There's a major gas leak in Falkner.

We have no heat. We have no stove. We won't have heat for the rest of the night.

It's cold outside.

Very, very cold outside.

This is the opposite of good.



But then, you know what? We could live in Mexico, where it's oh-so-cold right now, and there's myriads of poor, poor people who have nothing, or in another cold third world country where people have no heat or good food or even enough blankets. We have so much, even when we have less than usual. And I can only say, "thank you, God," and gratefully add another blanket to our soft bed.

soaring to new lows...

A few minutes ago, I went to the Post Office exactly the way I scrambled out of bed this morning. Pajamas, unwashed face, greasy bangs, the works. Well, I did put polka dotted rubber boots and a jacket on, but my flannel, snowflake pajamas were clearly showcased in all their glory.

And you know what? I could care less. I wasn't embarrassed. Mama said, "just don't go in if there's a car in the parking lot." But there wasn't. So I clunked in and did my little transaction, then clunked out. I even waved to somebody in the next parking lot.

The way I see it, half of Tippah County has been to Wal-Mart or the grocery store or something along those lines in their pajamas, so I'm just getting in touch with my small town roots.

Don't ask me what I mean by that last statement; I couldn't really give you an answer. It just sounded relevant.



While we're more or less talking about post offices, this is a short story of Eudora Welty's called "Why I Live at the P.O." - and it's quite amusing. I read it, laugh, then thank God my family isn't like that.

So it begins...

The Annual Detox-Your-System-of-Christmas-Carols, of course.

Now, "Frosty the Snowman" is no longer an acceptable shower song.

Lee and Ben singing "Jingle Bells" isn't cute anymore. It's annoying, because Christmas is OVER.

No more "ring, ting, tingling too - come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you." Or however it goes. I'm beginning to forget, because I've been detoxing myself since yesterday evening.

AnnMarie? It's time to stop collaring everyone and forcing them to sing "Jingle Bell Rock" for you. But don't lose heart, next Christmas will be here before you know it.

The people who have been playing Christmas carols since before Thanksgiving, (don't get me started on that,) must quit. Now.

I have to sorrowfully shelve "Little St. Nick" by the Beach Boys. (Confession time: I like the Beach Boy's music. Still speaking to me?)



Moving on.

Want to hear a funny Christmas tale? About a fruit basket?

Good, 'cause I'm going to tell it whether you want to or not.

It's the practice of nice churches here in the South to bring fruit baskets to the poor and needy and the old around Christmas time. Lovely practice. Sometimes. I like seeing the baskets piled high on my Mamaw's table, some tastefully arranged, some crammed into a paper sack. It means she's loved and known by many churches.

BUT.

This year, there was a knock on our door. I went, and there stood a very old man with a very full paper sack. Ummmm... hi. "Here's a fruit sack from our church. Merry Christmas. Is your grandmother at home?"

Okay. Mamaw probably told them we like fruit. It's not because they consider us poor and needy, or old. Right? (Mama was a little offended, because she feels they were classifying her as old. It's alright, mama, they're just too old and blind to see how young you are.)

There were some uneatable, dry oranges, some apples, some tootsie rolls, (yes!!!) and a few bananas in the sack. And...

You're not going to believe this.

There was also a stick of deodorant.



Deodorant.

In a fruit basket.

Go figure.

And while you're figuring, start singing Valentine ditties, or Fourth of July songs, or anything but Christmas carols. Because the detoxing has begun.

unto us...

"Hark, yonder! What means the firing of the Tower guns? Why all this ringing of bells in the church steeples, as if all London were mad with joy? There is a prince born; therefore there is this salute, and therefore are the bells ringing.
Ah, Christians, ring the bells of your hearts, tire the salute of your most joyous songs, 'For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given.' Dance, oh my heart, and ring out peals of gladness! Ye drops of blood within my veins dance every one of you! Oh! all my nerves become harp strings, and let gratitude touch you with angelic fingers! And thou, my tongue, shout - shout to His praise who hath said unto thee - 'Unto thee a child is born, unto thee a Son is given.' Wipe that tear away! Come, stop that sighing! Hush your murmuring. What matters your poverty? 'Unto you a child is born.' What matters your sickness? 'Unto you a Son is given.' What matters your sin? For this child shall take the sin away, and this Son shall wash and make you fit for heaven. I say, if it be so, 'Lift up the heart, lift up the voice, Rejoice aloud! ye saints rejoice.'"


-taken from an 1859 Christmas sermon by Charles Spurgeon


Merry Christmas! I pray we all find real reason to rejoice and sing for joy today and this year.

I come by it honestly.

Mama, taking down the dead twinkle lights on our flower drying rack: high pitched shriek

Me: "Mama??? Are you okay?"

Mama: "I cut the twinkle light wire in two, but I guess I forgot to unplug it first."

Too Small a Thing.

If I was the kind of person who ran out and got a tattoo every time something really grabbed my attention in a good way, I would have this verse tattooed somewhere.

Indeed He says,
"It is too small a thing that You should be
My Servant
To raise up the tribes of Jacob,
And to restore the preserved ones of
Israel.
I will also give You as a light to the
Gentiles,
That You should be My salvation to the
Ends of the earth."

-Isaiah 49:6


I was reading Isaiah 49 this morning, and I couldn't read past that verse. The absolute wonder of it filled my soul, and I found tears spilling over as I thought of the sacrifice of our Saviour, made not just for the Jews, the special nation, but for the Gentile dogs. Us. We're the dogs. I'm not a Jew. I'm not from the people that God chose before the foundations of the earth to be His own nation... not because they were the best, or the biggest, but because He loved them. The Gentiles were outside those beautiful promises God made to Israel in the Old Testament.

But.

(Sometimes, that's my very favorite word.)

But, God in His amazing mercy, gave Jesus Christ to be a Light for me, for His chosen ones among the Gentiles, as well. God's Salvation to the ends of the earth.

Think about that. We were outside of God's promises to Israel. We were the pagan Gentiles who didn't know the one true God. But then, the sacrifice was given for us, even we who are called according to His purpose, and we are called the sons of God. We are now His people, the sheep of His pasture. Christ is our Elder Brother, and He now stands before the Father, making intercession for me. For us. For the Gentiles. Wow. It's unbelievable. And oh, so wonderful.

If this doesn't make your heart sing for joy, I don't know that anything could.

And the party came in.

To my dear family,

Wow. I love y'all so much. I'm glad we have family Christmases that would scare the socks off most people, but for us makes fantastic memories for the rest of the year. (Incidentally, how on earth did four of my siblings get married? We're tons of fun, but we can be super intimidating to prospective spouses, I would imagine.)

I love that we can't get five words out without someone else interrupting because theycantellitwaybetter. Actually, I don't love it. But it makes us unique, I suppose. And we are working on it. Promise. I love that we can trash a house quicker than any other family, (check out the picture if you don't believe me,) and then clean it up twice as fast, thanks to Karen and Mama. Karen, you get a special shout out. We owe so much neatness and order and clean dishes to you. And I love that we can at least shake the roof with our conversations and laughter. Maybe not raise it, but definitely shake it. I love that mama can totally beat me with her stilt walking skills. As in, I'm really, really bad at it, and she can do a little dance, while singing, on them. Yeah.

I thank God for all of you, individually, and as a large, talkative, loving, teasing group. Our Heavenly Father has been so good to each of us, to give us His Son as our surety and hope when everything else, even family, isn't enough. He always is enough - and He has blessed us beyond measure.























p.s. I know that some of you don't know my oldest brother, Jacob. Well, that's him in all his handsomeness in the first picture. He looks a lot like Daddy.

This Post is Lovingly Dedicated to Dr. Grant and his Fabulous Mid-terms

It's over.

I'm alive. And as sane as I've ever been.

Which isn't saying much, I grant you.

(Okay, don't take that picture as an indication of my sanity. I just thought the toothbrush holder was so dadgum ugly. And I was dressed like that on purpose, as you'll discover if you keep reading.)



After it was over, in heady celebration, Julia, Ellie and I dressed crazily and went to Wal-Mart and ran around taking silly pictures... actually, I was getting stocking stuffers, too, so we weren't there without a purpose. Right.

