Good Ol' Betty Friedan

I'm in deep and serious thought today. I've been web surfing, and it has brought me to the subject of Betty Friedan, the famous "feminist", and her influence on the world we now live in.

I realize that many women are happy to be in what our parents called " A Man's World", working full time and coming home to their families at night. Some are doctors and lawyers, business women, actresses, journalists, teachers, social workers and cops. I'm glad they're there, and appreciate the services they provide for us.

Being a homemaker: I thought it was
the Cherry on the Cake of Life

Of course, many of them get personal reward from working outside the home, and can pay others to do at home child care and housekeeping. But most women don't get paid enough to provide such luxuries. Yet, they still must pay for childcare, and they have to clean, cook and get up in the middle of the night with sick kids after a hard day working at a "real job". They don't all like their jobs. They may not even "choose to work". Yet they have to, because that is the lot they have inherited from Friedan and Friends.

Few families can afford for the woman to stay home, caring for her family and household. I think it is most unfortunate; even sad.

Below is a comment I wrote today in response to a post on WorldNetDaily about Betty Friedan. I'd like to share it with you.

As a woman who was witness to Friedan's writings and ravings while in my early adult years, I agree that Betty has done much to destroy the American family and womanhood. Having always looked forward to being a homemaker and mother as my career, I felt threatened by Friedan and her ilk. I didn't understand how "feminists" could call themselves by that name while striving to be like men. That was freedom? It seemed illogical that a woman would want to give up the true freedom of the homemaker and the privelege of raising her own children for just another 9-to-5 job.
Unfortunately, Betty's campaign was quite successful. Now, few women who wish to stay home and raise their own children either can afford to or are encouraged and supported to do so by their husbands. After working in my home for over 30 years and having only worked outside the home for 7 3/4 years previous to my marriage, I can no longer share ownership in my own home and can't receive social security. Funny, if it wasn't so sad. I could have paid someone to raise my kids and clean my house and cook my dinners, and decorate my home and see my children's first steps, but since I didn't demand a paycheck from my good husband for the hard work I did, I am not considered having ever worked. Thanks for nothing, Betty.

As you can see, I have always thought it odd that people nowadays don't consider stay-at-home moms to be workers. Homemakers do what those folks pay strangers to do for them, but we do so without a paycheck. So it isn't working...? We clean house, cook meals, and wipe little noses all day long. We take the dog to the vet, pick up the kids from school, referee sibling rivalry and sometimes do the gardening, architectural designs and decorating of our houses. (Which, again, we lowly housewives can only own our own homes if our husbands die first and leave them to us in a will.) People who are hired to do any or all of those things get paid. They "work".

But not us. We're merely housewives.

It hasn't always been easy. I haven't always done a good job. Sometimes being a homemaker has been lonely; even miserable. But it was right for me, and I am grateful for having been given the opportunity by a generous husband who worked hard to provide this lifestyle for me and for our children. Being able to be a stay-at-home mom has been a privelege and a blessing, indeed.

As for good ol' Betty Friedan: Once again, thanks for nothing.

But to my supportive husband, I say, "Thanks, honey. I owe you big time."

You might find the column by Ellis Washington on WorldNetDaily interesting, too. I think this will get you there: http://www.wnd.com/?pageId=366917&fb_comment_id=fbc_10150373686222992_21343705_10150467477637992#f1a6d3d9a7a9489

Blessing: A Gift of Love

I love this film. It's actually very cute, so I decided to share it with you.

Hallelujah! It is time to celebrate life, love and family by gathering together with great food, lots of laughter, and a few well thought out gifts. 

Last year I wrote a post on gift ideas that you can make for someone you love. But this year I have an idea that you can give to everyone you love. It can be very simple or as complicated as you want it to be. But no matter how you decide to do it, it will bless that person. And you know what? It can be a great last-minute gift, too! It is so simple, yet so perfect, that I think some fanfare is in order:

Tooot ta-ta-toot!

Presenting...the...Blessing!

A blessing can be long or short. It can be big or small. It can be something they can hang over their bed, wear around their neck , tuck into their Bible, or keep in their pocket or purse.

I am going to make a blessing for every person in my family. So if you know how large my family is and how last minute this is, you know I'm going to have to prepare some very speedy blessings. Here are some of the ways I may choose to bless my sweeties:

Jewelry: I make jewelry, and I have metal stamps that I can use to put a favorite blessing on. But if you don't make jewelry, you still may have time to go to a store that does engraving, and have a necklace, charm, glass or other object engraved with a blessing. You may want to just have verse (like the scripture Jeremiah 29:11) engraved on the object.

Paper:  Of course the quickest and least expensive thing you can do is write a blessing out on paper. You can make something to hang on the wall; you can frame it or make a poster. A bookmark is a good choice. Using a sturdy piece of card stock, write or collage the verse onto the paper, embellish it with ribbon, buttons, and pretty papers, and Voila.

Book:  Tiny books are easier to make than you might think. You just figure out how large you want the book to be and how many pages you'll need. Then cut the paper twice that size, so it can be folded in half. Next, with a heavy needle and some sturdy thread, make a row of stitches down the seam. Then, with a pen or pencil, write the blessing out in your own hand. Decorate any blank pages, or leave them blank so your friend can write thoughts or answered prayers on them.

Below is a demonstration on how to make an Origami book:

Clay: I know I was talking about quick and easy, but if you work in clay, you can make a tile and write or stamp letters in it, and put a slit on the back for it to be hung on a wall.

Sew: A pillow would be a great thing to write a blessing on. Just write it on using fabric paints.

Embroidery: I embroidered the Aaronic Blessing on a piece of cloth and framed it for my husband long ago. You don't need a fancy pattern. Just write it on the cloth and stitch over it with embroidery floss.

