It's getting close to Thanksgiving and that can only mean one thing in my house -- it's time to clean the kitchen cabinets again.
This is a yearly thing for me. The hood over the stove gets cleaned more often because it needs it, and sometimes the more used cabinets get a bit of a go-over, but November is always when I wash down the cabinets. This year it will be a one-step process - cleaning with Murphy's Oil Soap. It's kind to cabinets and it's fast. But rather than getting started (it's 8:38 a.m.), I'm sitting here writing the post for today. Maybe it's because I'm procrastinating? Sure, could be. I'm retired; procrastinating could even become a way of life if I let it!!
When my mother wasn't doing very well because of her high blood pressure, doctors thought her best bet was taking it easy. That was how they looked at it back then in the 1950s, so we hired a cleaning lady to assist my mother in taking care of the house. There were hardwood floors in every bedroom upstairs, carpet in the living room and dining room and linoleum in the kitchen. Lucy, our sweet and wonderful cleaning lady, used Murphy's Oil Soap on the hardwood floors maybe every couple of weeks and did a thorough dusting in between. I could always tell Lucy was at the house by the smell of the soap. It has a very distinctive odor that one cannot forget.
So today will be a trip down memory lane for me, because as soon as I open the Murphy's Oil Soap bottle, I'll be back at 3971 Wooster Road again and Lucy will be at the house doing the floors.
My class reunion is this coming September -- I think I shared that with you a couple of times -- and I'm co-chair of entertainment. We always used a questionnaire to gather information about our classmates but honestly, the questions were boring and didn't delve into the stuff that makes a reunion special. Murphy's Oil Soap is a case in point. Open that bottom -- out pours memories. So one question I'd like us to consider using is, "If you could go back in time to Fairview Park in 1964 and visit one place, where would it be and why?" We'd get some stories, wouldn't we?
Some might say they'd like to go back to their old house. Some might say the high school itself. Some might say Fran's Sweet Shop; others might say the old Fairview Shopping Center. It might be interesting. We go to our reunions because in some sense we try to capture what was.
I'm taking my cue from Murphy's Oil Soap.
Have a wonderful Thursday and enjoy yourself. God is in his heaven; all's right with the world. Say a prayer for our country today!!
Light of Christ
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
The People We Meet
One of the best places to meet nice women is Joanne Fabrics. They have this aisle where shoppers wait to get checked out, and sometimes it moves a little slow. There hasn't been one time when I haven't met someone kind and funny, and I actually look forward to checking out because of it. The most common question is, "What are you making?" The answers are interesting and varied, and I always learn something.
Yet another article in this month's Liguorian Magazine hit the nail on the head. It spoke about how we have to have instant access to everything, and how we tend not to ask another living human being about much of anything. We just google it and away we go. That includes medical advice and countless other queries that we want to make. There's nothing wrong with using today's technology for assistance -- there are things I've learned by using google or bing that I would have had a hard time finding out any other way. So kudos to these search engines for that.
But there are times when we need to keep ourselves connected to others, times when a phone call would serve just as well as a text message or a tweet. There are times when the sound of a human voice or the company of a real human being is preferable to cold machinery.
We need to take stock of ourselves from time to time, especially to determine for ourselves if we are spending too much time with machines and not enough time with people. If our family members are complaining about it, that would be a clue. If we don't seem to have time to get anything done, that would be a clue. If we are staying up at night later than we should, that would be a clue. If we fly into a panic when a device isn't working, that would be a clue.
Today's technology is supposed to add to our lives, not take away from it. So I include myself in this admonishment -- tune off sometimes and just breathe in some fresh air, take a walk, read a real book, stop at the library, listen to some music, write a letter, make a card, make a phone call. Experience life firsthand. Thank God for His goodness.
P.S. I forgot. Tomorrow morning, Wednesday, there will not be a new posting. I'm going to my class reunion committee meeting tonight and then spending the night at my sister's house in Westlake. Won't be back until around 2:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday. But I'll be back -- ready to go strong -- on Thursday morning. Meanwhile, take care, my friends.
Yet another article in this month's Liguorian Magazine hit the nail on the head. It spoke about how we have to have instant access to everything, and how we tend not to ask another living human being about much of anything. We just google it and away we go. That includes medical advice and countless other queries that we want to make. There's nothing wrong with using today's technology for assistance -- there are things I've learned by using google or bing that I would have had a hard time finding out any other way. So kudos to these search engines for that.
