Enjoys being with his children...
Helps his children when in need...
Is careful when his children's wants are not needs...
Rejoices and assists children to be faithful...
Teaches them things dearest to his heart...
Tells stories out of the joy of them listening...
Shows them how to do things...
Likes to sit close and hold them...
LOves to see them be strong in temptation...
Corrects them to spare them pain and disaster...
Will give his life to protect them...
Believes in them and relishes what they can become...
Accepts them fully while being fully aware of their weaknesses...
Can never get over the wonder that they are his children...
Nothing in his life or feelings can diminish his love for them...
Nothing they can do or say can diminish his love for them...
His greatest joy is knowing he is their father...
May you come to realize in Christ God is your good Father...
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
From questions asked by 2nd graders . . .
Do you eat different foods when you travel like ducks, eels, and frogs?
We don’t always like to eat food that looks or smells strange. We don’t always ask about what we are eating, but in India and particularly in south China we try to always eat a little of everything that is served.
We both have eaten duck, but one of Mike’s most memorable FAVORITE meals was Beijing duck at a specialty restaurant in Beijing in 1990. He wishes he could remember where that restaurant was . The sauce was out of this world and the duck was so tasty. He didn’t think it would be, particularly when the meat was served and the cooked duck head was proudly set upright on the serving dish to make the meal prettier. It looked interesting, but Mike had never seen (and hasn’t since) anything like that before.
Mike has had eel once or twice in South China, probably on his last trip two years ago.
Neither of us have knowingly eaten frog, but Mike had rattlesnake at a Christmas Party in High School put on by his biology teacher. It tasted like really good chicken.
One of the worst things Mike had was a spicy dish in 1990 near the Great Wall of China. He thought he was eat-ing a mini-head of corn (like are found in some salads here), but it turned out to be a very spicy squid tentacle. He feels once was enough.
One thing Mike ate that he didn’t hate, but wasn’t outstanding was fried bees in Kunming, China.
The tour guide put the fried bees on a plate on the table to freak out our small group of four business people. It worked. We were all shocked. It went around the table’s lazy Susan and no-body touched it.
The second time around Mike knocked one off because they looked like mini French fries. He tasted it. They DID taste like hard, crispy French fries. They needed salt, but you couldn’t tell they were bees. They didn’t taste like anything but a very crunchy French fry.
SO . . . for the effect on the other guys, Mike scraped a BUNCH of the “mini-French fries” onto his plate and be-gan to eat them. Crunch, Crunch. No big deal, as long as he thought of them as French fries, but all the other guys were grossed out.
Until that point Mike was in charge of the money for the trip, but they took that responsibility away from him. He was glad.
The only bad point was about 1/3 of the way through the mini-French fries, Mike came across one that wasn’t fully cooked. Ick. But he made sure the other guys didn’t see him flinch. He ate a few more of the crunchy ones (looking out for any that seemed NOT crunchy) and once everyone was totally grossed out, he quit. He won’t do that again probably, but it was worth it.
What do you eat?
American food when we can get it . We try to eat as much like the nationals as [we] can. We try to never com-plain or indicate ANY negative feelings about food placed in front of us. We do OK most of the time.
Mike tries to avoid McDonalds and American restaurants when he travels. The only time Mike was sick on his trip to Kunming in 1996 was when he had an American hamburger in a Hotel restaurant. Now Mike tries to only eat what the local people are used to cooking and doesn’t make them sick.
Debbie hates chop sticks (to eat with). Mike likes them (kind of like people who only want pop in plastic or bottles, but not cans.)
Mike eats a lot of Indian food, but doesn’t care for it too much (except Tandori Chicken), but he will eat any North China food and some more ‘normal’ South China foods.
Ethiopian food can be spicy and Mike has begun to like spicy foods, Chinese and Indian as well. In Ethiopia, as in NE India people eat with their right hand and NO silverware. It is considered gross to eat with your left hand.
In Kenya and Costa Rica the food is very bland and Mike finds it a little boring. Mike actually got to liking school lunches in Belarus, but most visiting speakers to the Minsk Bible School didn’t like the food and found their food boring or gross (the hot dogs in Russia are not colored with food coloring). Belarusians use a lot of potatoes and fat.
Some places have a lot of Tomatoes which Mike likes, but not in Costa Rica, or Kenya.
We don’t always like to eat food that looks or smells strange. We don’t always ask about what we are eating, but in India and particularly in south China we try to always eat a little of everything that is served.
We both have eaten duck, but one of Mike’s most memorable FAVORITE meals was Beijing duck at a specialty restaurant in Beijing in 1990. He wishes he could remember where that restaurant was . The sauce was out of this world and the duck was so tasty. He didn’t think it would be, particularly when the meat was served and the cooked duck head was proudly set upright on the serving dish to make the meal prettier. It looked interesting, but Mike had never seen (and hasn’t since) anything like that before.
Mike has had eel once or twice in South China, probably on his last trip two years ago.
Neither of us have knowingly eaten frog, but Mike had rattlesnake at a Christmas Party in High School put on by his biology teacher. It tasted like really good chicken.
One of the worst things Mike had was a spicy dish in 1990 near the Great Wall of China. He thought he was eat-ing a mini-head of corn (like are found in some salads here), but it turned out to be a very spicy squid tentacle. He feels once was enough.
One thing Mike ate that he didn’t hate, but wasn’t outstanding was fried bees in Kunming, China.
The tour guide put the fried bees on a plate on the table to freak out our small group of four business people. It worked. We were all shocked. It went around the table’s lazy Susan and no-body touched it.
The second time around Mike knocked one off because they looked like mini French fries. He tasted it. They DID taste like hard, crispy French fries. They needed salt, but you couldn’t tell they were bees. They didn’t taste like anything but a very crunchy French fry.
SO . . . for the effect on the other guys, Mike scraped a BUNCH of the “mini-French fries” onto his plate and be-gan to eat them. Crunch, Crunch. No big deal, as long as he thought of them as French fries, but all the other guys were grossed out.
Until that point Mike was in charge of the money for the trip, but they took that responsibility away from him. He was glad.
The only bad point was about 1/3 of the way through the mini-French fries, Mike came across one that wasn’t fully cooked. Ick. But he made sure the other guys didn’t see him flinch. He ate a few more of the crunchy ones (looking out for any that seemed NOT crunchy) and once everyone was totally grossed out, he quit. He won’t do that again probably, but it was worth it.
What do you eat?
American food when we can get it . We try to eat as much like the nationals as [we] can. We try to never com-plain or indicate ANY negative feelings about food placed in front of us. We do OK most of the time.
Mike tries to avoid McDonalds and American restaurants when he travels. The only time Mike was sick on his trip to Kunming in 1996 was when he had an American hamburger in a Hotel restaurant. Now Mike tries to only eat what the local people are used to cooking and doesn’t make them sick.
Debbie hates chop sticks (to eat with). Mike likes them (kind of like people who only want pop in plastic or bottles, but not cans.)
Mike eats a lot of Indian food, but doesn’t care for it too much (except Tandori Chicken), but he will eat any North China food and some more ‘normal’ South China foods.
Ethiopian food can be spicy and Mike has begun to like spicy foods, Chinese and Indian as well. In Ethiopia, as in NE India people eat with their right hand and NO silverware. It is considered gross to eat with your left hand.
