Absent - and the Dog Ate My Homework

You were all very kind with your comments and good wishes about our move-in yesterday.  Thanks so much!

By and large the Post-It Notes worked like a charm.  Only one lamp was broken in the mayhem, which I take as something of a minor miracle, compared to other moves I have made.  Did I ever tell you about the time decades ago, when someone who was helping us move grabbed a pot of cooked beans right off the stove and put in on the tailgate of a pickup truck that was pulling out of the driveway to go over to the new place?  If not, we will just save that little cautionary tale for another day.  Talk about gas up and go.

But you know it is always the "little foxes that spoil the vines" and just to double-up on the cliches, the devil is in the details.

My dad hated moving day, even though we moved often, because of the nature of his work.  He was also extremely superstitious and would not allow my mom to move a broom from one house to another, as that was supposed to be bad luck. 

Now everyone knows how irritating new brooms are. They just won't behave; they keep flipping stuff back in the direction you just swept because the bristles are too stiff, and you have to sweep the same area about four times with a new broom, as compared to one that is well broken in.

Poor mom (who did not have a superstitious bone in her body) probably hastened her own demise from over-sweeping because she could hardly ever keep a broom long enough to get it properly broken in.  Once she hid the broom, and thought she would be able to sneak it into the new place.  When dad discovered her deception, he about had a coronary and declared that everything from rickets to world famine was going to ensue all because mom had dared bring the darned used broom to the new place.

Now how did I get from our move to brooms to rickets?  Oh, yes, I was absent for a good part of the day yesterday (at the clinic with my son) and thus the LOC and the movers were left free to do their best....or worst...depending upon your point of view.

When I later returned for a quick walk-through, I found things mostly acceptable, but some details were disturbingly confused.  For example, lamp shades had been screwed onto the wrong lamps.  I politely asked the *LOC why he couldn't tell which went where by looking at the style of the finials?  (*Lovable Old Coot)

He gave me a look that said, "Lady, if you had been here during the last excruciating hours, keeping the dog from chasing her new friends, the squirrels and the three deer walking brazenly down the lane, and keeping the movers from attaching cables, wires and hoses to things that were never designed to accommodate them, you would not be asking me about finials.  What the heck is a finial anyway?"  (The LOC can say more with a look than most people can with a dictionary.)

Well, there you have it folks.  It is not pleasant to be present in the middle of a move, but it really does not pay to be absent either.  In any case, all finials have been restored to their proper location and all is well with the world....or at least the 1/2 acre of it that we now occupy.

Until next time...guard your finials as best you can, and if they get away from you...just chalk it up to experience! ...Marsha

Post-It Note Sofas

When the movers begin to unload our "stuff" tomorrow morning bright and early, I have left a little trail of clues for them.  A kind of 21st Century bread crumbs - Post It Notes.

I cannot be there when they unload, as tomorrow is clinic day for K. and I am needed there.

But the LOC* was not comfortable deciding where to tell the movers to put the larger items, knowing that if he got it wrong, he and I would be huffing and puffing trying to muscle them around by ourselves, long after the movers have departed. Trust me, this would not be a good thing for either of us. (*Lovable Old Coot)

Thus, he suggested that I draw diagrams and leave them where they could find them.  But my artistic skills run to the paint-by-numbers variety, and besides, diagrams can be turned around in the wrong direction and suddenly the sofa is sitting backed up to the bird bath.  You know what I am talking about.

So I decided to place Post-It Notes in each place a major piece of furniture is supposed to be deposited.  Let's hope it works.  Otherwise, the LOC and I have sore backs, frayed tempers, and lots of scuff marks on the new hardwood floors to look forward to.  I just hate scuffed up floors, don't you?

I must say, though, placing little colored squares where you envision the sofa residing isn't very satisfying.  I also tried putting pillows down in approximately the space a chair or sofa would require.  That did not seem to quite do it either.