But there are times when we need to keep ourselves connected to others, times when a phone call would serve just as well as a text message or a tweet. There are times when the sound of a human voice or the company of a real human being is preferable to cold machinery.
We need to take stock of ourselves from time to time, especially to determine for ourselves if we are spending too much time with machines and not enough time with people. If our family members are complaining about it, that would be a clue. If we don't seem to have time to get anything done, that would be a clue. If we are staying up at night later than we should, that would be a clue. If we fly into a panic when a device isn't working, that would be a clue.
Today's technology is supposed to add to our lives, not take away from it. So I include myself in this admonishment -- tune off sometimes and just breathe in some fresh air, take a walk, read a real book, stop at the library, listen to some music, write a letter, make a card, make a phone call. Experience life firsthand. Thank God for His goodness.
P.S. I forgot. Tomorrow morning, Wednesday, there will not be a new posting. I'm going to my class reunion committee meeting tonight and then spending the night at my sister's house in Westlake. Won't be back until around 2:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday. But I'll be back -- ready to go strong -- on Thursday morning. Meanwhile, take care, my friends.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
The Kennedy Legacy
The scores of television specials about John F. Kennedy started a week ago. Although 50 years ago I lived through that whole series of events, something always makes me want to watch the next program about his life and his death.
People always say that everyone old enough to understand what was happening knows where they were on November 22, 1963. I was in Mr. Peat's physical science class, in a tiered classroom at the end of a hallway. One classmate asked to go get a drink of water at around 2:30 or something like that. When he returned, he told us that he'd heard that the president had been shot. Of course, my mind was swirling. Shot. Where? How bad is it? Will he live?
Class let out a short while after we got the first snippet of news, and being that it was the last class of the day, I headed down the long hall and turned toward the wing where my locker was. The double doors of the art room were down that hall and just as I approached the art room, the double doors swung open hard and Joan Heffelfinger came out into the hall saying, "The President is dead." She was a polite, serious student who got along with everyone. I didn't doubt what she was saying, but my mind didn't want to hear it.
A different Joan and Barbara took the bus home, like I did. We didn't have school buses in Fairview. We rode the municipal bus that traveled between North Olmsted and downtown Cleveland numerous times a day. The bus stop was at W. 213th and Lorain Road and we didn't use money; we used bus checks. These were minted coins we bought at the school office for use on the bus. Joan, Barbara and I were sober and sad. We just didn't feel like riding the bus that day. It must not have been terribly cold, because we decided to walk home from W. 213th Street to W. 193rd Street. We crossed the street and started on our trek. St. Angela's is at W. 210th and Lorain, so a scant three blocks after we'd started, we decided to go inside the church and pray. We stayed about 15 minutes, I think. Then we started walking again. I don't know what was said, but we did talk on the way home.
When I got home, my sister was waiting for me (I lived with my sister and brother-in-law following the death of my mother when I was 14). She had been home alone and heard the news on the radio. She was just stunned; we all were. And thus, on that late fall afternoon in November 1963, we started on a three-day journey of loss and then a state funeral with dignitaries from all over the world.
No one is perfect; we all know that. We've all sinned and fallen short, but in the last months of his life, John F. Kennedy had changed. He had started reading the Bible. He spent much more time with his family. He and Krushchev were writing back and forth, their letters carried by secret couriers. He was going to bring the small numbers of military personnel home from Vietnam. He had kept us from nuclear war. And he was a very sick man, a man who had had other experiences of serious illness. He was in constant pain.
At the time I didn't imagine it, but these days I see a wonderful reunion with his baby boy, Patrick, who had died just a short time before. For John F. Kennedy was a man who truly loved children.
His life should be for us a call to service. From his days as a Navy officer, to his days in the Senate, and then his 1001 days as president, John Kennedy served his country and he was proud of it.
One of my classmates visited Washington, D.C. with her parents when John Kennedy was in the Senate. They walked into the rotunda of the magnificent Capitol Building and were just aimlessly walking around. A young looking man walked over to them, introduced himself, and asked if they would like a tour. He showed them around the building, pointing to this and that, all the while explaining the importance and the history of the building. They had just met John F. Kennedy, the Senator from Massachusetts who took the time to show a family from Ohio the beauty of Washington. In 1963, his body lay in that very rotunda.
