Springtime - the Colorful Part

As I have said before, spring is my favorite season. However, within that season, there is a specific time which I always anticipate more than anything else about spring, and that time has come:

The trees are green again.

It always seems to catch me by surprise. One day I'm walking along, kicking through puddles and grinning and bits of green poking up in the garden, and then I look up and realize the trees are bursting with that sharp, bright new green of springtime.

Were I able to dance, I would do so every year when this happens. As is, I content myself with a whoop and a fist pump.

It's ridiculous, really.

Speaking of gardens, I am finally getting my own in place. The vegetable garden has yet to be established, and once it is we will be loading it with mature plants, like as not. However, Mom and Dad granted me my own "bit o' earth" in which I can cultivate a flower garden. Probably scattered with herbs, because they are my new obsession.

At the moment, I have a small 2x6 stretch of exposed earth with some grape vine cuttings and a couple canna bulbs. That stretch will probably get some more annuals set in. At the other end of the garden my new rose bush is in place with another canna in an old metal pot. Eventually I'll be setting up a spot for some peonies and hens-and-chicks, and I'd like to add more cottage style plants and the herbs throughout the season.

All of this I am doing with little more than my gloves, a trowel, a chicken, and a machete.

Yes. Machetes make great gardening tools. I pulled Dad's out of the garage, Wes sharpened it, and I'm using it to cut away the sod. Lobelia is my faithful gardening partner. She realized I was digging the other day and came over inquiring about worms. When she discovered there were also June bugs aplenty (eugh), she was ecstatic. (Note: chickens are also great for pest control.)

We pulled the chicks (did I mention we have about 30 more we got last month?) outside to get some fresh air, and I treated them to samplings of worms as well. If you want some cheap(ish) entertainment, get chickens. When they first taste worm.... Oh, it's hilarious. Our little bully Albert was always too slow and the girls would taunt him with their catch. He ended up standing in the middle of the pen screaming in hurt and indignation.

My weekend was full of fresh air and dirt and ant bites. On Friday, Mom took me with her on a run around town to check some yard sales, and we got a wheelbarrow. I am in the process of spray painting it sky blue. The girls like the color, though Mom and Dad are more skeptical. 

I also found a model ship that had been stored in the previous owner's tool shed. It's missing a couple sales and it's quite dusty, but for $7 you won't find me complaining.

So that's been my week. Well, that and we had Missions Revival last week. Always a wonderful time. It's one of my favorite annual events at church. The speaker was our missionary to the Philippines. He also spoke last year. The challenge was "serving as senders", and he spoke on how we as a church can support our missionaries in all aspects of their work, from furlough to the field and back.

Next on the list of church events is VBS. I pitched in last year and loved it, so I committed myself to returning this year. The theme will be more difficult than last year (which was Western): sports.

I'm not a sporty person. The best I manage is a leisurely jog. If only I could rent a fencing uniform.... Actually, I want to dig up something obscure or weird, like scuba diving or dressage. Regrettably, most uniforms are skin-tight or look ridiculous off-field. But that's half the fun, right?

So that's life at the moment. I should have more news to share in the next couple of days. The eggs Mom put in the incubator are starting to hatch. Their breeds are a complete mystery. We were hoping for some Barred Rock eggs, but we aren't really sure what we put in. I'm still hoping we don't end up with one whose father is Gerard or - horror of horrors - the late Presley or Aidan. Here's hoping.

The Ocean

My trip to Peru held many new experiences. One of them was the fulfillment of a personal dream of mine: to see the ocean.

Yeah, I've never been to the ocean, at least that I can recall. Plenty of lakes 'round here, sure, but they aren't the same thing.

It was the Monday we went to the other children's home and the holding tank (and also the day Dad and I went mountain climbing). Actually, we'd seen the ocean earlier in the trip when we visited a more ritzy part of Lima to eat lunch, but it wasn't up close. We watched from a distance while a couple people tried to surf, and shivered sympathetically every time they fell. But Monday we got up close and personal.

First we drove through the yards full of shipment containers. The less pleasant ocean-related smells seemed to gather around there. The area where we disembarked was a clean little park, complete with small grassy lawns and a statue involving a cannon. The shore was all rocky and kind of steep at points. My lake tourist-side kicked in and I immediately started watching for sea shells. Some people in the group started skipping stones or trying to catch fish, and others spent most of their time getting too close to the water and having to outrun the waves.