Phooey!  Let's hope those beefy young mover-guys are fluent in both pillowese and Post-It Notes, or I may find my sofa on the roof when I get there.  Oh well, if so the LOC and I will just climb up there and sit a spell.  That would be kind of welcome after the chaos of the past few days.   * * * *

Hope your sofa is right where you want it to be this evening.  I'm hoping mine will be by this time tomorrow evening.  Until next time ...Marsha

Jam-Packed: The Move Is On

Tomorrow the big move finally happens.  In some ways it has all come together pretty quickly. 

It is our first move in over twenty years.  Boy, have we accumulated a lot of stuff.  And that is mostly just what it is -  just stuff. 

The fact that I have now been absent from home for three months, living out of one suitcase shows just how little of that "stuff" is really necessary for daily living.  But I do miss some of it.

The LOC* told me that he wrapped my teapots carefully. And I appreciate that.  However, his son, who helped him pack up the kitchen, said he also packed jars - lots of jars.  We don't need jars.  I haven't canned anything since 1978. I don't want those jars, but the LOC* kept them. (*Lovable Old Coot)

J. said, "Dad, you are seventy years old, its time to get rid of the jars."  The LOC just looked at him and said, "But I might need them sometime."  Uh - huh. 

Then there is his mug collection, his DVD collection, his sports memorabilia collection .... need I go on?  I have heard that in every marriage it is likely that one is a collector and one is a tosser.  In our household, I am the tosser.  If I have not used it in the past year, out it goes.  My ideal dresser drawer is one that is only two-thirds full.

I like bare places in the floor space, open areas on the walls, and room to move around in the garage.  The LOC, left untended (which I most certainly do not intend to do) would cover every square inch of every wall in the house with family photos.  Every square foot of the garage would contain a box, a bin, or a piece of equipment.  He has a bicycle with two flat tires that he refuses to get rid of "in case he needs it in an emergency."  Really ?

What's the plan?  Put the emergency on "pause" while he pumps up the bike tires?  I'm just saying.

Tonight, when I called to see how he was holding up, because I cannot be there and he is doing this solo now that J. has returned to Portland, he proudly but tiredly told me he had packed another fifty boxes today.  Another fifty!  Can we say jam-packed?

Thank the lord, the movers come tomorrow and he will be forced to stop and just leave some of it.  And the following day, all our stuff will arrive at the new house, just 15 minutes from where I am staying with K., and I can begin to sort - and toss - and sort - and toss - and .....  until we are no longer jam-packed.  I hope ...
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Hope whatever you are jamming or tossing tonight, you are doing it with a smile.  Until next time ...Marsha

The Dancing Street Sign Guy

I've been watching this guy for a few weeks now.  He is either really, really desperate to make some money, or just plain happy-go-lucky crazy.  Maybe both.  But he makes me laugh, and right now I take my chuckles anywhere I can find them.  

He has taken what could be, and by all accounts probably should be, a boring, humiliating job and turned it into something else entirely.  Exactly what he has turned it into, well I am not sure, but it is fun to watch.

He stands on a street corner near where my son K. lives, and variously displays, holds, dances with, caresses, and plays with a mobile phone sign - a great big one.  The sign is almost as big as he is tall.  There is an actual name for such a job:  sign spinners.  I have seen the employment ads.  They are also called "live billboards."

I have read, and heard somewhere, that the people who do the street-sign-advertising-dancing-billboard-thing get paid minimum wage; that is, unless they really move around with that thing and call a lot of attention to the sign.  In the latter case, I am told they can make around fifteen dollars an hour, or about double the minimum wage.

So this guy clearly is  motivated to move.  But he has taken it to a whole other level.  He lunges, then freezes in place, then twirls it, stands it straight on end, while balancing it on one palm (and this thing is about six feet long and two feet wide) then whirls it again.  All this action is accompanied by a variety of facial expressions ranging from goofy to faux-menacing.

He makes eye contact as the cars drive by.  He does not wink, or flirt in anyway, but rather he gives direction with his eyes, which seem to say "look at this sign" - "come on into the store" - "oh, come on, you know you want to" - "why not stop in and buy a new cell phone ?".

