Bywater Wisdom

Pens, Printers, and Postal Mail

2012-01-17T15:07:00.000-06:00

It's a good mail day - a letter and two post cards from Downunder, a letter from England, and one from New Mexico. I'm looking forward to answering them with my new Pilot Vanishing Point fountain pen - a Christmas gift from Jerry.

The Vanishing Point is a cool pen. It has a retractable nib. The nib is put into using position by clicking a spring-operated thingy. Click again, and the nib disappears into the barrel - so there's no cap to screw on and off. When the nib is inside the barrel, it is sealed so that the ink doesn't dry up and clog the nib. It looks a little odd when you're writing with it because the clip is on the nib end where you hold the pen. It's designed to be held with the clip between your thumb and forefinger. I thought this might be awkward, but it's really comfortable. As a bonus, it keeps me from twisting the pen around in my hand - something I'm prone to do.

I saw a neurologist last week and had nerve conduction studies done to try to find out why my right thumb shakes when it's bent, making it impossible for me to write with my right hand. The good news is that I don't have Parkinson's or any progressive nerve disease. The bad news is that I have an "essential tremor." Essential tremors are often inherited, and I suspect that this is why my father's right hand was too shaky to write in his later years. It's a task related tremor - the trembling only happens when the thumb is bent and poised to do something. Unfortunately, there's no surgery that will fix this kind of tremor. The doctor said there are drugs that might "quieten it down," but I don't want to add to my collection of prescription drugs.

I've decided the bad news is not so bad. I've been writing with my left hand for five years. I'll continue that practice and be grateful that my left hand doesn't have a tremor. I'm also grateful that my right hand is useful for everything else besides writing - playing the piano and doing all the ordinary daily things. And I'll remember to be grateful for all the modern technology that makes electronic note-taking so easy.

My Microsoft Publisher lessons on lynda.com are ongoing. I took a break from these lessons in December and have had to do some of them over again to refresh my memory. I was proud yesterday when I was able to design a business card all by myself - without refering to the tutorial. But printing them out was an ordeal. My printer tells me it's out of paper when it's not. I don't know if it's lost its little mind or if it just lies. Either way, it's a pain. I think printers are the bane of modern technological life. Of course, Jerry says my printer is about ten years old. Is that possible?! I guess it is, but I'll swear it seems like we just bought the thing!

Where Was I?

2012-01-02T11:55:00.000-06:00

The new year beckons like a clean sheet of paper. It inspires you to plan, set goals, and make resolutions. There's something exciting about a new year - a new beginning.

But the new year also inspires me to ask the question: Where was I? Before all the holiday planning, shopping, wrapping, and cooking started, where was I? What was I doing? What did I leave undone? I feel compelled to evaluate the past year - gather up loose ends - decide which of last year's endeavors should be continued and which ones should be abandoned.

I've decided to continue the following:

Fifteen minutes a day of decluttering
Learning to use Microsoft Publisher
Continue membership in Weight Watchers online
Spend 20 minutes a day on the exercise bike
Make regular blog posts

Maybe later this week I'll get around to the new year's resolutions.

Kudos to the Monks!

2011-12-04T20:57:00.001-06:00

About two years ago I put the Divine Office app on my iPhone. Now I have it on my iPad, too. This app allows you to participate in praying the Liturgy of the Hours. It’s pretty cool - like attending a church service. The scriptures and prayers are read by the narrator and you can join in with the group in giving the responsive readings. The music adds a lot. There is always a hymn, sung by a soloist or a choir. Sometimes there is music playing quietly in the background.

Since buying this app, I’ve developed the habit of praying the Morning Prayer or Prime and the Night Prayer or Compline. I confess that often the Night prayer is said after I’m in bed, and it’s not unheard of for me to drop off to sleep before I finish.

The app is based on the daytime Canonical Hours - 6:00 a.m. is Prime (the first hour), 9:00 a.m. is Terse (the third hour), noon is Sext (the sixth hour), 3:00 p.m. is None (the ninth hour), 6:00 p.m. or sunset is Vespers, and 9:00 p.m. or bedtime is Compline. Medieval monks prayed every three hours, round the clock - day and night - so I guess they never got a full night’s sleep.

I decided I would try to expand my participation in the Liturgy of the Hours by praying at all the Canonical Hours during this Christmas season. I started on December 1. It has been an interesting exercise and has taught me a thing or two about myself. By the way, it helps that I am currently reading The Pillars of the Earth, set in a monastery in medieval times. Those monks prayed 24 hours a day. Surely I can do the Liturgy of the Hours 12 hours a day.

I saw immediately that actually staying with the clock was going to be a challenge. Sometimes I’m not up at 6:00 a.m. I know what you’re thinking. If I was really dedicated, I’d set an alarm to be sure I’m up at 6:00. But don’t be too hard on me - I’m trying to ease into this. I decided to do Prime when I get up, which is usually not later than 7:00 a.m. The other hours could follow, roughly three hours apart.

I usually get off to a good start with Prime first thing in the morning. But on the very first day of December, it was almost noon when I realized I hadn’t done Terse. "Why?" I asked myself. "Oh, yeah." I thought, "You were on the phone, having that long conversation with so-and-so." Oh well, nobody’s perfect. I did manage to get in the Sext prayers right after lunch.

After that, I'm sorry to say, the Liturgy of the Hours didn’t cross my mind again until bedtime. I reviewed my day and remembered that I was on Facebook when I should have been praying the None prayers, and I was watching TV at Vespers. OK, three out of six is not too bad for the first day. I did the Compline prayers and went to bed, resolving to do better the next day.

But the next two days weren’t much better. I did manage to get in four of the six Canonical Hours on the third day. Today I managed Prime, Terce, Sext, and Vespers. I was at a memorial service at the None hour - certainly a good reason for missing an hour. Even the monks were allowed to miss an hour for a good reason.

I think I’m making progress, but three hours passes pretty quickly when you're busy. Sometimes what makes me forget to pray is more worthy than Facebook or TV. Sometimes I’m washing dishes or doing the laundry or balancing the check book. Even though these things must be done, I’m already seeing that taking ten or twenty minutes of scripture reading and prayer at regular intervals during the day is an enriching experience. But it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Kudos to those medieval monks!

This and That

2011-11-19T16:07:00.001-06:00

The Library's Snapdragons

When I was getting dressed this morning, I heard loud shouting - peppered with a few obscenities. Naturally, I wondered what person in need of anger management was in my front yard. It turned out to be a young fellow walking on the side of the road, shouting into his cell phone, apparently not happy with the person on the other end of the connection. As I was looking out a window on the pasture side of the house, I saw that all three horses had gathered near the fence that borders the road. They were curiously watching the angry young man. I thought he was a little kooky, and I think the horses did, too.

Yesterday, just before we left to run some errands in Baton Rouge, Jerry came in from the barn and said that Rocky was favoring his back left foot. He had already looked at Rocky’s hoof and didn’t see anything wrong. I went back to the barn with Jerry. We gave Rocky a dose of equine pain reliever and went on our way to Baton Rouge. I worried about ol’ Rocky all day and wondered what we would find when we got home. I haven’t forgotten the abscessed hoof Tesoro had last year. It took a lot of back-breaking doctoring to get him over it. If Rocky ever needs this doctoring, I’m not sure he will be as cooperative as Tesoro. Fortunately, Rocky was back to normal by the time we got home yesterday afternoon, and he seems to be fine this morning. But we’ll have to keep an eye on him.

I made up my mind yesterday that today was going to be an escape-from-home day. I packed my rolling red bag this morning with laptop, iPad, headphones, and camera, and headed for the public library in Plaquemine. When I turned in at the library I couldn't resist stopping to take a picture of the snapdragons. I love snapdragons!

I didn’t realize that the meeting room at the library is a polling place. The parking lot was almost full. It’s the run-off election for parish sheriff, and it looks like the voter turn out is pretty good. I voted at our polling place before coming here, so I've done my civic duty.

Libraries used to be full of bookworms sitting around with their noses in books. As I look around, I don’t see anybody reading a book. Everybody here is on a computer - either a library desktop computer or their own laptop. It’s a crying shame! I love books, but here I sit - in a library - on a computer. I’ll go home later and read on my Kindle. I can’t help but think that all these books on all these shelves are on life support and may not be with us much longer. I wonder - when the world switched from scrolls to the codex (book), were there people sitting around in scroll libraries, reading books, and mourning the death of the scroll?

I arrived here at about 10:30. I finished a letter to a pen pal - one that I started two weeks ago - and caught up on my journal. Then I spent about fifteen minutes searching restaurant web sites to see where I could eat lunch in town and stay within my Weight Watchers points for the day. I settled on Taco Bell where the menu includes "fresco style crunchy tacos" - four Weight Watchers points each - Taco Bell’s contribution to a healthy lifestyle. I figured I could afford to eat three of these goodies, so I packed up and went up the road to the drive-through at Taco Bell.

"Three fresco style crunchy tacos," I said. The reply was total silence. I wondered if the speaker was working. "Do you have fresco style tacos?" I said. The answer was, "Hmm --------- no -------- we don’t have 'em." I scanned the menu board. No fresco style crunchy tacos! So much for eating healthy at Taco Bell in Plaquemine. Since I wasn’t in the mood to do another internet search for healthy food, I went home and had Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and an egg sandwich. Now I’m back at the library.

I recently became a subscriber to lynda.com, a web site that teaches its subscribers how to use software programs. I’ve been guilty more than once of buying software and expensive books to teach me how to use the software. The software gets installed on my computer, the book sits on a shelf, and I never get around to learning the software. I’ve had to face the fact that I’m a software collector, not a learner of software. I thought maybe lynda.com would help me kick the "software buying but not learning" habit.

"After all," I reasoned, "if I’m paying lynda.com every month, I will certainly make use of their service and learn something." That was a month ago, and have I applied myself to the lessons that lynda.com offers? No, I have not - not until just now. I spent about 45 minutes with lynda.com just before I started this post. Somebody pat me on the back! My goal is to learn how to use Microsoft Publisher. I think I got a pretty good start - but I had to leave home to do it.

The library is about to close so I’ve got to start packing up. There’s an LSU game on TV tonight, and I think I have enough points left for popcorn.
　
　

The Greek Man's Chicken Soup

2011-11-12T15:13:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time on Jefferson Highway in Baton Rouge there was a little restaurant in the same building with La Rouge Market. In fact, you entered the restaurant through the market. It was a pizza place, but they also served soups and sandwiches.

The man who ran the restaurant was Greek. I don't remember his name, but it was a Greek name. He had a Greek face, and English was obviously his second language. One of his employees took orders at the counter and the Greek man brought the food out when it was ready. The kitchen was visible through a pass-through behind the counter, and I could see that it was the Greek man doing the cooking.

La Rouge Market has gas pumps, and one cold winter day I stopped there for gas. It was lunch time, and I thought this place was probably as good as any other for a quick, lonely lunch. I was hoping something hot would chase the chill from my bones. I ordered chicken soup and after the first taste, I was hooked on it. It was the best chicken soup I had ever tasted. I like my own homemade chicken soup, but there was something different about this soup - some herb or spice that was unfamiliar to me. But it was delicious! It had the usual ingredients - chicken, carrots, celery, onion, etc. It looked just like my homemade soup, but it tasted so much better.

From then on, when I made my weekly trips to Baton Rouge, I had the Greek man's chicken soup for lunch. I discovered that there was a drive-through window, so I put the restaurant's phone number in my contacts. Sometimes I called ahead, ordered my soup, picked it up at the window, and sat in the car to eat. I don't think there is anything much lonelier than eating in a restaurant by yourself.

For at least two or three years I enjoyed the Greek man's chicken soup for lunch. It was a hectic time in my life, and there was something emotionally comforting about that chicken soup. It was good for the soul as well as the body.

Then the fateful day came. I called to place my order for chicken soup and got a recording saying the number had been disconnected. I didn't believe it. It had to be a mistake, so I continued on my way to the Greek man's restaurant. To my horror, it was closed - and not just closed for the day. I could see through the window that the tables were gone, and the walls were being repainted. There was a sign in the window: "Popeyes Coming Soon." Popeyes coming soon?! "The devil take Popeyes!" I thought, "I need my chicken soup!"

I think of the Greek man often. I even dreamed about him once. I was walking on a sidewalk with a lot of other people. I recognized the Greek man among the sea of people walking ahead of me. I couldn't call to him because I had completely forgotten his name. I pushed and plowed my way through the crowd, trying desperately to catch up with him and get him to tell me the secret ingredient in his chicken soup. But alas! He disappeared in the crowd, and I still don't know the secret ingredient.

I guess I'm thinking of the Greek man today because I'm suffering with a terrible head cold, it's a chilly day, and the Greek man's soup would be so comforting! I wish him well, wherever he is. And I'm sorry I never told him how good his soup was.

Confidence and Humility

2011-11-11T10:48:00.007-06:00

It's amazing how much garbage can float around in a person's brain, and they don't even know it's there. I mean garbage in the form of flawed thinking and erroneous assumptions. I'm speaking for myself, but I sincerely hope that you, Dear Reader, have at some time discovered that there's garbage floating around in your brain. After all, misery loves company.

In a recent Bible study class, we were discussing confidence and humility and the importance of having both these qualities. Immediately, one of those garbage cells in my brain said, "You can't be both confident and humble, you have to be one or the other," implying that that these two things are polar opposites. "After all," the little garbage cell continued, "confident people aren't humble and humble people are not confident." At this point I told the little garbage cell to shut up and let me think.

On the drive home I started to wonder if I knew the meaning of either of these words. When I got home I went to the Merriam-Webster app on my iPad. (I still have a dictionary, but I'm not sure where it is since I never use it anymore.  All this information is literally at my finger tips on the iPad.) I'll let you go to the dictionary or app of your choice for the full definitions of these two words, but Merriam-Webster gives these as synonyms for confident: trustworthy, dogmatic, contentious, presumptous. In other words, a mixed bag.

When I looked up humility, Merriam-Webster directed me to humble. Synonyms for humble include: insignificant, mean, base, unpretentious, meek, modest, lowly. Wow! Another mixed bag.

Based on these definitions and synonyms, it appears that our culture is not sure what either of these words mean. I started to wonder if our ancestors were as confused about these words as we are, so I hauled out the modern reprint of the American Dictionary of the English Language, originally published in 1828. (Remind me to see if this 6+ pound book is available on the iPad.)

In case you don't have a large, hefty 1828 dictionary, here's what it has to say:

Confidence:
1. Having full belief; trusting; relying; fully assured
"It is better to trust in the Lord, than to put confidence in man." Psalms 118
2. Positive, dogmatical; as a confident talker
3. Trusting; without suspicion
4. Bold to a vice; having an excess of assurance

Humility:
1. In ethics, freedom from pride and arrogance; humbleness of mind; a modest estimate of one's own worth. In theology, a deep sense of one's unworthiness in the sight of God, self-abasement, penitence for sin, and submission to the Divine will.
"Before honor is humility." Proverbs 15
2. An act of submission

Are things clearer now? I don't know. I think our ancestors would agree with Merriam-Webster that confidence can be positive or negative. But I think it's safe to say that our ancestors had a higher opinion of humility than Merriam-Webster does. They didn't equate humility with mean, insignificant, and base. By the way, our ancestors were such believers in God that they peppered their dictionary with excerpts from the Bible. God bless them!

So. How does one go about being both confident and humble? This is a tall order. If you are confident, it's hard to be humble when other people question what you're confident about. Your ego kicks in and, if you're not careful, you end up going over to the dark side of confident. In other words, you become contentious and presumptious.    But if you're too humble, the ungodly confident people are apt to run over you with a steam roller.

I have a terrible cold. As I hundled under the covers in my bed this morning, barely able to breathe, I had a long conversation with God about this dilemma. How, Lord, can I be both confident and humble? I don't claim to hear voices, but sometimes things are so strongly impressed on my mind that I have no choice but to think God is doing the impressing.

My first impression was that God doesn't want me to expend a lot of energy trying to figure out how to do this. He gave me the same answer he often gave the disciples when they asked him how something difficult could be possible. He said, "With man it is impossible, but not with God. For all things are possible with God." (Mark 10:27) In other words, I think God was saying, "Stop worrying about it. I'm going to help you."

The second impression had to do with my struggle to define humility. And here's the definition that was impressed on my mind - "To be humble is to see and acknowledge the truth even when the truth does not favor you. To be humble is to be teachable. Without humility, learning is not possible."

So - what can I say?  There it is. I know this definition is not in the modern Merriam-Webster or in the 1828 dictionary of our ancestors, but I think it's a pretty good definition of humility.

The Coffee Shoppe vs. The Public Library

2011-11-05T18:04:00.001-05:00

Like a lot of other people who like to write, I can't seem to write at home. There's too much to distract me - dishes to wash, beds to make, bills to pay. In other words - everyday life. The solution seems simple - get all these things done before you begin to write. But the trouble is that there's no end to these things. The more you do, the more you see to do. My only option is to leave home.

Our little town doesn't have a coffee shoppe. I wish it did. The nearest coffee shoppe is in Baton Rouge. I wouldn't mind making the drive if I knew coffee shoppe conditions would be conducive to writing. But I can't count on that being the case. Sometimes the music is too loud. Sometimes the music is of a genre that I can't stand, and it numbs my brain. But then if the music is the kind I really like, it distracts me too much. I want to sing along instead of write.

Coffee shoppes are social places, and I don't mind that. In fact, taking a break from writing to eavesdrop on the nearest conversation is a pleasant diversion. But occasionally, there are loud people. Most of the time I think they're just having so much fun with their friends that they don't realize how loud they are; but occasionally there's a pompous jerk who really believes everybody present wants to hear his opinions. I have to stifle the urge to tell him he's mistaken.

In spite of these potential problems, it is possible to have the perfect coffee shoppe experience - not too many people, but enough people to keep loneliness at bay - low volume music that's good, but not too good. And of course, your choice of a variety of coffee, tea, and pastries. But twenty-five miles is a long drive when you have no guarantee that the experience will be perfect or even acceptable.

The alternative is the local public library. That's where I am today. Our town is blessed with a very good library. I'm sitting at a round oak table in a comfortable chair, connected to the library's free wireless internet. It's quiet. If you speak at all here, it's in hushed tones. It's not a social place. There is no music. It's a serious get-down-to-business kind of place. And there's a lot to be said for this atmosphere. I can usually get quite a bit accomplished here in an hour or two. But there's one big drawback - no food or drink is allowed. Oh, what I'd give right about now for my favorite hot drink! A skinny peppermint mocha latte with half the chocolate syrup and no whipped cream - and biscotti to go with it!

Back in the Groove

2011-10-22T15:01:00.001-05:00

Entrance to The Myrtles Plantation

I think I timed my knee surgery just right. It's been a little more than two months since I came home from the hospital, and I'm back to doing most of my normal activities just at the arrival of my favorite season - glorious autumn!

Last weekend Jerry and I took a day trip to St. Francisville, one of my favorite little towns. We ate lunch on the screened porch of Magnolia Cafe. We cruised around town, enjoying the fall decorations. We rode out to the old ferry landing and got a glimpse of the new bridge over the Mississippi which makes it a short trip to New Roads on the west side of the river.

The Myrtles Plantation

We've been to St. Francisville several times, but had never toured The Myrtles Plantation, said to be "the most haunted house in America." We looked around in the gift shop and bought our tickets for the 3:00 p.m. tour. Since we had a few minutes to wait, we sat in the rocking chairs on the big back porch until time for our tour. We didn't see any ghosts, but we did learn about all the tragedies that happened over the years at The Myrtles. I can see why ghosts might find it an attractive place. After standing up throughout the 30 minute tour, my right knee was reminding me that it's not quite well. Even so, we had a pleasant outing.

A Backlog of Correspondence

My letter rack filled up while I was recovering from surgery, and I'm still trying to catch up. I don't have time to write leisurely letters with my slow left hand, so I'm making use of the computer. I can type so much faster than my left hand can write. I've been exploring all the fonts that look like handwriting - and there are a bunch of them! I like script fonts almost as much as I like fountain pens and ink.

Speaking of ink - I ordered a bottle of J. Herbin's "Orange Indien" ink, thinking it would be the perfect ink color for fall. I filled my new TWSBI fine-nibbed fountain pen with this orangey color and tried it out on some scrap paper. What a disappointment - it was entirely too pale! After a few days of wondering what to do with a whole bottle of ink that's not to my liking, I decided to try it in a different pen. I cleaned up my Cross Townsend, which has an oblique medium nib, and loaded it with Orange Indien. What a difference! This medium nib puts down more ink than a fine nib and gives lots of nice shading. This is what makes a fountain pen hobby so interesting. There are endless pen-ink-paper combinations that produce widely differing results.

It's tea time so I'm off to put the kettle on. A cup of Earl Grey with some toast and strawberry jam will hit the spot. Wish you could join me!

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Conclusion

2011-09-04T10:10:00.001-05:00

As my mother's only child, I inherited several boxes filled with papers and objects relating to her literary interests. After more than one diligent search, I have to report that her Esterbrook desk pen is not among these things. In flights of fancy I imagine that it may have accompanied her to heaven. I sincerely hope so. I picture her, seated at a gilded desk, her health restored, putting pen and peacock blue ink to heavenly paper that neither feathers nor bleeds.

A year or two after my mother's death, I ran across an Esterbrook desk pen listed on E-Bay. The description said, "needs to be reconditioned." My husband, knowing my passion for fountain pens in general and Esterbrook desk pens in particular, ordered it for me. It occupied a place in my mother's secretary desk for quite a while before I discovered where to send it for reconditioning. It has now been returned to me in good working order. I located a bottle of peacock blue ink among my mother's things, and of course that's what flows from my Esterbrook.

I must confess that there have been long periods of time when I haven't touched a fountain pen. Then this obsession of mine, having been in a dormant state, whispers to me like some long lost lover. I find myself searching in long forgotten storage places for every fountain pen I ever owned. For weeks or months I revel in the life of a fountain pen aficionado. Then my passion would be put to the test and finally squelched by my old nemesis - inferior paper.

In 2006 there was a revival of my fountain pen inclination that has remained constant thanks to the Fountain Pen Network, a community of forums dedicated to fountain pens, paper, and writing paraphernalia. I had no idea there were so many fountain pen enthusiasts all over the world! Through FPN I learned where to find quality paper that is reasonably priced and works with fountain pens - Clairfontaine Triomphe stationery, classic laid stationery by G. Lalo, Rhodia tablets, and Moleskine notebooks. Gliding a fountain pen over any of these papers is pure joy!

