That’s Life

Yes, today I’m staying home. The past few days have been hard. My stepmother was murdered in her own home.

The facts are not important, except that a 70-year-old woman was vulnerable because of her age and because she lived alone in an inner city neighborhood.

Is this what we all come to as we grow older and lose our companions? Do we all have fear to look forward to? Must older people move from the homes where they’ve lived for decades simply to find safety in gated communities or residential homes (which usually include only one room, a private bathroom, and perhaps a kitchenette)? Just to be safe from the crimes that are aimed at the vulnerably elderly or disabled or those who have no obvious protection in this world where the consequences seldom deter the commission of horrid and violent deeds?

Where is God in this scenario?

I believe God is there, even during those horrible acts which shock and sadden us and strike fear into our hearts. He is there watching, sad at the way some people use the free will he gifted to us all. He does not allow these things to happen, but he does allow us to use our free will in whatever way we choose. I don’t blame God, nor do I feel he has let us down. I simply feel a bit of comfort knowing he is there for the victims, pulling them into his metaphorical arms and embracing them with his all-loving presence.

Back in the early 1990’s my mother in law was still living in a home she had shared with her husband until his death in the mid-1970’s. They bought the home in 1963, their dream home in a modest middle class neighborhood. Then in the 1980’s the neighborhood began to change. Some of her neighbors passed away, and the the owners of the homes did not seem to care enough to keep their houses in good repair. I remember that among the new people who moved into the neighborhood, there was one family who cared and watched over her as much as they could. The father in the family was a fireman, and he told us that he had come to check on Jim’s mother several times when she called him afraid and yet hating to have to call upon someone. The culminating events that led to us encouraging her to move into a residential village for elderly persons was when not once,  but twice, gunshots hit her house. Though she didn’t want us to worry and didn’t say anything about these events, the evidence was clear in the picture window in her dining room… where she sat to eat her meals daily. It was a sad day when Jim and his brother and wife and I gathered to help move her into a secure home. The home was nice, the nicest around, but still, it was a substitute for a home she owned, a home where she could have children and grandchildren visit and stay overnight, a home where she could cook her own meals, a home where she could enjoy having friends over for cards or just to visit.

Now with the tragic and senseless death of my stepmother I feel a bit of inner rage. The shock is gone. An underlying sense of sadness is settling into my soul. But at this moment in my personal cycle of grief is a rage. I want to take those three teenagers (yes, 15 and 16 yr olds) who broke into her house and I want to turn back the clock and find a way to shake some sense into them. I want to teach them the preciousness of life. I want to teach them respect for the elderly. I want to teach them to love others as God loves them. I’m so angry. I’m so sad.

I loved Pirkko, and only the knowledge that she loved God and now is at peace will get me through this grief.

Everyone has a passion, even if it’s only to avoid having one. At the moment, my huge passion is quilting. After moving to Rison and looking around (not very well, evidently) for a quilting guild or group, I finally found not one… but two!

Last week I joined one of them, and I plan to visit the other one at their next meeting. I’m happy.

What I’m learning very quickly since setting up my sewing machine this past week is that I am not a very good quilter. I do much better with hand-piecing. For some reason my machine piecing just doesn’t look that great lately. (Maybe I just have to get back into practice.) I’ve checked my seams for the appropriate size. I’ve read and re-read directions for certain blocks. I’ve said little prayers. And still my latest block does not work. The sizes of the pieces are off, even though I’ve read and re-read and checked and re-checked.

Oh, well, I’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, I’m going to post some pictures of past work and some still unfinished UFO’s. 

This first quilt is my first finished quilt, a log cabin quilt that I pieced while we lived in Wilson. It’s paper-pieced, and I paid $30 to have it machine quilted. Since I hadn’t provided any binding, the machine quilter simply hemmed the edges. I was going to bind it properly, but before I could do that, my son Billy came to visit and begged me to give it to him. Who can resist a child, even a grown child?