I think one of the coolest parts about that visit was just listening to the water. The view certainly wasn't that great, what with us being near a port and there being so many ships blocking the horizon. There weren't many seagulls like we get at home, so that did help a little. But the sound of the waves in and of itself was amazing, especially when the water receded: the sound of so much water rushing over the rocks, shifting them and pulling them and dragging the smaller ones back down. It wasn't a roaring, like how waves are usually described, but more like a...shushing sound, almost. (Susurrus, anyone?) It was one of those sounds that can be difficult to describe, like the wind in a hemlock* forest (which remains one of my favorite nature sounds). I wish there was some way I could have recorded it well. On that stretch of rock-covered beach, the sound probably was loud, but it didn't have that powerful quality like thunder.
We all wandered the beach for a while. I got a pocketful of shells and a couple neat stones. Many of the shells were stained a greenish color, and where worn smooth by the water. I ended up sharing them with Allenna when we got home, because she likes seashells and I could say I picked it up at the ocean.
I did double-check all my shells to make sure they didn't still have residents. It's not so much bugs that make me squeamish as the slimy, oozy, blobby creatures like slugs and things that live in shells.
There were other people there besides our group, though not many of them. I was kneeling down looking at rocks when a little Peruvian boy stooped next to me and picked up a tiny star fish. Excited by his find, he immediately leaned over to show it to me, exclaiming enthusiastic things I couldn't understand. I nodded and smiled and declared, "Muy bonita," which may not even be correct. Suddenly the boy was more curious about who on earth he was talking to than about his starfish. He took one hard look at me, realized I wasn't Peruvian, and scrambled away.
Our trip to the ocean turned out more profitable that just a collection of shells and fossils. Some in the group had been handing out tracts to the other visitors, and a couple ladies ended up getting saved right there as a result. That occasion served to remind me of the real reason we were there.
Years ago I noticed that I have a habit of staring at the ground when I walk. It's probably in part because I'm so clumsy and I'm trying to avoid anything that might cause me to trip. However, when I noticed this habit, I decided I should probably correct it, or I'd end up walking through life too focused on the dirt and miss everything else. I still have to make a conscious effort some days to lift my head and make eye contact with people and admire the flowers and look at what's ahead of me.
At the beach, I spent most of my time staring at the ground searching for tiny seashells which I could stuff in my pockets and admire as trinkets. I wasn't handing out tracts or even saying "hello" to the other people there. I barely noticed them until that little boy wanted to share in his discovery.
We get the same way in life: so focused on find seashells and watching our footing that we forget or ignore the people around us, and we forget that there's something ahead of us that we should be pressing for.We wander around, lost in our little world and careless to the rest. In the end, all we have to show for that are some shiny, broken, fragile little shells even the sea creatures don't want.
Putting myself in a new environment jolted me enough to wake me up to this reality, but already I'm off that "spiritual high". I'm not worried about losing the somewhat manufactured excitement and enthusiasm, but I am worried about losing or forgetting a true passion for people.

I enjoyed my visit to the ocean, but I'm disappointed that I missed the more important thing that happened there.

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

Bubbles and Laughter

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." - Albert Einstein

 

I love spending time with little kids, especially before they hit the stage where they think they know something about life beyond their favorite colors and least favorite foods. I love watching them discover and explore and learn and take in the world around them. Children are free to laugh at everything, love who they choose, and get as dirty as they please. Life is as big as the huge puddle they're trying to jump over, or the silly puppy giving them kisses, or the carrots on their plate. I'm jealous of how simple life is for kids, but sometimes I get a chance to sit down and share it with them.

Yesterday evening I went with Mom to a family photo shoot at a historic house/museum in town. It was also partly a maternity shoot because the mother pregnant with their third child and is due later this month. Their other children are a 3 year old girl and a boy who is about 1 1/2. I was supposed to keep the kids occupied after family pictures while Mom took some pictures of just the parents.

We had some little chalkboards that had been props for one of the pictures. I asked the girl if she wanted to draw, and she settled down next to me and got to work. I asked her to draw flowers and butterflies and a sun, and she did her best, even asking me to draw some things. Her brother saw us and took the piece of chalk I offered him, but he couldn't get the hang of drawing. He ended up grabbing all the chalk he could see and holding onto it tightly. When his sister wanted one of the colors he had so all of the colors could be on her board, we had to trade another color she had. In ten minutes, he had chalk all over his clothes and hands, and it took some work to get him away from it.

