THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE; LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT!
10 - This is the last day of all of our family birthdays, and we still have a "leftover" day.
9 - Two more days, and we can change the calendar. A quick peek reveals the February photo is a picture of ice formations in Juneau, Alaska. Now, there's an original idea!
8 - The last of the inventory sales helps me prepare for 2008 baby showers. Hopefully that number is the year and not how many showers there will be this year.....though one can never be certain.
7 - Can seed catalogs be far behind?
6 - The United States Postal Service actually answered their phone with a human voice, took copious notes about the lost package, and said they'd get back to me today.
5 - My new dishwasher does all that the manufacturer promised -- quietly.
4 - Wednesdays are always my "marathon day" with a study of Proverbs mid afternoon and a gathering to study "Truth" later.
3 - My children rise up and call me Blessed!
2 - This is the day that we celebrate the birth of our youngest, who has brought us so much joy!
1 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GEOFFREY!!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Shopping Spree
The challenge came in an email as I was heading out the door for a class on Proverbs, so I dashed off this answer. And, after reading it over, I decided I should not waste the opportunity to share with others.
THE CHALLENGE: I'm doing a survey. What's the longest shopping spree you ever had - and you can tell me a few details, if you want.
SHOPPING SPREE
Truthfully, I have not been much of a shopper since high school days. When we lived in Alaska, I had to have all of my shopping done by catalog by the end of October or the catalog item was sold out. The children were not even allowed to hum a Christmas tune until after Thanksgiving. So, playing Santa, I had to be pretty creative to get the kids to ask Santa for what I had already purchased. It did not always work out so great. To this day, we do not even mention Chatty Cathy in Patty’’s presence.
So…now that I think of it – my biggest shopping spree would have to be the Summer of 1976 when our family took about a 6-week vacation to visit folks in California. My parents lived in a single-wide mobile home near Modesto. I hit Mervyn’s with a vengeance for school clothing for the three kids and my hubby.…there is nothing that compares to the adrenalin rush of finding winter jackets on sale in 100+ temperatures, knowing there is no competition while shopping. There were even ads in the newspapers declaring things on sale, unheard of in Juneau.
After we “did” southern California family and theme parks, we returned to my folks for a few days to gather everything for transport via Alaska Airlines back to Juneau. Lo! And behold! If Sears didn’t have a linen sale going! Who could possibly say “no” to towels for $1.99 or sheets and mattress pads for under $10. Why! I was able to get two new blankets for every bed in our house. Then, the truth hit me. I had been stuffing all of my purchases in the storage shed. When I started reducing the bulk of packaging, it only caused my loot to expand. How was I going to get this all home? I had anticipated needing extra luggage for clothing and fresh fruits and vegetables, but the linens alone filled our sleeping quarters. The Stockton red onions and beefsteak tomatoes my father had lovingly grown just for us went as carryons; The clothing stuffed into our limit of luggage, but what to do with the linens?
Mother suggested it was time for her lovely cedar “Hope chest” (better known as the family’s despair barrel) to be passed onto me. My husband built a crate for it, but not before we made sure all of the purchases could be accommodated. It took some muscle to get it all in. Next, we took it to the airport and shipped it air freight. I hate to think what we paid for that means of transportation.
But, at least, John never found the snow plow he had shopped for!
THE CHALLENGE: I'm doing a survey. What's the longest shopping spree you ever had - and you can tell me a few details, if you want.
SHOPPING SPREE
Truthfully, I have not been much of a shopper since high school days. When we lived in Alaska, I had to have all of my shopping done by catalog by the end of October or the catalog item was sold out. The children were not even allowed to hum a Christmas tune until after Thanksgiving. So, playing Santa, I had to be pretty creative to get the kids to ask Santa for what I had already purchased. It did not always work out so great. To this day, we do not even mention Chatty Cathy in Patty’’s presence.
So…now that I think of it – my biggest shopping spree would have to be the Summer of 1976 when our family took about a 6-week vacation to visit folks in California. My parents lived in a single-wide mobile home near Modesto. I hit Mervyn’s with a vengeance for school clothing for the three kids and my hubby.…there is nothing that compares to the adrenalin rush of finding winter jackets on sale in 100+ temperatures, knowing there is no competition while shopping. There were even ads in the newspapers declaring things on sale, unheard of in Juneau.
After we “did” southern California family and theme parks, we returned to my folks for a few days to gather everything for transport via Alaska Airlines back to Juneau. Lo! And behold! If Sears didn’t have a linen sale going! Who could possibly say “no” to towels for $1.99 or sheets and mattress pads for under $10. Why! I was able to get two new blankets for every bed in our house. Then, the truth hit me. I had been stuffing all of my purchases in the storage shed. When I started reducing the bulk of packaging, it only caused my loot to expand. How was I going to get this all home? I had anticipated needing extra luggage for clothing and fresh fruits and vegetables, but the linens alone filled our sleeping quarters. The Stockton red onions and beefsteak tomatoes my father had lovingly grown just for us went as carryons; The clothing stuffed into our limit of luggage, but what to do with the linens?
Mother suggested it was time for her lovely cedar “Hope chest” (better known as the family’s despair barrel) to be passed onto me. My husband built a crate for it, but not before we made sure all of the purchases could be accommodated. It took some muscle to get it all in. Next, we took it to the airport and shipped it air freight. I hate to think what we paid for that means of transportation.
But, at least, John never found the snow plow he had shopped for!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
time continues......
Just an update on my last blog. That watch still reads 1:52. John took it to the store where it was purchased and even took his own set of tiny screwdrivers to open the back to replace the battery. It took a bit longer than anticipated for him to get the back open, but when he did, the clerk pulled out the old battery and found a replacement for it. Only problem was it did not work. Oh, I am told that the light now would illuminate the watch's face, but the time did not change.