I’m in the process of hand-quilting the following baby quilt. I started it about 18 years ago when one of my daughters was pregnant. Now 15 grandchildren later, it still isn’t finished. And all of the grandchildren are too old for a baby quilt. Oh, well, I consider this a huge learning project.

The following two photos are of blocks are made about a year ago when I was smitten with the 30’s fabrics. They reside on my design board, since I can’t decide on a layout.

And the last photo is of my honeycomb quilt. It’s a works in progress, and if God is kind, I’ll live long enough to finish it. It’s hand-pieced with one-inch hexagon pieces. 

Thanks for indulging me this little bit of whimsey. I guess this is my way of saying I hope to finish these UFO’s, as well as complete some new projects this year. With the inspiration and encouragement of the quilting guild, I might make it.

Some mornings five a.m. is as long as I can stay in bed. I have the soul of a 25 year old but the bladder of a 62 year old. Once that deep sleep is disturbed, there is nothing to do except get up. My mind slowly begins to function, and I can’t help but think of all there is to accomplish in the coming day. With conscious thought comes that wide awake state where I can lie there in bed only so long before I begin to squirm and stretch and by then, sleep is out of the question. So I am up.

What a beautiful Christmas eve we spent!

We had a Christmas eve service at church at five in the afternoon (early so families could come and then have the whole evening with each other afterwards). It was a brief service. We sang no hymns nor did we recite any liturgies. We simply came together to hear the Christmas story read by the pastor (my dh Jim) and then have communion. The church was decorated so beautifully, and this evening service just lent that special soft lighting of candles and tree lights which made everything special. During communion a trio of wonderful musicians played and sang: a pianist, a preteen violinist, and a vocalist. I was so touched, my tears started almost the moment my husband said his first words of welcome.

Sitting there amidst these most loving people I just began to weep. Not only the love and joy and unspoken embracing of a kinship of us all touched me, but the reason we were there. I’m not a very demonstrative person when it comes to my religion. I’m a private person with some things. My relationship with God is one of those things. I don’t often talk of it. I don’t often demonstrate it in more than quiet little ways. But I felt such a powerful one-ship with God and with all of those wonderful people all around me that I just wept from being so emotionally moved.

After communion and the dismissing with a blessing, the pastor (my husband of 42 years) moved among everyone with words of love and rejoicing and that special bonding of pastor and parishioners. The whole evening was so beautiful. And even the fact that he left his lapel mic open (forgot to turn it off) and stepped outside in front of the church to see everyone away to their homes… and his voice still echoed in the sanctuary with each word of farewell or soft teasing to a child about Santa or special words to someone who needed them… that only made those of us still exiting the sanctuary smile and chuckle. The feeling of family prevailed. For we are all of the same family. The family of God.

These thoughts are the ones that kept me from sleeping this morning. Nothing huge or no looming list of things to get done today. Just simple joy relived through thought… through remembrance.

May God bless you.

(As he has blessed me.)

Is it normal for kittens (about 5-6 months old) to chew on everything, as puppies do? I’m frustrated! Our kitten Max has found weaknesses in wallboard near the baseboard in the den and hall, and he has dug it loose and hidden the little piece/pieces in his “house.” It’s like he gets wild every few hours and runs crazily through the house. If there is a seam on wallpaper that has curled, it’s fodder for his mischievous chewing. Obviously I can’t watch him every moment, and I’m beginning to wonder if he will outgrow this destructive tendency. I’m almost ready to toss him out into the elements and make him an outdoors pet. (Not really, but I AM frustrated.)

Only a few days until we go on vacation (yes, with both cats in tow), and as always I’m looking forward with mixed emotions. I love seeing my children and grandchildren and friends, but I love staying home, too. The trip will be long this time, since we’re another hour farther than we were last year. My idea of fun is not being trapped in a car with two cats for four or four and a half hours.

