Reluctantly, With Great Resistance

and thus the tale ended

2010-07-10T17:39:00.000-05:00

That's the last of that story. Got a few more in the trunk, which I will haul out if anyone is interested. Going to try a new look in the next month. Let me know what you think.

To continue the tale:

2010-07-10T17:37:00.000-05:00

She got out of the car, resettling her Raybans firmly on the bridge of her nose. Sunlight filtered through an intermittent green screen of ancient elders. The field behind the trees looked crowded and brushy, as if the road were a slender line yet to be breached in some ageless skirmish. Marilyn felt a slight chill. Those midsummer breezes didn't do her any favors.

She crossed the road, grimacing at the dust shifting into her leather sneakers. The cheap cotton pullover of her dumb local-yokel costume, twisted under her left arm, binding across her back like a leash. She hated to think what this little excursion was doing to her freshly done hair.

She clambered up the rocky mound. Probably no more than fifteen or twenty feet higher than the road, Marilyn didn't expect this much of a view. There sat her car, pointed away to the left with the road going on around a corner. The trees across the road were pretty thick, almost jungle like. Still, she could almost make out some sort of clearing, not to far from the road.

In fact, a little path or track of some sort lead to what looked like some sort of cottage. Yes, just through branches and leaves, white boarding showed through here and there. The more she looked the clearer the house became, showing a nice porch front with what could only be wagon wheel trim on top. Marilyn felt a real smile then, a dollar sign smile. One window, no two, one on each side of the door. The glass or something winked in the afternoon shadows. A metal weather vane crowned the peak of the roof, slowly turning in a breeze Marilyn could not feel. She strained to see more, squinting and leaning forward until she nearly lost her balance on the rock. Her sudden stumble forced her to look back toward the road.

A dust plume crawled to the distant corner, veering toward her car. Someone was out here all right, and suddenly Marilyn did not want to be found. Not after sighting what might be an abandoned treasure. Marilyn scurried down, breaking a nail and nearly hanging her shoelaces on a wild thorny something growing at the bottom of the rock.

Racing to the car, she scanned the far side of the road, trying to see any kind of gap in the trees where she could park the car, hidden by the brush. A gap suddenly appeared, where the bar ditch was almost filled in by a combination of gravel and sand. She must have just missed seeing it, because of the line of sight from the rocks. Keys sticking to her sweating palms, Marilyn jerked the ignition and felt the car come to life. She pursed her lips into a kiss, engaged the gear and rolled to the gap. Marilyn neatly turned in, spotting a sort of hollow in the trees, just past the gap, almost a garage made of trees. No one would ever see it there. She was safe. A grin bit her cheeks.

The road was just as dusty, the grit was just as bad but now Marilyn had a plan. Thoughts of quiet money, quick returns and getting something other people wanted gave her that old familiar rush. Marilyn hopped out and locked the car. Can't be too careful. The trees seemed to lean over at her, peering at her. Marilyn jumped at a sudden snap of branches, like teeth gnashing together. Her skin twitched. Pressing thin lips together, she shook herself.

"Silly," she said out loud. The wind in the trees made weird noises all the time. Just because she couldn't feel it on the ground was no reason to be jumpy.

The trees weren't quite as thick here. In fact, a narrow little path opened through them. Funny, she didn't see that before. No wind stirred the leaves at her level but Marilyn could hear bark rubbing rasping bark in the trees, like skin on skin.

Marilyn felt her chest getting tight, her face grinning. All these big trees, elders she thought. The trail seemed longer than it looked from the road. Okay, so she would have to walk just a little further. No big deal. The path dipped and swayed in the wrong direction when suddenly it came right.

The weather vane squeaked as it turned, a crying, grating noise. She stopped for a moment, unsure. Peering down the path, she could just make out the edge of the house, shining white in sunlight. A shadow kept winking across one side, making the window glint oddly.

Marilyn thought about going back. The air felt close like the pant of a dog on her neck. Just then she caught a glimpse of the wagon wheel trim, clean, pristine, edging the porch.

"I have to have that."

She went on down the path.

Almost at the house, Marilyn thought she heard a distant shout coming from the road. It was probably a crow or some other bird making noises. The house beckoned. She could see perfect wagon wheel trim, all around the porch. Clear, white walls and complete antique glass panes in the windows. The glass even had the distinctive thickness at the bottom. Oh, it was wonderful! A real killing, for sure! Marilyn danced up onto the porch, the door standing wide,inviting her in, offering secrets and treasures beyond. She peered into the dark within. Was that an old dresser and mirror in the corner? Marilyn couldn't see quite clearly but the shape in the gloom looked right.

Stepping over the door sill, she noticed a faintly musty smell, kind of clingy. The inside walls looked strangely soft and dark. She could see drip lines and the floor gave a little under her feet. Marilyn put a hand on the wall, feeling if the wall covering were paper or cloth. It felt moist and warm. A sharp acrid smell curled into her nose. She turned to look out the marvelous windows, but the windows began shutting by themselves, showing inside veins like the inside of eye lids. Lifting a foot to step to the door, she felt a clinging pull on her shoe.

"Hey! What the hell? My Gucchis'!"

The door swung shut as Marilyn jerked her hand from the wall, leaving patches of skin behind. She tried to move her feet. The walls and floor, now seeping a clear sticky ooze, formed little fleshy protrusions reaching for her, holding her feet. Marilyn fell to her knees, hearing herself screaming. Pulsing red tentacles from the floor and walls caught at her skin, burning where it licked, her hands, her arms, finally reaching her twitching shoulders. Her last thought was of how this place was a real killer..

But wait there is more.

2010-06-28T13:24:00.002-05:00

I'll post the rest of the story in a week. I'm still working on learning how to make it look the way I want.

next week then to see what Marilyn finds.

just a short I wrote some time ago

2010-06-28T13:22:00.000-05:00

Killer Find

Where was that excuse for a main road? All those impossible twists and turns for the last half hour and she still hadn't come across anything that looked like a killer find.

This back country lane looked like all the others she had been down, single car width, broken dirt edges. What gravel might once served as paving was long scattered or pounded in. The bar ditches, a good two or three feet deep, snaked along side, exposing sandstone and an occasional tree root. Powder fine dust gritted on every surface, inside and out, of her ice blue Mercedes.

