I call this planter “Queen Mary.” If you were to guess what the expression on her face is telling you, what would it be? Does she look serene? Demure? Bemused? You may be surprised to know that she’s actually experiencing brain freeze.

I love having a planter that looks like a person, but this one that used to belong to my mother has always been very hard to keep watered because the opening is so shallow. Whenever I tried to water it, the water would just run down the side. I mentioned it to my mom once and she said she used to use ice cubes which would slowly melt in. It’s brilliant!

That’s my first and probably my last gardening tip on this blog. I’m not generally known for my green thumb. Plants under my care have to be able to tolerate a fair amount of neglect.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless Queen Mary objects to the ice cube treatment by saying “We are not amused.”

I’ve been biking every morning (ish) for the last couple weeks and I’ve appreciated the magic of gear shifting to accommodate different elevations in the path as I go.

I first learned, or tried to learn about gear shifting when I was a young lass of about 12 years of age. My bike at the time only had the one speed, so I was mystified by what it meant for a bike to have 10-speeds. A neighbor boy, Evan, labored to explain it to me. He was a few years older than I and had dimples, so of course I had a crush on him. Unfortunately, his explanation didn’t make any sense to me, which I had to admit when he asked if I’d understood. “Are you really that stupid?” he said, frustrated that his elegant explanation had not borne fruit. I’d like to be able to tell you that his dimples held less attraction for me after that rude comment, but girls are girls. Probably the only thing I really learned was not to admit it when I didn’t understand something. Too bad.

But now I get it. My bike has 18 speeds and the gear shift controls are really easy to use.

When I’m headed downhill, I shift up to take advantage of the ease of pedaling and to gain better momentum when the path starts to go back uphill. When I’m approaching an intersection, I downshift, so that if I have to stop, I can get going again easily. Frequent gear-shifting enables me to keep my pace more or less consistent as I go. However, I’ve realized that in order for me to gain strength in my legs for the uphill parts of the route, I have to challenge myself to ride them at increasingly higher speeds. If you’ve ever tried to go uphill at a low speed, you realize how frustrating it is. The pedaling is easier but it takes 2-3 times more revolutions of the wheels to get to the top.

So the question on all of your minds is, “Why is she boring us with all of this?” It’s a good question and I applaud you for your discernment. I’ve been thinking lately about how much this whole business of biking and gear-shifting is an apt metaphor for life and sanctification, particularly as I get older. I’d really prefer my life to be easy and if it were up to me, I would never put any hills in the terrain of my life. And if hills had to come, I’d prefer to make it as easy as possible to get up them.

God’s grace is better than that. He wants to make me more like Jesus, and for that I need to share in the fellowship of His sufferings. God brings me the afflictions and trials I need, in just the amount of difficulty I need. The hills may sometimes be steep, but His grace allows me to shift gears, not to make it easy, but to make it possible to get to the top and build strength of faith along the way.

And then, that glorious downhill sprint! How thankful I am that life is not always an uphill battle.

And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. 1 Peter 5:10

I’ll probably delete this in the morning while shifting gears.

“Mom, what’s for supper?” Freddy called out while running upstairs with his latest takings while out on Finder Patrol.

“Chicken and wild rice casserole,” she answered from the kitchen. Freddy approved of this and felt his appetite rising. “And asparagus,” she added.

Disaster! Freddy didn’t just dislike asparagus, he loathed it. “I LOATHE asparagus!” he murmured to himself because he liked the sound of it. He dropped off the booty in his room and ran to find his brother, Matthew who was playing with Legos in the living room.

“Matty,” he whispered, “We need to have a secret meeting. Right now! It’s URGENT.”

“Okay,” Matty whispered back. He was a year younger than Freddy and shared Freddy’s room – he got the bottom bunk. Dad always liked to call them “Partners in Crime.” They weren’t quite sure what this meant, but since he said it cheerfully, they assumed it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Matty followed Freddy back up to their room and when the door was closed, Freddy announced, “Mom’s making asparagus for supper.”

