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Notes from Greencastle
May. 8, 2008
Excuse of the Week
You can blame Ruth at Wheelie Catholic for my most recent absence. In addition to being a person whose blog belongs on my sidebar, she is also the one who told me (and all her other readers) about the Catholic Writer's Conference, being held by the Catholic Writer's Guild.
So I've gone abandoned all my faithful readers yet again, this time in order to:
-Make a perfectly nice marketing lady want to throttle me and all my friends for our persistent anonymity
-Add about 3,000 pages of notes on all the things I need to fix on my would-be novel
-Learn that I have an adverb problem.
Honestly I've been learning a ton, and am very glad to have happened upon the event. In a double miracle, a friend of mine lent me two spare children this week, thereby keeping mine occupied so I could goof off on the computer for hours on end.
I would have linked here, but I didn't even find out about it until the very last minute. If they hold another one, I would strongly recommend attending. Rather than be sore at me, you can purchase the e-book, which will contain all the proceedings, from the writer's guild website (above).
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Regularly scheduled blogging will resume soon. With the usual meaning "soon" as that word is used on this blog. Meanwhile go check out Ruth's blog if you've never been there, or haven't been this week. She did not abandon her readers, and has a slew of good stuff right now.
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Apr. 28, 2008
Yes, you have to look at it sideways
Edited to say: The photo is now appearing right-side-up, but smushed. I make no predictions about what will happen next time I go to view the site. Not unlike the time all my interests in my profile were turned into numbers. See all the excitement you get here? You know you love it.
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Every single one of our First Communion photos needs to be rotated. And though I can get "my computer" to rotate, and I can get photobucket to rotate, I cannot convince homeschoolblogger to rotate. Think of it as an opportunity to stretch your neck.
Anyhow, here is Mr. Boy, posing with our parish priest, after receiving his first holy communion.
We were very pleased with our DRE, a woman whose many years of experience with children resulted in such practical tips as "do not make funny faces when you receive communion". Also there was a ban on photos during mass, due the parish's many years of experience with adults. Made for an appropriately reverent atmosphere.
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For those who are wondering about how the SuperHusband and I came to an agreement on whether Mr. Boy ought to be catholic or protestant, the answer is: we didn't. Our goal to date has been to emphasize the many shared beliefs we hold, and to avoid discussing our few differences unless it specifically comes up (and it generally doesn't.)
Mr. Boy was interested in receiving communion, and so he went ahead with the preparation our parish requires. He also started attending mass every Sunday once canon law required it -- in the early years we have not been particular about which nursery the kids go to. (We are helped by the fact the our two churches rarely, if ever, teach anything to the kids that the other parent finds objectionable.)
This spring our parish priest confirmed that no, the boy could not receive communion in both churches. Reasonable enough, but puts a seven-year-old in a difficult position, having to decide whether to go with mom's church, dad's church, or neither. We let him know that he could prepare for first communion without being obligated to make a final decision until he was ready to do so.
But how to decide? No fair making a little kid have to sift through all the arguments of the reformation. So we told him just to pray. He did, every night for weeks. As the decision date neared, we asked him what he thought God was telling him to do. He said he thought it was to be catholic. We both kept straight faces -- no encouragement or discouragement from either parent. When we got to where I needed him to let me know whether he was going to receive FHC this spring, so that we could make plans with the parish and invite friends and family, he confirmed that catholic calling.
And that's how we did it. Not saying it is the only way or the best way to handle a mixed marriage, but it's what we did. Told all that because sometimes people ask us. |
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Apr. 24, 2008
Heroic Virtue
One of the advantages of reading the lives of the saints is that you begin to know heroic virtue when you see it. It came to my attention the other day that a dear of friend of mine had been busy being just that type of hero. I knew she had been going through some miserable trials, but I hadn't known just how self-sacrificially she had faced up to them.
(I won't embarrass her by sharing details, and any case, you can almost never explain these things properly.)
Real heroism, by definition, comes at great personal cost. And you hate to see your friends suffering. But it was the most beautiful privilege, to have gotten that little glimpse into her life, and thereby been a witness to unquestionable saintliness, right there in a beloved friend. All the more moving because my friend is like me, an ordinary Christian who has her share of weaknesses and personal struggles. If she can answer this call, then maybe when my time comes, there is hope for me, too.
Just cried with joy all through mass Sunday (having forgotten to bring kleenex, ahem), thinking about the beautiful example she had set for her friends and family, and the miracle of how Christ is willing to work through us in this way.
Lovely stuff. I was one grateful lady in the pews. Read the lives of the saints.
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Apr. 24, 2008
more explaining
Quick explanation for my absence -- mystery ailment's been giving me a little trouble. Seems to be re-improving though. I ought to make a special entry category called "excuses for not blogging".
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Apr. 6, 2008
Springtime at the Castle
The neighbors' house, lately known as The Pink House, has now been recovered with white vinyl siding. Looks nice -- the overall effect is reminiscent of the many white-clapboard farmhouses around this part of the world. Changes the way light reflects into our house and yard: brighter, but no more of the warm sunrise-color we used to get.
The biggest surprise though, was discovering that the neighbor's ornamental cherry tree, which shades the castle yard, has pale pink blossoms -- not white as previously thought. The neighborhood is all in flower right now, and the cherry tree is starting to drop its petals, covering the rosemary thicket where the Bun has made herself a hideout, and all the ground around it, right there at the foot of the castle. Very magical.
