Stop the presses...

Stop the presses!!  I made Basil Burgers without burning the outside of them!!  Oh, Marie would be so very proud!  They were not burned/blackened and did not fall apart!!!!

I am babysitting/child-sitting again, four days this time.  Perish the thought!

The last time his mother made things really easy for me by bringing all heat-up meals for her son.  This time, I wanted him to eat more healthily whilst under my care, instead of the easy way out.  So, she brought me ingredients.  Tonight I made the basil burgers and Oven Baked Home Fries.  My charge was rather less enthusiastic about my cooking, but he ate a whole (bun-less) burger and two heaping helpings of the fries, all the while making appreciative comments on the fries!  Yep, the cockles of my heart are warm.

The day was inordinately long and difficult at parts, but much good happened.

Even though it took a total 16 phone calls, I was able to schedule having the front yard marked for digging.  You see, every time I dialed 811, I was directed to the Illinois utilities digging notification.    I kept being told that I must be near Illinois—must be bouncing off a cell tower in Illinois—to be directed there.  I kept saying that I was in Fort Wayne, hours away from the Illinois border.  I called 311, which is information here and kept being told to dial 811.  Finally, I would be switched to a message that had a number, an 800 number, for the Indiana utilities digging notification.    Because I cannot hold things in my mind, I had to re-dial 10 times in order to try and capture the 800 number I was supposed to call.

Then, I started the process of requesting to have my yard marked and discovered that I had to know my township.  I said that I thought it was Fort Wayne.  But the operator said there was no Fort Wayne township and nothing near "Fort Wayne" in the list of townships for Allen County.  She told me to dial 311 for that information.

Yes, I started weeping in frustration.

When I dialed 311, I told that operator that I was frustrated and upset, but not with her and asked her to be patient with me.  I told her about my brain not working so well.  She was kind and asked what I needed.  I told her about my problem getting through to the Indiana utilities digging notification center when I dialed 811 and then all the calls and that I now needed to know my township.  Well, I sobbed that last bit.

I will admit that I was a bit perturbed when the 311 operator told me that she could connect me directly to the Indiana center (why didn't the very first 311 operator just connect me???), but I focused on how, prior to connecting me, the operator ran down the entire list of questions so that I would be ready for the center operator.  She also, as we were speaking, sent out an email reminding staff that folk who dial 811 from cell phones can be misdirected and to offer the 800 number to those who called for their yards to be marked.  Once I was connected, I finally got an appointment and a confirmation number.

My township?  Wayne.  Yep, that is nowhere near "Fort Wayne."  SIGH.

In between my charge's mother dropping off all his things and all those ingredients and fetching him from school, Marie picked me up to go to Fresh Market to round off the purchases for our Thanksgiving on Saturday.  Yes!  They were visiting folk on Thanksgiving and ended up at Ruby Tuesdays or Applebee's or something like that.  We were both lamenting about a lack of turkey and gravy and Marie offered to have a Thanksgiving with me!!  With me!!!!

Of course, neither of us have cooked for a Thanksgiving.  Marie is tackling the turkey, though I chose the recipe (a roasted garlic and butter sort of approach, with lemon and rosemary thrown in for good measure).  I'm to do the stuffing, though I have yet to settle on a recipe.  I did be so rash as to ask Sandra to borrow her slow cooker since I want to use my best friend's husband's recipe.  But me and slow cookers ...  we parted ways for good reason.  Marie is doing the rolls.  Being an avowed non-lover of green bean casserole, I suggested we try broccoli patties (cheese and panko bread crumbs) instead.  We also have asparagus for some portion of the meal.  I want to do garlic mashed red potatoes.  Marie wanted a pecan pie, but her grandmother, who is the best maker of pecan pies alive, will being making her one at Christmas, so I believe we are going to have Double Chocolate Dr Pepper Cake.

Part of what we got today were things for my idea of sustenance.  You know, we shall be cooking together for hours and hours and so we need a wide variety of appetizers ... and at least a couple of bottles of wine.  We bought brie, smoked gouda with bacon, goats milk cheese, prosciutto, and sweet potatoes.  I want to do some sort of sautéed sweet potato, some sort of miniature tartlet, some sort of cheese and crackers, and perhaps something with the asparagus, too.  While we are not yet sure of those appetizers, we are sure we need to be eating our way through the attempt at our very first Thanksgiving.

Me!  A Thanksgiving with others!  A feast with others and a chance to drag out the china, silver, and crystal of my ancestors.

At Fresh Market, Marie pushed me in a wheel chair shopping cart, because she knew I had a much longer day still to navigate.  She also rode with me to pick up my charge and drop him off at catechesis before going back home so she could unload the groceries.  After catechesis is Jiu Jitsu, which meant a harrowing driving to the great unknown.  My charge was kind enough to enter the address into my Magellan, since I had forgotten to bring it and we had to dart back home after catechesis to fetch my beloved Maggie in order to actually make it to the Great Unknown.

Whilst he was being all active, I went over to Goodyear and had the inspection on my rather neglected Highlander.  The end result of that assessment was better than I feared, but still a heart-stopping $649.  Well, it will be that on Friday when the work is done.  Essentially, all the things that need to be flushed and filled and drained and filled and stripped and such are being done, all the things that come at miles 60,000, 65,000, and 70,000, plus an alignment.  Much to my surprise, the belts and hoses are still rather good.  The manager sent me an email reminder of the appointment, but he put into his calendar a reminder for me to change my oil twice a year and to have the tires rotated once a year.  Then he entered the same into my calendar for me.  When I have the tires done, I can have another inspection done, bringing in the booklet to see what is needed once (if) I reach 75,000.  The rotation and inspections will be free.  The kindest part was that all the explaining and paperwork was done whilst I was in the waiting area so there was less standing for me and, again, they pulled my car up right to the front door.  Despite the missed inspection the first time, I think I found that car place where you won't be sold farmland in southern Louisiana ... or Alaska, for that matter.

Then it was dart back to Jiu Jitsu to claim my charge and find our way back home.  Back home ... where I launched into basil burgers and oven baked home fries.  And, of course, Babylon 5.  While I started cooking, I got my charge to bathe and get into his pajamas by pointing out that doing so would maximize his Babylon 5 viewing time.  I was rather glad to plop into the GREEN chair whilst we got in our sci-fi fix.  Of course, I was eating my own heaping pile of oven baked home fries.

Tomorrow is the first of two days I must arise before 7:00, in order to:  awake, cajole to dress, feed, and ferry my charge off to school.  Hopefully, at about 8:10, I shall be back in bed to sleep a long, long while.  I shall be resting up for the making of chicken and bacon tacos and a few more Babylon 5 episodes, after ferrying my charge to tutoring and dashing over to the post office to mail that drawing my niece made.  How do parents get up early every day, five days out of seven getting their children ready for school???