In Kenya and Costa Rica the food is very bland and Mike finds it a little boring. Mike actually got to liking school lunches in Belarus, but most visiting speakers to the Minsk Bible School didn’t like the food and found their food boring or gross (the hot dogs in Russia are not colored with food coloring). Belarusians use a lot of potatoes and fat.
Some places have a lot of Tomatoes which Mike likes, but not in Costa Rica, or Kenya.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Tortoise Cup
The Tortoise Cup
Fran stood in her sewing room surrounded by partially unpacked moving boxes. Well, sewing room was a working title, but it was her room, a place she would want to spread out and DO things. It was a “sewing room” because that’s all she really had done in it. She was working on Julie’s brides maid dress for the wedding. It was January, the windows were frosted as they get after a couple months of winter in Minnesota. The sun was shining in the window waking up the dust in it’s path into a sparkling lazy afternoon dance.
Fran didn’t notice all this. Her eyes were fixed in space. About three feet from her crossed squinting eyes and the sound of her rapid shallow breathing there was nothing.
But there should have been. There had been. 10 seconds before she had started to smile at her ‘weird’ mid 50ish hubby. There he was. With his robe on inside out, his guitar slung over his back and he was gingerly placing his old antique bifocals on upside down.
Right in mid giggle her heart dropped to her knees. She was afraid to move. “Sammy?” she whispered.
Mrs. Samuel W. Munson sounded so official. She had dreamed of being married since she was little. Her father, Clyde Showers, had been a hard working man all his life, a teamster back in their more organized crime years and as Fran grew up a railroader. A rough man with a gentle heart, she dreamed of sharing her life with someone just like her daddy.
The years had grown into decades and hope slipped into sadness, but never bitterness. Just a background sense of what might have been, but no regrets. Ha! The times the tears filled her eyes when another roommate walked down the aisle with her standing by as maid of honor were always tempered by the pain of some of those same roommates abused or rejected mere years later. No, waiting was worth it, regardless of the cost.
Not that she sat around as an old maid. No way! She and her brother always joked about "Fran’s Orphanage" because all she really loved to do was children. “Now you listen to me!" Her daddy would say to her years after she had moved out. "You’ve changed more lives playing with those children of yours than a 100 parents could have done."
And she had. First it was baby sitting and even before she moved out and got her degree in Kinesiology (“Cubs Baseball” her brother would always chide) she was nannying for families in the west Chicago area. It was about her 6th nanny job where she go the wild idea of really doing an orphanage. She had read about George Mueller in England and one thing led to another.
It stared with a halfway house (half a duplex) and working with foster care of the State of Illinois, but soon she became far too busy rescuing inner city kids. By the time she had met Sammy there were 6 homes in the suburban area and two camps in Wisconsin.
Where did that come from? Why was she thinking of that now? What just happened? And “Where are you, Sammy?”, she whispered a second time, refocusing on the air three feet away.
“Whoa!” she gasped and stepped back as he reappeared just to the left of where he had vanished.
“Whoa!” Sammy said as he leaned back to look at the glasses he was holding in his hands upside down.
“Where did you go?” she said with more anger than she felt. She could feel something beating in her chest, pressing against her flesh. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! What’s wrong with you? You just froze. You didn’t move. I couldn’t get you to hear me you just sat there, solid and immovable.”
“Ouch! My arm hurts. Gee it’s sore.”
“Yeah, that’s where I tried to move it, but it felt funny, even though it was paralyzed, so I kind of freaked out.”
“YOU freaked out? YOU disappeared!!! Where did you go???”
“NO where. That’s what I said. I’ve been here for the whole last two hours.”
“Sammy,” Fran whispered, “It’s only been a minute. And you’ve got to believe me. You were gone. I was looking right here.” Fran waved her hand where he had been standing and vanished. “And you’ve got to believe me, you just vanished.”
“I what?”
“You disappeared. I couldn’t see you. You weren’t in the room.”
“You smell something?”
“What? NO! . . . yeah! Like something burning.”
“Yeah you remember that paper from my aunt?”
“Yes. It was right here where we were sitting.” She looked down, there were ashes on the floor still smoking.
“Oh, my! What happened Sammy?”
“Don’t touch anything!”
“OK, what?”
“Here, put these glasses on upside down.”
“Uh . . . what?”
“Just try this…”
“No, Sammy, I don’t want to.”
“It will be OK, but you’ve got to promise me. Once I get this on you, do ONLY what I ask you to do, OK?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Fran, just trust me for a minute. I’ve got to find something out.”
“OK, but I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too, but I’ve got to find something out before we do anything else. First, let’s go out into the garage.”
Fran and Sammy’s garage was one of those old Minnesota single car garages that when your car was parked in it, there was only room to hang things on the walls and in the rafters. Their's was better than most because it was attached to the house and a previous owner had insulated it and ran the duct work through the attic so it was heated.
Fran walked through the kitchen and stepped down to the concrete floor of the tiny garage, with the few remaining unpacked boxes lined up along the side under the single window facing the neighbors. One of Sammy’s goals for this weekend was to either unpack or move those boxes to the plywood sheets laying on the rafters and finally park their Corolla inside.
But neither of them thought about that now. Fran stood with the glasses on upside down and the robe draped on her inside out, Sammy tried to tie it but it just wouldn’t stay tied. On her it almost touched the floor.
“Well, no matter. Now please try this.” Sammy handed her a blank note paper he had picked up from beside the phone as they had walked through the house.
“I want you to do two things and then take off the glasses.”
“OK?”
“I want you to walk around me once, holding this paper between your fingers high away from me as you walk, but stop short from where you started by one step.”
“OK, around once shy of one step, holding the paper out like this.”
“Yes. Now stand still for a minute. Count to 30 or something and then move.” He draped the guitar over her, but held it a few inches from it laying on her back. “On three . . . One . . . two . . . three.”
“Whoa!” said Fran’s voice, not inside of Sammy’s arm where he had released the guitar, but on the outside. One second she was standing at his wrist, the next instant she was standing at his extended elbow on the other side of his arm.
“Whaa . . . ahh” Sammy choked back a scream.
“Whoa! Yikes, the paper just burst into flames!”, stammered Fran.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Look there are the ashes.” She said pointing at the cold floor. “I couldn’t hold it when it burned.”
They just stood there for a minute looking at each other and the few ashes on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Fran handed the glasses to Sammy.
“Oh my! No way!”
“What?” Sammy was just standing there looking unfocused toward the back wall of the garage.
“Oh, I was just remembering one of my favorite TV shows, 'The Wild, Wild, West'.”
“Right, a cowboy show. Sammy, I think something more weird is happening here. What are you talking about?”
“No, it’s exactly the same thing. See the two main characters were Artimus Gordon and James West. And they rode around in this two car train as special agents . . . “
“And . . . “
“No, wait, Fran, listen. There was this one show, where a bad guy who was a mad scientist or something had invented this potion where he would drink it and the potion would speed him up and he would feel like he was at normal speed, but everybody else would look like they weren’t moving. They would be kind of, but just really, really slow compared to him. In the last scene even, a guy shot a gun or something and West or Gordon got the potion to working and dodged the bullet, which was just hanging in space and knocked the gun away and tied up the bad guy or something. It was cool . . . “
Silence.
“No way.”
“I know it is weird, but that’s what it seems like here. You thought I disappeared, but I didn’t, but you looked paralyzed to me. And it seemed the same way to me when you moved. All I saw was you jump from one side of my arm to the other. I didn't see you move. It’s exactly the same thing. It has to be.”
