Christmas was...

...very low-key, very loving. Just the way we like it.

Christmas Eve service at our church is one of the highlights of the year. We keep it to one hour, have some songs presented and do a candlelight communion. It's always special, even if so only for the things that go laughably wrong, and this was no exception. We couldn't get the audio working for the short film I'd bought to begin the program. With about five minutes before start time, I pulled out a Handel's Messiah CD from the sound room and noticed the time for "And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed": 3:07. The film, entitled "The Prophecy" was exactly 3:07. The music was most appropriate as well as a perfect fit. No one else but Irish and the sound guy knew till later. That was close!

Afterwards, we went home and had cocoa (made with Splenda) and popcorn (fresh popped, not the dreadful nuked stuff.) We'd already watched all our seasonal movies, even our classic favorite "Ernest Saves Christmas", so we settled on the A&E version of "Emma". (Once again I am reminded that Kate Beckinsale is ever so much better in the part than that washed-out Gwyneth girl.) It is blessed to have a husband who appreciates films that contain not one exploding vehicle.

We slept in a bit late next morning, unlike when the kids were growing up. After the usual rituals and long distance family calls, a few friends came for our our hospitality tradition, a late Christmas morning breakfast. After the cleanup, I delivered poinsettias to a family who were sick and couldn't make the night before; then we went to our pastor's house for a nice turkey dinner, lots of laughs, old Moody Blues concert recordings, and good conversation. The same group of us went to see "A Night at the Museum" that night because it sounded lighthearted and entertaining, which it was. (Irish & I had hoped to catch "The Nativity Story" but the cretin Salinas theater owners had already jettisoned it in favor of something more festive, which they apparently consider to be "Black Christmas".)

Late night home, fell into bed tired and happy. We didn't change the world on Christmas, but we had a lovely time with people we love. And it wasn't all about the presents.

I've seen him!!!

Stop the world.

I have seen my unborn grandson's face!

In less than three months, our daughter will give birth to her first child, a gorgeous little boy. Through the incredible technology of 4-D ultrasound fetal imaging, we were "introduced" to our newest Little Prince this past Saturday.

Things sure have changed since I first became a mother! Back then, a blurry b&w interpreted by a technician was the best one could hope for. Now there are 3-D and 4-D (real time), full color images with lullaby music playing in the background and a comfy couch for the waiting family and friends.

Wow. Just wow.

Little Prince, you are loved. You are anticipated and will be welcomed with many loving arms.

And Grandma will see to it that you're spoiled rotten. (Remember all those promises I made during your wild adolescent years, my darling daughter? Muuuuuuuuhahahahahahah.)

Kidgig & First Friday

We had a blast at the library kid singalong. Ended up doing two sets instead of four, but the folks still paid us the same amount. It got quite cold outside after 4 pm, although the first hour before that I was afraid I'd overdressed with my thick sweater and Uggs. Was I ever glad to have them later! We got a good crowd for both sets--it's always nice to play for more than 5 people. The kids seemed to enjoy the songs, and the grownups were singing along too. Can't get better than that! Library Lady Lauren said next year they'll start and end earlier because of the weather. Apparently we were on TV again too. (When will I learn not to leave home without makeup?) I think this might have been the first of many child-oriented performances for us. It's definitely something we'd both like to pursue.

Last night's First Friday was the best since we started last year. We played at the Halltree antique store in Oldtown, and had a quite a few bustling shoppers stop to listen and applaud. Some even gave tips too--always a plus! The store owners loved having us there. Afterwards we went outside and saw all the folks around Main St. going from one venue to another. It's great to see Oldtown Salinas come to some vestige of life, especially compared to what it was a few years ago. The Christmas lights were on and there was a general sense of joviality in the air--people laughing and lingering, children smiling in their fancy Folklorico getups, musicians comparing notes as to their respective gigs. First Friday is one of the most positive things to happen to this city in many years.

Spindlings

Michelle and I are playing today at the local library's Story Time and Singalong, our first all-kid gig, in conjunction with the city's Holiday Parade of Lights. We were told by the PTB not to sing any Christmas songs.

Because, you see, it's the "Holiday Parade of Lights".

(Oh wait, I said no more political statements. Whoops.)

Tomorrow night is First Friday. This time we're at Halltree Antiques on Main St. in Oldtown Salinas.

Just so you know

My husband, whom I affectionately refer to as Irish, used the following phrase in a sentence today: "a cloudy burst of entanglement". In the context, it even made sense.

Neither of us can remember now what the topic was.

Filler Tuesday

Ai, please don't tell me I'm procrastinating like this again!

Here's another one of those silly filler thingies just so I can get back on the horse. I took one of those "What Are You?" tests and it actually hit close.

You Should Rule Saturn

Saturn is a mysterious planet that can rarely be seen with the naked eye. You are perfect to rule Saturn because, like its rings, you don't always follow the rules of nature. And like Saturn, to really be able to understand you, you need someone to delve beyond your appearance. You are not an easy person to befriend. However, once you enter a friendship, you'll be a friend for life. You think slowly but deeply. You only gain great understanding after a situation has past.

What Planet Should You Rule?

Spindlings

Tonight we play First Friday again, this time at the Girl-Lee Boutique from 6-7:30.

Tomorrow we're at the Salinas Adult School's Art Crafts, and Quilts Show, from 12:00-1 pm.

Hey, we're saving to make that CD!

No-pol policy

Starting today, I'm not posting about politics. It's not worth it. There are a hectillion sites out there doing nothing but, but only one of my life. Besides, I never agree with anyone, anyway. I'm too conservative for the liberals and too liberal for the conservatives. I guarantee that no matter who gets elected next week, I won't be happy with them.

