Baby Shower Memory Games

When my daughter comes over with the new twins, we have to call in the bloodhounds before she departs to make sure she doesn’t forget anything.  She has even taken to circling the block, knowing I will call her back to collect forgotten V.I.S. (very important stuff). 

Moms these days have such great gear and tons of stuff.  There have been a few baby showers to help get daughter launched, and we’ve had a lot of fun cooing over hats with teddy bear ears or ruffles on the bums, lambs that play white noise, or cute bouncers with rabbit ears.

Most of the baby and wedding showers given when my friends and I were having babies consisted of food, presents and games.  People don’t play games much anymore, and now they invite the menfolk and hold baby showers at all sorts of interesting venues.  Breweries, Las Vegas, museums. 

Our showers were vastly more simple.  We had a rollicking good time, easily amused by anything brought out for our entertainment.

One of the games they used to play at showers was a memory game.  You could be pretty sure that Janice or Courtney would be in charge.  One of them would take a large tray around, loaded with assorted items that bore no relation to anything else.  Toothpicks, a belt, a spring, a doggy biscuit.  The more commonplace and forgettable and small they were, the better.  Courtney would teeter around in her high heels and cute little dress, showing us the tray for about 10 seconds.  Then we were issued paper and pens and the goal was to write down as many as you could remember.  There were usually about 30 items on the tray and people averaged about ten things.  The cutthroat competitors would remember 20.  I loved playing that game, trying to invent ways to remember everything.  I grouped them, I said them to myself, or I pictured them in my mind.  Very occasionally won.

Then one time Courtney came out and showed us to tray, but after she disappeared, the hostess started asking us questions, like, “What color were Courtney’s shoes?”  “Was she wearing a belt?”  Did she have earrings on?”

Drat.  

This turned out to be a very good game to play at showers, especially for the new mother.  For when it is time to take the baby anywhere, moms better have a very good memory.  What did I bring?  Where did I lay down the pacifier?  Where did I drop the burp rag?  Did I put something in the refrigerator?  Did the kids come here with shoes and why are they each wearing only one sock? 

I think I better get out a big tray and start practicing, if I’m going to take over their care in March.  Now, where did I put my trays?

How to Tease Your Parents

Who doesn’t like to gently tease the parents?  Is the house too pristine?  Never fear, the kids will come over and turn all the lighthouse throw pillows upside down.  Got a cutesy felt sign that says “NOEL” at Christmas?  It will soon spell EL NO.  Or LEON.  Or LONE.  The Nativity scene might wind up with Mary in the manger or the baby Jesus riding a camel.  No one admits to these things.

My kids come from a long line of teasers, including me.  My mom had a life-sized goose outside the front door.  Women had these things in the 70’s.  It was the era of geese as I recall. Women were nutty over country ruffles, forest green and peach colors, and artificial flowers.  Mom thought it was so dah-ling to have a little straw hat perched jauntily on the goose’s head.  But it didn’t stay there for long.  My brother and I had different plans.  I’d like to say I started it, but I really am not sure.  But one day the straw hat was on the head of the Hermes bust in the hallway.  My brother picked this game up quickly.  When the hat was found, the finder must remove the hat when no one was looking and place it on a new head, then wait. The funnier the place was perceived by the finder, the more secret points one got.  No one knew how many points one scored or what they could be used for, but there were definitely points. 

My dad never joined in.  He told us he was a grouchy old Navy officer.  Truth be told, he wasn’t that old, but he did have the lofty rank of Captain in the US Navy.  Captains aren’t usually meek, so the grouchy part was perceivably true, especially when he was paying bills.  His portrait hung above us in the living room, stiff necked in his gold braided uniform.  My mom, a noteworthy artist, had painted it.  She was a master at capturing the heart of her subjects and dad said she certainly had captured him, in more ways than one.

But as for the hat game, Mom never joined in either.  If she found the hat, it went straight back on the goose. “Now you kids stop that.”

