd and 5th, I was sort of saving the 4th in case he asked me out." Naturally, LaPhonia went directly to John and told him that he and I had a date on the 4th.
So, beginning our relationship with a clear misunderstanding, he took me to a fine restaurant for our first date. By the end of January, we were spending quite a bit of time together, and I took it upon myself to tell him I really wanted only friendship, and if he wanted more than that, we needed to "cool it." He assured me that was his thinking also.
On February 4th, he phoned to ask me if I could find someone off campus to stay with; he had something important to share. Helen and Jerry McBee kindly took me in for the night. John got off work very late. He took me through the entire Bible, pointing out scriptures on marriage, wife, husband, parenting. Then he asked me to marry him. I asked for time to think about it; I promised to answer soon and drifted off to sleep. Every time I woke up, John was still right there patiently awaiting my answer. By dawn's early light, February 5th, I said ok.
Each of us should have learned a lesson about the other that fateful night. I should have learned that any project John undertakes, he studies it to the Nth degree. He should have learned that I can fall asleep under any circumstances.
For those reading this who are not mathmatically inclined, Our engagement was all of 18 days long. The wedding cost us less than $100, including flowers and the rings we still wear. And the preacher (Hugh Ousley) even returned our $5 payment with a note to John stating, "This is for taking Betty off our hands."
Now the exciting part is, we begin our 44th year with a love beyond what two silly kids in a VW bug declared often, and I wonder what subject he will pursue next.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
LIFE'S LITTLE LESSONS
Today, John and I celebrate 43 years of marital bliss. Yep! Forty three years ago, we stood before a small gathering, facing my earthly father, attended by John's brother and my college roommate, vowing "I do." to whatever the question was.
Most folks who know us have heard the story of our courtship. Basically,when LaPhonia (college roomie) asked if I'd like to get a group together on January 4th, to celebrate several January birthdays, I answered, "Because John and I have birthdays on January 3rd and 5th, I was sort of saving the 4th in case he asked me out." Naturally, LaPhonia went directly to John and told him that he and I had a date on the 4th.
So, beginning our relationship with a clear misunderstanding, he took me to a fine restaurant for our first date. By the end of January, we were spending quite a bit of time together, and I took it upon myself to tell him I really wanted only friendship, and if he wanted more than that, we needed to "cool it." He assured me that was his thinking also.
On February 4th, he phoned to ask me if I could find someone off campus to stay with; he had something important to share. Helen and Jerry McBee kindly took me in for the night. John got off work very late. He took me through the entire Bible, pointing out scriptures on marriage, wife, husband, parenting. Then he asked me to marry him. I asked for time to think about it; I promised to answer soon and drifted off to sleep. Every time I woke up, John was still right there patiently awaiting my answer. By dawn's early light, February 5th, I said ok.
Each of us should have learned a lesson about the other that fateful night. I should have learned that any project John undertakes, he studies it to the Nth degree.
He should have learned that I can fall asleep under any circumstances.
For those reading this who are not mathmatically inclined, Our engagement was all of 18 days long. The wedding cost us less than $100, including flowers and the rings we still wear. And the preacher (Hugh Ousley) even returned our $5 payment with a note to John stating, "This is for taking Betty off our hands."
Most folks who know us have heard the story of our courtship. Basically,when LaPhonia (college roomie) asked if I'd like to get a group together on January 4th, to celebrate several January birthdays, I answered, "Because John and I have birthdays on January 3rd and 5th, I was sort of saving the 4th in case he asked me out." Naturally, LaPhonia went directly to John and told him that he and I had a date on the 4th.
So, beginning our relationship with a clear misunderstanding, he took me to a fine restaurant for our first date. By the end of January, we were spending quite a bit of time together, and I took it upon myself to tell him I really wanted only friendship, and if he wanted more than that, we needed to "cool it." He assured me that was his thinking also.
On February 4th, he phoned to ask me if I could find someone off campus to stay with; he had something important to share. Helen and Jerry McBee kindly took me in for the night. John got off work very late. He took me through the entire Bible, pointing out scriptures on marriage, wife, husband, parenting. Then he asked me to marry him. I asked for time to think about it; I promised to answer soon and drifted off to sleep. Every time I woke up, John was still right there patiently awaiting my answer. By dawn's early light, February 5th, I said ok.
Each of us should have learned a lesson about the other that fateful night. I should have learned that any project John undertakes, he studies it to the Nth degree.
He should have learned that I can fall asleep under any circumstances.
