Read

August 16, 2011


I had to knock down the dust in Erin's room some yesterday.  I actually spend a lot of time in there and the major surfaces were okay, but some of the shelves don't get a lot of practical cleaning.


Okay, so beyond the I-don't-deep-clean-my-house-regularly confession, there is the other bereaved-parent confession coming.  Twenty-eight months later, and I haven't actually done much with Erin's stuff.  I did give her Keen's to Ian last Friday (for keeps) when he got his muddy mucking around with the geese, but mainly her room is morphing into something else (who knows what?) at a glacier's pace.


I finally got around to dusting the bottom shelf of her bedside table where she stacked the books she was reading.  There they sat, each with a thin skin of petrified dust on them, their places marked, mid-read.  Some had precious store-bought bookmarks holding the place, including a special one carried back from Egypt by a friend who knew Erin's love for books.  An Underarmour tag just as proudly marked her progress in another.  My favorite?  A much doodled upon notecard spelling out the first ten amendments to The Constitution and what they protect.

I dusted under, around, and in the books, then instead of re-shelving them, stacked them back up at the bottom of the bedside table:


Anne McCaffrey's The Harper Hall of Pern
Roald Dahl's Skin
Wendelin Van Draanen's Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Agatha Christie's The Secret of Chimneys
and on top
Erin Hunter's Warriors


This is just one more way that I take after Erin.  


I took a few books on vacation and finished three.  I started with Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke, which despite having won the National Book Award a few years ago AND despite having bee given a free hardback copy, I had avoided, mainly because I just have negative views of the Vietnam War and our involvement, not to mention the whole spy/covert operations/screwing natives and manipulating people theme.  I decided to suck it up and give it a try.  I can't say the book made me feel any better about Vietnam or spooks, but once I started, it compelled me to finish it.  It was much different than I expected with all the characters being broken and and interesting (and thus accessible).  Of course, there were difficult and brutal parts, but also passages that were so evocative that I had to keep picking the book back up, even when I knew I wouldn't like what I would have to read next.


I also finished a murder mystery called The Pawn by Steven James, which I had started as a take-to-the-gym, read-while-you-stationary-bike book.  Spoiler Alert! Since it turned out that the serial killer was actually two serial killers (who had known each other as teens), it turns out I couldn't follow the plot line unless I focused while I read, rather than multitasking.  Being vacation and all, I didn't feel too guilty about just sitting in a chair on the balcony with my feet up reading from time to time.  


Even though I had started a couple of other books before we left Texas and hauled them around with me,  I couldn't help looking for something else to read.  In Taos, I found a locally-owned book store called Moby Dickens and on the advice of the owner, bought three books by southwestern writers (other than Tony Hillerman, who I was caught up on).  I finished my vacation reading on the drive home with Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya.  And while the bodies stacked up in this book just like in the other two, it was completely unlike them--much gentler and reflective, as coming of age stories can be.


After I made it home, I started and finished another of my Taos books:  J. Michael Orenduff's first pot thief book:  The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras, whose gentle self-deprecating humor and practically bloodless mrders helped me transition back into the world where more was expected of me than to drink fine coffee in the morning, fine wine in the evening and while away the hours in between.


Now I'm back to the grind (almost. . . my semester starts two weeks from today).  I have my latest Mother-Daughter book club book at hand:  Dicken's A Tale of Two Cities, which I have always (at least since tenth grade) counted as one of my top five books of all time And which I didn't recognize a word of, beyond the opening paragraph (you know "It was the best or times.   It was the worst of times. . . ") when I started it the other day.   I am also coping with Scott Hendrix's (no relation to Jimi Hendrix) Recultivating the Vineyard, which Walter and I chose for our Sunday School class to use in our study of the Reformation this fall.  


Quick, you can tell that I am missing the third leg of my reading stool.  Give me a light and fun suggestion that can balance off the other two.  I'm considering this one by Will Lacey if it gets into print soon enough.

Eat Your Greens (and Reds and Blues and Yellows)

August 10, 2011


I was going to write about the three books I read on vacation, but I will put that off a day or two.  This photo (with the explanation behind it) came across my news feed, and it was too cool not to share.  Once you look at the photo, click here and read about what you are seeing.  Isn't science/the natural world wonderful and endlessly fascinating?