This leads me to an obvious question. If quality paper can be produced at a reasonable price, why are we plagued by inferior paper? The answer came to me before I had finished typing the question - because we have been launched onto the swirling water of a fast-paced computerized world where - if pens are used at all - they are ball point pens and any old paper will do.

Like the rest of the world, I too have a love affair with the computer. My husband is quick to remind me that he and our daughters had to pry my blue fingernails from our old typewriter and forcefully seat me in front of a computer. I have finally adjusted to the computerized age. However, that doesn't mean I've lost the ability to savor life in the alternate dimension of fountain pens where the tempo is slower, ink flows freely, and the quality of paper matters.

Time Out

2011-08-15T19:08:00.003-05:00

I'll be having right knee replacement surgery this week. I had my left knee done last year with very satisfactory results. But, I must say, I'm glad I'm not a centipede! I've been reminiscing about my last surgery by reading this old post: Me, My Knee, and Feline Therapy.

As soon as I'm able, I'll post the conclusion to "The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado." I thought I'd get it posted before surgery, but I've had entirely too much to do to get ready for this little hospital visit. Anyway - I'll be back soon.

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part Two

2011-08-13T07:31:00.001-05:00

The pen of preference for me and my college friends was Sheaffer's inexpensive cartridge fountain pen. This was a capped pen - not a desk pen - and it went everywhere with me. Cartridge pens were a new innovation, popular for their convenience. But note-taking students could go through a box of cartridges in a short period of time, and this could be a drain on the purse.

A fellow classmate introduced me to the practice of refilling cartridges with a needle and syringe. A fairly inexpensive bottle of Sheaffer ink would refill countless cartridges. After four or five refills, a cartridge had to be discarded because the opening that fit on the pen nib would become enlarged which could mean a leaky pen. Even so, this method stretched our cartridge allowance. Of course, we could have alleviated our ink budget problems considerably by using cheap ball point pens. But, as fountain pen devotees, we couldn't bring ourselves do descend to the level of an uninspired ball point.

Lots of things have improved over the years, but it seems to me that the quality of common, everyday paper declined during the 1950s and 60s. No longer could you use your fountain pen on a lot of dime store tablets without having the ink feather or bleed. "Feathering" is when the ink travels to places it shouldn't go, producing a broad, blurry line instead of a fine, distinct one. "Bleeding" is when the ink goes through to the other side of the paper.

Due to this decline in the quality of ordinary paper, fountain pen lovers had to choose to either retire their fountain pens or go to specialty shops to buy better, more expensive paper. Those who could afford it, sprung for the expensive paper for letters of importance; but they still had to resort to the common ball point for such mundane tasks as making out the grocery list.

to be continued . . .

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part One

2011-08-11T09:35:00.003-05:00

Few of my friends and acquaintances know about my penchant for fountain pens. I don't bore them with the knowledge since most people today have no interest in fountain pens. Young people don't know what they are. But my memories of fountain pens go way back.

According to the dictionary, "a man of letters" is one who is devoted to literary activities. By this definition, my mother was definitely "a woman of letters." She was an avid reader and always preferred big, thick novels about families and old houses. She had a beautiful handwriting and was a gifted writer. She kept a journal all of her life until a stroke took away her ability to write. She persisted for a while after the stroke, but eventually stopped. Her last poignant journal entry is an unrecognizable scrawl that trails off in mid-sentence, never to be resumed. My mother died eleven years ago, and I still can't look at that last journal entry without weeping.

When I was a child, my parents' gift to most high school graduates who sent them an announcement was an Esterbrook desk fountain pen exactly like the one Mama used. I was usually with her when she made her annual trip to the office supply in downtown Panama City, Florida, to purchase these gifts. The pen base was formed in a rounded shape. It was heavy and shiny black. The pen was black except for the end opposite the writing nib. This end was tapered to a point and made of clear plastic. It looked like crystal, or so I thought at the time.

An Esterbrook desk pen symbolized adulthood to me. I understood perfectly that children did not use fountain pens. My mother firmly believed that one person should not use another person's fountain pen. She thought that in time, a fountain pen adjusts itself to the angle at which the writer holds it. A different writer, holding the pen at a different angle, might spoil the pen for its owner. Mama thought it was bad manners to ask to borrow someone's fountain pen.

Mama's desk pen always held Sheaffer's "Peacock Blue" ink. It was her trademark. It's a turquoise blue, or maybe "aqua" describes it better. It may have reminded Mama of the gorgeous aqua color of the Gulf of Mexico - an appropriate ink color for the many letters dispatched from Panama City to relatives in the mountains of West Virginia.

By the time I was a teenager, the annual pilgrimages to the office supply had stopped. I didn't think much about it at the time. Like most teenagers, my attention was focused on my own affairs, and I had ceased to accompany my mother on her errands. I have learned since that Esterbrook stopped making fountain pens sometime during the 1950s. And that, of course, explains why I did not receive an Esterbrook desk pen when I graduated from high school in 1964.

to be continued . . .

Rain, Rain

2011-07-28T18:29:00.002-05:00

Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. We've had so many drought spells over the last few years, I'd be ashamed to complain. At times we've seen the pasture so dry that the ground was cracking. We would sit in the barn aisle and watch the horses paw the earth, making big clouds of dust. We've run sprinklers in the pasture in an attempt to preserve some grass for the critters and paid big water bills as a result.

So - you won't hear me complaining about rain - and we've been having it almost every day for a while now. But I am amazed at how short my memory is. I had forgotten that when you get a lot of rain, all the vegetation that you want to grow certainly does improve; but the weeds suck up the rain and grow twice as fast as the good stuff grows.

Even if you like weed eating, mowing, etc., some days it's impossible to do because it won't stop raining. When there is a little break in the rain, it's too wet and squishy to do anything.

And then there's mud. I really had forgotten about mud - it's been so long since we've had long rainy spells. I'm getting a refresher course now. The ground around the horses watering trough is a mass of ooey, gooey, sticky, icky mud.

The flower pots on the deck already looked bad from the previous drought conditions. (I've already told you - I'm not a gardener.) Now they're really a sight to see. Just when the portulaca, miniature rose, Blue Daze, and the herbs were beginning to look a little better because they're getting some water - big healthy weedy vines have sprung up in the ground around the deck. They're sending their evil tendrils up on the deck to attack what's in the pots - and what's in the pots is no match for them!

I usually just walk across the deck on my way to the barn. I don't pay much attention to the plants. They probably think they're invisible. But yesterday even I couldn't ignore a poor Blue Daze under attack from one of the vines. Tendrils were wrapped around and around it's poor branches. Baby vines had sprung up in the pot with the Blue Daze. You don't have these evil super-weeds in a drought. But of course, in a drought, the favored plants barely survive for lack of a gardner - but that's another story.

Two or three days of sun would be nice. It would give us a chance to dry out and beat the jungle vegetation back. But I'm definitely not complaining.

Day Trip

2011-07-10T18:33:00.001-05:00

Iberville Visitors Center - Main Building

We decided to do some rambling today, so we took care of the barn chores early this morning. We packed our camera equipment and set out for Breaux Bridge.

On the way we stopped at the Iberville Visitors Center, located near I-10 in Gross Tete. It opened a little over a year ago, and today was our first visit. We drank complimentary coffee and chatted with the two friendly ladies who work there. The inside is as beautiful as the outside. Cypress floors, doors, and paneling make it a reflection of the nearby Atchafalaya Swamp.

Iberville Visitors Center - Grounds

We traveled on to Breaux Bridge and decided to make the short trip out to Lake Martin. We drove along the gravel road that runs along the swampy edge of the lake. I was hoping to see an alligator, so we stopped when we came to a break in the foliage where we had a good view of the swamp.

I saw bubbles in the water and remembered that Willie, on Swamp People, is always talking about where you see bubbles, there is usually an alligator. But I'll swear, I couldn't see anything but a couple of old knarly pieces of wood in the water. Just as I was complaining that we weren't going to see any gators, I realized that the knarly pieces of wood were two alligators - one of them looking me in the eye from just a few feet away. He was nice enough to sit still so I could get his picture.

Alligator Disguised as Driftwood!

We went farther down the road and discovered that there is a new Lake Martin Visitors Center, complete with a picnic pavilion and state of the art rest rooms. Now if you've ever been to Lake Martin, you will appreciate what a great thing this is! We used to have to drive back into Breaux Bridge to find a public rest room which meant we couldn't stay out at the lake for hours on end. Now we will be able to pack a picnic lunch and spend the day at the lake, watching the wildlife and taking pictures. I think we'll wait for cooler weather though.

Boardwalk through the Swamp

We walked the quarter mile boardwalk through the swamp, but didn't see anything as exciting as our two gator friends up the road.

Swamp as Seen from the Boardwalk

We had some good Cajun food for lunch at Poche's, a Breaux Bridge meat market and restaurant which was recently featured in Garden & Gun magazine. After lunch we did some looking around in one of the antique shops in the historic district of Breaux Bridge. I like to check these places out for old post cards, stationery, and desk paraphernalia. But I didn't have any luck today.

When we took the Gross Tete exit to head home, we decided to make one last stop at a new gift shop called The Swamp Shop, right across the road from the Iberville Visitors Center. In fact, the ladies at the Visitors Center had told us about this new gift shop when we made our first stop there this morning.

Jean Crites, the proprietor of The Swamp Shop is very friendly and welcoming. And her shop is something to see! Since it's in a house, I assumed the owners probably lived there and had a one room gift shop. But no, the shop takes up the entire house. All the merchandise has a Louisiana theme. Each room is artfully arranged and decorated, and it's a pleasure to stroll around and look. I stocked up on post cards to send to my pen pals. Jerry found two books he wanted, and I couldn't resist a beautiful glass fleur de lis necklace. I'm already thinking that this might be a good place to do some Christmas shopping.

English Campaign Desk with Improvements

2011-07-07T17:09:00.001-05:00

It's always fun to make a good thing better. That's what we've done with the English campaign desk that I reviewed in an earlier post. Jerry installed the eye screws and chain, shown in the photo at left, with a little bit of help from me. It was his idea to use jewelry chain with a clasp on each end so the chain can be easily removed if there's ever a reason to do so. The chain keeps the stationery holder section of the box upright so that it doesn't flop down and spill all your stationery. When the stationery holder section is closed the chain drops into the little compartment as shown in the photo below.

I also added some green blotter paper to the sloped writing section. I attached it with removeable double-faced tape. The blotter paper protects the wood and makes a slightly padded writing surface.

In the photo below you'll notice that I've placed a blue coaster under the hinged clasp to keep it from marring the surface of whatever table or desk the campaign desk is sitting on when I'm writing. This blue coaster was all I could find around the house to serve this purpose, but I'm on the lookout for something that will look better with the green blotter.

I've already written quite a few letters and post cards on this campaign desk. Thank goodness I'm actually using it. I don't need any more what-nots!

In Defense of Mediocrity

2011-06-26T10:51:00.001-05:00

At an early age, I got the mistaken idea that the only choices in life are to do things perfectly or not to do them at all.

A wise woman once told me I was a perfectionist. I laughed and told her she didn't know me. I assured her that I seldom do things perfectly. Then she gave me a real jolt by saying, "I don't mean that you do everything perfectly. I mean that you're waiting to do anything until you can do it perfectly." I've never forgotten her, and it took me a long time to forgive her. Her comment irritated me for years until I finally admitted to myself that it was true, and that my worship of perfectionism was literally paralyzing me.

No doubt a high degree of excellence must be maintained in some areas - like brain surgery. But when it comes to the nuts and bolts of life, there's a lot to be said for mediocrity.

The modern world has given mediocrity a bum rap. Today if someone says your performance at some skill is mediocre, you feel insulted. And you should because mediocre often means inferior. Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary defines mediocre or mediocrity as "of moderate or low value, ordinary, so-so." The dictionary app on my iPhone pulls no punches and just comes right out and calls it "inferior."

Far be it from me to argue with the dictionary, but when I read these definitions, I said, "Bull!" Something told me that mediocrity wasn't always a word of ill repute.

I lugged out the 1828 edition of The American Dictionary of the English Language by Noah Webster. I bought this dictionary a few years ago just for these wordy occasions.

Here's how Noah Webster defined mediocrity 1828:
1. A middle state or degree; a moderate degree or rate. A mediocrity of condition is most favorable to morals and happiness. A mediocrity of talents well employed will generally ensure respectability.

"Men of age seldom drive business home to the full period, but content themselves with a mediocrity of success." Bacon

2. Moderation; temperance.

"We owe obedience to the law of reason, which teacheth mediocrity in meats and drinks." Hooker

It appears to me that since 1828, mediocrity has gone from a virtue to a vice. Yes, I know - language changes - it evolves. Even so, there's something sinister about a perfectly respectable word evolving to the point that it means the opposite of what it once meant.

I think this is an indication that we humans have become full of ourselves. We've got to be the best, have the most, climb to the top of the heap.

I think Robinson Crusoe's father gave him some good advice. He told his son that a middle state in life is best. The middle state isn't exposed to the hardships and sufferings of the poor, and neither is it "embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy of the upper part of mankind." In other words, Robinson Crusoe's old papa was a believer in mediocrity in the classic sense. So am I.

Lately we've been putting mediocrity into practice right here on Bywater Farm. We've committed ourselves to fifteen minutes of de-cluttering every day - a mediocre commitment to be sure. But we're accomplishing more than we ever did with the "Gung ho! We're going to devote a week (or two or three) to getting this place cleared out and ship-shape!" Long live mediocrity!

English Campaign Desk

2011-06-18T12:26:00.001-05:00

English Campaign Desk - Photo #1

This nifty little writing box arrived in the mail yesterday. I told you I was having a good mail week! I ordered this online from Acorn, a website that sells a variety of gift items. I also get the Acorn mail order catalog which is almost as much fun to peruse as J. Peterman's catalog.

This box is listed as an English Campaign Desk. Prior to the 20th century this kind of thing was a common item used by military men and explorers. They moved around a lot and needed a compact box that was useful for storage as well as writing.

This is not a lap desk. It's designed to be used on a table. Photo #1 shows the front of the box in closed position. In this position, the deminsions are 10.5 inches by 8.75 inches by 3 inches.

Photo #2 (scroll down) shows the writing surface open. This sloped surface is 10.5 inches wide and 8.75 inches from top to bottom. If you like to write on full 8.5 inch by 11 inch paper, this might be a bit small. Since most of my handwriting is done on half-sheet sized stationery, notecards, and post cards, it suits my purposes.

Before I got this dandy little box I had not had any experience writing on a slope. I'm happy to say the slope solves a problem for me. I wear trifocals, and the slope puts the paper in just the right position for viewing through the bottom lens of my glasses. When I write on a flat surface, I find myself alternating between the bottom and middle lenses of my glasses and not having my writing in perfect focus either way. But this, of course, is my personal problem.

Photo #2

Photo #3 shows the little "file" section open. You can store stationery here, but there are some things to consider. If the stationery is too big and sticks out of the file slots, it will be damaged when the box is closed. If post cards are dropped down in these slots, you can't get hold of them to get them out. I'm going to solve this problem by custom making a mini file folder for each slot. These folders will stick out just enough for me to get hold of them. I can keep post cards and small notecards in these folders and be able to reach them by lifting the folders out.

My only criticism of this box is that the file folder section does not stand up on its own. It appears to stand up in this photo because its leaning on the side panel of the piece of furniture that its on. My handy husband says this can be fixed with two little eyelet screws and a little bit of chain. He's gathering the supplies to make this modification. When it's done I'll make another post with a photo and a report on how it works.

Photo #3

Photo #4 is a close-up of the middle section, showing all the neat little compartments. Underneath the compartment at the bottom of the photo is a little drawer. You'll want to keep things you don't get to often in here because whatever is in the center section has to be taken out to get to the drawer. It's a little unhandy, but the drawer is a way to make use of space that would be wasted otherwise.

Photo #4

Let me add that this writing box has a slight odor about it, although I don't find it to be unpleasant. Is this a funiture oil that was applied to the box or is this the natural smell of teakwood? I don't know.

Although this is a new item, it is made in the distressed fashion so that it will look like an antique - and it does. I think "English campaign desk" is a mouthful so I'm calling this my safari desk. I can picture Stanley in his tent - sitting at his safari desk - penning a note to Livingston. No, wait - he couldn't pen a note to Livingston. He was trying to find Livingston. Oh well, you get the idea.

A Good Mail Week!

2011-06-17T12:14:00.001-05:00

I'm one of those people who measure a good week by what they find in their mailbox. And this week has been a postal bonanza!

I've received letters from California, Texas, and New Jersey; post cards from Arkansas, Pennsylvania, and Peru, and a birthday card from north Louisiana.

Of course, I did my part to brighten other people's mail boxes by sending letters to California and Hawaii; post cards to Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, and Australia.

I've had even more than post cards and letters in my mailbox. My Noodler's flex fountain pen arrived yesterday! It lives up to all the good reviews. It produces quite a range of line width and is a nice looking pen, too. Since it's a piston filler, it holds a lot of ink. All this goodness for $14.00! Unbelievable! I've loaded it with Noodler's Iraqi Indigo ink and plan to put it to work writing a letter before the day is out.

My membership packet from the Letter Writers Alliance arrived, too. It included a membership card, a cool pin with the LWA logo, and LWA stationery. Membership in LWA also allows you to download nifty notecards, stationery, etc., from the website and print them on your own paper.

I'm off now to write a letter to the 2011 Letter Project - with my new Noodler's pen, of course.

Gardening, Anyone?

2011-06-16T10:10:00.004-05:00

When your rake is rusty and a stray vine is using the handle as a trellis, it's hard to convince anyone that you're a gardener. I am not a gardener. Although I have a great appreciation for green growing things, I am more drawn to animal husbandry than to gardening.

My interest in gardening usually comes in spurts in the spring and fizzles out when the summer heat arrives. This year I didn't even experience the spring spurt. The heat has set in now, so the prospects for serious gardening are slim until things cool off in the fall.

In the relatively cool morning hours this week, I have made a stab at gardening. In other words, I've been removing dead plants and healthy weeds from pots on the deck - the pots I mentioned in my last post.

The moss roses have already put out a beautiful yellow bloom. They are looking very perky this morning after the water I gave them yesterday. I'm always amazed at what water will do for a plant! That in itself proves that I'm no gardener. A true gardener is never surprised at what water can do.

I resisted the urge to buy very many plants this spring, knowing that my life was too hectic to even pretend to care for them. I did buy some Blue Daze plants. I'm a big fan of Blue Daze. This is no sissy plant! It bears neglect like a real trooper. When it doesn't get the miraculous H2O, its little leaves may curl up and wither a bit - but it doesn't throw in the towel and die like so many other plants. No, indeed! When it finally gets some water, it bounces right back and doesn't seem to hold a grudge.

It even bounces back after a light freeze in the winter. Although it's an annual, I've had Blue Daze to come back three years in a row - in spite of me! Even though we had several hard freezes last winter, one of the three plants in the pots at my front door has reappeared. I removed the dead bodies from the other two pots and put in the new plants.

I cut the dead heads off the miniature rose on the deck yesterday morning. I noticed spider webs and tiny crawly things on the leaves so I squirted it with some insecticide that's supposed to kill all the critters that like to torment roses. I feel sorry for roses. It seems to me that while you are in the very act of planting a rose, there are hundreds of insects watching. As soon as you turn your back, they pounce on the poor defenseless rose bush.

My useful knowledge about roses would fit in a thimble with room left over. Two or three years ago I decided I'd like to plant a rose that would trail along the picket fence that surrounds our back yard. I bought a climber called "Don Juan." The label said it would produce fragrant red roses. Just what I wanted!

Jerry planted this rose for me, right where I told him to, by the fence. I had the vague notion that you have to "train" roses, so I set out to train Don Juan to grow horizontally along the fence. But Don has proved to be contrary. I want him to grow horizontally, and he's determinded to grow vertically.

As usual, the problem is my ignorance. After doing some after-the-fact research, I see that what I really wanted was a rambling rose, not a climbing rose. Did you know there's a difference? I didn't. According to the rose experts who write articles for gardening websites, it's easy to tell them apart. A rambler's leaves are in groups of seven while a climber's leaves are in groups of five. Who knew?

So now - what am I going to do with Don Juan? Like Jack's beanstalk, Don is determined to reach the sky and is never going to trail along our picket fence.

Coming Out of the Doldrums

2011-06-15T13:24:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you can be in the doldrums so long that you don't even notice when the wind picks up and it's time to hoist the sails. This morning I think I feel a little wind, and I'm putting the sails out - figuratively, of course.

Summer is here, and the sights and sounds are unmistakeable. The early morning sun dances on the little ripples in the bayou. The horses' coats are shiny and sleek. The table in the tack room is full of tomatoes from Jerry's garden. The clack-clack of the big fan in the barn aisle, the swish of the sprinklers in the pasture, and the hum of the tractor are all signs of summer.

My breakfast this morning was red grapes and saltine crackers, eaten out in the pasture on the tractor. A big part of horse-keeping on a two acre hobby farm is the moving of manure. If your horses are running free on twenty acres, picking up manure is not an issue; but in a small pasture, you can't afford to let too much manure accumulate and kill what little grass you've got. I drive the tractor while Jerry scoops poop into the bucket. When the bucket is full, it's lifted up and emptied over the fence on the midden heap where it decomposes and makes good fertilizer. If you're a persnickety city type, the idea of eating breakfast while a manure-moving operation is going on probably doesn't sound appealing. What can I say? There's a wide gulf between city people and farm people.

The flower pots on our deck are a sad sight. I have to walk across the deck when I go to the barn, and the sight of pots of dead plants and healthy weeds has been nagging at me for quite a while. I noticed the other day that our two ferns appear to be dead, but two different varieties of moss roses are springing up in the fern pots. Where in the world did they come from? It's been several years since I cultivated moss roses. Oh well, I won't question a nice surprise like this. I pulled the few stray weeds growing with the moss roses and loosened the dirt with a hand spade. I watered these little volunteers and look forward to their colorful blooms.

I learned about a new pen as I was browsing around on the Fountain Pen Network yesterday - Noodler's flex fountain pen. I love pens with flexible nibs. If you press hard, you get a thick line. If you let up on the pressure, you get a thin line. All this variation in thickness and thinness makes for very attractive handwriting. But some flex nibs are troublesome. I once paid over $100 for a pen with a 14k gold semi-flex nib. It wasn't the pen for me, and I ended up selling it to someone who appreciated it more than I did. Noodler's flex pen has a steel nib and is only $14.00. Needless to say, I've ordered one and it should arrive by the end of the week.

