In chapel ysterday morning, we watched more of a video about the children of WWII vets. One son took his son to Iwo Jima to help the boy understand the sacrifice his grandfather made on his behalf.
It brought back a memory of my own. He was my great uncle, but he reared my mother as his own daughter because my grandmother died when Mom was seven years old. If you've read my book, you'll see the story in there. No, I was not being imaginative, it actually happened.
We called him "Pop." It's gratifying to have such a wonderful memory of a man who believed deeply in God and who lived his life to honor God. My granddaughter seems to long for the times I grew up in. Her comparison with today's world always leaves her longing for more honest times. Those days were more honest, more simple, more trustworthy, more noble.....you get the picture. I just wish there were some way my granddaughter could do more than long for days like that.
On the day I remember so vividly, it's like it happened yesterday. My cousin and I were playing some game when we come into the dining room and spotted Pop at his usual spot, kneeling in front of his rocking chair, praying. How that man prayed. Even though I was only nine and my cousin four, I still remember how he would sit in the rocker and read his Bible in a hoarse whisper. Then, he'd kneel in front of his rocker and pray in that same hoarse whisper. No matter what activity swirled throughout the rest of that large, old farmhouse, Pop would read his Bible and pray first thing every morning. I firmly believe that's why I grew up in a sweeter, simpler, nobler, safer, more honest, more trustworthy time. I seriously doubt Pop was the only man in America praying like that.
Hey, New York newspaper, maybe God isn't fixing this because America has stopped praying. Or as James says, maybe we Americans are praying for the wrong things and the wrong reasons. Do a paradigm shift in your thinking. Couldn't hurt and it might help. But, I digress.
Often, Pop would lift his hand and face toward heaven as he prayed, emphasizing his adoration or supplication. Whichever it was, I do not know. When Pop prayed, we left him alone to be with the Lord as a matter of respect.
Except my four year old cousin, Pop's only grandson. That mischievous four year old turned to me and said, "Let's get a horsey ride on Grandpa!"
"No! He's praying!" was my horrified response.
"He won't care. I do it all the time," came his reply as he left me to watch in shock. He hopped his grandpa's back, riding him with all the glee and fervor only a rambunctious four old could muster.
Pop never acknowledges his grandson in anyway. He continued to pray with a fervor that matched his grandson's. He was no different that any other day I witnessed his time of prayer. My cousin actually tired before Pop did. We trailed off to other adventures while Pop remained on his knees. Thanks, Pop you taught me a lot.
Showing posts with label Roots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Roots. Show all posts
Friday, December 4, 2015
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
History lesson
History has always interested me, but I have to say I'm glad I only had to know American history as a student. Right now, I'm doing a little reading about English history and it's not nearly so easy. In the first place, it goes back much longer than America. For another thing, so many of the royals were named "George," "Richard," "Henry," or "Edward." The women were named "Elizabeth," "Mary," "Margaret," or "Anne." It makes it difficult to remember who belongs to which house and what year they reigned.
My interest was piqued recently when my son told me about our family history. Supposedly, the Pollock clan was very powerful, very wealthy, and had a great deal of land. Until they backed the wrong queen and lost everything, being forced to become a subset of another clan. My brother immediately assumed the queens were Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, but I had been reading about the White Queen of the York line and the Red Queen of the Lancaster line. Thought I'd do a little more digging.
I'm not interested in genealogy, I'm interested in history. In the first place, if I'm related to royalty, what happened? In the second place, I have the feeling we're all related to royalty. In those days, royalty were about the only ones who could survive. Royalty could leave the dirty, disease ridden cities in the summer. The poor and the shopkeepers couldn't. Royalty could afford to eat well and get someone else to do the dirty work. The poor and the workers were either starved to death, worked to death, taxed to death, or forced to fight wars with pitchforks and hoes against trained warriors who had armor, lances, arrows, and horses. Then, too, in some countries, young girls were sacrificed to the gods. In my opinion, having royal blood is no big deal.
But, oh, the intrigue, the mayhem, the murder! Who needs mystery movies and novels when there's history? Truth is stranger than fiction, as the saying goes. It does boggle the mind keeping all the players in their proper place in history. And, there's so many of them. The White Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, was a commoner and hated. She is accused or enticing the king by witchcraft. For a long time, I thought Mary Stanley was her enemy because Mary Stanley has a son named Henry Tudor. How did that happen? She says she was married twice and her first husband was Stafford (I think). Have to look it up.
Now, the Kingmaker's Daughter, Ann Neville and her sister-in-law eventually becomes queen. But, how does the feud go from the Lancaster's and the York's to the Tudor's? The Tudor's are a part of the Lancaster line and to tell you the truth, I don't know how the Lancaster and the York lines got started in the first place. Talk about tangled webs.