A little later we found a large bottle of bubbles someone had left behind. When Mom and the parents left, I pulled it out.

The little girl knew what it was and, after I'd blown some bubbles begged to try it. First she blew too hard, and when I told her to try more softly she barely breathed at all. Eventually she let me resume the bubble-blowing, and she commenced chasing and stomping on the bubbles.

Then her brother picked up on the fun. Soon the lawn was ringing with their excited squeals and giggling. I showed the girl how to try and catch the bubbles in the air instead of waiting for them to hit the ground. Soon she was darting about, arms raised, shouting delightedly as she chased bubbles. Her brother toddled a little more slowly behind her, and whenever he couldn't see bubbles he would cry, "More! More!"

I hadn't imagined this game would keep them occupied for long. I thought I'd eventually have to pull out the gummy bears to keep them appeased. But all they wanted were bubbles.

I held up the wand (or whatever it's called) to the boy so he could try. He actually managed to get some bubbles on the first try, and then kept going. When his sister came over for her turn, it took a little practice, but soon she had it down.

I let her take the wand and held the bottle for her. Eventually, I gave that to her as well and warned her not to spill any. She ended up on the ground with the bottle in front of her and was as happy as could be. By the time the parents came back over, her knees were covered in suds and she was still laughing. She called her daddy over to watch her. When we left a little while later and had to leave the bubbles behind because they didn't have a lid, she wasn't happy.

I, however, truly enjoyed myself. The only thing I had to worry about was making sure I kept the bubbles coming.

 

"A day without laughter is a day wasted." - Nicholas Chamfort

Juicing Apples...for the last time

Lately I've developed a craving for fresh fruit juice. Mom has a juicer (ancient but amazing), and she just bought some fruits and veggies with the intention of doing a little juicing. This morning, I decided I'd do some myself. (Sunshine makes me want to eat healthy, it seems.)

The parts to the old, good juicer were apparently misplaced during the move. I ended up finding a newer, smaller juicer from Grandma and had to settle for that. I grabbed a handful of grapes, sliced an apple, chopped a carrot, and got to work.

A few minutes later (after I wasted part of my apple because I'd forgot to put a cup under the juice spout), I had a small glass of juice. It looked disgusting (pinkish-purple from grapes and apples don't mix with bright orange from carrots as far as coloring) but tasted delicious. And for the next couple of minutes, I was content.

Then I started coughing.

I've been taking medicine every day for seasonal allergies, and I wasn't due to take more for a couple hours, but suddenly I felt like I might need to. In under five minutes my cough was steady and my breath was squeaky.

Mom was rushing to go, needing to drop me off at work and then take care of some business in town. I coughed and told her I was wheezy. She immediately got a knowing look on her face. "What'd you just drink?"

Right. My own sneaking suspicion confirmed. "Oh." There goes any future plans for fresh apple juice.

Let me just say that fruit allergies rot. No, scratch that. Allergies to fruit pesticides rot. Because I can have pure and simple, all-natural, untreated apples. Allenna had warningly pointed out as I sliced my apple that I usually had a reaction to them, didn't I? And I disregarded her caution and said I could still drink apple juice. (Which isn't entirely true. I hate store-bought apple juice. I like cider.)

However, I've also had a few reactions to raw carrots. Never as bad as apples, but I can't ignore the fact, either.

About an hour later, my urge to cough had subsided and I could breathe clearly, but I feel a tad bitter and irritated. Guess if I want to try juicing any more, I'll have to stick to berries and grapes. Oh, well. Blueberries are good, too. But they can't compare to apples.

Speaking of berries, I think Mom is planning to go berry picking sometime soon. I haven't been in years, and I always loved it.

Well, it's short, but I have to go.

Gardening with the Chickens

I think it's safe to say my opinion of chickens has changed rather drastically. I won't say I love them. I do, however, take great pleasure in observing them.

Today was another beautiful day. After hours of helping Mom on the computer, I was itching to get outside. I grabbed my bow and went to practice. Eventually, Allenna joined me. I determined that I really need to work on my aim. (Don't worry. Nothing broke.) Dad tightened my bowstring for me yesterday. I think it actually helped a little. Not with the aiming, mind you; just with general drawing.