***
An assortment updates:
School is doing okay! Been holding strong in math, working Mr. Boy's writing skills through a manic effort to complete his religious-ed materials prior to FHC, and unschooling (which, for us, is not as "un" as the experts tell us it ought to be) has been working very well as always in the social studies, science, and literature departments. Will get back to work on spelling-diligence now that the big FHC push is past, and there's a move afoot to re-renew our efforts at French as well.
In the garden . . . we missed our window for putting in a spring garden, but there is talk of sowing seeds for some summer vegetables sometime next week. A place for the corn is already ready; if I can get some oregano moved, we'll have room for a some extras above and beyond the mandatory tomatoes and watermelon.
Pansies, everyone will be glad to know, did quite well this year. In a revolutionary break-through, we discovered that movable containers are, in fact, movable. What does this mean? It means no more traumatic pulling out of annuals that are still limping along into their successor's season. With the warmer weather -- we've made the switch from trying to keep the house warm, to trying to keep it cool -- the pansies have retreated to a shadier a corner where they can enjoy their golden months, and I can happily plant some basil and marigolds without agonizing over untimely pansy-death.
Lots of interesting bird action this year. In addition to the usual visits to the feeder from migrants -- spring and fall are interesting that way -- a pair of Carolina wrens attempted to build a nest in the mailbox by the castle; we even moved the mailbox up out of toddler's reach once we discovered their plans. They seem, however, to have thought better of this reproductive strategy, and presumably have moved on to a quieter location. Disappointing, but we had fun watching them build.
In mystery ailment "news": still a mystery. Thought we had it sufficiently figured out, and was pleased it with its apparent steady retreat. Last week, in an effort, no doubt, to probe into the depths of my sanity, the dear old m.a. decided to make a confusing re-appearance. Has eased off again this week, hopefully will continue to do so. Who knows. Using the always-handy guessing method to figure out what helps and what doesn't, fortunately symptoms are staying quite mild and manageable.
Hands-permitting, in the queue for the blog includes the long-promised (still unwritten) bits about structures of justice and other living-wage topics, some photos by LP, and the very overdue updating of the links in the sidebar. All to be delivered with the usual timeliness. Ahem. |
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Mar. 30, 2008
Thomas
Been waiting a long time for today's Gospel, because it's one about which I feel rather strongly. Here are the two things I've been wanting to say, one of them new to me this morning, the other has been stewing for a long time, both built on one point.
The thing that I've never heard anyone focus on before* , is that St. Thomas had specific requirements for his belief. "Unless I see the mark of the nails . . ." His doubt was not a refusal to believe -- it was a rational skepticism. And once he had the evidence he needed, he believed wholeheartedly.
In apologetics -- all the work of explaining the catholic faith to others -- it usually seems to me that the person who is asking me questions doesn't have Thomas's willingness to believe. I need to remember to ask the question: What evidence would be enough for you, to convince you the claims of the catholic church were true?
Feelings of doubt: A lot of us who do believe in Christ, and in the claims of the catholic church, are prone to feeling of doubt all the same. And Thomas is such a great model for us, because he knew what he needed to believe, and he could be content with that. Each of us has reasons we believe -- good solid reasons based on hard-won knowledge and experience, I should hope. And when those feelings of doubt come, we can go back, again and again, and remember what it took for us to believe, and let it be enough for us to keep believing.
*perhaps due to my limited experience -- forgive me now for unknowingly repeating what someone else has said much better elsewhere |
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Mar. 24, 2008
Happy Easter!
Didn't mean to be out all Lent. Got busy being mortified, and next thing I knew, it was kind of nice to take a little blogging break. My Lenten summary:
1) The more the Lent, the more the Easter. One of the pleasures of trying to be good is discovering how hopeless our own efforts are. Which makes the Resurrection such a relief.
2) My approximate Lenten reading list: Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light (Brian Kolodiejchuk); Theology for Beginners (Frank Sheed); and Story of a Soul (St. Therese of Lisieux). All of it more or less on impulse -- I almost never read what I plan to read, just like I almost never blog what I plan to blog.
3) Confirmed what we all knew, I have an inordinate attachment to coffee.
***
Went to the ever-fabulous, soul-stirring Easter Vigil at the SuperMother-in-Law's parish again this year. Because I was well-enough-behaved during Mass, I got to have cake with the godsons (who attend the same parish) afterwards. And all that staying-up-late left Sunday free for a leisurely breakfast, and a walk in the woods at the Congaree Swamp National Park:
Happy Easter, and yes I do mean to be around and posting a bit more.
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Feb. 5, 2008
Mardi Gras!
Fabulous weather for Mardi Gras. Supposed to be pushing 80 today, which, in a house where the thermostat is always set on "energy saver", is a chance to open up all the window and let in a little warm air for a change.
Children are busy eating down candy stocks, not because they are giving up candy for Lent (though I wish they would - exact lenten penances are still undecided at this time), but because candy in the house means Candy Wars, and frankly I'd rather they had six lollipops for breakfast than have to break up another candy fight. My normal policy is to just throw the stuff away when the whining starts, but it is Mardi Gras, so I'm taking the indulgent route for today.
