It is only a test. I’m trying out Open Live Writer, an offline blog editor. There are times when I travel that I don’t have internet access, but I’d still like to record my thoughts for later publication. So I’m giving this software a shot. The idea is to have things ready to go and then once I find an internet hotspot, the post will appear on my blog pretty much instantaneously.
It looks like I can schedule a post for a later, so I’m hoping this will pop up on the appointed day. Looks like I can’t specify a time for the post to fly over to my live blog. Guess we’ll see when it deigns to show up.
I’m hoping I can format pictures here.
As nearly as I can tell, I was able to pick a size, and adjust the placement of this image.
We’ll see. Trust, but verify is my motto when it comes to technology.
I also thought I’d try out different font sizes. This is Georgia 10.8, which I think will be a little small.
12 point is more readable. If this thing is WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get) I’ll reset the default to 12.
So I’m cautiously optimistic that this will work. Boy, if anyone had told me a decade ago that I’d be as adventurous with technology as I’ve become, I’d have laughed myself silly. It’s been a steep learning curve for me, but I’m trying.
Sometimes, I’m very trying…but that’s another post!
Lots of people make Bucket Lists. They like to dream about the ultimate adventure, things that are "must do's" before they leave this planet. However, I'm leaning a different direction.
I have an Un-Bucket List. Here are 5 things I would NEVER do. See if you agree.
Run with the bulls. It's never a good idea to tease animals. They only have few ways to let you know they don't like it and none of them are good for you. Call me crazy, but there's a reason bulls are kept in sturdy pens. These are big, dangerous quadrupeds with pointy horns. Confine them in narrow streets with thousands of people screaming around them, then encourage them to chase you, and you've got a recipe for disaster on your hands. 12 people were gored just last summer at the San Fermin festival. If I wrote a character who tried something like this, they'd be TSTL (Too Stupid To Live).
Swim with the sharks.(See Run with the Bulls for an explanation of why it's unwise to tick off animals for sport) Of course, sharks don't have pointy horns. They have teeth. Bunches of them! In rows, for pity's sake! There are adventure dives offered that put you in a cage while surrounded by great whites. Are you kidding me? What has to break inside you to need that much adrenaline?
'Nuff said.
3. Watch the movie Titanic. (Surprised you with that one, didn't I? I heard your collective gasp.) I have never and will never watch this movie because I know how it ends. The boat sinks. No matter what happens before that, I know the story will not end well. (This tendency to reject unhappy endings has also caused me to send a Nicholas Sparks novel splatting against the nearest wall.)
4. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane. I'm not afraid of heights. I enjoy flying, especially in a small plane like a Cessna. My DH is a private pilot and we used to have a 182 which we flew all over the western US. We saw things no one else sees--a long scrape in the earth ending with a mound which we think must have been a meteorite, and once, a perfectly heart-shaped lake high in the Cascades with no roads leading in or out. I love small planes. But I don't enjoy the feeling of impending destruction. Why anyone would want to parachute out of one that is working properly escapes me completely.
5. Stop reading. Since kindergarten I've been in love with the written word. It's been said that we read to know we are not alone. A life lived with only my own ideas, thoughts, and feelings bouncing around my head would be dreary indeed. Books turned into movies aren't the same. Any screen-based entertainment just sort of washes over me. But a book! I live it. Some of them become part of me forever. It's a private conversation between me and the author. I treasure that sort of deep sharing. If someday, God forbid, I lose my sight, I'll turn to books on tape.
OK, these are my "never will I ever's." What's on YOUR un-bucket list?
I'm usually a little slow on the uptake when it comes to popular culture. So this year when I stumbled upon Pentatonix, I couldn't wait to tell my kids about this wonderful acapella group. My daughters rolled their eyes and said, "Yeah, Mom, we've known about them for ages. They're great, right?"
They really are. So on the off chance that you're as culturally backward as me, I thought I'd share my belated discovery with you. Here's the link to O, Come All Ye Faithful, in case you're reading this blog by email and won't get the embedded You-Tube vid. It's so worth a few minutes of your busy holiday.
