the statue in the park

no posts?

2010-03-15T09:51:00.006-05:00

I have no excuse.

It is rather inexcusable, 100% so.

I have postable things happen to me. On a severely regular basis, actually.

But often when I sit down to write them out, they are flat; they are like what the earth used to be before Columbus decided to throw us all for a loop, or for a globe.

I need to take time to unflatten them out, and I plan to do that soon. Like yesterday.

Because yesterday was 3/14. Pi Day.

an elderly post from February {unposted until now}

2010-03-07T10:35:00.002-06:00

I babysat on Thursday night this week. I don't normally babysit on Thursday nights, but of late the norm has become the exception. So, therefore, it was nothing but normal for me to babysit on an abnormal day.

The natives were restless. Before I even had turned the car off, I had three charges standing outside of my door, brandishing sticks.

Good day to you too, kiddos.

I was promptly taken captive.

"Hands on your head!"
"Walk straight."
"You're our hostage!"
"Hey, hands on your head!"

"Well, stop poking me in the ribs first!"

"No, we poke until the hands are back on the head."

"Aaalright. Hands on the head."

We marched inside. Thankfully, there was a better choice of weapons awaiting us there.

Foam swords.

I like foam swords. A lot. Especially over sticks and staffs. Much better. Much less bruising.

But, of course, I was still the outcast.

They gave me a sword, and instructions to go wait out on the concrete slab of what will one-day-be-a-barn. They were going to then come attack me.

Right. Like I am going to stand for that. I have had one too many brothers and one too many cousins to think that I am just going to stand around and wait to be attacked.
Nope.
Sorry.
I just happen to be a big fan of the element of surprise.

I dashed out to the foundation and laid down on the grass on the other side, next to some old boards and {probably} hibernating snakes.

Yeah, so I have never had a dog before. And so I had forgotten that dogs are the Anti-Element of Surprise. Thanks, Rover.

After some various forms of foaming fencing, I was initiated into the Three Musketeers and we marched off to the Fort (which consisted of a mound of dirt) to throw clumps of mud at an invisible Adolph Hitler.

And then one of the Musketeers morphed into an Indian, and the remaining Musketeers became Cowboys. And chase was on, the hunt was afoot.

Through the mud.
{squelch, squerch, squelch, squerch}

Through the grass.
{swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy}

Back through the mud.
{oh, my flip-flop!}

Eventually, the Indian surrendered.

Sort of. She ended up claiming that before she surrendered, she had actually become a different Indian therefore the first Indian was still free. Yeaaaah. Dear, I used to try that trick when I was your age. And back then it sounded a lot more legit. And actually plausible.

After more chases, fencing duels, mud bombs, and weapon-swapping, we retired inside to eat the dinner of warriors - pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs.

brilliant

2010-03-02T05:40:00.003-06:00

There are many conveniences that come with having the microwave right next to the refrigerator.

One of the more overlooked conveniences, though, is the ability to use the light from the refrigerator to see into the microwave.

{Especially if the light in the microwave is out, and the rest of the kitchen is dark because the sun isn't up yet, and you really, really, really need to heat up your coffee.}

la la la, springtime {and snow}

2010-02-22T09:21:00.001-06:00

I spied my first red-breasted robin of the spring today.

Apparently, he has the same amount of faith in modern weathermen and their forecasted chance of snow for tomorrow as I do.

i'm cheating again by just posting a quotation....

2010-02-21T10:33:00.004-06:00

Original Morgan posts will resume - hopefully - in a few days.

"The problem of reconciling human suffering with the existence of a God who loves, is only insoluble so long as we attach a trivial meaning to the word 'love', and look on things as if man were the centre of them. Man is not the centre. God does not exist for the sake of man. Man does not exist for his own sake. 'Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created.' We were not made primarily that we may love God (though we were made for that too) but that God may love us, that we may become objects in which the Divine love may rest 'well pleased'. To ask that God's love should be content with us as we are is to ask that God should cease to be God: because He is what He is, His love must, in the nature of things, be impeded and repelled, by certain stains in our present character, and because He already loves us He must labour to make us lovable. We cannot even wish, in our better moments, that He could reconcile Himself to our present impurities - no more than the beggar maid could with that King Cophetua should be content with her rags and dirt, or a dog, once having learned to love man, could wish that man were such as to tolerate in his house the snapping, verminous, polluting creature of the wild pack. What we would here and now call our 'happiness' is not the end God chiefly has in view: but when we are such as He can love without impediment, we shall in fact be happy."

- C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

where typos go to become fatal

2010-02-19T11:22:00.006-06:00

"Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint." - Mark Twain

the unconventional sticky note

2010-02-13T19:17:00.005-06:00

My ceiling fan is dusty. It probably is more often than not, but I rarely notice because I can rarely tell.

You see, my sister and I run our fan 24/7/351, taking exception to two weeks in January and February. Our fan is running until we actually might suffer from hypothermia as a result of turning it on.

As the Two Weeks of No Fan have dragged on, I have been constantly reminded by the sight of the still blades that I need to clean the fan.

But you see, cleaning ceiling fans can be a daunting and dangerous task for short people.
Oh. Yes. Siree. Stop laughing. It's true!

I have to go to the kitchen to confiscate a swivel bar stool, first. Then I have to stand on the swivel bar stool to clean my fan.

When I was younger, I was told to never stand in a rocking chair. And I never have.
Someone should have told me the same thing regarding standing in swivel chairs.

But my fear of swiveling chairs is not the reason why I haven't cleaned my fan more recently. And it isn't that I have forgotten about it.

The truth is, is that every time I catch sight of my fan and its dusty blades it reminds me of a million others things I have yet to do.

"Ooooh, I need to clean the fan... and I also need to call Mrs F.... and Mrs. M.... and I need to email Mrs. F... and I need to follow up on..."

It is hilarious, but true. I have never had a better to-do list reminder.

The fan still needs to be cleaned. But once I get through my to-do list, it will get cleaned... which at this rate will probably be next year over the Two Weeks of January and February.

lighting useless fires on the altar

2010-02-08T16:29:00.008-06:00

I catch myself at it all the time. And I know that I don't catch myself half of the times that I do it.

I pick something easy to do. It is easiest option, often enough. And then I do it, whatever it is, with a wholeheart. Or at least, I think so. Or at least, I want to think so.

But I know all along that I am copping out of something else.

I'm taking the easy path. I am filling up my entire calendar with the easy path. And then I am doing the easy path with 101% of myself

But when I know - when I know - that I am taking the selfish way out, that is when the rubber hits the road. It doesn't work; it doesn't fly.

Perhaps, the easiest option is tough. Perhaps, it is pretty counter-culture itself.

But that still doesn't justify my weakness. It doesn't justify my inability to take on the challenge presented.

I am taking on the [true] Turkey Trot when I should be training for the marathon.

"Look at this, Lord. I am doing Option A for You with all my heart. Oh, please don't notice that I have noticed that You really want me doing Option B instead. But, hey, I sure am doing Option A wholeheartedly. It is pretty impressive, isn't it? It all makes up for me running away from Option B, right?"

Who am I pleasing when I operate that way?
Who am I fooling?

"Hello, Option B. My name is Morgan, and I think we are about to become very good friends..."

"An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered; an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered." - G.K. Chesterton

2010-02-03T11:08:00.015-06:00

Today is Wednesday because my hands smell like Latex gloves. It absolutely cannot be Wednesday unless my hands smell like Latex gloves by mid-morning. If you ever wake up expecting it to be Wednesday, and you find out that it is instead Thursday already - well, you now know where to send the thank-you note to. (Morgan's Hands, C/O Morgan G...)

Anyway, because my hands smell like Latex gloves that means that I cleaned this morning at the pregnancy resource center, and that means that I had to leave early this morning with Lexi to go clean. Yes, for insanely confusing, illogical logic.

Right before the estimated departure time, I was in the kitchen getting my coffee when I remembered that the oil in car needed to checked. Normally, my dad handles that for me.

But he wasn't up yet. And the oil really needed to be checked.

But that's okay. Because he showed me how to check in one time. And I have checked it a few times since then.

We can handle this, me, myself, and I.

I may know nothing about cars. I may have no idea what advantages a V8 has over a V6 engine. (I actually just had to google "V8" to figure out what the other "V" was... wow.) I may have no idea why they still even make stick shifts.

But I can check the oil.

I stuck my coffee in the microwave. (Coffee left over from the Resident Law Student's earlier morning, three hours before, can be a little cool.) I grabbed a paper towel and went outside.

Okay, it was cold and raining. No, it was colder and rainer then you just imagined. To the power of 10.

Everyone in the world who check their oil in covered, enclosed garages - I envy you.

I delicately walked across the boggy ground (again take what you just imagined as boggy ground and take it to the power of 10), and popped the hood.

There are two things in the world I have yet to master: lighting a match and opening a car hood.

One day I will remember what I actually push - and which way I push it - to open the hood. Until then I will continue to look like a fool.

A freezing minute later, I am checking the oil.

Oh. It is low. It needs more oil.
Wait. Let me check again. Just in case. I mean, I don't think dipsticks can be wrong. But you never know.
Yeah, never mind. Dipsticks never lie.

I got the oil from the trunk, avoiding the newest Great Lake with a bit of success.

Everything is great. Until I realize that the cap for the oil tank is child-proof-esque. Seriously, wasn't child-proofing the hood enough? I don't handle child-proof stuff very well. Those plastic covers people put on door knobs - those are actually like people-proof in my mind. And don't get me started on Tylenol lids.

Hmmm...

Finally, I got it off. I set the cap down on top of some other tank inside the hood, and began to add the oil.

Great. I had a huge smile on my face as I finished adding the oil. I did it. Yep, you just call me Mechanic Morgan.

As I straightened up, my elbow brushed the oil cap off of the tank.

And it fell somewhere inside the ENGINE.

Oh. My. No. Way.

I looked down into the black abyss.

Finding a black lid inside a black car engine on a cold, rainy morning is no small task. I think I will take The Needle in the Haystack Assignment first.

Perhaps, it fell all the way through to the ground? I got down on all fours to look.
(And, yes, I realized the irony of going from proud little Miss Mechanic of the Year to being on my knees in the mud in thirty seconds. I was just asking for it.)

Squelch.

Oops. It reminded me of that time I got ready to go to work, and then walked outside to see a beautiful sunrise. I went back in, grabbed my camera, and quickly snapped some shots. Later at work, I glanced down to see two huge grass stains on the kneecaps of my jeans. The dewy grass hadn't been kind.

No cap.

I popped up, and looked back under the hood. It is hopeless. Seriously.

And as appealing as it is, I can't take off without the oil cap in place. For all I know, the car might explode.

Well. This is a nice fix.

There was no way I was going to spy it if it were still somewhere in the engine.

Perhaps, though, it is on the ground closer to the other side of the car.

Squelch.

YES, there it was, sitting on top of the grass. I stretched out and grabbed it.

Fear not. Crisis #29023984 in Morgan's life has been averted.

I resolutely screwed the cap back on. (Though, I have noticed that child-proof lids never really tighten in a normal way... they are 100% unnatural.)

For some reason, every since I had woken up my mind had been following a very Pollyanna-ish train of thought. "At least after this experience, an uneventful oil check will seem heavenly..."

I rescued my coffee from the microwave, and Lexi and I got in the car.

Shortly after I started the engine, my dad came outside.

"Did you check the oil?"
"Yes, and I added some."
"Great. You put it in the right place, right? You didn't put it in the water tank, or anything?" he said with a smile.
"Yep, I put it in the right place."

(Oh. Dear. I did put it in the right place, right?)

break out the broom

2010-01-28T18:18:00.002-06:00

Lexi and I have been cleaning a local pregnancy resource center for a handful of months now. We make sure the glass coffee table tops are smudge-free (I am convinced that it was either a male or a childless woman who thought glass would make a nice coffee table top...). We empty the garbage, mop, vacuum, clean the bathrooms - the normal routine.

And we enjoy walking away with the place looking ship-shape.

Yesterday after cleaning the center, I put up a broom in the Electrical/Supplies/Leftover Computers/And Extra Fake Christmas Trees Closet.

(Not extra-fake as in super-de-duperly fake, but instead as in "we have way too many plastic green bushes that come with non-removable psychedelic lights on them.")

And then I looked at the floor of the aforementioned closet.
My heart leapt into my throat.

THE CLEANING CLOSET HAD NOT BEEN CLEANED.

There was glitter and tinsel, dead bugs and even a tiny deceased gecko on the floor. And then there were a million pieces of thin, green plastic from those extra fake Christmas trees.

How had I missed this? I come in and out of this closet every week to get mops and brooms, vacuum cleaners and sponges. And yet I had never cleaned it before.

Had I unconsciously assumed that simply storing the cleaning supplies in there would somehow magically clean it? ("A vacuum cleaner, a broom, and three mops walk into a closet, and the vacuum cleaner says to the broom...")

I was flabbergasted and embarrassed. I picked up the broom and started to deal with the mess. I hadn't swept up much more than the gecko when my brain started to sort through my Mental Stack of Unusual, but True Analogies for Any Occasion.

I had gotten so caught up in making sure that the public face of the center looked good that I had allowed the unseen inside to go to shambles (okay, not quite "shambles," but that little gecko definitely added at least 103 points to the Official Dirt Level).

And - of course - there was the unavoidable, ironic fact that the I had missed cleaning the area which held the highest concentration of cleaning supplies.

And this all reminded me of a post I wrote this fall. Cleaning Closets aren't the only things I neglect to clean.

Thankfully, there are brooms that sweep up geckos, and then there are brooms that do a whole lot more.

en garde

2010-01-25T19:36:00.003-06:00

I have this unofficial title in my house. I have a couple of them, actually. But the only one that has any bearing on this post is the title of "Unofficially Official eBay/Amazon Purchaser for Individuals Under 18."

You send me the link, show me the cash, and I will forward you the receipt.

I buy dresses and jewelry, silver and Ukulele song books. It keeps my life interesting.
It is pretty easy, pretty low key.

Until these silly Natural Wooden Bokken - Tai Chi Practice Swords came into my life.
(Yes, Griff, I called them silly.)

I bought them for Griffin off of eBay right after New Year. They shipped on the 4th. And then they slipped into that expansive Home for Orphaned Thoughts, Plans, and Ideas in the back of my mind.

They didn't come.
And didn't come.

And the seller didn't give us a tracking number.

They didn't come.
And didn't come.

We kept giving the seller/shipper the benefit of the doubt.
"Perhaps, it shipped USPS."
"Yeah, in that case, we should give it a couple more days..."

So, twenty-two days later the rubber hit the road.