For my part, there's lots of chocolate, which I am not giving up for Lent, but which is always a festive choice, and of course coffee, which I will miss sorely. And in general there's a spirit of debauchery around the house, where "debauchery" means watching all the TV you want, and getting out the Toys With Lots of Pieces. We'll buckle down tomorrow.
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In other news: Parents and big kids took an unexpected Trip to Myrtle Beach over the weekend. With the SuperHusband and I, any going to Myrtle Beach is always unexpected, though we have learned that it's really quite nice when there are no people there.
The goal of the trip was a long-promised visit to Medieval Times; by a miraculous turn of events, a free beach house and a babysitter with temporary insanity both turned up on the same weekend, allowing the four most grown-up members of the household to make a long and relaxing retreat. I'll post a few photos and maybe some more comments one of these days.
--> Ahem. Same disclaimer as for every time I say I'm "going to" post something. One of the rules of this blog, I think, is a very liberal understanding of what "going to" means.
If I don't write again today, and I probably won't, Happy Lent.
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Jan. 25, 2008
Ramping up towards Lent
So back in December I asked the orthopedist* if the numbness in the extremities might be due to simple muscle tension. He said no, didn't think so. So I followed up with him this month rather doubtfully, but turns out he's Mr. Muscle Relaxers now. Woohoo! So far they seem to be helping take pressure off the nerves. See a some kind of Massage Guy (an MT? A something else? I don't know what) next week to get more specific.
(*A wonderful guy, but who was only hired to check out a questionable hip -- I kept him on to manage the case because his office staff is so stunningly competent, even though I knew he was out of his depth. It was that or go back to the wonderful GP, also out of his depth, but lacking the competent office staff. Just have to remind myself I'm not in it for the medical advice, just the expert paper management.)
The hope of course is that that the pressure on the nerves is just some overzealous muscles (preferably ones who can be persuaded to resume a more moderate lifestyle), and not anything going on with the nerves themselves. Very likely.
And if so, I made the realization yesterday, through the chance reading of a random paragraph in an about-to-be-returned library book, that my trouble all fall has been that I live in the wrong state. South Carolina is of course running, or rather, circling the Wal-Mart parking lot waiting for that space right by the door, neck-in-neck with a couple fellow southern states for the distinction of being Obesity Capital of the Nation. Gotta be number one in something, I guess.
--> So when I came in with what looked like a basic model backache, the automatic response from everybody (GP, Chiropracter, PT, etc) has been "stretch and exercise". Never mind that I was more flexible than any of the little line-drawing people in the stretching pictures. (Hence the wacky pelvis -- one can, in fact, be too limber). Never mind that I typically spent four to eight hours a day on my feet in light activity, an hour or so of that carrying a baby in the backpack, possibly pushing a toddler in a stroller as well, in addition to trying to fit in some more intense exercise somewhere in that day as well. In retrospect, extra special exercises was not really what I was lacking. Tell me to "rest" and I think "go do a little landscaping project in the garden".
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The orthopedist has changed his guess from "mysterious autoimmune disorder" to "stress-induced ailment". Certainly a possibility -- this blog has borne witness to my rather emotionally-demanding year. I'm a firm believer in the reality of stress-induced illnesses, though I have found there are two kinds. The first is the kind that is caused by insufficient medical progress -- "we don't know what causes it, it must be stress". Stomach ulcers would be a recent example of an illness that graduated from stress-induced to germ-induced, once medical science caught up.
But there is the other kind, genuinely caused by stress, and genuinely relieved by eliminating it. I'm good with that. Because then I can go around telling people, "I'm sorry, you're going to have to be nice to me. The ADA requires it."
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Speaking of my busy year . . . time to start developing the Lenten Resolutions. Way back in February you'll recall I went out to Las Vegas for the first time, and got to help my sister de-clutter my parents' home in anticipation of a move to a smaller house. A trip that ended on Ash Wednesday.
While there, I was reminded at that time about the importance of keeping one's affairs in order, out of kindness to one's next-of-kin. I promised to my sister, who is in the unenviable position of being the one who will be guardian of both my children, and of their very cluttered and chaotic inheritence, should the SuperHusband and I both die pre-maturely, I promised her this: "If I live to see Easter, my house is going to be cleaned up."
Ha ha. I, of course, did live to see Easter. But what with all the other people who did not, well, lets just say my Lenten resolution for the year got a little sidetracked. A resolution which happened to be just a slightly more dramatic formulation of my previous Advent and Lenten resolutions for at least the two years prior, I might add.
But if these liturgical seasons are about penance, they are also about hope. So I'm going to be hopeful this year. And more than just hopeful: I have a plan this time. My resolution is to use my Lenten Grandma Days (I get one every Tuesday morning, barring illness or death) to restore order to my life. No odd jobs and errands, only restoring order. Like getting the mandatory "portolio of the student's work" (from last school year) into a format that an officer of the law would more easily recognize as a "portfolio" and not as "a bunch of papers shoved into a cardboard box".
Not that the law forbids the keeping of the student's portfolio in an undersized box holding all the other students' portfolios, intermingled freely with no regard for author, date or subject. But somehow I expect my home will run more smoothly without said portfolios blocking the place where the office chair is supposed to tuck under the desk, and my heirs will thank me if I go ahead and put the papers in better order sometime in the same decade they were produced.