People always say that everyone old enough to understand what was happening knows where they were on November 22, 1963. I was in Mr. Peat's physical science class, in a tiered classroom at the end of a hallway. One classmate asked to go get a drink of water at around 2:30 or something like that. When he returned, he told us that he'd heard that the president had been shot. Of course, my mind was swirling. Shot. Where? How bad is it? Will he live?
Class let out a short while after we got the first snippet of news, and being that it was the last class of the day, I headed down the long hall and turned toward the wing where my locker was. The double doors of the art room were down that hall and just as I approached the art room, the double doors swung open hard and Joan Heffelfinger came out into the hall saying, "The President is dead." She was a polite, serious student who got along with everyone. I didn't doubt what she was saying, but my mind didn't want to hear it.
A different Joan and Barbara took the bus home, like I did. We didn't have school buses in Fairview. We rode the municipal bus that traveled between North Olmsted and downtown Cleveland numerous times a day. The bus stop was at W. 213th and Lorain Road and we didn't use money; we used bus checks. These were minted coins we bought at the school office for use on the bus. Joan, Barbara and I were sober and sad. We just didn't feel like riding the bus that day. It must not have been terribly cold, because we decided to walk home from W. 213th Street to W. 193rd Street. We crossed the street and started on our trek. St. Angela's is at W. 210th and Lorain, so a scant three blocks after we'd started, we decided to go inside the church and pray. We stayed about 15 minutes, I think. Then we started walking again. I don't know what was said, but we did talk on the way home.
When I got home, my sister was waiting for me (I lived with my sister and brother-in-law following the death of my mother when I was 14). She had been home alone and heard the news on the radio. She was just stunned; we all were. And thus, on that late fall afternoon in November 1963, we started on a three-day journey of loss and then a state funeral with dignitaries from all over the world.
No one is perfect; we all know that. We've all sinned and fallen short, but in the last months of his life, John F. Kennedy had changed. He had started reading the Bible. He spent much more time with his family. He and Krushchev were writing back and forth, their letters carried by secret couriers. He was going to bring the small numbers of military personnel home from Vietnam. He had kept us from nuclear war. And he was a very sick man, a man who had had other experiences of serious illness. He was in constant pain.
At the time I didn't imagine it, but these days I see a wonderful reunion with his baby boy, Patrick, who had died just a short time before. For John F. Kennedy was a man who truly loved children.
His life should be for us a call to service. From his days as a Navy officer, to his days in the Senate, and then his 1001 days as president, John Kennedy served his country and he was proud of it.
One of my classmates visited Washington, D.C. with her parents when John Kennedy was in the Senate. They walked into the rotunda of the magnificent Capitol Building and were just aimlessly walking around. A young looking man walked over to them, introduced himself, and asked if they would like a tour. He showed them around the building, pointing to this and that, all the while explaining the importance and the history of the building. They had just met John F. Kennedy, the Senator from Massachusetts who took the time to show a family from Ohio the beauty of Washington. In 1963, his body lay in that very rotunda.
Friday, November 15, 2013
O'Reilly's Book
A couple of weeks ago, my husband returned from BJs Wholesale Club with a present for himself -- a Keurig coffee machine. He knows full well that I like coffee too, but it doesn't really agree with me all that much, so my preference is tea.
Since he treated himself, he admitted to feeling guilty and so he'd bought me the book, "Killing Jesus," by Bill O'Reilly and Martin Dugart. I finished it yesterday. Would I recommend it to you, my faithful readers? Yes, I would.
O'Reilly/Dugart do a good job of framing the situation that Our Lord finds himself in. They explain the workings of Roman society and the intricacies of how Jews lived and navigated around their own 600+ rules, the temple, and the festivals including Passover. You will find out how laws were broken in order to crucify Jesus at the behest of the Jewish hierarchy.
The title does provide me with an opportunity to explain one important thing -- Jesus was not KILLED. Jesus gave his life for us. The Bible quotes Jesus as saying, "It is finished." Jesus did his father's will by becoming fully human while being fully God and coming to earth. He lived the life of a typical Jewish boy in a small Jewish town. He learned a craft -- carpentry -- alongside his father. Did he know right from the beginning of his life that the ending would be the cross? I don't know; I doubt it. But I do know that no one took his life from him -- he gave it.