However, studying history and realizing that America still has freedoms the English never dreamed of, especially in those days, is a good reason to just read about it and not have to live it. If you figure it out, let me know.
My interest was piqued recently when my son told me about our family history. Supposedly, the Pollock clan was very powerful, very wealthy, and had a great deal of land. Until they backed the wrong queen and lost everything, being forced to become a subset of another clan. My brother immediately assumed the queens were Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, but I had been reading about the White Queen of the York line and the Red Queen of the Lancaster line. Thought I'd do a little more digging.
I'm not interested in genealogy, I'm interested in history. In the first place, if I'm related to royalty, what happened? In the second place, I have the feeling we're all related to royalty. In those days, royalty were about the only ones who could survive. Royalty could leave the dirty, disease ridden cities in the summer. The poor and the shopkeepers couldn't. Royalty could afford to eat well and get someone else to do the dirty work. The poor and the workers were either starved to death, worked to death, taxed to death, or forced to fight wars with pitchforks and hoes against trained warriors who had armor, lances, arrows, and horses. Then, too, in some countries, young girls were sacrificed to the gods. In my opinion, having royal blood is no big deal.
But, oh, the intrigue, the mayhem, the murder! Who needs mystery movies and novels when there's history? Truth is stranger than fiction, as the saying goes. It does boggle the mind keeping all the players in their proper place in history. And, there's so many of them. The White Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, was a commoner and hated. She is accused or enticing the king by witchcraft. For a long time, I thought Mary Stanley was her enemy because Mary Stanley has a son named Henry Tudor. How did that happen? She says she was married twice and her first husband was Stafford (I think). Have to look it up.
Now, the Kingmaker's Daughter, Ann Neville and her sister-in-law eventually becomes queen. But, how does the feud go from the Lancaster's and the York's to the Tudor's? The Tudor's are a part of the Lancaster line and to tell you the truth, I don't know how the Lancaster and the York lines got started in the first place. Talk about tangled webs.
However, studying history and realizing that America still has freedoms the English never dreamed of, especially in those days, is a good reason to just read about it and not have to live it. If you figure it out, let me know.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Old Joe
Obviously, the older we get, the more memories we have. Memories worth talking about. This morning, Old Joe Slack popped into my head. Why? Who knows? But, his memory is one I cherish. To my friend who lived next door to him, I admit I didn't know him as well and didn't have the same interactions with him, but he's a worthy memory for me.
Joe was the first person so go barefoot in the spring. He started in March. Shoes were not a part of his wardrobe again until November. This was Pennsylvania, mind you. Dad and I asked him about it one day. His mother told him to live as close to nature as possible and he would be the healthier for it. He figured he couldn't get closer to nature than to go barefoot, and that's why he took his shoes off before the frost left the ground in spring and left them off long after the ground was hard with it in the fall. He lived into his late 90's, headed for 100, a goal of his. His wife was not as healthy and she was 10 years older than him. He once said he was going to keep her going until she was 100 and he almost made it.
Our closest neighbor, John, was about 10 years younger than Joe and not as healthy. I remember John trying to help Dad take down a tree. I begged Dad to send him home, afraid the frail man would hurt himself. Fortunately, he didn't get hurt, but I was on pins and needles during the process.
Work gives a man purpose and dignity and Dad didn't want to deprive the man who'd been vibrant and hard working all his life-until age and illness slowed took its toll. It had to be hard on John to hire a man 10 years his senior to do handiwork he was incapable of doing for himself. Joe was his handyman.
Joe was capable. He put a new roof on his own home when he was in his mid-90's. You have to admire a man like that.
Then, there was Mack, a neighbor of my in-laws. The last time we saw Mack was at the memorial for my mother-in-law. If I remember correctly, he was 95, as alert and vibrant as a man in half his age. A widower, whose wife died needlessly and tragically, who was not one to feel sorry for himself or feel entitled to anything.
The small town of Imperial, California, sat on the edge of the runways of El Centro Naval Base. Mack, at a younger age, ran through a hail of exploding ammunition to pull a navy pilot out of his burning plane. He won the highest honor this country gives to civilians. A man in his 60's, he developed a mass transit system that has yet to be developed, but a lot of cities were interested in it. When his wife died, he built a second story apartment over his home, and moved into it. The house, he rented out. Because California summers are so unbearably hot in that desert valley, Mack also bought a 5th-wheeler and traveled north during the most miserable months-in his 90's. He was such a dynamic example to my brother-in-law, he would get tears in his eyes, thinking about the man Mack was.
Do we have any old geezers around like that any more? Are they still influencing younger generations by their lifestyle? Are the men of my generation able to step up to the plate and be the example these men were to me? Even among Christians, I've heard the comment that old people need to die so everyone else could move on. I wonder if they still feel that way now that they're the old people.