Sammy brought in the last lamp, the one antique lamp of Fran’s, but which didn’t work. He was going to see if it needed to be rewired or what, but he couldn’t unscrew the light bulb. “I’m afraid I’m going to break it right off if I twist it.”
“Well don’t get the glass all over. Do it in a box or something. There’s a box I just emptied in the kitchen”, Fran called from the back bedroom, her sewing room that was just about all unpacked.
Sammy, carrying the lamp, went out to the kitchen. “I found it!” he said, setting it on the table with the lamp. He pulled open the flaps, and set the lamp inside. He reached under the shade and worked his hand up toward the bulb. He snapped the on off switch once with his fingers as he worked them up to the bulb.
“Fran come here! Quick!”
“What?” Fran said in an annoyed voice as she walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, you fixed it. Cool.”
“Um, yeah, but it’s not plugged in.”
“What!” she murmured in a decidedly less annoyed tone and stepped closer.
“Yeah, and the box isn’t empty either. There’s a picture frame in the bottom. Look.”
“No way, there were only old patterns and fabric in there.” She looked in. “Oh, my. Sure enough there it is. I’ve never seen that before.”
“And it’s stuck to the box, too.”
“Wait. Take the lamp out.”
He did, and it went out. “And the frame is gone too.”
“Here, plug it in.”
“Nothing.”
“NO but the frame is back. Look!”, he held the dark lamp over the box and pointed to the bottom.
“And it’s a picture of a cup?”
“Yeah I know. A cup with a brown tortoise carved on the side.”
“Oh my.”
“Yeah!”
Sammy went to get his glasses, robe and guitar.
Wouldn’t you?
*today’s three things
Desk lamp
Cup
Picture frame
Fran stood in her sewing room surrounded by partially unpacked moving boxes. Well, sewing room was a working title, but it was her room, a place she would want to spread out and DO things. It was a “sewing room” because that’s all she really had done in it. She was working on Julie’s brides maid dress for the wedding. It was January, the windows were frosted as they get after a couple months of winter in Minnesota. The sun was shining in the window waking up the dust in it’s path into a sparkling lazy afternoon dance.
Fran didn’t notice all this. Her eyes were fixed in space. About three feet from her crossed squinting eyes and the sound of her rapid shallow breathing there was nothing.
But there should have been. There had been. 10 seconds before she had started to smile at her ‘weird’ mid 50ish hubby. There he was. With his robe on inside out, his guitar slung over his back and he was gingerly placing his old antique bifocals on upside down.
Right in mid giggle her heart dropped to her knees. She was afraid to move. “Sammy?” she whispered.
Mrs. Samuel W. Munson sounded so official. She had dreamed of being married since she was little. Her father, Clyde Showers, had been a hard working man all his life, a teamster back in their more organized crime years and as Fran grew up a railroader. A rough man with a gentle heart, she dreamed of sharing her life with someone just like her daddy.
The years had grown into decades and hope slipped into sadness, but never bitterness. Just a background sense of what might have been, but no regrets. Ha! The times the tears filled her eyes when another roommate walked down the aisle with her standing by as maid of honor were always tempered by the pain of some of those same roommates abused or rejected mere years later. No, waiting was worth it, regardless of the cost.
Not that she sat around as an old maid. No way! She and her brother always joked about "Fran’s Orphanage" because all she really loved to do was children. “Now you listen to me!" Her daddy would say to her years after she had moved out. "You’ve changed more lives playing with those children of yours than a 100 parents could have done."
And she had. First it was baby sitting and even before she moved out and got her degree in Kinesiology (“Cubs Baseball” her brother would always chide) she was nannying for families in the west Chicago area. It was about her 6th nanny job where she go the wild idea of really doing an orphanage. She had read about George Mueller in England and one thing led to another.
It stared with a halfway house (half a duplex) and working with foster care of the State of Illinois, but soon she became far too busy rescuing inner city kids. By the time she had met Sammy there were 6 homes in the suburban area and two camps in Wisconsin.
Where did that come from? Why was she thinking of that now? What just happened? And “Where are you, Sammy?”, she whispered a second time, refocusing on the air three feet away.
“Whoa!” she gasped and stepped back as he reappeared just to the left of where he had vanished.
“Whoa!” Sammy said as he leaned back to look at the glasses he was holding in his hands upside down.
“Where did you go?” she said with more anger than she felt. She could feel something beating in her chest, pressing against her flesh. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! What’s wrong with you? You just froze. You didn’t move. I couldn’t get you to hear me you just sat there, solid and immovable.”
“Ouch! My arm hurts. Gee it’s sore.”
“Yeah, that’s where I tried to move it, but it felt funny, even though it was paralyzed, so I kind of freaked out.”
“YOU freaked out? YOU disappeared!!! Where did you go???”
“NO where. That’s what I said. I’ve been here for the whole last two hours.”
“Sammy,” Fran whispered, “It’s only been a minute. And you’ve got to believe me. You were gone. I was looking right here.” Fran waved her hand where he had been standing and vanished. “And you’ve got to believe me, you just vanished.”
“I what?”
“You disappeared. I couldn’t see you. You weren’t in the room.”
“You smell something?”
“What? NO! . . . yeah! Like something burning.”
“Yeah you remember that paper from my aunt?”
“Yes. It was right here where we were sitting.” She looked down, there were ashes on the floor still smoking.
“Oh, my! What happened Sammy?”
“Don’t touch anything!”
“OK, what?”
“Here, put these glasses on upside down.”
“Uh . . . what?”
“Just try this…”
“No, Sammy, I don’t want to.”
“It will be OK, but you’ve got to promise me. Once I get this on you, do ONLY what I ask you to do, OK?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Fran, just trust me for a minute. I’ve got to find something out.”
“OK, but I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too, but I’ve got to find something out before we do anything else. First, let’s go out into the garage.”
Fran and Sammy’s garage was one of those old Minnesota single car garages that when your car was parked in it, there was only room to hang things on the walls and in the rafters. Their's was better than most because it was attached to the house and a previous owner had insulated it and ran the duct work through the attic so it was heated.
Fran walked through the kitchen and stepped down to the concrete floor of the tiny garage, with the few remaining unpacked boxes lined up along the side under the single window facing the neighbors. One of Sammy’s goals for this weekend was to either unpack or move those boxes to the plywood sheets laying on the rafters and finally park their Corolla inside.
But neither of them thought about that now. Fran stood with the glasses on upside down and the robe draped on her inside out, Sammy tried to tie it but it just wouldn’t stay tied. On her it almost touched the floor.
“Well, no matter. Now please try this.” Sammy handed her a blank note paper he had picked up from beside the phone as they had walked through the house.
“I want you to do two things and then take off the glasses.”
“OK?”
“I want you to walk around me once, holding this paper between your fingers high away from me as you walk, but stop short from where you started by one step.”
“OK, around once shy of one step, holding the paper out like this.”
“Yes. Now stand still for a minute. Count to 30 or something and then move.” He draped the guitar over her, but held it a few inches from it laying on her back. “On three . . . One . . . two . . . three.”
“Whoa!” said Fran’s voice, not inside of Sammy’s arm where he had released the guitar, but on the outside. One second she was standing at his wrist, the next instant she was standing at his extended elbow on the other side of his arm.
“Whaa . . . ahh” Sammy choked back a scream.
“Whoa! Yikes, the paper just burst into flames!”, stammered Fran.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Look there are the ashes.” She said pointing at the cold floor. “I couldn’t hold it when it burned.”