Seriously, does this seller live in New Zealand? Perhaps, the USPS is taking the phrase "snail-mail" literally now? GraCIOUS.

I contacted the buyer.
He sends me the UPS tracking number.

UPS? Oh, dear, yes, if it was shipped UPS we have a problem. UPS could have shipped half of the world's population of Oompa Loompas to India in the past twenty-two days with ease. Shipping two wooden swords from California to Texas does not take twenty-two days. Even if you stop by Vancouver to check out the Olympic Village first.

I pulled up the tracking number.

Oh, yes.

These two swords have been out of California, into Texas, out of Texas, and then back to California.

They arrived locally twelve days ago. They shuffled around to some surrounding towns. Apparently, the seller didn't put my complete address on the box.

Then the box was sent along to Mesquite, Texas. They tried to contact the buyer there.

Why they took the box from twenty-five miles from my house to Mesquite which is three hundred miles away, I am not sure. Mayhap that is secretly the Land of Lost Boxes.

UPS then said that the buyer had moved from Mesquite.
(Really? Too bad I don't remember moving there in the first place...)

And then they shipped them back to California.

AND it appears that the seller received them back in California four days ago.

Perhaps, it is just me, but I feel like if I received a package of wooden swords which looked just like ones I had mailed off three weeks ago I might be a little suspicious that something had gone awry.

But then maybe I am being picky. Perhaps, I shouldn't complain. He does have the upper hand right now. Or at least two more swords than I do.

and now for a blast from the past

2010-01-18T19:46:00.003-06:00

I'm still writing "2008" every time I write down the date.

This doesn't bode well for the future.

flakey isn't always fakey

2010-01-14T20:13:00.007-06:00

I wanted some hot chocolate tonight. But we didn't have any milk.

And I don't really dig the hot water hot chocolate route. Have you really thought about that mixture? Would you ever make chocolate milk with water? My point exactly.

I rustled around in the pantry, and eventually emerged triumphantly with the box of Non-Fat Dry Milk.

I am a Strange Food Skeptic. If it doesn't sound right, then it probably isn't natural.

Dry milk? How is that actually possible? Milk is wet. It was akin to the weatherman saying, "And today we have isolated showers of dry rain." Yes, dry rain, my favorite!!

Yeah, right.

I tore open a packet and had my suspicions confirmed. Not only was it dry and flakey, but it smelled like that dreaded Astronaut Ice Cream. As a kid, I admired astronauts until I saw their version of ice cream. After that I never believed in them again.

I mixed water with the white stuff that milk would look like if God had made it a solid, apparently.

I laughed because the mixture reminded me of an incident from The Man Who was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton:

"As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow."

(There is nothing quite like being reminded of book about anarchists while mixing up hot chocolate.)

As I stirred it up, I had only one coherent thought: "This is NOT natural. It looks like MILK now."

What?! Where do these things come from?! Why do we have stuff like this and yet still don't have flying cars, or teleportation?

I mean this stuff is just like the real deal.

It even boils over in the microwave like normal milk does. Take my word for it.

or in my purse

2010-01-12T19:20:00.004-06:00

Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past. - G.K. Chesterton

let's see

2010-01-10T20:58:00.002-06:00

Am I the only person who puts on her glasses in the dark and expects the lights to come on?

On a Crusade for LOVE. Sorta of.

2010-01-09T09:15:00.006-06:00

I am on a crusade now days. I bought some banners at Party City, and picked up some panhandlers to serve as my squires. We are en route to retake something that might be lost forever. We might fail. And if we fail it will probably be epically. Want to join us?

We are retaking the word 'love.'

Yes, love. Sounds like fun? You would love to join us?

Oh. You just disqualified yourself. You can't love to join us, and still join us. You are ineligible due to frivolous and incorrect use of the word love. You just killed the cause. You poured water on my fire, which I started with my very last match.

You would love to join us. You probably also love waterfalls, warm mittens, Facebook, your hamster, Luby's, and your mom.

How can the same word be applied to some like new shoes or hot cheese dip and then be applied to a lifelong relationship or something of such depth and width that if it were actually cheese dip you would drown in it.

Because the word has been ruined. (I am partially blaming this ordeal on McDonald's... do, do, do, do, I 'm lovin' it! Seriously, lovin' it? How about stomachin' it? Thanks, freaky dude with red hair.)

The other partial bit of blame I'm laying at my own feet. Not that I am in anyway the sole source of this issue, but I am one of a million who are. I use the word love a lot. And actually... if this weren't the post this is, and if I weren't the new person I am, then I would probably say: I love to use the word love.

Flipping through the blog archives of mine I have realized that I have loved...
... movies made by cousins...
... musicals...
... driving in the country near sunrise or sunset...
... my dad's truck...
... reading the book before watching the movie.

And that might not seem like a lot to love... but the use of the word love has become a recent phenomenon for me. It has become a beautifully flexible word to describe any positive emotion I might feel.

Instead of preferring to read the book before the movie, I now LOVE to read the book before the movie. I also love my family.

Uhhhhh.

Something doesn't equate.

And that is why I am crusading. I am marching forth to return the word love to its rightful place in the American vocabulary.

If you join us, bring along a sack lunch.
We won't be making any lunch stops at McDonald's. (Or at Luby's for that matter.)

hello, atmospheric conditions...

2010-01-06T20:53:00.003-06:00

Who are you, and what have you done to my dear Texas weather?!?

lost in the transaltion. somewhere.

2010-01-05T12:26:00.004-06:00

I knew roughly where we were going. I had pulled up the address on Google maps before we had left, but had planned to rely mainly on the lovely little GPS. Except we had forgotten the GPS. (I am still figuring out this musical cars game.)

But perhaps we could wing it.

We had time. Our stomachs were full. We had Starbucks. And our gas tank was almost full.

Three girls in a car with coffee would give the Energize Bunny a run for his money.

We took a right and wandered around. In search of a street that was somewhere nearby. Maybe.

"On Google maps, it said the Consulate Executive of Poland lived near the house we are looking for," I said.

And this didn't look like the area the Consulate Executive of Poland would live in.

We puttered around a bit more.

"Wait, that street again!?"
"We went in a circle."
"We couldn't have!"
"Oh, that is just the other end of that street."
"Oh."

I called mom.

"Okay, go left on... and then left again."
"Thanks!"

We went left. And drove. Then we never found the second left. And then we were clearly not near any Consulate Executive's house.

"Hi? Mom? So..."

Right. The first left was actually supposed to be a right. Right. Gotcha.

We crossed over, exchanging that left for the right. And now this was feeling right. This felt Consulate Executive-ish. Tak.

A few turns later and the mystery was over. The house was found. And once again everything was right in the world. Prosto, prosto.

now for my new year's revolution

2010-01-03T12:03:00.006-06:00

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. I never have.
(though, my hard line stance against them has softened a bit over the past year...)

Perhaps, it is due to my personality. I'm not a list-making person. I don't function that way.

I do make mental resolutions all year long, though.
I don't write them down. I don't have monthly progress reports.
They are just there, tucked in a corner of my brain humming along.

Sometimes they are obvious, but still ridiculously tough to stick to.
Sometimes they are unique, but something I can't wait to make into a habit.

But I never feel a need on January 1st to stack up a list of goals for myself.
I just chug along quietly making adjustments and altering the game plan.

So, no, I don't have any New Year's Resolutions.
I just have a Whole Year Revolution.

first step to recovery is recognition

2009-12-31T07:20:00.005-06:00

Oh. I know.

If I were to try to attempt to describe the past week or two, it would come out in some nice Gibbly-Goosh. Something to the effect of...

ArkansascousinsfootballcoldscavengerhuntweatherfoodlaughtergamesfriendshomeChristmas.

Give or take half-a-dozen words.

And your past few weeks probably look - or sound - similar to mine. Rather like a literary stained-glass window, or kaleidoscope.

And to top this all off - as if my Mental Bag of Memories and Musings is not already bursting at the seams - today is the last day of 2009.

Note to Self:
Y2k was ten years ago, not yesterday. Accept it and move on. Realize that when people say "three years ago" they mean 2007, not 1999, or 2001. Remember at camp this summer? When you realized that some of the girls in your cabin were born in 1998, and they were eleven years old already!? Get it straight.

You think it is bad now? Just wait until you are older, Pumpkin.

the insanity is all mine

2009-12-21T08:51:00.003-06:00

I am sorry. I lost last week somewhere.

I have a suspicion that I left it on a conveyor belt at a check-out register somewhere. Unfortunately, I forgot to put my name on it, so I do believe it is lost for forever.

But - lucky for you - I have yet to misplace today. But, today is fully overflowingly full, and I just have time to say... I am signing off for a week, or more.

Take care. Behave. And have yourself a merry little Christmastime.

a blip on the map

2009-12-14T10:45:00.000-06:00

I've gotta run to the post office before it closes...

...for lunch.

g'morning

2009-12-13T08:57:00.003-06:00

I don't have much to say.

Indeed, I have nothing to say. And when one finds oneself with nothing to say often the best course of action is to sign off immediately. But there is something hilarious about human nature that proves that when one has Very-Little-Bordering-On-Nothing-To-Say one often ends up talking more than ever.

If one wants to have something to say, or more likely feels compelled to say something, but has nothing specific in mind to discuss - well, that is when one can hardly be quiet.

Perhaps, Reverse Psychology at its best?

And - of course- those types of one-sided monologues always end with the Speaker sinking farther into the despair of not wanting to talk any more. They never feel relief from the talking; they often as not feel desirous to shrink into themselves again to a greater extreme.

And, if that point is reached, then that is when the One-Who-Didn't-Want-To-Talk-Originally becomes The-One-Who-Is-Going-To-Be-Quiet-Indefinitely-Because-They-Have-Just-Embarrassingly-Proven-That-They-Had-Nothing-To-Say-In-The-First-Place.

And, yes... I think I just reached that point...

"The children - they're missing, George!" "Splendid, splendid"

2009-12-11T10:54:00.005-06:00

I wasn't supposed to babysit yesterday. Well, actually I was. I normally do on Thursday, but this week that appointment had been moved to Monday instead.

So - in theory - Thursday was open. Then Thursday morning the Other Babysitees had something come up and needed a sitter for that afternoon. So I babysat yesterday.

I only had the Bookends of the Family, the oldest and youngest. The oldest is a boy near my middle-younger brother's age, so I brought along the previously mentioned middle-younger brother o' mine. (Follow me? Good.)

And then the youngest is a two-year old lady going on twenty-five.

The two Adventurers decided to enjoy our - hopefully - temporary swampland. They pulled on their boots and set off. Of course, we had the regular game plan in effect. They stay on the property and every ten, fifteen minutes I would come out and call for them. They would return the salutation as a Roger That.

I watched them tromp off across the front yard. And then the little lady pulled me upstairs to do* my hair.

After ten minutes, I went outside to check on the Munchkins. Right.

I slogged across the boggy front yard calling for them. Did they hear me? No.

It was cold and I was wearing flip-flops. Score one for me.

I was trying to not get frustrated or alarmed, but seriously this was not what I had planned to happen. I delicately stepped my way around the sinkholes on my way back to the house to add the little lady to my Search Party.

We circled around the house, calling for them in the thicket.

We called. And walked. And called. Andcalledandwalkedandcalledandwalk.

Where do children go when they get lost? Is there a nice Lost and Found somewhere where they give them Blue Bell ice cream bars while they wait for the delinquent babysitters to arrive?

Say yes, please.

By the time we had done a 130° around the house, I was beginning to think of how not even Fraulein Maria was able to lose anyone. Not even that Incorrigible Kurt.

Then we rounded the backyard out and headed for the gate to the overgrown back pasture. There was a pond back there, and they often played there. But normally when they played back there they could still hear me call from the convenience of the back door.

Then it struck me. There was a loud rumble, followed by a the trundling of large wheels. In the next lot there was a bulldozer and backhoe throwing their weight around.

Ha ah, yes! My kids weren't lost. {And they weren't driving that heavy machinery either, though, it rather sounds like something they might try.}

They just can't hear me. I laughed out loud as the little lady looked up at me in surprise. I dashed through the gate and hollared those two names as loud as I could.

"YES... Miss Morgan, weeee aaaare baaaaack heeeeeere," came the dim reply.

Nice. Thanks for giving me prematurely gray.

I picked up the little lady and headed back to the warm, dry house. As we crossed back over the side yard, we waved to the Blue Bell truck headed for the back pasture.

*Exact definition of this word is not certain in this case.

Elementary, Dear... Toto?

2009-12-07T12:39:00.005-06:00

It looks English-esque outside of late. The weather is highly Sherlock Holmesian. Or Secret Garden-ish.

It looks like the moors outside my window. {Secondary definition of the word "moor" there.}

It is damp and foggy and rainy and soggy.

{"I'm leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it's not raining." Groucho Marx}

But you know. It is fine. Just fine. I can accept some gray, smeary days.

Because. Well. You know.

We got SNOW.

Oh. yes. we. did.

I know, I am proud of my little city, too. And my state. We only half-panicked, too. It was rather impressive. We coped rather nobly.

It started earlier than it was Supposed to. My mom, the Resident Investor, and I were caught quite unawares. We left our Morning Coffee Ritual and trooped out {looking decidedly like every other Ragtag Army in the history of our country} in the chilly rain to cover plants.

We were 3/4 of the way done moving and covering and getting ridiculously freezing cold, when All of the Sudden the raindrops got fatter and colder. And then we got smacked with them and realized that We Weren't in Kansas {Texas} Any Longer, Toto.

It continued for hours. Big flakes clumping together with some smaller, biting bits coming later.

It was Glorious. And Spectacular.

And that is why Dreary and Dull is currently fine.

Anyway, We all know that England is way more exciting than Kansas is any day.
{...But it still doesn't beat Texas... not that that really matters or anything...}

2009-12-04T15:23:00.000-06:00

It HAPPENED.

frigid with a side of snow flakes

2009-12-03T10:05:00.008-06:00

Ah, yes. There is a microscopically huge 50% {And actually weather.com is bequeathing us with a beautiful 70%-80%} Chance of Snow tomorrow.

Yes, a Chance of Snow for us. It is an overly delightful feeling - even if it doesn't stick.

It feels like the Wall Flower has finally been asked to dance. (And you know what They say: "And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.")

Dance your feet off, Houston. Dance until you can't breathe, until the room is spinning upside down and backwards.

{I am back now... after a detour to see some runaway turkeys on the front porch, to set up a baby-sitting adventure for later today, and to proof an essay for a sibling...}

But as I was describing - it is a heady feeling, one of unimaginable flattery to be the -possible- recipient of snow flakes.

You have to blush and say in complete disbelief, "Me? Me? Is that person pointing at me?"