After a while (and mostly because my arms were tired) I handed the bow to Allenna and went in search of my gardening supplies. I've had some plants waiting for a few days to get in the ground, and I figured now was as good a time as any to take care of them. The chickens and ducks have been hanging out in the little corner where the some of the flowerbeds are. They steered clear of me for the most part, at least when I made like I was going to touch them. If I ignored them, they played at being bolder and would peck at my feet.

I started by turning up the dirt in the flowerbeds while contemplating a good place for my primroses. As I did, I uncovered some insects. I grabbed the nearest chicken and plopped him in the dirt. He didn't realize I was trying to help him, and scuttled off. A minute later, however, another one wandered over and realized what treasures I was uncovering.

Chickens are little like seagulls in this way: if one finds something interesting, you can bet the rest will quickly pick up on it and come running to get their share. Soon four or five chickens were pecking around in the dirt.

Then I found a worm.

As far as I know, our chickens have yet to encounter a worm. Eagerly I scooped it up and called the chickens. Most regarded me suspiciously and walked away. One of the older Buffs, however, saw I was offering something and hurried over. She pecked inquiringly at the worm, decided it was promising, and took it. Another chicken soon noticed the first beating the worm to a pulp in the dirt and came over to investigate. The first grabbed her meal and started running.

Apparently a running chicken is a signal to all the others that there are good things around. In under a minute, it was like watching tackle football.

I wish I could have taken a video, but my phone was acting up. I did get a picture, which I will try to post.

I found some more worms when planting my peony. Soon I had the chickens trained to come running when I tossed something to them. 'Twas delightful.

Meanwhile, the ducks held themselves aloof of the reveleries and lashed out at any chicken who scrambled too close. If the chickens are small minded, the ducks are even more so, and pretty much intolerant of any creature but each other. But now both of them will accept apples from me. They still have serious separation anxiety. The best way to get them back into the garage is to pick up one. The other will follow as quickly as he can (they're very clumsy on their big feet), both of them screaming all the way.

One day I may base two characters off those ducks and their inseparability. For the moment, I'll amuse myself with the backyard antics of them and the chickens while I garden.

Kites and Alley Cats

Yeah, I know: that lasted really long. I don't have much of an excuse for missing Wednesday. In truth, I had some time between work and church, and then after church, but I lacked both motivation and inspiration. Yesterday, however, I was out of the house by 10:30 after rushing around to get ready, and I didn't get home until 10:30 PM. And I did have something to blog about from yesterday.

I regularly babysit these two adorable, hysterical kids. Yesterday I was at their house. They begged to play outside, now that their backyard is (mostly) no longer flooded. It had been kind of windy, so I suggested we try to fly some kites.

At first neither was interested, but when I almost got my kite aloft, they both rushed to join in. There's a field behind their house for an elementary school, and myself and the kids spent a good hour running around trying to get those kites in the air. Yes, I even used my phone to google how on earth to get them flying.

It didn't work. It almost did a number of times, but always ended with the kite nose-diving and sticking in the mud. But we still had fun, despite the chilly breeze. The little girl spent most of the time running around, a long line of string and then the kite trailing behind her. The boy and I tried to be a little more...methodical? about it, but our method worked about as well as his sister's. Still, it was fun. And there was hot chocolate afterward.

And I have another life snapshot from today.

I'd set an alarm on my phone to be up in good time this morning, because Mom had some appointments to run and then she would be dropping me off at work. Of course, my phone malfunctioned again and the alarm didn't go off. 10 minutes later, I got a text from Mom asking if I was up. I started to reply when she called me. My phone malfunctioned again and wouldn't let me answer, so I trudged downstairs.

Mom was rushing around gathering stuff, breathlessly telling me how she had a photo session at the hospital and we needed to drive to Dad's work to get his car for her so I had mine to get to work. I ran Sasha through the morning routine, hunted down props, and we were off.

We drove by a bunch of yard sales on the way (annual thing). Man, how I was itching to stop by after dropping off Mom! But I'm forcing myself to stick to a budget now, and yard sales are not a good place to test my resolve.

We made it in less than good time at the store. Dad met us out front with the keys, Mom grabbed her things, and we were off again. However, I saw something funny on the way out of the parking lot.

There's a whole family or group or pride or whatever of cats that live around the plaza where Dad's work is located. I suppose you could call them alley cats. They are often wandering around the morning, before things get busy for the day. They're very wary of humans and usually don't appreciate any attention, though there are people who like to feed them.