There. My last political blog commentary ever.

Now onward to the fun (and useful) stuff.

End of an era

One of my favorite bloggers, Doug TenNapel, is tossing it down the chute. Today he's on Part 5 of his auf wiedersehen (hmmmm, and Barbra Streisand's on her 5th farewell tour--coincidence? You decide) and I'm feeling downright bummed. I'll miss the lift from his slap-'em-silly approach to life and all its weirdness. I'll miss the unhinged comments from his detractors. I'll miss the little fishy swimming back and forth. Yes, he could be abrasive. Yes, the scatological references sometimes made my eyes roll. No, I didn't always agree with everything he said. However, he sure showed that conservatives don't all wear black suits on Fox News. And he was downright fun to read. (If there were a liberal blogger half as entertaining, I'd add him to my list, too. Trouble is, most liberals have no sense of humor, except for Stephen King.)

God be w'ye, Doug. At least I still have your archives and your three wackadoodle paintings at Rollick's. (The toaster one is my fave.) Have fun storming the castle and replenishing the Earth.

Campaign pledge

I hereby pledge to withhold my vote from anyone who calls my house and leaves an automated campaign message on my answering machine. I don't care what party you represent or what your message is--you invade my home like that and you're out, Buster (Bustress?). Did you really think I'd stand there and listen just because you paid some 15 year-old kid running a server to call me and 59,000 of my closest friends? Pfui! I snort in your general direction!

I'll say one thing for this system--it sure narrows the field when I go to the polls.

Spindlings

M & I played a set at that fantastic pickin' party we attended last weekend at the home of our friends Kelly & Jac. While pondering the setlist, M noticed that she sings all the melancholy, poignant, and love-gone-wrong songs (Annabelle, I'll Be All Smiles, Poor Wayfaring Stranger etc.); while I get the chirpy stuff (Spread a Little Love Around, Listen to the Radio and such).

That's when she suggested we might change our name to The Bipolar Sisters.

"The Land of Sandra Dee"

Ah, if only I'd written it! If anyone knows whom to credit, kindly buzz me so I can give them their proper due.

Long ago and far away,
In a land that time forgot,
Before the days of Dylan
Or the dawn of Camelot,

There lived a race of innocents,
And they were you and me,
Long ago and far away
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Oh, there was truth and goodness
In that land where we were born,
Where navels were for oranges,
And Peyton Place was porn.

For Ike was in the White House,
And Hoss was on TV,
And God was in his heaven
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We learned to gut a muffler,
We washed our hair at dawn,
We spread our crinolines to dry
In circles on the lawn.

And they could hear us coming
All the way to Tennessee,
All starched and sprayed and rumbling
in the Land of Sandra Dee.

We longed for love and romance,
And waited for the prince,
And Eddie Fisher married Liz,
And no one's seen him since.

We danced to "Little Darlin'",
And Sang to "Stagger Lee"
And cried for Buddy Holly
In the Land of Sandra Lee.

Only girls wore earrings then,
And three was one too many,
And only boys wore flat-top cuts,
Except for Jean McKinney.

And only in our wildest dreams
Did we expect to see
A boy named George with Lipstick
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We fell for Frankie Avalon,
Annette as oh, so nice,
And when they made a movie,
They never made it twice.

We didn't have a Star Trek Five,
Or Psycho Two and Three,
Or Rocky-Rambo Twenty
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Miss Kitty had a heart of gold,
And Chester had a limp,
And Reagan was a Democrat
Whose co-star was a chimp.

We had a Mr Wizard,
But not a Mr T,
And Oprah couldn't talk yet
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We had our share of heroes,
We never thought they'd go,
At least not Bobby Darin,
Or Marilyn Monroe.

For youth was still eternal,
And life was yet to be,
And Elvis was forever,
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We'd never seen the rock band
That was Grateful to be Dead,
And Airplanes weren't named Jefferson,
And Zeppelins weren't Led.

And Beatles lived in gardens then,
And Monkees in a tree,
Madonna was a virgin
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We'd never heard of Microwaves,
Or telephones in cars,
And babies might be bottle-fed,
But they weren't grown in jars.

And pumping iron got wrinkles out,
And "gay" meant fancy-free,
And dorms were never coed
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We hadn't seen enough of jets
To talk about the lag,
And microchips were what was left at
The bottom of the bag.

And Hardware was a box of nails,
And bytes came from a flea,
And rocket ships were fiction
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

Buicks came with portholes,
And side show came with freaks,
And bathing suits came big enough
To cover both your cheeks.

And Coke came just in bottles,
And skirts came to the knee,
And Castro came to power
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

We had no Crest with Fluoride,
We had no Hill Street Blues,
We all wore superstructure bras
Designed by Howard Hughes.

We had no patterned pantyhose
Or Lipton herbal tea
Or prime-time ads for condoms
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

There were no golden arches,
No Perriers to chill,
And fish were not called Wanda,
And cats were not called Bill.

And middle-aged was thirty-five
And old was forty-three,
And ancient were our parents
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

But all things have a season,
Or so we've heard them say,
And now instead of Maybelline
We swear by Retin-A.

And they send us invitations
To join AARP,
We've come a long way, baby,
From the Land of Sandra Dee.

So now we face a brave new world
In slightly larger jeans,
And wonder why they're using
Smaller print in magazines.

And we tell our children's children
of the way it used to be,
Long ago and far away
In the Land of Sandra Dee.