Had the old bat who told her about this place gotten the directions wrong? Marilyn hated having to hunt up farm houses in the middle of god-forsaken-middle-nowhere. The only saving grace was that if the place was so hard to find, she could probably score some real money out the forgotten junk left to rot.

Delicated tinted lips wrinkled into a smile as Marilyn remembered that find she made a week ago. The oak dresser cost one hundred dollars but she made that back on the antique buttons she ripped off the yellowed lace dress.

But the real prize, a pair of silver picture frames, wedding pictures still mounted, she found in the bottom drawer, wrapped in the dress. The pictures were useless so she trashed them. If she'd said anything to the old lady selling the dresser, the dress, frames and all would have been claimed by the crinkly faced hag. She'd already wasted enough of Marilyn's time anyway, blathering on about family dreams and nonsense like that.

So what if grandma used that glass bowl to serve grandpa his favorite jelly? If it sold for a good price, good. Memories have no value. Dead is dead.

But a good hunter knew the value of letting old biddies gas on. Still Marilyn was surprised when this one told her about an abandoned house, still full of furniture, just going to ruin. By the glint in those vacant eyes, Marilyn would have guessed the woman didn't like her. Not that it mattered.

Marilyn turned up the air conditioner, hoping to blow some of the dust out. Grit rasped between her teeth, making her grimace.

No one ever so much as asked about her life, or understood the trouble she went to, finding, pricing and carting out junk, just so people who wanted antiques could have the stuff. A heartfelt sigh oozed out. This house had better be worth all the trouble she was going to, that's all she could say.

Spotting a rock outcropping along side the road up ahead near a flat space, Marilyn slowed to a cautious stop. The road widened at the crest of the rise like an altar top.

She shook herself. The old lady's comment about those places being meant for sacrifice crept across her mind with cold toes. A pile of rocks stood just off the road. Climbing to the top might give her some idea of a way out of this rural hell.

New thing, warning, warning, Danger, Will Robinson

2010-06-11T11:48:00.000-05:00

Yes, this a new thing. I just posted a short story I wrote a while back, and sorry, but the primative editing thing did not allow for proper spacing. My next post (if anyone responds) will have better spacing and I will not put the whole thing out there.

Plan to do more of installments, because some of my stuff is l-o-n-g. Let me know what you think.

What comes around

2010-06-11T11:25:00.002-05:00

"We are an old people." The ancient voice cracked and wheezed.
"But it was not always so." The old man squinted his rheumy eyes at the anthropologist, seeing past the form, into the heart. He coughed and sighed, then continued. "Once, we were young, defiant, proud in our ignorance of any strength beyond our own. We moved into the land and took it, as a conqueror. Like you."
The anthropologist formed an absent smile. It was going to be a long session. If she let the old guy go on like this, it might be hours before she got anything of value, but if she stopped him now, she might never get another word out of him. She shifted the recorder to a more secure spot on the rickety table.
"Your people are still strong and proud." She had a little trouble with the vowels in his archaic language but she was better at it than any one else on the research team. And the old geezer refused to respond to anything else but his own tongue.
The weather ruined face wrinkled into an amused smile. "Not as we were. We have learned, as you will. The earth is not to be used and discarded. It has it's own destiny."
The scientist dipped her head, the way she'd been taught these people acknowledged an elder's words. She could go along with the customs, to get what she needed. In fact, some of them were almost elegant. She could appreciate the non-verbal communication for what it was, a form of societal shaping to maintain order.
"Please, tell me."
The old man settled back, leaning on the wooden back of the chair. "You want to hear of our stories, of when we came. We were not the first. There were others before us. We swept some of them away like chaff before the wind. Others were stronger, more resistant. We fought them and they too were gone, or absorbed into our world, with remnants of memories. We thought they were the first, but they were not.
"Others, more ancient, stronger, and probably more far sighted, had been and gone. The land remained. When it wanted them gone, they left without a struggle. The ones who came after learned from the Ancients and they respected the land. They were allowed to stay much longer and when we came, they thought we would do the same."
The old man sighed. His worn body could not sustain the energy to talk for long periods but the scientist was determined to get as much out of him as she could.
She offered him a steaming cup of his favorite drink. "Here. Rest a little, then go on. You're helping all of us so much."
The old man cradled the cup in his bony hands, sipping and pausing, then sipping again. He shot a glance at the scientist, his blue eyes glinting with cold humor.
The anthropologist shook herself. Some of these old types acted like this project was an insult but this character was the worst. She couldn't escape the impression that he was laughing at her, her work and the rest of the team. Why he thought he was superior was beyond her.
A tattered shirt, coarse blue pants stuffed into decrepit boots, and an old leather jacket that desperately needed cleaning were probably his best clothes. She didn't want to imagine the hovel he lived in. Most of these people made do with simple electricity, primative plumbing and little else.
The scientist forced herself to concentrate on the project rather than this particular subject.
"Can you go on?"
The old man shrugged an agreement. "You want to hear how we can to be as we are?"
The scientist nodded absently, her eyes more on the dials of the simple recorder than the old man.
"When we were young and fearless, and had no respect for that which came before, some of my people began to search out the old places. They started with the idea of understanding those who were gone, but some wanted treasures to hold and covet, treasures that would give them power, riches and fame." A soft sigh escaped from the time thinned lips.
"Somewhere, no one knows where or how, a strange door was discovered. This door was small and narrow, hidden deep in a rock-strewn canyon. The way there was not inviting, or particularly safe but one man chanced it. The door, carved of stone, faced with wood and sealed with pitch boasted an iron lock rusted shut. The man worked for years to open the lock, unseal the door and see what lay hidden. All this time, his true treasures, a wife and children, a home and reputation, were forgotten, like some much dross. The wife raised the children and left him, the home fell to ruin and the reputation was forgotten.
"Finally, the day came when he could open the door. He was not aware of wars, rumors of plague, waves of anger and misery that swept the earth. He only saw the narrow door open.
"Inside was a hole. An empty, bottomless slit of nothing that led to nothing. A hollow into space. He beamed a light into it, and the light fell away. He breathed into it and his breath fell away. He put his head into it and he fell away. Then you came."
The old man sat back in his chair, spent. The scientist frowned, waved her hand for him to go on, and leaned forward. Silence. The old man sank with a final breath, his head dipped to his chest, eyes closed. No breath stirred his lips.
The scientist blinked. "Mr. Smith?" She used the old formal title these primitive people used for their men.
Mr. Smith did not move. She grimaced and reached out a tentative upper limb. No breath, no pulse. The old man had just died.
She tapped an irregular spot on her upper torso. "Dosquant, the subject is of no further use."
These earth being. She wanted so to understand them and every time she got one that made some sort of sense, something happened. They lapsed into senility, illness or in some cases, death. If this kept up, she would run out of subjects before she found anything of value.
Dosquant, short squatty body and wide lower limbs perfect for manual labor, stumped into the room. As he gathered the frail remains, he looked at the scientist.
"What? One of the survey teams has found a door, in a canyon?" The scientist stared at Dosquant. His mandibular structure would not allow him to verbalize but he had been fitted with a mental enhancer so he could communicate if he concentrated.
"Sealed, with a iron lock?"
She did not wait for an answer. After all this was her project, and if there was a find to be had, by the Moons of Qunida, it was hers.
In the space of one Solar day, strange creatures she had never seen, with terrifying new technologies swept through the outpost. The project was forgotten in the invasion.