Stitch

August 6, 2011

Walter and I spent the week in Taos at an ecolodge called El Monte Sagrado, but instead of having body polishes, hot towel infusions, and seaweed wraps, we opted for thigh burner hikes.  We did the Devisadero Loop Trail which took us up to the peak of Devisadero and then along the ridgeline, which may be the only expert trail I have ever hiked.  We managed the six miles and 1100 foot climb in just under three hours--probably not evenly distributed going up and going down.  Here I am pretending to have planted the flag at the summit.

Amazingly, hikers had built a replica of Walter's green chair right by where I had just staked out ownership to the mountaintop, so we could catch our breath before we headed down:

Another of our hikes took us part way up Wheeler Peak, the highest mountain in New Mexico at 13,000+ feet.  We paused at 11,100 feet when we got to Williams Lake, and then skirted the lake and pushed a little further to see a charming waterfall (I took four shots trying to capture the wonder of the water crashing down, then bubbling over the rocks, and finally, slowing to form the source of the lake, but once again you have to trust me that my photographic skill set is a shallow pool that needs some heavy dredging).


Coming down from the waterfall, I decided to try the camera once again to capture the spreading vista in front of me.  I even clicked through the setting options and found one called panorama.  Never used it before.  I mean, it's not like I command sweeping visual fields back in Bryan, or really most places I go on a regular basis.  Looking through the last twenty-five years of photos I have taken, they are almost all birthday parties, Christmas Eve or morning, or Easter Sunday family groupings.  No real need for a wide angle lens on those occasions.


Anyway, I switched over to the panorama setting, was momentarily confused because I had to choose left-to-right or right-to-left, and I had no idea what the correct answer was.  Ultimately, with a little experimentation, I realized I was supposed to take a series of shots of the scene and then something magic would happen.


I did, and after each shot the camera asked me if I wanted to stitch.  After the third shot, I said "Yes" and this is what came out:

Hard to believe, but if you pay attention and are willing to experiment, you can learn new stuff.  Living Proof:  I learned to stitch with my camera.

Wonder

July 31, 2011

If you wanted you could travel the world and inspect the Seven Wonders of the World (which you will realize, if you click the link, that there are actually 28, which would probably take a very long time to see.  I have viewed three in person in my first fifty years, which is a nice trifecta, but doesn't bode well for clearing the table.).

If instead, you work on the list of "Makes You Wonder(s) of the World" you don't have to travel so extensively.  Here are the three I saw this morning when I made the walking loop near our hotel:

Muffler Tree Art?

Balloons Waiting to Escape and Find a Party?

I didn't get a photo of the third Wonder.  I saw it approaching on the walking trail at a jog.  At first I couldn't tell what it was--something bundled up from head to toe in several layers of clothing, bulky, puffy, almost like the Michelin Man.  Head covered with both a knit cap and a hood.  It's cool here, but even I was wearing shorts.  As it passed, I decided the small, young man running by was not an old woman as I had thought, but was probably a slightly heavy jockey trying to make weigh in for this afternoon's races at 1:00.

All three of these sights made me wonder what Erin would have quipped if we had been walking along together.  In fact, if any of you ever wondered, there is absolutely no way to count how many different times or ways your mind touches on someone who is gone and won't be coming back.

Hike or Walk

July 30, 2011


Walter and I went on the Southfork trail in the White Mountain Wilderness of the Lincoln National Forest this morning and went further up the trail than we have ever gone.

On the way back down the trail we came across a big dog party.  I took their picture because they looked like they were having so much fun.  I'm sure Teddy, Willie, and Uma are having just as much fun.  They tended to play a lot of Twister and Mah Jong when we leave them alone:

Can someone explain the difference between "hike" and "walk"?  Is it a matter of equipment?  Terrain?  Changes in elevation?  Length?  Something else?  Or are they the same?  I felt like I did both.


Southfork:  


Length--6 miles
Change in Elevation--2,700'
Degree of Difficulty--Difficult (though it starts out easy enough for children)
Water Crossings--lost count (but none deep enough that we had to change out of hikers into water sandals)
Time on Trail--3 hours

Roll

July 29, 2011

File under things that make me say hmmmmm:

We past several 50-wheelers on I10 yesterday.  Seriously.  I counted the tractor trailer wheels and there were, 50 total wheels on the ground, not 18.  I couldn't even find a Google image to illustrate for you.  And they were so long and moving so fast (The speed limit was 80 mph) I didn't get a photo myself.

