At bedtime on Thanksgiving I read to Julia, An Old Fashioned Thanksgiving (Louisa May Alcott).
. . .Down among the embers, saucepans simmered, suggestive of an approaching feast.
"That's what we had today-a feast!" she exclaimed.
I'm not suprised, since Julia was the girl narrating dinner, "Oh, the turkey is so good, the mashed potatoes so good . . ."
Sometimes you plan a feast-plan, invite, shop, prepare; then maybe everything and everybody is ready but the turkey is undercooked-
Tilly, whatever made you put wormwood and catnip in your stuffing? asked Ma.
-the stuffing, overcooked, sticks to the pan-
The pudding was an utter failure-as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on a great gate.
And the pies, so lovely to look at, aren't so perfect afterall. . .
but the guests are gracious, grateful--and it's still a feast.

Violet's stool. . .

It seems like I have a new piece of furniture when I move an old piece to a new spot. . .
My grandfather made a tall three legged stool for my grandmother, Violet. I've heard that Violet would sit on her tall stool peeling carrots.
Now it's my stool, but I love to think about my tiny grandmother sitting on it, peeling carrots. . . did her legs dangle? did the stool todder?
So, last week I was standing over the recycle bin, flipping fast through magazines, and I saw this idea-Violet's tall stool could be a little table, maybe. . . it works next to my favorite chair; it holds my pile of books smartly, but will it hold a coffee cup-without a todder?
This week I've invited two women over for coffee. I'll try out Violet's stool first, with my coffee cup-and I'll watch for any hint of todder.

"B" is for blue. . .and blueberry

My mother is visiting from California. Amaleah and Julia call her Gigi (short for Great Grandmother). So, yesterday Julia spent the day with us. Julia is 3 years and Mom is 87 years- imagine the fun. . .library, park, picnic lunch (Julia feeding Gigi blueberries), naps, popscicles, book reading, garden watering.

On the drive home from the park, I heard Julia from the back seat,
Gigi, what's your favorite color?
Blue! said Gigi
Blue? my favorite color is Blue too! said Julia

I struggled to put up the pack-n-play for Julia's nap, I will wake up Gigi and she can put up the pack-n-play! offered my sweet grandaughter.
So, Julia and Gigi napped-hmmm, I have an hour, just an hour to work on the devotional for Thursday. . .

"Psalm 1. . .he will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water which yields fruit in its season. . ."
Yields fruit in it's season. . .today I'm the girl in the middle- Lord, may I bear fruit for you in this season.

a curious thing. . .

At the end of my fifth decade, I'm wearing pink. . . imagine that?

So, last year when Rachel came to visit from Spain, she brought this pink and white blouse.
"It doesn't work for Naomi nor for me, and we heard you're wearing pink these days!"
Oh, really. . .me, wearing pink? too bold, too bright. . .
However, inspite of my apprehension, I kind of like wearing this pink blouse.

I was rummaging in the coat closet last month and found Mercy's pink cordoroy jacket (my friend Stephanie calls it Rose). I love cordoroy and the jacket has a great lining.

So, lately I've been wearing not just one pink garment, but the pink blouse paired with the pink cordoroy jacket. . . I get lots of comments: Pink is really your color, they say.
(Yikes, I think.)

So, for a girl who prefers khaki, brown, no color. . .hmmm, perhaps change is in the air-perhaps it's called the afternoon of life.
(and really. . . how fun to wear my daughters' clothes!)

kind of like babysitting. . .

Last month my friend, Lori, invited me over for coffee-she was getting ready to join her husband Zachary at a military base in Arizona for 6 weeks.

So, we talked about life while Lori prepared biscuits using her grandmother's sourdough starter and biscuit recipe. She shared memories of yearly trips to visit her grandparents in the Texas Panhandle-and memories of Grandma Jan's sourdough biscuits served with homemade raspberry jam (and I'm thinking, raspberries in Texas??)

Lori. . . You'll be gone from home for 6 weeks. . .what about Grandma Jan's sourdough starter? I inquired.