Once again, into the fray, really

2010-06-11T11:22:00.002-05:00

Seriously, I am doing this again. Sort of, but I mean it this time. The real deal, you know the whole bit, on a regular basis. Yes, I am. No, not next week. Today. Now. Ah, blow out, inhale, blow out, inhale.

Deep breath.

But this time, more of what is there with stories and stuff. Oh, and it is a bit, hmm. Different.

So, here we go.

it has been a l-o-n-g time, hasnt' it

2010-03-27T17:54:00.002-05:00

After a short, well maybe more like long, hiatus, I am attempting to come back on line. Really to explore some thoughts on lots-o-stuff.

Like the purpose and value of Free will. No, on second thought I will hold that for another day when I'm not so tired. All the stuff we have been through in the past few weeks, and the stuff yet to come.

So, I will just relate some of the things I've done. Like making merangie mushrooms. Which I can't spell obviously. But several years ago, while reading a copy of some forgotten gourmet magazine, I decided to try making mushrooms from sweetened beaten egg white. You know the word and I can't spell it, even phonetically.

After working all afternoon, doing everything the recipe called for, all I had to show were some sad little toasted mounds that did not look like anything edible. They were sweet, and they were beaten to a froth, toasted in teh oven, but sad. so sad.

Me too. But it was the beginning of trying all sorts of experiments in the kitchen. Next time I'll go into more detail because it will be something that worked. Yea.

2010-03-24T20:54:00.002-05:00

Once again into the battle. Sort of, but really just a new attempt to do what I think I'm supposed to be doing.

This time, I'll be letting you into the things I have tried. Some of them went well, and some of them just went.

Heavy sigh.

goodness, has it been that long?

2009-02-25T08:35:00.002-06:00

Yes, class, Ms. Crabapple is back. Well, not exactly, but since the last therapy session, that nasty tic is much reduced.

You two in the back, stop that or I shall have to separate you. With a saw.

Today's topic is (minor scary music) How not to Irritate the Already Manic People. Or, How to live Life as a slightly immature Slug.

First things first. Most people can be manic unless they are sedated with enough coffee to float a house. I know, you thought I would say boat, but this is post-Katrina and the great Mid-West Flood, so the proper term is now house. In light of the making people nuts issue, a morning smile goes a long way.

Mr. James, that is not a morning smile. Yes, I see your teeth and baring them like you are a man eating tiger is not what I had in mind. Stay in your seat, Mr. James. The growling is also not appropriate. Don't make me use force. This chair in my hand is not a prop. The gun? Oh, just a back up maneuver. Mr. James! Stop, sir! Wagging your head back and forth will get you a demerit.

Cease, sir! Now!

(slow, rising music with oboes) Very well.

(Lots of gunshots, a bit of screaming, howls and manic laughter, ending with a loud pop.)

Sorry about that, class. Pardon me while I clean the gunpowder residue off my hands. I find these little bottles of hand cleaner very efficient. What is it, Miss Smith? Oh, that mound of debris on the floor is a distraction? Yes, I realize that and once the janitor has a chance to remove it, we can get on with class.

Oh, dear. The bell is ringing. It does seem class time is getting shorter and shorter these days. I assure all of you we will get more information in front of you in the next session. Be sure and bring bright and shining faces, ready to receive this vital information. Class dismissed.

Continuation, sort of

2009-02-19T08:51:00.003-06:00

I hesitate to make that my title today. Yesterday was kind of random, and even I had to sift to get to the point. Hmmmmm, maybe that flu thing isn't really gone. Give me a minute.

Better now. It's funny how many things (for me, anyway) come back to the Garden of Eden. Because I do
wonder just who thought up how to do some of the stuff we come by naturally, and the conversations you know had to happen but God didn't write down.

Like the linen thing. It was Mr. Roger Neighborhood that taught me how to get linen from flax. They ran this great short how to film and it was amazing. The plant grows tall and thin, has to be cut, bundled, and set in running water to soften or rot, called "ret", dried and broken. Then the hard part starts with combing, spinning and forming into fibers that can be woven. And all those Egyptian hieroglyphics with sheer fabrics? Linen. Really fine linen. Makes you wonder how long we've known about that kind of stuff.

I know, I know long digression. But the point is, no one I know would look at what looks like weeds and say, "Wow, I bet I could get a really great outfit out of that stuff." But we do.

And what about cheese? I mean who wants to drink or eat rotten milk? I do, when it is a nice Gruyere or brie or sharp cheddar. All that variety from rotten milk? Who knew, or better yet how did they figure it out before they starved?

Tom Hanks in Castaway aside, (and he was by himself with no kibitzers) it takes a lot of thinking to come up with that kind of stuff and I don't know about you, but my mind doesn't work really well when I've got kiddos fussy and wailing because of hunger, I don't feel all that well myself and I'm cold. Or hot. Because trust me, fur is hot in the summer.