We'll see. There are a lot of things that have to go right this Lent, if I'm going to keep my resolution. And I'm only resolving to start, not promising to finish. But one must be hopeful, and I do have sufficiently poor memory to allow me frequent renewals of hope.
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The most curious thing, though, is that for a person who might have a stress-induced ailment, I'm awfully happier and less overwhelmed than I was a year ago. But it was a long, thick year. I'm looking hopefully towards a very quiet Lent this time, if I might be be so fortunate.
My other Lenten resolution, by the way, is a return to a longstanding but recently neglected tradition: the Giving Up of Coffee. An ugly, ugly thing. As we are back in Ordinary Time, I've successfully Given Up Coffee two Fridays in a row (good thing, since I fell totally flat on my face today on my other usual back-up acts of Friday penance), and I'm seriously re-thinking the wisdom of this notion.
Yes, yes, my intellect knows that the better the Lent, the better the Easter. But gosh, I *really* like coffee. I mean, really, really like coffee. How much do I like coffee? I started giving it up for Lent in *early high school*. And it penitential back then, too. Yeah, I'm going to do it. I know that it is the Right Thing to Do, inasmuch as these optional and personally-chosen things can have much of a right or wrong to them.
Out of hopefulness, however, for my clean-desk resolution, I am not giving up caffeine. Just coffee. Tea is fair game.
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Jan. 20, 2008
Assorted Updates
Maple sap is running. Went out for a walk Friday afternoon, surprised at how warm it was after a chilly morning. Noted the yellow-bellied sapsucker, and remembered that I had meant to blog about the return of the woodpeckers in December or maybe as early as November, don't think I did so. And then looked again at the Syrup Maple and saw the lower part of the trunk was black -- wet -- when dry it is a pale grey color. So far no one has made a move to put in the tap, so it may be that birds and ants get all the sap this year.
Pansies are surviving. I'm sure many were worried. So far we've had two freezes, and they've come through fine. They are, again, starving, just like last year's. Will nobody deliver the Pansy Food? Birds are foraging on their own, too. Lots of neglected species this year.
No snow, but lots of ice. Not ice-storm ice, but rather, ice collections growing in my kitchen freezer. Our couple of cold snaps have come on the heels of wet weather, turning the assortment of abandoned containers strewn about the yard into a veritable ice farm. What with naturally-occurring ice being such a rarity here, children have been going out and collecting specimens for further study. Handy for treating bruises, too.
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School is going pretty well. I finally got draconian - well, as draconian as I ever get, which is about two and half days a week of draconian-ness, and children are responding well. A certain boy shows signs of Learning How to Spell. All very hopeful.
What we've stumbled on is doing more or less school-at-home on the days when the kids don't have outside activities, which is a pretty long day for homeschoolers at this age -- I used my neighborhood informants to find out the corner school's schedule, and copied it. Except our recess is a little longer.
Knowing he is going to be "in school" regardless of how fast he works, and that he'll have homework like his neighborhood friends if he drags out his work, has really helped Mr. Boy be able to relax and just do his work. Knowing that I can assign Silent Reading just like the corner-school teachers do, has really helped me relax and be able to keep the boy occupied with educational activities without feeling like I have to be over his shoulder doing intensive tutoring the whole time.
Next challenge, though, is the three-year-old. I know plenty of people who agree it's the Tranquil Two's and the Threatening Three's. Three is the age when children "traditionally" start preschool, for good reason. It's the age, in my experience, when simply being around the house, absorbing all that is going on, is no longer a challenge. Three seems to be the age when planning-to-homeschool-ers become actually-homeschooling-ers; not out of eagerness, but out of desperation.
SB is most definitely at this age. So I had to re-work my new school plan to fit her in. Her first memory verse is Proverbs 27:14, which she sorely needs. If I were the kind of person who chose a "Life Verse", I would be very tempted to choose this particular one.
***
Opened the last can . . . didn't find any worms. Mystery Ailment is appearing to be an assortment of otherwise unremarkable (though annoying) bits of this and that, who have just chosen to gather together all at once. Like boisterous siblings, they seem to enjoy aggravating each other, frankly.
There's a mild but persistent back ache that responds best to aggressively avoiding all the helpful exercises recommended for back aches. A mild but cantankerous and stubborn case of pubic osteitis, that just wants to be left in peace for a very long time, and then it will probably go away. At which time we can do something about the wayward femur, probably innocent, but which ought to get on the straight narrow just to make sure. (All the exercises designed to tighten up a hip joint? They pull on that pelvis, the one who observes she's had quite enough pulling already, thank you, these last couple years.) And the miscellaneous numb extremities seem to be garden-variety compression neuropathy.
That last one is less certain; there's always a chance there's an underlying problem of a more nefarious origin. But odds are way in the favor of targeted-R&R as the treatment of choice, and with that hopefully it will ease up and go away. (If it doesn't go away, we learn that it is not garden-variety. But of the choices left, they are all rare and relatively untreatable, except, you know, with targeted R&R, so no sense worrying about it.)