Men like Joe and Mack didn't take pleasure in riches or things. They took pleasure in LIFE. They were comfortable in their own skin. Good for them. I admire them and pray that God will keep a few more of them around to teach our young people how to really live.
Joe was the first person so go barefoot in the spring. He started in March. Shoes were not a part of his wardrobe again until November. This was Pennsylvania, mind you. Dad and I asked him about it one day. His mother told him to live as close to nature as possible and he would be the healthier for it. He figured he couldn't get closer to nature than to go barefoot, and that's why he took his shoes off before the frost left the ground in spring and left them off long after the ground was hard with it in the fall. He lived into his late 90's, headed for 100, a goal of his. His wife was not as healthy and she was 10 years older than him. He once said he was going to keep her going until she was 100 and he almost made it.
Our closest neighbor, John, was about 10 years younger than Joe and not as healthy. I remember John trying to help Dad take down a tree. I begged Dad to send him home, afraid the frail man would hurt himself. Fortunately, he didn't get hurt, but I was on pins and needles during the process.
Work gives a man purpose and dignity and Dad didn't want to deprive the man who'd been vibrant and hard working all his life-until age and illness slowed took its toll. It had to be hard on John to hire a man 10 years his senior to do handiwork he was incapable of doing for himself. Joe was his handyman.
Joe was capable. He put a new roof on his own home when he was in his mid-90's. You have to admire a man like that.
Then, there was Mack, a neighbor of my in-laws. The last time we saw Mack was at the memorial for my mother-in-law. If I remember correctly, he was 95, as alert and vibrant as a man in half his age. A widower, whose wife died needlessly and tragically, who was not one to feel sorry for himself or feel entitled to anything.
The small town of Imperial, California, sat on the edge of the runways of El Centro Naval Base. Mack, at a younger age, ran through a hail of exploding ammunition to pull a navy pilot out of his burning plane. He won the highest honor this country gives to civilians. A man in his 60's, he developed a mass transit system that has yet to be developed, but a lot of cities were interested in it. When his wife died, he built a second story apartment over his home, and moved into it. The house, he rented out. Because California summers are so unbearably hot in that desert valley, Mack also bought a 5th-wheeler and traveled north during the most miserable months-in his 90's. He was such a dynamic example to my brother-in-law, he would get tears in his eyes, thinking about the man Mack was.
Do we have any old geezers around like that any more? Are they still influencing younger generations by their lifestyle? Are the men of my generation able to step up to the plate and be the example these men were to me? Even among Christians, I've heard the comment that old people need to die so everyone else could move on. I wonder if they still feel that way now that they're the old people.
Men like Joe and Mack didn't take pleasure in riches or things. They took pleasure in LIFE. They were comfortable in their own skin. Good for them. I admire them and pray that God will keep a few more of them around to teach our young people how to really live.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Attitude of Gratitude
Thanksgiving Day. So many have said so much, anything I can add may seem trite, but give thanks I must. My mother taught me well, and I'm grateful. My best friend lived in the same town where we attended church. She would often invite me to Sunday dinner. I'd stay with her and go home again with my parents after the evening service. Even though the visits were so frequent, I called her parents my second parents, I never neglected to say thanks for their hospitality. Connie's mother would get this smirk on her face when I got ready to leave the house. She knew what was coming. I would say thanks and she would nod and smile.
Looking back makes me grateful for all my parents taught me. Most important, they taught me about Jesus. I was a freshman in college before I realized I didn't know the Christ I intended to proclaim to the world. But, all that attendance in Sunday School, church, youth group, Youth for Christ meetings, summer camps, memorizing thousands of Bible verses, and participating in Christmas plays finally bore fruit when the knowledge I had in my head went to my heart.
A lot of the things they taught me were just quick little comments to events occurring around us. I was terrified of my sixth grade teacher. It was his second year of teaching after he left the Marines. Anyone who has any experience in teaching knows you are stricter in discipline when first starting out, so we bore the brunt of his military training. Daddy told me I couldn't expect to get through life without someone looking down their nose at me. That's saved me a lot of grief over the years.
When one (or more) of the neighbors had their midnight screaming fights because he came home drunk and she lit into him, Mother would tell you, "You might trap a man, but you won't keep him if you do." Everyone of those couples had shotgun weddings. It's one of the reasons I wrote the book I did. I hope to continue to get her message out.
Who in America is not grateful to live in this wonderful country? I've been privileged to visit or live in 29 of the 50 states and have friends or family in the rest of them. Yes, we have our troubles, but Tony Blair had it right when he said it's the only country other people are trying to escape to instead of from. I've lived in other countries and while each had their unique stamp on things, I was glad to get home. I have to admit, though, I'm NOT grateful when someone escapes the cruelty of their own country, only to propagate it here.