So, God had to help us out, a lot. And not only in that first season of paradise. That little phrase, they walked with God in the garden, (you three in the back, pay attention! If you continue, I will have to separate you. I mean it.)

Where was I? Oh, yes in the Garden (and if I can just last until break time....) talking with God. How could you not get all kinds of understanding chatting with the One who made it all, down to the cells. And who understood how the latent details would become of massive importance thousands of years later.

And then there is coffee. Or even tea. Or better yet olive oil. Ask anyone who grows them. Much labor intensive and each step creates something not edible until the very end. All I can say is, based on my observation of human cooperation, we could not have come with the end result by ourselves.

We whine too much, quit too fast and sulk way too long to get it done before we starve. And you gotta have some sort of end result in your head before you even know what you want. So, end of lecture. Class almost dismissed. Sit back down. I know, the bell is ringing. Homework is a 20 page essay on why I love this class. With footnotes and references. Due tomorrow.

Egad, what have I done? That means I have to read them!!!! Changed my mind. No assignments until after spring break (during which I will curl into the fetal position and click my heels together, whimpering) and you all pass. It's the next group that strikes fear in my heart.

I am having one of those days, or weeks, or lives

2009-02-18T15:48:00.003-06:00

Egad, it has been a while hasn't it? Today is the first day I've been able to put more than one thought in my head and keep following it for more than 5 minutes.

Sort of. This whole thing started with a conversation I had with my daughter about how things must have been before microwaves. Oh, you have those conversations too? Only it's about running water. No, wait, that was me and the running water. It was her with the microwave.

I think.

Well, to get back to the theme of this blog (lots of swilling tea noises) sorry, it is a bit dry lately and I just got this new tea, it's red and kind of woodsy.....I've retyped that word three times now. And my concentration is kind of thin right now. Is that how you spell woodsy?

You know, that hint of outdoor campfires and green stuff, dirt and the threat of rain about to come down? Sorry, digression is my middle name. Really it's Ann but digress is what I really do best.

Where was I? Yes, I remember now, it was Miss Scarlet with the wrench in the conservatory. For those of us who did not grow up in mid-1900's England, the conservatory is the garden room. And boy was it warm and moist there.

Okay, back to what life was like before plumbing. Or Walmart equivalents. How did people figure out how to weave fabric for cloth? That whole process takes so much time and so many tools. And would you imagine getting linen from weeds? But we do.

Daughter's reply was God had to teach Adam and Eve in the Garden. And I have to agree. After all I did raise a pretty smart kid. Her brother is no slouch but he didn't have the chance to get in on that conversation. So, his wisdom will have to be saved for another day.

But this idea of talking with God is one of those ponder-ables that sift around in my head a lot. Lately, all sorts of things come into my head but you can't blame everything on the flu. I'd like to, but I can't with good conscious. You know, maybe I can. That would explain some of our local governments decisions. People at city hall have been dropping like flies since this flu thing went around. Hmmmm. That would make great local headlines. City Government Grounded by Goofy Flu Bug. I like it. It just might fly.

Okay, so this is incoherent, but the main thought of believing that God would take the time to explain how to weave cloth to anyone is pretty awesome.

Okay, so you explain how to get linen from flax and be willing to wear the result.

Time for my next cup of tea.

Ha! I can breath again

2009-02-05T09:36:00.002-06:00

So, the great clog caper is over. Or not. I am almost functional. Ask my family. Oh, maybe not. You see, the functional part is one of those must be defined subjects. I mean, I do a good loaf of bread, I'm learning to knit with some ability, and the fun stuff is pretty good, talking, knowing more stuff about lots of stuff.

But it is the house work stuff that gets a short shift. Or is that short shrift? I have heard it so many different ways. And the English language changes very rapidly. Like, did you know that Shirt is a very old word in English? It has been in the spoken language in most of the root languages like Freise and old dialects of Scandinavia so long, no one really knows the introduction of it. And don't get me started on the term shelaleigh.

Sorry, my version of "Look, there's a chicken".

But the point is, I feel so much better now. And I can hold at least two consecutive thoughts in my head for longer than 10 seconds. That's another word. Second. And we pronounce it Secont, with a d sound on the end. That is pure D American. Like the name Anita. Most Americans say Anida. Listen and let me know if you hear it too.

See what happens when you get educated in the stuff you love rather than use able things like math? Or computers? Oh, I forgot, computers were just big boxes with lots of lights in the time I went to school. I mean the first time, before the dark ages.

That's why it's amazing that I can type, use a laptop and even function in the grocery check out line.

Which brings me to another point. What if someone from say 200 B.C. were planted in today's world. My suspicion is they would figure out the traffic patterns pretty fast if they lived in Rome or Beijing, but they would starve in the average kitchen. Or burn it down trying to cook. If they could find something that would burn and not asphyxiate them.

Just a thought about how far we have gotten from basic foods.

I can tell, the brain is still on clog. But I will keep trying to get it working.

I Still hab a code

2009-02-01T17:24:00.003-06:00

yuck. The head cold that will not leave. Or maybe it just hangs around in my nose like some noxious commercial. But I will beat this thing, even if it means submerging my head in water. Or is that what started Noah building that ark?

All those animals. All that dust. All those dust motes. All those nights spent listening the neighbors enjoying their version of television....watching the local crazy family hammer, saw, sand and measure. Hmmmm, can you hear someone measure?

You can if it's me trying to make sure that next sweater actually fits a living person. But then I have to ask forgiveness for my word choices. And suggesting the family history of the tape and the yarn is less than sterling is not positive. I know that now. And I will do better. Maybe. If the yarn will just cooperate. And my fingers. And my mind. And the pattern.

But I do love knitting. Really I do. It is relaxing, honestly, it is relaxing. Really. When it all works and I don't have to learn character strengthening exercises. And the sweater fits. You know, I could just do a shawl. Hmmmmm.

This is all over the board but the time frame that really intrigues me is the time after the Garden of Eden, then after the Flood and before Abraham. Lots of people stuff in there. And only a bit of suggestion about what is happening.

