August Resolutions

“Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful’ and sitting in the shade.”

Rudyard Kipling

One of the few joys of a flaming hot August in southern Louisiana is the flourishing potted plants on our deck.  Of course, having them flourish means a religious dedication to getting out in the heat to water them.  I haven’t always been so dedicated, but I’ve resolved to water and to sweat, and the pay-off is worth it.  

I haven’t set foot off Bywater Farm in seven days.  I was looking forward to going to church this morning and having lunch with my middle daughter.  But I have some kind of virus, so I’m home again today.  I’m really a home body, but after seven days or so, I’m feeling the effects of cabin fever.  And for me, cabin fever means too much thinking - too much naval gazing.

I wonder why resolutions come to my mind in August?  Aren’t they reserved for January?  Maybe so, but I think it might be a natural result of the stifling August heat.  The mind can’t help but ponder what might make your own life and the world in general a little better.

The fourth commandment says, “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” It was an easier commandment to keep back in the 1950s when I was a child. Stores closed on Sunday. A few drug stores and gas stations were open, but retail stores were closed.  I’d venture to say that some people back then went to church simply because there wasn’t much else to do.

 

The fourth commandment makes it clear that God doesn’t think it’s good for all seven days in a week to be just alike. But it takes concentration today to make it different.  Few stores close on Sunday and neither does social media, so distractions are everywhere.

I feel another resolution coming on. Social media is full of angst - political posts and depressing news articles about rape, murder, and abductions - not to mention the airing of personal dirty laundry.  I’m too private a person to ever air the personal stuff, but I do make political posts, and I share depressing news stories.  I am resolved to stop making these posts on Sunday.  On Sunday I’ll post cute kittens, uplifting poems, and photos of beautiful scenery.  Maybe I’ll post some creative writing about a fantasy world free of political corruption and mankind’s inhumanity to mankind.  If I was a better person, I’d probably resolve not to make any posts on Sunday, but I have to start somewhere.

 

 

Woolgathering

Woolgathering: indulgence in aimless thought or dreamy imagining

 

Self-talk motivation or life is a mind game:  I've always had to work at motivating myself.  I used to talk to myself like an angry parent talks to a lazy teenager.  "Get in there and clean up your room!  You're a lazy bum!  Why can't you be neat like other people? When are you going to grow up?!" It never worked.  Now I talk to myself like a I'm a toddler.  "Come on, baby, let's get a little work done.  I know you want to play with your toys (aka books, art supplies, sewing), but just spend 15 or 20 minutes in the kitchen, and then you can play."  This works much better - and I usually end up spending 45 minutes working in the kitchen.  The moral to this story: Be gentle with yourself.  It's easier to cajole a toddler than to bully a teenager.

oppressors disguised as benefactors:  Jesus said, “The kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them, and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you. Rather, let the greatest among you become as the youngest, and the leader as one who serves." (Luke 22:25-26)  

Relate this to our government. It takes from us in the form of social security, medicare, medicaid, and a host of other taxes.  Then when our prepaid government services (aka "benefits") are passed out - a small return on the taxpaying public's investment - our civic leaders act like they are our great benefactors.  The moral to this story: We fall far short of Our Lord's standards.

from small houses on big lots to mansions on postage stamps:  Fifty years ago everybody's dream was a little house in the suburbs with a big yard.  Now the dream seems to be a mansion on a lot that is scarcely bigger than the house.  Fifty years ago, people wanted to be outside.  Today they want to be inside.  I guess it's understandable.  Although people had air-conditioning fifty years ago, they were't quite as addicted to it as we are.  And they didn't have the electronic devices we have - devices that work better if you're not in the glaring sunlight.  Fifty years ago moms were at home to supervise the kids playing in the big suburban yard.  Now mom and dad both work until 5:00 or 6:00 and the kids are still at school in after-care.  What do they need a big yard for?  But I've been thinking - fifty years ago there weren't a lot of depressed people.  Today there are.  Antidepressant use has increased by 400% just since 1988.  No doubt there are a variety of reasons.  I think a major reason is not enough time outdoors.  The moral to this story: Go outside and play.  It's cheaper than antidepressants.

Conspiracy 101

Conspiracy theories are attractive because they answer questions that can't be answered by anything else.  Most conspiracy theories are satisfying figments of inquiring imaginations, but that doesn't mean there are not any real conspiracies.  I think it takes a fair amount of intelligence to concoct a conspiracy theory; but maybe that's because I've concocted one, and I just want to pat myself on the back.

Here's my theory:

A large percentage of the world's leaders are globalists.  Their ultimate goal is one government for all of Planet Earth.  Why? - you ask.  Because they think the masses will be easier to control with one central power than with a bunch of pesky national governments.  (I'm surprised you had to ask that).  