They just stood there for a minute looking at each other and the few ashes on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Fran handed the glasses to Sammy.
“Oh my! No way!”
“What?” Sammy was just standing there looking unfocused toward the back wall of the garage.
“Oh, I was just remembering one of my favorite TV shows, 'The Wild, Wild, West'.”
“Right, a cowboy show. Sammy, I think something more weird is happening here. What are you talking about?”
“No, it’s exactly the same thing. See the two main characters were Artimus Gordon and James West. And they rode around in this two car train as special agents . . . “
“And . . . “
“No, wait, Fran, listen. There was this one show, where a bad guy who was a mad scientist or something had invented this potion where he would drink it and the potion would speed him up and he would feel like he was at normal speed, but everybody else would look like they weren’t moving. They would be kind of, but just really, really slow compared to him. In the last scene even, a guy shot a gun or something and West or Gordon got the potion to working and dodged the bullet, which was just hanging in space and knocked the gun away and tied up the bad guy or something. It was cool . . . “
Silence.
“No way.”
“I know it is weird, but that’s what it seems like here. You thought I disappeared, but I didn’t, but you looked paralyzed to me. And it seemed the same way to me when you moved. All I saw was you jump from one side of my arm to the other. I didn't see you move. It’s exactly the same thing. It has to be.”
Sammy brought in the last lamp, the one antique lamp of Fran’s, but which didn’t work. He was going to see if it needed to be rewired or what, but he couldn’t unscrew the light bulb. “I’m afraid I’m going to break it right off if I twist it.”
“Well don’t get the glass all over. Do it in a box or something. There’s a box I just emptied in the kitchen”, Fran called from the back bedroom, her sewing room that was just about all unpacked.
Sammy, carrying the lamp, went out to the kitchen. “I found it!” he said, setting it on the table with the lamp. He pulled open the flaps, and set the lamp inside. He reached under the shade and worked his hand up toward the bulb. He snapped the on off switch once with his fingers as he worked them up to the bulb.
“Fran come here! Quick!”
“What?” Fran said in an annoyed voice as she walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, you fixed it. Cool.”
“Um, yeah, but it’s not plugged in.”
“What!” she murmured in a decidedly less annoyed tone and stepped closer.
“Yeah, and the box isn’t empty either. There’s a picture frame in the bottom. Look.”
“No way, there were only old patterns and fabric in there.” She looked in. “Oh, my. Sure enough there it is. I’ve never seen that before.”
“And it’s stuck to the box, too.”
“Wait. Take the lamp out.”
He did, and it went out. “And the frame is gone too.”
“Here, plug it in.”
“Nothing.”
“NO but the frame is back. Look!”, he held the dark lamp over the box and pointed to the bottom.
“And it’s a picture of a cup?”
“Yeah I know. A cup with a brown tortoise carved on the side.”
“Oh my.”
“Yeah!”
Sammy went to get his glasses, robe and guitar.
Wouldn’t you?
*today’s three things
Desk lamp
Cup
Picture frame
Thursday, January 24, 2008
OCD response to one word used in a blog
Where did Sam disappear TO? Not today Virgina. Not today. (besides the question is technically irrelevant, as you will see when (and if) our story continues. pmj)
An Essay on One Miniscule Phrase* in One of Cloudthreads.blogspot.com Blogger.Blogs
(initial pause in Essay for a * commentary)
*Thereby not meriting being an “official Comment”. Clouthreads.blogspot.com is on a top 'one' list of my own and is informative, inventive, unexpected and just generally enjoyable. To post this as a comment would communicate disdain, conflict, dissapproval and other vaguely engineered nastiness, so although I think there is some merit in my reaction (or I obviously would not have spent any time on writing this), do not mistake my intensity for argumentativeness or general boogerishness (may it never be). If in knowing this you can still continue reading with a detached perspective, you are welcome.
(the Essay continued)
Objectivist. I will accept your use of this label, but I will not copy it.
I still think a more accurate term for you to use if you wish to communicate with anyone outside of a post modern world view would be: “Rigid Objectivist”. Within your own community, I think your usage may have clarity, particularly with those who have read the right books, because your community uses objective analysis and observation to discern lack of sincerity and authenticity, thus an adjective is not necessary. "Hardcore" might not be enough, however, for an ‘outsider’.
For example, "Be objective" about something, can mean ‘be rigid’ as in your usage, or it can merely mean ‘be connected with reality, not assumptions,” as in my usage.
"His objectivity is lacking." doesn't speak of rigidness, but rather of a lack of authenticity in his conclusions. Note, I use 'authenticity' not 'sincerity'. The latter word is valuable in communicating intentions, but not reality.
Now, “reality” is perhaps the greater question. Can we know anything that is real, or must we ever hold in the back of our mind that everything we perceive is/may be merely illusion? Such a back of the mind convention is Convenient if obfuscating as in avoiding guilt or failure, but otherwise is not a practical extreme.
I hear in your use of the simpler term “Objectivist” that you properly decry a perception of reality that has all the answers and everything explained, thus holding to "my way or the hi-way" totalitarianism, which you rightly condemn as a major element of injustice throughout history.
But can we be objective even in our uncertainty? For example, if I were to modify my own personal label I would call myself an 'Uncertain Objectivist', or say ‘I have great uncertainty in my objective observations’. I want to assent that there is truth that can be known, but avoid the arrogance that I know all of it.
I think I shrink from moving from rigidity in policy, life, and community to an equally unacceptable perception that absolute truth cannot be found and thus concluding all opinions, while equally valid, are also equally true. Logically and practically if all positions are equally true and real, then I have reached absurdity where nothing is true or real.
On that point, can opposite truths be true at the same time? Of course! We use ‘paradox’ to identify such an occurrence, but my point is more universal: can all opinions be equally true? Can we even suggest a singular opinion is probably/possibly wrong? On what basis? Subjective feelings? Evidence? Or do we avoid objectivity to the point where no judgment can be cast? Obviously if Objectivism can be rejected, there must be more than a subjective perception to merit such a conclusion.
I do not prefer either extreme: totalitarianism or absurdity, and in addition I eschew avoiding those extremes, even in single word labels. But as I personally misuse (abuse?) much of the English language to a greater degree, both intentionally and not, I grant you your use of the word, Objectivist, but regrettably will not hold it as my own.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Prosey continuations: read yesterday FIRST!
The Troubadour
**(readers background note)
Life is good. It had only been a year since his aunt had died, but Sam lay there watching the end of the Fellowship where Sam and Frodo climbed out of their elven boat on the other side of the lake and the rest of the Fellowship took off after Merry and Pippin.
Quite a year, indeed. There weren't a lot of things that had changed, but they were important changes.
Single most of his life, he met Fran at a church Super Bowl party. After five minutes it seemed they had known each other forever and in early November they had a small wedding. For Sam it seemed he had gone back to the feelings of childhood when everything was fun and the future had no end.
Then the situation at work changed. No, not a raise. That would have been nice, but he was transferred to Customer Service from Training and his new supervisor was different. The only way Sam could describe it was, "Oh it's just he believes in me. I don't have to prove nothing to Jake. He just kinda smiles and says something like, ‘Hey Sammy, just do what you think’s best. You're doing great!’”
