I had kind of hoped that another topic would present itself, but here I am, stuck with squirrels. They were out in force today – as many as I’ve ever seen gathered by our bird feeders. If Alfred Hitchcock wanted to take another run at a horror film after having filmed “The Birds,” he could take a pass at it with squirrels.
They come across as very playful, busy critters, but I was once followed by a horde of them at a park when I was in college and it was very creepy. When I say “horde,” I mean about ten of them.
I admire their chompers, though. We had a black walnut tree once and I decided to make black walnut cookies. That’s when I found out how hard they are to crack to get the meat out. I had to put each one in a vice and tighten it until it basically exploded. My husband did not appreciate this assault on his workshop. But watch a squirrel with one of those walnuts – child’s play! And no explosions either. This also makes me determined not to let one of those little buggers get ahold of one of my fingers.
We had six of them frolicking around eating all the bird seed today. You’ll find this incredible, but I have a favorite. He’s a little smaller than the rest and incredibly jumpy, which makes me think that he’s probably a runt that’s had to endure teasing by his older rodent siblings.
Yes, he’s my favorite. Or she is. Who can tell?
And now, for the grand finale: squirrel verse.
“Quit eating our suet!” Said the bird to the squirrel They began to fight, A creaturely quarrel. And while they were at it, The other squirrels came And had a nice feast While watching the game.
That’s called “speed poetry.” It doesn’t take long and you don’t get much.
This is such a nutty post that squirrels will probably crack it into pieces and eat it in the morning.
On the way back from our early morning Bible study, we saw the rising sun was accompanied by those rainbow ears that make it a sun dog. So many glorious photos could have been taken from various vantage points on the way home, but all I had was my phone and we would have had to pull over and stop so I could get out and get the shots. It was about -13 degrees and I’m not that dedicated. I waited until we got home where I got my Nikon out to take a perfectly lousy shot from the back door. If it’s possible, use your imagination to remove the trees and houses and you can see the sun dog with its left ear.
I told you it was lousy.
At twilight last night, I looked out the window randomly and saw four deer strolling through our back yard on the way to dine on the neighbor’s tree, where they posed for a photo. This was another lousy photo since it was through the window.
I take a fair number of lousy photos, but don’t usually share them. Here are a few more because if you’ve read this far, you are the type who isn’t a quitter.
You can certainly feel free to share your lousy photos with me. And here’s one I took recently that could have fallen into that category, but I like it.
It looks like a gown of maple seeds hanging up to dry. If fairies exist, this is the type of thing they would wear.
So, that’s the musing of the day. Some days you get quality stuff. But this is not that day! (feel free to think of Aragorn when you read that)
Tomorrow I shall muse upon squirrels unless some other topic squashes that one in a bloodless coup. Stay tuned!
I’ll probably delete this lousy post in the morning.
First of all, does that sculpture look like me? I hope the answer is no, but we’ll come back to that later.
Registration for classes at the University of Minnesota back in the day was a big hassle. You could get your classes all picked out, wait in a long line, and finally get up to the registrar only to find out that one (or more) of the classes you wanted was filled, necessitating a last-minute substitution. Certain classes were nearly impossible to get into unless you had first-day registration, which didn’t happen often.
So one spring when I discovered I had struck gold with that coveted registration position, I abandoned most of my regular classes and signed up for ballroom dance, drawing and sculpture. Having suffered through many winters of discontent, I was about to embark on the spring of artistic adventures.
I’ll tell the stories of my experiences in the dancing and drawing classes another time. The above photo is the story of my sculpture class. I believe it’s the only project I did for the entire trimester. We had to create a clay model, encase it in plaster and then meticulously dig the clay out, leaving a hollowed out plaster cast in which to pour concrete. Finally the big day came in which we would take the plaster off and reveal our finished sculpture pieces.