Wood: Any piece of board or wood can make a sign or a plaque. First, just paint your board with a base color.  You may be able to find an old painted piece of wood that already has a character of its own. If so, then leave it as is. Then write out the words lightly in pencil. Paint them on. Then add a couple of screw eyes or nails to the top edte of the board, add wire or a sturdy twine, and it's ready for hanging.

Now for a few of those Bible blessings:

Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper and not to harm you. Plans for a future and a hope.

Aaronic Blessing: Numbers 6: 22-27
May the Lord bless you and keep you;
May He make His face to shine on you
and be gracious to you;
May he lift up his countenance upon you
and give you his peace..

Jude 24-25
Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and for ever, Amen.

Romans 16: 24
May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. Amen

Psalm 91:
This whole Psalm is actually a blessing, but some of my favorite verses are below.
Because you have made the Lord your resting place,
No evil shall befall you, neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. They shall bear you up in their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone.
Because he has set his love upon me (says the Lord), therefore I will deliver him: I will set him on high, because he has known my name. He shall call upon me and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honour him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.

And for children, here is one I'm sure you've heard before:
I see the moon and the moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody I want to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me,
And God bless the somebody I want to see.

For a few more special blessings, check this out: http://www.wilsonmar.com/benedic.htm

Of course, you may make up your own. I always blessed my children as I tucked them into bed. I made a cross on their foreheads and said, "God bless you in the name of Jesus." Then I sealed it with a kiss. Then I let them bless me back. It was a sweet way to end the day.

I must go; I've got lots of blessings to make, and I better get started right away. I would like to write more on blessings next week. If not, then next year!

In the meantime, I think I'd like to leave you with this blessing:

May God make his angels to watch over you and your loved ones. May he bless the work of your hands and the words of your mouth. May he show favor to you and your loved ones, and give you peace, strength and joy. Amen.

Happy, Happy holidays, my friend.

Father and Mother Know Best

When I was 11, my mother sat me down for the talk. It was time to prepare her young daughter for the woman budding inside that awkward, undeveloped child body. She told me how I was growing up, and she explained about periods, what I should expect, and that they were one of the things that made me different from men. Some day, she said, thanks to that change in my body, I would be able to become a mother, myself. When I finally started my period, I was very excited. I ran to tell my mom, and she hugged me tight. It was sweet, as it should be.

Mama was good! I mean, how many people could take something many women refer to as “the curse” and make it into a blessing? It sounded romantic. It was part of life, and life was beautiful. I never saw it as anything less.

My mother was a beauty, wasn't she? And wise.

Nowadays, the job of educating our children about sexuality is being taken from parents and given to others. I am concerned. Sexuality is an intimate and beautiful thing. But for years, people have been making it into something else. No longer special, sex has become a casual act, often vulgar and crude.

It seems that more important than physical health, honesty and normalcy these days is Political Correctness: Not Offending Anyone, Ever. (Well, that doesn’t include everyone, like people with traditional lifestyles or values.) Homosexuality is at the top of the list of the Politically Protected. Homosexuality, along with other non-traditional ideas, is being introduced to children as young as kindergarten, through books and other materials.

And according to a recent report, this new sexual education format is confusing to many young children. Some kids are concluding that since their best friends are the same sex as them, it must mean that they are all gay.

Regardless of how you view homosexuality, you will surely agree that if your child is not homosexual at age 4 or 6, you will not want him or her to adopt homosexuality simply because of confusion from a poorly taught class on family and sexuality. I see several problems with this agenda:

1.       These concepts are being taught to increasingly younger children, who may not be mature enough or emotionally ready to understand diverse sexual concepts, such as homosexuality or promiscuity.

2.       They teach sex education  in the classroom setting, with both sexes of children. (This is to help children to “not be embarrassed” in front of the opposite sex, but my kids tell me that this just discouraged them from asking questions at all.)

3.       Classrooms are not like home. There are no private times when it would be appropriate to answer individual questions of a personal nature. Even if a private moment for questions were available, teachers are not always “safe”. They aren’t the  people responsible for the child’s welfare. That job belongs to the parents.

4.       Nope, teachers are not the family. They do not know their students as well as most parents know their children. They do not love the children as the parents do. (Unfortunately, not all parents are good parents, but schools and teachers aren’t able to replace inadequacies in the home.)

I’m not saying every school does a bad job or every parent does a good job. But it is and should be the parent’s job to teach his or her children about sexuality.

Now a couple of questions to parents who are relieved to have the schools take over this difficult task: Would you leave sexual education of your child up to the stranger down the street? Then why would you leave it up to a school teacher that you hardly know? Do you want your children to have your personal values about sex and family? Why do you think the schools know more about what’s good for your children than you do?

A few quick tips on talking to your children:

1.      Get a right attitude. Who is better able to talk to your own kid about sex? Admit it. You know something about sex...probably quite a bit. You want your child to understand from your personal point of view. You can talk to your kid about it.

2.      Let your children know that they can talk to you about anything. No matter what your kid's age, you need to let them know that if they ever have a question, any question, they can come to you. You will not judge them. You won't laugh at them (in a ridiculing way). You will not be afraid of any question, because life is complicated and full of crazy questions. Sometimes those questions may make you blush. That's okay. Blushing is permitted.

3.      Consider the individual personalities of each child. Some kids are open and communicative, like one of my sons who had a gift for intimate questions. Others are private and struggle with communication. Accept that, and realize that they may choose not to share their secrets with you. That's okay. But let them know that your door is always open.

4.      Earn their trust. If you are a critical, judgmental parent, your child will not feel safe talking to you about things that you may disapprove of. Correct, but don't criticize. (I'm not saying its easy!) Never call them lazy or bad. Teach them that mistakes are learning experiences. They are part of being human. Life still exists after mistakes.

5.      Be unashamed. Kings and Queens have sex. Movie stars get constipated. Doctors go to the doctor. Preachers have bad thoughts that they have to reign in. Kids are curious. If we don't know the answer, we know how to look it up.