The Greens of Wrath

Once again, my adopted hometown of Salinas gets press--and once again, it's not good. This time it's not gang violence or the threatened public library closing. Now it's killer spinach. The #7 crop in the Valley, pulled from shelves across the country and implicated in at least one death and the illness of over 150 people. My favorite green, and I'm quite nervous about buying it again when it does reappear. Maybe it has something to do with that "healthy" Asian salad I bought at a Jack in the Box on my way to one of the camps this summer--the one that was supposed to be much better for me than those evil fried-in-transfat things, but which resulted in my seeing more of the inside of the festival Porta-potties than anything else that memorable weekend. Guess I need to, ahem, grow my own.

Steinbeck or Woody would probably write something.

Packin' up again...

...and it's off to another festival with Michelle! This time we're headed to Bluegrassin' in the Foothills, where we'll see a lot of great acts like Cherryholmes and Dan Paisley and Southern Grass. This promises to be a really fun weekend, if I can get my tent up and the canopy doesn't blow over like last time. It'll be really cold tonight (39F), which might put a damper on the jamming, but I'm taking along my Uggs and gloves with the fingers cut out just in case. You just can't keep a good grasser down.

This is George Simmons

An average businessman, a regular flight, an ordinary day--nothing appears unusual and his about George Simmons from his picture. He and his wife Diane were on their way to Hawaii from Great Falls, Va., a suburb of Washington, D.C. What was he wearing on the plane that day? Maybe a nice pullover sweater over casual slacks with sensible loafers. Did he bring a book, or was he reading the Wall Street Journal? Did he eat breakfast before they left that morning? Did he have the window or aisle seat?

George was aboard Flight 77, which terrorists hijacked and crashed into the Pentagon on September 11, 2001--no ordinary day. George didn't ask to be remembered today. He didn't ask to be #2412 on the 2,996 Project list. The man a friend called "cheerful, positive, and engaging" by a friend and "one nice fellow who deserved a few more years" by a co-worker wanted to go about the business of retirement, perhaps reading or golfing, eating out, driving, living the rest of his life. Instead, he is part of the montage of honored victims of the horrible crimes which left three gaping holes in the American topography and millions more in the hearts of decent people here and around the world. None of the 2,996 men, women, and children who died that day would have wanted their face there. Like George, they'd have chosen blissful anonymity and life with their families and friends. Like George, they were the human beings whose ordinary but valuable lives were snuffed out by calculating, merciless enemies they never knew.

What went through George's mind as that plane fell towards the ground and then veered madly into the Pentagon? Surely he thought of his loved ones, to whom he wouldn't have a chance to say goodbye. Did he and Diane hold hands and say goodbye? Was he calm? Perhaps he thought of God and eternity. Did he pray? I doubt his thoughts were of bills, money, traffic jams, politics, dry cleaning and what he saw on TV the night before--the thousand details which make up our ordinary lives. One thing is certain: he didn't get up that morning knowing that five years later, a strange woman from California would be writing about him. His was an unexpected and unwanted notoriety.

I most likely wouldn't have noticed George Simmons in an airport crowd, and I doubt that our paths would have crossed in this life; but I'll never forget him now.

Further:George Simmons tribute at Legacy.com



Update:Looks like the host site of the 2996 Project, for which I signed on to remember George, is temporarily down, probably due to overextended bandwidth. Please keep trying. I'm sure it'll be up again soon. In the meantime, here is a quote I saved from the site which explains its mission.

"2,996 is a tribute to the victims of 9/11.

On September 11, 2006, 2,996 volunteer bloggers
will join together for a tribute to the victims of 9/11.
Each person will pay tribute to a single victim.

We will honor them by remembering their lives,
and not by remembering their murderers."

Update 2: Thanks to Michelle Malkin there is a mirror site listing the 2,996 Project memorials and the participating bloggers. Looks like the original site is completely down.

The Eyrie stays put for now

We thought we were moving this month to another nest a little lower down the cliff, but the eagles have landed and are not scrabbling for another perch in the rock right now. Looks like I'm taking over on-site management of the current roost. This being California, we've been inured to some of the other more costly habitats. This was brought home to me yesterday when Irish and I were out walking and saw a lovely little cottage for sale, reduced to a mere $439K and thought to myself, "Wow, such a deal!"

Shoot, we just painted the bedroom after ten years. The least we can do is look at it for awhile.

What's more self-indulgent...

...than a blog?

A blog, a personal Web site and a band MySpace page.

I just can't help myself.

With all the looniness going on, the only sane thing to do is grab my guitar and autoharp, then post about it online. It beats Prozac and is whole heaps better than whining about things over which I have no control. (Not that I'll stop, mind you.)

So check out our new, improved Spindle Sisters sites, now with the miracle cleaning power of mp3s!

Reactions from The Eyrie: World Trade Center

Okay, this isn't a real film review. There are no cast and crew details (that's why IMDb exists, after all) and I've never taken Film Appreciation at even the lowliest level. I just know what I like or don't, and occasionally I'll post that here, because I can.

I seldom see films nowadays for obvious reasons (cash flow, dearth of quality, annoying and rude theatergoers), and ones based on disasters are not usually on my short list when I do go. My husband really wanted to see Oliver Stone's World Trade Center, and I went along to please him more than anything else. Being claustrophobic, the last thing I really wanted to sit through was a depiction of two Port Authority police officers buried alive under the devilish wrath that was September 11, 2001. However, I owed Irish big after he sat through March of the Penguins and Pride and Prejudice, so off we went. I knew it would affect me emotionally and even physically regardless of the director's method. Indeed, there were a few scenes during which I had to look away, and some that made me visibly shake. Irish asked if I needed to leave the theater. I wanted to, but was riveted by the thought that if those people could live through something like that, I could honor them by at least staying to hear and see their story.