“So what? I like asparagus!” Matty said, disappointed in the topic of this urgent meeting.

“I know, but I LOATHE it and I’m gonna need your help so I don’t have to eat any of it.” Matty looked dubious about this, since the general family rule at the table was to eat what you were given without complaining.

“I don’t see what I can do. Just eat it, you big baby!” Freddy ignored the taunt. He was prepared. He’d given this some thought since the last time asparagus was on the menu, which admittedly didn’t happen often.

“If you help me and if it works, I can help you the next time Mom makes cucumber salad.” This got Matty’s attention. Cucumber salad was an old nemesis.

“Okay. What’s your plan?”

Freddy explained. Matty listened. They practiced and rehearsed the whole thing. Operation “Freddy Versus the Asparagus” was ready for action.

The supper bell rang and they raced to the table, trying not to look suspicious. Their parents often could tell when something mischievous was afoot, which mystified Freddy. How did they know? At any rate, they were determined not to give anything away.

Dad said a prayer, they all said “Amen,” and the food was passed around. Mom occupied herself with getting food on a plate for their two-year-old sister, Philomena, and the boys dutifully took some casserole and asparagus for their own plates. It was time to begin. They had a round table and Freddy and Matty always sat next to each other, an essential part of the plan.

“Hey, Dad,” said Matty, “Tell us the story again about how you and Mom met.” This was an oft-repeated tale, one that everyone enjoyed hearing. Dad told it so often that lately he’d begun telling it with just a few details off and it had become a family contest to catch the errors. Freddy had noticed that when Dad told this story, he and Mom looked at each other a lot, which meant they wouldn’t be looking and him and Matty.

Dad launched in with enthusiasm on the latest version of “How We Met,” and every time Matty ate a piece of asparagus, Freddy surreptitiously replaced it with one from his own plate, making sure that neither of his parents were looking at him when he did it. It was a finely orchestrated thing of beauty. The Asparagus Maneuver (as they called it in rehearsal), didn’t take long to complete. There was one dangerous moment when Philomena saw what they were doing and said, “Funny Feddy, funny Feddy” while pointing at him. Mom turned to look at him, but didn’t catch him in the act.

By the time Dad finished, they were done eating. It had worked! Freddy felt a sense of glee with just a touch of guilt.

“Freddy,” Mom said, “I’m impressed that you ate all your asparagus. I know you don’t like it much and it takes a lot of maturity to eat it and not complain. Don’t you agree, Jim?”

“Absolutely!” Dad answered. “In fact, I think it’s a strong step toward manhood and one that I’d be willing to reward with a double portion of dessert tonight.”

Freddy squirmed uneasily in his chair at this unexpected praise.

Mom went on, “Oh, I don’t even think double dessert would be enough to reward this act of valor. Let’s take him to Disneyland for a whole week!”

Dad added, “And then we can put a water park in our backyard and let him play all day instead of doing schoolwork!”

They knew. Rats. He looked at Matty and Matty looked at him. Partners in crime for real this time.

Freddy confessed, Matty confessed, and on the whole, both of them felt better having gotten it off their chests. More asparagus for Freddy and no dessert for either of them.

And there would be no Cucumber Salad Maneuver.

I’ve been wanting to do another story about Freddy and this one tapped into my own feelings about having to eat food that I didn’t like as a child. And I also LOATHED asparagus. I love it now, though. Funny how that happens. I also wanted to introduce Freddy’s whole family and basically just met them myself as I was writing.

Thank you for joining me for another Fiction Friday.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning during an URGENT meeting to discuss other ways to avoid eating detestable things. Will you be there?