We had lots of fun, (Ellie and I did a little skit for Julia - you'll see us on Broadway any day now,) and we ate lots of food, and mostly we rejoiced that we would never, ever, ever have to take another Gileskirk mid-term or final. If we can keep an A average, because we're seniors. Not taking the final is a BIG motivation for keeping grades up, let me tell you. I'll let you know how that goes. Maybe.

Anyhow, it's over. For good. Hopefully. I'm grateful for the ability to learn, and I'm grateful for a mama who cares enough about the right things to remind me that what I put down on a paper test isn't the most important thing in the world.


Sword fighting in Wal-Mart is awesome. Julia really got into it, as you can tell.




P.S. I don't know why i look so... red in that first picture. I wasn't madly embarrassed or anything, so apparently the lighting in Wal-Mart isn't conducive to photo shoots. For good reason, I suppose. Else everyone in the whole wide world would want to have their family portraits, senior sessions, engagement shoots, etc. in Wal-Mart. 'Cause the decor is so great.

p.p.s. Ellie and I now know how to spell "rhythm"very confidently. We had one of those blank moments when we couldn't for the life of us remember how to spell it. It is a kinda tricky spelling, but it can't confuse us anymore! Ho, no. We are the rhythm spelling queens.

I should sue.

Did you know that according to NASA, the biggest meteor shower of 2009 is tonight? I had forgotten all about it until about fifteen minutes ago, and since I was up anyway, and prime viewing is around midnight, and since I'm a shooting star junkie, I bundled up in a big robe and warm socks, pulled pallet stuff out, slipped crocs on, shoved a bottle of water in my pocket, grabbed one of the kittens to keep vigil with me, and gaily marched out of the carport into... rain.

Yep.

It was nicely drizzling and totally overcast.

Electricity is pretty great.

Trey started putting a new light in my bathroom today. But the wiring was somehow off, and he had to leave for Texas, so he went ahead and left before he finished, leaving wires hanging out and the breaker off, because we didn't really want to be blown to bits by the naked wires. (As much fun as that would be.) Problem is, the breaker, (or whatever it's called - electrician I'm certainly not -) which connects to the bathroom light also connects to my bedroom light. As in, there's no electricity in my bedroom either.

I have forgotten and flipped that stupid, lifeless light switch thirty times today, expecting a burst of light and getting... nothing. Blank. Continued darkness.

Which is really inconvenient when you're trying to get ready. It wouldn't be a big deal if there was another place I could easily go and get ready. But we're re-painting and re-flooring rooms upstairs and down, and the rooms which aren't taken apart for re-doing are holding the contents of those rooms. It's a madhouse.

So, tonight, I go into my room and think, "Well, I can certainly blow my hair dry in the dark."

::click my hairdryer::

::nothing::

Oh, right, the electricity being out means the plug-ins don't work either. I knew that. Totally.

Into the guest bathroom I go, carrying my hairdryer and ignoring the half-put down floor and all the dust. Wait, I forgot my round brush. Back to my bedroom. Stub my toe on the pile of books in front of my dresser from Mama's bedroom, which I can't see because the room is blackness. Back to the bathroom. Ooops, forgot my diffuser. (If you're a guy, you're totally not getting this. You should probably stop reading.) Back to my bedroom. Hey, it's dark in here! I can't find my diffuser. I'll just turn the light on and...

Nothing.

The Spider Annhilation Chronicles

There was a spider in my shower this morning.

He's very, very dead now.

it's a gileskirk thing. you wouldn't understand. and believe me, you don't want to.

George Washington was most certainly not the first president of the United States.
Peyton Randolph was. News flash? Yeah, well, get with the game.

Did you know that Arx Axiom means fortress of first principles? And that culture can be defined as religion externalized? (Please, don't ask me what that means; Dr. Grant hasn't explained it since my freshman year and I would give a sketchy answer.) Also, the first twenty one colonies to become states were... what? You're not interested? Oh. Sorry. Well, did you know that without Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams joining forces and shaking things up here in America, we probably would have lost the war? They were pretty awesome.

Someone said the word "star" last night, and I immediately began an essay in my head on the secret star chamber of Charles I. It was a personal court where he had "treasonous" men sentenced without fair trial. The scoundrel. Off with his head!

In my dreams last night, Dr. Grant came and stood over me dressed in a 17th century garment, (one with those uncomfortable neck ruffs,) and shook a sealed scroll over my head, calling my name in a loud and terrible voice. I had to list the five causes of collapse of the old world order, or I would fail the whole semester, and for the life of me I could only think of four. It was an awful dream. Or, it would've been if it had really happened. But it's definitely a plausible possibility. (The dream, that is, not the blank out, 'cause I can list the five causes backwards, forwards, and sideways. Ha, Dr. Grant!)

My brain is slowly shriveling to the size of a peanut made out of grey ash, and I'm not even through filling out the study guide for the twenty page Gileskirk mid-term. So, why am I writing this instead of doing that? Application of Gileskirk, of course. And because I just lost my pencil for the hundredth time while sitting in the same place, surrounded by the same things. Yeah. It's a talent.

Bye now. I'll see you after the Dreaded, Despised, and Dratted Mid-term is over. IF I come out alive. And sane.

p.s. I think I have a crush on Bonnie Prince Charlie.

She Walks in Beauty. (sometimes, Byron had it right.)

Well. There are times when words run short even for me. Yeah, I know. It's hard to believe about a Strevel woman. But this is one of those times.

Tomorrow is Mama's birthday. And I would like to go on and on about her - about how much I love her, about how precious our relationship is, how wonderful an example she is to me every single day, how she makes this house a real home, how she has a tremendous store of love and patience for her children. I know she wouldn't really like that, though, and frankly, when you feel oh-so-much for someone, it's difficult to say it as well as you'd like. I don't know why. But there it is.

Mama, you are really, really wonderful. And much more wonderful than you is Christ in you, and I am daily thankful that God has, in His infinite wisdom and kindness, allowed us to grow together in Him.

I love you.

Happy birthday.

we're so rich. thank you, God.

It's freezing outside, but there's a bubbling pot of asparagus soup, (with bacon and onions - mmmm...) on the stove, the fireplace is doing its awesome thing, lamps are creating warm pools of light all over the house. And Christmas is right around the corner.

Yeah, I love music. It's pretty much the bomb.

I have been furiously knitting these past few days to get a scarf done for someone as an early Christmas present. To beguile the time as I knit, I've been listening to a lot of my classical cds, and have realized again just how amazing music is.

Here are some of my old favorites. Some of them are pretty long, but listen to them as you're cooking, reading, doing housework, schoolwork, whatever. It's worth it.

Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture- music doesn't get anymore thrilling, beautiful, and heartbreaking than this. Listen to all three parts.

Paganini's Caprice No. 24 - pieces like this, performed like players like this, are the reason I play the violin. 3:13 is the best part, so be sure to listen all the way through if you start it.

The Girl with the Flaxen Hair, by Claude Debussy -I played this two recitals ago, but it didn't sound quite like this, I'm afraid.

Eine kleine Nachtmusik, (Allegro,) by Mozart - one of the first orchestral pieces I remember hearing as a little girl, and it still makes me tingle from head to toe.

Each of the Four Seasons by Vivaldi are wonderful, but I've been listening to Winter for obvious reasons. And I love the gradual crescendo throughout the entire piece.

Finally, (because I have to stop somewhere, not because I'm running out of suggestions,) if I had to pick a piece as my favorite from now til death do us part, I would probably pick Humoresque, by Dvorak.

Oh, the memories Humoresque brings back. Ellie and I played this together at recitals about half a dozen times or more, (meaning that we practiced it several hundred times, give or take a few. I'm not exaggerating much,) and somehow I never grew tired of it. I think she did, but to be perfectly fair, her part wasn't as enjoyable as mine, seeing as how she played the accompaniment. (Played it really, really well, by the way.) We had lots of fun at those recitals. Sometimes we played without a tremor or even one sharp or flat note, and sometimes we had to actually stop in the middle and go back a little ways 'cause we messed up so badly. Our nerves were our best friends at these events. Speaking of which, y'all wanna see some pictures of us way back when? You do?

Owww!! Ellie, stop pinching me. I can show 'em if I want to. Sorry 'bout that. Okay, here goes.

Notice, please, that in the last one, we were wearing matching, red, sparkly, shirts. Oh, you already noticed that? Just making sure. Somehow, at this recital, Eleanor's black shoes were left at home, so she played in her stocking feet. Good times, good times. Is that why she looks like she sucked a barrel of lemons right before the picture? And I look kinda drugged. But we thoroughly enjoyed it all. Except for the nerves part. Which was a pretty big part of it.