The straw goose hat went from the head of Hermes, to an angel statue, to a teddy bear, to a stuffed dog, to the actual dog, and finally, the grand prize winner.  I’m not sure if it was my brother or me who thought of it, but we died laughing.  To this day, neither of us will admit to putting it there.  But one of us suspended it by black thread in front of my dad’s portrait, so that it blocked his uniform hat and made it look like he was wearing the straw goose hat.

In later years, I noticed that the portrait of my dad wasn’t so stiff necked.  In fact, he seems to be slouching.  He’s grinning, too.  You know what else?  Mom painted him with a twinkle in his eye.  That ol’ devil. 

I wonder if it was him?  He’s probably having the last laugh.  Way to go, Dad, way to go.

26 Acts of Kindness

So what are we going to do now?

Some are calling for more guns.  Some are calling for less.  Some want guards and protection.

I’m dragging myself around with a heavy heart thinking about the recent shootings of kindergarteners at Sandy Hook elementary.  No, the shooting didn’t try to shoot up a gun show, nor a mountain man reenactment.  He went to some of society’s most vulnerable.  My last blog was about these social outcasts.  But this one is more about the rest of us and how to heal our hearts.

Ann Curry has a pretty good idea.  She proposes that we all perform 26 acts of kindness for the victims at Sandy Hook.  Some say how about 27 to include the shooter’s mother, also a victim.  Some even say how about 28, to include the wretched shooter. 

To read more about this, go here: http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/12/18/15999109-if-you-do-good-youll-feel-good-ann-curry-explains-origins-of-26acts-of-kindness?lite&gt1=43001

People are tweeting about what they’ve done, not in a boastful way, but with the joy of sharing their newly uplifted hearts.

I can’t wait to start.

Social Pariahs at Christmas

  Haven’t we all had moments where we felt we just didn’t fit in?  At a party where we knew no one?  Being teased at school, or even bullied?  When something seems easy for everyone except us?  Of course we have. 

The most recent shooting spree at the Connecticut elementary school leaves us with heavy hearts.  Feeling like one is a social pariah or being bullied cannot be a ticket to nightmarish actions.  How can we help these people that feel as if they are the world’s only misfits?  Especially now at Christmas time, a time of love and goodness?

Social media has sprouted photos of sweet humanitarian moments that restore one’s faith in humanity.  See: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/moments-that-restored-our-faith-in-humanity-this-y.  I saw such a moment myself just the other day, a driver pull over and offer a highway beggar a cup of hot soup.  The steam from the soup enveloped the man’s face in sweet savory heat and no doubt his warmed his heart too.  

We see pictures of a cop buying a homeless man boots, or people buying others dinner.

Even Christmas songs speak of friendless Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and how, because he was different, could not find friends.  Yet he prevailed.

My favorite story of a social pariah overcoming her obstacles is a Bible story of the woman with an issue of blood for twelve years (Matt 9:20-22; Mark 5:25-34; Luke 8:43-47).  Considered unclean by her society, she was friendless and alone, have spent all that she had on physicians, suffered many things, and was not better.  Struggling to cope with society shunning her, she never gave up hope.  The determination that she could be healed led her to the Christ, and against society’s laws, reached out to the heart of love for a healing.  And healed she was, bravely acknowledging her personal and socially unacceptable problem as a beacon of hope to all.  Throughout centuries, she’s been an inspiration to many. 

Let her courage be a continued beacon, leading others to the Great Physician who can heal where others fail.  He who counted tax collectors, prostitutes and lepers among his acquaintances can help social pariahs in any age, and can work though us.  His love, our hands.  Let’s not have any more shootings by people who think they are socially destitute.

I Saw Santa Claus. Really.

I think probably everyone has seen The Polar Express movie, based on the book by Chris Van Allsburg.  What a delight!  We watch it nearly every year.  We always choke up, when, at the very end the narrator says, “At one time most of my friend could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them.  Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound.  Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.”

