Some ideas just evolve. For maybe 10 years I had a just right writing assignment for several grades before Spring BreaK I used it with fifth through eighth grade, and they and I were always pleased. It was designed to introduce free verse which took away the stress of rhyme. No moon, June, tune. It had parts that were work alone and chatty shared idea times. They could end up typing in the font of their choice (very important) and add a picture (maybe more important.)

In a nutshell, the title of the poem was I am a ……. Each child chose an animal, an object, a natural formation, a flower and listed all the ways that choice matched what they thought of themselves. Boys could be a bear, a lion, a waterfall and girls were a rosebud, a beach, a parakeet. By the time they finished the sequence of development, the way what we knew of them matched to their choice in a mannner breathtaking to both them and me.

Monday morning I got up thinking, “What do I need to be today to make everything work.” A plain ordinary female couldn’t bring it off. I started thinking maybe I needed to be a turtle carrying everything in my shell. That image didn’t quite go far enough. I had a 7:30 appointment to get my car serviced 2.5 miles from my house. I could get a ride back home, but then I needed to get back to pick it up. I had learned I could take a book and wait. That day I had two more tasks to be completed and delivered before noon. My only choice was to be a kangaroo with varied necessities in a tote bag that served as a pouch. I had letters to finish: paper, addresses, pens, and stamps. I had a meal to plan and a shopping list to organize: cookbook and a different paper. That early, I took the morning paper to read and toss. My phone, of course, for two calls after 9:00. The book was tucked in as last minute wrap up.

You have made a choice like that. For this day and this moment I need to call on special traits to meet this time. We already know the phrases that define our choice: strong as a rock, busy as a bee, feel like a fish out of water, or it is your turn to swim with the sharks. When the day settles, and the emergency is past, we can return to that match so perfect for each of us.

I’ve kept my feet on the ground,
    I’ve cultivated a quiet heart.
Like a baby content in its mother’s arms,
    my soul is a baby content. Psalm 131:2

No, not deeply. The theme, though, like drinking, does lead to a wobbly path. I was educated at a time when memorizing poetry, especially from dead Europeans, was required, and I had a mother who taught English for twenty years and cleaned house to the rhythm of lines she knew. So, Alexander Pope with these lines, define my place in life right now. “A little learnng is a dangerous thing. Drink deep or taste not the Pierian Springs.” The Pierian Springs were a mythological source of knowlege. My glass of technology has been small sips, at times a gulp, and never a satisfying drain the flagon.

Pencil and paper, a Remington typewriter, chalk on a blackboard, and ” purples” from the mimeograph machine solved all my written communication needs. Then at 40, I went back in the classroom to a job with 20 plus year old colleagues who had skills I lacked. I could use this new computer that had to be dialed up to make connection to create a document. That was it! I took an evening course to broaden my horizon and even earned a certificate for my permanent record. However, this was when one had to create one’s own programs. When I finished and hit RUN the message was usually ERROR, and I had to find where I had put a comma instead of a colon.

Forty-five years down the road, I do fairly well for my age. While many four year olds can’t match my skills, most ten year olds can or will experiment with more surety than I would. What knowledge I do have has been gained from mistakes corrected to up the learning curve. A heartfelt thanks to those have stood by my side or taken oven the keyboard to undo what I didn’t even know I did.

The above paragraphs are the explanation for this week’s thoughts. I came to writing a blog with thirty minute help from a kind friend and auto renewal for using Word Press as the platform – if that is the correct term. Specific vocabulary is also a problem. I can open, keyboard, save, and publish without really knowing all the various options in the several available menus. I have even inserted a picture, yet am not sure how I did it. I had a Thursday blog typed and ready and it vanished. When I tried to rewrite, the inner workings told me it was saved in outer space and by some means it could be restored. That was way beyond my skill set. Just so you know, my half year resolution is to go back to my 40’s and prepare for one more gulp. You may not be better off for my knowledge. I will. This expresses my feelings and my hope.