Glendalough State Park is in west central Minnesota near the town of Battle Lake and has a 3.3 mile Hiking Club hike around Annie Battle Lake. As a curious person, you no doubt have a couple questions starting out: what does “Glendalough” mean and who is the Annie of Annie Battle Lake? Rest assured, I have you covered on these important questions. “Glendalough” means “the glen between two lakes” and was named by Minneapolis Tribune owner F.E. Murphy and his wife, who were of Irish descent (the original Glendalough is a valley in Ireland). When the Tribune owned the property they hosted VIP’s like President Richard Nixon and President Dwight Eisenhower.

I like the word “Glendalough” mostly because I say it like “Glenda-loo,” which makes me happy. Unfortunately, the correct pronunciation is either “Glenda-low” or “Glenda-loch” (like Loch Lomond). As to the matter of Annie, of Annie Battle Lake, I spoke too soon. I thought this would be an easy thing to track down, but as far as I can tell, Annie’s story has been lost to time. I do know that the town of Battle Lake was named after a battle at a nearby lake in the 18th century between the Ojibwe and Souix Indians. Is it too much to presume that the site of the battle was Annie Battle Lake? Well, two paragraphs in and I haven’t even started the hike, but you have been made richer in knowledge, so I think it was worth the digression.

We didn’t start our hike at Glendalough until around 2:00 p.m., having gone to church in Moorhead with our friends who live near there. We arrived at the park around 1:30 but had a picnic first, just the two of us…and a host of wretched caterpillars (which shall henceforth be known as WC’s). They seemed to appear out of nowhere and were crawling over everything (you may assume a little exaggeration on my part, but not much). I picked a couple off my plate and when I was done eating, I stood up, realized I’d sat one one, too. *shudder*. Nothing like hiking with squashed caterpillar on your jeans.

Once again, I left my trusty hiking poles behind, feeling confident that there wouldn’t be a lot of up and down at this park. My confidence was not misplaced. The initial part of the hike veered away from the lake, but we knew that we’d be getting back to it about halfway through.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and we were seeing loads and loads of dragonflies. I was on the hunt to get a good photo of one, but my, they are a flighty insect. They would rarely alight on something and then only for a fraction of a second. Here’s my favorite shot of one, even though it’s mostly grass and very little dragonfly.

Kris also espied one on the ground and it was so well camouflaged, it took me forever to find it.

We also saw what I’m pretty sure was a dung beetle, pushing his large dung ball across the path. There’s so much that goes on in the tiny world of insects that is completely amazing.

We were tooling along quite well when Kris noticed his sunglasses were missing. We backtracked quite a ways, couldn’t find them, turned around and then he spotted them very near to where we’d first turned around. I just kept taking photos and tried not to think about what this was adding to our total mileage that we wouldn’t get credit for, but that my legs would certainly notice.

Occasionally we entered areas that were WC territory. They were all over the leaves on certain trees and when we stopped to look at them, we began to notice a curious sort of sound like when you pour milk on your Rice Krispies: snap, crackle, pop, pop, pop… We realized suddenly that it was the sound of caterpillars dropping from the trees onto the ground…or onto us. It began to feel like a very sinister place and certainly a place where you would keep your mouth closed just in case. Me no likee. Kris asked me at one point, “Why did the caterpillar cross the road?” My answer: “To get squashed.” No further answer was needed.

Much of the path at this point was paved and it was popular with bikers. Indeed, the park seemed like a popular recreation destination by the number of people we saw down by the beach and the fullness of the parking lot where the trail started.

It was nice to get off the bike path eventually and resume our relatively isolated walk. I was musing about the fact that I’ve been getting a few WordPress bloggers randomly following my blog lately, which initially was rather encouraging. But the notifications of this are always accompanied by the phrase “So and so thinks your blog is pretty awesome! Why don’t you check out so-and-so’s blog and follow it!” I suspect that these bloggers don’t really think my blog is awesome and probably haven’t even read it, but are just trying to get more followers themselves. I feel jaded now.