Then he plays a wildly energetic ditty on his sign-cum-air-guitar.  Some drivers honk encouragement and I have watched others give him a thumbs-up sign as they drive by.  He is just plain fun.

His build suggests he may be an athlete, or a professional dancer - he is muscular but very lithe.  And he varies his "look" from day to day.  One day it is aviator shades, a t-shirt and knee-shorts.  Next day it is a stocking cap, jeans, and combat boots.  He makes each ensemble look like a costume in his own little drama, played out before thousands of cars driving by his corner each day. 

The other day it finally struck me what he had managed to turn this odd gig into:  performance art.  I am not kidding you, he has.  He is entertaining and engaging all in the five seconds it takes to drive by him.

But there is more to him that a hat and a sign.  Here is how I know this.  Last week a mobile phone competitor had put their own street-sign-wielding-guy on the same corner.  He was short, a little chubby and not very well coordinated.  I happened to be stopped by the red signal light, so I got to watch this tableau play out.

The new guy tried a twirl with his sign.  It made one pitiful half circle and fell off his arm.  The "artful" pro clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and showed him how to hold it so that it would whirl around two or three times before coming to rest in the upright position.   The other guy smiled, they exchanged a couple of words, and each went back to their respective sections of the corner.

The show was back on for the pro-guy as he lunged, laughed, and pumped his sign.  The other guy sighed and tried to make sure his was at least held up over his head for a few seconds.  After all there was money on the line here.
                                         * * * *

How many of us would take a job that required us to make foolish looking gyrations on a street corner, make it into an entertainment venue, and then even help out the newcomer as he tried to imitate us?  Not too many, I would venture to guess.

So here is this guy, doing what he can to make the very most of an odd job, and even demonstrating generosity and kindness while doing it.  I was impressed.

Just goes to show you, it doesn't take a large venue in life to make a positive impression.  Just some heart, a sense of humor, and a little kindness.

Until next time .... Marsha

If Looks Could Kill, I'd Be Dead Right Now

Granted I was perhaps a smidge over the exact, precise, middle of the area in the exit of the restaurant driveway allotted to those going out.  Okay, I'll own that. I wanted to get K.'s take-out dinner back to him while it was still hot and was not paying strictest attention.

 In my own defense, there was no center line painted, and my bifocals sometimes interpret the world in their own way, regardless of where I perch them on my nose.

But the lady driving in was not exactly perfectly aligned with her own lane's dead-center; nevertheless, she gave me a look that would have done me severe damage, if not out-right killed me, if looks could do that.  Trust me, hers almost had that effect.  Scary!

I had never met her before, and I sure hope I never have to again.  Oh my, that look was just dreadful.  It was more than sour, more than irritated, more than resentful - but something less than human.  It was bovinely opaque but wolfishly cruel.

Uggghh!  It made me shudder as we slowly passed each other and she shot me daggers as though I had personally, deliberately, with great malice aforethought, just ruined her entire day.

Now bear in mind, I did not in any way impede her progress, nor do her any actual damage, nor even slow her progress.  I simply was "in her way" from her apparent visible reaction.

It was startling, this wildly exaggerated response, to what was not even a minor inconvenience.  And yet there was this expressed hostility to a complete stranger (that would be me - shivering in the Le Sabre's seat).

I drove home contemplating, what causes a person to take something so personally that they feel the need, nay the right, to glare daggers at another human being?

It simply escapes me.  Dear lord, what dwells in a heart that is that angry at the world in general?

You may be wondering, "Why does it matter?"

I would suggest that this kind of unwarranted anger, simmering so frequently just below the surface of our society in general, is what leads to road rage, drive-by random shootings and other unnecessary and yet increasing mayhem.

Now I am not a particularly mild-mannered individual myself.  I can be snarky, and stupid and demanding.  Can't we all?

But anytime I privately find myself muttering under my breath something about another person like "what an idiot" - and I have been known to do that - I immediately stop and ask for forgiveness.  Well, almost always.

I cannot know what provoked them, what burden they carry, what sorrow they bear, what fury they are trying to resist.

