I taught vocabulary as we read books.  With non-feigned delight I would say, “Oh, that’s one of my favorite words.”  Finally, one boy said, “Aw, Mrs. Smith, you just like all words.”  He was probably right.  Who cannot make a visual picture when Matt exhibiting a sense of pride in his accomplishment swings his newly killed rabbit with nonchalance? Noting Dickins’ Victorian use of commodious requires pointing out my school bag bulging by the side of my desk. The surface of a lake with no ripples is placid in early sunlight, and all children pouring out to a playground are rambunctious and even riotous if enough boys are in the mix.  Only girls can be demure.

Our knowing words is made exact by understanding the points that make them what they are.  Spelling has always been my bear. (My mother cried when I failed a 6^thgrade spelling test once again). I have tricks for everything.  I go through gymnastics to spell prescription by thinking it is what the doctor writes before I can get the medicine.  Hyphens make a difference. Recollect usually means bring to mind while re-collect has the slight difference of drawing all pieces back to a certain place, perhaps the scattered parts of your life after trauma. Generations of 6^thgraders can easily spell embarrassment because one is really red when you’ve acted like an ass. Don’t forget the government city of a state is a capital because for us in Texas it is Austin.

Then there are those that are confused by pronunciation.  Try explaining to a two year old that a trip to the store is running errands, not earrings. A kindergartner will cry if it’s not their turn to be a lion leader.  Keep repeating line; they know what they want. An outspoken 6^th grader in a poverty level schools was certain by her mother’s proclamation that aisle was the round hot circle on a stove.  Writing aisle and eye didn’t make any difference to her.

So we choose words carefully.  If our knowledge and that of the hearer match, then enlightened conversations can take place. When I am building a friendship or opening the door to a comfortable situation, I choose words that are easily understood. “I hear you.   You did that so well.  I am really proud of you, Will you be my friend?”

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver. Provers 25:11

Make a list of five favorites words.  Share with anyone.

I respected Harry Truman as a man.  He took Bess fishing and sat the in back of a boat reading a history book while she patiently went through the process of catching fish or at least trying. I grew up with fishermen who talked about the trip before, during, and afterward. My joy was to be included.  Daddy built his own wooden boat in our back yard from lines and measurements he put on a sheet of notebook paper. It had a broad stern with a cut place to hold the 1 1/2 power Johnson & Johnson motor, a water well to keep our catch, and a bow with a seat and a mooring rope.  Mother didn’t like him to go out alone, yet she disliked water.  At age 5, I put on a life jacket and became the delighted designated accompanier.

Every trip was educational.  At first I learned patience or at least endurance.  Once we were out, we were there until fish quit biting, or just weren’t biting, or Daddy said, “That’s enough for the day.”  I learned skills needed for the task.  To set a hook after a nibble requires the perfect flick of the wrist.  Too much and you pull it out.  Too little and the fish spits it out and moves on.  I learned to judge what i couldn’t see.  A stick from the bottom feels different from a fish playing dead weight while preparing for his next move.  One high point in my life is carefully playing a flounder to the surface and into the boat

I progressed in my skills  I was never much at casting, so I was taught to paddle the boat while Daddy did the casting. That required moving forward slowly close to the bank under branches, reversing if necessary, and never ever hitting the boat with the paddle.  When a big mouth bass with a mouth large enough to hold a tea cup was the catch, I was commended for helping it happen.  As a 21 year old, I was the adult to go out with two younger cousins.  I couldn’t run the motor or discern the turns in the bayou.  I got to fish with the rest and watch sky and time to make the Head In call.  Sometimes, just age counts.

One line lessons were character building.  “Clean what you catch.”  “Don’t cross someone else’s line,” Watch where your waves go.”  At the end of the day, or the month, or the year, the retelling brought back a time on the water.  One one trip, my daddy caught an uncle’s hat with a backwards cast and threw it into the lake.  I can still hear the deep laughter of an uncle teasing my dad with that story.  The young man who married me said he wanted to talk to my dad about his daughter.  The answer,” Well, let’s go.  I have some fish to deliver.”  Important things come first.

Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” John 21: 3

 

Nat King Cole sang, “Roll out those hazy, crazy, lazy days of summer.  Those days of soda and pretzels and beer.” The adjectives for June to August will fit just fine.  Yet what is summer without ice cream? For that matter, as far as I am concerned, any time is ice cream time. Summer especially requires its cold as an antidote to heat.  Early memories are of a gallon of Lady Borden in the freezer with vanilla the flavor of choice. After the necessary naps, the three of our family would gather on the back porch.  Mother would scoop ice cream in heavy tulip shaped fountain glasses and pour Coke over the top of each serving. She had to watch the bubbles carefully to be sure to have enough liquid to reach the bottom without foaming over the top. We ate bites with long handled ice-tea spoons and tipped the glasses for the last sip of flavorful liquid.

The singles I was close to in Shreveport were especially good at feeding each other.  I bought a White Mountain hand cranked freezer.  I assembled oaken bucket, container, dash, and crank and called muscles into play. When I couldn’t turn anymore, I emptied salty water on a dead spot at the back of my landlady’s house. My specialty was fresh peach. I couldn’t find my recipe.  I can remember six raw eggs which no one would do nowadays and a can of evaporated milk. The trick was being sure no salty water got into the container and spoiled the batch. When the crank was removed and the dasher duly licked, a cork plug fitted in the top hole helped protect the contents.  Pack the sides with more ice and salt and wait for eating time.

As the saying goes, the rest of the story is history.  The maker lasted into marriage, three children, four years of living in the country, and back to Houston.  The designated crankers varied as children grew, and rebellion began to rise.  The daddy liked the ice cream, yet seemed to vanish for the making.  He felt true home made should be hand cranked, not electric. However, wiser heads prevailed.  One day, four/fifths of the family surreptiously (the only word that fits) exchanged manual for plug in, being sure that the finished product was only seen as it was served.

Store bought ice cream has its place for variety of flavors and easy availability.  Name brands are cherished like Baskin Robbins, Ben & Jerry’s, even a Dairy Queen Frosty  That doesn’t begin to touch gallons of Blue Bell; please rise and put your hand over your heart. The ship near the Arctic Circle served double dips for dessert, and the picture is from a hotel in Switzerland.  I only know when the doctor stands at the foot of the bed and pronounces, “She’ll not make it to morning,” I will faintly and firmly say, “Go get me some ice cream.”

 “..a land flowing with milk and honey..” Exodus 3:8

(not a stretch, these ingredients can make ice cream)

Sometimes we get blindsided.  We are sure we have made an adventuresome choice for ourselves or others, and we hit a wall.  Thinking what I wanted to do in an 8th decade, I wanted the challenge of writing.  No desire for the Great American Novel  or even a best seller list.  With the help of a techie younger friend, the making this happen took about six months.  I invited sprawling family and a few stalwart friends to be my audience to hold in mind as I write, and a supporting group of you have hung in there.  I get enough scattered responses to keep me encouraged, and I don’t really know if you choose to delete and skip a week or weeks.

Then in our local neighborhood magazine was an article about a book club which invites authors to speak.  Bam! One of the members who does reviews said, “When I was trying to decide where I was going to review, I noticed that people were moving away from blogs, going to places like Facebook and Instagram where they already are.  I never want to go to all those independent blogs, so I didn’t want other people to have to do that.” For whatever type of dinosaur I am, I don’t do Facebook or Instagram.  I don’t dislike, I just don’t do. E-mails  and texts are my current contacts resembling letters with stamps.  They are a way of sharing one person news and keeping in touch. Blogs are telling a story or my half of a conversation.

