The Cardinal Pair

One of the delights we inherited from the prior owners of our home are bird feeders.  Three of them are positioned with a rope and pulley system, such as is more typically used to hang clothes for drying.  One feeder contains mixed seed, one thistle and one sunflower seeds.


Adjacent to the bird feeders is the bird "motel."  A large cedar-type evergreen apparently houses multiple nests.  Birds dart in and out of the protection of its branches with speed and agility.  The occupants of the "motel" include a pair of cardinals.


Mrs. Cardinal is mostly brown, but does have some red which is most apparent when she is flying.  When she comes to the feeder for sunflower seeds, she sits primly and somewhat angled so that she can easily look back towards her home.  Since she and Mr. Cardinal never seem to be at the feeder at the same time, I think she is looking back wondering what he is up to in her absence.  She has no problem sharing the perch in front of the feeder with small birds of other species.  I have never seen her behave as anything other than an lady.


Mr. Cardinal, on the other hand, is both vain and aggressive.  He perches in front of the sunflower seeds looking at himself in the glass on the front of the feeder.  He is beautiful with his red feathers and jaunty topknot...and he knows it.  He refuses to share his space with any of the other birds.  When he isn't admiring himself, he is looking this way and that, ready to peck at any bird who dares to try to eat at his table.


The prior owners of our home relate that the cardinals have an interesting mating ritual in the spring, involving the need for Mr. to crack a seed for Mrs. and present it to her.  We, however, have yet to see them eat at the same time.


In watching the cardinals, I have pondered innate personality traits.  I have even wondered if my family of origin is related to Mr. Cardinal somehow.  I have some male relatives who can't pass a mirror without looking at themselves.  

Thanksgiving 2010

They gathered from coast to coast...literally, a son from California and a daughter from Maine.  Two came by plane, four by train and the rest by car or van.  The one who was supposed to come by bus, decided not to come, but called late in the day.  The two eldest attendees got lost, having only been to our new home once before, and drove all the way back to their home to call and ask for directions.  Most came in by the front door, but the two who are in wheelchairs and their family members came in through the garage on the newly built ramp.  Eighteen of us in all circled the Thanksgiving table this year.  The youngest was three and the oldest was ninety-three.


We snacked on shrimp and raw veggies before the meal.  Then we gathered at the table and held hands while the ninety-three year old said the blessing before we dug into turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows, green beans, gelatin salad with lemon and blueberry layers, white and whole wheat home-made rolls, and of course, pies....lemon, pumpkin, pecan, raspberry and apple.  The entire main course was nut and dairy free in deference to the highly allergic person present.  Two of the pies were also safe for him.


The kids played with the toys in the family room and dragged boxes up to the living room too.  The floor was eventually covered with blocks and books and cars and play jewelry.  A great deal of silliness ensued when the bunny slippers of one of the adults became real bunnies for the kids to interact with.  The adults talked. Attempts were made to solve some of the world's problems.  I'm not sure if anyone watched football.  Two of the young adult males kept sneaking away to play a game on the computer.


Eventually those living near-by went home.  The children were put to bed.  Some of the adults stayed up catching up on each others lives.  I sank into bed about 9 o'clock totally exhausted.  My day had begun early, stuffing the turkey, while I watched a glorious red-sky sunrise visible from the kitchen window.  The day ended with my legs throbbing.  I had a hard time getting them comfortable enough to relax and drift into a restorative sleep.  


Thanksgiving 2010 has come and gone.  I am thankful.

A Love Story

I just finished creating a family picture wall.  In the center I placed an 8X10 of my husband and me.  To the right are 5X7s of our four children and further to the right 4X6s of our grandchildren.  To the left are 5X7s of our parents and then, 4X6s of our grandparents.  Although all of the frames are not identical, they all have some gold on them.  I painted directly on the wallpaper with gold paint to connect the frames with branching vines and leaves.  I am very pleased with the result.

Sorting through the pictures in order to find usable ones the correct size was interesting.  I did have to do some scanning and printing out to achieve the uniformity I wanted.  I could not find wedding pictures of all of our grandparents, so, in some cases, I used individual pictures of the couple placed in the same frame.