At least, that's where I think we are. You never know when a medical professional is going to come up with some great New Idea to investigate. Did manage to talk the neurologist out an MRI to rule-out MS. Because, um, I don't have the symptoms of MS. (Yes, MS causes numbness in the extremities. But in a completely different pattern than compression neuropathy. Kind of like the difference between a migraine and a hangover.)
Speaking of Fybromyalgia . . . Oh, wait, we weren't speaking of it. But other people do . . .
We discovered something very entertaining about this particular disorder, an otherwise very un-fun ailment per my several friends who suffer from it. Apparently, there are two types of medical professionals: Those who don't believe in fibromyalgia, and those who suspect it any time they don't know what is wrong. I think I've had this conversation a half-dozen times now:
Concerned Medical Professional: "Has anyone mentioned fibromyalgia?"
Me: "Yes. I don't have the symptoms of fibromyalgia."
CMP: "Oh."
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Jan. 15, 2008
Pre-Primary Reality Check
Quick reminder: Anyone who will publicly admit that they think torture is acceptable, is a person you do not want in your nation's government.
Here's a link to a newspaper article that sums up who is admitting to what. Turns out your choices are limited, and probably not who you really want as the next President. But, as much as we make jokes about the IRS, or the nation's various economic policies, or its bureaucratic inefficiencies, we are only speaking *figuratively* when we describe them with the word "torturous". Actually torturing people is quite different.
I linked the article, because it was fairly difficult to find a straightforward comparison of the candidates on this issue, which apparently isn't yet being treated as an "issue". Finding out a candidate's stance on abortion is a little more straightforward; if you've been living in a cave and haven't the time to google now, at this late date, you can take a look at the comparison chart found at sclife.org. Narrows you down even more, sorry to say.
***
So what will happen if you vote for a non-torturing, non-aborting candidate, and as a result the Republican party falls apart, and the Democrats win the general election with one of their legion of ardently pro-abortion candidates? Aside from the obvious silver linings (um, did you agree with the Republicans about everything?), here's what will happen: The Republicans might catch on that they shouldn't torture people.
"Ho ho ho!" they will say. "Yes, it's true we can propose all the crazy tax schemes and border plans we want, and still get elected, but turns out, not only do we have to be opposed to abortion, we have to oppose torture, too!." Sure, not perfectly. Maybe, the 2012 Republican candidates will be only *pretending* to oppose abortion and torture. But even that would be quite an improvement over shamelessly admitting to supporting those two evils.
***
Don't be a case of "Reward for A, hope for B". Just last century -- just five years ago, even -- everybody *knew* torture was wrong. As a culture, we mocked and scorned those who, in the past, had considered it acceptable. This is our first presidential election since our culture fell apart on this issue. It is absolutely imperative that our politicians get the message, now, that "okay-with-torture" means political death.
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Jan. 12, 2008
Lovely Day for a Protest
Weather couldn't have been better -- clear and warm but not hot. (In the January sense of "hot", that is. Or rather, that wasn't.) I thought the rally was excellent, but the borrowed boys were disappointed that there wasn't more marching and less rallying; perhaps I should have sent them to do laps around the statehouse.
Instead they took turns heading off in pairs to fetch more free hot chocolate from the hot chocolate people, in between wrestling matches on the patch of grass we claimed for ourselves. Funny, no other families joined us, what with all that wrestling and signs-as-weaponry play. That pained look in the photo probably has to do with being required to stand still.
The one family next to us was very sweet, though, and did and helped keep a certain three-year-old entertained, and even got her shoes back on her when it was time to go.
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Jan. 7, 2008
Three Kings, and Borrowed Marchers
The three kings, who ought to have been making their appearance at Epiphany, have been put off a couple days due to other obligations. The kids really enjoy dressing up to re-enact the visit of the magi, with the variation that there are presents for all children, not only the one playing baby Jesus. (This year: books from my brother, and a box of ornaments from my dad -- basically, whatever packages we hadn't gotten to yet over the twelve days).
We put off the family observance of Epiphany in order to accept a dinner invitation (format: shared leftovers -- much better than it sounds), which turned out to be a strategic win-win for this coming Saturday. I found a ride for LP to an important birthday party, and in exchange I get to borrow three boys for the SC state March for Life (warning: link is to a PDF). Which solves the problem of who is going to manage a certain three-year-old during the march (hint: not the middle-aged lady with the bad back, when there are perfectly good teenage boys along).
The whole arrangement is amusing on multiple levels. First, it's always really funny how differently folks react when I am out with six or more versus out with four. Rightly so, I guess. Not that I won't blend right in at the march, of course.
And then, it turns out the other mother (the one who is taking LP to the birthday party) has never, ever, participated in any kind of public protest. Shocking, I tell you. So my taking along her boys counts as a civics lesson for them. It counts as one for my boy, too, of course, but gosh, it just seemed so strange that a young man could be old enough to drive and have never been taken out to protest something. What kind of people are these? Terribly content, I guess.
Boys are getting together Wednesday to make signs -- supplied by a magical grandmother who just happened to give us a supply of poster-board for Christmas today. Mr. Boy came up with a winning slogan on his first try: Abortion is Bad.
Here's a link to the March details from WMHK's website - no PDF
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Jan. 2, 2008
An ox or an ass?
It may have been unwitting, but the music selection at our parish for yesterday's solemnity hit the nail on the head. During holy communion the song was "What Child Is This?" One of my favorite Christmas carols, but yesterday, transformed for me.