On Friday, the second day of impossibly early rising, the ferrying to school shall be followed by dashing over to Goodyear and nervously hope that all the maintenance and repair is accomplished by the time school is over.  Marie is going to help me pass the time with the eating of tasty things and the playing of Rumikub.  She is also taking me to a regular store for cream of tarter, because I cannot find the jar that I thought I still had, and apple juice and balsamic vinegar, both of which I keep forgetting to buy.  [What is cream of tarter?]  Then, back home, more cooking (chalupas), more Babylon 5, and trying to not fret about failing in my cooking part of our Thanksgiving.

Ever so much to do, eh?  I shall probably sleep the week round once everyone leaves on Saturday night.  Maybe even two weeks.

I should note that my already warmed cockles heated up further when my charge observed, whilst watching Babylon 5, that the Narn are similar to the Klingon, both being warrior races.  And he observed that Lennier was changing, sort of how like Spok learned to bend and soften a bit.  He also made a rather pithy comment about the appearance of Babylon 4 and the time flux, but I cannot remember what he said.  Just think, after this, I get to introduce him to Stargate SG1, Farscape, and Andromeda.  Battlestar Galactica will have to wait until he is older.  I suppose someone else will have to do that introduction.  SNIF.  SNIF.

I briefly entertained the notion of putting off getting new glasses with all this car maintenance (5 years worth all crammed into one calendar week).  However, in the span of a very short while, three folk pointed out just how much I need glasses.  Of course, it could be my brain, but there is a marked difference when I am fatigued and things are all blurry or doubled and just not being able to see things clearly.  So, one of the things I squeezed in today was also to set up my appointment.  I was a tad worried the eye doctor who was versed in neurological and autoimmune diseases' impact on vision might not still be at the vision center.  [Such a find he was!]  But, never fear, I am all scheduled with him, 3 days earlier than planned, at 3:30 on the 27th.

One last bit of goodness was that I remembered that my charge's mother said he has a blanket he likes to use at home, even sleeping atop his bedding curled up beneath it.  So, I dug through the quilts in the chest at the end of my bed and found one that he could use.  He spent the evening wrapped up in it and asked, very sweetly, if he could take it up to his bedroom.  [Yes, more cockles warming.]

Not failing at child-sitting last time is not going to be a one-off ... if I have anything to say about it.


Lord, have mercy.  Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy.

Understanding...

I've been trying to write this post about a portrayal of sexual abuse on the show Elementary since the beginning of November.  I finally finished it, early this morning, by weaving in this documentary series I found in which one gets a rather raw, incredibly authentic look at the effects of sexual abuse. For me, watching the series was difficult and yet was also affirming.  Even insightful.  It is sad, to me, though, that decades after The Courage to Heal was published, we are still so very ignorant about the effects of sexual abuse and survivors are still more likely to not have help than any sort of support.

Along the lines of understanding, I found this really great article about what to say when someone has an anxiety attack the other day. I have passed it on to my friend who struggles with anxiety and like that I have a simple resource to share if anyone is ever interested in how to really help.  The tips are spot-on and demonstrate that little things matter.  You do not have to be a trained mental health professional to be of great benefit to one in the throes of an anxiety attack.  All you need to be is a wee bit knowledgeable (read the article and remember those simple tips) and a wee bit merciful (practice one or two of them).

Today has been a toasty day of writing letters.  Yes, I am still enamored with both the electric blanket for the GREEN chair and the foot warmer for the bed.  I actually have the house set at 60 now, and yet I am quite comfortable. I think the blanket must radiate a bit because my hands are not cold.  Or maybe the reason my hands are not cold is that the rest of me is mighty warm???

Anyway, this is round three of my Letters-to-the-Children-in-My-Life campaign.  I find it exceedingly difficult to write one-sided conversations and really humbling to realize that I frankly do not know how to write a letter to a young child.  One of my nephews is actually 13 (translate that, not exactly a child), but he has autism.  And, frankly, since I have not even been able to Skype with them and they do not visit, I really do not know them at all.  Still, I pressed on and generated six more awkward missives to children and eight note cards to those about whom I care.

One thing I might not have captured yet here on this place of remembrance is how much I enjoy choosing stamps for the person who will receive the piece of mail. Long ago, it was easy to go to a post office and find a wide variety of stamps available.  For many years now, the African American Heritage stamps are about the only ones available in the post office.  While I do always buy some because I believe the message is important, I like variety and the ability to match personality with stamp.

I had some of the bonsai forever stamps in the shopping cart at the post office website for a long while, but I kept putting off buying them.  The inventory is now gone.  I have a few left, so I shall save them for the one person I know revels in bonsais.  My choices now are limited to the love stamp, Green stamps (those do have a good variety to them), and the vintage seed packets stamps (as in choices palatable to me from those available online).  I will note that if the rate is raised again in January, I will be stocking up on those forever stamps!

I have lingered over the Year of the Dragon stamps, because I like dragons, but I wondered what message that would send ... cultural appreciation or something else. A part of me felt like the ex-literacy professor should have chosen the Harry Potter forever stamps, but I did not out of protest.  While I could write for a long while on the literacy accomplishments in that series and the strong writing for young adults (especially the evolution of the character development from child to teenager to young man), I snort in disgust at all those who try to put a christological  or Christian allegorical slant on the series.  That's just hogwash.  Balderdash.  Speciousness.  So, no Harry Potter stamps will be going out from this address.

Silly Myrtle.

By the way, one of my favorite-est people in the whole wide world, who is an incredible artist, who has the greatest integrity and probity with regard to customer care, who is a great web designer, and who is a most fantastic of bloggers, Caryl, is going to do a line of note cards from her photographic artwork.  A most stellar gift idea, if you ask me.  Anyhow, she is looking for feedback as to which pieces to use.  Personally, I already gave her the only answer she needs (3 lines of cards not 1; series of whites, series of close-ups, and a mixed series), but she would probably (most definitely) welcome your feedback.  If you have not already checked out her blog from my link list, I would highly recommend that you do.  A Growing Garden is so very interesting and informative, is rather well-written, and has bloody fantastic artwork!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Trying not to think...

I have started to really fret about the car, so I went out to the garage and opened the hood.  The first thing I noted was that my coolant was extremely low.  This, alone, puzzled me since the tire purchase included a 29-point inspection.  That inspection specifically mentions a fluids check.

So, I called Goodyear to ask a question I already knew the answer:  Why was the inspection not done?  It was a 6:00 PM appointment on a Friday night.  

I would really like to go back there because I thought the men were friendly and not out to sell me farmland in southern Louisiana.  Plus, I got a coupon for $25 off a service appointment, plus a $9.95 oil change.  But it bothers me that I did not get service for which I had an appointment and which I mentioned when I checked in that night.

I talked with the manager, who encouraged me to give them a second chance and let them take a look at my vehicle to see what is really needed.  Again, I am not opposed to going back. In fact, the coupon makes me really want to go back. But as I was weighing when that might actually happen, I started to weep and got off the phone as soon as possible.

It is difficult to be single.
It is difficult to be single and without family support.
It is difficult to be single and without family support and chronically ill.
It is difficult to be single and without family support and chronically ill and facing increasing cognitive deficits.