As I ponder the wedding pictures, I see very different poses and facial expressions.  My son and his wife are in profile, both smiling happily with their noses and foreheads touching.  I have other pictures of them, but I like that one because in the touching of their foreheads, I see the synergy of two brilliant minds. 

In my own wedding picture, my husband has picked me up and stands in a doorway, as though he is carrying me off.  We are both laughing.

My husband’s parents are posed in front of the home that was just built for them.  They are still living in that home together 72 years later.  My own parents stand in front of the fireplace in my grandparents living room with their hands clasped together at their sides.  My mother is beautiful and radiant.  My father stands tall in his military attire, but only the slightest smile plays on his lips.  They were married during World War II while he was home on a 3-day pass.  The uncertainty of the future can be seen in his eyes and brow.

The most fascinating of the pictures for me is the one of my mother’s parents.  I don’t know the date of their wedding, but I suppose it was in the range of 1910 to 1912.  They are seated together on a bench, not really touching, but leaning towards each other.  My grandmother’s dress is white with a high collar, long sleeves, and a cinched in waist.  The bodice appears to have numerous vertical tucks.  Her hat is very elaborate and covered with flowers, but she holds only a tiny sprig of flowers in her graceful hand.  She is a very beautiful, slender woman with delicate features, but she is not smiling.  Grandpa wears a three-piece suit with a tie and has no hint of a smile.  I wonder at the thoughts and emotions they were experiencing that day.  I have no idea if they were “in love” at that point.

My grandmother had an older sister who was married and had a child.  When her sister became very ill and knew she was dying, she begged my grandmother to care for her little son.  Grandma promised that she would.  When the time came, however, Grandma was afraid to move into the home of her brother-in-law to care for the child.  The man had a reputation for being a “womanizer,” and she was fearful that moving into his home would ruin her own reputation.  People did care about such things 100 years ago.  My grandfather married her, so that they could move into the home as a married couple, and she would not have to fear what might be said about her.  Obviously, they must have been friends at that point, but the marriage came about when it did out of compassion and duty.  I wonder as I look at their wedding picture, if that is what I see in their faces.

My grandfather turned out to be a prince.  His care for his wife and the family they eventually had themselves was exceptional.   He died at the age of 65, and Grandma died a year later.  Just prior to her death, she commented that the doctor said she had had a heart attack, but she knew the truth.  Her heart had broken a year earlier when she lost Grandpa.

Whatever I think I see in the wedding picture, somehow turned into a life-long love.  I wish that amazing combination of compassion, commitment, and love could be caught in a bottle and sprinkled on all generations of our family yet to come.

Random Thoughts on The Odyssey

During the odyssey of my life over the past few weeks, I have read The Odyssey.  Although I have found it much more appealing than The Iliad and was genuinely interested in getting Ulysses back home to Penelope, I still managed to put it down long enough to read two other books. 

The Odyssey contains non-stop action, which fortunately does not mean non-stop battle such as is found in The Iliad.  Now, don’t get me wrong, there is still non-stop death and gore.  It is just not all on the battlefield with swords and spears.  No, in The Odyssey, people are eaten alive by Cyclops.

Homer uses some interesting literary devices.  Portions of Ulysses’ story are told in flashbacks.  That is a familiar technique.  What I thought was interesting was that on occasions scattered throughout the book, the story-teller addresses characters in the story.  For example, “Then, Oh, so-and-so, did you reply blah-blah-blah.”  I can’t think of another book I have read that uses this technique. …with the exception of some passages in the Old Testament.   I assume the translator opted for being true to the original.

I guess this is probably a cultural thing, but I can’t imagine allowing those “suitors” to hang around for years.  If I had been Penelope, I would have had none of that nonsense.  I would have taken control of the estate myself.  She had lots of resources.  Surely she could have hired some men to protect her and her possessions.  I guess women in that era just didn’t do such things, and I would not have fit in well during that time frame. (I am actually not clear on what era women like me do fit into.   I not sure it’s even the era in which I’m living.)

The role of the gods in The Odyssey is not quite as offensive as in The Iliad.  In The Iliad the gods are running around creating mayhem and fighting with each other.  In The Odyssey, Minerva is heavily involved in Ulysses’ fate, but at least there is not continuous meddling by the other gods.