It is like being on the Price is Right and hearing - "Houston, come on down!"
{Yeah, I know that was rather an American-McDonald's-esque-Commercialistic reference there, but it is staying put just like I would if I happened to find my name being called at the Price is Right.}

It is an overwhelmingly exhilarating experience.

And half of it is the Anticipation. {Plus finding your dancing shoes and mittens.}

grab a plate & buckle up your chin strap, buckaroo

2009-11-28T17:59:00.007-06:00

Now that I am the one that is stuffed {not the turkey}, and now that I am the one done in {once again, not that unfortunate turkey}, Thanksgiving is winding down.

Slowly, slowly like those last few bites of cranberry sauce {which as a rule, I never eat} that you really didn't need, the holiday wraps up.

And that {ah ha!} is where They catch you. You think {"That's a very good habit to get into, Piglet."} that the Thanksgiving rush {similar an all-out blitz} is over. You take a deep breathe and stretch out for a snooze on the couch.

Yeah, right.

That snooze won't be happening until after January 1st.

There is no winding down after Thanksgiving. It just isn't possible {like spiking the ball with 1 second left}.

The ride is just beginning.
It is the kick-off, the naming of the starters, the of unwrapping the turkey, the buying of pumpkin filling.

Thanksgiving is the first quarter in a game in which both teams are better in the second-half.

It is an all-out sprint from here on out {like the race to the last piece of pecan pie, or the final ten yards to the end zone on a ninety yard kick-off return}.

Hang onto that football {or your paper plate}, and hope to see you at the halftime show.

a stolen post from my photoblog

2009-11-26T09:45:00.001-06:00

This past week and a half has been rather full with babysitting and volunteering commitments and writing sessions and shaking off a determined cold.

I haven't pulled out my camera in over a week.

But even though I don't have a picture to post today, I still wanted to give y'all a howdy-doody.

Have a super Thanksgiving, friends o' mine.

I could begin a cliche list of things I am thankful for, but that would be sappy and boring (for y'all). Instead I will be concise and brief and yet all encompassing.

I am thankful for the knowledge that my God is not one made of human hands. And I am thankful for all the implications of that accompany that fact.

I am thankful for all these things and more.

a post for myself

2009-11-23T09:30:00.005-06:00

Yes, I know it was just a house and that the people are really what made the memories. But the two just belong together. That is just how it is.

The people and all the memories fit inside the house. They are framed by it. That is where they belong.

I remember the summer - over a decade ago - when everybody was in town {back in the day were everybody was able to "come in town" over the same span of days} and I spent the night at the house with the cousins. I had the black iron daybed on the enclosed back porch.

One night as I was going to bed, cousin Jeff (my senior by seven, or eight years), hereby known as The Family Jokester, came by and talked to me. He explained that he and the other older guy cousins were going into the fields across the street to look for wildlife in the dark. He said, "If we see a bunch of green glowing eyes together that are too short to be deer eyes, then that means that they are coyotes. And if that happens then I am going to run home and dive under your bed. I hope no coyotes get in before I can shut the door."

The door was right next to my bed.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.

Then there was the summer of the Marshmallow Wars.

My Dallas Cousins showed up with a trunk full of PVC pipes and a Quantity of Mini-Marshmallows fit for a Baking Aisle.

We constructed these Blow Dart-style guns, which when one blew through one end, it would eject a Mini-Marshmallow at a rather high speed and accuracy.

Fun? Oh. My. Word. Yes. That was all we did that week.

Keifer staked himself out at an attic window and sniped a number of us before we were able to locate him.

By the end of the week, the yard and Flowerbeds were peppered {or salted, mayhap?} with little white pillows.

Haha, yes, those Flowerbeds. They were my Memaw's Pride and Joy. If the football was misdirected and sailed into the Bushes, one retrieved it with fear of Memaw coming out when you were still Beating around the Bushes for the ball. And if you walked through them, ah, yes, well, I wouldn't recommend that.

Then there were the boat wars in the Creek in the backyard.
We sunk the canoe a couple of times, at least.

And then those summers when we would swim in the Creek [this is another thing that I wouldn't recommend]. There were chunks of styro foam that we would use as rafts.

And one time - we were out lazily styro foam-rafting one afternoon, and (a much) younger Lexi was sharing a raft with my cousin Amy. Lexi kept insisting that she saw an alligator approaching. Amy kept telling her to stop worrying, or she was going to go take her back to the shore.

Then Amy saw What Lexi Saw, and we all made a dash for the Dock.

The alligator swam by a few minutes later. We {imaginably} didn't swim for the rest of that summer.

Then there were times of playing Barbie dolls in the RV. For a long time the girl cousin to guy cousin ratio was 4:9 {now it has become a bit better at 6:12; okay, maybe "a bit" isn't the right phrase to use}, so those times of playing Barbie dolls was a nice hiatus from the football games and whiffle ball games.

But those whiffle ball games were fun. We still play (or played) those in the front yard, even when we got older and got jobs and (some of us) got married. My cousin Jon, when he came in town to recruit for his college soccer team, would still demand a whiffle ball game.

And then once The Family Jokester tied Lexi and I up in the expansive attic. We were laughing and squealing so much that it took us twice as long to slip out of the knots.

And then there were the Cousin Movies. No, don't even try to comprehend; just listen (or read, I guess). Thank you.

Almost every year the guy cousins - who had zero faith in the acting ability of their female counterparts - would film a movie. They were hilarious and brilliant - and sometimes rather weak. But we loved them. The personalities of the cousins were never more strongly displayed {especially in the Blooper Reel part}.

Superseatsaver; Tommy Tricker; Team Cardboard; Amy starting a fire by rocking over a electrical cord; Keifer did it; Fort Cousins; Jeff's infatuation with The Story Lady; the plastic boot stockings; the late night sardine games; Memaw's singing Christmas lights; Operation Zero; mud fights; croquet games (I'm sending you into the Flowerbed - Ha!)...

But now all these people will be meeting at a different house, in a different city, in a different state.

Those that are here - or were able to come down - walked around and reminisced. The secret hiding places for Hide-and-Go-Seek were revealed. The Do-You-Remembers exchanged.

It will be different, and it will be missed. But the people will be the same. And knowing my family, life will continue to be Memorable.

Very Memorable.

{almost} a five-year old's anagram

2009-11-19T21:23:00.005-06:00

"Look, do you like how I'm painting the lanterns?"

"Hmmm... those aren't lanterns."

"Yeah, they are."

"Hmmm... no, what are those? Think about it. You are close, sort of."

"I don't know..."

"Well, what sounds like lanterns?"

"Like a lamp post, or something?"

"Haha, no, no. An... ant..."

"I still don't know."

"Antlers."

"OH, yes! Yes! Antlers!"

give me a bloodhound; i have a train to find

2009-11-18T19:56:00.005-06:00

Griffin told me something which he said I should blog about.

But I don't remember what it was that he told me.

I do remember that he told me that this blog improves his quality of life.

Maybe that is why I don't remember what else he said.

{Griffin's Credibility Monitor while saying the Quality of Life statement - Wooooooooooooh}

Yeah, you know what I mean, pumpkin.

(I just had to go tell my two younger brothers to be Model Citizens, think that will keep them contained for another fifteen minutes? Yeah, I don't either.)

Excuse me while I go grab me some Mini Wheats to eats. (Had to make that rhyme, of sorts.)

Meet back here in 15 minutes. Actually, make that 5.

{ On second thought, we should have made that 2.5 minutes. }

You know, the thing with Mini Wheats is that you have to eat them fast.
But I have noticed that is a trend with cereal, in general.

It isn't really a food that is conducive to eat while blogging - or jogging, for that matter.

But, nooooow that I have finished mine, it is rather a moot issue.

(Unlike those Model Citizens in the room next door... I just had to pay them another visit. What do little boys find so fascinating about increasing both noise and action as bedtime draws nearer?)

Ah, but, yes.

{I just lost my train of thought, which actually reminds me of this entire blog... it is rather one long lost train of thought, I am afeared.}

I told myself something which I said I should blog about.

But I don't remember what I told myself.

{Morgan's Credibility Monitor - Wooooooooooooh}

Let's start at the very beginning/A very good place to start

2009-11-17T20:41:00.006-06:00

I was pulling up this blog 'o mine and for some reason pulled up the wikipedia page on A Little Princess instead.

My life comes with pre-installed detours, I have noticed.

I have also noticed that musicals are inherently hokey.
{Yeah, hadn't thought of that, had you? Uh huh.}

But I still love them.

Though, I must admit my faith in them was shaken a bit when I pulled up a list of the songs from The Sound of Music only to - finally, ten years after I have owned the sound track, and a split infinitive later - realize that Rolf and Leisl sing Sixteen Going on Seventeen and then later in the movie Maria and Leisl sing basically the same song.

Hello?! There is nothing hokey-er than having a novice-turned-nanny also be a super stalker.

Okay, actually that sounded horribly plausible.

Orion

2009-11-15T16:00:00.001-06:00

I must confess that I love driving in the country in the early morning or on the cusp of dusk. No, I love it.

The lighting, the color, the shadows nearly make me ache inside. It is beautiful in that sort of way.

We passed a field in the middle of being transformed into hay bales. There is something intrinsically happy about round, plump hay bales in an open field. It is as if the field has been peopled by sleepy, smiling creatures of some sort. A field full of hay bales never looks lonely.

Darkness began to creep in as we began our pre-dinner shopping. But with the artificial lights of the parking lots and the blinding lights in the department stores, darkness arrives more sinisterly in the city. It isn't very welcomed, or at least it isn't worked with. They just try to hide it there.

The shoppers were plentiful, in a harsh sort of way, and boisterous, in a brash sort of way. I remembered why I never shop on the weekends. Ever. {Except last night obviously.}

Then at the tick of 6:30 we were at the restaurant.

There is a curious thing about restaurants {besides the fact that I never learn how to spell the word due to some mental deficiency or other}. There are a million little islands with their own intrigues and hilarious (or very not hilarious) discussions in the same building, but they never interact. They are the most socially unsociable places ever.

We laughed and chatted and laughed again.

After a bit we did the nicest thing there is to do after an evening meal: we went and got coffee.

The Starbucks' barista that waited on us has forever reminded me of a sailor of old. He has the long hair and longer sideburns. And one day I will tell him that. I just have to figure how to without it coming across wrong.

The Starbucks was hectic. Way too young kids were spitting wads of paper through straws, and being utterly rude.

We went outside.

As we sat and talked, the people around us ebbed and flowed. Motorcycles and vintage cars rolled by, revving their engines. Hummer limos rocked by with windows rolled down. People walked by with a murmur or a yell.

I looked up at the sky. It had been dark for nearly three hours and yet only two stars were visible. How uncomforting is a blank sky at night. How dismally empty it is; how foreign. How wrong.

Eventually we split ways. Lexi and I laughed all the way back to the car. We realized that throughout the evening we had been thinking the same things, and had the same song stuck in our heads. And that was funny, though not at all unusual.

We followed the roads toward the country, passing three different sets of flashing police lights along the way (a wreck, on a call, and a pulled-over car). There is something strangely stark and jarring about flashing lights in the dark.

As the city receded, the fields of hay bales started to roll past. I glanced out my window as we rounded a curve, and caught sight of the constellation of Orion. As a child, it was the first constellation I was ever able to pick out, and now we chased it all the way home.

this path o' mine

2009-11-12T19:31:00.001-06:00

"With all my ideas and follies I could one day found a corporate company for the propagation of beautiful but unreliable imaginings."

- Robert Walser

an orchard

2009-11-12T17:37:00.005-06:00

The others had a head start on us.

There had been a slight difference of opinions on what type of shoes are suitable for a walk. It had been a stalemate for a bit. Then after the others had gone tripping down the asphalt road without the two of us, she had realized the error of her way (a desire to wear ill-fitting rubber boots - rubber boots! - on the walk).

We hunted down a much more suitable pair of footwear, added a stroller containing a five-month old little brother to the party, and then began our walk down the road.

The others had already begun the trek back from the end of the cul-de-sac. My sister and her two charges were ambling along the edge of the road were the asphalt devolved into gravel and tentacles of encroaching grass.

The weather was drop dead gorgeous. No, Drop Dead Gorgeous. Like, "Can-You-Give-Me-A-Hammock-And-Make-Today-A-National-Holiday" weather. Like, YES.

My little companion - the one who was not dozing delightfully in the stroller - began to collect an orchard. I think she meant bouquet. And I explained that to her.

She uprooted enough flowers and grasses to start a rather successful roadside floral stand.

"But, I can't find any pink pirate pom-pom flowers," she said, very dolefully. She is the Most Doleful Child when she desires.

"Ooh, well, what do they look like?" I asked, as serious as possible.

"Pink puffy flowers with... with..." she replied, excitedly expounding on the word "puffy" with her hand gestures.

"Oh! Those... hmm... I'm not sure if it is the right time of year for those," I said, giving her the "oh shucks" facial expression.

"Yeah, I guess so," said the Most Doleful Child.

We passed the Worn Out Three headed home for lunch. But we pressed on.

We came upon a small butterfly in the grass.

"That is a skipper butterfly. Isn't it beautiful?" I shared.

"Yes." she gasped, in awed tones. She can be the Most Awed Child when there is reason to be so.

"Look," I whispered.

She looked up the roadside ditch. In the green and purple and brown grasses scads of yellow butterflies flitted. It took a few seconds of staring to realize exactly how many there were.

"Wow," said the Most Awed Child.

By now we had almost reached the end of the road. After uprooting a bajillion stalks of purple-y, brown-ish grass, we turned around.

"Look, ballet!" exclaimed the babysitee, pointing excitedly at a certain super energetic butterfly.

"Yes, ballet," I reassured her. And we smiled that Smile that is shared only between two people, when together they stop and step back from the world and view it for what it really is. And attempt to comprehend the majesty of He who really created it.

Then we stopped. There in the ditch - all alone and nearly bedraggled - was a pink pirate pom-pom flower.

She turned toward me with her mouth agape and her eyes popping. And then she dashed down the ditch and plucked it.

We were nearly to her house by now. She added broken twigs and rocks {yes, rocks, as in: "mineral matter of variable composition, consolidated or unconsolidated, assembled in masses or considerable quantities in nature, as by the action of heat or water."*} to her bouquet.

We clomped up on the porch and into the house.

"Mom! Mom! Come see the orchard I made!" she clamored as she rushed up the stairs.

So, yeah, on second thought, maybe I didn't explain it to her very well.

*thanks dictionary.com

only in the republic of texas

2009-11-11T15:05:00.004-06:00

(as overheard by an Anonymous Election Worker, an A.E.W.)

