Nests of Pleasant Thoughts

"Make yourselves nests of pleasant thoughts. None of us yet know, for none of us have been taught in early youth, what fairy palaces we may build of beautiful thought - proof against all adversity. Bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faithful sayings, treasure houses of precious and restful thoughts, which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us - houses built without hands, for our souls to live in." -J. Ruskin

I've been reading a series of historical novels set after the Holocaust, about Jews who survived the concentration camps, and it's set me to thinking. A lot of people, (think Corrie Ten Boon and others of that ilk,) spent months and months in prison, in isolation, before being carted away to the concentration camps. All those days upon days upon days in a tiny, dark cell, with no books, no paper, no anything, (except ever-so-occasionally when something was smuggled inside to you,) what did they think about?

What would I think about?

Would I have beautiful nests of helpful quotes, precious scriptures, wonderful hymns, interesting facts and sayings and stories, dear and warming memories to turn over at leisure in my mind?

In wondering about this, I have been made thankful again for the way my parents raised me - my head brim full of stories, poetry, and truths from when I was tiny all the way to now.

So, what are you filling your head with? Is it fluff and sugar that will totally dissolve within weeks? Or is it good, sound, interesting, funny, wonderful literature and memories?

This year, resolve to either continue with the good things, or ... since it's almost January and January is prime time for starting anew... begin building houses for your soul not made with hands.

Even if you don't end up in a dark cell alone, or something of that magnitude, you'll never regret having those fairy castles.

Her generosity overwhelms me.

I came up to Charlie the other morning and begged for a kiss. She haughtily refused, (because she can be quite the little imp,) but when I continued to plead, leaning towards her cheek, she gave a heavy sigh and condescendingly offered me her elbow.

Yes. Her elbow.

"Here," said she. "You can kiss this."

Some Reflections About my Closet. (no. i'm not kidding. why do you ask?)

Today, I cleaned out/organized my closet.

::pause::

Let's observe a moment of silence for this monumental occasion. It happens roughly once every two years. Or three years; maybe it's been three years since I've done it, who knows? Not I.

I always hate to do it because 1- as we all know, I'm possibly the most sentimental person ever and throwing something away or banishing it to the dark recesses of the attic strikes fear into my gooey heart. 2- It's a Really Gigantic Undertaking. My closet isn't super duper big, but it's big enough to be crammed-jammed to the brim, (and I do mean the brim,) with sheet music, cast off headbands, old purses that I daren't throw away because they might come back in style, ribbons, scrap book stuff, books... pretty much everything under the sun, and then some. No joke. Today, I found a receipt from 2003 from the Dollar Store where apparently I bought:

2 chenille puppies (????)
1 Christmas apron
1 wax catcher (no clue what that was)
Tic-Tacs

The receipt is yellowed and brittle, but obviously I can't throw it away because, duh, it's basically history now. And so, it has to be stored somewhere, and oh, look, there's my closet with nice shelves freshly cleaned off and waiting for Dollar Store receipts! Aaaannnd, we're back to square one.

You get the picture, right? I DID throw away a whole Wal-Mart sack full of trash and odds and ends, and I stacked my music neatly and put all my purses on the same shelf, and neatly re-folded and categorized my clothes, but there's always those items that don't really fit in anywhere, bless their hearts. Things like my welcome package from the bank, which I probably shouldn't throw away, but it's really just taking up space on a shelf, (I threw it away - I figure the bank has whatever I need, right?) and the seven, yes seven, wide headbands with ties that I bought year before last when they were in style, but are they in style now? No. Will they come in again? My head aches at the very thought, but probably so, therefore they have to have a place to live til their glory days return.

See, there's this little memory that keeps me from being ruthless: about three years ago, in a moment of cleaning-out frenzy, I put a cream colored, dainty shrug in the yard sale pile, because I hadn't worn in in a year, and the very next month, what do you think I bought? A dress which needed a little something. Something like a cream colored, dainty shrug. Yeah. I still haven't recovered emotionally from that incident.

And then there's the t-shirt covered in signatures from Camp when I was twelve. I mean, that's not something you just toss into the garbage, but neither is it the thing you keep in your drawer, seeing as how I probably couldn't still fit it over my head. I sat in my closet floor for roughly ten minutes, drowning in nostalgia, as I read the messages from people in my life still and waaay out of my life, remembering that particular year, etc., and seeing again the crowning glory of that shirt: a ring of flame around one sleeve, drawn by my then-crush, and his name beside it. Oh, that drawing made my whole week. Scary, I know.

Anyway, the shirt went into a sack in the attic with my old dress-up slip which I'm saving for posterity. Posterity, I'm sure, will greatly appreciate a stained t-shirt with faded ink scribbles. The point is, it's out of my closet.

Also, do you know how many pennies can find their way into your closet? Lots. And I obviously can't throw away money, but nor do I want seventy pennies making my wallet so heavy I become a cripple by twenty three. Hmmmm... hey, look! There's my closet with all those nice empty shelves!

Now I know that I have twelve scarves. (and isn't it nice that it's an even number? i would've been disappointed if it had been thirteen scarves. yuck.)

Oh, and apparently I was unconsciously storing food for a famine, since I found a Very Stale thing of pringles, two mostly-empty bags of craisins, and a Very, Very Stale Nutty Buddy bar, not to mention twenty peppermints, some still in the package, some not. (Those who were not had done an admirable job of clearing up some of the dust in the corner. They certainly deserve a vote of thanks.)



The best part of the whole experience? I finally found my short black slip that I've looked for for months. Score! The downside was that I didn't locate my taser's charger, which makes me a trifle uncomfortable, but hey, I still have a thing of mace.

The End. (Hasn't this been a fun, educational story? Aren't you glad I decided to write this instead of going to bed early? Just answer that silently, please. No public demonstrations of joy.)

Yumi selebretem de blong bon blong yu!*

Julia. It's your birthday.

This is good.

This is exciting.

This is happy.

(Just to clarify things right off the bat.)

There are approximately ten billion things about you that I love, but here are a few of my top favs:

-You laugh at corny jokes and puns. Like, really, you think they're funny. You aren't just being polite.
-You're honest. Honest, yet kind. I wish I were more like you in this.

- You aren't awkward about... a particular thing... and as a person who's often with you and that particular thing, I totally appreciate it.

- You're cheap, er, I mean, thrifty, like me.


- You don't get mad when I call you after you're asleep and need to spill my guts. I mean, you do go to sleep at 8, but still, I wouldn't be happy if somebody called and waked me up to cry and whine on the phone.

- You wear mismatched socks all the time. I admire you for this, because I'm the kind of person who wouldn't dream of walking out of the house in socks that don't match. Rather stuffy of me.

-You still love me, even though when we were five I pretended to die and totally freaked you out.

- You're pretty much the most encouraging person I know. And yet you don't sugar coat the problem. You're direct and honest, and you don't let your friends wallow in self-pity. Thank you.

- You love Jesus. That sounds simple, and it is. He is your only hope and your strength, and you know this.




I'm praying that this coming year is the best, the most meaningful, aaannndd the most adventurous you've ever had. (Adventure encompasses a ton of things, you know.)

Love you bushels.





*it's how they say Happy Birthday in Bangladesh. awesome sounding, right?


p.s. Yes, I was obviously addicted to Dr. Pepper when I was six. It's my brothers and sisters' fault; they gave me Dr. Pepper when I was nine months old.

It's how we roll.

::Last year when they were threatening terrible ice storms, (which never came, by the way,) and Mama and I were in town::

Mama: "Well, do we have everything we need if we get iced in?"

Me: "Let me think. Do we have milk?"

Mama: "I don't know why everyone automatically thinks of milk at times like these. We don't even drink milk!"

Me: "You're right. Do we have plenty of Dr. Pepper?"

Sheet music and a love story

Today on my way home from Oxford, I stopped at a dingy, creaky, stuffed-to-the-brim antique store and asked if they had any sheet music. A short, bald old man with a smile approximately as bright as a Christmas tree pointed me to a large, musty box stuck under several picture frames and a very ugly set of china.

As I rifled through the music, (raising absolute billows of dust - it's a good thing I don't have allergies-) I heard him raise a window and call to somebody outside, "Young lady, come in here right now. It's cold out there!"

A few minutes later, in stepped an old lady, with dark brown dyed hair and glasses that covered most of her face. He told her he'd go out and finish the job, and that she should sit and get warm.

Later I edged my way into the little back room with the cash register, clutching my music and hoping one of the twenty tin advertisements hanging from the ceiling wouldn't fall on my head. She started looking through the music I'd chosen, deciding on a fair price, and when she came to a beautifully preserved book of Chopin's Nocturnes, she gave a little reminiscent sigh.