The pressure on Jesus was tremendous. He outwitted the most gifted thinkers in Jerusalem with his answers, and many of those answers guide us to this day like, "Render to Caesar that which is Caesar's and render to God that which is God's." He prayed in the garden awaiting the guards he knew were coming for him. Bet you thought they were Roman guards. I did. They weren't; they were Jewish temple guards who came and got him after he received a kiss from Judas, the traitor, as a signal to them that this was the man they were seeking. And while he waited in that garden, he wanted his beloved apostles to pray with him, but instead they fell asleep. Like Peter's three-times denial, they fell asleep three different times. And all that while Jesus is so fearful of what is to happen that he sweats blood. Was he afraid of the physical torment? Of course, I'm sure he was. But there was something much greater that awaited Jesus on that cross. He felt the total weight of all of the sins ever committed by humans. My sins. Your sins.
It is humbling and sad and sorrowful all at the same time. It should be the first thing we think of every single morning -- we were ransomed by the blood of God.
It puts everything into perspective, like for example, how short our lives really are in the big picture -- God's overall plan for humanity. It puts our sufferings into perspective too.
There are a few places in the book where my understanding differs, but I'm no Biblical scholar. I think you would find that the book is worth the read.
Thanks, my dear readers, for joining me on this day.
Since he treated himself, he admitted to feeling guilty and so he'd bought me the book, "Killing Jesus," by Bill O'Reilly and Martin Dugart. I finished it yesterday. Would I recommend it to you, my faithful readers? Yes, I would.
O'Reilly/Dugart do a good job of framing the situation that Our Lord finds himself in. They explain the workings of Roman society and the intricacies of how Jews lived and navigated around their own 600+ rules, the temple, and the festivals including Passover. You will find out how laws were broken in order to crucify Jesus at the behest of the Jewish hierarchy.
The title does provide me with an opportunity to explain one important thing -- Jesus was not KILLED. Jesus gave his life for us. The Bible quotes Jesus as saying, "It is finished." Jesus did his father's will by becoming fully human while being fully God and coming to earth. He lived the life of a typical Jewish boy in a small Jewish town. He learned a craft -- carpentry -- alongside his father. Did he know right from the beginning of his life that the ending would be the cross? I don't know; I doubt it. But I do know that no one took his life from him -- he gave it.
The pressure on Jesus was tremendous. He outwitted the most gifted thinkers in Jerusalem with his answers, and many of those answers guide us to this day like, "Render to Caesar that which is Caesar's and render to God that which is God's." He prayed in the garden awaiting the guards he knew were coming for him. Bet you thought they were Roman guards. I did. They weren't; they were Jewish temple guards who came and got him after he received a kiss from Judas, the traitor, as a signal to them that this was the man they were seeking. And while he waited in that garden, he wanted his beloved apostles to pray with him, but instead they fell asleep. Like Peter's three-times denial, they fell asleep three different times. And all that while Jesus is so fearful of what is to happen that he sweats blood. Was he afraid of the physical torment? Of course, I'm sure he was. But there was something much greater that awaited Jesus on that cross. He felt the total weight of all of the sins ever committed by humans. My sins. Your sins.
It is humbling and sad and sorrowful all at the same time. It should be the first thing we think of every single morning -- we were ransomed by the blood of God.
It puts everything into perspective, like for example, how short our lives really are in the big picture -- God's overall plan for humanity. It puts our sufferings into perspective too.
There are a few places in the book where my understanding differs, but I'm no Biblical scholar. I think you would find that the book is worth the read.
Thanks, my dear readers, for joining me on this day.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The Martha Stewart In Me
Necessity is the mother of invention. I agree with Plato on this one. Unless we are forced by some exigent circumstances, we go along our merry little ways unchallenged.
Back in the 1980s and 1990s when my sons were getting old enough to get themselves into real trouble, I was stressed. During the day I coped with it pretty well, but it was at night that apparently all of my fears and worries for them came to a head. I clenched my teeth. Pretty soon, I was getting some jaw pain and headaches, and my jaw was making noises.
I consulted my dentist and he could tell that I'd been clenching my teeth at night. This differs from the grinding that some people do. I don't grind which is much worse, but the clenching doesn't do a body any favors either. So he sent me to a specialist who made me a bite guard. And that bite guard worked for a long, long time until recently it started to fall apart. Knowing full well that the device cost $400, I did a little investigation to find out what a new one would cost and my best estimate is around $800. Wow.
