Give nerve endings credit. Those small receptors in our hands connect us to the world in a way we could easily ignore. Touch creates realness from smoothing a sheet to squishing mud pies. We naturally reach out to other humans. Think today how important touching creatures is to us and them.

I’m glad I was raised in a family where hands to animals was important. Early on I learned to smooth the feathers of a chicken held under daddy’s arm and be rewarded with a gentle cluck. Cleaning fish taught me about the difference between fish with scales and the smoothness of a catfish. Pigs had little stiff hairs while hands on cows could almost glide over their bodies. Taking my children to the petting zoo taught me about prickliness of baby elephants without ever having to leave Texas. Sheep wool really is oily. I know because Sarah’s visit to the Live Stock show always involved sticking her finger into their coats to measure how thick it was. When I did the same, my fingers had the on site feel of a squirt of lanolin.

Through my adult life, I’ve added other touches. My least favorite was sitting in a row with 5th graders while the lecturer walked down with a snake wrapped around his arm for all to give a two finger touch. “Are you going to do it, Mrs. Smith?’ ” Yes, of course.” I learned they really aren’t slimy, and I don’t care to do it again. On a whale watching trip, a mother came up next to our small boat and nudged up her baby to rub his barnacled skin against the rough side. When I scratched his back, it had a rubbery feel like I would imagine a wet suit to have. Just last week, I added to my list the rubbing the back of an opossum who was part of raptor center display.

Even if your touches have not been venturous, most people have tactile contact with cats, dogs, and horses. We had one cat who chose to stay out at night. The first person up let her in. She would come to my bed, get on my chest, rub with her paws and tell me about her night while I stroked the top of her head. The two adult children who have dogs find delight in the animals’ response to both roughhousing and head on a knee just to be close and touching. Watching a horse come near a human and lay a cheek near the human’s shoulder calls for a response to closeness. The all increases for a closeness with a like creature. A strain of the pandemic has been the creation of a no touch climate. I’ve patted my children on the shoulder and can’t remember kissing unmasked. Preemie twins joined our neighborhood. The parents went to visit, not only to hold, but to pull back shirts to allow the feel of skin on skin. I felt tears only when a my age couple ahead at church were holding hands, and I wanted David to be able to be hand in hand with me. We are still waiting for that unrestrained moment of reaching out and drawing in. Matthew 9 expresses the deep longing for touch. When it actually happens, healing occurs.

But when the crowd was put outside, He went in and took her by the hand, and the girl arose.

Matthew 9:25

By various and sundry means, we all gather some smidge of knowledge that is important to us. We may lose the structured sequential building of study that comes with a scope and sequence, yet each squirrel or rabbit that crosses our path adds to a fact bank or even an attraction that changes our whole life. We’d like to admire or credit Goggle with instant gratification; however the sources are as varied as the topics chased.

The space may not have qualified as a hall. It was a small square of four walls with a door from one bedroom, another to the bath, number three led to the sleeping porch, and the last went into the dining rooms. One wall had enough space for a four tiered bookshelf and the extra refrigerator new enough not to freeze up. The book shelf held the A – Z volumes of an old set of The World Book. No matter that it was maybe a 1930’s set. From it I learned about people and places and how to etch tin trays with acid. I didn’t even have to know what I was looking for. Something attractive subject was waiting on the next page. A companion to this set was a gathering of tattered National Geographic magazines. The groundwork for my love of Greek and Roman history came from colored pictures of Pompey and drawings of the Minoan Labyrinth of Crete and how to trail a cord to find a way out.

Libraries used to be more of a vastness of possibilities. I could ride my bike across town to the local one in Hammond. The probability existed of my choosing a subject, standing in front of a card catalog, and running my fingers through sequence of letters to uncover a topic I didn’t know existed. Then I could wander between shelves checking numbers until there was book waiting for me. I didn’t have to know exactly what I needed in order to find it. Instead of starting with a desired website, I could wander stacks in a back corner, pull out a catch my eye cover, peruse a bit, and slip it back in place.

None of the previous two discount the enlightments that phones and internet can add. Son and I left the Baptist church after a previously mentioned trip to Lafayette. Across the street on an oak filled lot about the size to hold two suburban houses was a cemetery. Under a towering oak was a family sepulcher replete with standing angel and a woman holding a banner saying Mother and Father. In the back corner, we found a marker that opened up an instant phone search to reveal that this was a Jewish cemetery given in the 1800’s for the 63 Jews in Lafayette. I like knowing that this peaceful, well-tended place still exists in a French Catholic town.