Then Lori asked if I might like to babysit her sourdough starter. . .this babysitting would involve using a cup of the starter weekly and then feeding it. . .And of course, I said yes--how could I refuse?
So, for the past 3 weeks, we've been doing creative things with Grandma Jan's biscuits. Amaleah and Julia helped me one afternoon, crowded around the kitchen counter, spooning, dipping, mixing, patting and rolling- Oh, my! . . .flour covered their little bare feet that day. We baked biscuits to send home for their dinner, and we remembered to pray for Miss Lori.

This week John is home on spring break- so, Tuesday afternoon I fixed sourdough biscuits, jam, tea and coffee-and we thought about our elderly neighbor, Dan. . .he lives alone and works hard everyday in his garden.
(sometimes Dan shows up at our door with part of the catch of the day- cleaned catfish!)

. . .so Tuesday we took Dan a plate of Grandma Jan's biscuits with jam. Thanks! I was just fixin to go inside for something to eat. . .

Hmmm. . .I'm wondering how I can be creative with sourdough biscuits next week?
So, Lori, everytime I feed your sourdough starter, I think about you and Zachary, and I thank the Lord in every remembrance of you.

one more story for February. . .

February is clam chowder month at our house-it's an anniversary tradition with a story. . .

John and I lived in Portland, Oregon for about a year while he was going to school-that was 30 years ago-day trips to the Oregon coast were a delight, my favorite kind of beach- cool, damp, windy, cliffs, driftwood. . .

So, one Saturday we headed for the coast with sweet Rachel in her striped overalls. John suggested we dig some clams and I heartily agreed, thinking about homemade chowder. We dug and dug; it was fun and productive, however. . . the game warden approached us, peeked into our clam sack and handed us a $40 citation. . . a citation for harvesting too many clams without a fishing license, imagine that? $40 for too many clams- not exactly milk money on a student budget.

But the warden let us keep those clams, so I took them home and made clam chowder for dinner that night. I imagine it was tastey, but the most memorable ingredient was the sand- for I was a novice at cleaning clams. . .$40 gritty clam chowder!

Isn't it curious-the memories we record and celebrate. . .and laugh about? So in February, around our anniversary, John and I eat clam chowder, remembering that year after year our God continues to be faithful even when we are foolish. . .

(and these days I use canned clams)

"dreamin of a new wardrobe?"

. . . that's the question that popped up on my computer screen the other day-reminds me of a wardrobe discussion I had with Abi this summer as we sorted through her clothes. She said,

"When my wardrobe seems boring, then I give myself a little pep talk: Abi, you have lots of clothes- you can be creative with your clothes-you can make new outfits with old clothes!"

Hmmm. . . that's good-I'll remember Abi's pep talk when I find myself "dreamin of a new wardrobe". Actually, I came away with some delightful wardrobe pieces this summer direct from Abi's closet! "Mom, I can't take all these cute shoes to London-take the yellow mary-janes, and choose one of my jackets. " . . .so I did; the yellow shoes are Abi's purchase from her summer teaching in China, and I chose the maroon cordoroy jacket with lovely painted buttons. I will wear her clothes this fall in Texas and think about her drinking earl grey with milk in London.

So, last month I was out and about with my grand-girls and a friendly lady approached me, "I love your yellow shoes-where did you get them?"

" These yellow shoes?", I asked, "made in China, purchased in China, my sweet daughter. . . would you like to hear the story?

the postscript. . .

So, this is little me sitting on the steps of the Sommerset public library, July 2008, thinking about memorial stones. . . remember when God cut off the waters of the Jordan River and all his people, the Israelites, crossed on dry ground?- then God told them to carry away stones from the dry river to remind their children that the hand of the Lord is mighty; hmmm-I forget and God keeps handing me memorial stones. . .

In July, John and I were perking along the Pennsylvania turnpike (a little tense for us southerns-like when and how do you get on? get off? how many coins??) We were traveling east from Cinncinatti, enjoying the Alleghenys, when we noticed the sign for Sommerset; we exited the turnpike and coasted into town. It's the same place but spruced up-perhaps more tourists land in town these days--the mountains are lovely. We cruised around and John parked in front of the mechanic shop, the same shop where he replaced the engine in our VW in 2002.