Husband: "Weeeeell, we changed our address yesterday with the county, so I dunno if our informaaation will be riiiiight"
A.E.W.: "But you only moved within the precinct, correct?"
Wife: "Oh, yeah, we're still livin' here."
A.E.W.: "Okay, then everything should be fine."
Wife: "Yeah, we took yesterday off and went down to the County Office and gave 'em our new information. I thought, you know, its time to update the informaaaation on both our Concealed Carry Licenses anyway, so we miiiight as weeell do everthang."
A.E.W.: *nods head very slowly*
Wife: "Now, which votin' booth do I go to?"
A.E.W.: "Whichever one, ma'am, you would like to, ma'am. And sir."

oh, yes, and Emily Dickinson in the Triple i Category

2009-11-10T10:37:00.007-06:00

I have been reading C.S. Lewis again.

And I have once again been brought face-to-face with a very crucial problem. I cringe at the sight {sound, I mean, the sound} of it; for it I have no answer.

Which author do I find the most impactful (which is not a word, but should Be) on my own writing style?

Oh dear. See? Yes, I know. Exactly. Wait! You are cringing, too? Really? You too? I thought I was the only one!

[“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one!” - C.S. Lewis]

But, for a serious moment - this is a true problem. (Sorta of. I mean in the Grand Scheme of things, no. But in the Little Sideshow of Interesting Info, yes.)

There are C.S. Lewis and G.K. Chesterton and A.A. Milne and P.G. Wodehouse and e.e. cummings leading the pack of Initialed First and Middle Names Authors.

And then there are Austen and Alcott of Female "A" Name Fame.

And Oscar Wilde and Thorton Wilder from the "Wilde" section of the Yellow Pages.

And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie of "A" and then "C" Names with an Occasional "D" with Additional Englishness and Mystery Connections.

And the Bronte bunch of Familial Ties.

And Charles Dickens and Oliver Goldsmith from the Category of Olivers and Oliver-Inventors.

And Thomas Hardy and Nathaniel Hawthorne from the Last Name "H" Writers Who Write about Social Outcasts.

And Frances Hodges Burnett and J.R.R. Tolkien have staked themselves out in the Three Names or More Department.

And in the Last Name Could Be A First Name Slot we have Henry James and Mary Shelley.

And the most depressing thought is that I have hardly begun to list my favorites.

There are also my Favorites Who Wrote Under a Pen Name (everybody wave to Mark Twain and George Eliot) and The Solid Writers with "Ws" (Willa Cather and E.B. White deserve their day in the sun, too).

See? It is a pointless endeavour, an unanswerable question.

The list could rather go on infinitely. Yes, infinitely, C.S. Lewis.

("Don't use words too big for the subject. Don't say "infinitely" when you mean "very"; otherwise you'll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite." - C.S. Lewis)

already?

2009-11-08T20:47:00.003-06:00

Hello, November.

The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, but you haven't even given it time to fall yet.

thoughts from an election worker staked out in a gas station feed store

2009-11-04T16:54:00.010-06:00

Next time I will take a pillow to sit on on top of my folding chair. I will be the Raja of Paja, directing the world* from my cushion.

We were garrisoned between the plumbing section and miscellaneous items (steering wheel covers, citronella lamps, fence wire, pet massage gloves, [truly] etc., etc., etc.). The OFFICIAL ELECTION GEAR was stashed in the aromatic Feed Room right behind our temporary county consulate. The laptop case rested on top of a bag of horse feed. Another bag leaned against medicated goat salt blocks. Make sure you get the medicated part in there. Yeah, medicated. Yeah. That's right.

We were rather secreted behind the plumbing pipes and elbow joints.
("What are y'all, mushrooms? Being back here in the dark?")

6:30a.m. comes awfully early.

Soon the Local Good Old Boys arrived for their Daily Coffee Convention. Apparently, there is a astronomical shortage of coffee makers in the homes nearby.

("Who is that in the red cap?" "Who? Oh, I can't tell. Eddie is in the way.")

The stories rolled in tempo with the clock.
("And the chicken was stuck in the snake's throat. I wrestled with him; tin was flying off the barn!")

I started the 342-page book I brought.

Eddie wandered back to our little citadel. He lives on the other side of the river now, but still holds membership in the Daily Coffee Congregation.

He has a pecan orchard.
("Thar's goin' to be an Aggie givin' a pecan seminar this Sat'rday." "That will be nice." "Weeeell, if I le'rn anything. He's an Aggie, you know.")

He studied the ballot.

By the time Eddie finished voting, one of the Congregation had returned with some homemade tamales to show off. Tamales with coffee was the menu for the Convention that morning.

Eventually, the Coffee Convention ground to a halt. The Members revved their engines and went home to pick pecans.

("They were full of it this morning, my, my.")

The voters trickled in. Some familiar (Hi, Joshua), some vaguely reminiscent of last election. They were just familiar enough that it made my brain itch trying to retrieve their names from some cavern in my mind.

I call it: The Mental Equivalent of Needing to Sneeze.

I stretched and went back into the Feed Room.
It smelled so grainy and grassy and Texas-y.

("Able, how much are those boots up there?" "Those? They ar' $19.99." *whistle* "Yeah, quite a deal," laughing)

By early afternoon, my parents (Voters #39 & #40) arrived bearing gifts (Coffee and Gingersnaps - shall I now enumerate the other Necessities of Life? ) from afar*.

The Rest of the Afternoon was nearly sleep inducing. Couples drifted in to vote.
(Always the husband, "I beat you!" Always the wife, "Oh, I didn't know we were racing")

The Tech had to offer us assistance a couple of times. Dear County Government, aircards which run on cell phone networks don't do well in The Boonies. {For Real}

At 5:00p.m. I finished the book.

7:00p.m. comes awfully late on days when 6:30a.m. comes awfully early.

The Final Push arrived to vote at 6:55p.m. The only things certain in life are death and taxes and the Final Push.

Then we cleaned up.

The posted signs were taken down.
The electronics {The Hand Scanner #1, The Laptop, The Printer, The Hand Scanner #2, The JBC} were shuttered.
The various envelopes were closed after being filled with the proper paperwork.
The forms, signed. The voting booths, sealed.

I stumbled over The Extra Long Plumbing Pipes more than once.

The boxes and bags were collected out of the feed room. My jacket was retrieved from its resting place on a tower of 50lb bags.

And the day was done.

Another Election was taken care of from the plumbing section of the Gas Station Feed Store.

{Would you like a washer hose with that ballot, Sir?}

*Exact definition of this word is not certain in this case.

do you have your voter id card?

2009-11-02T20:45:00.005-06:00

I was going to post here tomorrow.

Yes, saith I, tomorrow - that is The Day. Inspired, I will be by then. I will write a future classic.

Tomorrow.

But then I looked at my calendar.

Tomorrow - the day of the birth of my future authorship - is a day that I may not claim for my own.

For it is... Election Day. And I am... an Election worker.

Tomorrow I will spend 15 hours not spilling out creativity on my keyboard.
I will spend a morning, a pre-noon, a noon, an afternoon, a pre-evening, an evening, and a pre-night not smiling to myself as my fingers slowly tap-dance on my keyboard.

So, once more my dream is deferred. If only the government knew what they were squashing by hosting Election Day tomorrow.

heads up

2009-10-30T09:46:00.003-05:00

I was shuffling through the maze of various tools
- pulling and pushing the sundry objects around on the shelf.
At my feet a circular saw and a tool box overflowing sat;
to my right, cans of paint with color streaked down their sides.
And then - alas - came tumbling from an upper shelf a sign;
it caught my elbow on its way down.
As I retrieved it from the floor, its irony was not lost on me,
for it read: Hard Hat Area.

wolverine {"wolverine"}

2009-10-27T19:56:00.004-05:00

We were wandering {and wondering} down in the very bowels of the museum. Noises straight from Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory's Inventing Room sputtered from under the doors.

For some reason I was being cajoled into following the two anti-navigators on a quest to seek the "hands-on for kids" part of the museum. Perhaps the atmosphere of the museum was seeping into my bones, allowing my to toss my fears by the wayside (or perhaps I forgot them in the second elevator?).

I tried to explain to the two that it looked like the formerly mentioned section of the museum was under renovation. But, no. Of course, we still had to go looking. ("Morgan Being Misled" episode 1 of 2 for the day.)

We passed some maids mopping a hallway. Mental backup plan: we could always grab a mop and start working if anyone looked at us funny.

We passed a case with a stuffed grizzly bear in it. And another one with a wolf in it. I guess the furry animal look is out this season.

I glanced in a room. "Hey, look at this," I called to the two leaders. We all three gawked at a huge python sleeping in a terrarium. Then - utterly predictably with our family - Griffin started trying to scare us by running his finger up our necks. Lexi squealed.

We kept trucking.

Lexi and Griffin marched past another furry animal in a case. I stopped to look. "Ah, a wolverine," I read out loud. I glanced up to find a museum worker bearing down on me. "A wolverine," she said, brusquely. Right. Just like the sign says. Which I can read. And I just did. Out loud. Ah, museum people, you just like to flaunt your knowledge, don't you? (Its okay. I probably would too if I worked in a museum.)

We passed a door that read "DO NOT BLOCK." It was blocked by a fat trash can. So, maybe museum workers just can't read?

... Okay, perhaps not.

We meandered further down the door-lined hallway. We came to an alcove with an Egyptian mummy stuck in it. Seriously, a mummy in the basement of a museum on the same corridor as a stuffed wolverine? Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, Egyptian. {I actually wasn't expecting it either, so don't half feel bad about it.}

We ended up turning around with the realization - finally! - that the exhibit we were searching for was, wait for this mind-blowing piece of info, closed for renovations.

We traced our steps back. Past the mummy, the wolverine ("the wolverine"), the sleeping python still curled up, the rumbling doors, the unfortunately-out-of-style bear and wolf, and finally back past the mopping maids.

They stopped talking and looked up at us as we trekked past, amused.

Kroger, Cars, & Kim Jong Il

2009-10-26T16:03:00.006-05:00

I was pulling into Kroger. I hadn't been to this Kroger in so long. It is a place that I drive by all the time but for some reason always find a different store to actually shop at. Strange how that happens.

As I pulled into the parking lot a car appeared on my right. My right-of-way, yes. Yes, sir. Sir? Siiiiiir?! See me, please.

He does. Eventually.

We do the little I-brake, you-brake, everyone-brake dance. (Yes, the original break dance.)

But - of course - he is always halfway through the little psuedo-intersection. So, I wave him through.

And there he went.

He had Kim Jong Il's hair. Funny.
He had Kim Jong Il's glasses. I chuckle.
He had Kim Jong Il's shirt on. Unbelievably hilarious.

And I think we all know that one cannot have Kim Jong Il's hair, Kim Jong Il's glasses, and Kim Jong Il's shirt, and not be Kim Jong Il.

(And I don't have concrete evidence, but I have a sneaking sensation that he also had Kim Jong Il's mad driving skills.)

my grandparents are moving out of state

2009-10-24T08:19:00.004-05:00

I remember one time a friend was dropping me off at my grandparents' house. I had spent the day with her, but I don't remember what we did. I don't remember hardly anything about that day. Actually, I wouldn't remember that day at all except for one thing.

We pulled up and I was gathering my bags to climb out. She was talking.

"So, this is where your grandparents live," she said, laughing. "What if I came by one day and knocked on their door and said I was your friend. They would think I was a weirdo, or something."

I said good-bye and started walking up to the house. But something was not right. I was extremely perplexed. I felt like Madame Clavel.

Then it hit me and I laughed. My resolution was much happier than Madame Clavel's and Madeline's. I swung around to see if I could stop my friend, but she was already out of the driveway and driving away down the street.

Of course. She had never met my grandparents before. That was it. Exactamente.

I wished I could have corrected her. I wished I could have told her that if she knocked on my grandparents' door and told them that she was my friend and that she was hungry and needed somewhere to sleep, that they would feed her and give her the choice of beds (not to mention giving her some of the world's best conversation). Actually, even if she didn't tell them that she was my friend, they still would have done the same thing.

Of course.

Potatoes Make You Stronger

2009-10-19T20:38:00.005-05:00

The Resident Investor and Economist (related to, but not the same as the Resident Law Student) came with me the last time I had to feed the pets .

I found out later that he went to assure that I did not lock my keys and phone inside again. Thanks for that vote of confidence, Griff.

After feeding the sundry animals (aminals as one little girl I babysit calls them; also, there are no enemies, only emenies), we hopped back into the car.

Griffin: "Morgan, I have something to tell you."
Me: "Okay."
Griffin: "You know, Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations..."

From there the conversation devolved into a discussion on whether oatmeal, potatoes, or wheat make a person stronger (Hi ya, Scottish, Irish, and English peoples of history and all dear ancestors to us). I tried to get Griffin (See! There is an example of our Irish heritage.) to include rice in the argument, but apparently Adam Smith didn't study rice or the Orient. If he had, I am sure he would have thrown his weight behind making Mongolian beef and rice the official dish of England.

From there the conversation moved to the concept of planting just potato crops and the economic benefit that would entail. And then we discussed the "an Gorta Mór," or the Great Irish Potato Famine.

And in classic Morgan and Griffin style, we were in a roiling disagreement over some monstrous point of logical or other by the time we reached home. (Of course, the trip home was only about 3 minutes long.)

{Actually, I am not sure if we were arguing or not, but looking at how our discussions normally run, we probably were. But seriously with ancestry like ours, what is one to expect?}

"this is a pictorial picture"

2009-10-18T16:18:00.009-05:00

I had election judge training this past week. Due to some upgrades in the technology (yes, for reaching the 21st century and having laptops for the judges to use), I had to take the beginner's course, though, I served as election judge/clerk twice this past year.

Older ladies who have been election judges for nearly twice my lifetime had to take the beginner's course also. Inefficient government, you are not very good at making friends.

And the beginner's course was over four hours long, all on one afternoon. (But wait, there's more! You do get one five minute break!)

It was painfully dull and repetitive. It should have been excruciatingly dull and repetitive.

But it wasn't.

You see the dude who teaches the course was accidentally hilarious.

hyjdftrewqtyuiopytr32`

(excuse the above unintelligible typing - I was cleaning my keyboard)

Like I was saying, the man was a laugh and a half.

With an accent that was half-Oriental descendant and half-Texas twang, he dryly led us through the course and exercises.

As he clicked through the slide show, he came to a diagram. "This is a pictorial picture," he said.

My head almost hit the table from my silent laughter. I want a pictorial picture. (Actually, I want an unpictorial picture; that might be worth some money.)

Pictorial pictures for the win.