They've been working on this project for a long time.  They know it's not popular with the lower level, rank and file humans - that's you and me - so they have to try and sell us on the idea.  They figure we peons are not too bright, so there's no point in trying to reason with us.  Scare tactics will work better - you know, like scare tactics usually work better than logic on a two year old.  When we get scared enough, they figure we will ask for a global government.

After World War II, they scared us with over-population horror stories.  Supposedly, people were having way too many babies, and soon there would be standing room only on Planet Earth - if we didn't starve to death first.  Then there were horror stories about a new ice age, but that didn't happen, so they decided to scare us with global warming.  That didn't happen either, so now they're scaring us with climate change.

So far - in spite of all the scare tactics - the majority of us peasants are not begging for a global government.  Just when the globalists had about decided we are too stupid to have sense enough to be scared, a wonderful thing happened - the rise of radical Islam.  Why use outlandish theories and predictions that never come true to try to scare people when there is a rising force of savages who are willing to perform heinous acts that will frighten the most intrepid earthlings?  

There's nothing these radical Islamists won't do - they will bomb, shoot, behead, burn alive, torture, and more - and suicide missions are right up their alley.  A scare agenda like this - no, a TERROR agenda - is enough to warm the heart of the coldest globalist.  A few years of this kind of terror will make the earthling peasants sit up and take notice.  They can't ignore this like they've ignored the silly theories.  After a few years of this terror - and after they've been disarmed - the globalist leaders will gently suggest that the only way to control the terrorists is to unite the world under one government.  "They'll be so frightened," the globalists think, "they will beg for what we've been wanting to give them."

Of course, the globalist leaders want to appear to be resisting the radical Muslims without resisting enough to slow the rascals down much.  That's why we hear our leaders talk about "containing" ISIS, but never about defeating ISIS.  That's why our fearless leader, Barak Obama, gives his dispassionate "thoughts and prayers" speech after each new atrocity, but never lifts a finger to do anything that might thwart an atrocity.  He gives the distinct impression that all the victims of these atrocities are simply acceptable losses.  He seems to be bored with this whole charade, wondering how long it's going to take us to beg for our one world government medicine.

But all does not go smoothly for the globalists among us.  Is it any wonder that Donald Trump and the audacious British who voted for Brexit are prickly thorns in their globalist sides?

This and That

 And you thought Alice's White Rabbit was late . . .
     I mentioned this stuffed rabbit project in my last post.  It may have taken 21 years to finish Miss Bunny, but she's a cute little thing!  Who says I don't follow through?

Ergonomics
     Bending over a table to cut out fabric is hard on the back.   I've tried cutting out on the bar in the kitchen, but find that it's a little too high -

especially if I'm using a rotary cutter.  The table in my craft room is 29.5 inches.  The bar is 36 inches.  Obviously, I needed something in between, and this got me to wondering.  I'm about 5 ft. 5 in. tall. What is the ideal work table or

counter height for me?  According to ergonomic experts on the internet, ideal counter height is three to four inches below your elbow.  No kidding!  Who knew?   This means my ideal counter height is 33 to 34 inches.  After looking around on the internet, I found this set of furniture feet, and my enterprising hubby attached them to the table legs.  Now my table is 33.5 inches high, and what a difference it makes to my temperamental back!  Someday I'll get around to painting the feet to match the table legs; but I've got too many projects going right now, and I need the table.  (Yes, I know my craft room is a mess.  It's even worse than this sometimes.)

Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin
     I've been re-watching the Nero Wolfe DVDs that Charmain gave me for Christmas several years ago.  I'll paraphrase an interesting conversation between Nero, the detective, and Archie, his assistant.  This calm exchange came after a heated argument between the two of them.

Nero:  It can't be helped, Archie.  It's just the way we are.  You are hot-headed and impulsive while I am . . . (he pauses to think) . . . magisterial.  We are bound to clash.  It's a miracle that we get along at all.
 
Archie:  (on his way out the door) . . . Yeah, well, I've got errands to run, and I need a break from the "miracle."

Don't we all have a few "miracle" relationships like this in our lives?  And don't we all need a break from them sometimes?

It's Christmas Until Valentine's

Winter is here.  Seriously.  I'm not kidding.  It's bleak right here in southern Louisiana.  It's cold, rainy, and sunless.  All the sugar cane has been harvested, and the fields are brown and bare.  The pasture is a muddy mess with very little green grass.  The horses have the winter blues.  Don't ask me how I know.  I can just tell.

 

The dismal weather and the long winter nights are good reasons to keep Christmas a little bit longer.  When it's dark at 5:30 p.m., I enjoy all the little white lights on the Christmas tree.  I like seeing the tiny lights around the nativity scene in the dining room. I like the lights with the Santas in my kitchen window, and the ones draped around the Magi on the mantle.  All this cheers me up during the long, dark evenings.

 

I'm still listening to Christmas music, too.  The weeks leading up to Christmas are so busy, it's hard to find time to fully appreciate the music.  Now that all the preparations are past and it's quiet, I can listen to the music instead of just hearing it as background noise.