The movie is vivid without being ghastly in its realism. The entire cast does justice to the victims, living and dead, of that awful day. At no time do we see a Hooray-for-Hollywood-rootin'-tootin' sensationalized tabloid tale. Instead, bedraggled female characters, all but forgetting to take a breath, let alone fix their makeup, endure the most agonizing day of their lives; men look like they've just been belched from the very maws of death itself; kids lose their childish trust that Mom and Dad will fix everything and the world's an okay place to be. Besides being honest, World Trade Center is a family-honoring and (big surprise!) God-honoring work. (Imagine, people of faith being portrayed positively, even heroically in a mainstream movie!) Above all, I was mightily impressed that Stone managed to make good on the story and not inject his particular political slant. That alone is a huge measure of its success as a film and his as the director. (Did I really just say something complimentary about an Oliver Stone film?).

Nothing being perfect this side of Heaven, the movie has its flaws. Could anyone have accurately portrayed the hardship the rescuers endured, hour after hour digging down into what could very well have been their own tomb? The rescue effort itself had to be truncated, both for time's sake as well as to spare the audience from being itself buried in the tragedy. Some characters were inevitably combined or overlooked. Without giving spoilers, there were a few characters and occurrences in the story line that I chalked up as script devices to move the plot along or add drama. I was amazed to read interviews with the real-life Will Jimeno and John McLoughlin later and find out that these were, in truth, part of their actual experiences. Amazing.

Please don't take children--this is much too overwhelming for anyone younger than mature teenagers to sit through. The use of profanity is brief and quite appropriate. The audience filed quietly out at the end without the usual banter and giggling that accompany a Saturday night crowd. Don't shortchange yourself by sitting this one out. It was the day life changed profoundly for all of us.

Pluto follows St. Christopher

A day of ignominy for the celestial body formerly known as the Planet Pluto--just as the Catholic Church demoted saints like Nicholas and Christopher, so now Pluto has lost the status it held since 1930 and been downgraded to something called a "dwarf planet". No more will third-graders fashion mobiles of nine gradated sizes of crumpled paper. 8 is the new 9 in our trimmed-down solar system.

There, Pluto--that's what you get for horning in on Neptune's orbit. And think of the economic boon as millions of new science textbooks are rushed to print.

Of course I didn't write it, but...

Today’s history test:

1. In 1968 Bobby Kennedy was shot and killed by:
a. Superman
b. Jay Leno
c. Harry Potter
d. A Muslim male extremist between ages 17 and 40

2. At the 1972 Munich Olympics, athletes were massacred by:
a. Olga Corbett
b. Sitting Bull
c. Arnold Schwarzenegger
d. Muslim male extremists between ages 17 and 40

3. In 1979, the US embassy in Iran was taken over by:
a. Lost Norwegians
b. Elvis
c. A tour bus full of 80-year-old women
d. Muslim male extremists ages 17 to 40

4. In 1983, the US Marine barracks in Beirut was blown up (killing 241 marines) by:
a. A pizza delivery boy
b. Pee Wee Herman
c. Geraldo Rivera
d. Muslim male extremists ages 17 to 40

5. In 1985 the cruise ship Achille Lauro was hijacked and a 70 year old American passenger was murdered and thrown overboard in his wheelchair by:
a. The Smurfs
b. Davey Jones
c. The Little Mermaid
d. Muslim male extremists ages 17 to 40

6. In 1988, Pan Am Flight 103 was bombed over Lockerbie, Scotland by:
a. Scooby Doo
b. The Tooth Fairy
c. Mr. Bean
d. Muslim male extremists ages 17 to 40

7. The World Trade Center was bombed the first time in 1993 by:
a. Richard Simmons
b. Grandma Moses
c. Michael Jordan
d. Muslim male extremists 17 to 40

8. In 1998, the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania were bombed by:
a. Mr. Rogers
b. Hillary Clinton
c. World Wrestling Federation
d. Muslim male extremists 17 to 40

9. On 9/11/2001, four airliners were hijacked; two were used as missiles to destroy the World Trade Centers, one crashed into the US Pentagon and the other was crashed by the passengers, killing thousands of people: The hijackers were:
a. Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd and friends
b. The Supreme Court of Florida
c. Eight 75 year old grandmothers
d. Muslim male extremists 17 to 40

10. In 2002 reporter Daniel Pearl was kidnapped and murdered in cold blood by:
a. Bonnie and Clyde
b. Captain Kangaroo
c. Billy Graham
d. Muslim male extremists 17 to 40

The world's a mess; let's play the Carter Family

Let's see, the war is Iraq slogs on. Iran,too, rattles its scimitars. North Korea, apparently not enjoying being out of the limelight, defiantly tests warheads. Japan threatens retaliation. Israel and nearly everybody around them are exchanging bombs and kidnappings. No one knows how this will escalate. Is it the final fuse lighting?

Good thing I know Who is in control.

When all about is chaos and freakishness, I just want to grab my autoharp and play "Anchored in Love". It's my equivalent of that sappy 70's gush about planting a tree today, knowing the world will end tomorrow. Somehow, sending a song of faith out there is the only sane thing I know to do. It's my prayer, my manifesto.

"Anchored in Love Divine."

Off to the CBA!

Father's Day weekend has arrived, and you know what that means--bad ties and aftershave in golf ball-shaped bottles, right? Not for me. I celebrated the day a bit early yesterday with the DH, and now Michelle and I are off to the long-awaited CBA Father's Day Weekend Bluegrass Festival up in Grass Valley, California. And guess what I got just in time for my big weekend of jamming and singing? A nice head cold, that's what. Ah, life's ironies. At any rate, I'll attend workshops if I'm not too woozy, and at least get to hear some great music. If I'm not careful, I'll get another nasty sunburn to go with the one from the first Farmer's Market we played at three weeks ago. This time, however, I am prepared, anti-sun kit at the ready, complete with not one but two hats (to double my chances of looking silly). A good time will be had by all, or Mother Scothia will find out why.

