Our feet crunched in the snow as we made our way into the woods behind the house. It was the moment I'd rushed toward since waking up to see the white glow through the organza curtains. It called me to the frost-glazed window to see the snow clinging to the pines bordering the back yard and blanketing the lawn far below.
My mother had sent my brother in search of pine bows to lay on the mantle and garnish the stair rail, and I, of course, followed. The texture of the snow under my boots and the crisp, woodsy scent in the air is a memory I like to wrap up in as I sit in front of the fireplace now, just as we ended the day back then. Mom would meet us at the door--so we didn't "track snow all over the house," and we'd strip off the layers, down to wool socks and flannel and thermal underwear shirts. Then we'd go to our rooms to find dry, warm clothes, while Mom got the hot chocolate ready. My brother would drink it and then plop down in front of the television in the family room, but Mom and I would settle down in front of the stone hearth, and she'd tell me about the history of the stones (like the big one in the front that was once the "salt rock," where Uncle Fate would lay salt out for the cows to, well, lick), and about the old homestead that once stood there, on the site of our home, a new log cabin.
I learned a lot about my ancestors then--about Mary Ota Adams, who died much too young of tuberculosis during the first world war, and John Prichard, who with great faith raised a family by raising the land during the Depression, and Uncle Fate with his Scottish brogue, and my grandfather, the county veterinarian, whose training came in the hallowed halls of barns and stalls and pens. Those days of Christmas, in the last days of the year when the world slowed and all that mattered was our family, are with me still.
My friend Chris Bailey predicts a possibility of snow this Christmas Eve, and though we'll be travelling, and life will be hectic, there will be part of me that will hope to look out my old bedroom window in the days between Christmas and New Year and see the snow clinging to pine needles again. And maybe, before the rest of the household is awake, Mom and I will share a cup of hot chocolate and share stories about who--and whose--we are.
Monday, December 18
Monday, December 11
Spicy reading?
It's kind of like Ale-8-1 and salsa--certain words just don't seem to mix well. In researching something at work today, I came across the web site of a Kentucky woman who touts herself as the author of "Amish romance novels." Somehow, the image that immediately comes to mind is that of a paperback cover adorned with a sketch of Fabio with a black felt hat and beard blowing in the wind, behind a plow and team of mules.
In digging a little more, I couldn't find any genuine connection between Amish beliefs and romance novels, although to be fair, I can't characterize my browsing as any kind of definitive research. And who knows--some people actually like Ale-8 salsa, so maybe the "romance" novels aren't so bad. I can see it now: "And then he saw the top of her creamy white...foot. To dillute the tension he felt, he built a barn. And another one. And plowed a field--by hand."
In digging a little more, I couldn't find any genuine connection between Amish beliefs and romance novels, although to be fair, I can't characterize my browsing as any kind of definitive research. And who knows--some people actually like Ale-8 salsa, so maybe the "romance" novels aren't so bad. I can see it now: "And then he saw the top of her creamy white...foot. To dillute the tension he felt, he built a barn. And another one. And plowed a field--by hand."
Monday, December 4
A chicken for Christmas?
The scene was familiar and ordinary--people standing in line, waiting to make their holiday purchases. They saw people they knew and chatted; some got impatient as stomachs started to growl and tired muscles ached.
What they were buying was a little extraordinary. The conversations at the counter went something like this:
"One hen, please," or "I'd like to buy a cow."
It was part of the "alternative giving fair" at Central Christian, where instead of buying another dust-collector for the teacher or hard-to-buy-for Aunt Sara, folks could give something with meaning. By making a contribution in Aunt Sara's name to groups like Heiffer International, they could buy a cow or egg-laying flocks to help feed and sustain families and villages around the world.
No wrapping required.
What they were buying was a little extraordinary. The conversations at the counter went something like this:
"One hen, please," or "I'd like to buy a cow."
It was part of the "alternative giving fair" at Central Christian, where instead of buying another dust-collector for the teacher or hard-to-buy-for Aunt Sara, folks could give something with meaning. By making a contribution in Aunt Sara's name to groups like Heiffer International, they could buy a cow or egg-laying flocks to help feed and sustain families and villages around the world.
No wrapping required.
Monday, November 27
Fascination
So...my job involves doing health stories for use by network affiliates. The stories run on several markets in and around the state, and it's not a bad job, but I wouldn't consider it a glamorous vocation. I haven't been stopped yet by someone who saw my story about acid reflux and just had to have my autograph--and yet I've found that a camera, a microphone and a big goofy smile can sure stop traffic.
I was in a local grocery store shooting a story on how to have your holiday feast without fear of fat (how's that alliteration?), when it came time to do the "standup," the part of the story in which the reporter appears on camera and says something enlightening.
It was as if I'd held up a sign that said, "Free food," or "Get your $100 bill here." Shoppers gathered round, first politely, then more openly staring as I tried to explain to the tv audience about meal replacement drinks and frozen foods with fewer than 300 calories. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure. One elderly fellow didn't even have a grocery cart--he was just there to watch. Several people wanted to know my name, what channel I was on, and if they could "be on tv."
As we lugged the equipment back to the car, I was preoccupied by that amusing display--how fascinated we are with shiny objects and shiny smiles. Lights and cameras hypnotize. We want to see who's in the spotlight--however miniscule the spotlight might be--and we want to connect with it somehow.
With 1,000 channels and endless web video outlets, I'm amazed that anyone even notices a video camera these days. But they do.
Or maybe it simply was the riveting way I talked about fruit and calories.
Just wait till they see my story about heartburn.
I was in a local grocery store shooting a story on how to have your holiday feast without fear of fat (how's that alliteration?), when it came time to do the "standup," the part of the story in which the reporter appears on camera and says something enlightening.
It was as if I'd held up a sign that said, "Free food," or "Get your $100 bill here." Shoppers gathered round, first politely, then more openly staring as I tried to explain to the tv audience about meal replacement drinks and frozen foods with fewer than 300 calories. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure. One elderly fellow didn't even have a grocery cart--he was just there to watch. Several people wanted to know my name, what channel I was on, and if they could "be on tv."
As we lugged the equipment back to the car, I was preoccupied by that amusing display--how fascinated we are with shiny objects and shiny smiles. Lights and cameras hypnotize. We want to see who's in the spotlight--however miniscule the spotlight might be--and we want to connect with it somehow.
With 1,000 channels and endless web video outlets, I'm amazed that anyone even notices a video camera these days. But they do.
Or maybe it simply was the riveting way I talked about fruit and calories.
Just wait till they see my story about heartburn.
Saturday, November 18
There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky...and an 8-foot snow globe on my neighbor's lawn
A commercial for a new holiday movie gets me laughing every time. It's just a flash of a scene, but it hits close to my real-life experience: When the nighbors plug in their outdoor christmas lights, a couple is blinded by the nuclear-like bath of light as they lie in bed.
The annual drain of electricity has begun as the neighbors take on the task of covering every last square inch of exposed house and lawn (and probably pets, too) with lights. The air has barely seeped out of the giant inflated jack-o-lantern, but the bobbing Santa (who pops in and out of the chimney) is on the roof, along with his twin in his sleigh with Rudolph. Frosty and the taller-than-me snowglobe have taken up residence as well, and the flashing lights have begun to make their way around the house. Eventually, the house will, in all likelihood, be visible from space.
Now, I'm all for fun and whimsey, and darn it, it's their house. They can do whatever they want as long as they pay the electric bill and don't burn down the neighborhood. The whole secular/religious holiday argument aside, my biggest complaint is this: Does it have to be so...bright?
I love Christmas lights just as much as my five-year old, and I appreciate the fact that we don't have to turn on a single interior light on that side of the house from the beginning of November to the end of January, but there's a reason we live in the Bluegrass and not Dead Horse, Alaska, with its three months of solid daylight.
I guess there's worse things the neighbors could do. A friend of ours says the people who live near him wait outside so they can shoot at any foreign little men who might show up with a team of prime bucks and try to break into houses. It is deer season, you know.
Ah, well, I guess I could always take the Corey Hart approach and wear my sunglasses at night.
By the way, if you want to come visit, it's the dark spot next to the landing strip.
The annual drain of electricity has begun as the neighbors take on the task of covering every last square inch of exposed house and lawn (and probably pets, too) with lights. The air has barely seeped out of the giant inflated jack-o-lantern, but the bobbing Santa (who pops in and out of the chimney) is on the roof, along with his twin in his sleigh with Rudolph. Frosty and the taller-than-me snowglobe have taken up residence as well, and the flashing lights have begun to make their way around the house. Eventually, the house will, in all likelihood, be visible from space.
Now, I'm all for fun and whimsey, and darn it, it's their house. They can do whatever they want as long as they pay the electric bill and don't burn down the neighborhood. The whole secular/religious holiday argument aside, my biggest complaint is this: Does it have to be so...bright?
I love Christmas lights just as much as my five-year old, and I appreciate the fact that we don't have to turn on a single interior light on that side of the house from the beginning of November to the end of January, but there's a reason we live in the Bluegrass and not Dead Horse, Alaska, with its three months of solid daylight.
I guess there's worse things the neighbors could do. A friend of ours says the people who live near him wait outside so they can shoot at any foreign little men who might show up with a team of prime bucks and try to break into houses. It is deer season, you know.
Ah, well, I guess I could always take the Corey Hart approach and wear my sunglasses at night.
By the way, if you want to come visit, it's the dark spot next to the landing strip.
Friday, November 17
For the love of the Playstation
Some folks in Lexington will have an interesting story to tell Christmas morning when their loved ones unwrap their Playstations. Read on:
FROM WKYT.COM:
Some of the people who waited outside Lexington's Best Buy store (for video game consoles) say they got more than they bargained for.
On Wednesday night, a drive-by shooter shot bb pellets at four people, including WKYT reporter Elizabeth Dorsett. No one was seriously hurt.
Two people left the line because of the shooting.
AND THEN:
Police arrested William Burdine Thursday afternoon behind the Best Buy on Nicholasville Road.
Burdine was found fully clothed, but police say when he escaped he was only wearing boxer shorts and tennis shoes.
Police say he was discharged from the hospital at around 9:15 Wednesday night when he escaped from the custody of a State Department of Corrections guard.
That's when he shed his hospital gown and ran out of the hospital.
I guess he wanted a Playstation, too.
Thursday, November 16
If only I had my camera...
...but I didn't bring it with me, so I can only tell you what I saw.
Last night's rain came billowing up from the ground in a frothy white fog that spilled over the neat black fence rows. A mare and her foal poked their heads above (the foal just barely) to regard the passing traffic. The rising sun highlighted their coats, shining and stark against the formless, ethereal waves rising and moving beneath them.
My sleepy eyes were opened wide, and the anxiety for the day ahead--the endless lists of things to do--fell away.
If only I had my camera.
Last night's rain came billowing up from the ground in a frothy white fog that spilled over the neat black fence rows. A mare and her foal poked their heads above (the foal just barely) to regard the passing traffic. The rising sun highlighted their coats, shining and stark against the formless, ethereal waves rising and moving beneath them.
My sleepy eyes were opened wide, and the anxiety for the day ahead--the endless lists of things to do--fell away.
If only I had my camera.
Friday, November 10
Hi...uh...Mom?
A few nights ago, on Halloween, my friend--I'll call her Amy to save her further embarrassment--was in her freshly painted living room waiting for her parents, who were coming to see her new house for the first time.
The time came and went, but her parents--usually punctual--weren't there.
Finally, much later, the doorbell rang, and Amy opened the door to see her parents standing there, grinning sheepishly, both with sucker sticks in their mouths.
"Where have you been?" Amy asked.
Her parents looked at each other and giggled.
"Should we tell her?" her mother asked.
"We met your neighbors," said her father.
Amy says she knew the news was not going to be good.
"My neighbors?"
Her parents looked at each other guiltily and snickered some more before answering.
"Well, we had never been here before," began her father.
And the whole sad story unfolded.
Amy's parents had parked on the street and walked to what they thought was the right house. Outside, a young couple wearing Halloween masks sat on the steps outside with buckets of candy. Thinking the pair was Amanda and her husband, her father had chipperly called out, "Trick or treat!"
The couple on the stoop greated them with reluctance. "You want some candy?" the woman asked.
Amy's mom realized this was not her daughter, but surmised that Amy had invited some friends over to help give out Halloween candy.
"Sure," Amy's parents responded.
"Oh--okay," the woman responded with uncertainty. She handed them each a sucker.
Amy's parents proceeded up the steps past them, toward the open front door.
"Don't let them in!" the woman cried out, and her male companion bounded after them and demanded: "Where do you think you're going?"
"My daughter's house, of course," Amy's mom responded, surprised at the sudden hostility as she stepped with purpose through the front door...and stopped short.
Amy's parents stood looking at a fully decorated living room, complete with pictures of people they didn't recognize.
"Ron, this isn't Amy's house," her mother said under her breath.
They turned to face the couple, who had scrambled behind them.
"You're not my daughter," Amy's mom stammered.
They went on to explain that they were first-time visitors to the street, and they had mixed up the address--not to mention the confusion created by the masks.
The young couple peeled off their masks and responded that the previous owner of their house had died, leaving behind his collection of Halloween masks. They decided to try them on as they handed out candy that night.