Homer does a pretty decent job of not being obnoxiously repetitive, considering that Ulysses must tell his story to a number of people on his journey home.  I discovered that I couldn’t jump over these passages, as Ulysses did not always tell the same story.  He is given to spinning some tall tales for effect.  The repetition I did become weary of was “the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn” appearing.  An occasional “at daybreak” or “when the sun came up” might have been nice for variety.

So much for my random thoughts on The Odyssey. 

The other two books I have read recently are The Confession by John Grisham and My Viet Nam, a self-published book of stories from the Viet Nam War era, written by Charlotte Stemple.  I recommend both.  I do not recommend either The Iliad or The Odyssey for enjoyment in reading.  Both are tedious.   But, if you are looking for an exercise in mental discipline, they are worthy.

The Importance of a Preposition

Prepositions are, for the most part, tiny little words that we hurry over when reading or speaking.  However, they are exceedingly important.  There is a big difference between in and out, up and down, to and from, and over and under.  Am I jumping "off" the boat or crawling "on" the life raft?


A Bible verse I have often heard misquoted and misinterpreted because of the preposition is I Thessalonians 5:18.  Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.


Give thanks in all circumstances NOT for all circumstances!


Several years ago, at a point where I was expressing my great distress over a situation, a well-meaning friend asked if I had thanked God for it yet.  I resisted the temptation to slug him in the nose and ask him if he was thankful for the broken nose.   Life hands each of us some bitter pills and painful blows.  Sometimes, in the long run, we can actually see how these experiences worked for our good.  Other times it is impossible ever in this lifetime to see that the situation had any redeeming value.  Horrible things happen in this world.  We are not expected to thank God "for" these things.


Thanking God "in" difficult situations is not impossible, however.  We can always thank Him for His loving support in the crises of our lives.  We can thank Him for family and friends who stand by us.  We can thank Him for memories of past good times and the hope for such times in the future.  In the midst of agony of soul, we can cry out, "Thank you, that you are there...that you see me....that you care about me....that you will give me the strength to get through this current distress."


Thanksgiving will soon be here.  Most of us in the United Sates will make a show of giving thanks for family, friends, and material blessings.  Then we will stuff ourselves and go off to watch football.  At the same time many around the world will be cold or hunger or in pain or all of these.  Some will thank God from the midst of suffering, not for what He has given, but for who He is.


Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise...the fruit of lips that confess his name.  Hebrews 13:15

Blaming it on my DNA

I don’t know why I do some of the things I do.  Currently I am blaming my behavior on my genetic makeup….specifically, the DNA passed on by my grandfathers.  On one side of the family, my grandfather worked for a furniture company, where he mixed his own stains and finished wooden furniture.  My other grandfather’s name was Baumeister, which is German and comes from Baum meaning tree or wood, and Meister meaning master.  As it happened, his hobby was making wooden toys and doll furniture.  Whether this in any way explains my current bizarre behavior, I don’t know.

The old Victorian home, from which we recently moved, had a marvelous built-in buffet and china cabinet with leaded doors in the dining room.  I, therefore, did not need a free standing china cabinet or hutch.  Our more recently built new home does not have such amenities.  When we purchased the old Victorian, I discovered that there was an old wreck of a bookcase in the carriage house which had been abandoned by some previous occupant.  I always had it in the back of my mind that one day, I might try resurrecting it and put it to use.  I decided that since I needed something in which to put dishes in the new dining room, the time had arrived.  It had only been sitting in the barn 40 years or more.  Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

Months ago, prior to the move, I had my husband pull the bookcase away from the wall where it had been stored with the three large glass doors against the wall to prevent them being  broken.  The piece was quite the worse for the wear.  The finish was lifted up and crusty in spots with dark stains.  Some of the quarter-round which held the glass in place was missing from one of the doors.  The back of the bookcase was broken and warped and really unusable.  Considering embarking on this project was where the insanity began.  Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