I used to read that book to the schoolchildren when I was a school librarian.  I kept a bell in my hand the whole time I read the book, then at the very end I would open my hand to reveal the bell and say, “Listen!  I can hear it.”  They would all pipe up that they could too.  Of course they could.

I believe for many reasons.  A lot of it has to do with my mom, who loved Christmas and made fantasy lands for us, with delightful presents, cookies, a pretty tree, and lots of love.  But part of it has to do with a certain memory when I was about five years old.

We lived in Newfoundland and you can be sure we got white Christmases.  I was concerned about Santa Claus’ entrance to our house, as we had no fireplace and no chimney.  My older brother Clark and I considered the perils of a fat man trying to enter the house via the furnace, the closest thing we could think of to a fireplace. 

“No,” our parents assured us, “he will not come through the furnace. He must come through the front door.”

“Where will he park his sleigh then?” we asked.  The roof seemed a bit silly if one was going to come through the front door.  How would he get down from the roof?

“He’ll park out in the parking lot, like everyone else.”  We lived in Navy housing, which was a triangle of townhomes facing a common center of grass.

On Christmas eve, Mom was making cookies, and she had the window of the kitchen open a wee bit to cool the steamy kitchen.  The snow was falling and Clark and I looked out upon the snowy common.

“You children better get to bed,” our parents warned.  “We are so far north here that Santa will come here early.  If you are not in bed, he won’t stop and leave presents.”

It was far to lovely that Christmas Eve to go to bed.  For there was the ripe tree yearning for presents to be placed underneath, the smell of cookies about to pop out of the oven, the gloriously beautiful snow that we would go sledding on tomorrow.  Our parents looked at each other and sighed.

“You really must get to bed,” Mom said as she prepared to put more cookies in the oven.

Clark and I looked out the window, side by side in our matching plaid flannel shirts, my personal favorite.  I adored Clark. 

Around the corner of the neighboring townhouse came none other than Santa Claus.  Through the snow, he looked at house numbers and ran jingling to my best friend Cathy’s house.

“Mom,” said Clark, bass-voiced and serious even at age six. “I see Santa Claus.”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” was about all I could get out.

Mommy came over to the window.  “Where?”  She didn’t need directions, she and we all saw him go into Cathy’s house.  I sure hoped Cathy was in bed.

“You better get to bed RIGHT NOW!” boomed my father, surprisingly merry.  When he laughed, his hookish nose turned down and got red, and his eyes turned turquoise.

Clark and I scrambled up the stairs, ripped off our clothes, and hopped into bed in our shared bedroom.  “Are we supposed to be asleep?” I asked Clark.  “Because I can’t do it.”

Daddy came up the stairs. “Did you kids brush your teeth?”

“Nooooo!” we wailed.

“Get out of bed and brush your teeth,” he said.

We zipped into the bathroom and brushed frantically, remembering that we might as well wash our faces or that would be ordered next.

Daddy came in our darkened bedroom.  We were never allowed a nightlight, which was fine on this night, as Santa wouldn’t be able to see if our sleep was fake or not.

“Did you say your prayers?” Daddy asked.

Again a wail.

“Say your prayers, then.”

We rattled them off, but I am sure God understood.

Daddy kept giggling, but neither Clark nor I found anything amusing about it.

In the morning, there was a beautiful Lionel train set that my brother still owns.  I got a real-looking baby doll I played with for years, which only recently disintegrated.  My mom said later that before she went to bed she looked back at the gifts under the tree and knew it was a children’s Christmas tree to be forever remembered.

Now I’m a grandmother, and we will have lots of trees with presents for children heaped under them, with cookies to make the kitchen smell good, and angels at the treetop to smile benevolently upon us.

Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me.

Christmas Miracles

It is pretty nice to have new little twin babies in our lives right at Christmas.  How easy it is to love them, yet we don’t really know them.  They lie in our arms and sleep.  Sometimes they wake up and look around.  They cry and want to be fed, eagerly opening their little mouths for mama.  But they are only two weeks old and we don’t really know who they are.