What I can do is say a quick prayer for them.  (And stay well on my own side of the driveway.  :) And then say one for myself,  asking the Lord to help me refrain from joining the incivility in today's every day life.  It is a little thing, but even if it is the least I can do, it is something.

Sometimes a "little something" is all we can do.  And occasionally it is even enough.  :)  Until next time ...Marsha

First the Peas, Then Marbles, Then Golf Balls

As I mentioned a day or two ago, we skipped fall here in Northern California and went straight from summer to winter.  Two days ago it rained, then sleeted and finally just flat-out hailed.  First the hail was pea-sized.  Noisy, but generally not damaging.


Shortly, however, the sound changed and as I walked to the window I could see marble sized pellets bouncing all over the patio, yard, and sidewalks.  The racket was distracting and I began to wonder about body damage to the Buick, which is sitting in K.'s driveway, because his car is in his garage so I have to park outside.

Just about the time I was convincing myself that the Buick could weather (no pun intended) just about anything - those Le Sabre's are built like a tank, which is why so many little old ladies drive them - the sound got worse.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and one of K.'s friends came in to report that the hail was golf-ball sized over on his side of town.  He had come over to see how we were faring in the storm.

The three of us agreed this storm seemed pretty unusual for the first week in October around here.  The next day the newspapers confirmed it was "historic" and had done a lot of property damage all over the area.  But we were just fine.
                                       * * * *
Isn't life just like that?  Little irritations build up and before you know it it is "raining" pea-sized disagreements and you are wondering how the storm sneaked up on you.

About the time that subsides, the racket in your life suddenly ratchets up a notch, or two, and now it is serious trouble time, and you are doubling-timing it just to stay even.  You look back at the pea-sized troubles and think to yourself, "What I wouldn't give to have only those to deal with today."  But today has handed you marble-sized difficulties and you are running around trying to do damage control.

About the time the clatter in your inner-ear (where the rotten one whispers encouragement to all your worst fears) has reached mind-numbing levels, a friend contacts you to inform you that it is hailing golf-ball sized troubles over in their yard.

Suddenly you are conflicted:  part of you wants to empathize with their situation and offer to help, but you are still cleaning up from the marble-mess in your own yard.

And the other part of you cannot help but be grateful that your troubles were limited to marble-sized and you were spared the golf-ball whacking that your friend is reporting.

Sometimes there is just no place to hide.  Life is hard.  Scott Peck in one of his books (and I cannot remember which one, but he first wrote The Road Less Traveled and then several more which I read, but they are all a little blurred just now) once wrote about life being hard. 

He said that as soon as we give up on the idea that life should be easy, and just accept that life is going to be hard, the sooner we will be more effective in handling life's tough challenges.  You may not agree with his view on this, but I have found it to be more true than not.

However, even if Peck were off base, there is a greater authority who said pretty much the same thing; and then he offered even better encouragement.


Jesus said, "In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33 NIV)

Well, thank goodness!  Now maybe I can stop fretting over first the peas, then the marbles, and who knows what next?


Hope you can take heart this evening, too.  He has already overcome and all we need to do is follow in his footsteps.  Until next time ...Marsha

Comfort Food

Yesterday, while standing in line at the checkout counter at Save Mart, the lady behind me smiled and said, "Can't forget those Cheetos."               

I smiled and replied, "Yes.  After the day I've had, I need comfort food."  She nodded knowingly.

The weekly clinic visit had not gone well.  The blood tests results were not encouraging, and K. was frustrated.  Me too.

Yes, the doctor had said "They will fluctuate.  It won't always be a downward trend.", but K. had been hoping that the inflammation markers, so critical to his recovery would, of course, plummet like a duck shot in midair.  Not this week.

Thus, the Cheetos.  And the vanilla bean ice cream, and the ingredients for another batch of corn bread.  Sometimes they help ... a little.

However, there is another type of comfort food, that always helps, much more than a little, and will last more than a lifetime.

In John 6:35, Jesus said, "I am the bread of life."  