"This was mine when I was about your age. You play?"

"No ma'am, not the piano. That's for a friend."

"Are you a music major?"

"Hopefully I will be next year. Were you?"

"Oh, no. I did receive a full scholarship to Mississippi College, but I didn't go. My teacher thought I had what it took to be a concert pianist. After one of my performances, she came and said, 'I hope you realize what needs to be done now. You need to give everything you've got to this music, and in a few years we'll be hearing from you all over the country.'

I told her, 'But I'm gonna get married to a preacher!' She said, 'Honey, don't you know that preachers don't make any money? You'll be poor your whole life! And how can you give up this opportunity to go get married?!'

Well, I married him anyway - I loved my John! - and that was that. We've been married for fifty-seven years!"

She stopped toying with the music book, looked me in the eye, and firmly said, "I've never regretted that decision."



That was all. We talked for a few more minutes, and I took my music and left. As I walked outside, I heard the old man - her John - whistling in the backyard.

You don't often get to see that kind of love lasting that long. After fifty seven years, he was still "her John," and she was still his young lady. He was still taking care of her, she was still not sorry she gave up what could've been a glittering career as a concert pianist to marry a poor, country preacher.

I love real-life assurances that true, deep love really does exist. It isn't a myth. It doesn't have to fade and die with age. Those two old people are a living testimony of that, and I came away from that antique store with much more than a few dusty music books.

Honesty. I love it.

::While at Target tonight::

Snooty-looking lady in shoe aisle to an employee: "Okay, so I need some black heels, but I've tried all of y'all's and they all make my feet look too big."

::pause::

Employee: (sweetly) "Well, ma'am, maybe it's your feet."

Don't we all?

::at supper tonight::

AnnMarie: "Katie, do you imagine?"

Me: "Yep. Do you imagine?"

AnnMarie: "I imagine some DR. PEPPER!!"

Phoebe and Barney Fife

When Phoebe recites her verses, it's like this.

And she still can't read the word should.

This homeschooling thing is tough.

I'm gonna have sons. And train them to be spider killers from their youth up. Is twenty months too early to begin?

Everybody remembers from here, here, and here that I don't like spiders. Scratch that. I live in Mortal Dread of spiders, especially these spiders, who have considerately claimed our house as their frontier. I know. Very sweet of them.

We set off nifty spider bombs every few months, and then my peace of mind is restored for many moons. I see hide nor hair, (ugh, hairy spiders are the worst,) of my arch nemesis, and I don't think it necessary to gingerly lift every surrounding piece of furniture when I sit on the floor, just to be on the safe side.

Then, when I totally relax and spiders fade away into the hazy recesses of my mind like a terrible nightmare of yesteryear, one will scurry across the floor and we're right back to square one. (Mortal Dread, in case you've forgotten.)

Tonight, as Lee and Ben were playing beside the piano and I was curled up in front of the fire with a volume of Christina Rossetti, Ben casually called out "Hey, KK, there's a huge spider over here."

My heart begins to race. My palms grow sweaty. Spots dance before my eyes. (okay, okay. i'm exaggerating just a bit. but you get the general idea.)

I tiptoe over to the piano, and sure enough, there's a monstrous, grey, weather beaten spider perched half under the piano, half out. In other words, protected enough that I knew I couldn't kill him, and precariously close to the safe darkness under our piano.

I begin to hyperventilate. The boys think it's cool that KK is wheezing with every breath and that they can actually hear her heart pound.

I tell Lee to get the flyswatter, (although my hopes of actually killing the beast were small,) and when he brings it I actually get half a hit on the monster, but the piano was sheltering him. Traitorous piano.

Old Devil, (his name, I believe,) darted under it, and at this point I realized this meant that I would be in the same room with a free Old Devil, pretty much at his mercy. (Those spiders can creep up on a girl, let me tell you. I have EVERY sympathy for Miss Muffet.)

The boys enthusiastically agreed to keep guard over the piano and let me know if there were any developments. (Don't feel sorry for them; they thought it was great fun, and pretended to be G.I. Joes.)

In a couple of minutes, Ben says "There he is!" and then while I'm tiptoeing back over, "Pleeeease may I kill him, KK?"

Um, be my guest, dear boy.

So he smashed Old Devil to smithereens while I cheered him on from the safety of a neighboring chair.

Then a few seconds later, after I've gently settled back into a reclining position before the fire, I hear Lee sing out "oh, look! a relative!"

Oh, goody. A relative.

I feel Quite Ill.

Lee kills the relative with alacrity.

I spend the rest of the evening as nervous and jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, wearing my crocs, and making sure the boys stay where they can leap to their timid Aunt's assistance at a moment's notice.

Wednesday's Word

"Blustery"

Now, what's the very first thing you think about in relation to "blustery"?

A Blustery Day in the Hundred Acre Wood, of course.

And not only do I like the sound of the word - blustery, blustery; it's fun to say, yes? - I love the association with Winnie the Pooh. Who doesn't?

I can just hear the narrator's voice, (aside: his name was Sebastian Cabot; isn't that a wonderfully British name?) in "The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh" saying "It was a Blustery Day in the Hundred Acre Wood..."

You just THOUGHT you were bad at writing.

Actual grammar and spelling mistakes submitted by teachers:


"I felt as if I had been thrown into a room of hungry loins."

I've definitely felt that way before.



"She had ankles like peach-pits and lips as big as a twelve-year-old girl."

Um, wow. I can't decide which simile is more disturbing.



"You always new when he come in the room because of the smell of his strange colon."

Thought nobody could smell your colon? Think again.



"He took her for granite."

No woman wants to be taken for granite. Maybe for some marble slab ice cream, but certainly not for granite.



"He slipped into a comma and died."

Watch out - those commas can be pretty darn dangerous.



"Ernest Hemingway was a really, really, good righter. He was so good that he won the pull it surprise for his book The Old Man and The Sea." -from a NINTH grader's essay

Just shoot me now. America, really? "Pull it surprise" instead of Pulitzer Prize?? Have we really sunk that low?



Apparently so, because here's a gem from President George W. Bush:

"The public education system in America is one of the most important foundations of our democracy. After all, it is where children from all over America learn to be responsible citizens, and learn to have the skills necessary to take advantage of our fantastic opportunistic society."


p.s. Go here and laugh.

Um, no. That wasn't it.

A couple of nights ago, as I put AnnMarie to bed:

Me: "I love you!"

::silence::

Me: "AnnMarie, what do you say back to Katie?"

::she grins:: "Good-bye."

My spine still tingles at the thought...

I take a deep breath.

I cautiously lean forward, holding fast to the thick vine, and peer down the sharp 40 ft drop to the bottom of the gully.

Looking down was a bad idea - I screw my eyes shut and clutch the vine a little tighter, feeling its rough bark rub harshly against my sweaty palms.

The dry leaves crackle under my feet, and behind me I hear noises of encouragement and a couple of amused taunts from the younger crew, (because it's taking me quite a while to get up my nerve.)

I could turn away. I could let the vine go. I don't have to do this.

"How many times have y'all done this?" I holler to the group behind me.

"Tons! Even Dad has swung on it!" Mary yells back. She's brave. Me? Not so much when it comes to possibly plunging 40 feet to a very painful death.

I almost let it go. Back away. Laugh at my cowardice and move on to other adventures. There's always adventure to be had around this house.

But he's back there.

I like him a lot.

My ten year old self wants to impress him.

So I grit my teeth, close my eyes so tight I see purple and red stars, and swing out. And out. And out. I hear the vine crackling, I feel how tense my arms are as I hold on.

This is it. I'm about to die. Poor Mama. I'm gonna fall; it's gonna break; it's gonna break...

My legs kick - at nothing. Just pure air. I want to scream, but it's stuck in my throat. More air, more air, then oh, the blessed ground! Mary's hand helping me up the incline, back to the yard.

I'm alive. I didn't die. I didn't back down. He watched me. Was he impressed?

Suddenly, I realize I want to do it again.

So, I do. And I keep my eyes open this time. It's amazingly fun now that I've moved past my initial terror, but I screech [loudly] nonetheless, because I'm a girl and that's just what girls do best in such situations. There's still a tantalizing possibility of falling, just enough to make it extra-fun, but it's a small possibility now.

I've done it. I know.







I remembered this vine swing today, and I missed it. It finally snapped a few years back, after being used and abused by countless children, countless times.

That first time, that first swing into the unknown, will always stay vividly in my mind, not just because I was stupid enough to risk life and limb for the approval of a 12 year old crush, but because it made me feel brave. Undefeatable. (Albeit a wee bit shaky on my feet for the first few minutes back on land.)