The last two years in Alexandria were brutal and confusing and full of too much.  So, in all seriousness, I have not tended to the maintenance of my vehicle in five years, other than the required state inspection and vehicle emission report.  Yes, I bought the battery, because it had gone dead from my leaving the lights on a few times and was really old.  I did get the breaks, but that was because of the state inspection.  My warranty service ended at 55,000.  Between that service and 69,000 miles, when I moved, I did nothing.  I checked my Highlander binder and I think that between 55,000 miles and last May (somewhere just before 72,000 miles, I only had the oil changed twice.  I have totally and utterly neglected the care of my vehicle because everything else was too much.  SIGH.

During the phone call, I was overcome with just how incompetent I have become at dealing with a whole, a real life.  I want so deeply to have someone else who will take care of some things ... of anything.

So, of course, I coped with the overwhelming loneliness and fear by trying to have a culinary success.  The problem is that all of my recipe finding of late includes ingredients I do not have.  What I ended up making was trying to do something with apples and chicken.

I whisked together olive oil, apple cider vinegar, and pure maple syrup.  I then put a chicken breast into one of my French Ovals, salted and peppered one side (the peppercorn medley), brushed it with the mixture, flipped it over, and repeated the process.  Then I put the cubed pieces of an entire Granny Smith apple (peeled) around the sides and all over the top.  Finally, I cut up a pat of butter into small pieces and stuck them amongst the apple pieces on top.  I ended up with Baked Apple Chicken.

As I noted on the recipe, I really like baking and serving in the French Ovals.  Primarily, I like doing so because it maximizes the amount of sauce/juice one gets.  In this case, the chicken was unbelievably tender.  The sauce was more of a juice than anything else—mildly flavored I thought.  I could taste nothing of the vinegar and little of the maple syrup.  Primarily, it was just ... tasty.  I found eating the baked apple pieces with the chicken odd, but good.

Maybe Marie will eat this with me so I can know if it is something that is truly good or just something that I think is good.  She did make my Myrtle's Medley Black Eyed Peas; both she and her beloved found them to be exceedingly tasty.  Of course, in following my recipe she kindly pointed out a few mistakes I had made ... such as soaking the beans in bear instead of beer.

Amos carried around the French Oval for quite a while after doing his pre-cleaning.  So, I suppose at least one other of God's creatures found the recipe I made tasty.

He and I are ensconced in the GREEN chair, tucked beneath the new electric blanket.  He is dreaming  of some happiness or another, given the muted yips and fluttering of his paws, and I am trying very hard not to think about the Highlander.  Yes, I will need to do so soon ... how long can one drive with near empty coolant?? ... but not now.  I do not want to think about why I need to think about the Highlander or how I discouraged and despairing and alone I feel about the whole mess ... the whole mess that is me.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Toasty, thankful, and thinking...

I was only awake a couple of hours yesterday, minutes here and there.  I slept much of Friday evening, then most of Friday night, then most of Saturday, then most of Saturday night, and dragged myself out of bed today at 1:30 because it was time for Erythromycin ... which I had to go fetch from Target.

This great level of exhaustion is puzzling to me.

At Target, every single handicapped parking space was taken.  Never have I encountered this.  All the wheelchair shopping carts were taken, too.  So, I draped myself across a shopping cart and shuffled over to the pharmacy.  It seems the whole of Fort Wayne was at Target, but no one needed prescriptions save for me.

The pharmacist had called to let me know that I am in the donut hole, so I counted out all my pills on Friday.  I will be 5 days short, but I am still not going to pick up most of my prescriptions until the new year.  I talked with the pharmacist and told her that I was choosing the Erythromycin, the hormones, and the thyroid medication.  Those three are just around $400 when I am paying for them.  I do know the arthritis medication and the heart medication will stay with me a couple of days before I notice the effects. I am only on one asthma medication now because of the theophylline, so I am not sure what will happen.

I would like to find out how to write a customer appreciation letter for the weekend pharmacist.  She has been really understanding about all the problems with the insurance and doctor's office, as well as all my attempts to save money.  Today, she asked if I needed anything else and had me get the milk and things I needed so she could ring me up.  That way I would not have to stand in the long lines at the front of the store.

I called Becky on the way home because my legs were quivering so much I was not sure that I would be able to hold down the pedals for the duration of my trip home.  She was able to stay on the phone with me until I got myself home, the milk put away, and climbed beneath the blanket the Browns sent me.

[I started watching the Eagles game, glad to see Detroit was winning, whilst we were talking.  I should have hung up with Becky, the Pennsylvanian.  Why give up an opportunity to talk with my best friend?  Because whilst we were nattering, the Eagles pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and stomped all over the Lions.  Seriously, Detroit, if you are playing in a snow bowl, you RUN the ball.  Your opponent runs and scores.  You throw and go three-and-out.  RUN.  My 'Boys need to win tomorrow to keep pace.  Right now, the 49ers are losing. I like their quarterback and would like them to win, but I think their losing would help the Cowboys.]

Yes, I am toasty.  Correction, Amos and I are extremely toasty!  As early Christmas presents, they sent me a foot warmer for the bed and an electric blanket for the GREEN chair.  I have figured out that if I set the blanket on 3 and put the quilt over it, I create a warm pocket of air that keeps me toasty, but does not tip me over into the getting overheated.

Maybe I am sleeping so much because I am so very comfortable?

Amos has been curling up against the foot warmer once I turn out the lights.  And he has been burrowing himself beneath the electric blanket.  I wish I could stand back and take a photo of myself because I look rather odd, lying in the GREEN chair with a huge mound on my midsection.  If you look closely enough, you will see the blankets rise and fall with Amos' breathing.

Firewood Man stopped by this afternoon to measure the yard.  I could wish for it to happen later, as in having time to save up for the work, but he's coming in a week or so to run drain pipe extenders to the side walk, burying them in the yard, from the two corners of the house.  When it rains, that is where the water comes into the basement a bit.

During a recent torrential downpour, I went to study what was happening on the right side of the house (as you stand and face it).  You see, the sidewalk rounding the left side is broken, so the drain water is actually funneled back to the house.  That makes sense for there to be water at that corner, then.  But I could not figure out why I get some on the left side.  Well, getting drenched showed me the problem: my neighbor's house.

My neighbors gutters are clogged up top, so the water is falling off the roof in sheets on the side corner of her house.  But her downspout extender is also clogged, because water comes up out of where it is fitted to the downspout.  Basically, when there is a strong downpour of rain, a lake forms between the two houses.  I tried to talk with her about the blockages I noted, but she walked away shouting that her ex-husband ruined the house and she wasn't going to lift a finger to make it better because that was his job.  SIGH.

Tim is going to put in two catch basins in that area (right at the property line) and funnel those to the drainage pipe he will be burying for me.  That way, my house will no longer be affected by her poor drainage.

We talked about doing this over a year ago.  But, well, in order to bury the left hand pipe, Tim is going to have to either lift up a section of sidewalk, break off a piece of it, or tunnel beneath it.  None of those are actions he is looking forward to taking.  It is my fervent hope that my idea actually works:  the lifting option.  Since the section is broken on both sides, I think a lever might work.  I also told him I would have no problem if he decided to cut the corner in half with his saw and then just lift that section.  It would look almost as if it was planned that way, because the corner is the largest section of any of the sidewalks on my property.