At one point, we passed a small creek on our left and I snuck a photo of this merry band of canoeists. If you were in that canoe, would you be upset if a complete stranger posted this photo on their blog? Just curious.

We saw an eagle high above us. We wanted it to come closer so to entice it our way, we tried a couple things. First of all, I called out, “Gandalf has need of you!” This didn’t work, so Kris suggested we try making the sound of distressed bunnies. Not knowing exactly what distressed bunnies sound like, we did our best, making high-pitched squeaking noises. This was completely ineffectual, but quite amusing, so it wasn’t a total loss.

Loved seeing the sign “Yurts ahead.” How often in your life will you get warnings about impending yurt appearances? Not very often, so treasure it when it happens.

The lake was a nice sight to have on our side as we hiked along the last half of the trail. We saw an assortment of people on the lake in their kayaks and canoes, and as we got closer to the end, plenty of hikers with their dogs. Glendalough is a happenin’ place!

At the end, we noticed that there’s a miniature model of the lodge up on a pole. We thought at first it must be a bird house, but Kris didn’t see any holes for potential birdie residents, so it must just be up high to keep mischief makers and hooligans away from it.

There are 68 total hikes in the Hiking Club booklet and Glendalough was our 34th, so we’re at the halfway mark!

Knee score: 3 out of 10 (with 10 being the most difficult)

Next hike: Lake Carlos State Park

I’ll probably delete this, or maybe you will, or maybe it will be eaten by wretched caterpillars. Anything could happen.

Here we are at Lesson 13 in the Watercolor Trip to Italy series. You’ve traveled so far with me! This lesson is called Riva del Garda, which without any help from Google, I’m going to guess means something like “the river garden.” Let me go check. I’ve confirmed it: you should never try to guess these things. Riva means “shore” and “Garda” is the name of a lake in Italy. It would have helped if I’d remembered that the reason the class is called “Watercolor Trip to Italy” is that each photo is from a different location there. Riva del Garda is the name of a town in Italy. Why do you put up with me and my senseless prattling?

I changed the color of the flowerpot, because I just bought a tube of “Payne’s Gray” and I’ve really been wanting to use it. I tried to put a little more definition on the flowers and leaves in the second attempt, but I suppose the “blobby” look of the first one isn’t too bad. Which gull do you like better? I was really excited about the second one until I messed up the beak. Also, note that there was neither gull nor flowers in the original photo – they were added by Artistic License and I heartily approve.

And to finish up with the week in watercolors, here’s a couple sketchy paintings from photos I’ve put on my blog lately.

Two things about Fig Newton: 1. I really want to start doing drawings of him and his cohorts. 2. I’m thinking about whether or not I would ever want to publish his story. If I did, I’d have to change his name because I’m using the name that came with the book of patterns. I LOVE the name “Fig Newton” for him, so it would be hard to let it go. Should it ever come that that, do you have any suggestions for another name?

A Fig Newton by any other name would…still be charming?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, sitting on a lovely sun-drenched patio in Italy overlooking Lake Garda. Ahh…

With a graduation party to go to up near Moorhead, we decided to take a long weekend and visit 3 state parks. Unlike last time, however, each hike was done on a different day, so I won’t be lumping them all together in one blog post. Also unlike last time, we brought our tent and all our camping paraphernalia, which now includes cots. Theoretically, we could sleep on the ground, but we don’t want to anymore. So there. We also decided to skip the sites with electrical hookup to save money. This clearly means we were only a few steps removed from a Survivor kind of experience, right? Back to basics, baby!

Our first campsite was at Wagner Park in Barnesville, MN. This place gets two thumbs up from us. The state parks were all filled up for the weekend, so my husband found this place and we hoped we wouldn’t have trouble finding a good site there. It turns out that if you choose the non-electrical hook-ups, there’s not much competition for those sites. We were camped near a little creek and close to the bathroom (with flush toilets!). Add a campfire into the deal, and you’ve got Camping Paradise. It got down to 44 degrees that night, which admittedly subtracted a wee bit from the paradise vibe. But we are Hearty Minnesotans – and we have warm sleeping bags.