For now I (sic) see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know…

2 Corinthians 13: 12

Time: 9:00 p.m. Wednesday night. I’ve put this off as long as I can and I’m still not sure where it will go. I kept trying to choose a topic from my floating list, and one just wouldn’t gel. This may be more for me than for you, and you are welcome to follow, agree, disagree, or just hit delete.

The absolute. I woke up Sunday morning rejoicing in July 4. I’d rather be an American and a Texan transplanted from Louisiana than an across the ocean British Colonial. My flag waved between showers along with others on Swift Street and a play list of patriotic music helped me move though morning chores. I have a voter registration in my wallet, and I drove off to a church of my choice. At a dinner on the grounds at noon, the children of our church had a parade with decorated bikes and dads holding the hands of toddlers waving flags while a brass group played and adults cheered them on. The term “my heart swelled” was perfect.

The uncertainty. While paragraph two is absolutely true, I was also aware those feelings were not everyone’s story. That’s where the rub comes in. Some hurts, angers, and worries I truly understand. Not having a shelter or knowing how to find one, to worry about feeding children, to not have health care. Even in my priviliged estate, I have had my frustrating dealings with government agencies and setting up health care. Then there is a whole span of other concerns that I don’t seem to either understand or feel that I have a one person solution. I have studied history, sometimes with pride and often with abhorence. Even if each person views times of the past differently, actions cannot be changed. We can only learn, evaluate, and try to create a better time. I believe in the vision of 1776, and I also know, as in most things people do, some parts are flawed.

Back to absolutes. I believe that problems and mistakes are going to exist a long time, and only the perfect participants (if any) can cast the first stone. I will try to make whatever changes lie in my venue to help the ship of state change directions. I will work at knowing others better before I’m judgemental – maybe excluding people who treat children inappropriately in airports. All I can do is offer the best I am to the best in any someone else, and wait for the day God will give us a second chance.

Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away….Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.”

Revelation 21:1, 5

I have absolutely no memory of a Hammond grocery store until I was maybe 8. We ate three meals a day, so food stuff must have come from somewhere. You know from previous comments that Daddy raised and butchered beef and pork (complete with a stone block smoke house). Chickens were fenced in the back yard and fish, squirrel, and deer rounded out meat needs. The vacant lot on the corner was a Victory Garden. Milk, bread, and Kool-aid for the summertime and ice berg lettuce must have required a shopping trip, yet I have selective amnesia for that part of my life.

My first put a name to it store was a small privately owned one four houses down from our house on Linden Ave., Harry’s Grocery. The Jacksons went to some church besides First Baptist. His wife and daughters who ran the cash register and stocked the shelves wore maxi dresses with high necks and long sleeves and the girls had braids hanging down their backs that I envied. Mother could either call down her order or go pick it out and a high school boy would deliver in the afternoon. It stayed in business until the 1970’s. Our boys in early elementary years could walk down by themselves for an afternoon treat while Granny stood on the sidewalk and watched. They could choose a candy, tell Mr. Harry to charge to Mrs. Emeleen, say thank you, and walk back. A guided independent adventure.

Then two chain stores anchored the shopping for a bit; one may still be there. Albertson’s was on the north side of town and my first memory of fruit and vegetables in bins. It had frozen goods and a flower department. Even in the late 1990’s, when I visited Mother, we would stop to pick up a pot plant to take out to the cemetery for Daddy’s grave. Its equal on the south side was A & P, a real draw for a small town. It had ads in national magazines. We bought coffee there. It sold beans – Dark Roast – and had a grinder. I could dump the beans in the top, choose the size of ground, and hold the bag carefully underneath while the machinery did the work and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air.

Grocery stores are for comestibles and cleaning products. This week I remembered their secondary used to be purpose. We lived on Rice Blvd. for 42 years and four blocks down was Rice #1 of a family chain in Houston. In addition to shopping, it was the neighborhood news room. I would stop in on the way home from school and mix and mingle with other Southampton families. I could send children to walk the four blocks for the last minute needed item. The manager and checkers knew my name. For years, and especially during the pandemic, get in and get out or have it done for you was the call of the day. Then, last Thursday, I recognized a church member in Kroger. We stopped and another hadn’t seen lately friend joined us. We blocked the aisle while we caught up on moves and new grandchildren. Loading bags in the car, I felt more connected to the world than I had in a long time. Obviously, there’s not a Bible verse about grocery stores. There is one about the sweetness of shared conversation.

