update: Katie Haller was the first reader to post herself! You don't win a single thing.
Although I don't really know what I'm doing, I'm goofing around with different blog features such as a counter and "readers."
Feel free to add yourself as a reader. Be the FIRST to do so, and I'll mention your name. I promise not to solicit you for anything.
Based on the counter, it appears that up to 50 people are checking this blog. (You get counted once per post. If you read a post 55 times, you're still counted only once. You also need more of a life.) Frankly, 50 astounds me. You are aware, right, that there are a bajillion more interesting blogs out there?
But thanks for reading. I am honored.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
feeding the birds
It's 63 degrees at 1 p.m. and I just grilled some boneless chicken that had been languishing in marinade for two days in the fridge. Bill was getting really concerned about that chicken and when it might get grilled. He kept updating me on imminent rain today.
The reason the chicken sat so long goes back to Monday's M-TV-E (major TV event.) We're still getting used to our freedom to go shopping and out to dinner on a moment's notice. In fact, we waste many opportunities to do so simply because we're still shedding 25 years of responsible behavior: diapers, feedings, naps, scout meetings, orthodontist appointments, baseball and soccer games. Somewhere in our psyches lingers the nagging thought that there's something to hold us back from impetuous outings.
So. After the M-TV-E, we used a gift card at The Cheesecake Factory for a scrumptious meal. Those folks really put out the food. So much, in fact, that we had a second dinner out of it. Thus, the poor chicken was still waiting.
So I grilled today, at lunchtime so as to miss the imminent rain. The chicken will make a fabulous salad tonight, along with the potato salad I made two days ago. Amazing how little food it takes to sustain us.
The empty nest. It's turned our eating habits bird-like.
The reason the chicken sat so long goes back to Monday's M-TV-E (major TV event.) We're still getting used to our freedom to go shopping and out to dinner on a moment's notice. In fact, we waste many opportunities to do so simply because we're still shedding 25 years of responsible behavior: diapers, feedings, naps, scout meetings, orthodontist appointments, baseball and soccer games. Somewhere in our psyches lingers the nagging thought that there's something to hold us back from impetuous outings.
So. After the M-TV-E, we used a gift card at The Cheesecake Factory for a scrumptious meal. Those folks really put out the food. So much, in fact, that we had a second dinner out of it. Thus, the poor chicken was still waiting.
So I grilled today, at lunchtime so as to miss the imminent rain. The chicken will make a fabulous salad tonight, along with the potato salad I made two days ago. Amazing how little food it takes to sustain us.
The empty nest. It's turned our eating habits bird-like.
Monday, February 9, 2009
unh huh, unh hmm
We went to shop for a new TV this evening. I had a sneaking suspicion that all would not go quickly and simply. How right I was.
First of all, the sales associates at Best Buy are very young and knowledgeable with nicely gelled hair. But they are way too serious about their TVs. So I use my age and charm to get them laughing a bit.
Fortunately our boy, I mean sales associate, Dustin, had a sense of humor. We told him we didn't want the edges of our HDTV to be shiny. He paused a second, probably thinking we were old wackos. "Shiny? You mean the screen?"
"No," we said, "the edges."
"They cause a reflection," Bill said. I was thinking more about fingerprints, forgetting that I no longer have toddlers. So we chose a "dull" Sony.
On the way to the register, Dustin mentioned we'd need some blah-dee-blah cable. "Oh, like fifty bucks?" I joked. "Sixty for the shorter one," he answered.
Upon reaching the register, he inquired about our DVD player. "How old is it, more than a year?" Oh boy, here it comes. "You'll get it for half price if you buy one tonight, and the image will be WAY better on your new TV."
Oh sure, why not? We chose one. That is, Dustin chose one for us. Cha-ching.
The embarrassing fact is, I have absolutely no understanding of modern TV technology, cables, cable providers or the like. Worse, I don't care to learn. Reading Consumer Reports puts me to sleep.
So it's very disheartening to enter into this techno-world where I'm lost beyond the sales boy's first three sentences. I'm also very worried that it will take me at least a year to figure out the new remote.
Lurking at the sidelines was a sales boy for Direct TV. In Best Buy! Oh, yeah - he got us. Scott was very personable and savvy on cost comparisons between his company and the one we happen to be using to get cable into our house.
By the time it was all over we'd been stung for, I mean selected, not only a TV, but two cables, a new DVD player and new cable provider to boot. After two hours, as Scott reviewed our agreement, I was hungry and tired. I found a nearby stool and pulled it over. Blah, blah, blah-dee-dah he continued.