So I thought -- maybe I don't even clench my teeth at night anymore. Maybe I don't need a new bite guard at all. That lasted one night and by the next morning I knew I was still doing this ridiculous thing -- had this ridiculous habit.
Martha Stewart immediately came to mind. Martha doesn't really have to worry about spending $800 on a bite guard, but this is a woman who in one issue of her magazine demonstrated how to DYE old tennis shoes. Really? And the dye she used was blue. If I ever did such a thing, I know exactly what would happen. For at least the rest of the summer, I'd have Smurf blue feet, and can you imagine how svelte I'd really look in sandals?
But you have to give Martha credit. She does seem to work hard. That gave me a little verve -- which might be a combination of vitality and nerve? Don't know. Sounds good, doesn't it?
I had a bite guard that I bought on a whim at the pharmacy when I was going to try and replace the other one a while back. It was like sports shoe cushioning and thick and bulky. It made me gag. But being kind of cheap, I'd kept the thing. It was one of those boil-it-and-it-will-fit kind of deals. I took the monstrosity out to the kitchen where I could really get a good look at it. Got out some scissors and a serrated kitchen knife and started to do a little clipping here and there. Cut off the sides that fit into the back molars to avoid the gagging. And I trimmed the part that fits over the front teeth. Ouila! A new bite guard.
It's been several days now and the bite guard is hanging in there. I don't have headaches. My jaw isn't sore and I'm not out any money. When this one starts falling apart, I'll just buy another cheap one and go to work in my bite guard laboratory and create another one. Perhaps by then I'll be even better at it and maybe I'll even get out my electric Dremel Multi-Pro (drill, sander, crafter).
Martha -- and you thought that dying tennis shoes was bold!! However, I noticed that on the humorous list that someone compiled about how Martha prepares for Christmas, I see that on December 13 she collects dentures which it says, makes excellent pastry cutters, particularly for decorative pie crusts. Hmmmm. And that's the day after, "Take dog apart. Disinfect. Reassemble." The day after she, "Installs plumbing in the gingerbread house." But my personal favorite -- December 11 -- Lay Faberge egg.
May the light of the Lord shine upon you. Thanks for reading.
Back in the 1980s and 1990s when my sons were getting old enough to get themselves into real trouble, I was stressed. During the day I coped with it pretty well, but it was at night that apparently all of my fears and worries for them came to a head. I clenched my teeth. Pretty soon, I was getting some jaw pain and headaches, and my jaw was making noises.
I consulted my dentist and he could tell that I'd been clenching my teeth at night. This differs from the grinding that some people do. I don't grind which is much worse, but the clenching doesn't do a body any favors either. So he sent me to a specialist who made me a bite guard. And that bite guard worked for a long, long time until recently it started to fall apart. Knowing full well that the device cost $400, I did a little investigation to find out what a new one would cost and my best estimate is around $800. Wow.
So I thought -- maybe I don't even clench my teeth at night anymore. Maybe I don't need a new bite guard at all. That lasted one night and by the next morning I knew I was still doing this ridiculous thing -- had this ridiculous habit.
Martha Stewart immediately came to mind. Martha doesn't really have to worry about spending $800 on a bite guard, but this is a woman who in one issue of her magazine demonstrated how to DYE old tennis shoes. Really? And the dye she used was blue. If I ever did such a thing, I know exactly what would happen. For at least the rest of the summer, I'd have Smurf blue feet, and can you imagine how svelte I'd really look in sandals?
But you have to give Martha credit. She does seem to work hard. That gave me a little verve -- which might be a combination of vitality and nerve? Don't know. Sounds good, doesn't it?
I had a bite guard that I bought on a whim at the pharmacy when I was going to try and replace the other one a while back. It was like sports shoe cushioning and thick and bulky. It made me gag. But being kind of cheap, I'd kept the thing. It was one of those boil-it-and-it-will-fit kind of deals. I took the monstrosity out to the kitchen where I could really get a good look at it. Got out some scissors and a serrated kitchen knife and started to do a little clipping here and there. Cut off the sides that fit into the back molars to avoid the gagging. And I trimmed the part that fits over the front teeth. Ouila! A new bite guard.