The four got a good laugh before the couple pointed them in the right direction.
However, Amy, in her embarrassment, may never leave her house again. At least, not without a mask.
The time came and went, but her parents--usually punctual--weren't there.
Finally, much later, the doorbell rang, and Amy opened the door to see her parents standing there, grinning sheepishly, both with sucker sticks in their mouths.
"Where have you been?" Amy asked.
Her parents looked at each other and giggled.
"Should we tell her?" her mother asked.
"We met your neighbors," said her father.
Amy says she knew the news was not going to be good.
"My neighbors?"
Her parents looked at each other guiltily and snickered some more before answering.
"Well, we had never been here before," began her father.
And the whole sad story unfolded.
Amy's parents had parked on the street and walked to what they thought was the right house. Outside, a young couple wearing Halloween masks sat on the steps outside with buckets of candy. Thinking the pair was Amanda and her husband, her father had chipperly called out, "Trick or treat!"
The couple on the stoop greated them with reluctance. "You want some candy?" the woman asked.
Amy's mom realized this was not her daughter, but surmised that Amy had invited some friends over to help give out Halloween candy.
"Sure," Amy's parents responded.
"Oh--okay," the woman responded with uncertainty. She handed them each a sucker.
Amy's parents proceeded up the steps past them, toward the open front door.
"Don't let them in!" the woman cried out, and her male companion bounded after them and demanded: "Where do you think you're going?"
"My daughter's house, of course," Amy's mom responded, surprised at the sudden hostility as she stepped with purpose through the front door...and stopped short.
Amy's parents stood looking at a fully decorated living room, complete with pictures of people they didn't recognize.
"Ron, this isn't Amy's house," her mother said under her breath.
They turned to face the couple, who had scrambled behind them.
"You're not my daughter," Amy's mom stammered.
They went on to explain that they were first-time visitors to the street, and they had mixed up the address--not to mention the confusion created by the masks.
The young couple peeled off their masks and responded that the previous owner of their house had died, leaving behind his collection of Halloween masks. They decided to try them on as they handed out candy that night.
The four got a good laugh before the couple pointed them in the right direction.
However, Amy, in her embarrassment, may never leave her house again. At least, not without a mask.
Jilted by Election Day
There's the sound of silence in our house. Well, except for the baby and the five-year-old and the occasional hairdryer (when I really want big hair).
What I mean is, my phone's not ringing like it used to, and the doorbell hasn't sounded once since Monday.
I'm feeling jilted.
Only a few days ago, I had a steady stream of suitors who wrote letters to me and called (some of them a couple of times a day) and came to see me. They wanted to know my deepest thoughts and my hopes for my future, and what's more, they were going to make my dreams come true. Problems? Hey, they were going to solve them all. For some reason, Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came to mind.
But there were so many, and only one of me. And so, as it happens occasionally in Kentucky (according to the oath for political office, anyway) it came down to a duel:
Election Day.
I went to the polling place and stood in line. I looked at the names of the people who so desperately wanted me to commit to them, and I agonized. The mayor loved me so dearly, but his opponent seemed to understand me. What to do, what to do?
I stood over the new electronic voting machine (which no one else wanted to use; I discovered why when, by the time I finished carefully scrolling and clicking buttons and waiting for pages to load, the crowd behind me had become a few lingering souls.)
I took a deep breath and made my choices. It was tough; one fellow who came to see me three times and called a couple of times a week got left in the cold. He was just too needy.
So, now that Election Day is over, the phone isn't ringing. No one has been to see me. The silence is starting to feel a bit, well, conspicuous. I'm beginning to think I've been jilted.
Don't you care about me any more? Am I not in your every thought as you professed before--that everything you did was for my benefit? It's not that I want you to call every day--I was beginning to feel a little smothered, to be honest--but this total silence is, well, deafening.
And to think you said you loved me. *Sniff*
So I guess in a few months you'll take your oath (and promise not to duel--for real) and go about your life, occasionally stopping to remember me. And then the time will come that you will need me again, and you will call and write and come visit.
Hmph. Maybe by then I'll be Canadian.
What I mean is, my phone's not ringing like it used to, and the doorbell hasn't sounded once since Monday.
I'm feeling jilted.
Only a few days ago, I had a steady stream of suitors who wrote letters to me and called (some of them a couple of times a day) and came to see me. They wanted to know my deepest thoughts and my hopes for my future, and what's more, they were going to make my dreams come true. Problems? Hey, they were going to solve them all. For some reason, Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came to mind.
But there were so many, and only one of me. And so, as it happens occasionally in Kentucky (according to the oath for political office, anyway) it came down to a duel:
Election Day.
I went to the polling place and stood in line. I looked at the names of the people who so desperately wanted me to commit to them, and I agonized. The mayor loved me so dearly, but his opponent seemed to understand me. What to do, what to do?
I stood over the new electronic voting machine (which no one else wanted to use; I discovered why when, by the time I finished carefully scrolling and clicking buttons and waiting for pages to load, the crowd behind me had become a few lingering souls.)
I took a deep breath and made my choices. It was tough; one fellow who came to see me three times and called a couple of times a week got left in the cold. He was just too needy.
So, now that Election Day is over, the phone isn't ringing. No one has been to see me. The silence is starting to feel a bit, well, conspicuous. I'm beginning to think I've been jilted.
Don't you care about me any more? Am I not in your every thought as you professed before--that everything you did was for my benefit? It's not that I want you to call every day--I was beginning to feel a little smothered, to be honest--but this total silence is, well, deafening.
And to think you said you loved me. *Sniff*
So I guess in a few months you'll take your oath (and promise not to duel--for real) and go about your life, occasionally stopping to remember me. And then the time will come that you will need me again, and you will call and write and come visit.
Hmph. Maybe by then I'll be Canadian.
Tuesday, October 31
Whatever happened to Henry?
Trick-or-treating is one of those things you don't really THINK about--it's just fun.
The only thing is--and you usually hear this about the secular version of the observance of Christmas--it's so darn commercial. The costumes are cute, sure. Some were downright impressive. I saw a few in our neigborhood tonight that could get an Oscar nod if someone captured them with a camcorder. Even my own little goblins were outfitted in aawwwwww-inspiring costumes I bought online.
It's a far cry from the labor of imagination that inevitably led to pillaging my mother's bureau or the kitchen cabinets. One year, I wore my mom's college graduation gown and a witch's hat made from black construction paper. Another year, I was a gypsy, with Mom's jewelry, makeup and scarves. But I remember the kid who came to the school Halloween party as Henry VIII. He had his dad's bathrobe and a pillow stuffed underneath to simulate the ravenous king's girth and a homemade crown with "jewels" pasted on. He even had a chicken leg to gnaw on. He considered bringing one of those rubber masks and pretending it was the head of one of his wives, but he thought that might be a little over the top (this was the 80s, when we were still trying to get over the shock of "Thriller" on cable). Fast-forward a few years to an office costume party. One couple was dressed in black from head to toe, with cat ears and a cat tail, and picture frames around their necks. They were cat burglars, and of course, they were framed. (ha, ha, ah, ahem...) Another friend, Adrienne, was wearing an early-20th century gown and had spray-painted herself with frosty body paint, with fake icecicles glued to her skin and in her gel-slickened hair. She was a Titanic victim, she explained. Another year, a friend had raided her neighbor's closet to become Joan d'Arc.
Tonight, I saw mostly pre-manufactured costumes, most in keeping with the year's blockbusters. To be sure, there were pirates a-plenty. And there were old favorites: Minnie Mouse, Cat-in-the-Hat, Spiderman, all perfectly executed. But I have to admit, there was part of me that would have liked to have seen another homemeade Henry.
Just before the candy ran its course and the porch light went out, there was this one kid who really made me smile, as up the sidewalk came a sheet with eye holes cut out. He probably wasn't going to win a free Happy Meal at the school's fall festival, but he got my vote for the best costume of the night.
Just don't tell my two nylon and acrylic kitty cats.
The only thing is--and you usually hear this about the secular version of the observance of Christmas--it's so darn commercial. The costumes are cute, sure. Some were downright impressive. I saw a few in our neigborhood tonight that could get an Oscar nod if someone captured them with a camcorder. Even my own little goblins were outfitted in aawwwwww-inspiring costumes I bought online.
It's a far cry from the labor of imagination that inevitably led to pillaging my mother's bureau or the kitchen cabinets. One year, I wore my mom's college graduation gown and a witch's hat made from black construction paper. Another year, I was a gypsy, with Mom's jewelry, makeup and scarves. But I remember the kid who came to the school Halloween party as Henry VIII. He had his dad's bathrobe and a pillow stuffed underneath to simulate the ravenous king's girth and a homemade crown with "jewels" pasted on. He even had a chicken leg to gnaw on. He considered bringing one of those rubber masks and pretending it was the head of one of his wives, but he thought that might be a little over the top (this was the 80s, when we were still trying to get over the shock of "Thriller" on cable). Fast-forward a few years to an office costume party. One couple was dressed in black from head to toe, with cat ears and a cat tail, and picture frames around their necks. They were cat burglars, and of course, they were framed. (ha, ha, ah, ahem...) Another friend, Adrienne, was wearing an early-20th century gown and had spray-painted herself with frosty body paint, with fake icecicles glued to her skin and in her gel-slickened hair. She was a Titanic victim, she explained. Another year, a friend had raided her neighbor's closet to become Joan d'Arc.
Tonight, I saw mostly pre-manufactured costumes, most in keeping with the year's blockbusters. To be sure, there were pirates a-plenty. And there were old favorites: Minnie Mouse, Cat-in-the-Hat, Spiderman, all perfectly executed. But I have to admit, there was part of me that would have liked to have seen another homemeade Henry.
Just before the candy ran its course and the porch light went out, there was this one kid who really made me smile, as up the sidewalk came a sheet with eye holes cut out. He probably wasn't going to win a free Happy Meal at the school's fall festival, but he got my vote for the best costume of the night.
Just don't tell my two nylon and acrylic kitty cats.
My little goblins
Playing with light and the gaussian blur effect. Ah, well, better keep my day job. Still doesn't hurt to try something fun...
Sunday, October 29
And the church bells were ringing...
More amateur efforts on my part, this time attempting to capture the loveliness of the bells. I'm fascinated by instruments used to inspire those in places of worship. We had a bagpiper a few weeks ago, and I so wanted to take his photo, but I left the camera in the car. Next time, I'll be ready.
Friday, October 27
Thursday, October 26
An unexpected visitor
Imagine having this drop in on you: A man in the eastern part of the state found a decades-old casket--and its resident--scattered on his property, state police said today. What's especially confusing is that there isn't a cemetery nearby, and there have been no reports of grave-tampering in the area, although it's possible the empty grave just hasn't been noticed yet. Police say the evidence--including the empty vault found near the roadside--tells them someone drove the vault and its contents and then dumped them out before carrying the coffin and the long-deceased young woman inside to the man's property. There's no indication who the woman is (or was), and the coffin is an old one, not manufactured since the 1940s. Maybe someone didn't pay their plot maintenance fee?
http://www.kentucky.com/mld/kentucky/15854539.htm
http://www.kentucky.com/mld/kentucky/15854539.htm
Friday, October 20
Monday, October 16
Hidden treasure
Kingdom Come State Park is certainly off the beaten path. It is named for the Civil War-era novel, The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, and standing at its peak atop Pine Mountain, about 2,700 feet above sea level, truly it does seem as though little has changed since that time. And yet, a whole era has come and gone. The coal boom is just a rumble now, and fron certain points one can see evidence of an industry in its sunset as above-ground mining seeks whatever can be found in the earth, as the deeper seams are smaller and more difficult to access. The towns once noisy with activity are quiet little communities with consolidated schools and empty storefronts. And yet families sustain, content and rooted, surrounded by the treasure of largely unspoiled pieces of creation. So explore away, and at the end of the day, come down to the valley for warm, sweet cornbread and milk. Mmmmm.
Here's an excerpt from the novel:
.…The lake of dull red behind the jagged lines of rose and crimson that streaked the east began to glow and look angry. A sheen of fiery vapor shot upward and spread swiftly over the miracle of mist that had been wrought in the night. An ocean of it and, white and thick as snowdust, it filled valley, chasm, and ravine with mystery and silence up to the dark jutting points and dark waving lines of range after range that looked like breakers, surged up by some strange new law from an under-sea of foam; motionless, it swept down the valleys, poured swift torrents through high gaps in the hills and one long noiseless cataract over a lesser range - all silent, all motionless, like a great white sea stilled in the fury of a storm. Morning after morning, the boy had looked upon such glory, calmly watching the mist part, like the waters, for the land, and the day break, with one phrase, "Let there be light," ever in his mind - for Chad knew his bible. And, most often, in soft splendor, trailing cloud-mist, and yellow light leaping from crest to crest, and in the singing of birds and the shining of leaves and dew - there was light.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
from The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, by John Fox Jr
Tuesday, October 3
Ale-8-One...salsa?
For those of you unfamiliar with our native drink, Ale-8-One is smething akin to Mountain Dew or Mello Yello--but a bit spicier with a heck of a lot of caffeine. It was the breakfast of champions that got many of us through college. It is traditionally paired with a sugary Moon Pie, so the thought of mixing it with salsa ingredients is...well...interesting. Below is the announcement from the Kentucky Agriculture Cabinet:
NEW ALE-8-ONE SALSA WILL LAUNCH
AT MOUNT STERLING COURT DAY FESTIVAL
FRANKFORT, Ky. — Peanut butter and chocolate. Montgomery and Gentry. Ale-8-One and tomatoes.