Old-time in Oldtown

Michelle and I opened at the new downtown Salinas farmer's market in front of many enthusiastic listeners last weekend, June 3. It was a blast, although I learned two things: sunscreen is not optional; and press people, even very experienced ones, cannot be trusted to shoot your best side. (Yikes!) A nice Russian vendor gave us blinis, saying, "You sing. Now you have lunch!" Another, grateful we'd brought more business his way, gave us carrots and cilantro; the bakery lady "paid" us in bread and cookies. Folks stopped to smile, sing and dance along. Little kids clapped and twirled about. Lots of people took our publicity cards and quite a few signed up for our mailing list. Lunch, water, and parking were all provided by the venue; and we made pretty good tips. What could've been better, other than T-Bone Burnett emerging from the Steinbeck Center to offer us a contract?

6-6-what?

Just like 1984, the turn of the millennium, and other notable dates anticipated with anxiety, 666 came and went without too much to show for itself. Right, the Omen remake opened. Yawn. Once again, the silly false prophets are revealed. God will do what He will do when He is good and ready to do it.

Tonight we watched the 1932 Cecil B. De Mille classic, The Sign of the Cross. The first frame shows the Roman Imperial Eagle. I thought of that other great earthly kingdom that shares the same symbol. Will we share the same fate?

Thanks so much, guys (Memorial Day, '06)

Patrick's uncle Charlie Ahern was there at Iwo Jima. After getting shot during the first assault, he lay bleeding on the beach for some indetermined time before being rescued. Such courage, such sacrifice, such a debt as cannot be repaid...

Counting the gifts

One more May 25. One more Jeremy's birthday. It would have been his 29th.

How does one count the gift of a human being, of personified love? Jeremy's birth mother gave in such an extraordinary manner, and made us people we had never been before--parents.

So many images scan through my memory, like those face pictures all made of up a thousand smaller likenesses of the same person. There was no countenance like his. I can say without a trace of sappiness that he was and remains my inspiration and hero, as he was to many who knew him. To Jeremy, there was always something grand to reach for, and so what if life got in the way? That was his gift to his world.

Patrick gave Jeremy a rock on which to stand, an anchor on which to pin. He was the constant to the boy driven by restless dreams. Ever loving and patient, Patrick modeled who the Father was and never stopped believing that his beloved Jeremy would one day understand. That was his supreme gift to his son, and we saw it come to pass.

Tonight I started playing a simple melody on my autoharp--G, C, D, C, G; G, C, D, C, G; and so on. I began to cry without realizing that I was hugging my 'harp the way I did my son when he was an infant--only I had to release him from my embrace, from my protection, from my expectations, and out to fight his dragons. That was my gift to Jeremy. The little song I composed today is "Jeremy's Lullabye". I didn't want to finish the song, just as I didn't want to be finished with the baby and the boy and the man. But to everything there is a season; every song has its completion. I made an end to the song and played it for Patrick as a celebration of the incredible gift we were given.

Thank you, Stacey and Patrick. Happy Jeremy's birthday to us.

And thank You, God.

The Fly and I

Patrick often teases me that I can't just walk into a drugstore, mall, or supermarket like normal people do, without something downright Garrison Keillor-ish occuring. "So what happened this time?" is his usual greeting when I return from a shopping excursion. It could be a run-in with a drunken celebrity; finding an envelope with over 200 bucks in it that no one can claim, which cop that happened to be in the same 7-11 at the time tells me to keep; or a chance encounter with someone I knew twenty years previously--on the other side of the continent.

Yesterday it was a fly in the hamburger.

On the rare occasions that I buy beef, it's the expensive, no hormones or antibiotics or anything that would get reported on Oprah kind. It's a treat, and one I was in the mood for. Having already gone to the local produce stand and bought all my veggies like a good girl, I naturally thought of a nice, juicy hamburger to go with them. It's been a year or two since I had one, and high time to indulge. Off to the local supermarket to procure my ingredients. I had just pulled some nice whole wheat rolls off the bakery shelf (how virtuous am I?) and headed back to the meat counter. Yes! "One pound of ground Angus, that'll be a bag of gold and your bicuspids, Ma'am." But oh, I wanted that burger, so I grabbed it.

Now, couldn't I just put my humble little package in my humble little cart and be done with it? Apparently not. Instead, I stood gazing at all the little jewel-colored packages waiting to go home with someone. And then I saw it--three pounds of choice USDA ground round, proudly displayed with a living, buzzing housefly trapped inside the plastic wrap and crawling all over the meat.

Naturally there were no employees in the vicinity to alert to the problem. Furthermore, I couldn't just leave it there or pretend I hadn't seen it. I was forced to carry the disgusting little parcel to the front of the store and wait for a manager. When she arrived, she was as grossed out as I and pitched the whole thing right into a wastebasket. She looked at my other groceries. "Are you purchasing those items?", she asked. At my affirmative, she answered, "Oh no, you're not!" and bagged them for me. Then she marched me over to the till and gave me the price of the fly-infested hamburger as well, with apologies so profuse I began feeling a little sorry for her...after all, it was a fly, not a rattlesnake. At any rate, I got free groceries out of the deal plus more money than I had before entering the store. (Too bad I hadn't done my whole week's shopping right then--but one can't have everything.)

And no, seeing the critter didn't take away my hankering for hamburger. If anything, I was even more grateful for the succulent feast on the whole wheat rolls, knowing it was a freebie. Pass the spicy mustard, please.

