Here’s a little survey for you jigsaw puzzlers. Others of you can weigh in on this important topic as well. The question before us is this: How long after completing a puzzle do you dismantle it?
A. Immediately. As soon as the last piece is in, the puzzle goes back into the box. B. Never. Get some of that puzzle glue and make it into a permanent “poster” for display. C. Leave it on the table until you start the next one, no matter how long or short a time period that is. D. Leave it out until you have guests coming over with young children. E. Leave it assembled for just as long a time as it took you to put it together. F. Other (specify, please)
Of course, most of you are probably as sick as surveys as I am. Every time you do anything, you get a survey by mail, email or text afterward with people wanting you to tell them how they did. Ugh. I always ignore those. How about you?
I’ll probably delete this in the morning and then send you a survey asking you a lot of questions about it.
I’m reading a book of letters between John and Abigail Adams called My Dearest Friend.
John Adams had to be gone a lot during the Revolutionary War for the Constitutional Convention and Abigail had to hold down the fort at home in the Boston area. He was up to his eyeballs with long, tedious meetings and she was dealing with lying awake at night because of the sound of cannons firing nearby. He wrote the following about his experience with Congress and I wonder how much different it is now:
“I am wearied to Death with the Life I lead. The Business of the Congress is tedious, beyond Expression. …Business is drawn and spun out to immeasurable Length. I believe that if it was moved and seconded that we should come to a Resolution that three and two make five, we should be entertained with Logick and Rhetorick Law, History, Politicks, and Mathematicks, concerning the Subject for two whole Days, and then We should pass the Resolution unanimously in the Affirmative.”
He offered up advice on educating their children and gave his thoughts on the management of the property, while she kept him up to date on her thoughts about the war, what was happening locally, and the toll that illness was taking on their family and friends. Her mother died while he was out of town and she wrote meaningfully and eloquently about her grief, pouring out words of great loss, while at the same time being able to say, “Still I have many blessings left, many comforts to be thankful for and rejoice in. I am not left to mourn as one without hope. My dear parent knew in whom she had Believed…and departed the world with an easy tranquility, trusting in the merits of a Redeemer.”
She worried that perhaps all this writing about her grief was giving relief to her wounded heart at the cost of adding pain to his: “My pen is always freer than my tongue. I have wrote many things to you that I suppose I never could have talk’d.”
That’s when I knew that I was reading the words of a friend. It has ever been the way with me that things that are difficult to express out loud are easier to write on paper (or type on a screen).
C.S. Lewis said, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”
Abigail Adams, friendship was born when I read your words. I look forward to meeting you in eternity.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, my keyboard being freer than my tongue.
When my grandfather was honorably discharged from the Army on December 14, 1918, he was permitted to take with him various items of clothing that he was wearing: belt, breeches, coat, hat, leggings, overcoat, shoes and a flannel shirt. These were to be returned within four months on Uncle Sam’s dime. I guess they let him keep the underwear. This makes me wonder what he was wearing when he entered service and why he didn’t just get those clothes back? Do they still discharge people in army-issued clothing that has to be returned?
Grandpa Harry was returning to his wife and a newborn daughter whom he hadn’t met yet. He signed some of his letters before arriving back home, “Daddy Boy,” and my Grandma signed hers “Mother Girl.” These people were OLD when I met them (ha ha – not much older than I am now) so I am charmed by this glimpse into their days as a young married couple.
My grandpa used to enjoy telling a story to his daughters about their mother, my Grandma Lois. Apparently when Harry and Lois were in high school, there was a rival for Lois’s affections, a football player that went by the nickname “Dad.” This fellow bragged to Lois about his fitness and encouraged her to punch him in the stomach. She didn’t want to, but he insisted, so she did, and knocked him out cold!
Harry and Lois – high school
I may have told that story on my blog before, but it bears repeating, doesn’t it? I’m trying to think of any colorful stories my grandchildren might learn about me someday that would bear repeating. There must be something…
I’ll probably delete this in the morning (which isn’t a very colorful story, but it can’t be helped).
For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. Colossians 1:19-20
There comes a time in everyone’s life when they confront three deep theological realities: evil in themselves, evil in the world, and death. Of course, as a child, the words “deep theological realities” don’t mean anything. But looking back, I remember certain incidents in elementary school that fit the bill and have stayed with me all these years.
I’d seen small acts of bullying before and my usual thought was that I didn’t want to be a victim of it myself. We called it “being picked on,” and it was usually done by kids who wanted to display power over others, most often in the form of verbal harassment. I didn’t like bullies – who does? Yet all these years later, I cannot explain why one day I decided it was my turn to pick on someone. I suppose I wanted a taste of that power myself. My victim was a girl in my class named Marsha who had the misfortune to develop early and also wore braces on her teeth. We had a nickname for her that was especially cruel. I started following her home one day, calling her names and throwing spitballs at her. Suddenly she turned on me with tears in her eyes and pleaded, “Leave me alone! Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I was stricken and ashamed. I turned around and went home, newly acquainted with a darkness in my soul that I could not scrub out.