6.      Believe in yourself. You are the parent. You are the one who is emotionally, financially and legally responsible for your child's care for 18 to 26 years of age, depending to the schooling arangement. You have the right to teach them your values. As a matter of fact, you not only have the right, but it’s your responsibility. Your honor.

7.      Start today. Sit down with your children as soon as possible, and tell them you love them enough to be able to answer their questions, whatever they are. You will love them forever, no matter what. They are good, even if they have thoughts that aren’t good. Then brace yourself...it's coming!

8.      Pray with them. Pray for them. Bless them.

Pirate Dance

My grandson and I were baking Scottish Shortbread Cookies (find the recipe here: http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com/2011/06/scottish-shortbread-cookies-with.html).

He kept tasting the dough, because it is absolutely yummy. He'd say, "Mmm. This cookie dough is so delicious," as soon as I had whipped the sugar into the butter. But once the flour was mixed in, he couldn't keep his little hands out of the stuff. Being just three ingredients (and no eggs), he was able to safely eat all the dough his little fingers could sneak.

Finally, he said, "Nonnie, this cookie dough is so good, it makes me want to do the Pirate Dance." And with that, he leaped off the little step stool and began to dance. He took this very seriously, by the way. I had to make him freeze for a minute while I ran and got my camera, and then I was able to film this to share with the rest of the family and our friends. I'm glad I did, because he has refused to do the Pirate Dance ever since...although he did teach Sydney to do it just the other day. Now that was hilarious! Boy, where was my camera for that one?

The Pirate Dance:

Fourteen: A 21 Tweet Story

Famous people I've seen: I saw Hoss Cartwright at Six Gun Territory when I was a kid.
In high school, I partied with the red-headed kid from the Flipper television show. Again, at Six Gun Territory.

Ross Allen, the famous reptile guy, used to come to my school every year to do a personal show for our class.

Newt Perry, Johnny Weissmuller's trainer and a famous Tarzan director, was my science teacher and my friend's dad.

I saw Alec Baldwin and his x at a restaurant in Wilmington a few days before I learned they'd just gotten married.

He was cute then. That was before we all knew what a creep he is.

I was at the airport once when I heard a call "Your limo is ready" for the guy that sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy". Didn't see him. Dang.

I know it was Stevie Wonder I saw on the plane that day a couple of years ago. I love Stevie. Unfortunately, he didn't see me.


Okay. Now you know everyone famous I've ever met or seen or been in the airport with.

Wait. There's one more, who was Incognito at the time, in an ugly purple jogging suit. I think...who is that guy...dark hair...

He came into a coffee shop where my daughter was. We sat down and talked for a while. She was enamored. He was, too.

She looked much older than her 14 years. He was asking her a bunch of questions when her age came up.

I knew she'd have liked to say, "I'm 16", which still would have been way too young for him, but she said, "I'm 14."

He did a major double-take. He said, "F-f...did you say fourteen? You're f-f-fourteen?"

"Yes," she answered softly.

So the subject suddenly changed, and we started talking about other things. Safer things.

After a few minutes he forgot about the previous conversation, and started to ask me another question about my daughter...

He was like, "so...your daughter..." Then the light bulb came back on in his head. "Oh, yeah...are you...she's fourteen?"

Later he came by my gallery and met all my girls. After he left, they agreed it had to be that actor, whose name's on the tip of my tongue.

The youngest one said, "I saw him first. He's mine."

After that, she would sometimes just say his name, like it was honey on her tongue.

Then she would say, "I should have told him I was fifteen. Fourteen is just so young!"

Making your own Bonsai....in pictures...it's not so hard if you don't expect perfection...

I'll try anything once...if its not illegal, immoral or stupid.

One of the things that I keep trying and trying is the fascinating art of Bonsai. I have books on Bonsai; several of them. I am obsessed with the process of turning an ordinary potted plant (in this case, a Buxus Sempervirens - Dwarf English Boxwood) into a tree in miniature. Instead of writing a lot of words on the subject tonight, I'm going to illustrate it for you in photographs. I know you can get this stuff on other websites, by Bonsai pro's, and I'm not a pro. But it is sometimes encouraging to learn something from a friend, and not a professional. Professional perfectionism can be intimidating. You won't be intimidated by my Bonsai skills.




This is what I was shooting for when I bought an English Boxwood yesterday.
This comes from the book "The Living Art of Bonsai'
by Professor Amy Liang
An excellent book with lots of examples and information
about growing and maintaining Bonsai.

I told my husband today that I had a hankerin' for makin' a Bonsai,

 a miniature tree. Again.

I get on a Bonsai Binge about once every year or two.

Though I have made them before, but the real trick is as much in

maintaining them through a hot summer as it is making them.

So although I've done this again and again, I must keep trying.

We went to Home Depot and found this potted, untamed beauty for $4.45.

A bargain indeed! With a thick trunk, it should make a great Bonsai.

(And if you want to make it into a Bonsai,

 and you aren't a professional, it better be a bargain.)

I chose this English Boxwood for three reasons.
1. English Boxwoods make great Bonsai trees.
2. It was cheap, probably because it had been in the ground for a while before they sent it to Home Depot.
3. It had this great trunk, thick leaf growth, and exposed, developed roots.

After you've decided what you are shooting for,

(I wanted a tree with an interesting trunk...something...interesting.)

I hold down the branches and decide "does this look good? Does this look stupid")
If it doesn't break while I'm holding it down,
then I save it for wiring.

The first cut is the hardest. Do a little planning before you begin:
Look beneath the leaves, and figure out what you have under all that foliage.
 Then you can decide what to keep and what to discard. Be gentle as you do these things.
This boxwood was brittle, and in the process of making it into a Bonsai,
I did loose a couple of desirable limbs. But, hey. It's just for fun. Right?

It was really difficult to decide how low to trim the boxwood.
I decided to go easy on her, and trimmed less than I think may look best.
Take it slow. You can always cut off more, but you can't put it back.