When we describe why we like someone, we often say they are nice or kind.  My daughter’s highest compliment is that someone is “hilarious”.  Listening to how we describe friends might give us a clue to what qualities we value most.  Generosity?  Someone who listens?  Unselfish?

Yet these little babes do not exhibit generosity, kindness, nor unselfishness.  Why then are babies so universally loved?  Sure, we say they are cute, but actually a lot of them aren’t.  It rarely matters what anyone we love looks like.  When talking about our friends, we talk about how wonderful they are, how intelligent, or how loving.  We don’t mention that they have a bald spot or a pot belly.

With the babies, a lot of our love for them has to do with the innocence we see, the potential, the fulfillment of a desire.  These are all qualities WE are seeing and has little to do with them. 

When public speaking, an old trick is to imagine that everyone is naked.  Of course, they are not, but the trick might help a public speaker be empowered.  How might our view of mankind change if we saw everyone as innocent as a baby, to be loved and cherished?  Of course they are not babies, but the trick might help us see our fellows as worthy of love that doesn’t depend on their actions. 

It has just been wonderful to have these little ones come right at this time, for they are reminders of the grace of Love.  We can love everyone like people love little babies.  Without question.  With a love that doesn’t depend on others’ actions, on the physical, nor on human circumstance.

Wishing you all a season of brotherhood, and a sense of unity with your fellow humans that Christmas symbolizes.  “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

The Long Stormy Delivery

Last night we spent nearly 10 hours with the other set of prospective grandparents and our younger daughter in the tiny waiting room of the hospital, waiting for our twin grandbabies to be born.  We brought a Birth Day cake with two candles on it, each one was a zero, and of course roses for our daughter.  I anticipated the babies would be here quickly, and we'd eat chocolate cake right after dinner.  

Nobody knew what sex the babies were, and we were mighty eager to meet them.  If one was a boy, he would be knighted with the name of John Burns Logan the Fifth.  If one was a girl, she would be named after the two grandmas.  Curiosity made us weak in the knees.  

Outside, it was storm-ageddon.  Pounding rain and wind howled through the city streets as our daughter struggled and labored to bring forth.  Traffic backed up and stood at a standstill on clogged freeways and flooded streets as the hours dragged on.  The unrelenting rain was patiently swept off windshields by dutiful wipers, back and forth, back and forth, as the prospective grandparents stood, sat, walked, drank coffee, stood, sat, and walked.  Wind carried the clouds through the heavens as our prayers reached out.

When the hours bound yet another chain of impatience around our ankles, a text message would vibrate the cellphones like an eager hacksaw sawing them off.  Announcing milestones in the process kept our sanity.  Up and down we’d walk again, getting more coffee, declaring it good, and forgetting to drink it.

Around 1:36AM, looking at the clock I got chills and tingles.  I told my husband the baby was here.  I knew it.  Turns out the first one was born at 1:38.  A short time later, we got the text that both babies were here, healthy, and great.  But there was no mention of names yet, as the new father wanted to walk into the waiting room and make the announcement of who and what they were.

Two more excruciating hours went by.  I felt like a dog waiting for master to get home, drilling my eyes on the doorway, WILLING him to walk through it. Nope.  He did not appear.  Tick, tock, tick, tock. 

It was now 3:30AM.  The rain had stopped, the wind had calmed down, and there was a hush.  Little breezy puffs outside conducted the leaves in a lullaby, and a weary new father appeared in the door frame.

I had been wondering for days how he was going to say it, and he simply said: “A boy and a girl.”

Every single one of us screamed, and were glad later there was no one around but a few nurses.

Of course we got to hold them for a little while, hug our tired daughter and son-in-law, and take the precious pictures we will always cherish.

We didn’t stay too long, knowing the new family needed to rest.  As we walked to our car, a sweet little waxing moon beamed down on us, ready to catch the dreams of newborns. 