Think through your own tidbits of the week. Sometimes down the hole leads to warrens. A friend and I have spent a month chasing fraught which may be more favored in England while rife gives the same feeling of abundance for us across the Atlantic. Reading a description under a picture in a museum opens a genre that needs to be explored. I’m visiting a raptor center this weekend. Eagles and owls I know. Kites for now are a children’s entertainment. Each tidbit enriches me and gives me some thing to share. Excuse me, there goes a rabbit.

He who gets wisdom loves his own soul, He who keeps understanding will find good.

Proverbs 19:8

Forty-two years were the longest I had settled in one location. Children went from pre-schoolers to off to college to marriage with Rice Blvd. as a starting place. The time had come for a move. I still needed my circle space that I knew and loved. Instructions to the realtor: Near my church and my grocery store. I don’t want to cross Holcombe Blvd. to the south or Alabama to the north and the new place has to be one story. The Doll House on Swift fit all the criteria. I added a school in which to volunteer to the triangle. GPS helps me leave the beaten path, yet I always stay in the city limits.

Then Doug and I took a road trip Saturday to Lafayette, Louisiana. We went to a memorial service for the husband of a couple that had been on the close friend list for 66 years. Be impressed. Road work app gave the suggestion that travel would be easier on old 90 rather than the interstate. That change opened up a whole vista of memories. We lived out that highway in Dayton, Texas, for five years. David called it Gracious Country Living – not sure that was the best descriptive. Almost to the Louisiana border we stopped at a light at Barber’s Hill where I once slammed on brakes, and Doug, age three and standing in the back seat, came over and cut his forehead. He has a scar, yet we haven’t thought of that day in ages. The place brought it to mind.

The drive wasn’t just names of towns. It also was the change in trees that grew along the highway. Some swamp to the right and pines lining the north side. I looked out of the front windshield and suddenly was in Baton Rouge. The sky was a brilliant blue with puffy white cumulus summer clouds. I could have been crossing the quadrangle at LSU in mid_summer. That square is defined by brick buildings with tiled roofs. My daddy walked that space a generation before me. I hummed a line of “Where stately oaks and broad magnolias shade inspiring walls….FOREVER L-S-U.

On to Lafayette. For years my friends’ home was a good stopping place on the Hammond to Houston run. I saw adult children whom I last remembered sitting around my dining room table as teens. We recalled our times together at the Colosseum in Rome, and someone kissing the Blarney Stone (not me). These places defined specifics in our journey together. I can’t give credit; however one of my copied gems is “The sense of place is where memories are summoned, so that a sound or a scent or the way the wind blows brings a remembrance of what has happened and why.” The phrase for that day was amazement in saying with clarity, “This is the place where….” The places of the past are only a prelude to those around the bend.

I go to prepare a place for you. John 14:2

I used to have to…. I used to be able to ……. I don’t have to anymore…… All three of these statements cover the passing of time in eons, in years, in aging. A person of importance at one time knelt by a fire and knapped flint to create arrowheads for hunting. Later members of the family could turn out an improved object in iron. By the Industrial Revolution, steel points needed a person only to run the machinery. Yet a nostalgic moment remains in some museums with artisans enthralling wide eyed children in “how we used to.”

Progress certainly makes some tasks easier. Mentally go through the steps of creating a wagon wheel. The right size wood slowly being shaped in size and form. An improvement of an iron band to confine the shape and give stability. Whole wagon trains were help up if a trip down an incline caused one to break. One of my 1st grade boys came to Sunday School in my face to tell me his dad’s car had a tire “break” on the way to church and what they had to do. When I first started driving, my dad, who believed in being prepared, spent an afternoon coaching me through the process of changing a tire. When I finally had a flat on the highway when I was in college, I pulled over and a truck driver stopped and helped me. I wouldn’t even know if I have a spare anymore, and certainly don’t plan on changing one.

Packages to mail are now sealed with tape. Even the brads on envelopes are covered to keep from catching in the machinery. Wrapping packages to mail was an art. Find the right size box. The next step was to keep the brown paper from rolling up on you before you stretched it around the box and used a minimum of tape to hold in place. Depending on the size of the package, several rolls of string, twine, or heavy cord were kept to finish the job. I learned estimation by cutting off cord the right length to wrap and tie without having too little or too much. A plus was you could hold the package by the string instead of having to stumble with arms wrapped around it. Now, you can buy the box, forget outer tape, and cost is already figured.