Buffalo River State Park was less than a half hour from our campsite and we arrived around 9:30 a.m. for the 2.5 mile hike. The thing you need to know about BRSP is that it’s relatively flat land (rejoice, ye knees) and it has a scenic riverine forest. I don’t know about you, but the word “riverine” was new to me. I have this picture in my mind of the BRSP staff sitting around a table trying to write a description of the park. “Let’s make sure and mention that it’s a forested area around a river,” says one unimaginative fellow. His crossword-playing peer saves the day by suggesting the word “riverine” instead, which makes the whole place sound really magical. Bravo!

We started off with the stored-up energy you have in the morning and I made a bold decision to leave the hiking poles behind (which sounds better than the truth that I forgot them). It was 56 degrees, which hits the sweet spot for both of us.

From the parking lot we could see the man-made chlorinated pool, which prompted Kris to award Buffalo River the coveted “Most Like Flandrau” award.

One of the first signs we saw mentioned the amazing view of an area where buffalo used to roam in the thousands. We were instructed to touch and examine the bison bone attached to the signpost, but alas, the bone was gone. “The Case of the Missing Bison Bone” sounds like a good mystery title, doesn’t it?

The paths were wide and easy to follow and I did my usual thing of stopping frequently to take photos.

The route took us through the campground and we could see that they were indeed full up. No regrets on staying at the campground in Barnesville, though – it was much less crowded.

We walked past the pool again and off to the right, which turned out to be the wrong direction, but it got us to a nice bridge.

Frequent checking of the map by our Chief Navigator put us back on the right path, which was a nice amble down by the riverside (and very riverine, it was).

I began seeing lots of webworm, which I consider to be a sign of the groaning of creation under sin.

At one point I stopped to take a short video, just so you could hear the wonderful sounds of the hiker’s world: bird song and the river in the background.

We stopped for a moment to get a drink and then the path peeled away from the river and we met with our only uphill walk to the top of the hill and more of a prairie. It was exceedingly windy up there and I was suddenly glad for the fact that my nifty hiking hat has a secure tie under the chin (even though it looks sort of old-lady-ish to me).

We walked along the ridge of the prairie and Kris noticed a sign that spoke of the many rocks up there that had been brought by Glacier Express from Canada many eons ago. Kris’s comment on that was that if the Canadians wanted their rocks back, they’d have to “come and get ‘em.” 😆

It wasn’t long from there and we were back at the beginning. “Fool, fool, back to the beginning is the rule.” Ah, that quote from The Princess Bride never gets old.

Knee score: 2-3 out of 10 (with 10 being the most difficult)

Next Hike: Glendalough State Park

I’ve been doing more biking lately and the path I usually take has a little pond near the place where I turn around to go back. Benches up the hill from the pond often beckon me to sit for a spell before moving on. One day recently a woman was there with her day care group of kids. I stopped to sit on one of the benches and watched them playing. One of the kids had a ball that got out of his hands and of course it ended up in the pond. I could see the quandary that this woman was in. She couldn’t send one of the kids to get the ball, just in case he/she fell in. She couldn’t leave her group of kids to go get the ball herself since they’d be unsupervised (and I know full well how much can happen in the space of very little time with young children). So I did what any normal human being would have done: I volunteered to go retrieve the ball.

If you try to imagine the lowest possible bar to set for heroic activity, what I did doesn’t even reach the bar. Yet when I got the ball and started heading back up the hill with it, the children gave me a round of applause as if I’d rescued each of them from a burning building, so great was their delight.

In my plodding, day-to-day existence, I don’t often feel like a hero. But that day, I did. And maybe that’s all heroism really is: helping others in time of need, no matter how small the deed or the need.