Pleasant words are a honeycomb,
Sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. Proverbs 16:24

The plan made aging pure fun. I promise we will move on next week to either deeper or more quirky subjects. Over 100 pieces of mail deserve a blog all their own, not to mention that the purchase of stamps may have helped offset the deficit of the USPO. Two eager bunnies sent words in early May which I opened before I realized they were covering their bases while the thought was upon them. Then I started saving in a basket decorated with an angel that is usually used for Christmas cards. Some I recognized by a name on the back or a return address or a personal Aunt Charis for addressee. Others had no clue except it was for me

I got up Thursday morning and sorted in piles by family, church connections, and worldly friends. Whether anyone noticed it or not, I am nothing if not organized. I needed to savor and to make a list. Active reading was delayed by admiring a Happy 85th Birthday sign in the front yard. (Whoever sent, consider yourself thanked). Appropriate distractions came as e-mails or texts or absolutely delightful phone calls. Two close at hand friends came to greet in person and give a now permissible hug. The celebration was supper at a Mediterranean restaurant with a group of six kin. A glitter edged poster listing memories from three great nephews shone as decoration. The day was topped off with carrot cake.

The next day began connecting who and what, each giving a special blessing or delight. A few mainly reminded me of a person that pandemic or just shifts in recent activities had moved to a back place in my mind. I needed to sit and rest in that connection again. Some were a to the point recount that could have happened only because of a special place or time. Words brought tears or a chuckle or the action of putting the paper down and catching my breath. I was overwhelmed by those who took time to take pen in hand and fill a whole page with stories or fleeting glances of years that have passed.

Since these were chosen friends, I didn’t expect criticism, though with some, it could have been offered. What caught me were some incidents I thought were ordinary, turned out to be a treasure for others. I liked hearing smiling and encouraging and loving children because I see those traits in me. Some offerings like adventurous opened a door to be more of that, and I was pulled up short when someone listed patient as a virtue. Really? To those who sent words and times, and to you who just absorb the overflow of the day in this writing, thank you. You have walked with me in various journeys and have give me what we are called to give to each other.

As I have loved you, so you must love one another. John 13:34

August, 1957. I had turned 21 in June and was in charge of everything that happened in a 6th grade class except music. Yes, even art and physical ed. Hold the laughter please. In that time, when lunch came, we lined up at our door, had a prayer, and walked to the cafeteria. As children were gathering, the child nearest me said, “Miss Wedgeworth, what do you remember about the Civil War?” At that point I realized no matter how young and cute I considered myself, to a large group of my world, I was old. From then on whenever someone asked my age, I just told them, thankful for years and what they had offered.

This very day I will have completed eight decades and five years of the next one. As it unfolds, I will open, maybe in small batches to be savored, cards and notes that have come from many of you. A son and I worked through several ideas of what would be the best ceremony. Having the neighbors come for ice cream and cookies down the driveway was an option until the heat rose in May. Closing off the street for a party that children could skate and draw expanded exponentially with each day until it imploded on itself. All I wanted was that contact with those who have walked various paths with me.

A few of you are still precious who knew the ten and twenty years of childhood and college. Five decades were in classrooms with ties to children who now have grandchildren and with peer teachers who have also retired. Past the age that I thought I could, I had opportunity to camp out, white water raft, and scratch the back of whales rubbing against a boat in Ignacio Bay. I spent fifty-six years being married and raising three children. I have sewed and gardened and put meals on a table to feed bodies and spirits. Underneath all since I came to Houston as a single has been a church that with music, teaching, and people has been everlasting arms each step of the way.

Absolutely perfect! Absolutely not! You don’t need for me to innumerate the dips below zero on the graph. No matter how I felt during those times, I have crossed the rivers and slogged through a swamp and scaled a mountain to look ahead to a half decade that leads to nine groups of ten. Sometimes it is scripture; sometimes poetry. Wendell Berry A Timbered Choir ” I go into the image of a design that mind can follow, but not know.”