His tone throughout was completely and unintentionally humorous. And I think - actually, I am terribly afeared - that I was the only one who appreciated it.

As we - quickly? - plodded through the info and worked toward setting the voting booths up and such (honestly, I think every registered voter should have to take this class - then perhaps they will appreciate us and the pain of provisional ballots), he never changed pace. His even-keel nature was Hall of Fame caliber. His veiled sense of hilarity, hilarious.

Four hours was a long time, especially when 90% of the stuff a veteran election judge can do in their sleep. But I really hope that when I'm 75 years old and having to retake the beginner's course because they have added microchip scanners that I get someone who is as hilarious as this dude was.

Or maybe just that I can still appreciate it at that age.

now it is time for silly things with Morgan, the part of the show where Morgan does a silly thing

2009-10-16T09:53:00.002-05:00

Oh, dear, yes. You bet your bottom dollar, yes. It happens to even the best of us.

This morning, I went over to a neighbors' house to feed their pets (three cats, one beta, and a dog; RIP one frog and one fish since the last time I took care of their pets).

Gorgeous day. Lovely, lovely all the way around.

I pull my hair up and decide not to put my contacts in yet (so, wohooo for Morgan wearing glasses). And I promptly bebop (actually I drove, but it was a bebopping-type of drive) over to the neighbors' house.

{Wave as I pass familiar faces}

At the neighbors' there are two workers working (duh) on building out a covered porch.

So, I hop out of the car - taking my keys, phone, and 'to-do' list.

{Good morning!}

Let the dog out.
Check.

Feed the dog.
Check.

Feed the cats.
Check.

Feed the fish.
Check.

Feed the outside cat.
Check.

Make sure to leave the door unlocked behind you when feeding the outside cat.
Epic failure.

There I stood on the back porch with my keys, including their house key, and phone locked inside the house. (And my coffee locked inside the car, which was just about as disheartening.)

Oh. My. Word.

You see, I normally don't do stuff like that. I have yet to lock the keys in a car or leave my purse somewhere.

Option #1) Walk home - it would take 20 minutes... perhaps my family would get worried and send a posse out to rescue me before too long.

Option #2) Walk to a different neighbor's house, which is in the opposite direction of my house. And I don't even know if they are home. And then my family would arrive at the first neighbors' house and find the car but no me. And maybe they would call the police and National Guard and search for me only to find me safe at a neighbor's house the entire time. And then everyone would call it out as a hoax and... hmhm, this sounds familiar.

Option #3) See if one of the workers has a cell phone.

Eureka.

Then I realize the beauty of them being there. 'Cuz I really didn't want to hitch hike like a hobo today... though, I really did look like a hobo.

I borrow their cell phone. And call home.

Llamando says the phone. Neat a Spanish-speaking phone, thinks I. (Actually, I didn't think that... but anyway.)

I try to be calm on the phone to my mom: "I'VE LOCKED MYSELF OUT AND MY CELL PHONE AND KEYS ARE INSIDE AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVE DONE THIS."

("Wait? Where are you?")

"FEEDING THE PETS. AND MY PHONE IS LOCKED INSIDE ALSO. AND..."

("How are you calling me?!")

"I BORROWED A CELL PHONE FROM THE WORKERS. AND..."

You get the gist of the conversation.

She offers to call the neighbor for me because I don't have her number because it is on my cell phone in the house. Technology.

Mothers are indispensable.

So, I sit and wait. Now is when I would like to have my cup of coffee.

I watch the workers use a circular saw to slice through boards at the perfect spot by just eyeballing it. The roof of the future-porch is coming together quickly. One stands on a narrow board ten feet up in the air, fitting the notched boards in their resting place.

My mom calls back. (hmmhmm... bad call Nokia, placing the "silence" button right next to the "talk" button.)

There is an extra key, which I track down. And I let myself back into the house.

Yes, without having to break a window. Not that I would have but if it were a movie that is what I would have done. You know, "if it were for a show".

I rescue my phone and keys. I thank the workers. Profusely.

And I drive home, guzzling my coffee on the way.

today

2009-10-14T20:25:00.006-05:00

Please, excuse the noise while I wrestle the Christmas lights off of a fake palm tree.

No, parfaits? Oh. Please. Dear. Me. Cinnamon roll then? Perhaps. Please. Two. Yes. Two.

Yes, Home Depot dude worker man, I actually do know what I am looking for and I don't need any help. I know I have my Vera Bradley purse and my grande Starbucks coffee ($2.00 - half paid with quarters), but didn't you learn in kindergarten to not judge a book by its cover? Uh huh.

Oh my word. Yes. It has happened. Every single Buc-ee's gas pump is taken. Except one. Hello, is there a hurricane I don't know about? No. Y'all just want to invade my little fav gas station. Sure. I got it. All twenty-gazillion of y'all.

Hello, self-checkout at Home Depot. Meet my coin purse. My wallet has to stop weighing > me. Appreciated.

Kroger - 10 loaves of bread for $10. Sweet. Let's start a PB&J stand. Or become Hanzel and Gretel and walk halfway to Nova Scotia on $20.

Helloooooo, Griffin. That was my iPod with Bethany Dillon playing. Ooooh, yeah, never mind, pumpkin. Just kidding. (if I didn't include this you were going to comment about it anyway... don't deny it)

fear not - i'll never run away to be a telemarketer

2009-10-13T14:24:00.008-05:00

That is one scenario which you need not worry about.

(just in case you ever did, which would be exceedingly strange indeed)

October... and Holidays... and Such

2009-10-10T09:24:00.001-05:00

It is cooler now. Global warming is over for the year.

October's weather arrived nine days late, but that often happens now days with the month and its weather being shipped in separate packages. Just glad it arrived before Columbus Day. Everything gets behind with a three-day weekend. I am sure Columbus would never consent to such a silly fuss for him.

No, for Columbus Day we should not halt the mail service. Instead we should get mail twice during the day, to honor the fact that the mail people get to drive on the beautiful land he discovered for us... sorta of.

See... all these No-Mail-Monday-Holidays are cookie cutters. Columbus Day is treated the same way as MLK, Jr. Day and Presidents' Day. But really - what do Columbus and MLK and the Presidents have in common? (Answer: Nothing. Seriously. Except the fact that they were all men.)

So, why should they have equal holidays? Why can't we have some creativity, people?! Congress can't be that boring (actually they can, but we won't bring that up at this time).

See, one must think outside The Box in every way possible. Of course, this is rather unavoidable half the time now, now that they are shipping The Box separately also.

The Oldest Clock... in the House

2009-10-09T08:06:00.003-05:00

I had the two younger brothers last night. We were the only ones at home.

This happens a bit more frequently now that the oldest of the young trio has hit high school. (1997 Remember When (A Nostalgic Look Back in Time) sold separately.)

We were eating supper in the kitchen and solving all the world's problems. And not necessarily in that order.

Of course, an obvious problem arose to be discussed. The issue of having two clocks in the same room, both visible at the same time. We sat there and watch the two clocks in the kitchen, the microwave and oven.

The suspense was lethal. For two of us, at least.

Finally, the microwave clocked turned the minute before the oven clock did.

Held breathes were released.

Seth, with a deep sigh: "That isn't fair."
Morgan: "Hmm... why?"
Seth: "Because the oven clock is older."
Morgan: "Oooh."
Nate: "Yeah, he is older. He came with the house, Mom said."
Morgan: "But what about the microwave?"
Seth: "Remember the microwave that came with the house broke. So this one is newer."
Nate: "Yeah, he is the oldest clock in the house."
Seth: "Yeah, noooo... Mom's and Dad's is older. It was before the house."
Nate: "Oh, yeah. Mom's and Dad's clock is the oldest clock in the house. Yep."

This apparently had been a previous topic of serious discussion for them; one that they had analyzed and mulled over.

And we all know that as children that would have fascinated us also.

In Admiration of the Society of Brilliant Hens

2009-10-05T09:41:00.005-05:00

It was muggy and humid. I felt a hundred drops of sweat forming on my arms and face.

And it was beautiful. The atmosphere was foggy and dense. The sun was stretching itself up beyond the tops of the lower tree branches. The old barn was wreathed with pillars of sunlight streaming through the fog. I should have brought my camera.

The silhouettes of various farm animals were visible from my seat on the damp, wooden swing set. They bleated, clucked, and neighed in three-part harmony. I could see my younger brother being eagerly surrounded by goats. He definitely had their breakfast.

Then he opened the chicken coop to let out the Society of Hens to spend the day pecking and clucking and reigning supreme in the barnyard.

Their silhouettes bobbled back and forth. Their morning greetings were loud and persistent.

The flock broke out of the barn. Three of them promptly hopped up into the goat trough to scavenge for leftovers. The rest socialized in the patchy grass, pecking and chatting.

There was a white one that caught my eye. Besides reminding me of Carlos William Carlos and The Red Wheelbarrow upon which so much depends, I sensed this chicken was a mischievous one.

I am not sure how the appearance of a chicken can be mischievous, but this one was. And I knew it.

I watched it. It wandered from the group, feigning to peck at invisible bugs. I was amused and curious.

It neared the corner of the barn. Then it glanced back at the group of oblivious hens who were chuckling and scurrying around, thinking of nothing but their stomachs.

The white chicken then turned the barn corner and ran straight toward an opening in the side of the barn where a slat was missing. The chicken never hesitated; it silently ran with the clear intent of reaching the opening before any of the hens realized its absence. It was - for the first time in recorded history, perhaps - a chicken with a mission.

The white tail feathers disappeared into the barn. I smiled.

A hen with a brain. A hen with a plan. Who would have thought?

Then a speckled hen wandered toward the corner. It paused and looked back, then dashed onward toward the opening also. A second speckled hen witnessed this escape attempt, and stumbled-tripped-stumbled-tripped after it.

The two speckled hens sprang through the opening in single file.

The remaining hens pecked at their caterpillars and beetles. They fought over the best spots with petty anger. They would spend the day trying to satisfy their insistent appetites.

And the three in the barn? I think Orwell wrote about them in Animal Farm. Only he mistakenly personified them as pigs.

Why are Homeschool Moms Sending Their Daughters to College?

2009-10-04T14:49:00.005-05:00

But first I beg forgiveness. There are many generalizations in the following ramble. I apologize for them - each and every one - but the use of them was vital to concise writing. Furthermore, I use the term "moms", though both parents are implicated in this action. Also, I would like to establish another fact from the very beginning: this post is not aimed at anyone specifically. Please do not consider it to be so in any way, shape, or form. It is simply my honest thoughts on a topic that has been on my heart/mind of late.

How could someone labor daily for nearly two decades on a project only to lose sight of the original goal and purpose in the final phase of work? The thought of such a monumental oversight is appalling. How careless.

And yet homeschool moms consistently send their daughters to college.

For women who have embraced their role as mothers and helpmets, it is beyond puzzling to watch them pour into their daughters desires to pursue degrees and jobs. For women with an astounding knack for thinking outside of the box, they are waiting eagerly in line with society on this one. For women who submissively and respectfully accept the Biblical, God-created and God-ordained concept of gender roles, they seem forgetful of them as their daughters near high school graduation.

Why the disconnect? Why are they serving this disfavor upon their daughters?

Because homeschoolers have a chip on their shoulder. Don't try to deny it; in general, they do. And this chip obstructs the moms' view of the original purpose and end goal of homeschooling.

The chip? It is two-fold.

First, it is about excelling in everything academic and being socially normal; proving wrong the modernist who deems homeschooling a lazy life-style that produces socially inept, slow developing children.

Secondly, it is about parental investment in the student. After investing nearly a score of years in a child, a mom desires for her work to "pay-off". An academically, socially successful child reflects positively on the mom. It proves the mom right in choosing to homeschool in the first place.

If homeschooled girls don't go to college, that will reflect poorly on homeschooling. If they stay at home and learn skills from their mothers, homeschoolers will be laughed out of town. And the girls' brains and intelligence will be wasted.

Homeschoolers must represent at whatever cost, apparently.

The situation is completely nonplussing.

I thought homeschool moms would have been eager to raise up the next generation of homeschool moms. And I think in their hearts they are, but their actions speak of a lack of commitment. And invariably actions impact more than words.

Scottish Music (techno remix [of course])

2009-09-30T21:38:00.004-05:00

I feel like this entire post (however brief) is a techno remix. My day has rather been that way.

You know. Something like Scotland the Brave (techno remix). Really, the things people think of... seriously, how did the world cope before techno remixes? Though, I have a strange feeling that my ancestors probably made up their own versions of techno which sufficed quite well.

Yeah. I feel like I should live my life in fast forward now. And do handsprings everywhere instead of walking. And drive a SSC Ultimate Aero. Or perhaps just Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.

But - unfortunately - I can't do handsprings.

i find no one's position more enviable

2009-09-29T09:53:00.004-05:00

I have this little ditty I roll around in my head a lot. It goes like this, "If one can not be content today, why should one expect to be content on the morrow." (Make sure you say it exactly as Mary Bennett would.)

Then I have an amplified version which I pull out and read in my head probably {much} more frequently.

That saying goes something like this, "If I am not at peace, if I am content in where the eternal Creator of the Universe has me right now, then why in the world do I think the next step in life will satisfy me?!?"

Right.

There are times when I internally (and externally) mumble and grumble about (and now for some reason, the little cursor thing that shows where I am typing has gone invisible; so this post is now guest starring the Elusive Cursor [definitely related to the Elusive Scarlet Pimpernel]) where I am in life.

For some one who has lived literally her entire life outside of society's pretty little box, it is humorous that I should feel at odds with where I am. But it is not at all humorous that I should feel at odds with where God has me (though, I don't think I am; I do -ashamedly- allow my selfish nature to have a field day every once and awhile before I rein it back in and put the lid back on it).

When I step back and survey my friends (hi, y'all) I find no one's position more enviable than the one I currently am in.

No, that is not the horrifically egotistical statement it appears to be.

I do not glory in my present state of character or nature (dudes, I have been reading Jane Austen lately, in case you haven't noticed). But I do glory in God's graciousness. If I am where He - He who marked off the dimensions of the earth's foundation - desires me to be then I should find no one's position more enviable.

(Sweet! The cursor has returned; must have been on coffee break... which reminds me... I need a coffee break also.)

i am a very foolish soul

2009-09-28T16:35:00.003-05:00

Don't argue with me. It is true, exceedingly so. I am a very foolish soul.

I feel like Mr. Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (which I am currently reading to my youngest brother so expected many delicious references to the story hereafter) after he invite Lucy to tea in order for him to kidnap her and turn her over the the White Witch.

Lucy refuses to believe the truth of his actions, but he pleads and sobs that it is true, that he is in league with the White Witch. His intentions from the very beginning were ill, though he eventually recants them and returns Lu to "the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe".