I'm grateful I grew up in a day and time when education was teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic instead of political correctness indoctrination. I'm grateful beyond words that we're working hard in our school to teach our boys in a way that will make them productive citizens in our world. Most of the boys come to our school because they just couldn't adjust or make it in a public school-we're kind of a last ditch effort on their behalf. At some point in their lives all of them will call the pastor to express their gratitude for Shiloh. Even those who didn't learn the lesson or couldn't stay will say they're grateful for what they learned and sorry for what they chose not to learn.
Bob and I are nearing 51 years of marriage. We have two fantastic sons, two daughters-in-law that we love enough to call daughters, five wonderful grandchildren, including our granddaughter-in-law, and a precious great grandson. God has blessed us so very richly with every one of them. We reared our sons to do even better than their parents and they've done it, making us proud as well as grateful. At times, their astuteness and intelligence amazes us. When Mark got his first big promotion, Bob asked, "How'd you get so smart?" He was joking-maybe. When Dan's family visited, I was amazed at how beautifully he conversed with his 18 year old son.
After the boys left home, our empty nest continued to be filled with love and laughter, just enjoying each other. Something that was often interrupted with two rowdy boys, a variety of pets, and a myriad of moves to contend with. The moves continued, but that gave us just each other to cling to in a new environment. Until we got Sheila 6 1/2 years ago. I can't say I'm sorry we went 23 years without a pet, but our "caustie" (an expensive cross between Cocker Spaniel and Australian Shepherd) has brought so much laughter to us. At the moment, she's scratching my arm, telling me it's time to pay attention to her, so suffice it to say, words fail in expressing my gratitude for all the blessings I've received the past 71 years.
Blessings to you, too.
Looking back makes me grateful for all my parents taught me. Most important, they taught me about Jesus. I was a freshman in college before I realized I didn't know the Christ I intended to proclaim to the world. But, all that attendance in Sunday School, church, youth group, Youth for Christ meetings, summer camps, memorizing thousands of Bible verses, and participating in Christmas plays finally bore fruit when the knowledge I had in my head went to my heart.
A lot of the things they taught me were just quick little comments to events occurring around us. I was terrified of my sixth grade teacher. It was his second year of teaching after he left the Marines. Anyone who has any experience in teaching knows you are stricter in discipline when first starting out, so we bore the brunt of his military training. Daddy told me I couldn't expect to get through life without someone looking down their nose at me. That's saved me a lot of grief over the years.
When one (or more) of the neighbors had their midnight screaming fights because he came home drunk and she lit into him, Mother would tell you, "You might trap a man, but you won't keep him if you do." Everyone of those couples had shotgun weddings. It's one of the reasons I wrote the book I did. I hope to continue to get her message out.
Who in America is not grateful to live in this wonderful country? I've been privileged to visit or live in 29 of the 50 states and have friends or family in the rest of them. Yes, we have our troubles, but Tony Blair had it right when he said it's the only country other people are trying to escape to instead of from. I've lived in other countries and while each had their unique stamp on things, I was glad to get home. I have to admit, though, I'm NOT grateful when someone escapes the cruelty of their own country, only to propagate it here.
I'm grateful I grew up in a day and time when education was teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic instead of political correctness indoctrination. I'm grateful beyond words that we're working hard in our school to teach our boys in a way that will make them productive citizens in our world. Most of the boys come to our school because they just couldn't adjust or make it in a public school-we're kind of a last ditch effort on their behalf. At some point in their lives all of them will call the pastor to express their gratitude for Shiloh. Even those who didn't learn the lesson or couldn't stay will say they're grateful for what they learned and sorry for what they chose not to learn.
Bob and I are nearing 51 years of marriage. We have two fantastic sons, two daughters-in-law that we love enough to call daughters, five wonderful grandchildren, including our granddaughter-in-law, and a precious great grandson. God has blessed us so very richly with every one of them. We reared our sons to do even better than their parents and they've done it, making us proud as well as grateful. At times, their astuteness and intelligence amazes us. When Mark got his first big promotion, Bob asked, "How'd you get so smart?" He was joking-maybe. When Dan's family visited, I was amazed at how beautifully he conversed with his 18 year old son.
After the boys left home, our empty nest continued to be filled with love and laughter, just enjoying each other. Something that was often interrupted with two rowdy boys, a variety of pets, and a myriad of moves to contend with. The moves continued, but that gave us just each other to cling to in a new environment. Until we got Sheila 6 1/2 years ago. I can't say I'm sorry we went 23 years without a pet, but our "caustie" (an expensive cross between Cocker Spaniel and Australian Shepherd) has brought so much laughter to us. At the moment, she's scratching my arm, telling me it's time to pay attention to her, so suffice it to say, words fail in expressing my gratitude for all the blessings I've received the past 71 years.