And everyday, all of Psalm 139 except verses 19 – 22. I can leave His judgements to Him.

………..and lead me in the way everlasting. Psalm 139:24

First, notice the article adjective that denotes the noun. It is not an because treadmill doesn’t start with a vowel. Neither is it a because this machine is not just an indefinite example. The was chosen on purpose. The black and silver Pro-Form Cadence Lt was selected for a special need and a special place because a time had arrived to call it into being. If you know me well at all, structured exercise is not the phrase that comes to mind. I never played a team sport. One venture into partner ping-pong and a tiddlewinks ranking in one contest were my athletic highlights. Even walking with a certain grace came to me in the middle part of my life.

I realized that I could fit daily exercise into my day when I taught at a school near my house that had a free gym for teachers. I could go early enough to “work out” and shower and be upstairs in time for my first class. Daughter and I did a spin class together, and at times I tried the elliptical trainer. Amazingly, after a good bit of huffing and puffing and stopping short of my goal, I did improve. A marathon was not in my future, yet steps forward were possible.

What tipped the scales to ownership? The marathon is still unreachable. Steps every day increased in importance with age added. Starting in September I set 3 miles a day, sometimes in increments, as a doable goal. Through the fall I tallied up an average of 2.6. That took into account sloughing off time and rainy days. The calendar does turn, and even in May Houston hit 85 degrees with panting humidity. Mental preparation for some changing of space and releasing dollars, and middle son went with me to a BigBox to find THE right treadmill for me. Then I was ready to think more about details.

I rearranged some furniture and freed up a place other than the living room to house the equipment. I went confidently alone to ask the right questions of a young salesman who had to absent himself to find out every answer. Forty minutes later I had paperwork for the machine and the contact with a company that would come deliver and install – the best dollars I have ever spent. Walking outside may be my place of choice. Commitment to steps clocked will have to include inside.

Therefore, strengthen the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, and make straight paths of your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed.

Hebrews 12: 12 – 13

I don’t know if it is a talent; however I can have something in my hand, put it down, and it vanishes. At one school before I wore glasses all the time, I had a $1.00 reward for whatever child found them. It cost me about $4.00 a year. Well worth not having to search. The same school had a secretary who consoled me with nothing was ever really lost. I had this vision of reaching the Pearly Gates and having to go through the Enteral Lost and Found before I could enter. At times the lost item casts a wider ripple than just finding that object.

Friday before Memorial Day was a golden day. I had a list that flowed like spilled mercury. Breakfast with a friend, picked up ordered groceries, and got them put up. Time for a nap (a genetic necessity). I did a little business and letter writing and made a post office run to wrap up a day of check lists.

I looked forward to Saturday. A source came to collect a couch whose removal would make room for a treadmill…stay tuned for that story…and gave a small end table I no longer needed to a daughter who did. Everyone left, and I was ready to go forth. I put my hand in my purse to check and felt no purple wallet! ARGH! as the pirate says. I could account for every step of the day before. It had to be in the house. I clocked miles making the circle and resorting piles. Helpful phone calls with, “Where did you have it last?” were not helpful. I even called on the only saint I know, St. Anthony, affectionately called Tony by those who know him best.

No one had charged on my back up card, so I still felt sure the wallet had not been dropped and picked up. A smaller bag had the essentials I needed. Nothing could be done until Tuesday. I felt any previous plans for that day floating away if I would have to deal with a computer and passwords. One more word to Tony, and i resigned myself to the inevitable.

Sunday morning I was making a Tuesday list when middle son came to gather me for church In one hand he had a flashlight; the other held a purple wallet. It had slipped between a driver’s seat and the gear box. I was duly authenticated again. Two museums and the library would have restored cards rather easily. Dealing with insurance, Medicare, and my vaccination proof might have taken time and effort. That morning I had read Ezra 2, an account of 42,360 Israelites plus some extras who were returning to Jerusalem. I was no longer excluded like the people in vs. 61 – 62. Come Tuesday, I could go forth to the day. Thank you, Tony and Doug.

