We had friends from Indiana visiting here last weekend and I received a gift of some painted rocks from one of my bosom buddies. I love them! She advised that most of these can be left around town, but two of them she painted especially for me, so those will stay here.

Have you heard about the painted rock trend? Of course you have! I’m usually the last one to notice or find out about something, but just in case there are one or two of you even further behind than I am on the cultural trends, here’s the scoop:

Rock painting “hide and seek” started in 2016 in Albany, Georgia, and has spread from there. It’s pretty simple: paint a rock and leave it somewhere where it can be seen so that others can enjoy it, keep it or re-hide it. There are many groups on Facebook that represent a certain city or region. If you’re interested, you can start out on FB with a search of “(Your City or County) Rocks.”

We actually had noticed some painted rocks in our neighborhood over the last 6 months and I thought it was delightful. I just didn’t realize that it was a Thing. Some people just call it “Painted Rocks.” Other names for it are “Kindness Rocks,” “Traveling Rocks,” and “Rocks of Love.”

National parks and monuments won’t let you leave them there, but I’ve seen them sometimes in our state parks. Use non-toxic paints and make sure you put a sealer coat on the rocks so the paint doesn’t chip off or get ruined out in the elements.

You can write something on the back like “Keep or re-hide.” If you belong to a rock group, you can label it “mark me found in “(Your City) Rocks” on FB.

I plan to bring a few of mine on our next hikes so I can share the love.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Previous: Grave Musings 7 Epitaphs

I went back to Mantorville recently to have lunch with another friend – it’s my new favorite meeting ground. This time I looked up the local cemetery location and after we finished our lunch, off we went. I’ve noticed that quite a few cemeteries have the same kind of sign over the entrance. I approve.

It’s an old cemetery with many monuments and interesting stones, so I had an immediate sense of kinship with the place upon getting out of the car. There was a lovely little tower next to a shed right in the middle – probably a little water tower that services just the cemetery. Someone was working the grounds while we were there, but I refrained from taking his photo. I like to think that someone who does the groundskeeping at a cemetery appreciates the somewhat “holy” ground upon which they tread.

We were surrounded and watched over by majestic old trees. In futility I took a photo looking up the trunk of one of these stalwarts, but I knew it wouldn’t tell the whole story.

There were a whole host of these – perfect climbing trees if you are of the age and agility to be able to do so. We were not, but mused upon the days when we used to do such things, although I was never one to clamber up to the top, due to fear of heights. Lower limbs were the ticket for me.

One of the first monuments that struck us was a large one for a young child. There were many details lovingly placed in memory of this son, Lukas, who was missed so much by his family. Our mother’s hearts were touched by this display and we stopped to ponder and grieve over this little one whom we did not know.

Across the way, we saw this interesting monument next to a large flat stone that seemed to be some sort of vault but which had no markings. Perhaps my fellow cemetery enthusiasts (Teresa and Lori) will be able to give some insight on this:

Someone put a metal painted flag in the crook of an old tree and it was crying out to be photographed, so I obliged. It was painted on both sides, the other side being solid red.

From there we came across a marker for a single mother of two children, who appeared to have taken her own life. There were some plastic bracelets with a 1-800 number for what we guessed was a suicide hotline. It’s hard to imagine the heart-wrenching pain associated with that kind of death. Loved ones left behind created a place to grieve, to remember and to try and help others in despair.

Everywhere you look in a cemetery, you see the efforts of those who lost loved ones and don’t want their names and lives to be forgotten. In older times, these monuments had many symbolic details and in our modern times, the details are sometimes more whimsical or artistic and evocative of the life that was lived.

I love the simple farm life represented on that last stone. What a beautiful way to remember the Paulsons, whoever they are.

We noticed a large grassy field in the distance with very few grave markers that was bordered by a stately column of trees. We meandered over there for a while and talked about people we’ve known who have died and where we would be buried when it’s our turn. My friend already knew where she and her husband would be planted, but even with my love of cemeteries, I have given surprisingly little thought to our resting place. Something to ponder, I guess.

Moving back toward our cars, I saw a couple “Bartholomew” markers. That was my maiden name, so I wondered if these could be distant relatives. My mom did quite a bit of genealogical research back in the day and I think if we’d had relatives in this area, I would have known about it.

One of the last markers that I saw gave me pause. The epitaph was so interesting and enigmatic.

This must have been Sally’s motto: “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.” She either said it a lot or at least exemplified it in her life. What do you think it means? Is that a motto that resonates with you? Was she talking about physical weakness? Moral weakness? Emotional weakness? I keep thinking about what the apostle Paul said about weakness:

“But God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things that are strong…”
and
“[God’s] grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”

There’s a lot to think about when you roam through a cemetery. Grave musings, indeed.

Next: Grave Musings 9 Chasing the Sea Wing

Start at beginning: Grave Musings 1 Maple Lawn I

I’ll probably delete this in the morning while pondering where my husband and I should be buried. 🤔

I read a book a few years ago by a man who decided he wanted to get better at sketching so he did a simple sketch every day from his ordinary life. It was interesting seeing how he progressed and improved in this as he practiced consistently. He was never going to be an excellent artist, but that wasn’t his goal.