One of the spiritual disciplines that I practice consistently, is that I do not read any other material before I have read the Word, first thing in the morning.  Usually I read two or three chapters, but occasionally, if I am in a hurry to get started on my daily tasks, I may only read a few verses.  But I believe it is important that my spirit be fed before the challenges of life begin to take their toll.

As many of you undoubtedly know, sometimes during the day you will encounter some issue that one of the verses you read just that very morning will address perfectly.  It is one of those little "comforts" that God sends our way just because He loves us.

As we are also in the middle of a long-distance move, as well as an ongoing family illness, I seem to need a little comfort food more often than usual.  The LOC* just called from Sacramento to ask about how to pack the lamps.  (Remove the bulbs and the movers will wrap the lamps.)    *Lovable Old Coot

Here is another comforting thing.  The LOC's younger son just drove 10 hours straight from Portland to Sacramento to help his dad pack.  Tomorrow they are going up to Penn Valley to retrieve the travel trailer and then haul it and two truck loads to our new house.

This is truly an answer to prayer, as I just did not see how the LOC was going to get all this done alone, and I cannot leave K.  We did check with the doctor again yesterday to see if he could be allowed out of bed, and in his wheelchair for ten minutes at a time a few times a day (this way I could leave for several hours at a time.)  The answer was "no". 

Hand me the Cheetos.  No wait ...

I can do everything through him who gives me strength. Colossians 3:13 NIV

If you are also in the middle of tough challenges, hope you are taking time to ingest the Bread of Life.  And, of course, a little snack of Cheetos, ice cream or whatever tickles your fancy can't hurt either.

Until next time ....  Marsha

Missed A Season

Here in Northern California this week, we seem to have missed a season.  Somehow, we skipped right over fall and went straight from summer to winter, in about one point two days. 

Last night it rained all night, today it has been overcast all day, and tomorrow they are predicting a deluge with 30 to 40 MPH winds.

What, I ask you, happened to fall?  We didn't get one.  A week or so ago it was over 100 degrees.  Today the high is about 60 to 65.

My gyroscope is completely out of kilter.

In the Midwest, where I originally came from, fall meant hazy days, with piles of colorful leaves all raked up for us kids to jump into, and the smell of wood burning coming from the chimneys.

Now, truthfully, I was more than ready to be done with summer, as it had been scorching for days.  I just wasn't quite ready for what passes for winter around here.

Oh well, nothing to do but gear up, because I am pretty sure we don't get a mulligan on the weather.

Hope your autumn is shaping up nicely.  Until next time...Marsha

We tried ..... But It Didn't Work ~ Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is a sometimes Monday series on a quote or a word of interest (perhaps only to me.)  

"We tried to legislate morality and ended up enshrining hypocrisy."

.... Ken Burns as quoted in Parade, October 2, 2011 in reference to his new PBS series on Prohibition.

I really never thought much about the Prohibition movement, or even the fact that it involved an amendment to the constitution, which was later repealed.  It was, after all, from my grandmother's era.  But now that I have given it some thought, it was a pretty amazing chapter in American history.  I watched the first episode last night on PBS as perhaps you did, too.

But it was the Ken Burns' quote above that really stopped me in my tracks, because it resonated with so much of what I have observed in various religious institutions during my lifetime.

Talk about legislating morality, or trying to.  I was raised in one of the very strictest conservative Protestant denominations.  We did not drink (probably why Prohibition never interested me very much), nor dance, nor wear makeup, nor wear jewelry (except for a wedding ring), etc. etc. etc.  I bought a red dress once, and made the mistake of wearing it to church, only to be soundly denounced by some of the older women for looking like a "Jezebel."  It was very wearing - every pun intended.

As you can readily see, many of the "prohibitions" in my religious upbringing were directed more toward the women of the congregation than the men.  I found that galling, even as a teenager.  But I obeyed because we were taught that was the way to holiness.  Unfortunately, I don't think I obtained holiness, except for often feeling "wholly ticked off."  Legalism - believe you me the pharisees had nothing on us in that department.