These searched for their family records, but they could not find them and so were excluded from the priesthood as unclean. Ezra 2: 62

I knew the poem, just not the name and how appropriate it was. The emotion began with a flash of envy. One soggy Houston night I was trying to assiduously cross the street from the parking lot to the church for choir. I have a pair of Land’s End rain shoes that look like patten leather, yet shed enough water to keep feet dry. They were not adequate for stepping from street over the gutter to the curb without a slosh into the shoes. Suddenly a composed vision appeared. A college girl had on jodhpurs tucked into Hunter black knee high rain boots and was chatting with a friend showing no concern about where her feet went. She was prepared.

Even if I could match her wardrobe, the faintest hope did not exist I could pull off her sangfroid composure. Hopefully though, I could at least be saved from awkwardly clomping and still have dry feet. At a family dinner, I mentioned how appropriate the boots were and how sure I was they would solve any future problems. This statement was made stronger by our just coming though a several week stretch of rain and more rain leaving an abundance of soaked, soggy ground.

Next, another hindrance existed. Not only fashion, but cost was was in the mix. I’m a second generation depression child and frivolous spending unleashes heavy guilt. However, an attuned daughter sent a text. “IF you really want the boots, your daughter-in -law and I will give them for an early birthday gift.” I went to the site and could decide the “really want” did not apply to knee length. A pair of yellow ones, my favorite color, in calf length were on sale. I hit the reply button that said,”Yes!”

They came, along with continuing rain. The box was not just six sides with tape in the middle. It was custom made for the shape of the boots. With socks, they fit perfectly, shining over black chino pants or even blue jeans. They wouldn’t do for a five mile hike; however, I can now take out the garbage can with dryness or run in the grocery store with a little smidgen of sangfroid.

The A.A. Milne poem starts, “John had Great Big Waterproof boots on..” He adds a mackintosh and a hat to be totally rainproof, and then declares, “And that (said John) is that!” The title of the poem is “Happiness.”

When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.

Isaiah 43:2

Is it worth forty years to be free of slavery and reach a promised land? Some still think so. The band tightened around my heart with the picture of the little boy who realized his mother wasn’t coming with him at a border crossing. I’m not sure I could say with the mother, “Go on!” Tuesday was the morning the Vietnamese barber who is the age of my older son cut my hair. For twenty years, I’ve sat in his chair for him to tame my waves and control my cowlick. I have followed his two girls from first grade to in college now During early pandemic, he called to say he was in the grocery store and did I need anything, and he gave me a number in case I wanted an at home haircut. We have more than a once a month friendship.

Through the years, he has told bits of his life in two countries. I finally said, “Give me the details.” You know some of it with a country at war. His mother was left a widow with 10 children when her husband was killed. My friend was three then and the baby brother was seven months. They lived through economic and governmental challenges until he was 12. At that time the oldest sister was in Kansas because she had worked for an airline and an older brother served in the army. His mother managed to get six of tthe other cildren on a 40′ x 10′ boat with 76 people. His brother had a compass and navigated to get them to a refuge camp. Once a month, an American group would come and take 1,000 that met the criteria of their questions. They finally arrived in Kansas. Then the last two girls came. When they were all in America, they sent for their mother.

The family stories I heard were cheerful and amazing. So many activities happened together from weekly meals to golf trips for the men to taking in various cousins while they looked for a job in a new city. The mother made sure she sent money back each month to an orphanage in Vietnam. After she died, the children take up a collection each time they meet to keep her giving alive.

I went back to Louisiana for my 50th high school reunion. Only three of us had moved from Tangipahoa Parish. Yet there are multiple stories of those who have fled across countries and oceans to escape hunger and persecution while hopefully finding a place of safety. No, I don’t know the right answers and solutions. I’m not even sure I know the questions. I only know this expanded family has claimed their place in this country and my town and given a noble meaning to the word citizen. I have to keep caring for the aliens in this space I call my own.

 “When a foreigner lives with you in your land, don’t take advantage of him. Treat the foreigner the same as a native. Love him like one of your own. Remember that you were once foreigners in Egypt.

Leviticus 19:34-35