Pajama Day

A Facebook friend has mentioned that the class in which she teaches is having a pajama day tomorrow.  The kindergarten is working on the letter “P” and will have peanut butter sandwiches and popcorn, make penguins, and wear their PJs to school.

On the surface this sounds like a fun time for little kids.  So, maybe I am just a grumpy old lady, but I think it sends some wrong messages.

One of the ways in which we as human beings have historically shown respect for others is by the way we dress when we meet them.  If one was to be introduced to a president or member of royalty, he or she would don his/her best attire.  Churchgoers had clothing referred to as their “Sunday best.”   This was the clothing in which they worshipped as a body of believers.  Of course, a person could put on such clothing in pride and ostentation and completely forget the objective of respect.   But, our culture seems to have lost sight of the connection between respect and clothing.   I would certainly rather that someone came to church in dirty jeans than not to come at all.  But, if a person has a choice between neat, clean clothing and disheveled clothing and opts for the grubbies, he/she is making a choice to be disrespectful.

We complain about lack of respect for teachers and the whole educational process.  Children should come to school with faces washed, teeth brushed, hair combed and clothing which fosters a bit of formality.  There is a reason why some schools still insist on uniforms.  Why risk the possibility that sloppy attire fosters sloppy attitude?  Children should learn from the outset that there are certain expectations for appearance and conduct. 

Secondly, encouraging children to wear pajamas in a public setting blurs the line between what is meant to be private and what is acceptable in public.  This is a line we cannot afford to lose to any greater degree than has already occurred.  Young women are routinely appearing in public in clothing that looks like it is meant only for the bedroom.  I have seen hip-hugger pants slung low enough to reveal the string of a thong.  Young men wear pants that sag to the point where there is no question whether they prefer boxers or briefs.  I have seen teens and adults in public in what appear to be pajama tops and bottoms without any undergarments restraining body parts from flopping around.  The idea of a robe seems to be totally passé. 

If we encourage kids to wear PJs to school in kindergarten, why would they think it was inappropriate later in life?  I can’t think of any legitimate employment situations where PJs are acceptable!  Why are we tolerating “pajama days” and thinking it’s cute?  There are plenty of other words starting with “P" that could be emphasized with proper planning.  They could wear pink or purple or a pair of something.  They can use paper, pens and pencils.  They can paste and punch holes.   

Sadly, they can’t pray.

'Tis a pity.

The Great Books

Many years ago, I bought a set of the Great Books.  I was operating under some illusion that I would have time to read them.  Somehow it was never quite a priority, although, I had read a few during my college years.  (I am one of the strange characters who actually did reading assignments.)


Now that I am retired, I have decided to renew the effort to make myself "truly educated."  Perhaps this can be accomplished before "my time comes," or maybe not.


My son says that if he had the set and any such inclinations, he would read those that interested him first.  I know if I do that, I will never read some of them.  


For example, I am currently slogging through The Iliad of Homer.  I am quite weary of page after page of detailed descriptions as to who was killed and how. Armor rattles as men fall headlong. Others are decapitated and their heads roll along.  All the while the gods and goddesses are behind the scenes helping some and undermining others.  


The gods and goddesses are, of course, not in agreement, so a great deal of mayhem ensues.  Some of it inexplicable to mortals, but some of it suspected by man as the whim of the gods.
I really dislike this view of deity and the world view that results.  What purpose is there to having gods, if they behave the same way human beings do?  They lie.  They cheat.  They run around behind each others backs with vindictive objectives.  Mortals can rarely be certain if the gods will help or harm them.


I far prefer my concept of God...just one God.  He is omnipotent, omniscient, a definer of Truth, a righteous judge, and He loves me.  As long as that is the case, all is well even when it doesn't appear to be well.   


Poor Priam and Hector and Ulysses and Menelaus and Achilles and Agamemnon and all those other souls.  Pity the Trojans and the Argives...all subject to the caprices of lesser gods and never sure if the hecatomb they offered was adequate to win favor.


I worship an unchanging and totally reliable God.

A Study in Contrasts

Today at the ice arena, I couldn't help musing on the contrast between two of my fellow skaters.  Both were there with children I assumed to be their own from the interactions they had with them.


Mother A was probably in her 30s.  Although she was Caucasian, she was dressed in typical Muslim attire.  She wore a dress below the knees with matching loose fitting trousers underneath.  Her head, neck, and every strand of hair were covered with a hijab.  She wore a wool jacket for warmth over her slim frame.