Wiring a Bonsai is an art in itself. You may want to look up how to
wire a Bonsai before you start.
I'm not very good at it, but I stumble through it.
 I used copper wire in different sizes.
You wrap the branches around and around,
so you can arrange them to grow in an attractive way,
 and keep them in that position until the wood hardens up and stays that way.

When I was done with my creation, I cut the pot off the root ball.
I didn't want to damage the work I'd done.

This is a picture of my Bonsai, first night. I have potted it in a temporary pot, and I will keep it here until it has survived the winter. In March, I will take it out of here, and move it into a medium sized Bonsai pot (a little wider than the branching width.) I will trim only the roots necessary to keep the plant alive. *see note below.
I have to admit, even I have done better,
but working with such a mature plant was much
more difficult for me than working with smaller, fresher plants.

You know, my Bonsai is at the "awkward teenager" stage. Actually, it turned out to look a lot like some of my artwork, like "Old Queen Elizabeth", above. I am not finished with this bonsai, yet. I have potted it in a larger pot than I want, and I'm going to give it a rest and save trimming the roots for another time, after I've had time to think about the type of pot I want to use. For now, I'm ready to tackle the Azalea I just bought. This one should be interesting, too.

You might want to try your own hand at making a bonsai. You can do it. My advice is start with an inexpensive plant, go easy on it, and just have fun. Don't expect perfection...nature isn't perfect, either.

Update - One Year Later:

I thought you'd want to see the above Bonsai after one year. I have done more trimming as I saw fit, and have kept new growth to a minimum. It is slowly becoming more of the vision I had in mind when it was begun.

Just as I said I should, I did leave this tree for planting into a Bonsai pot until March. At that time, I removed it from the blue pot. I trimmed the roots as much as I could, *leaving enough large roots to anchor the plant and enough of the small, fine roots which are for water gathering. I like the look of a tree growing on a little hill, which also accommodated all the roots, so I allowed it to mound above the pot, as much for effect as for the health of the tree.
 

The front of this Bonsai is pictured at left, and the back is pictured at right. I chose the one on the left to be called the front because I like the roots showing. Unfortunately, I have once again lost a couple of branches when potting this year, due to brittleness. I am hoping some new branches will start next spring. If so, I will find one worth keeping, and train it to grow to replace the lost branch. Around the base, I added local moss which I found around my apartment, and some micro-thyme, as a ground cover. It's healthy and doing well. We keep it well watered, and fertilize occasionally with fish emulsion, at half strength.

Bonsai is not an art for the impatient soul...unless you buy one ready made by someone else who has the patience of Job. But Bonsai is well worth waiting for. I just like being able to say, I did this one, myself.

...So what if everyone else is thinking..."Yes...I believe you..." :)

 

 

 



Videoville - Just for Fun

You know, if you dress up a little ratty, people want to pet them. It's that simple. Just ask this lady who makes beautiful costumes for pretty little rats.

Easy Scottish Shortbread Cookies With Healthy Variations

Very easy to make: Scottish Shortbread Cookies

The other day, I wanted to bake cookies, but realized that at the apartment, I didn't have many ingredients I usually use when baking cookies. No baking soda or baking powder, and just a bit of sugar. I looked in an old cookbook, and to my surprise, did find one recipe with only three ingredients: flour, butter and white sugar. They were so easy, and were gone in a jiffy.

Because the ingredients are so natural and simple, this is a great recipe to make with small children.

Here's the basic recipe:

Scottish Shortbread Cookies

1 cup butter, room temperature - beat until fluffy
1 cup sugar - add to butter
2 1/2 cups flour - gradually add to butter/sugar mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, until just blended, and it forms into a single ball (much like a pie crust texture)

When it gets to this consistancy, you don't need to mix anymore.
It will make a ball, pulling away from the sides of the bowl.

Place on a floured board. Roll out into a 1/8" to 1/4" sheet. Place the whole thing on a cookie sheet. Pierce with a fork, and cut into squares.

Bake at 300 degrees until brown (depending on how thick you rolled it, it may cook from 20 to 30 minutes.

Take from the oven and separate while still warm.

Easy as pie...

Rolled out and ready for the oven

Here are some variations which you may add individually or in combinations:

For higher protein and lower carbs, replace 1 cup of flour with almond meal (which I found at Trader Joe's).

Replace some or all of the white sugar with brown sugar.

You can cut with cookie cutters, or roll out in a circle and cut into wedges like a pizza.

Crushed lavender flowers (no more than a half a teaspoon, unless you really like the floral taste of lavender). Mmmm...

Crushed rosemary (very finely crushed, and only 1/4 teaspoon).

Vanilla extract (I use homemade: to make it, slice several vanilla beans lengthwise, chop into 1/2" pieces, and drop into a bottle of bourbon, coniac or brandy, and allow to sit for at least six weeks before use. Then shake well.)

Or you can just scrape the seeds out of a vanilla bean and use them instead of extract.

Lemon or orange zest (finely grated peel)

1/3 cup currants

Crushed walnuts or pecans

1 Tablespoon Cinnamon

A dash of fresh ground Nutmeg

Sprinkle with sugar or sprinkles before baking



Recommendation: If you do a lot of baking, you might want to consider purchasing a sturdy mixer, like the Kitchen Aid stand mixer. They come in a variety of sizes, are heavy duty, and last a lifetime. They also come in lots of pretty colors. You can buy attachments for them, like a pasta maker or meat grinder. I bought a new 5 quart one at Dillards last week, and am getting a free glass bowl with the purchase.

http://www.shopkitchenaid.com/countertop-appliances-1/stand-mixers-3/102020011/?WT.srch=1

Enjoy!

Friday Flash: Butter Frosting

Butter Frosting

It’s four-O-three in the morning and I am awake. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…

Now it’s four-O-five and a half. I am alone in my wakened state in a large, empty house. It has been an hour since the last time I looked at the clock. Or so it seems.