Since the basement channels have always done their job, I have not been bothered that Tim has put off the work.  Frankly, I don't blame him.  However, it would be nice if the channels in the basement were not needed.  Tim told me to call for utility marking this week.

Okay, so what am I most concerned about in this process?  Well, at first I thought of the grass.  But Firewood Man has made such a lovely expanse of GREEN for me in my yards that if some of the grass dies from being dug up in the cold, I know he will fix the matter next Spring.  What does worry me is that Tim does not share the same fervent love of ferns that I do.  And the current extension pipe on the left side runs along side the back of the fern bed.  I would actually like for it to be buried deeper, but I am fearful doing so will result in the ferns being ruined.  I am hoping that he can make a connection on the end that exits at the edge of the bed.

That way, the only plant in jeopardy is the very beleaguered cotton easter.  I would not be so bereft if that finally gave up the ghost.  Though, to give it credit, the cotton easter managed to blossom and berry this year.  It is only half dead at this point.  What I would like to do is to dig it up in a ginormous clump of dirt (to protect the roots), run the pipe, and then move it back about 12 inches so that the part that is growing could continue to fill the corner of the bed and the dead part would be better hidden by the brick wall of the steps.

My plan is to put up "We LOVE Ferns!" signs along the side of the house so Tim sees them as he works!

I have two antique wooden boxes on the mantle.  One of them has cash in it that I use to pay Tim.  Whenever I do an odd job and get some cash, I stick it in the box.  At the moment, there is only $45 left.  While most of the odd jobs he does are "twenty bucks," I am fairly sure that this will be an exception.  However, we have already firmly established that those tires utterly destroyed any chance of finishing the year without another retirement early withdrawal.

When I was watching As Time Goes By, I learned a new phrase.  That show is where I learned about "having a clear out," how a British person would describe the organizing/reducing/donating/recycling bouts.  Well, were I British, my grousing about having to buy tires would be "having a moan."  That cracked me up.  Judi Dench was grousing about something and Geoffrey Palmer notes that she was pushing the matter a bit and she replied, "I'm having a moan."  I like that.

I am most definitely still having a moan about the tires.

However, really I should take the opportunity to re-do the budget.  I have not spent a penny on the car in three years save for a single oil change (I forgot about doing that, too).  I need to try and figure out what other things I need to be thinking about what maintenance I might have with a soon-to-be an 11-year-old Highlander that has just over 72,000 miles on it.  Goodyear did send me a coupon for a $9.95 oil change that does not expire until March.  I should probably put that in the maintenance budget.  I wonder about things like belts and hoses or flushing the radiator or things like that.  I had dealer paid maintenance through 55,000 and have not done anything since then except for replacing the brakes nearly 4 years ago when they did not pass inspection.  And replace the battery before I moved.

This will all be new territory for me.  My first car was destroyed in a wreck caused by a thief fleeing a robbery.  I only had it a couple of months, so I don't really count it as ownership. So my second "first" car I owned 11 years and my "second" car I owned 10 years.  This is really only my third car.  I really do not know about older-car-ownership needs.

Times like this makes being chronically ill and cognitively challenged hard.
As well as being single.
And fatherless.

I would rather be a bit old-fashioned and leave all thoughts of car care on the shoulders of a male.  Too bad Amos doesn't count.  He's the only testosterone in my life.

After Tim left with his measurements in hand, I laid a fire and crawled back beneath the new electric blanket.  Thankful ... and thinking.

Receiving the gift of warmth has been a great blessing, as have Tim, Electrician Man, and now the  new weekend pharmacist—all folk who have gone far beyond the call of duty to help and serve me, to show me mercy.  Too, I have been extremely thankful for Marie's visits and cooking sessions.  Those are all good things, gifts from my Good Shepherd.  And, really, to be fair about it, the manager did not have to give me a discount on a tire that had a rebate so that he could make the cost as close as possible to the tires I had chosen online. It was not his fault the dealer put rims on the Highlander that do not match the specs of the vehicle.  It was not his fault that I did not already know I had off-sized tires on my vehicle.  Instead, he made a choice to help me.

Perhaps there is some website out there that is a guide to what you should do for older car maintenance.  Or some website on car maintenance in general. Or some website for female car owners ... a gender stereotype kind of website that would still be helpful.  The Goodyear manager did tell me that even with my low level of driving, I should rotate the tires once a year and he included free rotation for the warranty life of the tires. I should probably change the oil once a year ... or something like that.  For car No. 2, I found a really great, extremely honest mechanic in Alexandria, who guided me on what to do/not do as that car aged after the warranty maintenance was finished.  In fact, he was the one who encouraged me to buy the Highlander, because I was headed toward a higher maintenance cost window.  Perhaps I can find someone like that here.

I miss "Click and Clack."  Don't you?

For the record, though, I'm not yet done having a moan over having to buy tires now after working so very hard—and rather creatively—to finish the year under the budget I set for myself.  The timing just stinks.  And, well, I still really need new glasses.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Bald is not always beautiful...

Not that my opinion matters, but I think men who are balding should embrace the beauty.  Buzz what's left and enjoy life.  After all, Patrick Stewart certainly showed just how attractive a balding man can be.  Oh, my!

But balding tires are not beautiful.

Yes, I was out with Sandra on Wednesday in my Highlander.  With merely a light mist, my wheels spun several times.  The traction control and anti-locked break systems kicked in and I automatically noted that that's been happening, mostly to assure my passenger that I was used to it.  Sandra pointed out that it shouldn't.

I have been so very exhausted and so ill over the past three years, I have not given my tires a second thought.  Not even a first thought.  So, I sat there giving them many thoughts.  Much to my chagrin—utter embarrassment, really—it dawned on me that my tires are eight years old.  My 5-year-warranty tires.  Eight.  Eight years old and rather bald.  As in huge swaths of tire without any sort of groove left.

I already knew Fort Wayne did not have a National Tire & Battery (NTB), which is where I have always gone.  Or at least as long as I can remember.  I do know that since I have been responsible for a car (30 years now), I have always bought Goodyear tires.  Not knowing where to go or what to do, I asked Sandra for advice and she suggested I just go to Wal-Mart.

I did.  I ran into someone who couldn't operate the computer and who asked me what size tires I needed three times.  He asked me what kind of vehicle I needed three times.  And I will admit that I became very agitated when he left the computer to help another customer—a Wal-Mart employee—and then started the process of looking up tires once more ... asking me what size I needed and what kind of vehicle I have.

A manager heard my slightly loud question:  "Is there someone who actually knows about tires who can help me?" and headed over to intervene.  He asked the young man what size tires I needed and what vehicle I had.  After four times of hearing that I drive a Highlander, the young man couldn't answer him.  The bottom line was that the Goodyear ones they carried that would fit my vehicle were special order, so I had one choice.  And there would be a three hour wait before the hour and a half installation would begin.  I simply cannot sit in a chair that long.  I asked for an appointment, which Wal-mart does not give, so I asked what was the best time of day to come.  The answer (7:00 AM) exhausted me further.