It's been several days now and the bite guard is hanging in there. I don't have headaches. My jaw isn't sore and I'm not out any money. When this one starts falling apart, I'll just buy another cheap one and go to work in my bite guard laboratory and create another one. Perhaps by then I'll be even better at it and maybe I'll even get out my electric Dremel Multi-Pro (drill, sander, crafter).
Martha -- and you thought that dying tennis shoes was bold!! However, I noticed that on the humorous list that someone compiled about how Martha prepares for Christmas, I see that on December 13 she collects dentures which it says, makes excellent pastry cutters, particularly for decorative pie crusts. Hmmmm. And that's the day after, "Take dog apart. Disinfect. Reassemble." The day after she, "Installs plumbing in the gingerbread house." But my personal favorite -- December 11 -- Lay Faberge egg.
May the light of the Lord shine upon you. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Our Fragile Times
Life sometimes has a way of forcing us to deal with difficult things. It's like you're going along and everything is fine, you feel strong, you feel competent, and one little thing happens to make you turn into a sniveling scared person.
Years ago, we had a little mouse problem. Okay, it was a mice problem. Eventually, we caught about nine of them as I recall. They were getting into the basement somehow, and we've never figured out how. I was starting to get really upset, feeling creepy-crawly, and like my inner space had been violated. But at least the problem was down in the basement.
One night while sitting at my night stand, probably trying to make my pain-in-the-neck hair do something other than go straight, I just knew that there was something wrong. I turned around just enough to be able to catch a glimpse of movement in front of the closet on the opposite side of the room. There were just two humans in the house, and my husband was watching TV in the living room. I shrieked, stood up, felt trapped because the mouse was between me and the door, and I yelled, "Help. Help. Somebody help me."
The "somebody" finally showed up; he was very nonchalant about the whole thing and I was freaking out. He looked about five feet in one direction and five feet in the other and said that the mouse was nowhere to be seen. Of course, it was nowhere to be seen. I had just traumatized it with my screaming. But my powers of observation were a little better than his and I figured it out -- the mouse had gone into the closet. My husband was tired and he figured we could just deal with it in the morning. In the morning?
So I'm supposed to sleep in my bed knowing that there might be a mouse in the closet just waiting for the opportunity to come out and show itself? No way!! I told him that we could empty out the closet and I would help get the shoes out of the way. So he began handing me shoes. Pretty soon, he says, "Oh, here it is." I thought he'd do something, but he thought he'd just get one of our cats and have them solve the problem. The first cat he grabbed walked right away. The second cat did the same. Finally, he got one that showed an interest. It ran into the closet and cornered the mouse.
Then my husband says, "Ohhhh." And hiding behind the door, I say, "What?" He says calmly, "I think it's dead." And I said, "No, it's not. It's not dead." And he said, "Well, it's lying on its back and it's not moving. I think it had a heart attack." So now I'm a little more calm and he has me get a dustpan. He noticed a puncture mark in the mouse, and we knew then that one of the cats had already struck. The mouse's time was numbered. I almost felt sorry for it -- almost.
So still somewhat edgy the next morning, I headed out to my car to go to work. It was very dark in the garage, so it must have been winter. As I turned the key to start the car, something caught my eye on the dash where the heater vent was. A white moth crawled out, its little feelers going this way and that. I completely went nuts, screamed and hollered, and scared my husband half to death.
He said, "What is wrong with you?"
So he gives this kind of halfhearted attempt to get the moth but it disappears. I didn't want to leave for work, saying, "It's going to show up while I'm driving to work and I'm going to have a wreck."
It ended up being in the very back of the car, where the window meets the body of the car, and it was difficult to get out but he finally did get it.
And I thought about what he said, "What is wrong with you?" Yeah, what was wrong with me? I found out that I was emotionally fragile when it came to mice in the house. Everything felt out of control, and then within the confines of my cozy car, I felt invaded yet again. THAT'S what was wrong with me.
So I've gotten a little wiser -- I know that I have these little issues, and I know that it could happen again. Now that my husband doesn't hear as well, I'll just have to scream much louder!!!
Have a great day!
Years ago, we had a little mouse problem. Okay, it was a mice problem. Eventually, we caught about nine of them as I recall. They were getting into the basement somehow, and we've never figured out how. I was starting to get really upset, feeling creepy-crawly, and like my inner space had been violated. But at least the problem was down in the basement.