I’ve been reading You: Staying Young: The Owner’s Manual for Extending Your Warranty by Michael F Roizen and Mehmet C. Oz. Everything I’m reading makes good sense. I’d love to extend my warranty, and you can bet that I’ll be trying to apply many of the things learned in this informative and inspirational book. I’d recommend it to everyone.

During this season of the year, all we seem to do is run, run, run. We pause only to grab some sleep and catch our breaths. I’m not a person who loves running. In fact, I seldom move faster than a sedate stroll.

We spent a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday with our son and his new wife, and two step-sons, our daughter, and then on Saturday, our other daughter, and her family joined us. We ate and ate and played games and enjoyed the warm indoors. Between running the dishwasher and showers, I think we must have used twice the normal amount of water as for any other similar time period. What a clean bunch we were!

This is the first week of Advent, and with it, there are the beginnings of many seasonal obligations — and pleasures. Two potlucks today alone. You betcha, I’m utilizing my crock pot!  Tomorrow a meal out and a trip to see Christmas lights with a group from church. Thursday a much-needed trip to my beautician. My hair has reached that “nanner, nanner, nanner, you-can’t-control-me-any-more” stage. Saturday is our clergy family Christmas party. This will probably be the quietest week.

Oh, but come December 26th, and we’re off to the northeastern part of the state and our retirement home. This trip will be wild because we will be traveling in a pickup truck (NOT one of those trucks with a back seat), and we’ll have our animal carrier in the seat between Jim and me. Our two cats will be vying for space, and the older cat, Girlie, will probably win. She is huge. Poor little Max doesn’t have a chance. I’m sure we’ll be treated to a chorus of cat songs during that four hour drive.

Ah, but when we arrive, friends and parties await. On the agenda will be a trip to our favorite Mexican restaurant, a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s, and perhaps a day trip to the gambling boat on the Mississippi River (only about 40 minutes from Rector). We always enjoy getting away from our regular routine, and the house at Rector is just right for that. I grew up in that house, with my grandmother and step-grandfather. We call it our cottage because of its size: two tiny bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, kitchen, and added on laundry room. Oh, and did I mention the little mysteries that abound in that house? Like doors that open and close on their own. Lights that turn on by themselves. A knocking that we can never locate. Plugged in appliances and devices (the television) that unplug themselves. (Not turn themselves off and on, but UNplug from the wall.) Oh, yes, there are mysteries there in that little cottage on Valley Street where two of my step-grandfathers passed on to the world beyond this one. At least we think they did.  We’ll see how the new cat reacts to everything. A nice week away will be a treat.

Time to get busy.

Later, y’all. 

Yes. I’ve been having fun with knitting lately. It’s a fun way to spend time with your feet up.

I don’t think I have the patience for large projects, so I’ve been sticking with quick little projects. I’ve only recently discovered the 100 percent cotton thread/yarn, and I’m taking full advantage of its use for dish cloths.

When we moved here to Rison, we received several cotton yarn dish cloths, all hand-knitted. I’d never realized these could be used to wash dishes. They’re great, except with the looseness of the knit, they need to be washed often. A good idea is to run about an inch of water in your kitchen sink at night and add a few drops of bleach. Leave the knitted dish cloths soaking overnight. Any left-in food particles etc will be removed easily upon rinsing, and bacteria don’t have a chance.

Sooooo… on to my new passion.

There is a multitude of free patterns on the internet, and I’m taking advantage of several delightful designs. I’ve two finished dish cloths, and am working on another. The colors of these cotton yarns fascinate me, and I’ve bought a wide variety. Perhaps I’ll knit dish cloths for all my friends for Christmas. Hey! They’re quick and easy and to some people, might be considered a novelty. Besides, they’re really useful!

Later, y’all. 

This is one of my passions.

I love waking up to the smell of coffee brewing. I’ve missed that this week while my husband has been out of town. This week I’ve had to get up and make the coffee, rather than reaping the pleasure from having it brewing when I awake. Miss you, Jim. Hurry home. 

Autumn is glorious this year in south central Arkansas. Or is it every year? Maybe I’m succeeding at last in living in the moment because I can’t imagine any time this sweet.