Lightenin' up, Spindley style

Sometimes we have to stop and breathe in the midst of all the wackiness and weirdness going on, and just focus on something positive. Those who know me also know about The Spindle Sisters, the duo I put together with my dear friend, the awesomely talented Michelle. Here's our favorite pic and probably future CD cover, Lord willing.

Is it legal to have this much fun?

Take that, ACLU!

Yeah, take this.

Oh, I'm just so glad the American Civil Liberties Union is out there doing the hard stuff, defending me from high school kids reciting the Lord's Prayer at their graduation. Isn't that what the founders had in mind when they put their lives on the line for free speech?

Oh, I forgot. The First Amendment to the Constitution is really there to protect public libraries from having to put porn filters on their PCs.

DaVinci cowed?

Not I.

Who said I have to have read the book/paid good money and time in order to say I dislike The DaVinci Code? I couldn't get through more than ten pages of "Left Behind" either before I ran screaming from the room. (Okay, silently screaming.) I dropped out of a book club so I wouldn't have to read or hear about Opus Dei and the plot to keep women from exercising our goddess-given rights. The ubiquitous articles, reviews, blogposts, conversations wafting across restaurant aisles have left me no desire to fuel the bank accounts of Dan, Ron, and Tom any further. DVC is now an indicator of what I call Walgreen's Syndrome, in which something once trendy is absorbed so completely into the popular mindset that it ends up on a drugstore shelf next to Zen water fountains, Tae Bo videos and power bracelets.

I'm not boycotting, mind you--I'm "elsecotting". I've found something else to read, something else to view, something else to occupy my time. Now I've found something else to talk about, too. See ya.

Pondering Mother's Day

In 1977, during the reign of polyester separates and that ghastly stuff called Disco, and while Jimmy Carter was president, I became a mother. That year, and again in 1985, two incredible kids from two different continents were placed in my arms.

One of them now awaits us in another Land, his sojourn here accomplished. The other is just now moving into her life as an adult, making her own decisions. Some of those decisions cause me concern and even consternation; others make me so profoundly proud I almost can't breathe. Isn't that the way it always is with one's grown children? All the what-was-I-thinking mental smackdowns, in which I rehearse every time I failed them as a mother, mingle with the myriad happy memories in which I know I got it right. Somehow, through all this, two productive human beings emerged. My son left his indelible mark on hundreds who knew him, who were inspired by his courage in facing a life of pain and difficulty with indefatigable faith and zest for life. My daughter will find her way as well. Most importantly, the One who loves her beyond what any of us could, will find her.

This Mother's Day I miss terribly the laughter of the man who always prefaced his call from back East with an apology for not having remembered to send a card in time. I hold him in my memory, the infant already astute enough at three weeks to insist on being carried so he could face the world; the boy delightedly chasing bats through a Brazilian cave, or pulling down the top of a two-piece kitchen cupboard because he couldn't wait for me to get the peanut butter out for him; the demanding, churlish teenager chomping at the parental bit holding him back from the adventures he longed for, then patiently enduring the traumas of multiple surgeries and dialysis after being hit by a train attempting one of those very adventures. I remember driving away from the 18 year-old who wanted to blaze his own trail rather than accompany us on our move to California; and the young man who became more than a son--who became one of my closest friends as well.

I recall, too, the years of longing for the little girl who would complete our family. Jeremy wanted a sister. Patrick and I both wanted a daughter. The doll-sized baby with the starlike black eyes lassoed our hearts the instant we looked into them. How could we not have gone through all the obstacles facing us to make her part of us? How there have been the last 20 years without her? Perhaps someday she'll read this and realize how truly loved she is and always has been.

In the meantime, the cards will be tucked away in a memento folder. The flowers will droop and go the way of all things. The gifts and dinner out will become part of the fabric of happy recollections. But Happy Mother's Day to me, for I am blessed beyond measure.

What would Jesus boycott?

It's fairly quiet here in Lettuceland, on this day devoted to shutting down the country's economy to show the flexed muscle of undocumented workers. The usual recess yells waft over from the charter school across the street. Underneath my lofty perch, a yellow Stanley Steemer van is pumping vacuum power to clean the apartment across the parking lot. The carpet cleaners are obviously Hispanic and obviously not taking the day off. Traffic seems normal; the difference is that the sirens which screech intermittently every other day are conspiculously absent. I've not noticed a swell of students from the high school two blocks away jubilantly cutting class and yelling "Mex-i-co! Mex-i-co!" as they did several weeks ago, but the day is still young. Haven't been down yet to see if the Mexican restaurant next door opened for the day. If it's closed, I might leave a note saying I'll never eat there again. (Then again, I haven't eaten there in five years because they have incredibly lousy service and I had Montezuma's Revenge for dessert last time.)

In our city, the demonstrations will take place in the almost-exclusively Hispanic east side. Talk about serenading the choir! That'll really get our attention! Since I'm miles from there, I won't be hearing a thing. Another case of the people agreeing with you already being there.

I am pondering what the Christian attitude and response to all this should be. So far I've not fully developed a personal theology on the balance between loving one's neighbor as oneself, and rendering unto Caeser the things that are Caeser's. The same Bible which admonishes the Israelites to be kind to the aliens among them, also called him who would enter the sheepfold another way aside from the gate a thief and robber. We must have law and secure borders. We also must be humane and kind. Mercy and truth must meet together; righteousness and justice must kiss each other.

Somehow.

What Americans won't do

According to the top-ranked man in the United States, there are jobs Americans just won't deign to. Apparently, such things as landscaping, construction, agriculture, hotel services, office administration, housecleaning, plumbing, child care, retail sales, and the like are suddenly considered beneath our dignity. We hear that only the 12-20 million or so persons in this country illegally, who fill up the bulk of said job vacancies, are willing to do the Hard Stuff. That established, so we are told, we must move to give privileged status to undocumented workers in appreciation of their relieving us of such servile, mundane tasks.