While googling for reviews of Noodler's flex pen, I was led to a fantastic blog - "Painted Thoughts," the creation of an artist named Laure Ferlita. All her blog posts include sketches or watercolors. Check it out here: www.paintedthoughtsblog.blogspot.com

The afternoon is flying by - I'm off to write a letter!

Scattered Thoughts

2011-06-13T17:59:00.000-05:00

I keep waiting to collect my thoughts and make a profound blog post about a single deep subject. It appears that it's not going to happen any time soon so here are my scattered thoughts.

There are lots of little twists and turns to grief. When you lose someone you love, you grieve over the loss; but you grieve over other things, too. I miss my father, but I also miss my position as a member of the middle generation in our family. Now that both my parents are gone, I'm no longer the middle generation - I'm one of the old folks. It's a sobering fact.

We are almost back to normal after lightning eliminated several pieces of technology a little over a week ago. We had to replace our modem, router, and a printer that was barely a year old. We also had to get Cox to come and replace some bad wiring. Everything is back to working like it's supposed to, and we are back to our nerdy pursuits.

There's been quite a bit of traffic - coming and going - in my new Addis post office box. I received a beautiful square post card from Spain with a wax seal that arrived in perfect condition all the way from the Old World! I've been sending post cards made from photos that Jerry and I have taken. I received an e-mail from a homeschooling family in Pennsylvania, asking if I'd like to exchange post cards. They think sending and receiving post cards is a good way to learn about other places - and they are so right!

I've joined the Letter Writers Alliance, and I'm anxiously awaiting my membership packet. It's good to know that there are lots of people in the world who still like to write letters. Check out the Letter Writers Alliance website here: http://16sparrows.typepad.com/letterwritersalliance/

I've just got back to watching the news and listening to talk radio after several weeks of being away from these things. I tuned in just in time for the Anthony Weiner shinanigans. I wish male politicians would behave themselves. They are prompting some feminists to make the outrageous claim that women in high places don't misbehave.

I'm reading Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe for the first time. When I was very young I got the idea that this was a dull book, and so I didn't even consider reading it. But it's summer time, and I'm drawn to seagoing novels in the summer. Robinson Crusoe popped up on a reading website that gives a list of nautical novels. I'm happy to report that it's far from dull.

Old Soldiers Never Die . . .

2011-06-07T19:23:00.002-05:00

Silas Richard Barker
1916 - 2011

         My father passed away on May 5, 2011, at the good age of 94. He would have been 95 on May 15th. For many years my Wednesdays were spent visiting him at the retirement home in Baton Rouge where he had lived - off and on - for about fifteen years.

He was a restless soul in many ways. He moved in and out of the retirement home several times during those fifteen years. Maybe he just wanted a change of scenery - but he always returned and that's where he spent his last days. He wanted to be buried in Emory, Virginia, beside my mother so we made arrangements for his body to be flown there.

As long as I'm alive, I don't plan to get in an airplane so we made our plans to make the long trek by car. I felt like I had a little bit in common with the Joseph of the Old Testament who told Pharaoh, "Now let me go and bury my father; then I will return." (Genesis 50:5) I have buried my father in Virginia and returned to Louisiana, and life goes on. I miss him and will, no doubt, miss him even more in days to come - especially on Wednesdays. But I'm grateful for his good long life and that he was up and about, in reasonably good health, until the last few weeks.

He served as a 1st Lieutenant in the United States Army during World War II. He was wounded in the Philippines and received a Purple Heart. There was an Honor Guard at the cemetery. As the three rifle volleys sounded, I thought of that old saying, "Old soldiers never die, they just fade away." Godspeed, Daddy.

A Dispatch from the Barn

2011-04-09T21:00:00.000-05:00

Whatcha writin'?

I don't know exactly when the swallows return to Capistrano, but they have returned to the barn at Bywater Farm. I'm convinced that it's the same Sam and Sally Swallow who took up residence here last spring. In fact, they've set up housekeeping in the same nest they built last year on a rafter over the barn aisle. They are not at all bothered by our presence. They circle and swoop and flit over our heads as if they own the place.

They're sprucing up the nest. When you've been gone from your summer place all winter, I guess things get a bit untidy. They've been shopping for building material - just as they did last year - in the hay stall. They do a lot of chattering to each other. I chat with them and their twittering responses sound sensible enough - even if they are speaking a different language.

I'm writing this in my barn "office." It's nothing fancy - just Jerry's old red desk chair and an old folding table in front of the window in the tack room. If the furniture is old and outdated, my writing equipment is the latest thing. I'm typing on my nifty Apple wireless keyboard and watching the text appear on my iPad in the "Pages" app.

The tack room window is open and there's a nice little breeze. The horses are grazing just outside the window. In fact, Rocky has already visited me by sticking his nose through the open window. He's not fooling me though. His visit is not as much affection for me as it is curiosity about what's going on in the tack room which happens to be where his feed is kept. Tesoro stopped by, too - and when Fay came, she lingered long enough for me to take her picture.

Nautical Notes

2011-04-07T19:50:00.001-05:00

We sold our party barge yesterday, ending a very brief nautical adventure. I have a vivid imagination, and sometimes it gets me in trouble. I imagined that having a party barge would be great fun since Bayou Plaquemine runs right behind our house. So we bought a used party barge, complete with a trailer and an aging motor. We had the motor tuned up. The seats were in terrible condition. We ordered new seats and had some custom upholstery done. We put new carpet on the floor. I say "we," but it was Jerry who did all the renovating work. I was chief cheerleader, gopher, and bill payer.

When it was finished, I thought it was a thing of beauty. And I loved cruising the bayou on it. I hate a little boat that requires you to sit still to keep from tipping it over. A pontoon barge is stable, allowing you to get up and walk around on it. We have a dock on the bayou, and I thought we would be able to keep the barge in the water, next to the dock. It would be really handy to jump in and go cruising on the spur of the moment.

Now I'll get to the reality part of this story. Outboard motors don't get very good gas mileage. Gasoline almost reached $4.00 a gallon the first summer we used the barge. It seemed like every little outing we took up or down the bayou - barely out of sight of the house - cost us at least $25.00.

Then we started to realize that this nautical toy wasn't going to be a thing of beauty long if it stayed in the water. Pretty soon the new white vinyl seats were beginning to grow greenish mold. The pontoons collected some kind of scummy film. So we took it out of the water. But we could see that it wasn't going to fare much better sitting on the trailer in the yard. If the trees weren't raining leaves down on it, the sun was baking it. We decided the barge would just have to be kept in the barn - not so handy for spur of the moment trips.

Even in the barn with plastic sheets covering it, the darn thing wouldn't stay clean. A barn is built for horses and people, not boats. In the summer the barn doors have to be open for ventilation so - like most barns - our barn is a dusty place. And the barge seemed to be a dust magnet.

We had to admit we were in a nautical nightmare when we woke up one day and realized that we were paying someone to maintain a barge that we weren't using. Why weren't we using it? Because - since it wasn't in the water - it couldn't be taken out on the "spur of the moment." Driving to the nearest boat landing and getting it launched was a project that we never seemed to have time for. Maybe we would have had time if we had sold the horses, given up all our other hobbies, and devoted ourselves to the party barge.

Trying to keep the barge was a nightmare, but getting rid of it wasn't a piece of cake either. It took us a year to sell it. I hate having something for sale. You spend a lot of time answering phone calls and waiting for people who say they're coming and often never show up. If the item doesn't get sold right away, all your friends start offering their opinions as to why it's not selling. I heard a lot about how old and outdated the motor on the party barge was - something about two strokes vs. four strokes - or was it one stroke vs. three? Even though the motor worked, some of our friends couldn't believe that anybody would ever buy the barge with that motor on it. I thought the renovated barge and trailer - without the motor - were worth what we were asking, which wasn't much.

The party barge is gone now, and I was never so glad to see something go. We didn't make a profit. In fact, I'm not sure we broke even. Jerry certainly didn't get any compensation for all his hard work. I think the people who bought it got a good deal. I hope they enjoy it. And I hope it's their only hobby.

This and That

2011-04-05T15:57:00.001-05:00

The words "cold" and "spring" are seldom spoken in the same sentence in Louisiana. Our springs usually start warm and end in blazing heat. But this morning the temperature was 47 degrees, and I couldn't resist firing up the gas logs in the kitchen.

I got a notice from the post office today informing me that my post office box rent is about to go up. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already paying far too much for an unfurnished box with no curtains, carpet, or furniture to make my letters and post cards comfortable while they wait for me to pick them up.

I'll never understand why the post office will deliver letters to the box on the road in front of my house for nothing, but they charge me an arm and leg if I go to the post office and pick up my own mail. Oh well, since when can you expect logic from a government agency?

A little research on the postal service website showed me that I can rent a post office box in the neighboring village for a third of the cost of the one I'm renting in my home town. It would be interesting to know what twisted logic accounts for this diffence in box rent, but I'm not even going to ask about it. Whenever I ask a question at the post office, the answer usually gives me a headache. Anyway - since I pass through the neighboring village often on my way to Baton Rouge, I decided to drive there this morning and rent one of their inexpensive boxes. The amenities are all the same. If you'd like to be part of the box-warming, drop me a line at P. O. Box 836, Addis, LA 70710.

I groomed the horses yesterday. I especially enjoy spring grooming when they're losing all the winter hair. They like being groomed. I guess it feels good to have all the loose hair roll off in big wads. Right now they have that mangy-dog-look because in some places the winter hair is still hanging on while it has come completely off in other places. I guess that's why some people keep the winter hair shaved off. But then if the weather gets too cold, you have to keep a blanket on the horse. All that sounds like a lot of trouble, not to mention expense - horse blankets aren't cheap. So we let nature take its course around here. In another week or two the winter hair will be all gone and they'll have their satiny summer coats.

Yesterday I spent a ridiculous amount of time on the telephone, making arrangements for my second knee surgery. It's scheduled for the end of this month. Since the knee surgery I had last August was a roaring success, I'm not too apprehensive about this surgery. Still, I'm glad I'm not a centipede with multiple knees.

A few weeks ago I bought a Kindle. This is a big step for a book lover. Wonder how long I'll feel like a traitor? Did our ancestors feel like traitors when they switched from scroll to codex? I don't know. What I do know is that - sooner or later - space becomes an issue for most book lovers. It has certainly become an issue at my abode. That's what makes the Kindle so attractive. It will hold about 3,500 books! It's less tiring in your hands than a big thick book. With a few finger taps you can make the font as big as you'd like. You can highlight passages and make notes right there on the Kindle. And you can read outdoors without any annoying glare. What's not to love?

I learned to be an afternoon napper when I was a piano teacher. I always napped from about 2:00 to 3:00 so that I'd be rested when my first student arrived at 3:30. Since I retired I've continued the afternoon siesta, but it's not as satisfying as it used to be. I wonder why? These days I usually get up from a nap feeling worse, not better. Jerry says it's because an hour nap is too long. He's a 20 minute power napper. Maybe I'll give power napping a try.

The Best Laid Plans . . .

2011-03-26T14:24:00.003-05:00

We decided early this morning to go on a day trip - a photography jaunt to the St. Francisville area. The weather is perfect, and everything is blooming. Jerry got everything squared away in the barn while I packed up my camera and the technological gadgets that we can't function without.

We did a last minute walk-through the barn area to be sure everything was secure - gates closed, stall doors bolted, and tack room locked. Everything was done and we were ready to get in the car. There was just one more thing - be sure that Teche, the resident house cat, was on the kitchen side of the french doors where he has access to his litter box.

I went through the usual routine - calling Teche while shaking his bag of treats. That usually brings him ambling into the kitchen. He's too dignified to come racing into the kitchen like he's desperate for treats. But today he didn't come at all. Where was the darn cat? He had been in the bedroom with me a few minutes before.

We did a full-fledged house search, checking all Teche's favorite hiding places - with no success. Jerry remembered that he had seen the back door ajar earlier - this must have been the means of Teche's escape. It's a pity we don't have any children around here to blame things on.

Actually, the fault lies with the small cable that goes through the back door.  One end is connected to the rabbit ears on the TV. The other end is connected to something outside - I don't know what. This less-than-satisfactory rigging is so that we can watch the local TV channels when the weather is bad and the satellite signal is not available. The cable's presence means that the door doesn't always close like it should. It needs a good slam, but doesn't always get it.

This whole tale has a deja vu quality about it. Last November Teche made an exit under these same conditions. When we went to bed that night, we noticed that he was not snoozing in his favorite living room chair - but we assumed he was in one of his hideouts - under the upstairs bed or in my sewing closet.

When we got up the next morning and he wasn't waiting for us at the french doors, we knew something was wrong. We searched the house, combed the neighborhood, put out an APB to friends and family. We even posted Teche's mug shot on Facebook.

At about dark that evening when the frantic searching had exhausted us, that rascal of a cat showed up at the same door where he made his exit. He strolled in and looked at us as if to say, "What? Is something wrong?"

Needless to say, we've cancelled the photography jaunt. Neither of us would enjoy it for wondering where Teche is and when he's going to come home. I hope this little adventure of his turns out as happily as the last one did. Jerry has removed the cable so now the door is closing like it should - after the cat's gone.

            3 hours later . . .

Teche is stretched out on the floor at my feet. So far I have resisted the urge to commit catacide. It wasn't long after I posted the tale above - in fact, I was still at the computer - when Teche strolled into the room. Is he not the coolest of cats? The rascal had been in the house the entire time that we thought he was outside.

But where exactly was he? We had searched every nook and cranny in the house - or so we thought. Wherever he was, he laid low and ignored our calls. He even ignored the rustling of the treat bag. By seven o'clock he will be on the arm of my recliner, watching TV with us as if this has been an ordinary day at Bywater Farm - as if he didn't derail our photography trip.

Civilization Nose Dive

2011-03-19T15:03:00.000-05:00

Technology is a wonderful thing. For one thing - it means things happen fast. If there are uprisings in northern Africa or riots in Wisconsin, we see them as they take place - on cable TV's never ending news coverage.

If you use your debit card to buy something, money comes out of your checking account immediately. If you have a hang nail, you can post it on Facebook and all your friends - no matter where they are in the world - will know about it now.

This speed means a lot of things, and one of them is that we can see civilization deteriorating at warp speed right before our very eyes.

One of the tell-tale signs of a declining civilization is the break down of its language. And when television puts its mind to it, it can do serious damage to the language.

A few years ago, any little kid knew what "reality" meant - it meant the way things actually are - in other words - for real, not pretend. But now we have "reality shows." They have very little to do with reality, so what will "reality" mean to the kids who are cutting their teeth on reality shows? And I guess they had better be cutting their teeth on reality shows because the SAT test for college bound students now has questions about reality shows. Don't tell me civilization is not falling!

We all know what "history" used to mean. But what does it mean now that the History Channel has abandoned history? I love Pawn Stars, Swamp People, and Ax Men, but what do they have to do with history? You don't have to tell me, I know about that little slogan the History Channel has come up with - something like "History - Made Everyday." They're really straining to connect their shows to history. Why don't they just change the name of the channel? That would be easier.

The Arts & Entertainment channel used to be - well, artsy. Dare I say "high brow?" Not anymore. With shows like Criminal Minds, Breakout Kings, and The Sopranos, Arts & Entertainment is anything but artsy.

Those of us who grew up with National Geographic magazine knew that we could expect to be educated about the world by perusing its pages, filled with breathtaking photographs and detailed maps. What kind of education are we getting from the National Geographic channel now with shows like Detroit Gang Squad, Tijuana Drug Lords, and Bloods and Crips?

Mind you, I'm just talking about the violence that's being done to the language by television. To address the effects that these shows are having on morality would take another blog post.

Ausonius, the Roman poet, decided to retire to his villa, write poetry, and await the inevitable. I'm writing blog posts while I await the inevitable crash of civilization, curmudgeon that I am.

An Easter to Remember

2011-03-15T08:31:00.000-05:00

I was a tomboy and Easter was not my favorite holiday. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy anything about Easter. I liked to dye eggs. I liked to get up early to see what the Easter Bunny had left in my basket. I liked to hear my Sunday School teacher read the Easter story. And I loved singing the Easter hymns, especially the one that says “Up from the grave he arose with a mighty triumph o’er his foes.”

So, what was it that I didn’t like about Easter? The clothes. The clothes started to torment me a month before Easter when the endless shopping trips started. I feel privileged to have had my childhood in the 1950's, America’s Golden Age. But that era wasn’t free of insane notions and one of those notions was that everybody in the family had to have fancy new clothes for Easter - right down to your underwear. It was usually impossible to get all of this on one shopping trip so you had to start at least a month in advance along with everybody else in America. And believe me, it seemed like all of America was shopping in our town. It was almost impossible to find a place to park on either side of our main street. The stores were so crowded that you had to wait in line for a dressing room.

My mother may not have enjoyed the crowded stores, but she did enjoy getting new clothes. She had given up a career as a department store fashion buyer to get married and raise me - a tomboy who cared nothing about clothes. I must have been a disappointment in that respect. Mama came from a family of seven where each child had what he or she needed, but not much extra. She could never understand why her only child didn’t like to shop.

One particular Easter stands out in my mind. I was eight years old. The shopping trips that year were particularly annoying because they took me away from my two new white kittens - Fuzzy and Fluffy. But at length the new outfit was assembled. It consisted of a sleeveless dress with a full skirt and a fitted bodice. Under it I wore my new slip and frilly panties. My straw hat was round with streamers down the back. I had white shoes and lacy socks. I wore white gloves and carried a little white purse with a lacy handkerchief inside.

Mama thought I looked adorable - except for my skinned shins. I loved to climb trees and always had a few scrapes and scratches. Fuzzy and Fluffy had added to my collection of blemishes that year. Three well-placed band-aids hid the worst scrapes on my shins and at last we paraded out the front door to go to church.

Mama and I waited on the front steps while Daddy went to start the car. When he turned the key in our 1946 Plymouth something didn’t sound quite right. He turned the car off, got out, and raised the hood. He peered inside. Then - to my horror - he lifted Fuzzy’s lifeless body from the engine-works of the old Plymouth.

I cried. I screamed. I didn’t bother to take my lacy hanky out and wipe my tears. They tumbled down my face onto my dress. Mama and Daddy tried to comfort me. They explained that a belt had hit Fuzzy when Daddy started the car. He had died instantly and felt absolutely no pain. And - had I forgotten? I still had Fluffy.

None of this information had the desired calming effect. I continued to bellow until a most unusual sound reached our ears. We had never heard anything like it. It whirred, it clacked, it roared, and it grew steadily louder. It seemed to be coming from the highway in front of our house. Daddy put Fuzzy’s little body down and followed Mama and me to the picket fence that marked the boundary of our front yard.

To our great astonishment an airplane was rolling down the highway as if it belonged there where we were accustomed to seeing cars go! Although it was a small plane, its wings spanned more than the width of the two-lane road. The pilot waved gaily as he passed our house and continued on toward town.

In spite of all this excitement, we arrived at church on time. Fuzzy had a nice funeral that afternoon, Fluffy and I spent many happy times together, and - to this day - I don’t know what became of the pilot and his airplane.

Equine Beginnings - a Memoir

2011-03-06T11:55:00.003-06:00

Judy and Fay

Jerry and I were hovering on either side of sixty with very little horse experience when we decided to become horse owners in 2004.

I’m not sure what made us want to keep horses. Maybe it was the Westerns we grew up watching on television in the fifties - Gunsmoke, Rawhide, and Tombstone Territory.

Traveling photographers and their ponies nourished our love of the Old West. My husband grew up in southern Louisiana and my childhood was spent in northwestern Florida, but we both have pictures of ourselves at about six years old - each astride a brown and white Shetland pony with a fancy Western saddle and bridle.

Then too, I think Silver marked me for life. In the rural Florida of my childhood, stock laws - if there were any - were not enforced. Pigs, cattle, goats, and horses roamed at will. A big white horse frequented our neck of the woods. We never knew who he belonged to, but he often jumped over our cattle guard which was installed at the driveway gate to keep him and other roaming animals out. We called him Silver.

One of my earliest memories is waking to a noise I couldn’t identify. I could tell it was outside, so my tiny feet padded over to the open window. As I gazed out, Silver’s large white head appeared, illuminated by a full moon. He looked me in the eye as he munched on grass that had come from below my window. I cherished the nights when I fell asleep to the sound of Silver snorting and champing grass. His presence was comforting.

When I was about twelve years old, my parents started taking me to a riding academy on Sundays. It was run by a friendly young couple. They had several horses that they rented out to anyone who wanted to ride over their acreage which was bounded on one side by a sleepy bayou. They also gave lessons. I learned to ride at a trot and a canter and to weave in and out of barrels.

Sometimes we rode out on the trails in a group, and occasionally my parents joined us. My mother usually ended up on a horse named Toby who liked to try to get her off his back by rubbing her against a tree. Looking back, I doubt that these outings were much fun for her. But for me those were glorious days. I thought I was a great rider and nothing much scared me.

When my parents thought I was ready, they bought me a horse - a stallion that couldn’t have been more than three years old. He was reddish brown with a white streak down his face. I named him Blaze. He stayed with his previous owner - about five miles from our house - until we had a place ready for him. My father fenced a portion of our five acres. We cleared out an existing out-building and used it to store feed and tack.

While these preparations were going on at home, my father made arrangements for Blaze to be gelded. I didn’t understand exactly what this meant, but my parents said it would make him easier to handle and I figured that would be a good thing.

Every morning for two or three weeks after the surgery, my father and I got up at five in the morning and drove to the place where Blaze was stabled. We exercised him by walking him up and down a country road for thirty minutes. It was winter and cold enough that we could see our own breath as well as Blaze’s. We returned home every morning just in time for me to catch the school bus.

Eventually Blaze came to live at our place. His previous owner delivered him in a trailer. After that, I was on my own. I didn’t have brothers or sisters, and evidently my parents thought I was experienced enough to handle this young horse by myself. They didn’t know much about horses, and I think they believed that Blaze’s surgery would give him the temperament of the old seasoned horses at the riding academy.

I remember taking care of Blaze's needs - feeding and watering him every morning before school and again in the evening after school. And of course I remember that fateful day that led to our separation.