He told me, "I think I'll go in and look for the fellow who helped me-I meant to send him a Texas postcard- just to thank him for being so kind"; ten minutes later John returned, beaming- eager to relate the dialogue:

friendly mechanic: "Hi, how you doing? need some help?

John: "well, I was wondering if you worked in this shop in 2002?"

mechanic: "six years ago? I remember you-you're the guy from Texas who changed the engine in your VW right here in my shop!"

. . . . pretty amazing-I guess my husband has a memorable face (or the scenario was that crazy-suburu engine? in a volkswagon? he has all the tools?) So, we took some time to remember Sommerset 2002- the budget Inn, the diner, the bus station; we ate our picnic lunch in the little park beside the public library, and John said to me, "Sometimes we forget that God never abandons us. . . " Indeed,this was a good interlude-good for my soul.

So, I called my children. . . . " remember Sommerset 2002? Mercy, remember the public library-the children's section in the basement? well, it's the same. . . and remember, "the hand of the Lord is mighty. . . fear the Lord your God forever."

A story with a postscript

Sommerset, Pennsylvania-so quaint

I love it when my adult children plan a sibling gathering-I love that they enjoy being together-you know, really liking each other without the parents insisting, appealing, exhorting. . . however, I do wonder about the stories they share, the memories which provoke chuckles and groans? For sure, one memory category could be titled: Saga of the family Volkswagons (it would include numerous chapters). So, this story with a postscript is for Josiah, Jeremiah, and Mercy who experienced it all . . .

August 2002, we were traveling home from an east coast road trip, traveling in our VW van between New York and Ohio, enjoying the Allegheny mountains when. . . the engine in our van blew up-I mused, "hmmm, this has happened before but never so far from home." In time, the tow truck carried us off the curvey mountain to quaint Sommerset, Pennsylvania where the van landed at the mechanic shop and we checked into the budget inn. What now? So-we prayed and then we ate a meal at the town diner; next we hiked to the bus station-(we all agreed, just leave the vanagon in Sommerset and take the bus home to Texas!) but one-way tickets were pricey and what about our camping stuff? In my memory, this is where my resourceful, cheerful husband shines-I knew all along that he really wanted to find an engine in a salvage yard. . . I really wanted to get home to San Antonio fast; the situation posed unique challenges: first, because John had performed a nifty engine conversion on the van, he must locate a suburu rather than a volkswagon engine in Sommerset (not exactly the mecca of junk-I mean-salvage yards). Second, where would the work take place? and who would do it? The shop mechanic confirmed that he couldn't even look at our van for at least a week-besides, John relishes the VW challenge, well, most of the time.

Here then, is the rest of the story. . . John and the boys did, indeed, locate a suburu engine in the local salvage yard-a perfect fit for our VW; they bought it, had it delivered to the shop, where the kind mechanic offered John space, without charge, to do the work himself. And he did. In three days we were again cruising through the Alleghanys, headed for Texas-imagine that?

-the postscript to follow. . . .

the lone red verbena. . .

So, I had to take a picture of this lone verbena, the only one that thrives in my front flower bed--a verbena with a story. . .

You see, a week or so ago a man came by our house looking for yard work; he needed money for a bus ticket, and so John hired him to mow the front yard. He was a hard worker, zealous--maybe a little too zealous, for after the job, a meal, conversation and pay, I inspected the yard. Seems our worker didn't notice the borders, or perhaps with my haphazard flower gardening, he couldn't really see the borders--Lambs Ear, Lantana, Verbena mowed down . . .. I remember a similar scenario in the spring-this time in the backyard and with a different zealous worker; this fellow also came by the house and John hired him to mow; I guess he didn't notice the Mexican Petunia and Turks Cap sprouting between the pecan trees . . .mowed down,

Now then, I'm not complaining-afterall, most plants grow back or one can buy and barter new seedlings. This post is dedicated to my dear husband, who for 36 years has been feeding, clothing, sheltering, and creatively providing for those in need, demonstrating for me that blessed are the merciful. . .