I am so happy.  So truly, truly happy.  Congratulations, kiddos.

The Woman at the Well

The woman at the well is a Samaritan.  She came to the well at midday, it is thought, in order to avoid the shame of meeting other women, who normally came in the evening and morning.  Jesus breaks cultural and ethnic taboos in speaking to her.  As the discussion progresses, the woman asks astute theological questions and responds intelligently to Jesus.  For the first time in the book of John, Jesus both reveals his messiahship and uses the “I am” self-designation that characterizes the chapter of John.  The woman returns to her village and shares what she has learned of Jesus, and leads many Samaritans to believe in him—thus in effect fulfilling the role of the first evangelist.  The woman at the well is, in fact, one of the most theologically informed persons in John.  She knows the regulations about ritual purity, ancestral traditions of Israel, the necessity to worship at a valid temple, and the expectation of a Messiah.  As a discussion partner, Jesus takes her as seriously as he did Nicodemus in the preceding chapter.

Yet even today commentators view her as “unclean”, a woman of loose morals.  Perhaps we can gain a higher view of her, as Jesus did, and in so doing, find something liberating for ourselves.

First, is this woman really someone of loose morals?  Why we have perceived her as such? 

Commentators have assumed that the woman came to draw water at the hottest time of the day because she was deliberately avoiding the company of other women.  I would hate to have my morals impugned because I occasionally go to the grocery store late at night.  That she happened to be there right when Jesus was, could have been the result of divine guidance rather than shame.

Why ever did Jesus ask about her husbands?  Speaking of biological and marital ties is uncharacteristic of Jesus, who said “call no man your father upon the earth” (Matt 23: 9), and that one day we would no more marry nor be given in marriage (Luke 20:35).  Therefore, let us examine the word “husband”.  The conversation would have been carried out in Aramaic, not Greek.  In translating Aramaic to Greek, the word for “owner” is often translated as husband.  But could Jesus have really meant “owner” instead of husband?  He might have been referring to a slave owner.  But false gods, addictions, obsessions, and cults can also be our owners.  Could Jesus have been speaking about these and not a male human?  “You have been owned by five false gods, and the one you have now is not your owner,” might be closer to what Jesus meant, if we consider this translation.

If Jesus were talking about husbands, the woman responds out of context by launching into a discussion about places of worship.  But her comment is not a disjointed change of subject if they are discussing false gods.  Consider, if you will, that she had been trying different religions because she was a religious seeker, looking for the true religion.  There were many different cults in that time, such as the Egyptian cult of Isis.  If she had sought out five cults and was unhappy with the one she is associated with now, her answer about where the Jews say one must worship makes perfect sense.  Jesus then discusses at length the true worshipers and that they must worship in spirit and in truth. 

When the woman goes back to her village, people listen to her.  This would be more likely if she was known as religiously educated, rather than if she were a woman of loose morals who society wanted nothing to do with.  John later says that the Samaritan villagers believed because of the woman’s testimony.

In the book of John, women are depicted in unconventional roles.  The woman at the well is an evangelist.  In chapter 11, Martha seems to be conducting the funeral activity of her brother.  Mary Magdalene ventures out alone at night.  Women in this chapter do not relate to Jesus by the mediation or permission of men.  Jesus never uses the term apostles in John, only disciples, which includes men and women.  In John, no woman is shown as resisting Jesus, failing to believe, deserting or betraying him.

In sum, the book of John has communities with strong women who held positions of leadership.  The earliest times of Christianity were often more egalitarian than we view them.  Perhaps we are also putting limitations on ourselves, viewing ourselves in positions of unwanted responsibilities or submission.  What do we make a god out of?  Stress?  Food?  Money?  Let us listen to the words of Jesus as he speaks in the manner of this new interpretation, for it can extend across the centuries.  “…the false god you have now is not your real owner.”