For those reading this who are not mathmatically inclined, Our engagement was all of 18 days long. The wedding cost us less than $100, including flowers and the rings we still wear. And the preacher (Hugh Ousley) even returned our $5 payment with a note to John stating, "This is for taking Betty off our hands."
Thursday, February 15, 2007
CALF ROPE
Are members of my family the only ones who say "calf rope" to let someone know you surrender? You have had enough tickling or wrestling or annoyance.
Ever since the first person who read Jessie's story asked me "When are you writing the sequel?" I have consistently answered, "When your character dies at the end of the book, how can there be a sequel?"
No fewer than six people asked me Sunday morning to please write more about Jessie. So it was that I sat down at the computer Sunday afternoon shouting "CALF ROPE" and typing a working title -- Searching for Jessie. It was my intent to trace the research necessary to create Jessie the story of a genteel woman in frontier Alaska. Only problem is that fewer than two paragraphs into the sequal, I hit a big problem.
Ever since the acquisition of the trunk in 1970 , I have been told that Jessie arrived in Eagle, Alaska, via the Valdez Trail. I have studied this path for some time and cannot rectify either her mother's illness or her arrival in Eagle. I have met a gentleman via telephone who may know how to fit the puzzle pieces together. I look forward to meeting him face to face (or as Jessie would say tete a tete).
Meanwhile, as sincere as I was when I shouted "calf rope," perhaps I had my fingers crossed when I spoke the words. Everyone knows it's okay to fabricate things if your fingers are crossed when you spoke.
Ever since the first person who read Jessie's story asked me "When are you writing the sequel?" I have consistently answered, "When your character dies at the end of the book, how can there be a sequel?"
No fewer than six people asked me Sunday morning to please write more about Jessie. So it was that I sat down at the computer Sunday afternoon shouting "CALF ROPE" and typing a working title -- Searching for Jessie. It was my intent to trace the research necessary to create Jessie the story of a genteel woman in frontier Alaska. Only problem is that fewer than two paragraphs into the sequal, I hit a big problem.
Ever since the acquisition of the trunk in 1970 , I have been told that Jessie arrived in Eagle, Alaska, via the Valdez Trail. I have studied this path for some time and cannot rectify either her mother's illness or her arrival in Eagle. I have met a gentleman via telephone who may know how to fit the puzzle pieces together. I look forward to meeting him face to face (or as Jessie would say tete a tete).
Meanwhile, as sincere as I was when I shouted "calf rope," perhaps I had my fingers crossed when I spoke the words. Everyone knows it's okay to fabricate things if your fingers are crossed when you spoke.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Olde words....new meanings
There are words that once were reserved for someone or something special that now have taken on a new personality. For instance, look at the word "integrity." In the olden days, when someone heard the word "integrity," it conjured up thoughts of a special person -- a person with no known vices or quirks...as nearly perfect as one could be.
But, there I stood....holding a collapsed cereal box declaring, "This box has no integrity." Again, the next day, my sandwich bread "lacked integrity." And the seat belt receiver was "without integrity." In every case, the item was limp. I wonder "Who decided to trash a perfectly good word to replace another perfectly good word?"
"Lady" is another such word. Once reserved for a female person of strong morals and character, it is more often used to mean the opposite these days.
This morning, I was trying to read an important directive online. The author kept referring to the "functionality/" So far as I could tell, he was referring to the product's function.
I once had a penpal from China. She asked me to explain to her why it took so many words to convey one concept. When asked to give an example, she replied, "The man walked across the street." or "He strolled, sauntered, swaggered, crawled, sped, ran .".....well, you get the picture.
Nothing in this blog is definitive, life-changing, even brilliant. Methinks I find comfort in the olde meanings of words. "The integrity of the upright will guide them....."Proverbs 11:3
But, there I stood....holding a collapsed cereal box declaring, "This box has no integrity." Again, the next day, my sandwich bread "lacked integrity." And the seat belt receiver was "without integrity." In every case, the item was limp. I wonder "Who decided to trash a perfectly good word to replace another perfectly good word?"
"Lady" is another such word. Once reserved for a female person of strong morals and character, it is more often used to mean the opposite these days.
This morning, I was trying to read an important directive online. The author kept referring to the "functionality/" So far as I could tell, he was referring to the product's function.
I once had a penpal from China. She asked me to explain to her why it took so many words to convey one concept. When asked to give an example, she replied, "The man walked across the street." or "He strolled, sauntered, swaggered, crawled, sped, ran .".....well, you get the picture.