Most of the students did what you might call normal stuff. Mine was definitely in the realm of weird. We gathered around each other’s pieces (small class – maybe 6-8 people total) and gave feedback. When the group assembled to look at mine, there was a brief silence as I imagine they were grappling with how to put into words the sensation provoked by looking at it. One fellow finally said, “It looks like you.”
While I was still reeling from that observation, another person noted that both of the hands were right hands – did I intend that? I had not. In fact, that was the first time it had been brought to my attention. I believe there may have been some discussion about what I was trying to communicate with this piece, but the rather dull truth was that I just thought it looked neat. I probably could have spun some philosophical nonsense about the oppression of man which would have found an appreciative audience. “See how he is oppressed from above, being held down by a hand. And his speech is oppressed by the hand over his mouth.” But the moment passed and I had nothing.
The thing that I just couldn’t get past was the guy’s comment that it looked like me (and the class generally agreed with this observation). It felt like an insult at the time, particularly since I was very sensitive about the size and shape of my nose. But I don’t think he meant it unkindly. It’s an interesting observation, actually – was I unconsciously re-creating the most familiar face to me, the face I always saw in the mirror?
We’ve lugged this heavy and unattractive piece with us wherever we’ve moved, which betrays a certain conceit on my part. I don’t think my kids will be fighting over who gets to take it when I’m gone. Somewhere there’s a dumpster just waiting to receive it and as dust returns to dust, so shall concrete return to concrete.
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I’ll probably make a clay mold of this post in the morning and then throw it out before it becomes a monstrosity.
I was at the grocery store today and while checking out, the clerk asked me how my day was going so far. I gave a positive review and tacked on the statement that generally I like Mondays. He gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you’re alone in that!”
Mondays have gotten a bad rap. For many people it’s when they start their work week again. For students, it means starting up with a new school week. I guess if you hate your job or hate school, you’d have a good reason to hate Mondays. Even if that’s the case, it may be the attitude that needs adjusting, not the day.
Monday isn’t the first day of the week – that position is already filled by Sunday. And when Sunday is a day of worship and rest, it can prepare you to hit the ground running on Monday with renewed energy and a cheerful heart even when the task ahead is unpleasant and daunting. At least that’s how it often works for me.
I’ve had hard Mondays, crabby Mondays, tedious Mondays and bluesy Mondays, but whatever kind of Monday I’m having, if it follows on the heels of a day of worship, good fellowship and a rest from my usual labors, I feel prepared to handle it, come what may.
How about you?
I’ll let you know in the morning if I’ve gone through with my plans to delete this post. But until then, assume nothing.
Synopsis of the story thus far: Our frog hero, Fig Newton, met a little girl on the river named Lucy, who knitted him a scarf, made him a sailor’s hat, made him a little boat and reluctantly said goodbye to him so he could go see the world. Along the way, Fig was thinking through his trip when he ran across a bear carrying another girl. The bear was Grimpus Leatherfoot and the girl, Miss Agra Glendalough. They decided to travel along with him, walking by the riverside since his boat was too small for them. He spent some time thinking about what he’d want to do and see before returning home. Later, he was singing in the boat by himself and was accosted by a fox named Phineas who stole his boat, leaving Figgy sitting on the riverbank, bereft. When Grimpus and Agra returned, Fig indulged in some self-pity, receiving a much needed rebuke from Miss Agra. Suitably chastened and in better spirits, he told them of the theft. Grimpus recognized the description of the thief as Phineas Fox and recommended that they give chase immediately. (See Parts 1-6 if you want the gritty details).
Fig Newton had thought of Grimpus Leatherfoot as a slow and lumbering old bear, but found that he had a pretty piece of work keeping up with Grimpus, even with his bounding hops on those “springy legs.” They followed the river as best they could, but sometimes the brush was too thick even for Grimpus to crash through, so of necessity they had to take some detours. Miss Agra hung on for dear life, but Grimpus was running on all fours and she wasn’t used to laying down in the carry pouch. With all the bouncing, she began to feel quite ill.
