From the Eyrie

Dearest PinkBaby

2009-12-16T14:44:00.000-08:00

You know who you are.

I've carried you in my deepest heart since since way before you were born. Riding on a bus full of strangers in Brazil, I cried my soul out to God and begged Him to send you.

Then He did, so miraculously.

All I ever wanted you to know is how much you are beloved, how beyond all worldly price you are, how I still long for and pray for the best for you every day and with every heartbeat of my life here. There was never a time when you weren't our darling.

And that's only a fraction of how much the One Who made you and gave you to us treasures you.

I will never stop loving, never stop hoping, never stop believing. Not today, and not forever.

So not in control

2009-12-15T20:38:00.001-08:00

I know you'll forgive me if the bulk of this post is a c&p of one I wrote last night to my Wired4Life sisters. Two-fingered hunt 'n' peck gets tedious.
***************************************
Apparently, I can't do anything in a small way. A friend took me to my GP today
because of painful swelling in the left arm which developed Sunday. Doc sends me
for ultrasound to confirm suspicion of a clot. Young lady at the front desk says
my appointment is for tomorrow, not today. I say I thought Doc said today, right
away; she answers No, earliest we can get you in is tomorrow, you're done for
today, goodbye. Friend brings me home and sees me safely up (we're on the 3rd
floor w/ no elevator.)

Ten minutes after I dismiss my friend, Ms. Not-Today calls sounding almost
frantic. Whoops. Misread Doc's orders, get to imaging center right away. Now! I
call my friend back, who just got home, and ask him to turn around and come back
for me. He does. We're headed back down the stairs--the ones I have negotiated
for 14 years carrying groceries, laundry, kids, etc. with nary an incident--and
on the second floor landing I abruptly step out into space, landing full weight
on my right side before either of us knows what happened! My friend was so
freaked out he reached to grab me by my left arm--double ouchie ooo ooo!!--while
I'm yelling "Don't touch that arm!!"

We both thought I'd broken at least my ankle. My friend, who's also a physician,
examined me and found, thankfully and miraculously, that was not the case. Took
a couple of minutes before I could get up.

Of course I was deathly afraid I'd jarred my wires loose. God being merciful, I
didn't, but my ankle hurt. I got to my appointment holding
onto my physician friend's arm for dear life, shaking all the way.

Rest of the story: superficial phlebitis from the IV at the hospital last week.
Ankle swollen like mad by the time I got home. Both my GP and cardio doc said
I'll be fine, just sore for a few days where I fell and for a few weeks at the
affected vein site. So now I have matching swellings on both sides...wired *and*
symmetrical, all in 8 days.

My poor husband about had a cow when he heard about my adventures (he works in a
gov't contract office and can't be reached easily by phone.) But hey, I lived to
tell the tale, didn't I?

And now it's official: the sling stays on till my arm heals.

Now what was YOUR day like? :-)
*************************************

Nope. I'm definitely not in control...but I know the One Who is.

Needing and accepting are two different things

2009-12-14T18:08:00.000-08:00

When crisis comes, most of us are blessed with at least one or two people, friends and family, who want to help any way they can. In my case, I am extraordinarily and abundantly provided for. Why, then, is it so difficult to sit still? I just had a life-saving surgical intervention, and need help with housework. Why am I compelled to get up and dust before my friend comes to dust? She wants to do my laundry; I feel it necessary to lean over the hamper and sort out the clothes, despite how that tires me. Meals arrive from loving hands; I allow the absurd pigeons of misplaced guilt to flock around my head as I concentrate on all the times I was not there for someone else--even when I didn't know they needed it--while dismissing all the times I was.

What is it about me?

Simply put, I'm not a very good receiver of the charitable love of others. And I'm willing to bet you're probably not, either. We have to humble ourselves to be in the position of receiving.

Humility: it's what's for dinner, served up in a nice, golden, flaky crust. And it's the most nourishing meal ever.

Gingerbread Boys and the Bradychardia That Stole Christmas

2009-12-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

The hardest thing right now is not seeing the little boys. It's Christmas, and I want quality grandbaby time! However, frisking around with or even picking up Tigger and Pooh is definitely off the plate for now. It's so cool to talk to Tig by phone and hear him describe his pretty Christmas tree and say "Yuh you, Nonna!" with little PoohBoy banging pot lids in the background. They wouldn't understand why Nonna Tickle Monster can't chase after them and make them laugh till their eyes bug out, or swing them by their ankles onto the bed, or lift them up to touch the chandelier, or put them up over her left shoulder and soothe them into a nap the way she often did before.

I am sooooooo glad we went to the Holiday Parade of Lights the week before all this happened! That's a special memory I'll always cherish of Christmas '09, even though it might well be the only one with them. God willing, there will be plenty of gingerbread, glitter, and giggling this time next year.

The girl in the pink hat is my daughter, the Gingerbread Mommy.

The smiling lady holding Tigger is the boys' other grandmother. Can't have too much love!

Blessed are the pacemakers

2009-12-12T16:13:00.000-08:00

The dressing came off Friday and for the first time I could assess the damage...hmm, not bad, all things considered. Won't be wearing anything strapless in public for quite a while, but then, I never did. Badge of honor, badge of life.

Here's my new BFF, literally closer than a heartbeat!

The manufacturer calls it Adapta. I call it Thumper (thanks, BBB!)

Wired

2009-12-11T11:30:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my new world.

December 7, 2009...a day that will live in memory for the Shannons. That's when I went to the ER and ended up with a pacemaker, after coming really, really close to leaving for good.

I really will start blogging again. There's a whole new life to be thankful for, and it does matter.

Ironically, Memorial Day

2009-05-26T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-12T22:35:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-26T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

So there!

He sees you when you're sleeping

2009-04-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

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

Love o' Scotland, love o' Earth

2009-04-21T00:46:00.000-07:00

I'm quite proud to have Scots ancestry via my mother's family, the Bells, and have several times represented Clan Bell at various Highland Games and related activities. In honor of Earth Day, here is a lovely poem I found on Leslie's blog. It speaks to those things most important to the traditional Scot: God, family, societal order, true beauty. (Okay, it doesn't mention Scotch whisky or caber tossing, but you get the point.)

