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.