Yes, I confess. I am the Anti-Shopper, which makes Christmas especially trying. But each year I step up and set out in search of the perfect gifts for my family.
And each year it seems there's one particular toy on every kid's Christmas wishlist. This time, it's a Hatchimal. From what I understand about them, the child gets to watch the mystery toy peck its way out of the egg it comes in, and then the kid is supposed to interact with the pet so that new levels of engagement are "unlocked." Eventually, the toy can be taught to dance and talk. You're cautioned not to throw out the instructions in case you want to reboot the Hatchimal to an earlier level.
Sounds like a lot of work for a fuzzy little do-dad to me.
Of course, the holiday hoopla was just as frantic when my kids were young. Back in the 80s, the be-all, end-all toy was a Cabbage Patch Kid. And they were pretty hard to snag. The toy store in our mall sold out their entire shipment in just a few minutes.
I should know. About a week before Christmas, I'd stood in line trying to get one for #1 Daughter. But even though I was too late to buy a doll that day, I thought to ask if I could have a rain check. Surprisingly enough, the store manager agreed to give me one and took down my contact info in case they received any more before Christmas.
A call came on December 24th.
"The item you requested is in," said the mysterious voice on the phone.
I'd almost forgotten about it. "Oh, you mean the Cabbage Patch D--"
"Shhh!" the voice hissed. "Don't say it out loud."
"OK." It all sounded way more cloak-and-dagger than this suburban housewife was used to. Nervously, I twined my fingers in the corkscrew phone cord. (Yes, Virginia, phones had cords back then!) "When can I--"
"Come to the store within the next 30 minutes or we'll call the next name on the list."
"I'm putting on my coat right now," I promised.
"When you get here, do not tell anyone what you have come for. Just ask for Irene."
"O--" The line went dead. "K," I said to the dial tone.
I hurried to the mall and, feeling as if I should have worn a trench coat instead of my parka, I presented myself at the toy store with ten minutes to spare. Irene came out from the back room with the same haunted expression on her face you see on mailmen or UPS drivers this time of year.
"With hair or without?" she asked cryptically.
"With." I blinked in astonishment. Apparently, I was to take the doll sight unseen.
"I'll bring it out while you pay the cashier," Irene said. "Under no circumstances should you take it out of the bag until you reach your car."
She wasn't kidding. There had been near riots over the silly things the week before.
So, hugging the parcel to my chest, I made my way back to my car and didn't even open it there. I waited until I was safe in my house. It was then that I discovered...
It was a boy!
I'd been expecting a pig-tailed or curly-headed girl. Instead, we got Clinton Bobbie. (The name was on his birth certificate and "adoption" papers.)
#1 Daughter was delighted. She'd always been a bit of a tomboy anyway so a boy doll was perfect. Of course, he had no batteries, no software. All the hugging and petting in the world wouldn't "unlock new levels of interaction."
But that was ok. Clinton Bobbie ran on imagination. He didn't need to learn to talk or dance. #1 Daughter did that for him. They had plenty of adventures together without the benefit of technology.
Come to think of it, the present they talk about most often is the year I gave them each a "Discovery Box." I filled a shoebox with odds and ends--a set of magnets, a book about identifying birds, a disposable camera, a magnifying glass, a small notebook to record their discoveries, a fresh set of colored pencils, scotch tape, construction paper, and scissors. There may have been more stuff, but those are the things I remember.
They loved those boxes.
Long after battery-operated toys died, they found new ways to play with the things in their Discovery Box. Imagination and curiosity really is the most powerful force in a kid's arsenal.
So now it's your turn to share. What mega-toy was your White Whale? Were you able to capture it or did it elude you? Is there a gift you received as a child that stands out in your memory?
Let me start with a little disclaimer. If you do not celebrate Christmas, I want you to know I mean you no disrespect with this post. But since I'm a Christian, this time of year is important to me. So that's why I'm sharing it.
Most years, our choir sings a cantata for Christmas, a nice neat collection of pre-assembled anthems by one arranger connected by narration. This year our director decided he wanted to pick songs from lots of different composers. He collared me after practice one night. Our conversation went like this:
Director: "Since we've got a published author here, why should I waste time trying to find readings to insert between pieces? You can write something, can't you?"