Nothing in this blog is definitive, life-changing, even brilliant. Methinks I find comfort in the olde meanings of words. "The integrity of the upright will guide them....."Proverbs 11:3
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
HISTORY LESSON continued........
After some time passed, the hat's recipient graduated high school and left for college. I noticed that he had absent-mindedly forgotten to pack the hat so I quietly stuffed it in the innards of his suitcase.
His first Christmas break, his father and I stood among the throngs of air travelers waiting eagerly to catch a glimpse of our son...actually afraid we would not recognize him some 4 months after he had left home. We need not have feared because he was the only disembarking passenger wearing a fluorescent orange hat.
When opening the Christmas gift with the special wrap, it was my turn to receive his hat. However, I knew how important the item was to him so I mailed it to him. Over the years, the hat has turned up under mattresses and in the Canadian wilderness when he unfolded his tent. It has been mailed, sent with others, and handed back directly.
To see a picture of how very useful this fashion statement has been over the years, go to www.wyattjourney.com and look at his May 17, 2005, photo. It was about that time I determined perhaps he really wanted me to have it...so I put it away in my Mother's "hope chest" thinking someday I could wear it to his wedding rehearsal. The last time I saw the orange wonder, Geoffrey had tucked it in some attic bookshelves he thought were seldom, if ever, used. I wasted no time mailing it to him.
Now, he is the keeper of the hat. And I am wondering what color shoes I need to go with it.
His first Christmas break, his father and I stood among the throngs of air travelers waiting eagerly to catch a glimpse of our son...actually afraid we would not recognize him some 4 months after he had left home. We need not have feared because he was the only disembarking passenger wearing a fluorescent orange hat.
When opening the Christmas gift with the special wrap, it was my turn to receive his hat. However, I knew how important the item was to him so I mailed it to him. Over the years, the hat has turned up under mattresses and in the Canadian wilderness when he unfolded his tent. It has been mailed, sent with others, and handed back directly.
To see a picture of how very useful this fashion statement has been over the years, go to www.wyattjourney.com and look at his May 17, 2005, photo. It was about that time I determined perhaps he really wanted me to have it...so I put it away in my Mother's "hope chest" thinking someday I could wear it to his wedding rehearsal. The last time I saw the orange wonder, Geoffrey had tucked it in some attic bookshelves he thought were seldom, if ever, used. I wasted no time mailing it to him.
Now, he is the keeper of the hat. And I am wondering what color shoes I need to go with it.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
A HISTORY LESSON
Since "someone" in my last blog commented on the subject, I feel I need to address the hat. And, since no one other than my family has found this cubby hole, no one in the telling of this story need feel embarrassed.
It all started at an enormous yard sale overlooking the Columbia River...crowds of people seeking hidden treasure among makeshift tables scattered over half an acre of prime property. I don't like to spend more than two figures for anything in these sales but this item was exceptionally fine so I handed the proprietor change that came to the full one-dollar asking price. It was not the first orange hunter's cap to be purchased by a family member. No...indeed, it was the memory of that first one that caused me to purchase this one.
So, I guess it actually started when Father took energetic youngest child garage saling one wintry day in Alaska. No one recalls whether the child left with a hat on his head, but we ALL remember that, upon return, he was proudly wearing a slightly used fluorescent-orange, naugahyde hunter's cap with "fur"-lined flaps. It was an adult-sized cap on a skinny five-year old. For years, he wore it with pride, and I did not discourage his wearing it. I could spot him in any crowd, particularly on playgrounds.
The hat never actually touched his head except where it rested on top. As the years wore on, the hat became a "bit" ragged until, one day, I disposed of it. It broke his little heart when I confessed my terrible deed. Now, years later, I stood with a brand new clone of that beloved article. At last, I could make it up to him.
That year, his big Christmas present was a bicycle. The dilemma of how to wrap it was solved with the stored-away hat. Father made everyone in the family a toy rifle...the kind that the cork pops out of the barrel when manipulated. Donning the hat and carrying his rifle, the young man led the family as we followed full-page-sized bear tracks through the house, up the stairs, through the shower (waterfall), down the stairs, out the front door, around the house...all the while singing the memorable camp song "Going On A Bear Hunt." When we reached the camper, everyone squatted and approached it cautiously. When our fearless leader reached into the cave (camper), touching his sister's polyester rabbit "fur" coat draped over the handlebars, everyone screamed and scattered from fear of the bear.
Thus, the orange hunter's cap was reintroduced to the family. The next blog will tell the rest of the story.