On the way home, I bought a propane tank, since all my careful financial machinations have been blown out of the water with a tire purchase, because Tim was coming with firewood and I knew he would take it from my car and hook it up for me.  He did.  Willingly.  I shall be grilling over the winter.

I also managed to get gas.

I swear there is some sort of price gouging in Fort Wayne.  On Wednesday, gas was $2.98 at the best station, $2.99 at a nearby good one.  That same station on Thursday had gas for $3.34!  Oh, my!  Hoping fervently the $2.99 one had not leapt up yet (gas prices can change in a minute around here), I navigated my way over to the BP station.  Eighteen cars were lined up, mostly 3 deep waiting to get gas.  Yes, the price was still $2.99.  Yes, I managed to fill up and make it back home even though I had to exit the station on an unfamiliar road and I did not have my Magellan with me.

Once home, I was really fretting about what to do.  Just how much of an investment do I make in tires?  I have barely driven in the past three years and do not anticipate more.  Yet, I do not believe in being penny wise and pound foolish.  Plus, who in the world is General tires?  I called Sandra and she suggested that I comparison shop.  The thought of doing so was exhausting and I had a cookin'-with-Marie day today, but I thought her advice sound.  I did worry how I was going to do comparisons and such.

Well, it turns out Goodyear has a rather nice website now.  You insert your vehicle information and your location and you can compare many tires, choose a set, choose a location, and book an appointment.  I also learned that the extended Black Friday sale was ending Saturday.  The cost for the Goodyear tires on sale was $25 less than the General tires and I could make an appointment, so I did ... for today at 6:00 PM.  I also became a bit weary of hearing horror stories of tires blowing out because they were bald.

How?
How in the world could I forget about tires??
What other maintenance issues am I missing ... on all fronts, not just vehicular???

Marie.  Oh, Marie!  She brought me some groceries and then showed me how to make Butternut Squash, Sage, and Goat Cheese Ravioli with Hazelnut Brown Butter Sauce.  [Of course, I added cream to the brown butter sauce.]  We drank wine and ate fine food (including roasted broccoli) and she remembered to sing the hymn I had been longing to hear.  Good times.

Only, she left and I had to somehow manage to stay awake long enough to make my appointment.  I also had to set aside all sorts of disaster scenarios playing through my mind as to what could happen driving across town to get the tires.

I fell asleep in the chairs at Goodyear.  Twice.

It turns out that the dealer put a different size rim on my Highlander than should have been used.  I am not sure if that is because I have alloy rims or not.  In any case, the store did not have the tires I needed in stock.  I am not sure if it was the sleeping in the chairs or just my rather pitiful expression, but the manager sold me a much nicer set of tires, discounting each one over $40, so that—together with the $80 rebate—my ultimate cost would be nearly the same as the online booking.  He even filled out the rebate form for me and gave me an envelope.  It is currently stamped and awaiting pick-up.

I called around until I got ahold of someone (Becky) to drive home with me, because I was honestly not sure I could stay awake long enough to get there.  I have been nodding off each early evening.  I am not sure why, but the fatigue—overwhelming exhaustion, really— has been magnified seemingly ten-fold of late.

Yes, I have been grousing about buying tires for over 24-hours now.  They are not in my budget, and I would much, much, much rather have planned for them ... maybe next spring.  However, even I was a tad horrified when I stuck my face close enough to the tires to actually see them.  [I really do need new glasses.]  I should have bought them before I moved.  But the months before were filled with such trauma and chaos that my Highlander did not cross my mind.  The one thought I gave it before heading out to cross country was to have the seven-year-old battery changed.  And I only did that because I had had to have a jump a few times in the months prior to leaving.

Honestly, when I think about driving back from my father's funeral in January during a blinding snow storm on such horrid tires, I cannot help but wonder if God's protection was working on overdrive.  Too, He spared me when I drove out to the granite factory in June during a torrential rain storm.  Perhaps that last drive was the tipping point.  I cannot remember if I was hydroplaning then, but I do know that the pesky light letting me know I was slip-sliding about has been coming on rather frequently in the past couple of months.  I have just been too exhausted to give much thought to the light and why it was coming on at all.  Christ be praised no blowouts or accidents or any danger befell me for my vehicular neglect.

My best friend asked me how in the world the car passed inspection. Ah, but there's the other side of the coin of finally living in a state without car inspections.  I was almost due for one in Virginia, so I have not had an inspection for nearly four years.  Perhaps ... perhaps there is value in being forced to have your car inspected every year.

I came home and slept. And slept some more.  And a bit more.

In thinking about this rather large unexpected bill, I did buy a bit more groceries than needed this month.  And Marie brought me two dozen eggs and offered more.  I think I could stretch out my groceries well into January—perhaps all the way through it—if I mix in a few meals of oatmeal or eggs throughout each week.  That would mean my only grocery spending would be dairy and vegetables.  Somehow, my oatmeal supply keeps multiplying, because I have yet to run out of those packets despite having twice skipped groceries for the month last winter, to make up for the cost of going to the funeral.

Marie also brought me chocolate, since she has committed to a more healthy route.  I, of course, accepted the chocolate quite readily.  And, before falling asleep, managed to eat a couple of pieces as reward for getting the tires and for making it back home without falling asleep.

Last year, I made myself a bowl of rose petals from the old-fashioned roses in the yard.  Simply drying them out preserved their fragrance.  With the last roses of the season, I had saved enough petals to make a bowl for Marie, putting them into one of the crystal dishes I inherited.  I liked that she liked it and am looking forward to creating another one next year ... for whomever I can find who likes the smell of roses.

The tastiness of chocolate and the sweet aroma of roses.  A fair trade, eh?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

War stories...

The tenor of my dreams, nightmares, and night terrors has changed dramatically in the past few months.  As an ex-evangelical, I really do have a hard time thinking that our foe is on the prowl with me.  However, as a Lutheran it is difficult to ignore all the bits and pieces of the Christian Book of Concord that talk about how wily and relentless is our foe.

While one would think having a break from the reliving the horrors of my past would be a good thing, it is not.  Simply put, I have become a murderer in my dreams.  With great ease, I dispatch others.  At first, I was killing aliens.  But now ...

Cold.
Heartless.
Without mercy.

The worst dream the devil was there.  It was one of those night terrors where a palpable presence in the room and where I struggled to wake from the dream, caught in semi-consciousness, caught in horror.  I still cannot even think, much less write about the details of that dream.  Only the whole of it.  I was his.  Willingly.

Back in my evangelical days, we would have bible studies, where each shared what the Scriptures mean to us.  After that sharing and figuring out ways to apply those insights in order to strengthen our relationship with Jesus, we would end with prayer.  The leader would ask for prayer requests, and we would go around the room sharing ours.  Once finished, the leader would ask, "Who will take ______'s prayer request?"  Once the requests were all divvied up, the leader would ask who wanted to start and who would finish.  Then, prayer would commence.

The thing about the prayer request is that, for the most part, they were extremely distanced from the person speaking them.  My aunt's cousin's broke a leg.  My boss's daughter's friend has cancer.  My neighbor's father lost his job.  And then there were mine.