Blessings to you, too.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Happy birthday, Brother
A happy (belated) birthday to my brother, Art. Sorry, my bad for not mentioning it yesterday. I'm proud and pleased with all my family tree, from it's earliest roots to the youngest-great grandson, Elijah.
We've been around a long time, Brother, Dear. I'll take pity on you and say you're six years older than me, but I won't mention our ages. Oh, wait. That means I'm taking as much pity on me as I am on you, doesn't it?
I'm not one of those who's ashamed of my age. By the time you get to 7+ decades, what's the point of denying it? We did have one aunt whose son said she'd changed her birth date on her birth certificate so many times, it could no longer be read. I understand an actress did the same thing. Why?
Now, telling my weight is another story entirely. NOT going there. Let's go back to you, Brother, whom (who?) I'm trying to celebrate. I love it when we have long conversations about our past. We have good laughs about different things. And, we have stories that would make younger people awe struck.
How did we get along in early childhood winters without a water heater? Mom boiled water and poured it into the bathtub, adding enough cool water that made the bath pleasant rather than too cold or too hot. Remember those little gas heaters in each room, that never did much for keeping us warm?
One of the earliest memories of you is when you came to the neighbors where I was playing with friends, telling me I needed to come home. The new refrigerator arrived and we were going to make ice cubes! Before that, we had an old wooden ice box. I vaguely remember the ice man bringing a big block of ice each week. I'm sure we both have many memories of Dad letting a small stream of water run all night in an effort to keep the lines from freezing. When even that didn't work, he'd use a blow torch.
I'm sure you remember the Christmases we had at Velma's. Especially the year we were playing hide and seek in her big old farmhouse. Janet and I were hiding from you, Duane, Bill and any other male relative whose name and presence I've forgotten. We hid behind the drapes in the parlor. One of you came in the room, interrupted the adults talking, commenting you saw our shoes but couldn't find us! The adults choked back laughter until we finally had to be called from our hiding place.
Then, there was the time that Duane got a jeep that broke. You and Bill fixed it. Ran better than ever. Acted like a real jeep, climbing over books on the floor among other obstacles, rolled over and kept on going when it fell off something. Maybe that's where they got the idea for the Energizer Bunny. That jeep sure did go.
I'm sure you remember the day the house caught fire. You'd just come home from being out in the woods, when you smelled smoke. The chimney caught the wall on fire. Fortunately, it wasn't a bad one. Mr. Bowland came up and beat it out with his hands. That night, it was all hands on deck while Dad fireproofed the area where the fire started.
When I was in college, I have fond memories of you and Joan coming to the school to get me. Mom and Dad would meet us at your place, saving them the trip all the way to New York. Then, there's the time you deliberately put a diaper in my luggage when we returned from Germany because I accidentally left one at your place on the way to Germany. That's one superstition that seemed to work. You got Lisa and we got Dan.
Do you remember how Mom and Dad got their first TV? Do you remember telling Mom about your mother-in-law's TV that had a tube blow every six months until she got tired of replacing the tubes and bought another TV. We lugged that thing home and it was the family TV until Mom and Dad got tired of the same thing. I was 19 and a sophomore in college before we had a TV and pretty sure I was married before they replaced it.
Good memories, Brother. We lived in the real world, learning to cope. Mom and Dad would be proud, I'm sure.
We've been around a long time, Brother, Dear. I'll take pity on you and say you're six years older than me, but I won't mention our ages. Oh, wait. That means I'm taking as much pity on me as I am on you, doesn't it?
I'm not one of those who's ashamed of my age. By the time you get to 7+ decades, what's the point of denying it? We did have one aunt whose son said she'd changed her birth date on her birth certificate so many times, it could no longer be read. I understand an actress did the same thing. Why?
Now, telling my weight is another story entirely. NOT going there. Let's go back to you, Brother, whom (who?) I'm trying to celebrate. I love it when we have long conversations about our past. We have good laughs about different things. And, we have stories that would make younger people awe struck.
How did we get along in early childhood winters without a water heater? Mom boiled water and poured it into the bathtub, adding enough cool water that made the bath pleasant rather than too cold or too hot. Remember those little gas heaters in each room, that never did much for keeping us warm?
One of the earliest memories of you is when you came to the neighbors where I was playing with friends, telling me I needed to come home. The new refrigerator arrived and we were going to make ice cubes! Before that, we had an old wooden ice box. I vaguely remember the ice man bringing a big block of ice each week. I'm sure we both have many memories of Dad letting a small stream of water run all night in an effort to keep the lines from freezing. When even that didn't work, he'd use a blow torch.