Mother B was probably in her 20s.  She too was Caucasian and dressed in western attire...that would be trash western attire.  She wore blue jeans with numerous holes, one of which was positioned so close to her crotch that a tiny bit of her underwear could be seen.  On top she wore a very tight fitting and low-cut knit shirt which revealed a large percent of her very, VERY, ample bosom.  When she bent over to help her small son skate, she flashed about two-thirds of her double-D boobs.  She was a heavy lady, and there was lots to see...or try to ignore.  The ensemble was not completed by any outerwear....no hat, gloves or jacket.


I am offering no judgment of the women based on observation of their clothing.  I have no knowledge as to the character of either of these women. Did they both intend to make a statement when they pulled their clothes on today?  I wore blue jeans (no holes), a turtleneck sweater for warmth, a zip-up sweatshirt and gloves.  I don't think I was trying to make a statement, but maybe someone was looking at me and saying, "What is that grandmother doing here in blue jeans?"


 An interesting variety of people live in this world, and some of them were skating at the ice arena with me today.

What are the odds?

I have heard the expression that lightning doesn't strike in the same place twice, but given enough time, I expect it does.  I know for a fact that it is possible in one lifetime to have a ruffed grouse fly through a window of  a couple's home on two occasions...in different houses.  Just what are the odds of that?

Our first home was a cute little 3-bedroom ranch on a dead end road in the woods.  A couple of years after we were married, my husband and I were sitting in the kitchen eating lunch when we heard a crash and the sound of shattering glass in the bathroom.  We did not stop to look into the bathroom, but headed straight outside, expecting to find a neighborhood kid standing there with a ball glove and an embarrassed expression.  To our surprise no one was in sight in any direction.  We stood there briefly pondering this and looking up at the hole in the bathroom window.

"Uh-oh," I said, the image of various species of dead birds we had found under the picture window lodged in my brain.  "Do you suppose that it was a bird, and that it has landed in the bathtub?"
We hurried inside, opened the bathroom door and gasped at the scene....shattered glass and feathers everywhere!

Sure enough, there in the bath tub lay a ruffed grouse.  In case you have never seen one, they are shaped something like a football with a tail attached.  The screen, which had been inside the window, had been knocked out and was in the tub with the bird.  The bird's beak having pierced the screen seemed like the logical explanation for the hole in it.  The bird was not quite dead.

Now, I am a nurse and have been a biology teacher, but the sight of the dying bird in my bathtub made me queasy.  My husband, who normally has a weak stomach, sat down on the edge of the tub and gently stroked the bird as it expired.

"I am going to the basement to do the laundry," I said. "If you get rid of the bird, I'll clean up the mess."
He did, and I did.  It took me and hour and a half to clean up all the glass shards and feathers.

I am not sure I would have been able to take a bath in that tub again, except that I reasoned ruffed grouse weren't flying around in the dark, and I normally took a bath before I went to bed.

About 35 years later, we were living inside the city limits in an old Victorian home.  My husband stopped home during the day while I was at work and was startled to find a broken living room window.  Both the storm window and the inside window had been shattered.  He began looking around, thinking he would find a ball or a rock.  No.  But, hiding under a nearby table was a ruffed grouse.  It had survived it's errant trajectory, but not without injury.  He picked it up and put it in a box on the front porch.  It made no attempt to fly or get out of the box....just sat quietly trembling.

Later we called a friend who is fond of wildlife.  He noticed that the bird's beak was broken.  It would not be able to eat and would not survive.  He carried it off....I expect to his dinner table.  We had buried the first intruder, much to the dismay of my husband's grandfather, who had declared that ruffed grouse are good eating.

I read an article recently that most people who live in our area hit a deer at least once in their lifetime of driving.  Neither my husband or I have ever hit a deer.  We are hoping that double ruffed grouse incidents take care of our wildlife encounters.

A Quiet and Gentle Spirit....or not

Today I attended the funeral service for a long-time family friend.  She was 90 and had been friends with both my mother and mother-in-law.  She had also been my son's Sunday School teacher when he was a preschooler. She was a sweet lady.  The minister conducting the service referred to the verse in I Peter that exhorts women to have "the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."  He proclaimed this lady to be a good example of such a woman.


When the time comes, I do NOT expect this verse to be used in my funeral service.