So, I hafta say, “Thank you,” to those of you who let me invade your e-mail box on Thursdays. Even the idea that you are out there in the ether of the universe helps me dig in my memory, observe the world, make various comments. To rephrase the philosophical question,” If no one reads, does the writing count.” Yes, oganizing and presenting is the oil for the machinery of my aging brain. In the future I may evolve; for now, this is my happy place.

Behold, the former things have come to pass, and new things I now declare. Isaiah 42: 9

 

You know that one I’m talking about.  Mine used to be the last one to the right in the kitchen.  Now it is the one under the microwave in the washroom.  The contents are always messy, even if I do designate a clean and organize day.  That particular drawer holds whatever may be needed for a family or household .  To the question,”Do we have a ……?”, the answer across the nation is “It’s in the drawer.” A favorite cartoons of mine is two children watching a sinking sun.  One asks,”Suppose the sun gets lost?” The reply is, “We can find it in the kitchen drawer.”

Compare your drawer with mine.  I have one rule, no papers.  All booklets, receipts, directions go in a file folder.  The largest disjointed collection is batteries.  I needed 2 triple AAAs.  They were only sold in a pack of 8, so six are left scattered among the double AA lefts overs, two large A batteries for a flashlight I no longer have, and a single square one that I guess I’ve never had to replace. Some have been there so long that when I scramble, and they appear, white corrosion on the side gives them permission to be removed.  I’ve read I can extend their lives by storing in the freezer.  Not tried it yet.  I don’t want them on top of my blueberries.

The next for any occasion group is screwdrivers.  We started out with one good rubber handled (to keep us from being electrocuted) flat headed screwdriver.  At that time I had bought a black organizer, and this one fit nicely in the longest division.  We soon learned that its blade was too short or too long for some needs. We added several more. Then a Phillips head, no, two Phillips heads, were required for x shaped screws.  I even have a very tiny one to remove the vent at the bottom of the freezer to clean the fan. David’s bell arms and the disposal required the L shaped Allen wrench along with its cousin with a handle, the hex.

Jumbling the space are two hammers, both claw and ball pein.  A scattering of keys create their own problem.  If I throw one out, will I suddenly remember what it goes to.  Pushed to the back is Gorilla Glue to repair the tile floor, a tube of Super Glue, and a small, very useful whet stone.   And I haven’t even enumerated the wrenches and pliers.

Maybe if I were different, I would have a tool box.  Then all my repair work would have to be focused and professional.  This step would remove two important pleasures from my life. First, when questioned I can always say.  “I think we have one.  Check in the drawer.”  Second, I would miss the surprise of standing there, turning over and looking, and suddenly thinking, “That’s what I can use.  It will do the job.”

Then the Lord said to him, “What is that in your hand?” Exodus 4:2

Maybe three of you live where a.c. is not a necessity.  Would you please read without gloating? My life has been spent in Gulf Coast towns.  One or two days each spring or fall are perfect. In the winter even slight coolness wrapped in humidity can chill the bones.  In the summer, stickiness is the way of life.  At 6:00 this morning in July, I went to get the paper with the temperature already 85 and heat index 91.  I know this because a son gave me a gadget to help measure how miserable I am.

In Hammond, the house on Linden had a big window fan in the dining room.  No one wanted to sit at that end of the table.  The motion stirred the air, and it always gathered dust, pollen, and the ever present mold to scatter through the rest of the house.  My daddy made stools to hold various sizes of smaller fans, so they could be moved where needed like the kitchen, the hall by the bath to help the final drying process, and the front bedroom which was two turns away from the big fan.

About June 1, we three moved to a large back porch, aptly named The Sleeping Porch.  Most space was taken up by a double iron bed.  I had a cot over by a screen wall.  An oscillating fan at the foot of the big bed allowed us to pull a sheet half-way up some nights. I tried to go to sleep before Daddy did because he snored.  A good night was if it rained, giving a break from the heat.  A slated blind could be let down by my cot and tied to stay in place.