I notice I am starving.

The Cake

It’s that damned homemade cake with butter frosting.

That confection has been on my mind ever since it came out of the oven, unfrosted. Now that it is decorated in butter and powdered sugar, it's calling me by name.
I shall ignore, I say to myself.

But it cries out even as the clock has halted its ticking. “It’s lonely down here in the kitchen under this stupid glass,” I hear a grumpy little voice rising from downstairs. “I’m afraid of thunder, don’t you know? Nobody loves me.” Is it whining, now?

The Storm

It started raining at precisely at midnight, tonight. I could hear dripping on the sill outside my window as I turned out the light. I was waiting to drift off into an artificially induced sleep as the sound of angry thunder came rumbling down the hill beyond the garden gate. It sloshed through the meadow and stumbled o’er the trees to rest upon the metal rooftop above my bed, where it pattered like a dozen barefoot schoolboys.

Strange thoughts had settled into my head as I lay there in the dark.

Luckily, that’s when slumber came. It swooshed up unexpectedly from out of my brain on the left hand side, slightly above the ear. Here. It slithered down across my shoulders and curled itself back up my neck, at last climbing into my eyes, holding them closed from the inside out, even momentarily against my will.

The dripping got louder for a moment, and then…nothing…

But the artificial sleep inducing pill doesn’t last long when the recipient only takes a quarter and not even a half a pill because of concerns with the possible side effects posted in a patchwork quilt of warnings on the bottle. This time it’s magic had lasted until just after three fifteen a.m., when I finally got up to go to the bathroom.

It was barely raining now, but the leftover drippings from the leaking gutters were much louder than they had been at midnight. They crashed into the tiny river that had now formed on the ground below, sounding more like clanging wind chimes than watery little plops.

The Labels

I got up again and flipped on the naked bathroom light, reaching into the cabinet for an hour's worth more sleep, when a label on the side of the label right beside the prescription label suddenly caught my eye. “Do not take the other half of that half at this time of night, or you'll be hopelessly out of your mind tomorrow. Get up, instead. Do not watch television or read anything disquieting. Don't eat. Do something relaxing until you are drowsy again. What? How would we know what relaxes you; surely something…”

That isn’t word for word what the label on the label said, but that was the jest of it. Yes, jest as in “You’ve got to be kidding”. For why would a bottle of sleep tell you to find something to do instead of taking one of its members?

The Cake Again

Back to the cake that troubles me still, with its winsome face and never ending chatter.

Why did I bake it when I could have bought a single one; a little cupcake from a fancy shop, enveloped in pretty paper, wrapped up in a bakery box with cellophane on top. That would have been so wise.

So chic.

So “2011”.

The Thief

I find myself rising from bed once again. I am painfully weary of listening to that naughty cake’s complaints. I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Strange. The glass cover sits beside the cake, and the knife is out on the counter. A large slice has been removed. Whoever did it didn’t know how to slice a cake properly. They chopped off a hunk from the side…getting more than their share of frosting, I might add.

Breathing heavily, I consider this. My cake has been disfigured. I feel quite uneasy, for as I told you, I am alone in this house tonight. I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, and check the window locks and the kitchen door. All are secure, as usual. This makes no sense. Unless...

So, I think to myself:

This means someone must have entered through the door, perhaps with a key, and cut a piece of cake, (wrongly sliced and overly large) and left with it in their bare hand. As I brush a bit of hair out of my eyes, my fingers get caught on a sticky knot in my tresses. Then I notice a hint of buttery frosting under my fingernails. There are even cake crumbles upon my cheek.

Strange…and even more interesting…

…the intruder must have climbed the stair, hands full of cake, and sat upon my bed to eat his overly large and improperly sliced piece of cake as his watched me sleeping soundly during the storm. (It had to be a man, for no woman would ever take such a large piece or cut it from the side, even if they love butter frosting more than anything.) I hope I was sleeping with my mouth closed while he sat and ate…I’m glad I was wearing my lacy floral gown…I have a secret admirer…who loves cake every bit as much as I do!

Me and the Cake

I take down my finest dessert plate, pull out my favorite silver plated fork, and proceed to cut a chunk of cake from off the other side. “You know,” the cake says to me, “you should get a bigger slice of me than the one the ‘thief’ took. After all, it’s your house, and I am your beloved cake.” I sit down in the living room, and hear the little voice once more; this time coming from the plate in my sticky little hands. “You do love me,” the cake coos. “Don’t gobble, my love. But savor every delicious bite."
Goodnight.

Cadbury Eyebrows

Cadbury Eyebrows (official version)

I just wanted to share this with you. The best part is when she breaks out the pink balloon. My daughter Joie put this on her facebook page. The little girl reminds me of her.

I have never wanted to have fancy eyebrows before this. My tongue is sort of fancy, though.

Saving the Horse; a Kid's Story

I always wanted to be a writer. I had no time to read, mind you. I was much too busy playing outside, making up my own stories through what I now like to call "creative play". (Ordinary childhood imagination.)

Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.

I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.

One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.

Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.


So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.

So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".

Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .

I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.

Romancing the Chicken

It's almost Easter, and images of chicks are everywhere.
I recall when I was about eight years old, and Mama and Daddy took us kids down to the feed store the week before Easter. It was a thing in those days for feed stores to have big incubators full of chicken eggs, ready to hatch. Farmers could replenish their chicken supply after a long winter. Of course, before Easter, some of the eggs had been injected with dyes, so chicks would tumble out of the egg already colored a fashionable peach or green or purple. Easter chicks. That one year, our parents bought each of us a freshly hatched chick.

Geese, Gennie Hens and Chickens for sale at a flea market. I bought two geese that day, but that's another story.