I'd seen some cats running around when we pulled up, but just then noticed these guys. Two were louging in the sunshine on the sidewalk under the overhang between shops (preposition, anyone?), and one was perched regally on a wooden bench. The one on the bench was a big fluffy black-ish cat, and had such an air about it that I had to laugh. I tried to snap a picture with my phone, but the cats noticed my attention and promptly sauntered off.

I knew I needed to blog about that before the day got away with me and I didn't feel like blogging. It isn't often I find my inspiration this early in the day. Goes to show I need to get back to my old habit of waking up a little earlier.

Yes, I do intend to keep trying this post a day deal. It probably won't always work, as yesterday is evidence to, but I want to try anyway. It's strange scrolling through my blog and seeing how short the posts are. Then I realize that's because I'm not recapping events from a whole week or more.

Snail Mailing It

Here I am again, almost 11 PM.

Today was another of "those" days. For a while it was looking like it was on a track to be a truly rotten day, though things eventually evened out. It's getting chilly again. Drizzly all day, and we're supposed to be in for more snow later in the week. (When I mentioned that to the driver and other passenger on the bus this morning, they both gave me glares and teasingly suggested I start walking.) Ah, spring.

The highlight of my day was when I came home to a letter. A real letter. I can't remember the last time I got one of those outside of birthday cards. This one was from a friend all the way on the West Coast, in response to a birthday card I sent her a couple weeks ago. That was the first time I bought a stamp for myself, that I can recall. Sad, isn't it? It's been a long time since I've had to mail anything.

I was wandering around the kitchen munching on no-bakes and contemplating a pile of dirty pots when Mom, who'd been painting the dining room, said, "Oh, I forgot. This came for you," and tossed the pink envelope on the ironing board, which was standing in the kitchen. (A piece is broken so the ironing board won't fold up. Hence, it gets shuffled around from room to room depending on space.)

I guessed immediately what the envelope contained, but I still got a smile out of it.

There's something wonderful about sending and receiving handwritten letters.

Maybe if I did it more often I'd be forced to have better penmanship? As it was I labored over those few lines to my old friend. Why is it that proper penmanship can't just come by force of will?

After I mailed that birthday card, I pondered the idea of getting back into sending "handwritten sentiments" by snail mail. I know receiving them certainly cheers me up. Getting a text or an e-mail just can't compare. And now I know how much stamps cost. (I felt funny using my debit card to purchase one stamp, but I didn't know when I'd ever need more.)

I think I'm going to have to cut this one short. Again. The chicks are trying to sleep and I'm clacking away. Also, my dog is making her sad whining sounds in the kitchen. Sometimes I swear she sounds like a baby elephant when she gets to moaning dejectedly.

The Eyeball in the Cupboard (or: I Really Do Love My Family)

Here I am, late again. Good intentions don't mean much, apparently. And I'm up to a week (couting the post I wrote the day before I decided to start this).
There's something about Sunday mornings at my house which I really love. (That is, after we quit paper routes.) I can't say exactly what it is that makes me smile. Ask a friend who's spent Saturday night about watching my family go through the Sunday morning routine. Running dogs in and out and telling them to hurry up and eat, now adding fowl to the list of animals to care for, siblings getting up hours earlier than they would the rest of the week to take showers they didn't want to take the night before, Mom hunting for a lost article of clothing or piece of jewelry or shoe, all to the soundtrack of blow driers and running feet. Always fun.
There are certain things that happen in this house which are seen as perfectly normal but, in any other house, would be a complete oddity. Like the eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
Yes.
I went to get my toothbrush out of the cabinet this morning and started at the glass eye staring back at me. In another second I was back to squirting toothpaste onto the brush and absently wondering if Wes's allergies were acting up. Mom made a passing comment about it later, but that was all the attention anyone paid it.
Needless to say, our family has its own quirks. We get so used to them that we never think twice, while everyone else is staring at us in confusion. And, in my opinion, jealousy. Wes's fake eye is one of the quirks. We've all grown up with that one around us. We're conditioned to it, in a way. People  will come to me months after we've met and make some remark like, "You didn't tell me your brother had a fake eye," as if it should have been near the top of the list of things to know. I'll shrug. "Yeah, he's had that since he was 1." To them it's special; strange and unusual, sometimes gross, and somehow great for conversation. To me it's the source of a few good stories and the knowledge that, because my brother has a blindspot, it's easier to steal his fries when his head is turned. He and his one-handed buddy at church crack all kinds of jokes. Everyone else stands back in a mixture of confusion, horror, and embarassment, wondering if it's really appropriate, as if those poor boys shouldn't be laughing at their own expense. I roll my eyes.
It's just another little quirk that makes my family all that more endearing to me, like Mom's pouty face when she's not feeling well and wants me to grab her a glass of milk, or my youngest sister when she paces through the house with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and that creative gleam in her eye, or my other sister's reckless abandon when she belts out a song that's intentionally off-key. Like the looks passed when Dad is enjoying too much his day off or my brother pulls another "your mom" pun; the way Mom and I can have a complete conversation without either ever completing a thought; my youngest sister's ability to stare down anyone, friend or stranger, and make them twitch.
Yes, I truly do believe people are jealous when they see us tramping down the store aisles, one of us girls on Dad's arm and another bouncing around while trading jokes with Mom: that boisterous family clearly just from church service calling back and forth about how much milk we consume and if we'd prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream and making some comment about our chickens. We're genuine, that's for sure. We don't put on a show when we go into public; we're the same people as we are at home. Sometimes it seems the world can't handle that much awesomeness. It's okay; be a little jealous. My mom was always the coolest person to have on youth activities, and inevitably my brother's eye would come out for the sake of the new kids. Only the bravest dare to spend a night at our house, where we have impromptu karaoke in the kitchen and odds are good you'll find an eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.