There we were, asking as we processed about to receive, and knelt to adore, the Real Presence: "Why lies He in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding?"
Naturally the song does not pause and give us time to decide, which am I -- ox or ass? -- but goes on to answer the question of why He's there with us. Bit of a double whammy. I took the hint, enlightened, warned, and consoled. In all, a very motherly way to get a message across.
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Jan. 1, 2008
Resolved
A certain parent has observed that no matter how much the 2nd grader may have learned about the battle of Thermopylae, there was no one involved called the GRECRME. And, by the way, that math book looks a tad lonely. The corner public school, meanwhile, is home six hours a day, 180 days a year, to many happy, well-adjusted Children Who Know How to Spell.
Mr. Boy and I can take a hint. 2008 will be the Year We Get Our Act Together. Because we do not -- do not, do not, do not -- want to have to be out of the house at 7:20 am. If we're going to have to do the less-exciting stuff, at least let us do it at a civilized hour.
Trouble is, it's just so hard to put down a perfectly good history book in order to go Practice Things. Or to make a child put down a perfectly good history book, in order to go supervise the Practicing of Things. But we will do it. Because the alternative involves sitting at desks way too much, and doing other people's worksheets, and all kinds of dreaded fates, including going hours at a time without ever picking up a wooden sword or running out to chase squirrels real quick, I'll be back in just a minute, I promise.
So we will do it. We will learn to spell. And to say our math facts. And to use punctuation and spaces and to write left-to-right and top-to-bottom, every time. We will do it. We must.
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Dec. 24, 2007
Merry Christmas
If you are reading this as it is posted, you are the first on your block to spy the annual family Christmas Epiphany Card photo. Some years cards have gone out as late as Easter, and once, as late as the following Christmas, so we aren't as behind as we could be.
From Top to Bottom & Left to Right:
Mr. Boy, age 7; LP age 5; the Bun, age 3; myself (Jennifer); the SuperHusband; and SB, age 1.5.
The pink house behind us is not our house, it's the neighbor's house, the green castle being tucked between the two yards, out of view in this photo. We're standing under the Other Maple, the one that is neither the Syrup Maple, the Miserly Maple, nor the Sickly Maple. Mr. Boy is shown somewhat lower than his preferred position in the tree. The Bun is wearing her usual attire of late.
(Readers who are familiar with the Bun's many name changes will be interested to learn she has a new name as of this morning: "Cow Jumped Over the Moon". To those who were not aware, her previous names have included Winnie-the-Pooh, Baby Einstein, Bunny Blanket, Fishie the Bird, and Sweetie Pie Amby-Lewis. With occasional forays into "Derlin" when her preferred name was put into time out for bad behavior.)
***
Pretend tree is up (and has been since, ahem, the week before Advent -- a certain Protestant in the family was chief-of-decorating this year), and presents are acquired. Egg nog and stollen are queued up for feasting purposes.
An assortment of GI & respiratory illnesses may be eased enough to get away with going to grandma's house for Christmas eve. Or not, we'll see. One does not, generally speaking, consider bronchitis to be the most appropriate of gifts for one's favorite 80-something relatives.
***
In holiday intrigue, rumors abound that a certain popcorn-addict has warped the Good Pot with her popcorn-making. Evidence is purely circumstantial, and no reliable witnesses have come forward. The only expert witness has been shown to have a marked anti-popcorn bias.
Nonetheless, as we acquired a glass-top stove this fall (when the original 1983 Harvest Gold stove arced the second time, after the attempted repair -- but gosh, the oven was still good, we could have just put a hot plate up top and called it good . . .), warped pots are very unpopular here.
So it may happen that the three kings will be obliged to bring the SuperHusband a shiny new popcorn-free-forever pot. Which would involve some brave, selfless person going out to the least objectionable national-chain mass merchandiser the day, or so, after Christmas.
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Dec. 13, 2007
Hope
Something I discovered unintentionally, and with some concern: An effective way to see where one's hope is placed, is to see what disappoints.
--> Concern, because it showed I was putting my hope in things I ought to have known better than to trust in, by now. I suppose this is not unlike my slowness-to-learn in other areas, such as the years it took me to realize dinner must be served, every night. You would think this sort of thing would be obvious, but some of us are slow this way.
This morning's first reading offers a correction:
I, the Lord your God, I am holding you by the right hand; I tell you, "Do not be afraid, I will help you."
And then continues with a funny consolation:
Do not be afraid, Jacob, poor worm, Israel, puny mite. I will help you -- it is the Lord who speaks -- the Holy One of Israel is your redeemer.
This is good. Compared to the kind of help that sometimes get offered, the sort that goes, "If you would just ____________, then God would . . ." Yes, well, I don't just ________. I need the poor worm and puny mite kind of help, thank you very much.
The other thing I was thinking about this morning is the psalm (which I am too lazy busy to look up right now) that goes along the lines of, "Some trust in chariots and horses, we trust in the Lord".
Something that had always bothered me about the psalms in this genre, is that the Lord doesn't always come through and defeat the enemy's chariots and horses. You can trust in the Lord and still get trampled. And then this morning I realized that the promise isn't that you will get what chariots and horses have to offer -- you will get what the Lord has to offer. Which, in the end, is the peace and happiness and joy and comfort of an eternity spent in the presence of God; but, in the meantime, yes there may be some amount of trampling in the process of getting there.