"Unh huh, unh huh, unh hmmm," I mumbled, trying to look alert and interested. I was ready for my jammies and to curl up in front of the new TV. But of course, that won't happen until the NEW cable guy comes to the house to hook it all up.
One other thing. Why are these young salesmen so cool and in command? Maybe it's because they haven't been beat up by kids, mortgages, grumpy spouses and college tuition. Just wait. Someday they'll be the old wackos.
First of all, the sales associates at Best Buy are very young and knowledgeable with nicely gelled hair. But they are way too serious about their TVs. So I use my age and charm to get them laughing a bit.
Fortunately our boy, I mean sales associate, Dustin, had a sense of humor. We told him we didn't want the edges of our HDTV to be shiny. He paused a second, probably thinking we were old wackos. "Shiny? You mean the screen?"
"No," we said, "the edges."
"They cause a reflection," Bill said. I was thinking more about fingerprints, forgetting that I no longer have toddlers. So we chose a "dull" Sony.
On the way to the register, Dustin mentioned we'd need some blah-dee-blah cable. "Oh, like fifty bucks?" I joked. "Sixty for the shorter one," he answered.
Upon reaching the register, he inquired about our DVD player. "How old is it, more than a year?" Oh boy, here it comes. "You'll get it for half price if you buy one tonight, and the image will be WAY better on your new TV."
Oh sure, why not? We chose one. That is, Dustin chose one for us. Cha-ching.
The embarrassing fact is, I have absolutely no understanding of modern TV technology, cables, cable providers or the like. Worse, I don't care to learn. Reading Consumer Reports puts me to sleep.
So it's very disheartening to enter into this techno-world where I'm lost beyond the sales boy's first three sentences. I'm also very worried that it will take me at least a year to figure out the new remote.
Lurking at the sidelines was a sales boy for Direct TV. In Best Buy! Oh, yeah - he got us. Scott was very personable and savvy on cost comparisons between his company and the one we happen to be using to get cable into our house.
By the time it was all over we'd been stung for, I mean selected, not only a TV, but two cables, a new DVD player and new cable provider to boot. After two hours, as Scott reviewed our agreement, I was hungry and tired. I found a nearby stool and pulled it over. Blah, blah, blah-dee-dah he continued.
"Unh huh, unh huh, unh hmmm," I mumbled, trying to look alert and interested. I was ready for my jammies and to curl up in front of the new TV. But of course, that won't happen until the NEW cable guy comes to the house to hook it all up.
One other thing. Why are these young salesmen so cool and in command? Maybe it's because they haven't been beat up by kids, mortgages, grumpy spouses and college tuition. Just wait. Someday they'll be the old wackos.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
happy birthday, Mark!
The world doesn't embrace shy children. Nor does it celebrate the quiet and sensitive ... rather, the extroverts are noticed. "Class participation" is even given a grade in school. It's the job of families to love these children for who they are and who they'll become. No, it doesn't take a village. It takes the love of family and home to nurture, encourage and wait on a quiet one to emerge.
My son Mark was such a little boy. He hid behind my legs and rarely uttered a word to strangers. But he came alive at home: a racing, tumbling jumble of a boy who loved wrestling with his dad and brothers. And a worker. At age six he helped a neighbor install a rock wall, asking the neighbor after a 15-minute lunch break, "ready to get back to work?"
It took a few years for Mark to shed his reticence with the world. I believe there was a sort of brewing going on inside him: a quiet building of a maturity far beyond his years. He is, still, a young man of few words.
Today, my youngest son turns 21 years old. He is a junior in college, engaged to be married to a beautiful young woman. His mind is immersed in his business classes, calculating his future. If Mark's assigned a task, it's as good as done. He hates to be late, as his usually-tardy mother and sister well know. A tad impatient. Through jobs at college, he's learning the nuances of building relationships and managing people. Imagine. My quiet little boy.
Which just goes to show. God fashions our children for unique purposes and gives them to us for a time. For protection, nurturing and finally, release.
Happy birthday, Mark! The world will welcome you.
Friday, February 6, 2009
100
The fact that I'd written a 100th blog post escaped me. I'm into words, not numbers, but here's a stat. The 100th post means I've written and posted almost once every two days for six months.
For a lazy writer, this is pretty good. For a serious writer, it's mediocre. Good and growing writers write every day. But writers also must write. Look around your local library. The thousands of books weren't written by people who sort of liked to write. I suspect they were produced by writers who had to write.