I liked that feeling. Still do, only I really never feel it anymore. Which, I suppose, is why this particular memory is so wonderful.

Well, Phoebe, I'll tell you this: it isn't that.

Phoebe: "Please give me a hint about my Christmas present?!"

Me: "You'll like it."

Phoebe: "I like iPads."







p.s. She's six. What is the world coming to? When I was six I wanted dolls and doll clothes and toy horses and maybe some new dress-up clothes.

Daddy, the Library, and some Church Bells

Occasionally, I got to go to work with Daddy.

Now, of course Daddy's job wasn't like most jobs - not 9 to 5, not in a structured office, not in a factory, not at a construction site. He was a pastor, always on call, always available for whoever needed him.

He had a homey little study at church, with a floor to ceiling bookshelf, a few chairs, and lots of papers all over his desk. I loved the few times I went with him, partly because it meant I got to pick whatever spot in the church, (and there is such charm in an empty, cool, dark church I can tell you,) I wanted to do my school work, (once I took a blanket into the baptistry and pretended I was in a bomb shelter during WWII.) Sometimes I'd stay in the study with him, lying on the red carpeted floor with my heels in the air, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he worked on his sermon, trying to think up a deep theological question to ask, so I could impress Daddy. I don't think he was ever particularly impressed, but I was angling to become a member of the church from the time I was six, and thought that if I could prove my sincere curiosity regarding God, he would let me be baptized. (That didn't work, by the way.)

Then, about 12:00, Daddy would stand up, stretch, and my insides would happily flip and curl, because now, NOW, the best part was coming.

We'd clamor into his Ford Ranger pick-up and head over to the Library, one of my very favorite places in the whole entire world.

Daddy would sink comfortably into a chair at one particular table and peruse the newspaper, while I would gleefully trot off to the kids' section and return with an armful of books.

Somewhere around 12:10, the Baptist church next door would begin playing a recording of bell music, which I sincerely believed to be actual bell music. It charmed me to no end part of the time, and the other part I wished it would shut up so I could concentrate on my book. (Because, homeschooler.)

Today, I was in town on a quick errand, and I suddenly realized it was noon. I went over to the library, (it's obviously the best place to listen to the bells,) and had barely set foot inside the door when the whole place began to reverberate with the slightly scratchy sound of recorded bell music. Somehow, it was immensely comforting to know that the music still blasts out at noon, and that it's a tangible part of my childhood I can re-live... in part.

I sat down at Daddy's table and read the comics in the newspaper, wishing for him.

That's more than I eat in a whole day. But it doesn't count as breakfast, apparently.

From Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding: (my favorite of her books, by the way.)

"Dabney had even come out without breakfast, having eaten only what was in the kitchen, milk and biscuits and a bit of ham and a chicken wing, and a row of plums sitting in the window."

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...

I have just realized Something Disturbing.

Something that brings nightmares to the bravest, sends the mother rushing to protect her young, and causes the healthiest and hardiest to sink trembling on their knees in terror and horror.

::cue the sinister music::

Election Time is approaching on dark wings of despair.

I don't just mean primary elections, or whatever it is we just had that has every news blogger in the country writing about how the Democrats were desperately trying to stay in power but they didn't and how the Republicans are rubbing it all in their faces and saying "ha, now you know how we felt," and "this is what you get for making fun of us trying to keep President Bush out of all our campaigning these last few years," because apparently, Obama's attention and support is the absolute last thing any Democratic candidate wanted right now. Which is understandable, of course, only I want to know whether they realize the complete irony of this situation.

But if all that trash wasn't bad enough, I caught a glimpse of a headline yesterday that made me go cold all over and my spine have enough unpleasant tinglings to fit right into a Nancy Drew novel. It read something like "Pres. Obama Prepares Campaign Strategy for 2012."

We're talking about the 2012 election already???? SERIOUSLY???

Y'all, we just got through with an election! I mean, yeah, it was two years ago, but I'm so totally not recovered from the months and months and months of boring, dreary, stupid, boring, stupid political talk. And I am surrounded by people, (not to mention every media outlet possible) who LOVE to talk politics. And talk politics. And then, hey, let's talk about politics a little!

Or we could NOT.

Don't get me wrong. Politics are important. Politics are [unfortunately] necessary. But people, is it really needful to talk about them, whine about them, groan about them, and then talk about them some more? Around election time, every conversation = politics. Every visit eventually turns to politics. I'm sorry, but that is major overkill.

I'm sure everyone will make fun of me for this post. And they'll make this huge deal about "oooh, we have to avoid politics around you, huh?" And you know what? If you want to be immature like that, go for it.

Here's where I'm coming from: I like to ask questions about politics, I like to know who's running and what their strengths are, I like to support Sarah Palin. I just don't let politics rule my life as do an inordinate amount of people.

Moderation is good in all things, ya' know.

EVEN politics. Wow, newsflash, right?

So please excuse me while I buy a nice set of earplugs, (preferably a snazzy blue color,) and insert them in my ears whenever politics comes up at the table AGAIN. Or at someone's house AGAIN. Or drifts across the air while I'm innocently walking across the parking lot at church AGAIN. I'm telling you, they're everywhere. Everywhere.

And I hope you've all enjoyed this brief, brief sabbatical from political obsession, 'cause it's over. O-V-E-R.

Election time is almost here.



p.s. this is my first, last, and only political post/rant... unless Sarah Palin becomes President, which is unlikely. But if she does, I'll definitely write about it.

Wednesday's Word

"Dusk"

I like it so much better than "twilight," partly because Stephanie Meyer has completely ruined that word for an entire generation, and partly because dusk seems to convey perfectly the soft, velvety charm of the time that doesn't belong to the day or the night. The in-between hour of shadows and birds singing and crickets chirping, of fog creeping over the pasture and cows coming home. (Except that we don't have cows to come home in the dusk, but whatever.)

Thanks, Mama. Thanks.

I just walked downstairs in a somewhat edgy, (but not shockingly so,) outfit.

Mama: "What, is that your Halloween costume?"

~Mamaw~

Mama tells me that when I was little, people at church meetings and such would ask her and Daddy if they really had a daughter named Katie, because I never seemed to be with them.

You see, we live right next door to my Mamaw's house - just a corn patch apart - and for years I spent a goodly portion of my days and nights with Mamaw. If I had a choice between Mamaw's house or going somewhere else, the somewhere else would have to be pretty glamorous indeed to warrant missing out on time with Mamaw. In fact, once we were coming home from Texas, and Mama and Daddy told me and Laura we could go to New Orleans for a night as a treat, but I bitterly resisted, because oh-my-word-I'd-been-away-from-my-Mamaw-for-a-whole-week. (However, Laura insisted, and on to New Orleans we went. It broke my five year old heart for a few minutes.)

I have so many, many memories of Mamaw's house - playing bingo and uno with her after supper, her teaching me valuable tid-bits about the fine art of cooking, watching Shirley Temple movies, her telling wondrously long stories about her childhood, but three particular memories separate themselves from all the others, like three rare orchids in amongst a field of everyday daisies.

The first is her prayers. To an uncoverted, energetic scamp of a child, it did seem like those prayers lasted hours. And she never, ever failed to pray with me before bedtime. I regret to say that I spent most of that time imagining that the patterns in the couch fabric were rivers and lakes, and my finger the boat, or hatching a glorious plan for the next day. But the fact that she prayed so faithfully, and so openly, just as if Jesus was right there in front of her, did make some sort of impression on me, and I often squirmed inwardly in the knowledge that prayer didn't mean as much to me as it did to Mamaw.

Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I would stand on the edge of the bed and hold out my arms, calling "come and get me, Mamaw!" and she would come and lift me down, teasing and talking all the while she got my clothes and helped me get dressed. This went on until I was far, far too heavy to be easily lifted, and Mama laid down the law and said "No more picking Katie up!" It broke my heart. (Incidentally, I got my heart broken on an average of about twice a week back then. I was a very, ahem, special child.) Then, she'd ask whether I wanted biscuits or pancakes for breakfast, and let me tell you right now, my Mamaw can make some mean pancakes, and her biscuits are worth their weight in gold.

The third memory, as vivid and dear to me as almost anything else in my life, is her putting her hair up on curlers. She would dip her comb in water, tap it against the edge of the glass, comb a small section and roll it tightly up. Mine was the great task of handing each curler to her, (such a responsibility swelled my little soul no-end, I assure you,) and watching, mesmerized, as her head turned into a knobby, green mass of prickly curlers.

A few days ago, Mamaw had surgery, and she isn't able to do much for herself right now, so we're all taking turns staying with her. Sunday night, I stayed the night with her, for the first time in too long.