Eleanor? I love you. You're a fantastic accompanist.




p.s. I really like this song. Thanks, Katie C. for introducing me to it. Songs about brown eyed girls are the best.

Welp, there goes my hearing.

Excuse me while I peel my heart out of my throat.




It's lightning. And thundering. Very loudly.

Me: "I suppose every conversation has a purpose."

Mama: "Yeah. Most of the time it's to make you hold your tongue better next time. But sometimes there's enlightenment."

In Which I Became a Cat-Hater.

We have four kittens. We don't want four kittens. Based on that fact, I set out on an adventure today. I was going to go door to door in Falkner and the outlying houses and give them away. Nothing could be easier, right?

Wrong.

Ho, boy, was I ever wrong.

At the first three houses, I couldn't get anybody to the door. At two of those houses, dogs exploded into barking when I rang the doorbell. So, I'm betting those people wouldn't have wanted a free kitten anyway. At the fourth place, there were about six kittens running around. Darn. I decided to try in spite of appearances being definitely against me. A nice man came to the door, and a nice woman followed. No, they didn't want another kitten. "This is sort of a drop off place," the lady said. "People just leave their kittens on our road. Can you imagine that?"
Me: (thinking, of course,) "Dadgummit, why did I have to knock on the door and ask? If I'd known that you considered yourself kitten haven, I sure would have been here sooner. Here, as in, here on your road, not here at your door." But I didn't say that, because I was still laboring under the delusion that I would find some eager cat adorer who wanted four kittens really badly. I wasn't desperate. Yet.

Did I mention that getting the two kittens, (I decided to just try two, since it was hard enough getting them in the box for me to know I didn't want to maneuver four,) in and out at each place was maddeningly difficult? And painful? I have a lovely red scratch on my left hand from one of their desperate attempts to crawl over the steering wheel and onto the dashboard. If it hadn't been Laura's car, I would've let them go where e'er their scared little hearts wished. But it was, so I didn't. Every time we got back in the car after a rejection, we had a little routine going. I slid in with the kittens still in my hands. I shut the door with my foot. I cranked the car, and on cue one of them screeched and clawed his way up my front, leaving precious reminders of his presence at every step. From their howls, you would've thought I was proposing to set them loose in a room full of wild jaguars. Or was ramming splinters under their nails. (That actually happened to me yesterday. A large, thick splinter went in all the way down to the bottom of my nail. It hurt like crazy. And bled when Mama wrenched it out with tweezers. Yes, tweezers. Underneath my fingernail.)

Let me just tell you, it was miserable. The kitten maneuvering and the splinter. But right now I'm telling about the kitten maneuvering.

We pulled up to another house. Oh, there's two dog statues on the porch. Yeah, I'm guessing they don't want a cat. Another house. The nice man said he'd love a kitten, but he and his wife are truck drivers and are gone for long stretches of time. Thanks alot, buddy. Yet another house. This lady asked me if I was Kathy Nutt's daughter. Yes, I am. She knew mama and I looked just like her. (That was the bright spot of this whole day, in case you're wondering whether there was one.) Now up we go to a junky place. The man says he doesn't even like cats. I assure him I don't either. (which isn't even close to a lie by this point.) At the next house, my presence causes the owner's tied up dog to half strangle himself in his chain. She, (the owner,) isn't very happy with me. Sorry! Nobody's home at the next, but there are two dishes of cat food sitting on the front porch. I seriously consider leaving the imps, (who have by this time figured out how to lift the lid on their plastic container all the way off, even when it's latched,) as a little surprise for the people, but decency prevails. Barely.

Then, the crowning event of the entire day. At the last house, I ring the doorbell. Cue about five inside dogs barking. Okay, just kidding. Sir, I'm sorry to bother you. Probably don't want a free kitten, do you? No? I didn't think so. Bye!

::get into car, pull door shut with foot, cat claws up my front, turn key:: ::tired, depressed noise from engine - doesn't crank::

NO! NO! Please, please, don't do this to me!

That's right. Laura's car wouldn't start. And my cell phone was at Anna's. And Mama was in Corinth. Laura and Trey? In south Mississippi. So, even if I borrow the man's phone, who on earth will I call? And I'm at a stranger's house, with two kittens. I almost plunked my head down and cried. Almost. I'm saved by the grizzled man in a dirty tank coming out. He heard the sorry, nasty, mean, ugly engine refuse to perform like a good engine should, and he tells me not to worry. He hooks up the battery cables and jumps off the car, as calmly and politely as if teenage girls with screeching cats in tow have car trouble in his yard every day. He was so nice. And he had a high pitched voice, which I would have found amusing at any other time, given that he was a good sized hulk of a man.

I drove home as fast as I could with the dastardly beasts clawing me; the box wherein they should have been safely enclosed being absolutely no good by this time.

I dumped them out on the front porch, from whence they immediately scampered to their mama.

And I now know what my calling in life isn't.

Giving away cute, free kittens.

I'm a failure at it.





Oh, and Laura? Your car needs some major help.

The stork is paying a visit to a Strevel home soon!

I have only just been authorized to announce to the world, (at least, the part of the world that hasn't already heard, which isn't a large part,) that my big brother, Joseph, and his wife, Andrea, are expecting their second baby. Yay! So, look out for Mr. Stork winging his way to New Albany, MS in about eight months.

Speaking of which, has that ever bothered anyone else? Those pictures of the gangly, awkward birds with the strings on which the babies' lives depend carelessly twisted 'round their beaks, transporting delicate infants whose toes and hands and sometimes very heads can be seen peeking from the swing? Yeah. That bothers me. Who on earth came up with that idea? Storks? How random can you get? And how unsafe? Also, you know how in the movies and books the storks often fly the baby to the wrong house? And look at a map while they're flying with the baby? Good grief! Oh, yeah, let's feed that to our innocent kids.

Small child: "How did I get here, Mommy?"

Ridiculous Mommy: "Oh, a clumsy white bird who has problems following directions brought you here in a loose sheet he held in his beak."

I guess I can understand not needing to go into a lot of detail about birth to small children, but how on this good green earth did storks get saddled with the delivery? You could at least pick a reliable bird without super long legs, (which just have to mess with the bird's flight pattern,) and give your kids the assurance that they arrived with little danger. Or, you could just not lie at all. Why bring storks into it?

You may be rolling your eyes at me, but someone, somewhere, sometime, had to have started that erroneous tale. Was she an inmate of an insane asylum? Someone with a really, really twisted sense of humour? I'm curious. Maybe I'll look it up on Wikipedia. Because Wikipedia is always reliable.



Anyway... Joseph, Andrea, and dearest Charlie: I am so, so excited about the baby! I can't wait to hold her, (or him, of course, but I'm just going to call it "her" for convenience,) and kiss and cuddle and love her. Actually, I already love her. Very much.

Congratulations.



p.s. If you want, go here to see where my stork misgivings began. Do you see how they just toss the bundles out of their beaks a looong way from the ground and leave them to the mercies of parachutes? Dude, those parachutes malfunction sometimes!

The Three Musketeers take on Atlanta. Or The Three Stooges take on Atlanta. whichever you prefer.

Mama, Mamaw, and I did something bold and daring and fearless today. We left the house at 8:15, (a feat in and of itself, since it's easier to move heffalumps than get us out the door at a decent hour. We're always sprinting back in for "just one more thing!" Call it a curse, call it a talent. Daddy called it a curse. And we still manage to forget things. Oh, well.)

Anyhow, we drove to my brother's in Atlanta today. By ourselves. As in, drove the seven hours from Mississippi to Atlanta without getting lost one single time, without any wrecks, without killing each other, without spilling hot liquid all over ourselves, (though I did burn the skin completely off my tongue drinking my hot tea in a travel mug - yes, I know it's desecrating to the tea to put it in a travel mug, but that's the price to pay for getting out the door at 8:15,) and without any speeding tickets.

Wait.

You don't look nearly as impressed as you should be.

Believe me.

And you know what a trip means for this humble bit of cyber space. A list.