I got back on my bike and rode home, feeling the imaginary hero’s cape flapping in the wind behind me.

It is more blessed to give than to receive. Acts 20:35

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, which may, itself, be an heroic act.

I have left you hanging for a long time, waiting for the next installment in Fig Newton’s adventures. The day has come – we simply must know what happened next in the life of our intrepid frog. I’ll copy the last paragraph of Part 2 below, as a reminder of where we were.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
All this thinking made him hungry. He pulled his boat over to a round, flat stone off the river a ways. It was nice that his boat was so small and he was so strong. He felt a little puffed up about that. He did some hunting and found an assortment of tasty spiders and a few little butterflies for dessert. He sat by the boat supremely relaxed and closed his froggy eyes for a little rest. Ahh, this was the life.

“What have we here?” A loud, deep voice woke him up.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fig startled awake with a nimble jump, an advantage of being a frog that he’d always appreciated. Danger would not find him flat footed! He’d landed behind the rock and peered cautiously around it to see what it was that had so rudely interrupted his siesta. He was a little unsettled to see a rather large bear standing there, also peering around to see what had happened to him. In short, a lot of peering was going on.

“Where are you, little froggie?” the bear called out. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

Sure, thought Fig. And then he heard the voice of little girl. “Turn around, Grimpus. He’ll never come out if all he sees is you.”

The bear turned around slowly and Fig saw that the bear was carrying a papoose on his back, and in it was a girl who looked to be Lucy’s age. This boded well, as Fig deduced from this that A) The bear was probably a nice sort of bear, not inclined toward eating friendly frogs, and B) the girl was brave and kind, the best combination of traits to find in a new acquaintance.

Fig hated timidity of all kinds, so he jumped out boldly toward them, plucking his hat off mid-jump and sweeping it before him as he bowed in noble fashion, saying, “I am most pleased to meet you, fellow travelers. You have had the good fortune to meet Fig Newton, the frog with wanderlust and a sturdy boat to carry him toward adventure.” Fig had thought out this introduction beforehand, on the chance that he might meet others and on the whole approved of how it sounded now that he’d said it out loud.

The bear grumbled at this flowery speech, but the girl laughed and clapped, saying “Well, done and well met! And you, good sir, have met Miss Agra Glendalough and Mr. Grimpus Leatherfoot, at your service.” Grimpus grumbled again, not necessarily on board with the idea of being at this frog’s service. But Fig was right, he was a nice sort of bear and generally went along with Agra’s cheerful and friendly ways. It made their travels easy and his load light.

Not to be outdone in courtesy, Fig asked, “How may I be of service to you both?” Agra replied, “We saw your handsome boat and wondered if we might take a turn in it to do some fishing. Grimpus doesn’t really need a boat and fishing pole, of course, but it’s the only way I can do it. I usually cast my line from the shore, but sometimes I think the best fish are just out of my reach.”

Fig was dubious about this proposal. The Lucky Lucy was not designed for three, and definitely not if one of the three is a bear. “Well, er…um…you see…” Oh dear, he was stammering, absolutely ruining the good impression he’d made with his dashing introduction. He abandoned the wishy-washy approach and said, “Why don’t you get in and see how you fit?” This would certainly make his argument for him.

It did. “Oh,” said Agra after they’d squeezed their way onto the Lucky Lucy. “I see what you mean,” which was kind since he’d been evasive in his stutterings. It’s always nice when someone knows just what you mean anyway. He was definitely getting fond of Miss Agra. And Grimpus? Well, as long as the bear didn’t eat him, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

*******************************************

And there you have it. I’d love to have some cute illustrations to go along with this, but I’m just using photos of the felt creatures I’ve made. “Agra Glendalough” means “love between two lakes,” if I got the Irish right. We went to Glendalough State Park recently and I became quite enamored with the word. Let me know what you think of Fig and his latest adventure!