From a little book on my shelf, Writers in the Spirit, by Carol Rottman, Ph.D., comes this:
If I were writing a novel, like a "real" writer, maybe we'd all understand. But writing short pieces such as [blog posts] just doesn't measure up somehow. Or if I had published widely or were intent on the same, these solitary writing sessions would at least have an understandable goal.
Famous writers have often warned beginners not to write unless they have to - it is all consuming. I'll try to remember William Safire's words: 'There are those who will call you a recluse - but it is better to listen to your own different drummer than to go through life with ringing in your ears.'
Yeah, that's it. I've always heard a different drummer. And I'm marching past the 100 mark on an unknown road. Whenever I stop or doubt the journey, there's a ringing in my ears.
For a lazy writer, this is pretty good. For a serious writer, it's mediocre. Good and growing writers write every day. But writers also must write. Look around your local library. The thousands of books weren't written by people who sort of liked to write. I suspect they were produced by writers who had to write.
From a little book on my shelf, Writers in the Spirit, by Carol Rottman, Ph.D., comes this:
If I were writing a novel, like a "real" writer, maybe we'd all understand. But writing short pieces such as [blog posts] just doesn't measure up somehow. Or if I had published widely or were intent on the same, these solitary writing sessions would at least have an understandable goal.
Famous writers have often warned beginners not to write unless they have to - it is all consuming. I'll try to remember William Safire's words: 'There are those who will call you a recluse - but it is better to listen to your own different drummer than to go through life with ringing in your ears.'
Yeah, that's it. I've always heard a different drummer. And I'm marching past the 100 mark on an unknown road. Whenever I stop or doubt the journey, there's a ringing in my ears.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Go, Dog, go!
Mothers of sons: you know what puts us over the edge: hearing incessant BLEEPS on a show our son is watching in the family room.
"What IS that??!" we holler, horrified at what we imagine must be a program of little redeeming value. In my many years of raising boys, their attraction to "shoot 'em up" shows and movies really rankled me. Until now. Call me a spineless wimp. Call me whatever you want. But there is something intriguing about Dog the Bounty Hunter, a show on A & E that only months ago I was hollering for my son Mark to TURN OFF.
Here's the premise. Dog is the nickname of Duane Chapman, a middle-aged, wild-haired modern-day bounty hunter. He and his posse (Dog's wife and grown children) chase down bad guys who are wanted by the law for various bad stuff. Drugs. Dealing drugs. Stealing of all sorts. And usually involving their friends and family in their bad stuff.
I realized as I watched last night that while Dog and his posse look very mean and cop-like, their "weapons" are actually mace and ... paintball guns?? Still, this doesn't impede their effectiveness in pulling tips from witnesses and nabbing thugs from apartments and houses. (closets, under beds and even showers are favorite hiding places)
I can't believe I watch this show. But here's the thing. Dog's had a hard life - he spent time in prison himself. But he's now a professed Christian and prays with his family before heading out on a hunt. He and his buxom wife Beth (with a matching mane of blonde hair) are mannerly in their dealings with everyone. At the close of a show, they are usually talking with the culprit about how he or she could become a changed person. They find something to praise. They are compassionate and kind. Dog knows the mind of a criminal and what rehabilitation takes. Then they turn 'em over to the cops.
Dog does what many of us wish we had the guts to do: make a difference in the world. That usually means getting out of our homes, churches and cushy lifestyles to touch the hard, bad stuff of life.
I like Dog. Which goes to show. I should stop doing the dishes and join my son in watching a show before judging its merit on a few bleeps.
"What IS that??!" we holler, horrified at what we imagine must be a program of little redeeming value. In my many years of raising boys, their attraction to "shoot 'em up" shows and movies really rankled me. Until now. Call me a spineless wimp. Call me whatever you want. But there is something intriguing about Dog the Bounty Hunter, a show on A & E that only months ago I was hollering for my son Mark to TURN OFF.
Here's the premise. Dog is the nickname of Duane Chapman, a middle-aged, wild-haired modern-day bounty hunter. He and his posse (Dog's wife and grown children) chase down bad guys who are wanted by the law for various bad stuff. Drugs. Dealing drugs. Stealing of all sorts. And usually involving their friends and family in their bad stuff.