1. I drove from home all the way through Birmingham. And I actually enjoyed driving in four lanes of traffic.

2. Miraculous thing about that is, Mama didn't have a heart attack. Not even a little one.

3. We arrived on the other side in one piece. Ha!

4. I love to play freeze tag, hide and seek, and free-for-all-tackle with my nephews. Because they're the best. (The best, as in, the funniest best. Not the gentlest best. Oh, no.)

5. Mamaw has some killer skills bowling on the wii. She got a strike her very first toss.

6. But far surpassing her bowling skills are her boxing skills. She's got some moves. Her dude totally laid the other dude flat. If she ever needs a part time job...

7. I am really bad at wii baseball. Big surprise, right? Since I'm so fantastically good at regular baseball and all. Stop snickering. Now.

8. I really, really hope that hitting-the-target ability on the wii doesn't carry over into real life. Because Mama and I are dead meat if we have to rely on our shooting capabilities to protect ourselves or feed ourselves. (Not that the last would ever happen, since we would be much closer to digging up roots to eat than hunting wild game, but still.)

9. I notice that this list has a lot to do with the wii. I'm not addicted, I promise. But my darlin' nephews are. (Please, please, if you value my reputation, do not tell either of those little boys that I called them darlin'. To say they wouldn't forgive me for a long time is an understatement. At least, not until I played freeze tag with them.)

10. Nephews are the best. Long distances that separate aren't.

Jacob was reading in Genesis chapter 2 to Jackson, who's 6.

Jacob: "... so, it didn't rain at first in the world. When do you think the first rain was?"

Jackson: "Ummm... 1861?"

oh, how i do love her.

Mama: "Aaaahhh!! I'm having a flashlight!"



::pause::



Me: "A flashlight?"

Mama: "No! I mean a hot flash!"

oh, goody.

I like my house. It's beautiful, and the yard is even prettier. Mama and Daddy have spent countless hours working to make our home what it is, and the result is amazing, in my opinion.

But.

(Bet you didn't see that "but" coming, did you?)

There's a problem with having such a nice yard and pleasant house. Other things take a liking to them. Other things, as in, animals. Not welcome animals. There was the yellow cat Darrin paralyzed with the bb gun, there was the hound dog that kept getting into our trash, there was the possum that got fried in the wires behind the meat freezer in the shop and stunk up the entire building before we discovered him, and various and sundry other critters along the way. But those were small and insignificant compared to who has fallen in love with our place now.

A large, filthy, nasty, smelly, smelly, smelly, skunk.

I don't like snakes. At all. I don't like pigs. At all. I don't like spiders. At all. But I like all of them put together better than a skunk. You can kill snakes and spiders, and you can choose not to have pigs. But skunks don't wait for an engraved invitation; they just move into the neighborhood like they own the place, and if you kill skunks you smell indescribably horrible for a really, really long time, and your house and yard and pets smell worse. For even longer. (Since you can't wash your house, yard, and pets in tomato juice and burn their in-contact-with-skunk clothes.)

Thanks to this delightful newcomer, our house now has a pleasing scent which has spread to every room, every corner, ever so faintly in some places, then blast-your-nose-out strong in others.

Anyone want to come and have a sleep-over?

Come on, you know you do.

And you'll go home smelling just wonderful. Everyone will be dying to know where you found that awesome new perfume. So they can avoid that store like the plague.

Fun times

You know what's not a good idea? At all? Taking a long, very, very hot shower without eating any breakfast first. You start to feel really light. Then really happy. As if you have not a care in the world. You begin to have that peculiar sensation that perhaps your head isn't connected to the rest of you at all, but is floating gently through space and time.

Then everything goes black.

I'm gonna have a bruise or two from this one.

There's magic in the Wind today

I absolutely love seeing all the yellow, red, and brown leaves swirling and dancing around the yard, carried hither and thither by every puff and huff of the Wind. If I peer very carefully, (which is rather difficult, seeing as how they're twirling at the rate of nobody's business,) I can spot a tiny, laughing fairy wrapped in each leaf. Seriously. Go look, if you don't believe me.

And if you don't see one, don't blame me. It's your faulty imagination that's to blame.




After a while, all those dancing leaves will come to rest in great sheets all over the yard and under the trees, and the bushes will be submerged 'neath a thick blanket. But have you ever stopped to think about the leaves that fall in the road? What is that like for them? It must be traumatizing. And depressing.

Little Leaf: "Oooohh... I finally made the scary journey down from the tip top of that big oak tree. Boy, I am so ready for a rest." (little leaf settles down to sleep)

Then suddenly, WHOOOSHHH, a monstrous, gas blowing machine zooms through and picks up all the resting leaves and spins them through the air. After they gather their scattered wits and breathe a sigh of relief, what should happen but another monstrous, gas blowing machine that spins them all through the air again. And then again. And again. No rest. No lying in heaps, gently stirred by passing breezes. Nope.

It's like the twilight zone for leaves.

Isaiah is currently wearing: a one piece baseball suit, two necklaces, a pink, flowery barrette in his wild hair, yellow rainboots, and to top it all off, he's enthusiastically brandishing a silver and red wooden sword.

I love him so much.

About a dear little dollhouse

A tousle haired, harum-scarum little girl was given a dear little dollhouse for her fourth birthday. It was a wonderful, two story dollhouse, lovingly built by her daddy and beautifully painted and decorated by her mother. It was almost taller than this little girl; she could just peep over the blue ridgepole.

The tousle haired little girl and the dear little dollhouse spent countless hours together. The dollhouse was moved into the little girl's room, and any time she wanted, she could disappear for long stretches of time into the world inhabited by her dollhouse and its family, falling under a peculiarly sweet spell known only to children who can really make believe.

This particular dollhouse had five people belonging to it: Father and Mother, Jim and Betsy, and Baby. Father and Mother existed to fix meals and go to work, care for Baby, (except when Betsy looked after her for Mother to take a nap or go visiting,) and occasionally spank their offspring, who, I regret to say, developed quite a tendency towards disobedience. (It may be remarked that this tendency in the children was especially strong after the little girl herself had been naughty and suitably punished. We shall not go so far as to suggest that the little girl took out her own wrongs upon the unsuspecting inhabitants of the dollhouse.)

Betsy and Jim shared a room, her bedspread being trimmed with white lace and his plain, so as to tell them apart. They also shared in grand adventures, which mostly consisted of doing their schoolwork under Mother's watchful eye or attempting to climb all the way up on the roof. (This they never actually accomplished, since there were no ladders nearby, and they not infrequently were seized by careful parents in the act of scaling the vines which grew up the house.) If trouble was made, it was Jim who made it, and then poor Betsy got dragged in as well, as a result of being so close in age and proximity to her wretch of a brother, but never thinking of mischief herself. Perhaps we may safely assume that Betsy was the model child our little girl wished to be, but was always much too naughty to become.

Baby was simply herself, a gentle, non-troublesome darling who was held a great deal and calmly slept in her bassinet whenever was convenient.

And so they continued for not a few years, the little girl and her dear little dollhouse and her little people, over whom she ruled with a kind, yet firm hand.

Then other past-times began to creep in. The little girl grew bigger. Now she could look down on the dollhouse, instead of barely peeping over the ridgepole.

There came a day when she didn't play with her dollhouse very much anymore.

Soon, there just wasn't room in the girl's room for such a dear little dollhouse which wasn't really all that little when it came to conveniently sitting in a corner. So, the little girl, with a few tears, (after all, she loved the dear little dollhouse very much indeed, even though she was becoming occupied by other things,) tucked her smiling dolls snugly in their cozy beds, with Baby's cunning white bassinet close by Mother and Father so that they could reach her easily when she cried, and the dollhouse went to live in the spare room closet.

There it stayed for a long, long time, thinking about the days gone by, or quietly sleeping like its family. It only saw the little girl when she came into the spare room closet to get sheets or suitcases, and the little girl sometimes fondly remembered the dollhouse and its people as pleasant companions of the past.

Then one night, the little girl, mostly grown up now, was told that her small niece had played with the dollhouse a few days before and had left the contents in disarray. The girl climbed the stairs and opened the closet door, thinking to quickly put things to rights. But as she sat Indian style before the dear little dollhouse, handling the people and furniture which had beguiled so many hours of her childhood, she felt the old spell falling, and for a while she was a tousled haired little girl, arranging furniture and setting to rights the affairs of the dear little dollhouse and its family. (Such things do pile up tremendously after years of uninterrupted quiet, you know.)