I had saddled Blaze and was riding on a sandy road not more than a half mile from our house. All of a sudden Blaze arched his back like a Halloween cat and all four of his feet came off the ground at the same time. I was terrified. To this day I don’t remember if I rode him home or led him home. But when I got there, I told my parents what happened and said, with all the rashness of youth, “I’ll never get on that horse again!”

Of course, I didn’t mean it. I was frightened, but - more than that - my feelings were hurt. I couldn’t believe that Blaze had wanted to get rid of me. I thought we were friends, buddies, pals. How could my parents possibly think that I never wanted to ride him again? How many times had I been mad at my best friend, Anna, and swore that I’d never speak to her again? Surely they had noticed that I was often chatting with her shortly after making this rash statement.

No, I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t a quitter and neither were my parents. I fully expected them to say that I must not give up, that maybe I needed some help - some guidance - some support - but I must not give up.

But to my horror and surprise, there was no effort to talk me out of my resolve to give up my partnership with Blaze. It was decided immediately that he had to go. Before I had time to sort through my emotions, my father was on the phone talking to Blaze’s previous owner who agreed to buy him back.

The next day my mother tried to comfort me while Blaze was loaded into a trailer, never to return. But I wept bitter tears, and I knew in the depths of my young heart that this was unfinished business.

A Louisianan in West Texas

2011-03-01T09:33:00.000-06:00

The leaden skies obscure the sun and hint at rain, although none is falling. We are the only travelers on this road that stretches endlessly behind and before us. Its presence is all that keeps us from imagining ourselves to be the first visitors to this barren land.

The terrain on both sides of the road is uninterrupted by any evidence of human existence. There are no buildings, no power lines, no fences, no billboards, no cell phone towers.

There is no visible animal life - no cattle, no horses, no sheep nor goats. Not a solitary bird graces the overcast sky. Maybe that’s just as well; there’s not a single tree in sight where a bird might rest his weary wings a safe distance from the ground. There are miniature trees with feathery foliage and round shrubs that are more substantial than the airy, stunted trees. Small pencil-like cacti form weird shapes in the sandy earth.

All is silent. Surely there are times when at least the wind gives voice to this land, but today even the wind is silent. The only sound we hear is the hum of our truck.

In our semi-tropical homeland the black, rich, delta soil produces tall, lush sugar cane. Sleepy bayous, overhung by drooping willows and ancient oaks, wind their way through verdant fields. And the wind playing through the sugar cane sounds like the rustling of taffeta skirts in some grand ballroom.

When the autumn harvest begins, the roads are littered with pieces of cane that fall from overloaded trucks. If the fields are wet, the trucks track mud onto the roads. Sometimes, if the weather is dry, the cut cane is laid in rows in the fields and set on fire to burn the leaves off before taking the sugar-laden stalks to the mill.

The stacks at the sugar mills emit white, billowy smoke while long lines of trucks wait to unload their sweet cargo. The drivers stand around their trucks, laughing and talking while they wait for the mill to accept the earth’s gifts. When the trucks unload, they will return to the generous fields for more leafy cane.

The harvesting process goes on until Christmas. In fact, for me this process has become a part of Christmas. I cannot look at a working sugar mill or see the primitive beauty of a cane fire at night and not feel the excitement of Christmas.

This west Texas desert is the antithesis of green, fertile Louisiana. And yet it attracts. There is something in me that wants to strike out on foot and explore the beauty of this silent, brooding land.

I want to stride the length of that distant, cold mesa and explore its amazing flat surface. I want to view this asphalt ribbon from the mesa’s purple plateau. I’d like to settle on the back of some trusty old horse and ride up that canyon. Maybe those diminutive trees conceal an old river bed - some long gone fountain of living water.

This land forbids and invites at the same time. Its dry, barrenness seems to say, “Keep your distance. Do you see any living thing? Don’t think that you can survive here.” But its mysterious beauty beckons, saying, “Come. Tread this sandy earth. There is life here; you must find it. There is solitude here; you must savor it. There is wisdom here; you must seek it.” Now I understand why the prophets of old sought God in the wilderness.

Random Thoughts

2011-01-28T17:32:00.001-06:00

The State of the Union

There weren't any fisticuffs at the State of the Union address earlier this week. If my last post gave the impression that I was hoping for rowdiness in the House Chamber, I didn't make myself clear. I honestly wasn't hoping for flying fists - but if such had ensued - I wanted a front row seat, perverse human that I am. The news people have been babbling about Obama's speech for three days now, but I can't think of much to say about it. I believe Obama thought that if he told the real honest-to-goodness condition of the country, it would scare us all to death; so he decided to deliver a pie-in-the-sky speech about how he would like things to be without revealing much of a plan for achieving those things. I felt a little like a teenager whose dad says, "Your future is so important to me! I envision a college education and a new car for you;" and the whole time dad is talking I know he's broke and out of a job.

Cryptic Signs
I went to town this morning to run some errands. I noticed something I hadn't noticed before - an official state road department sign on the side of the road - "Drinking Water Protection Area." It seems to me that official signs are usually where they are to influence behavior. All the typical traffic signs tell us what we're supposed to do - stop, yield, slow down, etc. And of course, some signs identify public buildings so that - if we're looking for City Hall - we'll know when we find it. But what are we supposed to make of a sign that says "Drinking Water Protection Area?" There's no reservoir anywhere around so I can't see that the sign is identifying anything, and I can't see how it's supposed to influence behavior. Unless . . . maybe the message is, "If you've got to go, don't do it here - just keep on down the road to McDonald's where there's a restroom."

Bovine Babies
Are cows supposed to be having babies in January? I thought calves came along in the spring. No matter - as I drove past the pasture down the road this morning, there they were - two of the cutest little black and white calves, running and frolicking in and out among the very serious grown-up cows. I'll swear, I think I could almost tell which one was their mother. She had that look that all mothers get sooner or later. You know, the look that says, "These kids are driving me crazy."

Equine Boredom
Somebody asked me the other day if I thought our horses like the cold weather. I don't think the cold temperatures bother them. After all, we're in Louisiana, not Montana. What bothers them is not having any good green grass to graze on. They're well supplied with hay, but horses are built for grazing and they get downright bored when the grazing is not good. This morning, when I looked out in the pasture, Fay and Tesoro were laying down - sunning themselves. Rocky was stretched out flat on his side and stayed still so long, I wondered if he had kicked the bucket. I stepped out on the side porch and whistled and shouted and called him by name. He lifted his head and looked at me as if to say, "What? What do you want me to be doing in this God forsaken desert?"

Letter Writing
Some of my pen pals must think I'm dead. For two months after my knee surgery, letter writing was out of the question. Pain medication makes you sleepy and even if you're awake, English composition is not your strong suit. As soon as I was off the pain medication it was time to start all the holiday preparations - which explains why there are at least fifteen letters in my "to answer" bin. I answered two yesterday - on the computer. When you're a fountain pen afficionado, it's a bit of a come-down to send computer letters. And thereby hangs a tale. I'm right handed, but a few years ago my right thumb started trembling whenever I grasped something small - like a pen. Needless to say, it's hard to write a decent hand when your thumb is shaking. The doctor assured me that the shaking is due to basal joint arthritis and not any serious disease. I reasoned that - since I have two hands - I'd just write with the other one. It was 2007 when I started writing with my left hand. The script I'm producing now looks much better than it did when I started. I'm comfortable holding a pen with my left hand - the initial awkwardness is gone, thank goodness. But I haven't developed any speed, and sometimes I just don't have the patience to write a long letter with my left hand. Thank goodness I have a love affair with technology and console myself with a wide variety of cool computer fonts and neat clip art.

The State of the Union

2011-01-25T16:35:00.008-06:00

It's always more fun to watch the State of the Union address when it's your man in the White House. When the president's views oppose your own, it can be a torturous affair. I'm trying to decide whether or not I'm up to being tortured tonight.

I don't hate President Obama although my political views are decidedly conservative. I recognize that some conservatives are so against him that he can't possibly do anything to please them. If he discovered the fountain of youth and gave out bottles of the rejuvenating water to any and all who wanted it, some conservative pundits would find fault with him.

Still, it's hard to forget past Obama speeches. They almost always sound like campaign speeches given by someone who wants to be president and is speaking to his supporters who are dedicated to making him president. I have yet to hear an Obama speech that sounds like it's coming out of the mouth of a man who actually is president and is talking to all American citizens - the people he is sworn to represent.

Then too, as suave as President Obama appears to be, he's not above taking pot shots at his perceived enemies during a State of the Union address, a speech that should be - well, unifying. Who can forget the 2010 State of the Union address that included cutting remarks aimed at the Supreme Court Justices along with a highly partisan interpretation of one of the Court's recent decisions? Who can forget Judge Samuel Alito's mouthing the words "not true" in response to Obama's remarks? I understand that Justice Alito will not be present at tonight's State of the Union, and who can blame him?

Traditionally Democrats and Republicans have been seated on opposite sides of the aisle in the House Chamber during the State of the Union address. There will be no such division in the House Chamber tonight. The recent events in Tucson have inspired a different seating arrangement. Democrats and Republicans will be seated together on both sides of the aisle to show that they are capable of playing nicely. I assume that it is hoped that this gesture will prevent any gun-toting crazies at large in the country from repeating a tragedy like the one that took place in Tucson. Dream on.

I've reminisced about President Obama's partisan rudeness, so it's only fair to recall the ungentlemanly outburst by Representative Joe Wilson, Republican of South Carolina, at the 2010 State of the Union address. As the president assured us that illegal immigrants would be ineligible for federal subsidies to buy health insurance, Rep. Wilson shouted, "You lie!"

In light of this rudeness on both sides, I have to wonder - is this new seating arrangement wise? Although it might promote brotherly love, isn't it just as likely that it will facilitate fisticuffs? Maybe I will watch tonight.

The Mysterious Magi - Part Three

2011-01-06T20:03:00.002-06:00

Epiphany 2011

The Magi have arrived in Jerusalem. How many are there? The Bible doesn't tell us. It mentions that they brought three gifts - gold, frankincense, and myrrh - so legend has it that there were three. But it's likely that there was a caravan of many more than three. Travel was dangerous and - then as now - there was safety in numbers. So picture a large caravan of these leader/priests from the East with an entourage of servants and armed guards. There may have been a hundred people or more in this caravan - too large a caravan to arrive unnoticed.

Did the Magi arrive on the night of Jesus' birth? No, they didn't - in spite of the fact that our lovely nativity scenes have the Wise Men at the manger with the shepherds. Matthew 2:11 says "On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him." By this time Mary, Joseph, and Jesus were living in a house - they weren't still in the stable. Jesus was probably one or two years old by the time the Magi arrived. These Magi, probably descendands of the ten tribes of Israel, had found the King of the Jews, their long separated kin. Did they know that Jesus was God incarnate? I don't know. Maybe they did or maybe they thought Jesus was simply destined to grow up to be an earthly king - a righteous political ruler.

Where exactly were the Magi from? The Bible simply says they came from the East. The Roman Empire was the superpower west of the Euphrates River, but the Parthian Empire was the rival superpower east of the Euphrates. Some have speculated that the Magi came from Babylonia, and that may be true. But at that time Babylonia was within the Parthian Empire. I think it's certainly plausible that the Magi were Parthians.

Why was all Jerusalem troubled (Matt 2:3) when this caravan arrived? Caravans were commonplace in those days. But think about the fact that Jerusalem is geographically located in an area that Rome and Parthia had fought over. Although Jerusalem was under Roman rule at the time of Christ's birth, just four decades earlier it had been under Parthian rule for three years - until Rome drove the Parthians back across the Euphrates. Since then an uneasy peace had existed between Rome and Parthia. Of course, all Jerusalem was troubled at the sight of a large caravan of high-ranking Parthians! Herod and all Jerusalem probably wondered if war was about to break out again between Rome and Parthia. And even if some of the Jews might have preferred Parthian rule to Roman rule, they would have been troubled at the prospect of war.

Why did Herod have to ask the Magi when the star appeared? Why hadn't he noticed the star himself? Why couldn't he find Jesus by following the star to Bethlehem instead of depending on the Magi to come back and tell him where Jesus was? Of all the explanations I've read and heard about the star, Rick Larson's explanation at http://www.bethlehemstar.net/ is by far the most plausible. Be prepared to devote some time exploring his website. In a nutshell, the star wasn't a huge blazing thing in the sky that everybody would notice. According to Rick Larson's theory, which he demonstrates with meticulous detail, it was an alignment of certain heavenly bodies (stars/planets) and constellations. Only those trained in astronomy would have noticed it - and apparently the Magi had such training.

I think we've answered all the questions I originally raised about the Wise Men. Can these answers be proven? No, but I think they're plausible. I think they make sense. And I think they demonstrate that although the Bible is often short on details, it is absolutely reliable.

Takin' a Barn Break

2010-12-17T21:12:00.002-06:00

I haven't forgotten about the Wise Men. They're on their long arduous journey from the far reaches of Parthia to Jerusalem. Meanwhile my research is ongoing, and there will be at least one or two more posts about the Magi before Epiphany - January 6.

Today has been a bleak winter day - and it's not even officially winter yet. The temperature was about 53 degrees this morning and fell steadily all day. This morning I was able to get in some barn time. Time in the barn is therapeutic for me. My life - like everybody else's - is filled with modern appliances, gadgets, computers, etc. These things were unheard of a hundred years ago. But grooming horses, cleaning stalls, and filling hay racks has been going on "since time out of mind," as my grandmother used to say. These kinds of activities serve as a balance to our fast-paced, high tech world.

There was a little biting wind coming out of the north, across the bayou this morning so the big doors on either end of the barn aisle had to stay closed. We usually keep nylon halters on the horses, but we've let them go halterless in the pasture for about two weeks. I thought they might take a dim view of their halters, but all three of them lowered their heads and stood perfectly still while I buckled their halters on.

I tethered them in the aisle, one at a time, next to a rack of hay so they could munch while I groomed them. They're putting on their thick, long winter hair. In the summer they're sleek like satin, but in the winter their coats look like velvet. Grooming horses is satisfying because they don't just tolerate it like a dog or cat does, they seem to enjoy it.

Rocky's long luxurious mane was a tangled mess. A mixture of water and Avon's Skin-So-Soft bath oil makes a good detangler and smells good, too. I sprayed some in Rocky's mane and it didn't take long to get the tangles out.

If the weather is nice and the big doors are open, Fay likes to move around while she's being groomed so she can see what's going on outside. She a nosey little mare. Since the doors were closed today, she wasn't as antsy as she usually is.

Tesoro loves to be brushed between his eyes and under his forelock. He moves his head up and down as I move the brush up and down. He thinks he's helping.

We've had two or three hard freezes this month - unusual for December in Louisiana. Our hard freezes - if we get any at all - usually come in January or February. The grass in the pasture is already brown so we're feeding a lot of hay.

There's no green at all left in the sugar cane fields that were planted in the summer. The freezes have turned everything brown - except for patches of some kind of clover that dot the landscape here and there.

In our mild climate the worst part of winter to me is not so much the cold, it's the bleak brown landscape. They say it's doubtful that Christ was born in December, but I'm glad that's when we celebrate his birth. Winter would be almost too bleak to bear without the cheerfulness of Christmas.

The Mysterious Magi - Part Two

2010-12-15T19:03:00.003-06:00

I didn't realize what a deep hole I stepped into with my last post about the Magi. The answers to the questions I raised can't be understood without some background. We're going to have to delve into the Biblical history of ancient Israel and some secular history as well. I'll just hit the highlights. If this stuff interests you as much as it does me, you can always get the whole story with all the fascinating details from the Bible and various other sources.

The Old Testament tells us that God had a special relationship with Abraham and promised, among other things, that Abraham would have many descendants. Abraham's grandson was named Jacob at birth, but his name was later changed to Israel. The Bible uses the two names interchangeably, so the "children of Jacob" and the "children of Israel" are the same people. Jacob had twelve sons - the founders of the twelve tribes of Israel. I guess if you want to get technical there were thirteen tribes because two of Jacob's grandsons, Ephraim and Manasseh (the sons of Joseph) were given the status of sons and are often listed in the Bible in place of Joseph.

In 1020 B.C. or thereabouts these tribes united to form the nation of ancient Israel. They stayed united until 931 B.C. All these people were human just like the rest of us, and they didn't always get along. Who can say that they come from a family that never squabbles? Disagreements among the twelve tribes reached a climax in 931 B.C., and ancient Israel divided into two kingdoms. The northern kingdom kept the name Israel and consisted of ten of the twelve tribes. The southern kingdom was called Judah (or Judea) and consisted of the two remaining tribes.

Now don't think that this dividing up was perfect. There were remnants from the ten tribes - especially from the priestly tribe of Levi - that went with Judah. And there were some remnants of the two tribes who went with the northern kingdom of Israel. After this division, the two tribes of Judah (and associated remnants) were called Jews. The ten tribes were called Israelites. Sometimes they were called Ephraim because Ephraim was a prominent tribe among the ten. Sometimes they were called Joseph (remember Joseph was Ephraim's father), but they were never called Jews.

These two kingdoms coexisted side by side geographically. Sometimes they fought with each other. Sometimes they united and fought together against common enemies. But disaster struck in 722 B.C. The Assyrians - the superpower of the day - conquered Israel (the northern ten tribe kingdom) and began carrying its citizens off as slaves. The Israelites who were able to escape did so and avoided slavery. The Book of Esdras in the Apocrypha tells of a large group who fled to a "far country." (II Esdras 13:40-44)

Flavius Josephus (b. 87 A.D), a Jewish historian writing shortly after the time of Christ, said ". . . the ten tribes are beyond Euphrates till now, and are an immense multitude, and not to be estimated by numbers." Although Josephus was writing 700+ years after Israel fell to Assyria, apparently the whereabouts of this large remnant of the ten tribes of Israel was known.

Steven M. Collins suggests (in his book Parthia: The Forgotten Ancient Superpower and Its Role in Biblical History) that a multitude of members of the ten tribes settled in what came to be called Parthia at the time of Christ. I don't know about you, but Parthia was little more than a blip on the radar screen of my history education. Nevertheless, it was a powerful rival to the Roman Empire.

Collins suggests that the Magi were probably Parthian leaders/priests of Israelite (ten tribe) descent. This is certainly pausible and would answer the first question I raised in the last post - why did the Magi care about a new King of the Jews? They cared because, after all, the Jews (of the two tribes of Judah) were their long separated kin. And since Partia was located around the Caspian Sea - a long way to the east of Jerusalem - Matthew's describing the Wise Men as "Magi from the east" makes perfect sense, too.

Three questions remain to be answered -
Why was all Jerusalem troubled about the arrival of the Magi?
What exactly was the star that the Magi saw?
Why couldn't King Herod and his officials follow the star just as the Magi did?

to be continued - some plausible answers on the way . . .

The Mysterious Magi - Part One

2010-12-12T17:11:00.003-06:00

The Wise Men and I go back a long way. Their role in the Christmas story fascinated me as a child, and it still does. You can be a believing Christian and still have questions. And I have a few questions about the Wise Men.

Matthew tells us in Chapter 2 that after Jesus was born, Wise Men (or Magi) came from the East inquiring about the new King of the Jews and saying they had "seen his star in the East." And they didn't just want to know who this king was. They said they wanted to worship him.

This prompts my first question. Why did these Wise Men care about a new King of the Jews? If the Jews had been a rich powerful nation at that time, it might make sense. You could say the Wise Men were there to curry favor with the rich and powerful. But at that time the Jews were neither a rich nor a powerful nation. They were oppressed by the rich and powerful Roman Empire.

My next question is - what star in the East? A little more information would be appreciated, but apparently the Magi were men of few words.

Now King Herod appears on the scene - Herod, the puppet king that Rome had placed on the throne to rule over the Jews. The Jews weren't happy about having Herod as king, but they couldn't do anything about it so they got along with Herod as well as they could. When Herod heard that the Magi had arrived and were asking about a new king, "he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him." (When I was a child I absolutely loved that line - "he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him." Wonder why? Children are hard to figure out sometimes.)

This leads to another question - why was Herod and "all Jerusalem" troubled? Herod was no doubt worried about losing his job to a new king. But why would all Jerusalem - in other words, the Jews - be troubled? Wouldn't they want to see Herod replaced?

Reading between the lines in Matthew's account, I can imagine Herod and all his government officials being in a frenzy about these strange Magi. Herod swung into action and immediately summoned all the Jewish leaders - the chief priests and scribes - and "demanded of them where Christ should be born."

Herod was an Edomite. The Edomites had been converted to Judaism long before Herod was born so he was familiar with the Jewish religion, although he could hardly be called devout. He has been described as a madman who murdered his own family members, but that's another story. At any rate, he knew that the Jews had been anticipating for centuries the coming of a Messiah, a King, the Christ. If this king had actually been born, Herod wanted to know where.

This wasn't a hard question for the chief priests and scribes, and they answered promptly that the Messiah was to be born in Bethlehem for so it had been prophesied. They said that out of Bethlehem "shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel." (Matt 2:6) Now don't you imagine that this really ticked Herod off? In so many words, they were telling him that his days as ruler over them just might be numbered. I'll bet Herod dismissed them quickly with a cool air. He probably didn't even offer them anything to drink.

Next we're told that Herod privately summoned the Magi. I think he did it privately because he didn't want the chief priests and scribes to know that he was the least bit worried about this. After all, even a puppet king has his pride. I imagine one of Herod's CIA agents was sent on this mission to round up the Magi. When the Magi arrived at Herod's court, he asked them when the star appeared. He asked them when the star appeared!

I don't mean to be contentious, but if that star was the big, bright, unusual thing that tradition has led us to believe it was, you'd think Herod or some of his officials would have noticed it. But no, I get the impression that Herod hasn't even seen the star. This is hard to understand. These ancient people didn't have all the things we have that keep us inside at night - TV, Internet, heat, air-conditioning. They paid a lot more attention to the night sky than we do.

Now Herod shows what a crafty, double-crossing fox he was. He kept his cool and told the Magi to "go and search diligently for the young child; and when you have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also."

When the Magi left Herod's court, the star was still in the sky to lead them to Bethlehem. And this begs another question. If the Magi could follow the star to Bethlehem, why did Herod need the Magi to come back and tell him where the child was? Why couldn't Herod or some of his CIA agents follow the star just as well?

You know the rest of the story. The Magi traveled on to Bethlehem where they worshipped the child king and gave him valuable gifts. Since they were Wise Men I suspect that they had already figured out that Herod was not to be trusted. But in case they hadn't sized Herod up correctly, the Bible tells us that they were warned in a dream not to go back to Herod - and they were instructed to take a different route home. Good idea. They probably stayed off the main trade route for fear that Herod would send his henchmen after them.