Oh and the guitar, well that was the strangest thing. It still didn't work, except when he put his Aunts bifocals on and that red ancient robe. Well, you sure can't play something like that in public dressed in a fancy bath robe and ancient bifocals, but it seemed to just come natural and the sound was so pure. It was like the guitar became part of him and any melody he could remember after a few strums seemed just to work its self out. He just seemed to feel how to do the chords and the joy just did the rest.
Yes, as he lay with his head on Fran's lap watching the credits, he realized he was a truly happy man. Oh, he had his problems and pressures like anyone, but the ache in his heart was gone and he felt a peace about who he was.
As the FBI warning flashed on and he began to sit up to slip in Two Towers, Fran grabbed something out of the pocket of the robe he was wearing. (Yeah, you know, the nice warm red one that was a Christmas present from his aunt). A back-up-singer*** fell to the floor.
"Hey, what's this? A shopping list?" as she unfolded it to reveal a yellowed paper that seemed to be mostly empty.
"I dunno, what does it say?"
"Well, that's the thing. It says:
"’Upside down’
"’Inside out’ and
"’Backwards’"
"Let me see. Yeah that's my aunt's handwriting for sure. Sounds like her too. Funny I never noticed it before.”
“Well I have,” whispered Fran and when Sam looked up at her, her eyes were round.
“What” he asked because she was looking at the back of the collar of the robe.
“Haven’t you ever looked at the tag on the back of this thing?”
“Sure! It’s just a clothing tag, like my shirts.”
“No. Have you ever read the tag?”
“Well, I think so.” Sam took the robe off. (That tie just never stayed tied, except when he was playing the guitar.)
“Well the company is Insi Deout. Must be French. That’s too bad. Oh my, you’re right Insi Deout is also “INSIDE out” with a different word break. And the washing instructions are ‘warm water and wash’ . . . Hey! ‘wash Upside Down’? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t think so either, but I thought it was French or Belgian or something, but look at the “Made in” part in the small stitching on the bottom.”
“Made in USA Backwards”
“Yeah and now that paper. That just doesn’t make sense.”
“No, not for most people. But a lot of things around Aunt Sabby’s place didn’t make a lot of sense. See, the tag must have ripped out, cause it looks like Sabby stapled it back to the inner facing lining.”
Fran just laughed. “Your family is weird for sure. But at least Sabby meant a lot to you.”
“Yeah, and she never did anything for no reason, even if it seemed she was pulling ideas out of thin air all of the time, she was always thinking; always watching. But she never could fit in with the rest of us. She was too honest, I guess.”
“Kinda like you, Sammy” Fran snuggled.
Hey! They were newlyweds after all, even if Sam was 57 and Fran in the same neighborhood. Give ‘em a break. Gee wiz.
A week later Sam came down to the kitchen. “What do you have going today?”
“Nothing, just some sewing on that doll for Julie next door.”
“You want to finish the Two Towers today?”
“Well, I really need to clean my office. I’ve got all those boxes that I haven’t gone through since the wedding that we moved over here from my place.”
“Oh yeah. Well I’ll just check my e-mail. Maybe we can go somewhere for lunch.”
“OK. Maybe we can go see a movie this afternoon.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a couple I’ve been wanting to see in the theatre.”
About an hour later Fran yelled from the other room, “Hey Sammy come here. You’ve got to see this. NOW!”
“What?” Sam started to say as he came into her office. Fran was holding a man’s wrist watch and staring at the back. “What do you have there? Your dad’s watch?”
“No, just something my mom found at a garage sale that was unusual and when she and dad died, my siblings let me have. She used it for an alarm clock because she could hear it, but it wouldn’t wake dad. And it was fancy and would glow in the dark.
“But, Sam, look at this.” Sam knew it was serious if she shortened his name to three letters.
Oh my. On the back etched in a circle instead of “waterproof” or “shock resistant” were words in all caps, "UPSIDE DOWN INSIDE OUT BACKWARDS” and in the center in a cursive etching “LOVE,
SABBY”
“That’s impossible. Aunt Sabby never was married. She never dated. How did you get this? Is this a joke? Your mom wasn’t named Sable or Sabrina or anything was she. How about her family? What is this?” He felt disoriented and helpless.
Fran took the watch back and gave him a sharp look to tell him she wasn’t joking. Then he turned white.
“What?” it was Fran’s turn.
“Look at the face of this watch.” Sam whispered.
“Yeah, so what? Turtles in the sea there on the background and a turtle at the hub of the hands. That’s part of the reason my mom never got rid of it. The workmanship was amazing, even for a garage sale watch.”
“No, you don’t understand. My aunt collected turtle things. I mean REALLY collected them. You couldn’t see the base boards in most of the rooms in her house for the shelves of turtle things she collected. This IS her watch. But it’s a man’s watch and it’s way too big for her. This is so weird.”
They both sat there on the floor with the opened and unopened boxes all around. They sat and stared at the watch and looked at it again and again.
“So what are you thinking?” Fran finally asked.
Sam turned and gave her a long glance. Without a word he went out of the office and came back in carrying the red robe, the old guitar, and a glasses case.
“I dunno.” He said as he pulled the sleeves outside in and put the robe on with the lining out. Then he hung the guitar over his back, like one of those old time troubadours. And then with his eyes locked onto Fran’s he slowly put the glasses on upside down.
And he vanished.
**for those of you aware of the anal, three non-magical everyday object drill, today the three objects are:
1 8.5x11 piece of copy paper
A wrist watch (well it's right there hovering over the keyboard, support only by my wrist)
A stapler (oh this will be hard)
***back-up-singer=A small linen pillow case sewn shut with special corn in it that can be heated in a microwave and makes winter not so heartless
**(readers background note)
Life is good. It had only been a year since his aunt had died, but Sam lay there watching the end of the Fellowship where Sam and Frodo climbed out of their elven boat on the other side of the lake and the rest of the Fellowship took off after Merry and Pippin.
Quite a year, indeed. There weren't a lot of things that had changed, but they were important changes.
Single most of his life, he met Fran at a church Super Bowl party. After five minutes it seemed they had known each other forever and in early November they had a small wedding. For Sam it seemed he had gone back to the feelings of childhood when everything was fun and the future had no end.
Then the situation at work changed. No, not a raise. That would have been nice, but he was transferred to Customer Service from Training and his new supervisor was different. The only way Sam could describe it was, "Oh it's just he believes in me. I don't have to prove nothing to Jake. He just kinda smiles and says something like, ‘Hey Sammy, just do what you think’s best. You're doing great!’”
Oh and the guitar, well that was the strangest thing. It still didn't work, except when he put his Aunts bifocals on and that red ancient robe. Well, you sure can't play something like that in public dressed in a fancy bath robe and ancient bifocals, but it seemed to just come natural and the sound was so pure. It was like the guitar became part of him and any melody he could remember after a few strums seemed just to work its self out. He just seemed to feel how to do the chords and the joy just did the rest.
Yes, as he lay with his head on Fran's lap watching the credits, he realized he was a truly happy man. Oh, he had his problems and pressures like anyone, but the ache in his heart was gone and he felt a peace about who he was.
As the FBI warning flashed on and he began to sit up to slip in Two Towers, Fran grabbed something out of the pocket of the robe he was wearing. (Yeah, you know, the nice warm red one that was a Christmas present from his aunt). A back-up-singer*** fell to the floor.
"Hey, what's this? A shopping list?" as she unfolded it to reveal a yellowed paper that seemed to be mostly empty.
"I dunno, what does it say?"