This morning when looking through my jewelry for a certain stick pin I came upon five watches, three of which have been bought in the last 20 years. One of those three was absolutely identical to my 1:52 watch. One watch had been my mother's. Without looking, I could tell you the brand name because my parents were real believers in the quality of Bulova watches. When studying this timepiece, I could see it, too, contained a battery. I put it on my wrist and whacked it a couple of times and the second hand took right off as though it had just been stirred from sleep. Mother died in 1990, and that watch had not been worn since her death.
I knew I had her mother's Elgin watch which does not have a wristband so I hunted it down and wound it up and it keeps perfect time now. Mammy (my maternal grandmother) died in 1953. Both of those heirlooms still run. The one engraved to my grandfather in 1939 needs a good cleanng, but I'm thinking it would probably be wiser to clean them both than to purchase another watch made to today's standards.
This morning when looking through my jewelry for a certain stick pin I came upon five watches, three of which have been bought in the last 20 years. One of those three was absolutely identical to my 1:52 watch. One watch had been my mother's. Without looking, I could tell you the brand name because my parents were real believers in the quality of Bulova watches. When studying this timepiece, I could see it, too, contained a battery. I put it on my wrist and whacked it a couple of times and the second hand took right off as though it had just been stirred from sleep. Mother died in 1990, and that watch had not been worn since her death.
I knew I had her mother's Elgin watch which does not have a wristband so I hunted it down and wound it up and it keeps perfect time now. Mammy (my maternal grandmother) died in 1953. Both of those heirlooms still run. The one engraved to my grandfather in 1939 needs a good cleanng, but I'm thinking it would probably be wiser to clean them both than to purchase another watch made to today's standards.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A TIMELY REMINDER
When I woke up yesterday morning, my watch read 1:52. All of the clocks in the house said it was closer to 5:30, but my watch said 1:52. As a matter of fact, it still reads 1:52.
I have a friend who writes each and every Sunday. He always begins with "I am reminded this week..." and the rest of his email message is always thinking positive and being the Christian you would like to meet -- helping others, not complaining, always positive, etcetera. He always ends with a scripture.. .usually a proverb.
Just over a year ago, he added a paragraph between his message and the quotes; that message began "This week, Jane..." For, you see, his wife faithfully went for her routine annual physical, feeling fine, and because of a "mass" sent a lot of us to our knees in her behalf. It has been a challenging year for many of us as both breasts were removed and her hair fell out. and the chemo made her so ill.
I spent a little time with Jane Saturday evening, and she looked radiant.I thank God.
Today, one of my dearest friends enters a hospital in another city for a "biopsy." She is single, and I pray fervently that God removes any blight that would cause her pain or illness. "Please, God, just make it go away."
Another lady, a widow, enters the hospital tomorrow. Her cancer has returned. And a very close brother in Christ continues to valiantly fight against one pain and another caused by cancer.
At the same time, Geoffrey and Dana will be at the doctor's office having a sonogram, possibly learning the gender of their baby.
Above my computer station is a recently acquired pendulum clock that ticks away the seconds and bongs on the half hour. It is a constant reminder of the passage of time. But my watch says it is 1:52.
Saturday, we will wish our oldest child Happy Birthday, and we will rejoice in remembering his goodness and the pleasure he has been in our life.
My heart is full of prayers for the Love God has placed in my life. I am thankful for the lives with which God has touched my life. Of course, there is a remedy for a watch that says 1:52 all of the time; I will probably get a new battery today. No, life did not stop just because one timepiece failed to function, and it did not speed up just because I asked John three times in two minutes what time it was.
It did, however, make me painfully aware of how much I rely on timepieces and to think about ETERNITY.
I have a friend who writes each and every Sunday. He always begins with "I am reminded this week..." and the rest of his email message is always thinking positive and being the Christian you would like to meet -- helping others, not complaining, always positive, etcetera. He always ends with a scripture.. .usually a proverb.
Just over a year ago, he added a paragraph between his message and the quotes; that message began "This week, Jane..." For, you see, his wife faithfully went for her routine annual physical, feeling fine, and because of a "mass" sent a lot of us to our knees in her behalf. It has been a challenging year for many of us as both breasts were removed and her hair fell out. and the chemo made her so ill.
I spent a little time with Jane Saturday evening, and she looked radiant.I thank God.
Today, one of my dearest friends enters a hospital in another city for a "biopsy." She is single, and I pray fervently that God removes any blight that would cause her pain or illness. "Please, God, just make it go away."
Another lady, a widow, enters the hospital tomorrow. Her cancer has returned. And a very close brother in Christ continues to valiantly fight against one pain and another caused by cancer.
At the same time, Geoffrey and Dana will be at the doctor's office having a sonogram, possibly learning the gender of their baby.
Above my computer station is a recently acquired pendulum clock that ticks away the seconds and bongs on the half hour. It is a constant reminder of the passage of time. But my watch says it is 1:52.
Saturday, we will wish our oldest child Happy Birthday, and we will rejoice in remembering his goodness and the pleasure he has been in our life.
My heart is full of prayers for the Love God has placed in my life. I am thankful for the lives with which God has touched my life. Of course, there is a remedy for a watch that says 1:52 all of the time; I will probably get a new battery today. No, life did not stop just because one timepiece failed to function, and it did not speed up just because I asked John three times in two minutes what time it was.
It did, however, make me painfully aware of how much I rely on timepieces and to think about ETERNITY.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Day I Met John Wayne
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?
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?
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?
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