After a certain amount of time passes, Herod realizes that the Magi are not coming back to tell him exactly where Jesus is. He calculates - from the time of the first appearance of the star - that Jesus couldn't be more than two years old. We're told in Matthew 2:16 that Herod was enraged. The wicked king sent out his agents "and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under . . . " I suppose he slept well that night, thinking that surely Jesus was dead.

Little did Herod know that Joseph and Mary had made good use of the wealth the Magi had brought them by packing up and leaving promptly for Egypt.

to be continued . . . a few plausible answers in the next post.

St. Nicholas Day

2010-12-06T19:00:00.005-06:00

I remember being told the legend of St. Nicholas when I was a child - about how he tossed bags of money through the window to the daughters of a poor man so that these girls could get married. It was explained that in those days girls had no hope of getting married unless their father could provide a dowry of money or valuable items. This story was way over my head at the time. Walt Disney's Cinderella was at the drive-in theater, and my family and I had been to see it. The Prince was in love with Cinderella, and he didn't seem to care one little bit that Cinderella was poor. I decided the young men in St. Nicholas' day must have been more greedy than romantic.

What wasn't explained to me as a child was that unmarried girls in St. Nicholas' era often ended up being sold as slaves, living a life of prostitution. Of course, I'm just as glad that wasn't explained to me because I was an innocent child of the 1950's and wouldn't have had a clue what it all meant. And if I had somehow figured it out, it certainly would have put a crimp in my romantic Cinderella ideas.

However, the complete explanation does lead to a greater appreciation of St. Nicholas. Because he was willing to share his wealth, these poor girls had a much brighter future. According to legend, St. Nicholas was very generous with his wealth and preferred to give anonymously.

I can't help contrasting St. Nicholas' method of practicing charity with our methods today. Anonymous giving seems to be a relic of the past. But wait - how can I possibly know that? Anonymous givers are just that - anonymous - so of course, they wouldn't let me or anybody else know what they're giving. OK, for all I know there are a lot of anonymous givers out there. But that doesn't change the fact that there are a lot of givers who are far from anonymous.

There are wealthy celebrities who give a lot and make sure everybody knows they're giving a lot. They often create foundations and put their own name on it - something like The Mickey Mouse Foundation for Underprivileged Mice. I suppose some might say that when celebrities publicize their giving, they encourage other people to give. There may be some truth to that; but I think it's just as possible that the publicized giving that celebrities do might make a lot of ordinary people feel like they're off the hook. Their attitude might be - if there are so many rich people giving so much, surely nothing is expected of me.

Another thing - I think it's possible that publicizing charity might encourage some people to take advantage of an opportunity to get a handout rather than taking advantage of an opportunity to get a job.

Charity is a good thing. It really is more blessed to give than to receive. But I think how we give is important. Apparently St. Nicholas thought so. That's why he mounted his horse at night, rode by the poor girls' house and tossed the money bags through the window instead of knocking on the front door and presenting the bags in person. He took the teaching of Jesus to heart. What did Jesus say about giving?

So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. Matthew 6:2-4

If you want to know more about St. Nicholas Day and how it's celebrated all over the world, check out this interesting website - St. Nicholas Center

Seasonal Rambling

2010-12-03T13:48:00.001-06:00

I've finally accepted it - chaos will reign during the first week of Advent. There are boxes of decorations all over the living room. The tree is up and decorated, and the Nativity scene is arranged on the buffet in the dining room; but the wreaths and garlands are still in their boxes along with the Santa collection that will eventually be on the kitchen window sill. The gifts I ordered online have started to arrive so boxes from Amazon are sitting around here and there, waiting to be inspected and wrapped in Christmas paper.

As we approach Christmas Day, the chaos gradually disappears. All the decorations get where they're supposed to be, the gifts get wrapped and find their way under the Christmas tree. Maybe there's some symbolism here. Our lives are chaotic when our spirits are far removed from God; but as we approach God, our lives straighten out and become more orderly. At least that's been my experience.

I always like to read a Christmas novel at this time of year. In spite of all the chaos around here, I managed to finish Christmas at Harrington's by Melody Carlson. The story was as good as the picture on the cover - a pretty young woman in a red coat, peering at a Christmas tree in the window of a department store while snow flakes drift down on the sidewalk. It's an inspiring story about redemption and about picking yourself up and starting over when the circumstances tell you to give up.

I have not even started addressing Christmas cards. I usually have that done before the first of December. Maybe my knee surgery has something to do with my being behind schedule this year. The surgery was in August, but it's just in the last month that I've started to feel like I'm getting back to normal.

We've received three Christmas cards already. At least some people have it all together this year. The first card to arrive was from an Australian pen pal. There's a beautiful snow scene on the front of the card even though it's summer in Australia. I guess our down-under friends know that a Christmas card with a beach scene and Santa in a red swim suit would look weird to us. I need to locate one of those Louisiana Christmas cards to send to Australia - you know, a card that shows Santa's sleigh being pulled by eight alligators.

The second card we received was from a local business, and the third one was from Governor Bobby Jindal. It's a nice card with a photo of the Governor and his family and a notation that no tax dollars were used in sending these cards out to constituents. Politicians have to be careful about these things.

I can tell that Teche (the house cat) is annoyed with the Christmas chaos. Our four foot tree is on his favorite end table - the one by the window where he likes to stretch out. He has a good view there of the bird feeders in the back yard. Another favorite spot of his - the coffee table - is littered with boxes. The striped wing-back chair is full of packing material. I'm trying to keep the wicker chair clear - that's his favorite napping spot. If I pile it up, Teche might decide to leave home.

I guess you've noticed that this is a rambling, disjointed post - making it perfectly appropriate for the first week in Advent.

Overflowing with Hope

2010-11-26T12:12:00.002-06:00

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. There were seven of us around the table. We ranged in age from thirty-three years old to ninety-four years old. We all have a lot to be thankful for. Good health is by far the greatest blessing of all, and we're all in reasonably good health. We all have a steady income that pays the bills, and that's truly a blessing in these troubled times.

In spite of these blessings, it wasn't long before our after-dinner conversation turned to what's wrong with the world. Our country is fighting two wars and - judging by the current news - could be drawn into a third war if North Korea keeps acting up. We talked about the declining dollar, the volatile stock market, the eroding of personal liberty - new airport security procedures being the latest example. We talked about how civilizations throughout history have all eventually failed, and how ours will no doubt fail sooner or later. Will it happen all of a sudden, or will it happen gradually so that we have time to adjust and prepare? How do you prepare for such a thing? Is it even possible to prepare for it? I don't know about everybody else, but I got up from the table feeling a little bit uneasy.

I had a sleepless spell during the middle of last night and found myself replaying our dinner table conversation. My uneasiness turned to remorse. Why didn't I inject some hope and optimism into that conversation? Surely that should be the role of the elder members of a family - putting things in perspective and sharing hope for the future with the younger ones who will still be here after we, the elders, have exited the stage of life. Christians, of all people, have reason to hope. Why did I fail to offer some hope for the future? All I could do as I lay in bed pondering all this was to confess my weakness to God, ask for forgiveness and the strength and wisdom to do better.

Most mornings at about ten o'clock, I'm sitting at the dining room table with the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. This morning, as usual, I turned to the Daily Office Lectionary in the back of the prayer book to see the Bible readings for today. When I turned to the reading in Romans, I was amazed - not for the first time - at how the Bible speaks to our needs. It so often tells me what I need to hear when I need to hear it.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." Romans 15:13

That's the wonderful thing about God - he's not stingy! He wants us to "overflow with hope." I like the idea of overflowing with hope. I'm not proud to admit that my hope is sometimes so puny that it just barely keeps me hanging on by the skin of my teeth. But I don't believe puny hope comes from the Holy Spirit. Puny hope is just me, trying to prop myself up and not doing a very good job of it. I think I'm going to give up my puny hope and trust God for that overflowing hope that comes from the power of the Holy Spirit - hope that will overflow to the younger members of my family - including the new grandbaby who is on the way and will be at the table with us next Thanksgiving.

What is a Masterpiece Anyway?

2010-11-18T11:25:00.001-06:00

I love words. A particular word may pop up often in something I'm reading or something I'm watching on TV - or even in conversation. Then I start to chew on the word like a dog chews on a bone. If I chew long enough, I usually find that there's more to the word than I first thought. Sometimes I find that there's more to it than the dictionary has to say about it.

Take the word "masterpiece." A masterpiece is one of the very best of whatever it is. It is an example of unusual excellence. A masterpiece of any type - whether art, music, literature, or any other category - cannot exist without a value system. What a heavy metal rock star considers a masterpiece of music may have no value at all for me. In order for it to be a masterpiece to this rock star and other rock music fans, they must have a value system by which they judge music. There must be a reason why they consider this particular piece to be a masterpiece over and above other pieces.

This sparks some questions in my mind. Are there perhaps two kinds of masterpieces - general and specialized? A general masterpiece would be one that is immediately recognized by most of the general population. A specialized masterpiece would be one that can't be appreciated unless the viewer has a certain specialized education. Does this make sense? An engineer may design a superb industrial valve. He and his colleagues may consider it a masterpiece. I could stare at it all day and never see anything but - at best - an interesting-looking hunk of metal. If the engineer explains what this valve can do and suggests that it could somehow be of benefit to me, I may see it in a different light. I may develop a sincere appreciation for it, but I don't believe I would think of it as a masterpiece. It's just too specialized.

When I first laid eyes on Caravaggio's painting of Christ being taken down from the cross, I knew instantly that I was beholding a masterpiece. I will always remember exactly how I felt when this painting caught my attention at the Vatican exhibit at the 1984 World's Fair in New Orleans. No one had to explain it to me. The apostle who stares out of that painting into the eyes of the observer, stared into the depths of my soul and said, "You see, he suffers this for you." This beautiful painting was huge. Am I exaggerating to say it was eight or ten feel tall and at least half that wide? I don't know - but it was big. Its figures seemed to come alive, and I was transported to the foot of the cross. I felt at least some of the sorrow, disappointment, and confusion those men and women felt as they cradled Christ's lifeless body.

After all is said and done, maybe a masterpiece is something that changes you in some way. The change may be small or it may be profound; but if the thing is a masterpiece, you will never be quite the same.

Back to the Barn

2010-11-11T15:23:00.001-06:00

I'd rather do barn work than house work. I can't explain why. The barn work is not any easier. There's just something about a barn. It has a friendly, homey atmosphere, and that's where I spent this morning.

I gave all three horses a thorough grooming - for the first time since my knee surgery. They really need a good bath, but I'm not sure I'm up to that yet. I've decided this knee surgery was a good thing after all. My recovery is coming along, and I'm getting back to doing some of the things I used to enjoy before my knees got so bad I was always looking for a place to sit down.

Grooming a horse is a satisfying thing because a horse likes being groomed. As much as I love dogs and cats, I can't say that I ever got the feeling that they enjoy being groomed. The dogs I've had were never the least bit cooperative when I got out the grooming tools. And Teche, our cat, will endure being brushed for just so long before he lets you know he's had enough.

Horses - like people - are built differently. Tesoro has a skimpy mane, but a thick tail. Rocky has a long luxurious mane and a not-so-thick tail while Fay's mane and tail are about the same thickness.

Tesoro stands patiently while I brush him, even leaning into the brush somtimes as if to say it's OK for me to brush a little harder. Rocky's mane is so long it's prone to getting knots and tangles. Sometimes getting them all brushed out is quite a challenge.

Both the boys stand pretty still while they're being groomed. It's another story with Fay. Fay is the most curious of the three. She's got to know what's going on, and sometimes that requires changing position. If she hears a boat passing on the bayou, she must look in that direction. If she catches a glimpse of the kids across the street jumping on their trampoline, she's got to turn so she can see. A top-notch horse trainer would say that I shouldn't put up with her moving around, and maybe I shouldn't. But it's due to curiousity and not for any malicious purpose, so I move with her. I'm as curious as she is.

When the grooming was finished, I put hay in the outside racks and turned the horses out in the pasture. Then I filled the sink in the barn aisle with hot soapy water and let the grooming brushes and tools soak while I cleaned stalls. Then it was back to the sink to rinse the brushes. I set them on a stool in the sun to dry. I don't want to give the impression that I clean grooming tools daily. I don't clean them often enough, so it was a job that was long overdue.

Jerry took the box fans out of the stalls so we can clean them and store them for the winter. In the summer, when it's 98 degrees, the horses appreciate a little breeze in their stalls. Well, Rocky and Fay appreciate it. Tesoro tolerates it, but he lets you know he doesn't like that darn fan by snorting and going to a corner of the stall that doesn't get too much of the breeze from the fan.

Spiders love the barn. They think we built it for them. I spent some time brushing down their cobwebs with a broom. I hate spiders! I just can't think of anything useful about a spider. OK, I guess they snare a few mosquitos in their webs - but not enough to put up with cobwebs all over the place. A wren perched on a rafter and fussed at me while brushed down the cobwebs. If it was spring, I'd think she must have a nest somewhere in the barn and was afraid it would be knocked down with the cobwebs. But do wrens nest in the autumn? I don't know.

Timely Thoughts

2010-11-09T18:30:00.003-06:00

Most people have an opinion about the fact that our year is divided between Standard Time and Daylight Savings Time. It seems to me that, although a few people don't care one way or the other, most people have a definite preference for one or the other.

I prefer Standard Time. There's something dishonest about Daylight Savings Time. Noon is when the sun is highest in the sky, and calling noon one o'clock in the afternoon is lying - plain and simple. I'm sure there are all sorts of other ways that we humans lie to ourselves for convenience sake - but I'll save them for future posts.

I'm old enough to remember when Daylight Savings Time wasn't a given. Various forms of daylight time had apparently been tried on a haphazard basis, making The Uniform Time Act of 1966 necessary. It didn't require anyone to observe Daylight Savings Time; but it said that those who want to observe it must all observe it uniformly. Everybody had to change at the same time. That makes sense. Uniformity would have prevented a summer of chaos and confusion in the area of northern Florida where I grew up.

I don't remember the exact year, but it must have been in the 1950s, before the Uniform Time Act was passed. We lived in the rural county - between the city and the Air Force base. One summer the city and the Air Force base went on Daylight Savings Time while the county stayed on Standard Time. This, of course, meant that if you lived in the county and had an appointment in the city, your appointment would be an hour later than what the watch on your arm said. The same thing was true if you lived in the county and had business on the Air Force base.

On the other hand, if you lived in the city or on the Air Force base and had an appointment in the county, your appointment was an hour earlier than the hour your watch displayed. I was just a child at the time, but I remember that the grown-ups grumbled all summer about the confusion. People were always arriving early or late for appointments.

Thank goodness things are more uniform now. Well, sort of. Hawaii and Arizona choose to stay on Standard Time year round even now. Well, almost. The Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona does observe Daylight Savings Time. That's surprising. I would have thought the Native Americans were so in tune with nature that they would be even more repelled by Daylight Savings Time than I am. Sometimes my logic just doesn't hold up.

Of course, modern humans are not the first to tinker with time. The Romans, with their sundial system, couldn't even count on an hour having sixty minutes. The time from sunrise to sunset was divided by twelve, and the time from sunset to sunrise was also divided by twelve; so there were twenty-four hours in a day for the Romans just like there are for us. But in the summer - when there is more daylight than dark - an hour could have as many as seventy-five minutes while an hour during the night could have as little as forty-four minutes. Of course, in the winter when the darkness lasts longer then the daylight, the night hours were longer than the day hours. Comprende? If you want to know more about Roman time-keeping, you can check it out here http://www.beaglesoft.com/timehistoryroman.htm. All I can say is it's surprising that Romans ever got anywhere on time. Maybe they didn't.

All this rambling aside, I'm glad to be back on Standard Time. My body is more in tune with Standard Time, and I find it easier to get up in the morning. My apologies to those of you who prefer Daylight Savings Time.

Rocky's Journal - Entry 3

2010-11-02T12:14:00.001-05:00

I had a rough weekend. I've just now recovered enough to write about it. We missed our Saturday evening feed and our Sunday morning feed. And - to add insult to injury - we had to spend the night in the triangle pasture. We've been in the triangle for daytime grazing many times, but this was the first time we ever spent the night over there. I don't like the triangle at night. That wooded fence line gives me the creeps. Anything could be lurking there, just waiting to spring on you - a lion, a tiger, or - more likely, since this is Louisiana - a slimy alligator.

All this trouble and hardship started because of the improvements they're doing on the barn. Here's a news flash for you - barns are for the convenience of people, not horses. The people around here didn't like it that it gets muddy in front of the stall doors when it rains. They can't stand getting mud on their feet. Of course, mud never bothered any self-respecting horse, but people are persnickety. So they decided to add on to the overhang above the stall doors. This involved a lot of beating and banging, welding, setting up scaffolding, moving material in and out of the gates. They figured we would be in the way in the barn pasture so they decided to lead us over to the triangle.

Going to the triangle means we have to walk across the unfenced backyard. They always lead Tesoro over to the triangle first. Then they lead me and Fay over there. Tesoro always behaves perfectly when they lead him to the triangle. He ambles across the backyard with his head held high like he's parading in front of a panel of judges. I think he does it just to make me and Fay look bad.

So anyway - Saint Tesoro was already in the triangle when they got me and Fay out of our stalls. I don't remember exactly why or how things got rowdy, but it was Fay's fault. She was all nervous and started dancing around and going in circles. And any time Fay gets nervous, I do, too. I mean - if she's nervous, there must be a reason. And if there's a reason, shouldn't I get nervous, too? Then too, it was cool and crisp and we felt kind of frisky. So we danced and circled all the way across the back yard. Our people don't like that kind of behavior. I don't know why it bothers them so much. It's not like we're trying to run away from them. But they don't like it.

We enjoyed grazing all day Saturday in the triangle. When it was time to go back to the barn in the evening for supper, we all waited at the gate - like we always do. But nobody came to lead us back to the barn. Just before dark, they came on the tractor with the bucket loaded with hay. Jerry threw the bales of hay over the fence for us to eat. He and Judy talked about how rowdy we had been that morning and said they had decided to let us spend the night in the triangle so they wouldn't have to lead us back the next morning.

I couldn't believe my ears! Hay is OK, grass is better, but feed is out-of-this-world good! And soon as they said we were spending the night in the triangle, I knew there wasn't going to be any feed.

It was a miserable night. Tesoro read me the riot act. He said he was having to miss his feed because I misbehaved. I tried to tell him it was all Fay's fault, but he wouldn't listen. He has a crush on Fay and doesn't think she can ever do anything wrong. And Fay's lips were sealed. She wouldn't say a word in my defense. So I had a pretty rough night what with Tesoro fussing at me and the scary shadows and sounds coming from the fence line. I sure was glad to see the sun rise Sunday morning.

Well, the overhang extension is all done now except for a few finishing touches. We're back in the barn pasture - getting our morning and evening feed. And to think - all that hoopla just to keep people from getting their dainty little feet muddy!

An Onerous Burden

2010-10-31T14:24:00.002-05:00

A cable news station reported recently that an Arizona law that requires voters to prove they are citizens before they are allowed to vote has been struck down by an appeals court. Supposedly, having to furnish this proof would be an "onerous burden."

It seems like society's motto has become: Let's see how complicated we can make simple things. And seriously - this seems like a simple thing to me. Either you are a U. S. citizen or you're not. If you are, you must have something in your possession to prove that you are. If you're a natural born citizen, you have a birth certificate. If you are a naturalized citizen, you have some papers to document your citizenship.

I know, I know - it's possible that you had your birth certificate or naturalization papers at one time, but you've lost them - or spilled coffee on them - or let the dog chew on them -or accidently lined the bird cage with them - or flushed them down the commode, mistaking them for toilet paper. If any of these disasters have occurred, you take the initiative to contact the appropriate government agency and get a duplicate document. Granted - getting this duplicate may take a while. Government agencies are not known for speedy service. If you wait until the day before the voter registration deadline to locate your proof of citizenship, you may have to miss voting in an election. But if you really want to vote, I bet you'll have your act together before the next election rolls around.

And now, let's get to the pertinent question - how is producing this documentation when you register to vote an "onerous burden?" I thought I knew the meaning of "onerous," but I went to the dictionary to be sure. It gives two definitions.

1. burdensome, oppressive, or troublesome; causing hardship
2. having or involving obligations or responsibilities, especially legal ones, that outweigh the advantages

The dictionary gives eight definitions for "burden." If you want to know all of them, you'll have to go to your own dictionary and look them up. If looking all this up would be an onerous burden, just take my word for it that the definition that applies in this case is the one that says a burden is "that which is borne with difficulty; an obligation."

Is furnishing a birth certificate or naturalization papers really an oppressive, troublesome act that is borne with difficulty, causing hardship? Is it an obligation that outweighs its advantages? Really - honestly - is it that bad? Is it any worse than showing your driver's license to prove how old you are when you want to buy a fifth of whiskey? Is it any worse than producing your library card when you want to check out a book? Is it any worse than whipping out your health insurance card when you go to the doctor? Have we become such whimps that simple things like these are onerous burdens?

You know what I think an onerous burden is? I think the blood, tears, sweat, toil, and treasure given by those who founded our nation were onerous burdens. I think being a combat soldier today in a war zone is an oneous burden. And isn't it incredible to think that the founders of the nation made extreme sacrifices, and present-day soldiers are - at this very moment - making extreme sacrifices for people back home who think furnishing proof of citizenship in order to vote is an onerous burden!

Fidget Pie

2010-10-23T13:18:00.002-05:00

I have quite a few English ancestors. So why didn't any of the traditional English recipes get handed down in our family? We never had Yorkshire pudding, shepherd's pie, plum pudding, or fidget pie when I was growing up. French cooking may be applauded by the whole world, but English cooking is often spoken of in less than glowing terms. Could it be that my English ancestors came to America to escape English cooking - in spite of what the history books say about their wanting to escape religious persecution? I don't know, but a few years ago I decided to try out some of the traditional English recipes.

I bought a special pan to make plum pudding - which is a cake, not what we Americans think of as pudding. To add to the confusion, there are no plums in plum pudding. English recipes often have names that are not very descriptive. Maybe it's the English sense of humor. Anyway, plum pudding is steamed on top of the stove and takes several days to complete from the initial mixing of the batter to the steaming. I like it, but it's not my all-time favorite dessert.