And both the dollhouse and the girl were happy.

Maybe I should learn mandolin? Or not.

Yep. Mmmhmmm. That's Chris Thile. In person. With me. Holding my hand. (Because I told him I liked Punch Brothers better than Nickel Creek. Not because he thought I was super gorgeous and charming. Ha! No.)

I went to Birmingham, Alabama, (which has the worst downtown in the whole world, by the way - at least, it's the worst at 10:15 p.m., lost, looking for a Starbucks, only to find one and it be closed as of nineteen minutes before you got there,) with some friends to see Chris Thile perform with the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. It was really amazing. He played Bach and Radiohead and Bartok. Yeah. The Bach was the very best of all, and I don't even love Bach.

If you've been living under a sad, dark, damp box and don't know who the Punch Brothers are, or who Chris Thile is, (only the dude who is totally re-vamping everyone's opinion of the mandolin and its abilities,) go here to see Chris perform Bach's E Major Prelude. It. Is. Fantastically. Wonderful.

Or here to hear him sing "Flow Gently Sweet Afton."

And here to see Punch Brothers performing. It's not my favorite of their songs, by any means, but it's beautiful. Their song "Punch Bowl" sounds great, but the lyrics aren't that hot. As in, don't think I'm recommending it. I'm not.

While we're on that note, I'd just like to clarify that while I think Chris Thile is very talented, and I enjoy his music, he is quite Godless. So, I am recommending his sound, but not at all his person or philosophies. Got that? Okay. Disclaimer finished.


Anyway, last night was fun, fun, fun. I always love going to the Symphony. It's so elegant and old-fashioned, and it reminds me of Daddy. And of why I love music. Oh, why is that? Because it's not only passionate and sweet and powerful all at the same time, it makes me tingle from head to toe, and it is so full of life. And... you know what? I'm just gonna have to write about music someday. Or a lot of somedays. It's really difficult to pin it down with words. Which is why music was invented. 'Cause sometimes words give out.


P.S. If you want to know where the corner of 11th and 8th is, I can tell you this. It's not where there's a Starbucks.

In which I turn seventeen and drink gallons of Dr. Pepper

Today is my birthday. I like birthdays, I do. Presents, party, a growing aura of wisdom and advancement... what's not to like?

But this birthday is even better than most.

You see, on September 12th, I decided to give up all soft drinks until my birthday. Period. Not a sip of Coke, not a chug of Pepsi, not a swig of Sprite. And mostly, not a whiff of Dr. Pepper.

Now, it may not seem like such a big deal to y'all, but I drank at least one Dr. Pepper a day. Why? Because Dr. Pepper is wonderful and amazing and the best invention known to man aside from the electric washing machine. Duh.

But I bravely determined to quit cold turkey. Quit, with never an anguished glimpse towards my twenty-four pack sitting sweetly and invitingly. Okay, I lied. Actually, I quit with several anguished glimpses towards my twenty-four pack sitting sweetly and invitingly. But that's neither here nor there. The bottom line is, I quit.

It's been a rough forty-five days.

However, this morning, with the pale grey dawn breaking over the hills, (how's that for touching imagery?) I was free from the curse which has haunted my steps and my mouth for so long.

And, oh, how good that icy cold Dr. Pepper felt slipping down my dry and ravished throat, which has gasped and begged for its tonic, its heroin, its addiction, ever since I quit. (Yeah, I'm exaggerating. It sounds so much better put like that than just "it tasted really good." Hemingway I ain't.)

I'm determined to not just drink with abandon, now that I've got the habit mostly out of my system. I'm going to really limit my intake of soft drinks. I'm gonna keep it waaay down. I promise.

Right after I drink another Dr. Pepper.

After all, it is my birthday.

Why, yes. He really is that goofy.

Dear Jody,

Happy, happy Birthday.

I am so incredibly glad that you live near enough now that we can celebrate our birthdays together. Glad that you no longer rope broncos and handle saber tooth tiger skulls in Texas, or sail the bounding billows in a ship ever so far away from Mississippi, or live on the eighth floor of an apartment in Memphis with a dog named Remus, or in Jackson, TN with every possibility of being blown away by a tornado at any moment, or in Kentucky overseeing the needs and disobediences of a group of Radio Shacks, but that instead, you live right in New Albany where we can stop by any time, and you can run see us any time. Or, well, almost any time. Actually, more like when the stars are properly aligned.

Anyway, here's hoping you have a happy day... I never cease to enjoy the knowledge that I was born just one day after your 16th birthday. Talk about an amazing birthday present! :) You're one of the best big brothers a gal could ever have.

I love you.

- Little Sister

Mississippi Hot Dog

"Why do you take violin?"

"Oh, because I love it, and because I want to be a teacher someday."

Well, a few weeks ago, the "I want to be a teacher" part came true with this little guy.

His name is Tripp, and I have to say, I've thought a lot about teaching before, but I had no idea how much I'd love it. Thinking that right now - this moment right here - I am starting a little boy on his musical journey is a wonderful and scary thought. My first lesson I was nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof and felt like I repeated myself a million times without making any sense.

But I really did love it. I can't completely put my finger on why, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I was reaching back to some of my favorite days ever, the days when I held my own violin for the very first times and scratched out horribly squeaky notes which made everyone within a mile cringe. The days when I played twinkle, twinkle, little star until Daddy never wanted to hear it again. (He didn't tell me that then, of course, but admitted it later.) The days when I listened to my Bach and Vivaldi cds over and over, thinking "some day I will play that." The days when AnnMarie went around saying she lived in Mississippi hot dog, because that's the phrase you say for the first rhythm you learn on the violin. It goes dadadada da da. And I played it until my fingers bled. (Just kidding.)

It helps tremendously that Tripp is one of the sweetest, funniest little boys on earth, and that he kindly chuckles at my non-funny jokes. My teacher was always amusing, and things always communicate so much better with humour that I decided to try it. I personally felt as though it fell flat.

So, here I am. A violin teacher. For real.

And yesterday, I taught my first student to play Mississippi hot dog. And I nearly passed out with excitement and a sense of deja vous.

To Tripp's family: Please don't hate me for telling him to play it over and over and over again every day. It'll be over soon, I promise.

Here comes the bride...

I have this friend, see.

She's the sweetest, most loving girl you will ever meet, and although when we first met I didn't think she liked me or knew how to talk, I discovered that she was only a wee bit shy and not one to jump into things. Now, thank God, I am blessed to call her one of my dearest friends. (I assure you, she can talk, too.)

We rattle on forever about Amy Carmichael and Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell, she never tires of lending books, discussing books, or talking about Christ, and I know she will be there for me if I ever need anything. In other words, she's really wonderful.

Well, this best friend met a blond haired boy a few months ago. And no surprise, he very quickly fell for her. And she grew to love and respect him. And tonight at church, she had a beautiful diamond on her finger.

Emily, I am so very, very happy for you. I can't tell you how excited I am that you are marrying someone who shares your love for Christ, (and for reading!) and I am praying for you both as you prepare to begin a new life together. I am confident that, just as you are an amazing friend, sister, and daughter, you will make an amazing wife. Please don't move too far away.

Much Love,
Katie

You wanna know what's stupid?

Grabbing the reallyreally fiery hot pot on the stove with bare fingers.

Yeah.

You sure 'bout that?

Mama: "Before you go to bed, you should gargle with salt water and dip a q-tip in salt water and swab the inside of your nose. There's a lot of sickness going around, and those are good preventative measures."

Ummmm.... actually, I think those two things might make me sick. Have you ever gargled salt water? Because it's disgusting. And if you want my nose to burn so badly I can't breathe... well, I guess I wouldn't get sick if I wasn't breathing.

The Wild Blue Yonder

Balancing Rock in the Garden of the Gods... if you look, you'll see lots of different shapes and images. I see a camel, an alligator, and a pig. Yep. It's called scope for the imagination.