Before she went to bed, she took my hand in hers and prayed, just as she did every time for as long as I can remember. Only now, I don't squirm inwardly and trace the couch patterns with my finger. I sit beside her thanking God for such a grandmother... for such a sister in Christ.

The next morning, I helped her get dressed, and my heart was wrung by a queer sort of pain when I realized I'd never jump out of bed into her arms again, ready for anything.

And a little part of me hurts badly while I watch Mamaw get older. That part of me wants things back the way they were, when she was the one taking care of me. But another part of me, the deeper part, is so blessed by seeing her grow older the way she has lived her younger years - relying on God, loving those around her with everything she says and does, and taking food to everybody and his cousin in the community. (If I had a dollar for every pie she's baked for somebody else, I probably wouldn't have to worry too much about college tuition.)


A little later, I settled her onto a comfortable bench, and I carefully rolled her soft grey hair, exactly as I'd seen her do it so many, many times. Dip the comb in the water. Tap it against the edge of the glass. Comb a small section of hair. Roll it tightly onto a curler.

Only this time, she was the one handing me the curlers.

Wednesday's Word

"Soap."

For one thing, I like the way o and a look side by side. No clue why, but there it is. And secondly, when I think of soap, I think of this, which makes me laugh. And I like to laugh.

Plus, the actual THING, not just the word, is amazing. Think of what a stinkier, darker, danker world it would be without soap. Think, and give thanks.

The last day...

...Not of the world, not of the year, not even of the week.

But it's my last day to be 17.

I've really loved being seventeen. Sixteen wasn't a good year for me; I made some stupid decisions and was a long time regaining emotional and spiritual ground lost in one summer. But God made it a ploughing year, and seventeen has been all the better for it, I think.

When I was ten, or twelve, or even fourteen, I truly believed that by the time I reached eighteen, (EIGHTEEN! It's ancient!) I'd have lots of things under control. My control. I'd only speak kind words, I'd love my family with my actions as well as my heart, I'd know exactly where I wanted to go in life... down to the last mile.

Well, all I can honestly say is that I was a silly child, because the only thing I can really rely on as far as self goes is that I can't do a single thing right. Nope, nary a thing. My tongue is just as sarcastic as ever, my good intentions are as weak as ever they were.

Depressing, isn't it? When we realize that what we can certainly count on as far as self goes is sin, sin, and more sin, it may come as a real shock. It shocked, (and greatly disappointed,) me. When I was little, I fully believed that merely growing up would give me the tools I needed to be a good person, to love others, to sacrifice my own wishes. You know, like the girls in the books.

But, no. No, not at all.

The older I get, it seems that sin gets subtler and harder to beat, in a way. An angelic nature hasn't dropped gently out of the clouds and enveloped me any time recently.

In a way, I'm a bit bummed. I mean, after all, those girls in the books made it look so darn easy.

But at the core of it all, I don't want to rely on self... even if relying on self could produce some outwardly good results. Self can be a deceptive little devil, and you can fool everyone with the polished outside.

The inside, the heart, is a different matter. Christ is all my hope for overcoming my weaknesses and failures, and He is faithful. He does give strength; He does bless my efforts and give me a desire to please Him. That is ten thousand times ten thousand better than looking to growing up for happiness and goodness.

So, eighteen isn't the magical age I once dreamed of. And I'm kinda sad about leaving seventeen forever. ::sniff::

I've found that the bottom line is no matter what age I am, no matter what the year before me holds, Christ is sufficient. He is good.

And I'm excited about growing up. I really am. I think I'm a bit like Wendy, who

"...was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls."

The pursuit of... Fall-ness.

This evening, AnnMarie and I set out to discover Fall. She's been hiding in the most unforgiving way - the scamp! - sending us cool days and browning leaves as a sort of peace offering in lieu of her true self. Well, sorry, Madame Fall, but half-hearted peace offerings don't cut it for this young lady!

So, out we rode, windows rolled down, hair whipping in the wind, singing at the top of our lungs, (and you should hear AnnMarie sing hymns opera style at the top of her lungs. It's quite a treat.)

Winding around all the forgotten backroads of Tippah County, we found Fall. The Really, Truly, Actually Fall, not her demure ghost who has been haunting this particular sliver of the world.

The sun, sinking in a rich burst of color, lit up the newly ploughed-under fields that are standing ready for the hard frosts [we hope] are coming, and we saw crimson, orange, and yellow trees galore, not too much overshadowed by their jealous, drab, sister-trees. Brilliant red sumacs, like painted saloon girls, flaunted their showy colors on every fence row, and the air sweeping in the windows smelled like leaves, hay, rain, and occasionally cow manure.

It was a golden evening, a perfect evening, (even if AnnMarie didn't much appreciate my rendition of U2's "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.")

We came home, windblown but triumphant, knowing that Autumn hasn't deserted us altogether, but is simply playing hard to get.

Wednesday's Word

People, I love words. I mean, absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, love them.

And I'm a Strevel, so I use lots of words with lots of regularity. (Ask anybody. Seriously, anybody. They'll back me up on that.)

But there are a few words that send shivers of delight up and down my spine, either because of how they sound, or because they communicate their meaning amazingly well, or simply because of how they look written out on paper. (If you've never given thanks for the gift of words, and particularly beautiful words, shame on you. Just think, we could be like the Germans, whose words are all guttural and harsh.)

There are multitudes of wonderful words out there, swirling around in books, through the air, in our minds, or yet to be born. Doesn't that send a little thrill through you? (If not, you probably won't get this post at all, and I'm oh, so sorry for you, because you're missing out on one of the most delightful parts of life.)

Thus, Wednesday's Word is born. Too much alliteration drives me crazy, but I like a little here and there, and Wednesday's Word seems just enough to make you think, "Oh, alliteration," but not enough to make anyone roll their eyes and say, "oh, please."

Every Wednesday, I'm going to share one of my favorite words, and maybe tell why, or perhaps use it in a sentence, (because use-that-word-in-a-sentence is fun,) or occasionally give the quote or passage that I feel uses the word to the best advantage or that made me first fall in love with that particular word. (Example: "Upon." I love the word "upon" because I think of "once upon a time...," which is the single most brilliant story opening known to man, I do believe.)

My reasoning behind why exactly I like a certain word may not make sense to you, because it's rather difficult to put half-developed thoughts and impressions down in black and white. But a long time ago, my literature teacher told me that it was better to communicate thoughts haltingly than to not share them at all.

Without any further ado,

"Whisk"

"Whisk" makes me think of, well, whisking. And I don't just mean the kitchen utensil of which we have five. I mean quickly - lightly, like the wind - moving something, or moving yourself. The word itself brings to mind swiftness and movement, and I like words that suggest movement.

I suggest you use it just once in place of "fast" or "move" today.

"Whisk that filthy creature off my clean porch, will you?" sounds much better than "Get that animal off my clean porch."

See?

I KNOW I'm not the only person out there who is bothered by this.

You know when you check out at any store, anywhere, at any time, with any cashier, and they hand you your change, bills and coins, and the receipt at the same time? Just all loose and spread out, not nicely folded and wallet-ready.

Now, I wouldn't raise a fuss about it if I just had time to put the coins in my coin pocket, fold the bills to fit them in my wallet, stow the receipt somewhere it's supposed to go, and get my bags cleared out at the same time, but I simply don't have those skills. And I wouldn't mind standing there, efficiently folding and tucking, if the people behind me and the cashier wouldn't watch me the entire time I'm disposing of all the loose change, looking at me like they want to skin me alive and burn all my groceries with the fires of their indignation. So usually I get all flustered, cramming it in any which way, and managing to drop at least three quarters and pennies in the process. What I really want to do is turn around and tell the impatient person behind me "just wait, honey child. Your turn is coming, and you are going to repent of every baleful look you've cast my way these last few seconds."

I've also tried walking away immediately and trying to put it neatly away while gathering groceries and pushing my cart, or handling all the bags in my hands. Nope, doesn't work.

And somehow the thought of waiting til I get to my car to put stow it, walking all across the parking lot clutching a handful of cash and coins and bags doesn't really appeal to me.

So, I mostly just look stupid while checking out.

Yeah, we have a bit of work left.

I'm teaching Phoebe two days a week, and we're learning everything from the presidents to the months of the year, from what slavery means to what apostrophes are, from what the civil war was to what the word "should" looks like. (And seriously, of all those things, I'm most concerned she'll never fully remember "should." It doesn't seem to be making any impression in her mind.)

Me: "What's this word?"

Phoebe: "Said!"

Me: "No. Sound it out, and remember that the "L" is silent."