Full of struggles.
Doubt and confusion.
Longing for wisdom and direction.

I was a sinner. I knew it.  That whole vitreous life having been forgiven the day I accept Jesus never came for me.  I never felt as if my relationship was strong enough. I struggled to believe that I had done all I could to be right with God.  I ached to be better, to be stronger, to know that I was saved.

Silence.
Silence greeted the query as to who wanted to take my prayer request.
Defaulted to the leader.
Mumbled.
Hastily spoken.
Often forgotten in the process.

Evangelicals are saints; they are not really sinners.  Sin was taken care of on the cross.  Life is victorious and godly and holy and a process of deepening and strengthening and tending to that personal relationship with God begun the moment you invited Jesus to be your personal savior.

I was a desperate and despairing evangelical.

When I first read the Book of Concord, it was from beginning to end.  I did not discover the pure doctrine through the Small Catechism.  I discovered it through the Augsburg Confession.  The second  article of which, that article that immediately follows the declaration of our Triune God, is that of Original Sin.  Because of original sin, I cannot fear or love or trust God without the gift of faith.  I cannot.

Not by reason.
Not by might.
Not by longing.

There will never be enough words to express the utter, absolute, truly ineffable relief at learning all those struggles to make myself more holy, more godly, more faithful were there because I cannot do those things.  I already am them in Christ.

I have oft said that I miss, with deep and abiding longing, the fellowship of prayer that I enjoyed in the evangelical world.  Yes, I was the elephant in the room. I was awkwardness personified.  But I was still surrounded with people who would pray at the drop of the hat.  Pray with you.  Pray for you.  Pray for the world.  Pray for the neighbor.  At the end of the bible study.  In small groups as a break in the church service.  At special gatherings.

I love the liturgy.
I love the offices of prayer.
I now cling to the cry of forgiveness and renewal that is Evening Prayer.

But I miss the fellowship of prayer.

I try to compensate by asking others to read the Bible to me.  I even ask them to sing to me.  Yet that only makes me the Lutheran elephant in the room.  I am still awkwardness personified.  And my requests still fall flat and are often ... forgotten.

Here's the rub.  I cannot fear and love and trust God without the gift of faith.  Yet what if even being baptized and receiving the Lord's Supper there is no love and trust, only fear?  What if because of what you endured you have no real love, no real trust anywhere within you?  How can you love the Lord your God with all your heart and mind and body and soul if you have no love?  What if learning about disassociation and emotions and the freedom that brings in understanding who you are also brings soul crushing despair?

Because you know.

It is not the shame of what happen that kills you.  It is the truth that you still disassociate, you still are as numb and absent as you were then.  Even with the gifts of Christ.  Even with the wonder and awe that is the Psalter, that is God's message of certitude that you are known by Him.

I need war stories.  I need to hear about the battles others face. I need to know that I am not the only one with gaping wounds that fester, wounds brimming with doubt and confusion.  I need to know that I am not the only one whose mind in the world of sleep is the very antithesis of what she wants.

Paul gave one.  He told all of humanity from the moment he penned Romans until the moment this earth passes away that the bottom line is that he does not do the things he wants to do and he does the things he does not want to do.  Paul battled his mind and body.  Paul the saint who was first a persecutor and murderer of saints.  Paul, though being the saint, was still the sinner.

But I don't hear that about Paul. I hear about his great and wonderful faith. I hear about all that I should be as he was.  All that no being anxious.  All that being content in all circumstances.  All that confidence in Christ.  All that freedom from condemnation.  All that.

What I see and hear is what I am not doing.  What I see and hear is that I need to still be looking for those good works.  The same steps to godlessness. The same paths to holiness.  The same disciplines for a closer relationship with Christ.  It's all just different words that take me to the same place.

What is my fruit of faith?  I spend the nights murdering others in my dreams.  I am the right hand of the devil.

Three kindnesses, three bits of mercy, came to me this week that I am trying to be more real than the dreams that fill my nights:

• My best friend told me about some of her dreams, where she is not the person she wants to be.
• My friend Mary told me that the faith Christ gives is not an incomplete or imperfect faith.
• A pastor friend wrote me the following:  The righteous do not look at their works. When Christ Jesus says they have them, they are surprised. Why? Because our eyes are fixed, not upon ourselves, not upon our actions, not upon what we have done or left undone (for we could count all that as rubbish, as skubula, or as my son would say, "poop"). We rather look to Christ.
  
  And here is the thing - those who are in Christ, who have been justified by Christ, redeemed and forgiven - they are surprised when anything is said well of them. We are but unworthy servants! But this is the truth - it is not just that Christ forgave you from a distance and left you on your own - He has forgiven you, He dwells in you, so now every single breath you take, every act, whether it is simply rolling out of bed in the morning or what have you - this is a good work - for when the Father sees you do this, He sees Christ Jesus, He sees His beloved Son with whom He is well pleased.
  
  Just as everything in your life, if understood simply from your own perspective is sin and dross and (_insert vulgar term of your choice here_), in Christ every thing you do is indeed truly a good work.
  
  You are redeemed, forgiven by Christ the Crucified - the Father cannot say anything to you but "Well done, good and faithful servant" - because He sees the faith of Christ.

Even when the dreams are not night terrors, I struggle to make the transition from dream to reality.  I have these dreams of very specific houses that are mine in the dream.  I could write all about them, about the problems of each that I find myself addressing over and over and over again.  But the bottom line is that when I awake I struggle to grasp that the house that I am in is the reality, not the dream.  

Just as I tell Baby Bunny stories of his life with us when he is cowering on the other side of the fence or whisper sweet nothings to Amos, reminding him all that he is to me, when he has climbed my shoulders in fear, I tell myself stories about this house.  Stories of the master bath beautification or the parlor bath wall or the now golden walls of the solarium.  I will sometimes crawl, shaking and near senseless in fear and confusion, to the bathroom and touch the tub that is no longer that lurid turquoise or lean against the pedestal sink that has made using a sink less painful or press my face to the sweet shadow wall that is no longer florescent lime green.  I look about and take in all the changes, the absence of art deco lights and the addition of flowy white shower and window curtains, the matching hardware on walls and toilet ... all things that add simple beauty to the space, all things the work of my hands.  This is the real house.  This is the real world.

When I awoke weeping this morning, I thought of the dreams Becky shared with me, dreams that are so very opposite of all that I know of her, all that I have known of her for almost two decades, knowing that they are not her reality, and tried to believe that mine are not my reality.  That I am not that person.  I struggled to cling to Mary's reassurance that the faith I was given is complete.  And I wept equally as deeply, trying to hope my rolling out of bed really and truly is a good work.

I want so very much to know the words I will hear will not be "I never knew you." but rather "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Because.

Because God sees the faith of Christ.

Because God does not see the one whose heart is mostly numb and absent and knows not how to love.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

If not the one who drinks Dr Pepper...

Who am I?  Snapping photos of some photos, I learned a few things...

I am someone who grew up in a world where the highlight of visiting Six Flags was making spin art.