“Stop! Grimpus, stop!” she called out in distress. Neither the bear nor Fig heard her at first, but eventually she threw up on Grimpus’s fur, which had the desired effect. They halted in the middle of a small clearing, Grimpus making apologies for the bouncing and Agra making apologies for the mess in his fur, while Fig stood nearby hopping up and down impatiently. Finally, he could stand it no further.
“All apologies seem to have been given and accepted – let us not tarry here too much longer and lose the trail. We don’t know how long the wretched fox will be staying on this part of the river – if it splits up ahead, we won’t know which direction he’s gone. Let’s go!”
But in spite of Figgy’s sense of urgency, certain realities needed to be faced. They could not go on at the pace that they had been, no indeed. They were still close enough to the river for Grimpus to go jump in and give his fur a good washing, which he did (I dare say you’d do the same). Afterward, they took stock of the situation, noting the strengths and weakness of their position.
Strengths: Grimpus was somewhat familiar with the territory, the party was well motivated to continue the hunt, the fox couldn’t go very fast in the Lucky Lucy, so he probably couldn’t get irretrievably too far ahead of them. Trusting to Providence, they needn’t panic and lose heart.
Weaknesses: They couldn’t outrun the fox at this rate. They would have to be more clever than him, learn of his strategy and “outfox” him. And to do this, Grimpus said, they’d need the help of a renowned denizen of the forest, someone whose influence and contacts spread far and wide, who commanded the loyalty of many others who could be their eyes, ears and feet in this chase.
Fig and Miss Agra listened attentively to this last bit of intelligence, excited and curious. Grimpus paused for effect. Once again, Figgy couldn’t wait. “We’re with you, old bear, but don’t stop now! Just who is this illustrious fellow who can be the balm to all of our troubles?”
A commanding voice came from behind Figgy. “Impatience never won any battles, my young frog. Wisdom comes from listening, planning and waiting for the right moment.”
Fig Newton turned around and beheld the astonishing sight of a rather unimpressive looking hedgehog sitting in a sleigh, of all things. He wore a green tam on his head which gave him a sporty look. At first the frog wasn’t sure by what mechanism the sleigh could move on these trails, but upon closer inspection, he saw four mice harnessed to it. Miss Agra clapped her hands in delight at the whole scene, feeling suddenly much restored and encouraged.
“Good day, Colonel Purslane, sir.” Grimpus came to attention. To Fig and Miss Agra he said, “Nothing happens in this forest that the Colonel doesn’t know about. We shall tell him our story and if he takes an interest, we could not find a better ally. But when he speaks, I’d recommend that you listen and not interrupt.” This last comment he directed to Fig Newton and if frogs could blush, he would have. But they’re cold blooded and have to show their embarrassments in other ways, so he looked down at his webbed feet and wished he could hop away.
That’s all for Part 7, my friends. I’ve been writing this at a snail’s pace, only adding installments as I’ve added more felt creatures to the collection. I’m on a sewing break, so who knows when we’ll find out what happens next?
It was an ugly plant. It hadn’t bloomed for a couple years and I kept forgetting to water it. Then I’d overwater it. The very presence of this plant in my house was a silent reproach to me and my black thumb.
But I couldn’t quite make myself just throw it in the compost heap. It seemed brutal to do something that intentional.
So I did the next best thing. We went out of town for three weeks in the fall and I left it outside on the back stoop. I also left a note for our neighbors saying something like “Don’t bother watering the potted plants outside – I’m letting them die off before winter.” There! That’ll take care of it, I thought. By the time we get back, it’ll be a fait accompli.
But it wasn’t. Our neighbor accidentally knocked it over and the whole thing fell out. He took pity on it, stuffed it all back in the pot and then watered it. We got back and there it was, barely living, still a silent reproach.