Phoebe: "Shh-uuu-dd... shall!!"

And so forth and so on. You get the picture. Never has so little been misread so much by so few.

Anyway, today we talked about a president's limitations, and what he can and can't do.

Me: "And sometimes, presidents get impeached."

Phoebe: "Oooh, I like peaches!"

the silence before sleep

I love the silence before sleep.

Lying in the dark, at first noticing nary a sound but mine and mama's breathing, I begin to be aware of all the little, inconsequential noises that hide during the busy, loud day, as they awaken gently and begin to remind the world that they're here too - a wall creaking, a scittering little mouse rushing across the attic floor, the placid gurgle of the fountain outside our window, a lone autumn cricket chirping sadly about the by-gone days of summer, the refrigerator humming, the fan on the front porch whirring away - all these swell quietly into a peaceful symphony of night time noise.

Yet all these sounds put together don't mar the silence. I could still hear a pin drop, (or a bobby pin fall from the bedside table, as happened last night,) cutting the air with a sharp ping. The sounds are there, but they're so quiet and undemanding that they almost go unnoticed.

I can think beautiful thoughts and dream darling dreams while lying still, or I can simply listen to this unobtrusive orchestra. It doesn't require my attention, nor does it make me want to drown it out by thinking or speaking.

It's merely there. Surrounding me every night. Waiting to be heard.

Dear Geometry,

You are a deceiving, two faced serpent, and I don't like you anymore.

So there.

Disgustedly,
Katie

Aaaaannndd...

...college application and college resume' are finished! (By the by, there are few things in life I have found to be as stupid and self-centered as the required college resume'.)

Plus, I've decided on my two audition pieces, and will now commence to practice them until I 1. never want to hear them again, or 2. play them well enough to impress the music department, or 3. neither of the above, or 4. both 1&2. Can you tell that I'm preparing for multiple-choice ACT and SAT questions?

So, a few tangible steps have been taken, and I am relieved/happy/depressed-at-how-far-I-still-have-to-go.

Next comes the ACT. And the SAT. And then the ACT again. Because yes, I've signed up for three times. Because yes, I'm slightly paranoid.

auf wiedersehen!

Two of my best gal pals are headed off into a whole new phase of life in the next week or so, one of them moving to Texas for a few months and the other settling in Virginia for the foreseeable future. Being the great friend I am, I wanted to find a sweet, meaningful, inspirational blessing for them.

You can only imagine how delighted I was when I stumbled across the following Irish gem:


May the frost never afflict your spuds.
May the leaves of your cabbage always be free from worms.
May the crows never pick your haystack.
If you inherit a donkey, may she be in foal.

Hannah and Eleanor, this pretty much sums up exactly what I want for y'all. 'Cause I just know how much your cabbage means to you both, and goodness knows, if someone is precious enough to give either of you a donkey, you surely will want to continue growing your herd ASAP.

Seriously, though, I'm gonna miss you both.

Be good, look both ways before you cross the street, don't forget to brush your teeth before you go to bed every night, eat your green veggies, say "thank you" and "excuse me," make up your beds in the morning, don't pick your noses in public, and be sure to charge your cell phone batteries faithfully.

Love y'all!

Did you know...

... women in France don't shave under their arms.

... once when I was two I ate my sister's deodorant.

Those two facts were unrelated in my mind, believe it or not; I didn't set them down side by side on purpose. Oh, the beauty of irony!

... Isaiah is my favorite book in the Bible.

... I don't like milk. I can't drink it without thinking about exactly where it comes from - and that's just gross.

... I have now reached what is quite possibly the peak of homeschooler syndrome. I am friends on Facebook with Dr. Grant. Oh, yes.

... it's easy to love an ideal, thinking that you're loving reality. But be careful, because there's a good chance you aren't.

... diamonds aren't really me. I admire them, but I don't feel at home with them.

... I despise, abominate, and abhor chrysanthemums. They're so stiff and fake.

... I know how to spell "chrysanthemum" because of watching "Anne of Green Gables" so very many times. Who says movies aren't educational?

... I have an affinity for swings.

... I absolutely hate it when businesses spell things the way they sound, but not at all the way they are. "Kwick Kash," anyone?

... when I am completely stuck in the middle of a math problem, I go and play the violin for ten minutes and it clears my brain wondrously. Do you think they'll let me bring my violin to the ACT?

... I get ferocious, killer butterflies in my stomach when I think of my violin audition for Ole Miss this coming Spring.

... I was named Larissa for my first cousin, Robin Larissa, who dreamed that Mama was expecting a girl - before Mama and Daddy told anyone that she was pregnant. The rest of Robin's dream was that she kidnapped the baby and took her to live at college with her. So, while the dream was only partly prophetic, it was enough to have Mama and Daddy name me for Robin, and I'm glad, 'cause I like the name Larissa. However, I'm somewhat ashamed to report that I didn't know for sure whether it was spelled with one R or two R's until I was ten. Yeah.

... I carry a blanket with me to church. Yes, seeing me swaddled up to my chin in a down-filled blanket probably provides a good deal of amusement for various and sundry people, but all I can say is that they obviously aren't cold natured, or they would totally understand.

... I like pickles.

... I don't like spiders. What? Oh, you already knew that? Well, now you have been reminded.

... this post didn't really have a purpose.

No kidding, Katie! Really?? I would've never, ever figured that out!

Oh, hush. Why don't you run up an alley and holler fish?

Once Upon a Time,

there were three little girls.


All their respective parents were fast friends long before these girls were even thought of, so it's totally safe to say that they were more or less friends from the moment they were all born. (I'm pretty sure Eleanor was sad for nine months of pure loneliness before Katie came on the scene, and then they were rather forlorn for the next fourteen months, 'cause somewhere deep inside, they knew their friendship just wasn't complete without Julia.) (Or maybe they just laid around, sleeping and eating and crying, seeing as how they were infants and all.)

Anyway, back to the story.

For lots of years, they were bestest friends.


They fought. They giggled. They teased. They played. And played. And played. They argued. (Well, Katie and Eleanor argued; Julia sat sweetly in a corner, looking with wonder at the two hooligans yelling at each other.)

Then there was a time when they went different ways for a while, and weren't all three such close friends anymore.

But thankfully, that didn't last more than two years or so, and their friendship rebounded and grew tighter than ever, strengthened in part by the mere fact that they were all growing up, slowly but surely, and that Katie and Eleanor could go an entire hour without figuratively scratching each other's eyes out.

Then all of a sudden, with a mixture of excitement and terror, the girls all discovered that growing up was for real. It wasn't some pie-in-the-sky, distant, foreign thing. And it was starting in less than two weeks, when Eleanor moved off to the big, egotistical state of Texas.

Next Autumn comes college for at least Katie and Eleanor, and the future is pretty dang bright for Julia, too, although it involves less of college and more of... well, I'll stop there.

At any rate, the three girls realized that it would be a long time before they were [relatively] carefree people with flexible schedules again - maybe never again, 'til they were in the nursing home with little to do except play bingo and give their nurses and offspring a hard time.

So, they got together for a farewell bash.

They picnicked in the park, ('cause yay for saving money!) they rode the carousel at the Mall, they drank coffee, they took lots and lots of pictures, they threw ice cubes at ducks. They discussed what their grandchildren should call them, what they wanted to look like when they were old, food, boys, their respective immediate futures, the distant future, the past, marriage, lack-of-marriage, seat belts, and God's providence. They laughed. They linked arms. They made some pretty distinctive plans to stay in touch.

And Happily Ever After?

We'll see. But let's just say I have a pretty good feeling about that.

Dear Geometry,

I've never, ever, ever been much of a math person. In fact, I'd usually choose almost anything in the whole wide world over doing math at all, and especially over doing extra math. Ha! Extra math has never even been a blip on my radar.

But yesterday, I was emotional, a wee bit stressed, had a head ache, and really nothing appealed to me - not writing, not reading, not eating, not violin, not talking, and I felt too tired to go clean something, which usually is a pretty good fall-back for me.

Out of no where, the thought occurred to me, "I'll go do a lesson in geometry!"

And so, I did.

You're steady and unchanging, no matter what upheaval is going on in my mind. Angles are angles, and rays are rays, and the formulas for figuring it all out don't shift and shake. Within fifteen minutes of picking you up, I was calmed and soothed, and after twenty minutes I went and crawled in bed, totally relaxed and blissfully unconcerned with emotional issues. Plus, I felt as though I had accomplished something Useful and Beneficial.

So, thank you, Geometry, for being an odd sort of consolation for my troubled self. Never thought those words would come out of my mouth, but there they are.

See you again soon!



Best Regards,
Katie

a rarity.