 

So --- Christmas is staying at Bywater Farm until Valentine's Day - on purpose, not just because I'm too lazy to pick it all up.  The Inn at Christmas Place in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, keeps Christmas all year, so I can surely keep it until Valentine's.  I'm not even going to apologize or explain.  When people stop by and say, "Oh, your tree is still up!" I plan to smile and say, "Yes, it is!"

Happy New Year to All!

Have you made your New Year's Resolutions?  I've made mine - sort of.  I am so good at making resolutions!  I can make resolutions enough for myself and a dozen other people.  I can make resolutions enough to require forty-eight hour days to fulfill them. 

 

I've finally figured out - when it comes to resolutions - I'm my own worst enemy.  I habitually over resolve which leads to under performance.  I set myself up for failure, or at the very least, a low success rate.  My success rate in recent years has averaged - I'll venture a guess - about ten per cent. 

 

I'm changing tactics this year.  I've made a long list of prospective resolutions.  The next step is to eliminate ninety per cent of these.  We'll see if I can actually succeed with what's left.  Even if I only accomplish ten per cent of the ten per cent that makes the cut, I'll be doing as well as I've done in the past.

Time Traveling

Some people live where their ancestral roots are deep, where they know everybody, and everybody knows them.  Others come from nomadic families, destined to live where they have no roots - destined to be outlanders.  Webster defines outlander as "someone from a different region or culture."  I have always been an outlander.  When I was an infant, my parents left southern West Virginia - where they had ancestral roots - and moved to the Florida panhandle.

We made yearly trips to West Virginia to visit relatives.  We always got a warm welcome from our relatives and enjoyed visiting with them.  But even there, where my parents were natives, I was an outlander.  I shared blood with these relatives, but I lived too far away from them to share the experience of daily life.  I was growing up in another world - a world of beaches and palm trees that contrasted sharply to the mountains of West Virginia.  To add to my sense of isolation, I was an only child so there were no brothers or sisters to share my outlander status.

I was an outlander in the Florida fishing village where I spent my childhood.  Most people who lived there fell into one of two categories.  They were either descendants of the original settlers of the county or they were in the Air Force, stationed at the nearby base.  I enjoyed neither the comraderie of the Air Force kids or the full acceptance of the settlers' children. 

 
I am an outlander here in southeastern Louisiana where my husband's roots run deep.  Cajuns are friendly people, but they hold blood and roots in high regard.  When you meet a Cajun for the first time, he's likely to ask who your parents are.  Sometimes you get the feeling that you're set on the sidelines when you say your parents are from another state.  If nothing else betrays my outlander status, my speech will.  I've lived here for 45 years, but often - as soon as I open my mouth - someone will say, "You're not from here, are you?"

I suppose life is easier for an outlander if he lives in a big city.  After all, cities are where outlanders collect.  There are so many outlanders from so many different places that outlander status is the norm.  But in small towns, the natives congregate and talk about their roots and their blood connections, and it's easy for an outlander to feel like a fifth wheel.

After a lifetime of being an outlander, it's no wonder that I was drawn to Diana Gabaldon's book, Outlander.  It's a time-traveling adventure.  I can relate to it because being a lifetime outlander is a little like time-traveling.  Not quite - but almost. 

After Christmas Winter Blues

Winter - Bah!

I have the winter blues - in southern Louisiana.  It wouldn't do for me to live farther north.  I'm not alone in my blue mood.  The horses get the blues every January, too.  They spend their time lying down or standing still with a bored expession on their equine faces.

It's not the cold that depresses me.  We have very little really cold weather.  It's the gray, sunless days.  It's the brown, barren cane fields.  It's the lack of tomatoes that taste like tomatoes.

We took our little artificial Christmas tree down this morning.  That's always a depressing chore.  The little tree's white lights add some cheer to the long winter evenings.  I'm always reluctant to pack it away; but if your Christmas tree is still up in February, people begin to think you're a little too eccentric.  The garlands and red bows that are here and there around the house will be packed away today, too.  But the Wise Men are staying on the mantle until Mardi Gras.  I can't let go of everything at once.

My December experiment - praying the Liturgy of the Hours six times a day - was not a total success, but I wouldn't call it a failure either.  I managed pretty well for about three weeks, averaging three or four of the canonical hours a day.  It was a good exercise in discipline.  Maybe I'll give it a try every December.  Nowadays I'm back to my usual pattern of morning and evening prayer and informal chats with God while I go about my work.  This is a good pattern for my modern-day lifestyle.  But I'm still enchanted by life in a monastery where the world stops every three hours to pray.

Where Was I?

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.

Scattered Thoughts

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. 

This and That

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.

Random Thoughts

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.

Seasonal Rambling

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.

What is a Masterpiece Anyway?

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.

Woolgathering

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!

Wool Gathering

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!"