I drove with both hands on the wheel when passing them, though if the big things they were carrying had decided to roll off in the high cross winds, having both hands on the wheels would not have saved us.  


Today I am looking forward to watching the car's external thermometer start to gradually drop (after we turn left at Roswell and head towards the mountains).

Dry (Up)

July 26, 2011


About six weeks ago, I spotted some unfamiliar water birds on my morning walk around the lake.  When I say unfamiliar, I don't mean to imply that I can't tell the difference between herons, ibis, ducks, and geese (these were definitely geese), but rather they were new on the lake.  Of course, migratory birds fly through and stop over with some frequency, but they usually leave after a night or two and don't become part of our  neighborhood.  We don't give the ones in transit nicknack names like we do for our permanent wildlife (we call our most senior great blue heron Bird Friend, because he was the first and for a long while only animal around the lake that didn't immediately run or fly away from Willie when he first arrived and tended to romp around heedlessly and with abandon).


The first morning I noticed eight of them, swimming some distance from the shore, always staying way out of range for a good look (or, I suppose, a good shot).  I figured they were four couples on a fam trip or if they were Brant geese, perhaps they had some sort of package tour of Texas outposts or maybe they just got a bad placement on their RCI timeshare option.  Anyway, if figured they were just passing through.


The next morning I spotted the group way out in the middle of the lake, but it only looked like there were seven of them.  Where had the eighth one gone?  To the convenience store for beer and cheese whiz?  Kicked out for cheating at the evening bunco game?  Perhaps scouting for a new home like the father in Robert McClosky's Make Way for Ducklings (in which case, I would not have to strain myself with names for the remaining ones:  Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Oack, and Pack, but I would have to admit that I had missed the mark on identifying them as couples).


The third day it was obvious that the seven weren't moving on and the eighth wasn't returning.  They were accommodating new neighbors, floating serenely out in the lake, letting me get close enough to admire, but not close enough to harm.  So I had a new piece to my morning ritual.   I wouldn't look for them until I entered the picnic area on the far side of the lake (which is the first time I can really see the full expanse of the lake).  Then, I would scan, search, and count, just to make sure they had all made it safely through the night.


Of course, if you count up seven geese (not six a-laying, as in the "12 Days of Christmas") every single day, day after day, your mind begins to wander.  You begin making up things about them.  First, you wonder if they are really The Brady Bunch looked after by Alice in disguise.  Then you squint, and try to tell if they are really four hobbits, a man, an elf, and a dwarf or maybe more obviously just seven dwarves.  They might be The Seven Samurai. . . or The Magnifcent Seven.  You can't imagine how quickly your mind begins to round up things that come in sevens:  are they a metaphor about The Seven Breakthrough Solutions, or the Seven Deadly Sins?  Maybe they are a water polo team?  I really hope that they don't represent the seven signs of the apocalypse.


Why did they come to my lake and why are they staying?


My theory is that they came from a smaller pond somewhere in the area that has disappeared because of the drought.  Here's what has happened at our lake this year (driest November to May in a hundred years and barely a drop since the first of June).  I think they are safe for now because we have a couple of very deep spots on the lake that probably won't run dry:


I took this photo in the backyard.  The Louisiana irises in the bottom right of the picture stand in water in the winter.

This is our dock.  When the lake is it's normal level, the ramp is parallel to the attached part of the dock to the right and the floating part at the left of the picture is attached and floats even as well.  We had to unhinge the floating part so that the ramp wouldn't torque. 

We have cypress trees planted lake side to keep erosion down.  In this photo, I'm standing in the lake bed, shooting back towards the shore.  All of these knees are usually underwater.

The water is usually way over my head off the end of my neighbor's dock:

The national weather service has the following predictions through October 31, 2011:

We live just south and a little west of the arrowhead labeled "Persistence."  They plan on issuing an update on August 4.  I sure hope they add some diagonal striping to my part of Texas.

Enliven and Vitalize

July 18, 2011


I felt a blog post coming on yesterday.  You may want to watch this video before reading further (I write, knowing most of you will skip right over the video when you notice that I have requested nine and a half minutes of your time, plus whatever few ticks of the clock it will take you to read my mighty exposition of it), and be forewarned that there may be more than the usual meandering before I get to my ultimate point. 




