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?"