Happy Medium

Okay, guys. What do you call a psychic midget on the run? You ready? A short medium at large.

It's a real knee-slapper, I know. And no, it is not an original. I got it from a co-worker. I don't think I've ever actually made my own joke. I prefer to enjoy a cleverly crafted piece of humor. Or point out the daily humor I come across in real life. Like when... Actually, no. I won't share that story.

But I digress! And that joke at the beginning is actually related to today's post. And this post is also inspired by...my shower. *cringe*

Typically, my shower is when my brain activity reaches its high for the day. My concious brain activity, that is. I like hot showers. Well, in colder weather. Come summer, I still like the water to be warm, while everyone else is bathing in Lake Superior temperatures. Though they say* hot showers aren't really good for you. (Don't quote me. It might just be me saying that, though I seem to recall reading an article about it which someone shared on facebook or something.)

Gah! Stay on target! So I like hot showers. But my body does have a maximum temperature tolerance. And usually, I start the water off too hot, and then knock it to the cold side, and back and forth we go, and the odds aren't good it'll settle happily in the middle. And I grumble about the shower having no happy medium setting. (Same goes with the volume in most cars. You get indistinct or you get too-loud-for-conversation.)

I first picked up on the whole "happy medium" idea from A Wrinkle in Time. I actually saw the movie before I ever read the book. I think it's because I saw the movie that I was disinclined to read the book for quite a while afterward. (It stinks. Admit it. The twins are rude and demeaning, Charles Wallace is spoiled, Meg is angsty, and her dad has little redeeming qualities. And Calvin? Ugh.) Throughout the book, Meg's family is telling her she needs to find her happy medium. And then, of course, they do find the Happy Medium. (And at that time, the true meaning of "medium" in this context eluded me. I had some vague idea that the Happy Medium was some sort of manifestation of Meg's good side. Don't ask. I think that was about the time I was also introduced to Ted Dekker's Three.)

As described in the little chapter synopsis I linked up there, Meg is encouraged to find a happy medium because she tends to swing from one extreme to the other. Maybe that's why I relate to her so well. And then I got glasses and developed the habit of shoving them up my nose absentmindedly, and our similarities grew, and I was happy.

Clearly, I need a little mediocrity in my blogging, because this is all over the place.

Oh! Mediocrity. That was part of my next point.

In a past post, I mentioned a sermon Pastor preached out of Philippians 4:5-7, the key being in verse 5:

 

Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand.

Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Pastor talked about how we needed to be sure we are grounded, especially emotionally, in our lives, not dropping in despair one minute and leaping with abandon the next; not so easily tossed about. Today, the word "mediocrity" has the idea of boring or second-rate, but in fact it's what we need to strive for in our lives. We can be calm and secure because God is always at our side and the troubles we face will pass, even though they seem insurmountable now. Where the world is stumbling back and forth, reeling from disaster and the reveling in their little victories, we are unshaken, because we have our eyes on what will truly last, and what will matter, and the rest doesn't upset us.