The Winchester bottler believes its Kentucky Proud soft drink and locally grown tomatoes (and peppers) go together as well as the popular snack foods and the country music duo. It has worked with northern Kentucky processor Millard Long to develop an Ale-8-One salsa, and it will launch its new product at Mount Sterling Court Day Oct. 14-16.
“This is a good example of how the Kentucky Proud program brings people together to find ways to add value to their products,” Agriculture Commissioner Richie Farmer said. “This partnership also helps the growers who raise the vegetables. And consumers can try a new product from an old Kentucky company that they know and love.”
DeAnne Elmore, director of marketing and public relations for Ale-8-One, said her business will sell the salsa from its tent in front of Cooper Tire in Mount Sterling at the annual Court Day festival. Elmore said a jar of the salsa was included in a gift basket that was raffled off at Pioneer Days in Winchester during the Labor Day weekend. She said the salsa will be sold at the Winchester plant and in local stores through Christmas to see how it sells.
Ale-8-One is working with another Kentucky Proud partner, Ruth Hunt Candies of Mount Sterling, to produce Ale-8-One suckers for the first time in 18 years, Elmore said. The suckers will be sold at Ruth Hunt and at the Ale-8-One tent during the Court Day festival.
To make the salsa, Ale-8-One sells the concentrated form of its soft drink to Long, who processes and bottles it at his northern Kentucky plant.
The idea for the salsa emerged from a recipe contest for students at Sullivan University that was held to celebrate Ale-8-One’s 80th anniversary. John Morris of Allied Food Marketers saw the winning recipes in a newspaper and suggested to Long that an Ale-8-One salsa might be worth a try. Allied is the Kentucky Department of Agriculture’s Kentucky Proud marketing partner.
The salsa was tested in Ale-8-One company potlucks and adapted until Long developed the formula that will be sold in Mount Sterling next month.
NEW ALE-8-ONE SALSA WILL LAUNCH
AT MOUNT STERLING COURT DAY FESTIVAL
FRANKFORT, Ky. — Peanut butter and chocolate. Montgomery and Gentry. Ale-8-One and tomatoes.
The Winchester bottler believes its Kentucky Proud soft drink and locally grown tomatoes (and peppers) go together as well as the popular snack foods and the country music duo. It has worked with northern Kentucky processor Millard Long to develop an Ale-8-One salsa, and it will launch its new product at Mount Sterling Court Day Oct. 14-16.
“This is a good example of how the Kentucky Proud program brings people together to find ways to add value to their products,” Agriculture Commissioner Richie Farmer said. “This partnership also helps the growers who raise the vegetables. And consumers can try a new product from an old Kentucky company that they know and love.”
DeAnne Elmore, director of marketing and public relations for Ale-8-One, said her business will sell the salsa from its tent in front of Cooper Tire in Mount Sterling at the annual Court Day festival. Elmore said a jar of the salsa was included in a gift basket that was raffled off at Pioneer Days in Winchester during the Labor Day weekend. She said the salsa will be sold at the Winchester plant and in local stores through Christmas to see how it sells.
Ale-8-One is working with another Kentucky Proud partner, Ruth Hunt Candies of Mount Sterling, to produce Ale-8-One suckers for the first time in 18 years, Elmore said. The suckers will be sold at Ruth Hunt and at the Ale-8-One tent during the Court Day festival.
To make the salsa, Ale-8-One sells the concentrated form of its soft drink to Long, who processes and bottles it at his northern Kentucky plant.
The idea for the salsa emerged from a recipe contest for students at Sullivan University that was held to celebrate Ale-8-One’s 80th anniversary. John Morris of Allied Food Marketers saw the winning recipes in a newspaper and suggested to Long that an Ale-8-One salsa might be worth a try. Allied is the Kentucky Department of Agriculture’s Kentucky Proud marketing partner.
The salsa was tested in Ale-8-One company potlucks and adapted until Long developed the formula that will be sold in Mount Sterling next month.
The great pumpkin
Forget what the meteorological calendar says--it isn't officially autumn here until you make the pilgrimage to the pumpkin farm.
Saturday, September 30
Watch where you step, Mick...something stinks
For the first time, Churchill Downs was rocked by something other than thundering hooves and rowdy fans sipping mint juleps in the stands and moonshine in the infield. Mick Jagger and the rest of the Stones entourage held a concert last night at the historic venue. Tickets were $300 a pop (via legal sales...much higher, I'm sure, through scalpers).
Just a day earlier, flood victims in Lexington were evicted from their hotel rooms at the modest La Quinta because the Red Cross ran out of funds after just a few days.
Not a sermon, just a thought...
Just a day earlier, flood victims in Lexington were evicted from their hotel rooms at the modest La Quinta because the Red Cross ran out of funds after just a few days.
Not a sermon, just a thought...
Friday, September 29
Friday funny: You can take it with you in Kentucky
A report out today says that more than 7,400 people continued to receive welfare benefits in Kentucky after kicking the bucket. So I guess you can take it with you after all? I'm reminded of the case of the fellow in our fair Commonwealth whose father inconvenienced his sponging ways by dying, so he put dear old dad in the freezer and continued to collect his Social Security and welfare checks. Lovely.
In equally uplifting news, police discovered holes in the women's restroom ceiling and hidden cameras at a Mexican restaurant not far from my hometown in the southeastern part of the state. Not to make light of it, and normally I really hate potty humor, but in this case, I hope those women ate a lot of beans. Yech.
And on a personal note, I got laughed out of the freezer section of the local grocery store last night. Apparently a middle-school girl was very amused by my loafers. And I thought they were cute--backless loafers I got at the Bass outlet. Is that so bad?
In equally uplifting news, police discovered holes in the women's restroom ceiling and hidden cameras at a Mexican restaurant not far from my hometown in the southeastern part of the state. Not to make light of it, and normally I really hate potty humor, but in this case, I hope those women ate a lot of beans. Yech.
And on a personal note, I got laughed out of the freezer section of the local grocery store last night. Apparently a middle-school girl was very amused by my loafers. And I thought they were cute--backless loafers I got at the Bass outlet. Is that so bad?
Monday, September 25
A Jesus carousel?
(Note: I took a photo with my camera phone, but the bluetooth connection is down. Until then, a description will have to suffice.)
Holidays seem to bring out the worst in lawn art tastelessness. Of all the excuses for tacky displays, Christmas is the most abused of those holidays. This year, Wal-Mart is making it possible to put the Grizwalds to shame.
I saw it balanced precariously atop a lawn-and-garden shelf. How they got it there, and how it stayed, I'm not sure, since the thing was huge: A life-sized, inflated, animated carousel with Santa, Rudolph, and Frosty riding round and round. I think it was the sheer size of the thing that gave me pause. I pulled out my cell phone and was just getting ready to take a grainy photo when I noticed a woman trying to get through the aisle I had blocked with the shopping cart I abandoned in a moment of shock and awe. I cleared the woman's path and apologized. "It's just that I was distracted by this THING," I explained, pointing at the thing perched above us.
She shook her head as if she shared my pain. "I know. Isn't it just awful what they do to Christmas? Why, they'd NEVER make something like that for Jesus!"
I froze mid-nod at that last observation. A vision of a carousel-riding Jesus, maybe with Mary and Joseph and the stable animals, flashed before me.
Eat your hearts out, Grizwalds.
Holidays seem to bring out the worst in lawn art tastelessness. Of all the excuses for tacky displays, Christmas is the most abused of those holidays. This year, Wal-Mart is making it possible to put the Grizwalds to shame.
I saw it balanced precariously atop a lawn-and-garden shelf. How they got it there, and how it stayed, I'm not sure, since the thing was huge: A life-sized, inflated, animated carousel with Santa, Rudolph, and Frosty riding round and round. I think it was the sheer size of the thing that gave me pause. I pulled out my cell phone and was just getting ready to take a grainy photo when I noticed a woman trying to get through the aisle I had blocked with the shopping cart I abandoned in a moment of shock and awe. I cleared the woman's path and apologized. "It's just that I was distracted by this THING," I explained, pointing at the thing perched above us.
She shook her head as if she shared my pain. "I know. Isn't it just awful what they do to Christmas? Why, they'd NEVER make something like that for Jesus!"
I froze mid-nod at that last observation. A vision of a carousel-riding Jesus, maybe with Mary and Joseph and the stable animals, flashed before me.
Eat your hearts out, Grizwalds.
Sunday, September 24
As the rain came, unrelenting, I found myself staring out the window, somewhere between fear and awe. When it was finally done, I thought of how untouchable we often feel, nestled here in the Commonwealth. Often, we're asked to give to relief efforts and mission funds, and when we respond--if we do--it is with detached sympathy for the plight of others in some far-off place. But as we turn on the national evening news and see stories about ourselves--our dead, our flooded churches, our homes ravaged and memories buried in mud, it is a startling reminder that those who suffer aren't just fellow humans, or figurative neighbors, or even brothers and sisters. It is us. This time, next time, every time.
Thursday, September 21
'You give me fever'
There's a commercial on The Learning Channel that says one of life's lessons is that "merlot and email don't mix." I'll add that a fever and all forms of communication are an equally bad recipe.
I like to think that I'm resilient, but in the last couple of days, a nasty bug called streptococcus moved into my throat and gave me a fever and the sensation of swallowing glass whenever I tried to eat or sip water.
Sometime in the middle of the night, while my fever climbed, I got up as usual to feed the baby and then stayed awake, so miserable I couldn't sleep. That's when I noticed it on the counter: the postcard from a local politician. At the bottom, it included a questionaire and some blank lines asking me to list my concerns for our town. There also was a note at the bottom promising a phone call and a personal visit if I'd include my name and address.
So, in a fit of delirium, I filled the thing out. I told him exactly what I thought was wrong with the world. I won't elaborate here--one form of humiliation is quite enough. Then I included my name, address and email for good measure.
Fortunately, the thing didn't include pre-paid postage, something I apparently overlooked. Unstamped, it didn't make it to its intended destination. I found it this afternoon, safe and unsound.
I went to the doctor today and got a hefty dose of antibiotics, so there isn't much chance of repeating last night's blunder. Now, to check the "sent" folder in my email...
I like to think that I'm resilient, but in the last couple of days, a nasty bug called streptococcus moved into my throat and gave me a fever and the sensation of swallowing glass whenever I tried to eat or sip water.
Sometime in the middle of the night, while my fever climbed, I got up as usual to feed the baby and then stayed awake, so miserable I couldn't sleep. That's when I noticed it on the counter: the postcard from a local politician. At the bottom, it included a questionaire and some blank lines asking me to list my concerns for our town. There also was a note at the bottom promising a phone call and a personal visit if I'd include my name and address.
So, in a fit of delirium, I filled the thing out. I told him exactly what I thought was wrong with the world. I won't elaborate here--one form of humiliation is quite enough. Then I included my name, address and email for good measure.
Fortunately, the thing didn't include pre-paid postage, something I apparently overlooked. Unstamped, it didn't make it to its intended destination. I found it this afternoon, safe and unsound.
I went to the doctor today and got a hefty dose of antibiotics, so there isn't much chance of repeating last night's blunder. Now, to check the "sent" folder in my email...
Wednesday, September 20
...And the Light was changed...
Getting up in the middle of the night with a baby, when the only sounds in the house are the antique mantle clock marking time and the hum of the refrigerator, affords plenty of opportunities to reflect.
One thing about life: it's full of changes. Some unexpected, some planned, some that bring joy, some that carry sorrow. It's just part of the ebb and flow of humanity. And yet, through the changes, there are constants.
A young minister I know used to say whenever she would extinguish a candle: "And the light was changed, to continue in another place and time." Her message was that the true Light is never gone from our presence, even when we cannot see it.
Love is like that. It may be changed, as all things eventually are, but it also is constant, remaining with us, part of us. My little girl asked yesterday, after watching The Fox and the Hound, what it means when we say someone is with us in our heart. I gave her my best answer: that the love we have for one another stays with us, no matter where we go or how far apart we may be. And so, those we love are part of the fabric of who we are. That's nice to remember in the wee small hours of the morning.
One thing about life: it's full of changes. Some unexpected, some planned, some that bring joy, some that carry sorrow. It's just part of the ebb and flow of humanity. And yet, through the changes, there are constants.
A young minister I know used to say whenever she would extinguish a candle: "And the light was changed, to continue in another place and time." Her message was that the true Light is never gone from our presence, even when we cannot see it.
Love is like that. It may be changed, as all things eventually are, but it also is constant, remaining with us, part of us. My little girl asked yesterday, after watching The Fox and the Hound, what it means when we say someone is with us in our heart. I gave her my best answer: that the love we have for one another stays with us, no matter where we go or how far apart we may be. And so, those we love are part of the fabric of who we are. That's nice to remember in the wee small hours of the morning.
Monday, September 11
Happy birthday--Sept. 11, 2001
Today candles will be lit in remembrance of one of the darkest--some would argue THE darkest of days in our history.