I've made Yorkshire pudding which is a flour/eggs/milk batter, poured into hot drippings from a roast, and baked in the oven. Delicious! I've never made shepherd's pie, but I've had it on two or three occasions at Scottich Highland Game festivals. It has ranged from OK to pretty good. Maybe I should bake my own and see if it's any better.

Fidget pie has always been a complete mystery to me. The origin of the name seems to be lost in the mists of antiquity. Some think its name may come from the word "fitchett," a slang word for apple, but who really knows? I googled Fidget Pie recently and found a recipe here www.uktv.co.uk/food/recipe/aid/574117. I used a thawed frozen pie shell for the top crust. Here's the filling recipe:

40g butter (in American lingo that's about 1/2 cup)

3 potatoes, peeled & finely sliced (I didn't peel my red potatoes; and instead of slicing them, I used my mandolin slicer with the julienne attachment.)

2 cooking apples (I used Granny Smiths.)

2 onions, sliced (I chopped mine.)

2 tsp. finely chopped sage (Next time I'll use more sage.)

2 tsp. light muscovado sugar (Never having heard of muscovado sugar, I used brown, unrefined sugar from the local sugar mill.)

2 slices sweetcure gammon (Gammon is English for bacon, I think. Anyway, that's what I used - a good lean breakfast bacon. And I used about six slices. I like bacon.)

150ml (about 1/2 cup) vegetable stock (I think chicken or beef stock would be just as good. Another Fidget Pie recipe called for apple cider instead of vegetable stock.)

I assembled all this as follows:
(Preheat oven to 350 degrees) I melted the butter over low heat in a large skillet with straight sides. I added the potatoes, onions, apples, and sage; stirring until whatever liquid produced was almost evaporated and everything was partially tender. I put this mixture in a large, greased pie plate. I stacked my six slices of bacon and cut them into small pieces. I put them into the same skillet, separating the pieces, and stirring until brown. I spread the bacon pieces over the potato/apple/onion mixture in the pie plate. Then I poured the vegetable stock in and sprinkled the whole mixture with salt and pepper. I flattened the thawed pastry shell and put it on top of the mixture, pressing the edges down on the pie plate. I brushed the crust with milk and baked the pie at 350 for 30 minutes. I reduced the oven temperature to 325 and baked for another 10 minutes until crust was golden brown.

Jerry and I both agree that this recipe is a keeper! It's different and delicious! Jerry confessed that he did quite a bit of "fidgeting" while I was preparing this pie - wondering what he was going to be expected to eat. Jerry's a Cajun. I think he's suspicious of anything that's not jambalaya, seafood, or a roux-based stew.

Spit Balls - A Dubious Memoir

2010-10-17T19:04:00.001-05:00

Judybug at Seven

Schools aren't like they used to be. Hardly a day goes by that the news channels don't report some sort of school violence - ranging from hair-pulling fights and fist fights to shootings that result in serious injury or death. By comparison my generation was tame. We weren't so violent, but don't think our little hearts were pure.

I had a bit of 1950s savagery in me when I was in the second grade. There was a boy in our class (I'll call him Johnny) who no one liked. I don't know exactly why - but looking back - I think it was because he seemed so perfect, and we got it in our arrogant little heads that he gloried in his perfection and needed to be taken down a notch or two.

The worst crime in our second grade class was throwing spit balls when we thought the teacher wasn't looking. We would tear off little pieces of paper from a notebook, dampen them by putting them in our mouths for a few seconds. Then we would form them into little balls and throw or spit them at our classmates. The teacher saw no humor in spit balls and dealt out punishment to spit-ball-throwers. This activity was sure to get you a spanking.

One day at recess a friend of mine made a suggestion to our little group. He would throw two or three spit balls when the teacher wasn't looking and say that Johnny threw them; and the rest of us would swear to it. Since I thoroughly disliked Johnny, I was a willing participant in this conspiracy. The conspiracy was quite successful, and Johnny was duly punished.

But that wasn't the end of the thing for me. By the time I walked home from school that day, my conscience had me in hand. I thought about what I had done. I thought about what I had learned in Sunday School - that it was a great sin to lie. Even at my young age I understood the difference in a white lie meant to spare someone's feelings and the more serious "bearing false witness" in order to get someone into undeserved trouble. There was no getting around the fact that what I had done was to bear false witness. I did not sleep well for several nights. I had nightmares. I don't remember worrying that God would punish me (although maybe I should have worried) - it was enough for me to know that God was not pleased with me.

I wish I could say that I confessed to the teacher and restored Johnny's reputation, but I didn't. I was seven years old, and I guess my character wasn't that well developed. But what I did do was make up my mind to never do such a thing again. I had learned that whatever short-lived pleasure I might get from this kind of behavior wasn't worth the toll my conscience would take.

Remembering this incident brings two questions to mind. How did we progress from spit balls to shootings? And is personal conscience a thing of the past?

Reading Preferences

2010-10-11T18:17:00.006-05:00

Works of non-fiction are important. Who can deny it?   They supply us with practical knowledge. From time to time we all need to know how to do something - like fix a leaky pipe or plant a garden or repair a toilet.

Non-fiction satisfies our curiosity. Some people enjoy reading the latest scoop about their favorite celebrities.  Non-fiction feeds our intellect which is why some like to read historical works or the latest scientific discoveries.

I'm addicted to reading all the latest books about current politics. Apparently I like to scare myself - you know, the way some people like to scare themselves by watching horror movies or riding roller coasters. The fact that flawed, fallible politicians make ill advised decisions that eventually effect the everyday lives of everybody in the country is heady stuff.

As important as non-fiction is, it seems to me that a reading life confined to non-fiction alone is like a desert where facts rise up like buttes in a wasteland without warmth or humanness or domesticity. My mind may require non-fiction, but my soul and my imagination demand fiction.

But fiction is a broad classification, and I like a certain kind of fiction. I don't want to read disturbing, unnerving fiction.  Reality is disturbing and unnerving enough. My soul wants to be soothed and consoled.

I like books about big families whose members are good enough to be endearing, but imperfect enough to be real. I like books that supply a lot of domestic details. I'm not a bit bored when I read about how the dishes are stored in the kitchen, how the sun strikes the diningroom table at an odd angle, or how the linens in the closet smell like lavender.

I get attached to characters - so much so that sometimes when I finish a book, I feel something akin to grief at having to leave the characters who have become real friends to me.

Two or three years ago I chose a book from the fiction shelves at Barnes & Noble because I loved the cover - a watercolor picture of a quaint village. Yes, I am prone to judging books by their covers - a bad habit that can lead to disappointment.

But this book - An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor - did not disappoint. It's set in Northern Ireland in the 1960s. I immediately felt a kinship to the characters - the well established Dr. O'Reilly with a personality like Rooster Cogburn (as portrayed by John Wayne in the movie by that name); Barry Laverty, Dr. O'Reilly's optimistic young assistant; Mrs. Kincaid, the bustling housekeeper; and a train of interesting patients from the village who show up with various ailments. Dr. O'Reilly and Dr. Laverty make regular house calls to patients who live in the rural areas outside the village. These travels are always interesting and often humorous. Needless to say, it was sad to finish this book and leave all my friends in the village of Ballybucklebo behind.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was at Barnes & Noble - in the fiction department again. After reading two political books, one after the other, I needed some soul nourishment.   I was about to give up and leave empty handed when I saw what turned out to be a sequel to An Irish Country Doctor. It's called An Irish Country Village. I bought it, and I'm immersed once more in the life of Dr. O'Reilly and associates. The best news of all is that there is a third book, An Irish Country Christmas. So it looks like I'll be able to finish out the year with my Ballybucklebo friends.

Autumn on the Bayou

2010-10-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

Spider Lily

Autumn has arrived in southern Louisiana. We’ve had several days of cool temperatures and low humidity. Unfortunately, we’re so desperate for rain that a statewide burn ban has been issued. So much for fall campfires. Even so, the glorious fall weather is welcome after the hot, humid summer.

Country roads have become corridors that wend their way through tall green sugar cane. We took a ride down an unpaved cane field lane recently just to hear the wind blowing through the leaves. Wind blowing through a cane field sounds like the rustling of taffeta skirts, and my vivid imagination conjures up a picture of a grand ballroom - one where Scarlett O'Hara might have danced.

October skies in our part of the world are usually a clear slate blue with no clouds at all – a contrast to our summer skies with their beautiful fluffy white clouds.

Spider lilies are putting out their orange blooms on tall stems minus any leaves. That’s the way spider lilies are – the green leaves come in the spring, the blooms in the fall.

The harvest moon made its appearance toward the end of September, rising large and silvery, early in the evening. In the old days, before my time and before modern farming equipment made harvesting fast and efficient, the farm hands could continue harvest work into the night by the light of a harvest moon.

The hay stall in our barn is stacked full of bales of fall hay. I don’t know who likes the sweet smell best – me or the horses. Probably me. I think the horses prefer spring hay because it has clover mixed in with the grasses.

I’ve just taken a stroll around the back yard. The satsuma tree is loaded with fruit, and I see that some of them are already beginning to turn from green to orange. Sweet juicy satsumas - another one of the perks of autumn.

Autumn also brings the return of the grackles - those raucous black birds whose tail feathers appear to be attached at an odd angle. They usually arrive in large flocks, stay a day or two, and then move on to other destinations. They're certainly not song birds. Their repertoire of croaks and screeches makes me think of squeaking rusty hinges. Their best feature is their irridescent feathers. When the sun strikes them they shine in purple and green jewel tones.

For many years the sound of acorns falling on our metal roof was music to my ears. It meant that fall was upon us - the oppresive summer heat was past. After Hurricane Gustav in 2008, we decided to remove the oak tree that rained its acorns down our roof. We had seen what oak trees had done to some of our neighbors' houses during the storm. We were lucky to have escaped damage to our house, but decided a large oak just a few feet from the house was a risk we didn't want to continue to take. It was a sad day when they cut the oak down. During hurricane season I'm glad it's not there, but I miss it this time of year. But when you live on the same spot of ground for forty-some years, you can't expect everything to stay the same.

Feeling Like Rip Van Winkle

2010-09-16T14:54:00.000-05:00

Rip Van Winkle fell asleep under a tree one day and woke up twenty years later to find that his world had changed a bit. I didn't fall asleep under a tree, but the after-effects of knee surgery have rendered me only semi-functional for almost a month. Now that I'm off the heavy-duty pain medication, I'm trying to catch up on things that have been neglected.

Could it be that a month in our fast-paced modern world is equivalent to twenty years in Rip's slower paced 19th century world? Maybe not, but it's amazing what can pile up in a 21st century month. I had hundreds of junk e-mails to be deleted from computer, netbook, and iPhone.

There was a mountain of postal mail - almost all of it destined for the trash can. I'm not a radical tree-hugging environmentalist, but I think all this junk mail is a terrible waste of natural resources. But then I guess the design, printing, and delivery of junk mail provides a lot of jobs.

Why do upscale mail-order companies produce a new catalog every week? The merchandise is always the same and the prices seldom vary. But every week there's a newly designed catalog. No wonder their prices are outrageous - they've got to pay for those slick publications.

Why do charitable organizations send you a letter, asking for a donation, with a dime or nickel attached to the letter? Is this the unspoken message: "You're going to feel guilty if you keep our coin, so assuage your guilt by sending us $20.00 - or better still, $200.00." I put these coins, along with my pocket change, in a charity piggy bank to be donated to someone or some organization at Christmas.

Do politicians know that all those flyers they have printed up go straight to the trash can as soon as their backs are turned?

Maybe my out-of-commission month can't really be compared to Rip Van Winkle's twenty years, but I doubt if it's an exaggeration to say that I get more mail in a month than Rip got in twenty years.

Me, My Knee, and Feline Therapy

2010-09-13T18:46:00.003-05:00

I had knee replacement surgery three weeks ago. During my three day hospital stay the nurses brought me various pills at regular intervals. Of course, I had some discomfort; but for the most part I wondered what all the hooplah about knee surgery was all about. The classes I had attended in preparation for the event had emphasized that knee surgery is a BIG DEAL. I reclined on my hospital bed - under the influence of powerful pain medication - and decided everybody had exaggerated. "Knee surgery is a piece of cake," I mused.

The first night at home was a nomadic affair. My husband and I assessed all the beds in the house to see where we thought I'd be the most comfortable. We decided our bed was too high. The Futon in the front bedroom was too low. The four-poster bed in the guest room seemed to be just right. Thinking it to be the perfect Goldilocks "just right" solution, I tried to get comfortable on a pile of pillows. It didn't take me long to discover that - even with all the pillows - I wasn't elevated enough. My nose stopped up and I couldn't breathe.

I moved to the recliner in the front bedroom. I found a reasonably comfortable position for my poor knee. It seemed to be a little more demanding than it was in the hospital. Even so, I went sound asleep. I woke up about two hours later, wondering why my face felt like a block of ice. I figured out that the recliner is positioned right where the air-conditioning vent blows a steady blast of cold air. This is Louisiana, not Montana, so I don't have a supply of ski masks at hand - and I wasn't about to turn the air-conditioning off. I had no choice but to relocate.

Jerry helped me up. All of a sudden my knee has become a real issue. It's very picky about how I move it. We gather up pillows, throws, water bottle, medicine, lip balm, and God knows what else. I grab hold of my walker and struggle down the hall to the livingroom recliner where I'm finally able to get as comfortable as my knee would let me get. Jerry went to sleep on the couch.

I had no idea a cat could wake you up from a sound sleep just by looking at you. Under normal circumstances Teche, our big black and white cat, is confined to the livingroom-kitchen area of the house at night while we occupy the bedroom part of the house. Teche is not used to his territory being invaded at night. Several times I woke up to discover my favorite feline, sitting on the arm of my recliner, with his nose about three inches from mine - giving me an intense stare. I thought his look plainly said, "You DO know that something is WRONG with you?!" I'm still grateful that he made no attempt to get on my lap and spread himself out over my incision. I don't know why he didn't recline on my lap because, heaven knows, he's a dedicated lap cat. I'm always amazed by the savviness of animals. Apparently Teche knows that my lap is unfit, and he is content - even now - to visit me from his position on the arm of the chair.

We continue to spend most nights in the livingroom. Teche has adjusted to this new arrangement. But his brand of cat therapy includes getting the people up by 6:30 a.m. He's not happy until the curtains are open, the lights are on, and the coffee's brewing. "They can sleep in my part of the house," he thinks, "but they'll do it on my time schedule."

I came home from the hospital on a Friday. The official physical therapist came on Monday morning - a perfectly harmless-looking young woman with a pleasant, perky demeanor. I've come to realize that therapists are many-layered people. Don't be fooled for one minute by that harmless facade. Over the last two weeks she has made me do things that I wouldn't do to a perfectly good knee - let alone one that that has been cut into. I wonder about her memory. At times she seems to forget that my left knee has suffered recent violence at the hands of the surgeon. She acts like we're simply carrying out an exercise program to strengthen perfectly good knees.

On two occasions I barely saw her out the front door before having a crying meltdown - declaring loudly to my husband that, not only is knee surgery a BIG DEAL, it's a MISTAKE! ------- But today, I'm optimistic. Therapy seems to be getting a little easier. I got through another day of it and lived to tell about it. I'm able to get around the house pretty good without my walker. This morning I cleaned the kitchen and walked around the house, picking up various out-of-place items that had accumulated on the kitchen bar. It occurred to me that I could not have done these tasks before surgery without having to have several sitting-down breaks.

So maybe all this therapy is paying off. Maybe knee surgery is not a mistake after all. We'll see. The jury is still out. There will probably be more crying meltdowns in the future, but somehow I think maybe the worst is over. Just maybe. Now, let's see - is it time for a pain pill?

The Hat - A Memoir

2010-08-20T14:57:00.002-05:00

Why is it that some long past, trivial events stand out in bold relief in our memories while more important matters sometimes fade into obscurity? I don’t know the answer. When youth left me so did most of the answers. In mid-life I’m left only with examples to wonder about - like one golden, sunny day that I sat in a boat with my mother and father and a friend of theirs named Joe. I was a little thing - two and a half or three - according to my mother. It’s the absolute earliest memory that I can mine from the archives in my head.

I don’t remember preparing for that little voyage out in the bay, and I don’t remember coming home from it. But I do remember Joe’s hat. It went overboard at some point. I don’t know if he dropped it in the water or if the wind blew it off; but I can still see it clearly in the glistening water, moving rapidly away from us, getting smaller and smaller and smaller. I remember somebody remarked that it was gone.

I wasn’t greatly disturbed that Joe had lost his hat, but I knew that something remarkable had happened. The fact that Joe’s hat could be on his head one minute and gone forever the next was an amazing thing. But more amazing than that was the fact that retrieving that hat was completely beyond the ability of any one of those three grown-ups in the boat with me. They had been gods right up until the moment when Joe’s hat began to fade in the distance - gone forever. I don't remember being frightened by this event, but - as little as I was - I knew that it meant something. I knew that it had somehow changed my life.

In telling this tale, I wonder if I’ve found an answer. Maybe these "trivial" events that establish themselves as permanent fixtures in our memories are not trivial at all. Maybe they are the only events that are important to our eternal selves - to that part of us that will never die. And just maybe some of the things that we think are so important don’t matter much after all.

A Conservative Reads Obama

2010-07-31T14:57:00.006-05:00

I'm a conservative - a traditionalist - and so my political philosophy does not coincide with President Obama's. But it never hurts to know something about the background of the man in the White House no matter who he is.

Most presidents write about themselves after they've left office. Obama wrote of himself before taking office, giving us an opportunity to learn about his background early on.

I was surprised at the size of Dreams From My Father - 400+ pages - since Obama was only in his thirties when he wrote it. But I like thick books so I ploughed in. It's well written and interesting, reading like a novel.

Shortly after Obama was born, his black Kenyan father had to choose between two college scholarships. One was to Harvard, and one to another prestigious university. The non-Harvard scholarship not only paid tuition, but would have paid living expenses for the family of three. The Harvard scholarship only paid tuition. Obama's white American mother was in favor of the one that paid living expenses as well as tuition. As I read this, I sympathized with her. That would seem to be the sensible choice for a family man. But Obama's father told her he couldn't pass up a Harvard education, and so he abandoned her and the infant Barack so he could pursue this education without being burdened with a family.

Obama's early childhood was spent in Indonesia with his mother and Indonesian stepfather - she had remarried by this time. The stepfather's religion was a mixture of Islam and local religious superstitution. Eventually the marriage failed, and Obama, his mother, and his baby half-sister returned to Hawaii where Obama's maternal grandparents lived.

By this time Obama was ten or twelve years old. His white grandfather sometimes took him along on visits to his favorite barroom that had pornographic posters on the wall and was frequented by pimps and prostitutes. According to Obama, his grandfather was usually the only white man in the bar.

Obama's mother was a hard worker and - to her credit - did everything in her power to see that he got a good education. I don't think she ever stopped loving Obama's father in spite of the fact that he had abandoned her and their baby. She built him up to be a hero to the young Barack.

Obama's college days were spent in the company of "politically active blacks, foreign students, Chicanos, Marxist professors, structural feminists, and punk rock performance poets." Socialism and black liberation theology were significant influences. Since my knowledge of black liberation theology was scanty, I decided to do some research. According to James Cone, a prominent black liberation theologian, this belief system includes - among other things - the belief that white people owe black people a lot; and if they (white people) want redemption, they must make material restitution. This is a far cry from traditional Christianity.

Although Obama's community organizing in Chicago produced some small victories for the black community, I got the impression that the black communities in Chicago weren't much different after Obama left than they were before he arrived. The people he dealt with while he was there were interesting. They ranged from hard-working blacks with moderate views to radical black nationalists. They all spent a lot of time discussing "black self-hatred," the unjust past, and their inability to move beyond it. The idea that the answers to their problems lie in black unity seemed to prevail. One of Obama's associates - a black teacher who led a mentorship program in Chicago's public schools said, "I teach them that Africans are a communal people."

Obama tells about his close friendship with Rev. Jeremiah Wright, a black liberation theologian; and he (Obama) praises the Black Value System that Rev. Wright's church adopted. This value system is described as "articles of faith no less than belief in the Resurrection."

Obama traveled to Kenya and spent time getting to know his father's family. His father is dead by this time. His older sister, Auma, fills him in on the family history. I thought this was the most interesting part of the book, and I found myself really liking some of Obama's Kenyan relatives.

Dreams From My Father was well worth reading. It explains the development of Obama's collectivist, socialist views. In light of the information he gives in this book, it is understandable that he wants to fundamentally transform America into a country that differs substantially from its roots of individual and personal liberty.

Rocky's Journal - Entry 2

2010-07-10T15:53:00.007-05:00

This is the second entry in Rocky's journal. His journal is dedicated to all animal lovers who like to indulge in attributing human traits to our furry and feathered friends. Although it's fanciful, it's not fiction. The events are real - just from Rocky's point of view. My apologies to readers who think this sort of thing is silly.

The vet was out here again last week. I hung my head over the stall door and watched as the Doc and the two vet students who came with her examined Tesoro's back left foot. When the vet came about three weeks ago, it was his front right foot. He got lame in the back foot just a day or two after getting over the front foot.

They poked and pinched his hoof while he stood there eating hay - an extra ration, I might add, that Fay and I won't get. But they thought he wouldn't mind being poked so much if he had something to munch on.

After the poking was over, they decided to walk him around out in the pasture to see how his back foot behaved - and sure 'nuff, it behaved like a lame foot. I could have told them that. Then they brought him back in the barn aisle and decided to give him some shots - something called a nerve block. At this point I decided not to begrudge him that little bit of extra hay. After a few minutes, they said his hoof was numb and they took him for another walk in the pasture. And guess what? No lameness. I think all this was to prove that the problem was in the hoof and not further up in his leg bones.

Next they hauled the portable x-ray machine out of the vet's truck. And poor old Tesoro got another shot - a sedative so they could get him to put his two back feet on wooden blocks. He sure looked silly with his back feet on blocks that made his rear end higher than his front end. But he was so woozy he didn't care. He didn't even feel like eating hay.

The vet seemed to be happy with the x-rays since they showed an abscess and not laminitis. I didn't think it was anything too serious since I hadn't noticed any vultures circling the pasture - no more than the one or two regulars that are always patroling the neighborhood, looking for something to eat. I'm glad I'm a horse and not a vulture. It's a lot easier to find grass than it is to find old dead things.