Like who came up with knitting? There is an old art called nail binding. Sort of like knitting but messier. Could it be spelled any differently? And who figured out spinning? That is a skill that takes a l--o--t of time. The dashes are deliberate. Believe me, I did try that skill. Would rather buy my yarn ready made. Did Mrs. Noah and the girls spend a lot of time spinning? I sort of think they had to, what with all the hairy animals shedding all over the boat. And you have to include the guys in there.

Men do shed. Just check your shower drain.

Now that my fingers are warmed up, I will work on this cute sweater for my granddaughter. Now if I just work out the details on that hood. Hmmmm. Talk later.

Oh, wow, I see daylight....But then again....

2009-01-29T13:43:00.002-06:00

Well, a new day has dawned. And I really mean that. The last week has been kind of tough, with family stuff, my stuff, a long running cold that skipped all over the house and hit each of us in turn.

But today, everyone feels pretty good. And the weather is even cooperating with sunshine and clear roads. So I can do the things I've been looking forward to, counting on, wanting to get to but all the disasters in the world have danced around for the past two weeks.

And I just remembered I forgot to fulfill a promise I made the first part of the week. Heavy sigh and profuse apologizing to begin right now.

So, maybe I don't really see daylight. Hmmm. Back to that drawing board.

Sorry, Wrong attribute

2009-01-24T15:04:00.002-06:00

Some days it does not pay to do anything. Of course, I don't really expect monetary pay, but it would be nice to get some return. Hmmm. This starting out to be more whiny than I first imagined.

Okay, do overs. Now that is a lovely thing, to get do overs. So much in life is just out there, as is, no deposit, no return. But when you write in the privacy of your own kitchen and no one.....Wait, I forgot for a brief moment that even though I write this in the quiet of my own space, you are out there, reading what I've written. And there are lurkers just around the corner, listening in as I mutter and mumble my way through the wordy morass of my mind.

I looked and the one lurker is my husband, trying desperately to get some work of his own done, whacking away on his own computer. While I interrupt to ask questions that totally break his concentration. No wonder the poor man has a perpetual puzzled look. The other lurker really isn't lurking. My daughter (temporarily in residence with us) is being incredibly helpful and folding my laundry while she does a couple of other housekeeping chores. You know, no one ever told me that grown kids are so much fun. They act like adults, talk like adults and even have contiguous thoughts that flow from topic to topic with out rolling their eyes, complaining about not having any privacy, and talking endlessly to people we don't know.

Oh, wait, that would be me.

I never did promise to grow up. But my kids (both are grown with kids of their very own) are very much responsible, reasonable people I would like even with they weren't offspring of mine. Hmmmm. Maybe, just maybe, my husband found two wonderful strangers to claim to be related and are willing to put up with me for the inheritance. No, no, that can't be it. The only inheritance I know of is a rather tattered copy of my college text books that I really will get rid of when they prove to be the only existing first editions of The English Anthology: freshman level. And that dog eared copy of my favorite Susan Larson philosophy text. No money or property.

But maybe, just maybe they too are social scientists working on a project involving geriatrics. Naw, too on going. I mean, watching the mold grow in the cellar would be more exciting.

But my point, and I really don't know if I have one, is that my kids are really interesting, good people, attempting the long term and difficult task of dealing with all the family. And they are successful at staying sort of sane, fairly stable and fun.

Okay, end of the paean of praise today. Tomorrow is Sunday and that means lots of outside the house stuff. I will try to grub up some energy to answer all your questions. And still manage to get back into that small white coat with impossibly long sleeves. The buckles are a nice touch, I must say.

tomorrow, tomorrow, we'll start the day tomorrow

2009-01-23T14:53:00.002-06:00

With profuse apoligizes to Mr. Rodgers, whom I do love and respect. That man taught me so much as a young mom. I will never forget the short film on how linen is made from flax. Made me wonder who figured out how to get the stuff. And the one on crayons is a classic.

It started a long thought process about lots of things, including the conversations you know occurred but were never written down. Like how in the world did Paul meet Luke? And what was the event that had them travel together enough for Luke to write so much down?

Luke has always seemed a quiet sort of guy, and yet he hung around with this itinerant preacher whose pattern seemed to be, come to town, make a speech, start a riot, go to jail, leave town; come to town, make a speech, start a riot, go to jail, repeat.

Now there's a preacher a seminary has got to love. Or someone a pastor search committee would enjoy interviewing. Our cultural expectations of church people, inside and outside the church is such a mess of stereotypes and whacked out opinions that God has to be real to put up us and still love us. We are such self absorbed children, insisting that, "My way is truth, so there."

heavy sigh. and heavier heavenly sigh. I wonder, is God grateful when we finally fall asleep at night so we will stop bugging Him for at least a moment or so? Hmmmmmm.

Okay so it's not really Feburary

2009-01-22T14:02:00.003-06:00

And since I can't spell that month, could I buy an April, Pat? Been a couple of days since I posted, what with a few family issues popping up. I am truly happy to have the freedom to arrange my schedule.

A few years back, when the company my husband worked for had to do some financial cuts, they instituted furloughs, where people took a forced week off with no pay every 5 weeks. At first, it was awful, and the small town we lived in was an angry mass of frightened families. But when the furloughs were canceled a year later, many people (us included) were sad to see them go. Some wanted to continue the furloughs but the company wouldn't agree.

But it did teach us to enjoy our time and not worry about how the details would work out. Funny how the serious monetary pressures were still done across the town. No one went hungry or lost their homes. But we all gained a lot of family time.

Which is what my Father wants from me, time with Him. And treating people with the dignity they were made to receive. That means I have to appreciate the daily, the small, the seemingly insignificant contacts that make up my life. Ah, yes.

Now that I've taken a little bit of breathing space, I am calm, less grumpy, less self focused, less self absorbed. And that makes me ready to listen to the real conversations around me.

The next time I get on this thing, I promise to give what I intend, something to make you laugh, something to suggest a real thought, and something to talk about.

See ya

Whine, whine, whine

2009-01-20T06:17:00.002-06:00

Ever had that scary moment when you realize the only way to get all the stuff done that is on your plate is to get up earlier? And earlier, and earlier, and.....Then you realize it doesn't matter so just don't go to bed. But that means I won't sleep and I'll have to subsist on hot tea and toast and that's no way to live. I mean, what about the vegetables and proteins for a balanced diet? And the paper work will just not get done, not to mention the laundry.