But not to worry; any trampling is a temporary inconvenience, on the way to something much much better. Miserable while it is happening -- our Lord gives the example of how to manage, with not only prayer but a certain amount of weeping and pleading and sweating of blood -- but in the end, yes the Lord will redeem us, and even we of the wormy and mite-like persuasion can trust in Him.
***
On an very indirectly related note, I feel the need to observe: PBS's Curious George show has been a really good friend to me.
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Dec. 11, 2007
Usury, Bread, Comments, Ailments, etc
Grandma day again. Rode out to St. Francis Catholic Shop to do the annual buying of gifts for the godchildren. There was an incident on I-26, and I got to detour along Broad River Road, the section between downtown Columbia and St. Andrew's road. Been ages since I've driven that particular neighborhood, and I was struck by just how seedy of an area it was.
But I was even more struck by the measure of seediness. It was not run-down-buildings, or loitering disheveled people, or the relative infrequency of late-model vehicles, that drew my attention. It was all the instant-loan places. Car title loans, payday loans, check-cashing services, pawn shops.
I'm not sure quite what this says, but it definitely says something about our culture. That there could be dozens of businesses making their living on the issuing of high-interest loans to people who urgently need more cash.
Anyway, something to think about.
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Bread & Comments A reader notes that the bread at Heather's Artisan Bakery really is very very good, and wishes for more bakery hours. Wish granted: as the farmer's markets close up for the winter, Heather is doing more in-store sales. Check her website for details from week to week.
Re: comments: the comments are not, at this time, moderated. Which means that I don't get any notification when they are posted. I try to check down for comments on older posts -- this is not one of those speedy blogs, so there's no reason a topic should get out-of-date too quickly. But for the record, if you want to be sure I see your comment, you can put it in one of the more recent entries (or just note there that you've commented farther below). My e-mail also works, though I don't check it as consistently as some think I ought.
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In mystery ailment news, the PT tells me, "Get thee to a neurologist". Um, okay, I'll add that to my list. Apparently when an arm takes to acting like the beleaguered leg, we can neither blame it on a nasty backache, nor shrug it off as solidarity. Certainly the femur is innocent of this one.
She also informs me that there is no way to turn around (standing) that does not involve using the pelvis. In other words, no it isn't my imagination that housework is an aggravating activity. Experts are still debating on whether one can properly call an ailment "suffering" if it requires, in the name of treatment, the avoidance of household chores.
***
I finished reading Spe Salvi. Can't recommend it enough. A lovely and very encouraging document, and full of interesting historical and theological points. And if you are, like me, just a junior member of the lay faithful, not one of these people who can speed through encyclicals the way the rest of us read the Sunday comics, it's probably just as well. It is worth taking the document paragraph by paragraph, and reflecting on one bit before moving to the next.
I think it would make a good small-group study, in that one somewhat-informed leader could walk interested readers through it section by section, perhaps giving some background information, and then moving to a discussion of how the general principles apply to daily life. So much fodder for reflection. Something to consider for Lent, perhaps.
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Dec. 2, 2007
Found my Reading Level
Naturally I had to do like all the other hot catholic bloggers, and go quick read Spe Salvi. Okay, not quick. I'm about halfway through.
(And no, I don't aspire to be a hot catholic blogger, so, everything's fine. When you are a purely recreational catholic blogger, it can take you a week or more to read the new encyclical -- you can even have doubts about how to spell "encyclical", and it's okay.)
I think I must have hit on the mysterious "reading level" that everyone always wants to know about. People mostly ask that about my children ("What is your son's reading level?"), though once I had a Barnes & Noble employee gush over my purchase of a Wall Street Journal, on account of that newspaper being written at a twelfth grade reading level. Being a person who had graduated high school, I was really quite relieved to have passed that assessment.
So if anyone asks me now about my Reading Level, I can tell them it's officially at the Lay Faithful level. The pope wrote me (and a billion of my closest friends) a letter, and I can read it. I have to pay attention -- it's a bit more elevated than Jeeves and Wooster, which has been my other reading of late -- but as long as I am actually thinking about what I am reading, it all makes sense.
And, I might add, it is really, really good. Poor SuperHusband, I kept interrupting him last night to say, "You would love this! Oh you should read this! Oh this part is so good!" It's going something like the answers to the final exam (essay-type) of a class I would have loved to take, and might have even done pretty well in, if only I could have kept up with all the reading. Church Fathers, Lives of Saints, Economic Theory, French Revolution, and much, much more, all in one great package - a whopper of a class.
Not, as I say, a class in which I would have actually excelled. I am person who knows what Karl Marx thought and taught, more or less, but have never personally read much more than an excerpt or two of the man's writings. But I've never let this shortcoming keep me from pondering economic theory, so the whole little study of how the hope of Communism compares to the hope of Christianity has me going "Yes! Yes!"
--> Somehow I have resisted breaking into impious cheering for the Holy Father. But a few earnest prayers of thanks and "Please let this man live to write the third installment," most definitely.