I am someone whose haircuts were done with a bowl and scotch tape for many,  many years.

I am someone who, despite photographic evidence to the otherwise, did not know her father was involved in the space program from the Apollo missions to the Space Lab to the Shuttle flights until his funeral.

I am someone who firmly believes that you should wear socks with all shoes, even sandals.

I am someone who began her love affair with Toyotas at an early age ... especially GREEN ones.

I am someone who liked to wear her grandmother's jewelry, even if she did not understand the proper location for a broach.

I am someone who is a Wiley Coyote.  Mrs. Wiley made a bet for lunch with the other 5th grade teacher, the winner being the one whose students collected the most aluminum cans during the annual school drive.  The other teacher's class collected the most in school history: over 5000.  Our class collected the most in the history of America: nearly 50,000.  We spent afternoons and weekends combing the side of the local roads and highway and driving down to Galveston to clear the beaches, riding on the back of her station wagon as she drove slowly, hopping on and off whenever we spotted a can.  We had can-stomping-pizza parties with her husband.  We achieved the impossible.

I am someone who is a Texan who vacationed in Colorado every summer,

riding horses,

hiking,

and jeeping.

I am someone (the one in the back) who was given the gift of faith upon hearing the Living Word at a summer camp ... years before being allowed to go to church and decades before being baptized.

I am someone who believed in high fashion, even on 50-mile bike tours.

I am someone who stitch-witchery sewed a clown costume and visited children in the hospital.

I am someone you shouldn't dare to climb the mast of a sailboat ... unless you want to lose the bet.

I am someone who practiced being a mother whenever she could ... and who fervently believed that you do whatever it takes to have curls, even if that means sleeping in a bonnet dryer in the 80s ... and 90s.

I am someone who learned that what goes down

must go back up,

and who did not take herself seriously as she taught children to do the same.

I am someone who regularly lost to her Scrabble partner whilst getting her master's degree.

And I am someone who made a matching hat and choker and dressed in linen for her graduation, taking her own photo, too.

I am someone who always sees the invisible ... because she feels invisible herself.

Someone who all but disappeared from photos from her master's graduation until she just couldn't stop taking photos of her beloved fluff ball nearly two decades later.

Except for when her best friend felt the need to take one.

I am someone who prayed the Jesus prayer over and over and over again, because she was afraid that that she was not really and truly and actually saved until she learned the pure doctrine of the Christian Book of Concord.

And I am someone who does the same with the Psalter, now, because the fear remains that Jesus will say, "I never knew you." when she dies.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

How could there be more...

Between posting and actually carrying the bags out of the car, I added in a set of dishrags, a set of dish towels, and a tablecloth that were in a box in the basement.  The rags and towels were a back-up set to the camping set I already donated.  I have four perfectly usable dish towels that I bought when I moved into my first home 13 years ago—mustard gold to match my dishes.  I also have repurposed my favorite set of napkins, a madras plaid from my childhood, as cooking towels, to save on paper towel use.  And I have this really funky colored waffle weave dish towel that is so wild and wonderful whenever I sneak it into the kitchen I get a bit of a pick-me-up.  So my kitchen linen needs are fully met.  Those in the basement were languishing, in need of a home where they would be put to good use.

I also added the cups and plates I had held onto for picnics, seeing as I have had no picnics since moving here.  And then I went searching through my kitchen drawers and cabinets to see if there were utensils and things that I had not used since I started.  I culled some more things, including stainless serving utensils that are really, really nice, but I still never used them.  Because I never cook for groups.  And, if I did somehow magically become social and start cooking for groups, I could pull out the silver serving utensils I have.

Finally, I let go of my two sets of holiday mugs.  They were not coffee mugs, mind you, but hot chocolate ones.  However, I've only used them a few times since, again, visitors sitting around drinking hot chocolate/tea/coffee are simply not really an activity that occurs in my home.  Perhaps some family will sit around drinking hot chocolate together.

I also found a cache of audio books to donate.  Truly, I am not sure how these could have been missed.  I did keep two—one for each hand, since these are treats to me:  First Contact, read by Gates McFadden, and Pride and Prejudice.  The rest I put into two bags for Goodwill.

Somehow, the whole back end of the Highlander is filled up again.  How could there be more to donate??

Something I have wondered about:  Do I keep travel coffee mugs for visitors?  I, of course, do not drink the wretched stuff.  But I have four rather nice double-walled aluminum travel mugs.  I have held onto them thinking that visitors might want to sip coffee on the way out some place.  But this has never happened.  And I cannot drink things in metal containers, just as I cannot use metal utensils.  Ought not the travel mugs be added to the household goods bags??  I do so enjoy being a good host, having things of need on hand.  Yet, to date, they have never been of need.  Maybe just keep one???

I stood in the servant's closet for a long while, staring at my work wardrobe.  I would like to say that my obstacle for donating them is that Dress for Success requires things to be on hangers and I am just not willing to donate my very, very nice hangers.  In fact, were the work clothing gone, I would hang some items that are piled on wire mesh shelves just now.  However, I could just donate the clothing to the Salvation Army or Goodwill.  In doing so, I could finally close the door on that part of my life.  But, you know, that utter dearth of hoards of visitors means that it really doesn't matter if I have a full closet in one of the three extra bedrooms.

I think I would need some sort of support to actually go through with that.
Or copious amounts of haranguing about the matter.
Maybe stories of naked women on the streets or something.

After hauling everything to the car, I made dinner.  Somehow, I have actually not yet made a chicken enchilada in my new oven.  How in the world that possibly be is beyond my ability to fathom.  Yet, somehow, it has come to pass that I have not put chicken enchilada into my belly since the end of May, when the old stove was removed from the kitchen.

First, I shredded the final piece of grilled chicken.  Being a rather large piece, I split it in half.  This, here, is what it looks like (the half I put in a container for the morrow):

This is what it looks like after I mix together evaporated milk (5 oz.) and enchilada sauce (10 oz.), pile the chicken on a flour tortilla, sprinkle roasted cumin, salt, and pepper over the meat, drench it with the sauce, toss on a dollop of sour cream, top it with cheddar cheese, fold it up, put it in a French oval, top it with more sauce and more cheddar cheese, and then bake it for 30 minutes or so at 350 degrees:

Much tastiness if you ask me.  [The rest of the world, I am sure, would add some onions and green chillies before folding it up.]  Amos nearly incapacitated himself with anticipation at getting to pre-clean an enchilada dish once more.  He has clearly missed my eating chicken enchiladas.

[Note:  I store my leftover enchilada sauce mixture in a Snapple bottle.  Doing so makes it very easy to pour it over future enchiladas]

Then, I made this:

The last one from my first rank of wood for the winter.  That bed of coals is radiating rather intense heat.  Taking the photo, my phone shut down!  So, both Amos and I are rather toasty at the moment, resting in the GREEN chair beneath the quilt and savoring the warmth, the crackling and popping, and the roaring of the fire.

Yesterday, I had very low-ball offer on the guitar.  After much agonizing, I decided to accept it.  Then, the guy decided he wanted me to deliver it.  A two-hour drive each way!  I declined.  However, I would note that had I sold it I could have ordered my new glasses tomorrow.