Maybe that's why I found myself wanting chickens a few years back.
We had three acres in town and it was legal to have a certain number of farm animals. My husband is patient and tolerant. You might imagine that chickens make for good water cooler conversation at work. Besides, my daughter-in-law Jennipher wanted a half dozen chickens or so, but you had to order at least 25 chickens at a time. I don't know why. Free shipping or a chicken discount or maybe to get them sexed (where they just give you females or males). One day she stopped by with the Chicken Catalog and we split the order. Bill built a coop and a fenced in chicken yard, and I became a city girl chicken farmer for a while.


My grandson feeding the chickens, about 10 years ago. Every kid likes to feed the chickens.

Then again, maybe I wanted chickens because I come from a long line of farmers and chickens are in my blood.
When I was a kid, we went to my grandparent's farm every summer. Sometimes I'd get to help Grandmother do chores. Certain chores, that is. For example, Grandmama didn't usually let us go with her to milk Birdie, her beautiful brown cow. Birdie was a delicate old girl, and didn't appreciate cold little hands upon her sensitive teats. Icy, ill fitting fingers made her hold her milk back, as you can imagine. (Especially you nursing moms!) And that was bad business for Grandmama.

But if we got up early enough, we could help gather eggs. Grandmama would hand my sister and me a wire basket, and we'd go through the pasture, over the crude little foot bridge that straddled the creek, and up the hill to the whitewashed chicken houses. There were two of them. They smelled like old wood mingled with dirt, feathers and chicken feed. The smaller one was made from my grandparent's first one room cabin. The second one was their first two room cabin. Granddaddy had built nesting boxes across the walls, and when the chickens weren't scratching around on the farm, they were laying in those boxes.

There's something about being eight years old and reaching your tiny arm right up to your elbow between a straw filled nesting box and a chicken's soft, warm featherd body, feeling for eggs.


Granddaddy's farm from Echo Hill. The chicken houses are the two roofs in the front.



Soon the basket was full, and we headed back to the house, where we sat around the kitchen table cleaning and boxing the eggs for market.

Chicken Dogs are bad for business:
One day we saw Granddaddy walking thru the yard with his shotgun and a shovel. He had a big Collie by the collar, and he was headed for the back of the barn where he was going to shoot and bury it. Of course, my sister and I didn't understand. Why would our granddaddy want to kill Lassie?

"It's a chicken dog," Granddaddy said. "He got into the chicken house and killed about fourty hens. Most animals kill for food. But a chicken dog kills for sport. Once a dog started killing chickens, it'll never stop." I remember the crack of that shotgun. No more chicken dog. It was a hard lesson in reality.

Unfortunately, (speaking of chicken dogs and reality),  my own chicken farming days didn't last too long. They ended less than two years after they had begun, when two neighborhood dogs were running loose. They dug under the fence to kill all dozen of my poor chickens while I was out. In about 30 minutes, they managed to maul and slaughter every one of them, just for fun. Like Granddaddy said. The poor rooster, good husband and defender of the hens that he was, had fought bravely. But in the end, his limp body was carried down the road in the mouth of one of those dogs. Chicken dogs.

Every now and then, I miss those chickens. I miss hearing the rooster crow. I long for the cooing and clucking as the hens scratch around in the yard. Most of all, I want to experience once more the feel the warmth of a hen sitting on a freshly laid bunch of eggs as I gently reach in to gather them. 
Yes. The notion of raising chickens is romantic and old-fashioned these days; it's instinctive for many of us. But frankly, I'm getting too old to go out on a cold winter's day to feed chickens. But that's a story for another day.

My oldest daughter Kathleene, on Easter morning. About 1971. Sponge curlers, flowered panties and jelly beans.

Happy Easter!

The List: Evil Taskmaster or Best Friend Ever?

I hate lists. I have even been accused of fearing lists. Though I realize that a list is nothing but a piece of paper with words on it, words have power. Especially if each word is preceeded by a number, a period and a space. To make a list is to set requirements, either for someone you are in charge of, or for yourself; requirements that the list holder is obliged to either dutifully perform, or slothfully ignore.

List + Holder = Obligation

So, you might say, if there is no list, there are no requirements. Right? Wrong.

That's only how some of us would like to think things are. But the truth is, list or no list, there are things that must be done each day, each week, each month and each year, in order to keep life running smoothly and free of guilt, shame and needless prison sentences. Sample List follows:
1. Do dishes
2. Make bed
3. Get car inspected
4. Pay taxes
5. Feed kids/pets/husband
6. Buy toilet paper, milk, onions
7. Tote barge, lift bail, jump down, turn around, pick bail of cotton (or is that, "pick pail of cotton"?)


Obviously, #7 is where I personally screw it all up. #7 = Bad Attitude.

Instead of seeing The List as the simple tool that it is, I view it as Master. (Surely you have heard of Master List.) Suddenly realizing this, I find myself delving into why I see The List as Master rather than Tool.

Hmm. A mystery to be solved. Shall I make another list?


1. The first person to consider as the possible creator of this unsavory attitude would be dear old mom. ("Poor Mama," I say sympathetically, being a mother, myself. "Isn't everything her fault?") After brief consideration, I can't recall Mama ever making written lists for me. The unwritten Saturday Cleaning List was permanently emblazoned in her brain. She had only one written list. Her annual Christmas Card List. An unassuming, non-threatening, happy list for the even the laziest of list-haters.

2. The next possible source of my bad attitude must be someone who actually makes lists. Aha! (Why didn't I think of this immediately?) I can blame this Anti-List Attitude on my husband, Bill. He loves The List. As a matter of fact, his whole life is ordered by daily lists which pile up in his day planner, upon turned over pages scrawled on yellow legal pads, and scribbled on tiny, torn off scraps of paper on the bedroom dresser until completed. Yep. East of saved receipts and west of a well worn wallet which no longer fully closes, spattered with spare change.
Let me exaggerate...I mean, extrapolate upon the matter. Not only are these Lists long and complex, but they are often accompanied with deadlines which may or may not be invisible. "These things must be done by 10:00 a.m.; these, by noon. In all honesty, however, my hubby's chronic list making habit is hardly the source of my personal angst and defiance towards The List. (Don't tell him, but they may be the only reason things get done around here.)