What about that volunteer job I promised I have done by yesterday? And getting the cupcakes baked for the class, and oh, I just remember what I forgot about February and it's February already and I haven't gotten to the other things that MUST BE DONE before I can leave and......(smack upside the head)

Sorry, you shouldn't have to see that. I'll force her back into the room, once we tighten the straps on the jacket. There, there, all quiet now. As you may notice she is still squirming and trying to talk but we have found a soft cotton gag works best.

It's the I-must-be-perfect-or-no-one-will-love-me stage again. It usually follows a seminar. We've seen this pattern before. Fortunately, we caught this stage in time before it progressed to total spinning in place. That is so ugly.

But with a little rest and tight adherence to the Calendar, she will quiet down. Not into catatonia, which is what happened last time. Yes, Waldo, you in the corner it was your fault, you were supposed to be watching her and making note of what was transpiring. Don't sniff, it's rude.

All that said, she will be able to receive visitors in a day or so. Until then, we will keep the stimuli to a minimum and give her small sips of tea, with an occasional cracker. Truly, it is best.

Really, you'd think I could keep two of those sides of me in check. Heavy sigh. But I do promise to be back on track tomorrow, for real. Heavier sigh.

And now a word from our Sponsor

2009-01-15T08:21:00.002-06:00

In the jolly, whirlwind experience of life, there comes a time of replenishing. A long wordy (I love it so) way to tell you I am taking a class over the next 3 days and will take a short break from blogging.

If all goes well, or not, I will return Monday, Jan. 19 with fresh insight, hopefully a strong sense of the ridiculous and a bunch of new conversations never recorded. I am excited about the class, a chance to learn from more experienced folks than me about all kinds of spiritual stuff. Prayer, warfare, church nuttiness, dealing with people whose eyes glaze over when the word prayer comes up in the conversation.

And what to do when one more person calls you a 'prayer warrior'. I mean beside haul out the shealeigh and beat them senseless. Oh, wait, they already are.

So, I will take my mild self into class and grub up all the stuff I can, ruminate on it, apply as much as possible and return to you, wild, woolly and ready for bear. Or worse for wear.

How Long, Oh Lord, How Long?

2009-01-13T13:24:00.002-06:00

That would have to be the lament of Nadine. No matter how much you love your kids and their spouses, mix in the knowledge that everything has changed and you have to be part of that has to be daunting.

I've tried to imagine myself in her shoes. That first time Noah comes in and says, "Honey, you know how things have gone down hill in our society? Well, God told me...."

Now, how do you respond? Tough, isn't it. And call me shallow but my mind runs off into asking if this means I have to make all the clothes from fibers. And find the wheat to thresh and where did I put my mom's recipe for one pan brownies and which pan would work the best. After all that panic, I'd just lay down with a nice book. Oh, wait, those come later.

The scene is kind of scary and not at all romantic to me. Add in the daughters-in-law. Did they all get along, or was there extended sibling rivalry? Remember, there is no getting away with girl friends for a cup of coffee at Starbucks, or the pre-history equivalent. And there was one, believe me. Even it was just around the village well.

Somehow, I think that time was a lot more sophisticated than we want to believe. It wasn't that long after the flood that the Tower of Babel come up and that took a chunk of civil agreement, pooled resources and dedication to a goal that rivaled the race for the moon in the late 1960's.

The only reason we think we are so modern is this is now and we sort of have information that we assume they didn't.

So, back to the issue at hand (promise, no more rabbit chasing for a little while at least). Noah and his family had to rebuild a whole culture, starting with themselves. Imagine the scope of that thought. Enough to make you go screaming into the hills. Hmmm. Sort of like what happened after Noah planted that vineyard. I sympathize.

Let me know your pondering on that. I'd love to have a dialogue. They are so much more fun and it gives me a chance to see if I can make you laugh.

today, short and snappy

2009-01-10T12:43:00.003-06:00

Okay, so this is not the next day. But I'm sort of stuck. Looked up if there were any traditions about Mrs. Noah's first name. And there are tons.

That being the case, I will stick with my own made up names. I like Nadine, so Mrs. Nadine Noah it is. As for the girls, Mary Ellen, wife of Seth; Norma Jean, wife of Ham and Ilsa, wife of Japheth.

I'd mess the with the guys names but I learned a long time ago not to edit God. And names have meanings in the real world. This is not in any sense of the imagination the real world but it is what happens in my brain.

And that is it for today. I have to consider, be in a more reflective and less cold inspired mood. When my head clears and the nose stops running, I'll be more functional.

O-the old idea is acomin', the old idea is acomin' through

2009-01-08T09:51:00.002-06:00

Okay, so I don't write such good lyrics. Or use any semblance of grammar for that matter. But the ideas, they just won't go away, they come in little crowds with mismatched mittens and dragging soggy overcoats after them.

As for the old idea I mentioned, it is still hanging just outside of reach, rather like that sneeze that will not explode but would rather hang inside and itch. I do love a couple of other blogs with terrific word pics. And it caused a slew of orphan ideas, one of whom I may adopt. But only after I signed the papers.

So today this is free form, while I wait for the bread to rise, the laundry to end one cycle so I can toss it in the dryer and then sweep the kitchen floor. I know, sounds terribly domestic but the truth is I dislike store bread (too blaahhh) and if the laundry isn't done, I have to buy new clothes (even more blaaaahhhhhh). Sweeping the floor is simple self defense.

But the real insidious reason I tell you all this is (long drum roll) I have read Titus and Timothy. For those of you who do not read the Bible, give those two a whirl. Titus is short and makes me think. Timothy (I and II) gives me comfort and encouragement.

Warning: an idea has arrived. Did Paul know his letters to different people would get numbered, like sequels? I mean, he does write on a personal level, and hits his points with vigor. All I know is, if I wrote series letters to family and friends, I would hear about it for months. Hmmmmm. So what was Paul's emotional response to knowing his letters would be passed around, not just for a few weeks or months but decades? Have to ask him when I see him.