As I was leaving school another day, I came upon a scene that I did not comprehend at first. Two older brothers of a friend of mine were confronting a classmate of Chinese origins named Henry. They called him “Chink” (a word I’d never heard before but understood immediately as a racial taunt), and were trying to kick him in the face. His face, as I recall, was already bloodied. It was clear from the context that their hatred of Henry had nothing to do with any action on his part, but solely because he was Chinese. I was profoundly disturbed and unsettled. There was an ugliness and a brutality to this that went far beyond the usual mischief making and petty pecking order posturing of the schoolyard and classroom. It was a glimpse into a wider world that I’d rather not have seen, but couldn’t forget.
In that same year, one evening we had policemen turn up at our house. They wanted to talk to me, to see if I’d seen Grace P. lately. Grace and her family had been our next-door neighbors until I was about 7 years old. She and I had been good buddies, but I hadn’t seen her since her family moved away. She’d gone missing and her parents were desperately trying to pursue any possible leads as to her whereabouts. The next morning, the picture was in the paper: Grace’s grandmother grieving and in shock. Grace had drowned at one of our local lakes while out swimming with friends. Death was no longer a theoretical idea – it could happen to friends. It could happen to me.
But for all of this, I was still not very attuned to spiritual things. One night the neighbor kids were all abuzz with the rumor that Rodney, a boy who lived a couple houses down from me, had gone to church and had spoken in tongues. I’d never heard of this before and once someone explained it to me, I had a hard time reconciling the idea that Rodney was not only a churchgoing boy, but also had received some special gift of the Spirit. The Holy Spirit must not be very discerning, I thought. Rodney was not a nice boy. All in all, I thought churches were strange places and this was just further confirmation.
Off I went to junior high school (a lesson in survival) and then high school, going through different friend groups, trying cigarettes and then rejecting them, getting a job, wishing I had a boyfriend – ha ha – all the typical things of an average girl who occupied a very small territory in the bigger world of these bigger schools. I can’t say that God wasn’t working on me in those days, as I am sure He must have been. Certainly as I look back, I can be thankful for the things from which He spared me, like that boyfriend that I wanted so much. It wasn’t until my college years that I began to form definite ideas about Christianity – not the warm and fuzzy kinds of ideas either.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, but hey, check out the slug bug in that photo!
When my mother moved to a small apartment 10 years ago, I inherited all her collected ancestral photos and genealogical documents. Five years ago, I decided to start organizing them into notebooks but after a good start, I got sidetracked. This is the year that I finish that project. That’s the story I’m telling myself anyway.
Part of me wonders what value these will be to anyone in years to come. Will it be worth my spending hours of time sorting, assembling, identifying and labeling? Will the next generation care for and keep these things?
The farther away you get from the people in the photos, the less real they are to you. I’ve studied photos of my great grandparents and the people in their generation, but never met them. My mother has very negative impressions of her dad’s dad. I look at his photos and can see a kind of severity there, but maybe my impressions are colored by the things she told me.
It doesn’t really matter if those who come after me will value these old photos – I could never throw them away. These are my people. They may not have been directly responsible for shaping me, but in raising my grandparents, who raised my parents who raised me, they certainly had an upstream affect on my life.
My work is cut out for me…and this is just the tip of the iceberg!
That’s my Grandma Lois as a young girl. I see myself in her. I see my daughter in her. She looks full of fun with just a hint of mischief. Sometimes photos tell a story, even if there are no words. I am often entranced by the unspoken stories I see as I pore over the photos.
I cannot throw them away.
I usually talk about deleting my posts in the morning, but I’m hoping one of you will say to me “You cannot throw them away.”
I wonder when the concept of exercise as a regular way of staying in shape came about? Is it a product of our modern times in which we have labor saving devices that give us more leisure time? It’s hard to picture Ma and Pa Ingalls having to set aside time for regular walks, weightlifting or jogging. Nevertheless, here we are. Most of us have some sort of exercise equipment in the house that only occasionally gets used.
We have an exercise bike that we’ve had for probably over 25 years. I’ve used it regularly in the past at various seasons of my life. Right now its primary purpose in life is to silently accuse me as I continually ignore it. I bet at least once a week I say to myself, “I’m going to use the exercise bike. It’s not that hard. I can even read or watch something while I do it.” But I’m just not that motivated. I need an exercise buddy, someone to fill in the gap and do it for me. Enter Cuddles.