If there is righteousness in the heart,

there will be beauty in the character.

If there is beauty in the character,

there will be harmony in the home.

If there is harmony in the home,

there will be order in the nation.

If there is order in the nation,

there will be peace in the world.

So let it be.

~Old Scottish Blessing

I'm really inspired by that. It's really a prayer, isn't it? "So let it be"...in other words, Amen.

Caving

2009-04-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

Blame it on the 99-degree weather (insane for here in April) and say my brain was sun-smacked. Works for me. There is a direct correlation between the thermometer shoving past 85 degrees, and my inability to function at a level much higher than that of a three-toed sloth after a sugar crash.

Or say that I was just lazy and allowed myself to be manipulated.

What is it about convenience stores that turns me, the normally proud pennystretcher, into this alternate personality who thinks it's fine to fork over 2 bucks for a 12-oz. Diet Something? I mean, I was only a half block from home, and cold water costs nothing. That buck-seventy-five could have gone into the babies' Christmas coin jar, or even scored a couple of pieces of cool scrapbooking paper. But no. I was definitely lusting for a cold, fizzy beverage and the store was just...there...so conveniently.

Heading to the cooler where my poison of choice is kept, I noticed another bottle that looked familiar-but-different, and it caught my attention. A new flavor, another variant of one I've enjoyed many, many times--and what's this? The label trumpeting "Amazingly Smooth!" (Or was it "Amazing Smoothness!" I forget...but it's one of those two.)

I don't know about you, but I don't normally associate the word "smooth" with soda pop. After-shower powder, maybe...400-count Egyptian cotton sheets, yes...Dove dark chocolate, certainly. But a carbonated drink...?

And behold! Not only was it smooth--but amazingly so! They promised!

For the briefest of moments I pictured bathing in the stuff, like Cleopatra in her asses' milk. This set off the kind of giggle that one rarely releases in public, particularly when wedged in between a clackety-loud corner store cooler and unopened cases of Seagram's and Cup o' Noodles. Then the knee-jerk reaction so obviously sought by the ad exec who first pitched the idea kicked in. I wondered how a smooth ice-cold one of these would taste and how it would be smooth going down my throat.

I had to find out.

Back in the days of Tyrannosaurus Rex and before color TV--the 50s and early 60s, when I was a child--cigarette commercials were aired frequently. I remember hearing how one's throat could be relieved by a certain brand's "smooth" properties. It was pre-Surgeon General's Report, and every adult I knew smoked except my Methodist grandma and my Sunday School teacher. Didn't They tell us that smoking was a normal adult activity, and could even help a sore throat feel better? All totally absurd now, of course, but what did we know?

And now, all these decades later, I am faced with an icy-cold but strange bottle screaming "I Am Amazingly Smooth!I'll be good to you, you'll feel so much better! Buy me! Drink me! Now!"

You know the rest. I plunked my money down and got my amazing cold drink. Because nothing tastes as good to me as extra-chilled soda on a hot day, I really did enjoy it. There was extra cherry flavor and no sugar, so how could I go wrong? It was even pretty good...pretty darn good!

But I'd been had. Smooth? SMOOTH? Where in Jumping Jack Flash was the smooth?

Somewhere a little New York ad agency weasel is laughing his/her fool head off at us yokels out here who bought into their campaign; which is, in the great tradition of advertising, most likely nothing more than a big hoax anyway. "Gee, I wonder if anybody's amazed yet...'I'm amazed! I'm amazing! Look upon me, and be awed by my great smoothness!' BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaha!"

And I fell for it. I knew it was coming, and I caved anyway--with nothing in the least amazing or smooth to show for it

So now there's nothing left but to pitch the mocking empty bottle in the recycle bin, laugh about how silly I can be sometimes, and wonder...will I still respect myself in the morning?

Disguised

2009-04-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

I've never been one of those rather creepy religious people who go around claiming that God speaks to them all the time. I figure if the Almighty, the Creator of the Universe really did decide to talk to me, I'd be too dumbstruck to casually blat 'n' chat about it. He knows that, too, so very mercifully doesn't send me voices, inner or otherwise. Once in a great while, though, something will come into my mind that I think of as a little text message from Heaven. It's never wordy and is not accompanied by flowery language and technicolor 3-D angelic visions. It's just a little impression dropped down deep that stays with me.

Many years ago I received one of these. I had just been through a very painful experience with some Christian people who had clearly wronged me, but adamantly refused to admit it, let alone ask forgiveness. In fact, they stubbornly insisted that they were right. Soothing my wounds, I retreated and pondered how these things could be. Truth is, I was having quite the little pity party, complete with funny hats, balloons, and noisemakers.

Then the "text message" came. (Okay, it was way before texting; I called it a telegram in those days--underscoring my age.) Here's what I "read": "Would you still be willing to be a blessing to people, even if they don't recognize it?"

That shut the party down.

I really had to think about it. Would I be? It's one thing to be the person whom everyone loves and appreciates as a gift in their lives. The sunshine! The sweetness! It's quite another to be the undercover blessing bearer. It means the recipient of the blessing doesn't always see it as such until much later, and after pain is involved--if indeed they ever do.

I'm not talking here about all the times I totally blunder, elephant-like but all too humanly, and say or do something stupid for which I need forgiveness--and there have been plenty of those. I mean the occasions when I had to do something that was most unpleasant at the time, but was an instrument of growth or help for someone else. It's always humiliating, and it always hurts. But God isn't so interested in our happiness as He is in our holiness, and He's working in these situations as much for my benefit as for anyone else's.

A few times over the years I've had the joy of the person contacting me later to thank me. These have been rare, but are such treasures! And I myself have been the "recipient" at times, too--the one who finally sees that what I thought was meant to hurt me was sent to lift me above myself. That gem is no less valuable.

Sometimes I was that blessing without ever knowing it--as others have been for me.