Years ago, I realized the people in the Bible were real people, with real emotions and the occasional panic, if not daily panic. And they were married, had kids, paid the rent, moved because they had to or wanted to. They were real. Which calls up the conversations I know occurred but just didn't make the cut.

Noah's wife and the three (count 'em and weep) daughters-in-law. Who ran the kitchen? And just how did they do laundry. Don't give me that nonsense about how they spent all their time in wonder and awe of what God had done. Time drags when you are cooped up in a single dwelling and you have to share with everyone else's (okay so how would you spell it) smells, habits and hangups. Not to mention the human issues.

Hmmmm.

So tomorrow, turn with us to those thrilling days of yesteryear and explore the agony, the ecstasy, the humor and the horror of Mrs. Noah and the Girls.

late getting in here

2009-01-07T15:15:00.002-06:00

Whew! I know I'm late but I have a fantastic excuse. Sort of, maybe, well not really but I did have a great idea for today about 4 hours ago, and then I had to stop and answer a couple of questions, check on the To Do list, and by then I realized I still was in my pajamas, and the dishes were sitting on the counter and then the aliens landed and after I saved the immediate world, the great idea had faded into a slightly irritating half memory and ......(heavy sigh)

You get the picture. And how was your day? So far, the basics have been accomplished and one new project attempted. Or rather set into a semblance of order. My mind needs a structure before it can sift. (heavier sigh)

And I have so much sifting to do.

So the result is, that great idea will just have to pop up at a later date. I have bread to bake, knitting to commence and a couple other less exciting achievements to wade through. But tomorrow, I promise, really, really to have a great idea and no snarky comments to lay upon innocent ears.

Shake out the prayer rug and.....

2009-01-05T05:24:00.003-06:00

Ever notice how when you misspell pray, it comes out pry? Okay, so it's just my typo but the point (getting there) is, how much of praying is prying?

Got to work on that. I had this whole cute shtick written out on the topic and had to dump it when it started sounding pious and incredibly overdone. This whole blogging thing is kind of scary because other people get the chance to peer into the dark recesses of my mind unless I get that door slammed shut quick enough.

I can't help but wonder what God thinks when He peers into that shallow recess, since He made it. And then there is that word recess. Hmmmm. A short hiatus or break from work or class, a low place or hidden gully in the landscape. Okay, I'm letting that rabbit get away and on to the question of What Does God think of my metal recess? In so many ways, I'm like Sammy the Squirrel in the comic strip Over the Hedge. Except I have car keys.

And God has to know about it. How can I begin to understand God who is infinite when I have so much trouble with myself, who is very finite and not all that complex anyway? I hope some is following this. I had to reread it twice. Which means I must EDIT. Except that I've been told editing my blog is against the Geneva convention of blogging. Oh, wait that is for prisoners of war. Sorry.

On the prayer issue (Egad, that again. Can't she let the poor thing die a seemly death), blessings with no demand or sermon for the person being prayed for works as not prying. And I do bless, bless, and bless again. Especially when the situation is more complicated than just passing the time.

Talk later. Gotta pray for myself this morning. No sermons, no suggestions, but a bit of ruminating with my Father.

First day out and about

2009-01-03T17:15:00.002-06:00

Hello, ( off in the distance a voice cries from afar) h-e-l-l-o o-u-t t-h-e-r-e.

It looks very far off today. The distance from where I am and where it looks like I must go. And there is this very wide, deep chasm in front of me. Family and friends now know I am blogging. And suspecting me of being about to reveal all the dark secrets. Hmmmmm, are there never any light secrets?

Sort of like when people mean "natives" and they say, "primitive natives". Can't native people be advanced? Or is it just we who are "primitive" or just, provincial?

And as for the afar (see above) it does not mean the noun "far, a warm thang you start with maeches,) Yes, I have been in the southwest for a season or four. And I love the accent, the sense of distance and the rightness of expecting everyone to have at least one relative thought of as eccentric. Here, we are proud of their individuality, if not their behavior.

Maybe that is why I am the coffee lady at church. I listen a lot, nod most of the time and pray constantly. And put lots of coffee in lots of cups, along with sympathy/polite expressions and the occasional needed tart thought.

The silver hair is a nice cover to almost everything.

Today though I got to spend time among a group similar to me, who blessed me and allowed me to bless them. Nice.

Tomorrow I can be less introspective, more prickly and enjoy all sides of life.

Happy, Happy New Season

2009-01-02T07:14:00.002-06:00

Good Morning, or maybe not morning. Depends on when you read this.

The sentiment is the same. Wishing everyone a new and shiny year. All the possibilities of grand failure or mild success accompanied by the breath taking chance of joy unspeakable and life changing adventure into one small phrase.

But I do love this time of year. The door is wide open to achievements and wild expectation. I'm one of those people who love new events, like moving to a new town, experiencing new dishes, trying a class in something I never understood before. Not to wild about the disruption, or the discomfort of new routines, but I do love the adventure.

And that includes all the scary, wonderful parts. Life is an adventure.

Ask my kids. They swear Mom wakes up in a new universe every morning. And sometimes they are correct. And I love it. The new part, not them being correct.

Even the hard scary parts become part of history, to be savored, enjoyed in the over coming and what happened later, usually when things are calm and I have a cup of hot tea in hand. Not being a hard core adrenaline junky, I don't really enjoy bungee jumping, or mountain climbing. But I could be talked into scuba diving, or doing an archeology dig, or exploring unseen lands. One of the funnest (I know, not a word but you know it's used all the time, and it makes sense in a grammar silly way) ideas presented to me was if there was a call to colonize Mars and the powers that be would take me, I'd go.

Wouldn't that be fun?! New stuff, new ways, new people to analyse?

Ah, yes, but back to the topic at hand, which is to say....Happy New Year and may it be blessed, enjoyed and remembered in all the majesty of the moment.

New Year, New Season, New Beginnings

2009-01-01T07:30:00.002-06:00

Good Morning and Good Year (vaguely sounds like a tire ad. Sorry)

And blessings on everyone. Today, as vowed to myself, I will sort of behave and honor the gifts I have been given. Now that I have the good manners out of the way, the explaination is here. I see you three in the back, rolling your eyes. Still up straight or I'll give you something to roll about.