One night while sitting at my night stand, probably trying to make my pain-in-the-neck hair do something other than go straight, I just knew that there was something wrong. I turned around just enough to be able to catch a glimpse of movement in front of the closet on the opposite side of the room. There were just two humans in the house, and my husband was watching TV in the living room. I shrieked, stood up, felt trapped because the mouse was between me and the door, and I yelled, "Help. Help. Somebody help me."
The "somebody" finally showed up; he was very nonchalant about the whole thing and I was freaking out. He looked about five feet in one direction and five feet in the other and said that the mouse was nowhere to be seen. Of course, it was nowhere to be seen. I had just traumatized it with my screaming. But my powers of observation were a little better than his and I figured it out -- the mouse had gone into the closet. My husband was tired and he figured we could just deal with it in the morning. In the morning?
So I'm supposed to sleep in my bed knowing that there might be a mouse in the closet just waiting for the opportunity to come out and show itself? No way!! I told him that we could empty out the closet and I would help get the shoes out of the way. So he began handing me shoes. Pretty soon, he says, "Oh, here it is." I thought he'd do something, but he thought he'd just get one of our cats and have them solve the problem. The first cat he grabbed walked right away. The second cat did the same. Finally, he got one that showed an interest. It ran into the closet and cornered the mouse.
Then my husband says, "Ohhhh." And hiding behind the door, I say, "What?" He says calmly, "I think it's dead." And I said, "No, it's not. It's not dead." And he said, "Well, it's lying on its back and it's not moving. I think it had a heart attack." So now I'm a little more calm and he has me get a dustpan. He noticed a puncture mark in the mouse, and we knew then that one of the cats had already struck. The mouse's time was numbered. I almost felt sorry for it -- almost.
So still somewhat edgy the next morning, I headed out to my car to go to work. It was very dark in the garage, so it must have been winter. As I turned the key to start the car, something caught my eye on the dash where the heater vent was. A white moth crawled out, its little feelers going this way and that. I completely went nuts, screamed and hollered, and scared my husband half to death.
He said, "What is wrong with you?"
So he gives this kind of halfhearted attempt to get the moth but it disappears. I didn't want to leave for work, saying, "It's going to show up while I'm driving to work and I'm going to have a wreck."
It ended up being in the very back of the car, where the window meets the body of the car, and it was difficult to get out but he finally did get it.
And I thought about what he said, "What is wrong with you?" Yeah, what was wrong with me? I found out that I was emotionally fragile when it came to mice in the house. Everything felt out of control, and then within the confines of my cozy car, I felt invaded yet again. THAT'S what was wrong with me.
So I've gotten a little wiser -- I know that I have these little issues, and I know that it could happen again. Now that my husband doesn't hear as well, I'll just have to scream much louder!!!
Have a great day!
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Tell the Stories
An article I was looking at in the Liguorian Magazine is really worthwhile. It talks about the stories of our families, the wonderful, compelling, sometimes humorous stories that make people real, human.
As the article mentions, tweets just don't make the grade when we want to know more about the lives of the saints or the saints in our families. Those unforgettable characters that brought a special grace to our lives, or influenced us to fight the good fight. Stories require rounding out, details, sights, smells, tastes, hugs.
As I've talked about before, one of the wonderful things about working at The University of Akron for 23 years was being able to take continuing education classes for free -- one per semester. I took a fiction writing class a number of different times over a period of years. One of those times, a lady in the class misunderstood the purpose of the class because she wanted to chronicle the life of her father. She wanted to preserve the stories that wove such a rich tapestry of his view of the world, flaws and all. So she didn't want to write fiction at all -- she wanted to tell his stories for the rest of her family.
At each class, we would read our assignments out loud. Hers drew the loudest laughter and reaction of any of them. I sometimes found myself wiping away tears from my eyes because of her astute telling of the stories of her father. He was a very suspicious, superstitious man, having grown up in the Depression and also coming from another country. Once, he apparently sold a mattress to the neighbor. That in itself is pretty strange. Who buys used mattresses?
Well, at any rate, once the transaction was complete and the neighbor took possession of the mattress, the man had second thoughts. He was one to hide things in the house -- money being one of them. He began to wonder if he had hidden any money in this particular mattress. So he started watching out the window and observing the family at every chance, hoping to notice if they suddenly seemed to be bringing goods home, if their lifestyle had changed. He obsessed about it. And it was hilarious.