To think or do otherwise is to be ungrateful, uncompassionate, racist--and who wants that stigma?

I live in Salinas, California. Probably no other city in the USA has a higher concentration of residents lacking documentation. Local services strain under the load of caring for all these needy non-citizens. I will not say that many of them don't work hard. Of course they do. I understand, too, that there are those desperately seeking something better for themselves and their children than the unbearably corrupt, hopelessly dirty pits of despair they left behind in Mexico and other places.

However, there are many jobs here for which I, a native-born, intelligent, willing American would be disqualified for one reason only: I am not fluent in Spanish. Even fast food joints favor Spanish speakers. Often, employers prefer people whose ability to communicate in the supposed language of the country in which they reside is sketchy at best; while otherwise willing applicants, as well or better qualified in other areas, are passed over because they don't speak Spanish. This is required not only get employment, but keep it. A couple of summers ago, I took an intensive Spanish introduction class just for my own enrichment. I was amazed at how many participants were in the program, until I was informed by one glum fellow student that he, like most of them, were teachers there under coercion from the school district. How many times is this story repeated in California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and other states?

What Americans won't do, seemingly, is the difficult task of maintaining our borders, enforcing our laws, requiring the learning of our language, and holding our elected officials to their promises of defending our Constitution.

Politicians are obviously less concerned with the likes of the average American than the delicious Twofer offered by the current move to make mass illegals into mass quasi-citizens with a swoop of the Presidential hand: the prospect of a permanent servant underclass is too strong to pass up for the greedy on the right side of the aisle, the succulent plum of millions of easily manipulated new voters too enticing for the Left.

Meanwhile, Americans will do whatever needs done. We just need to stop being told that because we don't speak a different language, or want more than $3.75 an hour, we can't do them.

Not buying it

The White House wants a sweeping "we're not calling it amnesty" program to settle the invas-uh, immigration problem. The usual roundup of shrill leftists Democrats wants the same. Strange bedfellows, these.

Could it be they each have their own agenda? Could it be they're all being less than honest about their true motives? Nah.

Republicans could never be selfish and avaricious enough to want all the dirt cheap labor they can get to keep their money mills churning, now could they? After all, we need a new underclass in this country to do "all the hard jobs Americans won't do" (read: "...all the stuff we don't want to pay Americans a decent wage to do, and by the way it sure is nice to not worry about that Social Security thing cutting into one's portfolio".)

And Democrats could never be supremely power-hungry enough to wax all Emma Lazarus merely to have one more easily manipulated populace at their beck and call. Oh me oh my, no. They're all in it because they care so much. It's all about virtue, compassion, motherpie and applehood. Getting their butts whooped in national elections has nothing whatsoever to do with it. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

And I, my friends, am taking flight from The Eyrie to take up residence at the royal palace in Monte Carlo--once my Powerball ship comes in, I win the Pulitzer Prize for blogging, and I wake up weighing 125 lbs.

I heart breathing

Okay, today at 1:15 PDT I have an appointment with my MD to begin finding out why I can no longer walk one flight of stairs up to The Eyrie, or even a straight block, without getting winded and gasping for breath. This, on top of the interesting eye thingies, worries the doctor--and no one wants their doctor worried. I asked him what could be causing all this. His answer? "Lots of things, and none of them are good." Gulp.

Not that I'm overcome with fear. If Heaven is before me, and I know it is one day, hey--at least I never ever have to wear pantyhose again! Or have somebody rush their car through the crosswalk while I'm in it! Or be a captive audience to a loud, boring cell phone conversation at the table next to ours in a restaurant! Or read horrible things in the news which vex my soul!

It isn't the thought of leaving which bugs me. It's all the stuff leading up to the leaving.

Sure puts a new perspective on a lot of things. Or should I say, brings into focus the one I should have had all along.

HE IS RISEN (shortest blog entry ever)

No other reason for Christianity to exist.

Video Gem of the month

In a world way past semblance of control, most of the time all I want is a nice, comfy, dry cave to in which to hide (one with a hot spot would be nice.) Occasionally I take a break from the general mayhem without and retreat into mindless levity. This is one such time.

Join me, if you will, and partake of my April pick for Video Gem of the Month--and don't forget, it's simarils this time around.

Hobbit Folk Rock Watch it now on StupidVideos!

Eye of the storm

Still don't know what's causing the lightning flashes and strange floaters. Doc couldn't see any obvious retinal tears or displacement, which is encouraging. Sighs of relief, however, are premature, since that means we still don't know just what it is. Theories dangle before me, but nothing that explains everything. So now I'm in monitoring status, meaning I have to keep track of the symptoms and report back to the optometrist as soon as something changes. If it doesn't aright itself soon, I will be referred to a specialist.

Thanks for the prayers.

Eye spy

Back to my world.

Nothing gets your attention quite like a worried-sounding doctor saying, "Get in here tomorrow." Yikes!

A day of lightning-like flashes along the periphery of my right eye, along with unfamiliar floaters, prompted that reaction from my optometrist. When I gave my recent history--the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad flu that held me prisoner for two weeks last month--he was doubly concerned that violent coughing may have actually caused damage to my retina. His examination did not produce anything to explain those phenomena--which is both good news, because it means no nasty retinal tears were obvious; and not so good, because we still don't know why the flashes and floaters are occurring. I'm at the self-monitoring stage now, wherein I have to keep a log for some days of how the symptoms are progressing/subsiding/persisting.

(And wow! There goes that new amoeba-shaped floater again!)

Someone who finally learned that the many vital uses for eyes does not include two nights a week of American Idol just does not need this.