First, I removed the backing which was lightweight wood and discarded it.  I took off the doors and set them aside planning to tackle them last.  Each of the three compartments has three removable shelves.  I began with the shelves, because they were flat and easy to work on.  I thought if I wasn’t successful with the shelves, I couldn’t possible think I would be successful with the cabinet.  Over the past months, I stripped and scraped and sanded and started all over again, when I wasn’t happy with the outcome.  Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

I questioned my sanity at several point in this process, but eventually, I had the old varnish removed from both the shelves and cabinet portions.  I decided to use some red oak stain in an attempt to even out the color tones.  I had a handyman cut some pieces of lightweight wood for the back of the cabinet.  I had to stain them twice to get them dark enough to match the rest of the piece.  Finally I coated it with polyurethane. 

By this time, we had already moved and I was anxious to unpack the boxes stacked in the dining room.  So, even though the doors were not finished, we moved the bookcase to the new house.  I washed all of the good dishes and fancy glassware and happily put it on the shelves.  I figured I could do the doors later.

Time has a way of slipping past.  Thanksgiving is approaching.  Many young grandchildren will soon be arriving.  Some of these grandchildren are little girls who love tea parties.  The temptation might be enormous.  I really needed to get the doors on that cabinet.  I have been working on them over the past two weeks.  Yesterday morning I got up intending to hang the doors.  I figured it might take me a couple of hours to clean up the glass, put the hinges back on and get the doors in place. Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

I worked ALL DAY yesterday on this project.  The left door went on fairly well…a bit of a tight fit, but tolerable.  However, the center and right doors were another matter.  They did not want to fit into the opening from which they had come.  Did I somehow mix them up?  NO, they didn’t fit the other way either.  I was putting the screws in the hinge plates back into the same holes.  Shouldn’t that have lined things up correctly?  Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

I finally decided that the only solution was to remove a bit of the bottom on those two doors at the point where they seemed to be binding.  I sanded and sanded.  No luck.  I used a steel rasp. No luck.  I went out and bought a very small plane.  No luck.  I was doing all this with the doors hung, so I was standing on my head and laying on the floor.  I really did not want to take the doors off again, because that required removing the hinge pins, and they are very old.  I had already broken the little knobs off the ends of two of them taking the doors off to begin with.

  I went to bed thinking….Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

I began fresh this morning, but in total exasperation reached the conclusion that I had to remove the doors.  I took them to the basement and used a saw to trim off a bit of the bottom edge.  It was almost enough, so additional planing and sanding eventually allowed me to get the doors closed.  Of course, in the process of all of this, I had done some damage.  With a Q-tip and stain, I touched up a few spots.

Why didn’t I just go out and buy a china cabinet?  I don’t know!

I am blaming it on the genes passed to me by my woodwork loving grandfathers.

I do have to admit, the bookcase looks lovely in my dining room.  I expect I will soon forget the exertion and frustration.  

Thanks, Grandpa and Grandpa.

Veteran's Day Tribute

I was born into the situation, so I grew up giving little thought to the sacrifice that my family made during World War II.  All of the men in the family in my parent’s generation served in the military and were overseas simultaneously.

Uncle Frank, my Mother’s oldest brother (second from right in picture) was shot by a German sniper and came home with a metal plate holding the bone in his upper arm together.  My Mother had awakened in a cold sweat having heard him call her name and say, “I’ve been shot.”  Communications were slow, so it was weeks later when they learned it was true.  When Uncle Frank returned from Europe, he discovered that his wife had been having an affair with her boss.  She took off with their son.

Uncle Chuck , my Mother’s  middle brother, (first on left) spent time in France and was the only one who came home more or less unscathed by the conflict.  After the war, he enlisted in the Air Force and made a career of “flying a desk.”  He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

Uncle Art, my Mother’s youngest brother, (far right) was deployed to Africa and came home with malaria.  He had periodic relapses for years.

Uncle Roy, my Dad’s brother (center) had no physical wounds.  As a conscientious objector, he served on a hospital ship in the Pacific.  He is 90 now and recently admitted to me that he discovered on the ship that he was capable of killing someone.  A patient tried to get out of a tub to attack a nurse.  Uncle Roy pushed his head under the water.  He came up struggling, still intending to harm the nurse.  Uncle Roy pushed him under again.  He said, “About the third time I pushed his head under water, I realized that I could kill him, if I had to do it to protect the nurse.”