Fig Newton Part 1
Fig Newton Part 2
Fig Newton Part 4

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, between two lakes, dreaming Figgy thoughts.

The garden is a chively place
Pungent stalks and purple face
Pluck the blossom, fill the vase
Inhale the glorious scent.

If you happen to speak chive,
(From Onion Land it does derive)
On tongue and tastebuds comes alive
Spectacular accent.

Do you speak chive?

I’ll probably delete this while watching Saturday Night Chive.

I received some Tombow Fudenosuke pens for Mother’s Day this year which I took to be a sign that I needed to start working on lettering again. Last year I bought a package of Tombow Dual Brush pens because I kept seeing artistic work with beautiful calligraphy-style lettering on them. Upon further investigation (YouTube), I discovered that most people were using these dual brush pens. I figured that the skill would be harder to learn than it looked, but I was determined.

It WAS harder than it looked. I did a lot of practicing and was still struggling to master the strokes and more importantly the pressure required for downstrokes versus upward strokes. Using the pens took a surprising amount of strength for my arm and I could feel the old enemy tendinitis lurking. I waxed, I waned. I waned some more.

Eventually I noticed that there were some smaller tipped pens, the Fudenosuke line, that looked easier to use. Plus, I think it’s charming that Fudenosuke means “Mr. Brush.” I’m a naturally thrifty person, so instead of buying them, I put them in my Amazon “save for later” cart and forgot about them. And then they magically appeared in my life! Time to start practicing again.

Well, nobody said it would be easy. I like the feel of the pens, though, and they’re much easier on my arm to use.

There’s nothing magical about gaining proficiency, but by the time I got to the last word, I was feeling pretty joyful.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless Mr. Brush comes along and stops me.

We just got back from a long weekend of camping, hiking and attending a high school graduation party. After getting set up at our first campground on Friday night, we took a little stroll around the grounds and passed a tent where a couple boys with their mom were camping (we met the dad later). We said hello and the boys came racing over to chat us up. One of them said cheerfully, “We’re homeless!” Their mom hastened to explain that they were tent camping while they were between homes. The boys were identical twins, 6 years old and just full of beans. When I told their mother that we also had twin boys, now 28 years old, she asked “Does it ever get any easier?” which made us laugh. We assured her that even with some of the challenges, our twins were a delight and a blessing, which I hope encouraged her. Meanwhile, the boys told us all about the campfire they were going to have and one of them, full of the milk of human kindness, even offered us a marshmallow. I really wanted to take a photo of them, but it seemed a little on the creepy stalker side, so I didn’t ask. When we walked back to our tent, we commented on how often you encounter really nice people when you’re camping. We also decided that when the guy from town came by selling firewood (which the boys also told us about), we’d decline – it was getting late and we just wanted to get into “bag” and go to sleep.

The guy came by with his pickup truck full of wood pieces about five minutes later and somehow the words “no thanks,” became “yes, please.” The allure of a cozy campfire is hard to turn down. Plus he had three young sons with him (ages 8-12 maybe?) all chomping at the bit to help their dad bring the wood over to our campfire. For $5 he gave us enough wood for three nights of campfires. When we told him what city we were from, he said, “I’ve taken wrestling teams down there!” His sons were very helpful and enthusiastic, which warmed our hearts.

Kris got busy cutting some kindling for the fire and then used all his campfire lore to get the fire going while I sat by in my winter coat admiring his handiwork (it was getting pretty cold by that time).

• 

• 

• 

Eventually we had a decent fire going. Ahh…one of the creature comforts of camping. We sat quietly watching and listening to the fire, occasionally talking. A tamed fire is so beautiful and mesmerizing.

When it got late, we got out our Books of Common Prayer and did our Psalm reading for the evening.

It’s hard to think of a more perfect way to end the evening.
“I will give thanks to you, O LORD, with my whole heart…”

Amen and amen.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless the embers of these words are still glowing.