This story starts yesterday, but goes back many years.  Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture was the first actual piece of music I purchased with my own shekels.  I had listened to my parents records and had even talked them into buying me some 45s:  The Beatles "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and Three Dog Night "Joy to the World" come to mind.  I didn't own my own "stereo" until high school, and since record albums cost about three times my hourly wage and I was pretty stingy, I satisfied my listening urges by listening to KRBE (for pop music) and later KLOL (for my more sophisticated "album rock" tastes) and by pirating cuts off the radio onto cassettes. 


So what led me to buy Tchaikovsky:  1812 Overture (Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Zubin Mehta with Orignal Civil War cannon, bells and carillon by Maas-Row Carillons--I know this is exactly right because I am holding the original on my lap as I type)?  I thought it was the most delicious and blood pumping fifteen minutes of music I had ever heard!


It didn't even matter that I had a somewhat embarrassing history with that piece of music (skip the next five paragraphs if you tend to leave the room when Beaver is about to make a decision that will get him sent to his room to wait "until his father gets home" or if awkward middle school moments give you the hives).


Awkward Middle School Moment


A few eighth grade band kids (the usual suspects--suck ups and goody-two shoes) got chosen/selected/anointed to sell programs at all the home high school football games as a fund raiser.  Our reward was to go with the high school band when they performed at a University of Houston game, alongside the Cougar Marching Band (under the direction of Dr. Bill Moffitt!!!) and also alongside at least a couple of dozen other local high school bands invited to the exclusive halftime presentation (I can only imagine the innovative minds needed to build a crowd for U of H to fill the Astrodome in the early 1970s).


There I was, dressed in my junior high band uniform (no, they didn't find real uniforms for the eight of us little kids to wear), consisting of a pair of black pants, a white turtleneck, and a black jacket with orange piping.  No big, furry hat with the bill drawn two fingers above the slope of my nose.  No big brass buttons to catch the glint of the lights in the Astrodome.  Just a plain black apprentice waiter outfit, duly marked with bright caution tape on the seams to avoid mistaking me for the real thing.  


As luck would have it, we were the band staged to the immediate left of the college band (I think we were organized alphabetically and Alvin trumped Angleton) between two yard markers near the center of the field.  They also decided to put the middle school kids at the front of our group (I guess to keep uniformity) and because we were short.  They also put me on the very first rank so I wouldn't jab anyone with my trombone slide--though that wasn't too likely, since they didn't issue the eighth graders any music.  


So, there we were at the pre-game practice playing (you guessed it) the 1812 Overture.  The drum majors had climbed tall ladders so everyone could see them, the tom toms, the timbali, and the bass drums in every band were banging out the finale, the scantily clad, but oh-so-beautiful twirlers were tossing their batons impossibly high, and the strains of the very familiar tune were echoing around the domed stadium.  I cheated.  I listened to the music and figured out my part (at least in places), and when the final minute or two of the piece reached its crescendoing thunder, I was playing along!  And feeling quite excellent!  Until I pushed my slide out to distant sixth position

Somewhere between HERE:

AND HERE:

And then accidentally, I let go of my slide and it continued on its forward trajectory and landed at the foot of a twirler, eyes to the heavens awaiting the return of her high-flung baton while whirling round like a dervish with a toothy smile showing between her impossibly (and unnaturally) red lips.  The whole left side of the Fightin' Cougar Band took their instruments from their lips/mouths and stared, just like you do when you think you're about to witness a car crash, leaving the high school bands to soldier through alone to the end of the piece.

End of Awkward Middle School Moment

Yet, even that moment, seared in my memory forever, did not diminish my love for that song.  
I heard it yesterday on the way to church.  As soon as I recognized it I cranked up the volume.  By the time I made it to Finfeather, the familiar last two minutes boomed around me.  I did my best Zubin Mehta, Leonard Berstein, Seiji Ozawa conducting the orchestra---great big arms, hitting the downbeat especially hard, and singing the trombone countermelody.  And smiling!  Smiling bigger than a dog with her head out the window on the highway.  


And of course, this makes no sense.  Offically called The Year 1812, Festival Overture in E flat major, Op. 49, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky composed it in 1880 to commemorate Russia's defense of Moscow against Napoleon's advancing Grande Armée at the Battle of Borodino in 1812.  I am not a guns and battle kind of girl.  You know I don't love wars, generals, or much of that martial stuff at all, but there I was having a viceral experience and absolutely loving it.