My Dad (second from left) spent time in France.  He tripped a landmine, but came away with no injuries other than a ruptured eardrum.  I was born while he was in France.  He told me that the day of my birth was the last day anyone actually shot at him.  We did not meet each other until I was 7 months old.

During the war, my Mother and I lived with her parents.  As each of her brothers returned, they moved in with her parents too.  It took time for men to find civilian jobs and re-establish themselves, so I had the delight of being a little girl in a house full of men who doted on me.  I was spoiled rotten.  My Mother couldn’t wait to get me in a more normal setting. 

Today is Veteran’s Day, and I am thinking of my family and how difficult those years must have been not only for the men in the conflict, but for the family at home.  They “soldiered on” and not only survived, but made a better life for my generation.  I am grateful.

Little Children, Old Men and Psychotics

Long ago I heard that little children, old men and psychotics always tell you the truth about yourself.  I don’t buy the idea that they ALWAYS do, but I certainly have experienced some direct hits from people in these categories.

One of my granddaughters, when she was younger, would always tell me that I had bad breath when I was drinking coffee.  Since she did not do this at other times, I concluded that she disliked the smell of coffee and was not discrete enough to ignore the aroma emanating from my mouth.  She was telling the truth as she saw it….or smelled it.

When I worked as a nurse as a young woman, elderly men patients often told me that I was going to make a good wife for someone.  I hoped they were telling me the truth.  My husband, who is now in his late 60s, seems willing to stick it out with me for a forty-third year, so I guess the predictions were somewhat accurate.

As for psychotics…..early in 1965, I spent some time at Chicago State Hospital for my psychiatric nursing experience.  One day I was walking between buildings on the grounds, having been sent on an errand of some kind.  Several inches of snow lay on the ground, so I had no inclination to take any short cuts through the snow banks.  I planned to reach my destination via the sidewalks and roads which had been cleared.  Uh-oh!  I was headed toward a patient who was approaching me swinging a large stick around his head. 

I immediately thought about a “legend” told in hushed tones soon after our arrival on the state hospital grounds.  I was never able to confirm if it was true.  On one of the units, so it was told, was a woman in a vegetative state who had previously been a nurse at the hospital.  She had flirted with a patient, but then resisted his advances.  He had hit her on the head with a pipe knocking her into oblivion. 

I did not want to become a legend and considered altering my course to avoid the stick-swinging young man.  But, wading through the snow wasn’t an option, and I did not want to show fear.  So, I marched along knowing we would walk right past each other.  I held my breath and thought that at least I wasn’t guilty of flirting.

When we were within about 20 feet of each other, he slung the stick in an arc through the air and onto an adjacent snow-covered lawn.  He then looked me up and down and said, “You’re fat….and cute.”

I smiled in relief and kept walking.  At least he hadn’t hit me with the stick!  And, he had told the truth about my weight.  I was carrying around about 40 extra pounds at that point.

During the next two years, I lost the 40 pounds and met my husband.  I managed to maintain my weight until hit by menopause.  Even that hasn’t caused me to come anywhere near my 1965 weight.  My husband tells me I’m not fat.  Since he is now a little old man, I think he is telling me the truth.  I do not currently know any psychotics from whom I can obtain a second opinion.

Wallpaper Rehash

Back in August and September, I wrote on 4 occasions about the trials and tribulations related to the wallpaper for the kitchen of our new home.  You would think I had said everything there was to say about wallpaper.  Oh, how I wish!


The home we recently vacated is almost emptied out and cleaned up.  The real estate agent plans an Open House for this coming weekend, and I decided that two of the rooms in the house really could use some fresh paint and paper in order for the house to look its best.  I certainly was not going to go through all the hassles of ordering paper as described in the earlier posts, so I went to a different store that has loads of wall-coverings in stock.


Last week I hired someone to strip off old paper.  Then I caulked and spackled and sanded and scrubbed and primed.  I painted the ceilings and woodwork.  This week on Monday, I papered the room that had been my den.  Today I arrived at the house by 9 AM to paper the master bathroom.


