Being green, Lessening your carbon footprint. Saving electricity. Loving your fellow people (and using inclusive descriptives inoffensively). Helping rescue animals.  Those don’t even touch choosing a school for your children or eating healthy, or a good decision about refugees on the border. Reading books on any topic or clipping newspaper articles just create almost equal stacks of pro and con that seem to vary with the day.  The option of discussing intelligently with a group of friends does not exist. Do something else for a bit while I go lie down with a cool rag on my forehead.

Ok, Here’s my problem.  I believe in recycling.  It reduces what goes to landfills. I started 40 years ago when aluminum cans could be taken to machines that weighed and spewed out some coins, enough to buy a treat at the end of a month.  No more of that.  Then our neighborhood had a recycle area of several parts:  paper, and colored glass and plain glass (please consider apartments across the street and dump between 6:00a.m. and 10:30 p.m.). Plastics were tumbled together, and tin cans had a section to themselves. Plastic bags went to a grocery store and supposedly had a new life as sports jackets. Revealed truth now is that dumping everything together in a green bin means fewer companies want to buy and separate. Good ecological choices and good economics don’t always mesh.

Let’s move on.  (Pun intended) My current car may be my last one.  While not  21st century efficient, neither is it a gas guzzler. I am almost the little old lady who drives it just to church and the grocery store. I don’t think I am responsible enough to remember to plug an electric in at night, or alert enough to handle moving ahead swiftly and silently with a tap on the accelerator.  Gas pedal can become a vestigial word, still there like an appendix, useful, yet renamed. How responsible do I need to be about pollutants in the air from a crowded freeway compared to the necessity of moving a daily workforce and  the time schedule of soccer moms?

On days when I doubt the effectiveness of my stewardship to the world, I go to a poem by Bonaro Overstreet. “You say the little efforts that I make will do no good; they never will prevail to tip the hovering scale…. I don’t think I ever thought they would.  But I am prejudiced beyond debate in favor of my right to choose which side shall feel the stubborn ounces of my weight.”  If I and someone else make a compost pile, speak nicely to the checkout lady, make a monetary donation for a need that touches us, soon we will have enough ounces to make a pound.  Maybe even enough to tip the scale.

Who then is the faithful and wise steward, whom his master will set over his household?

Luke 12:42

The adjective wild has a consistent meaning.  These are the animals that roam their habitat and tolerate humans, maybe. Push them too far, and they react to attack. People at times think they have made friends with, say a bear or one of the larger cats.  Then the story in the paper tells of being turned on and maimed or killed.

A special word has been coined for those animals that over the years since creation have changed to share domicile and life with humans. We say they are domesticated.  That denotes a step beyond a horse that comes to his owner, or a parakeet who sings in a cage, or even the goldfish that children win at field days. Cats almost meet the criteria. The truth is felines always keep the option of time they spend with you as their choice.

The shining example of domesticity is the dog.  From mutts of unknown breed to carefully groomed purebreds they bond with a human.  They require the same care that children do, and for that they are part of the family.  I have noted this loyalty mostly as an outsider.  The visceral feeling remains none the less. I knew my first dog only in stories.  My daddy had a squirrel dog for hunting in the Catahoula swamps, and no dog was as smart as he.  We  did have a white bitch named Snow White.  She had a litter of seven who were named collectively The Seven Dwarfs. We moved to Hammond when I was four, and they were all given away  “Dogs don’t belong in the city.” was the edict.

We never had a dog in our household.  Two/thirds of our children now have canines, and those have made me a dog person.  Each of the animals has had personality and purpose. I have learned to appreciate the bouncy bossiness of a Jack Russell and the energy needed to walk a Weimaraner.  One German shepherd decided I was the oldest and most needy of a group, and she spent my whole visit being between me and harm.

Today, will you remember Caramel, affectionally known as Cara.  She was one of two dogs who came with a son’s marriage, a lovely, gracious Golden Retriever.  She was chosen as a puppy by an almost teenager and was trained to hunt pheasants. She chased rabbits in muddy fields and barked at bears in the driveway. Age, 14 1/2 years for her, creeps on us all. Movement slowed, and she gave up eating.  Her family took her one more time to a pond for a last swim.  This morning the vet came to ease her way to another existence. Scattered over distance and compass points, family offered the love and sympathy we give for any loss.  In her memory, find a furry ear to scratch.

And God said “Let the earth bring forth living creatures.”….And God saw that it was good.

Genesis 1: 24,25

One summer in the far off past, we had a teen-age nephew who spent most of the summer in his upstairs bedroom with a broken leg.  This was before better cast and mobility  options.  He and a cousin were just old enough to ride the horses in a group of two.  They had gone by the tank and through a gate and then turned around for the barn.  One of them said, “I can beat you back!” and a race was on.  For the horses, it was being given their heads and pointing them toward hay and home, and no one had planned how to stop or slow them.  The horse cut short by the gate post, the boy went off, and that’s where the first sentence started.  Anticipation increases focus.

Heading in is my feeling about August.  Sometime around the first of the month, my inner clock sounds like the opening line of Lassie Come Home when the dog shakes herself and thinks, “It’s time. It’s time. It’s time to go for the boy.”  Summer is almost over, and it is time for school to start.  This feeling must be in my DNA.  My mother and daddy both taught.  I either went to school or taught. This time is the beginning of another year, one of always two numbers.  My first job was the 1957-58 year.  Stretching ahead are hopes and dreams for nine months.

Others of you have the same feeling at different times.  CPAs might start in early January.  Their push to times are April and October 15.  Gardeners and farmers start their year on that indefinable moment when the smell of the air and cessation of frost call to begin turning over soil and plant once again.  A new job after a time of interviewing and searching always marks,”The year I went to work for…”  Some years begin with the throwing out of the first baseball  or the cheers of a stadium crowd chanting for eleven first stringers jogging onto the field, helmets under their arms. From the horse to each of the above, an excitement carries us toward a goal.

Calendars that define our time are various, and man devised. Some of the world still holds on to the Julian calendar, a tweaking of the Roman calendar, though most have changed to Gregorian to adjust for celestial time variance.  Jewish religious calendars begin with year 1 of creation and move through lunar months. We look forward to a rhythm of life that is sometime individual to each of us.  What we really have daily is a nighttime to wrap up and anticipate what may be the gift of tomorrow.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

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