When I got home after back to back to back meetings, I went to my computer to listen again.  And again.    Sometimes to the whole thing and sometimes to the last two minutes or even the last minute.  Sometimes with recorded cannon.  Sometimes with live 105 mm cannon.


Every time I listened, I thought, why do so many rousing songs celebrate battle?  And then, instead of getting mad at the waste of a really good song (or several, if you think about it), I started thinking anew.


Why doesn't some (or many) great (or near great) composer write songs that enliven and vitalize in this heart-pounding, visceral, I-have-to-wave-my-arms-around-and-direct for another equally heroic cause:  childhood cancer?


Think of a rip-roaring song that makes you feel proud, bold, ready to act, urgent, defiant of odds.  You kind of get sucked into the music and the way it makes you feel, before you know what it is really all about.  Your senses engage, then your brain engages.


Last year, a local congregation commissioned a composer to write an anthem in Erin's memory.  We were honored.  We visited with the sponsor.  We showed them what Erin was, what she stood for, how she lived.   We got a lovely chorale piece, but not a stirring one.  A pity because it was an opportunity missed.  


What I want is a celebration and call to action for all the children.  I want a song that makes me feel like this one does.  Here's another version that is edited down to the final minute, in case you skipped the longer version up top.  


Anyone willing to give it a try?

Paint

July 8, 2011


Monday will mark the 45th anniversary of the premier of Bob Eubank's The Newlywed Game.  Add bonus points if you knew that it was the last commercial U.S. network series to premier in black and white.

Why do I mention this?


I didn't watch The Newlywed Game too often and probably didn't know what making whoopie was, but I do remember thinking how dumb the couples were.  I distinctly remember a question that some of the couple got wrong that I figured everyone would match on:  How many outside doors does your current home have?  


They were newly married, for goodness sakes.  Even if they had only lived there a short time, how big could their houses be?  How hard was it to count the front door and the back door?  Or if they lived in an apartment, just the front door?  


Fast forward to 2011.  Walter and I are newlyweds of almost 27 years.  We have lived together in the same house for a little longer (don't read this, mom, I'm exaggerating for literary effect).  I set myself the task of painting all the outside doors including the two shed doors as a summer project.  One evening before I started, Walter and I were discussing how much paint I needed to buy.  We each mentally counted the external doors at our house and almost in unison spoke the number:  "8" came out of my mouth, "7" out of Walter's.  No points awarded.  If I had had my answer on a piece of poster board, I would have had to clobber him over the head for forgetting the utility closet door.


We bought the paint, and I started on the two shed doors (half garage doors each) that had their original white paint exteriors which didn't do much to match the rough cedar siding.  I figured I tackle the big ones first and then move on to the six regular doors that were already green, but in desperate need of new top coats. 


I actually began a couple of weeks ago when Davis was home.  Summer is no time to paint outdoors everyday, so I figured I would work a little each morning after breakfast and knock off after a couple of hours, so that I could make consistent progress and still get other projects done each day.  First, I scrubbed the shed doors to remove a decade of grub and grime, then I gave them a good going over with a pre-paint cleaner and prep.  I also did a bang-up taping job so that I wouldn't ruin the trim.  


When I finally started painted, I discovered that eggshell finish was not what I wanted or needed, but it was what I had.  I put the first coat on, and even though I was painting the doors green, A LOT of the white primer showed through.  I re-did the two doors the next day to very unsatisfactory results.  Still plenty of door showing through, and brush marks galore.  I had expected more from Forest Wonder, Pro-Hide Gold.  I guess I didn't realized that when you bought the "professional" brand, instead of the "homeowner" brand they were letting you in on a trade secret:  painters charge by the hour and do not not mind in the least if they have to put coat after coat after coat on a door.


Little did I know that my 30 day challenge was going to be painting doors every day rather than reading poetry.


I put on what I hoped was the third and final coat yesterday morning before I left town.  And I was wrong.  I will need to apply a fourth when I get back AND at that  point IF I am finished, I will have two of the eight doors done.


If you see me walking around town looking like this:

Don't assume I am Iranian or that I just voted.  And don't assume this is the only place on my body that I have green paint.