Wait! Is that a dream? Did I just dream that gorgeous blue lake surrounded by evergreens and snow capped mountains? Because it's so beautiful.
Woohoo!! We finally got out of the van!
Oh, and there's a cool sign, too. Yeah, uh, huh, that's absolutely why we stopped. Not because our legs were about to be cemented into the sitting position forever and because WE WERE FREAKIN' TIRED OF THE SMALL SPACE!! No. Not at all.
Laura and I clambered up this rock in the Garden of the Gods, (we were completely graceful climbing it, don't you know,) and then dropped the camera to an innocent passerby we flagged down to take the picture. (Yes, I said dropped the camera... so, maybe we weren't graceful or smart.)
This was the most delicious chocolate in the whole world. I'm never desecrating my mouth with common chocolate again. Okay, I lied. I will desecrate my mouth with common chocolate at every possible occasion. Because, really, no chocolate is common. (deep thought there, huh?)
Espresso burgers? Seriously?
The San Miguel Mission - oldest church in America and very beautiful.
Doesn't that look like fun? Aren't you proud of Laura for letting the boys risk life and limb for a cool picture?

See that little bitty thing waaay off in the distance? That's yours truly, and let me tell you, I nearly broke my neck running over there while Laura stayed put to take the picture, because "ohmyword wouldn't that be an awesome picture?!" And it was.



I'm so glad fashions have changed. 'cause that is just ugly.



I hate self portraits. They never turn out well. But here we are, all the same. (We were hiking the trail up to Pike's Peak. And let me tell you, it was UP big time. We only made it about a mile.)



p.s. If thou dost so desire, the third picture from the bottom is much, much more awesome if you click on it. It gets bigger. Advanced technology, huh?

East, West, Home is Best!

~From my recent excursion into the wild blue yonder~

1. Gas station coffee is never, ever a good idea.
2. Laura gets really hyper and excited when she consumes her first sugar in three months.
3. Amarillo by morning is overrated.
4. Wilderado is a town? Is there a Tamerado?
5. All the trees in Texas look permanently windblown and sickly.
6. New Mexico? Yeah, I would totally move there just for the gorgeous clouds.
7. Sticking your head out of the sunroof at 80 m.p.h. results in really tangled hair.
8. Spanish rap should never have been invented. Period. End of story.
9. I looove Santa Fe, and mostly I love all the shopping in Santa Fe.
10. Flattery has never ceased to ring my bell. "Oh, Mr. Jewelry Seller, you think these earrings look beautiful with my hair? Okay, I'll take them!"
11. Trey gets ridiculously excited about roughing it for five days in the cold mountains and trying to slay happy elk who probably have nice families.
12. Yep. I do love the mountains.
13. There is a really good reason Garden of the Gods is called Garden of the Gods. It's amazing.
14. If you hide in a large wardrobe and jump out at Laura as she walks by, she will scream and howl and come really close to passing out and killing you at the same time.
15. If I lived in Kansas, I would welcome a tornado to blow me away to Oz.
16. I hate the smell of public restroom soap. It smells strong and chemically and gross.
17. Actually, I hate public restrooms altogether.
18. Brushing teeth in a gas station bathroom is a blast. A dirty blast.
19. Traveling is wonderful.
20. But home is more wonderful still.

WHERE ARE MY RUBY SLIPPERS?

I miss my home. I miss my mama. I miss my bed.






But I'm having fun.

Farewell, dear home o' mine!

Okay. That sounded really depressing. Farewell? What, is this the spot in the tearjerker where she gets in the car and sorrowfully prepares to leave the home of her youth forever and ever? Home of her youth? Yeah. I'm way too familiar with cheesy, sentimental jargon.


Let's try again.

"Let us not say farewell, but as the French have it, au revoir!"
-Mr. Wickham

Ohmygoodness. I surely did not just quote that cad. Sorry.

They don't make 'em like Charlton Heston anymore.

If I were a movie producer, and I was making a movie out of a story where the brave, wonderful hero dies early, I would change the end.

I would end it magnificently and happily, then put a little *note - he actually died* after the final scene.

That's what I would do.




I didn't want El Cid to die. But at least he died nobly and bravely and wonderfully. "And thus, El Cid rode out of the gates of history and into legend."

Three Days Until...

Okay. Can I just say something?

Oh, yeah. It's my blog, so I can.

Anyhow, here goes.

I love road trips. As in, really, really looove them. There's sleeping in the car, (and getting a ridiculously painful crick in the neck,) eating candy with total abandon, (I don't know why it seems not so bad to eat pounds and pounds of sweets when you're traveling, but somehow it doesn't,) reading that book you've been meaning to for a long time, (in this case the biography of Martin Lloyd Jones,) watching the new landscapes flash by your window, and being able to talk without interruption to the people traveling with you, (well, except when you're traveling with children, and then you're interrupted every three minutes and you can't say "ok, that's it! Go outside right this minute!" because that would kill them. But, that's what laptops are for. "Hey, kids! who wants to watch another cartoon?")

And guess what?

I'm about to go on the mother of all road trips.

Eighteen hours from Mississippi to Santa Fe, baby! Oh, yeah!

Just wait. It gets better.

I'm going on this Goliath road trip with some of my favorite people: Laura, Trey, Lee, and Ben, and we are going to have a blast.

Yes, I'm super duper excited about seeing Colorado and New Mexico for the first time ever, and I can't wait to drive through the mountains and see the Fall colors on all the aspens, and explore Santa Fe, (plus, our hotel in Santa Fe shares a parking lot with an outlet mall. How cool is that?)

But I'm especially excited about the trip there. I'm going to finish knitting the scarf I started last December, and I'm going to read the Hobbit out loud to the boys, just like Daddy and Mama read it out loud to me. I'm going to watch their eyes light up when Bilbo and the dwarves escape from the goblins, and watch them shiver in fear when Smaug in all his splendid terribleness destroys Lake Town.

Uh, huh, there are definite downsides to long road trips. Big downsides. But you know what? I'm not going to write about them right now. Because I'm all about accentuating the positive.

The Journey

If you're looking for something to read, go here.

I found this girl's blog about six months ago and have been blessed by her love for Christ and the beautiful work she's doing in Uganda. She has adopted 14 girls, and her blog, The Journey, is their ongoing story.

Some of the most recent posts won't make much sense if you don't go back a little ways, but I encourage you to do so.

John 3:17

What's John 3:17? Wait, there is a John 3:17? Oh. I thought John 3 ended with verse 16.

John 3:16 gets quoted a lot, and rightly so. It's an amazing verse, although it probably is misapplied sometimes.

But yesterday I was reading John 3, and it was the 17th verse that grabbed my attention. It reads:

"For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved."

Just think about that for a minute. Christ Jesus had every reason to condemn the world. We are twisted and sinful and dirty, and He is holy and pure and perfect. There is absolutely nothing in us that would make Him love us enough to save us. Just the opposite, in fact. By our very nature we are His enemies, turned against Him, hating Him, not wanting anything to do with Him.

Yet. (What an amazing word "yet" is!) Yet, God the Father sent Christ to earth, and Christ gladly obeyed, not to condemn as we deserve, but to save us. Save us from sin and self and hell, and bring us into the family of God as beloved children.

I want to remember this all the time. Because, if I really, truly live on the knowledge that Christ has saved me and loved me instead of rightly condemning me, I will be different. Different in how I talk, different in how I think, different in how I love. How could I not? How could you not?

Gentlemen, start your... paws.

The past couple of nights, the Daytona five hundred has been going on in the attic right above my bed. Except on foot, not in cars-that-are-actually-advertisements, and with mice as the contestants, not weird men in colorful jackets.

I lie down and settle into my pillow when chchchchchchchchchchchc sounds above me. A pause. Then sscchhhssccchhhhsscchhh back across. Then there's a few victory squeaks.

After several minutes of this, I am tempted to go up there and ask who won. I mean, I'm pretty involved by this time. I feel truly connected with the runners, their trials, their dreams, and their achievements.

But runners really isn't the right word. They don't run. They scurry and scritchscritchreallysuperduperfast and bustle, and you can hear their little toenails rattttttaaattttaattt-ing on the boards. That is, I'm assuming it's their toenails. Who would have thought that mouse toenails could make such a very loud, annoying noise?

I wonder if the spectators have little flags to wave for their favorite, or if they sell popcorn on which to snack while the races progress. If they do, I'm so totally going up there tomorrow night. Because popcorn made by germy, fleaish mice? What's not to love?

I feel like a murderess.

Today, I ran over a bird.

Yeah. I know.

I was just driving down the road, minding my own business, when out of nowhere this bird swooped over the road and *thwack* - no more cute little birdie. Nope. Just a pile of feathers and some... other stuff.