At one point, she wondered out loud if her stories were actually making her father look bad, making him into a rather sordid character. None of the class saw it that way. After a while, I was pretty sure I knew her father quite well. He was a man who had been deeply hurt by the Depression.
In another instance, she told the story of a train ride she took with her suspicious father in the old country. He was always thinking the worst of other people. Apparently, at some point during the train ride, there was a delay since a large boulder had fallen on the tracks. She said, "I'm pretty sure my father willed that rock to fall down from the hillside." See what she was getting at? His negativism was a total disruption in his life, and perhaps as much as anything, she didn't want any of her family members to follow that particular lead.
It doesn't matter if you are a fabulous writer or even if you can write a perfect sentence. Write down the stories of your family. Put all of it down on paper, because otherwise all of this great lore will be lost. No one will remember what Great Uncle George did that one Thanksgiving. Or how Grandmother Smith screwed up the Christmas dinner. Or how little Susie loved Jesus so much when she was little that she sacrificed to give her money to the poor. Why do we love The Christmas Story? Because it is a story -- a story about a particular time in a family's life. It is a picture painted in words and brought into the movie, enriched by the narration of the author himself. It evokes feelings.
Write down the stories. Save the memories, especially the ones that pertain to our faith life. My grandmother died in church in Cleveland, Ohio. Wouldn't I love to know more about her and her love of God? There are no stories to fill in the gaps or answer my questions.
Start small. And then keep going.
As the article mentions, tweets just don't make the grade when we want to know more about the lives of the saints or the saints in our families. Those unforgettable characters that brought a special grace to our lives, or influenced us to fight the good fight. Stories require rounding out, details, sights, smells, tastes, hugs.
As I've talked about before, one of the wonderful things about working at The University of Akron for 23 years was being able to take continuing education classes for free -- one per semester. I took a fiction writing class a number of different times over a period of years. One of those times, a lady in the class misunderstood the purpose of the class because she wanted to chronicle the life of her father. She wanted to preserve the stories that wove such a rich tapestry of his view of the world, flaws and all. So she didn't want to write fiction at all -- she wanted to tell his stories for the rest of her family.
At each class, we would read our assignments out loud. Hers drew the loudest laughter and reaction of any of them. I sometimes found myself wiping away tears from my eyes because of her astute telling of the stories of her father. He was a very suspicious, superstitious man, having grown up in the Depression and also coming from another country. Once, he apparently sold a mattress to the neighbor. That in itself is pretty strange. Who buys used mattresses?
Well, at any rate, once the transaction was complete and the neighbor took possession of the mattress, the man had second thoughts. He was one to hide things in the house -- money being one of them. He began to wonder if he had hidden any money in this particular mattress. So he started watching out the window and observing the family at every chance, hoping to notice if they suddenly seemed to be bringing goods home, if their lifestyle had changed. He obsessed about it. And it was hilarious.
At one point, she wondered out loud if her stories were actually making her father look bad, making him into a rather sordid character. None of the class saw it that way. After a while, I was pretty sure I knew her father quite well. He was a man who had been deeply hurt by the Depression.
In another instance, she told the story of a train ride she took with her suspicious father in the old country. He was always thinking the worst of other people. Apparently, at some point during the train ride, there was a delay since a large boulder had fallen on the tracks. She said, "I'm pretty sure my father willed that rock to fall down from the hillside." See what she was getting at? His negativism was a total disruption in his life, and perhaps as much as anything, she didn't want any of her family members to follow that particular lead.
It doesn't matter if you are a fabulous writer or even if you can write a perfect sentence. Write down the stories of your family. Put all of it down on paper, because otherwise all of this great lore will be lost. No one will remember what Great Uncle George did that one Thanksgiving. Or how Grandmother Smith screwed up the Christmas dinner. Or how little Susie loved Jesus so much when she was little that she sacrificed to give her money to the poor. Why do we love The Christmas Story? Because it is a story -- a story about a particular time in a family's life. It is a picture painted in words and brought into the movie, enriched by the narration of the author himself. It evokes feelings.
Write down the stories. Save the memories, especially the ones that pertain to our faith life. My grandmother died in church in Cleveland, Ohio. Wouldn't I love to know more about her and her love of God? There are no stories to fill in the gaps or answer my questions.
Start small. And then keep going.
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