But one particular face was lit by candlelight for a different reason as a household on a quiet, tree-lined street in Lexington, Kentucky, remembered and celebrated Sept. 11, 2001.
After more than a dozen years of marriage and no children, they had nearly given up their dream of filling their house with the laughter of a child. Then, soon after New Year 2001, they learned their prayer had been answered. She was pregnant.
On their way to the hospital one morning, they heard the news that would write a new history and forge a new future for the world. By that afternoon, their own personal history and future had been forever altered.
On a day of such mourning, their joy was immeasurable. Their baby girl was perfect.
On her first birthday, her father lit firecrackers in celebration. A few days later, the local paper included a letter to the editor criticizing the neighbors who had the nerve to celebrate Sept. 11. As I mentioned to a friend earlier, the author had apparently overlooked the possiblity of joy coming from that day, so dark was the grief that held so many.
Yesterday, one of the ministers at our church commented that on that day, and in the years sense, there were birthdays, anniversaries, graduations--celebrations of life and love. Out of the darkness, light.
Today, the little girl blew out her candle, but the light was not gone. It was there in her face and in the faces of those of us celebrating with her--life, love...God still with us.
But one particular face was lit by candlelight for a different reason as a household on a quiet, tree-lined street in Lexington, Kentucky, remembered and celebrated Sept. 11, 2001.
After more than a dozen years of marriage and no children, they had nearly given up their dream of filling their house with the laughter of a child. Then, soon after New Year 2001, they learned their prayer had been answered. She was pregnant.
On their way to the hospital one morning, they heard the news that would write a new history and forge a new future for the world. By that afternoon, their own personal history and future had been forever altered.
On a day of such mourning, their joy was immeasurable. Their baby girl was perfect.
On her first birthday, her father lit firecrackers in celebration. A few days later, the local paper included a letter to the editor criticizing the neighbors who had the nerve to celebrate Sept. 11. As I mentioned to a friend earlier, the author had apparently overlooked the possiblity of joy coming from that day, so dark was the grief that held so many.
Yesterday, one of the ministers at our church commented that on that day, and in the years sense, there were birthdays, anniversaries, graduations--celebrations of life and love. Out of the darkness, light.
Today, the little girl blew out her candle, but the light was not gone. It was there in her face and in the faces of those of us celebrating with her--life, love...God still with us.
Friday, September 8
Why you shouldn't go walking on garbage day
The Bluegrass region has a love affair with the sun. Compared to the mountains and high hills of the eastern part of the state, where I've spent most of my life, this flatter area sees more lingering, lovely sunrises and sunsets, casting a golden glow over the rolling fields lined with Civil War-era stone walls and new, crisp white fences. The middle of the day is a little harder to appreciate, however; the same low hills that allow for picturesque beginnings and endings to the day also fail to provide much shade as the morning fades to noon and noon to afternoon. On late summer days, the heat can be unrelenting.
It was just shaping into such a day today when I decided I couldn't wait any longer to go outside. Yesterday, the doctor pronounced me sufficiently progressing in my recovery since having a human being surgically extracted from my body three weeks ago--I mean since joyously having a Cesarean section--to allow me to start walking for exercise. After a few weeks of bedrest, a weeklong hospital stay and three weeks of living like a mole, I didn't care if it was already 80 degrees; I was more than ready to put on my sneakers and get moving. So, around 11 a.m., I performed the acrobatics necessary to get a newborn into a stroller:
• Step one: take her to the car and strap her in her car seat. This means balancing her on one arm, with keys, phone, bottle and pacifier in the other hand, while opening the car door, inserting the baby into the appropriate position, all without dropping anything--most importantly, the baby.
• Step two: get the stroller out of the trunk and wrestle with the "easy open" latch (which is NOT easy to open).
• Step three: then perform the great fete of popping the car seat out of its base and into the stroller in a single motion without waking the peaceful baby within.
• Take care not to curse in the garage, since voices echo in there.
I was feeling pretty good by the time I hit the sidewalk. Then I noticed something: Garbage day. Plastic cans and plastic bags lined both sides of the street. Not such a big deal, I thought, and sucked in my abs and put those Nikes to the street. By the time I got to the end of the block, I noticed something foul following me: the ghost of the garbage. I noticed the baby squirming and making an equally foul face, so I closed up the stroller cover and kept walking. Unfortunately, the garbage truck had not made it to the neighborhood yet. So, every hundred feet or so, there was the suffocating stench.
The further I went, the higher the sun rose in the sky. The baking garbage became increasingly rank. I tried holding my breath, but soon found that walking is not an anaerobic activity. Just when it seems my lungs would burst, I had to give in and take a deep breath. I'm not sure my head was spinning from asphyxia or the garbage. Then, just as I rounded a corner, I heard the glorious sounds of the garbage truck about two blocks away. I walked faster, trying to catch up with it and follow its path. I never thought I'd be eager to follow a garbage truck, but being a safe distance behind would mean that the offensive garbage would be on the truck, not on the sidewalk. I hurried along, but unfortunately, the streets between me and the truck had not been serviced yet. I walked faster. The smell was worse and worse. And then I lost sight of the garbage truck.
Oh, no! I pushed the stroller as quickly as I could. By this time, I was drenched, and I was worried that the interior of the stroller was becoming a mini sauna. Distracted with that thought, I stopped in my tracks and put one hand inside the stroller. Satisfied that the baby was not melting, I started again. As I walked, I noticed something soft underfoot. To my horror, I looked down to see a feminine product stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
Now, that's not something you just pull off. I raked my foot along the sidewalk, hoping to dislodge it, but it was stuck firmly. I hoped no one would happen to look outside to see me with this, of all things, on my shoe, doing a weird little dance as I alternately dragged and shook my foot. Just as I thought maybe I was going to have to sacrifice a Nike, it relaxed its grip on my pride and my shoe. When I last saw the offending article, it was lying in all its glory in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere on a nice street lined with stately brick houses and boxwood shrubs.
For the record, following a garbage truck is NOT a good idea. I found that if you are within sight of the truck at noon in Kentucky in early September, there is no safe distance. It stinks.
At least I got in my first day of exercise. I hope to do a little every day. Well, maybe not on Fridays.
It was just shaping into such a day today when I decided I couldn't wait any longer to go outside. Yesterday, the doctor pronounced me sufficiently progressing in my recovery since having a human being surgically extracted from my body three weeks ago--I mean since joyously having a Cesarean section--to allow me to start walking for exercise. After a few weeks of bedrest, a weeklong hospital stay and three weeks of living like a mole, I didn't care if it was already 80 degrees; I was more than ready to put on my sneakers and get moving. So, around 11 a.m., I performed the acrobatics necessary to get a newborn into a stroller:
• Step one: take her to the car and strap her in her car seat. This means balancing her on one arm, with keys, phone, bottle and pacifier in the other hand, while opening the car door, inserting the baby into the appropriate position, all without dropping anything--most importantly, the baby.
• Step two: get the stroller out of the trunk and wrestle with the "easy open" latch (which is NOT easy to open).
• Step three: then perform the great fete of popping the car seat out of its base and into the stroller in a single motion without waking the peaceful baby within.
• Take care not to curse in the garage, since voices echo in there.
I was feeling pretty good by the time I hit the sidewalk. Then I noticed something: Garbage day. Plastic cans and plastic bags lined both sides of the street. Not such a big deal, I thought, and sucked in my abs and put those Nikes to the street. By the time I got to the end of the block, I noticed something foul following me: the ghost of the garbage. I noticed the baby squirming and making an equally foul face, so I closed up the stroller cover and kept walking. Unfortunately, the garbage truck had not made it to the neighborhood yet. So, every hundred feet or so, there was the suffocating stench.
The further I went, the higher the sun rose in the sky. The baking garbage became increasingly rank. I tried holding my breath, but soon found that walking is not an anaerobic activity. Just when it seems my lungs would burst, I had to give in and take a deep breath. I'm not sure my head was spinning from asphyxia or the garbage. Then, just as I rounded a corner, I heard the glorious sounds of the garbage truck about two blocks away. I walked faster, trying to catch up with it and follow its path. I never thought I'd be eager to follow a garbage truck, but being a safe distance behind would mean that the offensive garbage would be on the truck, not on the sidewalk. I hurried along, but unfortunately, the streets between me and the truck had not been serviced yet. I walked faster. The smell was worse and worse. And then I lost sight of the garbage truck.
Oh, no! I pushed the stroller as quickly as I could. By this time, I was drenched, and I was worried that the interior of the stroller was becoming a mini sauna. Distracted with that thought, I stopped in my tracks and put one hand inside the stroller. Satisfied that the baby was not melting, I started again. As I walked, I noticed something soft underfoot. To my horror, I looked down to see a feminine product stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
Now, that's not something you just pull off. I raked my foot along the sidewalk, hoping to dislodge it, but it was stuck firmly. I hoped no one would happen to look outside to see me with this, of all things, on my shoe, doing a weird little dance as I alternately dragged and shook my foot. Just as I thought maybe I was going to have to sacrifice a Nike, it relaxed its grip on my pride and my shoe. When I last saw the offending article, it was lying in all its glory in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere on a nice street lined with stately brick houses and boxwood shrubs.
For the record, following a garbage truck is NOT a good idea. I found that if you are within sight of the truck at noon in Kentucky in early September, there is no safe distance. It stinks.
At least I got in my first day of exercise. I hope to do a little every day. Well, maybe not on Fridays.
Tuesday, September 5
Crikey, he's gone!
This is very off-topic, as it has nothing to do with the Bluegrass, but I wanted to acknowledge the passing of a cultural icon: Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter. On second thought, I guess there is a tie to home: several years ago, my husband and I went to a Halloween party dressed as Irwin and his wife. I got a fake ponytail, wore a campshirt and hiking shorts and boots, and he parted his hair down the middle and dressed accordingly. He didn't look much like Irwin, but he nailed the accent and wrestled a fake snake wrapped around his neck. He got big laughs out of the WSAZ cohort (he was a reporter at the NBC affiliate at the time).
Giggles aside, it's quite interesting that the untimely but not unexpected passing of this over-the-top showman became a point of focus for the Australian parliament, and that there has been talk of honoring him with a state funeral--a rite normally reserved for heads of state. Outlandish as he seemed--and that's why we watched--the Aussie certainly brought new attention to the adventurous spirit of his homeland.
I think we can at least take one lesson from Irwin: life's an adventure. That means taking risks sometimes. I still don't like spiders, and I'm not ready to make friends with alligators anytime soon, but it's a nice to think about embracing life with similar gusto.
Now...where did I put those hiking boots?
Giggles aside, it's quite interesting that the untimely but not unexpected passing of this over-the-top showman became a point of focus for the Australian parliament, and that there has been talk of honoring him with a state funeral--a rite normally reserved for heads of state. Outlandish as he seemed--and that's why we watched--the Aussie certainly brought new attention to the adventurous spirit of his homeland.
I think we can at least take one lesson from Irwin: life's an adventure. That means taking risks sometimes. I still don't like spiders, and I'm not ready to make friends with alligators anytime soon, but it's a nice to think about embracing life with similar gusto.
Now...where did I put those hiking boots?
Take that, Nutrisystem girl
Well, it happened: the first official lewd howl since having the baby. Apparently one does not need to waste away to size 2 on Nutrisystem in order to attract the unwanted attention of men in utility vans.
I don't know what's more troubling: that it happened at my daughter's school; or that it happened to me so soon after giving birth, leaving me with a shape that's more Frosty the Snowman than Marilyn Monroe; or that it happened while I was staggering like a drunk woman through the parking lot after pulling all-night baby duty solo (my husband is TKO by a sinus infection). I'm afraid it had more to do with the latter condition than any feminine charms I may have been eluting. In fact, I was in such a fog I didn't realize there was a person in the van, nor that the "hey, little MAM-MA, whew, you are NI-I-I-I-ICE," was directed toward me. Then two truths became clear: yes, there was a scruffy little man in the front seat of the van, and there was no one else outside. The sidewalk was deserted except for me, since we had gotten to school three minutes late and had to do the walk of shame into the principal's office to get a tardy note. Only one other kid arrived late, and his father had parked right by the front door, so he was no where in sight as I made my way back to the SUV.
I was too tired to heave one of my brown leather mules at my undesirable admirer's head through the open window. Besides, I like those shoes, and I had only recently been able to get my swollen feet into them again. So, I stumbled down the sidewalk and made my way to the Pacifica (yes, that's what I meant by SUV--Crysler classifies it as such, and it is NOT a van on steroids as certain persons have suggested). I have to admit I smiled a little as I started the engine. As noted in previous posts, I am annoyed by howls and whistles directed at random pedestrians by people in big vehicles, but in my bedraggled state--stained shirt, barely brushed hair, glasses and round tummy, it was nice to know there's still a girl under there--even if it probably was noted only because the beholder thought the bleary-eyed woman making her way past his van was too impaired to be offended. If only he'd known that mothers are like medical residents in their ability to function on .03 hours of sleep.
But don't get any ideas, little van man. Next time, I'm wearing my old clunky tennis shoes, and those I don't care to lose.