At this juncture, I can tell that you see right through me, darn it! So I confess!

3. The true reason I hate The List so passionately is simple (and perhaps a little selfish). I'm an artist at the mercy of my own creativity. It ebbs and flows like the tides, only less regularly or predictable. So The List can interrupt my fragile creative flow. Once disturbed, I may never get that moment back again. (Sobs briefly.) This noted, I am learning that a list does not an evil taskmaster make. Instead, a list is a tool worthy of grattitude and admiration. You're no longer slave to the list but master of your world. With trusty list in hand, life can be effecient and managable, even in the wake of unruly creative whims.

Bear with me while I make one last list - a "How to Make a List" list:


1. (Via my friend Betty, of http://www.freekidscrafts.com/) Always make #1 be "make list". Then after the list is completed, you can check #1 off and take a celebratory break.
2. Keep the list brief, so you won't be overwhelmed.
3. Number your list according to priorities, if possible. If not, put a star * beside those things.
4. As things are done, check them off.
5. Put some easy things down so you'll be sure to have some "checks".
6. Remember. Checks are the goal. Get lots of checks.
7. And also remember. If one of those creative moments hits, go with it. The list will still be there when you're done.

Voila! I can now check off "Write About Lists". Really, that wasn't on the list. It was one of my moments. The list is still on the desk at the foot of my silver writing box. It says, "Change Sheets". That's half done. Later, gater. Happy List!

It's Scary Out There!

I feel troubled today, kind of like Mr. Monk whom we all know and love.  I'm feeling a little scared and out of place in this jungle we call home.

This is a crazy world, and growing crazier by the moment. As a matter of fact, it’s getting downright scary. And confusing. So I decided that the best way to comfort myself is to review what I know is true, and pass it on to you.


In my childhood world, right was right and wrong was wrong. It was a simpler time. Things were clear. Of course, I realize in retrospect that there were plenty of things that needed change. Serious things. But I was a child. I was only aware of my little world.

Now things are rapidly changing, and what was right (and should have been) when I was growing up is now becoming wrong. And what was wrong is becoming right. Logic and common sense hardly seem to exist anymore.

That’s why I am keeping my Bible closer these days. When I wake up in the morning, I turn to Psalms and read. Sometimes I copy it down in my own hand. Nothing comforts a troubled soul quite like Psalms.

Believe me, I’m not the “religious” type. I’m more of the rebellious type. If everyone says I should do something or believe a certain way, I ask questions. I reject political correctness. I try to observe only the honest for God’s sake, things that are true.

So, who is this God I talk about? Where does He come from, and how do I know he even exists? I’ve asked myself this many times. One day years ago, I asked God this; where he came from, and who made him. I prayed for him to show me, and then randomly opened my Bible to Exodus 3, the Moses story. I remember thinking, “There’s nothing new in Exodus for me.” I’d been raised on Bible stories, and knew Exodus well. God’s people, the flight from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea. Charleton Heston. (I mean, really.) My eyes went right to Exodus 3: 13-14, where Moses said to God, “…and whom shall I say sent me?” And God said, “I Am that I am. Tell them I Am sent you.”

I am that I am. I understood immediately, just as Moses had. I understood that I will never be able to fully understand this, for in our finite minds, we cannot understand some great things. It is up to us to just accept or reject them.

I can’t say that accepting God is a choice for me. When it comes to living this life fully, I know I can’t do that apart from God. He is my strength and my source, a very present help in times of trouble.

Whew. I feel a little better now.

Blessings, my friend.

deber

Hello, Baby!

We are grateful to God to be blessed with another little child in the family.

Hello, World!

On Saturday, my youngest son and his wife called to ask me a couple of “labor” questions, and then called the obstetrician. They next called sister Sydney to come and watch their 3 ½ year old son, and they headed for the hospital to meet their new daughter for the first time, face to face. She came into the world late that night. Tiny, bright-eyed and strong.

Izzy loves Annabelle

We went up to see the baby yesterday, arriving just a little after 1:00 pm.

I’d like to share a few pictures with you, and some thoughts on babies and new life. I doubt that anything in here is original. Birth is one of the greatest wonders of the human experience. We are all kindrid spirits when it comes to such a miracle. Nevertheless, I offer these thoughts to you:

Though Bill and I missed seeing my grandson meet his sister for the first time, we did get to see it on film. Big brother has been anxiously awaiting his new sister for months now, calling her by her name (one of the lovely things about modern technology and learning the sex of the baby before birth).

We were told that he ran back and forth in the room for a minute, until he could get his excitement under control. Then they sat him on the bed beside his mamma, and put the baby gently in his arms. He sang a song to her. “I love you Annabelle, o’ yes I do…” Twice.



There's something about a man who knows how to handle a baby.



Lots of people get teary eyed when they first behold their tiny new family members. I do, and some of my mushier daughters do. Looking into a newborn’s eyes absolutely melts me like warm butter on a summer day.



Grandfathers have a knack for rocking babies. At least, my husband does. He always has. There’s nothing quite like observing a professional, well seasoned father doing what comes naturally.

Good fathers (…eventually aging gracefully into granddads…) are incredibly sexy, by the way.



One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten little piggies.



As I said earlier, we’re grateful for another child in the family. Ten fingers and ten very long toes! But I also meant, we are grateful for this particular child. There's only one like this one. Sure, she may come into this earthly kingdom with Mama’s eyes or Aunt Joie’s gentle disposition or Grandpa Bill’s energy, but she also brings into the family her own special way of participating with and contributing to the family, and later, the world.

You may remember a certain TV mom who used to tell each of her children, “I love you best,” as she tucked them into bed.