When I'm forced to watch sports, (read: when I'm at Anna and Lowell's house and I'm too lazy to get up off the couch as soon as Lowell turns the TV on,) I usually amuse myself by rating the cuteness of each player, (there are some reallyreally adorable guys in sports, and there are some reallyreally homely ones, let me tell you,) or by drooling over the trim, perfectly kept grass in the playing field, (or whatever it's called. "Playing field" makes tons of sense to me,) or by painstakingly deciding which uniform is the most tasteful. (Hey, don't laugh. Choosing the most attractive uniform can be kinda tricky, 'cause sometimes I like the jersey of one team better, but prefer the helmets of the other. And this makes for a complicated situation, since I usually cheer for the team whose uniform I decide is the best.)


In other words, I don't care one iota about the game itself. Points, goals, fumbles, bumbles, passes, crashes - all those things mean zero. I don't even really know what the quarterback does in football.

But the other night, I found myself actually interested in the baseball game Lowell was watching. Yes, I know. Shocking.

Should I be asking myself some deep questions about this?

Should I be worried?

Excited?

Fulfilled?

None of the above?

Maybe aliens came and stole away a part of my inward being, replacing it with a part that actually tolerated a game of baseball.

Well, I would take more time to continue this soul searching, but I'm slightly hungry, and food is waaay better than anything remotely sports related.

Oh, wait.

I'm back.

taking the plunge.

Well.

These days are taken up by studying for the ACT and SAT. I'm taking online practice tests til my eyes water and call me bad names, I'm delving deep into unfathomable mines of geometry and algebra and science reasoning in a desperate effort to absorb a ridiculous amount of information in a ridiculously small amount of time, and I'm collaring every friend who's ever taken either of the tests and begging them to impart some of their wisdom to me. I'm looking into all my financial options for Ole Miss, and I'm filling out applications. I'm poking into dark corners to try and unearth helpful scholarship possibilities. I'm suddenly considering the possibility of taking college classes this coming semester and summer, instead of beginning next Fall.

Yeah. It's stressful.

And yet... dare I say it? It's also stimulating. Almost enjoyable at times. I feel as though my brain is stretching, expanding, and quite liking all the new tidbits, various facts, and such pouring in.

Then seven minutes later, said brain seems to be rejecting every single word I read and every equation I try to calculate, spitting them back out in a most unmannerly and unkind fashion. I retire from the field of mental battle conquered and tired, ready to throw in the trowel and say with all my heart that I nevereverever want to attend college anyway, if it takes all this just to get in the dang place. Will it really matter in the long run if I choose the easier, (at the moment,) path, and decide to never open a text book again or spend another moment worrying about the outcome of the ACT?

But I always pick up my shriveled brain, shake it, and tell it to get back to work or else. There are two reasons I am able to do this:

The first reason is that deep inside, I don't want to give this up. I don't want to give in to laziness and mental tiredness, because I DO want college.

You see, I want to be the best possible music teacher I can be.

I want to learn all the ins and outs of music theory. I want to be helped with my rather pitiful attempts at music composition. I want to write interesting essays, and be challenged and inspired to do better next time. I want to have breakfast at Bottle Tree Bakery before an early morning class, and I want to study on Rowan Oak's lawn with a thermos of tea and a pastry. I am beyond excited at the prospect of being in the University Orchestra, experiencing again the thrill of so many different instruments playing in harmony. I think student life will be fascinating, too, even though I do know there will be many, many days when I just want to crawl home and stay there. Forever. And ever. Days when I have glorious writer's block, when my non-existent math skills come out and ride roughshod over me, and when my fingers are clumsy and want to play every note except the right one.

But I still want college. I believe it's where God is leading me.


The second, and most important reason I am able to press on, is that my heavenly Father is taking care of all my needs and frustrations during this rather confusing time. He is faithful to meet with me in His word, to give me strength during the day, and to guide me as I make big, Grown-Up Decisions that I don't particularly want to be making.

So, the bottom line is, while there are indeed times when I would fly straight to Peter Pan's darling Neverland without a single moment's hesitation, I think that I, like Wendy, have ultimately decided that the business of Growing Up is not without its own particular charm.

It's bewildering, to be sure.

It's terribly responsible. (Although I admit I'm not embracing all the responsibility whole-heartedly. Maybe I will someday soon... and maybe I won't.)

And sometimes I'm a bit scared of it all.


But with my family's encouragement, (and especially the help and moral support of my dearest Mama,) my brain's figurative sweat, necessary attention to oft boring details, and above all, God's continued guidance and faithfulness, I'm realizing, bit by bit, that all children, save one, must grow up.

And this particular part of Growing Up that I'm experiencing right now? It's not as disagreeable as I thought it would be.

oh, the hard life we bug haters lead.

It hardly needs to be reiterated that I don't handle situations involving large bugs well.

At all.

Like, they totally freak me out and I want to run away and hide in a small hole in the ground for the next year. Wait, except that holes in the ground usually have bugs in them, so scratch that.

But I've been doing better this summer, I promise. I've killed lots of gigantic spiders and beetles and mosquitoes without the help of anyone else. (Yes, killing them myself counts as "doing better." I didn't say I was naming them all and keeping 'em as pets.)

However.

This afternoon, walking around outside, something caught the corner of my eye. Something long and grey and thick, crawling up my shirt.

I screamed, (and oh, baby, it was the Mammy of all screams; seriously, I don't remember when I've screamed that lustily ever before,) and slapped at the THING simultaneously, (because I've got some wicked awesome skills when it comes to making noise and killing bugs at the same time.) It fell off, completely bewildered and not a little stunned, I'm sure, and proved to be the biggest, nastiest looking Praying Mantis I have ever laid eyes on.

I think the unexpectedness of seeing an unknown foreign object climbing up my shirt, combined with the endless possibilities running at the speed of light through my mind of what evil creature it very well might could be, were what caused me to lose it so completely. 'Cause lose it completely I did.

And here's the best part. I screamed so loud and so hard that I could barely talk for the next hour. My throat was sore enough for me to gargle salt and lemon water, and let me tell you, it takes a really doggone sore throat for me to be reduced to those straits.

After I changed my shirt, (it had been contaminated by the bug's presence,) and vigorously washed my hands and feet, (because the nasty thing had the audacity to fall first on my foot after I wildly beat him off my shirt,) in hot, soapy water, I felt a little better.

The Praying Mantis? Well, I went and looked for him on the patio, to show mama just how massive and thick he was, but he was nowhere to be seen, and my guess is he was holed up in a corner somewhere, living up to his name by praying for his ruptured ear drums.

a boy after my own heart

Lowell: "After you finish your bath, Isaiah, we'll watch some football."

Me: "Or we could watch a princess movie."

Lowell: (in a disdainful tone) "Isaiah, would you rather watch football or princesses?"

Isaiah: (without any hesitation) "Princesses!!"

a perfect hour

They're cutting the hay in our pasture, and every time I step outside, I'm inundated with the sweet, delightful smell of sun-kissed hay. It permeates every corner of our yard, wafted here and there by a gentle, pleasant breeze, and I went out to eat my lunch of lime infused, baked tilapia and hard boiled eggs on the picnic table.

The perfumed air danced around me, my book was an old favorite, my Jones Soda was icy cold, and it was difficult to decide which was more beautiful, the blue, happy sky above or the freshly cut hay below, lying greenish gold in neat rows.

In other words, I challenge any prince or king, millionaire or president, celebrity or ordinary person, to truthfully say they were happier and more content at that very moment than I.

Sunday afternoon meditations

"Is it a little too much for all our moments to flow in ceaseless praise? Well, where will you stop? What proportion of your moments do you think enough for Jesus? How many for the spirit of praise, and how many for the spirit of heaviness? Be explicit about it, and come to an understanding. If He is not to have all, then how much? Calculate, balance, and apportion. You will not be able to do this in Heaven - you know it will be all praise there; but you are free to halve your service of praise here, or to make the proportion what you will.


YET - He made you for His glory.


YET - He chose you that you should be to the praise of His glory.


YET - He loves you every moment, waters you every moment, watches you unslumberingly, cares for you unceasingly.


YET - He died for you!


Dear friends, one can hardly write it without tears. Shall you or I remember all this love, and hesitate to give all our moments up to Him? Let us intrust Him with them, and ask Him to keep them all, every single one, for His own beloved self, and fill them all with His praise, and let them all be to His praise." -Francis Ridley Havergal (writer of the hymn, "Take my Life and Let it Be")


I read this passage and began to think of the week ahead.