I'm sure you remember the Christmases we had at Velma's. Especially the year we were playing hide and seek in her big old farmhouse. Janet and I were hiding from you, Duane, Bill and any other male relative whose name and presence I've forgotten. We hid behind the drapes in the parlor. One of you came in the room, interrupted the adults talking, commenting you saw our shoes but couldn't find us! The adults choked back laughter until we finally had to be called from our hiding place.
Then, there was the time that Duane got a jeep that broke. You and Bill fixed it. Ran better than ever. Acted like a real jeep, climbing over books on the floor among other obstacles, rolled over and kept on going when it fell off something. Maybe that's where they got the idea for the Energizer Bunny. That jeep sure did go.
I'm sure you remember the day the house caught fire. You'd just come home from being out in the woods, when you smelled smoke. The chimney caught the wall on fire. Fortunately, it wasn't a bad one. Mr. Bowland came up and beat it out with his hands. That night, it was all hands on deck while Dad fireproofed the area where the fire started.
When I was in college, I have fond memories of you and Joan coming to the school to get me. Mom and Dad would meet us at your place, saving them the trip all the way to New York. Then, there's the time you deliberately put a diaper in my luggage when we returned from Germany because I accidentally left one at your place on the way to Germany. That's one superstition that seemed to work. You got Lisa and we got Dan.
Do you remember how Mom and Dad got their first TV? Do you remember telling Mom about your mother-in-law's TV that had a tube blow every six months until she got tired of replacing the tubes and bought another TV. We lugged that thing home and it was the family TV until Mom and Dad got tired of the same thing. I was 19 and a sophomore in college before we had a TV and pretty sure I was married before they replaced it.
Good memories, Brother. We lived in the real world, learning to cope. Mom and Dad would be proud, I'm sure.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Thanks, Dad
This morning's skyline was not nearly so colorful as yesterday's, but it was still awesome to watch God lavish our senses with His awesome artwork.
The cloud-yes, cloud this morning was one very large, rough, dark rectangle. In the rectangle were two windows, allowing for a hint of morning sun about to rise above the horizon and behind that cloud. The pinks, however weren't vivid like yesterday. They were pale, muted, faded, and there was no gold. The unusual thing about this cloud is that the entire time were were there, it did next to nothing to change shape. We were there over 30 minutes and that cloud continued to hug the horizon and not drift in any direction. Occasionally, lightening would warn of the pending storm the weathermen have predicted for today. Even those flashes were muted.
We used to call it heat lightening when I was a girl growing up in Pennsylvania. Remembering that took me back to childhood when my dad taught me to marvel in God's creation, rather than to fear it. I have a healthy awareness of it's danger, but on one particular summer night, we had a rain storm that was beautiful to watch.
Next door to our place, someone started to build a house, but never got past clearing the land and putting in a few ditches where footers and pipes would go. As kids, we used to put boards over the ditches and make "houses" out of them. Today, I wonder that we never encountered snakes or spiders in those very dark places. Anyway, after the building site was abandoned, black locust trees grew tall, thin, and prolific. Their leaves are light green on top and silver underneath.
That night of the summer storm, we sat on the kitchen table and watched a strong wind blow those slender tree trunks into a 90 degree angle, the leaves turning their back to the pouring rain and wind. All we could see of the trees were the leaves, forming a carpet above the bent trunks. The silver leaves gleamed in the rain and flashes of lightening as the wind ruffled through them. I remember Dad saying how beautiful nature is, even in times of storm. His words impressed on my young mind and heart that even in storms, there's beauty.
Since school begins next week, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to join Bob and Sheila in a lovely morning walk, but in just 2 days, I've discovered how good it is to exercise the body, communicate with nature, bond with my husband and dog, and cherish fond childhood memories. An altogether lovely way to start the day.
The cloud-yes, cloud this morning was one very large, rough, dark rectangle. In the rectangle were two windows, allowing for a hint of morning sun about to rise above the horizon and behind that cloud. The pinks, however weren't vivid like yesterday. They were pale, muted, faded, and there was no gold. The unusual thing about this cloud is that the entire time were were there, it did next to nothing to change shape. We were there over 30 minutes and that cloud continued to hug the horizon and not drift in any direction. Occasionally, lightening would warn of the pending storm the weathermen have predicted for today. Even those flashes were muted.
We used to call it heat lightening when I was a girl growing up in Pennsylvania. Remembering that took me back to childhood when my dad taught me to marvel in God's creation, rather than to fear it. I have a healthy awareness of it's danger, but on one particular summer night, we had a rain storm that was beautiful to watch.