It all started at an enormous yard sale overlooking the Columbia River...crowds of people seeking hidden treasure among makeshift tables scattered over half an acre of prime property. I don't like to spend more than two figures for anything in these sales but this item was exceptionally fine so I handed the proprietor change that came to the full one-dollar asking price. It was not the first orange hunter's cap to be purchased by a family member. No...indeed, it was the memory of that first one that caused me to purchase this one.
So, I guess it actually started when Father took energetic youngest child garage saling one wintry day in Alaska. No one recalls whether the child left with a hat on his head, but we ALL remember that, upon return, he was proudly wearing a slightly used fluorescent-orange, naugahyde hunter's cap with "fur"-lined flaps. It was an adult-sized cap on a skinny five-year old. For years, he wore it with pride, and I did not discourage his wearing it. I could spot him in any crowd, particularly on playgrounds.
The hat never actually touched his head except where it rested on top. As the years wore on, the hat became a "bit" ragged until, one day, I disposed of it. It broke his little heart when I confessed my terrible deed. Now, years later, I stood with a brand new clone of that beloved article. At last, I could make it up to him.
That year, his big Christmas present was a bicycle. The dilemma of how to wrap it was solved with the stored-away hat. Father made everyone in the family a toy rifle...the kind that the cork pops out of the barrel when manipulated. Donning the hat and carrying his rifle, the young man led the family as we followed full-page-sized bear tracks through the house, up the stairs, through the shower (waterfall), down the stairs, out the front door, around the house...all the while singing the memorable camp song "Going On A Bear Hunt." When we reached the camper, everyone squatted and approached it cautiously. When our fearless leader reached into the cave (camper), touching his sister's polyester rabbit "fur" coat draped over the handlebars, everyone screamed and scattered from fear of the bear.
Thus, the orange hunter's cap was reintroduced to the family. The next blog will tell the rest of the story.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
A LIFETIME OF SURPRISES
1- "It's a boy!"
2-"Can I go play with my best friend? I don't know his name."
3-"The other kids at school want a magic birthmark like mine."
4- "What has three legs and flies?"
5- Every teacher-parent conference ended with the teacher saying, "I want to know what this child does with his life!"
6. "You know that sweatshirt (or coin, etc) you gave me? I gave it to someone in need."
7. "Heavenly Father, help us find a ride....etc."
8. "Guess where I'm going!!"
9. "I have met someone and we are dating." This statement was followed two weeks later by
10. "Mom...Dad...I want you to talk to my fiance Dana."
Whatever the news from Geoffrey, with it comes joy; we look forward to getting acquainted with Dana and to sharing their joy on June 9th.
2-"Can I go play with my best friend? I don't know his name."
3-"The other kids at school want a magic birthmark like mine."
4- "What has three legs and flies?"
5- Every teacher-parent conference ended with the teacher saying, "I want to know what this child does with his life!"
6. "You know that sweatshirt (or coin, etc) you gave me? I gave it to someone in need."
7. "Heavenly Father, help us find a ride....etc."
8. "Guess where I'm going!!"
9. "I have met someone and we are dating." This statement was followed two weeks later by
10. "Mom...Dad...I want you to talk to my fiance Dana."
Whatever the news from Geoffrey, with it comes joy; we look forward to getting acquainted with Dana and to sharing their joy on June 9th.
Monday, January 15, 2007
A rose by any other name....
We sat in a booth in the restaurant, facing our guests. All we knew of them was their first names, but that was the point of this meal --to become acquainted. They had lived in Louisiana, Colorado, Oregon, Arkansas, and other states in their 51 years of marriage. They had moved to the Pacific Northwest for health reasons. They had been high school sweethearts, married right out of high school. Children? Yes. Four, but one died of lung cancer.
And then the questions turned to us. When the word "published" slipped from John's lips, all eyes turned to me; and the gentleman stated questioningly, "Oh! You are an author?"
This is something I have thought about a great deal --"What has changed?" One night, I went to bed considering myself a writer. The next morning, I woke up and everyone began calling me an author. Had I done anything to change my life? Actually, My girl-child pushed the button that said "PUBLISH."
I am thinking there needs to be an interum term for self-published or Print on demand (POD) writers. After studying and trying to locate an agent or publisher who would even read my "Mother...May I?" (query) letter, I began studying the world of self-publishing. There is little respect for this area of literature. REAL writers will still not read Jessie. However, I have yet to hear a word of discouragement from over 500 readers in the less-than 3 months since Jessie's coming out.