Today I am grateful...I am loved, I am truly blessed. I am a blessing, and so are you--whether or not we see it right now. Together and with large doses of grace and mercy, we'll get through this thing called life.

Susan the Magnificent

2009-04-17T11:00:00.001-07:00

Susan Boyle is Queen of the Week. Shoot, she's Queen of whenever and wherever and whatever she wants from now on. I think she's absolutely phenomenal. Her performance touched me profoundly, in a way that many technically flawless professional singers I've heard never have.

YouTube won't let me embed the video. Just in case you're one of the 5 people who haven't seen it yet, here is Miss Boyle flattening the pompous judges and hooting audience at the Britain's Got Talent audition last weekend.

And she won't let "Them" make her over, either! I love this lady!

Sometimes good things really do happen to good people. If Susan never sings another note, she has achieved her dream. She's also given millions of people their possibilities back.

Things that really matter

2009-04-13T23:42:00.001-07:00

A young lady we know is comatose and in critical condition after wrecking a car she had no business driving in the first place. It's bringing back a lot of the horror we went through when our own child was in a similar situation many years ago. This girl will have a long, difficult recovery...if indeed she recovers. She may have severed her spinal cord. Unbelievable. Just saw her at our grandson's birthday party, vibrant, lively, smiling. Now she lies wired together in an ICU up in San Jose with her life in the most fragile balance. Her family are completely freaked out. Their suffering is only beginning, as Irish and I know well.

If you pray, please remember the young woman I'm calling Dinah. The Creator of all knows her and exactly what she needs.

UPDATE: Praise God, it appears her spinal cord is intact. Her hip is crushed, though, and she is still severely swollen all over her body. Still not awake yet.

Rotten Monday to me, rotten Monday to me...

2009-04-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

Before the Glory: A Good Friday poem

2009-04-10T11:39:00.000-07:00

Before the Glory is revealed
There is suffering and scourging
Spitting and cursing and untold shame
Bloody betrayal and no companions who remain
Not overcome by presumption of misspent faith
And terror of complicity.

Before the Glory can be seen
Before lilies can burst open, rejoicing
And transformed men forget their own lives
And disconsolate women see past their own pain--
One being no less miraculous than the other--
Life must turn its face away
And disinherit all hope.

A grave-lust must be satisfied
The seed fallen in darkness and forgotten
And shadows, prematurely triumphant,
Swallow Light alive
And crow in celebration
At the presumed victory.

Before the Glory sunrise brings,
First comes the stone
Of Reckoning.

© 2009 Sharon L. Shannon All rights reserved

What I give is what I get is what I give is what I get

2009-04-08T22:55:00.000-07:00

Goodreads mini-review : The Shack

2009-04-08T21:59:00.000-07:00

The Shack by William P. Young

My thoughts:

Rating: **** 4 of 5 stars
Many of my fellow evangelical Christians who pan this book because it does not satisfy their strict orthodoxy are the same folks who object to The Chronicles of Narnia since it contains fauns, centaurs, and other fantasy and extra-Biblical characters. This is an allegorical work of fiction, not a theological treatise; imagination highly recommended for maximum benefit.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

2009-03-28T23:39:00.000-07:00

That, my friends, is the sound of decompression.

All week long I've paid the price for foolishly thinking that throwing together a nice scrapbook/album for a major event the day before it was due was somehow a good idea. The book actually turned out quite nicely. Of course, it would have been ever so much more enjoyable had I actually put the time into it an hour or two at a jag, instead of pulling a 14-hour blitz! (Didn't get a picture of it. Maybe M will let me borrow it back later for that, but right now she has much bigger fishies to fry--like getting married next week!) Ever since last Saturday when the Shower of the Century took place, I've been recovering from my self-induced burnout by being really under the weather and, if possible, even less productive than usual (read: slower and lazier.) It's all culminated this weekend in the worst allergy attack I've ever experienced...my poor immune system, what have I done to you?

All right now--this is the last time I castigate myself for it. Movin' on.

Always does it for me!

2009-03-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

Artsy inspiration + necessity + these guys =

Now please don't interrupt me, world, till I get this project done. Michelle's shower is tomorrow!

"She meant to..."

2009-03-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

Please put that on my tombstone.

I don't know why I always do this to myself. I say I'm going to take control next time and give myself plenty of precious time to complete something and have it done well. But then along comes a phone call/Facebook message/email/tenant problem/irresistibly adorable grandbaby/flash of inspiration/ drowsiness/ chocolate craving/ interesting Web site/sparrow outside the window and that's it.

And now I'm up against another deadline for something major, and everything is going wrong.

I guess that means, in Sharon World, everything is as it should be.

In other news: I had a delightful birthday yesterday, thanks to my loving friends and family. The calls, cards, flowers, cake (!) and little notes mean a lot to me. I know I don't deserve you.

(I especially don't deserve a certain Bratabreadasaurus Regina--and I'll leave her to ponder the many layers of meaning in that statement.)

'tis Himself we honor today!

2009-03-17T13:34:00.000-07:00

This has nothing to do with the real Padraig (Patrick) who, for some reason, folks think should be memorialized with goofy hats, drunkenness, and bad singing. However, it does have cute bears and Riverdancing--so what's not to love?

Mother, Interrupted

2009-03-16T11:57:00.000-07:00

Six years ago today--already enough years in the cycle to have gone around the week--our beloved son Jeremy, trying to save his dog, accidentally slid off a cliff and into Eternity.

Time does not heal. Sometimes it cruelly slices into itself, demanding the present return to the past and feel the void of the future. Sometimes it mocks the living, either fading or exaggerating memories. Always and ever it represents the chasm between those who left and those who remain: all that was and cannot be revisited; and all that was not and can never be experienced.

Ultimately, though, time cannot fully steal. The love that was known remains unextinguished. The fullness of the unique life that was his can never be denied.