But excuse the Narnia-trail.

I am a very foolish soul.

I allow these little things grow up inside of me. No one else can see them; no else knows. Half the time I don't even fully realize their existence until they have grown so big and ghastly that I cannot escape them. It takes an inordinate amount of elbow grease and prayer to uproot them.

They are easy to hide; they don't make the slightest peep - that is until they are revealed.

It is strange that man can so ignore the state of his own heart and character; how oblivious to the machinations of one's own soul, do we often stand.

Then comes the fall, the crashing descent into utter foolishness. With what humiliation and shame-facedness, I stand before God.

How could I have not realized my own folly? What was this thing that I allowed to leech onto my soul for so long? I cannot even try to justify myself with the claim of good intentions.

And I am reminded - again - that there is little else that is as clarifying to the complete abjectness of oneself apart from Christ than to have the truth of one's soul laid bare.

"Search me, O God, and know my
heart;
test me and know my anxious
thoughts.
See if there is any offensive way in
me,
and lead me in the way
everlasting."
-Psalm 139:23-24

The Paint-Splattered Blogger

2009-09-27T08:04:00.006-05:00

I am spending my weekend taking a spin on the color wheel, turning my doing dials up a notch.

I am repainting a room with the other ladies in my family.

(With appropriate University of Texas football game-related breaks for the younger two, and appropriate University of Arkansas football game-related breaks for the other.)

So, after the pigment settles and the paint clears, I will back here.

But until then I have to run to Home Depot for another gallon of paint.

supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

2009-09-24T14:59:00.002-05:00

Thanks, Daniel; it is perfect.

I had to re-title the other two choices for them to all fit. So now instead of Funny, you have Ha! And instead of Favorite, you have Fav.

When I re-titled them, they all reset to zero (Logically, of course. What if I had gone through and changed Interesting to Utterly Gollum-istic? Ha, exactly.)

And now - as we have all been aware of somewhere in the back of our minds since toddlerhood - supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is the new interesting.

soliciting your help

2009-09-23T21:00:00.005-05:00

I am not quite sure how to feel about when people click "interesting" on the Reactions section below my posts.

(Don't stop; it is there for the clicking, I promise.)

But all the same.

Interesting is such a vague word. I originally meant to change that choice to a more concretely descriptive word but never got around to changing the default settings.

Interesting is a word that depends so much on intonation, on emphasis.

You could click it thinking, "Oooookay... that was certainly interesting. Morgan is, well, yeah..."

Or you could click it thinking, "That was interesting. Enjoyably so."

See? Mhmmm... exactly.

I need to change the "interesting" button to something else pretty soon to relieve myself of the killer curiosity that strikes every time someone checks the "interesting" button.

So, any suggestions on a replacement word?

a pirate

2009-09-23T07:40:00.003-05:00

I met with a pirate the other day.

He must have walked the plank, or been marooned, or perhaps been on the wrong side of a mutiny, because he was on foot.

I think he was hiding a peg leg within his jeans and shoes.

He was struggling back to find a ship. He was shouldering his belongs and marching forth.

If I had stopped to talk, he would have greeted me with: "Ahoy, there, me heartie! Arrr, what colors ye be flying, matey?"

But I didn't stop and neither did he.

And, like two ships in the dark, we passed each other.

Those Fraulein Maria Days

2009-09-21T17:17:00.008-05:00

I perhaps was asking for it by playing The Sound of Music soundtrack on my way to babysit. But there is something intrinsically inspiring about singing along to I Have Confidence on one's way to babysitting responsibilities.

I drove past a repairman getting out of his car. He stared, unsure. I gave him the "Yes good sir, I am belting out The Sound of Music soundtrack. Therefore, doubt not your sanity, but instead mine" nod.

It was beautifully ordinary day. I was achieving Mary Poppins' standards for awhile (this is case "awhile" extended as far as me getting out of the car and knocking on their door.)

Then I kicked off my flip-flops and rolled up my jeans and commenced playing Find the Secret, Magic Crystal in the sand box. I was in charge of playing the part of the sneaky, crooked treasure seeker (the role played out by a giant plastic lizard, of course).

Not quite ultra anti-Mary Poppins, but rather veering toward a more Maria-esque activity. For some reason, I know that Mary Poppins would have maintained complete decorum while playing in a sand box. I didn't.

Then we played hide-and-go-seek.

Ha.

My flip-flops broke. My flip-flops broke.

I tossed them in the back of the pick-up truck (ooh dear, and there they still are; I need to go retrieve them) and attempted to continue on barefoot.

The morph from Mary Poppins (who never even misplaces her talking parrot-head umbrella!) to Fraulein Maria was complete.

The country ground isn't friendly like a city lot is. I stumbled (ouch, berry brier) and hobbled (gravel driveway, ohoohohohohoh...!) my way through the game.

I was only lacking a pine cone to sit on or a canoe to fall out of. But withstanding the MIA pine cones and canoes, I think I still did Maria proud. Mary Poppins, well, that is a different story.

Hum Diddly Diddly

2009-09-20T18:30:00.002-05:00

Griffin: "There are tears from the saints /For the lost and... and the insane!"*
I look at him, amused.
Griffin: "They are crying for you, Morgan. They are crying for you!"

A new [real] post soon.

*a play off of these lyrics

Welcome to America: Where it is Chic to be Faux Busy

2009-09-14T15:10:00.009-05:00

We are all faux, faux busy. We can hardly breathe.

Betwixt bandballetdateswork and practicesbanquetserrands we haven't a chance to relax.

We have gotta get our nails done, our hair done, and our microwaving cooking done.

And before all the PTA4H&YMCA meetings.

We have gotta find ourselves a housekeeper, a landscaper, and a personal trainer.

Who has time to visit friends? Or call your mother?

We are all faux busy trying to keep up with FacebookandMyspace, not to mention those 10,000unreademailsinourinboxes.

BoardmeetinginToronto next week. Footballgameinthenextschooldistrict on Friday.

We are faux busy I don't know how anyone coped before cellphonesBlackBerrieswirelessinternet. How did they find the time?

They must have not been faux busy as us. Ofcourse.

yesterday

2009-09-11T09:25:00.005-05:00

[Babysitting Stint #1]

These kiddos are dreamers. And living, breathing Imagination Stations.

Me: "Whatcha doing?"
Six year old girl: "Looking at this feather."
Me: "Oh. What bird is it from?"
Six year old girl: "I don't know. I am trying to read it."
Me (with a wink): "Oh, is it in English?"
Six year old girl: "No. It is in Bird and I don't remember how to read Bird!"

It rained and we took a nature exploration walk in it. Nicely damp-ish. We found rocks ("oh, this rock is beautiful," in a hushed tone of awe). And half-rotten acorns. Those were beautiful, too.

I took the oldest one and we collected the eggs from the hen coop. The residents of the coop have dwindled down to one persnickety hen. She doesn't like you to touch her eggs. Believe me. It was two against one, but somehow - even then - we didn't outnumber her.

We played King, Queen, and Princesses with Lexi playing the part of evil King Frankie, the King of the Frankfurts. I was the good, but passive Queen... and, of course, the babysitees were the beautiful, perfect, misunderstood princesses. They were cast into the dungeon a dozen times only to eventually triumph and reign supreme.

They are very fairytale-istic.

[Babysitting Stint #1½]

I came home to find my house overrun with more strange children.
(not quite overrun and the children weren't quite strangers but it sounded good)

One came to visit me in my room. She is two and as mature as can be.

We played hair salon. She brushed my hair (in a couple of different directions) and we chatted.

Two year old girl: "Don't worry; this won't hurt."
I look up. She is carrying a pair of scissors towards me and my hair.
I confiscated them.

The resident law student stuck his head in the room to say hi - he had just gotten home from classes.
A minute later he is sitting opposite from me getting his hair combed. He never stood a chance, poor boy.

He eventually escaped. I think her attempt to put strawberry chap stick on his fingers nails was the final straw.

Then she discovered my bottle of lotion. I don't mind lotion on my hands, feet, arms, and legs... but, no. She wanted to put it on my face. And she did, globs of it. My face will never feel the same.

[Babysitting Stint #2]

As I started my dad's truck (an A/C-less, cranky creature which I dearly love to drive), I heard a "Oh, Morgan!"

Out from the bed of the truck dashed wide-eyed a five year old brother, pell-mell and helter-skelter. That is one way to ruin a good game of hide-and-go-seek.

They ate pizza. And we played chess (I lost twice... badly).

Ten year old boy: "You can drive?"
Me: "Yep."
All four kids in unison: "Oh, yeah, you're eighteen!"
Me: "No... I am twenty."
All four kids in unison: "You are TWENTY!?!"
Twelve year old girl: "Wait, did you have two birthdays in a year?"

Then for thirty minutes they sat at rapt attention while I told them "true stories" from my past. My life has never been (and never will be again) so fascinating. They laughed and sighed (and probably would have cried if I had told them a heart-wrencher).

Ten year old boy: "My uncle recent got elected as a politician."
Me: "Really? Wow."
Ten year old boy: "Yeah, he is really funny."
Five year old boy: "He is a funny-tician."

Then it was time for bed.

Me: "Okay, go get your PJs on."
Five year old boy: "Well... I probably shouldn't. I might accidentally set the house on fire. You never know..."
(long pause)
Five year old boy: "We are Aggies, you know."
In case you are wondering, I died.

I had forgotten to bring a book to read until the parents returned. So instead I contented myself with their Shel Silverstein books. And I was very content, indeed.

The drive home was dark and damp.

(Number of cars I met: 0
Number of deer I met: 32 and counting)

And then I got home (are those bruises on my knee caps already?!) and ate Honey Nut Cheerios in the dark house.

of course

2009-09-09T20:59:00.006-05:00

My bathroom looks [temporarily] like a Calcuttan bazaar.

I feel like the Raja of Paja. I am sure Mary Lennox would understand. She would justify my stealing of her favorite phrase, "raja of paja." I like it too, the phrase that is.

I also like "spit spot." How handy a phrase.

Mary Lennox would have found Mary Poppins a very good influence, I believe. And, of course, Sara Crewe would have been a beneficial companion for Mary Lennox. Frances Hodgson Burnett should have introduced them. Of course, Ms. Burnett could have made Mr. Craven be Ms. Minchin's cousin. That would have been convenient.

And you can't deny that those two are simply meant to be related (Mr. Craven and Ms. Minchin, of course.) But then that would implicate poor, dear Mrs. Amelia Minchin in the relationship, too. Hmmm... most unfortunate.

I feel horrible about her having to be sister to Ms. Michin but then to also give her Mr. Craven as a cousin (and therefore Collin as a second cousin!) would be cruel and unusual punishment, indeed.

But, then again Mr. Craven and Collin both improve and become normal, functioning humans (as does Mary, thankfully) by the end of the book... and by that time perhaps, Ms. Amelia moves out and lives with them after Ms. Michin's final and complete humiliation.

And Sara could come visit and meet Mary.

See, it was meant to be. And it would all happen before Mary Poppins could say "spit spot."

a letter

2009-09-02T20:29:00.010-05:00

Dear Most Honorable Local Philanthropist,

I am writing this letter for one reason, and one reason alone. But at this point a problem arises, a problem which serves as a gulf betwixt my pen and this letter. I can't quite remember what the one reason was.

Instead I shall narrate my day to you. (What other courses of action are open to me? I loathe to toss this paper out with the salutation and first sentence written for naught. And I rest assured that the Secretary of the Local Philanthropist needs a dose of daily life sometimes.)

It was a rather unremarkable day. Nothing too extraordinary. (Dear Secretary who works often with words and letters, has not the word "extraordinary" always puzzled you? Extraordinary things should be riotously ordinary, right? If I were to describe something as super-de-duperordinary, you would imagine that it is pathetically, placidly ordinary, right?)

Regardless of the extraordinary debacle of extraordinary, the cat tipped over my newly-filled ink bottle on Matilda's pea-green shawl this morning. It could not have been more improved, though my second-hand (no pun intended) gloves underneath were rather unrecoverable. It was a small price to pay for accidentally saving Matilda's respectability. (Dear Secretary of the Local Philanthropist, if you have any predilection toward the color of pea-green please accept my apologizes and condolences.)

It wasn't the particular fault of the cat, though, it is a particular habit of hers. It was the fourth time in the past two days. Matilda's wardrobe has never been so improved over such a condensed period of time. But Matilda has a narrower view of the situation, unfortunately. She encamped herself in the sitting-room, sewing pea-green fabric in a maniacal manner. She had had plans to reestablish pea-green in her wardrobe by Friday, but the cat snuck into the sitting room.

As a result of the cat's actions, today I suffered through a shopping trip with Matilda to buy new fabric and ribbons. Pea-green, of course. (I am beginning to sincerely hope that you did not have an endeared great-aunt who wore pea-green. Not that great-aunts are not the exact creatures pea-green was made for, but endearing oneself to a great-aunt can greatly alter one's common sense. I had one great-aunt who came to tea one afternoon only to have the cat race into the room in pursuit of a field mouse. Matilda allowed that one event to cloud her logical thinking; the cat has been banned from the parlor ever since.)

Matilda has rather frazzled after the shopping excursion. I put on some afternoon tea (which forever reminds me of great-aunts) and then took it into Matilda, who was sewing the infamous pea-green color (which now will forever remind me of great-aunts) with a vengeance again. At that point...

Ah, yes, now I shall leave off of my engrossing daily narrative: I just remembered the reason for this letter. I know of a cat who is in need of a new residence. Would you be interested in adopting her? She is quite harmless and nearly extraordinary.

Sincerely,
The Local Neighbor

Scary, eh? Terrifying.

2009-08-26T21:19:00.005-05:00

I used to enjoy trying to figure people out, growing up.

But back then everything was one-dimensional, I realize now.

There were no real choices being made back then. Well, they were being made, they just didn't have a way to be expressed.

No, the rubber hadn't meet the road yet. We hadn't had a chance to make the calls yet.

We couldn't truly take on who we were yet and own our own decisions about life.

Up to this point, the decisions in our lives had been superficial for the most part. But inside we were growing and becoming someone, someone who was going to be us for the rest of our lives.

Scary, eh? Terrifying.

And then - it is unavoidable - the rubber hits the road. And we are who we are. All pretenses fall away. You can't run, and you can't hide.

It is paradoxical. All those years when you weren't calling the shots for yourself suddenly count. They counted all along, and now they are expressed. Where your heart has been all along is revealed.

You can't start creating who you are tomorrow - that process started yesterday.

Scary, eh? Terrifying.

Jiffy

2009-08-20T20:32:00.007-05:00

I am not quite sure how it happens.