Where is Abdul Rahman?

As of writing, no one who knows is telling.

Worst case, my dire predictions came to pass.

Best case, some kind country offered asylum. Not the US, though. Nuh-uh. Wouldn't be prudent to tick off those "allies", now would it?

Abdul Rahman, martyr-to-be

The goings-on in my little life seem quite shallow right now.

The story of the Afghani Christian being tried for the "unspeakable crime" of converting from Islam is taking a new turn. It appears that political pressure from the West, combined with bad publicity, is having an effect on the outcome of this story.

But don't get all warm and fuzzy just yet.

I predict that the Afghani court will find Rahman unfit to stand trial on mental grounds, then release him. That clears away the fallout of responsibility from the tyrant captors and political appeasers, and looks to be a solution everyone can live with. Everyone, that is, except Abdul Rahman.

Go back and read Michelle Malkin's excellent updated commentary. Better yet, read the full report from the Chicago Tribune to get a perspective on this case. Rahman will not be released to safety. He will most likely find a crazed mob awaiting him, ready to stone and beat him to death before ripping his remains apart.

After that, look for government spokesmen of Afghanistan to throw up their hands and say, "Well, we tried." Thus they get to have their cake and eat it too, with chocolate buttercream frosting--the foreign aid can continue to flow and they need fear no recurring effects from their "allies". The mullahs can appease their infuriated followers with a soothing, "Allah had justice; the infidel has met his fate." The White House and State Department will protest that they did their best, how much more were they expected to intervene in the affairs of a sovereign state? The rest of the planet will tut-tut for a few days until the Next Big Story hits.

After that, watch for a general bloodbath to ensue, as emboldened and ever-more-desperate Islamicists across the world rise up to follow suit. These will receive lesser attention from the media, as journalists shrug them off with, "Well, what did they expect? Didn't they see what happened in Afghanistan?"

Fighting for his life--and ours

Afghani citizen Abdul Rahman is on trial for his life right now. He is being held in a cell where he is neither allowed any visitors, nor has an attorney to represent his case. Note the prison official saying that they will “cut him into little pieces”. The judge in the so-called trial already has stated that Rahman deserves death--check out the "evidence"--and seems more than happy to oblige.

Is Abdul Rahman a child molester? Did he attack and burn mosques? Did he gun down old ladies in the open air market, or plant bombs at the Kabul airport? Perhaps he passed military secrets to the CIA, or consorted with maniacal activists to bring down the recently-installed government.

None of these. Abdul Rahman's seemingly unforgivable crime is that he has embraced Christianity and rejected Islam. His family has disowned and repudiated him. He is considered a mental and moral degenerate, a dangerous criminal traitor of the worst order--a "microbe", as the prosecutor in the case puts it--something to be exterminated and eradicated from the face of the planet.

One would surmise that President Bush, an avowed Christian, would jump to Abdul Rahman's defense. After all, Americans are paying dearly--both in taxes and irreplaceable lives--for two wars which were supposed to bring about a safer world and democracy in the Middle East. However, the at the White House press conference this morning, not one word was forthcoming from either the president or any member of the media about this disturbing situation.

The silence from the White House and State Department is not only deafening, it is damning. If Abdul Rahman is executed for his faith, we will have helped bring about the beginning of a worldwide bloodbath against Christians and other "infidels". Of course, Christians are being martyred all over the world every day, so what makes this a watershed case? Simply because the United States has invested so much to bring about a "democracy" which would deprive this man and others like him of the most basic of human rights--life and conscience. And guess what? Islamicists aren't even trying to hide their intentions anymore.


Why won't Afghanistan just deport Abdul Rahman? Why must Islam demand his death?

Read through this and then see if you have any questions remaining.

I just called both the White House and the State Department to express my outrage about the Rahman case, and am following up with hard copy letters and email to State and the Embassy of Afghanistan. I urge you to do the same.


White House comment line: 202-456-1111


U.S. Department of State
2201 C Street NW
Washington, DC 20520
202-647-4000

Ambassador Said T. Jawad
Embassy of Afghanistan
2341 Wyoming Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20008
info@embassyofafghanistan.org

To me, to me

Last night I dreamed I discovered a grandson I didn't know I had. His name was Christian. I saw him, cuddled him, was allowed by his other grandmother, who was raising him, to take him home for a while. I was telling him stories about his father, who died three years ago last Thursday.

Of course it was all a dream. There is no Christian, no living legacy of my son; but every day I see Jeremy and remember how he lived with such passion and vision. And every day I'm closer to being where he is, although it's obvious it's taking me a lot longer to get ready.

So happy birthday to me. This year, I'm not spending it as I did in 2003, on my way to bury my child. There are mundane tasks to accomplish, places to go, things to do. Not much will be birthday-ish, but that's fine with me.

I miss my son.

Circus Foximus

During the decline of the American Empire, in the year 2006, we have no need for gladiators, hungry lions, maidens tied to poles. We have Simon Cowell and Co., along with thousands of pathetic beings whose gag-awful singing will, sadly, live long after them. Such a spectacle it is.

I confess with all shamefacedness to watching the first three seasons of American Idol. After that, we pulled the plug on cable and even broadcast TV. Now I wonder--what in the name of all righteousness was I thinking?! Was my life really that devoid of meaning? Did I truly give over my irreplacable two nights a week to care about such vapidity? Did I honestly call fourteen times to vote for Fantasia?

My head is in my hands.

AI was my novacaine, existence was my toothache. Over a year later, the pain has returned--but so has clarity, intellectual pursuit, spiritual pondering, creativity.

I gave up my seat in the Colosseum and gained back the one Pearl of Great Price--my life.