I am not trying to say anything negative about this departed friend or any other woman with a gentle and quiet spirit.  I have known some perfectly intelligent and creative women who would also fit in the gentle and quiet category.  A woman with such a spirit is not necessarily a submissive doormat.


But, I am genuinely hoping, in fact, believing, that there is a place in God's plan and kingdom for those of us with other tendencies.  My spirit tends more toward being demonstrative and exuberant.  Gentle?  I can do gentle when I am handling a baby, when I am trying to comfort someone who is wounded in body or spirit, or when I have already tried exuberance and had the situation blow up in my face.  Quiet?  Oh, wow...can I do quiet?  Maybe when I'm reading or sleeping.  Most of the rest of my life has been spent laughing, talking, singing or engaged in some noise-making physical endeavor like vacuuming or mowing or banging pots and pans.


Of course, I suppose a noisy woman could have a quiet spirit.  The minister interpreted this as someone who was calm and accepting of life's circumstances.  I'm not sure that describes me either.  Sometimes life's circumstance do have to be accepted, but there are times when someone needs to step up to the plate and change those circumstances.  That would be when you want me around.


Twenty four years ago, I was sitting in an auditorium when someone in the row behind me stood up and called out, "Somebody do something!"  I looked down my row.  An elderly woman was slumped over and ashen.  Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. She was obviously not breathing.  The rows were narrow, so I don't really remember how I got by the 3 or 4 people sitting between us.  I think I more or less dove over them.  I yanked out her dentures and dropped them in the lap of the lady sitting next to her.  I suspect she was startled, but it seemed perfectly logical to me at the time.  I tilted her head, pulled her jaw forward and began mouth to mouth resuscitation.  People jumped out of adjacent seats and helped me lay her out on the bench, so that I could resuscitate more effectively.  She revived and began breathing on her own.


Later than evening, a minister who heard about it decided to tease me.  He said, "How did you know God didn't want her in heaven tonight?"
When my husband and I were alone, I repeated to him what the minister had said.
My husband's response:  "Oh, my dear, if God wanted her in heaven this evening, He knew better than to let you sit in the same row."


I believe that there is a place in God's plan for women who jump up and do what needs to be done, whether or not it can be done quietly and gently.


I wonder what verse will be cited at my funeral.  Unless there is a lobotomy in my future, I'm guessing that it won't be I Peter 3:4.

Finding My Voice

I have always wanted to write.  As a teen I began what was to be a great novel about a kingdom hidden within a mountain.  I think I may have written a page or two.  I also began dabbling in poetry during that era of my life.


I have intermittently kept a journal for my eyes only, written poems and had a handful published, composed song lyrics...no takers on those, and collected rejection letters for children's books.


Blogging is my current attempt, but in a year and a half I have had only 13,300 hits...most of them on one piece I wrote on dog poop.  Sad, but true.


Currently I am reading a book by an absolutely fantastic writer.  I wish I could write in such a compelling manner...minus the profanity.  She is articulate, funny, insightful and brutally honest about herself and others. She does not share some of the tenets that are the underpinnings of my life, but I appreciate her talent.


I am struggling to find "my voice" and wondering, once I find it, will there be an audience for it?

The Basement

It has been nearly a month since we moved into our new home, but the old one is still not completely cleaned out.  Today I worked on the basement.  In preparation for the move, I had taken a couple of prior passes through the dingy, dirty dungeon, but over 30 years of clutter is just not that easy to wade through.


The endeavor was physically exhausting.  The sorting and cleaning process raised so much dust that I wore a mask.... into which I kept sneezing.  Yuk.  Heavy items needing to be moved in order to get at other items were in abundance.


The process was also mentally exhausting.  Too many questions needed to be answered.
Why did my husband remove some of those tools from the rummage sale pile and keep them?
How many electric drills and levels does one person need?
What environmentally friendly means I am to use to get rid of all this old paint?
How many times did I buy sandpaper, instead of using up what was already there?
Do I need to feel guilty about throwing out two file drawers of woodworking magazines and patterns that belonged to my departed father?
Should I sell the pump organ?  Is there any real possibility that I will ever restore it?
Yes, I have a pool table to sell, but where are all the balls?
How many different kinds of nails are there anyway?  And, why are they always in disintegrating brown paper sacks?
And..
Why, oh why, did my dear dad save old toilet seats?  Did he think he would someday need to construct an outhouse?  Was he planning to use them as picture frames?


Eventually, I was on overload and had to come home, take a shower and put the heating pad on my back.  Sadly, the job isn't finished yet.