I don't know what's more troubling: that it happened at my daughter's school; or that it happened to me so soon after giving birth, leaving me with a shape that's more Frosty the Snowman than Marilyn Monroe; or that it happened while I was staggering like a drunk woman through the parking lot after pulling all-night baby duty solo (my husband is TKO by a sinus infection). I'm afraid it had more to do with the latter condition than any feminine charms I may have been eluting. In fact, I was in such a fog I didn't realize there was a person in the van, nor that the "hey, little MAM-MA, whew, you are NI-I-I-I-ICE," was directed toward me. Then two truths became clear: yes, there was a scruffy little man in the front seat of the van, and there was no one else outside. The sidewalk was deserted except for me, since we had gotten to school three minutes late and had to do the walk of shame into the principal's office to get a tardy note. Only one other kid arrived late, and his father had parked right by the front door, so he was no where in sight as I made my way back to the SUV.
I was too tired to heave one of my brown leather mules at my undesirable admirer's head through the open window. Besides, I like those shoes, and I had only recently been able to get my swollen feet into them again. So, I stumbled down the sidewalk and made my way to the Pacifica (yes, that's what I meant by SUV--Crysler classifies it as such, and it is NOT a van on steroids as certain persons have suggested). I have to admit I smiled a little as I started the engine. As noted in previous posts, I am annoyed by howls and whistles directed at random pedestrians by people in big vehicles, but in my bedraggled state--stained shirt, barely brushed hair, glasses and round tummy, it was nice to know there's still a girl under there--even if it probably was noted only because the beholder thought the bleary-eyed woman making her way past his van was too impaired to be offended. If only he'd known that mothers are like medical residents in their ability to function on .03 hours of sleep.
But don't get any ideas, little van man. Next time, I'm wearing my old clunky tennis shoes, and those I don't care to lose.
Sunday, September 3
Neighbors on patrol
It started with a handmade flier taped to a road sign at the entrance of the subdivision: "Neighborhood watch meeting Tuesday 6:30 p.m." and the address.
That's all it took.
Already suspicious of a particular fellow on our street, some of our neighbors were eager to go. We were expecting guests, so we bowed out. I was curious, though. I wondered if there would be fiery torches.
Less than 24 hours later, I got the news. Apparently we were all committing a litany of sins against the Neighborhood Rules. Someone was parking his truck on the street. Two other neighbors have dogs that occasionally make an escape into the public domain, frightening the innocent, God-fearing people who just want to check the mail without losing an appendage. Someone else has an outbuilding with roof tiles that don't match those on his house. A retired couple has a driveway in the wrong place. And, worst of all, the fences are all wrong--too close to the property lines.
Yes, this is going to be a safer world now that the neighborhood watch has been implemented.
Now, I'm all for protecting our kids and elderly and the rest of us from ne'er-do-wells. And if I've learned anything from watching satellite TV in the middle of the night while feeding my baby, it's that we are not safe in suburbia. We live with the threat of everything from serial killers to flesh-eating bacteria. In Bluegrass territory, there's an added threat--mosquitos that carry diseases hefty enough to kill a horse.
Seriously, I'm as protective of my babies as the next person, and I can be just as paranoid of strange cars and strange people on our cul-de-sac. There are other things that make me take a second look and pull my eldest daughter closer to me...and wonder where I can get one of those big plastic bubbles to put her in. But the guy with the blue shingles doesn't keep me awake at night.
A year ago, I signed up for the Kentucky State Police Sex Offender Notification Network. The calls come at around 7 a.m.--just in time to wake the baby. When I first started getting the calls alerting me that a sex offender had moved into my ZIP code, I'd hustle to the computer to look at the list. I found a pretty rotten bunch--photo after photo of people convicted of preying on others. I started looking into security systems and wondered if my one trap-shooting experience would be enough to nail an intruder (I decided it was not, since my aim was rather bad).
I do appreciate well-meaning folks who just want a safe, peaceful neighborhood. I want that, too. I just hope that in this case "neighborhood watch" doesn't turn into "watch thy neighbor and note all his infractions." Somehow, I think we're already headed there.
I guess I'll get invited to one of those meetings soon, unless one of my neighbors sees this--and if they do, I have to say that someone broke into my house and forced me to write this, so stop reading now and call 911!
In the meantime, I think we'd better get our homeowner's insurance up to date and bar the windows. Something tells me there could be a lot of stones flying.
That's all it took.
Already suspicious of a particular fellow on our street, some of our neighbors were eager to go. We were expecting guests, so we bowed out. I was curious, though. I wondered if there would be fiery torches.
Less than 24 hours later, I got the news. Apparently we were all committing a litany of sins against the Neighborhood Rules. Someone was parking his truck on the street. Two other neighbors have dogs that occasionally make an escape into the public domain, frightening the innocent, God-fearing people who just want to check the mail without losing an appendage. Someone else has an outbuilding with roof tiles that don't match those on his house. A retired couple has a driveway in the wrong place. And, worst of all, the fences are all wrong--too close to the property lines.
Yes, this is going to be a safer world now that the neighborhood watch has been implemented.
Now, I'm all for protecting our kids and elderly and the rest of us from ne'er-do-wells. And if I've learned anything from watching satellite TV in the middle of the night while feeding my baby, it's that we are not safe in suburbia. We live with the threat of everything from serial killers to flesh-eating bacteria. In Bluegrass territory, there's an added threat--mosquitos that carry diseases hefty enough to kill a horse.
Seriously, I'm as protective of my babies as the next person, and I can be just as paranoid of strange cars and strange people on our cul-de-sac. There are other things that make me take a second look and pull my eldest daughter closer to me...and wonder where I can get one of those big plastic bubbles to put her in. But the guy with the blue shingles doesn't keep me awake at night.
A year ago, I signed up for the Kentucky State Police Sex Offender Notification Network. The calls come at around 7 a.m.--just in time to wake the baby. When I first started getting the calls alerting me that a sex offender had moved into my ZIP code, I'd hustle to the computer to look at the list. I found a pretty rotten bunch--photo after photo of people convicted of preying on others. I started looking into security systems and wondered if my one trap-shooting experience would be enough to nail an intruder (I decided it was not, since my aim was rather bad).
I do appreciate well-meaning folks who just want a safe, peaceful neighborhood. I want that, too. I just hope that in this case "neighborhood watch" doesn't turn into "watch thy neighbor and note all his infractions." Somehow, I think we're already headed there.
I guess I'll get invited to one of those meetings soon, unless one of my neighbors sees this--and if they do, I have to say that someone broke into my house and forced me to write this, so stop reading now and call 911!
In the meantime, I think we'd better get our homeowner's insurance up to date and bar the windows. Something tells me there could be a lot of stones flying.
Saturday, September 2
A moment of levity
I HOPE this is a joke. If not, I have to say it would have to say this is something akin to child abuse.
http://www.babytoupee.com/
http://www.babytoupee.com/
The big small life
On the same day 49 people died at Bluegrass Airport, there was another loss here. Her passing didn't make the evening news, but in many ways, I think it should have.
Tiffany was 5 years old, just a few days younger than my Meghan. I knew her only briefly; although I suppose at that age, every acquaintance was brief by default. I interviewed her and her father for a story about how families deal with being in the children's hospital over the Christmas holidays. She was afraid of me and my camera at first. She was my very first interview in my new job, and I was a mess of tangled wires, an awkward tripod, and a video camera with a battery that didn't work. I sweated it out as I made calls back to the office for someone to bring a fresh battery. While we waited, Tiffany relaxed and graced me with a big, dimpled smile.
Her eyes, however, were sleepy and red-rimmed. She was just starting another round of chemo. She was 4 then and had lived with leukemia for little more than a year. During that time, she had spent more days in the hospital than at home with her mom, dad and two big brothers. Her parents had worked out a system of switching shifts--her dad with her during the day, mom at night. While I was there in her room, I saw one of the most poignant father-daughter relationships I have ever witnessed. Her father adored her, and her pain-dimmed eyes would light up for a moment whenever she turned them toward her dad, who treated her like the healthy kid he just knew she would be someday. He tickled her and wrestled with her, making her forget that the only Christmas lights she would see that year were the ones strung along her IV pole. Like any other 4-year-old kid, her big concern was whether Santa would know where to deliver her presents. Her dad assured her that he did. She asked to watch an Elmo DVD and told me she loved Disney princesses, just like my daughter. She talked of going home and playing with her brothers. As she talked, she watched me carefully, gauging my reaction. I soon forgot that she was bald and hooked to machines and believed this child was going to make it, that she would go home and be like every other ordinary kid.
But this child was extraordinary.
Her father later emailed me at work and invited me to see the family's web site. There were photos of Tiffany with big, bouncy curls and chubby little hands exploring the cracks of a sidewalk while on vacation with the family, happy and carefree, just weeks before she was diagnosed with the disease that would cut her life short less than two years later. But I also saw message upon message posted by nurses, friends, fellow patients, church members, new acquaintances like me--people who were touched by Tiffany's strong spirit. They wrote about the same things that had impressed me--her smile, her will to live. She was not going to be defined by her illness but rather her vitality. She was going to go home to her pets and her big brothers and get that child's sweaty glow playing in the back yard. She was going to have cake on her birthday and take a vacation with her family and go shopping for school clothes.
As the months passed, her father posted messages about her progress--her last round of chemo, her trip to see Elmo, her first day of kindergarten, her hair growing back. And then suddenly, there was a message about another trip back to the hospital. She had pneumonia. I expected to see another message a few days later about how she was back to school. Instead, the news was progressively worse. She was not responding to treatment. She needed a ventillator. Then she was gone. How could that be? With all our modern medicine, how was it possible that a child die?
The news tonight was full of updates about funeral arrangements for victims of the plane crash. I held my newborn and thought of another funeral taking place today as another family buried their child. I pray I never know that kind of heartache. My hope is that time will dull the sting of their loss but that, at the same time, the rest of us don't forget that it happened and that every day, there are losses all too similar, here in the Bluegrass and around the world. Try as we might, we are not invincible. We can't always protect our children. But we can love them, unreservedly, whole-heartedly. That's the big lesson from a little life.
Tiffany was 5 years old, just a few days younger than my Meghan. I knew her only briefly; although I suppose at that age, every acquaintance was brief by default. I interviewed her and her father for a story about how families deal with being in the children's hospital over the Christmas holidays. She was afraid of me and my camera at first. She was my very first interview in my new job, and I was a mess of tangled wires, an awkward tripod, and a video camera with a battery that didn't work. I sweated it out as I made calls back to the office for someone to bring a fresh battery. While we waited, Tiffany relaxed and graced me with a big, dimpled smile.
Her eyes, however, were sleepy and red-rimmed. She was just starting another round of chemo. She was 4 then and had lived with leukemia for little more than a year. During that time, she had spent more days in the hospital than at home with her mom, dad and two big brothers. Her parents had worked out a system of switching shifts--her dad with her during the day, mom at night. While I was there in her room, I saw one of the most poignant father-daughter relationships I have ever witnessed. Her father adored her, and her pain-dimmed eyes would light up for a moment whenever she turned them toward her dad, who treated her like the healthy kid he just knew she would be someday. He tickled her and wrestled with her, making her forget that the only Christmas lights she would see that year were the ones strung along her IV pole. Like any other 4-year-old kid, her big concern was whether Santa would know where to deliver her presents. Her dad assured her that he did. She asked to watch an Elmo DVD and told me she loved Disney princesses, just like my daughter. She talked of going home and playing with her brothers. As she talked, she watched me carefully, gauging my reaction. I soon forgot that she was bald and hooked to machines and believed this child was going to make it, that she would go home and be like every other ordinary kid.
But this child was extraordinary.
Her father later emailed me at work and invited me to see the family's web site. There were photos of Tiffany with big, bouncy curls and chubby little hands exploring the cracks of a sidewalk while on vacation with the family, happy and carefree, just weeks before she was diagnosed with the disease that would cut her life short less than two years later. But I also saw message upon message posted by nurses, friends, fellow patients, church members, new acquaintances like me--people who were touched by Tiffany's strong spirit. They wrote about the same things that had impressed me--her smile, her will to live. She was not going to be defined by her illness but rather her vitality. She was going to go home to her pets and her big brothers and get that child's sweaty glow playing in the back yard. She was going to have cake on her birthday and take a vacation with her family and go shopping for school clothes.
As the months passed, her father posted messages about her progress--her last round of chemo, her trip to see Elmo, her first day of kindergarten, her hair growing back. And then suddenly, there was a message about another trip back to the hospital. She had pneumonia. I expected to see another message a few days later about how she was back to school. Instead, the news was progressively worse. She was not responding to treatment. She needed a ventillator. Then she was gone. How could that be? With all our modern medicine, how was it possible that a child die?
The news tonight was full of updates about funeral arrangements for victims of the plane crash. I held my newborn and thought of another funeral taking place today as another family buried their child. I pray I never know that kind of heartache. My hope is that time will dull the sting of their loss but that, at the same time, the rest of us don't forget that it happened and that every day, there are losses all too similar, here in the Bluegrass and around the world. Try as we might, we are not invincible. We can't always protect our children. But we can love them, unreservedly, whole-heartedly. That's the big lesson from a little life.
Thursday, August 31
stretch marks
I started to call this post "Sugar and Spice," since I now have two precious little girls. But then I changed my formula-stained shirt and was reminded that they don't necessarily come with "everything nice." But that's okay with me. And I did get a couple of stretch marks--darn it--just as the old ones had faded away and my stomach had started to look more like 19 than 91. But these little red marks aren't too bad, and to me, they're strange badges of honor, and remind me every time I see them that for a time, my body was used to sustain a life.
