Ironically, Memorial Day

Our son's birthday was Monday, which was Memorial Day. Every year takes me farther from him. What would he have been like as a 32-year-old? Forgive me for being selfish. Many, many families marked this holiday by mourning their equally precious children lost or changed forever because somebody else started wars. Jeremy wanted to join the military when he was a boy and would have been good at it (if he'd survived being told what to do). But of course his accident prevented that. He was, however, a different kind of hero, and just as brave.

My deepest gratitude to everyone who made a way for us to enjoy our freedom and the years we had with such a son as Jeremy.

Mini-Review: Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town

Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
Review it? I couldn't even get through it. Not one character interested me enough to endure the alternately mind-throbbing and mind-numbing geekspeak parts--and they were the most normal critters in the tale. Perhaps I'll give the author another try--I was told I started with his weirdest, most difficult one--but I want my brain back first. Life's too short and there are too many books I really do want to read, such as Les Miz.


View all my reviews.

Friendship Bread, Pt. 1

Irish came home from the church council meeting tonight bearing a Ziplock bag with an attached instruction sheet, a gift from the wife of one of the council members. The moment I saw it, my heart did a lead balloon.

I knew what this was: the dreaded starter mix for Friendship Bread.

My intense dislike for Friendship Bread goes way back and through various church families. I have crossed the street, feigned sleep, missed women's fellowship meetings, and refused to answer the phone in my quest to avoid it. I have spent too much valuable time in my life attempting to explain to well-meaning friends why I had to decline their kind offer to join in the Friendship Bread fun. For almost two decades, I have successfully dodged the stuff--until tonight.

Hate Friendship Bread? What's with that? Who in the world could possibly be so cold?

In theory, it's a good idea. You receive a bag of starter mix, knead it once a day for some days, then add ingredients. Depending on the mix, you a) then split it up so you can pass on to others the Unspeakable Gift, and bake the rest into a tasty loaf for the delight of your beloved family; or b) you return to the kneading process for a few more days and then finish a) above. Three or four lucky recipients get to start their own batches of Friendship Bread mix with what you saved back, and so forth and so on, world without end, amen. At least, that's what happens in Perfect Land.

Here's what actually comes down: The bag must be out where you can see and care for it properly for the 10-14 days of its gestation. You can't put it away. It sits on your countertop for days in its clear plastic wrapper, looking like a cross between turkey gravy and something the elementary school janitor had to clean up after Joey Kazinsky brought bad tuna fish for lunch.

You are required to tend babysit it daily. You must tally off the days of kneading/squeezing the bag (the feel alone makes me shiver) and make darn sure that on the appointed date--not a day sooner or later--you add the precise measures of flour, sugar, and milk. Meanwhile, your mix is fermenting, bubbling and gross beyond belief. But hey, remember the tasty loaf that will bring cheer to the family unit! Buck up and count and squeeze and mix and tally, and try real hard not to look at it during anything to do with a meal, unless liquified liver is your thing.

I can't tell you how many times I tried to succeed at this. The social groups we were involved with in those days were rife with Tupperware parties, Color Me Beautiful makeovers, and Friendship Bread gifting, so I was frequently handed a bag of mix after church by a happy homemaker. Each time I tried to make it work. However, being a person not exactly noted for my organizational skills and dedication to routine, I'd invariably forget which day I was on; or neglect to squeeze the bag; or lose the instructions; or drop something on it and rip the bag open. Several times I actually made it to the Add Ingredients step before losing track. Then I'd find a bloated bag behind a the cookbooks or wherever I'd stashed it in a hurry when I had to either cook something else, or just get it out of my sight so I wouldn't gag. Finally I forgot it for a month or two (maybe longer) and the top burst open. It was not pretty. It did not smell pretty, either.

That's when I decided that Friendship Bread was really a divisive machination, a plot to make women like me feel inferior to other women. It's an open invitation for a Sharon fail. Like the bad perm I got back in the 90's, I vowed to never again put myself through that.

(And another thing: How long has the same mix been going around? Are the microbes in each bag the same critters that once graced the crockery of pre-plastic bag Amish settlers? Do I really want to know?)

Over the years, I forgot about Friendship Bread. I'm much older now, and the world has changed a lot. New Millennium women aren't into that sort of thing anymore...or so I thought.

Last week, a smiling friend was at the church door armed with bags. Bags with attached printed sheets. Deja vu all over again! Immediately I sprang into action and headed her off at the pass, explaining my position. She looked momentarily confused, but then appeared to understand. I thought all was well, that I'd dodged the bullet. How was it that I forgot that, once that stuff appears in the midst, it's like chicken pox in a nursery?

Then tonight, Irish went to a meeting.

And now, liquid liver with an instruction sheet sits on my kitchen counter.

Backwards Tuesday : KEEPER

I almost always write first, then find a pic or photo to accompany the text. Today I decided to go through my graphics collection, pick one, and then write a paragraph or poem about it. There was a catch, though: if I selected the picture first I would definitely compromise the point of the exercise, which is spontaneous writing. So I called on my DH to do the dirty work for me. Here's what he randomly chose from the 5000+ images on my hard drive, followed by what it inspired:

 

KEEPER

Many bleating voices call
All at once and in apparent need--
We sound alike. How is it he,
Amidst all this,
Distinguishes the primary
From the merely urgent?

Foolish, fragile things we are,
Apt to follow random butterflies
Over cliffs we do not see;
Inclined to wedge a leg beneath
Boulders camouflaged by daisy clumps;
Lagging behind at wolf-time.

Strong he comes, with crook in hand
To extricate the most recent stray
Without recrimination,
Without expecting thanks or understanding
Surpassing the wisdom of sheep--
Too well he discerns our limitations.

Yet we, despite our foolish tendencies
And stubborn, recidivist ways,
Still know only one voice: that of our Keeper.
We will not go after the call of a stranger
We will not go after the call of a stranger
Or heed
The pretender's sly seduction.

©2009 Sharon L. Shannon All rights reserved

Update on Dinah

The young lady I spoke of a couple of weeks ago is out of the coma and communicating a little. She is really despondent about her condition, however. I hear she's having panic attacks and must be restrained from pulling out her IVs and throat tubes. There is still brain damage and swelling as well.

How can anyone deal with this apart from the grace and comfort found only in the Lord? After going through many hospitalizations with our son and his eventual death, I cannot conceive of trying to do it on my own. There is something about a suffering child which makes the entire world seem askew, reality turned on its head.

I am so thankful that Dinah is still alive. Her mother Selena and her sisters Corina and Marta will need much strength to help her through the long, grueling rehabilitation to come. Dinah's brother Carlos is really having a hard time dealing with it all. Please remember them in your prayers.

How can it be Sunday if I haven't gone to bed yet?

And I haven't, so it's still Saturday.

So there!

He sees you when you're sleeping

He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So conform before you break.