Not to say we're supposed to be unfeeling, unresponsive robots. We're still human. The point is that, no matter what happens, we know Who is in control, and we can rest in that knowledge. Other people will mark how we stay strong in the storms of life when they're clinging to their man-made lifelines.**

Yes. I got all of that from issues with water temperature during my shower.

 

 

*One day I'm going to write a book about this "they". Or maybe just a short story. And perhaps I'll title it "You Know What They Say".

** Why am I always referencing ships and the ocean? I don't even really like the ocean.

Little Wonders

A while ago a friend of the family had a blog where she wrote about one magical moment she found in every day. She kept it going for over two years, I believe. When I was a younger blogger over one homsechoolblogger.com, I followed some girls who took challenges to blog every day for a week, a month, or the like. That's a true challenge in every sense of the word for noncommital me.   :)

I've seen little "magical moments" all over the place lately and thought to myself, "That'd be great to blog about". Maybe it'd break from my self-enforced style of long posts, but aren't more, shorter posts better than infrequent long ones? (Especially when most of the length is recapping.) It may not look like it from where you're sitting, but my life is actually very colorful and I find blogging material every day. I just lack incentive. Probably a month ago I drove past an elementary school on my way to work and saw a group of girls posing with a police officer in front of his car; on one of the rare nice (though cloudy) days this month, I saw people flying kites at Overlook Park (which really isn't as picturesque as it sounds); though I vowed not to write about work, sometimes I catch a cute moment I just have to share, like when the boy came in with a hand-written note and said he'd be back later with his girlfriend and could we put the note on her cup? (I have this irrational fear of the people I blog about actually stumbling across my blog and going, "Hey, that's me!", which is part of the reason I don't blog about work much.)

So why not? What could it hurt to try? A post a day, for as long as I wish or can manage, about the ordinary things I'd be otherwise inclined to forget. I don't know about you, but I found my blog rather boring and greatly lacking in proving how much of a tapestry my life can be like.

Here's today's:

As anyone who lives around here knows, we've been having some flooding. I mentioned before that the main (or most direct, at least) road into town was flooded for a few days. It opened yesterday (though, according to the weekly forecast more rain is bound to close it again soon) so we've gone back to using it. However, the areas all around the road are still under significant water.

Riding home on the bus today, I was trying to amuse myself with the passing scenery. We drove past one of the lowest points along the road. On either side, the land had turned into a scattering of ponds, with portions of sidewalks, sturdy trees, and fences lost in their midst. In one temporary pond, I saw a solitary swan. There weren't any other birds on the water; the geese are gone and the sea gulls are in hiding. Just one swan, floating along and occasionally dipping his head under the water.

Swans have interested me more and more. I think it started back on a camping trip when I noticed for the first time the funny sounds they make. Mom was trying to photograph two of them on a pond. Something startled them and they were across the water, honking gruffly and flapping like mad. For a bird depicted as such a graceful creature, swans can be downright awkward when it comes to take-off from the water.

And then, a while ago, Dad somehow got on the topic of the swan song, something I'd either never heard about or didn't remember hearing about before. It's one of those sentimental or sadly romantic kind of things which tend to pique my interest.

I found a book a couple years ago, The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale, based on the classic Goose Girl fairytale. The fairytale itself has always sort of creeped me out. I mean, come on: the princess's servant betrays her on the way to the princess's wedding and the princess is weak enough to be cowed into going through with an identity switch, and then her horse is beheaded and his head hung over the goose pasture gate where she is sent to work, and it talks to her about how her mother's heart would be broken if she knew her daughter's fate. Where did people come up with these stories? (It is a Grimm fairytale.) Shannon Hale's retelling (and I have such a weakness for fairytale retellings) is easier to enjoy. The princess can talk to animals - mostly birds - and has a great love for swans.

So yes! All that prompted by one short glimpse of a white bird in a puddle. Am I the only one whose mental train can switch across so many tracks so quickly?

On a side note: I had a thought today, while pondering how to get back to blogging, that it might be funny to try and record my train of thoughts throughout the day. I quickly dismissed that notion; how embarassing!

There! Day One down. Let's see how long this lasts.

Also: the title of this post was inspired by this song (start at 20 seconds), which plays at the end of Meet the Robinsons. It makes me happy.