Something I can't quite wrap my head around is that this great love I have for these children is destined to be quite one-sided someday. Just as I did, these children that now adore their mother will one day possibly not care so much, or at least want to distance themselves from my influence and smothering kisses. Even if they don't, I doubt they will fully know or appreciate the depth of love I have for them unless they one day become parents themselves.
It reminds me of the marks born by someone else who loved with a depth that was largely lost on the recipients. We can come close, but I don't believe we fully know or appreciate what was done for us--the pain that He bore and the infinite love He has for us. Those scars are a testament...just as are our own for our children.
Something to think about.
Something I can't quite wrap my head around is that this great love I have for these children is destined to be quite one-sided someday. Just as I did, these children that now adore their mother will one day possibly not care so much, or at least want to distance themselves from my influence and smothering kisses. Even if they don't, I doubt they will fully know or appreciate the depth of love I have for them unless they one day become parents themselves.
It reminds me of the marks born by someone else who loved with a depth that was largely lost on the recipients. We can come close, but I don't believe we fully know or appreciate what was done for us--the pain that He bore and the infinite love He has for us. Those scars are a testament...just as are our own for our children.
Something to think about.
Tuesday, July 4
Happy birthday, America!
The fireworks began last night--quite impressive for a backyard display. In her five-year-old world, this was an incredible sight. She'd seen fireworks before, mostly huddled against me or her father or under a blanket, but this time, instead of, "It's going to fall on us!" her reaction was "Wow!" This morning, after thinking it all over, she wanted to know more about this celebration. "What is July 4?" she asked. "It's our country's birthday," I answered. She was delighted. Birthdays are second only to Christas as the greatest moments in life. Over sausage and scrambled eggs, we explained to her how our nation was born and about the freedom we treasure--freedom which makes our country great. As she thought this over and ate her sausage balanced upside-down on her fork like a frisbee on a pole, I wondered what life will be like for her in another twenty-something years, when she is my age. How free will we be? How well will we remember our founding principles? Hopefully, the future is bright. For now, she's content to wave her flag at the parade later today, share hotdogs with the neighbors, and see the huge fireworks show--the grandest version of blowing out the candles. Happy birthday, America!
Monday, July 3
Entrepreneurs
It was wedged just inside the storm door. "Matt's Yard Care Service," the flier reads. "I am a 12-year-old entrepreneur." Next to a list of services touted as "all your yard care needs," and the subsequent prices, there's a photo of a sun-bleached blonde kid with a can-do smile and a Donald Trump-esque shaggy hairdo against a backdrop of a neatly manicured lawn. At the bottom of the flier, it says, "Satisfaction guaranteed." Granted, it doesn't say HOW he guarantees it (kind of like the three-degree weather forecast guarantee on one of the local news stations). This kid is a slick contrast to the boy who came knocking last year with a weedeater and a decided look of doubt, as if he knew my answer to his feeble solicitation wasn't going to get him any closer to the Play Station 2 or X Box he'd been eyeing at Wal-Mart. Something about him made me think I'd rather trust the lawn to a goat. But if marketing sells, this Matt kid is going to stomp out the competition like weedkiller.
His flier brought to mind another fellow, quite different, but also seeking to earn a living performing a service most people see as a chore: shoe-shining. He had a stand in the lobby of the office building where I worked, and every day as I'd wait for the elevator, he'd make his way over to stand next to me and comment--just as a friend, of course--how my shoes needed a shine (even when I was wearing sandals with nothing that could possibly be shined except a thin leather strap or perhaps my toenails). He was quite persistent, and some of my coworkers complained about him frequently. Sometimes I'd gently suggest to him that he change his line of work to something befitting 21st century Ashland, Kentucky, where most people who are inclined to sporting shiny shoes tend to do it for themselves, but he was determined that the "old-fashioned" way was the only way, waiting for foot traffic in and around the office tower. He'd never considered anything else, except perhaps preaching, but in many ways, the two were one and the same for him. It seemed his wife had a gift for healing, and he had no doubt that she could cure any ailment, physical or otherwise, and together, they were a mighty pair. Other than the occasional healing, I gathered that she didn't work much, and some days, he made just enough to buy himself a sandwich for lunch. It was a tough gig, but he wasn't going to leave it after 40 years making the occasional local businessfolk look presentable. Mostly, I think he did it so he could talk to people about religion and other matters of human existence.
I wonder what would have happened if he'd made up a flier and posted it around town where shiny shoes are important--police stations, courthouses, banks, maybe tuxedo rental stores. What if he'd staked out the local airport, where sleepy business travelers waited for puddle-jumpers to larger regional airline hubs? He could have posted a picture of himself smiling confidently next to a pair of shoes with a heck of a shine, with "satisfaction guaranteed" underneath. Think of the people he could have touched--first the shoes, then the heart. Even if you didn't believe, there was little doubt that he did, and that goes a long way.
I don't know if he's still around, but I wish him well, just like this young gardener who's got his eye on our lawn. We might call on him sometime, if the drout doesn't turn our lawn into the Sahara, Part II (last year hailed the first episode). And if I'm ever around a certain office tower in Ashland again, I just might get a shoe shine.
Here's to entrepreneurship.
His flier brought to mind another fellow, quite different, but also seeking to earn a living performing a service most people see as a chore: shoe-shining. He had a stand in the lobby of the office building where I worked, and every day as I'd wait for the elevator, he'd make his way over to stand next to me and comment--just as a friend, of course--how my shoes needed a shine (even when I was wearing sandals with nothing that could possibly be shined except a thin leather strap or perhaps my toenails). He was quite persistent, and some of my coworkers complained about him frequently. Sometimes I'd gently suggest to him that he change his line of work to something befitting 21st century Ashland, Kentucky, where most people who are inclined to sporting shiny shoes tend to do it for themselves, but he was determined that the "old-fashioned" way was the only way, waiting for foot traffic in and around the office tower. He'd never considered anything else, except perhaps preaching, but in many ways, the two were one and the same for him. It seemed his wife had a gift for healing, and he had no doubt that she could cure any ailment, physical or otherwise, and together, they were a mighty pair. Other than the occasional healing, I gathered that she didn't work much, and some days, he made just enough to buy himself a sandwich for lunch. It was a tough gig, but he wasn't going to leave it after 40 years making the occasional local businessfolk look presentable. Mostly, I think he did it so he could talk to people about religion and other matters of human existence.
I wonder what would have happened if he'd made up a flier and posted it around town where shiny shoes are important--police stations, courthouses, banks, maybe tuxedo rental stores. What if he'd staked out the local airport, where sleepy business travelers waited for puddle-jumpers to larger regional airline hubs? He could have posted a picture of himself smiling confidently next to a pair of shoes with a heck of a shine, with "satisfaction guaranteed" underneath. Think of the people he could have touched--first the shoes, then the heart. Even if you didn't believe, there was little doubt that he did, and that goes a long way.
I don't know if he's still around, but I wish him well, just like this young gardener who's got his eye on our lawn. We might call on him sometime, if the drout doesn't turn our lawn into the Sahara, Part II (last year hailed the first episode). And if I'm ever around a certain office tower in Ashland again, I just might get a shoe shine.
Here's to entrepreneurship.
Thursday, June 29
What's in a (baby) name?
I haven't done any official studies on this, but from observational experience, there are three questions a burgeoning belly inspires most: 1. When are you due? 2. Do you know what you're having? (which inspires my favorite answer: a baby) 3. Do you have a name yet? (with my second-favorite answer: Yes, I've had it since I was a few hours old.)
Obnoxious comments aside, the last question certainly poses the first great challenge of parenthood--for some of us, anyway. Over the years, I've met a few people whom I suspect were given names without much thought. One guy I interviewed several years ago was named T.B. Yep, just T.B. I know a lady who named her daughter after a pharmaceutical company brand printed on a bag of complementary toiletries the hospital gave her after the baby was born. I know people named after soap opera characters, road signs, counties and cities (by the way, Ashley Judd is named for the city of Ashland, Kentucky.)
In the quest for the perfect name for the baby on the way, I've looked to friends, pastors, neighbors, co-workers, the lady behind the counter at Fazoli's (that's an entirely different story involving Drano, spoons and stuff I really don't want to put in black-and-white). I've discovered a world of baby-naming web sites which offer names from around the world. One site even has a "baby naming wizard" which randomly assembles letters into mostly things less pronounceable than the symbol Prince used when he was trying to get out of his record contract. Occasionally, it hits upon consonants and vowels that form real words, but I've not seen any that I'd want to name my child. (Unless, of course, I was a celebrity and wanted to ensure that my child will be forever scarred by answering to some hideous monicker until she's old enough to have it changed legally, if she's out of rehab by then and considered sufficiently mentally competent to petition the court.)
My most frequently consulted source has been the Bible. Names seem to carry great importance in scripture. They seem to me to be given as a gift, as a description of one's faith or hope for the child, or as a story of the circumstances of the child's birth or some personality or physical characteristic, or as a pedigree, announcing the child's lineage.
Today, we don't always think of those weighty things when naming a child. We tend to think more about possible unflattering playground rhymes or infamous forebears of the name, whether in the history books or movie credits. We look for names that make our child seem distinctive or trendy or endearing.
In naming our five-year-old daughter, Meghan, we went with heritage. Meghan is a Celtic name (both my husband and I have Scot/Irish roots), and Elizabeth is a family name. This time around, the naming process has been more difficult. I felt this child, such an unexpected blessing, should have a name that reflects our faith. He wanted to name her after a car. (He was just kidding. I think.)
One friend told me I was thinking too much, and that parental instinct will kick in when we see her little newborn face, and we'll know exactly what to call her. However, I'm a bit concerned about choosing a name befitting a red, wrinkled, pointy-headed infant. (Maybe that's how some celebrity babies got their names.)
Actually, we do have it narrowed down to one front-runner and a couple of back-ups, so the chances are slim that in a few weeks that we will be leaving the hospital with a nameless offspring. In fact, my mother can rest her fears that her beloved granddaughter will be displayed in the nursery with nothing but "girl, 7 pounds, 20 inches" on the index card on her bassinet.
So what's in a baby name, after all? Will she be inspired to greatness, or doomed to some seedy profession, all based on whether or not she started life with a good name? (At least I can be comforted that most of the gals in certain lines of work seem to adopt new names rather than performing with the one their parents gave them.) I think it comes down to this: it should be something with a good meaning, that sounds good when you shout it out the back door or say it tersely in the middle of the grocery store, that's easy to spell in kindergarten, fits on a standard business card, and can't be shortened or rhyme with any body parts or other objectionable words. That's not much to ask, is it? I hope she agrees.
Obnoxious comments aside, the last question certainly poses the first great challenge of parenthood--for some of us, anyway. Over the years, I've met a few people whom I suspect were given names without much thought. One guy I interviewed several years ago was named T.B. Yep, just T.B. I know a lady who named her daughter after a pharmaceutical company brand printed on a bag of complementary toiletries the hospital gave her after the baby was born. I know people named after soap opera characters, road signs, counties and cities (by the way, Ashley Judd is named for the city of Ashland, Kentucky.)
In the quest for the perfect name for the baby on the way, I've looked to friends, pastors, neighbors, co-workers, the lady behind the counter at Fazoli's (that's an entirely different story involving Drano, spoons and stuff I really don't want to put in black-and-white). I've discovered a world of baby-naming web sites which offer names from around the world. One site even has a "baby naming wizard" which randomly assembles letters into mostly things less pronounceable than the symbol Prince used when he was trying to get out of his record contract. Occasionally, it hits upon consonants and vowels that form real words, but I've not seen any that I'd want to name my child. (Unless, of course, I was a celebrity and wanted to ensure that my child will be forever scarred by answering to some hideous monicker until she's old enough to have it changed legally, if she's out of rehab by then and considered sufficiently mentally competent to petition the court.)
My most frequently consulted source has been the Bible. Names seem to carry great importance in scripture. They seem to me to be given as a gift, as a description of one's faith or hope for the child, or as a story of the circumstances of the child's birth or some personality or physical characteristic, or as a pedigree, announcing the child's lineage.
Today, we don't always think of those weighty things when naming a child. We tend to think more about possible unflattering playground rhymes or infamous forebears of the name, whether in the history books or movie credits. We look for names that make our child seem distinctive or trendy or endearing.
In naming our five-year-old daughter, Meghan, we went with heritage. Meghan is a Celtic name (both my husband and I have Scot/Irish roots), and Elizabeth is a family name. This time around, the naming process has been more difficult. I felt this child, such an unexpected blessing, should have a name that reflects our faith. He wanted to name her after a car. (He was just kidding. I think.)
One friend told me I was thinking too much, and that parental instinct will kick in when we see her little newborn face, and we'll know exactly what to call her. However, I'm a bit concerned about choosing a name befitting a red, wrinkled, pointy-headed infant. (Maybe that's how some celebrity babies got their names.)
Actually, we do have it narrowed down to one front-runner and a couple of back-ups, so the chances are slim that in a few weeks that we will be leaving the hospital with a nameless offspring. In fact, my mother can rest her fears that her beloved granddaughter will be displayed in the nursery with nothing but "girl, 7 pounds, 20 inches" on the index card on her bassinet.