Me: "Well, yeah..."
The Christmas story has been told & retold countless times, but I've been itching to try my hand. However, when this opportunity presented itself, I had a small attack of the "oh-golly-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into's" until I figured out that I just needed to decide on a point of view character. If I told the Christmas story from behind one set of eyes, that would make it easier.
I settled on Mary. As a Protestant, I feel we often short-change her. She had arguably the deepest relationship with God recorded in scripture. Strong, faithful & humble, she must have been a remarkable person.
So here's my Christmas cantata, complete with links to the musical pieces we'll be doing on Sunday. Hope you enjoy...
Mary's Song
Mary: “Mary
treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
That’s what
my friend Luke wrote. What he couldn’t
capture with his words was the longing I felt as we waited for the Messiah to
come. The whole world groaned under the weight of Rome. But we were taught that
all things would be set to rights when Messiah came. He would reign, the rabbis
promised us, in the spirit of David and his kingdom would cover the earth with
righteousness.
So we prayed. We hoped. We waited.
And God
answered our prayers…in a way I never could have expected.
Song: Oh,
Come, Emmanuel
Mary: Anyone who has ever wished to see an angel has
never met one. They are fierce and terrible... and beautiful beyond belief. When one appeared to me in a blinding flash
of light, I could do nothing but fall to my knees. But even more than his appearance, his words
frightened me. I was favored, the angel said. All generations would call me
blessed.
For God
intended to use me, the lowest of his handmaids, to bring His Son into the
world.
Mary:
Jesus was with God when the earth and the stars were called into
existence from nothing. It is his voice in the thunder, his power in the
rolling sea. He made the world and everything in it. Yet in all his creation
there was found no room for him.
He ought to
have been born in a palace, swaddled in silk, and warmed by a fire. But God’s
ways are not ours. Instead he came into this world in a stable. Straw was his
bed. The ox and ass lent their warmth and sweetened the air with their breath.
I remember
he cried softly that night. So I reached down…and held God…in my trembling
hands.
Song: Away in a Manger
Mary: I knew
from the beginning that Jesus was no ordinary child. He belonged to the ages,
to all peoples and races. He was chosen as our ransom, the very Lamb of God,
slain from the foundation of the world. Still, my heart hoped he would be just mine for a season.
Instead,
that first night, shepherds came in a rush, babbling of signs and wonders. The
host of heaven could not keep silent. The morning stars, who sang at creation,
cried aloud that the salvation of God had come to earth.
And the
shepherds had come to see my child, my Holy One, with their own eyes.
Song: The First Noel (Be ready to click to skip thru the ad before this piece.)
Mary: Except for those months when I
carried him beneath my heart, Jesus was never only mine. Others sought the true
king as well. In a distant land, they studied the heavens. They pored over
scraps of prophecy. And then a star led them as they traveled far.
Over sand
dune and wadi, past ziggurat and temple, their caravan came. The horses and
camels were swift to obey their desert-born masters and faithfully bore those
seekers to worship at my son’s feet. Unlike
the shepherds who came with empty hands, these visitors brought worthy
gifts—gold, as befitted a king; frankincense, to honor Jesus as their high
priest; and—
A fist
closed around my heart when they revealed their last gift. It was myrrh. The spice used to anoint the dead.
Song : Carol for
Seekers
Mary: He was
my son. My heart. My beloved.
He is the
Lion of Judah, and King of kings. He is the rose of Sharon, the lily of the
valley. He is the love of God made flesh, the willing victim that we might be
freed. He is that fragrant essence that lifts the heart of
man in the cool of the evening.
If I close
my eyes, I can still smell the sweet perfume of grace.
Song: Cold December
Flies Away
Mary: And so He came. Against all expectation.
Against all reason. He left heaven,
forsaking that realm of perpetual light to take on our darkness. He gave up the
power of God and clothed himself with our dusty weakness. He was willing to do whatever was necessary
to redeem his poor, lost creation.
Even to die
in our place.