I could always identify with that. If you’ve got several children, you know what I mean. The one you love best is the one you’re with at any given moment. (Of course, if you’ve got them all there for the holiday dinner, it’s the one who talks to you while helping you clean the kitchen. All of mine always help, so what am I saying?...I have to say that or else...)



The whole beautiful family.

 


I want to leave you with this verse from Psalms. It's good to remember the author of life at a joyful time such as this.



Psalm 139:13-16 ESV 

For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.


deber

Judging Mothers

I don’t think I’d been in the craft store for more than five minutes when I heard lamenting of Biblical proportions coming from the opposite end of the store.

It was a classic four year old melt-down. Five minutes later, it had not subsided. After 15 minutes, the mega-tantrum was still in full bloom, and I decided to mosey over and nonchalantly check things out, making sure the kid wasn't broken or being beaten or anything. Maybe I could encourage the poor mom with a smile. I don’t know…something.

The scene I stumbled upon was one I had seen before. One I have experienced before, I might add. Many times. Permit me to describe it to you in detail:


This thirty-something mother was trying to shop with her three children, two young sons and a daughter. Mother had a list which she was pretending to be looking over, but I suspected that she was just maintaining a calm exterior as she melted inside. She pushed the cart slowly as her youngest child, a beautiful dark haired little girl, sobbed bitterly, her fragile heart obviously shattered into tiny pieces like cheap glass on a tile floor. Deep, salty rivers streaked down her red cheeks from her eyes and from her nose. "Please, Mommy," she begged. "I want it! I need it. Please buy me that doll. I NEED HER! Waaaaa!" (Sob, sob, and so on and so forth.)

The stoic mother remained visually calm as she robotically repeated the words, “No. You don’t need another toy.” Meanwhile, her daughter continued to fling herself from side to side in the cart, lunging at the doll which was by now at least two isles away.

The two older brothers, wise in their youth, walked bravely and silently on either side of the cart. The whole event had the dirge-like feel of a New Orleans funeral, with piped in oldies playing in the background, instead of a home-grown blues band. It was somewhat poignant for me, believe it or not; I thought of my own children and how they had mourned over toys not bought.

At this juncture, I must add this “aside” about dolls and me. If you know me, you know without my saying that I wanted to buy this kid the doll. There’s nothing quite like a little girl and her baby doll. Little girls learn how to be mommies by playing with dolls. Besides, I’m a seasoned mother and grandmother, well able to be manipulated by tiny broken hearts and sobbing four year olds girls.

After all, I almost died for my brand new Tiny Tears when I was only three years old. (I hope I haven’t already told you this before!) She fell from my arms, and I dove into Little Lake Joe after her. My dad had to save me from drowning. I remember him pulling off his shirt as he ran into the water towards me. He carried me ashore, breathless and blue. Lifeless, they thought. But not giving up, an old man in the gathering crowd held me upside down until the water drained from my little lungs. Then I wanted my doll, so Daddy swam out to the middle of the lake to rescue Tiny Tears as well. My life was complete.

Back to the story at hand:

Once I saw that everything was normal and determined that the mother was not only not abusing her child, but was a living saint, I decided I must depart. I got in line and waited.

Soon I heard this twangy voice behind me saying, “Well!” (…deep breath in through the nose…) “That’s just bad parenting!”

I stood there in silence for a moment, pondering what to do. I could either say something to defend the saint-mama or be quiet. Again, if you know me, you know I couldn’t just stand there and let that lady criticize Saint-Mama. I turned only slightly towards the voice behind me. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see two thin, red painted lips tightly pursed in parental condemnation.

“You know, I don’t think it’s bad parenting,” I said slowly. “She’s doing the best she can. Kids have different personalities, and some are…”

“It’s bad parenting,” she interrupted.

“Well,” I said, persisting. (It was already time to pull the 8 Kids Card on her. I’m never above pulling the 8 Kids Card when necessary…it’s the undeniable privilege of having a big family…)“Well, I raised 8 kids, and I can tell you that some of my kids were well-b…”

“Well, I have raised TWO kids and they NEVER acted like that,” she said, her shrill voice raising at least two decibels. “If they had, we’d have gone right home. Then and there!”

I turned around and looked fully at her. Those little red lips were flexing now, ready for action. The Two Compliant Teenagers stood beside her, life-sized tin soldiers behaving perfectly, evidence of Sixteen Years or so of Obvious Superior Parenting.

My face was reddening. My blood pressure rising. I had two choices. One, I could say what I was thinking, which is seldom a good thing. I don’t like public confrontation, even when I am right. “People with two compliant kids are always experts on how everybody else should raise their kids,” I was thinking I should say. (My husband remembers it as “You had the luck of the draw, lady.” Because the rest of the afternoon I had told him everything I thought I should have said…). Or I might have simply said, “Are you serious?”
Option Two, I could turn back around and just let it go. Peering into the eyes of the friend standing next to her, I thought the friend was silently trying to convey something. I'd like to believe her eyes were saying, “Please. Say it…please!” But I think she was saying, “Don’t let her get to you, honey. You can't reason with a woman like this."
So I chose to say nothing. My face broke into a funny, uncomfortable smile and I closed my ready mouth and turned around. You know, they always say, “Silence is Golden”. They forget to add how painful it can be…

Why am I sharing this with you? Well, two reasons:

First for people who see a scene like that taking place in public: Have mercy. You probably had a tantrum or two when you were a kid. It’s part of growing up. Don’t tell me it isn’t. It is.

Then, for moms who are in the midst of the moment: Don’t listen to those people who are talking behind your back saying things like, “Why don’t she get control of that youngin’. I’d take him out and whup him” (That is what some folks say down here.) Or they say, “That’s just bad parenting,”…ignore them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

Be brave. Never give up. And don’t give in.
This is temporary, I assure you.

Some day they’re going to be all grown up, and they’ll say, “Mom, how did you put up with me for all those years.”


And you’ll say, “Oh, you've always been a good kid.”