How Pauline the Horse Got the Children to School

Pauline had been a very good work horse and lived in the Ukraine in the 1920’s, a time and place when people still used horses in the fields, and to pull wagons into town.  She had been a strong, willing worker.  

Now Pauline was getting on a bit, too old to pull plows or much of anything, really.  The soldiers that came and took good horses passed her by.  But she was still able to throw good foals, so she stood around gestating and eating what hay could be spared for her.  She was patient and kind, like work horses are.

Spring in the Ukraine brought sloppy mud, renown for stopping armies.  Treacherous mud, well-nigh impassable. Some families had to keep their children home from school, as the children would sink up to their ankles in it, and loaded farm wagons would sink to their axles.

Pauline would not be stopped by mud.  Her mighty legs had been through many muddy fields and if a horse could scoff, you might have seen her lifting her eyebrows at the cart horses that could not make it through the streets. 

The children in the Warkintin family were able to go to school, because Pauline could get them there.  The eldest brother, Henry, who didn’t go to school anymore, went into the barn, put a halter on Pauline and led her out to the farmhouse.  The four children who attended school climbed up on a step stool and then on to the wide back of Pauline.  Arms around each other, they squeezed together in the coats and scarves, holding their lunch pails.

“Take the children to school Pauline,” said Henry.

Pauline plodded out of the farmyard and up the muddy street.  She sank to her pasterns in the mud, a familiar event from years in muddy fields.  She pulled her hooves from the muck one after the other, slowly working her way down to school.  Pauline knew where to go.  She aimed right for the porch of the school where the kids could slide off without getting their feet in the mud.  At that point, the lunch pails opened and carrots were produced for sweet Pauline.

“Go home now,” they told her, patting her soft nose.  She’d blow warm breath on them.

Off Pauline went.  When she got home, another carrot was waiting from Henry.

In the afternoon this was repeated.  Pauline was sent off on her own to the schoolhouse to collect the children. Without fail, she worked her way down to the school. When she pulled up to the porch, the children climbed aboard and Pauline brought them home.

Pauline died sometime in the 1920’s.  But 90 years later, this loyal, kind horse was spoken of by my mother-in-law Susanne who was one of the little kids who rode her to school. 

Kindness, loyalty, and good humor are always rewarded, and this noble horse had all three. 

And carrots too.

The Bright Flames of Leaders

I know a guy who tries to be a leader in a group of teenagers by pushing them around.  Pushing teenagers is like trying to push a string.  They fold up.

Another guy I know works with teenagers too on the Sea Scout Ship Odyssey.  He knows a lot about his field, and will demonstrate it and show them when asked.  He gives them rough outlines on what to do, then reiterates with expectations.  Following that, he turns them loose, becoming the safety net should they need it.  

I’ve been on many a sail as the cook, and love watching these kids come in as giggly fourteen year olds and morph into empowered youth who can sail among the freighters of Puget Sound and around rocks of the San Juan Islands.

Lao Tzu said to start with what people know, then build on that. The goal is to let the people do things themselves.

When our daughters were twelve, they asked for money for all sorts of things, including birthday presents for friends, special shampoo, and snacks.  It was a constant effort to evaluate their needs and the budget.  After much thought and number crunching, we finally came up with a figure that covered their monthly needs, including some mandatory offerings at church, savings, and school supplies.  It wound up being $100 per month.  This seemed like an insane amount of money to turn over to a twelve and fourteen year old.

I imagined in two months we were going to see piles of earrings, new clothes and magazines.

We continued to counsel them and drew out plans for what they might use their money on, but did not insist that they do it.  Well, except for putting some in the basket at church.

Not long after my daughter and I were at the store and she asked to go up the hair care aisle as she needed some shampoo.  I suggested that she purchase a certain brand.  Shocked, she stated, “Mom I can’t afford that brand.  I’ll get this one, it is good enough.”

To me it was like her leaping from one trapeze to the next and successfully completing a triple summersault in mid-air.