Escape

July 6, 2011


All I can say is that I believe this video was staged, because I just don't believe corgis would have the incentive to do this unless food were involved.

Try (Something New)

July 2, 2011


After I finish this post, I'm going to squeeze into the closet where I keep Erin's American flag (the one that flew over the capital on her birthday in 2006) and put it out to start the holiday weekend.

Yesterday, I watched this TED video talk by Matt Cutts, called Try Something New for 30 Days.  I have seen people do thirty day challenges on Facebook--giving up sugar or taking photographs, but until I listened to Cutts explain what you might get out of such an endeavor, I wasn't moved to try.  


I sent the talk to Davis to gather his thoughts.  We mulled it over.  Walter, my mom, and I considered the possibilities during happy hour last night.  If you know Walter at all, you know what his suggestion for the next 30 days was, but instead, I decided on a poetry challenge (not writing, reading).  So, until the end of July, I am going to read at least one poem each day.  


I'm not exactly sure what that will entail.  I have never been entirely comfortable with poetry (especially the way I was taught in public school).  I do think, however, I may be missing out on something if I don't give it a shot.  I can't say I even know where to begin.  This is where I need your help.  


I would love your suggestions.  You don't have to start with haikus just to make it easy on me, but likewise, I'm probably not up to tackling Beowulf or Leaves of Grass straight out of the gate either.  If you have something that you think I should add to my list send the title and poet to me (hopefully, I can find a link online, if I don't already have it on my scant poetry shelf.).  I will add a column on my left bar to let you know what I have tried.


Thank you.

Listen and Watch

June 29, 2011


OOPS!  I forgot when I posted last night:  


First Presbyterian is collecting garage sale items for its big community Garage Sale on July 9.  Let me know if you have items to donate, and I will do a pick up between now and next Wednesday.  For those of you who shop, we already have a lot of really good items and enough great items that we will have a boutique inside the garage sale for the very nicest things.


Also, our youth group is collecting plastic grocery bags for a Mo Ranch Project where they will make surprisingly durable sleeping mats by weaving the bags together.  Please donate your extras!

Of course, I love Walter forever and for always.  And, of course, Davis is a more wonderful son than ever a mother could hope for, but if I had to pick my next three guys, it would be Nico, Adam, and Ian Tjoelker. 

These guys, starting with Nico as a 3 year old in Bev Dawsons's class with Erin at Covenant and Adam, at first unable and later unwilling to leave his momma's arms (no way, no how), forged a friendship with our family that is inviolable.  Nico made an uncountable number of trips to clinic in Houston and Bryan, balancing homework on a clipboard on his knee,  shouting out "Kickapoo Road" in chorus with Erin when we passed the exit off Hwy 290 both going and coming every trip, finding easy entertainment with whatever we had available (making tableaus out of earplug people,  watching Hogan's Heroes re-run, playing travel yahtzee, doing whatever it took to make the time pass).  Adam starting going as soon as he was old enough and patient enough to hang in until the day was over (according to the doc and nurses).

Erin loved these guys.  I remember the secret code:  "Can we have some crackers?"  which meant that someone (probably not the adults) was planning and hoping for a sleepover.  You were all too polite to put your parents on the spot and ask a question that they might say "no" to.  

The big kids let Ian hang out when he came along:

Erin played Jezebel in Elijah.  Nico didn't want to sing, but he agree to be a foot solider and have Erin's back.

We even coordinated vacation and lobbying a couple of times.  This was the mall in DC, where, as luck would have it, there was a giant do-it-yourself Lego exhibit when we visited.

We also met up in Pittsburgh and made a day of Kennywood.

Of course, we didn't have to leave town to have a vacation:

We were so sad when you went on sabbatical in Australia:

By the time they got back, Erin was gone.  Now they are so much bigger and more interesting.  This could be Adam's first talent contest:  

Live at Mo Ranch

Nico has become more and more amazing with each passing month.  First, watch his entrance to the talent show, then watch his performance (The Ride of the Valkyries):





If you rock on the organ (and you don't get dizzy watching sideways video) you can see Nico's virtuosity on a fantastic pipe organ, playing Lobe den Herren.  I hope I am always part of your lives, even across the ocean and the years!