I celebrate Jeremy's life every day of my own. On this day, I recall that he went for a hike with his close friends because an irresistible day of splendor in early Spring called him out of his bed and to his final destiny. I marvel that he, who lived with suffering and death so close at hand after having his kidneys destroyed by the horrible train incident when he was 14, stepped out of time and into his Father's arms so quickly and painlessly. Irish and I hold each other close, even closer today and weep again...not only for our loss, but also from from the joy of the unshakable confidence that unites our spirits with his even across time and dimension: "I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE."

Sick

2009-03-06T12:37:00.001-08:00

Crying Fowl-er

2009-03-03T19:41:00.000-08:00

We haven't had cable in years. The upcoming digital conversion doesn't affect us whatsoever, as we only turn the thing on for movie nights. I'm a bit behind in TV pop culture, though I do occasionally watch a few favorite shows online. The last few weeks, I've heard murmurs about The Most Hated Man on Television, AKA The World's Worst Father. Although I seriously doubt his candidacy for the latter, the former moniker has some justification. The Web is wild with the story, as even a TV hermit like me has heard about it.

Sadly, some of the people in those exotic environs known the San Francisco Bay Area reside in a self-contained, delusional bubble of egotism. Barely regarding the rest of the USA as being of the same species--let alone their fellow citizens--they become pitiable legends in their own minds. Their unchecked narcissism results in some of the most boorish behavior ever publicly displayed--as in the case of Mr. Fowler.

Thanks to ABC and a program I have never watched, what has been heretofore remained mostly secreted behind a glitzy but tattered curtain of "limousine liberal" hypocrisy has been exposed far more adroitly than any blustering talk radio personality could have imagined. And thanks to the Internet, the story will never die.

What two adults have done to lower themselves as human beings, all the while turning self-congratulatory mental cartwheels for having achieved such "superior" status, is in the end their own choices. They themselves are doomed to live with themselves; no one else has to. However, what they have done and are doing to their children is comparable to a crack addict pimping their offspring for the next fix.

Unless Steven Fowler grows a conscience, quite a few therapists will be kept employed when the his daughter and son come of age.

Big bang, little bong

2009-02-27T12:05:00.000-08:00

From the Eyrie I can hear, as well as see, a lot happening in our lovely California downtown. Usually the soundtrack is the mundane mix of any city: busy traffic; whining ambulances; bits of laughter and conversation from the parking lot next door; children squealing on the school playground across the street; bass thumps from a passing sound system on wheels. Occasionally the sound of grinding brakes is added, followed by screeching and thudding as two cars try to occupy the same space at the same moment and find their atoms locked. Most often these minor fender benders leave not much more than scratched paint and several annoyed people in their wake. Today, however, the sound didn't drift up lazily--it shattered the normal Friday morning peace with an urgency that shook the entire neighborhood. Almost immediately the sirens began, and I knew this was no casual side scrape.

I was compelled to the window and saw it all happening on the corner just one block over. An ugly dread dropped on me as I stepped into my New Balances and grabbed my house keys. Not normally a gawker, and certainly not wishing to be in the way of rescue personnel, I decided to walk just halfway up the block. The silence of the gathered crowd said everything necessary to grasp the situation. I walked on despite my original intentions and in a moment saw the small SUV that had flipped completely over and squashed roof first into the pavement. In fact, I didn't recognize at first what kind of vehicle it was. Ground up windshield particles lay around like a can of glitter someone had upended. I expected to see blood, and a good deal of it, judging by the disastrous shape of the wreckage. Amazingly, the driver was already out of the destroyed vehicle and being strapped onto a gurney. An eyewitness told me that the young woman had managed to crawl out through what appeared to be a few inches' space between metal and concrete. Looking at her, I could tell how disoriented she was. Her chest and head appeared to be swelling slightly as her eyes, obviously not focusing properly, made her appear as confused as she surely must have been. Internal injuries, no doubt, I thought.

I then noticed a second SUV, a Lexus, pulled off to the side of the street, part of its front fender piled around on the ground. The Lexus' driver, another young woman, stood on the sidewalk calling someone. Police, firefighters, and EMTs were as numerous as the onlookers, each one silently intent on his job. An acquaintance of mine, a Christian man who lives downstairs from me, arrived on the scene and we discreetly prayed for everyone involved in the situation.

The eyewitness told me that the Lexus driver had caused the accident, apparently trying to beat the light at that notoriously tedious intersection. It seemed unjust that the woman on the gurney was not the one whose inattention or irresponsibility had brought the whole thing about. However, as I soon saw, the irony was not yet complete. After the tow truck arrived and pulled the crushed vehicle upright again, an officer rushed in to retrieve the victim's belongings piled underneath. A odd-looking yellow plastic tube fell onto the ground. The incredulous policeman showed it to his colleagues: undeniably an implement for the imbibing of illegal substances...a sweet little bong, right under her coat. Whoops! That's when the second officer joined in a search of the SUV's interior. Within seconds they found what they were looking for. Shaking their heads, they placed everything back inside the wreck and went to their paperwork as it was towed to impound.

Tonight I read on the local paper's Web site that it was the injured driver who was deemed at fault. This contradicted the eyewitness I spoke with, as well as several other people who were on the scene. Funny how things can appear, or how they can be later reported.

Two women left home this morning, neither knowing that her routine would be seriously curtailed before lunchtime. One, driving a new-looking Lexus, would stand by her slightly battered vehicle and talk in subdued tones on her cell, leaving on her own; the other would take a much more circuitous and complicated route before arriving home. Somebody indeed will end up in court, maybe both of them. I certainly hope that nothing more serious will result. All this happened in less time than it takes to walk from the desk where I write this, to my living room light switch and flick it on.

Once again, it is the big bangs that intrude on our lives, ready or not. The little bongs that we think are so well hidden have a way of insinuating themselves, too, at the most inopportune moments...ready or not.

Perchance to...?

2009-02-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

It must come with this stage of life: lately one of my favorite activities is sleeping. Not sleeping when normal folks do, oh no! My best sleep comes between 7 a.m. and 9 or even 10 a.m. I realize that most normal folks (like Irish) are up being actually productive during those hours; indeed, many have no other choice. I'm grateful that my situation allows for such idiosyncrasy. But since sleep has become a big part of my life (When can I? How long can I?) I also pay attention to patterns in my dreams as well.