So many changes. I don’t have to shear the sheep, card the wool, and spin the yard even if knitting is an option for a new sweater. I’ve told before of the my skill in rolling coins for the bank. Now those loose round things are useful only for adding tax to $3.99. No one cares if I fill an ice tray to the right level to pop cubes out easily. However, each of us keeps a skill that defines us. Maybe it has been tweaked, yet is is ours to give. A friend decorates cakes for her grandchildren’s birthdays. A dad built a special home school desk last year instead of using IKA. I made a quilt and do bake bread. If change goes back instead of forward, someone may kneel once again by a fire, ready to build a new skill as a gift to the community.

May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish for us the work of our hands—yes, establish the work of our hands! … 

Psalm 90: 17

Not my favorite month, yet one to settle in, even after months of pandemic. For the Gulf Coast , August says one has almost survived the summer. Though you know some some heat has the possibility of lingering even through October, in moments there may be a cooler breeze, less humidity, even a morning temperature of 70. August has had a bounced around life. It began as month 6 with 30 days. A calendar change promoted it to number 8 with two extra days. Then it received its august name in honor of Augustus Caesar to affirm the winning of the battle with Egypt. Was Cleopatra ever a possibility?

Families begin changing routines. Even though the major vacation activity is probably over, a last trip may be planned for Labor Day. Camps were usually in late June and part of July. Depending on skill of participants, summer sports are winding down. School, with shopping for supplies and clothes, looms on the horizon.

No holiday are on the calendar in August. According to a WSJ article, several surprises have happened. The first baseball game in color was broadcast to the maybe 100 color sets owned at that time. Russian soldiers strung 97 miles of barbed and added concrete to create the Berlin Wall. Today you might want to be thankful that the first ever website was published along with information about the World Wide Web. If you read this today, then tomorrow you can go to www something to celebrate.

Often just a phrase sticks from an almost forgotten book. Tuck Everlasting is remembered by me only for this paragraph.
“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris Wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before it are only a climb from a balmy spring, and those that follow, a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless and hot.”

Make of this month what you will. Do give it some respect. To reach this month is a gift.

You crown the year with your goodness.

Psalm 65:11

Definitely an onomatopoeia word denoting a dramatic change, One goes from darkness with all the adjectives you wish to apply to replacing those chosen with the antonyms that herald light. Life is governed by hours of light. A farmer’s day was “sun up to sun down.” However, some variations do occur depending on where and when the action takes place.

Consider the northern climes in winter months where a moment of break may not come. At times it is twenty-four hours of darkness. The hope of real daylight is only renewed when the sky may be faintly less obscure as months move farther into the first quarter of a year. The day when the sun itself appears over the horizon is designated as a school holiday with a parade the whole town attends.

The antithesis is areas of two types. Equator days seem to go from dark to light, follow the clock, and then dark again. No gentleness in the process. Near the equator, depending on the season, in both northern and southern hemisphere, the daylight comes with surety and lasts longer, creating more heat as the sun continues to rise and seems to forget it is suppose to set.

All that was introduction to affirm I am a morning person and have always eagerly awaited a new day. I haven’t checked the time, yet I must have been an early a.m. baby. Two places have the mornings I like. For them the word is not daybreak, but dawn, a word used to open my arms and cry welcome to whatever comes. Mornings in Hammond, Louisiana, latitude 30 degrees, 30′ 15 ” started with bird songs. For some time, the temperature was almost pleasant. The slight slow rise in measurement gave space to absorb more moisture, and hold humidity at bay, at least for a bit. Place two is my location this past week: Steamboat Springs, CO, latitude 40 degrees, 29′ 92″. This location has the advantage of being ringed by mountains. They provide a barrier to instant round sun. Instead, my eyes open to an edging of luminosity that gradually strengthens enough to define the surroundings. A few foot hills are first revealed with the farther peaks then taking their place. What was a flat two dimension landscape assumes the depth of a velvet gown created by the brush of a talented artist. The dawn of a new day is here once again, holding infinite possibilities.

The earth takes shape like clay under a seal; its features stand out like those of a garment.

Job 38:14

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