Air conditioning wasn’t just a blessing for houses. It also made cars tolerable.  Long trips resembled moving through a wind tunnel with the windows rolled down.  All was bearable until we stopped for gas.  Someone stayed with the car while another went to pay, so we wouldn’t have to close it up and create a portable sauna.

Did we survive? Obviously.  Mother cooked noon dinner before 9:00 a.m.  Everyone pulled down the shades and rested in the afternoon.  We sprayed for mosquitoes and sat under the oak tree in the back yard that moment in the evening when the heat broke. Those memories help remind me to really be grateful for my electrical bill in the summer when I consider the alternative.  I  don’t mind knowing I need to take a sweater for any public building, and a cool room at night is a vote for progress.

Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.  Genesis 2:8

Fireworks of my childhood were mostly loud. I vaguely remember townsfolk  gathering in the college stadium for a few arching streaks accompanied by sonic type booms. There seemed a long waiting time between flashes while adults fanned, and we younger ones ran up and down the steps.  The gathering was obligatory for 4th of July and then all dispersed to various meals of hamburgers or bar-b-que. Around the neighborhood, that group I have mentioned before were given another free range with firecrackers. Our invention was dropping them down a Coke bottle to intensify the sound.  We had one accident with a boy  checking on a delayed reaction and injuring his eye when the explosion happened.  Nobody seemed to think we needed to stop ever shooting them again; Just remember to be careful, Tommy got his eye hurt, you know.

Through adult  life, various displays occurred at various places.  A group I worked with in New Mexico was bussed to a field outside of Santa Fe for a perfect dark sky experience.  AstroWorld had fireworks on Saturday at 9:00 in the summer.  We could take yard chairs across the street to the parking lot for Rice Stadium. For several years before the oak trees grew tall enough to block the view, we had an eye on look. The distance muffled the sound while we exclaimed over each burst of color.

The glory of fireworks will always be the Smith ranch near Bergheim where we gathered for July 4.  The daddies started the first offering.  They drove to one of the roadside stands and picked with care.  The rest of us lined up yard chairs just inside the fence while all preparation was made just a little bit down the road.  Two of the brothers did the prep and lighting while one chose to give warnings and directions.  The grandmother’s ending comment was, “Now that was fine.”

The performance expanded as the boy cousins got old enough to take over.  They were handed money, and the older one could drive the group to choose.  They set up the area with the old red pickup truck and several buckets of water, Both might be needed if a spark started a grass fire. All wore boots, necessary footwear for stomping flames if required.

A defined sequence was followed.  First came on the ground volcanoes consisting of a small shower and a whistle bang.  Roman candles held ten balls.  With excited comments about whose turn it was, boys lighted the first and the rest went off in sequence. A bottle rocket was on the end of stick and gave a screaming whistle without much light. Each offering garnered scattered applause and comments. Excitement grew when the sequence mortars were fired.  Finally came the announcement:  “Now for the single tube mortar.!”   It shot 100 feet in the air and filled the night sky with expanding color.

All stood up and sang, more heart felt than tuneful, the Star Spangled Banner.  Sparklers were handed out and the yard resembled fireflies on steroids. Even in writing this, joy and thankfulness pour out for family and country.  Some of you were lap sitters and sparkler wavers in those moments. I delighted re-living part of the journey that has brought family members to this day.

 

Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place, from one generation to another. Psalm 90: 1

Summary is difficult.  The Arctic was a trip that will be resavored. “Do you remember?” The best I can do today is bullet points.