This is important, you see, because Baby Bunny is back!!  He is, honestly.  I had been rather worried about him, having not seen him all summer.  But he is back in the yard.  Amos has not been all that welcoming, so several times I have had to console a frightened Baby Bunny huffing and puffing on the other side of the fence, having just narrowly avoided the wrath of my fluff-ball-puppy.

Well, last night, Amos raced down the steps and when charging over to the side fence.  I chased him away and saw a quivering face just on the other side of the gate.  Whilst Amos tended to his business, I consoled Baby Bunny by whispering sweet nothings to him and telling him all sorts of stories about how loved he has been, from the time I first spotted him three Springs ago as a tiny bit of brown fur in the grass.  I told him how proud I was that he had grown big and strong.  And I apologized for Amos' uncharitable behavior.  Amos came over to let me know he had finished and to growl a bit at Baby Bunny once more.  I picked Amos up and carried him back inside, scolding him about the need to show mercy.

Once inside, I saw the side door motion sensor light switch on and looked out the window.  Much to my dismay, I discovered that I had been consoling that horrid possum!  The possum Amos peed on.  The possum who is much, much larger now than when Amos first encountered him in the summer.

I really do need new glasses.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

On the troll...

I missed two doses of erythromycin and ended up with writhing innards for two days.  I am still really uncomfortable and swollen, but much, much, much better.  When I stick to a strict six-hour schedule with the medication, it really has significantly changed my innards misery.  But missing doses because I forget to take them (even with the now double alarms) wreaks havoc on that fragile balance.

I have also been struggling with change and loss and me.  Silly, eh, that the whole no-longer-a-Dr-Pepper-person bothers me somewhere in the mix of all my thoughts and feelings?  So, I went on the troll for something to organize/reduce/recycle.  I ended up in the dining room.

This is my pile of donations for the homeless re-homing non-profit.  One set of 4 placemats, one set of eight, and one set of 8 with 12 matching napkins.  Holiday dish towels, a hand towel, and a bread basket liner are also included.  Clearly, I had yet to let go of my grandmother's pots.  And I tossed in a set of 16 party napkins and a bed caddy that fits between the mattress and box springs and hangs down the side of the bed.  [Why the latter was in with the dining room linens is beyond me.]

While I have a set of napkins, now, that do not clash so terribly with the chairs, I still only have 4 placemats for a table that sits 6.  I thought about keeping the natural linen placemats for just that reason, but they clash and the odds of my having 5 visitors is mighty, mighty slim.  My mother has the other 4 placemats that match the ones I have.  I am campaigning for her to donate them to a certain person living in Fort Wayne.  They are these straw ones from when I was a wee little one.

I am posting a photo below, even though the flash utterly changed the color of the napkins.  You will just have to pretend that they and the small runner in the middle of the table are extremely close in color, which they are ... unless photographed at night with a flash.

[I washed more of the napkins in my last Laundry Day and was still tickled pink that all I had to do was shake them out, straighten them as I hung them on a rack, and then fold them and put them away.  No-ironing-needed napkins are wonderful!!!!]

Those placemats have been around as long as I have ... maybe longer.  At some point, she gave me half.  Of the placemats I had, these are the ones that worked best.  I wouldn't mind a set of brown ones that could blend the chairs in better, but not spending money is better than buying placemats for visitors when, in reality, you are an introverted wall-flower hermit.

Anyway, I was ruthless in reducing the table/kitchen linens because I do not need them and am no longer really using them.  I did keep this really, really cool vintage placemat set of 4 cork-backed placemats and 4 matching coaster.  That is a prime example of something I have savored that I would rather find someone who would cherish the coolness of it than simply give it away.  But it is good to let go of all of those placemats when I am not using them and will not be using them.

I will admit ... I also kept a set of 8 butterfly napkin rings.  I put them in the donation bag and took them back out.  Once.  Twice.  Five times, actually.  I think they are bloody cool, but I do not know if any of my friends might like them as much as I do.  I used to have oodles of napkin rings, but they have all somehow disappeared in the downsizing process.  I am not sure if I have ever really used napkin rings.  I believe the thought of them is actually more appealing than the use of them.

Okay, I just put butterfly napkin rings back into the bag.  What does a hermit do with napkin rings??  For good measure, I went ahead and also added the light, lacy straw placemats I had left in the drawer as a just-in-case contingency.  What, like the ones I am using would break?  SIGH.

Back when I was a young thing, heading out onto the mission field, I read every missionary biography I could find.  Two stuck in my mind:  the work of Hudson Taylor and that of Amy Carmichael.  What I liked about Hudson Taylor was that every year he would go through everything he owned.  If he had not used it in the past year, he gave it away.  He also was very, very circumspect about not confusing culture and society with the Gospel.  What I found fascinating about Amy Carmichael was that she had a policy of never telling others of her prayers requests.  She merely petitioned God to provide.  And he did.

If ever you wish an enlightening time, read From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya.  It is a biographical history of missions.  We certainly are far better at westernizing others, at being moral police, than we are at preaching Christ alone.

I've mentioned before that I did some graduate work on Edward O Guerrant, a fascinating man who was a doctor, a lawyer, a soldier, and a missionary.  God having spared him in the Civil War, Guerrant dedicated the rest of his life to establishing a mission in Appalachia.  In his mission work, he brought education and healthcare in his wake, but he would sternly instruct the seminary students he cajoled into serving as missionaries that their job was to bring Christ crucified.  Period.  They were to live as those in Appalachia, wearing like clothing and eating what was served them.  Guerrant was an admirer of Hudson Taylor strove to emulate his mission work in China in the backwoods of America.

If you are my age, you might have read Catherine Marshall's Christy, or seen the television series.  Her mother listened to one of Guarrant's lectures on the mission and walked away from her pampered life in North Carolina to live in abject poverty and teach in Appalachia.  In some ways, I think what the current BBC series Call the Midwife does is similar:  To show the contrast between the haves and have nots and to understand that serving the have nots is not about changing them or fixing them or making their lives or appearance more palatable to you, but meeting those souls in their homes, at their tables, sitting by their side.  No matter the filth.  No matter the poverty.  No matter the cultural and societal differences.  It is the work of mercy that matters most.  Be it healthcare, education, or spiritual care.

Sometimes, when I think of what I have accumulated since leaving home at 18, I am staggered!  I am not really an acquisitive person and tend to hang onto things and use them far longer than most would, because I am not really a disposable person.  But, oh my, what I have donated is sobering.  I do think a lot about all of the household goods I have brought to The Mustard Seed over the past year.  Things I take for granted.  Things I had idle duplicates. Things I could use, but someone else could use even more.  I do know from my work in affordable housing that getting homeless individuals and families into permanent housing is only a first step.  It is quite expensive to set up a home.  And it is not like Americans still hold shivarees for newlyweds, much less for those embarking on a new life.

Oh, Myrtle, you really should gird your loins (and your heart) and get to donating your work clothes to Dress for Success.  

Life really does go on ... despite change, despite illness, despite loss.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!