So what's in a baby name, after all? Will she be inspired to greatness, or doomed to some seedy profession, all based on whether or not she started life with a good name? (At least I can be comforted that most of the gals in certain lines of work seem to adopt new names rather than performing with the one their parents gave them.) I think it comes down to this: it should be something with a good meaning, that sounds good when you shout it out the back door or say it tersely in the middle of the grocery store, that's easy to spell in kindergarten, fits on a standard business card, and can't be shortened or rhyme with any body parts or other objectionable words. That's not much to ask, is it? I hope she agrees.
Wednesday, June 28
Old Glory?
Before I write this little one-woman dialogue, let me preface it by saying I'm the granddaughter and niece of veterans. According to my family tree (and my uncle Wayne), I am eligible for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution, for those of you who were not reared to revere this organization as I was). One of my direct descendents (I can't remember if it was William Logan or William Partin), was a member of General Washington's Guard. Or something like that. (Uncle Wayne, forgive me for my memory lapse here.) I'm proud of my heritage, and always pause for a moment when I walk past my grandfather's memorial flag, folded into a triangle and framed accordingly, on the wall of my parents' home. It's a humbling moment to think of my grandfather going into the horrors of war because he believed in what that flag symbolized.
That said, I have to agree somewhat with a commentary I heard this morning about the cheapening of national symbols. The pundit noted that our national anthem, inspired by a moment of great significance, has become something of a "lounge act," rolled out for the obligatory moment of solemnity just before someone shouts "play ball!" or just before the Miss Apple Blossom Festival pageant contestants take their places onstage. We've heard pop versions with vocal gymnastics, versions with a country twang, heartfelt opera, disconnected New Age, moody jazz--just about every musical genre known to humankind from sea to shining sea. Singers compete to do the honors at hockey games and baseball games and county fairs and small-town parades. Where is the sacred in that?
Never was this point better illustrated to me than a few weeks ago when a coworker and I went to lunch at the food court at a nearby mall. We had just sat down with our trays of some unhealthy delicacy when a female voice informed us and all of our fellow patrons that today the mall management was delighted to share with us a moment to honor the flag. We and the people around us awkwardly lay down our plastic forks and unhanded our disposable cups and listened politely as the voice of an older gentleman, identified as a veteran, spoke about the significance of the flag. He went on to explain each of the 13 folds (just as my grandfather's flag is folded). When he was finished, we went back to eating, then suddenly the female announcer asked us all to stand and show reverence for the playing of the national anthem. We lay our utensils down again, swallowed the bites in our mouths, and stood as the national anthem began to filter over the speakers and echo against the tile and composite tables of the food court. I glanced around at the people sharing this strange moment with us. Some had expressions of deep sentiment, others looked a little confused, and one guy kept glancing down longingly at the half-eaten food on his plate. I glanced at my coworker, whose shoulders had begun to shake, and I was surprised to see her wiping massive tears from her cheeks. Then I realized she was overcome with a different emotion than one might suppose--she was holding in laughter.
Later, she said she felt terrible for laughing at that moment, but I understood. I, too, found myself holding my breath to suppress the giggles that threatened to come spilling out. It wasn't that we aren't patriotic or didn't respect those who were trying to honor our nation's symbol that day. It was just the randomness of the act during lunch hour in the food court. Something about enchiladas on a paper plate didn't seem to fit with the solemnity of the veteran's speech.
It's kind of like going to church in old ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt. It's not that I think God loves us any less (or more) because of what we wear--and in fact inspires and expects humility from us. But there's a certain statement we make to ourselves and to others when we take a little extra effort to don something a little more special than what we'd wear to mow the lawn. And there's something about reserving other symbols of significance for fitting moments when due respect can be paid. Somehow I don't think it's over hot dogs at the mall or preceding swimsuit competitions. At least let me finish lunch first.
That said, I have to agree somewhat with a commentary I heard this morning about the cheapening of national symbols. The pundit noted that our national anthem, inspired by a moment of great significance, has become something of a "lounge act," rolled out for the obligatory moment of solemnity just before someone shouts "play ball!" or just before the Miss Apple Blossom Festival pageant contestants take their places onstage. We've heard pop versions with vocal gymnastics, versions with a country twang, heartfelt opera, disconnected New Age, moody jazz--just about every musical genre known to humankind from sea to shining sea. Singers compete to do the honors at hockey games and baseball games and county fairs and small-town parades. Where is the sacred in that?
Never was this point better illustrated to me than a few weeks ago when a coworker and I went to lunch at the food court at a nearby mall. We had just sat down with our trays of some unhealthy delicacy when a female voice informed us and all of our fellow patrons that today the mall management was delighted to share with us a moment to honor the flag. We and the people around us awkwardly lay down our plastic forks and unhanded our disposable cups and listened politely as the voice of an older gentleman, identified as a veteran, spoke about the significance of the flag. He went on to explain each of the 13 folds (just as my grandfather's flag is folded). When he was finished, we went back to eating, then suddenly the female announcer asked us all to stand and show reverence for the playing of the national anthem. We lay our utensils down again, swallowed the bites in our mouths, and stood as the national anthem began to filter over the speakers and echo against the tile and composite tables of the food court. I glanced around at the people sharing this strange moment with us. Some had expressions of deep sentiment, others looked a little confused, and one guy kept glancing down longingly at the half-eaten food on his plate. I glanced at my coworker, whose shoulders had begun to shake, and I was surprised to see her wiping massive tears from her cheeks. Then I realized she was overcome with a different emotion than one might suppose--she was holding in laughter.
Later, she said she felt terrible for laughing at that moment, but I understood. I, too, found myself holding my breath to suppress the giggles that threatened to come spilling out. It wasn't that we aren't patriotic or didn't respect those who were trying to honor our nation's symbol that day. It was just the randomness of the act during lunch hour in the food court. Something about enchiladas on a paper plate didn't seem to fit with the solemnity of the veteran's speech.
It's kind of like going to church in old ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt. It's not that I think God loves us any less (or more) because of what we wear--and in fact inspires and expects humility from us. But there's a certain statement we make to ourselves and to others when we take a little extra effort to don something a little more special than what we'd wear to mow the lawn. And there's something about reserving other symbols of significance for fitting moments when due respect can be paid. Somehow I don't think it's over hot dogs at the mall or preceding swimsuit competitions. At least let me finish lunch first.
Thursday, June 15
Good fences, good neighbors? Part II
I began writing this from our back patio, surrounded by new fencing. We have successfully shielded ourselves from the frequent acquaintance of our neighbors. Interestingly, I remember it being much more quiet when there were no visible boundaries. Lively sounds now waft over the scalloped edges of our fence (except on one side, where the neighbors insisted on a straight fence): I hear grandchildren laughing, and the reserved couple on one side brought out a radio for the first time since we have lived here. The saucy music of their native Brazil provided the soundtrack to our daughter's experiment with riding a swingset while wearing a wet bathing suit (for the record, it makes for a wild ride down the slide and proves quite a challenge to stay on an aerodynamic swing).
There's something satisfying and yet sad about all the effort that goes into guarding ourselves. Still, listening to the sounds of life all around us, I realize we are not quite isolated. Recently, however, a friend commented that in his neighborhood, fences are neither required nor desired--a neighborhood full of children near the same age. It's nice to think of a neighborhood like that--with shared spaces and swingsets. We have a taste of that on the street side of our neighborhood. Instead of shared backyards, the communal property seems to be basketball goals, T-ball posts, a court perfect for riding bicycles and flying kites, sidewalks made just for chalk art.
It's our ultimate hope (and promise) that one day there will be no need for boundaries, but in the here and now, we draw our lines, build our fences, and go about our lives as best we can, learning something about ourselves--and our neighbors--as we go.
There's something satisfying and yet sad about all the effort that goes into guarding ourselves. Still, listening to the sounds of life all around us, I realize we are not quite isolated. Recently, however, a friend commented that in his neighborhood, fences are neither required nor desired--a neighborhood full of children near the same age. It's nice to think of a neighborhood like that--with shared spaces and swingsets. We have a taste of that on the street side of our neighborhood. Instead of shared backyards, the communal property seems to be basketball goals, T-ball posts, a court perfect for riding bicycles and flying kites, sidewalks made just for chalk art.
It's our ultimate hope (and promise) that one day there will be no need for boundaries, but in the here and now, we draw our lines, build our fences, and go about our lives as best we can, learning something about ourselves--and our neighbors--as we go.
Sunday, June 4
'Good fences make good neighbors.'
There are strange marks along the boundaries of our back yard. After much discussion, debate, and a little rancor, most of the neighbors have agreed to fences between our little kingdoms and how they will look--what kind of wood, the shape of the fence (scalloped or straight), how high, how far apart the boards will be. The one renegade neighbor who surprised the rest of us by popping up a small picket fence in the middle of the week, while most of us were away at work, will soon find himself surrounded by the towering privacy fences preferred by the other kings and queens. The great fence debate is over.
Some years ago, dutifully doing my literature homework while sprawled across my four-poster white bed in a room that overlooked the farm, with land as far as I could see, I read and re-read the evening's assigment: Robert Frost's "Mending Wall." The poem hit home with me even then. You get to know something about fences when you live on a farm. (A sidenote here--although my parents were no farmers, my family had called it that since the first generations made their way from Scotland and settled into the Appalachian hills.) Still, my uncle maintained a herd of cattle, a couple of horses, and an occasional corn crop nearby. And, of course, there was always hay growing that must be "worked" every year. (It's such a grueling process, no one in my family--particularly my brother and my uncle--ever talked about "harvesting" hay.)
A fence was an important part of the equation. If the fence was down at some point, the cows would break loose and trample the yard, particularly the flowers and shrubs my parents so meticulously maintained. Or the cows might make their way to "the road," which referred to either the main highway or the recently paved road that led into Prichard Branch, the hollow neighboring ours. Or the crop of hay would be ruined, or the corn eaten. Any way you looked at it, a downed fence was trouble. Sometimes hunters would cut their way through the barbed wire, or somehow bend it down enough to climb over without too many injuries to delicate regions, or they'd take apart the wooden railings. So, whenever a gap appeared in the fence, or when a cow appeared somewhere it shouldn't be, the rush was on to find the gap and mend the fence. Dinner was gobbled down, or served late, many a night for the sake of a mended fence. Once, after a particularly busy hunting season, and several attacks on the fence, my uncle decided to put in an electric fence. It worked well until one rainy day when I decided to take a short cut between my uncle and aunt's house and ours, and ended up in ankle-deep water and painfully attached to the electric fence, which I hadn't noticed in the rain and fog. My uncle heard my screams and knocked me down with a stick. The next day, the electric fence was disassembled.
In our well-ordered subdivision in the heart of the bluegrass, fences serve quite a different purpose. No cows to constrain--but babies, dogs and cats, and privacy. Living in a quilt-square subdivision means giving up the freedom of living out of sight of anyone but the occasional deer and squirrel (oh, yeah, and the cows). But it also means having a cul-de-sac filled with the laughter of children on a summer night, a network of neighbors and friends close by. But even those things have their limits, and the need for some sort of quiet space, a border to the kingdom, appears.
My neighbor said her husband had recently observed that "good fences make good neighbors," saying aloud what I had been thinking as we haggled over straight or arched, pine or cedar, privacy or picket.
Footnote:
An excerpt from Frost:
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence." ... I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Some years ago, dutifully doing my literature homework while sprawled across my four-poster white bed in a room that overlooked the farm, with land as far as I could see, I read and re-read the evening's assigment: Robert Frost's "Mending Wall." The poem hit home with me even then. You get to know something about fences when you live on a farm. (A sidenote here--although my parents were no farmers, my family had called it that since the first generations made their way from Scotland and settled into the Appalachian hills.) Still, my uncle maintained a herd of cattle, a couple of horses, and an occasional corn crop nearby. And, of course, there was always hay growing that must be "worked" every year. (It's such a grueling process, no one in my family--particularly my brother and my uncle--ever talked about "harvesting" hay.)
A fence was an important part of the equation. If the fence was down at some point, the cows would break loose and trample the yard, particularly the flowers and shrubs my parents so meticulously maintained. Or the cows might make their way to "the road," which referred to either the main highway or the recently paved road that led into Prichard Branch, the hollow neighboring ours. Or the crop of hay would be ruined, or the corn eaten. Any way you looked at it, a downed fence was trouble. Sometimes hunters would cut their way through the barbed wire, or somehow bend it down enough to climb over without too many injuries to delicate regions, or they'd take apart the wooden railings. So, whenever a gap appeared in the fence, or when a cow appeared somewhere it shouldn't be, the rush was on to find the gap and mend the fence. Dinner was gobbled down, or served late, many a night for the sake of a mended fence. Once, after a particularly busy hunting season, and several attacks on the fence, my uncle decided to put in an electric fence. It worked well until one rainy day when I decided to take a short cut between my uncle and aunt's house and ours, and ended up in ankle-deep water and painfully attached to the electric fence, which I hadn't noticed in the rain and fog. My uncle heard my screams and knocked me down with a stick. The next day, the electric fence was disassembled.