They tied a plastic bag with Epsom salt water in it around Tesoro's foot and soaked it for a few minutes. Then they put some of that slimy green paste on the bottom of his hoof and put a homemade boot on it. This homemade boot is - you'll never guess - a disposable baby diaper - complete with cartoon characters printed on it! I'll swear, I couldn't help snickering when I saw it. Then they wrapped the diaper in shiny silver tape and, I have to admit, it looks right spiffy.

An hour after the vet left, Tesoro was over his wooziness so Jerry let us out in the pasture. And - can you believe it! - we weren't out there five minutes before Tesoro came toward me and Fay at a good clip to run us off our patch of grass. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn't fake these foot problems just for the attention.

Artist Trading Cards

2010-07-03T15:37:00.002-05:00

It's amazing how you can rock along with your normal routine life and suddenly stumble on something that you didn't know existed. The internet, of course, is a fantastic place to stumble on new things. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, I've recently fallen into the world of Artist Trading Cards. And believe me - it's a well populated world. There are enough websites and YouTube videos about Artist Trading Cards to keep you busy for hours on end. There are websites that facilitate the trading of ATCs. There are websites that sell ATC supplies - boxes and albums for storage, plastic sleeves for protection, and rotating stands for displaying.

The only firm rules about Artist Trading Cards - often referred to as ATCs - is that they must be 2.5 inches by 3.5 inches and must be traded, not sold. (There's a way around the "not sold" rule - more about that later.) Any medium can be used to create an ATC - paint, ink, chalk, colored pencils, rubber stamps, collage elements, etc. Some ATCs are made of fabric and stitching. Some have three dimensional features.

I had lots of fun this morning creating the ATC pictured above. The lighthouse scene is a rubber stamped image that I colored with watercolor pencils. The sky was "painted" by dabbing a sponge on a blue rubber stamp pad and then dabbing the sponge lightly onto the sky area. The water at the bottom of the card is a torn piece of aqua-colored paper. The torn, ragged edge of the paper conveniently looks like surf pounding the rocks at the base of the lighthouse. The pretty young miss was cut from the glossy cover of a mail-order catalog and glued onto the card with a glue stick. I wasn't happy that the young lady was glossy and the rest of the card wasn't. I remedied this by using a small artist brush to apply a thin coat of matte gel medium to the dear girl. I'm pleased with the result. As Dee Gruenig, the queen of rubber stamping, often says about her own creations, "It's so cute, I can hardly stand it!" Is it really art? I don't know, but it sure is fun!

I've created four or five ATCs in the last two weeks. I have to confess that I like them so much, I'm not sure I want to part with them. They may never be traded. I've ordered a couple of ATC boxes for storing my creations. Maybe when I've made enough of them, I'll be willing to part with some of them. I think the only reason great artists are able to part with their work is that they are confident they can produce more good work. When you're an iffy artist like I am, you're never sure you can pull it off again.

Now, back to the "not sold" rule. It appears to me that if you want to sell your little works of art, you just call them ACEOs. I'll bet you didn't know there's a whole 'nother world of ACEOs - Art Card Editions & Originals. There's brisk commerce in the ACEO world - just search for ACEOs on E-Bay and you'll see what I mean.

Whether you call them ATCs or ACEOs, creating these little works of art is a lot of fun. It's an inexpensive hobby, requiring few supplies. If you're on a tight budget, you can cut your cards from cereal boxes. If you want your cards to be a little more sophisticated, 100# Bristol board is perfect. It's sold in tablets at Michael's and Hobby Lobby and is not too expensive. Old magazines and catalogs are great sources for collage elements.

One of the best features of this hobby is that an ATC is a small project that can be completed in one sitting. And I imagine if I ever decide to trade some of my ATCs, I will probably make some new friends.

Small People

2010-06-17T17:14:00.003-05:00

British Petroleum Chairman Carl-Henric Svanberg, recently announced that BP cares about the "small people." I cringed when I heard him say it - as much for him as for the "small people" on the Gulf Coast to whom he was referring. I knew he would regret his choice of words. The "small people" were offended, which is perfectly understandable.

Since I'm not as affected by the oil spill (yet) as those south of me, I'm able to give Mr. Svanberg the benefit of the doubt. I'm not sure he meant to denigrate anybody. Since he is Swedish, English is not his native language. Maybe "small people" is a perfectly acceptable phrase in Sweden. Maybe Mr. Svanberg doesn't understand that we Americans like everything to be big. We're a big country. We like big SUVs. We like big football players. We like super-size meals at fast food joints.

At the same time, we're very well aware that "small people" do exist. In fact, most of us know that we are "small people" in the sense that we're not political leaders, multi-billionaires, powerful corporate executives, or universally recognized celebrities. But we don't want to be called "small people." It makes us feel - well, small.

This leads me to a question - how can a powerful corporate executive like Mr. Svanberg, refer to "small people" without offending them? After all, sometimes it really is necessary to make a distinction between big powerful people and "small people."

Abraham Lincoln said, "God must love the common man, he made so many of them." Did Abe say this with tongue in cheek? I don't know, but I don't think I like being called "common" any more than I like being called "small."

The only other possible phrases that come to mind are "ordinary people" or "average people." These are not as offensive as "small people," but they're not all that attractive either. Maybe there's something in all of us that makes us want to be "exceptional people."

I'm interested in your opinion, Dear Reader. If you're a "small person," what descriptive phrase do you prefer? If you're Carl-Henric Svanberg - well, never mind. I'm sure you have something more important to do.

The Shroud Codex

2010-06-15T16:33:00.002-05:00

I just finished Jerome Corsi's novel, The Shroud Codex, about the Shroud of Turin - that fascinating relic that has been the subject of controversy for years and will probably continue to be that for many years to come. It's the author's first venture into the world of fiction after becoming a best selling author of non-fiction. I'm half inclined to wish he had written a non-fiction book about the Shroud of Turin. As a novel, Corsi's book leaves something to be desired. The dialogue seems contrived and unnatural. But maybe that's just me.

On the positive side - there's a wealth of scientific information in Corsi's novel about the Shroud of Turin. The characters in The Shroud Codex spend most of their time in meetings, discussing the Shroud. If you join them, you'll learn a lot. If you think the status of the Shroud was settled a decade or so ago when the carbon-14 tests indicated that it was from the medieval period and thus could not have been the burial shroud of Jesus Christ - think again. It is now known that the carbon-14 tests were done on a portion of the Shroud that was repaired in the medieval period and not on a portion of the original Shroud.

No matter what your opinion of the Shroud is, you'll find a kindred spirit among the novel's characters. They include atheists who think the Shroud is a hoax, religious people who are convinced it's the burial cloth of Christ, and others who can't make up their minds. The characters' quest to find the truth about the Shroud takes them from New York City, to Rome and Turin, Italy - and to CERN, the European laboratory of particle physics in Geneva, Switzerland.

My favorite character is Pope John-Paul Peter I - a ficticious pope who succeeds the present Pope Benedict XVI. He maneuvers with finesse and good sense among characters of widely differing opinions.

If you have even a passing interest in the Shroud of Turin, you will enjoy The Shroud Codex.

Rocky's Journal

2010-06-14T12:05:00.003-05:00

"Rocky's Journal" is dedicated to all animal lovers who like to indulge in attributing human traits to our furry and feathered friends. Although it's fanciful, it's not fiction. The events are real - just from Rocky's point of view. My apologies to readers who think this sort of thing is silly.

I don't wish anything bad on Tesoro, the boss hoss around here, but I can't say I'm sorry to be able to enjoy some pasture time without him. Yesterday when Jerry opened his stall door to let him out, the old boy could hardly walk. That right front leg has given him trouble before. So they kept him in and gave him some kind of medicine. He's better today, but they're still keeping him in. I hear the vet is coming tomorrow.

You know, I could be boss if I wanted to be. I'm younger and stronger than Tesoro. But, to tell you the truth, I don't want the job. Too much stress. I'm the sensitive, poetic type. OK, I know there were a couple of bucking incidents. The people around here remind me of them too often as far as I'm concerned. I was real young then, and I wish they would just forget it.

It's usually the same-old-same-old around here so yesterday was kind of interesting. That fellow from One Bridle Ranch came over and the next thing Fay and I knew, they had Tesoro standing over the drain in the barn aisle, running cold water from the hose pipe up and down his sore leg. Fay and I went over to see what was going on. Judy always thinks the best of us. She thought we were concerned about old Tesoro. I guess we were a little bit, but mostly we were trying to figure out how long the boss would be out of commission - in other words - how long we can have some peace in the pasture. It's nice to not be run off of your favorite little patch of grass because Tesoro's decides he wants to graze there.

21st Century Financial Astuteness

2010-06-09T17:39:00.002-05:00

Time marches on, and things change. What passes for financial astuteness has certainly changed. This change was impressed upon me recently while I was watching a talk show on one of the news channels. The guest was a lawyer who advises people who are in financial difficulty. He had the following advice for some of his clients whose home values have fallen to near or below what they owe. I'm paraphrasing -

Stop paying your house payment and await foreclosure. In most cases, it takes from one to two years for the bank to get around to foreclosing. This means you will be able to live in your house at no cost to you for at least several months. Manage wisely the money that you would have been using to pay your house payment by applying it instead to paying off automobiles, credit card debt, and whatever other debts you have. When the bank finally forecloses, you can walk away in better shape than you were in before. So many people are doing this, you'll recover from your bad credit rating in two or three years because lenders are going to have to give up on the idea of loaning only to people with good credit.

I was speechless when I heard this on TV, and I'm still not sure what to say about it. It's not that I think it's necessarily bad advice. Let's say your house really is worth less than you owe on it. Maybe you've been laid off from a good job and are having to try to make ends meet on a lesser-paying job. Under these circumstances, this really may be good advice. It may be the best you can do.

I think what stunned me was the spirit in which this advice was given. It was not presented as a list of desperate measures to take when you're backed into a corner and can't do anything else. It was presented as the financially astute thing to do - the slick, clever thing to do.

What happened to the advice that parents and grandparents of baby boomers used to give? It was based on traditional ideas of thrift and went something like this -

Be modest in your spending. When you buy a house or a car, buy less than you can afford. After all, someday you may fall on hard times and have to live on less than you're getting right now. Even if you have to go in debt to own a home or a car, avoid debt for lesser items. Save some money so you can pay cash for smaller things. At least have the discipline to pay for one thing before you go in debt for something else. Get the refrigerator paid off before you buy new livingroom furniture. Always put a little money every month into a rainy day fund to take care of emergencies when they crop up.

I can't say that my husband and I always followed the advice the elders gave, but we're a lot better off for aiming at what they advised than we would have been aiming at 21st century financial astuteness.

I know. I know. You can say that times are different, the economy is different - you have to go with the flow. But I think the day will come when the elders' advice will be vindicated. They were probably the last generation who learned penmanship by copying the wise sayings about morals and money management that appeared in their penmanship books - called "copybooks." Sooner or later we will find Rudyard Kipling's poem, "The Gods of the Copybook Headings," to be prophetic -

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four -
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

Well, old chums . . .

2010-06-04T12:28:00.002-05:00

. . . it appears that dark days are upon Louisiana. Where is Batman when you really need him?

As a result of the Deep Water Horizon explosion, men are dead in the water, God rest their souls. The seafood industry has been dealt a deathly blow. The tourism industry is in serious distress. Oil laden wildlife is dying a slow death in the marshes. As if all this isn't enough, far-off Washington, D. C. has decided to give us another knock-out punch by shutting down our oil drilling industry - pretending that they're trying to protect us from another disaster.

Where were their protective instincts when members of the agency that is supposed to prevent these disasters were spending eight hours a day looking at porn on their government computers? Where were their protective instincts when they were partying with the people they were supposed to be regulating?

Instead of putting another nail in Louisiana's coffin by shutting down oil drilling, why doesn't the federal government just do its job? Why doesn't it live up to its oversight responsibilities? That would go a long way toward preventing future disasters.

In the meantime, old chums, we have to trust the only super hero who can help us now - God Almighty.

Woolgathering

2010-06-02T10:46:00.002-05:00

It's a hot, humid summer morning. I've just come in from the barn. Sam and Sally Swallow have almost completed their nest, high up on a barn rafter. I can't tell a male swallow from a female, which is unfortunate because I can't ever be sure of who's doing what. I suspect that it's Sam who looks on quietly while Sally adds some building material to the nest. And it's probably Sally who chatters and hops back and forth on a nearby wire while Sam is working on the nest. She's telling him just how to do it. I had a conversation with Sam this morning. I told him that I think they're building a fine nest. He chattered back in pleasant tones. I'm sure he was thanking me for the compliment.

Yesterday was June 1st. I rooted around in the back of the bathroom cabinet and pulled out the big bottle of Coppertone suntan lotion. Am I going to the beach? Definitely not. But just the smell of Coppertone takes me back to my childhood in a little fishing village in northern Florida. It's amazing how powerful scent is. I can close my eyes, smell this lotion, and be transported to the beach. OK - maybe I have an overactive imagination. At any rate, Coppertone is my summer lotion - and summer is here. This means kicking off another one of my summer traditions - reading a sea-going novel. I'm in the middle of an old favorite - Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

Over the years, I've accumulated a collection of Dover clipart on CD-Rom. I've used it to decorate stationery, notecards, and my computer journal. And I've finally figured out how to make use of it here on Bywater Wisdom. I like vintage advertising art like the scene above. And no - I am not old enough to have dressed like this at the beach.

The latest news on the oil spill is that the saw they're using to cut a pipe is stuck in the pipe! Good grief! If this wasn't a colossal tragedy for people and wildlife, it would be a comedy of errors. I'm not against drilling for oil, but I think it's insane to drill so deep on the ocean floor that humans can't go down there to fix things. Apparently the robots don't know what they're doing. If only humans could go down there, Boudreaux and Thibodeaux could probably plug the hole. In case you don't know, Boudreaux and Thibodeaux are the main characters in a lot of Cajun jokes - the male equilavents of Lucy and Ethel.

I recently purchased the Divine Office, a Catholic app, for my iPhone. I'm a sort of generic Christian-at-large person so I'm open to whatever is uplifting, no matter the denomination. Many years ago I developed a love for the Book of Common Prayer (Episcopal) and got into the comforting habit of Morning and Night prayers. I haven't been so faithful about Noon and Vespers. The busy-ness of the day intrudes. For that very reason, the Divine Office app is a blessing. I always have my iPhone with me. I can leave the audio off and read prayers and scripture, or I can turn the audio on and listen. Sometimes I turn the audio on long enough to listen to the hymn and read the rest in silence. The hymns are sung by choirs, and many of the hymns are old Protestant favorites. It's nice to see the various denominations borrowing from each other. It gives me hope for Christian unity - someday.

Kudos to Martha Stewart for a gadget of hers that I recently discovered - the Scoring Board. It's designed to score paper to fold to make envelopes, and no doubt I'll use it for that. But it has solved a personal problem for me. Three years ago I had to train myself to write with my left hand because of arthritis in my right thumb which tends to tremble when trying to grasp something small - like a pen. Fortunately it doesn't hinder any of the other thousand tasks that I still do with my right hand. Although I didn't need lined paper when I was writing with my right hand, my left hand is more comfortable with lines. Of course, you can buy lined writing paper, but there's so much beautiful stationery that is not lined - and I want to use beautiful stationery! Drawing pencil lines is time consuming. Even if they are faint, they detract from the beauty of the stationery. Here's where Martha's gadget comes in. I can score lines on the stationery. If I place the stationery on the board - face down - the lines look slightly raised and embossed. If the stationery is face up, the lines are indented. Either way looks fine, but I prefer the embossed look. I can score a full-size sheet of stationery in less than a minute. I don't know if Martha dreamed this up during her "confinement" or if it's an invention of someone on her staff, but it's a nifty thing. Thanks, Martha!

Memorial Day Thoughts

2010-05-31T17:58:00.001-05:00

There have been periods in our history - at least, during my lifetime - when Memorial Day wasn't much more than a day at the beach or an excuse for a family barbeque. Lately Memorial Day observances seem to be more in tune with the intended purpose of the holiday - to honor the men and women who have given their lives for this country of ours.

It makes sense that a nation at war is more motivated to honor these men and women than a nation that is enjoying a long spell of peace. After all, when we are at war, the sacrifices are fresh and personal to the friends and family of those who have fallen. And we've been at war for quite a while now, and the end is not in sight.

Even when I was young I had an appreciation for those who laid down their lives in the service of their country. But, now that I'm not so young, the weight of sadness is heavier. When I see pictures of these heroes, I'm always astounded at their fresh young faces. We can't fully appreciate youth until we've lost it. Memorial Day prompts a sense of awe and gratitude.   But there's also a sense of helplessness in the knowledge that no words we can say and no honors we can give can do justice to the sacrifice.

Then too, I can't help but feel a sense of grief over the condition of humanity that has driven us to war since the beginning of time. I'm neither a pacifist nor a warmonger, viewing both of these extremes as sinful. Pacifists lack courage and warmongers lack the milk of human kindness. But humanity has the habit of swinging like a pendulum from one sinful extreme to the other.  It's this fatal flaw in humanity that Christians long to be free of when they pray, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

Memorial Day was born out of the grief and sorrow of the Civil War. The new holiday honored both Union and Confederate soldiers. There's a special place in my heart for Confederate soldiers. They are not only forgotten, but denigrated.   In this age of political correctness, they are seen only as defenders of slavery. It doesn't seem to matter that most of them never owned a slave and considered themselves to be fighting for the sovereignty of the states they called home - the sovereignty that the Constitution guaranteed.   These facts are ignored by both liberal and conservative commentators. It's a pity that the Confederate soldiers' cause was tainted by slavery, because state sovereignty was worth fighting for; and we suffer as a nation to this very day because of its loss.

Here's a salute to all the soldiers and sailors who have fallen in all our sad wars.  As fas as I know, there are no official lyrics to the bugler's Taps but these are the ones I know:

When your last day is past,
From afar some bright star o'er your grave,
Watch will keep while you sleep with the brave.

Morning in the Barn

2010-05-28T10:36:00.001-05:00

We were out in the barn early this morning, doctoring the spot Fay has on the left side of her neck. Fay has skin issues every summer - always in the same place. The hair comes out, leaving a little cirle of bare, irritated skin. If the problem is not addressed, the circle grows bigger. Peroxide and triple antibiotic ointment will clear it up, but it takes a few days of vigilant treatment. The first treatment must hurt a little because she flinches. But she stands still and lets us do our work. I think horses know when you're trying to help them. After two or three days - as the irritation subsides - Fay starts to enjoy the treatment. By this time the spot is itchy and having it rubbed with oinment feels good.

When we finished with Fay, we led all three horses to the triangle pasture to spend the day grazing. Back in the barn, we cleaned and limed the stalls, and spread out the wood shavings to cover the lime. Lime and wood shavings are wonderful things. They keep a barn from smelling like - - well, like a barn.

Then I set to work cleaning the stall waterers while Jerry got on the tractor and leveled the midden heap on the other side of the pasture fence. The supply of hay that we bought about a month ago has a fair amount of clover in it. The horses love it, but we're not so crazy about it. The dried clover leaves are not as neat as long strands of grass hay. The clover goes everywhere and some of it always ends up in the water vessels. If the vessels aren't drained and cleaned often, some kind of chemical reaction takes place that does not smell good.

While we went about our work, a pair of swallows was busy overhead, building a nest on a rafter. The barn has four stalls. Since we have three horses, we use the fourth stall to store hay. This hay stall is a Home Depot for the swallows, wrens, and sparrows. That's where they shop for materials to build their nests. It's fun to watch them as they pick out just the right piece of hay or straw for their building project. I sure hope the newly wed swallows like to eat spiders. The spider population is getting out of hand. But I guess that's probably the case in a lot of barns.

When we finished our work, we sat in the barn aisle - in front of the big fan - and talked about how hot it is. I think work in the barn needs to start even earlier than it did this morning - to get ahead of the heat.

The Commencement of Summer

2010-05-25T10:11:00.000-05:00

It appears that Spring has said her farewells, and the heat of summer has arrived even if June hasn't. I watered all the potted plants early this morning, and it was already hot.

I love growing herbs, but I can't say that I really know what I'm doing. I'm a trial and error gardener. The thyme was tall and woody so I did a radical pruning. The pretty blooms on the chive plant were past their prime so I whacked them off. Tending herbs - whether you know what you're doing or not - is always pleasant because it is accompanied by wonderful smells.

The news is full of the Gulf of Mexico oil spill. And I can't help but think of Johnny Fever - my favorite character on the old show, WKRP Cincinnatti. Johnny once said that when people are out to get you, "paranoid" is just good thinking. The present administration thinks a good crisis should never go to waste, and British Petroleum is in the business of selling oil. Do either one of them really care if the oil leak is stopped? An oil disaster on the shoreline will help the administration sell their "green" program; and so far, BP has been able to funnel a significant amount of leaking oil into tankers to sell. Forgive me if I'm feeling a little bit like Johnny Fever. I think our govenor, Bobby Jindal, is probably feeling like Johnny, too - well, maybe not - he may be too young to remember Johnny.

Rain has been light and infrequent since March. The horses spend most of their days in the triangle pasture or in their stalls while we try to nurse the barn pasture back to health after an unusually cold winter and a dry spring. We're making use of our sprinklers, and the big water bill this month was not a surprise. Some of my pen pals live in places where water usage is restricted which makes me appreciate our ability to water the pasture.

Things I Wonder About

2010-04-20T11:40:00.003-05:00

I've finished reading Through the Looking Glass. I had previously read Alice in Wonderland. When I saw the current Alice movie, I couldn't think of anything in the pages of Alice in Wonderland to account for the movie's dark mood. I thought maybe I'd find the darkness in Through the Looking Glass; but if it's there, I don't see it. It seems to me that Alice's good humor and the happy nonsense of Alice in Wonderland is continued in Through the Looking Glass. I know that a classic that is in the public domain is subject to being interpreted and modified. But I wonder. Why change and even pervert a story like Alice in Wonderland - a story that someone else wrote? Why not write your own story? Call it Sarah in Fantasyland or Nadine in a Nonsense Niche.