One of the obligations on the Odyssey is that the youth have to take command of the boat for 40 hours.  Once they have done that, they are never the same, and I love watching them walk over that bridge.  They light my way by their bright flames.

Of Frogs and Geckos

I hate frogs.  Disgusting little creatures.  They and their reptilian relatives.  Yech.  Slimey little dudes made me throw up one time I was so disgusted by them.  Not everyone feels this way.  My sister-in-law actually kept a frog as a pet.  Ewwwww.  The bowl it lived in was algae green and it slurped up all sorts of things that I take the Lysol after.  But then, she had two boys, and I, of the daughter variety, tended to fluffy white dogs and self-cleaning cats.

Don’t know what this frog’s name was.  He probably had one.  The most remarkable thing about him was that he lived for nine years.  NINE.  N-I-N-E!!  What frog lives that long?  They should have named him Methuselah.

I don’t know what they fed him.  Maybe he ate algae.  Don’t care to find out.  Once some neighbors asked me to take care of their cat when they went out of town.  Sure, I said, be happy to.  Oh, and can you feed the lizard?  I guess, I replied.  I did not know that I had to take live crickets and drop them to their doom in his cage.  I dropped them and pounded up the stairs and out the door.  I did not want to watch some disgusting reptile eat a cricket.  Not that I like crickets either.

We used to live in the Hawaii where they had all sorts of insects and reptiles.  Cockroaches.  Geckos.  People made pets of the geckos because they ate the cockroaches and, well, lesser of two evils.  The geckos were about 5 or 6 inches long in Hawaii.  I didn’t mind them very much, until one time while I was taking a shower, a gecko fell off the ceiling into the tub.  The little gecko did not like landing in the water in the bottom of the tub so to escape the water ran up the inside of my bare naked leg, thus sealing the fate of any further geckos I should ever meet. 

However, after Hawaii, we moved to the Philippines, where the geckos are e-NOR-mous.  I wasn’t about to take any of them on.  But they had to be enormous, because so were the insects.  The great flapping insects there are from The Land of the Lost movie. 

We had a gecko that lived in a hole in the wall around the corner from our apartment.  We’d come home in the evening and creep around the corner for the delicious thrill of seeing this primeval fellow.  He was probably 12-18 inches long.  Hard to see the end of him, but his snout could have easily ingested a Chihuahua.

That was not the most magnificent of reptiles there.  They had monitor lizards.  These black knights in chain link armor would appear out of nowhere.  Once a group of us ladies were taking a walk and spied one right beside the road.  His inward turned feet had two inch claws, and a blue tongue the size of a pencil snaked out to smell us and assess the danger.  I watched in fascination as he scurried into the brush.  Wouldn’t have mind watching him a bit longer, but he was obviously scared.  Poor guy.  Little did he know I was too.

But back to Methuselah the Frog.  One day, the boys of the house had a friend over that did not know that Methuselah lived quite well in a slimey bowl.  He dumped the bowl and frog into the sink and cleaned out the murky mess.  Methuselah died that night.

The boys buried him in the backyard, with tears and snuffling.  They said a prayer and hoped he would go to his algae reward.  As the boys walked away, one of them turned back and looked at the spot where Methuselah lay.  “Love you!” he said.

I never think about this story without being amazed that little frogs can be loved.  Or geckos.  Or people not like us.  Or that bullying girl in eighth grade.   

It’s pretty much a miracle, love is.  Wow.

Expectations

Husband and I were driving through some mixed-income housing yesterday and pondering how to get our tenants down in another city to take care of the yard.  So how does the government take care of this housing?  It looked pretty nice.  There were businesses on the ground floor, and condos above.  Central play areas, bus stops and a nearby school made it attractive.  But then it was rather new and there was probably a gardener.

A lot of what we plant at our rental in the way of landscaping dies in the summer due to lack of water.  The front yard was knee-high in dandelions and weeds, the back had turned into dirt and a few hardy conifers. 