Born and Inspire

June 20, 2011

Sometimes the calendar conspires against you and compresses things so you don't have time to work through them before you have to move on to the next thing.  That happened over the last several days, as we burned through first my mom's birthday, Davis's departure back to Ohio, a roadtrip, PPR Day, Father's Day, and today, Erin's fourteenth birthday.

My sister and I celebrated the today by making donations to the Let's Do It! fund at 1st Presbyterian Church.  The Let's Do It! fund supports youth programs at the church and is the "go to" account when someone has a great idea, and wants it to actually happen instead of having it talked to death or committee'd to death.  This completely captures Erin's spirit.  Happy Birthday, Dear Girl!

Here is her first photo:

And here is one of my favorites:

Fall

June 18, 2011


I've loved Ella Fitzgerald for a long time, but my love solidified in 1977 with a New Yorker cartoon that had two guys looking at a bird in a birdcage.  The bird was dressed up in a long evening gown and had a trademark Ella Fitzgerald wig.  The caption read:  "Funny, she doesn't sound that much like Ella Fitzgerald to me."


Walter and I are going to an out-of-town concert in a few minutes (not Ella), with the added bonus:  the date extends overnight in a king-suite at an out-of-town hotel.  So, in honor of Ella, in honor of Erin, and in honor of falling in love (still), sing along with me:

Return (for a Moment)

June 7, 2011


My compressed calendar has unwound a bit, though I still have miles to go before I sleep.  When it has to do with advocating and supporting childhood cancer research, my first inclination is to say "Yes" then figure out how to do whatever it is that the requester has asked.  This is my Erin's Dream Lanyards mantra and it carries over into my world of public policy advocacy.  


This explains how I found myself driving 500 miles roundtrip last week to do training for camp counselors and a workshop for Presbyterian women, coming home to rest overnight, then flying to the West Coast to set up at Max's Touch-A-Truck.

Bright and early Saturday morning I wedged myself between this horse trailer:

and this rainbow muscle car:

This convertible completed the triangle:

Walter and I took a few days to catch our breath and enjoy the mild California weather (and truthfully, to avoid the harsh Texas temps, humidity, pollen, and drought).  See how quickly we catch on?

I'm using free wifi in the San Diego airport to make this post.  We're headed home.  On Thursday, I leave again for West Texas to train another 60 camp counselors how to make Erin's Dream Lanyards so they can shepherd Flaming Arrow campers through the process all summer.  By Friday, I'll be back home, frantically cleaning the house (which I haven't touched in the last month) preparing Chez Buenger for the state visit of the young prince, who will arrive on Saturday for a weeklong trip.

I hope I can stuff the beads that have overflowed into his room back in the "bead room."  Luckily, after the last week there are many fewer to store.  I sent them to camp for the summer and the lucky ones have moved to California.

Store

June 2, 2011

I drove back from Mo Ranch this morning, staring into the rising sun, chatting with Jimmie (thanks for the deft assist at everything we did!), and pondering this:

What would anyone born almost anyplace in the world at almost any other time in the history of man think about a culture and society that spends so much money renting ugly spaces to store our extra stuff in?

 

Really?  We have so much extra stuff that we pay a hundred bucks a month to stow the stuff that our over-sized homes don't have room for?  As a nation we have given rise to an entire industry where we can pay money to have someone store all those treasures in our lives, which we have cleverly disguised as garage sale material to keep it safe:  our collections of mismatched freebie coffee mugs, canvass totes we got at every conference we ever attended, toys our children played with for ten minutes that we are now saving for our grandchildren, lawn chairs we are going to repair when we have the time.

WWALS (What would Abraham Lincoln say)?  What would Marco Polo say?  What would Pliny the Elder say?  What about your average Ugandan or Fiji Islander?

I passed bunches of these places and wondered how this had happened.  It made me say hmmmm.

Mo was terrific as always.  A special salute to the women of First Presbyterian of Fort Worth who all came by on Ellen's instructions and joined the fun!  We are also now geared up for Erin's Drem Lanyards at Mo summer camp.  I am refreshed and ready to start the summer.  Tomorrow we are San Diego bound and are ready to marvel at Max's Touch-A-Truck and see various Thornburgs!  Next week it is back to the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas (just down the road from Mo) to introduce a new set of camp counselor's to Erin's project.  

Life is good.  

I won't start worrying about WWALS or how the American culture and society gave rise to two roomfuls of glass beads in my house until I get back. 

At least I haven't had to resort to off-site storage.