You do the little word verification thing (to assure the world of your non-automated-computer nature).

Or attempt to do. I mean, really. Half of the time the word, or words, to type in for "verification" are smeared like too little butter over too much bread - and then the bottom half of the word has been whacked off.

So, after a five-minute interlude of clicking the "New Word" Button, you finally correctly type in "wyoming up."

And then you are sent to (the fudge-making room, Augustus Gloop!) a page which informs you that you will receive an email shortly to confirm (for the eleventy-first time) whatever is left to be confirmed.

And this is where it gets sketchy.

The designation as the time-frame as "shortly" is rather an understatement. How about so instantaneous that we sent it to you before you even finished the "p" in "up." We knew that you didn't know that we knew that you knew that you wanted to click "confirm" before you even knew the "confirm" button existed.

What about: "You will receive an email in a jiffy, as in 1/60 of a second."

Seriously, people. I get the email before my mouse click is more than half-way down. I get the email quicker that the Roadrunner (beep, beep) escapes Wile E. Coyote. It is like white on rice. Zipadee doo dah.

Like I said, I am not quite sure how it happens. But it sure blows my mind.

Jafemaapmajujuau

2009-08-16T21:20:00.005-05:00

The fall is approaching again.
[Fall as in autumn, that is, though, I don't doubt that there is also another fall approaching for me, too, eventually.]

I thought it was just here. Weren't we just all eating turkey and buttoning our - well - light-weight sweaters on?

Mhhmmm... exactly. Uh huh. It was just here.

The Powers That Be in regards to calendar keeping are getting a little sloppy. Someone should write them a letter telling them that we are catching on. The populace is wising up to their antics.

And we won't stand for it. Not for a moment.

I refuse to have my Januaryfebruarymarchaprilmayjunejulyaugust ripped off and condensed [imagine: Jafemaapmajujuau], just to arrive at Septemberoctobernovemberdecember a little faster. [Though, I must admit that I am partial to the fall months. But nevertheless I shall not allow this injustice to continue, regardless of my internal emotions, feelings, Cheerios, etc.]

So.

I thought and thought and thought and thought and thought about it, what to do to combat this ridiculous plot to forever skew time for the all peoples of the world.

I tried to write a letter, but the Post Office doesn't know where The Powers That Be (Time Keeper Ones) live either. I contacted Google Calendar, but I think [actually I know!] they are in cahoots with The Powers That Be.

And - at last - I decided that we will have to get used to the sound of Jafemaapmajujuau.

a six year-old's masterpiece.

2009-08-11T17:41:00.002-05:00

Don't worry.

They come off easily, those seven different color nail polishes smeared onto my toes.

She had a blast doing it. [and that is all that matters]

She would try to wipe off the excess on the edges only to wipe off the majority of polish on the nail also.

And then she would repaint the nail.

And then she would wipe the edges - and half of the nail.

And then she would repaint the nail.

[repeat indefinitely until a six year-old's patience or the nail polish runs out]

She would pull a color out of the box and make sure it she hadn't used it before. [the more the merrier, of course]

Then on it would go.

Yellow, pink, white, purple, red, orange, and clear with glitter. [Kaleidoscopic.]

It was beautiful. Smeared, patchy, and Bohemian.

because life is worth more when certain things are worthless

2009-08-06T10:44:00.006-05:00

It doesn't matter. I promise. And I am glad it doesn't.

Life would be a drag - a string of pointlessness - if it did.

I would be tired, and so would you, if things like this counted.
There would be more striving and strife.
And more heartbreak and heart attacks.
And more back-stabbing and back-sliding.

The world would be exhausted and yet would keep surging onward.

It wearies me to consider it. And makes me yawn and shiver.

If every little earthly thing was of great import.
If every man-made accolade truly meant something.
If a creation by the created to the created really counted.
What a tiring place this would be.

How young we would all die. And how quickly our fame would die, too.

I Live Still

2009-07-23T22:49:00.005-05:00

I know. I actually realize it, too.

I never post here. At least not in the course of recent history.

I feel your pain (come on, at least pretend you have some semblance of pain), too.

It isn't that I don't want to post. I just haven't found the time.

I have ideas. Bajillions of them. I just need time to sort through them, to organize them, to fix them into some rough state of publish-ability. That takes time. An embarrassing amount.

But my calendar is relenting quite a bit now, so, *in theory* I can dedicate some time to this... lame attempt at a blog?

Yeah, that is how I feel about this site. Glimpses of hope - not genius, note you - followed by decades of silence.

So, as long as you don't mind the current drowsy lulls, get ready to gear up for a more active blog within the next week... or perhaps I should hedge my bets... next month. :)

Summer Evening

2009-06-22T07:41:00.000-05:00

The sun just dropped behind the trees.
The cicadas applaud its final encore.

The day
(a dog barks)
is done
(a bird's final call echos).

The cat with a twitchy tail meows.
Twitch.
Twitch.

Somewhere a workman puts up his tools.
His day ends with the thud of the toolbox lid.

The crickets become steady,
the undercurrent of the night.

The red barn is barely visible though the trees.
The neighbors' light gains strength.

The first mosquito bites.
Then the sky turns [second mosquito bite] dark purple.

And eventually dark.

exactly

2009-06-20T20:29:00.003-05:00

where I am

2009-06-15T09:37:00.003-05:00

"You aren't in school! Wow, you have it easy!" she said, barely containing her envy and amazement.

By this time I had learned just to smile and nod. Especially when the speaker was younger.

I couldn't explain to her that the "easiest" thing for me to do would be to go to school. Then the questions would stop. I wouldn't be quite so weird. My life would once again become productive to society's eyes.

People bought that taking-a-year-off idea. Most of them actually loved the concept. But as that one year has morphed into the foreseeable future, people have become resistive and very-unsold on the idea.

For some reason they took my word when I said God was leading me to take a year off, but they aren't willing to believe me when I tell them that God just isn't leading me back to school as far as I can see. Honest to goodness.

Not doing society's default, one-size-fits-all plan is not well accepted in general. Nor is it often correctly characterized.

It is a thing I have to work through on my own with God. This isn't an "easy" choice. This is a free, real life "waiting on the Lord" seminar. It is about letting go. What I will be doing in a year, six-months, next month I have no idea. And it took me a while to come to terms with that, to accept the future as not being my choice about me and my plans.

But God had been good. Sometimes He will lead me (and leave me) in the dark for a while. Then we will break into the sunshine and what I am do to for a period of time will be revealed. Then off we go again into the shadows of waiting.

It isn't an issue of life and death. My life isn't under stiff persecution. This is a small thing in the grand scale of life. But regardless of how small this is, it still matters. How I choose to react to this situation will impact me for a number of years, if not for the rest of my life.

Contentment through Him, resting in Him, and relying on Him have all become more real and tangible.

And sometimes I muse that I am learning more by being out of school than I would by being in school.

I am sad

2009-06-12T20:17:00.003-05:00

I have come to a realization. A shocking one. Really actually a revelation.

You all do not read my stories, posts, etc. in the same tone and inflection and accent as I do.

No, you don't understand. This is a crucial crisis. This alters everything. Everything.

Nothing will ever be the same again. I write my stories in an accent, in a tone, in an inflection that makes my story my story. I tell to myself in my head in an accent. I don't just read my story as I write it. I tell it. I narrate it; I dramatize it.

It needs - it begs for - the accent, the inflection, the tone. Otherwise it is dead, blah, pointless. Boringly unacceptable. I am embarrassed.

Perhaps I will start prefacing my posts with the accent warning - I most often use either a slow, mellow Southern drawl, or a simple, unelaborative cadence with significant pauses - but it won't be the same. And I find that tragic.

2009-06-10T21:58:00.003-05:00

Sometimes it is easier
- actually it always is -
to think things out in one's head
than try to put the pen to paper
- the fingers to the keys -
and make half-way decent sense.

As you can see.

The Bag Lady

2009-06-07T21:59:00.005-05:00

Her hat was crooked. Not quite cocked, but looking like it wanted to be. She had long, dark, damp hair that disappeared somewhere in the folds of a once red but now ambiguously colored flannel jacket. I couldn’t see her eyes. She was staring at her cigarette. There wasn’t much to it. She had smoked it down to a nubbin. She stared at it with fixed attention. Then she glanced up. “Hi,” she said in a surprisingly mellow voice.

I never could resist walking up to street people. I was drawn to them and I hated it. I hated every minute I stood next to them. But the moment I walked away it was okay. Until the next time.

“Hi,” I said flatly. I looked at my shoes, then at a nearby trashcan. “Normally I’m the one wantin’ something,” she chuckled.

“So, why are you here?” I asked. I had learned that direct questions were the best for these situations. They appreciated it. Probably the only group of people in the world who collectively and consistently did.

They each had a story. Most sounded the same. But I always wanted to hear it anyway.

She kept chuckling and rolling the bit of cigarette left between her fingers. “Why do that matter?” she said, “Does it matter how I got here? Really? It doesn’t change a-thing. It don’t get me outta here.” Her voice had dropped by the time she reached her conclusion. It was low and muttering.

“But it tells me who you are,” I replied slowly. “And I want to know your story. I don’t know why. But I do.” I finished lamely, trailing off.

Some were better storytellers than others. Some glared at you and stalked away. Others were inescapable and were closely-related to three famous authors, one European opera singer, a wealthy Texas oilman, and a world-famous magician.

She looked at me suspiciously, then her face cleared. “Well,” she shoved her hat back. “ I just turned up here one day. I dunno know how. It wasn’t a one event that put me here. I just turned into me over my lifetime. It was a slow thing.” She cocked her head at me.

Her shoes were lace-less and her buggy only had three wheels. I automatically registered those details while she talked.

“Oh, I see,” I said, nodding. Our eyes met.
“Its okay,” she said, “It always is.”
“Right,” I said, not sure if her words were meant for herself or me. Or maybe it was her default phrase. Who knew.

“Well,” I shifted my weight and shuffled my feet in the customary signal for departure. “You know,” she continued obliviously, “Maybe it isn’t gonna be ok. Maybe it ain’t never has been. You know.”

I bit my lip. Normally these conversations were one-sided explanations of their plights. I was the silent, aloof observer, the unemotional receiver of the information.

“Maybe I have done wrong. Maybe I messed up. I dunno know. You know,” she finished up by biting the remaining end of the grimy cigarette.

Was I supposed to say something? Really, I was just here for a story. Though, in truth, why I even wanted to hear their stories in the first place I wasn’t sure.

Suddenly, she threw the cigarette pulp on the ground and started pushing her buggy away. The missing wheel caused the buggy to jolt and rattle rhythmically. Then she disappeared into the shadow of the nearby bridge.

People say the world is round. I don’t believe them. That would be too safe. And convenient. Everywhere I look I see edges. With people tottering on them. Waiting to fall, wanting to fall. And – sometimes, maybe – there are a few that just want something to hold onto.

Hang On

2009-06-05T09:02:00.002-05:00

There is another post coming... soon. A good one.

I started it on Sunday and haven't looked at it since... but I have mulled it over at night when I can't go to sleep.

So, hopefully - soon the clouds will break for me and I will get the post on here...

Hayley

2009-05-27T10:58:00.005-05:00

She stood out the moment I walked in the door. She was different than all the other kindergartners. For one thing she was white. But that doesn't matter.

"Whatch your daddy do?" piped up Tyson. "He is a lawyer," I said, holding the book I was reading high enough for the perennially-curious kids in the back row to get a satisfying glance. "Oh," said Hayley with aplomb, "I have a lawyer."

It was a new school, less than ten years old. It was clean. And bright. On the walls there were pictures of maracas colored by the kids for Cinco de Mayo. During February there had been a large bus peopled with white construction paper profiles with one black construction paper profile in honor of Rosa Parks. February was Black History month. But none of this mattered either.

And one day Hayley wasn't there. She came in with her Dora the Explorer backpack when we were half-way through the first book. The teacher gave her a hug. She had been in counseling, she explained.

It doesn't matter that it was in a poor part of town. It doesn't matter that the school didn't have a PTA. We were the PTA, and yet that didn't matter either.

My second to last time there was the Tuesday after a three-day weekend. The students huddled around me to share their stories from the extended weekend. Some had been to the beach. Others out to eat. Or to the movies. The group slowly dispersed to clean up their notebooks and crayons before reading. Hayley stayed.

Across the street the roosters were chronologically-challenged because they crowed when the sun rose, when the sun was directly overhead, when the sun cast long shadows across the asphalt road, and most the time in between. The hens pecked in the yards between the clothes lines and junk cars. But we didn't care because it didn't matter.

She mumbled something that I couldn't catch. "What was that, Hayley?" I asked, looking down at the freckled face, snaggle-tooth six-year old. "My Mom's birthday was this Sunday. So we got balloons and flowers and sent them to heaven," she said. "Oh," was all I could manage. "Yeah, she is dead... and so is my dad. I am in foster care," she said.

Sometimes we would finish volunteering at the school library at the same time the kindergartners were released. We would navigate the streams of children toward the doors. Invariably, a student from our classes would see us. They would smile and wave. Smile and wave as if we hadn't seen them just forty-five minutes ago. And as if we weren't going to see them next week. And in the end that mattered. It was the only thing that did.

Another J.R.R. Thought

2009-05-23T10:13:00.003-05:00

"I had forgotten that," said Eomer. "It is hard to be sure of anything among so many marvels. The world is all grown strange... How shall a man judge what to do in such times?"
"As he ever has judged," said Aragorn. "Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor aren't they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man's part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house."
- The Two Towers, J.R.R. Tolkien

They All Sound the Same Anyway

2009-05-22T09:07:00.003-05:00

Lexi: "... and there were gondolas."
Morgan: "Gondolas aren't in China."
10 year-old boy: "No, they're in Venus!"
Morgan: "No..."
Lexi & 10 year-old boy: "They're... they're in Vienna!"
Morgan: "No."
Lexi: "Ven..."
Lexi & 10 year-old boy: "Venice!"
Morgan: "Yes, exactly."
Lexi: "So, what was I thinking was in China?"
Morgan: "Pagodas?"
Lexi: "YES!"

One Down, Two to Go

2009-05-20T14:38:00.004-05:00

I just finished The Fellowship of the Ring, which is the first of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I had struggled through the first half of the book years ago, only to have to return it to the library before becoming engrossed in it. If I had read a few more chapters I think I would have been much more proactive in rechecking out the book and exploring the world of J.R.R. Tolkien.

It is an interesting book to read, especially with having already watched the trilogy multiple times. I wish I hadn't. I wish I had taken the time to read the trilogy beforehand. Now as I read the books, I am stuck in the narrow box of the movie's portrayal. Every action or character is affixed to the movie's concept of the book.