I realized as I watched last night that while Dog and his posse look very mean and cop-like, their "weapons" are actually mace and ... paintball guns?? Still, this doesn't impede their effectiveness in pulling tips from witnesses and nabbing thugs from apartments and houses. (closets, under beds and even showers are favorite hiding places)
I can't believe I watch this show. But here's the thing. Dog's had a hard life - he spent time in prison himself. But he's now a professed Christian and prays with his family before heading out on a hunt. He and his buxom wife Beth (with a matching mane of blonde hair) are mannerly in their dealings with everyone. At the close of a show, they are usually talking with the culprit about how he or she could become a changed person. They find something to praise. They are compassionate and kind. Dog knows the mind of a criminal and what rehabilitation takes. Then they turn 'em over to the cops.
Dog does what many of us wish we had the guts to do: make a difference in the world. That usually means getting out of our homes, churches and cushy lifestyles to touch the hard, bad stuff of life.
I like Dog. Which goes to show. I should stop doing the dishes and join my son in watching a show before judging its merit on a few bleeps.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
from India, with love
My daughter Katie has always wanted a connection with the past, particularly grandparents who lived and died long before Katie was born. Last summer, as Katie helped her Grandma (Elizabeth Haller) clean out a drawer, she found a treasured link to her great-grandmother who died when Elizabeth was just an infant.
It is a letter dated November 18, 1916, written from India to Katie's great-grandmother Muriel Thayer who was ill. The illness is mentioned in the letter and we are guessing that the letter might not have reached Muriel before her untimely death in December 1916. The writer was Muriel's friend, Mayme Scott, a young mother and missionary wife. After a long paragraph on her baby's growth (the baby was speaking Hindi) Mayme went on to describe her struggles with keeping a good cook:
You are not the only person with servant problems. I have them, too. Just now I've been having trouble with a cook. These things worry me and make me nervous. It isn't any fun doing the cooking myself with the equipment we have. I nearly smoke my eyes out every time I have to do it. And each time I say I'm going home to America if I don't get a cook soon.
She then goes on to describe their mission campaign, an effort to bring the gospel to local non-believers. Mayme was excited about a new Indian preacher who dresses very simply in Indian fashion and lives simply too. He was of the Brahman caste - the highest caste there is. He preached twice a day for four days and his sermons were an hour and a half long. The church was full each time and people listened attentively.
Aside from this interesting look into a missionary's life 92 years ago is the letter itself. Three hand-written pages were surely not unusual at the time. Letter-writing was a typical - or only - means of communication between friends, family and lovers.
I've always had a sense that a letter is a piece of its writer and shouldn't be discarded. So in my closet are letters from my parents, grandparents, husband-to-be and children. When I occasionally pull them out to read on a rainy afternoon, they magically transport me to a place, time or relationship that is no more. They remind me of how precious people are to me, and of the brevity of life.
Those letters tell me to love those in my life and to leave written words, for perhaps someday my great-granddaughter will read not my blog, but my letters in her search to connect her life to mine.
It is a letter dated November 18, 1916, written from India to Katie's great-grandmother Muriel Thayer who was ill. The illness is mentioned in the letter and we are guessing that the letter might not have reached Muriel before her untimely death in December 1916. The writer was Muriel's friend, Mayme Scott, a young mother and missionary wife. After a long paragraph on her baby's growth (the baby was speaking Hindi) Mayme went on to describe her struggles with keeping a good cook:
You are not the only person with servant problems. I have them, too. Just now I've been having trouble with a cook. These things worry me and make me nervous. It isn't any fun doing the cooking myself with the equipment we have. I nearly smoke my eyes out every time I have to do it. And each time I say I'm going home to America if I don't get a cook soon.
She then goes on to describe their mission campaign, an effort to bring the gospel to local non-believers. Mayme was excited about a new Indian preacher who dresses very simply in Indian fashion and lives simply too. He was of the Brahman caste - the highest caste there is. He preached twice a day for four days and his sermons were an hour and a half long. The church was full each time and people listened attentively.
Aside from this interesting look into a missionary's life 92 years ago is the letter itself. Three hand-written pages were surely not unusual at the time. Letter-writing was a typical - or only - means of communication between friends, family and lovers.
I've always had a sense that a letter is a piece of its writer and shouldn't be discarded. So in my closet are letters from my parents, grandparents, husband-to-be and children. When I occasionally pull them out to read on a rainy afternoon, they magically transport me to a place, time or relationship that is no more. They remind me of how precious people are to me, and of the brevity of life.
Those letters tell me to love those in my life and to leave written words, for perhaps someday my great-granddaughter will read not my blog, but my letters in her search to connect her life to mine.
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