There seems to be a lot of talk by conservatives lately about the importance of the Tenth Amendment which originally guaranteed state sovereignty. These are the same conservatives who revere Abraham Lincoln. I'm confused. Didn't the Civil War pretty much nullify state sovereignty? Northern slavery was ended gradually - years before the Civil War began. But Lincoln and his supporters chose a different method to end slavery in the South, and that method meant that the Tenth Amendment had to be disregarded. If these conservatives who tout the Tenth Amendment and Lincoln at the same time think that ending slavery abruptly was worth doing away with state sovereignty - that's fine, but they can't have it both ways. How can they think the method used to end Southern slavery was right and mourn the loss of the Tenth Amendment at the same time?

The government is thinking about regulating the salt in our food. Studies say we would all live longer if we cut back on salt. Now I'm really confused. Why do they want us to live longer? We're often told that one of the causes of the health care crisis is that people (we baby boomers, in particular) are living too long. Why not increase our salt intake? We'll keel over sooner, and we won't be such a strain on the health care system.

While I'm on the subject of the health care crisis - I wonder why there have been no studies on drug commercials and how they may affect our health? I've noticed that a typical five minute commercial break on TV often has four minutes of drug commercials. Magazines and newspapers have their share of drug advertisements, too. Then there are the lawyers' commercials urging prescription drug users to sue if they are experiencing any side effects. The list of side effects covers just about anything anybody has ever felt. I think these commercials are turning a lot of us into hypochondriacs. Who can honestly say that they never imagine symptoms after watching a series of these commercials? Are my occasional itchy eyes a sign of "chronic dry eye?" Do I need Restasis? A flight of stairs wears me out. Do I have COPD? I think the government should forget regulating salt and start regulating these commercials and advertisements. I think we would all feel better.

Close Encounters of the Medical Kind

2010-03-24T19:24:00.001-05:00

I saw the doctor today. The normal procedure for the doctors I visit is to take you from the comfortable waiting room to the uncomfortable little exam room where you will wait longer than you waited in the waiting room. Today was no different. The exam table was just that - a perfectly flat table. I was instructed to sit on it, and there I sat - feet swinging. I felt like a two year old, seated on a kitchen counter.

And I waited - and waited. I read the January-February edition of "Inky Trail News" from front to back. I played Solitaire on my iPhone. My husband was with me so I interrupted his reading and asked him to rummage through the magazines that were stacked on a table in the corner. I thumbed through Consumer Reports and read an article about vacuum cleaners. It confirmed my belief that there is no such thing as an easily maneuverable vacuum cleaner.

A modern decorating magazine had an article that featured a traditional arm chair, upholstered in white with a bright red embroidered blood stain on the front side of the back of the chair. The back side had a smaller blood stain, designed to look like blood had soaked through from the front. Don't even try to tell me that civilization is not on a steeply declining slope! By the way, the price tag on the chair is $5,000.

All total, I don't suppose I was in the little exam room for more than an hour. An hour is really not a long time. And if I had been told when I arrived - "You will be in this uncomfortable little room for about an hour" - I think I could have maintained a pleasant disposition. But constantly anticipating the end of an undetermined waiting period is downright nettlesome.

Needless to say, I was glad to get home - even though I was a just a tad disappointed that the Brother Cadfael Chronicles that I ordered a few days ago were not in my mailbox.

Alice in Wonderland

2010-03-21T15:27:00.002-05:00

I saw the movie, Alice in Wonderland, yesterday. I'm glad I read the book last week. The book is full of light, humor, and nonsense. Yes, it's true that the Queen of Hearts is often getting annoyed with people and shouting "Off with her head!" or "Off with his head!" But in the book, the Queen's executioners never get around to carrying out her orders. And the Queen is either forgetful or forgiving because - when she encounters someone whose head she recently threatened to lop off - she doesn't seem to remember her sentence or care that the person still has his or her head. At any rate, the book is full of funny silliness and defies being taken seriously.

In the book, Alice is an endearing child. In the movie, she comes off as a teenager with an attitude. I have to give the movie maker a thumbs up for the White Rabbit though. He was very much the White Rabbit of the book.

Compared to the light wholesome airiness of the book, I thought the movie was dark, ominous, and too serious. I must confess - I was glad when it was over. Now maybe I'll read Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll's sequel to Alice in Wonderland. I understand that it is a darker tale than Alice in Wonderland. Maybe it was the real inspiration for the movie.

Wool Gathering

2010-03-18T10:24:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I am astounded at my own ignorance. I always thought that corn played some role in the processing of corned beef. I've wondered what corn's role is in corned beef, but I assumed it had a role. Alton Brown's "Good Eats" show on the Food Network never fails to educate me, and recently Alton gave me a crash course on corned beef. Silly me! Corn has absolutely nothing to do with it! The word "corn," as a verb, survives from the medieval era and means to preserve with salt. So "corned beef" is beef - usually brisket - that has been preserved in brine water. I just wish there was more consistency in the world. We call pork that has been preserved with salt "salt pork." Why don't we call it "corned pork?" Or why don't we call corned beef "salt beef?" Oh well - never mind. Alton whetted my appetite for corned beef. It's simmering on the stove right now.

I'm reading Alice in Wonderland for the first time - studying up before I see the movie. I can identify with Alice since I've fallen down a few rabbit holes myself. I remember having certain parts of Alice in Wonderland read to me when I was a child - "The Mad Hatter's Tea Party" which is alarmingly similar to some family reunions - and "The Queen's Croquet Ground" which has a lot in common with organizations I've been involved with. Nothing in Wonderland makes sense.

After watching Bret Baier's 20 minute interview with Obama yesterday, I'm inclined to think that we all have fallen down a gigantic rabbit hole. "Interview" doesn't describe what went on between Bret and Barack. Barack gave a 20 minute speech - he's good at speeches. When Bret Baier tried to ask a question, Obama told him he was "interrupting." I don't think he answered one single question that Bret interrupted him with. The part of Obama's speech that stuck in my mind was when he acknowledged that his healthcare bill is "unpopular." But, he said, it is the "right thing" to do; and in time the American people will realize that it was the "right thing" to do. I was glad that Bret finally just gave up on getting any answers. I think if he had "interruped" one more time, Obama - like Alice's Red Queen - would have shouted "Off with his head!"

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2010-03-17T16:21:00.007-05:00

Thank goodness it's cool enough today to wear my green turtle neck pullover - one of the few green things in my wardrobe. I'm happy to say that the landscape around here is turning green, too. Several hard freezes this winter made the scenery awfully brown and dull.

I think of St. Patrick's Day as a celebration of all things Celtic. One of my favorite little books is called Celtic Fire (edited by Robert Van de Weyer). It's a collection of Celtic Christian texts. I thought it was appropriate to commemorate the day by re-reading St. Patrick's Confession. According to Celtic Fire, this confession "is one of the few pieces of Celtic writing - and certainly the earliest - where authorship is known." It's a short autobiography as well as a profession of Christian faith.

Celtic Fire also includes some poetry. I especially like this one, called "Spring" (on p. 195) -

The face of nature laughs in the springtime,

her breath fresh and her eyes clearest blue.

Horses gather at the river's edge to drink its fresh clean water;

the sparkling waterfall cries with joy as its torrent hits the rocks.

The blackbird's call is wild and free, rejoicing at the new abundance of food;

the cuckoo, that lover of warmth, begins its happy chorus.

Sheep and cattle gobble the crisp, juicy grass;

the meadows are alight with the colours of flowers in bloom.

The sun glints through the fresh green leaves;

the wind rustling through the branches in the harp of nature, playing a song of love.

Men are vigorous and strong, women pretty and gay;

the whole world is in love with its Creator.

The Annual Check-up

2010-03-16T14:17:00.005-05:00

When I left the barn a few minutes ago, Tesoro was hanging his head over the stall door - a little bleary-eyed, as if he'd stayed out too late last night and had a little too much to drink. The vet had sedated him so she could float his teeth. (Wonder why filing a horse's teeth is called "floating?") Our horses usually need this procedure every other year. Rocky and Fay had their teeth floated last year, so they skipped out this time. I feel sure they enjoyed hearing the file scraping back and forth on the boss hoss' teeth.

The vet - from LSU Veterinary Clinic - usually comes with a crew of four or five veterinary students. Today she just had one student with her, but they didn't have any trouble handling the herd of three.

The horses on this quixotic little hobby farm are not too different from the people who live here. They are under-worked and over-fed. After the vet took girth measurements - the horses' measurements, not ours - it was determined that our equine friends could do to lose a few pounds. They need to munch less and exercise more. Where have I heard that before?

Spring!

2010-03-15T15:41:00.004-05:00

Spring usually sneaks up gradually on the people and animals at Bywater Farm. But this year it arrived suddenly. Almost overnight we went from bone-chilling temperatures to the balmy 60s - from gray, rainy gloom to glorious sunshine - from a barren landscape to big beautiful clumps of green clover and tiny green blades shooting up amid the brown grass.

A few weeks ago the Parish decided to tidy up the ditch that runs along the eastern boundary of Bywater Farm. This tidying up fit doesn't strike them often. We've been here forty years and this is the first time it has struck them. They mercifully brought all their heavy equipment on to our neighbor's vacant lot, leaving our little triangle pasture and fences unmolested. Since time out of mind trees have been growing on both sides of the ditch - mostly hackberry trees and pecan trees. Although the pecans have always been too crowded to reach their full potential, they've produced many a tasty nut over the years so I'm glad they survived the tidying up. In fact, most of our trees survived while the Parish removed just about all the trees on the neighbor's side of the ditch. I hope that was OK with the neighbor, but - OK or not - his trees are gone and our view has been expanded.

The barn pasture is a pitiful sight - more a dirt lot than a pasture. We had several hard freezes this winter, and they took a toll on the grass. We're feeding the horses lots of hay so nobody's ribs are showing, but I know they would like some green grass. The triangle pasture is just beginning to turn green. In another week or two we'll put the horses there and get busy rehabilitating the barn pasture. We'll toss some grass seed out there and hope at least some of it produces grass. One thing is for sure - as soon as the seed is out, word will travel through the bird community that there is a veritable smorgasbord in the Bywater barn pasture.

Walking the horses across the back yard from the barn pasture to the triange pasture used to be a rowdy affair. Rocky and Fay were just three years old when they came to live here. They're eight now and have done a lot of settling down. Tesoro, who is almost twelve, is still the boss hoss. I used to think that when Rocky grew up he might put the old boy in his place, but that hasn't happened. Tesoro still herds the two eight-year-olds around when he feels like it, and they get to eat hay when the boss says it's OK. Since he's a benevolent tyrant, he does eventually say OK.

I'm surprised that so many of the herbs out on the deck survived the freezes. The parsley is green and growing. So are the chives, catnip, lemon balm, and mint. I'm afraid the sage and oregano are done for. All the Blue Daze, my favorite summer flowering plant, is dead as a door nail. It can survive a light freeze, but temperatures in the teens proved to be more than it can take.

It's warm enough to have some windows open today, and Teche - the resident house cat - is enjoying the fresh air. Yes, I think spring is here to stay.

It's a Boy!

2009-02-08T10:55:00.003-06:00

It has arrived, and it's a boy. I should have realized that. The old couch was a girl with feminine flowers and a skirt. The new couch has no skirt and the red check is definitely masculine. It has changed the atmosphere in the livingroom.

It was scheduled to arrive yesterday between 1:00 and 3:00 p.m. At 3:15 we were still waiting so I called the furniture store. I was told that there were delays, but the couch would arrive in due time. That turned out to be at about 5:15. I didn't get much done yesterday afternoon for watching out the window for Bellelo's truck.

I always worry about moving a couch in or out of our livingroom because it involves lifting the couch up and over the stair banister. Some delivery people feel like their job is to get the item you bought in your house, and if they beat up woodwork or other pieces of furniture - well, they're not too worried about it. But the two men who delivered the couch were very careful. They even threw a blanket over the banister to protect it.

Teche is not very impressed with the new couch. He has sniffed all around it and looked under it. His favorite hideout in bad weather has always been under the couch, and I think it's safe to say he prefers girl couches with skirts. He hasn't jumped up on the new arrival - not once - which surprises me since the topside of the old couch was his favorite napping place if the weather was good and there were no strangers in the house.

I'm getting used to the new atmosphere and I'm enjoying the comfort of the new couch. I spent some reading time on it yesterday evening. Maybe I'll try napping there today.

Requiem for a Couch

2009-02-05T14:00:00.012-06:00

We should have known it was ill. After all, it had been a comfortable piece of furniture when it was young. Many pleasant hours of reading and napping were had there. It was cheerful just to look at its yellow and red English Country print.

I don't know exactly when the decline started. I think it was when the skirt began to sag, touching the floor. I chalked it up to the probability that the cushions weren't quite as cushy as they had been in the beginning and no doubt the springs had lost a little of their springy-ness. But I didn't dream it was anything really serious.

Then that little tear appeared on the right arm rest. That was understandable since the right end of the couch got sat on more frequently than the left end. I lamented the fact that the couch had not come with arm rest covers. One day I decided to google the couch's Waverly fabric. I went through pages and pages of fabric on E-Bay, and there it was - a yard and a half of the exact fabric! I bid and won.

That was probably two years ago, and I still haven't made those arm covers. I covered the tear by using some arm covers off an old recliner. They didn't look great, but they looked better than the tear - and at the time I thought it was a temporary measure. It became a permanent arrangement after I had looked at the mismatched arm covers so long that I didn't see them anymore. I still have the yard and a half of cheerful Waverly fabric.

The next symptom of the couch's illness was the annoying tendency of the seat cushions to slide forward. I was forever having to push them back under the permanently attached back cushions. The back cushions had sagged a little and I figured they were pushing the seat cushions forward.

At some point during this process of decline, I stopped sitting on the couch. It just wasn't comfortable anymore, but I attributed that to my aching arthritic joints. The last time I took a nap on the couch, I thought it was odd that I felt like I was going to slide off on the floor. "Age sure is changing me," I thought, "I used to really enjoy a nap on this couch." I didn't think much more about it and started taking my naps in the recliner.

Last week we had a visit from one of my fountain pen friends. She is also a cat-lover and wanted to meet Teche, the Unsociable. He always hides when we have company. As I sat on the couch, I leaned over and lifted the skirt to peer underneath since under the couch is one of Teche's favorite hideouts. I didn't see Teche, but what I did see shocked me! A piece of wood - part of the couch's frame - was hanging below the couch, stretching the black filmy stuff that they staple to the underside of furniture. I quickly dropped the skirt, wanting to preserve the poor couch's dignity in front of company. But I finally understood that the illness was serious.

Today Jerry and I turned the couch over. He unstapled the black filmy stuff and discovered that not just one, but two cross braces were hanging loose. He went out to his shop and came back in with clamps, a crowbar, hammer, and other miscellaneous tools. The surgery began. He worked for about an hour trying to restore the couch's skeleton to a healthy state. Jerry doesn't give up easily, but he finally declared that the whole frame was skewed. He would have to tear into the upholstery to even attempt a cure. Even if the cure was successful - and he wasn't certain that it would be - the entire couch would have to be re-upholstered at a cost equivalent to or exceeding the price of a new couch. The illness isn't just serious. It's terminal.

With a heavy heart I went couch-shopping today. I don't like change. I'm not one of those women who gets tired of things and wants to redecorate just for the sake of change. If I like something, I like it until it wears out; and then I mourn for it. The new couch will arrive Saturday. I can't talk about it right now.

Lean and Mean

2009-01-27T13:31:00.006-06:00

I never liked the expression, "lean and mean." I don't know its origin, but it has been around a long time. As a child, I used to wonder what good it did to be lean if you were going to be mean to go along with it. It didn't help that one of the few mean teachers I had was also lean. Could this have anything to do with my resistance to weight-loss programs?

I did an internet search on "lean and mean," hoping to find out the origin of this expression; but with no success. The commercial world uses "lean and mean" to describe a highly efficient business model. The website, usingEnglish.com, says that "an organization that is lean and mean has no excess or unnecessary element and is very competitive."

Here on Bywater Farm, this month has been dedicated to disposing of clutter. I've been thinking that our object was to get "lean and mean." But I can't imagine a home that has absolutely no unnecessary elements - and my object is certainly not to compete with any other homes.

I love language - words - old sayings - and when I get one on my mind, I'm like a dog chewing a bone. I've been chewing on "lean and mean" for a few days now. I vaguely remember studying about the Golden Mean - that perfect balance between excess and deficiency. I'm not sure the idea originated with Aristotle, but he talked about it a lot. It occurs to me that "lean and mean" can take on a whole new meaning depending on your definition of the individual words, "lean" and "mean."

Did you know that "mean" can be an adjective, adverb, verb, or noun? A very versatile word! The first listing in Merriam-Webster's Unabridged Dictionary is the definition that we're all familiar with - the one that gives "mean" a bad name. Here are some synonyms: common, shabby, contemptible, inferior, stingy, low-minded. I'm surprised that "hateful" isn't listed as a synonym. If somebody told you his Aunt Matilda was a mean person, wouldn't you think she was hateful? If you really put some thought into this, you have to reach the conclusion that even the most impersonal corporation wouldn't want to be "lean and mean," using this definition of "mean."

Since I have a tenacious streak, I waded through all the definitions of "mean." I finally arrived at the seventh listing which reads, "occupying a middle position; occurring between the limits or extremes." Aristotle would approve.

"Lean" is as versatile as "mean," and not all its definitions are attractive either - for example: meager, poor, scanty, deficient, skinny, scrawny. Of course, "lean" also has some highly attractive synonyms like "thin" and "slender." But here is my favorite definition of "lean" - "an artistically effective economy of style or expression."

In the not too distant past I thought of "lean and mean" as "scrawny and hateful" and wondered why anybody would aspire to this condition. But from now on I'll think of "lean and mean" as "an artistic balance between extremes." Now don't you think that's an improvement?

Christmastide Gives Way to Epiphany

2009-01-05T15:19:00.007-06:00

I've been listening to Christmas CDs all day. It's the Twelfth Day of Christmas, and I guess I'm having trouble letting go. But Christmas gives way to the season of Epiphany, commemorating the arrival of the Magi, those mysterious Wise Men - more about them later. Epiphany lasts until Lent so we have plenty of time to ponder the Magi.

The Twelfth Day is supposed to remind us of the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed. I admit that I had to google "the twelve points of belief." I memorized the Apostles' Creed when I was a child, but nobody ever separated it into twelve parts for me. Here it is, compliments of an ecumenical website:

1. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth,

2. And in Jesus Christ, his only begotten Son, our Lord,

3. Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary,

4. Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried; He descended into hell.

5. The third day he rose again from the dead;

6. He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty.

7. From there he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

8. I believe in the Holy Spirit,

9. I believe in the holy catholic church, the communion of saints,

10. The forgiveness of sins,

11. The resurrection of the body,

12. And the life everlasting. Amen.

I think this division into twelve parts is a good idea. It seems like it would make the creed easier to memorize. Just keep in mind that part four is not the same in all churches. Some churches omit the "He descended into hell" part.

I'll begin packing away the Christmas decorations this week. Maybe I'll let the Magi figurines and their camels hang out on the mantle a little bit longer while I think about them and their mission. To be continued . . .

A Horse's New Year's Night

2009-01-02T19:06:00.004-06:00

At about 8:30 last night I thought the Israeli-Hamas war had moved into our neighborhood, but it was just the kids next door setting off the loudest firecrackers I've ever heard. I stepped out on the side porch to see how the horses were handling the excitement. I was glad that the pasture had dried up some since the last rain. If the horses start running when the pasture is muddy, I worry about one of them sliding in the mud and crashing into the fence. It has never happened, but that doesn't keep me from worrying about the possibility.

A new round of firecrackers was being lit in the neighbor's driveway just as I arrived on the porch. There was no moon last night, but I could see Tesoro, Rocky, and Fay silhouetted against the lights from the neighbor's carport. The three of them raced to the corner of the pasture that was farthest away from the loud, flashing firecrackers. They stayed in that corner, but turned around to watch what was going on next door.

When that string of firecrackers was spent, there was a few minutes of quiet. At this point curiosity outweighed fear. The horses walked over to the side of the pasture nearest the neighbor and looked over the fence as if to say, "What's the matter? Aren't y'all gonna do some more?" Then the kids lit another round, and the herd of three took off for the far corner again where they watched until there was another interval of quiet. Then they ambled back over to the neighbor's side of the pasture and repeated the whole sequence. I decided the horses were having fun, so I went back in the house to finish watching an episode of Monk I had started earlier.

I thought about Monk today when I went shopping at the Whole Foods Market. There's a container at the entrance that dispenses anti-bacterial wipes so you can clean your hands and the handle on the shopping cart. Monk would approve.

Nine ladies dance on the ninth day of Christmas to remind us of the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. No doubt, these are the ingredients of a happy life and it pays to cultivate them all.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T18:32:00.008-06:00

We had a ham casserole, fried cabbage, and field peas for our New Year’s Day meal. I know you’re supposed to have black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, but I hate black-eyed peas. And in case you haven’t noticed, field peas have cute little black eyes. They just don’t show up on their little brown skins as well as the black eyes show up on black-eyed peas with their white skins. So I think field peas fit the occasion just fine. Besides, I forced myself to eat black-eyed peas with my cabbage last year and look what happened to the stock market! ------- But wait - isn’t it green cabbage that’s supposed to keep the financial world on track? Refresh my memory - what role do peas play? I’m not very well versed in New Year’s symbolism, but I enjoyed my lunch anyway.

This is the eighth day of Christmas. Eight maids are a-milking which is supposed to remind us of the beatitudes. Here they are - all eight of them - from Matthew 5:3-10 (RSV) -

1. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
2. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
3. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
4. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
5. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
6. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
7. Blessed are the peace makers for they shall be called the sons of God.
8. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

I don’t see a thing in this list that our current society puts a high premium on. In fact, if our materialistic, secular society came up with some beatitudes, they might look something like this:

1. Blessed are those who are puffed up with pride and push everybody else around, for theirs are the earthly kingdoms.
2. Blessed are those who party hard, for they will inherit a good time.
3. Blessed are the aggressive, for they can take what they want.
4. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after pop culture, for they will be popular.
5. Blessed are those who get even, for they won’t be taken advantage of.
6. Blessed are those with devious hearts, for nobody will be able to figure them out.
7. Blessed are those who stir up trouble, for peace is so boring.
8. Blessed are those who are persecuted for political correctness’ sake, for they will have fame - and probably fortune, too, since they will be able to sue somebody and win.

But you know what? Society’s skewed values are nothing new. They have been around since the beginning of time. The beatitudes make it clear that heaven and earth are polar opposites - which is why Paul said, "Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." (Romans 12:2) It’s a tall order, but we can do it - with God’s help, of course. Yes, we can!