"Well, that's the thing. It says:
"’Upside down’
"’Inside out’ and
"’Backwards’"
"Let me see. Yeah that's my aunt's handwriting for sure. Sounds like her too. Funny I never noticed it before.”
“Well I have,” whispered Fran and when Sam looked up at her, her eyes were round.
“What” he asked because she was looking at the back of the collar of the robe.
“Haven’t you ever looked at the tag on the back of this thing?”
“Sure! It’s just a clothing tag, like my shirts.”
“No. Have you ever read the tag?”
“Well, I think so.” Sam took the robe off. (That tie just never stayed tied, except when he was playing the guitar.)
“Well the company is Insi Deout. Must be French. That’s too bad. Oh my, you’re right Insi Deout is also “INSIDE out” with a different word break. And the washing instructions are ‘warm water and wash’ . . . Hey! ‘wash Upside Down’? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t think so either, but I thought it was French or Belgian or something, but look at the “Made in” part in the small stitching on the bottom.”
“Made in USA Backwards”
“Yeah and now that paper. That just doesn’t make sense.”
“No, not for most people. But a lot of things around Aunt Sabby’s place didn’t make a lot of sense. See, the tag must have ripped out, cause it looks like Sabby stapled it back to the inner facing lining.”
Fran just laughed. “Your family is weird for sure. But at least Sabby meant a lot to you.”
“Yeah, and she never did anything for no reason, even if it seemed she was pulling ideas out of thin air all of the time, she was always thinking; always watching. But she never could fit in with the rest of us. She was too honest, I guess.”
“Kinda like you, Sammy” Fran snuggled.
Hey! They were newlyweds after all, even if Sam was 57 and Fran in the same neighborhood. Give ‘em a break. Gee wiz.
A week later Sam came down to the kitchen. “What do you have going today?”
“Nothing, just some sewing on that doll for Julie next door.”
“You want to finish the Two Towers today?”
“Well, I really need to clean my office. I’ve got all those boxes that I haven’t gone through since the wedding that we moved over here from my place.”
“Oh yeah. Well I’ll just check my e-mail. Maybe we can go somewhere for lunch.”
“OK. Maybe we can go see a movie this afternoon.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a couple I’ve been wanting to see in the theatre.”
About an hour later Fran yelled from the other room, “Hey Sammy come here. You’ve got to see this. NOW!”
“What?” Sam started to say as he came into her office. Fran was holding a man’s wrist watch and staring at the back. “What do you have there? Your dad’s watch?”
“No, just something my mom found at a garage sale that was unusual and when she and dad died, my siblings let me have. She used it for an alarm clock because she could hear it, but it wouldn’t wake dad. And it was fancy and would glow in the dark.
“But, Sam, look at this.” Sam knew it was serious if she shortened his name to three letters.
Oh my. On the back etched in a circle instead of “waterproof” or “shock resistant” were words in all caps, "UPSIDE DOWN INSIDE OUT BACKWARDS” and in the center in a cursive etching “LOVE,
SABBY”
“That’s impossible. Aunt Sabby never was married. She never dated. How did you get this? Is this a joke? Your mom wasn’t named Sable or Sabrina or anything was she. How about her family? What is this?” He felt disoriented and helpless.
Fran took the watch back and gave him a sharp look to tell him she wasn’t joking. Then he turned white.
“What?” it was Fran’s turn.
“Look at the face of this watch.” Sam whispered.
“Yeah, so what? Turtles in the sea there on the background and a turtle at the hub of the hands. That’s part of the reason my mom never got rid of it. The workmanship was amazing, even for a garage sale watch.”
“No, you don’t understand. My aunt collected turtle things. I mean REALLY collected them. You couldn’t see the base boards in most of the rooms in her house for the shelves of turtle things she collected. This IS her watch. But it’s a man’s watch and it’s way too big for her. This is so weird.”
They both sat there on the floor with the opened and unopened boxes all around. They sat and stared at the watch and looked at it again and again.
“So what are you thinking?” Fran finally asked.
Sam turned and gave her a long glance. Without a word he went out of the office and came back in carrying the red robe, the old guitar, and a glasses case.
“I dunno.” He said as he pulled the sleeves outside in and put the robe on with the lining out. Then he hung the guitar over his back, like one of those old time troubadours. And then with his eyes locked onto Fran’s he slowly put the glasses on upside down.
And he vanished.
**for those of you aware of the anal, three non-magical everyday object drill, today the three objects are:
1 8.5x11 piece of copy paper
A wrist watch (well it's right there hovering over the keyboard, support only by my wrist)
A stapler (oh this will be hard)
***back-up-singer=A small linen pillow case sewn shut with special corn in it that can be heated in a microwave and makes winter not so heartless
Monday, January 21, 2008
Not yet (Kenya) but maybe Jan 31 (booked anyway)
So I think now that I understand that Xanga, Facebook, My Space, etc. are people networking blogs and this one can be anything you want it to be, I will try writing as well. Should be interesting. If indeed the Mauve Frog is correct (and people with beards should always be assumed to be correct, even when they are not.) if one aspires to be a writer, he (or she) should write every day. I don't do anything every day, except eat and nap (technically sleeping would be included in the "I don't do anything every day" category because I mostly nap, although there was that one time recently where I almost overdosed on Melatonin . . .
So write every day huh? Probably won't get close, but if I don't start, that would be worse:
Three random, non magical items in a fantasy story exercise (items found in my office starting from the edge of my desk . . . ):
The First Chord
Sam had wanted to learn to play the guitar since he was little, but being in sales for most of his life, he had little energy.
This Christmas he got a Guitar. Aunt Sabby sent one to him UPS which arrived Jan 3, but that was Aunt Sabby. Sable Grace Munson was one of those people that did very little harm to a family, but she was somebody Nobody wanted to talk about either. She had a turtle collection that covered the shelves on the walls of her living room, dining room and part of the bathroom (where she kept her most precious turtles). Anything that was in a turtle shape or had a unique turtle on its surface had been fair game.
She didn't mow the back yard because her two prize tortoises (live ones) lived there. She didn't see them often, but she talked to them for hours every afternoon as she walked the perimeter of her back yard between the four foot grass and brambles in the bulk of the yard where they lived and the 6 foot fence and bushes on the three closed-in sides of the back yard.
Sabby was quirky, and blunt and told family exactly what she thought of anyone and anything, which was always unerringly accurate, and equally without tact. But if she liked you, if you would sit a talk with her for hours and not forget to call on her when you were in town, she would give her life to you.
Sam had fallen on Aunt Sabby's good graces by accident. He came to spend a summer with her when he was 8 the summer vacation his folks finally went through with the divorce. Even so, he had never seen the guitar before he opened the package. His mind jumped back to that summer and shorter trips in other years and could not bring up a single recollection of any instrument of any sort in Aunt Sabby's single room 1950's style one bedroom ranch. Yet, he knew this gift had a purpose and was given out of sacrificial love shrouded in mystery. Aunt Sabby lived in a world that was vigilantly detached from reality at every turning.
The instrument was wrapped in plain brown wax paper that smelled of history and mystery and revealed its contents through its semi translucent surface. The finish of the instrument was cloudy shellac which whispered quality. He was surprised that the strings were all intact, but they were quite old and brown. When he strummed the strings he was frustrated.
Oh, they didn't sound bad; they made no sound at all, other than thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. Trying the tuning adjusters didn't work either, so he wrapped it up again in the waxy paper, placing it gingerly onto the top empty bookshelf in his study.