This has been a theme of mine on this blog: consistent and regular practice brings greater skill and confidence to the undertaking. Also, there’s a value inherent in the act of persevering, even if the level of skill reached is only mediocre. In fact, this is why I’m still writing a blog post every day, Monday through Friday. It’s the one daily undertaking of 2020 that I’ve been able to keep up with, the daily walks and photographs having fallen slightly by the wayside.

I’m somewhat intrigued with the idea of doing a daily sketch. I tossed off a quick one last night to insert into a letter to a young friend.

The more I think about the idea of doing this while being released from the expectation of “great art,” is really appealing.

Back when I was working on drawing animals I did a few quick sketches for fun.

These were admittedly a little more involved than the one of my feet above because I had actually taken the time to learn how to draw each of these animals with a lot of detail and from different photos just so I could learn the basics before doing the sketches of them. I discovered that there was a certain amount of muscle memory that developed with repetition.

I might give the daily sketch a try for awhile and see what comes of it. Notice that I’m not promising anything.

What would you like to learn how to do that might lend itself to daily practice? Piano? Memory work? Refinishing furniture? Gardening? Writing? I really want to know! Maybe we can encourage one another along the way.

I’ll probably sketch my deletion of this post in the morning.

The cardinal and the cat –
Archenemies in the wild.
When one stays in the house
Their relationship is mild.

The cat doesn’t even see
The cardinal perched outside.
How did we tame that beast
So the wildness in her died?

But it’s all just an illusion
The cat puts on quite a show
She’d stalk that bright red bird
If we’d only let her go.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Pink petunias
Waving goodbye to summer.
Don’t go – please don’t go!

I love fall, but always feel a little ache at the end of summer when the vivid pinks and purples give way to the sharp and flaming colors of autumn. Sultry beauty ignites and burns itself out in front of our eyes every year. A pang of sorrow, a thrill of anticipation. And the cicada still sings.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

You can’t really tell by looking at this photo whether the sun is rising or setting, can you? The beginning of the day and the end of the day in one frozen moment can look pretty much the same. But if cameras could capture the unseen – what’s in the heart and mind and body – as well as what is seen, you would have no difficulty discerning what time of day this was for me.

Sunrise moments are filled with new energy, thoughts about plans for the day ahead, eagerness to spend time reading the Bible and other things, a spring in my step and a cup of tea in my hand. Ah yes, sunrise is a good time.

This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Sunset moments are filled with the satisfied weariness of a day spent, a desire to relax and cease all productivity, eagerness for a good night’s sleep, anticipation of reading before dropping off with a good book in hand and a pillow under my head. Ah yes, sunset is a good time.

In peace I will both lie down and sleep, for Thou, O Lord, doth make me to dwell in safety.

But the camera can’t tell you all of that. Curious? It was a sunrise moment.

What would a photo tell about your sunrise and sunset moments if a camera could capture that?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning with a spring in my step and a cup of tea in my hand.

Previous: Grave Musings 6 Lakewood Cemetery

One of the more intriguing things about cemeteries is the epitaphs you see. Sometimes they tell a story, sometimes they let you know what was most important to the person whose marker you’re seeing, and sometimes they leave you with questions. Like this one:

There’s something mysterious and poignant about those two words at the bottom: “We tried.” Does this mean that the Mitchell family tried and failed? Did they try and yet still suffer rejection? And how do the words “We tried” follow the words of faith that preceded them? What brought the Mitchell family to the place where they felt that a statement of their love of Jesus Christ and their love of family couldn’t stand alone? There’s some deep, unfathomable sadness packed into those words at the end.

But no matter – if they truly loved Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, He’s already borne whatever burdens they brought to Him. Whatever they tried and failed, He finished on their behalf.

Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Next: Grave Musings 8 Evergreen

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I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

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Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis is filled with notable names that we’ve come to associate with buildings, schools, streets and avenues, product brands, and even cities and towns. Names like Walker, Pillsbury, Washburn and Fridley. But over time, we have forgotten the men and women behind the names and the lives they lived. So let me tell you one of those stories, about the family for whom Fridley, Minnesota, is named. It starts out like any old dull refrain from history, but becomes surprisingly sensational.

Abram M. Fridley was born in 1817 in New York State and moved to Minnesota in 1851 in his mid-30’s. He was a farmer and eventually became a Minnesota State Representative. He must have been quite some guy to have had a township named after him, which later became the city we know as Fridley. Abram prospered enough to erect a huge monument in Lakewood, one of its largest.

But we’re not interested in Abram, other than the fact that he was great grandfather to Mary Fridley, born in 1879, and who died at age of 27 in 1914. Cause of death: she fell from a steep bluff at a park while trying to get her dog. Her husband Frederick Price was nearby tinkering under the hood of their 1913 Cadillac with his friend, Charles Etchison, since the car had stalled. Tragic, simply tragic.

The young widower inherited a tidy sum at the death of his wife: $23,000 – a small fortune at the time. But apparently that wasn’t enough money to console old Freddie. A year after the accident, he decided to sue the Minneapolis Park Board for their negligence in not having a guard rail where Mary had fallen. One can almost see him working up a face that combined grief with indignation at the injustice of it all.