I sighed and carried it inside. Clearly, it was not going to be so easy for me to get rid of it. I didn’t want it sitting with the rest of my indoor plants, though (all two of them) – so I decided “out of sight, out of mind.” I put it in one of the empty bedrooms and closed the door, forgetting about it for weeks on end and then overwatering as usual. The plant sat in virtual darkness the whole time, only getting light from the window on these short winter days.
But what I didn’t know was that this was just what the plant needed to thrive – lots of darkness in a cool room with a little neglect thrown in. And then it happened.
Wouldn’t you welcome all your afflictions and trials if you knew this was going to be the result? Good news for you: it is.
Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. James 1:2-4
I’ll probably put this in a dark room and neglect it in the morning.
Use it or lose, they say. This seems to apply to all sorts of things, but you don’t pay much attention to it until you’ve entered a certain age bracket and then it gets serious. Muscles you took for granted now have to be regularly used or they wither and atrophy away. Singing that was effortless now requires practice to sound half as good as you did in your prime. And the brain cells – who knew they were going to be such traitors in your latter years? All your devices seem to know what’s going on, as you get more and more suggestions to play word games like crossword and WORDsearch in an effort to stave off the inevitable declining of the gray matter. I thought aging was going to be like being sent out to pasture to graze, but it turns out to be more like hard work.
So I’m in the classroom again. I signed up for two online art classes through Udemy: Beginning Watercolor Essentials and The Drawing Masterclass. Both classes are starting very basic, but I’m excited about going on to more sophisticated projects. Here’s where we started out in the watercolor class:
The leaf. We’re supposed to be learning how to show a gradation of color by mixing more and more water in it. Seemed simple, but wasn’t. I like the paint puddles almost as much as the leaves.
And things were even more basic in the Drawing class:
Kris and I are also taking an online class through Hillsdale College called “Constitution 101.” We had the first lecture this morning, entitled “The Theory of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.” We took notes and everything, but Kris couldn’t offer to carry my books since it’s online. Oh well. We took the first quiz and got 9 out of 10 right.
Let’s hope that this shifts the balance of the brain cells in the right direction. The next step would be learning to use new technology, but that’s for another day.
I’ll probably delete this during class in the morning.
As I wrote earlier, I wanted to take some time this year to tell the story of how I came to faith in Christ – the truest story I can tell. So here is the first installment.
Our first meeting was not propitious. At least it wasn’t for me. He was the subject of a painting in the entryway of the church, and I was the timid girl who had to pass by Him week after week. It was one of those paintings in which the eyes of the subject on canvas seem to follow you as you move. How do artists do that, anyway? It’s really creepy. At least it was for me. But I was only three or four years old, maybe five. My mother was the church organist – or was she the church choir director? – so this was the church we went to at the time. I have vague memories of being taken down to the basement of the church for Sunday School lessons. No doubt someone was trying to impart some scriptural truths to us, but I do not remember any of it. My lasting memory was of running past that painting of Jesus as fast as I could. I did not like Him looking at me, His eyes following me. I did not know that you cannot run from God’s gaze as easily as you can run from a painting.
An atheist is one who denies the existence of God, or of any kind of deity. I have heard it said that an atheist has two primary tenets: 1. There is no God. 2. I hate him.
Ha ha! Let me just state for the record that I was never an atheist. All through childhood if you had asked me if there was a God, I would have probably looked at you blankly, but I had an instinctual sense that there was someone to cry out to in times of trouble, the kinds of trouble that a young person in my relatively safe universe encountered. I would make silent pleadings to whomever might be listening when I was frightened, when I was late for the bus and didn’t want to miss it, when I desperately wanted to win someone’s favor or attention, when I was confused and/or lost. I didn’t know if anyone was listening, but I wanted to believe that there was an invisible someone who could be applied to in time of need that had the power to do something for me. Someone who saw me, who heard me, who knew me. And when I lied or did something wrong, I also had an instinctual sense that even though no one else knew, Someone knew. This is the common grace of my conscience at work, of course, but our consciences are created things, part of the way God made us. We ignore them to our peril.