"Always something," he exhaled. Walking back to his bedroom he removed an elegant, but faded old robe out of his closet. Draping it over his arm he pulled open the bottom drawer on his night stand and from the very back lifted up a dainty case for reading glasses. Returning to the study he laid the two objects on his desk and placed the guitar next to them.
"I don't have a clue why you've been sent to join us.", he muttered half to the guitar, sitting down into his desk chair with a long sigh.
A Guitar, a robe, a pair of ancient bi-focals. Nothing to tie them together but Aunt Sabby.
All at once the room went dark. "Stupid squirrels. Bet that one was vaporized." muttered Sam.
He lit a candle he had kept on the far corner of his desk and picked up the glasses. Something different every Christmas, he thought in the candle lit room. Sabby must be slowly cleaning out her garage. In the dark his memories became vivid.
Such a process meant nothing to the garage, Sam mused. No one could ever set foot onto the floor of Aunt Sabby’s garage, door open or unopened. She had one of those California style one piece garage doors, without the opener. Sam had seen her often in the middle of a conversation, walk over to the garage, and open it. The junk was packed in so tight you couldn’t see the floor inside. Sam had seen Aunt Sabby many times reach into the garage, grab a piece of junk and hand it to whomever she was talking to, never missing a word or a beat in her monologue to the individual.
More surprising than her randomness was each and every guest’s response to the gift. Sam never figured it out and Aunt Sabby would never answer him when he asked, but each and every receiver instantly changed expression from boredom, or pained expression to one of wonderment and thankfulness. Thus thimbles, tin cups, ratty dolls, (never a ceramic turtle though) were all changed instantly into a thing of value in the eyes of the beholders.
Except Sam: She never gave him anything any of the times he stayed there, although she would talk at him for hours and hours. And he never solved his curiosity about the gifts, but resigned himself to simply, “That’s just Aunt Sabby.” And go about his business.
But the each Christmas (early January) for the last two years a package had come. Two years ago the red robe, last year the glasses and case. Old, worn, but distinct and with a mystical quality about them. Quality, a strange quality of substance and mystery.
The robe had embroidery, not too flowery, tightly woven, but faded. He could never get the tie to stay tied, even in a square knot he would take two steps and the sash would fall to the floor. The glasses looked OK too. You could see the gold alloy had been crafted with precision and strength, but when you put them on, even though they obviously had two different crystals in each eye, the effect was the same: nothing. They didn’t even make your eyes water or magnify or distort anything. Top lens, bottom lens were the same, you could see no better or worse out of either of them: the same as you could see without.
And now the Guitar. Also old and faded, but with a similar quality that only focused the mystery. Sam laid the Guitar and the glasses and the case softly on the neatly folded robe. “What to do?” The lights came back on.
Obviously, any practical person would have sold them to a flea market or at least thrown them away, but Sam could only feel a wonder and curiosity that belied his age, station and community of life. “I suppose she thinks of me as one of these possessions of hers, faded, old, and broken,” was his first thought.
“But no. She loves me. In her weird and strange way, I still know she loves me. I just wish I knew what these were for.” Sam jumped. The phone rang again. It was Jamie, Sabby’s daughter. “Sam, it don’t look none too good from what I can tell. The Doc’s say there nuttin’ day can do fer her. I wouldn’t be bothern you but she asked for you, but she won’t talk to you on da fone. You’uns know her. There’s no talkin to her. But I thought you’d wont to knew.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow evening,” Sam said. Why was his voice breaking? That’s not being strong for nobody. “I’m sure I can get a reasonable flight now that the holidays are over.”
The place hadn’t changed much. Two half sized palm trees barely showing over the roof from the street. “I figure Clyde and Sneed are back there somewhere,” thought Sam. He rang the door bell. “Still busted. I wonder if there’s any wire there at all.” Jamie opened the door and the puffy wet cheeks told him he wasn’t too late by much.
She was tiny among the 12 pillows piled about her head and shoulders (a number of turtle shaped ones and embroidered square ones) and she was shivering. Someone had brought in half her shelves and turtles, so there wasn't much room to walk in theroom except to slid along the side of the bed.
When she saw his outline, her whole face relaxed into a smile and he fell to the side of her bed. “How you feeling, Aunt Sabby?” “Reckon I’ve got a couple miles left in me, Sammy boy,” She whispered.
“I reckon you’d be getting curious about my mailings to you, boy. Huh?” Sam nodded.
“Well sir, I don’t suppose you put them all on at onced did yer?” Sam shook his head. She didn’t give time for any other response.
“Well…” She closed her eyes and took a couple slow breaths and then opened them and looked right at him, but her lips were pale and tight. “Well, boy, yer just put ‘em on. That’s it, yer just put ‘em on and that’s it. Yer’ll be OK boy. Yer always were. I knevered knew hardly a soul that would treat me so kind as yer did boy. I knows you’ll be alright. Just put ‘em all on and that’s it. Don’t worry about a thing, now, yer hear? Yer’ll do as yer told won’t ya.” Another nod.
“That’s right, you take care of yerself now.” And she closed her eyes and fell asleep. He stayed there for a long time. Finally she smiled, took a long slow deep sigh and she went limp. That was her last breath.
Sam felt a little sheepish, but there was a thrill in his fingers as he gently placed the glasses on his face. He found the robe to be very comfortable and not in the least clingy. “Like it was fit to me like a glove,” he would often say later to no one in particular. And then the guitar. The strap looked like a 70’s psychedelic acid painting, but he slung it over his shoulder.
So write every day huh? Probably won't get close, but if I don't start, that would be worse:
Three random, non magical items in a fantasy story exercise (items found in my office starting from the edge of my desk . . . ):
- glasses,
- a red robe,
- a guitar.
The First Chord
Sam had wanted to learn to play the guitar since he was little, but being in sales for most of his life, he had little energy.
This Christmas he got a Guitar. Aunt Sabby sent one to him UPS which arrived Jan 3, but that was Aunt Sabby. Sable Grace Munson was one of those people that did very little harm to a family, but she was somebody Nobody wanted to talk about either. She had a turtle collection that covered the shelves on the walls of her living room, dining room and part of the bathroom (where she kept her most precious turtles). Anything that was in a turtle shape or had a unique turtle on its surface had been fair game.
She didn't mow the back yard because her two prize tortoises (live ones) lived there. She didn't see them often, but she talked to them for hours every afternoon as she walked the perimeter of her back yard between the four foot grass and brambles in the bulk of the yard where they lived and the 6 foot fence and bushes on the three closed-in sides of the back yard.
Sabby was quirky, and blunt and told family exactly what she thought of anyone and anything, which was always unerringly accurate, and equally without tact. But if she liked you, if you would sit a talk with her for hours and not forget to call on her when you were in town, she would give her life to you.
Sam had fallen on Aunt Sabby's good graces by accident. He came to spend a summer with her when he was 8 the summer vacation his folks finally went through with the divorce. Even so, he had never seen the guitar before he opened the package. His mind jumped back to that summer and shorter trips in other years and could not bring up a single recollection of any instrument of any sort in Aunt Sabby's single room 1950's style one bedroom ranch. Yet, he knew this gift had a purpose and was given out of sacrificial love shrouded in mystery. Aunt Sabby lived in a world that was vigilantly detached from reality at every turning.
The instrument was wrapped in plain brown wax paper that smelled of history and mystery and revealed its contents through its semi translucent surface. The finish of the instrument was cloudy shellac which whispered quality. He was surprised that the strings were all intact, but they were quite old and brown. When he strummed the strings he was frustrated.