• Time and place: Not as long as some.  A three hour starter flight and then a seven hour leg. Oslo in two small doses was lovely.  We walked up the slanting roof of the Ballet Theater and looked out over water, modern buildings, a cathedral, and an art colony. Vigeland Sculpture Park was made better by a good gossipy guide.
• Fjords were part of Svalbard archipelago with lots of impossible to pronounce names.  They provided the framing for our sailing.
• Expedition- Absolutely amazing! In an area of 24 hours of sun, I raised my black out curtain each morning to water (with and without ice floes) and snow capped mountains.
• Guides and speakers – maybe my favorite part.  Younger experts in a variety of         __ology fields who gave speeches and sat with various groups at meals.  Some were the so patient helpers with keep warm gear, loading the zodiacs, and guiding walks.
• Ah, yes – the animals.  We did see polar bears, mainly through binoculars on far fields.  All walks had a guide with a gun.  The balance is protection of bears and of tourists.  Arctic reindeer are numerous enough to look like white dots on a dark cliff.  The can’t be bothered walruses were the most viewable  They yawned and ignored the upright two-legged intruders.

That’s not all, but enough to whet your appetite or satisfy a so that’s what it is like question. The six of us chose individually what made us happy during the day and joined for lunch sometimes and supper always to share and be, a treat not usually available to us. A travel itch was scratched and a comfort zone stretched.  Even at 79 degrees N, I was reminded of what the psalmist who probably never went there knew.  

The earth is the Lord’s and all its fullness, the world and those who dwell therein.

Psalm 24: 1 

Learning travel was possible came slowly to me.  Back and forth trips by car in Louisiana to visit uncles were the beginning.  Finding various parents who would take teenagers to Panama City for a beach moment was the next venture.  I was a sophomore in high school when we took our first vacation.  Daddy had a sabbatical, and we drove from one A & M college to the next all the way to Montana and back. Giddy may be too tame a word for my feeling of seeing places I had read about and landscapes that in no way resembled swamp land.

A summer job in New Mexico ( my first airplane ride), church mission trips, ( a passport in my name) and school excursions with 8th graders (not the best appeasement of a longing) provided young adult opportunities.  In marriage, most going was instigated by me.  Forty years down the pike, I was able to talk David into cruises.  He didn’t have to pack and unpack each day, could choose to stay on a boat and call the plant or sort papers if he wished, and hamburgers were available for lunch.

DRUM ROLL!  All adult children were present the fall of 2018 when a National Geographic brochure arrived offering a tour to Norway and an Arctic island to see polar bears. The offer went out.  “I’ll arrange if you’ll buy in.”  Preparation has closed in now to packing a suitcase and planning embarking Sunday, June 23.   Enough is unknown to make a true adventure.  We have gathered winter wear, yet how cold is really cold. Will polar bears wait to be spotted or will they lumber away to Russia before we arrive? Stay tuned.  Next transmission:  Oslo.

The breath of God produces ice and the broad waters become frozen.  Job 37:10

On my Kindle, at night and in the afternoon, I am reading a book about various birds that have gone extinct and how it happened.  So many at one time that they darkened the sky, yet hunting for food and feathers and destroying habitat decimated the flocks til there were none.  I went to this book after reading about it in a devotion paper and print book that I held in my hand by morning light. Both ways of reading are my life blood.  By my choices will there soon be only one option?

In the last few years, high schools in our area have increased their digital libraries for space and rapidity of use.  No more wandering stacks for a surprise or knowing how to search a card catalogue for a Dewey Decimal number. Four years ago we moved to a smaller house, and I weeded books that occupied shelves.  A few were cradled gently and opened naturally to a oft visited page. I can even tell where some favorite books were read as on the iron bed on a screen porch in Hammond, or the ones that traveled to Holland with me as a paperback.

I caught my breath when I went to help sort books as our church library closed.  We went almost every Sunday when our children were small.  Users has lessened, and the space was needed.  Some books are being kept. We are trying to find homes in schools and other churches for the rest.

A small respite survives with children’s books.  The time may come when sitting on a parent’s lap and turning pages by swiping is the norm. If the change is a fault, it is partly mine.  I try not to buy shelf bound books. A friend passes books sideways, and then I return them. If I do buy they go back through Half-Price or Good Will.  Sometimes the desire to know now is strong enough to purchase if the internet or a library fail to quench the yearning.   Maybe I need to make a bumper sticker:  “If you can read this, go buy a book!”

To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1