Ahem, today marks a New Year and I will replace the pudgy body with at least a slimmer version. I understand that means (choke) exercise and self discipline and since I haven't used much of mine, there is large storehouse to draw from.

Looking at that last sentence, do you realize why it is considered poor grammar to end a sentence with a preposition? One of those grammar rules based on Latin. And English (yes, yes, yes, we live in America and speak American and spell American but bear with me) sentences ended with prepositions make sense. Not so for Latin. End of grammar lesson.

Spell Checker is my friend because my spelling is much more primative.

So, once again, Happy New Year, Blessings on you and yours.

Announcements

2008-12-30T16:09:00.002-06:00

Ahem, cough, cough.

Thought it would be appropriate to tell people why I have officially joined the world of blogging.

Just letting you know.

It was my daughter's fault you know. She talked me into it, really. And there was this article in Charisma magazine that really kicked me over the bump. If you want the whole sordid story, I will be renting a hall.....no, not really, But the thought fits right along with the horrors I am feeling about this thing.

And I just wanted to get the "Oh, so you have a blog?" (secret smile because we all know only the most narcissistic, self absorbed souls do that, and we pity them) out of the way.

So, for those who want to know. And yes, I did make that ridiculously interwoven sentence end with a dangling participle.

sincerely, with great hesitancy, and not fully convinced of the value, but still plugging on.

And the beatings continue....

2008-12-30T06:44:00.003-06:00

Sorry, was intending to say The Beat Goes on, but my fingers are not awake just yet.

Thinking about sibling stuff. I have a mixed bag of it and one thought that has occurred more than once is, How tough was it to be Jesus' little brother James?

In the first place, he had to be a shock to Mary and Joseph. The first born is usually the one who breaks Mom and Dad in on the reality of how time consuming kids are, but when the first one really is perfect, it leaves a lot of room for the 'What have we done?' thoughts all parents have.

The whole potty training thing must have been different. Not to mention the concept of sharing. Toddlers and tyrants pretty much share the same world view.

And then there is what the neighbors say. "Why can't you be like your big brother? He's so nice and well mannered."

"Jesus would never ______ (throw rocks, torment the cat, pull up my flowers, etc.)

Of course, there is the other side.

"Jesus, you're the big brother. James looks up to you."

The year Jesus caused the big drama in Jerusalem would have been sweet for James and the other kids. Finally, Mr. Perfect didn't just get into trouble, but He really made Mom and Dad mad. Whoohoo.

Puts that one intervention episode in perspective, where they tried to get Jesus to come home and even brought Mom into the deal, telling each other He had to be crazy.

Of course, James is thinking. "He's the oldest. He's the one who's supposed to take of Mom. not me. And all He does is run around the country side, talking, hanging out with friends, having a good time, while I'm left to make sure all the boring family stuff stays on track. And they say He's the good one."

Hmmmm. Family. And Family.

it occurs to me....

2008-12-29T05:47:00.002-06:00

Blogging seems such a simple thing, until I put my fingers on the keys. Then chaos ensues. In my head, between my thoughts.

Now if I can just translate the party in my head to my fingers. Like the conversations you know took place but didn't make it into Scripture.

Adam and Eve's reaction to potty training Cain. Or Abel. Not to mention just raising kids period. Did Eve really say, "Just wait until your father gets home!"? I mean, wasn't he already there?

And how did they deal with "But all the other girls are wearing make-up!" Maybe not.

Sarai at the weekly coffee klatch when word got out she was moving. "Sarai, honey, we've been best friends for years so I can say this. It's just mid-life crisis. Put your foot down and say Not this year, Abe. I nean, he is getting to be that age when men get sillyl."

"You do know there are no delivery services out side of town, don't you?"

"You can't go now. You'll miss the secret sister exchange. And bunco."

"A tent? He says a tent? I'll have my husband talk senses to him. Or better yet, the priest. I'm that's his job, to counsel the crazies. Not that your hubby is crazy, he's just, you know...."

2008-12-29T05:20:00.002-06:00

A new skill always takes more time than I like. And knowing that other people are watching me totter along with LARGE training wheels makes me queasly.

Here goes.

Why is it that people who work retail don't have regular hours? My son works for a national chain, and his hours are incredibly strange. Some days, he gets to work at 5 a.m, some days 6 a.m. And his hours are pretty well set that way. Which is much nicer than it used to be when the hours changed every day.

To me, regular is the same hours on a regular basis, not shifting week by week. The store opens at the same time every day, why not set working hours the same? Just asking.

3rd time. AAAUUUGGGHHH

2008-12-28T21:46:00.000-06:00

Okay, blogging is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. And this makes my 3rd post in one day. Getting started is hard to do. Or is that breaking up? I break up easy when the silliness gets to me. I apologize in advance.

There are so many things to say, so many opinions to express. Most of the time, I have at least 3 opinions on any one topic. It’s sort of, pick a subject, take a side, defend your position. So let the games begin.

I am doing this sort of under protest, as the title suggests.
How in the world does one just type stuff for people to read? How and let it stand? The things I do.

And I realize that I must do this. Under protest, using the internet as a forum to talk to people who wouldn’t give a silver haired woman the time of day. And I know the brain cells are sort of flat right now. Which means I wouldn’t give me the time of day. And the crossword puzzles call.

second post,

2008-12-28T21:12:00.002-06:00

I'm trying, really I am. But the naked page just stares at me. And scares me a little. Me, who has written short stories, lousy poetry and even attempted essays.

Maybe if I keep repeating, it's not about me, it's not about me, it's not about me. Then I sound like some character actress in an old B movie just before the villian thumps her over the head. And the scary crescendo rises to a horrified trill.

Hmmm. That's a bit more like it. I love those old movies, lots of drama, filmly curtains and Victor Mature looking kind of silly in curls. But the scaley beast from under the stairs or in the moat sports a tidy zipper down his back. Or maybe it is the walking trees.

I will attempt to post most days on this, opening just a tiny sliver view of my thoughts. Today, not so much.

First Post

2008-12-28T19:23:00.001-06:00

This is my first post to my new blog. Not really sure how all this works.