Next door to our place, someone started to build a house, but never got past clearing the land and putting in a few ditches where footers and pipes would go. As kids, we used to put boards over the ditches and make "houses" out of them. Today, I wonder that we never encountered snakes or spiders in those very dark places. Anyway, after the building site was abandoned, black locust trees grew tall, thin, and prolific. Their leaves are light green on top and silver underneath.
That night of the summer storm, we sat on the kitchen table and watched a strong wind blow those slender tree trunks into a 90 degree angle, the leaves turning their back to the pouring rain and wind. All we could see of the trees were the leaves, forming a carpet above the bent trunks. The silver leaves gleamed in the rain and flashes of lightening as the wind ruffled through them. I remember Dad saying how beautiful nature is, even in times of storm. His words impressed on my young mind and heart that even in storms, there's beauty.
Since school begins next week, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to join Bob and Sheila in a lovely morning walk, but in just 2 days, I've discovered how good it is to exercise the body, communicate with nature, bond with my husband and dog, and cherish fond childhood memories. An altogether lovely way to start the day.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Two Sides of the Coin
I was talking to my friend in Pennsylvania earlier today. We were reminiscing about our childhood. It reminded me that a few days ago, Dr. Keith Ablow, who has a segment on FOX News about "Normal or Nuts" stated emphatically that anyone who frequently uses nicknames is nuts.
If I could speak to Dr. Ablow, I would remind him there are two sides to every coin and each side is as valuable as the other.
What brought the whole thing to mind is my dad. When he came home from work in the evening, kids of all sizes used to stand on the street corner, waiting to play his game. He had the habit of giving them names that weren't theirs. He'd usually begin with "Hi, Pete, Hi, George," and go from there. Pete and George weren't particularly popular names in their generation. They loved it. As I said, they'd stand on the street corner, waiting for him to come home and greet them with an unusual name as he drove past them.
They began to respond in the same way, calling him crazy names and waving happily as he drove by. It was their game. Dad often said he couldn't remember their names and that's why he did it. He wasn't trying to put them down or make himself feel superior. He simply couldn't remember all their names. Who can blame him? I once counted 69 kids under the age of 21 on that 3 block long street!
It is true the person Dr. Ablow was discussing even used nicknames for people in authority. That is a bit extreme, I'll admit. But, in my family, nicknames or terms of endearment are to express affection and even
respect for someone's position of authority. Dr. Ablow, may I remind you there are 2 sides to every coin?
If I could speak to Dr. Ablow, I would remind him there are two sides to every coin and each side is as valuable as the other.
What brought the whole thing to mind is my dad. When he came home from work in the evening, kids of all sizes used to stand on the street corner, waiting to play his game. He had the habit of giving them names that weren't theirs. He'd usually begin with "Hi, Pete, Hi, George," and go from there. Pete and George weren't particularly popular names in their generation. They loved it. As I said, they'd stand on the street corner, waiting for him to come home and greet them with an unusual name as he drove past them.
They began to respond in the same way, calling him crazy names and waving happily as he drove by. It was their game. Dad often said he couldn't remember their names and that's why he did it. He wasn't trying to put them down or make himself feel superior. He simply couldn't remember all their names. Who can blame him? I once counted 69 kids under the age of 21 on that 3 block long street!
It is true the person Dr. Ablow was discussing even used nicknames for people in authority. That is a bit extreme, I'll admit. But, in my family, nicknames or terms of endearment are to express affection and even
respect for someone's position of authority. Dr. Ablow, may I remind you there are 2 sides to every coin?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Too much?
Don't know if it's kosher to post more than once in a day, but I happened to remember that today would have been my parents' 81st anniversary. Mother was 24, and Dad, 22, when they eloped. They were married more than 55 years when Dad died on December 7, 1988.
Marrying in 1933 must have taken a lot of courage. It was in the middle of the Great Depression and neither came from riches. Mother often told me that Dad was making $5 a week by the time my oldest brother was born in November, 1934. Dad drove a school bus for a living and Mother was a homemaker.
She was proud of their ability to not only live as a family of 3 on that tiny amount (by today's standards), but they were also putting money into a savings account. How did they do it?
In some ways, we've come so far, and in some ways, we could learn valuable lessons from those who endured those hard times, not only with courage, but with dignity and nobility. It makes me proud to call them my parents.
Marrying in 1933 must have taken a lot of courage. It was in the middle of the Great Depression and neither came from riches. Mother often told me that Dad was making $5 a week by the time my oldest brother was born in November, 1934. Dad drove a school bus for a living and Mother was a homemaker.
She was proud of their ability to not only live as a family of 3 on that tiny amount (by today's standards), but they were also putting money into a savings account. How did they do it?
In some ways, we've come so far, and in some ways, we could learn valuable lessons from those who endured those hard times, not only with courage, but with dignity and nobility. It makes me proud to call them my parents.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
What Century Am I In?