You see, He
couldn’t bear to see us banished from Eden again. He wants us to be with him,
not only in this world, but in the one to come. Once death closes my eyes, I
believe I will open them again to see only light.
Jesus was
born. Not only for Israel. Not simply for eager shepherds or wise seekers. He
came for us all.
Let Him show
you his love. Let Him surround you with his mercy. Let Him be born in your
heart.
Hey! Welcome to my pixelated home. I'm glad you dropped by. Writing is kind of a solitary activity, so the friends I make on line are special
to me. Let me pour you a cup of cyber-coffee and we’ll put our feet up for a
while.
People often ask me if I always wanted to be an author. The truth is that while I’ve been an avid reader since kindergarten, I can’t say I always wanted to be a writer. Unless, of course, you count the MONKEES fan
fiction I wrote when I was in 5th grade! (Be honest. Wasn't that little Davy Jones just the cutest thing!)
So instead of writing all my life, I’ve been—hold on!—a
professional opera singer, a teacher, a choir director, a homeschooling mom, a
Realtor, a banker and now finally a published author. Fairly late in life
(read: after our kids were grown) I had the freedom to explore what the
storytelling voices in my head were trying to say. I’ve loved learning the
writer’s craft, but it’s an ocean of stuff. I feel like I’m still just dipping
my toes in the shallow end.
2 To be honest, I startedwriting The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club
because I was homesick. We were living in Boston at the time and, while New England is a
fascinating part of the country, I really missed the Midwest, and especially
the Ozarks (a lovely bit of Americana and one of the prettiest places you could wish to call home). So
I wrote about a heroine coming back to fictional Coldwater Cove.
But unlike me,
she wasn’t happy about returning to flyover country. She was there because
she’d been disgraced and had nowhere else to go. Then, the writing voices in my head
encouraged me to pair her with a wounded warrior, a tough guy who hasn’t let
the fact that he’s missing part of his leg change who he is at his core.
I wanted to write the kind of books I love to read--ones where a reader can expect a few laughs, a few tears,
and a guaranteed happy ending every time.
My own life experiences definitely pop up in my writing. I couldn’t make up some of the
silly things that happen in my books! I’m not saying my dad is exactly like
George Evans (my heroine’s father) but he does have a running war with the
squirrels in his yard, and likes to pinch a penny till it squeals.
I love exploring characters who’ve lived on the edge and have something deep to share about the human spirit.
That’s why I really enjoyed writing Jake Tyler, the hero in The Coldwater WarmHearts Club. In addition to having lost a leg from just below the knee, Jake’s dealing
with PTSD, like many of our returning vets. He does his best to hide the
moments when his time in Helmand province intrudes into his life in Coldwater
Cove, but sometimes, he finds himself back in the land of the Khyber Pass.
Check out this exclusive excerpt to see what I mean. Here's the set up:
Jake takes Lacy on what he hopes
will be a romantic boat ride on Lake Jewel. Unfortunately, the rowboat sinks
and they’re forced to swim. As he nears the shore, Jake tries to stand, but his prosthetic leg gets stuck in the sandy bottom and he has to take it off. Then
to make matters worse, his PTSD rears its ugly head at the worst possible time…
***
Jake side-stroked toward shore. It was slow going. A pair of jays scolded overhead,
their cries unnaturally loud. To his hyper-vigilant ears, it sounded like a
warning. Like the high-pitched ululations of Afghani women . . .
He focused on the flat rock outcropping at the
water’s edge where Lacy had already climbed out. Flecks of mica glinted in the sunlight. It was
almost as if the rock was shining a searchlight on him, the better to
illuminate his humiliation. He didn’t want Lacy to see him like this. He
couldn’t let anyone see him. He wouldn’t—
“Get
down, Tyler,” his commanding officer whispered fiercely. He yanked Jake down so
roughly, he landed hard on his knees and then went flat on his belly.
He
and the lieutenant had trekked for three klicks, forded the Helmand River in
the dark, and now were humping it up a desolate hill. The plan for this recon
mission was to use the night-vision gear in their packs to get a look at
activity in the village over the ridge. Taliban fighters were suspected of
hiding within the civilian population there, but Jake’s CO needed accurate
intel before sending in the whole unit to flush out the bad guys.