It's easy on Sunday afternoon to relax, enjoy a book, a friend, or a nap, (and all those things are wonderful, of course,) instead of thinking anything about applying what I heard this morning to Monday morning. You know, I find myself often falling into a rut of thinking Sunday is over when I come in from church. But that really isn't true, is it?


The whole day has been given to us by God as an opportunity to rest from the distractions of the world, and possibly take the chance to spend some extra time asking Him for strength for the days ahead, when life twists and turns us in all directions except toward Christ.


I thought what Francis Havergal said was a good reminder to desire each of our moments, every minute every second, to be orchestrated around Christ. It seems like an overwhelming lot, doesn't it? But when we really think of how much we've been given by our Heavenly Father, it somehow doesn't seem unreasonable to live every moment for Him.


Will I do that perfectly this week?


Oh, no.


(Just ask my sisters, they'll assure you I don't even come close to perfection.)


But none of us should want it said that we "have not because we ask not."


Our God is kind and patient, and He will help me and you to live unto Him.

oh, dear.

I’ve done a really good job of not dreaming too much of Autumn all during this long, hot, humid, sticky, hot, dry, hot summer. Because I knew that the moment the Fall-lust entered my heart, it would be there to stay. For good. And the only cure would be one or two delightfully crisp, rustle-y, pumpkin filled months, where the geese wing overhead and the leaves gently desert their tree and settle on every available inch of ground, be they welcomed or not.

So, it’s to my great dismay that while August is still very much holding court, my longing for Fall has begun.

I say it’s all the much-longed-for cooler weather’s fault that my love for scarves is gently enfolding me yet again, that I’m beginning to think how soon I can make it by a Starbucks to suck down one of their Spiced Pumpkin Lattes, and that I’ve started panting for the day I can wear my snazzy fur-lined boots, (which Lee called my “fertilized boots,”) for the first time.

And the thought of the First Fire in the fireplace makes me the closest to high I’ll probably ever be.

I’ve started dreaming a bit too early, it’s true.

But I’d rather be the kind of person who dreams early than the kind who doesn’t dream at all.

well, not exactly.

Me: "Phoebe, do you know what the Civil War was?"

Phoebe: "Oh, yeah. It was a war that was civil."

It's a good thing there's "no charge for awesomeness." Because everyone who knows Trey would be really poor.

Hey, look! One of my bros is having a birthday!

Trey, I love you - even though you married my sister instead of me. It broke my six-year-old heart, but I seem to have recovered splendidly.

Thank you for always being there for me, whether the lawn mower is broken, there's a superduper big spider in my room, a mouse on the sticky trap, AnnMarie desperately needs entertaining, I need to learn to drive stick shift, I'm having an emotional upheaval, or any of those precious times when a big brother really comes in handy.

I'm so very, very grateful that God put you in our family, and that you live right next door so we can "holler if we need anything." (Trey's standard parting from me and mama.)

You're the bestest of the best.

Happy Birthday, big brother.

Dear Courtney,

You remember the morning we made waffles together after our first spend-the-night? When I stirred the waffles with my hands, (because the lumps just wouldn't come out with a whisk,) and you didn't run screaming from the house, I knew we were going to be best friends.

And I was right.

Happy Birthday. I love you.



-Me

in the [very probable] case that you are comfortably taking almost everything you have for granted...

... read this.

Read it in your nice, cool living room. Read it and think of the well-stocked fridge a few steps away. Read it and put your loved one's face in place of those girls.

If you have an ounce of compassion in your soul, you'll want to DO something. I can't tell you exactly what that will be, but you can pray that God would show you some tangible way to help, and you can most definitely pray for these beautiful, REAL people. Shame on you, shame on me, if we don't pray and do for them.

the windows of Heaven opened - and the rain came tumbling down.

Rain is gushing down in wild torrents, so solid they look like sheets of some thin fabric flapping about in the wind.

Silvery grey puddles are all over the yard, making rainboots and toy boats seem like the most fun ideas of the summer.

Most of all, for the first time in months, it isn't unbearably hot. Warm, yes. But oh, such relief for grass and trees, flowers and birds, animals and people, is this rainy day!

The fat drops hit the asphalt looking for all the world like fairies dancing, and if I didn't have a headache, I'd go out and join them. But it's wonderful to sit at the window, cup of tea in hand, and just watch the tired, sagging, hot earth be renewed and refreshed.

I'm so grateful I wasn't born before the Flood, because how boring and uninspiring would it be for mist to rise from the ground and do all the watering? I imagine that even the people who were about to die couldn't help but admire the magnificent first rainfall. Maybe that was the moment they actually believed in God.

But for Noah and his family, safe in the ark, with the hand of God protecting them, what a gloriously sad sight the first rain must've been. What a fulfillment of promise! For surely some of them had, at one weak moment or another, allowed a creeping bit of doubt to enter their minds about the validity of God's statement and command. After all, they and their parents and their grandparents and on and on had only known the quiet moisture seeping up from the earth. Water from the sky? Massive amounts of water breaking open the earth? Enough to engulf the whole world? Likely there was a tiny bit, (or a large bit; we aren't really told,) of incredulity in some of their hearts.

And then, aboard the ark, they witnessed, or at least felt, the "windows of Heaven opened and the fountains of the deep broken up."

God had fulfilled His promise, and if there had been skepticism in any heart, I bet it was banished in the twinkling of an eye, and the man or woman who had doubted the Creator of all felt very foolish.

Maybe there will be a pale, watery, but absolutely beautiful, rainbow this afternoon, calling to mind God's promise to never flood the whole earth again. And we can rejoice, as countless generations before have rejoiced, that our God is a God who keeps His promises.

a memory, and some thoughts which sprang from it.

As I walked home the other evening from Mamaw's, on the path leading from her house to ours', I was vividly reminded of sundry other late-night walks home on that very same path... walks which were accompanied by the genius of an over active imagination.

When I was Quite Young, whenever the need arose for me to walk home after dark, I was terrified, yet old enough to want to prove myself brave and fearless.

Ha. Now I've just accepted the fact that I'm not brave and fearless and moved on.

So off I'd go, in mortal terror of drifting off the path and into the sewer that was close beside, and in total dread of something Getting Me. Now, what exactly was going to try Getting me was hazy, but that's where my stellar imagination came into play. Oh, yes. I could think of hundreds of animals, bugs, and evil people who might be lurking in the cornfield through which the path ran, ready to pounce.

My solution?

Well, you have to realize that I was a somewhat superstitious child who half-way believed in faeries and probably would've made an awesome Catholic.

So, I would make sure I was safely past the sewer, squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and take off like a rocket in the general direction of home, reciting the 23 Psalm out loud all the while. No joke.

I was apparently laboring under some delusion that prayer would automatically keep me safe, and that reciting a Psalm was easier than actually making up a prayer as I went along. I also remember thinking, "Maybe if a bad guy hears the 23 Psalm he'll leave me alone."

Yes, I was that sort of child.

I'm not really sure what sort it is, but it's definitely a Sort.

As I walked home the other night, (walked, not ran-with-my-eyes-shut, yelping out Psalm 23,) I enjoyed the cool grass under my bare feet, I whispered secrets to the crescent moon hanging low in the sky, and I listened to the pleasantly scratchy sound of the cricket orchestra in the grass. And as always happens when you're in the dark long enough, my eyes grew accustomed to the night, and I could see the path in front of me.

I thought of all the lovely things about the velvety night I missed when I let my fear get the better of me.

That applies to life, too, you know. Are we so intimidated by the dark and the sewer that we try to gingerly rush through whatever-it-is that's going on? Do we choose blindness and "safety" rather than trust God to give us eyes that see in the blackness? What about prayer? Has it, the act of praying, become something you lean on rather than Christ?

I should never be content with fear and trembling.

I have a Heavenly Father who cares for me.

I suppose I should be flattered.

Me: "Isaiah, maybe someday you'll have a puppy."

(Only if aliens come and drastically reconfigure Anna's DNA, but I didn't tell him that, since I don't want to shatter his little castle of dreams.)

"What will you name it?"

Isaiah: "Uh, Katie!"

Okay, so...

I don't usually talk a lot about friends' blogs. There's a list of 'em over in the corner, and I just leave you to find out their respective awesomeness for yourself.

But.

This is my friend Julia.


She loves cheesy, cheesy, cheesy puns and jokes. Like, they make her absolutely burst out laughing. She likes the Beatles, and she can speak Spanish. She cooks yummy food. Ellie and I rolled her room with toilet paper, (because we didn't want to roll her yard since it was December and therefore we would've been freezing,) and she was totally fine with it. Well, mostly fine.

Uh, Julia? Do you still love us?

Anyhow, she's pretty cool. (Get it, "cool" because she's holding a fan? That pun was specially designed just for you, Jules.)