Oh, they didn't sound bad; they made no sound at all, other than thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. Trying the tuning adjusters didn't work either, so he wrapped it up again in the waxy paper, placing it gingerly onto the top empty bookshelf in his study.
"Always something," he exhaled. Walking back to his bedroom he removed an elegant, but faded old robe out of his closet. Draping it over his arm he pulled open the bottom drawer on his night stand and from the very back lifted up a dainty case for reading glasses. Returning to the study he laid the two objects on his desk and placed the guitar next to them.
"I don't have a clue why you've been sent to join us.", he muttered half to the guitar, sitting down into his desk chair with a long sigh.
A Guitar, a robe, a pair of ancient bi-focals. Nothing to tie them together but Aunt Sabby.
All at once the room went dark. "Stupid squirrels. Bet that one was vaporized." muttered Sam.
He lit a candle he had kept on the far corner of his desk and picked up the glasses. Something different every Christmas, he thought in the candle lit room. Sabby must be slowly cleaning out her garage. In the dark his memories became vivid.
Such a process meant nothing to the garage, Sam mused. No one could ever set foot onto the floor of Aunt Sabby’s garage, door open or unopened. She had one of those California style one piece garage doors, without the opener. Sam had seen her often in the middle of a conversation, walk over to the garage, and open it. The junk was packed in so tight you couldn’t see the floor inside. Sam had seen Aunt Sabby many times reach into the garage, grab a piece of junk and hand it to whomever she was talking to, never missing a word or a beat in her monologue to the individual.
More surprising than her randomness was each and every guest’s response to the gift. Sam never figured it out and Aunt Sabby would never answer him when he asked, but each and every receiver instantly changed expression from boredom, or pained expression to one of wonderment and thankfulness. Thus thimbles, tin cups, ratty dolls, (never a ceramic turtle though) were all changed instantly into a thing of value in the eyes of the beholders.
Except Sam: She never gave him anything any of the times he stayed there, although she would talk at him for hours and hours. And he never solved his curiosity about the gifts, but resigned himself to simply, “That’s just Aunt Sabby.” And go about his business.
But the each Christmas (early January) for the last two years a package had come. Two years ago the red robe, last year the glasses and case. Old, worn, but distinct and with a mystical quality about them. Quality, a strange quality of substance and mystery.
The robe had embroidery, not too flowery, tightly woven, but faded. He could never get the tie to stay tied, even in a square knot he would take two steps and the sash would fall to the floor. The glasses looked OK too. You could see the gold alloy had been crafted with precision and strength, but when you put them on, even though they obviously had two different crystals in each eye, the effect was the same: nothing. They didn’t even make your eyes water or magnify or distort anything. Top lens, bottom lens were the same, you could see no better or worse out of either of them: the same as you could see without.
And now the Guitar. Also old and faded, but with a similar quality that only focused the mystery. Sam laid the Guitar and the glasses and the case softly on the neatly folded robe. “What to do?” The lights came back on.
Obviously, any practical person would have sold them to a flea market or at least thrown them away, but Sam could only feel a wonder and curiosity that belied his age, station and community of life. “I suppose she thinks of me as one of these possessions of hers, faded, old, and broken,” was his first thought.
“But no. She loves me. In her weird and strange way, I still know she loves me. I just wish I knew what these were for.” Sam jumped. The phone rang again. It was Jamie, Sabby’s daughter. “Sam, it don’t look none too good from what I can tell. The Doc’s say there nuttin’ day can do fer her. I wouldn’t be bothern you but she asked for you, but she won’t talk to you on da fone. You’uns know her. There’s no talkin to her. But I thought you’d wont to knew.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow evening,” Sam said. Why was his voice breaking? That’s not being strong for nobody. “I’m sure I can get a reasonable flight now that the holidays are over.”
The place hadn’t changed much. Two half sized palm trees barely showing over the roof from the street. “I figure Clyde and Sneed are back there somewhere,” thought Sam. He rang the door bell. “Still busted. I wonder if there’s any wire there at all.” Jamie opened the door and the puffy wet cheeks told him he wasn’t too late by much.
She was tiny among the 12 pillows piled about her head and shoulders (a number of turtle shaped ones and embroidered square ones) and she was shivering. Someone had brought in half her shelves and turtles, so there wasn't much room to walk in theroom except to slid along the side of the bed.
When she saw his outline, her whole face relaxed into a smile and he fell to the side of her bed. “How you feeling, Aunt Sabby?” “Reckon I’ve got a couple miles left in me, Sammy boy,” She whispered.
“I reckon you’d be getting curious about my mailings to you, boy. Huh?” Sam nodded.
“Well sir, I don’t suppose you put them all on at onced did yer?” Sam shook his head. She didn’t give time for any other response.
“Well…” She closed her eyes and took a couple slow breaths and then opened them and looked right at him, but her lips were pale and tight. “Well, boy, yer just put ‘em on. That’s it, yer just put ‘em on and that’s it. Yer’ll be OK boy. Yer always were. I knevered knew hardly a soul that would treat me so kind as yer did boy. I knows you’ll be alright. Just put ‘em all on and that’s it. Don’t worry about a thing, now, yer hear? Yer’ll do as yer told won’t ya.” Another nod.
“That’s right, you take care of yerself now.” And she closed her eyes and fell asleep. He stayed there for a long time. Finally she smiled, took a long slow deep sigh and she went limp. That was her last breath.
Sam felt a little sheepish, but there was a thrill in his fingers as he gently placed the glasses on his face. He found the robe to be very comfortable and not in the least clingy. “Like it was fit to me like a glove,” he would often say later to no one in particular. And then the guitar. The strap looked like a 70’s psychedelic acid painting, but he slung it over his shoulder.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Back to Kenya?
Back to Kenya?
I've re-booked once so far postponing one week due to the violence and demonstrations in Nairobi. TWO of our students had their churches burned, one to the ground, one an entire one side burned to the ground.
I've re-booked once so far postponing one week due to the violence and demonstrations in Nairobi. TWO of our students had their churches burned, one to the ground, one an entire one side burned to the ground.
We will continue to monitor the situation, but it looks like I'll depart Jan 17 unless things turn ugly again. Thanks for praying! I'm looking forward to Tea break twice a day. (you don't see the goodies that go with it in the photo. :o)
. . . . NO, I didn't eat them all. ;oD
The sadness for me personally in the change of itinerary is NOW I miss three very important events, that I had been planning on attending (in order of importance):
Debbie's Birthday
Eric's wedding (I'm still praying I can make it)
Micah's (my nephew) Pinewood Derby race . . . he and I have been building his car . . . grey metallic steel finish with blue flames, very cool. and he's had a hand in everything, from making the original design himself, to choosing the colors and flames and drawing the block marks on the original wood and then having his hand (in mine sometimes) in sawing, sanding, painting, and burnishing. very cool, but sad I'll miss the actual race!
By the way (btw) the music I'm listening to these days is from my own new OBOE (I played in High school and college . . . was in the KU marching band with it . . . no, only cymbals on the football field.)
By the way (btw) the music I'm listening to these days is from my own new OBOE (I played in High school and college . . . was in the KU marching band with it . . . no, only cymbals on the football field.)
And no, I don't play it that well, but I am practicing, of which the realization of that burden helped cause my tears when I opened the gift (along with the joy).
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