“There’s
a sniper out there,” his CO said.
There
was no moon, but Jake had never seen a night sky so filled with stars. They
stretched in brittle pinpricks from one horizon to the other.
“A
sniper can’t hit what he can’t see,” Jake whispered back.
“This
one can. If you break over that ridge standing up, you make a void in the stars
behind you. It’s a bullet magnet. That’s how Stensrud bought it last month.”
So
Jake crawled. Slowly. Upward. Taking care not to make a void. Not to expose his
position by breaking over the ridge. Not to be seen.
Once
he reached the top, he rolled onto his back, clutching his weapon in one hand.
He couldn’t turn loose of it or he might not find it again. It was so dark.
Even the stars had gone dim. He—
“Jake?”
Someone
else was there. Someone who was patting his cheeks. Whoever they were, they
were sitting up beside him. Breaking over the ridge.
“No! There’s a sniper.
Get down,” Jake said as loudly as he dared.
In
the last firefight his unit had been in, his buddy Henderson had been right by
his side when he took a bullet. Jake couldn’t bear to watch the light go out of
another pair of eyes. Not if he could help it.
Even
though he couldn’t see this new jarhead clearly, Jake grabbed him and yanked
him down hard beside him before the enemy sniper could pick him off.
“Jake!”
He blinked slowly and
found himself lying flat on his back on the rock outcropping at the lake’s
edge. Chest heaving, he gazed up at the canopy of a forest near to bursting
into full leaf.
He wasn’t downrange in
Afghanistan. It wasn’t night and that darn sure wasn’t another jarhead he’d
manhandled into a position of supposed safety on the rock beside him.
“Lacy,” he
whispered.
Jake realized that
instead of his weapon, he held his prosthetic leg in his left hand. He’d had a
flashback. Zoned out for a bit.
In front of her.
His belly spiraled
downward. He’d rather she had walked in and caught him naked in a frigid
shower. Cold water does a favor to no man, but it would have been preferable to
this.
She’d caught his soul
naked. She’d seen him at his most
vulnerable. His weakness had broken over the ridge.
*** So what do you think? Want to know more about Jake Tyler?
Discover The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club at these fine stores!
from Lexi Eddings... I was flipping channels the other day and ran across an ad for a show called OBJECTified. I haven't watched it, but the premise seems to be that the things we treasure reveal something about us. Makes sense.
So, I thought I'd share one of my favorite pieces of furniture and let you decide what it tells you about me. When most people think about a cozy reading place,
they picture a window seat laden with pillows or an overstuffed recliner. I
think about my old oak rocker.
I know, I know, it doesn’t look very comfortable.
But let me assure you the memories attached to that straight-backed piece make
it heavenly. You see, I rocked my two babies in that chair. When I close my
eyes and listen to the homely creaking, I can almost feel their dear little
heads resting on my shoulder. I smell their sweet newness, their little bodies
totally limp in innocent slumber.
Then when my girls grew older, we’d read aloud
together in the chair. How we laughed over Frog
and Toad or the silly adventures of Winnie
the Pooh. Then later, when they were too big for both of them to fit on my
lap, I’d still be reading from the chair while they sprawled on the floor,
chins resting on their palms. We wept together through Where the Red Fern Grows and fell in love with the world of Anne of Green Gables.
So it went through their growing up. We dove into
the world of “kiddie lit” together and came out with a wealth of shared
experience. We developed a private lexicon based on our readings, a way of
speaking in code using favorite quotes.
And all of it centered around that old rocker.
Now they’re grown with their own busy lives. But
when I sit down to read by myself, I never feel lonely. The memory of those
sweet, simple pleasures keeps me company and I know when they read by
themselves, they still feel the connection we forged in those early days.
When you read, you’re never really alone. So now, it's YOUR turn. What's your favorite piece of furniture and why?
My mom has decided to do the full blown Thanksgiving meal with turkey and all the trimmings on Friday since we have so many travelers arriving late Thursday. That leaves me to do a meal for 13 on Thursday night.