Cuddles has been a part of our family for about 20 years. He came along quite by accident and never left. He takes up valuable space and has never really pulled his weight…until now. I’ve got him on the exercise bike where I benefit vicariously from his hard work. Of course, I never actually see him move. He always waits until nobody is around. It’s part of the famous Raggedy Ann Protocol For Dolls and Stuffed Animals. I don’t care, as long as he gets the job done.
If you need an exercise buddy, I’d consider renting Cuddles out.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning. Wait a minute – why should I expend any of my energy doing that? It’s another job for Cuddles.
I enjoy looking at the fortune that comes in a fortune cookie when we get Chinese food. They don’t really mean anything, but it’s interesting to see what kind of sentiment you get. I haven’t seen an actual fortune, like a supposed telling of what’s going to happen to you, in a long time. Usually now, you can expect to read something that passes for wisdom, like this one in a recent cookie that my husband opened:
“If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.”
It sounds like a set-up for overly high expectations to me. This is the kind of person who keeps sending back their steak at the restaurant because it’s not done perfectly. Eventually the steak will be the best it can be, but nobody wants to eat with you and the restaurant bars you from returning. There’s probably a context in which this saying works, though.
I was far more amused by the fortune in my cookie:
“Failure is the path of lease persistence.”
Yes, apparently if you persist in getting a lease, you are setting yourself up for failure. Ha ha! Someone wasn’t doing their proof-reading job very well that day at the fortune cookie factory.
And on the topic of quotable quotes, I was given some “Literary Tea Bags” for my birthday last year. Each bag of tea has a tag attached with a quote about reading, some of which even are written by people whose names one might recognize, like C.S. Lewis. But most of the quotes sort of seem like someone did a quick Google search and just picked some random ones. One day I got a tea bag out and the quote on the tag said:
“Read books. They are good for us.”
I picture the product manager breathing down someone’s neck to finish this project of collecting quotes, so the beleaguered employee jots down that little jewel and throws it in. It wasn’t attributed to anyone, so the brilliant Mr. Anonymous strikes again! I don’t know about you, but I can think of a whole lot of books that are definitely NOT good for us.
Read this blog. It is good for you.
And now it’s time to sign off so I can read something good for me and then delete this in the morning.
I took down the last of the Christmas decor today. The walls and windows are ordinary again. It’s always a bit of a sad moment.
I sorted through all of our cassette tapes recently. What does one do with these? I suppose most of them will go into the trash, but I do have a box that contains recordings of the kids when they were young. What value do you place on memories? A lot of you are my age, so tell me what you’ve done with your cassette tapes.
Squirrel Wars. They think we’re feeding them. They’re getting fat on bird seed and suet. I don’t begrudge them taking a share of it, but they’re taking all of it. The topic of baffles has become one of interest. I’m taking suggestions.
“So nice of these people to feed us – I’m fat and happy.”
I took a bunch of our cat’s hair from the brush and rolled it into balls, thinking I was on the verge of creating a whole new attractive and frugal craft. Sadly, they look like the kind of thing the cat urps up, only drier. I guess I’m no Martha Stewart.
Well, on that note…
I’ll probably roll this into a ball and delete it in the morning. Wouldn’t you?
I got out of our car in the garage recently and was struck by the decorative filigree look of the frost on the cement floor. This calls for a photo, I said to myself, as I often do.
It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I let it ruminate in the back of my mind for a bit. Isn’t it a marvel the way you can put something on the back burner of your mind and it simmers away behind the scenes while you go on with other things? The older I get, the longer the pot has to simmer, but today, the brew came to a boil and I had an “Aha!” moment. I present the following for your consideration:
It’s a phoenix! A frost phoenix! If you can’t see it, let me know and I’ll say some earnest prayers for your imagination. (Where’s the smile emoji when you need it? Insert one here: ____). I’m trying to decide if another round of speed poetry is called for here. Sometimes I just can’t resist.
The phoenix rose up from the flames Ablaze with colors of the sun It shouldn’t have picked a sub-zero day To show off and have some fun.
The cold hit that thing like a big Mack truck It staggered and reeled some more. The flames just sputtered, withered and died, And the phoenix froze to the floor.
Ha ha!
I’ll probably delete this in the morning – and then it will rise up from the flames!
I’ve gone from leaves to jellyfish in my watercolor class. I’m still working at trying to do a nice graded wash, going from light colors to darker ones.
I’m mainly sharing this with you because I’m short of time today and don’t have much else to say.
The jellyfish has tentacles Full of the nasty stuff They’re lengthy stringy manacles- Your ankles they will cuff. But paint these little creatures And suddenly they’re cute With amiable features And colors like a fruit. They’re better pets on paper Than in the salty sea Where among your legs they’ll caper And OUCH! They’ll sting and flee.
That was another round of speed poetry for you. It’s been rather a poetic week here on the Lynniebeemuseoday blog.
I will delete this post, Or I won’t delete this post. Which do you like the most? (A poll from coast to coast)
Lynniebeemuseoday 