And she's started a blog. So, hop on over here, and read what she's written so far. I'm just gonna say that you'll probably need to go ahead and follow her, because you'll definitely want to keep up with the fount of wisdom, brilliance, wit, and love spewing from her pen.

Or keyboard. Whatever.



p.s. yep, that's a tombstone in the first picture. we're the kind of friends who pose with unique tombstones.

At least he was prepared.

As I walked into the Library day before yesterday, I noticed a shirtless man slouching down the sidewalk towards me, beer belly jiggling with each step. As he reached the Library door, he fished a wadded up t-shirt out of his pocket and pulled it on as he walked inside.

My day was so much improved by yon show of just how classy Tippah County is.

a hazy summer evening at the County Fair.

The wilting heat,

the smell of grease and cigarettes,

the shaky rides,

the enamored couples wandering aimlessly about, hand in hand,

the toothless and liberally tattooed workers, (seriously, almost all of them were toothless, and every one of them had at least three tattoos,)

the sickly sweet, sticky cotton candy sticking to lips and fingers...

the Fair is in town.


With friends and plenty of wet wipes, it's a blast. Maybe I'll remember the wet wipes next time.


At the Fun Slide, we did get some pretty strange looks from all the wee kiddos in line behind us. But it was totally worth it.

and on that note, here's a truly delightful thought shared by Julia as we settled into our seats on one of the spinning rides -

Julia: ::leaning her head back:: "Mmmm... just think of all the lice that are probably living in these seats."

it's my favorite compliment, by the way.

as I walked out of our tiny post office after mailing a package...

post office lady: "Bye-bye, little Kathy. Girl, you look just like your mama."




I didn't know anything about her, (except that she works at the p.o.,) but it turns out her sister was in Mama's graduating class, so she knew Mama back in high school. I love living in a small town.

You could say it runs in the family.

I'm sure lots of y'all think I'm weird, especially after reading random musings like this and this.

And that's okay. I have peace with that. (Because secretly, I know it's really you who is the weird one.)

But I want to assure all and sundry that I come by this strange propensity to be curious about perfectly common things, and then make up stories about them, honestly. I suppose it's just in my blood.

Case in point:

while at Joseph and Andrea's house, curling my hair in the bathroom, Joseph walked in and said,

"I don't know how y'all's hair doesn't shrivel up and die with all the stuff you do to it."

me: "Well, I put lots of good things on my hair, too."

Joseph: "Yeah, like shampoo with fruit in it. Ya' know, the shampoo industry has struck gold with this whole 'add a little bitty splash of fruit juice to our product and then market it as essence of banana' or some such exotic name, and then every woman out there rushes to buy it. I wonder whose idea it was to begin with? The shampoo people's? Or was there a bumper crop of papayas one year, and the growers got together to talk about how they could get rid of all those extra papayas? One would say, 'Oh, let's put papaya juice in motor oil!' and then another would say, 'No, that might hurt the cars. I know! Let's put fruit in shampoo!' And thus a star was born."

Yeah, Joseph. I'm sure that's exactly how it happened.

family, warmth, food, and tradition - all in one battered book.

You know how there are certain staples in everybody's home? Things that never change, except to become more loved over time, things that are used daily, or at least weekly, and have their own subtle part in shaping the fabric of a home?

Our Better Homes and Garden cookbook is one of those dear, essential things.

Every time I see its honest cover, red-checked and worn, with little nicks and tears and stains, I feel comforted. And hungry. My! Some of those recipes just make you want to fall on your knees and give thanks for the blessing of cooking.

(Or they might make you want to throw up. Potato-Beet salad, anyone? How about some delicious Sparkling Beet Cups? Or jellied chicken salad? Gross.)

It was given to Mama about a year and a half after she got married, as a thank you gift for letting someone stay with them in Germany. It's been a go-to for all of us ever since... I've learned to make pie crust following its recipe, (which has been used so many times that particular page has loosened all together and now has to be folded carefully in after each use,) I've seen it out on the counter, open to one spot or another, almost every time we're expecting guests, and all of my married siblings own a copy of it.

My point being, it's so much more than a tattered cookbook.

It's a tradition, a little tangible piece of our family's day-to-day life.

I love little pieces like that. They make me fall in love with common, simple things we all take for granted, but influence us more than we guess. And most of all, they cause me to dream of having such bits and pieces woven through my own home's tapestry some day.

"Thou hast made him exceeding glad with Thy countenance." - Ps. 31:6

My heart for gladness springs,
It cannot more be sad,
For very joy it laughs and sings,
Sees naught but sunshine glad.

-P. Gerhardt

And isn't this truly the case for the believer? Now, of course Gerhardt isn't saying, (and no Christian who has lived long could say,) that everything is sunshine and roses and ease once we are in Christ. That isn't so.

But it is true that there is a deep-rooted gladness, a sweet and precious joy, which will always be in the heart of Christ's followers... because of Christ Himself. We have no cause to be sad unto despair when He is our Comforter. There is no room for fear unto hopelessness when He is our Captain. No hurt, physical or emotional, will be so great that it cannot be soothed by He who is the great Physician.

We will fear, be sorrowful, and have pain. But Christ is ours forever. He is with us through every day. How then shall we not have joy and gladness because of our Saviour?

sneakiness isn't her strong point.

while at the pool:

Charlie: "KK, will you let me drink this pool water?"

Me: "No."

Charlie: "Then will you shut your eyes for a minute?"

Me: "Why would I do that?"

Charlie: (matter-of-factly) "So I can drink the pool water."






p.s. the backs of my legs are sunburned. boo.

Well, SOMEBODY has to think these things through.

Am I the only person who feels a trifle uncomfortable that toothpaste tubes have a warning on them, telling you not to swallow any toothpaste, and "if any is accidentally swallowed, contact a poison control center right away"?

Hello?

This stuff is going into our mouths... being rubbed on our teeth... covering our tongues. Do I really want to know that it's harmful if swallowed?

What if you were a really obsessive person who always took every single thing you read at face value?

::brush, brush, brush:: "AAAHH!! Was that a bit of tooth paste slipping down my throat? Did more than I realize get swallowed? Am I dying?! Is my throat about to explode? Or rot?? Should I call poison control? Will they just laugh at me? What if they tell me it's okay and just to go on with my life, and then I take their advice, but they were actually wrong and I collapse into a coma?"

Okay, now, there probably aren't a whole ton of people out there who even read the back of the toothpaste tube; (I'm just weird like that,) but I can't help being curious about all this.

Why are we brushing our teeth with such unhealthy chemicals? Is it all a vast dentistry conspiracy? Are they exaggerating the magnitude of the don't-swallow-this-toothpaste part? Or are they downplaying how bad it really is?

And you have to understand that I'm pretty intimately connected with my toothpaste. When I'm stressed, I go brush my teeth. After I cry, I brush my teeth. Before I leave for anywhere, I brush my teeth. When I get home, one of the first things I do is lather my toothbrush up and scrub away all the faults and fears of the day. It's like my own personal version of Linus' security blanket - except better. I'm refreshed and rejuvenated by this amazing, magical paste.

And now it's potentially so poisonous they recommend the poison control center if a bit accidentally gets swallowed?

I'm disillusioned.

I think I should just start my own earpiercing business.

There is a strange and twisted rumor drifting around that I pierced my friend Eleanor's ears with a knitting needle.

Seriously, people?

A knitting needle?

Have you met one of those huge, blunt, thick creatures?

Scratch that. Have you met me? Me who could never, ever, ever possibly - by any stretch of the imagination - shove a knitting needle through anybody's ear without passing out into a crumpled heap of nothingness. It was hard enough to do it with a darning needle, because you would not even believe how tough ear skin is. I guess I'm glad we have thick skin which is not easily pierced by needles, but it's rather inconvenient when one's goal is to create a nice round hole in said skin.

Eleanor wrote about this harrowing, (and hilarious, I assure you,) experience here. I can testify that she isn't exaggerating as much as you will think she is.

I'll also say that when we tried putting a potato behind her ear, we didn't realize that you were supposed to cut the potato in half. Yeah. We tried holding a whole, cumbersome potato behind Ellie's petite earlobe. So maybe we're not the most brilliant girls ever.

But hey, Ellie's ear is still firmly attached to her face, and she wears earrings all the time. Those two facts are really all that count.

And someday, we'll sit around when we're ancient and toothless and croak out the story to our grandchildren, who will roll their eyes and say, "We've heard that story five hundred times, Grandmother!" (except neither of us intend to be called grandmother.) And we'll say, "You haven't heard it five hundred times! In our day, children never exaggerated, no not one bit."

I'm really looking forward to that precious occasion.