God bless our grandchildren who can figure out these crazy machines. I'm still in the late 1800's, I think. There are reasons for that. For one thing, we didn't have a TV in our home until I was 19 and a sophomore in college. Mom always said they were too expensive. When they got down to 50 cents, she'd buy one.
She made that comment to my brother one day and he shot back with, "I know where you can get one for $6.25." His mother-in-law had a black white tube type. Every 6 months, the vertical tube would blow and she'd have to buy a new one. She got tired of that and left the black and white in the repair shop and upgraded to a new one. Mom and Dad bought that one, dragged it home to Pittsburgh from Allentown and for a year or two, that was the TV. Until then, while all my friends were watching the classics that had been made into movies on TV or at the movies, my nose was buried in a book.
Come to think of it, I wasn't allowed to attend movies until I was 19, either.
Burying my nose in a book was about my only entertainment. I was reading 300 page books by the time I was 10. No genius, mind you. Just looking for a little excitement. Like Debbie Macomber, stories were always running through my mind. Stories of Prince Charming and Damsels in Distress. My favorite author at the time was Grace Livingston Hill-another reason I feel like I'm at least a century behind. Most of her books were written in the very late 1800's or the early 1900's. Her heroines were so pure and so long suffering in their purity, I spent most of my teens daydreaming of my Prince Charming who would rescue my from a world I found vastly different..
Because I was the youngest of 3, and my brothers were on their own by the time I reached my teens, any socializing my parents included me. Socializing was done in someone's home. People older than me who'd been in their homes for a long time. In those days, the living rooms (called parlors) were quite small. There was no TV, or it was off while we visited. Instead, we sat around a large dining room table, ate, and talked. Looking back, almost every home we went to had a dining room that was the largest room in the house.
However, here I am in the 21st century, still believing love conquers all, bonding is done person-to-person, and food is a large part of that bonding process. Rip Van Winkle's got nothing on me.
Enter granddaughter. She called last night, in spite of being very sick. I mentioned if she was better, she could come down and help her goofy grandma figure out these crazy social network things that have made me crazy for the past week. (Until then, I refused to participate)
Part of my problem with my blog site (http://underthenettlestree.blogspot.com) is that I was putting the @ in. Wrong. Can't do that. Then, too, I had not one, but three sites, all with the same name. How I did that is beyond me. Tonight, she hopes to get me on Pinterest and give me a tutorial on it.
Guess it's time to get rid of my bustle and high top, button up shoes.
She made that comment to my brother one day and he shot back with, "I know where you can get one for $6.25." His mother-in-law had a black white tube type. Every 6 months, the vertical tube would blow and she'd have to buy a new one. She got tired of that and left the black and white in the repair shop and upgraded to a new one. Mom and Dad bought that one, dragged it home to Pittsburgh from Allentown and for a year or two, that was the TV. Until then, while all my friends were watching the classics that had been made into movies on TV or at the movies, my nose was buried in a book.
Come to think of it, I wasn't allowed to attend movies until I was 19, either.
Burying my nose in a book was about my only entertainment. I was reading 300 page books by the time I was 10. No genius, mind you. Just looking for a little excitement. Like Debbie Macomber, stories were always running through my mind. Stories of Prince Charming and Damsels in Distress. My favorite author at the time was Grace Livingston Hill-another reason I feel like I'm at least a century behind. Most of her books were written in the very late 1800's or the early 1900's. Her heroines were so pure and so long suffering in their purity, I spent most of my teens daydreaming of my Prince Charming who would rescue my from a world I found vastly different..
Because I was the youngest of 3, and my brothers were on their own by the time I reached my teens, any socializing my parents included me. Socializing was done in someone's home. People older than me who'd been in their homes for a long time. In those days, the living rooms (called parlors) were quite small. There was no TV, or it was off while we visited. Instead, we sat around a large dining room table, ate, and talked. Looking back, almost every home we went to had a dining room that was the largest room in the house.
However, here I am in the 21st century, still believing love conquers all, bonding is done person-to-person, and food is a large part of that bonding process. Rip Van Winkle's got nothing on me.
Enter granddaughter. She called last night, in spite of being very sick. I mentioned if she was better, she could come down and help her goofy grandma figure out these crazy social network things that have made me crazy for the past week. (Until then, I refused to participate)
Part of my problem with my blog site (http://underthenettlestree.blogspot.com) is that I was putting the @ in. Wrong. Can't do that. Then, too, I had not one, but three sites, all with the same name. How I did that is beyond me. Tonight, she hopes to get me on Pinterest and give me a tutorial on it.
Guess it's time to get rid of my bustle and high top, button up shoes.
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