The extent of religion in our home was that of singing grace before supper. “For health and strength and daily food, we give Thee thanks, O Lord.” We were a musical family and sang it as a round, which was fun. I don’t remember the Bible ever being read or talked about, but my parents were very moral people and certainly taught us the difference between right and wrong. I didn’t know anyone else that talked about religious things, either, until third grade at the elementary school. Enter Sharon Stendal, a new girl that it turned out was just back in the United States for a year while her parents were taking a year sabbatical from their missionary work in Bogota, Colombia. Sharon spoke to me quite openly about faith in Jesus Christ, but in quiet, natural ways – it was just a part of her life. I didn’t pay much attention to it, actually, but something must have sunk in, since I’ve never forgotten her. She and I were very close friends – what a sorrow it was for me to say goodbye to her at the end of the year. We promised to write to each other and I think a letter or two did go back and forth between us. I wish I still had those letters; I wish we had not lost touch.
Our family changed churches when my mother got a job directing the choir at a different church. I got my first Bible there, given to me by Reverend Conover, for learning all the books in the Bible. He had a funny joke that he used to use on all of the kids – he’d ask us to find the book of Hepzibah and then he’d slap his knee and laugh, for there was no such book. I didn’t place much value in that Bible, but later on, it became important, which just goes to show you that God never lets His Word return to Him empty.
When I was in fourth or fifth grade there, I unfortunately got swept up in what was called “Confirmation Class.” To say that I hated it would be an understatement. I didn’t know any of the kids at this church – they were in a completely different school district – and from my perspective, they were a very close-knit clique-y group. I felt excluded and being naturally very shy, I didn’t try very hard to fit in. I had no interest in the content of the class, either. Then Lori G. came along, another misfit. She befriended me and quickly persuaded me that neither of us need suffer the tortures of Confirmation Class any longer. She had done some reconnaissance and discovered that the nursery was not in use during our class time. We hatched our wicked plan and carried it out: each week we’d meet in the hallway outside the class and then make our way surreptitiously to the nursery where we’d shut ourselves in and play quietly. At the end of class time, we’d go and meet our parents and nobody suspected a thing. Ah, those were fun times. My conscience bothered me a little at this hooky playing – I was an inveterate rule follower – but Lori was made of bolder stuff and it was easy for me to ride the Hooky Train with her at the controls.
We went on in this way for weeks, but inevitably the teacher took note of our continued absence, made some inquiries, and we were found out, much to our dismay. We had to slink back into class as known law-breakers. My mother asked me about it later at home, perplexed at this uncharacteristic behavior. I still remember the conversation – we were in my Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I told her how much I hated the class, I cried and begged her not to make me go to it. “Please, please don’t make me go!” What would you have done if you’d been her? To my surprise, she gave in and I was given a glorious reprieve. Oh, happy day! Looking back, I realize now that she didn’t put a whole lot of stock in the whole religion thing and was probably very sympathetic to my feelings. I was done with God for the time being.
But God wasn’t done with me yet, not by a long shot.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, unless I’m playing hooky.
I dismantled the Christmas tree the other day. Sigh… it seems like just yesterday I was mantling it. When shorn of all its baubles and lights, it’s still a handsome presence in the house.
I know some people like to take down all their Christmas things before the end of the year, but I like to wait at least until the end of Christmas season, which technically is January 6, AKA Epiphany.
The naked tree didn’t sit in the living room for long – the man of the house took it to the back yard where it can pretend that it’s still rooted in the earth and maybe even provide shelter for birds. This is what Christmas trees do when they’re put out to pasture. We have friends who take some of the wood of their Christmas tree and shape it into a cross to display during Lent and Easter. That’s pretty clever if you ask me. After all, the manger scene led to Golgotha.
I miss you, my dear Christmas tree. See you next year!
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, but not by the light of the Christmas tree…