I couldn't help it. It wasn't premeditated or deliberate or avoidable. It just happened.

That's the way life goes for birds, you know?

One moment they're soaring above the clouds; the next they're decorating the side of somebody's van with their... selves.

Someone please come mop up my tears. Or not. The floor probably needs to be cleaned anyway.

The Four Musketeers in Action

These kiddos have a blast together. There's nothing more fun than watching them dissolve into gut-wrenching laughter over something completely trivial and only slightly humorous, or watching them play Davy Crockett killing bears, or pretend to be the world's greatest superheroes.

And Isaiah wants to be grown enough to hang with the big dogs. Oh, boy, does he ever want it.




"This is the best moment of my life! I'm on top!"












I gave Lee, Ben, and Phoebe popsicles and instructed them that they were to give bites to Isaiah
whenever he wanted one. (Which is pretty much constantly.) Watching from afar, I saw Ben break off a big piece which flew out of the wrapper and hit the nasty carport floor. Before I could intervene, he scooped it up and shoved it in Isaiah's always- open mouth. But Isaiah isn't Anna's child for nothing. He had seen where that piece of popsicle came from, and he didn't even intend to have that germy thing in his mouth, so he reached in, took it out, carefully returned it to the ground from whence it came and went back to begging for bites. Way to go, Isaiah - do your mama proud.


p.s. Uploading pictures to blogger and getting them in the format I like is a hassle and a headache. So, I'm sorry if the format does weird things. That's just the way life goes sometimes.

Squeak, Squeak.

I keep sticky traps in my room to catch the spiders and silver fish and whatever other unlucky insects scamper across my floor. One stays under my chair and the other under my bed.

But two days ago, coming into my room after having been gone to Courtney's for the night, my toe suddenly hit the edge of something sticky. I was caught off guard and squealed, since nothing sticky is supposed to be in the middle of my floor. Upon looking down, I shrieked loudly, because to my intense surprise, the plump body of a little mouse was firmly clutched by the sticky trap which formerly had resided in all its glorious stickiness under my bed. I'm not sure how, but the mouse had somehow wrestled the sticky trap out from under the bed before giving up the ghost. And how did he die? I'm betting either starvation or a heart attack or maybe a stroke.

Poor little thing.

Wait, what? Poor little thing my foot! What was the varmint doing in my room in the first place? Probably chewing through my books, or pooping in my clothes, or some such unforgivable deed. So, I'm not the least bit sorry he was ensnared by my sticky trap. Not the least bit.

Now excuse me while I go empty my drawers and check for... you know... mouse droppings.

Oh, and Boots and Irene? Hello! Y'all are very much falling down on your revered and essential jobs of killing the mice while they're outside so that they don't feel free to come inside. And no, Irene, I don't care if you have five mewing imps hanging to your fur. You need the extra nourishment of mice anyway. And Boots, being fifteen years old is no excuse either. Okay, maybe it is. If I was eighty something, or however old you are in human years, I wouldn't want to hunt mice either. Come to think of it, I wouldn't ever want to hunt mice. So, that analogy pretty much just crashed.

By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought Him whom my soul did love,
With tears I sought Him earnestly.
He bow'd His ear down from above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry soul he fill'd with good;
He in His bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in His blood,
And banisht thence my doubts and fears.

What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve Him here whilst I shall live
And love Him to eternity.

-Ann Bradstreet

Ann Bradstreet is my new one-of-my-favorites poetess. Her works are much simpler than John Donne or Edward Taylor, (two contemporaries,) yet the same sweet love for God is still very much present in all her works, be it a lament for her fire-ravaged house, a tale of her children, a prayer before giving birth, or a poem about seeking and finding Christ. (above)

I was encouraged by her poems because, although she was busy, busy, busy all the time, raising her children, keeping her house, being a friend and helping her neighbors, in the midst of all we often consider "filler," her faith in God's providence and her love towards Christ shine like the sun. Her poems may center on common things, but, hey, common things are the bread of life, and I always need to be reminded to honor Christ with my life and heart, whether sitting outside in a warm breeze, reading Amy Carmichael, or cleaning the house and having children underfoot and noise bouncing off the wall.

My aura is definitely purple right now.

Taking purple nail polish off toenails is a headache of phenomenal dimensions.

Please do not look at my feet for the next two weeks, or however long it takes the dark rings to disappear. (and yes, I used a q-tip; also more smelly remover than I want to think about, and I seriously depleted Lowell's stash of cotton thingies. Sorry.)

Yes, mama. I know you didn't like the color from the beginning. Now you can rest in the assurance than it will never come within seven feet of my nails again.

p.s. Whoever can name the movie that the "a headache of phenomenal dimensions" quote comes from will receive a virtual chocolate chip cookie. You have probably watched it if you're one of my friends, but if by some wild stretch you haven't, you must come and see it with me, because I will use any excuse whatsoever to watch it again. It's that great.

Greasy Goodness

Tonight, for the second time in my memory, mama fried chicken. I don't really like fried chicken, but there's something delicious about the crisp, fresh, hot pieces sliding down your throat, well coated in grease. As it glides down, you can just feel all that healthy grease going straight to your arteries, and boy, is that a good feeling!

Lee paid the ultimate compliment as he busily consumed about six or seven pieces of chicken and about a hundred homemade french fries, give or take a couple.

Lee: "These french fries are gooder than McDonald's and those kinds of places."

Wow. Just, wow. That right there is a compliment worth having, since this kid loves him some McDonald's.

Well, Lee, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Keep your fingers crossed, and maybe when you're sixteen you'll get homemade fried chicken again.

I'd really rather cough.

The medicine inventors must be smart, right? I mean, they concoct all these different medicines to help people with all kinds of illness. Therefore, they should certainly be able to make a liquid cough medicine that doesn't taste like roots and sticks and chemicalish things liquified together with ruined leftovers.

Calling it "cherry flavored" sure as shooting does not help. Because it ain't.

Anyone with half a taste bud in their mouth can tell that a cherry's cousin hasn't been in the same building as liquid cough medicine. It just makes your mouth get all set for the taste of cherry, only to be assaulted with the taste of witches' brew gone bad.

Do the medicine makers honestly think we're that stupid? Or do they blythely stick "cherry" on the label just for kicks?

"Hey, Jo, let's put something else on the cough syrup bottle!"
"Okay, Bill, what will we put?"
"Oh, I've always liked the way 'cherry' sounds, let's put that."

Yep, that's me - little Miss Pushover.

Irene Adler had her kittens out on the front porch. A very sensible place, in my opinion. (My last tabby cat had both litters of kittens in unreachable, inconvenient places. I got poison ivy real bad after she had them in the woods underneath a fallen tree.)

But, as if she felt my satisfaction over being able to easily access the kittens, (who will get wild and unsociable if not petted and held often,) Irene moved them. Moved them off the protected, safe, dry porch into the flowerbed beside the porch. But it isn't just any flower bed. It's more like a bush/shrub bed, filled with large, prickly, grown-closely-together bushes. Very spidery and sluggy and hard to get to without scraping out an eye.

And I don't really care. If she wants her kittens to grow up total social heathens, that's her problem.

But...

I'm a softie. Always have been, always will. I don't particularly like animals, (especially dogs,) but I hate to see them suffer. Really hate it.

So, every time it rains, I start thinking about those poor wee kits, huddled up together, getting wet under prickly bushes. I wouldn't think about it if 1. they had a really good mother who would lovingly stay with them and protect them from the wet, or 2. if they had an intelligent mother who would move them back to the porch if they were getting soaked. But they have neither; Irene comes and sits on the porch without her kittens, leaving them in the rain. Can you imagine?

Therefore, guess who feels the need to go squishing through the rain, partying with the slugs and other slippery, gross insects who I'm sure are dropping down on me the entire time I'm over in that part of the "flower bed" rescuing half drowned kittens?

Me. (Or I, if you wish to be grammatically correct. Which I do, but "I" just doesn't have the same oomph that "me" does in such a situation.)

And it's rained often since she moved them. It didn't rain so much and so hard when she had them warmly curled up on the porch. Oh, no. She doesn't leave them on the porch after I move them, either. Next morning, first thing, if the rain has stopped, they're back under the prickly, spidery bushes. To stay until it rains again.

Tonight, as I was sitting here at the computer, looking up recipes for cream scones, I heard it begin to pour.