Before you think I'm going off on some silly rant about God speaks to me in dreams--those who know me well are familiar with my hesitation, even loathing to do any such thing. Instead, my silly rant is about changes I've noticed in particular recurring dreams I've had. Self analysis is so much fun, and ever so much cheaper! If you're still with me and are not averse to knowing more about Sharon than you ever thought possible, read on.

Recurring dream 1: Mouth full of glue; I'm forced to continually pull long strands out that stretch like rubber bands
Self interpretation: Need to get up & drink water!
Solution: Remind myself in dream what it means. Stop pulling the strands. Get up and get water.

Recurring dream 2: The hidden room/--sometimes the rooms are junky and sometimes they're delightfully artistic
S.I.: Places I keep all to myself and won't let anyone into.
Solution: Open the doors more. Let people know me better. Shoot, let myself know me better.

Recurring dream 3: In a private moment, people are crowding into the room and refuse to leave
S.I.: These are the characters I haven't written that are sick of me keeping them down. They demand to be seen and heard!
Solution:So start writing again already, blockhead.

Sogni d'oro, everybody.

Three days in a row

2009-02-23T14:18:00.000-08:00

Somebody stop me! I'll have to turn in my card to "Procrastinators Unite...Someday" if I keep actually blogging regularly. I mean, I've got a reputation to uphold! My consolation is that practically no one reads these anyway. I'm the quintessential voice-in-a-billion, the grain of sand on the beach, the flitting snowflake in the wintry Sierras. If I posted on the Internet and nobody noticed, would I still be saying nothing?

Rumination: My sister-in-law asked me last night if we'd watched the Oscars. Truth is, I've hardly noticed it since the last Lord of the Rings installment. I think we went to see "Prince Caspian" last year and one other movie which was so very memorable that I can't think of it now. Guilty pleasure: It is kinda fun to look at all those cheesy "What Were They Thinking" day-after reports on how much money some unfortunate celebutard paid to look drekky in front of all those people. I can accomplish that without leaving home, and do so often; but then, I do not have a high-priced stylist to deceive me.

The Boo turns 2

2009-02-22T22:18:00.000-08:00

It was a typical family event last Friday night--both sides of relatives gathered under one roof to celebrate with Sponge Bob cake, balloons, noisemakers, and hats (no, Irish would not wear one). Kids were all over the place, or so it seemed. Baby had a bad cold and The Boo was just getting over his tonsillitis. The 3 1/2 year-old cousin couldn't speak English, but was adept at making his wants known. The other grandmother made killer taquitos while I, knowing my place, kept clear of the kitchen so she could perform her magic there. The older girl cousins were on hand along with various tias (aunties), Pa and Nonna (Irish and me), and of course Daddy Christian and Mama Alina. The new toys were a big hit, as was the DVD of "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything"--little Christian is a huge Veggie Tales fan.

And of course, I couldn't stop thinking of my own boy at that age, 30 years ago. It really is true that, as we age, the past becomes ever more alive and present. Little guys on the cusp between babyhood and boyhood have that same irresistible, impatient wistfulness about them, regardless of generation. I saw it on my brothers many years ago; then on my son, and now on my grandson. I know that his brother will have that same look on his face a year from April 4 when he himself arrives at this gate. All my brothers became wonderful men, after some shaky journeys along the way. So did our Jeremy. What is ahead for young Christian and his baby brother, who bears his late uncle's name, remains to be seen. But this I know: the promise of a little boy who is loved and anxious to get on with the business of growing into a man is a marvelous thing.

The Sumner Bucket List

2009-02-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

My version of that cheesy "check off all the stuff you've done in your life" list that's making the Facebook rounds. Thanks to my many siblings for making these memories possible. Y'all know who you are.

*************************************************************************************
The Sumner Bucket List

This is a takeoff on the original that's going around Facebook. To preserve privacy and sanity, I'm not asking anyone to actually check anything off.

For you younger whippersnappers, this version is mainly applicable to your parents, aunts, and uncles. It is here for your edification and inspiration. I'd love to see your own parodies.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Things you have done during your lifetime:

() Been a blind date
() Got kicked out of school
() Watched someone cook a woodland animal
() Been to an outhouse
() Been to the county seat
() Fed 12 people with 3 lbs. of macaroni and part of a jar of Cheez-Whiz
() Saw Hawaii Five-O in black and white
() Made an airplane out of an oatmeal box
() Thought a helicopter was a giant-ass mosquito
() Been lost...in a Kroger's
() Remember seeing MLK Jr.'s speech in Washington, DC.
() Spent the summer diving into a bathtub
() Cried yourself to sleep...in a bed with at least two other kids
() Played cops and robbers...only you were the object being stolen
() Ate crayons. Extra points for also melting them on the side of an oil heater in December.
() Sang every song to six Broadway plays, in four-part harmony, with your siblings for fun, in your underwear. Extra points if it was your brother's underwear.
() First time you went to a restaurant for anything other than a Dairy Queen was after you left home
() Been to the top of Dog Holler
() Done something you told yourself you wouldn't...like eating a live insect
() Made prank phone calls...on a neighbor's phone
() Walked into town to get the mail
() Laughed until some kind of beverage came out of someone else's nose
() Saw a ten year-old boy pee on the snow
() Danced in the rain...in lieu of taking a shower
() Written a letter to Santa Claus...and had it returned
() Been kissed by a mine pony
() Watched the sunrise with someone...after being out all night "borrowing" bicycles
() Blown bubbles with Ivory soap and a wooden spool
() Gone ice-skating...in the kitchen
() Been banned from a movie theater
() Been crawdab fishing
() Driven across three states with eight people in a Ford
() Rode in the open trunk of a car
() Played Tarzan on a grapevine
() Collected kindling wood in the snow
() Lived in more than one country...without ever leaving home
() Lay down outside at night and admired the stars while listening to people inside playing Whist
() Seen a bug zapper and made a wish
() Enjoyed the beauty of light playing through Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles
() Seen the Statue of Liberty...made out of dirty clothes
() Stepped on a needle in the bathroom
() Seen corn growing in a crack under the kitchen table
() Traveled by train...without paying
() Traveled to Hill Top before there was a paved road there
() Regularly used the word "foofie" in everyday language
() Been dog riding
() Heard your mother talk about riding on a San Francisco CABLE CAR
() Seen a Disney movie on TV...in black and white
() Been in a rain forest...behind your house
() Seen pig guts in a washtub
() Been to beautiful downtown Minden
() Driven through Fayetteville in the fall
() Thrown a household pet out a window at a Peeping Tom
() Swam with catfish
() Eaten a Foot-Long with an orange Ne-Hi and a chocolate Jumbo pie
() Been to the marble championships
() Walked on a railroad trestle
() Seen your grandfather's cowlick getting licked by a cow
() Been fishing with your father, using almond-scented hamburger balls
() Played Snake Tag at 10:30 pm
() Caught lightning bugs in a jelly jar...with jelly still in it
() Got picked up by a church bus
() Dressed for a special occasion from a donation box
() Waded in the New River
() Got tired of hearing "Y'all have enough kids for a baseball team!"
() Slit open your brother's football to see what was inside
() Been skinny dipping... in a cold creek...fifty yards from a baptism
() Wanted to punk slap the Brady Bunch