In our well-ordered subdivision in the heart of the bluegrass, fences serve quite a different purpose. No cows to constrain--but babies, dogs and cats, and privacy. Living in a quilt-square subdivision means giving up the freedom of living out of sight of anyone but the occasional deer and squirrel (oh, yeah, and the cows). But it also means having a cul-de-sac filled with the laughter of children on a summer night, a network of neighbors and friends close by. But even those things have their limits, and the need for some sort of quiet space, a border to the kingdom, appears.
My neighbor said her husband had recently observed that "good fences make good neighbors," saying aloud what I had been thinking as we haggled over straight or arched, pine or cedar, privacy or picket.
Footnote:
An excerpt from Frost:
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence." ... I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Monday, April 24
Saturday, April 15
Chivalry
I'm going to be a bit off the mark for a moment this Easter weekend and mourn the loss of chivalry. Or at least, lament the behavior that seems to have taken its place.
I understand that each culture has a different standard of conduct when it comes to showing appreciation for the opposite sex. In visiting one particular country a few years ago, while walking through a crowded marketplace, I found myself getting pinched on the derrierre a few times. Our host told me it was considered a compliment to be pinched and that I should not be insulted. Try telling that to my bruised bottom and ego.
I had forgotten about my fellow countrymen's counterpart to the pinching: screaming at females from passing vehicles. Now, I would imagine that these same people would never exhibit this behavior if they were pedestrians, which leads me to believe that actual close contact with the object of their affection is never the intended outcome. I've never seen a gaggle of guys scream, "Whoo, baby! Hot mama!" at the office or passing in the aisle at the grocery store. But something happens when a group of males--or females, I'll give you that--get together in a moving car, or most likely, a truck or SUV. The higher off the ground, the louder the display of appreciation for the assets of the person of note.
Maybe it's the pregnancy, but I find my patience growing quite thin these days. I've endured a few lurid comments here and there--but that's another topic entirely as to what in the world is attractive about a big, round belly--when the camel was in sudden need of a neurosurgeon. I was walking across campus when I heard a sound that was apparently designed to make me go week in the knees: "Whoooooo! Pump that bump! Pump that bump on down the STREET!" Being the only person on the sidewalk at that moment, I turned toward the direction of the crooning and saw a fellow in a tricked-out truck, waiting for the traffic light. He had taken the time to roll down the passenger window so I could be afforded the full effect of the genteel conversation he threw my direction.
I debated, for a split second, how to respond: run to the truck and tell him he was just the person to raise my baby, tell him my husband would come break his legs, pretend to go into labor. Instead, I just did my best eye-roll and walked on to the car. It took me a minute to decide that "bump" referred probably to my anterior and not posterior silhouette. And then I was reminded of those few blocks between my high school and my father's office, where I'd walk to catch a ride home in the afternoons. Inevitably, some beat-up pickup or a muddy Bronco or a recycled police cruiser (with spotlights still attached) would roll by, and just as it was nearly past, there would come the "hey, baby!" or some sort of screaming or hooting. And this for a girl in jeans and T-shirt and a pair of Keds.
Over the years, this scenario has repeated itself--walking through a parking lot, waiting to cross a street. I've come to consider it part of being female. No other attribute seems to be required. I've often thought that I'd like to be so attractive as to render the would-be cat-callers speechless, but that hasn't happened yet.
Somehow, I find it hard to imagine that Lancelot ever screamed, "Got fries to go with that?" to Gwenivere (forgive me, Mrs. Chavies, AP English, for probably butchering both the spelling and the true context of that). Nor can I imagine William Wallace hooting at his beloved. And if attracting a date or mate is the intent, I must say that in my life, I've never heard any of my female friends or acquaintances say that they wish that guy who just screamed would turn around so they could hop in his Big Foot truck with neon lights underneath.
I guess someday my daughters will hear the call of the wild, too. Maybe they'll have a snappy comeback ready, but chances are, if the apples don't fall far from the tree, they'll just keep walking, too. I just hope they'll come across somebody who'll throw his coat across the mud puddle at the end of the sidewalk.
I understand that each culture has a different standard of conduct when it comes to showing appreciation for the opposite sex. In visiting one particular country a few years ago, while walking through a crowded marketplace, I found myself getting pinched on the derrierre a few times. Our host told me it was considered a compliment to be pinched and that I should not be insulted. Try telling that to my bruised bottom and ego.
I had forgotten about my fellow countrymen's counterpart to the pinching: screaming at females from passing vehicles. Now, I would imagine that these same people would never exhibit this behavior if they were pedestrians, which leads me to believe that actual close contact with the object of their affection is never the intended outcome. I've never seen a gaggle of guys scream, "Whoo, baby! Hot mama!" at the office or passing in the aisle at the grocery store. But something happens when a group of males--or females, I'll give you that--get together in a moving car, or most likely, a truck or SUV. The higher off the ground, the louder the display of appreciation for the assets of the person of note.
Maybe it's the pregnancy, but I find my patience growing quite thin these days. I've endured a few lurid comments here and there--but that's another topic entirely as to what in the world is attractive about a big, round belly--when the camel was in sudden need of a neurosurgeon. I was walking across campus when I heard a sound that was apparently designed to make me go week in the knees: "Whoooooo! Pump that bump! Pump that bump on down the STREET!" Being the only person on the sidewalk at that moment, I turned toward the direction of the crooning and saw a fellow in a tricked-out truck, waiting for the traffic light. He had taken the time to roll down the passenger window so I could be afforded the full effect of the genteel conversation he threw my direction.
I debated, for a split second, how to respond: run to the truck and tell him he was just the person to raise my baby, tell him my husband would come break his legs, pretend to go into labor. Instead, I just did my best eye-roll and walked on to the car. It took me a minute to decide that "bump" referred probably to my anterior and not posterior silhouette. And then I was reminded of those few blocks between my high school and my father's office, where I'd walk to catch a ride home in the afternoons. Inevitably, some beat-up pickup or a muddy Bronco or a recycled police cruiser (with spotlights still attached) would roll by, and just as it was nearly past, there would come the "hey, baby!" or some sort of screaming or hooting. And this for a girl in jeans and T-shirt and a pair of Keds.
Over the years, this scenario has repeated itself--walking through a parking lot, waiting to cross a street. I've come to consider it part of being female. No other attribute seems to be required. I've often thought that I'd like to be so attractive as to render the would-be cat-callers speechless, but that hasn't happened yet.
Somehow, I find it hard to imagine that Lancelot ever screamed, "Got fries to go with that?" to Gwenivere (forgive me, Mrs. Chavies, AP English, for probably butchering both the spelling and the true context of that). Nor can I imagine William Wallace hooting at his beloved. And if attracting a date or mate is the intent, I must say that in my life, I've never heard any of my female friends or acquaintances say that they wish that guy who just screamed would turn around so they could hop in his Big Foot truck with neon lights underneath.
I guess someday my daughters will hear the call of the wild, too. Maybe they'll have a snappy comeback ready, but chances are, if the apples don't fall far from the tree, they'll just keep walking, too. I just hope they'll come across somebody who'll throw his coat across the mud puddle at the end of the sidewalk.
Friday, April 14
Good Friday
The week had been harried, to say the least. Deadlines at work (granted, some of them were self-imposed), demands of the household, the physical stresses of supporting the new little passenger in my body, the day-to-day tug of war of sharing the planet (like the guy who cut me off in traffic and then flashed me half a peace sign)--all of it was coming to a full boil as noon approached, and it was time to hurry to church just in time to hear the end of the Good Friday services.
I was not mentally prepared. It was hot, and heat and pregnant bellies don't mix. Never being one to wilt in the sun before, I couldn't understand all the sympathetic faces when I'd tell those who ask that the baby is due in August. I hate to be cold, but until recently couldn't comprehend being too hot. Today, trembling and sweaty as I walked through the parking lot under the midday sun, I understood. And so it was with a rather ungrateful heart that I slipped into the pew with my daughter and husband.
The sanctuary was dark. The chancel was draped in black cloth, and the usual paraments--purple cloth during Lent, Green for Pentecost, etc., were gone. The impressive stained-glass window that arches up to the cathedral ceiling was dark and lifeless. The ministers wore simple black suits and dresses, none of the usual robes and colorful stoles that hail the attire of the clergy of our church.
Rev. Mooty spoke quietly. As he finished his prayer, a haunting cello seemed to fill the air from nowhere. Behind the chancel wall, I caught a glimpse of the cellist's arm moving gracefully back and forth, guiding the bow through each mornful note, as the piano joined the lament. Some quiet words later, our friend stood to give the meditation. He began, and then hesitated, and then the story emerged: he was awaiting tests to determine whether he remains cancer-free. Suddenly, the concept of death was not some remote thing that played out in scripted fashion in accordance with a religious holiday; it was a possibility for a rather young man with a vivacious wife and cherubic little girl, just as it has been for all of humanity, only most of the time, we choose not to recognize that fact of life. At least, I do. But as I sat listening, it occurred to me that to ignore death is to somehow miss something of the splendor of life. In the bitter horror of his death, we see the magnificence of his life. The sunrise gets its splendor from the darkness from which it rises. To respect death is to value life.
I could feel the little one moving inside me, and looked down at my daughter's long hair across my lap as she napped. It was then that life seemed to slow down for a moment, and in the dark, quiet cool of the sanctuary, we could all breathe again.
It is not finished.
Good Friday.
I was not mentally prepared. It was hot, and heat and pregnant bellies don't mix. Never being one to wilt in the sun before, I couldn't understand all the sympathetic faces when I'd tell those who ask that the baby is due in August. I hate to be cold, but until recently couldn't comprehend being too hot. Today, trembling and sweaty as I walked through the parking lot under the midday sun, I understood. And so it was with a rather ungrateful heart that I slipped into the pew with my daughter and husband.
The sanctuary was dark. The chancel was draped in black cloth, and the usual paraments--purple cloth during Lent, Green for Pentecost, etc., were gone. The impressive stained-glass window that arches up to the cathedral ceiling was dark and lifeless. The ministers wore simple black suits and dresses, none of the usual robes and colorful stoles that hail the attire of the clergy of our church.
Rev. Mooty spoke quietly. As he finished his prayer, a haunting cello seemed to fill the air from nowhere. Behind the chancel wall, I caught a glimpse of the cellist's arm moving gracefully back and forth, guiding the bow through each mornful note, as the piano joined the lament. Some quiet words later, our friend stood to give the meditation. He began, and then hesitated, and then the story emerged: he was awaiting tests to determine whether he remains cancer-free. Suddenly, the concept of death was not some remote thing that played out in scripted fashion in accordance with a religious holiday; it was a possibility for a rather young man with a vivacious wife and cherubic little girl, just as it has been for all of humanity, only most of the time, we choose not to recognize that fact of life. At least, I do. But as I sat listening, it occurred to me that to ignore death is to somehow miss something of the splendor of life. In the bitter horror of his death, we see the magnificence of his life. The sunrise gets its splendor from the darkness from which it rises. To respect death is to value life.
I could feel the little one moving inside me, and looked down at my daughter's long hair across my lap as she napped. It was then that life seemed to slow down for a moment, and in the dark, quiet cool of the sanctuary, we could all breathe again.
It is not finished.
Good Friday.
Sunday, March 12
An end to the drought?
In honor of the monsoon-like weather of the last few days, I'm ending the drought. I'd like to say that my long silence has been due to the fact that I'm a great admirer of Abe Lincoln, and thus subscribe to his theory that "it is better to be silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt." Unfortunately, I'm rather prolific at removing all doubt. Instead, my neglect of my blog has less to do with having little to say than having little time to say it.
My work in public relations has kept me busier than I can adequately describe, and we have some news on the home front: A baby is on the way! Our daughter is quite pleased at the prospect of having a sister, but says that if the sibling turns out to be a boy, she would rather have a dog, thank you very much.
Life is an ever-changing moment. As I walk through the medical center where I work, I come face-to-face with that fact. The most joyous of occasions on one unit contrast with uncertainly around the corner. The people who care for them are met with the challenge of making sense of it all, somehow.
These experiences are quite humbling. I often view them through the lens of a video camera as I seek out ways to tell these stories in an effort to play a part in the "making sense" of it, and hope that someone who sees one of those stories will realize that they are not alone in their struggle with a disease or condition, but bound to another human with the common thread that stitches us all together.
I didn't mean to turn sentimental here, but I guess that's the way of blogging. We can talk about what we like, go where the words lead us, and hope they still make sense in the morning.
My work in public relations has kept me busier than I can adequately describe, and we have some news on the home front: A baby is on the way! Our daughter is quite pleased at the prospect of having a sister, but says that if the sibling turns out to be a boy, she would rather have a dog, thank you very much.
Life is an ever-changing moment. As I walk through the medical center where I work, I come face-to-face with that fact. The most joyous of occasions on one unit contrast with uncertainly around the corner. The people who care for them are met with the challenge of making sense of it all, somehow.
These experiences are quite humbling. I often view them through the lens of a video camera as I seek out ways to tell these stories in an effort to play a part in the "making sense" of it, and hope that someone who sees one of those stories will realize that they are not alone in their struggle with a disease or condition, but bound to another human with the common thread that stitches us all together.
I didn't mean to turn sentimental here, but I guess that's the way of blogging. We can talk about what we like, go where the words lead us, and hope they still make sense in the morning.
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