What would you do if you were the Park Board? Why, of course, you’d conduct an investigation into the death as part of mounting a proper defense. A funny thing happened during the investigation, however. The expert that the Park Board hired determined that petite little Mary (weighing less than 100 pounds) had fallen farther out than would be expected from a mere fall. Propulsion had to have been involved.

Fred suddenly decided that he didn’t actually want to sue the Park Board after all. Let’s call the whole thing off, he said, in essence, by dropping the lawsuit. Fred wasn’t very smart. His greed had set things in motion that he couldn’t stop.

Mary’s father, David, started to smell a rat and hired his own private investigator, John P. Hoy, a former police detective. Hoy quickly found out that Frederick had never legally divorced his first wife and had been living with yet another woman since the night young Mary died. Price was indicted on charges of first-degree murder on December 1, 1915 and the case went to trial.

A break in the case came when Charles Etchison crumbled under the pressure and guilt and testified against Price in a packed courtroom during the much publicized trial. As reported by the Herald Democrat on January 11, 1916 with the colorful headline “Haunted by Horror of Murdered Woman,” Etchison told all. Price had murdered his wife for the inheritance and had paid Etchison to keep silent about what happened. The truth was that the three of them had been out for a night ride in the car. Price stopped the car and when Mary stepped out on the running board, he “gave her a horrible push and sent her crashing over the cliff. He threw her dog after her.”

It gets worse, sorry. Mary didn’t die. They heard faint cries from below and Price ran down to the bottom of the cliff, beckoning Etchison to follow. He grabbed Mary by the hair and dragged her to make it look like she’d fallen farther. Then he took a large rock and hit her in the head, finishing her off. The article says “In a few minutes, the flickering spark of life had left the woman.” I don’t think newspaper articles are written like that anymore. The dog ran off, uninjured, for those of you who are concerned about his fate in this grisly tale.

Price was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. Ironically, when he died in prison, his remains were cremated at Lakewood Cemetery.

Such are the ways of everyone who is greedy for unjust gain; it takes away the life of its possessors. – Proverbs 1:19

I wanted to find a photo of Mary Fridley, but I think I’d have to go to a historical society or look through newspaper archives, neither of which I have access to. I looked on the internet to no avail. I did find a little snippet that indicated that Price was a traveling salesman who had two previous marriages and a criminal past by the time he lured unsuspecting Mary to the altar. Tragic. Simply tragic.

Graveyards are interesting places with sometimes unexpected stories.

Next: Grave Musings 7 Epitaphs

Start at beginning: Grave Musings 1 Maple Lawn I

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. Poor Mary…

We stopped at a rest area on the way home from Idaho last week. I walked around soaking in all the sun and heat and appreciating the summer-charged colors of the sky and landscape. Way across the corn fields I saw two round metal silo tops reflecting the sunshine like beacons, which trilled me in a way I can’t explain. I took a photo with my phone and then deleted it. Some things can’t be captured.

However, I did keep the photos I took of the top of this concrete teepee at the same rest area. I love how it looks against the sky and the clouds, and how dramatically the color changed when it wasn’t in shadow.

What would we do without cameras to help us see and remember?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

My mother gave this dried arrangement to me when we were in our first year of marriage. It has survived five moves over 35 years. A few pieces from a money plant didn’t make it, and at one point my brother gave me something that I added to it. I don’t think I would ever have guessed in that first newlywed year that I’d still have this all these years later. It has been a silent and inanimate witness of feasts and famines, births and deaths, and joys and griefs. Whither we have gone, it has gone.

There’s something quite impressive about that kind of longevity and perseverance. I like to think it symbolizes the longevity and perseverance in our marriage. We two have been through much together and though we are getting older and “drier,” our marriage has endured, strengthened and matured. Young love is giddy, but mature love is steady, which is no less romantic, believe it or not. And we have discovered that the three words “I love you” are no more important in a marriage than the four words “Will you forgive me?”

The author and foundation of our marriage, our love and our forgiveness is Christ. May He continue to teach us how to encourage and sharpen one another in this grand life He has given us.

I probably won’t delete this in the morning.

P.S. I took about 15 photos of this dried arrangement in all sorts of lightings and backgrounds and from different angles. In the end, I liked this one the best – the first one I took. 🙂

Almost nothing signals late summer to me like the sound of cicadas. I understand that in some southern states this year, the cicada population is going to be prodigious – 1.5 million per acre in some areas. As if we needed another reason for this to be a “special” year.

I went out tonight in search of cicadas, but they are elusive, their noise coming from everywhere, but invisibly. I am surrounded by their shrill mating call which rises and falls and at sunset disappears altogether. They are the sound of my childhood, of hot August days, of early bedtimes when they got to stay up later than I, of humidity and that one oscillating fan that I wished would just blow on me all the time rather than moving back and forth. When the cicadas started their annual song, I knew the end of summer was coming and school would start soon.

Look at these photos I took tonight and hear the electric buzz of the cicadas in the background. They are there. Summer is coming to an end.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.