Black (hearted) Friday 2008

2008-11-29T00:35:00.000-08:00

I was in a state of depression all day yesterday. It began when I flipped on my favorite morning news site and was slapped in the face with the two inch redline proclaiming the death by stampeding of an innocent WalMart employee. Greed kills...again.

What have we become?

Happy Thanksgiving, BBB

2008-11-24T16:43:00.000-08:00

No, that's not the Better Business Bureau. It's my friend Patty somewhere in the heartland, to whom I affectionately refer as Bread Basket Brat. We met each other on Thanksgiving weekend, 1998--two Christians in an AOL pagan chat room trying to demonstrate the love of Christ to some very confused young people. We started IM-ing and emailing back and forth--we belonged to a virtual pen pal group long before the days of blogs and social networking sites--and then exchanged real, 3-D letters and phone calls. BBB and her hubby visited us here in California while on their 15th anniversary trip. While Irish and I have yet to make it to the land of the billowing wheat fields for a return engagement, I still hope to someday. She, admittedly, has been much better at communication than I. Now that we're both blogging, I feel like I can "reach out and touch" my friend any time. I love visiting her little Net nook and reading the parts of her revealed there.

So Patty, for all the times I thought of writing you but didn't (yet we still stayed friends, thanks to your persistence) here's a sincere prayer for the warmest and most blessed of Thanksgiving Days for you and all your tribe. I'll think of you when I don't undercook the turkey this time. Thanks for being there and loving your WCW* anyway.

*West Coast Wacko, in case anyone else is reading this.

Only when I shouldn't

2008-11-13T22:33:00.000-08:00

The life and times of an insomniac: I can sleep anytime I ought not; particularly during an important meeting, at the supermarket, at church, or 1 p.m. almost every day. Along about 9 p.m. I get a second wind that's more like a nor'easter. I could easily sit up till 4 in the morning or so and blog, write emails and letters to the editor, leave pithy comments on message boards, or play StumbleUpon. Unfortunately, there's the nagging fact that most life takes place during the time when Big Yellow lights up the sky. Being the building manager, I have to be up and available. So I must take the little girl within by the scruff o' the neck and drag her off to bed, just when she wants to have fun. But no, Sharon, you can't start a movie at 10:42; and you can't have another cookie; and you can't start another art project. Stop. Put down the crayons, turn off the computer, and off to bed with you. Now!

Why it matters

2008-11-11T21:48:00.000-08:00

Election '08 is over; I can go outside and breathe the clean campaign-free air once again...at least until the inauguration. I had my reasons for not supporting Barack Obama, but am obligated to pray sincerely for him as our new president. (Who knows, maybe if I'd prayed more for George W. Bush he may not have blown it so badly--or at least my attitude would have been better about it.) And I do pray for him. He will need all the prayer he can get.

I said the air is clear. That's not really true, as the opponents of Prop. 8 won't accept that we the majority of California voters want to preserve the traditional institution and definition of marriage. They're behaving like thug-brats who will stomp their feet--in our faces, mind you--until they get their way. Regardless of one's opinion concerning homosexuals and their rights, our constitutional democracy should be respected. If you lose, as the Republicans did in the national, you shouldn't get to whine for a sympathetic judge who'll overturn the results. I imagine that's what will happen here. Our ~~governor~~ mole-in-chief encourages that very thing. (As my friend says, "They voted for The Terminator; what they got was Arnold Schwarzenegger".)

Aside from my Irish, whose presence and love have been my earthly salvation for 36 years, I have two glorious bright spots in my life: Christian, almost 2; and Jeremy, 7 mos. It sounds self-absorbed, but they are the main reasons I still care what happens to this country. I can't resolve the war in Iraq or fix the cruddy public education system or the national health care crisis or smite corrupt politicians and unfair "journalists" (oh, if I only could!) but I can swing a giggling little guy up to touch the chandelier; or let him touch a drool-covered finger to a bright board book page; or rock and soothe him till Mommy (our daughter) comes back. And I can teach him "Jesus loves me, this I know".

Lest I forget: Camila. She's our young friend from church who comes over on Thursdays and goes to AWANA with me. I get her a lot during vacations and school breaks, too. She's so much a part of our family that it's hard to remember sometimes that she has a mom and lives somewhere else. She knows where everything in our house is and goes right for what she wants--the privilege of the beloved.

Here's to the boys; and here's to sweet Camila. Sorry we didn't leave this world in better shape than when we found it. We haven't given up, though.

Dear Congresscritters

2008-10-01T13:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, YOU. Comfortable-for-life shiny shoed "public servants":

Judgment Hall comin' up on the right.