Maybe the term should be "Marqueter" for, of course, my newfound friend purchased one of my books from me.
And then the questions turned to us. When the word "published" slipped from John's lips, all eyes turned to me; and the gentleman stated questioningly, "Oh! You are an author?"
This is something I have thought about a great deal --"What has changed?" One night, I went to bed considering myself a writer. The next morning, I woke up and everyone began calling me an author. Had I done anything to change my life? Actually, My girl-child pushed the button that said "PUBLISH."
I am thinking there needs to be an interum term for self-published or Print on demand (POD) writers. After studying and trying to locate an agent or publisher who would even read my "Mother...May I?" (query) letter, I began studying the world of self-publishing. There is little respect for this area of literature. REAL writers will still not read Jessie. However, I have yet to hear a word of discouragement from over 500 readers in the less-than 3 months since Jessie's coming out.
Maybe the term should be "Marqueter" for, of course, my newfound friend purchased one of my books from me.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Here I sit...within reach are three calendars. One is a monthly calendar with a January photo of a reminder of my family's love: one is a weekly engagement calendar with a photo of Arizona, and one is a tiny look at this month's numbers only.
For many, January means a new beginning, a fresh start. For our tribe it is the month of birth. We can easily account for family birthdays on the 3rd, 5th, 7th, 9th, 12th, 13th, 21st, 26th and 30th. And with each date, there are of course special memories.
None of those memories can compare with those treasured in my heart for this day. This is the anniversary date of our firstborn. His name - so carefully chosen -- means Beloved Gift of God.
He came the very date predicted. I called the school office to have them pass the word to my teacher hubby that I was in labor. When there was no returned call, I called Ollie Marshall, Administrator at Sunset Haven "Old Folks' Home" for advice. She delivered me to the hospital then alerted John and his mother (100 miles away), who both arrived about the same time.
In the room with me was a 17-year-old girl whose husband was in Vi etnam. This was her first child also. Her mother had driven her to the hospital and dropped her off; she was obviously scared. John's Mom noticed her distress and stayed with her until she was whisked away to the delivery room.
In those days, the hospital had rules...LOTS of rules. However, John was the first to be allowed to bend the really big rule of no one watching the birth. He was not allowed in the delivery room, but he was allowed to watch through a big picture window. Just as Mary treasured up memories in her heart for Jesus, my heart overflows this day as I pull precious memories from my own treasure chest.
Happy Birthday, David Matthew.
For many, January means a new beginning, a fresh start. For our tribe it is the month of birth. We can easily account for family birthdays on the 3rd, 5th, 7th, 9th, 12th, 13th, 21st, 26th and 30th. And with each date, there are of course special memories.
None of those memories can compare with those treasured in my heart for this day. This is the anniversary date of our firstborn. His name - so carefully chosen -- means Beloved Gift of God.
He came the very date predicted. I called the school office to have them pass the word to my teacher hubby that I was in labor. When there was no returned call, I called Ollie Marshall, Administrator at Sunset Haven "Old Folks' Home" for advice. She delivered me to the hospital then alerted John and his mother (100 miles away), who both arrived about the same time.
In the room with me was a 17-year-old girl whose husband was in Vi etnam. This was her first child also. Her mother had driven her to the hospital and dropped her off; she was obviously scared. John's Mom noticed her distress and stayed with her until she was whisked away to the delivery room.
In those days, the hospital had rules...LOTS of rules. However, John was the first to be allowed to bend the really big rule of no one watching the birth. He was not allowed in the delivery room, but he was allowed to watch through a big picture window. Just as Mary treasured up memories in her heart for Jesus, my heart overflows this day as I pull precious memories from my own treasure chest.
Happy Birthday, David Matthew.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Whatever you do...
Recently, I have become more aware of words. I know I am often half a bubble off when using descriptive words. One word that bothers me when I hear it spoken is "invalid." Does the speaker mean inVALid (the "a" sounds like catch) or does the speaker mean INvahlid (uh)? Which came first? or Are the two words even kinfolk?
From what I can learn, the description of a handicapped individual was first. Later, their passport or some other legal documents were stamped "invalid:" to indicate inability to fufill.
This is just the beginning of my blog, having been encouraged (yea, badgered) into starting one.
betty
From what I can learn, the description of a handicapped individual was first. Later, their passport or some other legal documents were stamped "invalid:" to indicate inability to fufill.
This is just the beginning of my blog, having been encouraged (yea, badgered) into starting one.
betty
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