I don't want to do anything too heavy. After all, we'll all be in a turkey coma the next day. It's important to pace ourselves. To make things even more interesting, I have at least one vegan coming so I need to have a good option for them.
At first, I considered doing two kinds of soup: a thick beef stew and a 15-bean soup. Add a tossed salad, some Grands biscuits, and a dessert and I'd be done.
But that didn't seem very festive. So now, I'm planning to offer number of choices and let people put together their own meal: a spiral-cut ham, some buffalo Swedish meatballs, sour cream & chive mashed potatoes, a fresh veggie tray, and a couple different kinds of bread.
Then for the vegans and anyone else who wants something unique, I found this recipe on the Minimalist Baker's website. It sounds worth trying to me. What do you think?
VEGAN THANKSGIVING WRAPS
Prep time
5
mins
Cook time
25
mins
Total time
30
mins
Healthy, hearty, 30-minute Vegan Thanksgiving
Wraps with roasted sweet potatoes, crispy chickpeas, and garlic-dill sauce,
tucked inside homemade Garlic Herb Flatbreads!
Author:Minimalist Baker
Recipe type:Entree
Cuisine:Vegan, Thanksgiving
Serves:4
Ingredients
SWEET POTATOES
·2 large sweet potatoes
(~300 g | organic when possible)
·1 Tbsp (15 ml) grape
seed oil
·1 tsp fresh thyme
·1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
·1/2 tsp sea salt
·optional:pinch cayenne pepper
CHICKPEAS
·1 15-ounce (425 g) can
chickpeas, rinsed, drained and thoroughly dried in a towel
·1 Tbsp (15 ml) grape
seed oil
·1 tsp fresh or dried
thyme
·Pinch ground cinnamon
·1 tsp ground cumin
·1/2 tsp smoked paprika
·scant 1/2 tsp sea salt
·optional: Healthy pinch each ground coriander + cardamom
2.Thoroughly wash and dry sweet potatoes, then
slice (skin on) into bite-sized rounds/pieces.
3.Add to a mixing bowl with grape seed oil, thyme,
cinnamon, sea salt and cayenne (optional). Toss to coat, then arrange in a
single layer on a baking sheet.
4.To the same mixing bowl, add rinsed, dried
chickpeas, and grape seed oil, thyme, cinnamon, cumin, paprika, sea salt, and
coriander + cardamom (optional).
5.Toss to coat, then arrange on baking sheet with
sweet potatoes where space permits. (Depending on size of baking sheet, you may
need to use a second to accommodate all potatoes and chickpeas).
6.Bake for a total of 25 minutes, flipping/stirring
once at the 15-minute mark to ensure even cooking. You'll know they're done
when the potatoes are fork tender, and the chickpeas are golden brown,
dehydrated, and slightly crispy. Remove from oven and set aside.
7.In the meantime, prepare toppings and dressing
(if using).
8.Once potatoes and chickpeas are finished baking,
wrap flatbreads in a damp towel and warm in the still warm oven for 1-2 minutes
(or in the microwave for 30 seconds) to soften and make more pliable.
9.To assemble, top each wrap with a portion of
sweet potatoes and chickpeas. Add desired toppings, such as dried cranberries,
pumpkin seeds, arugula, and Garlic-Dill Hummus Sauce (recipe link above).
10.Best when fresh, though
leftovers keep separately in the refrigerator up to 3 days.
So anyway, I'd love to get your take on this. Which menu do you think I should do? The competing soups or the ham/buffalo/vegan buffet?
Years ago, when the presidential candidate I was supporting didn't win, I got a phone call at oh:dark-thirty the morning after the election. It was my grandpa. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask how I was. He simply started singing in his gravelly voice "Happy Days are Here Again!"
My party was out and his was in.
The song was my grandpa's way of saying, in the immortal words of Dr. Beverly Hofstader, "Buck up, Sissy-pants!"
I swallowed my disappointment and congratulated him. My family has always been pretty diverse in our political views, but while the discussions were sometimes heated, we never let politics swamp the love we have for each other.