Dear WaMu

2008-09-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

It was so good to hear from you. We know you've been pretty distracted, what with going bankrupt and being swallowed up by JPMorgan Chase and all--and yet you found time to send us an invitation to use some special checks to max out our new $6K line of credit. Please don't get me wrong: we appreciate your thinking of us in such a difficult time. It's just that, you see, we finally got completely out of debt. Yep, we don't owe you or anyone else a dime! (It's exhilarating!) I wish you could celebrate with us; I'm sure you would if you weren't so awfully preoccupied. I suppose you miss us. Truth is, WaMu: we don't miss you, and we'll be passing on that generous offer. Have fun with your new ~~overlords~~ owners.

Regards,
Sharon

From me, to me

2008-09-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

Dearest Sharon,

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for putting that Dove bar back on the shelf this morning. You know how hard we work! Remember: the holidays are coming.

Fondly,
Sharon

Greetings from Plate Jungle

2008-09-15T16:52:00.000-07:00

That's my new name, or the moniker I 'd carry if my last name were Palin, according to the Sarah Palin Name Generator. A much-needed moment of levity in the most contentious presidential campaign in my lifetime (Harry Truman was in the White House when I was born).

Well, at least I'm not Zipper Window or Freestyle Blitz.

The other men in my life

2008-09-13T10:41:00.001-07:00

Christian AKA BooBoo AKA Papas:

and his little sidekick Jeremy AKA Munchkin AKA Munchie:

And that's what's been keeping me occupied!

Shout out to Alina who made them possible. ;)

Honda brinka revelation

2008-09-12T11:23:00.001-07:00

Our daughter's lovely tricked-out Accord, the one she proudly negotiated herself and still had 4 years of payments on, was stolen from out front of her apartment, used in two crimes, and reduced to an ashy, black carcass to remove the evidence. Good news: the babies' car seats were not in it at the time, and Triple-A paid for junking the rubble. Further good news: Daughter Dear now understands why her stodgy parents advised her not to buy the number one stolen vehicle in America, and is now looking for a used midsize SUV.

But I'm not saying anything.

Pledge to remember

2008-09-11T21:54:00.000-07:00

7 years ago today. Have we learned anything? Can we so quickly forget?

A thousand words

2008-09-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

Give or take a few:

Resurrection

2008-08-27T18:52:00.000-07:00

Is it time to blow off the spider webs, kick out the earwigs, reline the nest and start again? Why not? I'm not getting any younger, after all. So after a year and a half, I'm resuming the Eyrie. It might be more of a Twitter than a blog for a while until I get back into the swing of spouting off...though goodness knows there's enough spout-worthy stuff around.

I beheld, and held him!

2007-02-20T14:15:00.001-08:00

Little Christian was born. 7 lb. 4 oz., 19 1/2 long. Lots of brown hair, long fingers. The other grandmother and I were there throughout the night, and went for coffee on the morning. When we got back a half hour later, he was already in the world!

So where's Darcy?

2007-02-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

I took another one of those goofy quizzes. Thank goodness I'm not Charlotte Lucas.

Take the Quiz here!

Why punctuation matters

2007-02-06T19:25:00.001-08:00

Taken in downtown Salinas:

Begging the questions, "So what are you serving now?" and "How many moms were cooking?"

What if...

2007-02-02T13:50:00.001-08:00

...a shadow saw a groundhog?

I am aware of what a stupid thought that is. Don't mind me. It's all the personal stuff happening right now. If it weren't for Irish and the grace of God, I couldn't endure it.

I'm reading Pride and Prejudice, which of course has nothing whatsoever to do with my personal problems or Groundhog Day.

Our site is down

2007-02-01T20:20:00.001-08:00

Our Spindle Sisters site is inexplicably down, and I don't know when it'll be back up. Our good friend Rob very kindly gave us space on his server, which is obviously suffering something or other. Hope it's not for long.

A very not broken disclaimer

2007-01-27T15:11:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite sites, This is Broken, posted this remarkable disclaimer on their Not Broken page. Already it's going into the cylinder for the '07 Best of Best Awards.

Probably wouldn't hold up in court, but pointedly amusing nevertheless.

Aw, forget it

2007-01-26T19:24:00.001-08:00

Just to be nominated was an honor.

Sharshan Award Nominees, pt. 3

2007-01-20T15:04:00.001-08:00

HEROES AND SHEROES, PERSONAL CATEGORY:
*My daughter, for doing the right thing in a very difficult situation
*My husband, for allowing tribulation to bring out more of the pure gold within
*Elena, for not just holding on, but triumphing through another year
*My in-laws, for taking care of my mother-in-law who's not having an easy time of aging

HEROES AND SHEROES, BROAD CATEGORY
*Every woman who gave her baby a chance to live, despite circumstances
*Every man who took seriously his obligation to care for the children he fathered
*Our American troops serving in whatever capacity, wherever

LOSER/ANTIHERO OF THE YEAR, LOCAL OR PERSONAL CATEGORY
*Smuckers, for leaving Salinas and laying off 167 great workers, including my husband
*Salinas, for library chaos, poison spinach, the community college strike, out of control gang problems, and an all-around bad taste anytime we got mentioned in the press

LOSER/ANTIHERO OF THE YEAR, BROAD CATEGORY
*The President. Whether you voted for him or not, whether you admire or hope an anvil falls on his head, no one lost more in 2006.

MOST ENCOURAGING, PERSONAL/LOCAL:
*Salinas, for electing a good man as mayor and daring to Imagine a Great City

2006 Sharshan Award nominees. pt. 2

2007-01-18T12:05:00.001-08:00

GREATEST PERSONAL ANNOYANCE:
*Panhandlers lying that they're trying to "get a bus to Monterey"
*Telemarketers ignoring the Do Not Call
*The crack dealer downstairs who stretched out his eviction notice for 6 months

WORST PERSONAL NEWS OF THE YEAR:
*I'm going to be a grandmother
*My metabolism once again readjusted itself to "slower"
*Not so easy for 50-somethings to find new jobs after layoff

BEST PERSONAL NEWS OF THE YEAR:
*I'm going to be a grandmother!