"Whoa!" thought I, "it's raining cats and dogs out th... ohmywordthoseblastedkittensaregettingdrenched!"

Into the closet I dashed, grabbed a raincoat, (I will go out in the rain for them, but I will not get soaked for them,) a flashlight, and ran out to scoop them up, tripping over Irene all the while and chewing her out under my breath. Okay, not under my breath. Out loud. I've gotten good at scooping all five up at once so I don't have to go back a second time. Of course, they squealed and howled like I was sticking pins in their eyes, but I told them to hush up and be glad I cared about them, since their errant mother obviously didn't.

But the dear little things were mewing pitifully, and they were soaked, and I'm glad I went.

I guess.

How sweet... ummm... excuse me?

Last night in church, Ben, who was sitting beside me, picked up my hand and began to sweetly rub it back and forth over what I fondly believed to be his cheek.

However, upon looking down, I discovered he was drawing it back and forth, back and forth, over his nose. The part of his nose where the you-know-what comes out.

Yeah.

Children are like roller coasters; one minute you're soaring on pure sweetness, the next you're plunged into the depths of grossness.

Uh, what?

Doesn't it strike you as a wee bit ironic that on Labor Day, schools are closed, businesses shut down, and grilling is far more common than working? Ironic. Very ironic.

Something to help us look to Jesus as we prepare our hearts for Sunday -

Fair is the sunrise;
Fair is the sunset
Breaking in fire upon the sea.
Jesus is fairer - Jesus, Thou Fire of love;
All praise to Thee, Lord, praise to Thee.

Fair is the blue light
Brooding on the ocean,
Fair the bright wonder of the sea.
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is brighter;
All praise to Thee, Lord, praise to Thee.

Fair is the racing wave;
Fair is the flying foam,
And the pure glory of the sea.
Jesus is fairer, His glory purer;
All praise to Thee, Lord, praise to Thee.

Fair is the ocean
Dreaming in the moonlight,
Peaceful, the quiet, shining sea.
Jesus is fairer, Jesus more peaceful;
All praise to Thee, Lord, praise to Thee.

So, we Thy children
Offer Thee our praises,
Join with the music of the sea,
Own Thee the fairest, own Thee the dearest,
Sing and give glory, Lord, to Thee.

-Amy Carmichael

...and we had fun, and we played, and we tickled each other...

I kept my three year old niece, Charlie, a few days ago. She is an adorable elf full to the brim of words, giggles, energy, and a remarkable ability to locate water outside, no matter how well hidden. No kidding. If we put a bucket of water on the roof, in a few minutes Charlie would gleefully dash by, soaking wet, dragging the empty bucket behind her.

When the following conversations took place, we were sitting outside on a quilt, I doing my schoolwork and she ostensibly doing puzzles; really she was chattering to me.

Charlie: "Oh, KK, look at the birds! They're eatin' grass!"

Me: "Yeah! Why don't you go catch them?"

Charlie: "Oh, okay!"

(gallops down the yard towards the robins - they fly away.)

Charlie: (coming back sadly) "I couldn't catch 'em. But if I had a helicopter I could."

Well, yes, Charlie, you probably could. Or they would be killed by the helicopter blades. Either one.


Charlie: "I want to be a kitten when I grow up. What do you want to be, KK?"

Me: "A mama."

Charlie: "Silly KK, why don't you want to be a cat?"

I don't know, Charlie. I guess I just don't aim as high as you do.


Later, when she had gone poo-poo in her panties and I was cleaning her up:

Charlie: "NO!! KK, don't pull my panties down!"

Me: "I have to, Charlie. We have to clean you up."

Charlie: "NO! The poo-poo will fall out!"

Me: (unthinkingly) "I'll catch it."

Charlie: (with delighted interest) "In your hands?"

Well, that's one way, I guess.

Wrestling with wild beasts at Ephesus... more or less.

So, as has already been plentifully established, I am not a Brave Sort of Person.

When I was little and there was a spider, I'd call my bravest of the brave Daddy to come kill it for me. Even if it was just a little bitty spider. Because spiders are freaky and terrifying.

After I reached a certain age, Daddy suggested I might begin to kill my own spiders. I looked at him with shock and horror, and he quickly took back his suggestion. But, Daddy wasn't always at home, and Mama really wasn't any better than I about eight legged creepies.

Guess where spiders favorite place upstairs is? My bathtub. They love it. Why? I have absolutely no idea. Maybe because it's so slipperyslidey, and they secretly like to play slip 'n' slide when nobody is watching.

Anyway, that's where they like to hang out, and after a while, I got a system down pat. I'd carefully check the shower, (this includes shaking the shower curtain and peering behind the shampoo bottles,) before I stepped in. (This cautious approach was firmly imprinted in my brain after the day a large spider suddenly appeared by my toes during the shower. He died very shortly afterwards, cause of death being scalding water and drowning mingled with ear splitting shrieks. I thought about hanging his body up with a sign, like in Pirates of the Caribbean, saying "be warned all ye spiders who enter here." But I decided that was just gross.)

Back to my system. If there was a spider, I'd drown him with hot water and then carefully use about a half roll of toilet paper to gingerly pick him up by one leg and deposit him into the dark recesses of the toilet.

So, I got pretty comfortable with handling spiders in the tub. But in the last two years, brown recluses and gigantic wolf spiders have begun using our house as an apartment complex. And they sign really long leases with somebody. The brown recluses don't really bother me, except when they crawl across my pillow, (yep, it's happened,) but the wolf spiders get to me. Literally.

If you want a good idea of these aptly named monsters, just check 'em out on Wikipedia. They are defined as "robust and agile" and believe me, I can testify of their robustity and agility. (Yes, robustity is a word. I just made it up, so there.)

They like to just appear out of thin air, unexpected and uninvited, and sit and watch you out of their beady little eyes until you catch sight and scream bloody murder. At which they chuckle darkly and hurry away. Sometimes you catch up with them and WHAM!! no more spider! Sometimes they get away. I choose not to think of those times; they give me nightmares.

Usually whether they get killed or not is a direct result of how close Mama or Trey or someone else is, because I mount a chair and stay there until the execution and clean-up are complete. I don't kill them. It's disgusting and scary to get as close as you have to to accomplish the work, and you know that at any moment they could decide to scurry towards you at roughly the speed of light.

But the other night, (this is where this post has been going all along; sorry for the really, really long introduction,) I was in my room, calmly lying on my bed, reading, when something large and brown by my bookcase caught the corner of my eye.

"Whoa, is that a mouse?" I thought, turning to look.

No. It was a spider.

I had only seen one spider that big in our house before, on the wall above my bed, and I had, shall we say, not handled it well. Mama was away from home all night, and I was staying alone. Needless to say, I set off a spider bomb thingy in the bedroom and slept on the couch.

But here it was, in my room, and I knew I wouldn't be able to rest in peace if I let it slink away. I went and hollered for mama, but she wasn't home. I panicked a little. Then I decided to call Trey, but the creature started moving along the baseboard, and I was afraid he was going to slip in a crack and be gone. Gone, but still very much there, if you know what I mean. I flew downstairs and got the flyswatter, (becuase I didn't want to hit it with one of my books and then have to clean the... ahem, guts... off, and when you smush them with a shoe, you hear the crunching sound waaaay too clearly,) then flew back up the stairs and prepared for the slaughter. It was hiding behind my chair, but I moved the chair just a bit and out he popped. I screeched and hopped back three feet.

Then he started a mad dash for the corner, and I quickly edged closer and closer, stretched out my arm as far as it would go, (keeping distance, of course,) and SWAT!! as hard as I could.

The dratted thing wasn't dead. Or even visibly damaged. He just paused a moment, as if stunned, then started scurrying towards me. I screamed again and hit him, over and over, as hard as I could, until he crumpled and gave up the ghost.

Then, flushed with triumph, I called Amelie to tell her of my brave feat, discarded the remains, and did a little happy dance. Then I got on the loudspeaker and told all the spiders lurking in the shadows that Katie had come into her own, so prepare to die. They didn't believe me.

But they will soon. Oh, yes. They will soon.



p.s. My clock thingamajig is messed up, so the times that show up on here aren't correct. Just thought I'd let y'all know that valuable piece of information.

p.p.s. I didn't exaggerate this story. Really. I wish I had, because I don't like the fact that such things happen. But they do. It's very unfortunate.