When I purchased the paper, the owner of the store told me that it was a really nice paper...it went on the walls easily and was great to work with.  But, I hadn't noticed that it was not prepasted paper.  So this morning when I opened a roll in order to see the directions, I realized I needed paste.  The directions said to ask the wallpaper supplier for the correct paste.  I drove back to the store and asked the clerk.  She gave me the appropriate paste, or so she thought.


The directions said to roll the paste on the wall with a paint roller.  This did not intimidate me, because about 15 years ago, I learned this technique from a professional.  It had worked so well, that I was looking forward to speedy progress.  I got myself all set up and began the task.  Forty-five minutes later, I was putting the first length of paper on the wall for the fourth time.  I just could not get the paper to lay smoothly and stick tightly around the edges.


Although not satisfied, I thought I would see if I did any better on the second piece.  The repeat on the pattern was supposed to be at 27.3 cm.  I could easily identify some small triangles in the pattern that were this distance apart, but I absolutely could not figure out what they were supposed to match on the edge of the next sheet of paper.  I slid the two edges past each other over and over again.  The match just never looked right.


I ripped the first sheet off the wall, stuffed it in a trash bag, picked up the unopened rolls and headed back to the store.  I told the clerk and the manager that this paper was the absolute worst I had ever worked with, and I wanted to return it.  They didn't argue with me, but said I should have put the paste on the paper instead of on the wall.  Of course, the directions very specifically said to put the paste on the wall  AND there was the little matter of matching the pattern.


I picked out a different paper and headed back to the house.  By this time, I had wasted two hours and was beginning to despair of completing the project today.


Joy and delight!  The paper I picked as my second choice was wonderful...as close to infinitely better as anything in this world could be.  It went on the walls smoothly, the pattern was easy to match and it even cut easily and cleanly with the razor blade...no ragged ripping....just nice clean zipping.


The master bathroom is a very spacious room with lots of tricky cutting in, so I didn't finish until well after 5 PM.  I came home exhausted and my back is killing me....I've spent the evening with the heating pad.


I am oh-so-happy, and I am NOT planning to wallpaper again for a very long time....maybe not ever.

The Confession by John Grisham

I recently finished reading John Grisham’s latest book, The Confession.  If you haven’t read it yet and don’t want to know too much about the story line before reading it yourself, don’t continue reading this blog!

I will be interested to see how this book is received.  I don’t think Grisham has made any strong statement on a contentious social and political issue in his prior books.   Maybe he has, and I was too taken up in the story itself to notice.  In any event, The Confession makes it pretty clear that he is opposed to the death penalty.

As the story plays out, everything that could go wrong for the defendant in a rape/murder trial, does go wrong.  Police use questionable tactics in interrogating him, the detective is anxious to put the blame for the crime on someone, an acquaintance lies about what he has seen and heard, and the DA is sleeping with the judge whose rulings end up favorable to the prosecution. 

During the appeals phase, what should have been legitimate concerns are brushed off.  As the time comes for the death sentence to be carried out, some possible avenues of rescue develop, but the timing is all wrong.  The accused is executed, and within 24 hours, the proof of his innocence emerges.  At the end of the book, one is left with very negative feelings about the death penalty.  Do we ever dare run the risk of an innocent man being executed?

However, I am wondering if Grisham has played fair.  In the real world, would all of the people with power be scoundrels or unwilling to act?  Would everyone who cared also be someone with no power to change the course of events?  This scenario makes for a great novel.  I couldn’t put the book down.  I wanted to know if the appeal would be heard in time.  But, as commentary on the death penalty, it isn’t a balanced argument. 

Obviously, if Grisham wants to write a biased novel in an attempt to influence attitudes on the death penalty, that is his prerogative.  Many novels have been written as social commentary and have impacted opinions and the course of events.  But, I am curious as to how it will be received.

For my part, I will not be boycotting future novels by Grisham..biased or not.  He has a real gift for telling a story.  I fully expect Borders will again send me advance notice, and I will prepay and pick the next book up as soon as I can get to the mall.  Then, no matter what else is going on in my life….with the possible exception of being on my deathbed….I will read it within 48 hours or less of getting my hands on it.