Aches and pains and frustrations still abound, but that’s life.

I’m talking here about waking up to a bright new day and finding that all is right with the world.

I know there is much wrong in this world. Not much I can do other than what I do now to help that. My meager contributions and work with raising money and awareness of the needs of those unfortunate in this world doesn’t seem much, but it’s more than I have done in the past.

Despite my recent blues, deep inside I am content. My children and grandchildren all thrive and live active and happy lives. My mother and I are existing in a peace we’ve never known before. My husband is busy, healthy and living his most fulfilled life ever. All is truly right in my world.

Thank you, God.

This morning I awoke with the joy of knowing that two friends slept in our guest rooms. Neither are early morning people, so I knew I’d have time for coffee and a few words here before either stirred. I was right.  Though they’ll be traveling home later this morning, I look forward to the few hours left in our visit.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Famous or infamous words, there. This morning I feel the sentiment of them deeply.

Later, y’all!

I admit it.

I’m a person who usually prefers to stay home.

Call me a private person. Or call me anti-social. Or introvert. Perhaps I simply don’t like to schlep around in a mad social whirl.

I like nothing more than a quiet day at home devoid of the hoo-haa of traffic, travel, people, noise, headaches, swollen ankles and aching feet.

Yes, now you can call me anti-social.

Or perhaps I simply don’t feel like doing the dinner and movie thing. Perhaps I have to save my energies for obligations I can’t turn down.

Are you confused yet?

Enough said then.

Just a rant here. Nothing more.

Later, y’all.

Sitting up in bed last night and watching the coverage of the fires in California made me think of a dear friend from San Diego who had been a fireman there. 

We first met Dennis when my childhood friend married him and brought him home to meet everyone. He had been a fireman and was injured several times. From falling through at least one roof (two I think), he’d damaged his hips. He was a man in his 50’s when we met him, drawing disability for his injuries. He suffered a lot with hip pain. Both hips had been replaced, one twice.

He loved the small town where we lived then, the place where my friend’s family and mine had lived for generations.  But when he and my friend bought a huge old two-story house that Jim and I had once owned, I was surprised — and thrilled. 

For the next few years the friendship grew and a deep bond was formed. Dennis was like a dear brother to us, and at last (after a lifetime of only seeing my childhood friend in snatches of a few days or weeks at most) we had my friend only a few blocks away.  Then Jim went into the ministry, and we began to move around to the churches he served.

Although gone from Dennis and my friend, we knew we would all spend our retirement years together in that small town we all loved. Whenever we’d go to visit our daughters and their families, we would visit with Dennis and Christa, sometimes even staying at their house. Those visits were precious. We didn’t realize how precious until Dennis got sick.

The ultimate diagnosis was not good. We lost Dennis in 2004 at the age of 59.

I still cry thinking of him, thinking of this fine man who was taken from those who loved him at an age when he should have been planning the next 20 years of his retirement. He was a fine man indeed. He was a people person. Despite his disabilities, he worked hard to help his new neighbors and friends. He was always there in a disaster, pitching in with his knowledge of emergency medical aid and just plain general knowledge of what to do. When tornadoes hit nearby, he was among the first to go and offer help.

He was a large man, a kind man, a gentle man. And yet he was a rock. He was a product of California’s beach culture of the 60’s, a surfer, a big blond man who was handsome beyond belief. I will never forget him. Times like last night, when I was watching the fires that are destroying so much of the place that he called home for most of his 59 years, touched deep into my soul and brought back all this love and loss to me. Today I’ll call Christa, for I know in my heart that she is feeling these same things during this tragedy that is befalling those in California.

Please pray for those who are suffering. These fires are going to have so much more impact on ALL of us in this nation than any tragedy that has ever befallen us in the past. Even more than Katrina. Just think about it. And then say a prayer.

Later, y’all.

(P.S. I’ll never forget your stroganoff, either, Dennis.)