Not long ago, I stumbled onto a website - which I do not plan to name here because it was so discouraging to read, and because the authors seemed to gloat over the fallen - which listed dozens of major scandals involving well known preachers over the past fifty or sixty years.  Talk about "enshrining hypocrisy" - and they did a bang up job of it.  Some of those they listed were "legends" in my youth and others were held up as "heroes of the faith", when they were mostly egotistically driven frauds.  Sad, but true.

I don't really have many heroes any more.  Too many turned out to have feet of clay.  I really, come to think of it, only have one and they crucified him.  But I can relate to him more and more, partly because he hated the religious hypocrisy of his day and made no bones about it.  Neither was he an abstemious prude; in fact, he himself said they called him a drunkard and a glutton (neither of which was true).

Nevertheless, he did not allow it to cause him to become alienated from his Father, nor bitter toward others, nor isolated from the fellowship of believers.  He recognized hypocrisy, named it for what it was, and then just went about his Father's business.

Now there is an example worth following.  Until next time ...Marsha

Betwixt and Between

Have you ever had one of those days where you just didn't feel like you belonged anywhere?  Nothing seemed to quite fit, either in the clothing department, the food selection, the books available - nothing suited your mood? 

Sure you have.  We all have had those days.  And while they are a little uncomfortable, or perhaps "discomfiting" would be more accurate, we all know they pass and things get back to normal.

Right now, my problem is that there is no knowing what normal is, or when it ever will be again.  I have only been home once in three months (due to my son's illness), my husband (the LOC*) is doing all the packing for our upcoming move, because I cannot find anyone to stay with K. while I go home to help pack, and thus the home I had is no longer "home", and the home we have bought to move to, is not quite ready either.  (*Lovable Old Coot) 

So we are betwixt and between, and it is darned uncomfortable - or discomfiting.  I'm going to have to look that word up and determine which is more accurate.  Excuse me a minute, please.   

..............  Thanks for holding.  I'm back.  Yep - thought so.  It is discomfiting.  To thwart plans or to put into a state of perplexity.  Sure enough, that's me right now, I am discomfited. 

I have so many plans for the new place, but I can only visit for an hour or so at a time, before I need to be back here at K.'s house.  I am totally perplexed as to how the LOC is going to manage all this on his own.  While he is fully capable in many areas, "home organization" would not be counted among his top ten.  Of course, that is only my opinion, and I could be wrong.  I'm just saying.

He calls to tell me that he has trimmed all the front hedges and packed up all his jackets!  Whaaat???  There is an entire kitchen to be packed up, not to mention three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a sun room, etc. etc. etc. - and he is trimming hedges and packing his jackets?  Granted he has about a kajillion jackets, so that was no small feat, but it still does not rank above about 50th in the list of things that need to be done to prepare for the move.        

Betwixt and between.  Those are the times in life where you learn whether you know how to "steady down" and wait it out.  Between the job interview and the call which tells you whether or not you are hired.  Between the first inkling that you may be expecting another child and the confirmation that you definitely are pregnant.  Between the time the tests are run and the call with the diagnostic results.  Betwixt old friends who perhaps do not call like they once did, and making new ones when you get the opportunity to do so.

I wipe down the kitchen counters again.  I read today's newspaper, bake a pan of cornbread, just little things.  I am, these days, living what I think of as a very "small life."  One that is bounded by tight restrictions as to time and space.  I am, to be sure, betwixt and between.

So then, my choice is to either dwell on my "discomfiture" (odd word, isn't it?  but it is the right one) or be thankful for all the little things that I can do right now and remain as productive as possible.  I have many more choices than K. does, to be sure, so I have no room to gripe.

I remember my son's classroom motto (the high school special ed classroom where he teaches from his wheelchair when he is well) which is posted on the wall and reads: 
              Be present.      Be productive.       Be kind.

These are also good admonitions to me, while I am betwixt and between.

Hope you are not discomfited today and that you are fully present, productive and kind - both to yourself and to others - wherever your day takes you.  Until next time ....Marsha