The truth of the matter is that we often agreed on basic values and goals for our country. We just had different ideas about how to get there.
I support the rights of those who feel they need to protest the outcome of the election. This is America. We started out as a rabble of seditionists and malcontents. Our system guarantees that we can say any silly thing we like.
What we can't do is assault people and break things. You lose me then. I stop listening because all I see is violence.
Besides it's not as if we are under the thumb of a distant king. We live in a democratic republic. If you don't like how things are done, you can work within the system to change things. And if there's one thing you can bank on in politics, it's that it's not a bullet train, always going forward. It's a pendulum. Over time, we swing from one extreme to the other, hoping to find the golden mean that makes the most people feel safe and happy.
I've been very upset by the way some folks have turned on family and friends over this election. One string of tweets showed up in my Twitterfeed from a woman who'd decided to cut her mother off from seeing her grandchildren because she didn't like the way her mom had voted.
Really? Disappointment over the outcome of an election is worth shredding your relationships with those who disagree with you? Might I suggest, as Oprah did, that you need to take a deep breath?
Our families, our friends and neighbors--these relationships are where we all live. Nothing that happens in Washington can impact our daily lives as much as these precious connections with others. My grandpa is gone now, but I still miss him dearly. In fact, even though I supported our president-elect, I can honestly say I would wish that the outcome of this election had been different...
...if it meant I could hear my grandpa sing again...
I am a fan of funny signs. I sort of collect them. So when I wrote The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club, I wanted to put an epigram, the verbal equivalent of a sign, at the beginning of each chapter. Here are a few of them, interspersed with some of my favorite funny church signs:
After
God created the heavens and the earth, He pronounced them good. Of course, He
made squirrels, too, but everyone’s allowed at least one mistake.
~ George Evans, terror of fluffy-tailed rodents everywhere
Mrs.
Chisholm is suffering from insomnia. She requests prayer and a recording of
Pastor Mark’s sermon.
~ Marjorie
Chubb, Captain of the Methodist Prayer Chain
The
Reverend Harold Hiney will be filling in for Pastor Mark for our midweek chapel
and the regular Sunday services. Our visiting speaker invites us to call him Pastor
Harold.
No
one calls him Harry.
~ from the
Methodist Church bulletin
The
sermon topic next Sunday will be “Is Hell Real?”
Come
early and listen to our choir practice!
~ from a
Methodist Church bulletin
Now it's YOUR turn. Have you seen any funny signs lately?
I've lived in some pretty spectacular places. In 2002, our home was perched on the side of a mountain near Park City, UT when the Olympics came to town. We've lived in bustling downtown Seattle, arguably the most caffeinated city in the world, not to mention funky, trendy and always filled with people worth watching. For a while we called a log house in the shadow of the Big Horns of Wyoming home. Most recently, we spent seven years in New England--site of the most glorious autumns on the planet.
When we moved to the Ozarks in 2014, in some ways it felt like a retreat from the world. (Given what's happening in the world in general and our politics in particular, maybe that isn't such a bad thing!) But I figured once we settled into this sleepy little backwater, we were done with beautiful views and adventures.
I was wrong.
Welcome to the North Fork of the White River. It's only a few miles from my house. While it looks lazy enough in this picture, there are a number of stretches of rapids along this twisting waterway. Kayakers have to be careful around a few small falls.
The river is absolutely pristine. Since it's spring-fed, the water is cold, even on the hottest summer days. You can see straight to the bottom of its rocky bed. Trout leap in the shallows and birdsong fills the air.
Sometimes the river banks rise in rocky cliffs.
This one towers about 30 feet above the water's surface.
My DH went kayaking on the river with a buddy recently and wanted to share some of what he'd seen with me. So we drove to a few spots along the river where we could walk down to access points. But there's so much you can't see unless you're on the water.
You see, I didn't kayak with him because I'm on supplemental oxygen for a lung condition and my concentrator doesn't respond well to getting wet. But just the little I've seen of the White River makes me want to find a work-around. If I can figure out something, I hope to splash into that cold water next spring.
Anybody know of O2 equipment that doesn't mind getting wet?