All that to say, it's good reading. Nice and meaty, but still readable. Helps to be widely read, but I stand as proof that you don't have to have actually read the Great Books, only the general summaries of those Great Books. (A knowledge of the New Testament and a fearlessness about Greek word study, yes, you need that, too. But if you listen at Mass every week, you should have that by now.)
And it's good, by the way, not merely in the sense of "keeps the intellect amused", but because it really hammers home the very Good News. So, encouraging stuff.
***
Reminds me, by the way, that next up in the Living Wage discussion is going to be a look at the concept of "structures of justice". Nothing down on paper yet, though, so don't hold your breath.
In mystery ailment news: No news is no news. Orthopedist looks at blood work, takes x-ray, shakes head. More investigating to follow in ensuing weeks. Meanwhile, children are getting quite good at doing the dishes.
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Nov. 27, 2007
Handy Tip: Alternate Uses for Life Jackets
Suppose, for a moment, that you have recently been to see the orthopedist, who, though thoroughly puzzled about what *was* wrong, declared very cheerfully that there your hip joint was definitely Not Guilty*. And this is exactly the news that made your physical therapist tremble with excitement, for now she can begin Doing Things.
Physical therapists, of course, are medical professionals who receive extensive training, often at the graduate level, who cannot be licensed until they compete a practicum demonstrating the ability to say persuasively, and with a straight face, "Aching is good." And then, of course, proceeding to Do Things that induce said aching.
In which case, you might come home, put the children outside and the baby down for a nap, and wish you were my older sister. Not because this sister is married to a physical therapist -- that fact is purely coincidence, and only very distantly related to the handy tip coming ahead. But because she owns the best bathtub in the world.
If you read publications such Fine Homebuilding or Better Homes and Gardens, you might be under the mistaken impression that the best-ness of a bathtub has to do with the materials it is made of, or the attractiveness of the finish, or possibly even it's easiness-to-clean. Now there is something to be said for easy cleaning, but that is not the measure of best-ness. No, no: bathtub best-ness is all about comfort.
My sister's bathtub is the builder's standard-issue contractor-grade tub, probably plastic, put in by two's (one on the hall, one in the master bedroom) in all the tract homes in her unremarkable, affordable neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood that does not have a community center or a pool, nor even went through much trouble to disguise the fact that the hundreds of homes gathered elbow-to-elbow are, every one of them, one of exactly four possible models. In the triumph of triumphs in the world of affordable housing, these thousand or so identical tubs are, every one of them, supremely comfortable. Exactly what a person needs, when that person has lately been subject to a physical therapist permitted to Do Things.
Enough to make me want to move to Las Vegas and offer to babysit my sister's teenagers, just to get to use her tub. But no dice. And hence, the life jackets. Because I do have a tub, for which I am grateful, but it is not a Comfortable Tub. And you cannot fix an uncomfortable tub the way you fix an uncomfortable sofa, by gathering up an array of throw-pillows and using them to reconfigure the reclining surface. Furthermore, I recoiled in horror at the prospect of purchasing some dubious inflatable "bath pillow", having had encounters with such items earlier in life.
But life jackets -- a small army of children's lifejackets, stored in a rubbermaid tub in the garage, waiting for warmer weather, or some desperate soul to put them to use in a non-coast-guard-approved fashion -- these, I discovered, can do wonders for a tub. They are cushion-y. They can be folded around in all different directions, and piled on top of each other. They are meant to get wet, and they dry easily afterwards. The great equalizers, in a world of bathtub-inequality. In all, a lovely discovery.
***
And a life-jacket related story from the small-child archives: Several years ago we went hiking, and the SuperHusband was ferrying LP, then aged three, across a fast-moving stream. He made a great leap and landed on the other side, firmly on patch of ground that was, as it happened, a yellow-jacket's nest. No preschoolers were harmed in this adventure, but the SuperHusband did get several of the insects up his shorts, with the expected result.
Made for much unpleasantness for the gallant SuperHusband, but very good story-telling when we got back to the campground. As LP told it: "We went hiking, and Daddy got attacked by the Life-jackets."
***
Mystery Ailment Update: I am again numbered among the People Who Walk Around. Not to be confused with the People Who Rotate Their Right Leg, let us not get carried away. But walking forward in a straight line, no problem. Indeed, at the moment the mystery ailment seems to be a case of life imitating a teenager's fantasy-injury: I can go out for a brisk walk in the lovely fall weather, but cannot clean the kitchen. (Apparently I do something very bad when I do housework. Getting a finger on the precise movement that causes the trouble is not all that easy. Since I'm always doing whatever-it-is when my concentration is on other activities, such as doing housework.)
Sneaked out front after the baby's nap this afternoon, failing to tell the older children that the baby was up and their backyard-banishment was over, and pushed a very happy aspiring-toddler around the driveway in her little plastic car. (This one - ours, of course, being the model that had the stickers pulled off shortly after we brought it home from the church bazaar, three children ago.) Despite accusations that this kind of activity fosters inordinate car-love in the infant, guaranteed to doom our society to another generation of uncontrolled suburban sprawl, we had a lovely time.
* What about the Wayward Femur, curious readers want to know? At this time, evidence is scanty. Is it a Criminal Mastermind? Willing Accomplice? Unwitting Victim? Innocent Bystander? Stay tuned for the next installment . . .
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