2006 Sharshan Awards nominees pt. 1

2007-01-09T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is all I have after too much thinking. If I'd just intuit, it'd probably come faster. Blame it on the bluegrass jam I went to Saturday. Sure, why not.

MOST EXCRUCIATING NEWS ITEM:
*Ted Haggard forced to resign as NAE chief
*Sago, WV mine disaster
*Amish school shooting

GO AWAY, JUST GO AWAY:
*Michael Jackson
*O.J. Simpson

LEAST WORTHY OF NAME RECOGNITION BUT THE PRESS WOULDN'T SHUT UP ABOUT THEM ANYWAY:
*The creep who claimed he'd killed Jon Benet
*The ex-congressman from FL who hit on underage male pages
*The vapid Pop Tarts who can't seem to remember what is customarily the first layer of clothing

More to come.

2006 Sharshan Awards

2007-01-08T10:17:00.000-08:00

Why "Sharshan"? Because that was my first online moniker back in '97 when I crawled into the Computer Age on (gasp) AOL. I miss that name. It was fun. It was weird. It gave my friends plenty of quip material, like "What, is your favorite movie 'The Sharshan Redemption'?" However, AOL ate it when I finally ejected them from my life experience.

So, to the point: My list is named for me. No other explanation needed.

Over the next few days I'll post the nominees. Then, after the various aspects of my personality ~~confer~~ ~~argue~~ fight like monkeys in a Jif factory and one emerges dominant, I'll name the winners.

I'm sure they'll all be just thrilled.

If you can't beat 'em, just beat 'em up

2007-01-07T07:47:00.001-08:00

She did her best. In the end, Seyran Ates could no no more.

Hell is chortling.

I dunno; do you think she still practices the religion of her birth? Or are her detractors and would-be assassins actually the "true faithful"?

Good men, this is the result of your not standing up to bullies and cowards. Christians, pray for and support Ates like your life depends on it. Free Americans of any persuasion, you'd better pay attention--coming soon to a country near you!

Not for the squeamish (this means me)

2007-01-05T10:54:00.001-08:00

Feeling a little potato-ey after the holidays? Anxious to get those New Year's resolutions going? No need to join the gym or waste time on all those old Richard Simmons videos piled up in the basement. Just get on over to China and hike up a nice mountain trail.

Two words of advice: Best wear shoes with good tread. Also, see your lawyer first.

Shadowfoxwriter steals my brain

2007-01-03T11:03:00.000-08:00

Julie did it. She went and posted precisely what I was gonna say on this, my first full rant of the 2007 (not counting the FBI and George Bailey one)--title and all.

Girl, how'd you accomplish that, cosmic rays? Got my place bugged?

Maybe I need one of these.

An oddity and an about-face

2007-01-01T13:37:00.000-08:00

Consider first that insidious corrupter of American values, that master stroke of propaganda which oozed itself into our modern psyches and seduced us, like so many frogs in so many warming pots, into accepting godless anticapitalism into our midst: It's a Wonderful Life.

No, really. The FBI said so.

Who knew Frank Capra was really a Communist sympathizer? Well, wasn't there a comical character from Minsk in You Can't Take It with You? And didn't said character wrestle a wealthy financier to the ground? Need we more proof of Capra's real agenda?

Eejits. Some 90-lb. white-shirted wonkocrat in a cheerless cubicle decided he'd defend his manhood by declaring George Bailey a subversive and Potter the exemplar of the American way. Evidence? George remained a common, "little" hero; while the successful bankgrubber was the undisputed villain. Connect the dots! Capra said that good=less money and bad=more money! Anti-American, anticapitalist, Marxist bum!

Never mind that one of the main supporting characters was the very wealthy founder of a plastics factory, who generously gave to help his friends the Baileys in time of need.

Somehow, Mr. Wonko missed that. Apparently, even someone as unbalanced and wild-eyed as J. Edgar Hoover couldn't bring himself to follow up on something so absurd.

Candidate for Top 5 Dumbest Accusations in History.

(Cue segue music)

I skate dangerously close to the icebergs of political comment here, something I declared I'd eschew. But can the zebra change her stripes, or the leopard her Blogspots?. That's why I'm starting afresh in 2007 by moving Spindlings (Spindle Sisters news) over to our MySpace page blog, and returning here to my most ardent cultural and other rantings. I will post much more frequently on both blogs--especially now that on Dec. 30 I amassed over 5 million points and level 35 on Bookworm and am totally done with that game, knowing I will never get there again.

If you love me but can't stand my stances (you and I know who you are), I'll not be upset if you choose not to read this blog again. Just head on over to the Spindles blog and we'll keep it light. I'll alert here when I've posted something new over there, in case anyone's interested. Meanwhile, the fire within forbids my silence.

So beware, Republicans. Shudder, Democrats. Avast ye, moonbats and wingnuts alike! She's on the loose again, and none can escape the wrath of Scothia the Warrior Queene, Keeper of the Flame of Eyriedom, Equal Opportunity Offender!

Oh yeah, and I'll say nice stuff about people sometimes, too.

A blessed New Year to one and all...except those who hate freedom, light, and truth.

Christmas was...

2006-12-28T14:44:00.000-08:00

...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!!!

2006-12-12T09:20:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-02T10:21:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-30T13:50:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-30T13:46:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-28T09:28:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-01T13:19:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-31T10:09:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-10T12:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-04T14:21:00.000-07:00

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"

2006-10-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-18T16:20:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-09-15T11:14:00.000-07:00

...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

2006-09-11T09:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-08-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

...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

2006-08-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-24T09:51:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-08-17T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-06-13T16:34:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-08T09:13:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-06-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-05-29T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-25T22:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-24T12:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-05-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-05-22T11:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-04-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-27T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-04-16T08:11:00.000-07:00

No other reason for Christianity to exist.

Video Gem of the month

2006-04-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

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.