And I know the ending. This is pathetic.

I cannot imagine the suspense the reader would have not knowing what in the Shire is going to happen next, as the Halflings put it. It would be delicious fun.

But instead I get to enjoy the 21st century challenge of enjoying a book that someone else has already explained to me using their own interpretation.

But so far here are my thoughts - for whatever they are worth...

I like J.R.R.'s writing style. I am not one who normally loves fantasy stories (though, the Narnia series are some of my all-time favorites; reread them if you haven't in the past five years), but Tolkien is good. In his works fantasy intersects with the world of Men. There is supernatural but nothing ridiculous. He creates a world in which the fantasy seems realistic and not far-fetched.

Though it might seem superfluous, the history of the Middle-Earth that The Fellowship of the Ring is chock full of is so interesting and necessary. It gives a perfect backdrop to the story. With the history, one can better understand the weight of the struggles, the prejudices and flaws of the characters, and the overall intensity of the books. Slog through it but appreciate it all the same.

Tolkien was brilliant. [end of point number 3]

The concept of evil verse good is a common theme in most fantasy stories, but few stories would have a clearer delineation of good and evil than LOTR has. It is an all-out-battle for the saving of Middle-Earth by a band of courageous souls. The Enemy is unabashedly evil. There is no good in him, though at times he is extremely deceptive.

And my last two cents - as much as I would have loved to read the books before the movie, I know I would have been devastated if I had. I had never realized how much the movie cuts out. I had assumed they had mainly condensed the book instead of leaving out half of it (at least) all together. Utterly disappointing. I would have been aghast. Actually, I am aghast.

Anyway, The Two Towers is sitting next to me, begging me to read a chapter... see you on the other side of Gondor.

As I Progress Through the Trilogy...

2009-05-18T19:40:00.004-05:00

"Thus, we return once more to the destroying of the Ring," said Erestor, "and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the Fire in which it was made? That is the path of despair. Of folly, I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me."
"Despair, or folly?" said Gandalf. "It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not. It is wisdom to recognize necessity, when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to a false hope. Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought will not enter that any will refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it. If we seek this, we shall put him out of reckoning."

- The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

In Mid-May

2009-05-17T16:09:00.006-05:00

It is beginning to feel like summer. The heat and humidity are making their annual appearance.

The humdrum of the dragonflies. The buzz of the wasps.
The rise of the heat waves from the road.

That drowsiness of the afternoon is beginning to set in. The warmth closes in.

Smothering. Sleepily.

And all before June.

Why, yes, I do dabble in photo-editing in my spare time...

2009-05-13T20:58:00.002-05:00

Hobbits and the Such

2009-05-12T20:40:00.004-05:00

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. And already, Frodo, our time is beginning to look black. The Enemy is fast becoming very strong. His plans are far from ripe, I think, but they are ripening. We shall be hard put to it."

- The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Dear Mother

2009-05-10T09:21:00.003-05:00

I just wanted to say thank you.

Thank you for your desire and vision to home school.
Thank you for having the tenacity to go through with it.

Thank you for your advice and wisdom.
Thank you for sharing it without ever being overbearing.

Thank you for your patience and stamina.
Thank you for getting up every day and taking on the challenges.

Thank you for your smile and laughter.
Thank you for being a wonderful friend.

Some people think that moms can be divided into two group: "Working" and "Staying-At Home."
But I know that really the true division is "Working Outside of the House" and "Working Inside of the Home."
And your decision to follow the Godly choice has had an impact on me that cannot be measured.

Because of you I want to stay home with my future children, to train them and teach them. I know it won't be easy, but you have blazed the trail for me.

And for that I thank you.

Love,
Your Daughter

Snips and Snails, and Puppy Dog Tails

2009-05-08T18:52:00.004-05:00

Little boys crack me up.

No, of course we can't just relax and watch baseball on TV tonight. We have to play some type of game while watching it.

One day they will become old and staid... maybe. :)

From One Soul to Another

2009-05-06T20:09:00.005-05:00

Does it ever strike you how absolutely absurd we, humans collectively, are?

We have our own little worlds which are paramount.
We are important. We have titles and degrees and labels.
We have pomp and circumstances. We have wealth and knowledge.

We are It.
We are the Movers of the World.
We run the world.

But, no.

We are the clay. The clay. We are the created, not the Creator. We are only because of Him.

The striving is pointless.
The titles, degrees, and labels? Worthless.

We wear ourselves out - we spend our entire lives - attempting to throw off the position as the clay. We posture as people of import. We attempt to impress our own fellow pieces of clay.

How ignorant we are.
How poor we are.

"Yet, O LORD, you are our Father.
We are the clay, You are the potter;
we are all the work of Your hand."
- Isaiah 64:7-9

Like Jo March

2009-05-05T20:13:00.005-05:00

I got a haircut today. And there is something fabulous about that.

I have searched high and low for something to that compares to getting a new 'do. It isn't that a haircut is the supremest of all human events in the history of the world. Not nearly.

But it is simply a unique experience. It is quite in a class by itself. And splendidly so.

That is - though - if it is a good haircut. If it is a bad haircut, no, not a bad haircut... but, a wretched, cry-in-the-car-afterwards haircut, well, that also is in a class by itself. And thankfully so.

I Think We Have Met Before, Perhaps?

2009-05-04T10:16:00.005-05:00

I have decided to come back to this blog for a couple of reasons... first and foremost - I miss it. :)

I actually have no honest answer for why I stopped blogging here. I guess, I decided that my photography blog was enough of a time-consumer for me. I know that that is about the lamest excuse ever. I don't even believe it myself. But since we are an excuse-giving society, I will let that be mine.

But now that I am back, I will have to start rattling around in my brain again in search of blog-able topics and happenings. I will have to re-accustom myself to the witty, direct, but oh-so-wandering ways of communication. I will have to tap into my inner-Mary Poppins, my inner-C.S. Lewis, my inner-Elizabeth Bennett.

But, it will be fun. And it is always nice to have a place to talk to oneself without having to talk out loud.

As my favorite hobbit, Samwise Gamgee puts it, "Well, I am back."

Another Web Home O' Mine

2008-12-21T14:26:00.003-06:00

Photography is were I am beginning to spend a lot of my time... for more regular updates of sorts from me check out my newer blog...

http://capturedbymorgan.blogspot.com/.

Enjoy!

Oh, Life Without Christ is Lived in Vain

2008-12-02T18:23:00.008-06:00

She was so hollow. Empty. Vacant. Lifeless.

It had been a few years since I had seen her, and her depressive spirits had only deepened.

She had made a bitter remark back in Comp I about the choice of either staying home and listening to a three year-old watch Barney all day, or getting her Masters and having a career. She chose to have a career.

And yet she hated it. She loathed it.
She would never tell you that to your face, but her face told you that.

Her talk was hollow and edged with bitterness. Her remarks about life were snarky and irritable.

She had no joy. Her life had been unfulfilling and pointless. She had thought a career would keep her happy, that motherhood was complete drudgery.

But it was beyond that. She didn't know Christ. She scoffed at the concept of one religion being True. All faiths were okay, to her - relics of an old-fashioned society.

I had written a paper about Christ back in Comp I and she had thought it was cute. That wasn't the result I had wanted.

I wanted to shake her up and down. I wanted her to see. And hear. And understand. And live a life of joy.

But instead, on she talks in a sour monotone voice about her life, the classes she is teaching, her children.
And her eyes tell the rest of the story.

"I am Morgan and I approve this ad."

2008-11-10T20:32:00.005-06:00

The election is over. It is done. Kaput. Gone. For a few months, perhaps, before 2010 campaigning starts. Campaigning is on the verge of becoming the normal way of life in America.

Does constant campaigning mean anything in regards to the state of the government?

Yes.

It is bloated. It is huge. It is special interest groups. It is dollar signs. It is out of control.

With the current state of instant communication, one would think that campaigning for office would be a much faster episode. Why - when you can reach literally everyone within a week - would you start campaign two years early? Who would, in a state of sanity, chose to do that?

But, they do.
They pound us, slam us, hammer us with ads. They drench us, flood us, drown us with spin.

They chose to monopolize the press. They clamor to us through the phone.

Why? Why is simply running for POTUS turned into a career?

If only Georgie boy could see us. The old Georgie boy. The wig-wearing one.
A man who fought and founded this Nation. And set an example as the First Prez.

Lots has changed since then. No kidding. The Country has grown and concept of politician has evolved. But still. I accept no excuses for an excruciatingly long campaign season.

It overwhelms and deflates the electorate and displays the totally gross excessive-ness at root in the government.

colors of fall

2008-11-08T22:43:00.002-06:00

11.04.08

2008-11-05T09:17:00.001-06:00

Is this the New Year or just another night?
Is this the new fear or just another fright?
Is this the new tear or just another desperation?

Is this the finger or just another fist?
Is this the kingdom or just a hit n' miss?
A misdirection, most in all this desperation

Is this what they call freedom?
Is this what you call pain?
Is this what they call discontented fame?

It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in

I'm singing this one like a broken piece of glass
From broken arms an' broken noses in the back
Is this the New Year or just another desperation?

You're pushing till you're shoving
You bend until you break
Till you stand on the broken fields where our fathers lay

It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in

There's nothing here worth saving,
Is no one here at all?
Is there any net left that could break our fall?

It'll be a day like this one
When the sky falls down and the hungry and poor and deserted are found
Are you discontented? Have you been pushing hard?
Have you been throwing down this broken house of cards?

It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in

Is there nothing left now?
Nothing left to sing
Are there any left who hasn't kiss the enemy?
Is this the New Year or just another desperation?

Does justice never find you? Do the wicked never lose?
Is there any honest song to sing besides these blues?

And nothing is okay
Till the world caves in
Till the world caves in
Till the world caves in
Till the world caves in
Till the world caves in
Until the world caves in
Until the world caves in
Until the world caves in
Until the world caves in
Until the world caves in
Until the world caves in

- "The Blues" by Switchfoot

Words are Overrated

2008-10-31T11:13:00.003-05:00

The Tale of the Four Little Pigs

2008-10-24T10:43:00.008-05:00

Once a upon a time - in a relatively modern epoch of history - there were four little pigs. They were predictably brothers and they were named Jacques, Britt, Joe, and Barry. And like all the other pigs in the annals of storytelling, the brothers decided to go out into the world to seek their proverbial fortunes, with the exception of Barry who decided to stay home and continue to go to college.

So, Jacques, Britt, and Joe were off ambling across the globe in search of their futures. As they plodded along, they encountered a man bearing a burden of straw. Jacques offered the man a couple of francs and purchased the straw. Then Jacques left his brothers to go and construct his house out of the straw.

The two remaining brothers continued their journey only to meet another man, this one carrying a bundle of sticks. With a five pence, Britt bought the sticks with which he would build his own house.

Joe bade his now busy brother good-bye and resumed his trek. As he came to the crest of a hill he saw a man with a wheelbarrow full of bricks. Joe stopped the man and offered him $20 for the lot. The man agreed and Joe carted off the load.

Time passed and all three little pigs finished up their houses. Their brother Barry came to visit Joe, who had found his fortune by working as a plumber. Now, while Barry was staying with Joe a wolf started paying visits in the neighborhood.

Jacques - in his straw house - was the first to get a visit from the wolf. The wolf called out, "Jacques, I need a place to stay. Won't you let me in?" Though nervous, Jacques did not want to discriminate against the wolf, or appear intolerant, so he opened the door to let the wolf in. Jacques shared his pate de foie gras with the wolf, but the wolf complained at the lack of his favorite food - wolf-ish type food - on Jacques' table. Jacques was unable to cajole the wolf and eventually the wolf simply snatched up Jacques and swallowed him whole.

Jacques only satisfied the wolf for a short time. Soon he was hungry again and irritated by the sight of the other pigs still living peacefully and happily in the area. So, this time the wolf knocked on the door of Britt's house.

"Hello, Britt. I have been visiting your brother, Jacques, and he sent me to visit you," declared the wolf in his sweetest voice. Britt cracked open the door and peered out. "Well, if my brother Jacques sent you then you must be okay," said Britt, "Would you like a cup of tea with crumpets?" The wolf entered in and sipped Britt's tea. But the fire in Britt's fireplace was too hot for the wolf, the chair too hard, and the ceiling too low. Britt quietly adjusted the fireplace and provided a cushion for the chair, but was unable to alter the height of the ceiling to better accommodate the wolf. Of course, the wolf had been waiting for this moment when Britt could not adjust to his liking and quickly swallowed up Britt in justification.

Word of these horrible atrocities reached Joe and Barry safe inside the brick house. Now this infuriated Joe because he had once had that same wolf break the windows of his house in an attempt to get in and Joe understood the danger the wolf posed. He was disappointed at his brothers' naivete in allowing the wolf into their very own homes.

Joe decided to go hunt down the wolf and bring an end to his evil deeds, but Barry protested. "Why should we get involved? Our poor brothers are already dead. Killing the wolf won't bring them back. And really, wolves are simply misunderstood. If we hope hard enough change will come," Barry explained. Joe decided to trust Barry on this one. Anyway, Barry had been to three school and had made a career of being a professional student.

So, Joe put away the gun. But soon, as would be suspected, the wolf came knocking on Joe's door. "Joe," he cried, "let me come join y'all by the fire. I am tired of being stereotyped by you close-minded people. Don't hold the past against me. Honest, please. I would never do you any harm even though I can't stand the sight of you." Joe grabbed for his gun, but once again Barry protested. "Let's let him come join us by the fire. Sitting down and talking to him over a cup of Starbucks would be the best course of action. Diplomacy is the key with wolves," Barry shared.

Joe the plumber sighed. " Okay, surely, Barry wouldn't lead me wrong on this point," he thought.

Barry took Joe's gun and locked it in the closet and then bounced over and opened the door for the wolf. The wolf glowered at Joe, but gave Barry a nice, teethy smile. Barry drew up two chairs to the fire and offered one to the wolf while taking the other. Joe sat by the door.

Barry asked about the wolf's kids and health. The wolf asked Barry how his education was going and, with a wink, how his brothers were doing. As the conversation continued, Joe realized that Barry's concept of fireside diplomacy was failing horrifically. The wolf was getting warm by Joe's own fire and just waiting to be hungry enough to really enjoy eating two pigs at once.

Joe rose up to creep out, but it was too late.

The wolf who had been conversing with Barry had also had an eye on Joe. As soon as Joe twitched toward the door, the wolf lunged and both Joe and Barry were gone within minutes.

And the wolf was left alone full, warm, and satisfied - an unfortunately fact for pigs everywhere.