With presidential race huffing along to the finish line, candidate Mitt Romney made a statement that 47% of America expects the government to help them out.  Husband and I continued on our drive, talking about these expectations, as well as our expectations of tenants’ desire for a pretty place to live, and their expectations of what they could do. They seemed worlds apart. 

Just yesterday in the mail I got a newsletter from a school for Native Americans that I donate to from time to time, St Labre in Montana.  I’ve watched them grow for the past 15 years, and was quite impressed with the accomplishments of recent students.  It doesn’t seem that long ago that every newsletter I got was pleading for help to overcome poverty and alcoholism.  Those problems still exist, to be sure, but the news coming from the school now is about eye-popping successes. 

There are probably lots of reasons for this, but to me what really stands out was a letter to the school’s director years ago.  It decried the constant plea for money and was disenchanted that nothing ever seemed to get better.  The writer of the letter said he felt like he was flinging his money down a hole.

St. Labre listened.  They began featuring the successes of the students.  Not long after the letter, we heard about 3 high school girls who designed a project for making houses out of hay bales that won a contest and got them a trip to Washington, DC.  I started reading in the school’s newsletter about their high school graduates and the colleges they attended. They featured a young alumnus who became a nurse and returned to serve the area, students who won art contests, and spotlighting successful students and their dreams.

Expectations rose.  College entrance exam scores became impressive enough that Ivy Leagues were interested.  This year, the entire high school graduating class headed off to college.  Every single one. High school alumni are attending MIT, Harvard, Stanford, Mount St. Mary’s and Dartmouth, as well as state universities and a prestigious pharmacy school in Minnesota.  For the last six years, three St. Labre alumni have completed degrees at Dartmouth, which is a 100% graduation rate from one of the most prestigious colleges in the nation, including young Velma, who lost both her parents in separate car accidents in the span of fourteen months during her college years.

In spite of a forest fire this summer that nearly burned St. Labre down, local poverty and other challenges, why is this school able to turn out such successful young men and women?  The newsletter, The Morning Star, says: “Teachers expect the very best from their students and students expect the same from the teachers.” They also credit their donors from believing in the students and faculty.

Expectations.

Our daughter, the teacher, has had a lot of success in expecting her students to succeed.  She teaches at a school near the low income housing we were driving through, and many of her students come from a challenging background.  She believes they deserve every chance to succeed and that they CAN.  Her school’s test scores were second in the district recently, nearly opposite on the scale of income.

These times seem so full of expectation for our family.  One daughter is expecting twins, one is waiting to head off to Army Officer Candidate School and begin her career.  I hope that the alchemy of expectation will infuse them with success.  With belief in infinite possibilities, what might they accomplish?

Go, baby, go!

Making a Steampunk Gun

There aren't a lot of ray guns from the 19th century for sale at Fred Meyer's.  But to complete the wacky costume I'm wearing to a steampunk convention, I needed one.

So it was off to Fred Meyer's anyway.  I bought a cap gun, spray paint, and super glue.  I also visited the camping section and bought a green plastic salt and pepper shaker.

I raided my husband's plumbing drawer in the shop and found a flexible chrome tube that is used behind toilets to the water supply.  Or used to be, I think they are plastic now.  In the kitchen, I found some pie crust weights (little balls), and a tiny funnel, and in the bathroom, I found some bristly toothpicks I don't like.

Thus armed with the requisite ray gun supplies, off to the workshop!  I painted the body of the gun copper, and the barrel silver.  I attached the flexible chrome tube to the side.  The salt and pepper shaker was wrapped in green wire and the toothpicks painted silver and inserted in the holes.

The pie crust weights and funnel were painted silver and glued to the end of the gun.

Husband cut a piece of crown moulding I painted and used for a gun hammer,  The caps from the gun came in cylinders held in a piece of circular plastic.  This little object was painted silver and glued to both ends of the toilet tube.

When all was dry, I had a great little ray gun.

Zombies, BEWARE!